#Angst
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rainedravens · 27 days ago
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"holy shit they finally confessed, what comes next--"
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sweetcalebb · 3 days ago
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Zayne's tired and snaps at you ! âŠč àŁȘ ౚৎ˚₊
wc: 1k
a/n: this was an ask by anon! i accidentally posted it before it was ready </3 but they requested angst and said that they were going thru a rough time. i'm really sorry to hear that :( my DMS/ inbox is always open. but i hope this is okay, and if it's not, pls feel free to let me know thru the comments, my DMs, or thru another ask! đŸ«¶đŸ»
content: hurt/no comfort, zayne is stressed, slight neglect, themes of insecurity, sad reader </3, also avoidant reader again!! (let me know if u want something else)
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It'd been a long week. You hadn't talked to Zayne as much as you would've liked—or at all.
You weren't particularly clingy, but you missed him. You missed telling him about your day and the random gossip from work. You missed hearing about his days, too. Missed seeing his lips curl in that micro smile you loved. You missed the way he’d kiss your temple before closing the door. The way his eyes softened when he asked about your day.
So you waited up for him. You sat on the couch, eyes glued to the TV screen playing your favorite show while you passed the time.
You'd been up for hours. And when you finally heard the familiar click of the front door, followed by a quiet creak, your heart nearly leapt in your throat.
You turned the volume down and glanced up at him.
He looked tired, exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin. But you tried for a soft smile and a quiet, "Hey."
"Hey."
Low. Clipped.
You swallowed back the rising feeling of rejection.
"How was it tonight?"
Zayne didn't look at you. He loosened his tie and dropped his bag by the door. "Long," he murmured.
You stood up, the words coming out slowly. "I know you're tired.. But can we talk? We haven't really—"
"I'm—I need a moment," he said, finally looking up at you, eyes narrowed and jaw tense. "Let me breathe."
Heat stung your face. Breathe?
What was that supposed to mean? Was he trying to imply that you were... suffocating? That when you tried to speak to him—really talk to him—for the first time this week, it was suffocating?
You hesitated. "Breathe?"
"Yes, breathe."
You let out a quiet breath. "We've barely spoken all week, but I try to talk to you once and all of a sudden I'm—"
"Please," Zayne suddenly exasperated, his voice rising before quickly leveling again.
He looked away, shrugging out the cuff-links of his shirt. "I can't do this right now. So please... just—don't."
He waited a second, like maybe he realized how ugly those words sounded. But if he noticed it, he didn't apologize.
Instead, he shuffled down the hall to your shared bedroom like he hadn't just dug a hole in your chest.
He didn't mean to.
He would never mean to.
It was misplaced anger. But it felt all the same.
I can't deal with you right now.
That's what it sounded like to you.
Tears stung your eyes. You tried to will them back. It wasn't Zayne's fault. He was working late taking care of people—saving lives even. You should he happy.
It wouldn't be fair.
Your chin trembled, eyelids burning and throat frantically working around nothing.
But you didn't cry. Not yet.
Quietly, you started down the hall to your shared bedroom and stopped at the door. You peeked inside, palms sweating at the thought of seeing Zayne again.
But he wasn't there—must've been taking a shower. So hastily, you grabbed a pillow, a blanket, and stumbled back to the living room.
The world began to blur through tears as the floor croaked underneath you. You could hardly see, but you kept walking.
You set your stuff down on the couch. Then, finally, a broken sound tore from your throat. You whimpered, desperately pressing your lips shut to stop the rest from coming, but it was too late.
Was it too much to want to talk to your tired boyfriend?
You sank to the couch, your shoulders shaking with the force of your cries.
He can't handle you.
You're too much.
The cushions dipped under your weight as you shifted, trying to get comfortable, even as everything felt wrong—your skin, your thoughts, your feelings, your very being.
You brought the blanket up to your face and turned to face the cushions, shoulders still shaking with silent sobs.
I can't do this right now.
His words replayed in your mind. Over and over until the ache in your chest burned and your throat throbbed.
The tears subsided after half an hour, but you still lied there, restless—cheeks red and sticky, eyes bloodshot and puffy, lips swollen and raw, breath catching in your throat painfully. You were a mess. A sensitive, snotty mess.
Then, quiet footsteps.
You snuggled deeper into the blankets and shut your eyes. Maybe if you pretended to sleep, you could file this away and shove it deep, deep down.
Pretend it never happened.
"Sweetheart?"
Your heart ached, but you said nothing.
Zayne stepped closer. The floorboards creaked under his feet as he crouched beside the couch.
"Are you asleep?" he whispered.
Still, nothing.
His hand hovered over your shoulder for a second, hand flexing like he was torn between touching you and pulling away. His hand dipped closer, just an inch away, then he stopped.
Silently, he pulled away.
"You don't have to sleep on the couch." He waited a beat. "I can take it."
Again. Nothing.
Zayne sighed, the sound strained. "I
 I shouldn’t have
 I’m sorry. I lost my composure," he murmured. "I have no right to ask, but can you come back to bed?"
Finally, he reached out again. And for a second, you let him touch you. But everything came rushing back—his tone, his looks, his words.
You pulled away, shifting as close to the cushions as you could, like his touch was something you dreaded.
Zayne swallowed hard, another shaky breath leaving his lips. "I'll respect your space."
He stood up again, but he lingered. Then softly—so soft you almost didn't recognize him—he whispered, "Goodnight."
He waited. Seconds passed, but you didn't say anything. Your lip trembled like you were about to, but you didn't.
Then he was gone again, his footsteps disappearing down the hallway.
Tears spilled down your cheeks again, staining your pillow.
It was stupid. So stupid.
He said sorry. He asked you to come back to bed.
But you let him sit there in his own silence.
Maybe you were too much.
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sparkleshakes · 11 months ago
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I’M TIRED OF SMUT, I WANT TOOTH ACHING FLUFF AND HEART SHATTERING ANGST.
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trashytracktales · 2 days ago
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(I'm really sorry for the size of what I sent you and if you want to ignore it I'll completely understand)
I don't know if you like writing enemies to lovers (that's the only way I can describe it) but I've been thinking a lot about how you would make an amazing story with this "plot" because you write so well
So I'm here to ask for a one shot of Lando where he and Flo's best friend (his sister) don't get along and are always picking on each other (but deep down Lando just uses this as a protection so other people don't know he likes her, because he's afraid of ruining their friendship).
The scenario could be the two going to Flo's horse riding competition but they are late for the event, so Lando suggests giving a ride to his sister's friend and she accepts because she doesn't know the city and the place is on a remote farm. Halfway there it starts to rain and the car ends up getting stuck because Lando didn't want to follow the GPS, saying he knew a shorter route and this makes the two argue. The girl gets irritated by Lando's stubbornness and gets out of the car, even in the rain, and goes to a barn that is the only covered place nearby. Obviously Lando goes after her and when they get there the two admire each other for a while because the wet clothes are stuck to their bodies, leaving little to the imagination. So Lando can't hold on and kiss her and all the desire to have her is released at that moment (pls make it a smut đŸ„ș)
Hold your horses | LN⁎
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🐎 summary ──── They’ve been pushing each other’s limits for as long as they can remember, and storms aren’t something that scares them. But when they get caught in the eye of one, desire and resentment collide in a moment they can’t ignore nor change.
🐎 pairing ──── Lando Norris x Flo’s best friend (she/her)
🐎 rating ──── explicit
🐎 warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, angst, smut, push-pull dynamics, arguments and dirty talk, swearing, power imbalance, wet clothes??, banter and manipulation through teasing, fingering, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, unresolved tension with open ending (don’t hate me pls I can already smell the requests for part 2).
🐎 word count ──── 7.1k
🐎 date ──── Jul. 14, 2025
🐎 a/n ──── I had this request sitting in my inbox since December of 2024. Whoever sent it, if you’re still here and reading this, I’m sooooo sorry love. I hope it was worth the wait đŸ€Ž
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“JUST ADMIT IT, Lando,” she says, letting out an exasperated sigh. “We are stuck,” the girl offers the only plausible verdict and, somewhere far in the distance, a loud clap of thunder grumbles like it agrees with her.
Outside, the English countryside is a blur of grey and green, soaked in a sudden summer storm. The windshield wipers squeak uselessly across the glass, struggling to keep up with the downpour. Mud splatters up the sides of the car, and the wheels dig deeper into the soaked dirt road every time Lando tries to gun it.
He doesn’t look at her right away. Instead, he’s absolutely convinced that the sheer willpower will reverse the fact that they’re halfway up a deserted country lane, surrounded by trees that loom in on either side like spectators, and very, very stuck.
“We’re not stuck,” Lando insists, his jaw tight; he’d rather chew on wood than agree with her.
“I’m so sorry,” she says mockingly. “The fact that we are not moving might’ve gave me that impression. But thank god it’s not the case,” she continues, flashing him a fake smile.
“I just need to rock it out of the rut,” he explains, giving her an annoyed look back.
She nods. “Of course, you’re going to rock it out,” the girl repeats after him, the irritation in her voice betraying the fact that, in reality, she thinks his solution is terribly uninspired. “Genius. Did you read that in a Top Gear magazine? Wait, do you even know how to read or you just looked at the pictures?”
Beyond frustrated, Lando throws the car into reverse and hits the gas again. The tires squeal and spin, slinging more mud into the air. As a result, the car lurches an inch, maybe two, then creaks and settles deeper, the nose now slightly tilted to the right.
She clears her throat. “You were saying?”
He exhales through his nose, clearly trying to keep it together. “Can you shut up for a second?”
“You shut up. If it wasn’t for your big mouth, we wouldn’t be in this situation right now,” she points out. “Who ignores the GPS in this type of weather?”
Lando rounds on her. “I know the area, alright?”
The girl scoffs. “Clearly! We’re on a road that looks like it was last used by the Romans. But Lando knows the area. Go ahead and get us out, then. Because we’re one thunderclap away from being part of a missing persons case.”
“Why do you always have to be so dramatic?” he asks in an even tone.
She replies so quickly that it almost takes her by surprise, too. “Because I always knew you’d be the cause of my death, Norris.”
Much to their misfortune, the rain starts pouring harder, drumming angrily against the roof of the car. The sky looks heavy, thunders rolling in the distance like some kind of bad omen. They’re surrounded by thick hedgerows and open fields that stretch out in every direction, broken only by the occasional, soggy-looking fencepost. There’s no farmhouse in sight, no signal, no other cars or people. Just them.
And that’s the worst part.
“You know, I didn’t even have to drive you,” says Lando through gritted teeth as he unbuckles his seatbelt and throws open the door on his side. Water rushes in before he slams it shut again, soaking his hoodie through before he even rounds the car.
She watches him through the windshield with her arms crossed at her chest. A part of her wants to feel bad, because he looks miserable, hair plastered to his forehead now, jaw flexing as he surveys the tires like he can will the car to move. But on the other hand, he deserves it. Lando’s been nothing but a cocky, irritating nightmare since the moment she met him. Always mocking and always acting like her presence was some kind of personal inconvenience, even though she’s the one who’s had to put up with his snide remarks at family dinners, his eye-rolls whenever she talks about university, and the constant yet silent competition over who can get under the other’s skin faster.
“No traction,” she hears his voice again, jolting slightly when the door swings open. Lando climbs back in, dripping water across the console, managing to sprinkle her with a few cold drops, too. His curls are officially a mess, there’s a streak of mud on his jeans, and his expression is thunderous next time he speaks, “Road’s completely washed out,” he finally admits, slamming the door shut with more force than necessary.
The echo leaves a sinister melody in her ears. “Oh?” she gasps, faking surprise. “You mean we’re stuck?”
Lando glares at her. “Can you not?”
“I’m just trying to understand how your shortcut landed us in a damn bog.”
Closing his eyes for a moment, he throws his head back with a groan. “You’re actually the worst.”
“And now what?” she asks, outraged by the fact that he doesn’t even seem remotely concerned about looking for a way to get them out of there.
“We wait for the rain to pass,” says Lando, finally stopping the car.
The moment the engine dies beneath them, the hum vanishes, and the rain rushes in to fill the silence. In the sudden stillness of the stalled car, the air shifts. Neither of them speaks for a while, but that something that’s dancing between them it’s painfully palpable now.
“I shouldn’t have agreed to come with you,” she confesses in a small voice, turning to look out the window to her right, where the storm shows no sign of stopping anytime soon. “It’s always the same shit packed differently.”
Lando shrugs. “No one forced you, mate,” he reminds her in a flat voice, not to be rude, but mostly as a fact.
She presses her lips into a thin line, forcing herself to stay calm and not to give him more power over her than he already has. But even if she’s staring out the window, watching the world distort under the glass, she can still feel his eyes flicking to her, studying her, waiting for her to react. Ever since she became part of the Norris household orbit through his sister, there’s always been some sort of hostile dynamic between them, a constant game of who can strike the sharpest blow while pretending they don’t care. Flo used to be the mediator, but when it’s just the two of them, it’s as if a civil war is about to erupt at any moment.
“You offered, mate,” she accuses, turning to look at him. “So I thought maybe we could act like two normal people who don’t hate the fuck out of each other. For once.”
Lando frowns lightly. “No, I only did what Flo asked me to,” he says in a defensive manner. “Which was to give you a ride. And hate’s a strong word, don’t you think?”
Although she bites her lip in order to stop the words from leaving her mouth, they still find a way to slip through her lips, “You act like it fits.”
Her affirmation stings more than Lando wants to admit. It lodges deep in his chest, making him go still for a moment. Maybe he’s been too caught up in the rhythm of their game to see how sharp his own edges have gotten. How sometimes, in the heat of trying to win a stupid argument, he might’ve pushed too far. Said things that weren’t just clever or sarcastic, but cruel.
“This is such a disaster,” she admits, pulling him back from his own mind. “I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere, in a car with you of all people, late for my friend’s competition, and—”
“And what?” Lando cuts her off, dragging a hand through his damp curls, water flinging from the strands. His hoodie clings to his skin, soaked and uncomfortable, but the tension inside the car is worse than the weather outside. “What do you want from me right now? To make the car fly?”
She shakes her head. “You act like you know everything, and then this happens,” the girl gestures around the car, the rain, the stuck tires, and lastly, at the air between them. “Trying to keep up with you it’s exhausting.”
Lando’s eyes flash, twisting his body towards her as if his seat caught on fire. “Don’t pretend you know me.”
“Don’t pretend I don’t.”
It’s the conviction behind her words that shuts both of them up.
Her eyes widen in surprise, and then it’s as if a veil of tranquility wraps around her shoulders. Like something just simply clicked. Of course she knows him. She knows that he always taps his fingers against the steering wheel when he’s annoyed with the traffic, that he chews the inside of his cheek when he’s trying to keep his temper in check, that he can be loud just to fill silence, and sarcastic just to keep people at arm’s length.
Lando gets moody when he’s hungry, which, she’s learned, happens every few hours like clockwork. He’s infuriatingly competitive, even when it’s just a silly game of cards, and somehow always manages to be both irritatingly confident and quite avoidant when things get too real.
But she also knows he always drives five miles under the speed limit when it’s raining. She’s seen the way he softens when he’s around little kids, how he crouches down and talks to them so they won’t feel too small. He has his sister’s back without a second thought, even if that means to drive her annoying best friend to her competitions from time to time.
And Lando knows her too.
He knows that she always has to have the last word, even if it’s just a whispered insult under her breath as she walks away. That she rolls her eyes at him so hard it’s a miracle they haven’t gotten stuck yet, and that she says his name like it’s a curse, ninety-nine percent of the times.
Even so, he likes the way it sounds coming from her mouth.
She’s dramatic in the most exasperating way, throwing her hands around when she talks, sighing loud enough to be heard in the next room. She pretends to hate everything Lando likes just to get a rise out of him, and she’s been picking fights with him for years over the stupidest things: his haircuts, how he ties his shoes, the music he listens to, or the way he eats chips like he’s in a race.
She drives him insane, and she weaponizes it. But thing is, he’s the one that lets her.
“What are you doing?” asks Lando, watching her reaching for the door handle.
“This is getting old,” she tells him with a trace of weariness in her voice. “I’m done having the same fight with you,” she adds, slamming the door before he even gets a chance to stop her.
The metallic thud echoes through Lando’s head, leaving him behind for a few moments, losing sight of her figure cutting through the rain. Instinctively, his hands reach for the steering wheel and he squeezes it in his palms to anchor himself. He knows that this is just another manifestation of her stubbornness, but he can’t remain indifferent to it, no matter how hard he tries.
The rain soaked her in seconds, angry drops dripping down her hair and past her collar. Her boots sink into the soft earth with a sickening squelch, mud clinging to her soles like it’s trying to hold her back as a warning. The wind lashes sideways across her face, pushing her hair into her mouth and eyes, but she keeps walking, even though she doesn’t know where she’s going yet. The only certainty is that she needs to get away from him, from the weight in her chest and, most importantly, from the sound of his voice that’s still ringing in her ears.
She knows she should turn back from the moment the sky lights up with a flash of lightning that splits it in two for a few seconds, and the thunder that makes her chest vibrate. But there’s something strangely comforting about the discomfort she feels and the way the rain drowns everything out. Especially her thoughts.
The road ahead bends, and so does she, veering off toward the field that dips low near the treeline. Nestled behind a tangle of hedges, barely visible through the sheets of rain, she sees an old barn, weathered and crooked, but as long as it has a roof, she decides it’s enough to shield her until the rain stops. So she scrambles over a ditch and through tall grass, the cold clawing at her naked legs, her breath coming in ragged bursts as she finally reaches the door that resists her for a second before finally giving way with a groaning creak.
It’s dim and musty inside, but to her surprise, it’s neater than she’d imagined from the outside: stacked hay bales line the far wall, and the floor is swept clean, the scent of damp wood and old straw wrapping around her like something familiar and strangely calming. The rain muffles to a soft drumming on the roof above, and for a brief moment, she’s alone in the hush of it all, her breath finally slowing down.
It’s peaceful, but then the door opens again, and she doesn’t need to turn to know exactly who it is.
“Can you stop being difficult for a minute?” he barks, stepping inside and letting the door slam shut behind him. “What are you doing walking off like that in the middle of a goddamn storm?”
“What are you doing coming after me?” she fires back.
Lando shakes his head, frustration visible on his expression. “You could’ve gotten lost.”
“Not with you around, I won’t,” she replies sarcastically. “I’m sure you would’ve found a shortcut and show up at the end of the fucking world just to keep annoying me.”
For the first time, Lando agrees with her. “You’re right. I would find you,” he snaps. “Because apparently, I’m the piece of shit stuck to your shoe, yeah? Always there, making your life miserable.”
Her mouth opens, stunned by the venom in his voice, but Lando won’t let her interrupt him this time.
“And maybe I am doing it on purpose. You wanna know why?” he asks rhetorically, stepping closer to where she stands. “Because you do the exact same thing to me.”
She straightens, her face hardening. “Excuse me?”
“No, you’re not excused,” his hands are clenched at his sides, water dripping from the cuffs of his sleeves. “Not when you get under my skin like it’s your fucking job. You don’t get to push every button I have, and then act like I’m the one being unreasonable.”
“Well, you are,” she spits back.
The words ricochet between them like it’s a tennis match. Without thinking, Lando takes another step forward, until they’re only a foot apart, their breath blending in the cold air.
“You think this is fun?” his voice lowers for a beat. “You think I enjoy losing my mind every time you walk into a room like you know exactly how to piss me off?”
Her throat tightens, but she doesn’t say a word. However, she knows that’s true because, again, like it or not, she knows him.
“It used to be fun,” he nods once, his eyes never leaving hers, “But we lost the fucking plot. I don’t even recognize myself when I’m around you,” Lando says quieter, but no less intense. “No one else does this to me. So why does it have to be you?”
His question cuts deep, but it sounds off, almost like surrender.
There is just too much to unpack and, somehow, not enough time. Not when her mind takes her to the ages when it was easy to tease him and push back, just because she was too afraid to pull. They’ve been circling each other for years, stuck in a cycle they didn’t know how to break and, over time, that became their normal. But they’re not teenagers anymore. And now, she discovers how resentment became their fallback, because it was always easier to fight than to face the weight of whatever they were — not enemies, but not friends, either.
With Lando standing in front of her like that, upset and shaken, she realizes that maturity has finally caught up from behind and it’s begging them to reconsider not just who they’ve been to each other in the past, but who they choose to be next.
“You really mean that?” she asks in a small voice. “That you don’t recognize yourself when you’re around me?”
Lando breathes, staring at her like she’s something he wants to destroy and protect in the same heartbeat.
“I
” he begins after a few seconds of complete silence. “I don’t know.”
It’s honest, she can tell by the way his chin quivers a little, as if her question awakened in him the same exact thought she just had.
Her lips part, like she’s about to fight it. Or maybe laugh it off. But nothing comes out. Instead, she catches the way he’s looking at her now. Not like he did when he stormed inside or with the smug grin he wears in the corner of his mouth when he’s trying to get even.
This moment is something else entirely; they’re both awake now.
Lando’s not even looking at her anymore. His eyes are stuck somewhere lower, caught on the line of her soaked shirt clinging to her body like second skin. What was once just an oversized white button-up now leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. The fabric has turned translucent, plastered to her frame, every inch of her outlined in dim light. The belt cinched at her waist draws the shirt tighter, accentuating the slope of her hips and the curve of her chest.
She feels it all at once, how her soaked mesh bra is doing little to hide anything and how her thighs are streaked with mud from walking through the field. Water is still trailing in thin lines down her neck, slipping between her breasts, and that’s where his eyes land at last.
His jaw clenches, making him look like he’s holding himself back with everything he has. His chest heaves with each breath, deep yet uneven, like the air has grown too thick to pull in properly.
“Lando
” she trails off, and even her voice sounds differently, a little unsure and way too soft for either of their liking.
His gaze snaps up, meeting hers again, tilting both of their worlds the second their eyes lock.
Suddenly, everything is reflected back at her in that stare: the frustration, the anger, the desire. The years of tension neither of them ever addressed because it was safer to bicker and pretend that hate was the only thing that tethered them. But it’s wasn’t. It’s not. It can’t be, with the way they look at each other now.
Not when Lando seems like he’s seconds from losing the battle with himself. From closing the space. From doing something neither can’t undo.
“Always under my skin,” he ends up saying as an observation, his voice frayed at the edges. He doesn’t look away from her for another second, not even as he drags his tongue across his lower lip, like his mouth is too dry for the words sitting heavy on it. “And yet, I wouldn’t want anyone else bothering me the way you do.”
His confession is beautifully wrapped in words that only she can understand. Her heart starts to race at that, realizing that the line between them is getting thinner and thinner the longer they stand in front of each other without moving; not because they can’t, but because neither of them wants to do it first.
Next, her breath catches in her throat, and it’s impossible for Lando not to notice. He sees the way her jaw tightens, how her fingers curl against her sides like she’s trying to stop herself from reacting.
She lifts her chin instead, a mocking glint returning to her eyes. “You’re just easy to play with, Norris,” she says, her armor sliding back into place. “That’s not my fault.”
Lando smiles. “Go on, then.”
“What?”
“If I’m so easy,” he steps forward, finally closing the remaining gap, “Play with me, darling.”
She knows exactly what he means, and exactly what he wants. Lando does a very good job at masking his taunting in determination, maybe even curiosity. But he can’t fool her with it, because she’s aware that whatever game they’ve been playing up until this very momment has teeth now. For a split second, she hates how well she understands him, how perfectly she can read the tension in his shoulders and the way he’s trying not to reach. They’re standing on a knife’s edge, and neither of them is saying it, but both of them know. Both of them wait.
“Come on,” Lando says again, provoking. “Say something smart. Push another button.”
She’s practically twitching to say something that will keep them in the only lane they’ve ever known, but the words never leave her mouth, because his is now occupying hers, with no trace of restraint. One of his hands is instantly in her hair, keeping her there. And it’s everything he’s been holding back, poured into the shape of her lips, the press of his chest against hers, the furious way his other hand grabs at her waist as if he has earned the right.
Luckily, she saw it coming and she answers it right away, her mouth welcoming the heat of him in. She can taste rain and frustration, and it shoots straight through her like the lightning outside, loud and electric. Her hands slide under his hoodie without a second thought, palms slick and freezing as they press to the bare skin of his stomach. Lando gasps into her mouth, the contact ripping a groan from his throat that vibrates against her lips and makes her knees weaken. His skin is like fire beneath her fingers, and she feels his muscles jump under her touch, like even that small yet bold movement has undone something in him.
He surges forward, pushing her back until her spine hits the cold wall behind her with a wet thud. She doesn’t even notice she has no personal space left at all, because all she can feel is the weight of his body pinning hers and his mouth kissing her like it’s the only norm they’ve ever known. They’re absolutely drenched from the storm, the strong scent of wet earth clinging to their skin, tangled with the musk of warm clothes and sweat. But underneath it all, there’s one thing that stops them from retreating: a burning desire that neither knows how to control anymore. A raw, persistent want that coils between their bodies and steals the air from their lungs with every breath they try to take between kisses they can’t stop giving.
The girl urges herself into him like it’s second nature, her fingers dragging up his ribs, and his hands slide down to her hips, gripping hard, propping himself in the curve of her. They’re not even trying to slow it down or question it. There’s no pause and no hesitation, just mouths and hands and ages of built-up tension exploding between them in the quiet shelter they’ve found while, ironically, running from each other.
Time turns back to normal speed when their lips finally part, their mouths clinging to each other for a breath longer than necessary, like even their bodies can’t quite accept they’re two separate thinghs. A soft sound slips from her lips as the kiss breaks, half sigh, half protest, so Lando doesn’t move far. Instead, he rests his forehead gently against hers, both of them breathing hard, chests rising and falling in messy tandem.
Lando’s lips curl into a small smirk. “That’s what I thought,” he pants, voice soaked in satisfaction, in a way that only he could manage after a first kiss like that.
Instinctively, her hand flies up before he can move another inch, fingers curling firmly around his jaw. She tilts his face toward hers, forcing his gaze to lock with hers, without the possibility of avoiding her gaze. “Hold your horses,” she breathes, tightening her grip on his chin, enough to stop the smugness from spreading further. “You were the one who cracked first.”
Lando huffs a laugh through his nose, eyes flicking between hers. “Cracked?” he repeats. “I’d say I finally did us both a favor.” His hands are still firm on her hips as he speaks, not letting her go. “And you didn’t exactly complain.”
“I’m still deciding,” she confesses, pushing him gently with the intention of putting some distance between them. Just to clear her mind.
But Lando doesn’t budge. Instead, he pushes back into her, tenderly matching her force as a final statement.
Carefully, his hands trail down her sides, fingers gliding over the damp fabric clinging to her curves, leaving gosebumps in their wake. When he reaches her hips, he pauses for a second, then lets his palms settle low, cupping the shape of her ass in both hands. The soft squeeze that follows pulls a tiny gasp from her, not really out of surprise, but from the intensity of how right it feels and how immediate her body responds to his touch. As if she does it on command, her hips rock into him with a mind of their own, which makes her protest at the fact that she is so easily steered by him. Into the first damn wall.
Lando notices her conflicting thoughts and, amused, he drops his forehead to her shoulder with a sigh, like the weight of it all has finally caught up to him. His breath is hot against her collarbone, and he doesn’t dare to move.
“Decide what?” he asks. “If you want to fight or fuck? ‘Cause I’m sure your body has already decided for you.”
She can’t help but roll her eyes just as her hands drift upward, with enough intention yet unsure, until her fingers tangle in his soaked curls, tugging gently at the roots. Still, Lando doesn’t lift his head. But his mouth finds the curve of her neck instead, warm lips brushing the rain-slick skin there. He tastes her like she’s suddenly something fragile that he can easily break under his force if he wanted to. And in the middle of that, it only takes a tilt of her head for him to smile, this time softened — and alarmed — by the newly found truth between them.
“Fucking hell,” he whispers, “My sister’s going to kill me.”
The girl lets out a breathy laugh, her clasp in his hair tightening. “Not if I tell her you took very good care of me.”
Her statement elicits a sound from him, something between a whimper and a muffled rasp, but it catches in his throat and turns into something more intense when she arches against him.
“How do you know I’m that good?”
She grins, eyes gleaming as her fingers slide down the front of his hoodie, stopping just above the waistband of his jeans. “Because of that big mouth of yours.” She leans in then, almost brushing her lips against his jaw as she continues, “You wouldn’t be this cocky if you couldn’t back it up, would you?”
Lando has to swallow the lump in his throat just as her fingers start to work the top button. As she does, her eyes are locked on his, daring him to contradict her again. Or to stop her.
Ironically enough, his big mouth is not so big anymore.
Lando’s fingers twitch on her ass, but can’t stay there. They drift beneath the hem of her shirt and under the damp lace of her panties. He takes his time, tracing the edge with maddening precision before slipping them gently down her thighs. The soaked fabric peels away from her skin, clinging for just a moment before falling into his waiting hand. She continues to watch him closely, pulse thudding hard in her throat, as Lando folds the lace and stuffs it into the pocket of his hoodie to keep it safe.
It shouldn’t feel so intimate, but she can feel his heart beating against her chest in a rhythm that only seems to match her own the moment his hand moves lower, almost like he’s testing to see how far she’ll let him push. Far, he figures, when his fingers slide between her folds, through heat and damp, and stills there. Not from waiting for permission, but from satisfaction.
His breath is warm at her temple next time he speaks, “I see why you’re always picking fights with me,” he concludes. “So you can get off later, thinking about it, hm?”
Her jaw tightens, fingers curling into his shoulder. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Too late,” he replies quickly, as if he already knew she was gonna say that. His grin spreads slow, the kind of smirk that used to make her want to punch him, but now only makes her weak.
It’s too late for her, too, as his fingers trace lazy, maddening circles along her opening, reading her. Learning her at an agonizingly slow pace. Even though she tries to hide her reaction, her hips tilt toward him without permission. She clutches his bicep to support her weight before she melts beneath him completely, eyes closing shut for a brief second.
He studies her face, teasing with the tip of his fingers right at the edge of her tight entrance. “Tell me how much you hate me right now.”
Her eyes snap open, surprised yet defiant, her response caught in her throat when Lando finally presses a finger inside, then adds another one, only to reduce her complains to simple whimpers. There is a lot of gentleness to the way he touches her, though. Every motion is purposeful, intended to pull the maximum pleasure out of her with minimum effort.
While her fingers dig into him harder, he draws his back almost entirely, dragging them just enough to leave her wanting more. Then he pushes in again, stretching and curling the tips slightly until her breath comes out in little spasms and her head tips back, thighs wrapping instinctively around his wrist, like she could trap the feeling there and keep it from breaking her open.
“Didn’t know you could go quiet,” whispers Lando, keeping his eyes on her mostly because he needs to witness this unseen version of her, willing and honest in a way neither of them ever dared admit existed. “Guess I just needed to find the right way to shut you up.”
Her entire body responds with a deep craving she hadn’t known could feel this good. She gets wetter with every shift, so soft under his touch that makes her question the strength in her own legs.
Lando’s gaze drops to where her hips subtly roll against his hand, seeking friction, release, anything to keep from falling apart too fast.
Half in protest, half in need, she manages a whiny, “Fuck you.”
“That a request?” asks Lando, his thumb lightly tapping her clit to remind her that she’s at his mercy right now.
“Lando,” she mewls, his name falling from her lips like a curse. Or a prayer she doesn’t know she’s saying.
“Wanna hear you,” he pushes her, the speed of his fingers increasing with every breath he takes. “Say you hate me.”
She would talk, if her brain still worked. But all functionality is reduced to the way he finger-fucks her with such sweetness and annoying dexterity. Besides, it wouldn’t even be true. She doesn’t hate him. Not right now, at least. Most of the time, Lando just irks her. Because there is no one else that manages his performance of tap-dancing on every single one of the over seven trillion nerves in her body.
Forcing herself to lift her head, she looks at him for a brief moment, then lets it fall in the crook of his neck, her breath hot against his skin. “You ruin everything.”
Lando lets out a low chuckle, but it’s not mocking. More like
 strained. Heavy with anticipation and desire. “Yeah?” he coaxes, lips grazing the edge of her cheek, fingers curling again inside her, dragging a broken sound from her throat. “Go on.”
She squeezes her eyes, teeth sinking into her lip, trying to hold on to whatever pride she has left. However, slowly but surely, it’s slipping away, straight into his already massive ego.
“I hate
” she gasps as he twists his fingers, “That your mouth never stops running.”
“Mhm, what else? Let it all out while you’re soaking my fingers,” he encourages her as his thumb moves in circles around her clit, making her hips twitch into him. “Let me hear it while your body keeps begging me to stuff you full of me.”
“Lando,” she warns, her breath getting caught between shame and heat and the unbearable intimacy of his words. She clings to him like he’s a lifeline, and she hates the way it makes her feel so safe, knowing that she’s in good hands. “I hate—” she tries, but it breaks off into a moan, silent and strangled.
“Me?” he finishes for her, feeling the way her walls start tensing in pulses she can’t control.
Her eyes open just in time to see the look on his face, bright and hungry.
She shakes her head.
“No, you don’t, baby,” Lando agrees in a mellow voice, his mouth brushing the corner of hers.
His fingers move faster now that he knows she’s close, more insistent, the slick rhythm of skin on skin drowned only by the roar of another series of thunders rolling outside.
Another quiet moan escapes her lips, and then she’s falling, clenching hard around his fingers as wave after wave crashes through her. Her body jerks in rhythm with his hand, fists gripping the front of his hoodie like it’s the only thing anchoring her to the earth.
“There you go,” he exhales, their breaths intertwining.
His other hand returns to her waist then slips to the back of her thigh, lifting until she’s settled against him, trusting him to hold her there. Her back meets the wall once again just as her boot scrapes softly on the ground, the other lifted and locked around him as his palm supports under her knee.
Gazing into each other’s souls like that shouldn’t be allowed. Not when they’re so close that he can smell her shampoo — a warm honey scent, blending with something sweet that makes his jaw clench. Not when his scent is so subtle but familiar, and makes her want to drink him in without a second thought.
Her eyes fall on the space between them, watching Lando pull away from between her legs. Then back up to meet his again with wide pupils. Patiently, he pushes his jeans down and reaches to guide himself against her, like he already knows what this moment means for both of them. He’s warm and hard, making her gasp as he nudges forward, the heat of her already drawing him in inch by inch. Her body tenses in disbelief, surprised by how well he fits inside her.
Lando feels her body melting into his slowly. “Are you okay?” he asks her in a soft tone.
She nods. “Keep going.”
And so he does, pushing deeper and savoring the closeness. Carefully, he lifts her off the ground completely, wrapping her other leg around his waist and, by the time he’s fully sheathed inside her, they’re face to face again, breath shaky and warm against each other’s lips.
“Forgive me,” he almost begs.
The girl lets out a breathless laugh, “You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”
For a heartbeat, Lando’s mouth quirks. He pulls his hips back, dragging himself almost entirely out of her warmth, and then thrusts forward harder, stealing the next breath from her lungs. Her laugh vanishes, swallowed by a choked sound she doesn’t mean to make.
Lando’s jaw clenches as he squeezes her hips tighter for more support. “For not having the restraint to be gentle with you.”
She shivers at his words, understanding that he’s doing everything in order not to break her. Rather, Lando’s trying to show her what she does to him, without her even knowing. And he wants to show her that underneath the surface, there’s an unbearable ache of finally having her, and knowing he’ll never be able to forget how she feels after this only ignites the fire inside him.
The girl finds out what he means sooner than she thought.
His rhythm starts claiming and is filled with a hunger that’s been caged for far too long. Every thrust is purposeful, angled perfectly, as if he’s been planning this in the dark corners of every argument they’ve ever had.
Her sharp tongue, always ready with a retort, is useless now. Her breath is shallow, and she’s still clinging to him like he’s the only thing holding her together.
“How many times have you imagined this?”
“In my imagination, Norris, you’re mute,” she bites back, but it’s shaky.
Lando grunts, “Unrealistic.”
He starts pounding into her, hard and fast, chasing the breathless moans he’s already addicted to. He’s relentless, but never careless. Rough, but knows how to fuck her until her attitude turns into desperation, and the only words that are coming out of her mouth are imploring him not to stop. There’s no room for breathing like a normal person, and no space for thought. Just the eagerness of his hips, the way her body arches into him without meaning to, how every time he sinks deep, she forgets how to do anything but feel. Him.
Her fingers claw on either side of his face, desperate to keep him close. She’s lost, suspended between the storm hammering the roof above them and the storm he’s dragging out of her from the inside, wondering how does he manages to be everywhere, all at once: in her ears, in her mind, and all around her. At that, her body reacts accordingly, legs trembling around his waist.
With his mouth partially open, Lando follows her facial expressions, because he feels how close she is, how tightly she squeezes his length, how every thrust only winds her tighter. And he wants to witness that.
“You feel that, don’t you?” he pants, not slowing. “You can’t even think straight, hm?”
“Shut up,” she manages, and Lando responds to her spiteful request in his own manner: by stopping.
He freezes deep inside her, holding her there as if he’s waiting for her to apologize, even though he knows that won’t happen.
The absence of movement is brutal. Her pussy clenches in protest, desperate for more, making her blink repeatedly as if her mind has been pulled back from the edge of something vast and consuming.
Lando looks at her, faces inches apart. “Feel that aching little hole, gaping out for me?”
She can’t argue while multiple body parts are betraying her, clinging to him with quiet, pulsing desperation.
“Lando,” the girl moans, her back straightening up, urging him to get moving.
“Don’t think you’re better than me,” he tells her in a whispered voice, slowly resuming his dizzying pace. “We’re the same, you and I.”
His fingers sink into either side of her waist, anchoring her to every deep, punishing thrust, dragging her closer and closer to her climax, her body jolting with every collision of his hips against hers. For all she knows, the storm outside could’ve already stopped, but all she can hear is the way Lando breathes her name between gritted teeth as he fucks her so good that she’s not even able to process the words that came out of his mouth.
She writhes against his hold, chasing that sweet pressure building at the base of her spine, winding tighter with every stroke that finds that perfect spot inside her. Again and again. And again. Her fingers get lost in his curls, fisting his hair like a lifeline. And when her orgasm hits, her entire body locks against him with a strangled moan, hips shaking as her release tears through her.
Lando swears under his breath. “That’s it, fuck,” he sighs in pleasure, every muscle trembling. “Let me feel that pussy throb.”
The way he says it cuts straight through her pride. Becacuse even in all their sourness, her body listens to him. It reacts to him with more than desire. No one else has ever made two completely differen feelings seem like one. They are the epitomy of duality, and nothing they represent should complement each other as well as they do.
She lets go, boneless in his arms, her chest heaving as aftershocks roll through her.
Lando doesn’t stop until he makes sure she’s completely worn out, then he pulls out slowly, with a stifled groan, the sensation almost undoing him prematurely. He rests his forehead to her chest, breathing hard, letting all his weight against her spent body as he presses his cock on her thigh, watching it drip in thick loads down her leg. The tension floods out of him, his body shuddering as every inch of him gets taut.
“Lan?” she calls for him after a long pause in which neither of them moved.
His breath is ghosting warm over her damp skin, and his hands, once gripping her like lifelines, have gone still at her hips. Then he exhales a long breath that sounds more like inconvenience.
“Am here,” it’s all he says, but doesn’t lift his head to look at her.
That alone makes her chest tighten.
“Are you
” she trails off, not sure how to finish the question.
Are you okay?
Do you regret it?
What now?
“All good,” he replies. “I have a change of clothes in the car,” he adds matter-of-factly. “Let’s dry you off.”
The warmth of his body leaves her as he takes a step back, eyes dropping to the groung. She watches as he tucks himself back into his boxers, then fastens the button on his jeans with a quiet finality. It shouldn’t feel like this, but it makes her want throw up, mostly because she has allowed herself to believe, even if briefly, that they are compatible in some way.
But nothing’s really changed.
They’re still the same two people who push too hard and never give each other an inch unless it’s by accident.
. ʁ₊ âŠč . ʁ˖ . ʁ MASTERLIST . ʁ₊ âŠč . ʁ˖ . ʁ
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Thank you for reading!
None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♄
© trashy track tales, 2025
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kyri45 · 7 months ago
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I didn’t realize you were the person who did the fanfiction tag drinks.
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ahah yeah that's meeee!!
They are all available as stickers on my RedBubble shop!
Also I did Part 2!
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hyperfixiation-station · 2 days ago
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Prey animals don't belong in the military, everyone knows that. And if they are, it's usually as a medic. They aren't designed for combat, to survive the harsh realities that predators face out in the field.
So when Laswell informed the 141 that they were getting a temporary placement of a prey animal, they were against it. And not just any prey animal, no, you were a mini lop. A tiny rabbit hybrid with long floppy ears and a fluffy tail that would get in the way of fighting.
Price, a wolf hybrid thats ever so protective of his pack, snarls at the idea.
"They'll be a liability." Price snapped at Laswell, his concern for his team, his pack, overriding his better judgements.
"I would never endanger you like that."
"I don't care, I don't want them on my team."
"I think you're forgetting who's in charge here." Kate said, a threat thinly veiled in her voice. She's human, can't send the signals that hybrids can, but everyone knows when not to mess with her.
So here they are, standing on a tarmac, waiting for a bunny rabbit to exit the plane.
A hidden figure walks down the ramp, face covered by a hoodie, hands shoved in the pockets of their jacket. It isn't until they come to a stop in front of the 141 that Price realizes this is their bunny. He wants to sigh at the theatrics, but he can maintain some level of professionalism.
Hands come out of the pockets, little tuffs of grey fur visible as you remove the hood.
Everyone's eyes widen, and Soap and Gaz audibly gasps as your face comes into view.
Your ears are cropped, jagged edges that leave just enough of the ear for you to hear. Your mouth and nose are covered by a black medical mask, but everyone can still see the jagged scar peeking out by your left eye.
There's silence for a moment as you shift uncomfortably under their scrutiny. Price's wolf is howling at the obvious signs of distress, already accepting you as one of the pack and desperate to comfort you.
Finally, Price's speaks up, his voice steady despite his shock.
"Welcome to the 141."
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crybabycabin · 3 days ago
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I love your soulmate au so much! I know you may already be tired of writing for it, so you don't have to answer this if you don't want to. I just want to know how you think Bucky would react to the reader getting hurt? I love all your stories so much!!
ask and you shall receive!
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bonus drabble: overkill | b.b.
**read touch and go here**
✼ synopsis: a minor car accident, a sprained wrist, and a seventeen-year-old who learns exactly why you don't rear-end the winter soldier's girlfriend.
✼ pairing: soulmate!bucky x soulmate!reader
✼ warnings: mild injury (sprained wrist), protective bucky barnes, mentions of blood (not reader's), mild language, bucky terrorizing a teenager, bucky still having the emotional regulation of a feral cat
✼ word count: 1.5k
✼ a/n: slowly expanding the touch and go extended universe
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"—and I'm just saying, maybe don't mention the blood."
Steve's voice crackles through your phone speaker, carefully neutral in that way that means he's managing a situation. You shift on the uncomfortable plastic chair, holding your phone between your shoulder and ear while you fill out insurance paperwork with your good hand.
"What blood?"
"The blood on his—you know what, never mind. How's the wrist?"
"Sprained. I'll live." You pause, pen hovering over a question about previous injuries. "Steve, why are you calling me about blood?"
"No reason."
"Steven Grant Rogers."
A pause. You can practically hear him running a hand through his hair. "He might have been interrogating a Hydra operative when I called about your accident."
"And?"
"And he might have... left abruptly."
"Steve."
"Still covered in the operative's blood."
"Jesus Christ."
"I broke several traffic laws trying to catch up with him, but he had a head start and that bike is faster than—" Something crashes in the background. "Shit. I should go. Just, uh. Maybe give the hospital a heads up?"
"A heads up about what—"
The automatic doors explode open like they've personally offended him.
"Never mind," you mutter, watching Bucky stride through the ER like an avenging angel dressed in tactical gear and what is definitely someone else's blood. "He's here."
"Is he—"
You hang up on Captain America.
Three nurses scatter. An orderly drops his clipboard. A small child points and whispers, "Mommy, is that the Winter Soldier?"
His eyes find yours across the crowded waiting room and everything else ceases to exist. The murderous expression melts off his face so fast it's almost comical, replaced by something raw and desperate that makes your chest tight. His shoulders drop from murder-mode to oh-thank-god and he's moving, crossing the space between you in long strides that have people scrambling out of his way.
"Buck—" you start, but he's already there.
His hands frame your face with devastating gentleness, thumbs ghosting over your cheekbones like you might evaporate. The metal one leaves a smudge of something you're not going to think about too hard. His eyes catalog every inch of you, frantic and thorough.
"You're okay." His voice comes out gutted. "You'reïżœïżœïżœSteve said accident, said hospital, and I—"
"I'm fine." You cover his flesh hand with yours, trying to ground him. The soul bond thrums between you, flooded with his barely-contained panic. "Bucky, breathe. It's just a sprained—"
His gaze snaps to your wrapped wrist and the temperature drops ten degrees. The shift is instant—soft boyfriend to Winter Soldier in 0.2 seconds flat. A muscle in his jaw ticks.
"Where?"
One word. Flat. Deadly. The kind of tone that makes trained assassins reconsider their life choices.
Your thighs clench at absolutely the wrong moment.
"Bucky—"
"Where is he."
"It was an accident—"
"Don't care." His metal hand drops to your shoulder, plates recalibrating with that soft whir that means he's fighting for control. "Someone hurt you."
"A teenager in a minivan hurt me," you clarify. "By accident. At five miles per hour."
He processes this information like a targeting computer, eyes scanning the waiting room with mechanical precision. They land on Tyler Hendricks—seventeen, terrified, wearing a Midtown High letterman jacket and clutching a juice box like a lifeline.
"Him?"
"Bucky, no."
But he's already moving, that predator-stride that would be absolutely terrifying if it wasn't so goddamn attractive. Tyler sees death approaching and goes pale enough to match the walls.
"Oh shit," Tyler whispers. "Oh shit oh shit oh shit—"
Bucky looms, all six feet of blood-splattered tactical gear and barely-leashed violence. Tyler might actually be crying.
"You did this?"
Tyler opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. No sound comes out.
The silence stretches. You watch from your chair, caught between concern for Tyler's blood pressure and an inappropriate appreciation for how Bucky's shoulders look in his compression shirt.
"I—yes? It was—the light was—I'm so sorry, man, I'll pay for everything, please don't murder me, I have college applications due—"
"College applications." Bucky's voice is winter-quiet, which is somehow worse than yelling. "You hurt my girl and you're worried about college applications."
"I mean—yes? No? I don't know what the right answer is here, sir. Mr. Soldier. Sergeant Barnes? Wikipedia said you were a sergeant—"
"You looked me up on Wikipedia?"
"I wanted to know how to address you properly before you killed me!"
Bucky circles Tyler's chair slowly, each step measured and deliberate. The poor kid tracks him like a mouse watching a cat, juice box forgotten.
"Do you know what a sprained wrist means?" Bucky asks conversationally.
"Um. Swelling? Four to six weeks of healing?"
"Wrong." Bucky stops directly behind him. Tyler goes rigid. "It means she's in pain. Because of you."
"I'm really sor—"
"It means I have to watch her hurt." His voice drops lower. "Do you have any idea what that does to me?"
Tyler squeaks. Actually squeaks. "It means you get to fuss over me and carry my groceries and open every single jar in the apartment," you interrupt, trying for levity. "Bucky, stop terrorizing children."
"He's not a child. He's old enough to drive. Old enough to hurt—"
"Old enough to have his prefrontal cortex still developing," you interrupt. "Also old enough to need therapy after this. Tyler, honey, you're doing great."
"I am?" Tyler's voice cracks three times in two words.
"No," Bucky says flatly.
You roll your eyes. "Come here, James."
The use of his first name makes him pause. He gives Tyler a look that threatens death and dismemberment, then lets you pull him away. But not before leaning down one more time.
"I know your name," he says quietly. "Tyler Hendricks. Midtown High. License plate AGH-2847. Instagram handle @TylerBBallKilla04. If she has even one moment of unnecessary pain because of this—"
"James."
He gives Tyler another look that promises creative violence, then stalks back to you. The second he reaches you, his hands find your face again, gentler this time, thumbs stroking your cheekbones like you're made of spun glass.
"Stop threatening minors," you murmur. His touch makes you feel a little soft, a little dizzy.
"He hurt you."
"It was an accident."
"Don't care." He presses his forehead to yours, and you can feel the tremor running through him. "Can't—fuck, baby, when Steve called—"
"I know." You reach up to cradle his jaw, feel him lean into it helplessly. "But hey, I'm okay. We're okay."
He exhales shakily, then straightens. Turns back to Tyler, who immediately tries to become one with his chair.
"You're paying for her medical bills."
Jesus Christ.
"Yes sir!"
"And her car repairs."
"Absolutely!"
"And—"
"Bucky." You tug on his tactical vest. "We have insurance."
"And her pain and suffering," he continues, ignoring you.
"I don't think that's—"
"Are you suffering?" he asks you, eyes still on Tyler.
"Tremendously," you deadpan.
"See? Pain and suffering."
Tyler nods frantically. "Whatever you want! My mom's a dentist, I can throw in free cleanings!"
Bucky blinks. Once. Twice. You can see him trying to process this unexpected turn. "Are you... bribing me with dental care?"
"Is it working?" “No.”
"We should go," you say, standing carefully. "Before you give him a heart attack."
Bucky immediately wraps an arm around your waist, taking most of your weight like you've broken your leg instead of sprained your wrist. The casual display of strength makes heat pool in your stomach.
"Call if you need anything," Tyler says desperately. "Anything at all! I'm really good at calculus! And I babysit!"
"We don't have kids," Bucky says flatly. Then, under his breath, so quiet only you catch it: "Yet."
You pinch his side through his gear—hard enough to make your point. He retaliates immediately, metal fingers finding that spot just above your hip that makes you squirm. You have to bite your lip to keep from making an undignified sound in front of poor, traumatized Tyler.
"I can also do yardwork!"
You're definitely laughing now, muffled against Bucky's shoulder. He guides you toward the exit, but pauses at Tyler's chair.
"I know where you live."
"That's deeply concerning!" Tyler's voice hits a pitch only dogs can hear.
"Good. It should be."
And then he's guiding you out, hand splayed possessively on your lower back. The cold air hits like a shock after the hospital warmth. Without hesitation, he shrugs out of his jacket and wraps it around you, ignoring your protests.
"Is that actually someone's blood?" you ask, eyeing a suspicious stain.
"Probably."
"Bucky."
"What? He was Hydra. He'll live." He helps you onto his bike with careful hands, gentler than you've ever seen him. "Probably."
"You can't just—"
"You were hurt," he says simply, like that explains everything. Justifies everything. And in his mind, it probably does.
He swings onto the bike, pulling you tight against his back. You can feel the tension slowly leaving his body now that he has you close, safe, confirmed alive and whole.
"For the record," you murmur against his ear, "the whole protective thing? Very sexy."
His hands tighten on the handlebars. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Probably shouldn't traumatize teenagers over it, though."
"He had it coming."
"He's probably stress-drinking his apple juice as we speak."
"Good." He starts the engine, then glances back at you. "You really okay?"
You press a kiss to the spot just below his ear, feel him shiver. "Take me home and I'll show you how okay I am."
The bike peels out of the parking lot fast enough to leave rubber on the asphalt.
(Tyler Hendricks posts about his near-death experience on Reddit that night. It goes viral. The title reads: "TIFU by rear-ending the Winter Soldier's girlfriend."
The top comment is from Steve Rogers' verified account: "You got off easy, kid.")
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feedback is always appreciated ♡
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ctrlzirl · 1 year ago
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The real barbie is Y/n.
Y/n’s a doctor, a cop, a scientist, an agent, vet, hero, villain, astronaut, lawyer, spy, criminal, artist, chef, engineer, psychologist, architect, journalist, firefighter, event planner, mechanic, photographer, musician, actor, interior designer, bartender, fashion designer, barista, florist, forensic scientist, flight attendant, profiler, tour guide, translator, etc.
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cao-tick · 2 days ago
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Susie stop remembering us that our choices don't matter who the chalk got you into being Kris friend you donkeyCon
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your choices don't matter, remember?
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allthingswhumpyandangsty · 3 days ago
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fromdove · 2 months ago
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seeing my man with his canonical love interest 💔💔💔💔
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charitysstories · 3 days ago
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This is me....💀
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my drafts keep growing

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kemonomimichiru · 3 months ago
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How it feels to find a fanfic where your favorite character is going through literally the worst horrors you can imagine
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jiimeniita · 26 days ago
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mistyhibiscus · 2 days ago
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đŸ„č
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𝓱ILENT 𝓣REATMENT.
pairings : frank castle x fem!reader warnings : argument, crying, hurt / comfort, happy ending, established relationship au, shouting, implied size diff (like my fav trope if you can’t already tell) silent treatment  summary : after an argument with frank, you both end up giving eachother silent treatment, until the tension gets too unbearable for you in the car. wc : 4.5k a/n : i got a req for this a few days ago but i think i deleted it or something i can’t find it now💔 but it was from an anon so thank you for this one because i loved writing this ALSO!! thank you to everyone who leaves feedback + little comments on my frank fics i notice it happens more when i write for frank and it’s the absolute sweetest
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the air in the apartment felt heavy, charged, like a storm was brewing right there in the middle of the living room. frank was pacing now, his big hands flexing at his sides, his jaw tight enough that you swore you could hear his teeth grinding.  
you didn’t fight - not like this. not with him raising his voice and you trying so hard not to let yours crack. it wasn’t how things usually went. frank was tough, sure, rough around the edges in a way that didn’t really go away even when he was at his gentlest. but with you, he was softer. he made an effort to rein it in because he’d told you once, in a rare moment of vulnerability, that he didn’t want you to ever be scared of him. and you never had been.
but tonight, he was angry. angrier than you’d ever seen him at you, and the worst part was you weren’t sure how it had even escalated to this.  
“so what?” frank barked, spinning on his heel to face you, his broad frame taking up what felt like the entire room. “you think i’m just gonna sit back and let this slide?” his voice was sharp, cutting, and it made you flinch, even though you knew deep down that he’d never in a million years actually hurt you. “you think that’s who i am?”  
you held your ground, even though your heart was pounding against your ribs. “it’s not about letting it slide, frank,” you said softly, your tone calm, measured - a stark contrast to the heat in his voice. “it’s about not making it worse. escalating doesn’t fix anything.”  
“escalating?” he repeated, his voice rising, almost incredulous. “this isn’t escalating, this is handling it. you don’t just let people treat you like crap n’ walk away. you should know that’s not how it works.”  
“sometimes it is,” you said quietly, refusing to match his volume. “sometimes walking away is the only thing you can do. not everything has to be a fight.”  
“bullshit.” the word came out harsh, and the bite in it made your chest tighten. frank rarely swore at you, and when he did, it was never like this, never with this kind of edge.  
your hands trembled slightly, so you folded your arms across your chest, not in defiance but as a way to steady yourself. “frank, please. i don’t want to argue about this.”  
“yeah, well, maybe you should’ve thought about that before you went and tried to handle this on your own.” he threw his hands up, his frustration spilling over like a dam breaking. “you didn’t even tell me, and now i’m supposed to just sit back and be okay with it?”  
“i didn’t tell you because i knew this is how you’d react,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.  
his face twisted, a mixture of disbelief and something else - hurt, maybe. but it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a hard, almost cold expression. “damn right this is how i’d react,” he shot back. “because i give a shit. because i don’t want you getting hurt or screwed over or whatever the hell else might happen if i’m not there to step in.”  
“i know you care,” you said, your voice still soft but firm. “but you can’t control everything, frank. sometimes things happen, and you just have to let them go.”  
he let out a sharp, bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair. “letting it go gets you hurt. letting it go gets you walked all over. i’m not gonna let that happen to you.”  
his words were loud, forceful, like he was trying to hammer them into your head, but they only made your throat tighten more. “i can handle myself,” you said, your voice shaking slightly despite your best efforts.  
“can you?” he snapped, and the doubt in his tone stung worse than any of the yelling.  
you flinched, your eyes dropping to the floor. “that’s not fair,” you whispered.  
“yeah, well, life’s not fair,” he shot back, his tone still razor-sharp.  
silence fell between you, heavy and suffocating. you could feel the sting of tears threatening to spill, but you refused to cry - not in front of him, not when he was like this, which he never had been before. you’d seen flashes of it occasionally, never once directed at you. so instead, you turned on your heel and walked out of the room, your steps quick but steady, your back straight even though every part of you felt like curling up into yourself.  
you didn’t look back, but you could feel his eyes on you as you left.  
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the door clicked softly as you shut yourself in the bathroom, leaning back against the cool wood as you tried to pull in a steadying breath. it felt like all the air had been sucked out of your lungs back in the living room, and now the weight of it all was crashing down on you.  
you stared at the tiled floor, your arms wrapped around yourself like that might somehow hold you together. your chest felt tight, your eyes stinging with unshed tears, but you bit down hard on your bottom lip, refusing to let them fall. not yet, anyway.  
you weren’t used to this - not with frank. he could be sharp, blunt, even infuriatingly stubborn sometimes, but he was never cruel. not to you. in the years since you’d met him, since the whirlwind of your relationship had gone from cautiously circling each other to something real and steady, frank had always been your safe place. he was intense, sure, but his intensity had always felt protective, grounding, like you could lean on him no matter how bad things got.  
so why did it feel like he was the one knocking the ground out from under you now?  
you pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes, trying to will the tears away. it wasn’t fair to pin all the blame on him, you knew that. this argument wasn’t entirely about frank’s temper, or his need to protect you - it was about your own unwillingness to let him.  
the issue had started small, just a casual remark you’d made earlier in the week about someone you worked with - someone who’d been taking advantage of your kindness. you hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but frank had picked up on it immediately, and the more you’d tried to brush it off, the more his protective instincts had kicked in.  
at first, it had been sweet, his quiet grumbles about how people didn’t deserve to treat you that way, how you needed to stand up for yourself more. but somewhere along the line, it had turned into this - a full-blown argument where neither of you seemed to be able to see the other’s side.  
you weren’t blind to why he was upset. frank had been through more than most people could even imagine, and the idea of someone hurting you - or even disrespecting you - lit a fire in him that he couldn’t always control. but the way he handled that fire was what made your chest ache. it felt suffocating, like his need to protect you was overshadowing the fact that you didn’t want - or need - him to fight your battles for you.  
you let out a shaky breath, the first tear slipping free as the weight of it all settled heavier on your shoulders.  
frank had always been larger than life to you - not just physically, though his sheer size and strength made you feel small in comparison, but in the way he carried himself, the way he seemed to command every room he walked into. it was part of what had drawn you to him in the first place, the quiet confidence that bordered on intimidating until you saw the softness he tried so hard to hide.  
he’d always been gentle with you, even when his hands were so calloused and rough, even when his voice was so gravelly and low. it made the harshness of his words tonight cut deeper, the sharp edges of his anger something you weren’t used to being on the receiving end of.  
you wiped at your face quickly, straightening up as you tried to pull yourself together. you hated crying - especially over arguments like this. it made you feel weak, even though you knew it wasn’t, and the last thing you wanted was for frank to think he’d broken you. he’d never stop beating himself up over it.
still, you couldn’t bring yourself to go back out there yet. not with the way his words were still echoing in your mind, the frustration in his voice still ringing in your ears.  
you stayed there for a while, letting the quiet of the bathroom wrap around you like a blanket, giving yourself the space to breathe and feel without the weight of frank’s presence bearing down on you.  
meanwhile, in the living room, frank was pacing again. his hands were on his hips, his brows drawn together in that way they always did when he was deep in thought - or pissed off.  
he knew you were upset. hell, he wasn’t an idiot, and he’d seen the way your eyes were brimming with tears before you’d turned and walked away. it wasn’t the first time he’d pushed too hard, but it was the first time it had been directed at you, and it was eating at him in a way he didn’t want to admit.  
but the anger was still there, simmering just beneath the surface, and he couldn’t seem to let it go. it wasn’t directed at you - not at all. it was at the situation, at the asshole who’d made you feel like you had to handle everything on your own. but frank wasn’t exactly good at untangling those things, at separating his frustration from the people he cared about most.  
he scrubbed a hand over his face, letting out a low growl of frustration as he dropped onto the couch. his mind was running in circles, replaying the argument over and over again, each word sharper than the last.  
the silence in the apartment felt deafening, and for a moment, he considered going to find you, to try and talk this out. but he stopped himself, his jaw clenching as he forced himself to stay put. you needed space - he knew that much, even if it went against every instinct he had.  
he sat there for a long time, the tension in his body refusing to ease as he stared at the spot where you’d been standing just minutes before.  
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the car keys sat on the counter, untouched, while the clock crept closer to the time you were supposed to leave. it had been a whole thing - this charity function a few towns over. someone important to frank had invited him, and even though it wasn’t the kind of event he’d normally go for, he’d said yes because it mattered to them.  
you had said yes because it mattered to him.  
but now, with the argument still heavy in the air, the thought of sitting next to him for almost four hours felt like trying to breathe underwater. the quiet that lingered between you wasn’t the natural kind you often enjoyed. it was thick and suffocating, and neither of you seemed ready to cut through it.  
you stood in the bedroom doorway, watching frank tie his boots like the act itself had wronged him. his movements were sharp, jerky, and his mouth was set in a grim line. you weren’t sure if it was guilt or frustration written in his expression, but either way, it left your stomach in knots.  
he grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, yanking it on with a force that looked like it made the seams strain. his head turned slightly toward you as if he was about to say something, but then he thought better of it, his eyes dropping to the floor instead.  
you didn’t move, didn’t speak, just hovered in the doorway as he brushed past you toward the front door. the weight of it all - the argument, the way he hadn’t looked at you since - pressed down on your chest like a boulder, and your throat burned with more unshed tears.  
when he held the door open for you, you walked through it wordlessly, your gaze fixed on the floor.  
outside, the crisp night air felt sharper than it should have, like even the weather was conspiring to remind you how raw everything was. frank locked the door behind you without a word, and the sound of the lock clicking into place made you flinch.  
he didn’t notice.  
the car ride loomed ahead of you like a punishment, the thought of sitting in that confined space together for hours making your palms sweat. but there was no way out of it, not without causing more problems.  
frank climbed into the driver’s seat, his hands gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles went white. he started the engine without looking at you, the low growl of it filling the space where words should’ve been.  
you slid into the passenger seat, keeping your hands in your lap and your gaze fixed on the window. the city lights blurred into streaks as the car picked up speed, but you weren’t paying attention to where you were going. your mind was stuck on everything that had been said - and everything that hadn’t.  
he’d been angry. louder than usual, harsher, the words tumbling out of him like he didn’t know how to stop them. but you knew frank. you knew the fire in him wasn’t because he didn’t care - it was because he cared too much, and it scared him sometimes.  
still, knowing that didn’t make it hurt any less.  
the silence in the car was unbearable, the kind that made you want to fill it just so you didn’t have to sit with the weight of it anymore. but frank wasn’t giving you an inch, his eyes glued to the road and his shoulders hunched up like he was trying to shield himself from the world.  
you stole a glance at him, your chest aching at the sight of his furrowed brow and clenched jaw. he looked tired - angry, yes, but tired too, like the argument had drained him in ways he didn’t want to admit.  
your own emotions were bubbling up, threatening to spill over no matter how hard you tried to keep them in check. your hands trembled slightly in your lap, and you clenched them into fists to try to stop it, but it didn’t help.  
you didn’t even realize you were crying until a tear slipped down your cheek, cool against your flushed skin. you brushed it away quickly, hoping frank wouldn’t notice, but you doubted he’d even glanced your way.  
the road stretched on, dark and empty except for the occasional glow of headlights from oncoming cars. the longer the silence dragged, the heavier it felt, like it was wrapping around your throat and making it hard to breathe.  
eventually, the ache in your chest grew too much to bear. you didn’t know what you wanted - comfort, maybe, or some kind of reassurance that everything would be okay - but the urge to reach out was overwhelming.  
your hand hovered hesitantly over the center console, your fingers trembling as you debated whether or not to do it. it felt like crossing some invisible line, like putting yourself out there in a way that left you completely vulnerable.  
but then you glanced at frank, at the way his brow furrowed and his jaw tightened, and something in you broke.  
with tears brimming in your eyes and a small, helpless pout tugging at your lips, you let your fingers reach up to grasp at his. the touch was so light it was barely there, but it was enough to draw his attention.  
he glanced down at your hand, his gaze softening instantly as he took in the way your fingers trembled and the sheen of tears in your eyes, the wet tracks of tears that’d already fallen etched on your face.
“ah, sweetheart,” he muttered, his voice rough but laced with a tenderness that made your heart ache.  
his hand moved to cover yours completely, his fingers curling around your smaller ones in a gesture that felt both protective and grounding. his thumb brushed over the back of your hand in slow, deliberate strokes, and the tension in your chest eased just a little.  
you sniffled, blinking quickly to clear your vision as you looked up at him. his expression had shifted, the hard lines of his face softening as he met your gaze.  
“i’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the hum of the engine.  
frank let out a heavy sigh, his grip on your hand tightening slightly as he pulled the car off to the side of the road. the tires crunched against the gravel as he put it in park, and before you could ask what he was doing, he was out of the car.  
your breath caught as he rounded the front of the vehicle, his movements deliberate but not rushed. he opened your door, the cool night air rushing in as he crouched slightly to meet your eyes.  
“c’mere,” he said softly, his tone a stark contrast to the anger that had been there earlier.  
you hesitated for only a moment before unbuckling your seatbelt and letting him pull you into his arms. his embrace was warm and solid, his arms wrapping around you in a way that made you feel small and safe all at once.  
“’m sorry, baby,” he murmured against your hair, his voice rough with emotion. “shouldn’t’ve yelled. shouldn’t’ve made you feel like that.”  
you buried your face in his chest, your own arms slipping around his middle as you let out a shaky breath. “i’m sorry too,” you whispered.  
“you don’t gotta be sorry, you did nothing wrong. my sweet girl’s just nice to everyone, isn’t she?” he cooed, his hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his thumb brushing gently against your temple as he peppered hard kisses over your face. “we’re okay?”  
you nodded against him, a small, shaky smile tugging at your lips. “we’re okay.”  
he pressed another kiss to your forehead, lingering for a moment longer than before. but instead of pulling back completely, frank’s lips trailed down, brushing lightly against your temple, then your cheek.  
your breath hitched, your hand tightening around his shirt as he hesitated, his lips hovering dangerously close to yours. when your eyes flicked up to meet his, there was something unspoken between you - an ache, a pull that neither of you could ignore.  
“frank
” your voice was barely a whisper, and it only made him lean in closer.  
his hand moved to cradle the side of your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek as his lips finally found yours. the kiss was slow at first, soft and careful, but there was a heat behind it, a depth that made your stomach twist in the best way.  
he kissed you like he needed you, like he couldn’t get close enough no matter how tightly he held you. his other hand slid to your waist, pulling you against him just enough to make you feel the strength behind every touch, every movement.  
when he pulled back, it was with a low, rumbling breath, his forehead resting against yours as he tried to steady himself. “you’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he murmured, his voice rough and tinged with something deeper.  
your cheeks flushed, your heart racing as you tried to find the words, but all you could do was nod, your fingers still gripping the front of his shirt.  
he pressed one last, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth before stepping back. “c’mon,” he said, his tone softer now, his thumb brushing your cheek one last time before helping you back into the car.  
as he slid into the driver’s seat, his hand found yours again, holding on tightly. this time, neither of you let go.  
the rest of the drive was quiet, but not in the same way as before. frank kept one hand on the wheel, the other holding yours firmly in his grasp. his thumb moved in slow, lazy circles over your knuckles, a silent apology with every stroke.  
you felt the tension melting bit by bit, your chest no longer tight with the weight of everything left unsaid. instead, there was this warmth - a softness between you that hadn’t been there earlier. it was unspoken, but it was enough to ease the ache in your heart.  
“we’ll stop soon, yeah?” frank broke the silence, his voice low and softer than usual. “get you somethin’ to eat.”  
your lips curved into a small smile, your first real one since the argument. “i’m okay,” you murmured. “we don’t have to stop.”  
“nah.” he glanced over at you, his eyes lingering for a second longer than they should’ve. “you didn’t eat much earlier. ain’t lettin’ you sit through this thing hungry.”  
the tenderness in his voice made your cheeks heat, and you squeezed his hand lightly in response.  
it wasn’t long before frank pulled off at a small diner on the side of the road. the neon sign flickered against the night sky, casting a warm glow over the parking lot.  
“c’mon,” he said, cutting the engine and stepping out.  
before you could even reach for the door handle, frank was already there, pulling it open for you. his hand was outstretched, waiting for yours, and when you slipped your fingers into his, he gave them a gentle squeeze.  
inside, the diner was quiet, the hum of conversation and the clatter of dishes filling the space. frank led you to a booth in the corner, his hand never leaving yours until you slid into your seat.  
“what’re you in the mood for?” he asked, his eyes scanning the menu even though you both knew he’d end up ordering the same thing he always did.  
you shrugged, your fingers playing with the edge of the napkin in front of you. “maybe just some fries.”  
frank frowned, lowering the menu to look at you. “you need more than that.”  
“frank, i’m fine - ”  
“i’ll get you somethin’ else too,” he cut in, his tone leaving no room for argument.  
you bit back a smile, knowing better than to push him when he got like this. instead, you let him order for both of you, his gruff voice somehow softer when he spoke to the waitress.  
when the food arrived, frank nudged the plate closer to you, his eyes narrowing slightly when you hesitated. “eat, sweetheart,” he said gently.  
you rolled your eyes but grabbed a fry anyway, earning a satisfied grunt from him.  
as you ate, the tension from earlier felt like a distant memory. frank had a way of grounding you, of making you feel like no matter how bad things got, everything would eventually be okay.  
after the meal, frank walked you back to the car, his hand settling on the small of your back as he guided you outside. the night air was crisp, but his touch was warm, steady, and it made you lean into him just a little.  
“y’alright?” he asked once you were back in the passenger seat.  
you nodded, looking up at him with a soft smile. “yeah. i’m okay.”  
his eyes lingered on yours for a moment, and then, without a word, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead. it was quick but tender, and when he pulled back, his hand cupped your cheek for a second longer.  
the drive to the function was quieter this time, but it wasn’t the heavy silence from before. it was comfortable, the kind of quiet where words weren’t necessary because you both knew everything was okay now.  
as you pulled up to the venue, frank cut the engine and turned to you. his expression was softer, his usual rough edges smoothed out in a way that made your heart ache.  
“you look beautiful,” he said, his voice gruff but sincere.  
your cheeks flushed at the compliment, and you glanced down at your dress, suddenly feeling shy. “thank you,” you murmured.  
he leaned over, his large hand settling on your knee as he pressed a quick kiss to your temple. “‘m gonna keep tellin’ you that all night,” he added, his lips quirking into the faintest of smirks.  
the warmth in your chest grew, and you couldn’t help but smile back at him. “you don’t look so bad yourself,” you teased, your tone light.  
he chuckled, the sound low and rumbling, and you swore it was the best thing you’d heard all day.  
“c’mon, sweetheart,” he said, opening his door. “let’s get this over with.”  
as you stepped out of the car, frank was already by your side, his hand finding yours once more. he held it tightly, his grip firm and reassuring, and when he glanced down at you, there was something in his eyes that made your breath catch.  
it was love - raw and unfiltered, the kind that didn’t need words to be understood.  
and in that moment, you knew that no matter what, you and frank would always find your way back to each other.  
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ᰔ frank castle : @stvr-dust, @uncertified-doc
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