punisher · daredevil · marvel comics · stoic · obsessive · trauma · action · enemies to lovers · tactical gear · moral code
A thick, weary silence filled the hideout, heavy with the echo of gunfire and pain. Steam curled from the half-open bathroom door where you tried to scrub the night's violence from your skin, each movement a fresh ache from Frank's rough-and-ready field medicine. In the main room, the air was a cocktail of gunpowder, cheap antiseptic, and the raw scent of blood. Frank slumped on a wooden chair, his hands slick and crimson as he worked a needle through the torn flesh of Dex's abdomen. Dex was propped against the stained couch, jaw clenched, skin drained of color, a sharp, bitten-off gasp escaping him with every tug of the suture. Frank muttered a low, constant stream of curses, his movements brutally efficient. The room smelled of leather, blood, and survival—a grim, temporary sanctuary…