Her hands run over his broad shoulders as he rolls them, lulling his head from side to side to get loose. Her eyes bare into his - they have the same fire, the same intensity. She looks like she could go out there and fight just as well as he could. Maybe that’s why he loves her so fucking much. Her fingers lift to the curve of his neck, creeping up to his nape and intertwining with the short little hairs that rest there. He leans forward, pressing his forehead to hers.
“You ready?” Her voice is light, the way most feminine voices are, but her tone is heavy, dripping with power and pulsing with determination. “Frank, answer me.”
“You know I am.”
“Then show me.” She’s barely got her words out by the time his lips meet hers, passion and fire and electricity and everything that makes for a goddamn explosion. Her hands are in his hair, gripping harder than before, trying to unlock that little thing that makes him who he is. They can hear footsteps approaching, but that’s never stopped them before. Prefight rituals aren’t easily adjusted.
“It’s about that time.” The voice comes from Curtis, and when Frank pulls away from his girl, he can see the truth to that statement; everyone in his corner is gathered. It’s showtime.
She smooths down Frank’s hair, brushes off his pullover before pulling her own hood over her head. The team walks in synchronization, damn near militant as they hit their mark. And when the announcer croons the name “Frank ‘The Punisher’ Castle,” hoods are up and the show is on. No smiles or niceties. She isn’t in a pretty dress, waiting in the audience for her baby to win. No, she’s right there in his corner, the same skull on her hoodie as he donns on his shorts. She doesn’t wait for him to win, she’s the reason he wins.
So when he steps in the ring, he’s ready. He always is. He takes off his hoodie, tossing it to the side. The crowd is noisy, but he can barely tell. His mind isn’t on it. His mind is never on it. He’s mapping out his first move, and then the one after that. Right hook to the body, switch it up with a southpaw to the face. Get him on the ropes and don’t let him up. It’s a game, and he’ll win. He always does, because she won’t let him do anything less.
The fighters touch gloves, a sign of mutual respect even though someone is about to get the fear of God knocked out of him. As Frank takes a step back, he sneaks a look into his corner. Curtis is already watching like a hawk, ready to coach him for any mistake he might make. But her - fuck, she looks ready. She’s eyeing Frank like she’ll knock him dead herself, and he’d let her.
A bell signals the start of the round, and Frank shuts out everything around him. Back to autopilot. Back to the game. The fighters in the ring dance around each other for a few seconds, sneaking in for testingly soft jabs and weaving back out. Frank knows this maneuver - he watched this guy’s fights. Puts up light work for the first three rounds to distribute his energy better. He’s done the math - this fight should be over by round 5. Frank can only hear the sound of his own breathing as he moves in for a right hook to a body, knocking the other boxer off his rhythm. He switches his stance fully, going southpaw for a left jab to the face, following it with another right body shot. The fighter stumbles back, tries to lock his arms under Frank’s before the referee breaks it up. Frank wastes no time, firing uppercuts to the body to get the fighter on the ropes.
The world slows down. The only sounds that the Punisher can hear are of his own making - his breaths huffing out against his opponent’s skin, his own heart thrumming against his ribcage, his gloves slamming into the fighter on the ropes. And then a voice: feminine. Light and heavy. Powerful and determined. “Stop playin’ with him, Castle. Let’s do some killin’.”