#Frank is only one I can see being straight | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

marvellous1917 · 1 year

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Icarus Falling

(Part 2)

Pairing: mob!Bucky x female!tattoo artist!reader

Summary: It’s gonna be a busy day. Giving a tattoo to a mobster that broke into your home was nothing compared to the fact that you can’t stop thing about how fucking hot he is.

Warnings: lots and lots of swearing, mention of crime (duh), fights, broken bones, tattoo needles, threats, think that’s it.

Part one ⬇️:

A/N: AAHHHH the response to part one was actually insane!!!! I hope this second part is good enough. Love u all <3

———————

Bold is reader’s thoughts.

Italics is Bucky’s thoughts.

The size of the tattoo is in inches.

———————

Walking to the shop, your thoughts were running a mile a minute. Holy fuck, what the fuck, did last night actually happen?, James Barnes is gorgeous and made falling asleep last night really fucking difficult, screw him for making me all hot and bothered. Asshole. But one persistent one came screaming to the front- how the fuck am I supposed to tell Frank?

Unfortunately there was not a lot of time to come up with an answer to that, the shopfront coming into view as you turn the corner. Jigsaw Ink stood proud in the middle of the busy Brooklyn street, the black paint of the walls in stark contrast to the pastel pink of the florists’ to one side and the baby blue of the cafe the other.

The shop was a second home to you, the couch at the front becoming a bed for you sometimes after a night out, or if Caleb was being an ass. Frank was nice enough to let you crash when you needed, trusting you with his business. Frank, and the other two artists at the shop, Billy and Curtis were like family - a weird combination of protective older brothers and best friends who were terribly bad influences on you.

The bell on the door rang when you opened it and there was a yelled “Y/N? That you?” from a deep voice at the back of the room.

“Yeah Frankie, it’s me. I thought Billy was supposed to be here, not you?” You yelled back, moving behind the counter toward your station, dropping your bag and taking off your jacket.

“He was, but he managed to get his ass knocked out last night so he’s taking the day off,” Frank replied laughing, walking out from the back towards you.

“What? Is he ok?” You ask, giving Frank a hug when he got closer.

“Managed to piss somebody off at a bar, not really sure what happened, but he’s fine. Just stupid,” he replied, patting your back as you release him.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love the guy but he is an idiot I swear, you can guarantee it was his fault as well,” you say.

Frank chuckle and nods as a response, “yeah I bet. Hey , you got many appointments today?” He asks.

Shit. How the fuck am I supposed to tell Frank Castle - literally the most protective man on earth - that I had to move all of my appointments to next week because a damn mobster broke into my house and demanded I gave him a tattoo today.

“…uh. No just the one, I had to move the rest,” you answer, praying to whoever was listening that Frank wouldn’t ask any questions.

“Why’s that?”

Fuucckkkk.

“Umm..no reason really..” your mind went completely blank, the only thing running through you head were those goddamn blue eyes.

“Kid, what’s going on?” Franks’ eyes narrowing, seeing straight through your bullshit response.

Ughhh. Change the subject right now. “Y’know you call me kid all the time, you’re not that much older than me Frankie. I mean there’s only-”.

“You’re ramblin’ kid. The fuck is going on?” He says, all sense of humor him from his voice.

Ah, there his is, protective Frankie coming in full force.

“Shit. Ok so here’s what happened-” you tell him the full story, coming home from work to see a dangerous criminal chilling in your apartment, the fear that came with that lovely surprise, Caleb’s debt, the weird philosophical conversation, the tattoo talk. All of it.

Of course, excluding the part where you found yourself extremely attracted to the fucking mobster, his weirdly slightly comforting presence, and the fact that the memory of those blue eyes where all you could see as your hand slipped between your legs before you fell asleep.

To be fair to the man, Frank listened to every word you had to say, not interrupting one. But you could see on his face every single emotion he was feeling, the main one being just straight up confusion.

“Lemme get this straight. The fucking Winter Soldier broke into your house last night and is coming in for a tattoo in..” he checked his watch as he spoke, “..an hour?”

“..yeah.” Hit the nail on the head there Frankie.

“Shit.” He says, rubbing his hand over his face in an act of desperation.

“Yep.” You say, patting his arm to try and reassure him.

“Alright, I’m gonna be here the whole time, don’t you worry about that kid. You’re gonna be fine.” He assures you, obviously worried about you.

“I know that Frankie, and if it’s any consolation, he didn’t seem all that bad.” You answer.

“Not that bad?!” He almost shouts, and incredulous look on his face, “Y/N he’s a fucking gangster. He’s fucking danger-“

“FRANK!” You yell, the only way to cut off his tirade before it starts. “I know that, but last night he didn’t do anything bad,okay, and if he wanted to hurt me, he definitely would have done it by now. I’ll be fine Frank, I’ll just give him the tattoo and that will be it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta set everything up.” You say, moving back to your station, beginning to grab everything you need.

“Holy fuck kid, how are you not freaking the fuck out right now?” He whisper shouts, running one hand up and down his head.

“I’m not sure. I think…I think I trust him not to hurt me. It’s weird, but my gut’s telling me I’ll be fine.” You answer, starting to print some different sized stencils.

“Kid your brain is brok-” Frank starts to say but he’s cut off by his phone ringing. He pulls it from his pocket and says “Shit, it’s my kids’ school, I gotta take it.”

You wave him off, Frank answers the phone with a sigh.

He walks off to the back of the shop, leaving you to finish setting up your station. Frank talks for a minute and wander back towards you.

“My girl got into a fight at school, Maria’s busy at work so I’ve got to go get her,” he says, dragging his hands down his face, in a way only an exasperated father could.

“Oh my god is she ok?” You ask.

“She’s fine, but apparently she broke some little shitheads nose for picking on her friends,”

“Like father, like daughter then,” you respond with a laugh.

“Can the people I care about stop getting themselves in dangerous situations for like five goddamn seconds.” Frank says, throwing a pointed glare your way.

“Frankie, how many times, I’m gonna be fine alright, go get your kid and -I dunno- take her out for ice cream, tell her she did good.” You say, pushing him to the door.

“Only if you’re one hundred percent certain you’ll be fine.” He says, already pulling his jacket from the hook.

“I’m good I swear, now go!”

“Ok ok I’m going, stop pushing me” he says, leaving the shop and letting the door fall closed behind him, the bell ringing as it did.

Only a minute passed before your phone pinged with a text.

James:

Have you already forgotten about me that quickly doll?

Send me the address to the shop

Now… please

Fuck me. Why does just his text give me fucking butterflies. Ugh. How irritating.

You send him the address and his response is cheeky as shit.

James:

See you at 1 doll, you better be wearing something pretty for me.

Little shit.

————

You had the music in the shop bumping, using it to help calm your pounding heart, adrenaline starting to get the best of you. Your favourite song came over the speakers so you turned it up and started to dance a little, knowing that you had at least 10 minutes before Barnes turned up. Unfortunately this action caused you to miss the ringing of the bell on the door.

Holy shit - ink and a show, today is going better than expected already.

Bucky slowly let the door close, trying not to disturb the dancing girl he couldn’t get out of his head. He lent against the wall, just watching and waiting…and staring.

Shaking out your hands to get rid of any nerves, you turn and nearly scream when you see Barnes stood at the door.

“Oh god, sorry I didn’t hear you come in,” you say, subtly looking him up and down and damn he looks good. Ever the powerful mobster, he wore a black suit, his black shirt had no tie and was unbuttoned at the top. His hair was slicked back from his face, opposite to how it was the night before. This was the other side of him, the business man - James Barnes: the face of multiple charities, the man that law enforcement could never seem to put behind bars. Last night you met the threat, the assassin, and you may be one of the first in his history to survive a meeting with the Soldier.

“No problem doll, I was enjoying the show,” he says, pushing off of the wall and stalking towards you.

Oh my god, “oh..ok, well I have everything set up and ready so if you’re ok to start I say let get going,” you respond, turning to the part of the shop where your station was, nerves flooding back, wanting to get this over as soon as possible.

“Damn girl, not even any small talk?” He asks, slowly following you to the table.

“Oh sorry, I would have asked how your day has been so far, but I didn’t want you to think I was prying into your business. I wouldn’t want you to think I was being disrespectful ab-”

“Ramblin’ again doll, thought I told you that you don’t need to be afraid of me,” he said softly, sounding genuine. “I know what people say about me, I understand why you would be nervous, but I just ask you to not believe everything you hear, ok doll? I’m not who they say I am.” His tone was gentle, almost tired but still pleading, hoping you believe him.

“So you’re not a mobster?” You ask, voice low and calm.

“Oh no I am,” he responds with a small laugh, “I am, and I do what gangsters do. But I am not the ruthless animal I’m made out to be, doll I’m just not. I do what needs to be done.”

His voice breaks slightly on the pet name. His tone is so sincere and tired. Oh my..he’s telling the truth. It actually affects him to hear that about himself.

“Ok,” you respond, siting on your stool next to your station and the table, looking up at him with no fear in your eyes, trusting his words.

“Ok? That’s your response?” He asks, moving around the table to sit on it directly in-front of you.

“Yeah. What did you want me to do Barnes, not believe you?” You ask, all fear gone from your voice.

“Of course not,” he says, confusion laced in his voice, his eyebrows furrowed, “but I wasn’t expecting you to believe me immediately, shit you were scared of me like a minute ago.”

“I know but I think I trust you? You haven’t done anything to me, y’know other than breaking into my apartment. I trust you when you say you’re not someone I should be afraid of.” You answer truthfully.

“…good.” He says, at a loss of what to say next.

“Good. So, Barnes, are we doing this or what?” You ask.

“Yeah let’s do it doll, and please, call me Bucky.” He responds, shrugging off his jacket, folding it and placing it on the head of the table. You had to make a conscious effort to not stare at the way his arms filled out his shirt, but damn it was hard. He sat silently waiting for you to talk.

“Ok..Bucky.. tell me about what size and what placement you want for this.” You say, “I printed some sizes out because I wasn’t sure what size you wanted, and I can reprint or adjust it based in what you want.”

“Oh you a real professional, huh? Not gonna lie to you doll, that serious voice is kinda getting me goin’” he says, smirk on his face, leaning back on his arms, lifting his hips and moving slightly on the table.

Fuck me, what is this man doing to me? He doesn’t give you a chance to respond before he’s talking again.

“I want to get it on my forearm, the inside, and I think that size looks good,” he says, pointing to the 10x8 you printed.

“Ok that sounds good, which arm were you thinking?”

Silence. He stares down at you, an unreadable look on his face. You break eye contact and then freeze.

Shit. Shit. You dumbass. Which arm? Which fucking arm? Are you kidding? I can literally see his metal fucking hand. Oh dear god.

The silence between you goes on for entirely too long. You’re not sure whether you should apologise or wait for him to speak first. You weren’t sure if he would be offended, having a reminder of his injury.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just continues to stare down at you, that blank look on his face. Looking back up at him, you start to apologise but the words get caught in your throat. His eyes. He couldn’t control them the same way he did his face, tons of different emotions flowing through them, none lasting long enough for you to understand before another one took its place.

If only you knew what he was actually thinking. She asked which arm. She knows about my arm, everyone does, but she still asked. She forgot. The arm is all people see, a weapon, an instrument used to inflict nothing but pain. It’s all people see, but she forgot. That’s not what she sees. Maybe…maybe she just sees me.

He’s shuts his racing thoughts down, fully aware of how awkward the silence was becoming. “I’m thinking my right arm might be a little easier for you doll,” he says, an amused look crossing his face, his tongue poking his cheek.

You open your mouth to apologise for your mistake but he holds up his right hand and says, “and please, you don’t have to apologise like I know you’re going to, we’re all good darlin’.”.

He’s gotta stop with the pet names before I melt.

“Ok, uh, are you sure, because I honestly meant no disrespect or anything. I-,” you start, but Bucky cut you off quickly.

“Darlin’, what did I just say?” A stern tone coats his words and goddamn does it send a shiver down your spine. You internally roll your eyes and look away, back to your station, when you feel two warm fingers on your jaw, turning your head back to looks at him. Holy fuck. He places his thumb on the other side of your jaw, forcing you to keep looking at him as he leans in closer. His voice was low when he said, “That wasn’t a rhetorical question, Y/N, what did I just say?”

Jesus fucking wept. Somehow his use of your name made your heart pound, and the fact that his hand was so warm and strong holding onto your face.

“You said we’re all good..” you answer trailing off at the end of your sentence. His eyes don’t move from yours for a second.

“And?” He asks, tilting his head slightly.

Christ alive.

“I don’t have to apologise..” you say, eyes flicking between his and falling to his lips for a second and then back to his eyes.

“That’s right darlin’,” his eyes dropped to your lips, his tongue darting out to wet his lip. “So stop, okay?” He says, lifting your chin to catch your eye.

“Yes sir.” It’s an automatic response but you can’t help but be a little proud of yourself when he lets out a small throaty growl at the name.

“Careful doll.” He responds, letting go and leaning back, “How about we get started before I do something you regret, hmm?”

Like I could regret you.

You turn back to your station to try and clear your head of all the dirty thoughts running wild. “Ok.. Bucky, if you could roll up your sleeve so I can wipe the area, I’ll place the stencil and you can check if it’s where you want it to be.” You say, not used to the name he said to call him by.

“Mhm,” he hums, releasing the cuff link on his right sleeve, his prosthetic catching the glare of the light above, the plates shining. He places the cuff link in the pocket of his jacket and begins rolling up his sleeve and folds it at his elbow.

You clean the area and place the stencil straight on his arm, and peel it off.

“There’s a mirror on the wall over there, you can check if it’s alright.” You say.

“Okie dokie doll,” he responded the furrowed his brows, like he was confused at why he said that, not very gangster of him.

I like him. He says okie dokie.

“Looks good there darlin’, and as much as I hate to say it, we gotta speed this up a little, I’m expecting a call at some point around 2:30 and I’d prefer you not have to hear it.” He says, coming back to the table, sitting down and swinging his legs up onto it.

You take his arm, putting it on the rest in a position easiest for tattooing while saying “Why’s that? Would you have to kill me if I overheard your call?” You ask, enough humor in your voice for him to know you’re joking.

“Probably, depends how much you hear.” He said, completely deadpan. He looks at you and you have the strangest feeling that he actually wouldn’t hurt you either way.

“Shit ok. Is that position comfortable for you?”

“I’m all good darlin’, let’s go,” he says, adjusting his position on the table slightly. His left arm rests across his stomach as he sits on the table, leaning against the backrest, his ankles crossed.

“Ok I’m gonna do a small line so you know how it feels,” you look at him and he nods. You draw a line about 2 centimetres long then stop, “how’s that?” You ask.

“Ain’t nothin’ doll, keep goin’.” He responds.

“Ok here we go.” You say, getting back to it.

————

You’ve been tattooing for about 40 minutes, and there hasn’t been a word spoken between the both of you. His arm kept flexing whenever you moved away, and he kept clenching his jaw, like he was in pain but was refusing to admit it, even to himself.

“Are you ok? We can stop for five if you want a break? I’ve just finished the outline so I’ve got to change needles anyway.” You ask, disrupting the silence between you, moving the machine away from his arm so you can switch to a higher grouping for the blackwork.

“I’m fine Y/N, how much longer do you think it’ll take?” He asks, moving his head to look at the outline that you had completed.

“Oh it’s hard to say, but probably another 30 at least,” you respond, looking at him while he was admiring the tattoo so far.

God he’s pretty.

“Shit.” He says, rubbing his forehead with his other hand.

“Are you worried about your call?” You ask calmly.

“Not worried about the call itself… just having to do it here may cause some issues.” He responds, lowering his hand to his thigh.

“Because I’m here? I can go to a different room if you want?” You say, placing the machine back on your station, and turning to look at him fully.

“It’s ok doll, to be honest with you, nothing that needs to be said will make any sense to you anyway, and I mean that in the least offensive way possible.” He says, looking at you with apologetic face, tilting his head slightly. “But depending on the news I get, I wouldn’t want my reaction to… scare you.”

“Oh.. well I guess we’ll see when your call comes.” You answer, unsure of how to react to that.

————

The sharp ringing of his phone interrupts the sounds of the machine. You move the machine away from him, turning it off so he could speak freely without noise.

“I really am sorry about this darlin’, but it’s important-”

“Answer it then, it’s fine Bucky.” You cut him off, concerned he was going to miss it if he kept talking.

He gave you another apologetic look, and then turned his back to you to get off the table and answer the call.

You sat in silence as he started to speak.

“Rogers, what did ya find?” His voice changes from how he speaks to you, deeper and more serious.

The person on the other line speaks for a moment before Bucky responds, “we already knew that, didn’t we? What new information did you find?”

Silence.

“Of course he is..,” there is anger in his tone now, “get someone to tell the asshole he can threaten what he likes, I’m not sitting down with him.”

A moment goes by and you think that may have been the end of it, until you see his shoulders tense and-

“FUCK NO!” He shouts, making you jump a little.

“No Rumlow Gets Nothing, I don’t give a shit what he’s doing… Then send the commissioner a goddam gift basket Steve, some portraits of his family would be nice, remind him why he pays us the fucking protection fee.” He seethes at the man down the phone.

This should not be turning me on, shit.

“For fucks sake… Walker is nothing Steve, just some fucking Nazi junkie with a rich daddy, trying to get his hands on my shit…get Nat to bring his ass in, I’ll deal with it Steve… I said I’d deal with it.”

His tone on the last sentence sends a shiver down your spine, what the fuck does ‘deal with it’ mean?

“Ah shit is he ok?” Bucky asks, tone soft now, caring even, “Damn, he’s gonna be out for blood now.. good for him.. give Clint the week off, find the guys and give the pricks to him, let him get out some of his pent up craziness out.”

Oh Clint sounds fun.

“Ok, alright I gotta go now man. Yeah I’m at the shop… nah it’s nothing..yeah ya did… ok fuck off now.. later man.”

He hangs up the phone, takes a death breath and pinches the place between his eyebrows, his other hand going to his hip. He stands like that before he turns back to you, with a small awkward smile. That was cute.

“Sorry about that doll, hope I didn’t upset ya,” he says, walking around the table and looking down at you.

“You didn’t. I gotta ask though, is your friend or whoever ok?” You ask, not bringing up the start of the call where the man in-front of you all but admitted to a multitude of crimes - blackmail, extortion, supplying drugs. He sounded different- genuine when he asked if the man was ok. It was sweet.

“Clint? Yeah no he’s fine, got jumped last night so he’s pissed about it, but he’s ok, worst thing he got were some nasty bruises and a broken finger.” Bucky responds, confusion on his face, wondering why you care.

“How did he break a finger?” you ask, moving backwards as he sits back on the table.

“Oh he didn’t go down without a fight, clocked one of them on his way out,” he says with a small chuckle.

“Ah, good for crazy Clint,” you say with a smile.

Bucky let’s out a sharp quick laugh, “that exactly what I thought doll,” he says, leaning back and putting his arm on the rest, “ready when you are.” He adds.

Ok right back to it. Got it boss.

“Ok, should only be about 10 more minutes.” You say.

“Alright doll.” He answers, leaning his head back on the rest, tilting his head so he could watch you.

Ten minutes later you were finished, putting your machine down for the final time.

“Okie dokie, I’m all done. Have a look in the mirror, see what ya think,” you say, hoping he liked it, not much you could do about it if he didn’t.

He moves over to the mirror, checking out his new ink, twisting his arm around to see it fully. He’s silent for a little while before he says, “fuck doll, you’re a damn artist.”

“Does that mean you like it?” You ask, failing to hide the hope in your voice.

“I love it. Couldn’t have asked for a better one for my first piece.” He says, walking forwards to stand in-front of you, letting you wrap the fresh tattoo, handing him a leaflet on aftercare as you talk.

“You’re shitting me,” you say, “was that seriously your first one?”

“Yeah, why are you so surprised darlin?” He responds, tilting his head.

“I don’t know, just sorta thought you’d have them all over.” You answer.

“All over, huh. You been thinking about me naked doll?” He says with a cheeky grin, talking half a step closer to you.

Shit.

“What, n-no of course not, why would I do that. I mean I’m sure you look good - uh fine.. naked but I don’t-” you cut yourself off before you embarrass yourself anymore.

“No, no ramble on Y/N please, I’m really enjoying watching you try to figure your way out of the grave you’re digging right now,” he says, chucking lightly.

“Shut up Bucky, leave me alone” you responds, looking down at your feet.

“Hey,” he grabs your chin, again, and add pressure until you’re looking up at his eyes, “don’t ever try and tell me what to do, darlin, I don’t tend to respond well to it. I won’t ‘shut up’ and I’ll never ‘leave you alone’… I like ya too much for that.” He says, sounding like a mix between a threat and a compliment.

“Uh.. okay.” You answer, not sure how to respond to his words.

He can tell that you don’t know what to say, so he mercifully breaks the silence. “I love the tattoo doll, it’s looks amazing. You’ve got a talent Y/N.” He drops his hand from your chin as he speaks.

“Thank you, Bucky. It means a lot.” You answer sincerely.

“How much do I owe you sweetheart?” He asks, reaching into his jacket for his wallet.

That’s a new one.

“Uh, say $180?” You respond.

“$180? Damn you gotta charge more than that doll,” he says pulling some bills from his wallet.

He hands you the bills and says “now that’s for today and it should cover next time too, take half for now and half for then.”

You’re stunned by the fact that he’s already planning for next time but your jaw actually drops when you look at the bills.

They were hundreds.

“Woah I think you gave me the wrong bills,” you say, trying to push the bills back in his hands.

“No I didn’t, I know what I gave you. $180 for today, say $200 for next time and the rest is tip.” He answers smoothly, folding your hand back over the bills.

You look down to count and start shaking your head, “I can’t accept this, it’s way too much.”

“Consider it a thank you for dealing with the inconvenience of me having to do business in the middle of the appointment.” He says with a smile.

“Bucky this is 2000 dollars.”

“I know.” He puts up his hand again, stopping you from talking, “I’m not taking it back doll, just have it will ya?” He says, rolling his sleeve back down, doing the cuff back up with the cufflink and placing his jacket back on.

“Oh my god, you’re serious aren’t you?” You ask, unbelievable he wanted you to have over fifteen hundred dollars as tip.

“Yes I am.” He answers, straightening his jacket, “it also may be a small bribe.”

There it is.

“A bribe for what?” You ask, expecting his to ask you to keep quiet about his call.

“I want you to be my artist, anytime I want a tattoo, I want you doing it for me.” He says, smiling down at you with a hint of…something him his eye.

“Really?” You ask in shock, not expecting that from him.

“Yeah, like I said earlier, you got talent. I want more of you on me.” Bucky says smirking at the euphemism he made.

Fuck me running.

“Oh..shit.. yeah ok, that sounds..,” you swallow heavily, “sounds like a plan.” You smile up at him, trying to hide the way his words affected you.

He smiles back, stepping closer and closer until his chest is almost touching yours.

“Yes it’s does. You’re mine now doll,” he says, a dark look in his eye. You swallow hard again and your breath stutters at his words, eyes going straight to the floor. He notices your reaction and smirks, “my artist, I mean.” He continued.

“Although, judging by your little reaction there, I’d bet you be ok with that, wouldn’t you doll?” He says, his tone slightly mocking.

You say nothing.

He hums, then places his right hand on your cheek and tilts your head so you’re looking him in the eye again.

“Would you?” He asks softly.

“Maybe,” you whisper, a cocky smile breaking out on his face.

“Maybe, huh? ‘Mkay, guess I’ll just have to convince you then doll.” He says back, leaning closer, eyes going to your lips before he looks back up, giving you a chance to get out of the situation.

“Guess so.” You respond, some confidence back in your voice.

He hums again, and then he’s kissing you. His kiss is forceful but somehow still gentle, like he’s holding back as much as he can.

Fucking finally you can’t help but think as you move your hand to his wrist, the other one going to his left bicep, the feel of the solid metal under your hand was new, but not unwelcome.

His metal hand moves, wrapping around your back and pulling you against him, deepening the kiss when you gasp.

Reluctantly, you break the kiss when you run out of air. He leans back, the pressure on your back relieving a bit.

“Damn doll, what the fuck are you doing to me?” He asks, biting his bottom lip.

“Something good, hopefully.” You respond cheekily.

He groans, leaning his head back. “Yeah hopefully darlin’. I hate to say it sweetheart but I gotta get going.” He says, releasing his hold on you. He moves towards the door and for a second you think he going to leave without another word, until he turns back and says “I’ll talk to you later doll, keep your phone on or I’ll drop by.” He finished his sentence with a wink, and then he’s gone, the bell on the door ringing behind him.

Fuucckk. Maybe I’ll break my phone so he has to come by. Who knew the fucking Winter Soldier was actually a gorgeous softie under it all.

————

A/N: Ta da! Finally complete!! Love everyone of you that read this, mwah 😘

I can’t tag anyone else on this post so I will tag the rest in a separate post.

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#bucky x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #marvel #marvel imagine #marvel imagines #mob!bucky #mob!au #tattoo artist!reader

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mangomonk · 1 year

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i thought that i was dreaming when you said you loved me

↳ summary: read this drabble first! goodie two shoes!remus, afraid of being perceived as other, stumbles into a relationship at the expense of y/n. ↳ content: angst, one-sided fake dating ↳ a/n: a little nervous because this is my first time writing for remus pls be gentle w me! for full enjoyment, listen to ivy by frank ocean (i looped it the entire time i wrote this). the more i wrote this, the more i realized i could turn this into a full blown million word fic, but i tried to keep it as condensed as possible, hence some time skips/summarization. pt. 2 here!

When Remus Lupin confesses — no, announces — that he likes her in the middle of the Great Hall, she thinks she's dreaming. Surely, she didn't hear that correctly. Only hours earlier, she had witnessed the doe-eyed boy unleash a slew of curses beneath his breath. I guess everyone has bad days, she had thought. Even Remus, who she had always pegged as straight-laced and well-mannered.

So when a half a dozen heads turn to stare at her directly, Y/N turns to see if there's anyone behind her. When she sees no one, she turns back forward. It's when Remus Lupin's soft, brown gaze meets hers that her heart stutters dangerously in her chest. She can't help it despite the bewilderment she feels — everyone in the castle has to have some sort of crush on the fluffy-haired boy. He's all soft, disarming smiles and beautiful, brown eyes and knitted jumpers and gentle laughter and—

—and Y/N goes red in the face right away. It doesn't help when Remus tilts his head to the side slightly and offers a small, uncertain smile. Merlin, help me, Y/N thinks as she stares back, wide-eyed, her confusion and any thoughts briefly neutralized at the way his eyes crinkle into little half-moons.

— — — — —

Y/N has always prided herself on being a sharp judge of character. It soon became clear to her, however, that Remus Lupin was a strange, but intriguing case of contradicting character.

Following his confession — rather, announcement — in the Great Hall, she becomes overly conscious of the tall boy. It feels as though she's suddenly very aware that they have most of their classes together, that he sits only a seat away from her in Charms, that he has chicken scratch for handwriting when she passes him in the library. The latter comes as a surprise — perhaps unfairly, she would have pegged him as a swooping cursive type of boy. In any case, it soon becomes the case that Y/N realizes that she can find Remus easily in a room of crowded students, and the more she does, the more she begins to realize that Remus is a boy full of surprises.

This doesn't seem to matter though, because strangely, after his confession in the Great Hall, Remus does not once approach her. Occasionally, she catches him glancing at her with an odd expression, but outside of an increase in being stared at by the other students, little changes in her life.

It isn't until a week later when her seat partner in Charms is out that their paths cross again. When she trudges to her seat in class, she becomes very quickly aware that they're separated only by an empty chair. She doesn't look away fast enough because Remus looks up as she pulls her chair out, his gaze snagging on to hers with an intensity that she doesn't expect from the softness of his eyes.

"Good morning," he says slowly, almost uncertainly. Up close, Y/N can see a splay of pale freckles across his cheekbones. His lashes are unfairly, distractingly long as he gazes up at her.

"Hi," Y/N says, equally uncertain, though she tries to keep her voice light and casual. No one's ever really had a crush on her before, and she finds herself floundering on how to act. Shouldn't he be the nervous one, and not her? Somehow though, she can feel her palms begin to sweat, though Remus doesn't look nervous at all. Just sharp and assessing. Fortunately though, before the air between them can turn any awkwarder, a mussed-haired head pops up from around Remus.

"Y/N, right?" James Potter asks with a wide grin. His glasses are skewed and crooked on his face as he peers around Remus at her rather owlishly.

Next to him, Remus blinks a few times as she nods, opening her mouth to speak when Professor Flitwick clears his throat to begin class.

She tries to focus on taking notes, but it's difficult when she can see Remus casting her sidelong glances from her peripheral view. She gives up on trying to focus on class entirely when a folded piece of parchment flits over the gap between them with a familiar chicken scratch.

Can we talk after class?

After class, Y/N has a ridiculous, irrational flash of self-consciousness that the humidity has made her hair begin to frizz. Remus doesn't seem to notice as she rakes a hand quickly through her hair because a nervous, almost agitated, energy is rolling off of him as he paces in the courtyard.

When he catches sight of her, he stops, a warm smile breaking across his face, though Y/N feels that it doesn't quite reach his eyes. But the new knowledge that Remus has a dimple on his left cheek and his smile is just slightly crooked is enough to disarm any wariness. Unexpectedly his nervous energy seems to dissipate immediately. "Hi," he says, "You came."

"I got your note," Y/N says, inwardly grimacing — of course he knew that already, he had been sitting next to her.

"Right, well, I, er—" Remus begins choppily, his hand rising to rub at the nape of his neck. "I was wondering about... Earlier, last week, when you saw me... Did you say anything to anyone?"

Y/N blinks at him once, then twice, blankly. "Earlier?" She questions, before the heat begins to rise to her face. He must have been referring to his confession. "I haven't said anything to anyone."

Remus's brows furrow for a moment before his face relaxes. He's surprisingly difficult to read — it feels as though any trickle of emotion is covered with a disarming soft smile. "I see," he says after a moment, his shoulders relaxing. "Right, well, Y/N," he begins, looking around them distractedly. "—shall we date?" Y/N straightens with a jolt as he continues. "I won't be offended if you say no. In fact, I'd understand if you said no, we've barely—"

She doesn't know what it is exactly. Maybe it was the curious thought that Remus might not be the charming prince he seemed to be. Maybe it was the dimple in his left cheek. Maybe it was the way he said her name. But something in Y/N slipped through her confusion and the unceremonious nature of the whole thing, because she finds herself speaking before she can stop herself. "Yeah. Let's date."

Remus's face goes slack. He looks a little startled, Y/N thinks, like she's clubbed him over the head. "Are you sure?" He blurts, eyes widening a fraction. It's perhaps the most emotion she's seen him show so far. Y/N writes it off as nerves and incredulity.

She nods once, firmly.

"I guess that's settled," he says weakly with furrowed brows, though he looked neither pleased nor displeased.

— — — — —

Initially, Y/N and Remus are as awkward as can be. She's not sure if it's because neither of them have really ever been in a relationship before, but it feels clumsy in the beginning.

Their dates start off mostly as study dates in the library, but Y/N doesn't mind — to her pleasure, she finds that they eerily work well together and she likes the calm peace of Remus's presence while she's studying. She likes to think that he also finds comfort in her presence because it's become ritual for him to ask her about the book she's reading, and vice versa. In a few weeks, they start reading the same books. Maybe it's because they spend so much time together studying that it becomes gradually more comfortable.

When they go to Hogsmeade for the first time together, Y/N finds that they end up walking around the village and chatting nearly until curfew. She tells him about what it's like growing up with three brothers — "It doesn't seem very different from the Marauders," Remus observes with a wry laugh — and he tells her stories of how despite moving around periodically during his child, his mother always found a little corner in the yard to start an herb garden.

He does all the things she'd imagine a boyfriend might — Remus is a gentleman, expectedly. He holds the door open for her, gives her his jumper when there was a draft in the library, walks her back to the Common Room at night.

But, unexpectedly, it isn't Remus's soft smiles or considerate aura that Y/N finds herself straining to see. But it was when he threw his head back and laughed himself breathless at James holding his wand on the wrong end that Y/N found it impossible to tear her eyes away from him. Or when he shot her a dour look the first time she teased him on his illegible chicken scratch. Or when Remus cursed like a sailor when he knocked his ink pot over onto his parchment because he was always so uncoordinated and graceless.

It was perhaps impossible not to fall in love with Remus Lupin. Though maybe she already knew this from the start when he first looked at her, and even more so the first time he said her name.

She liked the way he would groan and complain and grumble as he stretched out his lithe limbs in preparation of helping Peter with his essay that he had procrastinated on, even after she could see the exhaustion begin to pool under his pretty eyes. She liked that he could silence the boys with just one baleful look. She liked the way he fell asleep on his books when he thought no one was looking. She liked his dry remarks and his wolfish grin and his grumpy mood. She liked all the rough edges that Remus showed her when he would forget to put up a soft smile.

It was too easy to love Remus Lupin, though it seemed like he didn't know that himself.

It only takes four full moons for Y/N to understand what the Marauders meant whenever they quietly referred to Remus's furry little problem. In the first place, they weren't always discreet — it was easy for them to forget she was there when she was studying in the background. In the second place, Remus would apologetically cancel their studying plans around the same time each month, and he would disappear for a few days and come back exhausted with fresh scars. It wasn't difficult to put two and two together, really.

But while she understood why he didn't tell her, she couldn't help but give him a tighter hug when she realized.

"Something wrong, love?" He had asked, reaching up to caress the back of her hair as she squeezed his abdomen.

"No," she had mumbled into his shirt, breathing in his familiar scent. She could feel affection swell inside her so violently she felt a little dizzy as she gave him another squeeze. "Just wish I could always be hugging you."

"No one's stopping you," Remus had responded dryly. She smiled into his chest as he rested his chin on the crown of her head. "Certainly not me."

— — — — —

When Y/N tries to discreetly deliver a small care package of chocolate and books a few nights before the next full moon, she accidentally overhears Peter ask James when Remus was ending his fake relationship.

"I doubt it'll raise any suspicions now that no one's pestering him about not having a girlfriend," she hears Peter say.

James makes a noncommittal sort of noise. "You know how Remus is about these things. He's always on edge that someone will think he's the odd one out—"

She feels like the ground beneath her has stuttered and shifted into an open chasm as her mind whirls to make sense of their conversation. For a moment, she thinks she's wrong, but like it was with Remus's furry little problem, if she thinks back on the stranger moments of the past four months, it's not difficult to piece it together. She begins to feel a little ill.

How many times did he force himself to smile at her stories? How many times after walking her back to the Common Room at night did he sigh with relief when she left? How many times did he wait for other students to be around to hold her hand? All the heart-fluttering moments she had thought had been magical and wonderful and incredible with Remus had been entirely one-sided. How humiliating. She feels used and dirty and pathetic, but the worse thing is that she can't feel angry.

She doesn't know how long she stands paralyzed outside, just that it's difficult to breathe or think properly. All she can feel is a numbing ache in her chest, and the feeling tightens when she hears a familiar voice behind her.

"Hmm?" Remus hums, a smile breaking across his face. The dimple in his left cheek appears briefly. "What are you doing here, love?" When she doesn't respond, he steps closer to her and peers at her face carefully, his big, brown eyes soft. "What's wrong?" He asks, gently looping his arms around her waist. Y/N goes perfectly still under his touch. "I knew you'd be studying for the Ancient Runes exam all day, so got some cakes from the kitchen for—"

"Remus," she interrupts suddenly, her throat gone cottony and dry as she raises her gaze to finally look at him. It sends a sharp pang through her chest again. "Are we ever going to kiss?"

Bizarrely, scarlet splotches appear swiftly on the high points of Remus's cheek as his eyes widen a fraction. "Kiss," he repeats, sounding strangled as he stares at her wide-eyed, looking as though she had clubbed him over the head. "You want to kiss?" He asks after a moment, his voice hoarse as his eyes flicker down to her lips.

"Do you want to kiss me?" She asks quietly, watching his throat bob as he swallows thickly.

"I've wanted to since—" Remus says softly, a little nonsensically, his eyes darting back down to her lips. His pupils are blown wide and dark as he swallows, his throat bobbing. “Y/N,” he murmurs, and she can feel his breath brush against her nose. She tries to control the thumping in her chest as he slowly leans in and raises his hand to cup her face. Remus looks down at her with a sweet adoration she knows cannot be real. She's seen this sort of soft look from him countless times before and now she knows better than anyone that it's just another cover. Perhaps it was perfectly clear since the start, but she had let herself get swept away with naive hope. The start of nothing. She feels like a fool.

Remus's head ducks slightly as the space between them closes. Y/N goes perfectly still as she watches his other hand rise, his fingers trembling a little as they reach to curve around her jaw.

For a moment, she entertains the thought and wonders what would happen if she just closes her eyes. She could close her eyes, could lean in and feel his eyelashes brush her cheek, could let him kiss her senseless. It would be so easy. It scares her a little how much she wants that.

Before she can betray herself, Y/N closes her hand around his wrist. “You can stop now,” she says, her voice low and steadier than she felt.

Remus freezes, his dazed expression crumpling in confusion. She takes a steadying breath, swallowing back the bile in her throat as she schools her expression with difficulty. Y/N places his wrist back down away from her face and lets go as she continues, despite the dull ache in her chest. “I wanted to know how far you would go,” she continues quietly. “How far you thought I would be willing to go.”

“I don’t understand—” Remus begins, a myriad of stricken dismay, alarm, and something else flickering across his face. For a moment, she thinks it’s the residue of desire, but she quickly remembers how good of an actor Remus is, and doesn’t let herself entertain that thought that it’s anything else besides panic for being caught.

"I know you're just using me," Y/N says, her throat dry. Her voice, to her mortification, cracks and comes out as a croak. Any sense of anger deflates immediately and all she can feel is this crumbling sense of defeat. “I should have known that something was strange when you suddenly confessed. We had never even really talked before that. I mean, I thought that I was dreaming when you said you liked me—"

“No, it's because—”

"I know why you did it," she whispers. Remus freezes, the color draining from his face. "The worse part of all this is that I can't find it in myself to hate you for using me. But I had just thought that you didn’t think so little of me as to…” She doesn’t finish as she stares down at the space between them, swallowing thickly. She feels ill. The last sentence had come out before she realized it. So that was what it was — disappointment.

"Did you even know my name before James said it?" She asks with a bark of a forced laugh as she straightens, setting her shoulders now though she still has a difficult time looking directly at him.

Remus swallows thickly as he steps forward. His pause is enough of an answer. "Let me explain,” he begins quickly, his words tumbling out in a frantic mess. “Y/N, wait,” he starts, reaching out.

“Don’t touch me, Lupin,” she says dejectedly, stepping away from him. Remus flinches and freezes, his expression falling, but she can't bring herself to look at him in the eye anymore. Y/N stares at the worn patch of carpet by her shoe as she swallows thickly before turning to leave. "You can tell everyone that you broke up with me if it helps you."

— — — — —

a/n: thx for reading! pt. 2 here my masterlist here

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bunji-enthusiast · 7 months

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Only Man (Your own love kills)

Note || jealousy scenario rahhh, it’s kinda one? Or isn’t? Idk I went down the hills. Also some context, some humans actually survived the hour of joy, so there is a few mentions of camp stuffs.

WC || 896

Sypnosis || In a world of comfort, seems he can’t begin to fathom the reality of emotions settling within him.

Have you ever been in love?

If he was being honest, life was fuzzy, even more so temperamental that he was from human to dusk and dawn. But he wouldn’t have traded it for anything if it meant he would see you in his non-life or life over and over again.

That is one thing so entirely unique to the quality of dogs, they are loyal and strong with you to the end.

In the sense of irony, he never would’ve expected to be DogDay. But he had long since lived with the idea that he lived this way, to be a leader and a friend to all those he held dear. He never would’ve become anything else, not if he had anything to do with it.

DogDay doesn’t mind sacrificing his own life and body to protect others, to mean if they live. Sure, he may not live to see that aspect he was wholeheartedly himself, that was how he knew he wasn’t completely off the dark end as DogDay.

It was his name and his alone, to be frank; madness, torment and the ripping away of the happiness once had was abnormally flippant to the reality he once knew and loved. DogDay had lived with it, it became the norm for him to live so strongly, trying to be a light those can vy for and not lose themselves in the process.

Love was one remaining factor to his stillborn life, DogDay wasn’t anchoring toward anything. Always having to down his head in order for those alive and their with him meant he could live with that, strong willed humans and toys alike holding their heads up high, that meant he had to stand still and straight so they could see how far they had come.

Hush little baby don’t you cry.

That tune was familiar, was he here? Beyond the specific residence of his permeance, no, he was alive and here. Everyone was okay, camp to be sure, but you too were there. DogDay was content, he didn’t even need words, actions were more than enough.

Everything’s gonna be alright.

You were singing such a wonderful tune, yet a wrenching pit in the gut of his fabricated stomach caused him to think otherwise from the place of his peace. A human male was getting a little too close to you for his liking, trying to stray away from employee regulations no doubt. DogDay wasn’t gonna let that slide, he wasn’t going to allow him to tarnish your personal boundaries and sure as hell was gonna make sure that he knew that.

Stiffen that upper lip, little lady..

DogDay stood up from where he had sat, back being rubbed against the rubble stone wall, for a moment it almost hurt. Yet the pain faded away just as quickly as it came, he began walking, calming himself as your melodic tunes remained ever as wavering to his ears.

All was okay and well between the people in the encampment, strained suffice to say with the amount of space people were left with – but they all had each other to lean and rely on. Not akin to the likes of the Prototype and the rest of his brainwashed lackeys.

‘Oh CatNap, I wish you could’ve come with us. Why turn to his side?’

DogDay perked up at the whisper shouting his down-trodded ears were picking up, seeing the easel of jealousy churning in his gut. You were trying to turn away the exact guy still with you from which he saw earlier, he turned around from where his body had been hidden from view.

You and the man were greeted by the sight of a very large DogDay.

You set down your guitar, smiling at seeing him. “Hi DogDay! What’s up?” He waved for a moment, then turned to sit down with you and the man. Who seemed to be clearly quivering in half-sighted fear, sensing the intentions of DogDay.

“Nothing to be worried about Angel,” He began, voice still roughed up from previous events. “But is this gentleman bothering you?” DogDay asked, motioning to the man who began inching away from the both of you, seeing as he made (a very clear) mistake.

You waved DogDay off, “Oh this guy? He ain’t bothering me.” Head turning before you had spoke with a hint of finality.

“You were leaving, right?” The man nodded, the look of fear very evident on his poor face. Then he finally walked off with a stride that clearly spoke, ‘Don’t kill me please.’

In hindsight, DogDay was going to shield you from him. It seemed that was all it took to get you away from his very slimy presence, he sighed internally, as he wasn’t one to want to cause altercations.

He was a more methodical man – toy? Person? – then that anyway, DogDay then looked up, gaining eye contact with you. With a small wave of his paw in return, “Weren’t you singing? I’d love to hear more of it, Angel.” You smile at him with a scoff escaping you, picking up the guitar to re-adjust your position that you had set your fingers upon the lines originally.

DogDay was glad to be up close to hear your beautiful singing.

Compared to that icky emotion he felt earlier, that was rather confusing as he thought about it.

This was much better.

#dogday poppy playtime #poppy playtime #poppy playtime x reader #poppy playtime chapter 3 #x reader #poppy playtime dogday #dogday #dogday x reader

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msbluebell · 10 months

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How We Fall For People Like James Somerton

We're all joking, but this James Somerton thing has me really fucked up.

I wasn't a huge fan of James. I saw a few of his videos and liked them. In the ones I saw he was calm and explained things straightforwardly and even the one or two times he said things against white women...well, that's language I've been seeing on Tumblr since I joined back in my tweenage years. I thought it was just a dismissive joke pointing out a frank reality.

I didn't watch him too much. Just a few videos. I kept meaning to watch more, but I didn't because sometimes I wanted something easier. But I regarded him sell because of how informed he seemed.

And that's the thing, isn't it? He SEEMED informed. He spoke confidently and sometimes quoted queer sounding articles and I trusted him blindly. And why? Because he was giving me information that SEEMED well researched.

Illumanaughtii too. I WAS a consistent fan of hers before other youtubers came out. Because she presented information really well and I like hand drawn characters and because she read academic sounding quotes. I trusted her and her information was stollen. And I feel like a fool for ever having trusted her now, but at least her stollen facts were apparently accurate. Maybe.

James though, he straight up lied. Todd in the Shadows went through a lot of effort to expose those lies. He did so much research that I didn't bother to do. And he admitted he only did it because he happened to know people more informed than him that noticed the lies and went down a rabbit hole.

And maybe if I was more involved I would have noticed. But that's beside the point. what's getting me is I didn't bother to check myself, I just blindly trusted.

And the worst part is I can see why it happened.

I work.

I work, and then I get home, and when I get home I stress. I stress about work I have to do tomorrow, or classes, or finding a new job that actually pays a livable wage. And to escape that stress I go online to AO3, or tumblr, but especially Youtube.

Because I like youtube, I like to have noise in the background while I work. I like to listen to things while I read. And some of the time it's ASMR videos, or watching someone cook something. But mostly? It's history things or video essays.

And when I'm working, or reading, I'll hear a fact, and I'll look up, and I'll think "Huh, that's interesting to know, I didn't know that." And I won't think anything about it.

Because I'm busy, or I'm tired. I'm tired from work, and I don't want to do more work. Or sometimes it's mental health. This is my coping mechanism. I'm trying to learn things, do something to distract myself. I'm not looking to disprove things.

In other words I'm lazy. Or, if I'm being kind to myself, I'm tired.

Maybe if the topic was something I was an expert in I would have noticed. I'm a former ballerina, I'm a failed history major dropout. Maybe if he'd said something like "Holodomor never happened" or "Boudica is a Finnish folk hero" I'd have noticed. Maybe.

But he didn't, and I didn't notice. I assumed he did the work, and why?

Because surely a gay man wouldn't spend hours on youtube talking about Queer history if he wasn't passionate. Because he, a queer man, would surely know about queer history. Surely he wouldn't want to spread lies and hate. And he's quoting from books and articles so why wouldn't I trust him?

My trust was blind and unfounded.

And now I'm reeling from that. I'm reeling because I'm starting to feel like I can't trust a lot of people. How can I listen to any Youtuber casually now?

I can't, I never should have assumed I could.

Now every informative video feels like I need to do tens of hours of research just to be sure what I'm hearing is true. I feel like I can't trust anything unless I do.

James Somerton took my trust.

And it's not only that either. That's not what scares me the most. It's that there are THOUSANDS of people like me. Millions like me. Who are learning something from a video or a tweet or a tumblr post from someone they assume is an expert and are blindly trusting because they assume they can trust it. They don't intend to do their own research because they're tired, or don't know how. And that scars me. I was a history major, I studied tyrants and misinformation and the rise of propaganda, and I, with all my tools to notice, was still blind.

You cannot blindly trust a video, you cannot blindly trust a tweet, you especially cannot blindly trust a tumblr post.

YOU ARE NOT IMMUNE TO PROPOGANDA

#hbomberguy #todd in the shadows #james somerton #plagerism #misinformation

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darlingshane · 8 months

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Professor Castle

Frank Castle x F!Reader

Summary: Frank has a weakness and it's named after you. No matter how much he tries to push you away he always returns to the same point.

CW: 18+. Explicit, Smut, Angst, Oral Sex (f. receiving), Fingering, Making out, Professor/Student relationships, Age Gap, Reader is an undergrad student in her early 20s. [I know this is very problematic. Don't come at me. It's just fiction.]

Word Count: 2.8k // AO3 Link.

A/N: This was inspired by this picture of Jon in Origin. I couldn't write for that character in particular, so I thought Frank was the best choice for it, even if it's a lot OOC.

As you muster the courage to enter and confront Professor Castle, you observe him through the cracked door of his office. He looks as good as ever, freshly shaved, in one of his Bexley plaid shirts in white with blue plaid lines, and a dark tweed blazer on top. His hair has slightly curled from the humid weather. His glasses slip a little over the bridge of his nose when he looks down, and he pushes them back in place before tucking a folder in his leather case. You haven't seen him in a few days. Even when you submitted the form to drop his class you managed to leave it on his desk yesterday after he left home. And just early this morning before getting to campus you got an email from him from his uni account, formally denying your request to drop. You don't give a fuck about failing and having to take another course with a different teacher but after what he told you last weekend, you can't stay in his class any longer. It'd be like torture having to see him and not being able to be with him like you desire to.

Of course, you don't ever want to get him in trouble either, he has a lot more to lose than you. But if he doesn't want to see you anymore, then so don't you. So, after a moment of consideration you just clench your fist as hard as you can, set your jaw straight, and storm into the office without announcing yourself. The door slamming the door behind you is what alerts him of your presence. The loud sound makes his head snap up to look at you, standing as tall as you can.

“You can't force me to stay in your class.” You say firmly without raising your voice.

His brow knits behind the thin frame of his glasses as he processes your intrusion.

“No, I guess I can't force you. But I can't let you drop either. You missed the deadline. Unless you have a good excuse like a serious medical condition or emergency the school is not going to let you withdraw at this point. It's out of my hands.”

“Does dying of heartbreak count as a medical emergency?”

“Jesus Christ, you theater kids are really dramatic.”

“Hey, you're the one who told me to join a club.”

“Yeah, but I meant something else like uh… the debate team, the honor society, the newspaper, or the fucking model UN.”

“Well, I made my choice and so did you. I can't just keep showing up at your class and pretend that nothing happened. Can you just think of something? If I meant anything to you… just give me this, Frank.”

You never said his first name before on school grounds. It sounds like a curse word as it slips out of your mouth.

“There are only two months left. That's nothing. Are you telling me you're willing to throw all of that away for me?”

“Yes, because if I can't have you then I can't see you either.”

You catch when his Adam's apple anxiously goes up and down as you say that.

“This is all my fault. I should've never… I should've put a stop to it when I had the chance.”

“Frank—” You take a step closer to his desk, but he promptly holds a placating palm in the air to push you to a stop.

“Don't. Please. Don't throw away your future for me or for anyone for that matter. You're smart and young and strong enough to endure a few more classes. You'll be getting your bachelor's next year, sweetheart. After that… you won't even remember I was ever part of your life.”

“I won't ever forget. I'm begging you. Just let me go or take me back… but…” your frustration knots in your throat. “Stop pushing me away. I know you love me.”

“It doesn't matter if I do. We both have a lot to lose if they find out.”

“Nobody will. We'll be more careful… We could just start over somewhere else, just you and me.”

“Life is not a movie. It doesn't work like that. I know it feels like a matter of life or death right but when you're older—”

“Don't patronize me. I know what I feel. Just take me out of your class or don't. I won't show up either way.”

You turn around to leave the room at once but Frank quickly shuffles behind you and as you reach to grab the handle, he holds the door closed and secures the lock before your eyes.

“So help me God, you're gonna be the end of me, sweetheart.” His tone changes to an octave graver that sends a chill through your spine.

“What are you doing?” You turn around as he steps so awfully close you can capture the strong scent of his aftershave.

“You're going to stay in my class. Front row. Every Wednesday at 10. Then, you're going to ace your final in May. I don't ever wanna hear you again saying otherwise. Is that clear?” He states as a matter of fact, as if you had no choice but to comply with his demand.

“Why are you so convinced I will?”

You watch him up close as he takes off his glasses and lifts his opposite hand to frame your jaw. With conflicted thoughts he pushes your back against the wall, as his face leans to seize your mouth. Professor Castle slowly spells with his tongue all the secrets kept between you in just one beautiful kiss that leaves you breathless.

“Is that enough?” His head pulls back as he sets his glasses back over his eyes as you smooth the lapels of his blazer.

“I'm not sure,” you draw a breath and let the bookbag hanging on your shoulder fall to the floor. “I think I'm gonna need a bigger incentive.”

“There's never enough for you, huh?” he holds your jaw again and tilts your head to the side as he buries his mouth in the crook of your neck.

His lips hold some sort of spell that enchants your body with just a few nips on your skin. The tip of his tongue is laced with poison that intoxicates each and all of your senses as it juts out to leave a wet trace from your collarbone to the back of your ear before pulling back. His eyes turn darker behind the glass as he locks eyes with you. Your pulse picks up in your chest as he licks his lips and allows lust to take over. He watches his thumb trace the shape of your mouth before fiercely succumbing to the temptation of your lips once more, with feeling.

As your arms curl around his neck, his hands travel beneath the hem of your striped, knitted sweater to bask in the warmth of your skin. The sloppy sounds of your kisses sound like sin in this room. You should stop. He should too. But neither of you have enough strength to push the other away.

One of his hands stays pressed on your spine while the other travels down your denim skirt and slips underneath the hem. Hiking it up, his large palm shamelessly grabs your ass, molds your flesh to the shape of his fingers over your panties. Your skin quickly heats up and your mind swirls along the maddening rhythm of his tongue. He presses himself so hard against you, it feels like he's already fucking you, but it's the illusion of his fingers bluntly sliding between your legs and pressing over your opening, stirring a good moan out of you.

“Sh, sh…” he breaks the kiss and whispers a millimeter away from your mouth. “Gotta be quiet now, yeah?”

You simply nod, having his eyes gauging your expression changing as his hand viciously massages your pussy.

“Like that?” His lips pull up at the corners, and you mirror his expression as you softly pant.

“Fuck yeah.”

Then, you close your eyes and press your forehead to his shoulder, keeping your hands anchored to his arms as your juices stain the fabric of your underwear.

“You're dripping, sweetheart.” His voice echoes in your ear. “Is this what you want?”

He presses harder as your grip on him tightens.

“Yeah.”

For a second you think he's going to finish you right there but all of a sudden he stops.

“C'mere,” he locks your arms around his neck before lifting your ass in his hands without much effort. You tuck your legs around his hips as he takes turns around and walks toward the desk.

Keeping you secured in one arm, Frank blindly moves the stuff in the middle before carefully lowering you down on the wooden surface. While you lay on your back, he sits on his chair and brings your ass close to the edge. Instead of letting your legs dangle, he places your feet on each arm of his chair as he kisses one of your knees.

“God, you're so beautiful,” he mumbles against your skin as he rolls down the fabric of one of your thigh-high stockings to uncover your leg. He does the same with the other stocking before letting his lips get his reward.

The inside of your thigh leads a straight road down to hell. After last weekend, he promised himself he would never cross that line again, but he has a weakness, and it’s named after you. It's taken him through a dangerous path that puts everything he ever believed into question. He could lose his job and his reputation if someone were to cross the door to his office and find you spread like a meal ready to consume. It's lunchtime after all, and he can't think of anything better to feast on other than you. His lips trail that perdition-paved road on your thigh as his fingers softly brush the back of your leg. Your skin sticks out as you pull your knees further apart to make room for his face as it gets closer to your center. The corner of his glasses gently pokes the top of your thigh when he reaches that crucial point. You bite your lip and stare at the broken fixture on the ceiling and try to keep yourself from moaning when he pulls your panties to the side. He stretches the fabric as far as it goes, it makes a tearing sound, but it doesn't break. You couldn't care less if he rips them apart. It wouldn't be the first time either. He’s ruined two pairs already. Professor Castle has a wild side that only comes untamed when he’s with you. But this is different. He's never gone down on you right in his own office on campus like he's about to do. You both know the implications of that, but rules be damned right now. All that worry floats out of your head as his tongue makes first contact with your pussy. He draws a line from your opening up to your clit ever so softly before pulling your outer lips apart and diving in. He has just an ounce of restraint himself from going too hard and making you scream out in pleasure, even though he wants so badly to suck on your clit to hear you pleading for more. To stir out of your voice call out his name and title out of sheer joy. But he holds back. He presses an array of kisses and nibbles all over your folds as you close your eyes to focus on the torturing slow pace of his tongue. Your nipples are hard as a rock under your bra, your legs strain to stay in position when Frank slowly laps around your clit, collecting your arousal as your breathing hollows. He places a palm on your stomach, right under your sweater and catches the effects of his mouth in the way your body reacts. There’s an added edge to doing this right here, it makes his cock throb in his underwear as you mumble his name.

“Frank.” It comes out as a murmur, and he hums against your tender skin before going a little harder. There’s only so much he can do to up the pace and make you come without alerting anyone behind that door of what’s happening inside.

We'll be more careful, you said. He eats out your words straight out of your sex.

To speed up the process uses his other hand to slip two fingers into your opening and press on your g-spot. Your back arches in response. Frank has to press that hand on your abdomen a little harder to keep you from squirming too much. It feels like an eternity until you reach the point of no return, once you're there you can feel that fire burning bright at your core as a mind-numbing chill settles at the back of your head. You've never felt that intense jolt sparking your body like fireworks before. Then again you don't have much to compare him to other than the one and only boyfriend you had when you started college.

You grip at his hair as he cues your orgasm. With a strong flick of his tongue and that adamant pressing of your walls you finally come undone. You bury a moan in your throat as every cell of your body is touched by that wildfire that travels from your center out in every direction. It curls your toes in your shoes, your eyes shut, your knees clench together before he can pull his face away. As the orgasm ebbs he sets himself free from your thighs and watches you descend from cloud nine. He uses a tissue to clean up your cunt and fixes your panties to their former position. Then, Frank settles your legs down as your body goes completely limp, and straightens your skirt over your thighs with such love it almost makes you cry.

“Frank,” your voice comes out watery.

“Sh, it's okay, baby. I know. Come here.” He helps you up and pulls you onto his lap.

“I missed you.”

“I know.” He smiles against your hair as he snuggles you against his chest. “I’ve missed you too, sweetheart.”

You clear your throat and stay still for a minute while his hand soothes your back before noticing he’s still hard.

“Do you want me to take care of this?” You fondle his bulge over his pants.

“No, that’s okay. That’s my punishment for hurting you.” He takes your hand away, brings it up to his lip to kiss your knuckles.

“You really have a thing for punishment, huh?” You quip, lifting your head to look at him. It’s then that you notice his messed up hair and send our fingers to fix it.

“Not as much as you do.” His hand pats your ass reminding you of all those times you've begged him to spank you when you were being a brat.

You laugh as you take off his glasses and use the hem of your sweater to clean them.

“Can I come over this weekend?” You ask putting his eyewear back on.

“I have that wedding I told you about. Can't get out of it, I'm the best man.”

“Right. Of course. One of your marine buddies. Florida, right?”

“Yeah.” His stare goes down as he massages your hand thinking that maybe… “You could come with me if you want.”

“I uh… I don't think I'm ready for that.”

“No, you are. Nobody will know you there, and I don't wanna keep lying about you, at least not to my friends. They won't give a fuck, you know? I'm tired of being set up for blind dates and shit.”

“Oh, it must be really hard being you.” You mock.

“Don't laugh. Just think about it. It'll be something casual at the beach. I'll get you a ticket if you're worried about that.”

“I really changed your mind, did I? That's a full 180 from what you said the other day, Frank. Are you sure you want this?”

“Yeah, I was only fooling myself thinking that I could stay away from you. Which I would've if you hadn't shown up here with a fucking attitude. But you're right, we'll have to be more careful from now on.”

“And we can do whatever we want in Florida.”

“Yeah, you wanna come?”

“Only if you really want me there.”

“I wouldn't be asking if I didn't.”

“Then I'll go with you.”

You press your lips sweetly against his and let them bounce together for a moment before getting back to reality. You pull up your stockings all the way up and fix up your clothes before collecting your bag from the floor. But Professor Castle can't help but stall for a bit longer to kiss you once more until you have no choice but to run to your next class.

#frank castle #frank castle x reader #frank castle fanfiction #the punisher fanfiction #frank castle smut #jon bernthal #jon bernthal fanfiction #jon bernthal smut #angst #smut #darlingwrites

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maxarchive · 6 months

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Fear, faith, friendship: Inside F1’s most precious relationship

[...]

When now-triple world champion Max Verstappen was first promoted to the Red Bull team mid-season in 2016, race engineer Gianpiero Lambiase was tasked with moulding an 18-year-old possessing both supreme talent and a frank demeanour with only a few days' notice.

"I had experience working with multiple drivers before Max, and that was one of the biggest helps in terms of hitting the ground running with him. I think if I would have been a newbie to my role - I won't quite say he would have eaten me alive, but I'm not sure he would have had that respect for a junior engineer."

Their relationship was an immediate success. Verstappen became the youngest race winner in F1 history, finishing first on his debut at the Spanish Grand Prix. But, generally, the first few years of Lambiase and Verstappen's partnership were spent chasing perennial frontrunners Mercedes.

"Max learned some really harsh lessons in the two or three years before 2021. His racecraft really was something that we focused on, making sure we were just picking up points when it wasn't possible to win a race. We were concentrating on building his consistency, needing to be finishing every race, maybe not putting himself in a situation where he can end up in a 50/50 accident with another driver."

[...]

Sometimes, though, tension between driver and race engineer can spill over in the most high-pressure moments.

Now in his ninth season working with Verstappen, having won the championship in each of the past three seasons, Lambiase's voice is a staple of every F1 broadcast and has become recognisable to fans all around the world.

The pair's success does not mean their communications are entirely straightforward.

"I think it is inevitable in any relationship that there are disagreements. The first port of call is acceptance of that. Secondly, you need to have faith in each other that it is for the greater good rather than there being any kind of malicious undertone. That is at the core of the relationship. As an engineer, I need to understand that ultimately Max is in the hot seat, not me. So while we are all working in a pressurised environment, the driver is at a level well beyond that. As an older citizen I would like to think I am mature enough to step back and let him vent when necessary, but to also make him understand why decisions are being made. If I was a yes man, I would have been gone long ago. We have just got that honesty in the relationship between us that we can be blunt and straight-talking when needed."

As well as coping with adrenaline themselves, race engineers must manage the pressure on their racers.

The 2021 campaign was arguably the most intense in F1's 74-year history. After an acrimonious year marked by heavy collisions between the pair on track and serial sparring between their respective team principals in the paddock, Verstappen and rival Lewis Hamilton's title fight came down to the wire at the season finale in Abu Dhabi.

"I wouldn't want to repeat 2021 in a hurry. It was incredibly competitive on and off the track [but] sometimes I think it went beyond the realms of sport. In terms of taking that pressure away from Max, I tried to stress with everybody here that we continued as normal. We treated every race as a single event rather than trying to look too far down the line at what could be."

[...]

In some cases though, the idea of starting afresh following the end of such a deep connection doesn't appeal any more.

"I honestly see Max as a younger brother. We can talk about anything and anyone at any time. We're at the point where we just felt completely relaxed and at ease with each other. Maybe I am speaking out of turn, but I don't think I would have any interest in working with another driver now. Having had the success that we have enjoyed together with Max, working with one of the greatest talents that the sport has ever seen, I don't think it would be fair on another driver, from their perspective or mine, to try and replicate what we have achieved with Max."

In Formula 1, as in all our lives, the magic of the most special relationships will always remain utterly unique.

#max verstappen #gianpiero lambiase #f1 #2024

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flaggermuser · 2 months

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They Took My Sunshine Away

1,146 words || Fluff, Spoilers for Season 4 Episode 4, Hurt/Comfort, GN Reader, Doctor Reader, Childhood Trauma, Parent & Child Relationship, Parent & Child Attachment, Codependency, Platonic Love ||

The first two Tawny fics: When You Loved Me & Home Is Where His Heart Is

A/N: The general consensus for Tawny is that they are a woman but I will continue to write them as gender neutral

Thank you to @hom3landr for being my beta

Homelander wakes with a start, sitting up and trembling, breathing fast in panic. He was back in the incinerator again, watching all the scientists while he cried and screamed from the pain.

Warm hands cup his cheeks, trying to ground him and he looks at you through blurry eyes.

“You're okay, you're okay. It was just a bad dream. You're here in my house, in the bed in the spare room.”

He nods slowly, the information slowly working through the swirling thoughts dominating his mind until it properly sinks in, bringing a sense of calm.

Your hands fall away from his face once you see that he's settled, taking his hands and squeezing tight. You've come to his aid just like you did when he was a child.

A parent comforting their son.

“I killed them.”

The words slip out before he can stop them, admitting to only one of his many crimes but one that was relevant to you. He searches your eyes for a reaction, fully expecting you to demand that he leave and never darken your door again.

“You were going to kill me too.”

It’s a statement, not a question - as if you’ve resigned yourself to the truth before he can confirm or deny it. He wants to hang his head in shame but he can’t, his eyes fixated on your face, trying to prepare himself for your reaction.

“It wasn’t a coincidence that you showed up at my door,” your tone is indistinguishable. “It was only a matter of time.”

You knew. You knew why I was here but you still let me in.

“Vogelbaum, Edgar, Barbara. One had to be careless enough to leave the tiniest scrap of information about me. Usually, all records would have been scrub-”

“There was an old file,” he interjects, cutting you off. “They’d probably forgotten to destroy it.”

You hum a thoughtful yet morose noise, only adding further to Homelander’s anxiety. He’d lost you once, had you almost completely erased from his memory but now that he’s found you again, he won’t let you go.

He can’t.

“Frank? Marty?” You start to list various names, only for him to nod in response. “Barbara?”

“I left her alive,” he hesitates, scared to reveal the details. “I locked her in that room, with what was left of them.”

You tighten your grip on his hands, your jaw tight and eyes downcast. You lick your lips, clearly preparing to say something but with each second you remain silent, his chest tightens, making it uncomfortable for him to breathe.

“What did she say to you?”

“That you… all of you. That you were all scared of me, from the moment I was born.”

You’re looking him in the eye and it feels like you’re looking straight into his soul.

“I was never scared of you John,” the words are laced with honesty, spoken with conviction. “You were just a little boy. If you hurt me, hell, if you even killed me back in the lab, it would only have been in self-defence.”

Your grip is like a vice, not uncomfortable or painful to him - it’s as if you refuse to let go just in case you lose him again.

He swallows, “She said that I could have broken out of there anytime I wanted, that they couldn’t have stopped me. That I stayed because I couldn’t stand the idea that they’d all be disappointed in me. My need for approval and love.”

You’re trembling now, he can hear your heart beating a mile a minute. He can see it, written all over your face. You’re upset but differently - you’re angry, even more than that, you’re furious.

This is pure unbridled rage.

“That fucking bitch,” you seethe. “You stayed because you couldn’t stand the idea that they’d all be disappointed in you? That entire lab was built to withstand a nuclear blast and, in that room, there was damage around the door where you tried to punch your way out. There was no way you could escape.”

It all boils over, your body slumped as the dam breaks, the tears you’ve kept inside for what must have been years spill forth, cascading down your cheeks and neck, dripping onto the duvet beneath you.

“I should have taken you.”

Now it’s his turn to comfort you as he pulls you into a hug, trying his best not to crush you with his strength but wanting to hold you tight enough so you can truly understand how much you mean to him.

“Oh John, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.”

He's heard those words fall from your lips so many times yet they've not lost their sincerity. Every time, you seem more genuine in your regret.

This is your penance.

“Can you stay with me? Not until I fall asleep, for the whole night. I don't want to dream about the lab again.”

“Of course I can.”

He releases you and you get into bed, lying back with your head on the pillow and arms open, allowing him to cuddle up to you.

His head is pressed to your chest and, although he can hear your heartbeat from a mile away, hearing it up close unlocks a memory.

Sitting on your lap, his head against your chest while you wrapped him up in your arms, singing to him as you rocked him.

The gentle beating of your heart then, as it does now, soothes him, and reminds him of how safe he is with you — a security blanket in human form.

He almost wants to ask for you to return to the Tower with him, to live permanently in his penthouse where you'll always be within easy reach.

But it's a huge ask - you'd be uprooting your life, leaving everything you've ever known to start anew back at the company that fired you for caring about a scared little boy. Yet there’s something comforting about knowing that he can just turn up at any time of the day and play pretend, that instead of growing up in a lab, he grew up in this house with you.

He grew up with someone who loved him.

“I’ve missed you so much,” your voice breaks, prompting him to cuddle closer. “You have no idea how happy I was to see you again. It was like I was given a second chance, to be there for you, to love you like my own son.”

Like my own son.

That confirms that you feel the same as he does, that the love between you is strictly platonic, the love between a parent and a child.

“I love you, Tawny.”

“I love you too, John.”

You were my sunshine, my only sunshine

You made me happy when I was afraid

They must have known then, just how much you loved me.

So they took my sunshine away.

#homelander & tawny #homelander #homelander fanfiction #homelander x reader #antony starr #the boys #the boys spoilers #homelander x gn reader #homelander x gn #season 4 spoilers #the boys season 4 spoilers

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macfrog · 1 year

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if i had a gun cowboy like me chapter 12.5 (joel's pov)

long-awaited, pain-packed, and sealed with a bow by yours truly. i love y'all. thank you for being so patient and kind with me on this one. this chapter is joel's experience of the end of illicit affairs and all of hits different. you might wanna check those chapters out before you indulge in the angst-fest that is this one. hope you enjoy 🧡

pairing: dbf!joel x fem!reader

summary: walk a mile in joel miller's shoes. see if you'd do anything different

warnings: more heartache, more angst, lois, alcohol + drug consumption, mention of reader being roofied, very brief mention of joel punching knox, age gap (reader is 23, joel is 48), cursing

word count: 9.8k

terrible news! there is no more taglist! make sure you're following @macfroglets w notifs on if you wanna be buzzed when i post 🤍

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist

“Right. Sorry. It’s just…we kinda have a…situation, here.” It’s you. He fucking knows it’s you. His heart begins to hammer. He doesn’t give a fuck whether she puts two and two together or not when he asks – “Where is she?” “We’re still at Frank’s,” Anna says, sniffing. He can hear the booming bassline of music, muffled; the sharper chatter of voices. She’s on the street. In his head, he can see her shoulders hunched; her bare arms wrapped around her body for warmth. She goes to say it again. “We’re still at –” “’n where is she?” Joel cuts, and she finally cracks.

You’re still fast asleep when he lifts his head.

You’ve had this argument plenty before. I do not snore. Yes, baby, you do. I’ve heard you. I don’t! It’s alright, it’s okay that you do. It’s a cute snore. Joel, I don’t fucking –

Right now, he’s pretty certain you’re snoring. He just wishes you were awake to hear yourself.

He thinks about pulling his phone, taking a video so that once you’re up, you can hear the little bursts of air, the tiny rasps from your nostrils as you snooze. But if he ever did record anything like that – just like the Hillcrest pictures, until you’d found them last night – he’d keep it for himself. Wouldn’t offer it up so easily.

Just something for him to have, for all the time he spends without you.

Your hair’s still all over the place. Tangled in Joel’s right arm, still smelling of chlorine and sex. Your head rests softly on the crook of his elbow like it’s a pillow; your lips and eyes are puffy, tired. You have this ridiculously strong vice grip on his left arm; during the night he felt you wrap your wrists around it and pull it into your chest, tucking it gently under your chin until your entire upper half was drowned in his.

His chest snug against your back, his arms encasing you safely, and his hips…his hips lined with yours. His now semi-hard cock buried between your legs – he’d slept inside you last night, and it was like, after forty-eight years, someone finally took him by the shoulders and said: This is how you do it. This is how you rest.

He was out as soon as his head hit the pillow, soon as his eyes fell shut. He stirred only to feel you maneuvering his arm, and then fell straight back asleep.

He felt comfortable. He felt safe. Big, old, tough guy Joel Miller. Never let anybody in since Sarah’s mom left. Alone for almost seventeen years, and fine with it. His cheeks heat at the idea of needing – of wanting to feel that. Safe. But then you came along, and he realized he’d been waiting his whole life to feel it. Didn’t even notice he’d been missing it.

That’s how these things go, right? Can’t miss what you don’t have, and all that.

But now he has it. Now he has you.

And you make him feel things he’s never felt before, or if he has, it was so fucking long ago that he’s forgotten. You drive him fucking insane. Keep him up at night, wondering what the hell he’s gotten himself into. Make him do stuff that his reflection glares at him over. Are you being serious right now? Make him…different. New.

The night before last, when he’d picked you up from Frank’s after rodeo night, he promised to make you a big breakfast in the morning. Compensation for not swinging by McDonald’s on the way home. But then your dad called, and you had to take off before Joel had even properly woken up.

When he eventually rose from the bed, he went straight to the store. Stocked up on eggs, flour, sugar, bananas. He’d printed a recipe from his computer while you were gone. Marked the items off as he meandered through the store. Stood for ten minutes deliberating over which gluten-free flour would be best, before an assistant asked if he needed any help.

I’m good, he muttered, and then, as the kid wandered off, cleared his throat and said, Actually –

Greg – the kid assistant in question – had suggested the red bag. Said it’s corn flour, instead of wheat. Joel can’t pronounce the brand name. He just knows it’s tucked behind a box of cereal in the cupboard downstairs – he hid it there so you wouldn’t find it and snuff out his plan.

His plan, which he now has to put into action. Without waking you. He’d lie here forever just staring at you, if he hadn’t sworn to himself to make good on his promise and cook you some damn pancakes.

So he slowly pulls his left hand from between yours, loosening your death grip, and steals it back across your waist. He does the same for his right arm – more careful, though, so he doesn’t tug on your hair. Like some kind of wild cat creeping through the jungle, every moment calculated and careful.

He bunches the comforter up a little at your back, so that if you do stir, it might feel like he’s still there. Still a weight, curving around you. He takes a good five minutes just to travel the length of the room – the lightest he’s ever walked, dodging the spots on the carpet that he knows make the floorboards squeal.

When the door gently clicks back into place, he heads downstairs. Cracks out his frying pan – non-stick, obviously – and all his ingredients, pulls the printed recipe from its hiding place between two cookbooks and lays it out on the counter, flattening the creases and unfolding the corners. And gets to it.

His first egg cracks messily over the lip of the bowl. The yolk runs down the outside, and he curses before swiping it back up with his index finger. The second egg empties fully inside the bowl, but drags with it tiny fragments of shell. Joel spends five minutes focusing on picking every single piece out of the mixture. He crouches to make sure he’s poured the exact amount of milk, eyes level with the top of the liquid, and he double checks every step before he follows it.

This has to be perfect. Has to be. For you.

The entire time, all he can think about is you asking to sleep with his body inside yours. Wanting him closer than you’d ever wanted him before, as close as he could physically be. Your sleepy voice circles between his ears on loop – want somethin’ else. That safe feeling creeps up on him all over again.

He knows he shouldn’t. He can’t. He’s spent the last month purposefully pushing those feelings down, dampening them anytime they rose to the surface. Only allowing himself to feel them, to acknowledge them, when you’re around. Because he can’t fucking help but acknowledge them when you’re here – they stare him straight in the face.

So he’d been making peace with letting the floodgates open just a little bit at a time – one quick rush whenever you’d give him one of your meaningful glances, when your hot skin would brush against his, when your mouth would fall open at the feeling of his first deep thrust inside you.

And then he’d bolt them back up.

Except that, now…he’s not sure the dam can hold much longer. There are cracks he’s not repairing quickly enough. Unintended consequences hammering against the other side of the stone in the form of angry white waves.

He’s staring at the beige circle of batter in the pan, swept off with the waves into someplace far from his kitchen, when the sound of your voice draws him back.

“Joel? You down there?”

The floorboards at the top of his stairs creak. You’re leaning over the banister.

“Yeah, darlin’, I’m here.” He slips halfway out of the kitchen door, closing it over his body in hopes you won’t smell the pancakes. You ask what he’s doing, and he says, “Just makin’ a coffee. You want anything brought up?”

“I’m good,” you reply. “’m gonna take a shower.”

“Alright, baby. There’s probably some stuff in Sarah’s bathroom you can use.”

He listens closely as your footsteps recede, waiting to hear the hum of his shower before he relaxes again, flipping the pancake over. It sizzles away as he runs one thick finger along the inside of the bowl and tastes his handiwork. Pretty damn good, he thinks. He’s sucking his finger clean when his cell goes.

Joel swipes to answer, and before he can utter a Hello?, your dad’s voice is screaming down the line to him.

“Mornin’, pal! You in? You up?”

He figures this is the infamous speakerphone you rambled for ten minutes about last night. Like a fucking foghorn, man. I’m deaf in this ear now.

He doesn’t wait for Joel to respond. “I was just passin’ by, remembered you got that leakin’ pipe, or whatever it is. Under your sink, right? You good for me to drop in ‘n take a look?”

“Uh – uh, I’m –” Joel stammers his way through a sentence he doesn’t know the ending of, slotting the phone between his cheek and his shoulder and giving the pan a rattle against the stovetop. He slips the spatula under the mixture, and when he flips it over, the pancake is charcoal black. “Fuck.”

“What’s that?” you dad roars, deafening in Joel’s ear. Fuckin’ speakerphone.

“Nothin’, it’s…” He sighs, accepting his new-found position: backed into a fucking corner. What’s new these days?

“Yeah, I’m up. See you in a bit.”

He hangs up the phone midway through an Alright, buddy from your dad, and whacks the chargrilled pancake on top of the pile. His phone surfs across the counter in a blur of blind panic, before Joel’s taking the stairs two at a time to get to you.

The door’s ajar. He can hear you quietly singing to yourself. Same song you’re always fucking singing, always trying to coax Joel into singing along with you. You’re humming the guitar solo when he whips the door open.

“Hey, hey,” he’s panting, taking your towel in one hand and reaching for the shower door with the other, a blur of movement before his eyes like he’s not in control of his own body. “Out.”

“Huh?” you reply, blinded by the soap suds running down your forehead and into your eyes.

“Baby,” Joel whispers, desperate, “you gotta get out. He’s here. Your damn dad’s here.”

He drags you over to the first place he spots: his closet. He knows it’s no fucking good, but he can hear your dad’s car squealing to a halt in his drive, and he’s in a blink panic wondering what artefacts, what evidence of your being here lie dotted around his house. Your bikini’s hanging up out back, there’s probably a hoodie still strewn over the back of his couch.

He doesn’t have time to think, though, because in the midst of his mental scan of every room whilst explaining to you what’s going on, your dad’s heavy boots just thudded onto his doormat.

“Miller?” he calls up the stairs. And Joel closes the closet over.

----------

He stands by the front door watching your dad’s car purr off down the street, waiting until it turns left and disappears behind the Dawsons’ back fence to shut the door. When he turns back into his hallway, the house is uncomfortably silent. You’re still up in his room.

The weight of your phone pulls at the waistband of his jeans. He slips his hand into his back pocket, fishes it out, and takes one step toward the stairs. The screen lights in his palm.

There’s a cluster of notifications from some film class group chat, a couple Snapchats from Sarah. A reminder to take your birth control from some pink-icon app, and then –

I’m heading over to Joel’s to check something out for him. Wanna meet me there?

He stares at it until the text burns into his eyes. Blinks, and it’s seared into his lids. His breath leaves his chest in a heavy, burdened sigh. It trembles as it pushes from his lungs. He feels something burning under his skin. All over.

He’s angry. And he’s trying to keep it contained.

Keep it where it lies, keep it beneath the surface. Stop it from pooling right behind his lips, collecting in the light of his eyes. Keep it from revealing itself. But when his foot lifts to the first step, it’s like a deadweight in the air.

He’s angry. But he’s fucking exhausted.

The bedroom is empty when Joel pushes the door open. You’re still hidden in the closet. You don’t look up at him when he pulls on the shuttered door, letting light flood across your hands, still covering your face. There are flicks of dripping wet hair peeking out from under the towel on your head.

He wants to put his arms around you. Wants to kiss you all over. Tell you, It’s okay, it’s alright. He didn’t see nothin’.

But he can’t. Because neither of those things are true.

Your dad saw the cowgirl hat. Hell of a lot like a hat my daughter has. It sent a sharpened bolt of panic through Joel’s body the second the words came tumbling out. He might’ve seen your bag lying at the bottom of the stairs. Might’ve passed your car on his drive here. There are so many loose fucking ends.

And more than that – harder to accept: maybe this isn’t okay anymore. Maybe it hasn’t been the entire time. And maybe, despite all his good efforts and the fucking way you make him feel, despite it being weeks now of tiptoeing and lying and covering your tracks – maybe you finally crossed a line.

He can’t look at you a second longer. His heart’s in his throat. If he opens his mouth to speak, he’ll probably choke. Break down. So he walks away.

You follow him downstairs a few minutes later, fully dressed and silent. Your touch sweeps across his shoulder blades, and it takes everything in him not to turn to you then and there. Come here, kiss me. Pretend none of it’s happening, just for a moment.

He sets your plate down in front of you. He’s taken the burnt pancake. He follows a pattern: cuts into the food, glances out to the backyard, and back to the plate. It’s the only thing keeping the words from rolling out onto the table in front of him. The only thing stopping him from –

You kick his leg. So gently, he barely feels it.

“You gonna eat?” he asks in response, chewing on the smoky flavor of burnt batter. Your hands hesitate, and he feels his own flinch as if to take them, rub them, squeeze them. And then he watches as you drag your knife through your own breakfast.

He wants you to yell at him. He wants to give meaning to the guilt he feels. He knows what’s coming, and he isn’t so sure that you do.

This is…impossible. It has been, from the start. Always sneaking off, coming up with excuses. So many fucking excuses, he can’t even keep them straight in his head anymore. She’s here, droppin’ my flannel off. Now we’re upstairs, I’m showin’ her my guitar. Need her to help with decorations. Your TV’s broken, did you know that? Don’t mind us, just sat in this private corner of my backyard, out of view of fucking everyone. I’ll pick her up from her rodeo night, take her home. She’s at Anna’s all day today, right?

And your dad – kind and naïve, or maybe just so fucking gullible that every single one lands like the flour did in the egg mixture. Just gracefully floats down into his brain, absorbs itself and folds perfectly into place.

So, yell at him. Get mad. Make him feel like the fucking asshole he knows he is. Leading you on, and letting you get close to him, and then when it gets too hard – pushing you away. Doesn’t matter if that’s what he did or not; doesn’t matter whether he did or didn’t mean it. He wants you to be mad at him. To justify what he’s about to do.

He slides you your phone. Motions for you to read it.

“Fuck…” you whisper, and then he thinks you get it.

But then you say, “…he didn’t see me, though. Right?” and his heart sinks.

No. He didn’t see you. But he saw so many little pieces of you, that Joel finds it impossible to consider that he isn’t already seeing the entire picture. He’s picturing your dad at home in the living room, one hand on his hip, the other running through his hair, adding two and two and two and two and –

You’re bickering. Actually arguing. He doesn’t know how to navigate it, save for letting the frustration take the wheel and drive the point home: you came too close to being caught.

You’re smarter than this, he knows you are. He knows that you can see plain as day, everything that he can. The bag, the hat, the fucking home-cooked breakfast sat on his kitchen counter. He’s watching you argue your point, hands dancing in the air animatedly, eyebrows lifting, eyes widening. Hear me out. Listen to me. Hear me out.

“I didn’t fucking mean to let him see the b–”

“That’s not the point,” Joel says, before he has time to stop himself.

“Then what’s your point?”

He feels his voice carry off into the air with the images racing around his head. Hank’s shadow under the door. The roar of voices downstairs as you climaxed. Your body pinned under Joel’s on your couch. The way the morning light screamed into the house as your front door burst open.

He doesn’t sound like he has much of a point, even to himself. He’s in it just as much as you are. He’s lied and he’s hidden just as much as you have, and made mistakes that are…worse, as far as he’s concerned.

And the worst one of all sits directly opposite him. Head low, eyes boring into the wood of his kitchen table. He can see the tears swelling across your waterline. Can feel the heat from here as it spreads across your face. Anger thrums through his chest again, and his teeth grit.

He murmurs, pushing himself up from the table and away from you. Tells you there’s some stuff he needs to see to. You’re mad about it, like he knew you would be. Like you should be. He promises he’ll be back in a couple hours; promises you’ll talk when he gets home.

And then he leaves.

----------

Clark’s is on the other side of town. It takes him nearly forty minutes to get there, and more than half of that time is spent staring at the tail lights of a Honda in front of him. Some accident up ahead. His eyes bore into the burning red strip of brake light until it’s singed into them, a blur of blue when he finally rips his glare away and stares up at the white sky.

He thinks about calling you. Saying, Hey, I’m stuck in traffic, talk to me, but he doesn’t. He just…doesn’t.

Instead, he wonders what you’re doing. Whether or not you’re still at his place. He wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t. But if you are – and he hopes you are – what are you doing?

He thinks: She’s on the couch. Bundled in blankets. Grey’s is on TV. She’s rewatchin’ her favorite episodes.

Least, that’s what he wants you to be doing. Wants you to be making yourself feel better, because he knows he was a complete ass earlier. You didn’t deserve any of it. Nothing that he didn’t deserve himself, just as much, anyway.

He thinks about coming home, and you hitting pause, pushing yourself off the couch and sauntering around to him. Wrapping him in the blanket until your bodies are pressed together under the woven red, and kissing him. Kiss me kiss me kiss me.

And the thought of you, standing on your tiptoes to press your soft lips to his, your fingers sifting through his hair, is like a cold pack on a searing wound. Dulls his anger, even if it’s just for a second.

His wide tires crawl silently across the smooth lot of the plant hire, parking right in front of the wire fence. The truck door slams shut when he gets out. He doesn’t mean it. Maybe he does. But he does it without thinking, and with a hot head, a temper sharper than nails, he strides over to the glass-paneled door and swings it open.

She’s sat behind the desk, same as always. Dark, deep auburn hair, groomed and set to perfection so that when she looks up, it doesn’t move an inch. Curls around the sweetheart shape of her face, smooth and shining. Her blue eyes twinkle in the glaring light from outside, and she stands.

She tugs lightly on the hem of her white blouse. You’d probably elbow him and say, That’s cream, not white. She smiles at him and it doesn’t look a thing like your smile. He doesn’t remember the last time he saw your smile. Fuck, he thinks, when did I last make her smile?

And he’s still wondering, when Lois says, “Hey, stranger,” and puts a gentle, pale, red-nailed hand down on the desk. “Long time, no see.”

“Yeah,” Joel grumbles, clearing his throat and glancing at the man in a pair of thick, steel-toe boots, sat in a waiting area to his left. He thinks it’s probably polite to ask how she is. It’s been seven weeks since he blew off her hint for a date.

“Good, thanks,” she replies, cheeks swelling even more. They’re lightly shaded crimson, a soft shimmer to them against her snowy skin, dappled with light freckles. “You?”

He nods once. “Good,” he echoes, not sure what else to say. He’s lying, and she doesn’t seem to figure him out the way you would.

No. Instead, Lois steps back, straightens up, and twirls the pen in her fingers. “What can I do ya for?”

“Got some equipment I’m after,” he mutters, hand slipping into his back pocket for his phone. Lois’s eyes flit up and down his body as he taps his passcode in with his thumb.

She asks him something, but it sounds like she’s speaking through a closed door. He’s elsewhere.

The phone unlocks, screen lifting to reveal the last open app: his camera roll. His thumbs hover over the screen, tracing where yours would’ve tapped last night.

The video’s muted, she won’t hear it even if he let it play, but he swipes away the second he recognizes the tangled mess of your hair, his fist locked tight in it. His own hair, salt and pepper buried deep in the crook of your neck.

Something in his chest aches. Pulls tight, hurts his heart. He takes a deep breath and scares the feeling away. He’s staring at his camera roll. Staring at twelve little square thumbnails – couple of them work stuff, couple of them lists of supplies he has to remember to pick up – and then. Then.

You. At the Hillcrest. Dimples in your cheeks. That’s what made him take his phone out. The soft dips in your skin that appear anytime you smile, laugh, sometimes even just when you talk. He’d first noticed them when you had a mouth full of pizza, chatting animatedly about Meredith and Derek, and he’s noticed them every time since.

He’d seen them, as you posed with Sarah for a selfie at lunch. And his hand had slipped into his pocket before his brain even had the chance to finish the thought.

His quiet way of marking how he felt in that moment. How his chest seemed to fill as if with air, or something thicker. Sweeter. Like it was trying to push words up, a comment to tell you how beautiful you looked. Trying to make him move, run his thumb light as air across that tiny valley in your cheek and look at you with eyes that translated the words hammering behind his eyes.

But you had company. And all he managed to do was take two fucking photos.

Lois talks again, and this time, there’s no closed door.

“Huh?” Joel’s head snaps up, takes a few seconds to focus on the red hair in front of him. “Sorry, Lois, sorry.”

“’s alright. You okay?” She’s smiling so warmly, so sincerely. And there are no dimples in her cheeks.

“Yeah,” he clears his throat, “just checkin’ for the address.”

She holds out a pad, a stack of hire agreement forms hovering between her body and his, but he’s not looking. He’s still scrolling through his phone, thumbs searching your dad’s text thread for the information. Lois lowers the pad to the counter, places the pen on top. Fiddles with it until it’s lined up with the top of the form perfectly.

Then Joel looks up, and she smiles again.

“Not for you, then?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “Just the messenger.”

“Got it. Well, you know what you’re doing. Let me know if you need anything.”

Lois takes a step back, eyes still on Joel, who smiles politely, then swipes the form from the desk and takes a seat between Steel-Toe Boots and some tall, leafy plant that he has to bat away when he sits down. He’s copying the site address, phone resting on his thigh, when the receptionist speaks again.

“How’s Sarah doin’? She home yet?”

“Yeah,” Joel replies, “been home a couple weeks now. She’s been in Nashville this weekend.”

Lois lifts her head, blinking slowly. “Nashville. Nice. So, you’ve had a weekend to yourself.”

He scoffs. “Yeah,” he croaks.

“And what does Joel Miller get up to when he has an empty house for a few days?”

His fingers squeeze around the pen, pushing deeper into the paper. His expression hardens. “Nothing excitin’ enough to share. Sat by the pool yesterday. Was nice out.”

She agrees. “Sure was. You have company?”

Joel shakes his head once. Blinks the image of you and your red bikini from his vision. Focuses on dragging the pen one digit at a time across the line labeled Phone Number. If he cared enough, he’d give the obvious hint a couple seconds’ consideration, even just to protect Lois’s pride a little.

But he doesn’t care. And right now, he ain’t interested in protecting anyone but you.

“Nope. Just me ‘n a few beers.”

“Better off that way,” a hoarse, forty-cigs-a-day voice rasps from his right. “Less fuckin’ problems.”

Joel’s jaw rotates a degree towards the work boots; notices the folds of dry, leathery skin piled atop the raised gray eyebrows of their owner, and then turns back silently.

Lois clears her throat awkwardly. “Well, I spent the day with my book. I’m readin’ a Colleen Hoover. Adam’s at camp, so – quiet house for me, too.”

Joel finds himself nodding. Autopilot. He’s pretending he’s listening.

You’re still in his sight, wandering over from the sliding kitchen doors, a bottle in each hand. He can hardly see you when he looks up, the sun’s so bright. You hold a beer out, condensation dripping down your fingers towards Joel’s when he takes it, and then you slump down in the sun lounger next to his.

His arm reaches across, and your small fingers wrap and then unwrap around his, running across his knuckles, nails lightly scratching his worked hands. And he’s smiling, and he doesn’t even notice it until his eyes meet yours and you laugh, and he asks, What? through a chuckle, and you say, Nothin’, you just look happy.

Your dimpled blush blurs back into checkboxes and scrawled handwriting. You’re gone again. He’s in a white office, and the gentle lapping of the water on the pool’s edge fades into the headache noise of a fan humming, and he feels the warmth of your gaze on his skin turn into the cold, harsh spotlight glare of Lois’s eyes on him.

He looks up. She’s still smiling. At this point, he finds it fucking unnerving.

He rises from his chair, swings a wandering leaf from that ugly green plant out of his way and paces back over to the desk, sliding the pad back across to her. Their hands brush as she takes it from his grip, and he pulls his wrist close to his body. Lois doesn’t seem to notice.

She’s running the pen down the form, checking everything he’s filled in. Her tongue moves around the inside of her cheek, sucking on a hard candy. “Delivery on Friday?” she double checks, and Joel nods. “Alright,” she says, tearing away his copy, “we’ll call ya.”

“’ppreciate it,” he mumbles, folding the paper into his back pocket.

She turns, reaching to slip the form into a blue tray, and Joel pauses. Thinks to say something – he hopes Adam has a fun time at camp, or that Lois enjoys the rest of her quiet week. But then he sees you sat opposite him, staring fixedly at the plate before you, tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. He feels your hand laced in his, hears your laugh still ringing in his ears.

He misses you. He should never have left you. You matter more to him than some equipment for a site. Matter more to him than anything. He should’ve never fucking left.

Joel nods. Reaches for the handle of the door. Glances back to Lois. “There a florist anywhere near here?”

----------

He pulls the truck in alongside the florist. Teal window frames, a little pink door. He can hear you now. How fucking cute is that store? Give me your phone, I gotta get a picture. Mine’s is in my bag in the back. Look, the traffic’s movin’, Joel, give me your phone – quick!

His fingers hook around the silver door handle. He pats his jeans once – wallet’s right there – and goes to pull, when his cell vibrates from the center console. He can see himself in the glass screen, your dad’s name written across the reflection of his forehead.

He bites down on his lip. Hard. Glances up to the road ahead. Blinks. And decides to answer.

“Joel,” your dad chirps down the line. “Sorry, buddy, you’ll be sick a’ the sight ‘n sound of me today.”

Joel manages a convincing laugh. “What’s up?”

“Just makin’ sure you’re rememberin’ to put Friday’s date down for delivery on that order. We’re gonna need the stuff over the weekend, so.”

“Yep. Just been to do it right now. Friday’s date, Harvey’s site, your card details ‘n everything.”

“’attaboy. Good job. You’re all grown up.”

“Funny.”

“Thanks, pal. I appreciate it. There wasn’t no chance I was gettin’ time to do it myself,” he lowers his voice, “I’m still stuck here with Kelman.”

Joel’s fingers trace around his steering wheel. “Oh, yeah? He keepin’ you busy?”

“You bet. Had to haggle with ‘im just to get a lunch break. Speakin’ of – I swung by the house and that daughter of mine wasn’t home. Haven’t seen or heard from her since yesterday mornin’. I’m just checkin’ she ain’t stop by to see Sarah or som’?”

His fingers lock tight around the leather. “Sarah’s still in Nashville, she gets in tonight. Couldn’t tell you where yours is. I’m not home yet, so.”

It’s a half-truth. He could wager a pretty good guess, but he can’t be certain, can he?

Your dad chuckles down the line. “She spent the night at Anna’s. My house must be like prison to her – she’s never around anymore. I’ll hear from her soon, I’m sure. Alright. Thanks, again, Joel.”

He drops the phone back into the cupholder with a sigh, leaning back against the headrest to stare at the roof of the truck. He’s still picturing you in his living room, head turning to the street at every sound of a car door, or tires rolling by. And then the image is marred by your dad, peering in the window back at you, catching you wrapped up in a situation you shouldn’t be in.

He doesn’t want your dad to find out. For obvious reasons. Because it would mean the collapse of their friendship, the collapse of the world they built between them – for you, for Sarah, for themselves. Comfortability, and normalcy, and routine and order all thrown to the wind on account of some month-long fling.

But more important than all of that: it would mean dragging you into all of that, too. Fucking up your relationship with your dad. Making things weird between you and Sarah. Ruining whatever’s left of what you and Joel had, before you both took it too far.

And if he doesn’t want all that – if he doesn’t want your dad finding out – then something has to change. Something’s gotta stop.

His fingers wrap tight around the key and turn, and the truck jumps to life. He turns away from the teal-colored florist as he pulls off.

----------

You take it about as well as he reckoned you might. About as well as you should, given the circumstances. He isn’t surprised, and he doesn’t blame you. He’s probably on your side, when you argue back with him.

“You’re not serious, right? Joel. You’re not –”

“Kid, I…”

“No. What? Because of a fucking bag?”

He lifts his gaze and pleads with you. “Because of the lying.”

You’re right, with your response: it’s never been an issue until now. He’s been more than fucking happy to sneak off, take you as his own, and then return with a satisfied grin and a mouth full of excuses to feed your company. He almost agrees.

It’s just: this time, your dad’s at your heels like a bloodhound. A little less sharp, maybe. Blind as a fucking bat, sure. But he can smell something’s up. And he’s circling it, nose to the ground, drawing nearer and nearer to the pair of you with each step.

You ask if he wants to tell the truth. That thought scares him just as much. Knocks him back a few steps. No, he doesn’t want to come clean.

The words fly back and forth like a tennis match. Too fast for him to keep control of what he’s saying and how you’re hearing it. He wants to break it off – is there anything to break off? – but he doesn’t want to lose you – how can you lose something you never had? – and then: did he ever have you in the first place?

You’re standing over him, between his knees. “End it,” you tell him. “I’ll go.”

There’s a casualness in the loose shrug of your shoulders that scares him more than the prospect of you actually leaving. How easy it looks like it could be, for you to just wander out. Sling your bag over your shoulder and revert back to the start of the summer, when he was just a ride home after a rainy day at work.

Forget how to touch him the way he’s certain only you can, forget the secret language between you, forget every stolen glance and whispered word and every thought that ever translated from your brain to his as easy as they would pass between your lips.

“You don’t mean nothin’ to me? That what you think?” He’s laughing. Disbelief, fear, shock. Whichever one it is, it pulls across his cheeks painfully. Somehow, you’ve ended up at the foot of his bed.

“Well, what else am I supposed to take from this, asshole? That you’re fuckin’ in love with me?”

It’s cold water over an already-dying fire. The words smother into ash on his tongue. No more come to the front. He just stares at you. His phone starts to chitter out into the silence between you.

You take a step forward. Your voice is low. “You don’t get to do this, you know. You don’t get to pull me in and then drop me…once you’re done with me.”

“Don’t.”

It’s not much, but it soars from the pit of his stomach, through his throat and past his lips like a final arrow. All he can muster up.

“Don’t.”

There’s a weight where the words originate from. Something deep in his gut, an ache pulling its way upward, swelling across his chest. His ears are screaming.

Of all the things you might think – he’s an asshole, he’s a liar, he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing – the worst one would be that he spent this entire time leading you on. Making you feel special. Making you think you were something to him.

You are something to him. You’re – you’re fucking everything to him. It’s why he’s doing this, right? Going against every instinct, every gut feeling. To protect you. To do what’s right by you. He’s not fucking done with you. He wonders if he’ll ever go another day in his life without thinking about you.

“I can’t read your mind anymore…” you whisper, and his lungs steal a breath. His lack of response flattens your expression.

Joel might not be done, but you are.

He can feel you slipping from his grasp like sand through his knuckles. Each grain rocking itself loose, choosing to throw itself to the depths below rather than spend another second wrapped in his clutch.

He’s trying so desperately to hold onto you. Listen to me, he thinks, and he knows you can’t hear him anymore. Because now you’re really going – you’re tripping out of his room. Your heel catches on the threshold, like one last-ditch attempt from fate to pull you back into him, but you stop yourself and spin, fleeing down the hallway.

He takes a loose grasp of your wrist, fingers barely meeting on the other side of your skin before you tear it away from him like he’s scalded you. The look on your face makes him think for a moment that he might actually have done it – burned you. Pained you. Raised the skin below your gentle palm in a furious, red glow.

He’s swapping words out like they’re tools, each one immediately breaking and being flung back into the box. He’s trying any combination, any useless, futile order of words to make you stop in your tracks. You know how much I care about you, ‘s why I’m doin’ it, baby, come back, we can talk about this.

And he opens his mouth to give voice to the only words he knows would stop you – the reason why he’s doing it in the first place, the only thought he’s had anytime he’s looked at you for the last couple weeks. He opens his mouth to say it, or say something like it, when the machine silences the ringtone and the pair of you, too.

Her voice is like ice down the back of his shirt. He stares at the machine, red light blinking like a rag to a bull. He could walk over to it and smash the ever-loving fuck out of it with his fists until it’s dust on his coffee table. Until it shuts the fuck up, stops interfering with his fucking business.

And then he thinks about Lois, and her cream blouse, and her red nails, and her big, blue eyes, and her soft drawl and everything about her that is so entirely opposite to everything about you.

And how much – despite how nice and friendly, or funny and good-natured she is – how much he hates her right now, and how much he fucking loves you.

But you’re gone, now. Washed away by the tide. No more sand in Joel’s palm.

He tries to stop it. Tries to wind back a little, tries to make the sea cough up what it just stole from him. Give her back, you fuck. His eyes are stinging like salt water. Why are they stinging? There’s a roaring in his ears – the waves laughing in his face. Sickly and deafening.

He’s doing his best to keep a hold on his trembling voice. He knows he sounds pathetic. But yours is louder, stronger, steadier. And when you talk, it’s with an air of finality. Like you’re turning over the horizon. The last time he’ll ever see you again.

“I’ll see you ‘round, Joel.”

----------

He doesn’t call or text you that night. He doesn’t know what he’d say. Doesn’t even know where he’d begin. You’re mad, and Joel figures you got every right to be. This entire thing – today, this weekend, the whole month you’ve been together – is one big fucking mess.

He spends the afternoon hunched over his kitchen table, trying to distract himself with work. Twirling a pencil between his fingers, reading three, four, sometimes five times over the same building plans before deciding that the words and numbers won’t fucking sink in. He leaves them strewn across the table, wanders aimlessly upstairs and takes a cold shower.

Sarah’s flight gets in at 8PM. Joel’s sat curbside, truck engine humming, scanning every single figure that walks out of the airport building. When he spots the gray hoodie, the brown hair tied back with a pink scrunchie, the much-too-big-for-four-days-away suitcase rolling at her heels, he gets out.

She hugs her friends, they nod in passing greeting to him, and she skips over.

“Hey,” he breathes as she wraps her arms around his waist. “How was your flight? Saw you comin’ in.”

She shrugs in response. “I’m hungry. Wanna go get McDonald’s?”

Joel grumbles, slotting her case in the back of the truck. “You don’t wanna get home? Take a shower first? You smell like plane.”

“Ha! No.”

She opens the passenger side door and hoists her foot up on the seat, retying her sneaker. Joel’s already in and buckled up, hands on the wheel, watching her blue nails loop the laces.

“There’s one, like, ten minutes away.”

He’s shaking his head. “We got food in the house.”

Her gaze lifts. Her foot drops. “Oh, c’mon, it’s on the way home. We’ll be, like, five minutes. I just got off a two-hour flight, dude, right through dinner. I’m starving, I –”

“Would you just get in the damn truck, Sarah?”

It’s shorter, snappier, angrier than he meant. But he’s parked in the middle of the packed pick-up area, and the rattling of suitcase wheels and the whistling of cab drivers and the fucking roaring of planes overhead are making the headache behind his eyes worse.

Sarah freezes, one arm still leaning on the doorframe. “Jesus. What the fuck?”

“Sorry,” Joel mutters, shaking his head. “Sorry. Just – get in.”

“No need to be an asshole about it,” she murmurs, pulling herself up into the passenger seat.

Joel’s face is in his hands, elbows atop the steering wheel. “I’m not tryna be an asshole,” he says into his palms.

His daughter looks at him. Concerned. “Somethin’ happen? While I was gone?”

He shakes his head again.

Nothing happened.

He’s quiet the rest of the night. The rest of the week. Sarah notices, he knows she does, because she pries. In her own way. She’s smarter than he is. Less obvious.

She’s already up and in the kitchen when he rises on Tuesday morning. Spins around at the toaster, tells him the machine’s ready for his coffee. Asks if he wants her to make it. Asks if he wants any breakfast.

Thanks, kiddo. No, I’ll get it. No, you’re good, thanks.

They sit opposite one another in silence, save for the crunching of Sarah’s toast. He can feel her eyes on him, same way he felt Lois’s. Trying to burrow deep inside, take a look at his brain. Catch a glimpse of the words he’s thinking over and over and over.

There ain’t no words, though. It’s just images. Video replay of your back as you strode down his driveway, the way the wind caught your hair and brushed your cheek, the way your hand came up to wipe your tears. And the way he stood there, like a fucking idiot, and did nothing.

His chest hurts any time he thinks about you. Pulls in, knits itself together in knots. He’s good at pushing feelings down, good at turning them away from the sunlight like faded pebbles. But this is different. It’s a different kind of hurt.

It’s unresolved, it’s an open wound. It’s you. And it’s every time he hears REO Speedwagon, every time he pulls a flannel over his shoulders and catches the scent of your perfume on it, every time he’s flicking through the TV and catches a flash of a hospital setting, it’s a pair of hands deep inside the wound, pulling it a little wider.

It aches. It stings and it aches and it winds.

And then he turns the pebbles around. Back to the shade. Over and over and fucking over.

On Wednesday night, he caves. Asks Sarah if she’s spoken to you.

She’s chewing on a slice of pizza; licks the grease from her fingertips before she answers. “Not really. She’s been quieter than usual. Why?”

“She’s been quieter than usual?” he repeats, playing off the way his head shot up by looking straight back down at the pizza box.

Sarah narrows her eyes. “Yeah. I figure she’s working a lot.”

“Right. Right.”

“She gets tired of being in the house all the time, I think. Getting treated like a kid still. So I guess the more time she can spend outta there, the better.”

Joel nods slowly. He already knows that much.

Sarah studies him. Watches his hands as he dabs a pizza crust into the dip. When he tosses it in his mouth, he looks back up at her.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says. “You want the last slice?”

“You take it,” he mutters, sitting back and wiping his hands on a napkin. “I’m stuffed.”

She hums, reaching forward. “Whatever it is,” she says, pulling the dough apart, “that’s got you this down –”

“Ain’t nothin’ got me down, kiddo.”

“– whatever it is,” she continues, “I bet it works itself out.”

Sarah stands up, taking her water with her, and wanders out of the kitchen.

----------

Joel struggles through another sleepless night, Thursday through Friday. His eyes don’t close over once. He hauls himself out of bed early in the morning, forces a black coffee down his throat, and heads off to work.

He’s up at some new client in Waco. Andrew Curtis – or, well, Andrew Curtis’s father, but Joel’s been dealing primarily with the son, and the guy’s a fucking imbecile. Doesn’t know his head from his ass, probably. And he has a voice like nails on a damn chalkboard, and his shirt’s untucked around the back, but Joel ain’t got a tone kind enough, or half the wordsmanship, or an ounce of energy to tell him.

Anyway – he spends all day at this dusty site, trying to work and instead, thinking about whatever the fuck you’re doing. Wherever you are, whoever you’re with. It’s almost seven by the time he’s leaving, packing up his truck and watching Andrew Curtis across the yard. He’s spotted his own shadow; he’s twisting around to reach the ducktail poking out from above his belt loops.

Joel thinks to call you about it on the way home. Tell you all about the guy: his dry conversation, his flannel, the fact he kept calling Joel Joe all day. He figures it would make you laugh, least the way he’d tell it, and he reckons that’s exactly what you need right now. That’s exactly what he needs, right now.

When Clark’s call him, he dials your dad. Has his ear blown half to hell by the speakerphone. Learns midway through the conversation that you’re right there in the car, too, and bites back a stream of incoherent, senseless words. Settles for a quiet reminder: he’s right here if you need him.

He doesn’t expect you to take him up on it. Knows you got better things to do than deal with some asshole who’d rather break your heart than have a few difficult conversations. You’re probably having fun, probably finally feeling good again. You’re probably fine.

But still. He doesn’t sleep that night, either.

It’s just gone two when Anna calls. He’s lying in bed, some shopping network on loop on the TV. His tired eyes bore into the screen, defocusing over the pixels, not watching nor listening and barely fucking breathing until he picks up the phone. Her voice is panicked, shrill, and shaking so much he wonders if his own phone is trembling with it.

“Mr. Miller?” she asks, and Joel sits up. “Got your number from Yelp. ‘m sorry it’s so late, it’s…oh, fuck – it’s, like, 2AM.”

“Anna,” Joel says hoarsely. Get to the fuckin’ point.

“Right. Sorry. It’s just…we kinda have a…situation, here.”

It’s you. He fucking knows it’s you. His heart begins to hammer. He doesn’t give a fuck whether she puts two and two together or not when he asks –

“Where is she?”

“We’re still at Frank’s,” Anna says, sniffing. He can hear the booming bassline of music, muffled; the sharper chatter of voices. She’s on the street. In his head, he can see her shoulders hunched; her bare arms wrapped around her body for warmth. She goes to say it again. “We’re still at –”

“’n where is she?” Joel cuts, and she finally cracks.

In one long, drawn breath, she spills. “She was fucked from the second we walked in here; she drank too much too quick, Mr. Miller – Joel,” she says when he corrects her, “and then she just – I dunno, she just – fucking disappeared with these guys, me ‘n Kara never saw ‘em in our lives – and they went upstairs we think, and she came back smelling like weed, and then this guy – he just, like, scooped her off, Mr. M– I mean Joel, like, totally dragged her away, and then –”

“Who–? Anna – Anna, wait,” Joel says, shushing her between her rambling, trying to rein in what she’s saying. When she finally shuts up, he speaks slowly and calmly. “Who dragged her away?”

“We don’t fuckin’ know!” she almost shrieks down the line. It cuts out for a second and Joel’s heart stops dead.“– so we don’t know,” she says when her voice filters back through into his ear, “but Sam said he saw the dude drop something in her bottle when he turned away. A pill or something.”

Joel’s body tenses. Freezes solid, with the blood in his veins. His eyes fix on one spot on his dresser: the loose handle that sits a little squint. He stares at it until his peripheral starts to blur.

“He – say that again?”

“He roofied her, we think. But we can’t fucking find them. Sam and Kara are in there just now looking. The guy pulled her away, that’s what I’m tryna say!”

“Right,” whispers Joel, nodding. He drags a heavy hand over his eyes, tries to push the image of you in danger out of his head for one second so he can figure out what to do.

Anna doesn’t hear him. She keeps talking. “…and then Sam said she told him not to call her dad, but I had to call someone, y’know? You’re the only person I think she wouldn’t – I think she wouldn’t mind me callin’. Please.”

He’s already halfway down the stairs, arms pushing through the sleeves of his shirt. He keeps the phone against his cheek when he bends to reach for his boots, ties them loose and grabs his keys.

“You call me as soon as you find her, you hear? I’m on my way,” he tells Anna, and hangs up.

He’s panicking. Fear, transferred between her cell and his, creeping over his shoulders, wrapping long, cold fingers around his throat. He’s panicking. He’s panicking. He never panics. Where the fuck are you? Who the fuck are you with?

There’s barely any traffic on the road, but the drive takes for-fucking-ever. The lights at the side of the road blur into long, thin streaks of orange. His hands are tight around the steering wheel, his jaw clenched. Your name lies loose on his lips.

He pulls up right outside the bar. There are small clusters of people, congregated tight together under the streetlights; cigarettes hanging from lips, bottles loose in hands. He shoves by them on his way to the door. Some guy shuffles out of his way, looking up to cuss Joel out and quickly dipping his head again when he locks eyes with the grizzly expression.

He shoves the door open with his shoulder, and spots you instantly.

----------

His knuckles are throbbing. Skin stretching anytime he moves his hand, searing hot and sharply stinging across the bone. Your touch is the only thing soothing them right now.

He got two good punches in. Just two. Burst the guy’s nose. He would’ve kept going, had he not been in a bar full of people – people who knew who he was – and had you not been stood behind him, body liquid-like from how much you were swaying.

But he has you home now. Up in your room, settled in bed. You’re safe. You’re with him.

You’re fucking wasted. Like, can barely lift a glass of water to your lips unaided wasted. He spent the entire drive watching over you, stealing glances when your head turned or your eyes lulled closed, checking you were still awake, still talking, still fucking breathing.

Whatever that asshole gave you, you don’t seem to have had enough for it to do too much damage. The alcohol is the real culprit. Though you were cognitive enough to yell at him over Lois in the kitchen, which relieved him for a second before it fucking crushed him. He’s lying awake right now – listening to the sound of your snoring – replaying the argument in his head. Over and over.

You’re an asshole and a liar. Just stringing me along this whole time.

He’s some awful cocktail of angry and terrified and fucking heartbroken. You’re lying inches from him, your hand resting softly on top of his, and yet – you’re miles away. The space between you both – fragmented, treacherous.

In a perfect world, he’d have wrapped his arms around your shoulders. He’d have pulled you against his weight, against his strong, steady form. And he’d have walked you, as slow as you needed, out of the bar and to his truck. Maybe laughing. Maybe singing.

He’d have told you everything was fine, told you he loved you, told you he was gonna get you home, make you feel better. He’d hold you until the sun came up, and then hold you until it went back down.

He’d love you. And you’d let him.

Maybe that world doesn’t exist, Joel thinks. And maybe that’s for the better.

It fucking hurts, though. Stings like a hot blade through his chest. All this time, messing around, pretending there was nothing more to it. Letting his feelings through like water in a fucking dam. It was bound to break eventually.

And maybe he really thought, even just for a fleeting moment, there could be something here. Something worth holding onto. More than two idiots messing around, more than sex and secrecy.

He didn’t even realize. Didn’t notice the shift. When did he start feeling…more? When did it cross that line?

He’s staring at the end of your bed. Thinking about you under him, gripping onto his shirt, his hand between your legs. The very first time. And every other fucking time since then. Which one was the threshold? Who pushed who?

His ringtone bursts through the silence, making him jump. His arm swings to fish it from the nightstand, swiping to answer before he’s even read who’s calling, just to shut the thing up.

“Hello?” he murmurs.

“Hey, Joe? Uh, I mean, Joel? It’s Andrew Curtis here.”

He rolls his eyes. For fuck’s sake. “Mornin’, Andrew.”

“Hi. Sorry, I know it’s super early. I’m just checkin’ we’re still good to go. I got my guys ready, we’re rarin’ to get goin’ whenever you are.”

Joel clears his throat, pushing slowly off the plush mattress, resting your hand on the sheets. “Yeah, uh…” He slips out of your room, hopping over to the bathroom and closing the door over. “…I had a, uh…a family emergency durin’ the night. I’m gonna be a little late, but I’ll be there.”

“Oh, gee, I hope everything’s alright?”

He phrases it like he wants Joel to clue him in. He considers for a second actually saying, Yeah, my best friend’s daughter – who I’ve been sleeping with for the last month – got plastered at a bar – Frank’s, local place, you heard of it? – because I broke things off with her – but I didn’t want to, I was just tryna be fuckin’ noble – and I went and picked her up, punched a guy who was tryna hurt her, because guess what, Andrew – I’m in fuckin’ love with her.

He sums it up with: “Yeah. Everything’s fine now. Thanks.”

“Alright, well, great news! Call me when you’re twenty minutes out, I’ll have the guys here for you arrivin’. Safe journey, Joe!”

Joel breathes an Uhuh and hangs up, holding the bridge of his nose. He has a headache, like he’s the one who’s been drinking. It’s only going to get worse, too, heading off to go spend his Saturday with Andrew fucking Curtis and his loose flannel.

The sun’s rising slowly, lighting the hall in a warm glow. Joel pads quietly into your room and pulls the cover back over his side of the mattress. You stir; your head jerks only to move some hair from your face, and then you sigh, sleep pulling you back into its arms.

He watches you for a second. Wishes he could run a light hand down your cheek, kiss your head. Whisper a goodbye, the same way you did to him almost a week ago.

He shakes the thought, collecting his boots from the floor. His hand hovers over his shirt for a moment. And then he lifts it by the collar, lays it neatly on the pillow by your head, and leaves. You can keep it, trash it, burn it. But it’s yours. Everything about him is yours.

In the kitchen, he stands by the sink, nursing a cup of coffee. It’s a quarter to six. This early on a Saturday, he figures he’ll be in Waco by seven, seven-thirty latest. His eyes fix on the spot you two stood last night, yelling back and forth about Lois. She seems so far away, now. He can barely remember the shape of her face, the sound of her voice.

His grip tightens around the mug. He places it in the sink, and grabs his keys. As he passes the stairs, he pauses. Leans on one foot, head tilted to listen out for any sound of life. Any fucking sound – the creak of a floorboard, the squeak of a door handle. Anything to keep him here. Anything.

Nothing comes. No sound, no movement, no you.

He closes the front door gently on his way out.

----------

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too-many-fandoms-tbh · 6 months

Text

JEALOUSY, JEALOUSY

BRUCE WAYNE (BATMAN) SMUT

(bruce wayne/batman x fem!reader)

can be read as any batman, but he is described to be a partying bachelor in this

warnings: rough sex, p in v, unprotected sex, jealous sex, semi-public (private bathroom) sex, established relationship, slight toxic undertones?? aftercare

she knew it was for her protection, but god did y/n hate pretending not to know bruce in public. they'd attend events together, and she just had to stand there and watch every time as he flirted with all of the girls who approached him. sure, guys flirted with her all the time, but she never talked to them for more than a minute, and she'd always make sure not to lead them on. bruce didn't care; he had to keep up his "partying bachelor" status. she brought it up to him once, and he of course reassured her she was all he wanted, but that didn't mean it still didn't hurt.

currently, she was stood against a wall, arms crossed over her stomach as she glared at the girls whom were flocked around her boyfriend. she was wearing a long, bright red dress that hugged her curves tightly and had a deep v-neck. there was a slit going up her thigh, which exposed her silver heels and caused her to constantly adjust her dress in fear of exposing herself. the dress was so tight that she couldn't wear her normal safety-shorts without there being lines, so she'd been stressed about that all night.

"hey there," a voice said out of nowhere. she snapped her gaze away from bruce and immediately replaced her scowl with a polite smile as she turned to greet the man. "you look like you could use a refill."

she paused, eyes looking at the empty glass, provided by the event's servers, on the table next to her. she'd never seen the man in front of her before, but he was definitely handsome, with blonde hair and brown eyes. his tan hands both held glasses of champagne, one of which was being held out towards her. in fear of being impolite, she took the drink with nimble hands. she was a little worried that he might've done something to the drink, but with the amount of security the crowded event held, she supposed she was safe.

"thank you.." she prompted, eyes raised.

"frank." he said quickly, an awkward laugh. "frank campbell. and you are?"

"y/n l/n." she responded, taking a sip of the drink. it tasted the same as the ones she'd had before, and she cherished the flavor.

"what're you doing all the way over here?" he asked. "i'm sure you'd be a hit out there."

she nearly laughed at his attempts of flirting. "i'm just observing." she shrugged.

he turned to follow her gaze and his eyes landed on bruce, whom was still surrounded by women. "looking at wayne, huh? he's got all of the ladies here wrapped around his finger. i'm surprised you're not over there too, unless you have a boyfriend, of course."

how ironic.

"you sound jealous." she swirled the drink in her cup, looking up at him through her eyelashes. holy shit, she was flirting back, wasn't she?

"so what if i am?" he said boldly. "i think every man in this room is."

"and why is that?" she continued, taking another sip of her drink. as she did so, her eyes trailed over to bruce. she knew he'd look over at them eventually, he was protective like that, but now he was straight up staring at her. he looked upset, and for some reason, she was almost pleased with that result. maybe, just maybe, this would show him what it was like to be in her shoes. she winked at him once before turning her attention back to frank.

she nodded along as frank spoke, but honestly, she had tuned out on a lot of it as she was looking at bruce. when he finished talking, she had a good enough idea of what he said to respond.

"so what," she summarized with a slight smirk. if only he knew who he was talking to. "you think you could show a girl a better time than he could?"

"oh, i know i could."

"ah, i see." she set her almost-empty glass down and reached for her handbag off of the table. the small, designer bag was cute, but she hated the fact that it didn't have a strap. she was digging around in it, searching for her small tin of breath mints, when suddenly she knocked the bag over. it toppled to the ground, the contents spilling everywhere. she gasped, carefully falling to her knees in order to collect her things. frank squatted down too, doing his best to help. she could see the way his eyes landed on her cleavage before trailing down to the her thigh, where she was maybe an inch away from exposing the space between her thighs.

"sorry," she laughed awkwardly, suddenly a little uncomfortable under his gaze. his eyes never left her body as he handed her the occasional lipstick or bobby-pin from the floor. she thought she wanted this attention, in fact she'd been craving it all night, but she suddenly felt guilty as she realized what she was doing. apparently, she'd done a better job flirting than she'd thought she did, and now this man was looking at her as if he expected her to come home with him tonight. all whilst her boyfriend was watching.

speaking of bruce, she glanced up to see him staring directly at her, eyes narrowed. to make matters even worse, she and frank both reached for her phone at the same time, their hands connecting for a split second. she pulled away quickly, but frank was already making eye-contact with her, a blush on his face.

"that's everything," he said, finally looking at her face. he stood up, offering her a hand as well. despite the fact that she wanted to get up on her own, she took his hand, standing up as slowly as possible in order to keep her dress intact. the second his hand dropped hers, she was adjusting her dress again, wishing she'd worn the black dress that alfred suggested.

"oh, here," he said. she had no clue what he was doing, but suddenly, his hand was on her face. he brushed something off of her cheek and she stood there frozen. her eyes looked for bruce, and he was dismissing himself from the girls around him. he pulled out his phone as he walked, but she lost him in the crowds before she could see where he was headed. "you had a hair."

"thanks," she forced a smile. her phone buzzed in her purse, and after saying a quick apology to frank, she pulled it out. bruce's contact filled her screen, and her knees went weak as she read his text.

"Meet me in employee bathroom, two minutes. Down the stairs to your left. Don't be late."

"oh my god," she attempted to feign a dramatic gasp, but honestly, she didn't have to try that hard to fake being shocked because she genuinely was. bruce was very rarely that demanding, and if he was, it was only after a hard night out as batman. "i am so sorry, frank, but i have to go. business emergency."

"oh, no," frank seemed a little appalled at her sudden exit. "don't apologize. i hope everything is alright."

"yeah, thanks," she reached over for her glass of champagne and finished it with a long swig, ignoring his confused gaze. "it was lovely meeting you, really. i'll see you around, yeah?"

he seemed a little shocked, but she patted his shoulder once before grabbing her clutch and walking away. she walked as fast as she could in a restricting dress and heels, which, honestly, was quite slow. no one seemed to notice her as she snuck through the unlabeled doors and down the concrete stairs. she really hoped these were the correct stairs, because it took her nearly a minute to get down them without ripping her dress. immediately, a door labeled "family bathroom" appeared to her left, and in smaller letters it read "staff only".

she prayed that it was the right room when she knocked. as quick as lightning, bruce opened the door and pulled her inside. she fell against the door as he locked it behind her.

"well hello to you too," she sassed, ignoring how turned on she already was. if this was something serious and not sexual, then she was about to feel real stupid. "what's up?"

"i could ask you the same question." he said, voice barely controlled. "what's up with campbell over there?"

"oh, so you know him?" she inquired boldly. she could feel the alcohol in her veins, not enough to make her tipsy, but enough to make her words bolder.

"yeah, i do," he grumbled. "nice guy."

she laughed lightly. "that's surprising. he hates you."

"oh, does he?" bruce didn't seem phased. "and why is that?"

she pushed herself off of the door, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck. "oh nothing much," she smirked up at him. "just thought he could fuck me better than you."

this caught bruce's attention and his eyes hardened. his large hands found place on her waist, pulling her closer.

"and would you let him?" his voice was raspy. he knew she wouldn't, they'd had that conversation before when they were actually being sincere, but he had to see what she'd say now.

"depends," she ran her fingers through the hair on the back of his head. "would you fuck handsy-pansy? i'm sure she thinks she's better than me."

"handsy" pansy was some blonde woman whom seemed to show up at every event, and each time she saw bruce, she'd fawn over him the whole time, laughing at everything he said and always touching him.

bruce pretended to think, watching as she scrunched her face up at him. she knew he was just doing it to get a rise out of her, and she planned to return the favor.

"maybe i'll go and talk to frank after all," she pulled away, pretending to reach for the door. "i'm sure he'd love to have me in his bed after all of this is over."

the next thing she knew, bruce grabbed her hand. he pulled her back, spinning her enough so that their chests collided and he could slam his lips against hers. the kiss was rough and passionate, and she found herself wrapping her hands around his neck to stay stable. his larger hands gripped her waist, slowly moving down to her ass with a harsh squeeze. she moaned in his mouth, arching her back against him.

"fuck you better than me, huh?" he growled, pulling away. he pulled her by her waist, shoving her towards the sink. her hands latched onto the counter and she could see bruce standing behind her in the mirror. she bit her lip as he grabbed the long dress, bunching it up at her waist, where it surprisingly stayed. she watched his breath catch in his throat when he realized she only had lace on underneath. he didn't say anything, simply palming her smooth ass before reaching between her legs. his calloused fingers slid over her soaked folds and she threw her head back, a bright blush on her face.

"you're already so wet," he commented, pulling away. he met her eyes in the mirror. "was all of this for him?"

"no," she shook her head quickly, going against any of her usual bratty instincts. "it's all for you, bruce."

"all for me, huh?" he repeated. as he spoke, she arched her back against him, attempting to grind herself against his thigh. his hands found place on her hips, and her actions were halted abruptly. his grip was rough, but not quite enough to be painful.

"i don't know," he tsked, making eye contact with her through the mirror. "you seemed pretty pleased with yourself out with campbell, acting like a slut, all whilst wearing the brand new dress i bought you."

"god," she whined, biting her lip. the way he was staring her down through the mirror, thumbs caressing her hips, was driving her crazy. "please, bruce! i'm yours, all yours."

"now you're begging?" he asked slyly, fingers moving down her hips and to her thighs, where he then stroked her skin softly. "so eager to be fucked like the slut you are, huh?"

"so what if i am?" she challenged, trying to slyly rub her thighs together. her actions didn't go unnoticed, and bruce roughly separated her legs. she nearly fell, leaning forward onto the sink.

"you beg me to go out more," he murmured under his breath. through the mirror, she could see him unbuckling his belt. "and this is the treatment i get. you want me to fuck you? fine, i'll fuck you. i'll fuck you so good the whole party will hear you, and campbell will know you're mine. that's what you wanted, right? for me to show you i care?"

his words were almost sappy, but his tone was the complete opposite.

"i've cared the whole time," his gruff voice continued. she heard the clink of his pants falling to his ankles. "it drove me crazy watching guys look you up and down, talking about you like you're their next meal."

he didn't give her time to respond, because he suddenly slid inside of her. she let out an airy moan, manicured fingers gripping the counter as she adjusted to the quick intrusion. the momentary pain was quickly being masked with pleasure as he leaned forward, craning his neck to place a soft kiss on shoulder. though the moment was tender, his voice was still a husky whisper in her ear. "god, if only they could see you now, see how you're all mine."

the next thing she knew, he was pounding into her like there was no tomorrow, snapping his hips against her so much that she felt her entire body bounce with each movement. she tried to make eye contact through the mirror, but she couldn't bear to keep her head up. a constant string of airy moans were leaving her mouth, and had she not been about to collapse, she would've brought a hand up to silence them.

"fuck, bruce.." she managed to sputter out. his pace was relentless; it seemed his hours of being batman really contributed to his stamina.

"what?" he practically growled from behind her. "you can't take it?"

"i can!" she cried out, head thrown back as she struggled to speak. "i-" her next sentence got cut off by a startled moan as one of bruce's hands left her hips and snaked around to pressure her clit.

she moaned out his name as he continued his assault, his finger now rubbing slowly against the bundle of nerves.

"fuck," he panted from behind her. "you gonna cum for me, yeah?"

she nodded, her body shaking in his arms. she wasn't sure how much longer she could take it before she collapsed onto the floor, but god did she love it.

"i need words, sweetheart." he said, his halting the actions of his fingers. he was still pumping into her, likely because he too was close, but she immediately whined at the loss of contact against her sensitive clit.

"yes!" she choked out, only to then moan again when he twiddled her clit between the pads of his calloused fingers.

it didn't take long before she could feel herself nearing an orgasm. biting her lip to prevent herself from screaming, y/n came roughly, legs shaking so hard she was scared her knees were going to buckle out from under her. she expected bruce to slow down, maybe give her a moment to recuperate, but his pace only quickened to a near impossible state. he was back to holding her hips with both hands, using his virtually painful grip on her body in order to pound into her even harder. she was shaking like a limp ragdoll in his arms, incoherent moans leaving her open mouth. she was even more sensitive than before, and she was sure anyone walking by would be able to hear her.

right when she was sure she'd get whiplash from being jerked around so much, not that she was complaining, she felt bruce let go inside of her, his liquid coating her insides. once he was finished, he slowed to a stop and slipped softly out of her. she almost immediately fell to the floor, but his now gentle grip was quick to grab onto her.

he spun her around to face him, supporting her weight with ease. he gave her an amused smile, and she couldn't help but just stare at him, her face still stuck in a fucked-out haze. her makeup was smeared, and there were many loose, frizzy hairs stuck to her face. she managed to pull her dress back down to cover herself, but it was full of wrinkles, and there was now a wet patch on the crotch.

bruce pulled her into his chest and leaned down to press a lasting kiss onto her lips. she brought her weak arms up to wrap around his neck, and he continued to hold onto her, now moving his hands up to her waist rather than her sensitive hips. the kiss was slow and soft, a large contrast to his actions only moments ago.

"what'd ya say we ditch this joint, yeah?" he said once he'd pulled away.

"but bruce.." she began to murmur, obviously still dazed.

"the gala can wait," he reassured. "i'm not needed there anyways. what matters to me is getting you home."

she frowned up at him, but it really didn't take long for her to give in. she hated to admit it, but with how rough he had been, there was some much-needed aftercare in store for her. and knowing bruce, he was going to make it his life's mission to make sure she is as comfortable as possible.

"alright.." she said eventually. she went to step out of his grasp, only for her legs to buckle under her weight on the first step. stifling a laugh, bruce scooped her into his arms bridal-style before she could even process what had happened.

"you still think he could fuck you better than me?" he teased as he pushed open the door. all she could do was giggle in response, resting her head on his shoulder as he carried her down the corridor and into their waiting car. as she'd suspected, she was showered in warm baths, cozy cuddles, and her favorite snacks for the rest of the evening, and though she was definitely sore, there was not a single ounce of regret in her mind.

#smut #batman #batman smut #dcu #bruce wayne #bruce wayne smut #robert pattinson #battinson #battinson smut #christian bale

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the-nosy-neighbor · 14 days

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Toys in the Catalog

I had mentioned Eddie looking at his number and being "stretched thin" so I thought I'd put together all of the catalog images and see if the numbers mean anything to me.

Starting here. Poppy looks dead eyed in this image, while the others have very happy faces. You can't say it is the toy, necessarily, since the others look happy. She seems to have a paper tail and paper feathers on her head. Her feet are super cute.

If you haven't seen one of these, this is how it works. More of a science toy than anything. This one is a bit scarier looking.

Poppy is the same price as Eddie, while the others are a bit higher. I can envision how these toys work by the design. Super cool designs.

We've looked at this a couple of times. Eddie appears to be checking out his price. Wally and Frank pillows are quite a bit more expensive than the other toys. Is this framing them as the most popular? They are more than an entire jack-in-the-box. Barnaby I have mentioned before, because it is another bisected Barn. I think we will see him in pieces before this is over.

This is framed as gifts for your home, like Wally was looking at for Home. The cuckoo clock here is home, and is featured prominently in Eddie's breakdown in Commercials. As we watch Eddie unravel, we see an above view of the clock (and I haven't found anything else in that image, not for a lack of trying) as well as a straight on view, which shows the clock moving, but not smoothly or in time. It starts and stops, pauses longer than you think it should. This says that Wally pops out instead of a cuckoo, though Poppy might have been more traditional. We don't get to see Wally come out of the clock.

The clock reads 3:30. I don't see anything that would designate day or night. This is quite a bit more than most things, because it's a complex clock.

Then we have a tea set, which seems to be the big image it is giving us about Poppy. Doilies and tea. Over and over. We will have to remember. Wally does tap his tea cup at Poppy's in a hidden video. Still trying to figure it out, but they keep showing it to us.

Finally, a tree skirt. It's expensive, but those things always are. I love the design, and all the neighbors. We see this design in a video or still somewhere else, maybe? I will keep an eye out. This features all the neighbors as gingerbread men as well as has cut outs of their symbols. I think it is odd that Home is by Eddie and not Wally, but maybe they are mixing it up.

Final page, with records. On the holiday records: one for $5.89 or all for $15.89. There are five records below on this page and it says "continued on next page," so that is not all. All of the records that we have seen so far are here. A was in the exhibit, as well as the first ad with the missing item. We saw B in the exhibit, and it was on the record player on the Merchandise page; it plays the Alice in Wonderland bit. C is Halloween, D was some of the earliest merch, and E is mentioned, but we are told that we have part of the audio, not the full record. Generally, when it says that, we shouldn't trust it. Something to consider.

Presumably, there are more records. The records are Marlo.

The price on these seem pretty standard and in line with the rest of the catalog. The single and Painting with Wally are cheaper, we assume because it is a shorter album. On the pricing generally, we are seeing a lot of ".89" but I assume this is for the same reason things are priced at the upper end, to be smaller than a dollar increase while practically being at the next dollar amount. Eddie and Poppy's toys are the only ones at $1.89. Given that they are both bullied characters, I wouldn't be surprised if there was some kind of connection there.

One thing I didn't mention, is that Marlo is listed on this page, but it isn't elsewhere. I think I mentioned during a post on "Commercials" that there is a different company for those toys. Pretty sure Marlo did these records and the phones, at least. The other company is named "The You-Won't-Believe-It Company." They did the Wally Ball And Cup. They have other items in the video, I think. I noticed and wondered if there was something going on there, because we have only seen Marlo so far.

#welcome home #welcome home theories #welcome home arg #eddie dear #wally darling

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amhrosina · 1 year

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Good Girls Get Rewarded

Summary: Frank gets tired of you running your mouth and decides to remind you who's in charge. Smutty antics follow.

Pairing: Frank Castle x fem!Reader

Word Count: 7.5k (holy shit!!!!)

masterlist // join my taglist

a/n: im not ashamed to admit that this fic is the only thing i thought about for three days straight. please enjoy. it is an absolute smut-fest!

warnings: buckle the fuck up bitches, cursing (obvi), all porn no plot, oral (male & fem receiving), fingering, pet names!!!!!, p in v sex, praise kink, size kink a little??, frank is so mean at first lmfao, lots of teasing, spanking, frank gets called sir a lot lmfao, reader is a brat, physical violence (this does not transfer to the smut!!!), i am probably forgetting so many pls let me know what i need to add!

“How’d you get this number?”

Frank’s familiar rasp was even more apparent over the phone, a tingling revelation that sent a shiver up your spine. He was in a sour mood, and you were itching for a fight. It was the perfect way to end your evening.

“Oh, c’mon, Frankie. You know I can get whatever I want whenever I want.”

“How could I forget you’re such a spoiled princess, huh? The fuck you want, princess?”

He spat the last word at you as if it were an insult. Good. He was angry, too.

“Did I catch you at a bad time? I was just admiring these pretty curtains. They designer?”

Annoyed resolve rang through in Frank’s tone as he replied. “You know I don’t know what you’re talking about. You gonna make me ask?”

“Sure, honey. I think you’ll want to know the answer.”

You smirked, eyes roaming the living room you were currently standing in the middle of. If only Frank could see you now.

He huffed. “What curtains?”

“These blue ones in your living room. Did you pick them out, or was it that Karen Page with her over-eagerness to please you?”

“You leave her the fuck out of this.” He paused, and you smirked at yourself in the mirror as the realization of what you’d said was processed fully by Frank. “You’re in my fuckin’ house? What the hell is wrong with you?”

He was already moving. Even if you hadn’t been able to hear the hitches in his breath as he barreled his way across Hell’s Kitchen, you’d know he was coming. Your plan was working. You were ecstatic.

“Cat got your tongue, princess?”

“Clever.” You hummed, running your tongue over your teeth. Since you’d first met Frank, he’d managed to throw a cat pun in your direction during every interaction you’d had. He claimed it was because the newspapers were calling you the Black Cat, but you thought it probably had something to do with the latex suit you wore. He never could keep his eyes off the curve of your hips. “Lazy, but clever, I suppose. I’ll allow it, considering the spontaneity of this phone call.”

“How kind of you.” Frank spat, and you resisted the urge to giggle over the phone. He had to be getting close, now. He’d come bursting through the door at any second. Your muscles were giddy with the thought of finally being challenged.

“You know I love chatting with you, darling, but I’ve got to run. I have a thing. Ta-ta!”

You hung up the phone, placing it on the counter and angling yourself so that you could see the front door. You weren’t exactly sure how angry he’d be that you broke into his house, but you wanted to at least seem like you had the upper hand when he charged through the door. You waited, anticipation building until you could no longer stay still. You began to pace, nervous and giddy at the same time, and of course, if you’d just been a little more patient and quiet, you probably would’ve heard the creak of the window opening behind you.

You didn’t realize Frank Castle was standing directly behind you until you backed into him. Your heart thundered in your chest, realizing exactly who was behind you and how he’d managed to perfectly out-do you in your own plan. The hands around your throat shouldn’t have been a surprise.

“It’s fuckin’ rude to break into people’s houses, princess.”

He pulled your body fully against his, attempting to wrap his arm around your neck from behind to pull you into a chokehold. You were a tricky little kitten, though, and you slipped out of his grasp almost as easily as you’d waltzed through his door earlier. Maybe he let you out. Maybe he was curious about your unprompted visit, too.

“You’re one to talk. Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s not nice to grab a lady like that?”

He snorted. “Lady? Someone confuse you with someone less bitchy?”

“I’ll have you know, I am perfectly fucking civil to most people.” You assured him, jutting your chin out in defiance.

“We really doing this?” He ran his hand over the stubble on his jaw. You eyed the movement and shrugged.

“Eat your fuckin’ heart out, honey.”

You both lunged for each other, your leg rising to connect with his stomach before his fist could connect with your face. He sprang back, unharmed but winded, and caught your leg before it could connect with his chest. You were suddenly on your back, having been thrown off balance by Frank, who was pushing most of his weight down on your hips to keep you from thrashing beneath him.

“You’re rusty, kid.” His eyes were bright and fiery, a combination you’d grown accustomed to during these bouts. You brought your forehead to his chin in a headbutt that would’ve knocked anyone else out completely. Frank, unfortunately, was just dazed for a moment, blinking the confusion out of his eyes before you could make much leeway against his ridiculously strong hold on your hips.

You were, however, able to wiggle one of your legs out from underneath him, giving you the perfect opportunity to pull Frank into an armbar.

“You’re old.” You smirked. Old or not, the best thing about fighting Frank was how incredibly resilient he was. No matter who ended up on top at the end of the night, your pent-up energy was always spent.

He resisted the pull into your hold, though the only other direction for him to go was on top of you. Your breath rushed out of you as he landed directly on top of your lungs, your grip on his arm loosening enough for him to roll away from you.

“Real cute, princess. You break into my house, and now you’re trying to what? Hurt me?” He scoffed, rolling his eyes as you coughed and remained on his kitchen floor. He really had landed hard, but you were playing the long game. “Good fucking luck. I’m not an idiot, in case you were wondering. You can stop the act.”

“You sure about that?” You rolled to your feet, pulling your hands into fists and holding them up to block your face. He rolled his eyes again, and even though he looked relaxed - unready, even - he caught your fist before it could connect with his jaw.

“You learn that on TV, princess?”

Your brow furrowed in anger. He was annoyingly good at reading your body language now.

“Actually,” you smiled up at him, face so close to his chest that you could nearly feel his thundering heartbeat, “I learned it from your mom.” You punctuated your insult with a swift knee to Frank’s groin. “I win.”

He hunched forward and you let him fall to his knees on the linoleum flooring. It was a low blow, but you weren’t in the mood to fight fair. He never did, anyway. You pushed yourself onto the counter, watching him breathe through the worst of the pain. You were an asshole, sure, but you weren’t the type to kick a man when he was down.

“You’re a fucking menace.” He grunted, nostrils flaring with anger when he took in your relaxed posture on the counter.

“Oh, please, Frank. It’s not like you fuckin’ use the thing.” You rolled your eyes, flipping your hand through the air in the universal sign for “whatever”.

His gaze shifted from anger to something you couldn’t quite place. You’d seen the look on his face before, but you’d never been able to figure out exactly what he was thinking during those moments. He tilted his head and rose to his feet, keeping his eyes trained on your face. Predator stalking prey. Goosebumps broke out on your skin.

“What was that, princess?” He stalked closer to you, and you were suddenly very aware how cornered you were in this position. To make a hasty escape you’d somehow have to catapult yourself over Frank’s shoulder or burst through what you guessed was a solid block of drywall beside you.

You swallowed thickly. “I said, it’s not like you use the thing.”

Frank’s eyes were bright with delight. Coupled with the teasing smile on his face and the slight tilt of his head, you were a little frightened.

“And you’d know that, how?” He taunted, stepping closer to you. He was in your space now, close enough to touch.

“I know a lot of things, Frankie.” You desperately grasped at the semblance of control you had left. “I know where you live, I know what you order every morning from that diner around the corner, and I know for sure that you. Don’t. Fuck.”

“Oh yeah?” Frank was leaning on the counter now, hands pressed into the granite on either side of your hips. “You think I can’t handle myself in bed, princess? Wanna try it out for yourself?”

“You wouldn’t know what to do with me.”

You didn’t know why you’d said it, or where it came from. Frank Castle was not the man to play games with, especially not these types of games. In actuality, you had no idea who the man was fucking or how often it was happening. You hadn’t expected him to rise to the challenge when you’d teased him about it.

“Is that right, princess?” His eyes gleamed with desire, and you finally realized what the look on his face meant. “Wanna bet?”

He pressed himself fully against you, the hardness of him apparent through his jeans. Your breath hitched against the column of your throat, and you swallowed thickly. You couldn’t deny the steady pounding between your legs, and you slightly widened your legs to allow him more room.

“Yes or no, princess? Wanna learn a thing or two?” His lips ghosted over yours, tongue darting out to lightly lick your top lip in a teasing, playful motion.

Your expectations for the night had been drastically different than this. You’d planned on a physical fight, maybe a black eye or two, and a slew of insults that you’d giggle about until you saw him again. You had not been expecting…this. Whatever this is. They probably existed, but you couldn’t think of a single reason why this might be a bad idea, so you leaned into the feeling that had been steadily growing in your core, and slammed your lips against his.

He groaned, immediately plunging his tongue into your mouth in a desperate, aching kiss. Your teeth clashed against his, but neither of you seemed to notice.

“Fuck, princess.” He mumbled against your lips, angling your chin so that he could pepper kisses down your jaw and onto your throat. You panted, pawing at his shoulders as he nipped the sensitive skin below your ear. “You gonna be good for me?”

“I’m not good for anyone.” You tried and failed to sound feisty. Instead, it came out in a mixture of a whine and a moan.

“You can be good for me, kitten. I won’t tell anyone.” His hands ghosted over the bottom of your shirt, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. He didn’t lift it up yet, and he probably wouldn’t, you realized, until you offered him some kind of consent.

“Only if you ask nicely.” You teased, brushing your lips over his jaw.

He snorted. “That ain’t happenin’.”

A feline grin made its way across your face. “I know.”

He gripped your jaw tightly, forcing you to look up at him as he leaned in close and whispered, “You’re going to be good for me, you fucking brat. Don’t make me say it again.”

Warm delight flooded your stomach, and even though it went against what you believed in, you nodded. You couldn’t think of a single thing you would rather be doing.

“Good girls get rewarded, kitten.” He adjusted his grip on your jaw, sliding his fingers further down your neck. He toyed with the hem of your shirt again, tugging it slightly so that you arched into his chest. “Can I take this off, sweet girl, hmm?” He hummed, running his tongue across your bottom lip.

You nodded again, and the hand around your neck flexed with displeasure.

“I kiss you for thirty seconds and your big mouth suddenly knows how to shut up?” He pinched your hip, eliciting a yelp from your unassuming mouth.

“Fuck yo-”

“Careful.” He warned, arching an eyebrow at you. “Use your words, kitten. I know you know how to be sweet. Be sweet to me.” His lips ghosted over yours, breath fanning across your flushed cheeks. “Can. I. Take. This. Off?” He punctuated each word with a slight squeeze of his hand, still wrapped around your throat.

“Yes.” You breathed, dipping your chin in a single nod.

“Yes…?” He cooed, close enough for you to see the amusement glittering in his eyes. The fucker was enjoying this entirely too much. Still, your core hadn’t stopped pounding since he’d cornered you, and you couldn’t lie and say you weren’t incredibly turned on by this, by him. You gave in to his question, as much as it hurt your stubborn heart to do so.

“Yes, sir.” You clenched your teeth around the word ‘sir’.

“See? That wasn’t so hard was it?”

“Or should I call you master? Or daddy? Or maybe punisher? You gonna punish me, dadd-”

His hand clamped over your mouth, cutting you off before you could continue.

“Shut the fuck up. You just can’t help yourself, can you? You’re such a fucking brat.” He pulled your hips flush against his, and you bit your lip to stifle the moan making its way up your throat. He leaned in, centimeters away from your lips as he whispered, “You want to be punished, kitten, hmm? I can do that.”

You were suddenly pulled off the counter and roughly thrown over Frank’s shoulder. The swiftness in his movements made you yelp, anger coursing through your blood at his man-handling.

“Fuck you, Frank.” You gritted your teeth.

His only response was a swift slap to your backside, which was nestled directly over his shoulder.

“You can’t just throw me around like a doll!” You protested, though you did nothing to try and wiggle your way out of his grasp. The man-handling was making you a little hot and bothered, but you wouldn’t be admitting that anytime soon.

“Oh yeah? Watch me.” He grunted as he threw you down on his bed, grasping your legs and pulling you down the mattress until he was towering over you again. He brushed your hair out of your face, a gentle gesture that juxtaposed the usual ferocity of your meetings. His thumb ghosted over your bottom lip, and before you could think twice about it, you opened your mouth and began sucking on it. A grunt, a smirk, the subtle desire lurking behind his intense gaze - all of it was incredibly sensual. “Should’ve known the sweetness wouldn’t last. You’re a brat, through and through, kitten.” You replaced the sweet caress of your tongue around his finger with your teeth, softly biting down on the tip of his thumb in response.

“I like it though.” He mumbled quietly, more to himself than to you. His gaze coasted down your body, catching on the swell of your breasts and the curve of your hips. He looked back at you, having come to a silent decision. “I’m gonna give you another chance, kitten. Does that sound okay, baby, hmm? I want to make you feel good, alright? All you have to do is be good. That’s it. Can you do that for me? Can you be good for me?”

You blinked up at him, his frame so wide above you that it was almost sinful.

“I can be good for you.” You responded slowly, relinquishing your hold on his thumb. He quirked an eyebrow at you, and you quickly added, “I can be good for you, sir.”

His cheeks widened into a smirk.

“You’re already doing so well, sweetheart.” He praised, running his hands along your sides until they met the bottom of your shirt. You arched into him as he pulled the fabric over your head, relishing the gentleness of his touch while simultaneously missing the roughness from before.

He slid the tip of his tongue from your navel to the valley between your breasts, tugging on the thin material of your bra with his teeth. His breath fanned across your chest, bringing a renewed sense of urgency to your aching core.

“Frank.” You whined, pawing at his shoulders and attempting to pull him fully against you. He barely budged, instead choosing to narrow his focus onto your pebbled nipples.

“What is it, kitten, hmm?” He pressed a soft kiss to your nipple. It was through your bra, but it might as well have been to your bare breast, because the rippling heat that washed through your body elicited a breathy moan from your throat.

“I need- I mean, I want- Can you-” The warmth from his mouth around your nipple was scrambling your brain, and you couldn’t begin to function as his fingers began sliding your pants down your legs.

“You need somethin’, sweetheart?” He was teasing you, and you couldn’t bring yourself to stay silent about it.

“Quit teasing me.” You whined, and his hands halted midway down your thighs.

“You think you have any control over this right now?” He chuckled, yanking your pants down your legs in one swift motion. “I haven’t forgotten how bratty you were earlier. You keep this up and you’ll be lucky if I let you come at all, sweetheart, and it’d do you good to remember that.”

Desire sparked deep in your core at his tone, and a devilish smile made its way to your face. He eyed you warily.

“Don’t do whatever you’re thinking about doing.” He warned, returning his attention to your breasts. “Behave. Can you do that for me?”

“Can you?”

The words were out before you could stop yourself. It was just so easy to talk back to him. He brought his teeth down around your nipple, biting hard enough to bruise.

“Brat.” He grunted, pushing himself off the bed completely. You whined at the loss of contact, but it quickly turned into a moan when Frank’s rough hands flipped you onto your stomach and slapped your ass hard enough to leave a mark.

“You’ll learn to be good.” One hand held your squirming form beneath him while the other came down in another harsh slap. “I’ll fuckin’ teach you if I have to.”

You moaned, louder and louder with every slap. Sure, you were a menace to the streets of Hell’s Kitchen and, likely, Frank Castle, but you never knew being bad could feel this good. Frank hoisted you up against him, roughly pressing your back into his chest.

“You’ll submit.” He whispered, nipping at the exposed skin on your neck. “I’ll make you. I dare you to try and stop me.”

He shoved you off of him, pulling his shirt over his head as you flopped down on the mattress. You tried to crawl further up the bed, but his hand clamped around your ankle and tugged you onto your stomach again. The position gave him a perfect view of your clothed cunt, which was thoroughly soaked in its current state.

“This underwear is pretty, baby.” He mumbled, running his fingers over the damp cotton. You squirmed beneath his touch, moaning as his fingers brushed against the part of you that needed him the most. “You wear these just for me?”

“Yes, sir.” You breathed, arching your back even more to give him a better view.

“Turn over, baby.” He instructed, gently prodding at your hips. You flipped over, splaying yourself out beneath his standing form, panting. “You’re good when you want something, aren’t you?”

“Who says I want something?”

Jesus. Christ. You really couldn’t help yourself. You sighed in disbelief at your own attitude. At this rate, he’d never let you come.

“Watch it.” He brought his hand down, slapping your clothed cunt in warning. You felt yourself clench around nothing, dying to be touched by him again. “You look delicious like this, kitten. I’m dying for a taste.”

His eyes flicked up to yours in question. Even after everything, he still wanted your consent before he crossed the next line. You nodded, and then winced as his eyebrows shot into his hairline and he brought his hand down in a harsh slap, connecting with your pussy again. “Words.”

“Yes. Yes, please, sir. Please taste me.” You corrected yourself, widening your legs.

“All you had to do was ask, sweetheart.” He sank to his knees, grinning. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, which surely would’ve gotten you another punishment, and tried to relax against the mattress.

“Look how pretty you are when you’re behaving.” He hummed, breath fanning over the soaked fabric. You whined as your pussy fluttered at his praise. He pressed a soft kiss to your mound, still refusing to remove the fabric simply because he knew it was driving you crazy. “You like it when I compliment you, kitten? Look at how wet you are, and I haven’t even touched you.”

“Yes, sir.” You breathed, swallowing hard. You were so turned on it was starting to hurt, but you knew if you complained he would stretch the process out even further. Instead, you leaned into the praise and hoped he’d give in soon. “I’m being good, right, sir?” You asked, legs trembling with anticipation. He kissed your mound again, eliciting a groan from deep within you.

“Yes, kitten.” He smiled against your pussy. “And good girls get rewarded. Right, baby? Hmm?”

You moaned loudly as he hummed against your wet core. “Yes! Yes, please.” You nearly screamed out.

And finally, finally, he pulled your panties down your legs, discarding them in his back pocket. He briefly sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, taking in the sight before him. You were glistening with wetness - so turned on from his words alone that you could quench his thirst for a year with the amount of arousal leaking from your cunt. He grunted, slowly remembering the game he was supposed to be playing with you.

And you tensed, noticing all of this. You may not know a lot about a lot of things, but you knew Frank Castle, and you knew how to read him. You knew exactly what he’d been thinking. For a second, you had forgotten that this was all one giant game to him. He didn’t miss the way your demeanor changed. His eyes slid to yours in question.

“What is it, honey?” He asked, voice still dripping with lust but also with genuine concern.

“I just-” You struggled to find the words, and then tried to sweep the entire interaction under the rug. You wanted his tongue on you, now. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

“Lying ain’t something good girls do.” He arched an eyebrow at you. You whined, pressing your head into the mattress.

“Is this a one time thing for you?” You asked, refusing to meet his eyes as you did so. It would be pretty embarrassing to be sent home in your current state - needy and wet - but not the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to you. You would not torture yourself by watching his eyes go from lusty to their usual cold demeanor.

“What do you mean?” He asked, running his thumbs over your hip bones.

“I mean,” you huffed, sitting up on your elbows and forcing yourself to look at him, “Will you call me after this?”

Frank’s face morphed into an understanding smirk. “Are you asking me to?”

You glared at him. He pinched your sides again. You rolled your eyes. “Yes.”

“Then I’ll call.” He said, and then his tongue was swiping through your folds, and you couldn’t do anything but flop back onto the mattress again and groan.

He lapped up the arousal that had been leaking out of you since he’d arrived earlier before focusing his efforts on your clit. His tongue drew figure-eights around your clit, sending shocking waves of pleasure through your body, and when he wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked, you were sure you’d died and gone to heaven.

“Fuck, princess, you’re so pretty.” Frank mumbled against your clit, sending a new spark of pleasure through you. “It pisses me off how pretty you are.”

“Please don’t stop.” You begged, legs shaking as you wrapped them around his head. His hand, which had been trailing closer and closer to your entrance, finally found its home, buried deep in your pussy. He pumped two fingers in and out of you, all the while sucking on your clit and going back and forth between praising and degrading you. You weren’t sure which direction was up.

“You just show up looking like a fucking goddess,” he punctuated the word with a harsh suck to your clit, “and expect me not to fuck you, princess? You’re begging to be fucked in those tight pants.”

He pumped his fingers faster and harder, sucking at your clit with more ferocity than you thought he was capable of. You were sobbing now, so close to the edge that you couldn’t stop the tears flowing down your temples and onto the comforter beneath you.

“You’re such a fucking brat sometimes, fuck.” He grunted. “But you’re so god damn pretty when you misbehave. You drive me fucking crazy, you know that?”

“Frankie.” You sobbed, moaning as he sucked on your clit again.

“You wanna come, baby, hmm?” He cooed. “Only good girls get to come, kitten. You think you’ve earned it?”

“Yes! Yes, sir!” You practically screamed it, your entire body shaking with anticipation of your release. “Please let me come, sir.”

“Well, when you ask so nicely, honey.” He shrugged before attacking your clit with his tongue again.

You erupted beneath him, coming so hard your vision blacked out. You could vaguely feel Frank holding your hips in place, but your body was mostly one spark of pleasure after another. Your heart thundered in your chest, mimicking the pounding in your core. Frank squeezed your thighs hard enough to bruise, lapping up every drop of your release, but you were so far gone you barely registered it.

You eventually returned to your body - sweaty, panting, and thoroughly taken care of. Frank was smirking, pressing soft kisses into your skin.

“See what happens when you’re not a brat?” He teased, kissing the valley between your breasts. “Good girls get rewarded, and you’ve been so good for me, kitten.”

“What’s my reward?” You gasped, still a bit hazy from your orgasm.

“What do you want it to be?” He nipped at your jaw, trading between soft kisses and little bites that were sure to leave marks.

“I want to-”

His phone began ringing in his pocket, a sharp and alarming ring that startled both of you out of your hazes. He reached into his pocket and cringed when he saw who it was.

“Who is it?” You asked, curious.

He flipped the phone around for you to see, and you immediately tensed up. Motherfucking Karen Page was calling Frank, and he looked like he wanted to answer it. Your haze was gone now - long gone - and you suddenly felt like crying.

“Answer it.” You taunted, though you thought you might really start to cry if he did.

“I don’t think I’m going to.” He responded, watching you carefully.

“No, really,” you said, attempting to sit up, “She might need saving, again.”

It was a low blow, and you both knew it. It wasn’t Karen’s fault that she wasn’t skilled in hand-t0-hand combat. There was a pattern, though, and no matter how many times she got herself into trouble, Frank and/or Matt were always there to save her.

“Watch your mouth.” He blocked your attempt to sit up, shifting his weight so that he was fully hovering over you. He silenced his phone and slid it into his pocket. “You’re being a brat again.”

Hot, shameful tears welled in your eyes.

“I’m not trying to be one. This is my personality.”

“Crying after the most mind blowing orgasm you’ve ever had?”

“No.” You mumbled, though you couldn’t stop the sneaking smile from forming on your face.

“You’re pretty when you smile.” He said, peppering kisses along your jaw.

“Careful, Frank.” You murmured. “It almost sounds like you care.”

He nipped at your neck, an already sensitive area, and you groaned against him.

“I do.” He said genuinely, pulling back to make eye contact with you. “But don’t you worry your pretty little head about that right now, princess. You’re about to be so cockdrunk that you won’t be able to see straight for a week.” Your pussy clenched as he grinded against you, the denim of his jeans rubbing against your sensitive clit, sending sparks of pleasure through your stomach for what felt like the millionth time that night.

“What about my reward?” You hummed, wiping stray tears away. “I still get that, right?”

“How could I forget?” He mumbled, nipping at the marked skin around your breasts. “Princess wants her reward. What do you want, sweetheart?”

“I want to suck your cock.” You said, straight-faced and innocent, blinking up at him with such softness that he looked on the verge of tears. “Sorry.” You mumbled, correcting yourself before he could, “I want to suck your cock, sir.”

“You’re a fucking angel.” He grunted, pushing himself off the bed and into a standing position again. You followed, reaching for his jeans. He grabbed your hands, briefly stopping them from tearing his jeans off.

“Are you sure you want this, princess? A reward is supposed to be about you.”

You sort of liked the way he called you princess now. Before, when it had been fist fights and anger, it sounded like an insult. But now, the gentle cadence he said it with made your heart clench in your chest.

“I want to.” You nodded, and smiled up at him. “Can I, please?”

He undid his belt with one hand, bringing the other up to cradle your jaw. His hand was massive on your face and neck, a reminder of how insanely large the man standing in front of you was.

“When you look at me like that,” he started, biting his lower lip and slightly shaking his head, almost like he couldn’t believe what he was saying, “I forget how fucking bratty you are. I just want to corrupt the innocent little smile of yours.”

“I come pre-corrupted.” You grinned, the feline smile returning to your face as you looked up at him. “But you’re more than welcome to try.”

You tugged at his boxers, revealing his achingly hard cock. Sucking in a breath, you tried to imagine all of it fitting inside you as he stepped out of the boxers. Your mouth watered when he stroked himself a few times, smearing the precum across the tip of his dick.

“You realize I can’t let another man touch you after this, right?” He asked, eyeing the way your tongue slid across your bottom lip. He shrugged. “You’ll never want another man, anyways.”

“You sound so sure of that.” You murmured, not fully comprehending the words coming out of your mouth. You flicked your eyes up, briefly meeting his gaze before returning to the matter at hand.

“That sort of sounds like that attitude that keeps getting you in trouble, princess.” He raised his eyebrows at you. You quickly rewound the conversation, blinking out of your cock-drunk haze.

“No. No, sir.” You shook your head, desperate to get your mouth on him. “Can I? Please?”

“That’s what I thought, baby.” He murmured, tucking your hair behind your ears. His hands traveled around your head, pulling your hair into a ponytail at the base of your neck. You slid off the end of the bed, sinking to your knees in front of him. “Go ahead, sweet girl.”

You wrapped a hand around the base of his cock and kissed the tip. He let out a slow breath as you grew bolder with your mouth. His salty pre-cum smeared across your lips, and you couldn’t stop yourself from dragging your tongue through it. He groaned, tightening his hold on your hair.

“I want you to fuck my throat, sir.” You murmured, looking up at him.

“You keep looking at me like that, I ain’t fuckin’ anything. Those fuckin’ eyes of yours are gonna be the death of me.”

“Didn’t realize you were so quick to-”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” He warned, arching an eyebrow at you. You grinned, stifling a giggle before wrapping your lips around him again. You pushed your head further and further down his cock, hollowing your cheeks and sucking as you went. When your nose brushed against his pubic bone, he let out a stunted moan, slightly thrusting into your throat.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you bobbed your head up and down with more fervor, begging him to fuck your mouth harder and faster.

“You look, fuck-” He couldn’t stop himself from groaning, which spurred your movements on even more. “You look fucking amazing like this, princess.”

You hummed with acknowledgment, hoping it was enough for him to keep thrusting into your throat. Tears freely streamed down your cheeks, surely smudging the eye makeup you’d put on before you left your apartment earlier that night, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Frank Castle was sliding his dick down your throat, and you were so turned on you could probably come just thinking about it.

Frank suddenly pulled out of your mouth, a trail of spit connecting your lips to him as he panted. “‘m gonna come if you keep doing that.” He explained when he noticed your furrowed eyebrows.

“Want it.” You breathed, reaching for him again. He instead pulled you to your feet in front of him, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“Another time, princess. The first time you make me come, I want it to be in your sweet little pussy.” He winked. “But don’t think I haven’t noticed how good you’re being.”

He pulled you into a kiss, sweeping his tongue into your mouth. You groaned at both the praise and the intensity in which he kissed you. Both set your insides on fire. He led you backwards until your legs hit the bed, and you couldn't help but nip at his bottom lip when he tried to pull his head back.

“Good girls don’t do that.” He smirked, pushing you lightly so that you’d flop onto the bed again. He ran a hand over your cheek, smudging your makeup even more before running two fingers along your bottom lip. You caught on, slowly wrapping your lips around his fingers and lightly sucking. “You’re not good, though, are you, princess?”

You shook your head. His eyes had darkened again, sending a familiar pounding to your core. Your legs trembled as he began to inch his fingers in and out of your mouth.

“You can be.” His voice had lowered considerably, barely above a raspy whisper. “You’re my good girl, aren’t you? Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me, princess. I won’t tell anyone.”

You whimpered, sliding your tongue around his fingers. Your skin was on fire, and the longer he stood there staring at you with those lusty eyes, the wetter you became.

“Can I fuck you now, princess?” He asked, transfixed on the fingers he was sliding in and out of your mouth. “You gonna be a good girl and let me ruin you?”

He pulled his fingers from between your lips, gripping your jaw tightly. He watched you, waiting for a response. You almost nodded, making the same mistake you’d made countless times already, but caught yourself at the last second.

“Yes.” You said, swallowing. “Yes, sir.”

“Lay back, princess. I’ll take good care of you.”

You laid back and widened your legs for him, noticing the twinkle in his eyes as you complied with his demand. If you were in your right mind, you might’ve said something witty or bratty to him about it, but he was towering over you, cock hard and ready to fuck you into oblivion, and you wanted him so badly. You groaned when he began running his fingers through your slick folds, already trembling.

“This all for me?” He asked, circling your clit once, twice.

You nodded, forgetting yourself for a moment, and yelped when his hand smacked your bare pussy. It didn’t hurt. In fact, you felt your pussy spasm in response, but you’d been so lost in how great his touch felt that you hadn’t realized you’d broken a rule.

“This all for me?” He asked again, rubbing your clit roughly with the heel of his hand.

“Yes! Yes, sir!” You whimpered, legs trembling when you felt the heavy weight of his cock resting on your pussy. He used it to slap the slickness a few times, eliciting a whine from deep in your chest. If he didn’t fuck you soon, you might actually die.

“Who does this belong to, baby? Whose sweet pussy is this?” He asked, smacking your pussy with his cock again.

You froze, knowing the answer he was looking for, but wondering if you wanted to lower yourself to that level. It was vulnerable to give yourself over to Frank this way, but it also wasn’t as terrifying as you thought it would be.

“Say it.” He encouraged, sliding his cock through your slick folds. “Submit, princess. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Is that a promise?” You taunted, trying not to groan at the friction against your clit.

“Quit being a fucking brat.” He grunted, lining himself up with your entrance. “Say it.”

“Yours. It’s yours, sir.” You whispered, and he buried himself deep inside you.

All the gentleness you’d experienced leading up to that moment was gone, and you couldn’t do anything but cling to Frank’s shoulders as he obliterated you.

“Fuck, you’re so tight, sweetheart.” He hovered over you, kissing, sucking, and nipping at every inch of skin he could reach. He was marking you everywhere - you didn’t miss the implications of that - and barreling into you over and over again.

“Say it again, baby.” He whimpered in your ear, the closest you’d ever come to hearing Frank beg. “Who does this sweet pussy belong to?”

“You, sir. It’s all yours.” You replied instantly, whining as he angled himself and pistoned deeper into you. You could barely think straight, only aware of where your skin ended and Frank’s began. “Fuck, Frank. Sir. I’m fu-” You panted, whimpering, “I’m close. ‘m gonna-”

“You look so pretty like this, sweetheart.” He murmured, ghosting his lips over your jaw as he pressed kisses to and nipped at your throat. “Cock drunk and needy. You’re so fucking pretty.”

“Sir, can I-” You shuttered when you felt his hand on your clit again, teasing it with rough, slow circles. “Oh, fuck.”

“You’ve got such a dirty mouth, baby.” He grinned, skimming his teeth along your jawline. “You drive me fucking crazy.” He punctuated the word ‘crazy’ with a deep thrust, pressing against the spongy spot deep inside you that would send you reeling. You whined, squeezing your eyes shut as you trembled around him. Tears cascaded down your cheeks, a sight he never wanted to stop seeing.

“You wanna come, princess?” He cooed, biting the sensitive skin on your throat and kissing the sting away.

“Please.” You gasped. It was the only thing you were capable of saying. You barely registered that you’d forgotten to call him sir, but he was so transfixed with the sounds you were making that he didn’t mention it.

“Princess gets what princess wants.” He mumbled, wrapping his arms around you and holding you steady as he pistoned into you at an indescribable pace. You fell apart beneath him for the second time that night, arching and panting and whining as you fluttered around him. He attacked your throat, jaw, and lips with kisses, licking and nipping at your skin.

“That’s it, baby.” He talked you through the overwhelming pleasure, holding you tightly against his chest as he continued to thrust into you. “You were such a good girl, honey. You did so good.”

You whined, fluttering around him at the praise. “I want another reward.”

In any other circumstance, your demand would’ve pissed Frank off, but you just looked so pretty underneath him. “Oh, is that so?” He asked, eyebrows raising. Amusement rang in his tone, and it emboldened you to keep speaking.

“Yeah.” You gulped, still shaking from your orgasm. “I already know what I want.”

“You’re sounding more and more like the brat I just fucked silly.” He said, gently thrusting into you. “Spit it out, baby. What do you want?”

You swallowed, smiling a little. “I want you to fill me up, sir.”

He paused, pressing his forehead to your shoulder and huffing a laugh. His warm breath sent goosebumps skittering across your skin. “You’re going to be the death of me, sweetheart.” He mumbled, kissing you sweetly.

“I was good, wasn’t I?” You feigned innocence, knowing it would send him closer to his relief. “And good girls get rewarded?”

“Yeah, baby.” He nodded, picking up the pace of his thrusts again. “Good girls get rewarded, and you were the best girl, baby.” He leaned into your hold, lips ghosting over the crest of your ear as he whispered, “I’m gonna fill you up, baby, and you’re going to walk around dripping into your pretty little panties all day tomorrow.”

You eagerly nodded, agreeing with him, and whimpered when he began thrusting into you at a relentless pace. You arched into him, nipping at his throat hard enough to leave a mark. “You’re perfect, baby.” He breathed. “Even when you’re being a brat. Wouldn’t have you any other way.”

His thrusts grew sloppier, his breaths coming in short, stunted grunts as he finally let himself go. His heart thundered in his chest, and you clung to him, kissing across the broad expanse of his body until he nearly fell on top of you in trembles.

You cradled his head against your chest, breathing in unison with him. At some point, his arms had wound around you, which meant you were now wrapped in each other’s arms, limbs tangled together as both of you came down from your highs.

“Holy shit.” Frank said, chuckling. “That is not what I was expecting when you called.”

“You gonna kick me out now?” You asked, half-joking. He tensed against you, lifting his eyes to meet yours.

“Don’t be a brat.” He nipped at your skin. “I’m not kicking you out, unless you want to leave.”

“Do you want me to stay?”

He nuzzled his head into the crook of your neck, sighing deeply. “Of course I want you to stay. I’m a fuckin’ gentleman, kitten.”

You scoffed, though you could feel yourself hiding a smile. “Whoever told you that clearly hasn’t heard you in the bedroom.”

He scoffed in mock-offense. “Are you saying you didn’t have a perfectly nice time just now?”

“I did.” You grinned. “I’m…sorry I said you weren’t good in the sack.”

He looked up, stunned. “Did the Black Cat just apologize? To me?”

You rolled your eyes, huffing. “Yeah, but no one would believe you if you told them.”

“I’m not sure that’s enough, princess.”

You scoffed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I think you need to admit to me that I’m incredible in bed and that you were wrong.” He was grinning so wide you had to resist the urge to punch him in his stupid, handsome mouth.

“I’m not doing that.” You shook your head, stifling a laugh.

“Do it.” He murmured, nodding.

“I refuse.”

“Please?”

“Absolutely not.”

You were both grinning at each other now.

“You’re such a brat.” He said.

“That’s what got us into this mess.” You countered.

“Just say it, princess. For me?” He pleaded. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

“Fine.” You gave in, rolling your eyes. “Frank Castle, you’re a sex God!”

He chuckled, pulling you tightly into his chest.

“Good girl.” He praised, kissing you softly.

“Do I get a reward?” You arched an eyebrow at him, smirking.

He smirked back, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Oh yeah, princess. Good girls get rewarded, remember?”

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