#if someone has any tips pls comment im begging

[cultoftheswag]

The fucking lineart tricked me bro it looks way worse with color ajadlsjlkasdjadsjkjalkfjkasdkjadljk

[peakyblindersxx]

whiskey business - john shelby x reader (part 6 of ?)

gif by my queen @michaelgreys, i'm basically her fanblog now but im not mad about it :) i mean just look at him!!1! i almost fainted

a/n: first of all, if you stuck around to this point, tysm for reading!!! this has been one of the most amazing fics ive ever been a part of and it's all thanks to the gorgeous @stxdyblr-2k, who generously took control of the next few parts. her brain is beautiful and we all owe her flowers or something. when i read what she sent me i couldn't bring myself to change much except for some small edits, so pls give her lots of love if you like it!!!! i'm still working on requests as well :)

love, abi xxx

read part one two three four five | my masterlist

tagging: @datewithgianni, @mayaslifeinabox, @deepdonutkid, @springsoulofengland, @lilymurphy03

prompt: nothing this good can last forever. john doesn't know how to feel, and neither do you.

warnings: nsfw! a teensy bit of smut, angsty as fuck prepare yourselves accordingly, a lil fluff if u squint, yeah this fucked me up

Obviously, it wasn't the last time.

Over the coming months you had many last times; his mouth pressed against your neck said as much. As his responsibility at work increased, you'd find yourself heading to his office after your lectures and night classes more often, perched on his lap, smoking, while he finished up his numbers under your critical gaze.

Thomas was more than aware; his snarky comments made it obvious he had his ways of monitoring your actions. You'd seen the dark car lurking outside your rallies and lectures, and no matter how you'd try to throw him off, not even telling Ada where you were going and even, in a moment of desperation, through your neighbours back window, somehow, his silent shadow was still looming. He was practically begging you to make a mistake, to give everyone an easy out. You just couldn't give him the satisfaction. You knew Tommy saw the world as a chess board, always several moves ahead of his opponent. Even when you played him in chess club all those years ago, you could outflank him if you thought on your feet and kept him thinking he was winning until you obliterated him in the end game. It was brutal, sure. But as he told you, there were bigger games at play. You had your own. Thomas could read your mail, intercept your phone calls and have you followed, but he couldn't hear what you said out of earshot. Your lot could smell an interceptor in your ranks, so spying at that close of a proximity was out of the question.

That's why he'd decided to let you have John. You knew his silent approval and his constant management of the narrative meant he saw a tactical gain. There was only so much information he could get from Ada, but John? He just had to agitate him in the right way and all your secrets would come tumbling out. It was difficult hiding your world from John; of what he knew of, he was supportive, quizzing you over current affairs and political discourse, listening intently. Yet, you had to watch your mouth. You had to keep a barrier up and you knew John sensed the distance. Fundamentally, there was nothing either of you could do.

So here you were, in a comfortable limbo. Your days were filled with work, evenings were for lectures and reading groups at the city's university, Ada and you often stopped for a drink or three; you'd go by your flat to freshen up, and then to John's office. Sometimes, you wouldn't visit for a week or so when the guilt sent you over the edge, it was draining to be living so many lives and knowing you were betraying the person you loved most on earth. Ada was oblivious, taking you on her nightly adventures filled with men, dancing and waiting while she was busy kissing in dark corners. Sometimes a young blinder would ask if you wanted to be walked home. The first occurrence you thought was sweet, but as the nights it occurred coincided with nights John seemed extra pent up, you'd decided to ask. The boy, who couldn't be older than twelve but who you knew was trained in using firearms and had a revolver pinned to his hip and a razor in his cap, looked confused.

"Mate, it's not a tough question. Why do you come and ask?"

"There's a phone call." He shrugs, "Isaiah or Michael tells us to go and get you."

Isaiah and Michael were somewhat aware? Fucking hell. Your fling was basically a military campaign at this point, so many of your friends were complicit. The little lads who ran as messengers around Birmingham were complicit. You had to just end it.

But when you sat on his thigh, his chin hooked over your shoulder, it felt so worth it. He never turned you away when you came crawling back. He never mentioned it until after you were finished, hooked under his arm.

"Fucking missed you, gorgeous."

Sometimes he'd remind you not to be a stranger with a wink, but you could tell it was tearing him apart too. He never once came to you. That's how he could justify it in his mind; obviously, the bare minimum was not having sex with his sister's best friend, but in failing that, waiting for you to initiate it was somewhat better. He barely talked to Ada now, citing work as an excuse, but truly the guilt sickened him. He couldn't believe he was prepared to continuously hurt his little sister and betray her. But every time you turned up at his door, he couldn't find it in himself to turn you away. In his mind, every single time you came to visit him was the last time he'd let it happen, yet he was always waiting for you to come back, his blind closed to signal he was prepared. He never would call, it had to be your choice.

You'd been off and on for over five months now. It was so difficult to hide in plain sight, but you just couldn't stop yourself. Neither of you purposefully meant for this to be happen but fuck, was it fun.

For your birthday he'd gifted you a fur coat from the same shop his sister, aunt and the fashionable crowd of Birmingham had purchased theirs. He joked that you looked like a "proper razor chaser", kissing you when you pouted at his teasing, begging you to wear only the coat when you fucked him next. It was a practice for blinders to buy a coat for their wives and girlfriends as a status symbol. You were neither, but John claimed that being his "favourite lass" also counted.

John was a laugh, but you knew at any time he could close his door to you. Until he decided he couldn't be bothered with you, you weren't going to get caught. You just had to be careful until he got bored.

***

You did end up putting a foot wrong. It was a Thursday night; you were sitting on the edge of John's desk while he was ridding you of your blouse. It was past midnight, Birmingham was asleep. You almost didn't bother coming out tonight, but you knew John had lost a deal and you wanted to be there for him. Your skirt and stockings were strewn across the desk with his shirt, vest and waistcoat, muddled into the files and papers which were once neatly stacked.

His fingers were pumping in and out of you, his mouth lapping at your breast, your head tipped back in euphoria, groaning. The stress made him more affectionate and tender with you, and it was nights like these that made you wonder. Wonder if this could ever be something more, something real.

John's body suddenly pulled away from yours, quickly turning the light off.

"John, what-" You were cut off by John’s hand over your mouth, muffling your words.

"Shut up and get behind the desk." He hissed. "Someone's coming upstairs."

You quickly grabbed your clothes from the shiny oak surface and crouched, hiding yourself from view, quickly making yourself decent. You weren't going to get shot through the head with your tits out. You listened to the stairs creek, and it sounded like a group. You two were easily outnumbered. They were talking, but the thick panels of wood muffled their voices.

As your eyes adjusted to the darkness, the cracks in the door giving the room a dulled glow, you could make out the figure of John. He was free of his shirt, toned body on display, standing with his back flat to the wall, revolver produced from a discreet notch in the door frame, gaze fixed on where they'd enter. He was tense, ready. The door was unlocked from the outside, the door handle twisting.

John's lip shifted in confusion yet still he kept his trigger finger ready, not a single shake from your general.

The light flicked on and a shriek rang out. It was blinding, and you stood up slightly dazed. Finn was in the doorway, John next to him clutching his chest, panting and lowering the gun.

"Jesus Christ, Finn, can't you knock like a normal person? Scared the shit out of us." John bellowed, shaking as the adrenaline coursed through his body, resting his hands on the edge of the desk as he regained his breath.

"You're the one who pointed a gun at me! I didn't even know you were in 'ere!" Finn yelped.

The commotion had attracted the attention of Ada and Isaiah, who had come running and stopped in their tracks upon seeing you standing behind John's desk in the middle of the night. They weren't stupid. John was topless, your clothes obviously rumpled, both with matching tousled hair and practically stinking of guilt. You'd been caught red handed. Ada's eyes flicked between both you and John, and you could practically see the pieces of the puzzle clicking together in her mind, all the moments she found questionable since you'd returned suddenly making sense, realising she had been deceived by the two people who she was meant to trust most in life. Finn looked absolutely crushed, he'd never been able to conceal his emotions as well as his older brothers and sister, linking his fingers through Ada's, squeezing her hand.

"I forgot to drop this off earlier." Finn stated, holding up a money box, "Ada had keys so we thought we'd sneak in so I wouldn't get done by Tommy. We did call round yours, Y/N. We thought you were in bed."

"I'm sorry." You said. It was not enough but you just didn't know what else to say. You couldn't make it right, you'd really fucked up this time. Tears pricked at your eyes, as Ada examined you in silence.

John stepped in front of you defensively. "Look, Ada-"

"How long has this been going on?" She asked, her voice shaking with rage. You and John exchanged a glance. "I said, how fucking long?"

"Five months, six in a fortnight." He answered.

Isaiah whistled lowly. "That's fucked. I thought it was only a few times, that it'd finished."

"Never really over when it's John is it." Finn interjects, you glance to him, were you just one in a long string? You shouldn't be surprised but it was easy to pretend he may actually care about you.

"You've been fucking around for six months behind my back?" Ada yelped, Finn trying to comfort her but she pulled away from him. "And you fucking knew Iz."

"I'd expect this from you, yeah? Wouldn't put anything past you these days.." she sneered at John, "But you? You?! You're meant to be my best mate, but here you are sneaking about fucking my brother?"

"Ada-" you began, eyes welling with tears.

"I thought I could trust you. You're just another fucking razor chaser, aren't you?" She spits. "That's why you came back."

"No it wasn't, Ada-"

Her eyes flashed with anger, but this time John was on the receiving end. "You bought her that fucking coat ,didn't you? The fur one. You did! Fuck's sake!" Her fists were clenched, shoulders squared. For the first time in your life, you understood why crowds parted for Ada Shelby. Understood all the free drinks and cab rides, the nervous serving staff declaring your meal on the house (always acknowledged by Ada with a hefty tip), understood why the men of Birmingham didn't last long with her.

"Did it feel good to swan about town in that fucking coat, while acting as though you cared about me? It's so fucking embarrassing. All trussed up because my knobhead big brother makes you feel special? Thanks for rubbing it in my face."

"Ada, I love you. I never meant to hurt you, I got caught up and that's on me. It's my fault."

"You're not acting like you love me. This isn’t what love is, Y/N." She retorted.

You couldn’t do anything but nod. She was right.

John opened his mouth to speak, Ada silencing him, a scowl darkening her features.

"I don't care what you have to say. Any of you. Who else knows?"

"Thomas, Michael, Arthur-" John listed off slowly, each name prompting Ada to break down a little bit more in front of you.

"I didn't know Arthur knew." You said pointedly, John sending you an exasperated glance. He was planning on dealing with that later, but right now was about his sister. Fuck him if he thought you were going to stick around much longer. You didn't want to hear him justify everyone else knowing about your fling with your best friend being left completely in the dark.

"That all you have to say for yourself?" Ada snaps at you.

"I have fucking no defense, do I Ada? I should've walked away." You pushed your hair back, frustrated at yourself, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. You begged yourself not to cry. Tears wouldn't help anything.

"Why didn't you?"

You didn't know. Your silence only riled her up.

"Why didn't you fucking walk away?" Ada yelled, slamming her hands on the desk.

You felt hot tears run down your face, quickly moving your hands to dab at your tears.

"Don't you dare fucking cry. After all you've done, you don't get to cry in front of me." Ada growled at you, John going to shush her, obviously wanting to comfort you. "You can all fuck off. You've all lied to me and gone behind my back. Fuck’s sake, you could've just told me. You could've just told me."

"We didn't want to hurt you." John said, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder but she flinches away.

"This hurts so much more. You get that you all lying to me is so much worse, don't you?"

"We weren't thinking."

"You really fucking weren't." Ada laughs bitterly, shaking her head, blinking away tears. "Fuck you lot."

She stormed out, tailed by Finn, begging her to slow down and talk to him, protesting his innocence in the situation. Isaiah hesitated in the doorway, his eyes flickering between you and John.

"I had no idea you two've been at it for so long."

"Iz, fuck off yeah? I've had enough today." John shot back, sliding across the desk towards you. "You alright, lass?"

"We're done here, John."

He slid off the table, his hand cupping your face, "Hey, gorgeous, I get it but don't go breaking my heart tonight. Can we just leave this for tomorrow? Sleep on it."

The idea of getting any sleep at all tonight was laughable, you'd be up all night replaying these moments and torturing yourself. Tonight couldn't get any worse so you had to finally end it. Now was the right time.

"John, it should've never happened."

"But it did."

"I don't want to talk about this anymore. It's over."

"Y/N. You know for me it was never just about-"

"You're making it difficult. Stop making it difficult. Whatever you say isn't going to change that right now we have to do the right thing."

"I know you're right, but I don't want to let go. Is it so wrong to want you? I adore you, you know that."

You wouldn't meet his eyes. Sighing, John pressed his forehead to the side of your head, chin brushing your shoulder, eyes closing. He was begging you to stay with him. There had to be a solution, you'd figure it out together. His voice was cracking, eyes glassy. He looked so much younger when he was pleading. The tall bloke who terrorised the Midlands with his razor rimmed cap, a revolver in his hand, and a ruthless trigger finger had vanished. You wanted to stay, burning to curl up with him and for him to kiss it better.

"I should go." You told him. He rested his forehead on your shoulder, letting out a shaky sigh before pulling away, nodding.

"I'd drive you home but obviously-"

"Obviously."

John suddenly turned from you, eyes narrowing at Isaiah who was still hovering at the door. "Thought I told you to fuck off. Make yourself useful and get Y/N home safely." His tone was ice cold once again.

Isaiah nodded, offering his arm to you. You reached the door and instinctively looked back at John. His eyes met yours, staring at you from his desk, just as you knew he would. He prepared himself to watch you leave every night, but this time was different. That was it with you two.

Isaiah strode down the street with you in silence. You were tucked into his side as was customary with the upcoming blinders who were particularly ambitious, but there was no relaxed chat.

"Isaiah. What’re you thinking?" You asked, voice tinged with nervousness.

He sighed, running his free hand across his jaw, "That was intense in there."

"Just how he is." You shrugged.

"Does he love you or sommet?"

"Fuck knows… does it matter?"

"Of course it does. Do you love him?"

"Drop it. None of that matters, it shouldn't have happened in the first place so it can’t," You snapped, the anger at the situation you'd created suddenly overwhelming.

Isaiah whistled, raising his brow at your obvious turmoil. "You're in fucking deeper than you want to admit."

He walked you up your path, watching you turn the key to the side door leading to your bedsit. You paused, turning to him.

"Iz… I don't know what to do next."

It was so dark, you could see his face only by the lit cigarette burning to embers between his fingers. He inhaled deeply, pausing before delivering his carefully laid out plan of avoidance. Obviously the event of him crossing the Shelbys and losing their good graces weighed heavily on his mind. You nodded, listening intently, noting his ideas of relocation but he explained they were a final resort. The best thing to do was try to regain their trust; in the long run, he had calculated, it was the only option that didn't result in your life being haunted by the Shelbys. Even if they left you alone, their enemies would make a point to go after you, seeing you as an easy target. The other option was to leave the country.

"Good luck, Y/N. I mean it." He muttered as you turned the handle to the temporary safety of your home. You nodded, offering you cheek for the polite good night kiss you'd become accustomed to. He rolled his eyes and obliged, pressing an affectionate kiss to your cheek and ruffling your hair. "I'm serious. Watch your back."

***

John broke down when he finally heard the lock click shut. His eyes had been prickling with boiling tears, his jaw tensed to hold them back. He yelled out in anger, flipping his desk with force, a loud crash as the wood splintered against the stone flooring, glass shattering from the photo frames. His hands went to his head, unable to stop the gasping breaths escaping from his trembling lips, his face reddening.

"Fuck’s sake." He growled. He'd fucked everything up. He had nothing, just as he'd told you the first night you returned. The consequence was no surprise, he'd anticipated the fall out for a while, but he couldn't resist you. He was completely guilty and had no defense; his only justification being that you made him think with his cock, not his brain.

Fuck’s sake. Polly was going to murder him. She'd always had a soft spot for Ada, as the only girl in the family, and was no stranger to lecturing him over his flirtatious behaviour around Ada's friends. She'd murder him. He had a half mind to never go home. He rubbed at his eyes with his knuckles. Polly had no use for tears. That's what she'd tell him when he was a boy coming home with a skinned knee. This was far worse.

He was also sure that he was a worse brother than Tommy, perhaps the worst in the world. His baby sister, who he'd helped to toddle, carry proudly on his shoulders after school and race with her on his back through the fields on the outskirts of Small Heath, had walked in on him obviously in the midst of fucking her best mate. If he had swallowed his pride and actually talked to her, he wouldn't be in this mess. He could've told her that things changed, that for the same reasons Ada loved Y/N he had fallen for her, that he was truly sorry but she had to know before it got too far and someone got hurt. He couldn't go back.

He should've never approached you that night.

He should never approach you again.

He looked over the mess of his office, the splintered wood and shards of glass, a confetti of paperwork. Now nothing mattered. None of this mattered. He'd lost everything and he had only himself to blame.

[haztory]

forgiveness.

Summary: It’s high time you both swallowed your pride and ripped the band-aid off. 

Word count: 4112

A/N: im back in action and am sincerely pleading for forgiveness for my absence. life sucks. but i am planning to make a smooth recovery and an ever more prevalent appearance on this platform. and in the frank tag. also pls comment and tell me how much of a shit writer i am lmao

Pain blossoms along the bones of his hands like a blooming flower, traveling along each nerve and neuron, setting them alight with a burning fire in each movement he takes. The fragile skin on his knuckles splits beneath each brute punch, but he remains unconcerned with the decimating pain—instead, reveling in the feeling alone. He takes it as a sign to continue, fixated under the belief that if he didn't feel the pain in this moment, he wouldn't remember what it was like to be alive. If he couldn’t feel the blood pumping through his veins and his heart thrusting out of his chest, he would never remember the brief instance of humanity surging through his body.

The pain served as the only tether he had to reality; The only reminder that he wasn’t just a ghost of a shell walking through the streets of the burning city.

The gym sat empty and dark, save for him in his corner towards the back of the establishment, enjoying the equipment way past the set closing time. The owner—an older man who claims he is forever indebted to Frank for saving him from a potentially lethal mugging—left the back door open for Frank in the event that, should he need it, he could access the tools necessary to release any stress he could have accumulated.

Frank insisted to the man that he didn't need to do that, that Frank was more than happy to keep paying his membership like everyone else, but the man refused to hear it. He placed a spare key in Frank’s palm with a wrinkly smile, saying, "She's all yours after closing. Just remember to lock the door."

It was a kind gesture, a particularly uplifting one, that left Frank in a better mood than he had been in before. He kept the key close to him, safe inside the pocket of his worn-down gym bag he took to the gym.

He doesn't remember what time he got in or how long he's been there, but he assumes a considerable amount of time has passed since the entirety of his back is covered in sweat and his hands ache beyond belief, but he refuses to stop.

While his muscles ache and burn with each jab he places against the punching bag, screaming in desperation for Frank to just take a break, the haunting images that seem to be incredibly popular this evening drive him to work harder and faster than before. And he won’t stop.

Jab. Jab. Upper cut. Left hook. Jab. Jab.

He won't stop until he can no longer feel anything. Until he can no longer see his kids. Until he can no longer see Maria's face. Until hollow eyes and bloodied skin no longer taunt him. Until--

"Prepping for an upcoming match, Rocky?"

The phrase echoes around the empty gym, the acoustics bouncing the sound around the room, that momentarily stuns him into stillness. He halts his onslaught of punches, outstretching his previously curled fingers to catch the swinging bag he that was flying towards his head. He steadies the piece of equipment, catching it with the tips of his fingers, steadying his panting breaths.

He gently closes his eyes, leaning his head against the bag as he listens to the owner of the familiar voice come out of the shadows of the gym and step closer towards him. The echoes of the shoes resonate throughout the vacant gym. Once the loud clunking of shoes stops, he exhales a deep breath, swallowing the lump that suddenly formed in his throat, more than symbolic of the current situation he was put in.

He didn't need to look to know who was standing before him, nor did he want to look. Looking would only force a resurfacing of memories that Frank would much rather keep hidden.

There was a reason things ended when they did.

There was a reason he never tried to contact you.

Swallowing whatever pride, he lifted his head from the bag, opening his eyes and shifting his head towards the intruder.

He wasn't entirely sure what he was expecting to see; Some twisted part of him wanted to see you looking damaged beyond repair, in a pain deeper than he ever was. The brutal, vengeful part of him wanted to see you on your hands and knees, begging and pleading for his help, as though that would be some sort of step towards mending the deep wound between you two. (It certainly wouldn’t be a great situation for you, but it would definitely be the first thing to be put a smile on Frank’s face.)

But of course, that would never happen. You were always smart enough to know when to jump out of a burning plane, both metaphorically and literally. Something that felt like a brand on his skin; A present reminder of the mark you left.

You stand in front of him, hands deep in the pockets of your pants—which Frank rightly assumes are some luxury brand from a designer whose name he would never remember—standing tall and healthy and clean, in your professional ensemble, leaning against a structural beam with a small smirk on your face. Amusement plays in your eyes as you scan his very taught and sweaty body.

He can feel the anger building up inside of him and the desire to punch something comes back full force.

He doesn't like it.

Frank tears his eyes away from you, his jaw clenching and teeth gritting as he returns his attention back to the blue punching bag in front of him.

"You followin’ me now?" he spits at you, the question drenched in acid, very clearly warning you not to take any step closer as though you were a predator preying on a poisonous animal. It paints a funny picture in your head, one where you were some type of bird and him a poisonous dart frog, circling one another in the undergrowth of a forest.

It wasn't an ill-fitting picture as it represented your current relationship perfectly with little to no exaggerations.

You wished it didn't.

You release a breath of amusement through your nose, shrugging off his cold shoulder with ease, focusing on him as he resumes his reign of anger on the bag, "Don't need to. I'm always keeping tabs on you, Frankie. I've got eyes everywhere."

His eyes narrow in disdain, and if there was any possibility of civility between you two it was out the window now.

He was making it very clear he did not like that idea.

You shrug your shoulders nonchalantly at him, trying to hold an unfazed facade in front of him. His punches continue, only this time with much more force and you know he's imagining your face on the bag. "Don't act surprised. I'm an Avenger, I have that kind of power."

"Don't mean you gotta use it," he pants.

"On you? Oh, yes I do. You tend to get in a lot of shit Frankie."

"Yeah?" Jab. Jab. Left hook, "Well that's my business, not yours."

"I'm just making sure you're okay," you tell him, voice gentler than the previous teasing tone. He spares you a glance of uncertainty, his eyes darting from your eyes back to the bag in front of him, then back to you, the second time holding your gaze. He takes a step away from the bag, narrowly missing being hit by the bag when it swings forward at him.

His gloved hands hang at his side and his chest heaves with breaths, the sweat forcing his shirt to stick to his skin and glisten in the fluorescent lights.

It's the first time he's actually looked at you. Not even just the first time tonight, but the first time in years. It feels like he’s staring through you and it brings back a whole wave of feelings that you thought you could handle, but were very wrong. His hollow eyes stare into yours, an angry vengeance deep in his brown irises that sends chills down your spine.

He makes you feel a deep insecurity in the joints of your bones and you couldn’t feel like more of a bad guy than you did at that moment. His fixed look makes you crave for something as sweet as torture. You try to maintain a neutral face under his scrutinizing gaze only for your body to release the awkwardness of the intensity through fidgeting and shifting of your body.

"That so?" he asks, his stare rock solid and unwavering accompanying a deep gruff of his voice that sends shivers down the entirety of your spine. Suddenly, it all makes sense; You now understand the fear that comes with being the enemy of Frank Castle.

You had heard rumors in passing of the type of trepidation Frank could produce in even the hardest of men—the kind of fear that scares people for life, forcing them to constantly look over their shoulders, even when they've moved miles away from him. He instills a distress into his victims that haunts them for years to come, wondering if he remembers them, if he will finally come back and finish the job he started. Frank Castle’s name became synonymous with the Devil.

If anything, he was scarier.

It stirs up a sweat in your body that beads at the top of your forehead and wets your palms. Once upon a time, you had been able to say with confidence that Frank Castle would never hurt you. He would hurt anyone who so much as looked at you the wrong way. Now, you weren't so sure. If given the chance, you’re pretty sure he would pay a good fortune to have someone do more than that.

You take a thick swallow, working quickly to compose yourself in front of him. You returned his intimidating gaze as best as you could, his stone-cold eyes overpowering your sincere ones by a long shot.

"We've had our problems, but that doesn't mean I don't care about you," your voice shakes a bit as you say it, and you curse at yourself. You've faced men three times your size and aliens more dangerous than Frank Castle could ever dream to be and you never batted an eye. Yet, standing in front of him, you feel all confidence and pride leaving your body in one, quick breath. You were not a long-time friend of Frank Castle that could reminisce with him about the good old days in the military. You were not a long-time friend that could happily ask about his family in passing and receive a pleasant answer. You were not who you were five or six years ago. And neither was he.

You didn't know this man—not anymore. He made it damn clear he doesn’t want to know you.

Frank scoffs, and it sounds like one of amusement but his face makes no change to convey that feeling. It stays steady and unwelcoming, with his lips pulled in tight and his eyebrows furrowed.

"What, you think I don't care about you?" your voice raises a few octaves.

His silence answers your question, and you feel offended at the insinuation. How shallow does he think you are?

"What're you doin’ here?" he says rather impatiently. He finally breaks the fixation on you, looking down at the gloves on his hand and ripping the Velcro off. He backtracks towards the back wall and places the gloves on top of his gym bag seated there. You watch him intently, all desire to defend yourself dying at the tip of your tongue. Your damaged ego could pick a fight on that another time.

"I'm here to help." you tell him, gathering whatever morsel of pride you could to make yourself sound more confident than you felt. His back is turned to you as he bends down to his bag, placing the gloves in and taking a towel out. He dries the sweat on the back of his neck.

"Don't need it."

"C'mon, Frank" you groan out, taking a step to him rather excitedly. He sees the quick motion from the corner of his eye and his body whips around to face yours, a defensive stance taking root. It stops you in your tracks, and you can feel your heart crack at the further realization: Not only did he not trust you, or believe that you cared about him, but he was preparing for an instance where you would physically hurt him for God knows how long.

You expected the anger and the distrust, but… that hurt more than it should have.

You softly shake your head, and Frank can barely see the wet film of tears in your eyes, but he sees it. He almost feels guilty—almost.

"Ain't nothing to "c'mon" about. I don't need your help; I don't want your help. Whoever you got keepin' eyes on me, get rid of 'em before I find 'em." He leans back down to his bag, throwing the towel inside and zipping it up roughly, almost breaking the zipper in the process. He throws it over his shoulder, slowly turning himself back around to face your pitiful face. "Don't come looking for me again."

With a final adjustment of the bag on his shoulder, he makes his way towards the back door from which he came in. He almost makes it there, ready to flip the light switch off before he hears your voice call out for him again.

"I know who you're looking for."

He stops in his tracks. Why are you making this harder than it needs to be?

"I know where to find him too."

That piques his interest. It doesn't totally surprise him—of course you would know where everyone is considering your job title. He'd been looking for an underground kingpin that was responsible for the kidnapping of a number of underage kids in the area-- including his next-door neighbor's daughter. Only makes sense that you would have some knowledge of that.

He slowly turns around, glancing rather suspiciously at the file that you've seemingly procured out of thin air in your hands. It's a thick file, much too big for your hands. He can see the numerous clippings and paper clips from the side of it, even in the dim lighting of the gym.

"Turns out that the guy you're looking for is the same guy that I've been tracking for the past seven months," you look down at the file in your hands, a wry smile on your face. "Kidnapping isn't the only thing he does."

Frank places his bag on the floor, letting it drop with an intentional thud. You've got his attention; how long can you keep it?

"Kidnapping wasn't enough to get on your radar?" Frank says rather bitterly, a blatant jab at you and your job. It stings, but it's not like you could disagree. You already put yourself and the other Avengers through a whole load of shit for ignoring the monster that was slowly growing under the sewers of your home, your city.

You could make excuses left and right to those who asked about how your job as "Earth's Mightiest Hero" allowed for mistakes as big as not paying attention to a child trafficker making himself known right under your noses, to which your publicist would say something along the lines of “The Avengers try to pay attention to every situation, both domestically and abroad. But situations that are not of immediate concern are passed down the branches” or something like that. It would pass in the papers, but you would never be able to justify it to yourself. You tended to take every case presented to heart and have already been lectured numerous amounts of times on how that was your greatest weakness. Old habits die hard, and Frank knew that.

He always knew the right ways to hurt you.

You let out a dry laugh, looking at Frank with a borderline shameful expression, "I deserved that one."

"You deserve a lot more than what I'm giving you."

"Yeah, Frank. I know. I got it, alright?" The agitation was apparent, but Frank was never one to back down from a challenge.

"Do you? Do you really?" He replies, his tone only elevating the vicious turn the conversation was taking.

"Yeah, Frank. I do. It haunts me every day!" you yell at him, the file laying forgotten in your hands as you stare at him from a distance away. There was no doubt in your mind that you would have this discussion with him at some point in time. You had hoped it would be under nicer circumstances, where you both weren’t under the constraints of a child trafficker wreaking havoc upon the city.

Frank once again stands silent at your confession, unable to figure out what angle you were trying to play at. Were you trying to get sympathy points from him? Were you trying to get under his skin and manipulate him? He didn't know. He doesn't know you anymore.

"You really think that I'm just okay with the way things happened?" You tell him, a gentle contrast to the previous agitation in your statement.

He maintains his space near the door, reminding himself to be ready to leave whenever this conversation turns down a path he didn't want. Before you managed to convince him to forgive you; Before you managed to weasel your way back into his life with a smile and a temptation of a better future.

But he found his feet glued to the floor, unable to move, unable to plan his escape as you looked at him with pain and suffering in your eyes. In the eyes, he always found comfort in, and the heart he felt the most.

It was too late to leave now; You had already caught him in your hold, even if you didn't know it.

"I let you down, Frank. I abandoned you when you needed me, and I will never forgive myself for that," you raised a hand to your cheek, furiously rubbing away a stray tear that slipped out. You would not break in front of him. You needed to make this up to him. "But I was scared. Too scared to go against a man who did so many bad things to people."

You slowly took a step closer to Frank, showing him you meant no harm. "I couldn't go against someone who could easily destroy my life, who threatened to do that. But, you did. And you paid the price for that."

He knew he should've stopped you--stopped you from talking, from coming closer to him, from coming back into his life. But with every word you said, he found himself remembering his days with you, his happiest memories working alongside you in the military. He found himself slowly melting back into the repressed memories where his trust was easy to come by and your companionship tethered him back down to earth.

His resolve, his anger, his distrust, was slowly wearing away.

"I'm not asking for your forgiveness. I'm not asking you to accept me into your life. I'm not even asking you to like me." He didn't even notice you were standing in front of him, a foot away from his unsteady heart and uneven breaths. "I'm asking you to let me make it up to you. Because I wasn't there to help you take down Agent Orange, but I'm here to help you with this guy. I know how he works, I know what he does, and I know how to take him down."

You shrugged your shoulders lightly, not knowing what else you could say to the man in front of you, how else you could describe the remorse that had been weighing on your shoulders for the past five years. In your moment of fear, in the face of the threat from the formidable Agent Orange as a young agent, you resigned from your post within the United States Information Operation, effectively cutting ties with Frank Castle who so desperately needed your help to try and find information to take down the corrupt man. You left him to deal with the problem alone, when you agreed to help. You remained isolated from Frank Castle, even after he tried numerous times to get in contact with you after the end of his deployment.

Then the attempts stopped, and you soon learned about the fate of his family. More importantly, you knew from who. You didn't bother to try and contact him.

When he could've-- and should've-- thrown the dogs off his scent and averted them to you, Frank Castle didn't. He denied your involvement in anything related to Agent Orange; He denied having ever asked you for help; He denied ever even knowing you.

He protected you. As you publicly rose through the ranks at your new job as a S.H.I.E.L.D agent, Frank Castle was suffering through the landmine you had both tried to clear. Frank Castle's life was destroyed, and yet he had no desire to destroy yours.

That was a debt you could never repay.

Even if he told you to fuck off, or spit in your face, it wouldn't be anything you didn't deserve. But, if he gave you even the slightest chance to make it up to him, you would do your damndest to fulfill it.

You were already willing to lay down your life for him, you just had to prove you were even worth that honor.

Your eyes darted around his face, looking for some sign that revealed what he was thinking. A twitch in the lip, the raise of a brow, something that you could try and decipher. He remained stoic in his place, watching you beg before him.

"Let me help you," you pleaded to him one last time.

He tore his eyes from yours and stared down at the bag at his feet. God, what was he doing? With an inaudible grunt, he leaned down to pick up the bag and throw it over his shoulder once again.

You stared at him desperately, feeling your heart about to drop into your stomach at the realization that he would never forgive you, nor would he ever help you. And now, there would be nothing you could say to stop him otherwise. You would let him go. You wouldn't hurt him anymore.

With a sad resolve, you closed your mouth, letting your objections die on your lips and prepared to watch him do what you did all those years ago: Turn his back. You lowered your head, holding the file in front of your legs and waited patiently to hear the sound of his shoes leave the building, holding the disappointment tightly on a leash.

Instead, you heard him sigh.

"Your place or mine?"

You quickly met his eyes, and were surprised to find a gentleness behind the stones, although his face showed no other emotion. You blinked repeatedly, his words barely registering inside of your head. You opened your mouth to speak, but no words could form.

"M-mine." You finally stuttered, not able to grasp the reality of the situation.

He gently nodded his head, stepping to the side to allow you to lead him out of the building. After staring blankly at him, you understood the gesture, exiting the building and waiting for him to find you in the back alley, entire body stunned at the turn of events.

He followed behind you, turning the lights off and locking the back door to the gym, placing the key into his bag. He ignored your stunned stare, preferring to keep all his feelings and thoughts to himself for the time being.

He had forgiven you a long time ago. There was nothing that he could really blame you for other than being a young and scared cadet in the military. It was a massively responsibility he thrusted upon you, knowing full and well that there were very few that would be able to do it. He wasn’t angry that you jumped ship and resigned from your post after Agent Orange threatened your life; He was angry that he didn’t.

He should have denied helping you on the basis alone that you didn’t deserve it. But Frank could never be that cruel to you, not when he was also in need of some help.

He had forgiven you a long time ago, because it was the right thing to do. And it was time for him to stop acting like that was a bad decision.

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