Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Karen may have made the jump from office manager to private investigator almost three years ago, but there are some habits that are hard to break, and one of them is keeping track of the rhythm that naturally emerges in any half-decently run workplace.

It‘s a matter of practicality - if you want to operate at maximum comfort and efficiency, your boss should be miserable and your coworkers happy. At least, that‘s what Karen tells herself when she makes sure that she doesn‘t disturb Matt when he‘s dozing away on the couch in his office, and that the kitchen is always stocked with healthy snacks so that Foggy won‘t waste time and money hurrying down to the bodega when his Adderall wears off, to buy what his boyfriend calls crimes against both the culinary arts and cardiovascular health.

In turn, her boys know when to keep the caffeine flowing, and when to cut her off. They know when to speak softly around her to avoid triggering a stress headache, and when to snap her out of work mode with silly jokes and the latest gossip.

After all this time, they‘ve got a good system going. Nelson, Murdock & Page are incredibly lucky, in that they compliment each other almost perfectly. While Matt is a classic night owl, borderline non-responsive until about an hour after waking and barely functional until noon, only at his peak when he‘s burning the midnight oil, Foggy is an actual, genuine morning person, someone who is ready to take on the world as soon as he opens his eyes, but crashes hard after lunch. Karen herself is a crepuscular creature, most productive in the early and late hours of the day, but prone to zoning out and getting sleepy during the classic nine to five.

She‘s typically the first one at work (an hour early, to be precise, which she likes to make up for by taking an extended pre-lunch power nap), but she‘s gotten used to Matt no longer being the last one to arrive, now that he‘s got his notoriously punctual boyfriend to make him sleep more than three hours per night and drag him out of bed in the mornings.

Which makes it a bit suspicious that both of them are late today. By almost half an hour, and counting.

Two and a half years ago, this would have had her worried. After all, there‘s always the possibility that Matt got stabbed or shot or punched a few too many times last night and now can‘t come in, but he‘s no longer living on his own. If Matt were out of commission (or missing), Foggy would have texted Karen hours ago. So unless they were both kidnapped simultaneously, there‘s a high possibility that those two incorrigible horndogs simply got distracted by each other‘s bodies while getting dressed and decided to throw in a morning quickie that ended up taking longer than expected. Who knows, they might still be going at it right this very moment, probably making the bed rattle hard enough to annoy their neighbors and - yeah, no, Karen does not need to be thinking about this, because she is a grown woman in a happy, committed relationship, not the female equivalent of those wolf whistling frat boys who used to drool over her making out with other girls.

Besides, they‘re her friends. Never mind that she kind of dated one of them (or maybe both of them, if you were to really stretch the definition of the word ‚dating‘), or that Matt kind of implied (read: outright told her, albeit in a joking way) that she‘d be welcome to watch because that‘s just the type of kinky relationship he and Foggy are in, it‘s still creepy. And a little bit fetishistic. And a bad idea. And disrespectful towards her actual boyfriend, whom she probably should be fantasizing about instead.

Maybe not at the office, though. Not when she‘s got a coworker who would definitely be able to smell her wetness before even entering the building. Who, even from two rooms away, would be able to track her squirming in her chair, desperately pressing her thighs together in hopes of subduing her inconvenient arousal. Who would be able to hear it in her breathing and her heartbeat even if she stayed perfectly still.

Shit. That thought isn‘t exactly helping matters. All it does is awaken that hollow, pulsating feeling in the depths of her cunt, radiating towards her clit. She clenches around nothing, breathing a sigh of relief when she doesn‘t notice any slickness dripping out of her. The situation‘s still salvageable, then. She hopes. All she needs is to distract herself and wait for the problem to go away. Easy.

Heading over to their tiny kitchen, she busies herself making coffee (that Foggy is no doubt going to complain about), and tries very hard not to think about what Matt might look like with sex-rumpled hair and that dopey, blissed-out smile he always gets when Foggy kisses him. It‘s a sight to behold. Even twenty years in, that heartsick fool is completely and utterly besotted with his other half.

She exhales sharply through her nose in amusement; the mere thought of Matt being in love with Foggy used to seem so absurd, it never even occurred to her as a possibility, even after figuring out that Foggy was definitely in love with Matt. It just seemed like one of those cliché situations - the plain, nerdy Boy Next Door, and his hopelessly out of his league, oblivious crush. Tale as old as time. One that only ever works out in sitcoms and hyper-formulaic teen movies, if it works out at all.

These days, however, it‘s difficult to imagine Matt as anything but fiercely, passionately, stupidly into Foggy. And the weirdest thing is that nothing‘s really changed except Matt‘s willingness to say it out loud.

In hindsight, the signs have always been there. Matt‘s expression has always gone all soft and dreamy when listening to Foggy absolutely dominate the courtroom. Matt has always looked happiest in Foggy‘s arms, be it while drunkenly leaning on him during a night out or receiving a congratulatory hug after a successful case. Matt has always been quick to sing Foggy‘s praises if given half the chance, particularly if Foggy wasn't around to hear it. And perhaps most damningly, Matt has always had a curious tendency to ‚joke‘ about kissing or getting married to Foggy.

It‘s just that that those things didn‘t happen a lot, since Karen had had the misfortune of meeting the two of them during a particularly tumultuous period in their friendship, between their disagreements over the direction of their newly founded firm, and Daredevil being the awkward Third Wheel that they were struggling to integrate into their dynamic. And speaking of Third Wheels, Karen probably hadn‘t helped, what with Foggy trying to woo her, and her trying to woo Matt. Not a pleasant situation for anyone involved.

What is it with her and Matt ending up in all of these weird love triangles, anyway? Karen, Matt and Foggy. Karen, Matt and Claire. Karen, Matt and Elektra. Karen, Matt and Frank. It‘s like the universe kept conspiring to always give them a third party to complicate things. As if either of them needed or had time for that.

No. As far as Karen is concerned, Matt and Foggy ending up together was one of the best things that‘s ever happened to her. Even if she didn‘t have Frank, she‘d still be glad that she and Matt are no longer tempted to date one another. They were terrible at it.

Doesn‘t mean she doesn‘t still carry a torch for Matt, but it‘s faint. Manageable. It‘s no longer something that consumes her. It‘s just ... there. Less infatuation, and more nostalgia for something that could have happened, but never did.

Does Matt ever feel the same way? Probably not. Now that Karen has seen what Matt is really like when he's in love, she‘s pretty sure that he was never as into her as she was into him. Not that it comes as much of a surprise. She remembers how forced his flirtations had felt. At the time, she‘d chalked it up to him being shy, but looking back, it feels more like he was willing himself to want her, out of ... guilt? Loneliness? A sense of obligation fueled by heteronormativity, or ... what did Foggy call it again? Amatonormativity? Karen‘s only got Foggy‘s explanation to go on, but it feels like an apt descriptor of what motivated Matt to ask her out in the first place.

She sighs and fills up her mug. Not exactly flattering, to think that Matt‘s romantic interest in her had been entirely fake, just the result of societal pressure and his own obliviousness to being on the aromantic spectrum, but she‘s the last person who should judge someone for struggling with internalized queerphobia. It‘s not like Matt led her on intentionally. (Not when it comes to that part, anyway. It would have been nice to know about Daredevil upfront. Or at least about his crazy ex being back in town.)

Staring out of the window at the cloudless morning sky, she takes a sip of her coffee. She still makes it the way she did working at her parents‘ diner - cheap beans, dark roast, strong brew. The kind of coffee that sticks to the back of your throat and tastes pretty much the same no matter how long you keep it warm. The kind of coffee that‘s as bitter as hours spent on dark, lonely country roads, and as hearty as bacon, eggs, and a stack of pancakes. Classic Americana, for better or for worse. Isolation, trucks, and heart disease. But at the same time: Home, regardless of where she goes. One of the few reliable constants in this too big, highly diverse country with its poor infrastructure and its stubbornly individualistic people. She smiles to herself - now there‘s a think piece for her blog.

Despite some darker thoughts marring her otherwise peaceful morning, she‘s not feeling maudlin, not really. Her pride is a small price to pay for her friends‘ happiness ... and for her own. And she is happy. Happier than she ever thought possible.

She could have lived and died in that small town, smothered by snow, boredom, and economic decline.

She could have played the part of the Good Girl her parents tried to raise. Go to church, work the diner, get married too young, have too many children, spend too many nights trying to drink away thoughts of Kirsten from Spanish, with her raven hair and her wicked smile and her plans to move to New York City for college, forever making Karen wish she‘d had the courage to go with her.

Or she could have continued down the destructive path she‘d been on since her mother‘s death. Drugs, parties, bad boyfriends. Maybe bad girlfriends, too, if she‘d lived long enough to muster up the courage to admit to herself what she‘d known since the ninth grade. She‘d have died of an overdose at twenty-two, validating each and every one of her father‘s fears about her life of sin leading her astray. Her loss of faith, merely an excuse for hedonism. Her sexuality, something that dirtied and disgraced her. Her loves, nothing but delusion.

But that's not what happened.

What happened is that she got out. Not entirely of her own volition, but she still did it. Left behind all that she had, and put her entire existence on the line - sink or swim, straight into the deep end.

She struggled. She fought. She failed, more times than she dares to count. She was forced to do things she never wanted to do. She‘s come close to death on multiple occasions.

And against all odds, she survived.

More than that, she made something of herself. She not only carved out a livelihood in a city that has chewed up and spit out so many people far better and more capable than her, she‘s built something that she is incredibly proud of. Her name is out there now - people know who Karen Page is, and what she stands for. She‘s made enemies, but she‘s also made a difference.

She even found herself a little family of her own, queer (in every sense of the word) as it might be. What would she do without her boys? Without Foggy, stubborn, confrontational, but dependable, always there for her when she‘s at her lowest, with a joke or a bottle of booze or a softball bat, dragging her out of the darkness kicking and screaming if he needs to? Without Matt, Hell‘s Kitchen‘s broken savior, an endlessly fascinating (and endlessly frustrating) cipher of a man, mercurial and prone to sabotaging all of his relationships, but also the guy who watches out of her, who values what she has to say, who is charmingly awkward in social situations and has the goofiest sense of humor she‘s ever witnessed? Without Frank, who is exactly the kind of tormented, complicated man she‘s always been a sucker for, except sweet, honest, and considerate, at the same time, and too emotionally mature for the reckless macho posturing she‘s grown to hate after what happened to her brother? (No - after what she did to her brother, intentionally or not.)

Things are going great for Karen. And perhaps, therein lies the problem: She‘s not used to not being in survival mode. Ever since her mother‘s death, her life has been an endless cycle of hitting rock bottom, and picking up the pieces afterwards. After everything she‘s gone through, stability feels wrong, like she has no idea who she is when she‘s not responding to a crisis. Is it really any wonder she‘s on her seventh or eighth career (depending on whether you count drug dealing), but only her second real relationship when she never thought she‘d make it into her thirties, let alone her forties?

And now here she is, a world away from her old life, yet feeling closer to that troublesome girl she thought she‘d left behind than when she was doing lines or undressing for money. Because that girl was who Karen was when things were solid and predictable. Everyone else she‘s ever been was just a role she played to get by, with Karen Page no more real than Mistress Rachel, who ordered men to wear panties or put toys up their asses and then humiliated them for it. (She‘d been damn good at it, too. She hasn‘t decided yet whether that‘s something worth being proud of.)

It doesn‘t matter, though. She‘s best friends with one mentally unstable vigilante, and dating another. All while living in the city that attracts trouble like one of those giant junkyard magnets attracts cars. If she wants a crisis, one will find her eventually.

She‘s about to grab a granola bar from the cupboard and walk back into her office (and maybe send the obnoxious lovebirds who run the firm with her a sternly worded text) when she hears the sound of familiar footsteps approaching their front door. Speak of the Devil.

Hiding her smile behind her mug, she leans her hip against the counter and stays put, ready to make her boys sweat a little for shirking their responsibilities to get frisky, when the boys in question come all but tumbling through the kitchen door, Matt‘s cheeks flushed and Foggy‘s eyes wide with a look that can only be described as manic.

„Karen Page!“, he exclaims, like she‘s a master criminal and he‘s the detective who has been doggedly pursuing her for years.

Karen blinks at him a couple of times, taken aback by the state he is in. Either that was some extremely adventurous sex, or something else is going on. Potentially something dangerous, and most likely Daredevil-related.

That‘s when she spots the faint swipe of white powder on his nose, and she almost drops her mug.

There are some things that only addicts will ever understand. The intense mix of emotions that goes through her in that moment is one of them.

Confusion. Anger. Betrayal. Fear. Need.

Triggers are weird sometimes. Since getting sober, Karen has encountered lots of drugs (including cocaine), even held them in her own hands. She‘s seen people use, and she‘s seen people deal. She‘s been offered a bump once or twice while undercover as an investigator.

Absolutely nothing (not even shooting Wesley) has ever reignited the ache quite like the idea that one of her best friends might be going down the same path.

She doesn‘t know whether to scream or cry or laugh hysterically, so she does none of the above. She just stands there, frozen, her head reeling, and wonders whether this is just a stress nightmare she‘s having. If so, it‘s a bit on the nose. (Literally.)

Matt darts forward to steady her, his hands warm and solid on her elbows. „Jesus, Foggy, you almost gave her a heart attack!“, he admonishes his boyfriend, and Karen wonders what exactly her vitals must ‚look‘ like to him right now. „Are you okay?“, he asks in that gentle, hushed voice he tends to use a lot, possibly because speaking at full volume would hurt his ears too much. Or maybe it‘s just who he is - shy, soft-spoken, mild-mannered Matt Murdock, the very definition of velvet hiding steel. „We‘re so sorry. We wanted to surprise you, not scare you.“

„Surprise me?“ Is this some kind of practical joke? If so, it is in extremely poor taste. „What do you mean, surprise me? By barging in here forty minutes late with - with -“ She gestures vaguely in the direction of Foggy‘s face.

He cocks his head at her in a way he must have picked up from Matt at some point. Innocently, he holds up a plain, brown cake box he‘s been carrying under his arm. „With cupcakes.“

„Cupcakes.“ Karen‘s voice is flatter than Kansas. „Cupcakes?“ That second one came out as a high-pitched squeak. She winces.

„Red velvet cupcakes“, Foggy announces with forced cheer. He uses his elbow to point at Matt. „Guess who woke up at five AM this morning, banging around in the kitchen and muttering something about you wanting some when I asked him about it?“

It takes her a moment to put two and two together. Twice.

One - icing sugar. That‘s what‘s stuck to Foggy‘s nose. Of course. That man doesn‘t do anything harder than his legally prescribed stimulants, and the occasional shot of high proof liquor, why would he suddenly start snorting coke on a random Monday morning?

Two - dear god, this is about that conversation she‘d had with Matt on Saturday. The one where they‘d joked about seducing each other‘s boyfriends for food. Matt must have been inspired by her request of cupcakes.

It‘s almost a sweet (and very Matt) gesture, except - „Why make them at the crack of dawn on a workday, though?“

Matt smiles sheepishly at her, his eyes crinkling behind his glasses. „It was something of a ... spontaneous impulse. I, uh, didn‘t originally plan on bringing anything at all because I don‘t know what the protocol is for these kind of things. But then I decided to play it safe and not show up empty-handed on an occasion like this.“

Absolutely none of this is making any sense to Karen. As a precaution, she slides into one of the chairs at their tiny kitchen table and puts down her mug - out of reach, just to be safe. It‘s a nice mug. Colleen gave it to her as a Christmas present. No need to risk its safety.

„There‘s an occasion?“, she asks hesitantly, wracking her brain for what it could be. Foggy‘s birthday was two weeks ago, and Matt‘s birthday isn‘t until the very end of October. Same with their anniversary, since they technically made things official at/after Matt‘s birthday party. (Before breaking up the same night, and getting back together the very next day, which complicates choosing the right date a little.)

Matt takes Foggy‘s hand and turns towards him with an expectant look on his face. Foggy gives a curt nod and sets down the cake box next to Karen‘s mug before holding out his now free hand.

Something sparkles and shines in the summer morning sunlight, and she immediately knows what it is - a ring. She leans in a little closer to inspect it. It‘s a tasteful one, with a broad band that's either silver or white gold, and two small gems, a garnet and a blue sapphire, each at the center of one of the loops of an infinity symbol.

„No way!“, she gasps.

„Yes way.“ Foggy puffs his chest out and grins like he just won three Nobel prizes at once. And an Oscar. And also the lottery. „You are looking at the future Mr. Nelson-Murdock.“

Karen really, really wishes her nerves weren‘t so frazzled so she could actually take in the news the way she should, with unadulterated joy and excitement. After all, it‘s not her friends‘ fault she got triggered. All Foggy did was whip up some frosting and not look in the mirror afterwards.

So she forces herself to smile as she jumps up from her chair to hug her boys. Matt first, who, as always, is almost excruciatingly gentle, then Foggy, who hugs her like she‘s a nearly empty tube of toothpaste and he‘s valiantly trying to squeeze out what remains of her insides. It‘s bordering on painful, but it‘s also wonderfully grounding. (Foggy is a great hugger, second only to Claire in Karen's experience.)

„Congratulations! I‘m so happy for you two“, she says sincerely. „I‘m surprised it took you so long.“

Matt looks a little bashful. „Trust me, I‘d been planning my proposal for a long time. I just didn‘t want to do it during the pandemic.“

„Did you do something special?“, she asks, and she finds that she doesn‘t need to fake enthusiasm this time. „You have to tell me everything!“

„We will“, Matt promises. „But there‘s one more thing ...“ He takes off his glasses, revealing those breathtaking hazel eyes, and gives her a smile that could melt glaciers. „Karen Page. Will you be our Maid of Honor?“

*

The upside of white-knuckling your way through addiction recovery is that you don‘t have to put up with the weird, cult-y undertones of Twelve Step Programs, or go into debt to afford rehab.

The downside is that when you‘re in danger of relapsing, there‘s no one to turn to.

It‘s not the worst night Karen has ever experienced, far from it. The craving is slowly eating away at her, making it impossible to concentrate on anything else, but she knows she‘s not going to go out and prowl the city for a fix. That, in itself, is quite the accomplishment. Addiction never goes away, she knows that, but it‘s been long enough for her that feeding it genuinely seems like too much of a hassle right now, compared to the prospect of bundling up in too many blankets for the summer heat and waiting for the feeling to pass. And if all else fails, she knows she always has a place on Matt and Foggy‘s couch.

She hasn‘t told the two of them about why exactly she had such a strong reaction to them barging into the company kitchen this morning, although she suspects Matt knows something‘s up. Nothing gets past that man‘s senses. The curse and benefit of being friends with a human polygraph.

So far, Matt has been courteous enough not to push when she lied to him about being fine, and she‘s grateful for that, particularly after how hard of a time she‘s given him in the past about lying to her. She probably should come clean (to stop him from worrying if nothing else), but she‘d rather not spoil the warm, euphoric glow from his brand new engagement while she‘s still got things under control. He so rarely gets to experience a spot of true, unblemished happiness.

She treats herself to a long, luxurious shower before crawling into bed with the leftover cupcakes, like a character in a chick flick trying to work through a heartbreak. Whatever - Foggy really is an excellent baker, and one of the side benefits of Karen‘s new, more physically challenging career is that she burns through a ton of calories. Plus, the damn pastries are the reason she‘s in this situation in the first place, so ...

Wrapped in a towel, damp hair dripping down her back, she settles in for the night, pulling up her laptop to find the most soothing possible nature documentary she can find on YouTube, which turns out to be one about deep sea wildlife, with some truly spectacular footage of ethereal, alien-looking marine invertebrates. Some of her favorite creatures, for how fluid they appear, in both shape and movement.

She lets some cream cheese frosting melt on her tongue as she watches, marveling at the gelatinous undulations of bioluminescent jellies, the mesmerizing color-changing abilities of cephalopods, and the intricate complexity of siphonophore colonies, while a narrator with a lilting British accent and a voice like liquid sugar talks about how being soft and flexible can be an advantage in high-pressure environments.

It‘s doing wonders for her mood, and by the time the narrator informs her that Humboldt squid are also called red devils, she can‘t resist texting Foggy a picture of one, giggling to herself all the while.

found your boyfriend‘s fursona

Excuse you, he‘s my FIANCÉ.

That's a very cute squid, though. Look at his little 'wings'!

Also, what would a mollusk-based furry even be called? A mucusy?

gross

That‘s rich, coming from a mammal. Do you know how weird it is that we‘re just dripping oils and sweat all over the place? Other animals don‘t do that.

I mean, we feed modified sweat to our BABIES, Karen. That‘s messed up.

yeah but we‘re also fluffy

some more than others

Man, imagine if humans looked like wookies.

I guess Matt‘s pretty close to one. His body hair is glorious.

not as glorious as your mane!

Aww, thanks, K! Love you!

love you too

Karen smiles. She really does love Foggy. Matt is fond of saying that it‘s impossible not to love Foggy, and while he‘s definitely biased, he does have a point. There‘s just something so innately comforting about Foggy‘s presence. When he‘s in your corner, he can make you feel like you can face absolutely anything.

She puts her phone away, before immediately picking it back up again.

Speaking of facing your fears. If there‘s one thing that Karen has learned from a decade of vigilantism-related drama and Matt and Foggy‘s tempestuous love affair, it‘s that keeping secrets just ends up needlessly complicating things.

btw sorry about freaking out on you this morning

it‘s just you kind of looked like you were on drugs and it brought back some memories, you know?

Her finger hovers over the delete button for a moment, but then she shakes her head, takes a deep breath, and hits Send.

Foggy‘s reply is instant.

Oh shit.

You okay?

i will be

She means it. She‘s gone through worse. As far as her mental health goes, this is basically the equivalent of a mild flu.

Is there anything you need?

From most people, this would be a platitude, but Karen knows that Foggy Nelson doesn‘t do those. He‘s someone you can count on to go above and beyond for his friends. And he‘s not only good at it, he thrives on it.

She forces herself to genuinely consider the offer. What does she need, anyway? Like for most people, her substance use was an escape, a way to fill the void left by her mother, and to cope with the stressful ennui of her existence as the too ambitious for her own good, intellectually driven, repressed bisexual black sheep in a flock of conservative Christians.

Things are different now. She‘s neither lonely nor bored, and she hasn‘t felt like the odd one out in a long time, but if the urge persists, is that simply a physical reaction, or does it mean that there must be something missing?

i could use some company, she types, but doesn‘t get around to sending it because she‘s distracted by the sound of her apartment door being unlocked.

Tossing her phone aside, she‘s up and on her way to the door before she‘s even fully registered that she‘s moving. All she knows is that exactly the right person just arrived at exactly the right time, and she needs to get to him right now.

„Frank!“ He‘s an arresting sight, as always, with his statuesque height and impossibly chiseled jaw, his face and hands stained with blood and soot, yet not the slightest bit frightening. Not to her. Not when those soft, soulful eyes look at her like he‘s having second thoughts about whether he‘s even worthy of being in her presence.

Foolish thoughts. Karen cuts them short by throwing her arms around him and kissing the life out of him before he has a chance to protest that he doesn‘t want to get his mess all over her.

She couldn‘t care less. She‘s got a shower and soap. What she doesn‘t have nearly enough of is Frank in her arms, in her apartment, in her life.

Tentatively, he places one of his gigantic paws on her hip and the other between her bare shoulder blades as he returns the kiss with that tenderness nobody would expect a man like him to be capable of. It never fails to make Karen ache in all of the best ways - a lump in her throat, a twinge in her belly, a throbbing between her legs.

A part of her wants to devour him on the spot, to have him right here against the wall while he‘s still covered in the blood of the last person he‘s killed, but that‘s not who Frank is. He‘s too much of a gentleman for that. And entirely too vanilla.

Not that Karen minds all that much. Vanilla‘s sweet, and so is Frank Castle. (God, how many people out there would declare her mentally insane for saying that?)

„Hello to you, too“, he chuckles when she detaches herself from his lips long enough for him to speak. He rests his forehead against hers, breathing her in like she‘s the first lungful of fresh air he‘s had after a month underwater.

„Sorry“, she says, even though she isn‘t sorry at all. „I‘m just really, really glad to see you.“

„Me too.“ He gazes into her eyes with concern. „Did something happen?“

She scoffs. „Kind of. But it‘s stupid.“

„Karen“, he says, very earnestly, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into the back of her neck. „I don‘t care if it‘s stupid or not. If it bothers you, I want to hear about it.“

Could you be any more perfect? Karen doesn‘t voice the thought out loud, because she knows Frank would never believe her. The mere idea of him being perfect would only serve to trigger a wave of doubt and self-loathing, and he deserves better than that.

She means it, though. It‘s ridiculous just how gone for this man she is. It‘d scare the living daylights out of her if he didn‘t make her feel safer than anyone or anything else ever has.

„You‘re such a romance movie cliche sometimes“, she says instead, light and teasing - a backhanded insult, if you will. She‘s picked up that tactic from Foggy, who has been successfully using it on Matt for years. „You‘re like the platonic ideal of what straight women over thirty-five find appealing.“

Her strategy gets a smile out of him. „You‘re not straight“, he points out, and it‘s strangely validating to hear him acknowledge it out loud so casually.

„No, I‘m not.“ Saying it feels just as good. It still makes her cheeks burn, but the shame fades more and more quickly each time. She draws her finger down his chest seductively. It‘s meant to be funny, but she doesn‘t have to fake being slightly out of breath. „But I am a woman over thirty-five, and I find you very, very appealing indeed.“

„Not when I‘m like this, I hope“, he says, looking sheepish. He puts some distance between them and scratches at his chest, where his bulletproof vest would be. (He always leaves it in the car before he comes here. This way, if any of the neighbors ever spot him, they‘ll just think that Karen is dating a boxer or perhaps a sexy, heroic firefighter.)

She gives him a look. „It‘s not yours, is it?“

He shakes his head. „Domestic terrorists. Small group, out in Jersey. Ended up taking them out with their own explosives.“

Unlike Matt, Frank never recounts his feats with an undercurrent of pride. There is satisfaction in his voice, though. A clean job, then. In and out, no moral complications, no bystanders caught in the fall-out. Good.

„Then I don‘t care“, Karen tells him honestly. It‘s not like she condones the murder, but she‘s stopped feeling conflicted about it long ago. If anything, it‘s Frank‘s history as a soldier that bothers her. Government-sanctioned murder tends to harm a lot more innocents than vigilantism ever will, even if you take superpowers into account. „But maybe we should take a shower first.“

„We?“ He raises his eyebrows at her, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk.

She smirks right back at him and takes both of his hands in hers, walking backwards as she leads him into the bathroom. „No funny business. Shower sex only looks good in movies.“

Hopefully, there‘ll be funny business afterwards, though.

„Depends on the shower“, he says with a shrug. „I had my first time in the showers at school. That wasn‘t too bad.“

Now that‘s interesting information. Neither of them are really the type to talk much about sex, but that doesn‘t mean Karen‘s not curious. „Oh?“

„Guy from the football team. Somehow, we end up being the last ones in there after everyone‘s gone, and then out of nowhere, he asks if he can blow me. Not exactly romantic, I know, but ... I was young.“

He sounds a little regretful, but not overly so. Karen can relate.

„It wasn‘t romantic for me, either“, she confesses. She‘s never told this story to anyone. „I sneaked out one night to go to a party. Met a cute guy. We ended up making out in one of the bedrooms, and one thing led to another.“

With a sigh, she reaches behind her to open the bathroom door. There‘s a reason she doesn‘t like to dwell on the memory, even though the sex itself had actually been really good. „When I came home, my dad caught me. He - he inspected me and figured out what happened. Locked me in my room for three months to make sure that in case I‘d gotten pregnant, I wouldn‘t be able to do anything about it.“

Frank looks at her, but she can‘t meet his eyes. She‘s said too much. „I wasn‘t“, she assures him. „We, um ... we‘d used protection.“ That hadn‘t made the fear that something might have happened any easier to bear. Once her father had put the idea into her head, it started to grow and fester in there, tormenting her with the prospect of having her body and what was left of her childhood taken from her, without any regard for her wishes. She‘ll never forget that feeling of powerlessness, and the panic it provoked. When her period came, she cried with relief. Then, she cried again, when she realized she would never be able to trust her dad again. She was fifteen, and she‘d already lost both of her parents.

She‘s crying now, too. Shit.

Frank shushes her and folds her into another hug, sheltering her in his strong arms. „Hey. Hey. Shh, honey, it‘s okay. You didn‘t deserve that, you hear me? You didn‘t.“ He bends down to kiss the top of her head, but for once, there‘s something hard in it. Something angry. „Who does that to their own daughter?“

Karen doesn‘t have an answer to that. „It was a long time ago“, she tries. It‘s not very convincing. She feels herself deflate like a leaky balloon. „Sorry. I‘m a bit of a mess today.“

„That‘s okay.“ Frank offers her a tentative smile. „Ain't a damn thing wrong with that.“ Gently, he wipes away her tears, and Karen doesn‘t know what she ever did to deserve this man. If anything is going to make her believe in God again, it‘s the fact that she got to meet Frank Castle.

„I love you“, she whispers, because it‘s the only thing she can say. „So much.“

„And I love you.“ He kisses her softly - first her cheek, then her lips. It‘s enough to make her shiver. „C'mon. At this rate, we're never going to make it into the shower. Let‘s get cleaned up and then we‘ll talk, yeah?“

She nods. „Go ahead. I‘ll join you in a minute, I just need to text Foggy back before he sends Daredevil to do a wellness check on me.“

„Yeah, wouldn‘t want Red to walk in on us when we‘re bare-ass naked“, Frank replies with a quiet bark of laughter. „I‘m sure he‘d be able to pick it up somehow with his crazy senses.“

„Oh, definitely“, Karen calls over her shoulder as she hurries back into the bedroom, and catches a glimpse of Frank taking off his shirt, thick muscles rippling with the motion. She bites her lip; now there‘s a sight to cheer her up.

Of course, when she retrieves the phone from her bed, Foggy has already texted her several times.

Karen?

You still there?

??

She quickly deletes the unsent message and types a new one.

i‘m here!

sorry didn‘t mean to worry you. boyfriend dropped by

It‘s fine, I‘ve had worse.

Is he okay?

yeah he is

we both are now i think

we‘ll look out for each other :)

Good. Tell him we said hi.

will do

goodnight foggy

and matt

Night night!

Karen smiles as she plugs in her phone to charge. She‘d been so worried about her boys - especially Foggy - finding out about Frank and her, but the actual reveal had been borderline anticlimactic. Matt had known already (naturally), and not put up a fuss about it at all. More than that, he seems downright enamored with the two of them together, although that might be because he and Frank have one of the weirdest, yet most genuine friendships Karen has ever seen.

Foggy, on the other hand, hadn‘t been nearly as thrilled, but all things considered, he‘s been remarkably civil about the matter so far. He‘s not enough of a hypocrite to give them a hard time when Frank and Karen have played marriage counselor for Matt and him respectively while they were going through their short-lived, but no less traumatic getting together/break-up/make-up drama.

Strange, how entwined their relationships are. Incestuous, is what Jessica likes to call their little circle of vigilantes and their handlers. She‘s not necessarily wrong. Most of them have at least flirted for a bit. Four of them are in an actual polycule. Jess herself is dating her ex-boyfriend‘s ex-girlfriend. And the ex-girlfriend in question ... well, it‘s Claire. Everybody‘s a little in love with Claire.

The water is already running and the mirror starting to fog up by the time Karen makes it back to her boyfriend. Frank likes hot showers, even in the summer, because he says they remind him that he‘s home, not off in a military camp with shitty plumbing and enemy combatants looming near. Karen doesn‘t mind. She likes hot showers because they drain some of the tension from her neck and shoulders after she spent the day poring over documents.

Like the gentleman he is, he pushes the curtain aside and holds out his hand to help her into the tub. She‘d tease him for being old-fashioned, but how can she, when he looks at her so earnestly, completely enraptured by the sight of her dropping her towel to reveal what he‘s already seen dozens of times before?

„You are so beautiful“, he mutters, like it‘s the first time, and pulls her against his chest to kiss her.

She gives a pleased hum in response and arches into the contact. He‘s a wall of solid muscle, sturdy as an old oak, but smooth as a polished pebble. How thoroughly he sticks to his hair removal regimen is a good indicator of where he is at mentally, Karen has learned over the years, and it‘s made her appreciate the feeling of his waxed chest rubbing against hers. What‘s hotter than knowing, so intimately, that your lover is happy and healthy?

The kiss is as steamy as the shower, with Karen‘s hands gliding down to grab his very shapely buttocks, and his quickly stiffening cock sliding hot and wet against her stomach, aided by the water, but they keep to the No Shower Sex rule Karen laid down earlier. Despite herself, she‘s almost a little disappointed by that.

When she picks up the shampoo, he obediently bends down so she can massage it into his scalp. With how short his hair is, she‘s definitely taking more time than strictly needed, but it‘s more than worth it for the relaxed, peaceful look on his face that‘s so heartbreakingly rare for him.

„Do you have another trip coming up?“, she asks, casually, like they‘re talking about him driving a truck full of frozen goods to Pennsylvania, not him hunting down criminals to murder in cold blood. It still irks her that these days, her main concern is whether he‘ll return to her or not.

„Not planning on it“, he says, his voice just as even. „Would be nice to stay in the city for a bit. Maybe see if Red needs a hand with something. Or just ... live life.“

Her relief is immediate. Frank isn‘t like Matt, to whom taking some time off from watching the streets always feels like a mortal sin. The Punisher only goes after the big fish, the cartels and arms dealers and traffickers and political extremists, which means he has more time to unwind between projects, but also that he commutes a lot. (If commute is even a word one can apply to homicidal vigilantism.) And Karen knows it‘s selfish, but she misses him terribly when he‘s away. She wishes they could have what Matt and Foggy have - cohabitation, marriage, maybe even pets. But that‘s a privilege for those who wear a mask while enacting justice, and it‘s too late for that now.

„I‘d like that“, she admits breathily as she rinses out his hair. „If you stayed. Here with me, I mean. Just for a while.“

He smiles at her, eyes closed to avoid getting any suds in them. It makes him look so innocent. „People might track me here.“

An objection, but not a no. He‘s trusting her to make the decision herself. One of the many, many reasons she loves him so much.

„I‘ll take that risk“, she says firmly. „You‘re worth it.“

His eyes flutter open, the color of dark chocolate and just as bittersweet. He clearly doesn‘t believe her, but he believes that she believes it, and that‘s good enough for her.

„Okay“, he whispers.

„Okay“, she whispers back, unable to contain her smile.

She brushes a kiss to his cheek and reaches for the shower gel, lathering it up in her hands before rubbing it all over his shoulders and back. „Oh, before I forget“, she says brightly, „Foggy and Matt asked me to tell you hi from them.“

His eyebrows rise almost all the way to his hairline. „They did?“

It‘s no secret that Foggy and Frank have ... reservations about one another. Foggy, because it took him a long enough time to warm up to vigilantism in general, and he‘s definitely not on board with murder (probably a reasonable line to draw). And Frank, because of just how badly Matt had been hurt by what happened that night at Fogwell‘s, when Foggy had ended their relationship for fear of it being too unhealthy to continue. Karen has yet to figure out how that makes Foggy the bad guy in that situation, but ever since, Frank has been getting this sour expression on his face every time Foggy‘s name comes up.

As much as Karen wishes it weren‘t so, she‘s not sure there‘s anything that will be able to bridge the gap between the love of her life and one of her two best friends in the world. She‘ll keep trying, though.

„They did“, she confirms, as cheerfully as she can. „Are you really that surprised? You already know Matt loves you, and Foggy ...“ Careful to avoid his eyes, she begins to soap up his face, where most of the blood and dirt are. „Foggy knows you make me happy.“

Frank doesn‘t say anything, just stands there with a tight-lipped smile, and refuses to meet her eyes. What is it with the men in her life and their iron-clad belief that she‘d be better off without them?

With gentle insistence, she cups his jaw in her hand and forces him to look at her, so she can see the sincerity in her face as she promises him: „One day, you‘ll believe me.“

She kisses him, soft and sweet, and he responds with a sudden fervor that leaves her breathless. She can‘t remember Frank ever getting rough with her, except as a ruse, and he isn‘t now, but there‘s a primal hunger in there that she‘s never seen in him before. It‘s enough to almost make her legs give out.

„Jesus, Frank“, she gasps when they break for air, clumsily reaching behind herself to turn off the water. She‘s back on him in an instant, pressing quick, hard kisses to his mouth, teeth tugging at his lip like she wants to consume him. She loops her arms around his neck and looks straight into his eyes. „If you're going to kiss me like that, I'm going to need you to take me to bed immediately.“

„Yes, ma‘am.“

It‘s playful, but the deference is real, and so is the thrill of seeing such a powerful man so meek and compliant for her. This tiny hint of submission probably doesn‘t even rate above doing it on a non-bed surface on the kink scale, but the context is everything - it‘s Frank, sweet, strait-laced Frank, who has gone up against armies and stood victorious. Her Frank, whom she loves more than life itself.

She shivers, and hopes he‘ll chalk it up to the rapidly cooling water droplets that run down her body. She‘s not Rachel anymore. She‘s not his Mistress, and he isn‘t paying her. This is real.

The hurry with which he steps out of the tub before grabbing her by the hips and effortlessly lifting her out as well gives away that he‘s just as eager for this as she is. She expects him to set her down so they can towel off, but he does no such thing. Before she knows it, her legs are wrapped around his waist and one of his hands is splayed wide against her back, supporting her.

In his strong arms he carries her, still dripping wet, to the bedroom, leaving damp footprints all over her floor. She‘d complain, but the cheap wood is scuffed and in need of replacement anyway, so it doesn‘t matter. Hell, with how hard her pussy is pulsing against his hipbone, she probably wouldn‘t even complain if she lived in the most ludicrously expensive apartment in all of Manhattan.

Carefully, he lays her down on the mattress, like he‘s displaying a priceless piece of art, although with the hunger in his gaze, it‘s just as easy to imagine herself as a piece of meat instead. She‘s not sure which idea turns her on more.

Ignoring the red hot shame in her belly, she stretches out before him in the yellow glow of her bedside lamp, reveling in the sweet nervousness his appraisal inspires in her, and the even sweeter satisfaction of knowing that he likes what he sees. Especially when she opens her thighs to show him that the shower isn‘t the only thing that‘s left her drenched.

„Karen.“

Her name is a blessing on his lips. It contains more emotion than entire sonnets ever could. It‘s a compliment, a confession, a prayer, a plea.

„Frank.“

She‘s not as good at putting meaning into it as he is. She‘s a writer. She likes words. Lots of them, meticulously arranged to create something beautiful. But she can still turn his name into I love you. They mean the exact same thing to her, after all.

The hunger between them shifts and changes, turns from an emptiness aching to be filled into something heavy and dark and almost too full, the pressure behind her ribs strong enough to turn the air in her lungs liquid.

He closes her laptop and sets it aside before crawling over her on his hands and knees to keep as much of his weight off of her as he can. Always so gentle.

„No, let me feel you“, she begs, bolder than she usually would be, cups the back of his neck in her hand and tries to pull him in. „All of you.“

He freezes for a moment, clearly calculating in head how to avoid laying down on top of her without driving his sharp edges into her sensitive parts, which is very considerate of him, but also unnecessary. Karen has survived sparring with Colleen Wing and sleeping with Jessica Jones, she can handle sex with a regular, non-powered, human man. Even one built like an MMA fighter.

He pulls her hand off of his nape and kisses it tenderly. „You will.“ His soft, barely there smile makes her heart race. „But first - you want me to use a condom? To avoid having to take a third shower?“

„You are so thoughtful“, she purrs, genuinely delighted. They rarely bother with them. Between him having had a vasectomy after his second child, her being on the pill to regulate her cycle, and both of them having been exclusive for so long, they just seem like overkill. „But, um ... Tonight, I think I‘d rather swallow. If that's alright with you.“

The words make her blush fiercely. She‘s not used to being so crass when she‘s not being paid for it. Or high. It makes her feel dirty. And feeling dirty makes her feel like a prude.

His expression remains carefully neutral, apart from an interested twinkle in his eye. „You sure?“

She‘s not. There‘s a good possibility she won‘t be able to do it. She goes down on him nearly every time they‘re together, and she genuinely loves doing it, even loves feeling him finish in her mouth, but there‘s always been this mental block inside her that prevents her from actually swallowing his come. Usually, it‘s not a big deal. She just lets it dribble past her lips and onto her breasts instead, both for his viewing pleasure and her own love of watching him look at her with unadulterated lust.

But tonight ... Tonight, something‘s different. There‘s a hidden room in her mind that she hasn‘t entered in ages, and she‘s got the key inside the lock, ready to turn.

„Yeah.“

„Attagirl.“ With one more gentle kiss to her forehead, he finally allows himself to settle between her thighs, the heavy bulk of his body pressing her into the mattress so hard, it knocks the wind out of her. She wouldn‘t have it any other way.

Without even bothering to catch her breath, she surges upward to press her mouth against his, intent on letting him know exactly how much she appreciates his strength, his weight, his larger than life, comfortingly overwhelming presence. With those hands that nearly span the width of her entire torso, he makes her feel small and delicate, protected, but also tough, able to go toe to toe with an elite soldier. Not in combat, perhaps, but in an activity that‘s just as physical, and leaves them sweaty and panting all the same.

Her hands find his face, holding it still as she takes her fill. She loves kissing him - the roar of his pulse against her palm, the prickly stubble on his jaw, the clean, bitter flavor of his tongue. Such a simple thing, the meeting of two mouths. There‘s no rhyme or reason to it, no benefit, no biological need for humans to do it, and yet, it can feel like the most important thing in the universe. Life-changing. Earth-shattering.

She still remembers their first kiss. The shock of seeing Frank again, more than a year after breaking him out of that hospital, when he‘d gotten so close to giving in and giving himself to her. She‘d been aching for it, every fiber of her being pleading for him, and the ache had never left her.

He must have felt the same way, because the moment he laid eyes on her, it was like a dam breaking. He‘d barely had time to gasp her name in breathless wonder upon seeing the love still in her eyes, the happiness in her smile, the invitation in her parted lips, before he‘d already swept her up in his arms and kissed all coherent thought out of her. And just as well, because she wouldn‘t have been able to wait even a moment longer.

„I love you“, she sighs against his lips, because she can do that now. She can love him and he‘ll let her. She can say it and he won‘t try to stop her before the words have had a chance to leave her mouth.

He lets out a whimper she knows for a fact no one would be able to torture out of him, and bends down to kiss her neck. A bolt of electricity surges through her, start in her throat and ending in her clit, making her cant up her hips in search of friction. His erection grinds against the meat of her thigh and the promise of feeling it inside her makes her clench her pussy in anticipation.

Frank has other plans, though, it seems.

Slowly sliding down her body, he kisses a trail from her pulse point to her chest, where he lavishes her breasts with attention while his fingers walk up and down her waist. She practically melts into the sheets, even as her sopping wet hair soaks her pillow, because there‘s truly nothing that makes her feel safer than Frank‘s hands on her. They‘re so rough, but his touch is so tender, so worshipful. I will never hurt you, they whisper against her skin, and she believes them with all her heart.

Soft moans spill from her lips as he sucks on each of her nipples, not content until he‘s got her writhing underneath him, desperate for him to touch her where she really needs it.

Please, she thinks. Please please please please please -

„Pl-“ She has to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from begging out loud.

For some reason, her reticence makes her think of Foggy and Matt again, which is very much not what (or rather, who) she should be thinking of while making love with her boyfriend, but she just can‘t push the thought aside. It just keeps niggling away at her, reminding her that Foggy wouldn‘t be afraid to tell his lover what he wants them to do. That even Matt, who is a force of pure will when it comes to the firm or his vigilantism, but a complete doormat when it comes to his personal life, overcame his borderline pathological compulsion to deny himself what he needs, and was rewarded for his efforts with what seems like a very fulfilling sexual relationship.

If they can do it, so can she.

Her hand finds his face, and he nuzzles into the touch, releasing her nipple to kiss her palm instead.

„Please.“ Her voice is less than a whisper, trembling with arousal. „More?“

„Of course.“ His voice is a low rumble, vibrating against her skin. „Whatever you need, love.“

„You‘re a dream“, she sighs, awestruck, reverently stroking the corner of his eye with her thumb, smoothing out some of the lines there. „You know that?“

His eyes drift shut, his face somehow both unreadable and a shifting kaleidoscope of emotions all at once. It‘s overwhelming. Karen has never met anyone who loves as hard as Frank does, and to be on the receiving end of it ... It takes her breath away.

He pours some of that love into her with a lingering kiss to her heart, before making his way down the ladder of her ribs to her sensitive stomach. Tenderly, he tongues at her navel, sucks at the soft pouch of her abdomen, drags his teeth across her pubic bone. He‘s taking his time, but he doesn‘t make her wait; teasing‘s not in his nature. He‘s a doer, and what he does, he does with practical efficiency. It shouldn‘t be romantic, but somehow, he makes it work. It‘s how in the present he always is during sex that gets to her, treating each time like it‘s the only time, but also like it‘s never going to end.

Finally, his mouth reaches its destination. He drags his stubble across her neatly waxed mons, because he knows the contrast never fails to make her gasp, and latches onto the very top of her slit, kissing and sucking, but not licking yet.

The first taste of her wetness makes him moan and nibble along her labia until his lips are pressed against her opening. He sucks on that, too, making her hot juices gush into his mouth where he greedily swallows them. Her brain temporarily goes blank.

His tongue slips between her folds, briefly teasing the very edge of her cunt before licking a long stripe up to her clit. He circles it slowly, sending electric sparks through her every time he brushes against the eager, hardened tip.

Karen hooks her legs over his shoulders, trapping him in the valley of her thighs. This is where she wants him, where she needs him, where he belongs. She‘s never letting him go.

„Frank.“ His name is just like him, rugged and harsh, but softened so easily. The F a relieved exhale, the R a moan in the back of her throat, the A a gasp, the N the sound of her humming in pleasure, the K a bitten off scream. „God, Frank ...“

She spells it out over and over again, with the air inside her heaving lungs, with her fingers against his scalp, with each beat of her heart. She wonders whether he can feel its echo in her clit as it thrums against his tongue. Whether he understands what it means.

His fingers skim across her hips, down to her thighs, one hand remaining just below the swell of her buttocks, the other drifting higher still. There‘s no resistance when he breaches her with his long, thick middle finger; she‘s so soaked, she barely even feels it at first. Not until he adds his index finger as well and curves it upwards until his thick trigger callous catches on her g-spot. She keens and arches into the touch that‘s so familiar by now, half of her reaction to it is probably Pavlovian in nature. That doesn‘t make it any less powerful, though, nor do anything to abate the guilty twinge in her gut when she thinks about what that hand has done.

She knows exactly who he is, has known it from the moment they met. Her first impression of him had been that of a brutal killer. Perhaps their coupling should be marred by that memory, or thoughts of the corpses he‘s left in his wake, dead eyes staring at her accusingly, but all she can think of is the allure of his controlled brutality - the ice in his veins, the surety of his movements, the single-minded focus in his expression. It‘s the most erotic sight she‘s ever beheld, and the shame only lends it even more potency.

She chose a warrior. And she‘d choose him all over again.

His fingers twist inside her at the same time that he sucks hard on her clit. She cries out, too far gone to care whether the neighbors are going to hear her, and involuntarily pushes back against his face and fingers.

Some of her slick dribbles down her perineum and between her cheeks. The wetness that coats her rim makes her hyperaware of the cool air touching it as she is fully exposed to the room. Vulnerable. Open. It makes her hole twitch.

„Can you ...“, she begins, struck silent by a mix of her own embarrassment and his dark eyes staring up at her intently, compelled by the mere suggestion of a request and eager to please. She takes a deep breath. Makes herself become Matt. (Oh God, what would Frank think? What would Foggy think? What would Matt himself think?) „Can you, uh, play with my backdoor, too?“

„Sure thing.“ Smoothly, he rises to his elbows and tilts up her pelvis to give himself better access. Spreading her cheeks with his unoccupied hand, he dives between them and gives her puckered hole a quick kiss. „Fingers or mouth?“

„Um ... fingers“, she says, a bit surprised by his casual offer. He‘s not a prude, exactly, but she‘s known him to not talk about sex in explicit terms when he can help it. „For tonight.“

His eager smile excites her. She‘s always liked anal play, but hasn‘t been brave enough to bring up the subject until now. Even though she‘s wanted to very, very badly.

The sex they have is amazing, but he‘s much too big for her to take him in all the way without him hitting her cervix, so they‘re limited when it comes to vaginal penetration. The positions, the angles, the speed ... It‘s all calculated around him not hurting her. And while he‘s never been anything but considerate and accommodating about it, she feels bad that he has to hold back with her. She usually makes up for it by putting extra effort into it when she finishes him off with her mouth, showing off the deepthroating skills she‘s both proud and ashamed of, but she keeps fantasizing about offering him her other hole instead, so he can truly take her. How many times has she made herself come to that fantasy? Strange to think that it might actually be within reach, and one little question was all it took.

Jesus, why talking about it so hard when it‘s so easy?

Her spiraling thoughts are cut short abruptly by the feeling of his ring finger brushing against her asshole, light as a feather, yet as much of a shock as a bullet through the arm.

„Like this?“, Frank asks as he rubs her rim in a circular motion, not trying to penetrate, merely applying pressure.

She nods. „Perfect.“

It absolutely is. It is heaven.

As his mouth returns to her clit and his other fingers pump shallowly in and out of her cunt, she‘s pretty sure she‘s going to start seeing stars any second now.

„Frank“, she moans, enchanted by watching his eyes go soft with disbelieving wonder at the sound of his name from her lips. It‘s so, so worth the awkwardness of her poor attempts at authentic dirty talk. This used to be so much easier when she was only thinking about the words that would result in her getting tipped the most. „You‘re making me feel so good, honey.“

He responds with an appreciative hum that makes her clit sing with the vibrations of it and her brain melt into useless, overstimulated goop.

„Oh god.“ She throws her head back into the pillow, unable to keep her eyes open against the onslaught of sensation. Coherent thought leaves her as the world slips away and nothing seems important anymore, except her release.

With one hand, she grabs the back of his head to keep him in place as she rocks against his face to chase her peak, while the other kneads her own breast, fingers tugging at a pebbled nipple.

He hums again, drawing it out this time, until she is reduced to mindless babbling.

„So good, Frank, you‘re so good, always so good to me, don‘t stop, Frank, honey -“

He doesn‘t stop. Not that he has much choice, with her holding him captive as she rides his face from below. Dimly, she is aware that his stubble is going to give her a wicked beard burn, but in the moment, the grounding hint of pain within the haze of the almost too slick slide only enhances the experience.

He crooks his fingers a little more, the first two digging into her g-spot so hard, it feels like her pubic bone is being crushed, while the third slips inside her ass seemingly of its own volition.

She comes.

Silently, as she always does, but this time, it‘s not by choice. There‘s no air in her lungs with which to scream, nor can she move her tongue when every muscle in her body is pulled taught as a bungee cord. Her heels dig into his back with such desperate force, it must be hurting him, although he gives no indication that it does.

With his usual patience, he licks and sucks her through it until she can‘t take it anymore and tears his head away from her oversensitive clit. He keeps his fingers inside, though, firmly massaging her insides until she stops spasming around him, prolonging the high for what feels like an eternity.

By the time her muscles unlock and she collapses into the sheets, her legs are trembling and her hands are aching and cramped. She didn‘t even realize she‘d balled one of them into a fist. With her thumb inside. Bad form. Colleen would be so disappointed.

„Fuck“, she pants, finally releasing him from the steel vise of her thighs. „Sorry.“

„For what?“, he asks, genuinely, as he pulls out and wipes his glistening mouth with the back of his hand. God, he almost looks pretty like this, relaxed and satisfied, covered in her juices, his eyes lust-dark.

She shrugs awkwardly. „Being a little rough, I guess.“

„I‘m not fragile“, he reminds her, crawling back up the bed to lie down beside her.

Gently, she puts her hand on his cheek, cradling him in her palm like the unbelievably precious thing he is to her. „Doesn‘t mean I should hurt you. Or treat you like a toy.“

He laughs. „If this is how you treat all your toys, I think I need to start being jealous of the kegel balls in your drawer.“

„Get your mind out of the gutter. Those are for pelvic floor exercise. I‘m not getting any younger, you know“, she mock-scolds him. Nervously, she adds: „I can show you my real toys sometime, if you like.“

He puts his arm around her shoulders and kisses her forehead. „Sure. Sounds fun.“

Karen smiles at him, but she can‘t help worrying about what he would think about the less vanilla implements she owns, the crops and the cuffs and the fetish gear. Most of them are leftovers from her camgirl days, and he already knows about what she did to pay her bills, but she still kept those things when she got a real job. (No, she chastises herself internally. Sex work is real work. Even when you do it.)

Would he think of her as a pervert, a whore who never left that part of herself behind like she pretended to? Or worse, would he feel inadequate, too conventional to please her? That, at least, couldn‘t be further from the truth.

Perhaps she should just hide that stuff. Or better yet, throw it out. It‘s not like she‘s going to be using it with him anyway, and she‘s not planning on sleeping with anybody else. Not while he‘s still breathing. As long as they‘re both alive, she‘s his.

„You‘re it for me“, she tells him, quietly, like it‘s a secret. Like she wouldn‘t scream it from the rooftops if she could. „I goddamn love you, Frank Castle.“

If the non-sequitur fazes him, he doesn‘t let it on. He just smiles, languid and slow, almost like he‘s drunk. „I goddamn love you, too, Karen Page.“

What else can she do but kiss him?

He holds her close, his large, calloused hand lightly stroking down her back as she licks her own taste off his lips, salty and rich. She could do this for hours, and she knows he‘d let her, never asking for more, but she hasn‘t forgotten about him. Far from it.

Hungry for round two, she runs the flat of her palm down the center of his cut chest and his rock hard abs. (Jesus. How the hell did she ever manage to talk a man who looks like this into her bed?)

When she finally takes his neglected cock in hand, it‘s damp with precome and deliciously hot and silky against her fingertips, still at full mast from eating her out.

She gives him a sultry smirk. „Your turn, big guy.“

Is it a horribly cliche thing to say? Yes. Does the innuendo make her giggle anyway? Also yes.

It helps that he really is big, and she‘s not just talking about his wide shoulders or the six feet, two inches between the soles of his feet and the top of his head. She wonders whether her hand is even doing anything for him when she can comfortably use both on him at once and still leave part of his dick exposed. There are times when jerking him off feels more like a two person job.

Unbidden, thoughts of Matt and Foggy start whirling around in her head once again. We‘re open to playing with others, Matt had told her just two days ago, which had utterly blown Karen‘s mind. The two men are so ridiculously infatuated with one another, it‘s hard to imagine them having eyes (or ears, or whatever else Matt has going on) for anyone but each other.

And yet ...

Matt has been flirting a bit with her lately, hasn‘t he? And it‘s obvious there‘s a little something between him and Frank, not unlike Karen‘s own flirty friendship with Colleen. Karen has been patting herself on the back for being mature about it and not getting jealous, but maybe ...

She looks down between their bodies, at where her thin fingers encircle Frank‘s veiny cock, and imagines Matt‘s much larger digits brushing against hers. She imagines the perpetual scrapes on his knuckles blurring into a stripe of angry red as he moves his fist in tandem with hers, occasionally giving her one of his knowing smiles when she stares a bit too intensely at the spectacle of her favorite ex helping her pleasure the love of her life.

The thought makes her entire cunt throb. Christ, she needs Frank badly, and she needs him now.

Suddenly impatient, she lets go of him, puts her hand on his chest, and shoves him over onto his back. He goes down willingly, pulling her on top of him as he does, much to her delight.

Eagerly, she moves to straddle his hips, lining up her slit with his erection. She rocks against him a couple of times, not even trying to take him in, merely dragging her folds along his shaft, savoring every hard, pulsing inch the way she can‘t when he‘s inside her.

She bites her lip as she looks down at him. This is their favorite position - he loves being on the bottom because he doesn‘t have to worry about hurting her, she loves being on top because it means she gets to see him, broad and strong and chiseled and impossibly gorgeous, and just as transfixed by her. It makes her feel beautiful, to think about how good they must look together. How his bulk makes her slender build seem even more delicate, and the other way around. Perhaps she should buy a big mirror and put it up in front of her bed.

Another thought that goes straight to her pussy.

Unwilling to wait any longer, she reaches down between her legs and guides his tip to her entrance. Wet as she is, she swallows the first few inches easily, but reaches her limit soon after.

That doesn‘t make what she can take feel any less amazing, though. She really does love this cock. Because it‘s Frank‘s, mainly, but also because of the way the veins drag across her inner walls when the angle is right, and how snugly the tapered tip fits inside her. She grinds down on him, just the way she likes, moaning at the liquid heat that rises from her g-spot into her womb, a pleasure so potent, it tightens her throat and makes it difficult to breathe.

„Perfect“, she mutters, and does it again.

She doesn‘t ride him so much as massage him with her cunt, each motion slow and deliberate, intent on drawing out the experience for both of them. It must be maddening for him, who hasn't gotten off yet, but he‘s patient and disciplined - ever the soldier, even now. His hands hold on to the back of her thighs to steady her. Other than that, he‘s almost motionless, trusting her to take care of him as she pleasures herself with his cock, somehow resisting the urge to thrust up into her and take back some control over the stimulation he receives.

„Perfect“, she says again, more firmly this time, because she doesn‘t think she‘s ever let him know just how much she appreciates how much effort he puts into holding still, how good he‘s being for her. „My good boy.“

She feels herself flush furiously - she didn‘t mean to say that last part out loud. It was just an impulse, a habit left over from dominating men by the dozen. (Although she can‘t quite remember ever being this tender with any of them.)

The expression on his face doesn‘t change. It remains as open and adoring as before, except for the hint of a smile that makes Frank‘s deep brown eyes crinkle at the edges.

She returns the smile shyly and bends down to kiss him, shivering at the increased pressure on her sweet spot. She stays down there, low enough that her breasts brush against his warm chest with each gentle movement of her hips.

One of his hands travels from her thigh to her ass, settling on the small of her back for a moment before leisurely making its way up her spine, vertebra by vertebra, and sliding into her drying hair. (It‘s going to be a tangled mess when they‘re done, and she‘ll probably have to tame it with a bunch of product and put it into a bun tomorrow to conceal the frizz, but that‘s a prize she‘s willing to pay for this perfect, wonderful night with this perfect, wonderful man.)

Using her hair as leverage, he tilts her head to the side to slip his tongue between her teeth explore her thoroughly, like he‘s never tasted nor felt anything as good as her.

While he sucks on her tongue, she plays with one of his nipples, tugging and pulling at the tiny nub until they‘re both panting into each other‘s mouths, struggling to stay connected as she rocks harder against him, feeling him glide in and out of her cunt.

„Karen“, he grunts against her lips, and she swallows the sound of her own name greedily, still amazed that it‘s her who has got him like this, that he‘s fully with her instead of chasing dreams. Perhaps that‘s selfish, but love always is. It‘s as selfish as it is generous. That‘s the beauty of it - in love, even taking can be an act of kindness, because what good is giving somebody your everything when they won‘t accept it?

His other hand, the one not tangled in her hair, snakes between their bodies, blindly searching for her clit. He finds it easily enough, rubbing her through her inner labia to protect the overstimulated little pearl from his rough fingers. The result is a much less intense, but also much more profound, even pleasure, radiating through the whole of her sex. Her pussy contracts around his shaft, the first subtle shock wave of her rapidly approaching orgasm.

They‘re moving together now, her near mindless with the ecstasy of it, him careful, not just because he doesn‘t want to go to deep, but also because he‘s staving off his own orgasm.

She‘ll make it up to him later. She‘ll make it so, so good for him.

Unlike her first, her second climax doesn‘t come with a sudden burst of increased stimulation. Instead, she lets it build and build and build, as long as she can, a coil of tension in her womb, twisting in on itself more and more tightly until it finally releases, flooding her entire system with tingling, shiver-inducing warmth.

„Frank“, she sighs, her labored breathing dividing the single syllable into three or four. „I love you. God, I love you.“

She kisses him hard, clumsy in the remaining blaze of her orgasm as it fades into the soft-edged, fuzzy afterglow, but no less enthusiastic for it.

They take some time to lazily make out while she recovers. She keeps him inside her, loath to lose him sooner than she has to, and lose that feeling of fullness that he brings with him. Every now and then, she bucks her hips into him, preventing his arousal from subsiding, and savoring the residual sparks the drag of his shaft against her channel sends through her.

He groans when she kisses his neck, his mouth open and eyes half-lidded with bliss. The look of peace on his face makes her heart soar. He deserves this, deserves to feel safe and relaxed for once, to, if only for a moment, be nothing more than a man, not a soldier in combat or a fugitive from the law or a prisoner of his own past.

She lifts herself up slightly, allowing him to slip out of her, before slowly kissing her way down his body, just like he did hers earlier. She pays no mind to his scars; there are times when she makes sure to kiss every single one of them, but tonight, she doesn‘t want him to be thinking of them. Tonight, she wants him to feel whole. Pure. The way he makes her feel when he holds her in his arms.

When she sees his erection bobbing right in front of her, dark purple and soaked in her juices, her mouth waters. Gently, she blows on the tip, eliciting a gasp from him. So beautiful.

Above, he sits up slightly, using her pillow for support, so he can watch her work his cock with her hands and mouth. She doesn‘t mind giving him a little show.

Making deliberate eye contact with him, she grabs his erection in one hand, and reaches out for his with the other. He takes it gratefully, lacing their fingers together, palms pressed lightly against each other. The size difference is intoxicating.

He‘s too close already for her to tease him much, but she still takes a moment to nuzzle his tip with her cheek and cover his shaft in tiny, adoring kisses while she inhales the sweet, musky scent of their combined fluids. It always makes her think of fall, of damp, fallen leaves in the warm midday sun.

Hungrily, she sticks out her tongue and flutters it against the very base of him, where the root of his shaft meets his dark, trimmed pubes, where the smell is the strongest. If human pheromones are real (would it be weird to ask Matt about this?), his have the power to drive her absolutely wild.

She hums contentedly and licks a long, broad stripe up his huge dick, cleaning her own wetness off of him in the process. It always makes her feel dirty, bringing to mind the nasty whispers and taunting catcalls that were the background soundtrack to her life in her hometown (Slut. Whore. Dyke.), but she can‘t help but love it anyway.

Her upbringing tells her she should be ashamed of that. Her progressive politics tell her she should be ashamed of being ashamed. Frank‘s eyes tell her that he loves it, too.

As her mouth reaches the crown of his cock and she sucks lightly at the spongy flesh around the slit - lips only, not taking him into her mouth yet -, she allows herself to simply be. She wants to be present with him, for his sake, if not hers. She wants to give him her full attention. He doesn‘t deserve anything less.

She opens up wide and wraps her lips around him, deftly swirling her tongue around his cockhead. His eyes never leave hers for even a moment as she sinks down until he hits the back of her throat, and then deeper still, until her nose is buried in the thicket of his pubic hair, and her chin rests against his balls. With all the practice she‘s had, it‘s almost too easy, the depths of her throat welcoming him with very little resistance, despite his size.

The stays for as long as she can, swallowing around him and adding little humming sounds into the mix as she encourages him to grind into the tight sleeve of her throat to his heart‘s content. He does so, fast and deep, but with his usual gentleness and a look of pure love on his face, turning what would be an obscene display of prurience into the sweetest lovemaking.

She‘s drunk on it, on his taste, his scent, his adoration, the vulnerability of the act, and the heady feeling of being smothered by his desire for her.

She only pulls back when the shallow breaths she takes through her nose aren‘t enough for her. His shaft slides almost all the way out of her mouth save for the tip, making saliva and precome run down her chin and drip onto his pelvis. It‘s messy and filthy in all the best ways, allowing her to pretend that he is just as wet for her as she is for him. The thought of his body trying to invite her inside makes her shiver.

God, she wants to fuck him. She really wants to fuck him.

She takes him back into her throat instead.

This time, she doesn‘t wait nearly as long to pull back. Establishing a rhythm is tricky in this position, especially with only one of her hands free to prop herself up with, but he helps her out by carefully guiding her head up and down his pulsing cock. She sucks him slow and hard on each upstroke, creating a tight vacuum seal around him with her lips.

He‘s close now, she can feel it in the tightening of his balls and the heavy flow of precome that coats her tongue. She quickens her pace, but makes sure to keep her gaze firmly on his face. She loves watching him come for her, the way his eyes will flutter shut and his jaw will tic with tension until the very moment of his release, when it will go slack and make his mouth drop open.

He doesn‘t disappoint her.

„Karen“, he groans. „Almost there.“

She hums her assent and goes down as far as she possibly can, till it feels like he‘s an inch away from being inside her stomach. She lets him rock into her again, his hand in her hair and her name on his lips.

The air is starting to get thin when her throat spasms around him, and he‘s gone. Thick ropes of come shoot directly down her esophagus, which instinctively tries to close itself shut and expel the intruding fluid from its passage by gagging repeatedly, so hard and in such rapid succession, it feels like a bad hiccup.

Goddammit. All because of that stupid mental block that keeps her from swallowing, and clearing the vital channel that way. It‘s like trying to swallow medication that your brain registers as a foreign object and desperately tries to prevent from entering the body.

„Karen? You okay?“

She clings to the sound of his voice, her only anchor amid the emerging panic. He starts to pull out, but she knows that if he does, she won‘t have a choice but to cough up his come all over the sheets, so she raises her hand - Just give me a moment - and tries again.

It‘s just a little bit of semen, she reminds herself.

It won‘t hurt you.

You want it.

And the thing is - she does. She wants to see this through. Wants a part of him to stay inside her, wants to be that intimate with him. And she also wants to be brave, to be the woman who follows her lusty urges to their conclusion, without being afraid of what that makes her.

He switches tactics, staying put instead of trying to dislodge himself from her throat, shushing her as he pets her hair.

„Come on, honey“, he whispers encouragingly. „I know you can do it. You can do anything you put your mind to. You‘re amazing, Karen. The most remarkable person I‘ve ever met.“

They‘re not empty words, spoken merely to soothe her. He‘s too earnest for that. If he says he believes in her, it‘s because he does.

She‘s not going to prove him wrong.

Karen looks into his eyes, squeezes his hand tight enough that it must hurt, and, finally, swallows.

The relief is instant.

The gagging stops after two or three more spasms, allowing her lungs to draw in air through her nose. Only now does she register the tears of exertion that are running down her cheeks, and the trembling of her muscles.

She squeezes his hand again, gently this time, and gives him a slight nod.

„There we go“, he says with a smile as he eases himself out of her. „That‘s my girl. Told you you could do it.“

She releases him with a pop, pleased to note that he‘s perfectly clean, save for the strings of saliva that cling to him. It‘s a dirty, almost pornographic sight. She kind of wants to take a picture.

Before she has a chance to follow her impulse and grab her phone, he bends down to gather her in his arms and pull her up onto his chest, so he can hold her while she recovers, coughing and spluttering like he saved her from drowning, but okay. He rocks her slightly, the way a father would do to his daughter, and she has absolutely no idea how to even begin to describe the mix of emotions that thought provokes in her.

She doesn‘t stop him, though. It feels good. Physically safe, if emotionally hazardous.

„I‘m so sorry“, she says, voice scratchy and raw. „This was amazing, and I screwed it up at the finish line.“

„What are you talking about?“, he grunts softly (a feat only he could pull off). „You did so well, honey. I‘m so proud of you.“

His praise feels like being wrapped in warm velvet, cozy and decadent all at once. She wipes away some of the mess of tears and spittle on her face. „I shouldn‘t have pushed myself. I should have made you finish in my mouth, not down my throat. That way, I could have taken my time, given myself a choice, instead of panicking like an idiot.“

To her surprise, he just laughs. „Karen, if there‘s one thing I know about you, it‘s that you are incredibly determined. Of course you went all the way. You always do.“ He leans in to whisper in her ear: „It‘s extremely hot.“

Despite herself, she can‘t help but chuckle. God, why does her boyfriend have to be so charming? She‘s already stupidly in love with him. If she falls any harder, she‘ll shatter. „I love you. I know I‘m saying that a lot tonight, but ... I really do.“

„Not like I mind hearing it“, he says with a shrug. He presses a gentle kiss to her forehead. „Love you, too, kid.“

They lie together for a while, just cuddling, and in the tingly, satisfied post-coital exhaustion, surrounded by his warm embrace, it‘s difficult not to give in and let sleep claim her right then and there. The only thing that‘s stopping her is that she still needs to brush her hair and teeth, and she‘s been finicky about this ever since she stopped living her life in a coke-fueled state of perpetual derealization.

Reluctantly, she sits up, rubbing some of the dried salt from her eyes. When he gives her a questioning look, she takes the cake box from the bedside table and offers it to Frank. „You want a cupcake?“

„What‘s this, Ms. Page? Were you lying in bed, eating your feelings?“, he asks with a smirk, but gladly accepts one of the treats. „Thanks.“

„I was“, Karen admits. Her mouth twitches into a lopsided smile as she watches Frank take a too large bite and ending up with frosting smeared across the tip of his nose. She wipes it off casually and licks her finger clean. „These were a gift, actually. Apparently, Matt‘s in one of his adventurous moods and got it into his head that he needed to make some for me. At five o'clock in the morning. On a workday. And Foggy just went along with it, because he‘s terrible at telling Matt no.“

Frank swallows his bite of pastry and nods. „Not that I‘m complaining, but why the hell did he think he needed to bring you cupcakes?“

„To celebrate“, Karen says. „He and Foggy got engaged on Saturday.“

„They‘re getting married?“, Frank asks, eyebrows raised in surprise.

„They are!“ A wave of joy that bubbles up inside Karen‘s chest. Joy that she probably should have been feeling this morning, but better late than never. She beams at him. „I‘m going to be their Maid of Honor.“

„Oh.“ He frowns uncomfortably, like he just got informed that an acquaintance‘s cat was diagnosed with lymphoma and is trying to figure out a politely detached, but reasonably compassionate response.

„You don‘t seem very happy for them“, Karen observes, her voice bone dry.

His frown deepens. „I want to be. But ... is Matt really sure about this?“

„I‘d hope so, given that he‘s the one who proposed.“ She pulls up her knees to her chest to rest her chin on them, head tilted to the side so she can look at her partner. „He made a whole ordeal out of it. Did it in full Daredevil attire. Carried Foggy all the way to the top of one of his favorite skyscrapers at night and got down on one knee right there. I‘m told it was very romantic.“

Seemingly against his will, Frank smiles. „He does have a flair for the dramatic.“

„What gave it away? The horns? Or the stunt he pulled during your trial?“ God, that seems so long ago. When Karen had had nothing but suspicions about Daredevil‘s identity yet, and her instant, profound connection with Frank Castle had still frightened her. When Matt and Foggy not being together had still seemed like a real possibility. „I don‘t think Matt has ever been so sure about anything in his life. He loves Foggy so much, sometimes I‘m surprised he has time to do anything other than moon. It‘s like a gothic romance, Mary and Percy Shelley sort of deal. If their love were a song, it would be fifteen minutes long and sung by Meat Loaf.“

„Yeah“, Frank huffs. „That‘s the problem.“

„The codependency?“

„Yeah. That.“

„Trust me, they‘re aware. That‘s kind of what their big dramatic break-up was all about.“

„Exactly.“ Frank‘s jaw is tight with worry, the way she hasn‘t seen him since the break-up in question. „I know you know those two better than I do, Karen, but you weren‘t there that night. You didn‘t see how broken Matt looked. Like his boyfriend had ripped the heart right out of him and left him to choke on his own blood. I've seen that man get beaten within an inch of his life, but that‘s as close as I‘ve ever come to watching Matt Murdock die. There was no more fight left in him, Karen. If I hadn‘t been there ...“

Absentmindedly, he picks at the empty cupcake wrapper in his hand, twisting and folding it into bizarre origami figures. That‘s worrying. He‘s not usually a fidgeter. „I care about Red. We have our differences, but he‘s a good man, and he‘s been a friend to me when I deserved one the least. I don‘t like that someone has the power to do that to him.“

„Aren‘t you the one who told me that if someone has the power to break your heart, that means you should hold onto them with all of your might?“, Karen reminds him, as gently as she can. She did take that advice to heart back then. Not initially. Not when it came to Matt, since the wounds from their tentative relationship and his near instant betrayal had still run too deep. Not even when it came to Frank himself, who chose vengeance over her. But his words did take root eventually, and she‘s never regretted it.

„I did say that“, he agrees, eyes alight with that all-consuming pain and grief that seems to define his entire life sometimes. „And then you showed me that it was possible to love someone like that and for them to be good to you.“

Oh.

It‘s like the ground beneath Karen vanished, but she‘s not falling, she‘s floating, adrift. The confession is making her head spin. She‘d always thought of herself as second to Maria and the kids in Frank‘s heart. As a true and powerful love, but one he never wanted. One that he wishes he‘d never have to find. That‘s how life works, isn‘t it? It doesn‘t lead up to some great climax and a sudden, merciful death. At some point, you‘re the happiest you‘ll ever be, and then that moment is gone. You‘ll never reach those highs again, and you just have to live with that.

There‘s no way she‘s Frank‘s happiest moment. Not after everything getting here cost him. He‘d trade her in a heartbeat for the life that was taken from him. He‘d be foolish not to.

But maybe ... Maybe she can still love him better than anyone else ever has. Selfishly. Selflessly. For her sake. And for his.

„Frank ...“, she whispers, reaching out to cup his beautiful, soul-achingly earnest face in her hand, to wipe away some of the tears that have gathered at the corners of his eyes.

There are tears in her eyes, too, but she just lets them flow. She doesn‘t mind them.

He puts an arm around her and draws her in close, leans his forehead against hers, and simply breathes. In, out. In, out. The steady, Sisyphean rhythm of life and all it throws at you.

Patiently, she rubs his neck, breathing with him until both of their tears have dried.

„Look, Frank“, she says softly. „It‘s sweet that you‘re worried about Matt. All of us are. He‘s not known for making great decisions. But they‘re his decisions to make. And I can tell you for a fact that he‘s not going to leave Foggy anymore than I‘m going to leave you.“

He opens his mouth in protest, but she holds up her finger to shush him. „And Foggy isn‘t going to leave him, either. It‘s mutual, Frank. They can‘t be without each other, and yes, that‘s dangerous as hell, but there‘s nothing anybody can do about it. And they genuinely try to work with that. All they want to do is make each other happy.“

„Do they succeed?“, Frank asks, sounding slightly mollified, but still wary.

„Oh yes.“ Karen smiles at him. „They‘re so happy, Frank. You should see them together. It‘s like staring at the sun.“ That gives her an idea. „Hey. Why don‘t we all spend some time together this weekend? All four of us. Like a double date. Maybe it‘ll put your mind at ease.“

He thinks it over for a moment, expression unreadable. „Okay“, he agrees eventually, clearly not convinced yet, but willing to give it a shot. „I have one more question, though.“

„Hmm?“

He holds the folded up wrapper aloft. „Why did they bake you cupcakes, of all things? Why not bring, I don‘t know, a bottle of champagne?“

„Oh my god“, Karen laughs, a bit lightheaded from the sudden relief of tension. Then, she remembers the conversation from Saturday morning, and feels her cheeks redden. „Um, if you really want to know, it's because I kind of asked for them?“, she mumbles awkwardly, unsure how to explain this to her boyfriend. Whether she even should. „Not directly, I mean. It was more of a -" She hides her face behind her fingers. "God, it‘s so silly.“

In fact, all of this is deeply silly. Hell, her entire life is silly. Half of her friends have had their DNA mutated by weird chemicals. Her ex‘s ex was (is?) a zombie. She‘s naked in bed with a guy who guns down criminals while wearing a skull vest.

And the silliest thing of all is that she still manages to be embarrassed by a mildly suggestive conversation she‘s had with one of her best friends. „I stayed over at Matt and Foggy‘s place on Friday. Matt and I were kind of joking around, but I guess the conversation must have stuck with him. He - he said something about stealing you from me so you‘d make him kimchi, so I threatened to steal Foggy from him to score some homemade cupcakes.“

Frank shakes his head in fond exasperation. „And he immediately took it upon himself to bribe you with his own baked goods to prevent that from happening? Now that‘s commitment.“

Watching him take it all in stride is a major relief. Obviously, Karen wasn‘t actually planning on stepping out on him, but most of the other men she‘s dated were extremely quick to question her fidelity, especially if they had an inkling about her liking women as well. Stereotypes, and all that. It‘s made her a bit cagey on the subject.

„Oh no, he made it pretty clear that he and Foggy are ... um, open, I guess? Sexually speaking“, she clarifies, glad to be able to get this off of her chest. „He even invited me to watch. You know, in that ‚Just kidding! Unless ...‘ kind of way.“

„Yeah, that sounds like Red“, Frank drawls, amused. „He also ‚jokingly‘ offered to blow me after that mess at Fogwell‘s. With your blessing, of course.“

That is complete news to Karen, but she has absolutely no trouble believing it. Matt‘s late in life sexual awakening has become a force of nature all on its own, causing ripples through their entire friend group. After all, what can you do when the straightest guy you know suddenly discovers his passionate, carnal love for his male best friend of two decades? Seeing somebody break through denial that runs that deep naturally makes you question the assumptions you‘ve made about yourself and your own sexuality. Karen herself is certainly no exception.

She rubs her temples like she‘s trying to stave off a headache. What is she going to do with these recurring thoughts about her best friends‘ sex life?