#for Reasons it would be sensible to get my ducks in a row before next week

[tenspontaneite]

S U F F E R I N G

Thank u for your enthusiasm, penny 👏

[watermelonlipstick]

Dreams, Chapter 11

If you haven’t read this series before, you might want to start on Chapter 1, or check out the Dreams Masterlist! Here’s the series description:

When Dean dies for good leaving Sam and his girlfriend (the reader) behind, they must figure out how to carry on without him. Alone, reeling, and unsure what to do next, trying to honor Dean’s memory and follow their hearts gets even more complicated when their nightmares become dreams that feel a little too real.

Title: Dreams, Chapter 11

Pairing: (past) Dean Winchester x Reader, (eventual) Sam Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 2616

Summary: Another dream makes things more clear for the reader and less clear for Sam.

Warnings: angst, fluff, swearing, s l o w  b u r n

           The booths are those plastic-coated pressboard swoops that are so easy to clean, one row down either side of the long room once you walk past the counter to order. Like other pizza places, there are red pepper flakes and grated parmesan on the table, but they also keep ranch dressing in a minifridge behind the counter as a concession to Midwestern sensibilities. You know you’re just outside Dayton just like you know the pizza shop is run by a family, father and two older teenage daughters deftly throwing dough and scattering cheese evenly over it in a way that shows their years of practice. Dean sits across the table with his elbows on it, one forefinger and thumb picking through a plate of nachos between you. His black t-shirt, amulet, and lack of flannel make you notice the hum of the air conditioner in the background, straining over the 90’s alternative radio and reminding you that you’d been here in a heat stroke the summer after you and Dean had gotten together, his golden freckles and lightened tips of his slightly messy hair underlining the memory.

           “They don’t serve nachos here.” It’s half statement and half question.

           “Babe, it’s your dream. They’ll serve whatever you want. Does the pizza suck in Wisconsin or something?”

           The two sisters are whispering to each other as they look over at your table, an almost-argument that ends with who you suspect is the older sister poofing a pinch of flour into the other’s face. They’re both cute girls but she’s adorable, soft cherubic cheeks and messy bun piling impossibly glossy hair on her head as she walks over to the table with a gigantic pizza. “Can I get you anything else?” she asks in a perfect welcoming cheerleader pitch.

           “I think we’re good for now, sweetheart,” Dean purrs with a wink. That you remember; you’d playfully chastised Dean for dazzling the teens, laughing in his face when he’d said it wasn’t on purpose, that he couldn’t help it if chicks dug him. The wink had proved your point then and now it makes the girl’s cheeks flush red.

           She catches herself remarkably well, the stammer almost slipping under the radar as she assures you that you can “holler if you need anything!”

           Dean brushes his fingers free of nacho debris and loosens a piece of pizza from the melting cheese of the ones next to it. “Last time you had all kinds of sweet nothings and questions for me and now you’re Silent Cal?”

           “I don’t think this is real, but I’m pretty sure if I push it you’ll either die in this dream or I’ll wake up, so my plan is to stay here as long as we can.”

           He drops the pizza back into the box and wipes off his fingers on a napkin before slouching into the booth, arm stretched across its length. “So test me then. Gimme a question only I would know or something.”

           “Well if I ask you something that I know the answer to, my brain will just project you knowing it. See the problem?”

           Dean squints and pouts in consideration, touch of a smile dancing across his face and if it isn’t the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen may you be struck dead right now. “Then ask me something you don’t know the answer to.”

           You think about explaining how that too could just be some part of your subconscious recreation of Dean but you don’t want to keep pulling at loose strings in the event that it wakes you up. It’s too hard to keep from smiling, seeing Dean charming and relaxed like this, and when you grin it makes Dean bite his lip. “What’s something I don’t know the answer to?”

           “Ah, ah—I thought I’m just a hologram, how would I know?”

           “Projection, but okay,” you stall. “Wait, here’s one. Sam said when I first started going on jobs with you guys that you had to have a conversation about staying focused. What was that all about?”

           He runs his tongue along the inside of his lower lip. “Man, why would he tell you that?” he says under his breath, smirking mostly to himself before leaning forward to meet your eyes. “Fine. I’m not even sure that you’re going to remember this. There was a vengeful spirit in Indiana, some like homesteader guy, ring a bell?”

           You have only the vaguest sense of recollection and sort of waggle your head to show it.

           “It was way at the beginning of when you started coming on jobs with us. You and Bobby got into it because he wanted you to bring your own car so you could ditch us if we were ‘acting like cretins’ or some shit like that?”

           That fits the last puzzle piece in for you and makes you chuckle. “He ended up giving me like $250 of mad money in case I needed a new room or a bus ticket, yeah. I remember.”

           “I didn’t know that part but that’s gotta be the same trip. The whole thing was really stupid. Basically we were supposed to have your six but both me and Sammy wanted to carry a shotgun instead of doing that protection spell because it looked cooler. We were arguing about it when the spirit whipped a chunk of the barn’s scaffolding at you and we didn’t catch it in time. You heard it coming and ducked so nothing ended up happening, but it fucking demolished the wall behind you. It was a huge fuckup—thing could’ve taken your head clean off, you know? Sam was so broken up about it he was wasted for like a week solid after we dropped you back off at Bobby’s.”

           “Really? That doesn’t sound like him at all.”

           “I know, usually he does some kind of pouty baby bullshit. But I mean both of us felt really guilty that bitching at each other could’ve taken you out.”

           Dean’s eyes rake over your face, seeming to linger over every inch like he’s going to draw a topographical map of it later by memory. You can tell he’s waiting for you to say something but you can’t think of anything other than tracing each of his freckles where they dust across his nose.

           A hand reaches over the table to run his fingertips along the back of yours, and that certainly feels real enough to send an ache into your gut. “What if you ask Sam? If he says that’s not what happened then you can keep saying I’m not real and you don’t have to listen to me.”

           “But he already basically told me that. The only thing I probably wouldn’t have guessed about that is Sam getting drunk about it—these could’ve been just well-informed guesses about when it probably was or the kinds of things it seemed like he was implying.”

           His lips press into a firm line and the barest touch of pink rises in his cheeks. “We, um, we pinky swore on it.”

           The adorableness of his embarrassment makes you grin teasingly as much as the divulgence does. “A pinky promise? You guys must’ve been pretty serious to take such a sacred oath.”

           He rolls his eyes at your ribbing and throws his hands back in his lap with a defeated smirk. “Laugh it up. Would that be good enough proof for you?”

           It seems like Dean has figured out a loophole in the system, but you’re sure the light of day and Sam’s scrutiny will figure out why it isn’t actual evidence of communication with Dean beyond death, and you tell him that.

           A curtain of suspicious confusion falls over Dean’s face. “Sam being weird about it is what’s keeping you from trusting this? Kid, I’ve been talking to Sa—”

           And you woke up.

           The bed was empty next to you but you could smell something sweet in the air and hear the light clinking of pots or pans Sam was trying his best to keep quiet. You blinked back a few tears of frustration—who even cared if it was real or not? Reliving a great memory with Dean was more than enough and instead of enjoying it you’d wasted a chance at some small respite from your constant ache of grief. And even then, you hadn’t used any of your time to figure out how the whole thing worked, how you could see him again.

           But the most pressing issue was what you thought Dean had been trying to say before disappearing; that he had gotten through to Sam. Sam, of course, deserved to have secrets, but if he had been sitting on the resolution to all the angst you’d been struggling through in the last weeks (months?), you couldn’t imagine a reason why that wouldn’t hurt. Nothing would be solved by laying in your bed to sulk about it, though, so you threw on some clothes and went to brush your teeth.

           When you came out, Sam was hunched slightly, the standard stove highlighting his decidedly non-standard height as he shuffled a pan’s handle. He had a dishtowel over his t-shirt clad shoulder, a habit from the bar that sometimes held over when he was in the kitchen at home, and bare feet under old jeans. They were wearing through at the knees, and you knew they were absolutely pajama-soft from having periodically thrown them in with your own laundry. Through the kitchen window, enough snow-brightened sunlight came into the room to cast him in a halo glow that gleamed off of his hair. As long as it had gotten, chunks still swept into his face as he looked down at the stove, and he tucked one behind his ear as he looked up, half-singing a Buddy Guy song that was playing softly. It was stunning—he was stunning, statuesque and strong and right there in front of you. Cooking you breakfast while you slept in, of all things, chocolate chip pancakes he had to have remembered were your favorite from ages ago. You couldn’t even remember the last time you’d had them and right now, nothing in the world sounded better. He beamed and tilted the pan toward you. “Morning! I made pancakes, you want some?”

           And you should’ve just let the moment rest, sat in the rare bright winter morning and eaten chocolate chip pancakes and relished how well the boiler was working, maybe later in the day read a predictable murder mystery or taped off the living room to be painted and listened to REM until your shoulders were sore from running rollers up the walls all afternoon. Instead, about as stupid and weird a flop as if a toad had come out of your mouth, you said, “Have you been talking to Dean too?”

           Sam’s face fell but not in the right way. There was too much angle in his brow and that confirmed it. “What?” he asked, but it didn’t land.

           “How long have you been talking to Dean?”

           He kept that curious smile for a second, like maybe he could push through by playing dumb and you would forget, but finally his lips flattened and his jaw clenched as he stacked a finished pancake on top of its predecessors. “Just because I’m having dreams about him doesn’t mean it’s really him,” he finally answered, softly and as though he was telling the bubbling pancake batter in front of him, unable to meet your eyes.

           You felt the lump forming in your throat and tried to get the words out ahead of its solidifying. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

           “For what?” He let go of the pan and turned toward you, supporting his weight on the countertop. “So we can both—”

           “Both what? Be delusional? Is that what you were going to say?”

           Sam didn’t answer, but the set of his jaw was firm and he kept his eyes locked on yours.

           “He told me you were drunk for a week after the hunt you were talking about.” You watched as Sam’s pupils widened a touch. “And that you didn’t just promise each other to buckle down, you pinky swore.” Sam’s Adam’s apple jumped in his throat. “It’s true, isn’t it? I can see in your face that it is. Did you already know it’s really him?”

           He looked down at the floor and clenched his jaw. “I was pretty sure. Or at least I really hoped I was pretty sure.”

           You felt more than consciously allowed your mouth’s falling open. “How? How long?”

           “It just—I don’t know, it just felt different. I—uh, the first time was after we made those cupcakes; he asked about the cupcakes.”

           You slumped against the countertop opposite him, speechless. He shoved the pan off the hot burner a little too hard, put a palm on either side of the stove to brace himself. The two of you stood like that for a long minute, the smell of chocolate not matching the stiff heaviness in the air at all.

           “I don’t—what if it’s not real?” His throat sounded bound even though you couldn’t see his face, hulking mass of him spread across the tiny kitchen.

           He seemed so defeated, so young, and then you couldn’t believe how selfish you’d been, not putting two and two together that something challenging Sam’s grip on or understanding of reality must shove him back to the brain melting torture he’d endured in the cage and the months—years, maybe, he was always so tight-lipped about it—afterward. What the fuck were you thinking, not seeing it before, how this could seem like a perfectly laid trap for Sam, the most poetic way to whip his mind into stiff peaks of meringue. It made so much sense why he would need time to really suss it out, see the situation from all angles and investigate, check and re-check. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes but you blinked them away. This was not about you or your complicated need for him, it was about Sam, what he’d been through, what he was likely putting himself through even now.

           “The, um, the pancakes smell really good.”

           “Yeah?” There was half a laugh behind his words, humorless as it was. “I hope they’re okay, I know they’re your, uh, your favorite.”

           “I’m surprised you remembered.”

           Sam leaned on one arm to rub his face with his other hand. “Yeah, well.”

           “Can I help?”

           After a beat, he stood up and offered some space next to him on the stove. You worked hip to hip, sprinkling the chocolate chips while Sam flipped. He was scraping the last of the batter into a last little runt pancake with a spatula when you couldn’t help yourself and wrapped your arms around his waist. He seemed surprised, if sad, before setting down the bowl and covering as much of you as he could, folding over you like a protective shell. It reminded you of that dirty motel room, months and months ago, when Sam held you together as you cracked in his arms. All he could do then was be steadfast in reminding you he was still there, if nothing else was, and you hoped you were able to give him the same now.

           You silently laid two place settings on the kitchen counter while Sam set the food out. He sat next to you and had picked up his fork when you touched his wrist to still him. “If it’s not real for you then I’m losing it too.”

           Sam thought for a second, then raised his forearm and kissed the back of your hand where you held onto him before cutting into his pancakes.

-

Continue to Dreams, Chapter 12

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[artificialqueens]

To New Hytes (Group fic) 2/? - Mac

AN: Again, this entire work would not be possible without my lovely betas Meggie and Grapefruit. You girls keep me young!

Summary: Blair and Kameron find themselves bonding over their respective passions, Brooke loses her cool at Vanessa, and Nina and Monet think they all should just make out.

Blair sat back and admired her work.

Vanjie - or as the young dancer has insisted - Vanessa, looked like a vision in gold. Blair patted herself on the back mentally for the fringe that hung off of her small frame ever so delicately.

“Now I know she said you ain’t performin’ for a few weeks, but thought I’d get your measurements and stuff done heada time.”

Vanessa gave her a winning smile.

“I don’t mind pretty girls like you takin’ my measurements.”

Blair blushed and ducked her head a bit. The young costume designer wasn’t used to getting compliments often, so she tried to ignore how her brain short circuited at the statement.

“What about shoes? You good in a heel?” She tried to change the subject.

Vanessa nodded. “Nothin’ too tall though. Can’t be breaking myself out there.”

Blair laughed lightly and turned to the closet on the far wall. She rifled through a few boxes before coming back with a sensible heel.

“I’m a size six.”

“I know.”

“Who told you?”

“Nobody. I just got a gift for knowin’ people’s sizes I guess.”

“Pretty and smart, huh?”

Blair blushed again. “A dancer and a flirt, huh?” she shot back.

Vanessa laughed, loud and unhinged. It took Blair aback for a moment before she let herself laugh too. It felt freeing in a way.

“Not to rain on your parade or nuthin’, and I appreciate the compliments, but I don’t date dancers.”

“Oh yeah? Too many broken hearts?”

Blair nodded firmly and Vanessa didn’t press the issue.

“Oh well.” Vanessa sighed overdramatically. “Guess I can settle for friends.”

Blair smiled. “Friends it is.”

…

Kameron never imagined she’d end up here.

Maybe she was torturing herself. Being so close to the thing she loved. The thing she still craved like a drug.

It didn’t happen suddenly either. She had been with the company since the beginning. When it was just a thought Brooke tossed out one drunken night.

Brooke, Nina, and Monet had gone over to Kameron’s place with the thought of going out and letting loose, but had ended up on her worn down furniture passing a bottle of wine around in a circle. Nina has been too focused on Monet’s antics to really hear the idea, but Kameron jumped up as soon as she heard it, albeit she jumped up gracelessly and almost fell back on her ass.

She smiled at the memory now. She doubted anyone knew that she was one of the original co-founders of the now acclaimed company. Not that she cared much for the recognition.

She had spearheaded the whole process, looking into spaces to rehearse and business laws. It was a lot of work and long nights. Brooke had been right there with her through it all though. It had been nice to have a friend, a sister almost, supporting her and putting in just as much work.

Nina and Monet had thought they were crazy. Off and running with this idea that was never going to pan out.

They were all fresh out of out of NYU after all. They were baby adults, living off of ramen noodles and Red Bull, but still…No one expected them to make it.

That was when Kameron had the idea. A YouTube channel. They could rent a dance space for a few hours and bang out three to four videos. She and Brooke performed duets and solos, any style they wanted. They had fun. Kameron sometimes would miss those days before their lives got so hectic. When she and Brooke would pass out on a studio floor because they had filmed in one night enough videos to last them a week.

The channel grew slowly, and then not so slowly. Almost overnight they had amassed enough followers and garnered enough views to buy their own studio. It was teeny tiny and run down. It needed a lot of TLC for sure, but it was theirs.

Almost overnight the dance world was looking to them for the next big thing. It was incredibly intimidating, scary even, but Brooke and Kameron were ready.

Nina agreed to stage mom duties as well as marketing, and Monet enthusiastically accepted the offer to take pictures, dusting off her old camera.

It was all starting to come together.

Then it all went wrong.

Kameron quickly pulled herself out of those thoughts. The memory of a too bright stage light still burned her eyes.

“Are you ok?” came a small voice to Kameron’s left.

Kameron had been so lost in thought that she hardly realized she had been sitting on the floor for nearly ten minutes now, back leaning against a large speaker.

Kameron sat up immediately and looked at Blair. The sweet girl was looking at her, concern creeping into the reassuring smile she gave.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Well, your nose is bleeding a bit there.”

Kameron’s hand shot up to touch lightly at her aforementioned affliction. When she pulled her hand away, bright red coated her fingers.

“Come here, darlin’, come sit with me.”

Kameron bit back her reply that this happened all the time, curiosity getting the better of her.

Blair took Kameron’s hand and the older girl surprisingly didn’t jump at the contact.

Blair weaved through the backstage area like she had done it a million times before. Kameron supposed she had. The costume designer rarely made it out on stage, except during rehearsals to solve a fashion emergency, so moving around in the shadows must have been a frequent pastime of hers.

Blair opened the door to her small office space off near the side exit of the theatre. It was cluttered with half-finished garments on every surface and sketches that lined the walls. The mannequins looked passively at the two as they made their way to the stools near the back of rows of costumes.

Blair tilted Kameron’s face up with the pads of her fingers that left sparks in their wake. Kameron looked up at her as the young woman searched for tissues in the crowded workspace.

Kameron let her eyes wander around the office until they fell on a nearly finished sketch hanging out of a notebook on the desk.

“What’s that one? It doesn’t look like any of the girls we have on tour.”

“Oh that’s nothin’.” Blair quickly shoved the paper back in the notebook, but winced at the crinkling sound it made.

She came to stand in front of Kameron, eyes trained on the red liquid still fresh around her nose. Blair dabbed at it hesitantly, almost as if she were scared to hurt Kameron. Kameron’s heart surged at the thought.

Blair studied the area closely, but avoided eye contact. She resolutely kept her eyes trained on the afflicted area, and no higher. It made the tension in the room raise noticeably.

When Blair was satisfied with her work, she sat down in the stool across Kameron, their knees would be touching if Blair hadn’t pulled hers closer to her body, almost unconsciously.

“All better.”

Kameron smiled at her and Blair smiled back. It was a rare moment of silence. Of peace.

They both started laughing at the same time. Breaking the silence and the ice between the senior stage crew member and the costume designer. They must have looked crazy. Sitting and laughing at each other like old friends.

They hardly knew each other, really. If you didn’t count passing greetings in the hallway they were perfect strangers. Still, Kameron hadn’t laughed this hard in a while. It was refreshing and terrifying that this person, this stranger, could bring a part of her she thought she’d lost, to the forefront.

Kameron stuck out her hand. “I’m Kameron, but everyone calls me Kam.”

“Nice to finally meet you, Kameron. I’m Blair.”

“Oh, I know who you are. I’ve seen you around before. Never said ‘hi’ or anything ‘cause most people treat us crew members like we got the plague.”

Blair suddenly looked seriously at her. “I’m sorry for that. Y’all are the reason the whole show is possible, I imagine it’s frustratin’ not havin’ your hard work appreciated.”

“You’re one to talk! The costumes you make, you make from scratch, yeah? All of them original and come from your head. That is a talent that goes underrecognized, I bet.”

Blair blushed and looked down, avoiding eye contact. “Well, yeah, I suppose. But I’m not in it for the recognition. I just love designin’, ya know?” Blair looked up, meeting Kameron’s eye finally. “You ever had that thing you love more than anythin’ else in the world, and nothin’ could ever take you from it. Like even if you tried you couldn’t give it up?”

Kameron nodded. She did have something like that once.

“Show me your favorite design then. Something you wouldn’t give up for anything in the world.”

“Oh, I don’t have a-”

“Don’t give me that. I know you’ve got one. C’mon, I’m sure it’s just as phenomenal as all the other ones, if not more so.” Kameron winked.

Blair blushed and looked away again. Kameron thought she looked even more beautiful with color high on her cheeks.

Blair stood up and turned back to the notebook Kameron had eyed earlier. She opened it up and Kameron saw every page covered in different outfits on the same model. The model girl looked nothing like any of the dancers they had in the company.

As if sensing her question, Blair quickly rambled out, “She isn’t supposed to be anybody in particular! Just a model for the outfits. I don’t know why she keeps popping up in my head, but when she does, I sketch out a costume for her and send her on her way.”

Kameron looked up at her with a goofy smile.

“I’m not crazy! I know I sound it sometimes,” Blair defended herself.

Kameron laughed. “You don’t sound crazy at all. But you are lying to me.”

Blair looked taken aback for a moment before Kameron explained. “She is somebody in particular. Who is she?”

Blair sighed. “You’re good at that, ya know? Readin’ people.”

“I know,” Kameron answered confidently.

Blair laughed but it was with less joy than before. “Her name was Brianna. We dated for almost three years. She danced and I did her costumes.” Kameron nodded along, encouraging Blair to keep going, if she wanted. “We worked well together, ya know? One of those couples that just worked.” Blair took in a breath. “And when it stopped workin’, we just didn’t mention it. We pushed on for the sake of her career, and mine too, but mostly hers.”

“Wait, Brianna Palandrani?”

Blair groaned. “Yup. That’s the one.”

“She married that Giovanni guy right? The heir to that million dollar makeup company?”

“They got married a week after we broke up.”

“You’re kidding! Oh my god Blair, I’m so sorry.”

Blair shrugged. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s really not. That’s horrible.”

“Her career was important to her, I always supported that, but then it became more important than me and my feelins.”

“I’m so sorry, Blair. You deserve better.”

“Thank you.”

“I mean it.”

Blair swallowed heavily, the tension was suddenly back, but it felt a bit different this time. “What’s done is done. But I made a promise to myself that day: no more dancers.”

Kameron’s heart sank a bit at that. “So you decided to surround yourself with them every day of your life? Seems a bit counterintuitive.”

“I’m puttin’ my career first. For the first time, I’m being selfish and focusin’ on me. Gettin’ my designs and name out there.”

Kameron smiled wide. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Kameron.”

“You can call me Kam, you know, everyone else does.”

“I like Kameron. It suits you.”

It was Kameron’s turn to blush.

Their little bubble of peace was suddenly broken by a disheveled Yvie slamming the door open, looking around the room wildly.

“Kam. We may need you onstage.”

Kameron looked at her quizzically, but followed after the contortionist. She shot one last apologetic look at Blair before the door shut silently behind her.

…

Never in her life had Brooke yelled at someone like this. Let alone one of her dancers.

“You can’t speak to me like that, I’m your boss!”

“You sure don’t fuckin’ act like it. Gettin all mad and shit from a little comment. Not very professional of you, mami.”

Vanjie was calm, collected, and cocky, which made Brooke lose it even more.  

“What the hell would you know about acting professional?”

“Clearly a bit more than you, since I’m not currently screaming at one of my employees.”

Brooke was seeing red. She wanted to scream some more, wanted to put the fear of god into Vanjie. Wanted to wipe that smug fucking smile off her face for good. And suddenly it hit her like a ton of bricks.

It took all her willpower not to smirk triumphantly. She breathed in and out and suddenly, Brooke was composed, calm, yet predatory.

“I’m sorry, Mateo. That was out of line.”

Vanjie’s jaw nearly fell to the floor. Everyone’s jaw nearly fell to the floor. Was Brooke Lynn Hytes, the Head Bitch herself apologizing? To Vanjie of all people?

Vanjie didn’t have a response. Didn’t have any words.

Brooke let herself smirk at that reaction. She wasn’t going to give Vanjie the fight she was aiming for. She was going to give her the opposite. Two can play at Vanjie’s game. And Brooke hated losing.

Brooke turned her head to her other dancers and raised her eyebrows expectantly. “The show must go on, ladies. Up and at ‘em. Let’s go.”

The dancers quickly made their way up the stage, shock still clear on their faces, but the boss was still the boss, apology or not.

Brooke surveyed them for a few minutes before she decided to cool down in her office. She made her way up the stairs but paused when she reached the office door.

She heard muffled voices through the wood.

…

Nina sat in her and Brooke’s shared office. Brooke liked to think of it as her own office, but as Nina did all the heavy lifting, she considered it a shared office.

Monet was sitting in the armchair across from the desk looking through photo after photo from the camera around her neck. Nina watched her. She found herself watching the younger girl a lot these days. Call it mere exposure effect, call it fate, call it the lack of girlfriend, Nina didn’t care. She liked looking at Monet. Liked how the younger girl carried herself. Liked that she put others first.

“Any salvageable ones?”

Monet smiled, still looking down at her camera.  “Hmmm, I dunno. You tell me.” She hopped up from her seat and came around the desk to stand next to Nina. She pulled out her memory card and some device Nina still couldn’t figure out, although she was sure Monet had explained it to her many times over. Monet plugged the device into the computer and they waited in a comfortable silence for a few seconds before the pictures popped up.

Nina clicked on the first few. They were of Violet, of course. Monet had admitted once that Violet was her favorite to take pictures of. “She gives so many good angles, and there’s not a flaw to be seen on that bitch.” Nina had rolled her eyes.

Monet pulled up a chair and the two sat side by side scrolling through pictures. Most of them were incredible, as always, a few were silly candids. The one that caught Nina’s eye though was a picture of herself.

It was of her backstage, with the stage lights in front of her. It was clearly edited with a black and white filter over it, but it didn’t look staged. It looked organic. It captured Nina in her favorite spot, just offstage. Supporting her friends and their passion. It looked like some artsy film project from college. She looked majestic. Nina paused on it for a minute.

Monet looked at her worriedly. “Sorry, I-”

“It’s beautiful.” Nina meant it.

Monet shrugged. “I had a lot of beauty to work with.”

Nina could have snapped. Could have acted on the growing attraction they both had been feeling for the past few months. Could have just leaned over right then and kissed Monet senseless.

She didn’t.

Monet broke the suddenly thick tension with a cough. “There’s more.” She reached across and clicked to the next picture. It was another picture of Nina, this time, her face was visible and she was looking off - probably at one of the dancers - she looked so incredibly happy. Monet blushed and clicked through what must have been at least twenty more photos before finally coming to one that wasn’t of Nina.

This one was of Brooke standing with her arms crossed looking up at an equally cocky looking Vanessa.

“I think you captured their dynamic perfectly.”

Monet laughed again, effectively breaking up the tension a little more. “Honestly, I’m waiting for one of them to snap and just start sucking face one day.”

“Me too!”

“No way, you were getting that vibe too! God, I swear they just need to fuck some of that anger out of each other, maybe it would make Brooke less uptight.”

“Hey!” Nina said defensively.

“Oh bitch, we all friends, don’t pretend she hasn’t been a stick in the mud since she became the boss.”

“She’s just stressed,” Nina insisted, less forcefully this time as the smile started to eat away at her face.

“Know how she could get some of that stress out?”

Nina laughed and it echoed around the room.

…

Brooke’s mouth hung open so long she was surely going to swallow a bug.

Did her friends really think she was into Vanjie? Sure the girl was hotter than hell. Sure she met every one of Brooke’s comebacks with an equally snarky one. Sure she had wormed her way into Brooke’s mind from day one. Sure Brooke thought about her all the time.

DidBrooke like Vanjie?

“Fuck.” Brooke was pulled out of her thoughts by the door to her office being swung directly into her face.

“Oops! Sorry, B!” Monet apologized immediately, then she paused. “Wait, how long have you been standing there?”

“Since you two started flirting, so, the whole time.”

Monet blushed but pushed past Brooke and headed for the stairs she had just come up. “Well, you know what they say about eavesdroppers,” she spoke over her shoulder.

“What do they say?” Brooke called after her.

“They only ever hear the truth.”

[qqueenofhades]

alone, i fight these animals [alone, until i get home]: ii

I.... have no clue if this qualifies as a proper multichapter, but I discovered myself wanting to do a second part to this, so that is what I did. It was mostly an excuse to write some Frank/Madani and Frank/Matt frenemy BROTP, because I have a need for that.

If this turns into a real fic, I will post it on AO3. I have no idea at this point, and have not actually done something sensible like plotting it out, but yes.

The engine dies with a rumble, as Frank switches it off and leans back in the driver’s seat, watching the docklands with a wary eye. The car is an old beater of a Chevy, outwardly indistinguishable from any other low-slung growler that might be cruising around here, but he doesn’t go to meetings like this without enough horsepower to make a fast getaway. Frank modified it himself and keeps it in the garage with the battle van, which luckily he hasn’t had to bust out for a while, and it’s a little less eye-catching than that big black beast. Serves the same purpose, though. He tends to change up the paint job, add or remove accessories. Doesn’t want to get distinctive, identifiable.

He’s said that he’ll be here for ten minutes exactly and then he’ll leave, so Madani, if she’s coming, better be fuckin’ punctual. He doesn’t know that he trusts her to look like anything other than a federal agent rolling up to a clandestine meet with a confidential informant, but she must have climbed the ladder by not being an idiot. There’s still the chance that she’s going to spring handcuffs on him for that scene the other night, but Frank doesn’t think so. She needs his help with catching the rest of the ring, whether or not she’ll admit it. That’s the reason for this. Everything else is brass tacks and haggling.

It’s minute seven and forty-three seconds when Madani, having apparently decided that she doesn’t want to time their arrivals to coincide exactly, but conscious of the deadline, turns in. Frank can’t tell it’s her at first, which is a good sign, but does make him reach momentarily for his gun. Then the other car parks with a crunch of gravel, a slight figure in a jacket, hooded grey sweatshirt, and jeans gets out, and strolls across the icy pavement to his. He clicks the door to unlock it, and Madani ducks into the passenger seat, wrinkling her nose. “You ever heard of Febreze, Castle?”

“Don’t think you came here to complain that my shit stinks, huh?” Frank glances at her, trying to judge her temperament for being difficult. Her dark curls wave out of the hood, she probably has her badge clipped right under her sweatshirt, and he can just feel her longing to brandish it in his face. “Or if that’s your opening line, you already know you’re backed into a corner, and you need to act like you can throw your weight around before you ask for a favor.”

Madani gives him a searing look. “I have no idea why I came here.”

“You asked for it.” Frank leans back in the seat, hands behind his head. “And I think we’re past you pullin’ rank on me, acting all fuckin’ superior, aren’t we?”

Madani chews that over for several moments, which means she can’t dispute it. “Fine,” she says at last. “I still don’t necessarily think you’re a good man, Frank, but you don’t give a rat’s ass whether I think that or not, and in this job, you don’t get the luxury of working with Mother Teresa all the time. You were, admittedly, effective with breaking the pedophile ring. We did run some diagnostics on their computers, and we have more names.”

Frank snorts – breaking the pedophile ring is the most goddamn government-jargony way he has ever heard to say blew their fucking brains out, and he used to work for an actual black-ops hit squad. “You’re welcome,” he says, since she’d probably choke on it. “Told you.”

“Yeah, all right, fine.” Madani waves an irritated hand. “Anyway, there has been a lot of red tape in the office recently, bullshit with the budget, obsession with going after softer targets. You know this administration and the kind of people it thinks are a threat. So – ”

“And you, as Special Agent in Charge, don’t always agree with the strings they pull to make you dance?” Frank could gloat over this a little more, but there will be time for that later. “Going rogue? You want to talk to me because you know I get results, when those dickheads just sit there with their thumbs up their ass and do jackshit to actually help?”

“Something like that.” It’s clear that Madani has plenty of frustrations, whether or not she’s going to let on to him. “I still believe in our institutions, no matter who’s running them, but it’s true that things are taking a… turn right now, and I’m under a lot of scrutiny. If I can’t even push through an operation to take a bunch of child abusers off the street, then…” She trails off. “I still don’t know whether to thank you for that or not, by the way. They’re dead, but it looks like I blew it and once again, a vigilante had to wipe the U.S. government’s ass. They want an excuse to fire me, Frank. I’m asking you to help not give them one.”

Frank takes that in without answering, He can guess that Madani is too female and too ethnic to make the douchebags of record very comfortable; as the daughter of Iranian immigrants, even a thoroughly Americanized one, these chickenshits are constantly going to be looking for an excuse to pull the trigger, so to speak. And if Madani goes, whatever tenuous protection he has from DHS reopening his case goes as well. There are plenty of assholes jockeying to take over her chair, and all of them would love to make a big splash by catching the Punisher. Normally, Frank thinks, they bend over fuckin’ backwards to defend white men with guns, but not when he won’t play ball with you. That’s different.

“Fine,” he says. “And to save your ass, you’re the one here asking for more help from me. What do you think I’m going to do?”

“I can transmit the intelligence to you,” Madani says. “Names, aliases, assets, last known whereabouts, everything the analysts have managed to piece together. These guys are nasty, Frank, they aren’t just making kiddie videos on the Deep Web. They’ve got a lot of other interests, and all of them are equally bad. I need you to track them down.”

“And?” Frank stares at her, one eyebrow cocked. “What do you think I’m gonna do next? Give them fuckin’ milk and cookies?”

“Of course not.” Madani sounds exasperated. “You really think I don’t know what you do, Frank? But as it happens, yes, I’m asking you not to kill them. Track them down, capture them, hurt them if you have to, but don’t kill them. I need them, I need them physically to show the brass and to prove that I succeeded. After that, all the stuff they’re in, the prosecutors can probably push for the death penalty. They’ll die one way or another, if that’s what you want. But if I don’t get them alive, it all falls apart.”

“I’m not a goddamn bounty hunter,” Frank snaps. “I’m a killer. I don’t take prisoners, Madani. I’m supposed to – what, get on a plane with these assholes tied up in a line behind me? If you’re asking me to go outside the rules and get them, you want them dead.”

“It’s not like I’m defending them!” Madani barks back. “I know they’re terrible! But if they just die mysteriously, I have pretty much no shot at keeping my job, and then there are going to be people looking for you, Frank. Looking for you and Karen. How much do you want to risk that? It seems like you’re a little more settled these days. Have something to lose.”

“You threatening me?” Frank whirls on her. “You threatening me, huh?”

“No.” Madani, to her credit, keeps her composure, though her nostrils flare. “I’m warning you. If I’m not in charge of DHS, it’ll look for you. Whoever you’re with is going to come into the firing line too. I’m sure you don’t want anything to happen to her.”

Frank doesn’t answer, though his finger twitches so violently that his entire hand jumps on his thigh. Goddamn it, Madani. She has his balls in a fuckin’ vise, has him bent over a barrel, and the worst thing is that she probably knows it. He can’t play games with Karen’s safety, even if every one of his natural instincts is to just cap the bastards in the head and call it a day. Madani needs them alive for her little stage play, and Frank – whether or not he wants to admit it – needs Madani where she is right now. It’s at least in some part due to her that he can walk around New York as a free man, even one ostensibly called Pete Castiglione. That’s a flimsy alias, and any digging, or anyone even looking too long at his face and a newspaper front page, would be able to piece it together. If he wants to keep this life, whatever it is, he can’t just charge in, blow shit up, and charge out. He needs to be strategic about this. Long-term. Fuck.

“So what?” he growls at last. “You give me the intel, I track down these bastards, I give them to you for a Christmas present? You do Christmas?”

“Yeah.” Madani rubs under her eyes with both fingers. “My parents thought it was an important part of an American upbringing. Any other questions?”

“And after you show them to the bosses, you check whatever godforsaken boxes you have to check, you prove you’ve run the operation, they die.” Frank is willing to help her, if it contributes to keeping Karen safe, but he isn’t going to budge on that point. “They don’t get some cushy life in protected custody. You’re going to arrange it somehow that they die, and I don’t mean waiting ten years on death row. Got it?”

Madani’s cheeks flush a dull red. “I really don’t want to be an accomplice to extrajudicial murder, Frank. No matter how terrible they are.”

“Well, that’s what makes you and me different.” Frank grins mirthlessly. “Besides, you play your cards right, it doesn’t stick to you. You know you’re taking a hell of a chance here, don’t you? All these under-the-table arrangements with me come out, you’re finished one way or the other. But you think you can do it on your own, you’re welcome to run back to your department and sign all your paperwork and follow procedure. Have fun.”

The silence is briefly and overpoweringly enormous. Then Madani says, “Fuck you, Frank.”

“Take that as a no?” It’s starting to get chilly in the car, with the engine off and the temperature below freezing, and Frank blows on his hands. “No, you can’t do it alone?”

“I obviously would not be here if I thought things were going well on my end.” Madani sounds like she would prefer to have her fingernails ripped out rather than admit it, but she doesn’t have a lot to lose now. “Obviously, I’m sure I can trust you to total discretion. If you need money or something else, I can arrange it. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I can handle money.” They’re obviously not living on Karen’s newspaper/paralegal salary alone, and David gave him a nice chunk of change a while ago, which is kept in a bank in the Caymans. “But last time one of us sent the other some kind of sensitive information – when David sent you the Zubair video – we know what fuckin’ happened next. If anything, if any bit of this, catches up to Karen in any way, we’re done, Madani. We’re done. I will rip anyone who comes after her to fucking pieces, and I don’t give a shit if they’ve got a government badge or not. I’ll help you stay in DHS if DHS is going to mind its goddamn business. But if you get some other kind of conspiracy going, anything like Rollins, I’m warning you right now. I will kill all of you. I am not fucking joking.”

Madani takes that without answering, though her lips tighten. “I’m aware,” she says at last. “You’re a loose cannon, Frank, but we want the same things, the same people taken down. Let’s start there. You let me handle my end of the BS, I let you handle yours. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” Frank grumbles, even though he still has plenty of misgivings. Maybe he should leave, should move out and get his own place somewhere, even if he doesn’t want to move back into that goddamn basement with David again. It feels like it’s too unforgivably dangerous to keep living with Karen, but letting her alone is even worse. Jesus. “Send me the information and be careful with it. I’ll maybe talk to Lieberman, see if he wants to help, but he’s got his family back. I’m also telling you now, nothing happens to Sarah and those kids. They’ve been through enough. See to it.”

Madani pauses, then nods. They reach out, shake hard enough as if trying to break each other’s fingers, and then she jerks the door open and climbs out, striding back to her car. Frank scans to see if anyone’s parked on a rooftop or has been loitering too long by the underpass, but their meeting looks to have been unobserved. He swears again under his breath and switches back on the engine, firing up the heater, and waits until Madani’s car has vanished down the alley before he throws the Chevy into reverse and peels out in the other direction. Well, that was a whole bunch of shit, and he doesn’t even know how far he’s already dug himself into it. Maybe if he had just left it alone to start with and never went after the ring, but that’s more than he was prepared to countenance. Makes him see red every time he thinks about it. Frank doesn’t see himself as some kind of sainted protector of the city. Far from it. But he was born in Long Island, he grew up here, he left for the first time at age eighteen on his first deployment, and while he’s been plenty of places since, there’s still something about New York that has a hold on him, broken and blackened and painful as it’s become. He loves this place, even if it hates him. He wasn’t letting them live in it.

Frank guns it down the service road back to the main thoroughfare, turns out, and drives back to the out-of-the-way garage where he keeps this car and the battle van. He pulls in, unlocks the chain link fence, rolls through, and parks, then can’t help searching for any signs of intrusion or forced entry. He has no idea who he would expect to be here, if anyone, but that long-ingrained urge to look over your shoulder, to check your six, that never goes away. Madani said the pedos had plenty more nasty friends. Could be any one of them.

Everything, however, looks ordinary. Frank makes a note to ask David for some more cameras, keep more of an eye on this place from afar, and wonders if he can really ask him to strap back on and wade into the shit again. David isn’t a soldier, and he got involved in this to start with to clear his name and be reunited with his family. He got that. Not much incentive to risk them all over again, much as he might personally want to help Frank out or feel indebted to him. Frank has some tech know-how, but he’s probably overall comparable to David trying to fire an AK-47. In other words, totally fucked.

Frank thinks that the lack of a partner has never bothered him before, the fewer people he can involve in this low-level shitstorm the better, and he’ll work out what he needs to. Having finished his sweep, he locks up, battens down, and catches a bus into midtown, briefly tempted to stop by Nelson, Murdock, and Page just to make Foggy choke on his tongue. Stroll in and bring Karen lunch, just because. But now, he wants to be cautious about going straight from a meetup with Madani to the office. He hasn’t told Karen about this new wrinkle yet, and he still doesn’t know whether he should. Probably. They just had a fight about it, and he can’t just disappear for days or weeks without an explanation. It’s always easier to do this work when you have no one to account yourself to, but he can’t lose her.

Still coming up with no apparent solution to his dilemma, Frank buys a hot dog from a sidewalk cart and sits on a park bench to eat it, scattering the remains of his bun to a flock of ravenous pigeons when he’s done. It’s cold but clear, New York running around and getting ready for Christmas, and he once more feels that impulse, that wish that he could kick back and enjoy it. But who knows. Who fuckin’ knows.

Frank sits there a moment more, then growls, “Shit.” This doesn’t do anything, it doesn’t even really make him feel better, but it’s an acceptable reaction to what he has to do. David is a glib son of a bitch who’s great with a keyboard – and has admittedly saved Frank’s ass a couple times – but if this is going to come down to brass-knuckle diplomacy, which it almost assuredly will, Frank needs someone who can fight, who is just as annoyingly dedicated to getting bad guys off the street and out of New York, and is equally insane enough to keep running full speed into punches. Yeah, they have some pretty major philosophical oppositions, but still. This looks like a two-vigilante job, at fuckin’ least, and besides. Maybe they should be, you know. Friends. For Karen’s sake.

Frank swears again, then pulls out his phone, scrolls through it to “R,” and hits the number. He swiped it from Karen’s, and the recipient doesn’t know he has it, so this is going to be a surprise, and could of course horribly backfire. But he waits a few more moments until it’s answered. “Murdock.”

“Uh.” Frank blows out a breath. “Hey, Red.”

There is a very long silence on the other end, as Frank realizes that they’ve never had an actual conversation where he’s made it clear he knows the deal. But come on. He ain’t fuckin’ stupid. (Plenty of people would disagree, but nearly all of them are dead.) He sat up there on that rooftop with Red yammering at him, then he sat in court with Murdock going on just as annoyingly, he put two and two together. He’s always acted like he didn’t know, just because Red has a bug up his ass about the secret identity shit, and besides, Karen knows, Karen told him anyway. Not that Frank would say that, because he figured it out himself, and he’s not gonna throw her under the bus if Murdock gets pissy. Well, this is already fun.

“Frank,” Matt says at last, sounding… well, let’s just say, not goddamn thrilled. “Why are you calling me?”

This is a fair question, and Frank hunts for some kind of explanation that won’t immediately make him hang up. “Karen’s fine, Karen’s fine,” he says, in case that’s what Matt thinks would be the only reason to make him get in touch. “Not any of that. I actually had a suggestion. For some work. If you were interested.”

“Work?” Matt sounds leery. “What the hell kind of work, exactly?”

“The kind you and me both do, Red. Take some bad people off the streets.”

“I didn’t realize you – ” Matt starts, then stops. “I didn’t know you… knew.”

“Yeah, well, we already established you were a dense motherfucker.” Frank switches the phone to the other shoulder, even as it belatedly occurs to him that maybe he shouldn’t be insulting the guy whose help he is, regrettably, asking for. “You were my goddamn lawyer, think I don’t know how you talk?”

There is another mulish silence as he can hear Matt chewing over that, wanting to ask how long he’s known, if he’s told anyone else, all that. Murdock might be tangentially aware that Frank and Karen are knocking boots, but does not want to have to actually refer to it in any capacity, and Frank is tempted to make a smart remark on that topic, just cuz. But he’s not going to be a dick to Karen, even in absentia, to score a couple cheap macho asshole points on a blind lawyer in a Halloween costume. Instead he says, “You want to know more or not?”

“Does this involve murdering the bad people? Because if so, you know I can’t agree to that.”

“Jesus, Red. They’re about as bad as you can get, even you don’t want to hand-hold these bastards and take them to Sunday school. I can send you the details once I get ‘em, but either way, they need to be stopped. Doing some fucked-up shit, a lot of fucked-up shit, actually. So?”

“Fine,” Matt growls, as Frank figured he eventually would. “Let me know the intel whenever you get it.”

“You need some Braille shit or something?” Frank asks. “Or you have something that reads your email for you?”

“I got through Columbia Law, you know I’m not actually an idiot. Just send it, I’ll work on it from there.” Matt pauses. “You told Karen about this?”

Frank feels like Matt Murdock is the least qualified individual to give anyone advice on this subject whatsoever, especially about this woman, and it’s only with difficulty that he bites himself back from something designed to cut. “No,” he says. “Not yet.”

It’s hard to tell what Matt thinks of that, especially over the phone. Then he says, “Obviously, I think the one thing we can agree on is that we don’t want this to spill over onto her. So whatever we’re chasing here, we need to keep her safe.”

Frank knows that wanting to keep Karen out of this has worked exactly like jackshit in the past, and he knows too that she’s strong and capable and no wilting hothouse flower, would probably shoot some of the dicks herself if she had half a chance. But he understands what Matt’s saying, given that he just outright threatened Madani to be sure none of this touched Karen, and doesn’t want to torpedo their alliance at this preliminary stage. “Yeah,” he grunts. “She stays out of it, much as we can. That’s not a problem. Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Matt says. “You’re still a total asshole.”

“Get that a lot.” It is not, Frank feels, entirely inaccurate, even as he rolls his eyes, because Christ, it’s rich coming from this prick. “Talk to you later, Red.”

With that, feeling as if it’s better to get out of there before things go any more south, he hangs up and stares at the phone, not sure he feels a whole lot better. He’ll go to the safe house tonight, where David still keeps his computers and surveillance setups, since that’s where Madani will be transmitting the information, and Frank likes to periodically check for signs of interference anyway. He gets up, chucks the hot dog paper tray away, and heads out. Takes a different route than he did in. Gets off a stop too early, and doubles back a few times. Once he’s finally satisfied that nobody followed him, he reaches the safe house, unlocks the chains, and heads inside. They’re not actually living in this shithole anymore, thank God, but it still gives him a momentary shudder.

Frank switches on the monitors, scans his retina, and waits until everything has booted up. There are about five passwords he has to enter before he can access the message that there’s a new file waiting for him, and he approves; Micro doesn’t fuck around with cyber security, especially given that there’s gotta be a lot of fishing for this. It’s a plaintext ASCII file, scrubbed of all identifiable electronic traces, and Frank pauses, then clicks to open it. It’s a list of names, social security numbers, addresses, email and phone numbers, known aliases and associations, everything that DHS has pulled from the servers on the remaining members of the pedophile ring. A separate file contains any mugshots on record, grainy jpegs, or driver’s license photos or anything else on public record.

Frank plugs in an encrypted flash drive, types more passwords to unlock it, and transfers everything onto it. He considers sending some kind of acknowledgement back to Madani that he got the information, but she can probably fuckin’ guess, and he doesn’t want to leave too many digital fingerprints. He checks that the files have copied over correctly and haven’t glitched, then deletes all the originals and clears every kind of cache he can think of. Obviously, he doesn’t think anyone is going to be in here working over these machines, and good luck getting through David’s firewalls, but better safe than sorry.

Having finished the retrieval, Frank figures the best way to hand the information over to Matt is probably in person – maybe he can drop by tonight after dark, see if Red wants to slap on that stupid fuckin’ horned helmet and they can go right away. Some of these bastards still have to be in town, right? They can’t all have made it out of New York. They’ll have guessed it’s too dangerous to travel under their real names, with an APB out for them, and fake identities take at least a little time to process, even if they have a good hookup. Try to stay hidden and wait for the smoke to blow over, feel like moving’s more dangerous. Frank’s counting on that, anyway, but if they’re backed into a corner, this won’t be pretty.

Frank pauses, then ejects the flash drive, puts it into a zippered pocket on his jacket, and powers everything down. He locks up, leaves everything as he found it, and heads out. It’s getting on in the afternoon by now, the day short and chill, and he wonders if Karen’s heading back to the Liebermans’ place tonight. At least it will keep her distracted from wondering where he is, but it admittedly feels a little like cheating. He should tell her, right? They’re trying to do that now. Not everything, maybe, but more.

Dusk is falling over the city by the time Frank makes it back to central Manhattan, a few stops more on the subway, and steps out into Hell’s Kitchen, which looks beautiful at this hour, all the lights coming on and Christmas trees glowing in windows and people hurrying by eager to be somewhere warm. Frank’s breath steams in the chill as he walks up to the apartment, lets himself in, and heads upstairs. Karen should be home by now. He’ll do it, he promises, he will maybe even ask her help. She’s a goddamn good journalist, she’s like a dog with a fuckin’ bone. She’ll gnaw and gnaw until she finds out whatever she needs to. But if he does that, he makes her a legitimate target, and when he’s promised himself this is the last one, the last mission, before he really settles down and tries to make a new life with her, he can’t quite shake the fear. Everyone knows what happens to the cop who takes this one last job before he’s supposed to retire, or whatever. He always gets killed.

The apartment, however, is dark and quiet, and it doesn’t look like Karen’s there. Frank wonders if he should call, just in case, but he doesn’t want to act like her goddamn babysitter; she’s a grown woman, she can look out for herself. Still, the ever-present prickle of anxiety whenever he doesn’t 100% know that she’s safe is difficult to dispel, he has often had reason to pay attention to this instinct, and he groans, pulls out his phone, and hits her number. Just pick up, Karen, Jesus Christ. Don’t give me a fuckin’ heart attack.

She doesn’t; it goes over to voicemail.  Frank hangs up, reminds himself there are plenty of non-nefarious reasons for this, and struggles not to immediately jump to the conclusion that she’s been kidnapped by a lot of angry perverts and they’re holding her for ransom – or worse – against the death of their fellows. He rubs both hands over his face. It’s not that far to Red’s place from here. Ten-minute walk, less if he runs.

Frank gets together a decent selection of guns, throws them into his bag with extra boxes of ammo, straps a nine-millimeter to his ankle holster, and shoves his Ka-Bar into its sheath at his hip. Then, with a final look around, and wondering if he should just get David to install a tracking device on Karen’s phone (he did once tell David that Sarah would cut his nuts off if she discovered the Lieberman house spy cameras, but still), he heads back out. He jogs down the stairwell, and emerges into the chilly evening, glancing around once more just in case the subway was late or something and Karen’s getting home now. Jesus, this relationship shit is stressful. Can’t deal with his heart always walking around somewhere else again. Especially when that heart is as feisty and independent and fuckin’ reckless as Karen. He isn’t the right man to tell anyone to take a goddamn chill pill, but jeez.

It’s eight minutes later when Frank reaches Matt’s street, turns in, and leaps up the steps two or three at a time, reaching the hallway and banging on the door of his apartment. He better be in, or Frank’s really gonna have a problem, and indeed, Matt jerks it open a moment later.  “Frank? What the hell? I thought you were going to send an email.”

“Plans changed.” Frank shifts tensely from foot to foot. “Look, throw on your pajamas and your fuckin’ hat with the horns, huh, Red? Let’s go, yeah?”

Matt raises both eyebrows. After a moment he says, “Your heart rate’s off the charts. What’s wrong? Are you sure Karen’s okay? Frank, Jesus, you know I don’t like this, whatever it is, with you two, but if you can’t even look after her – ”

“Yeah, because what we really needed was your goddamn opinion.” Frank clenches both fists, reminds himself that he has no solid evidence that anything is awry at all, and takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. A soldier who runs into the middle of a fight frantic and haywire and not focused usually gets shot in the first few seconds, and he’s definitely not letting Matt see (or whatever, echolocate, he doesn’t know exactly how all that works) him at less than his best. “We can probably get to some of these assholes tonight, that’s all. Checked the addresses, a dozen of ‘em live in a ten-block radius in Queens. I take one half, you take the other, we could close the book. You up for it or no?”

Matt hesitates. It’s clear that his first instinct is also to rush in and take on the baddies, even if he is leery about doing it with Frank. At last he says, “If you’re putting Karen in danger, you know the right thing to do would be to walk away.”

Frank starts to say something, then stops. It’s worse that he’s had that idea himself, that he keeps having the impulse to bail out and disappear and never be seen again, but if that’s what Matt thinks he should do, well, it’s clearly wrong. Same guy who lied to Karen for months and months, keeps dropping out of her life and then reappearing and expecting that things will just be the goddamn same between them, jerking her around and causing her heartache and worry and still too unable to realize that there’s a cost to living this way, there’s a cost. Frank isn’t gonna judge Matt on the vigilante thing, though for goddamn sure he judges him on a lot of others. He knows that compulsion to do what you know is right, no matter if anyone else understands it that way or not. But he’s never been under any illusions that it’s compatible with a normal life, with keeping people in it, with thinking they’ll see it the same way and you can just split into two halves, two halves that will always stay separate from the other. He called Matt on it before. Was it you that did those things, or was it the mask?

“Yeah,” Frank says. “I didn’t come here for your bullshit romantic advice, Red. You can help me or not, but either way, I’m going.”

Matt once more starts to respond, then stops. “Still not sure when you worked out it was me.”

“Come on. First thing I ever said to you, when you walked into my hospital room, was that I knew who you were. You think I only meant your shitty fuckin’ law firm?”

Matt chews over that, and (wisely) decides not to rebut.  Finally he says, “Meet me in the alley. Five minutes.”

Frank rolls his eyes, guesses that there’s some mystique that has to be preserved, can’t see Murdock shimmying bare ass into his fancy long johns or whatever, and takes his leave. Five minutes later, he’s in the back alley as instructed, when Red leaps down in full devil glory and jerks his head. “Let’s go.”

They wend their way through the shadows, across some rooftops, then get a cab part of the way. Frank imagines that even this is not the weirdest thing the driver has seen in his life, waiting at a red light like everything’s normal with goddamn Daredevil and the Punisher sitting side by side in the backseat and determinedly not looking at each other, but it’s probably close. He does keep trying not to steal glances at them in the rearview mirror, though. Finally says, “You boys out for the evening?”

“Just drive,” Frank orders him. “Yeah?”

Wisely, the guy does so, reaches Queens in another fifteen minutes, and as they get out of the cab, Frank shucks out a big tip and hands it over with the fare. “Don’t need to tell you that you saw nothin’,” he reminds him. “So you keep your trap shut.”

“Yes, sir. Got it.” The driver takes the money and nods awkwardly. “Have a – good night.”

With that, he lays rubber getting out of there, Frank watches him go with a sardonic expression, and then hefts his bag of guns with a clunk. “This way,” he informs Matt. “Stay sharp. One of them had a .38 last time, and I’m guessing they’re waiting for someone to turn up and try to sic ‘em. Feds or otherwise.”

He can feel Matt wanting to say something about the guns, wanting to ask how they’re going to deal with this, exactly, or maybe sensing that if they’re going to split this half and half and make any success of it, they’re just going to have to turn a blind eye (literally) to what the other’s doing. Frank snaps the stock on his carbine into place, and glances ahead. There’s a light on, in the first floor of the somewhat seedy office park. That matches the intel, where they had another meet-up spot. If the pedos are in there now, Red better not get in his way.

He glances sidelong at his – for the moment – ally. Matt raises a hand, listens, then – whatever he hears, Frank can’t tell, but he’s deciding to trust it – nods once.

Time to go.

[spideyxchelle]

hellooo! re-read your hollywood au and just wanted to say it brought a smile to my face the same way it did the first time 😊 i know it’s been a while since awards season but was curious if you had new headcannons in that verse? Especially with zendaya pulling off looks at the met gala? Again, just wondering 🤗 thanks for taking time out of your days to share your talents with the rest of us, it’s always appreciated 😊😊

i actually wrote a little something. its a short, sweet hollywood au continuation. have fun, babies.

peter gets the matte black invitation to the met gala on aSaturday. it is addressed to michelle jones and guest. and he immediatelydreads the entire thing. in the six years they have been dating, mj has alwaysgone to the met gala alone. peter dreads red carpets. as a two-time oscarnominee, he knows that he is expected, to a certain extent, to take pictures andgive interviews. but he feels more at home in his ratty baseball caps behindthe camera.

but his girlfriend, oh his girlfriend, shines in front ofthe camera. the soft corners of her mouth that effortlessly turn upwards in ateasing smile, melt the hearts of millions. she does not relish the limelightbut, damn, she is so good at it. at every event he has ever been to with her,mj is the best dressed. without question. her stylist, Flash Thompson, is aninsufferable dick. but he has an eye for fashion. though, peter does find itquite cutting when he shows up in his worn jeans, t-shirts and baseball capsand flash fixes him with the ‘look’. theyou-are-on-the-arm-of-hollywood-royalty-up-your-game-parker look. he knows heshould do better. he just doesn’t wanna.

and the met gala means he is going to have to actually try.or enlist the help of a stylist. mj could show up in a pillowcase and wouldstill make it look couture.

it is a lot of pressure to be her arm candy. he can’t wear ablack tux and call it a day.

he spends six whole hours bent over the invitation,spiraling. so, when mj gets home and he’s sitting at their kitchen islandpanicking, she sighs and asks, “you good, baby?” he lifts the invitation andshe rolls her eyes, “its just the met.”

“sure,” peter says back, “when you look like, you know, youdo…its just the met gala. but I have as much fashion sensibility as a dog.” mjpecks his mouth, “a very cute dog.” he frowns, “don’t tease me.” “its so easy,though,” she grins.

the next two and a half weeks leading up to the event are anon-stop stressfest for peter. he goes to work and cindy throws water on himfive different  times. the last time, hedoes not try to flinch away. he takes his punishment and wallows in his ownsadness in the director’s chair. soaking wet. cindy groans, “you take all thefun out of teasing you.” “I’m sorry to take the fun out of bullying me.”“pranking,” she corrects, “seriously, though, what’s wrong with you?” “the metgala.” “still?” cindy rolls her eyes. “yes,” peter exclaims, pulling himselfout of his chair, “people are going to expect me to look better than good. andI’d rather stay home in my pajamas.” “so do that,” cindy reasons, “say you’resick or something. mj’s gone to the gala the last six years without you. shecan do it again.” “what?” peter frowns deeper, “so harry osborn can fawn overher all he likes?” “harry and mj are not—” cindy starts. “I know, I know. hedoesn’t like her like that. still don’t buy it,” peter mumbles.

“have flash help you, then,” cindy tries. peter shakes hishead, “he’s a little too adventurous for me.” cindy takes a deep breath, “havemj do it, then. or do something else. I don’t care. but you being grumpy isn’tworking for me. so figure it out.”

with an order from cindy there is nothing for peter to doexcept buckle down and fashion it up. and he does something he never thought hewould have to do—he goes to flash thompson for help.

he walks into flash’s studio and is assaulted by feathersand sequins and fabrics of all textures. it is a lot to take in. flash issitting at a counter sticking something and peter tries to speak but ispromptly cut off, “you really wore those jeans here?” peter glances down at hisoutfit, “these are comfy jeans.” “they hang off your ass, parker. how is that agood look, hmm?” flash challenges. peter falls silent.

Flash drops his project and starts to circle around peter.he feels super self-conscious but he takes it all in stride. quietly. flashtuts a few times and, then, announces, “burgundy.”

peter blinks, “excuse me?” “did I stutter, parker? burgundy.black will make you blend in. anything brighter will make you stand out. and mjneeds someone that matches her but not someone that tries to outshine her.she’s the movie star.” “I’m not arguing with you,” peter agrees, “in fact, Idon’t feel the need to stand out much, you know?” “burgundy,” flash repeats.

he goes to four separate fittings. it is exhausting and afew of the alterations don’t even seem necessary. the suit doesn’t look allthat different to peter, to be honest. but flash always hums in approval whenthe tailor changes some small detail. he must be missing something.

they fly to the gala and flash carries a rattling fabric bagon the plane. michelle and him share a private look. peter tips his baseballcap back and questions, “what are you two planning?” she plops herself down inhis lap and kisses him soundly, “don’t worry about it, baby.” peter pulls hisarm around her waist, “if you’re planning to look heart arrestingly beautifulyou should warn me. I’ll need some kind of armor. I’m only human, after all.”“scouts honor,” she crosses her hand over her heart, “I will not be packing anykind of weaponry.” flash snorts and peter knows he is missing some kind ofjoke. she swallows whatever questions he has in another kiss.

when they touch down in new york, peter thanks the pilot andmichelle tugs him into the black car to their hotel. she is in yoga pants, herhair is a mess and she is beyond stunning to him. he leans across the leatherseats to kiss her. her eyes flutter open and she cups his cheek gently, “whatwas that for?” “just love you,” is his answer.

michelle yanks the divider between the back seat and thefront seat closed. they spend the rest of the ride to the hotel getting lost ineach other.

when the driver politely knocks on the tinted window of thecar, michelle and peter lung apart and begin to fix rumpled clothes. mj smoothshis hair back and peter steals one final kiss before the door opens. they aremet with a flash of lights. peter fits his baseball cap on and he shields hiseyes from the lights. he lifts his bag up so that his face is somewhatconcealed and walks to block michelle from the onslaught of unexpectedphotographers.

they shout a wave of questions. about the gala. about hernext film. about his next film. about their sex life. and peter has to grit histeeth. the media attention has not gotten easier to handle in the subsequentyears since he has been in the limelight.

the front door of the hotel is opened and closed behindthem. the paparazzi are locked outside.

when they are safe inside the elevator, mj slips her handinto his and whispers, “you did it. its over.” it takes a moment for him toregister her words but when he does, he ducks his nose in her neck andbreathes. she quietly scratches his back.

the next morning, he decides he wants coffee. he has aphonecall with cindy. he kisses mj’s naked shoulder and heads to the lobby.when he walks outside, he thankfully is not met with the trick of lights. thereare no vultures today.

the coffeeshop on the corner is quiet. until the internet.when he hangs up one of the girls at a nearby table leans over and asks, “areyou peter parker?” he tips his head down to hide his face, “uh, yea.” she turnsher phone around and there is a sneaky picture of him sitting in the coffeeshopon the phone talking to cindy. someone across the shop must have snagged apicture of him when he wasn’t looking. he begins to look around for the culpritbut no one is meeting his eye.

the girl that spoke to him shyly asks, “can I get a picturewith you? I love your movies.” he softly smiles, “sure.” that is how he ends uptaking seventeen selfies in a row.

when he gets back to the hotel and hands his girlfriend ato-go cup of coffee she giggles, “got caught up in a selfie parade.” he blinks,“how’d you know that?” she turns her phone around and there are a stream ofpictures of him on instagram on the account michellejonesupdates. “proud ofyou,” she opens her arms for snuggles. he easily falls into her arms. “I don’tdo this celebrity thing as well as you do.” “it takes practice.” “I’ve hadyears of practice.” “you’re a director, you dork. its never gonna come easilyto you. but you’re a sweet man and you deal with it.”

he is so in love with her it is a physical ache that settlesin his chest. he lays on top of his girlfriend as she runs her fingers throughhis hair. he knows he would give up everything, fame and fortune and notoriety,to have her. he is the luckiest man in the world.

“hey, mj?” he kisses her shoulder. “hmm?” she hums. “marryme?”

there is a sharp intake of breath. then, she pushes him offof her forcibly. “you did not just ask me to marry you in bed.” he grins wildlyand scoots closer to her, “sure. why? did you want some fancy proposal.” “wellno—” “so then, will you? marry me, I mean.”

her voice is wonderous and quiet, “seriously?” he nods andtakes her hand in his, “yes. god, mj I love you more than anybody. more thananything. you’re my rock. my whole world. and, I’d really like to stand up infront of all of our friends and family and tell them how much I love you. sothey can be crazy jealous of our love.” through tears, she nods, “its true.we’re, like, the coolest couple ever.” “totally,” he agrees, “so…what do yousay?”

she sniffles. she nods, “yes. of course. of course I’llmarry you.”

peter cups her face between his two hands and showers herwith kisses. she laughs and cries through all of the laughter.

that night, when flash arrives to get  them both ready for the gala, he zeroes in onthe antique ring that used to be peter’s mother’s engagement ring. the onesitting on mj’s hand. “no,” flash immediately says. “what?” mj questions. “thatring. you can’t wear that. I have designed a game changing—nay—a WORLD CHANGINGoutfit for the met gala. and if you wear that ring nobody is gonna payattention to my genius.” Michelle squishes flash in a hug, “oh flash, nobody isgoing to ignore your work. you’re a genius. but the ring stays.”

it is so hard to love mj. every minute he loves her more andmore. it does not feel sustainable. and yet, every day proves him wrong. god.he’s so fucking lucky.

he discovers he is even more lucky when mj gets dressed forthe gala. his jaw drops. “you promised you’d warn me if you’d be heartarrestingly beautiful.” “no,” she pecks his mouth, “I promised no weaponry.”“jesus, mj,” peter groans, rubbing his face. his makeup artist smacks his handand warns him not to smudge his makeup.

when they arrive at the carpet, his burgundy is a niceaccent to her silver warrior couture. and if she asked him to swear allegianceto her, he would have dropped to his knees on the entry carpet and done so.damn.

she parts oceans as she walks. people gawk and awe. she is avision. she is fierce. and he belongs to her completely.

he is overlooked, as he had expected to be. but damn. gettingto walk at her side all night is an unparalleled treat. no one else even getsclose to looking as singularly wonderful as she does. in fact, she is sostriking nobody notices her ring.

well. in person.

the internet notices immediately. and twitter is floodedwith a lot of capslock flailing.

he is so happy the next day he decides to go on his mostlyunused Instagram to upload a picture of her from the gala with the caption— #putaringonit

and mj follows suit uploading a picture of him drooling intheir bed with the caption—#forbetterorforworse

[sassysweetstories]

Revive

Request: “Can you do a shawn mendes imagine where you are famous model/singer who later pursued her surfing career and she broke up with Shawn about 4 years ago and they see each other and she tells him how much she misses old Shawn and she gets all emotional because she likes old Shawn and not the new Shawn and he wants her back but she has a famous surfer boyfriend who she’s engaged to???? I know thats far but your work is the best and i only like your work😁 xoxo”

Ship: Shawn Mendes x Fem!Reader, Surfer Boyfriend x Fem!Reader

Warnings: fluff, angst, yelling, heartbreak, etc. 

Notes: none of these gifs are mine, credit to owners. 

Tagged: @bailey-hoover @kiralivelove @thalia-prior-of-ravenclaw @anamcg317bellasett @queentiffanyyy @archer-whovian-violinist@beingmadinwonderland@princessisabelle19 @violence-and-velvet @lachicadelamanzana

Third P.O.V

When she finished the song, a part of her felt empty despite the usual accommodation thanks to the sound of hundreds of fans calling out her name. Sweat drenched her back and the adrenaline rush creates a strong thud accompanied by her heartbeat that only pounds in the walls of her chest. Even music has changed for her. The words don’t flow as fruitfully as they use to. Each lyric makes her fans ache for more but is that what she really wants? No. Her career is there but there’s so much more she dreamed of doing. And for the first time in forever, (Y/n) fears the dream will be only that. She already lost her boyfriend, she couldn’t bare to lose the last bit of hope that flickered in her heart. The mere thought of him leaves a bittersweet feeling her chest. Everyday (Y/n) thinks about ever breaking ties with Shawn, the boy she knows she loves. And it’s not like she can run from him, he’s everywhere. On every magazine, on every new outlet, living his dream. And she loves him for that. That’s probably why she doesn’t give up on hers. 

[Four Years Later]

Your P.O.V

I stretch my muscles carefully, preparing for the world to see all of me. They tense and coil, stronger and bigger than they’ve ever been thanks to surfing. Surfer Olympiad, screams the sign from up above. I’ve made it to the big leagues and my hands tremor with excitement and fear. I don’t even remember lining up and getting in the water. The wetness and current is like a second limb, moving around it with ease. I should feel uncomfortable under the eyes of the tiny camera attached to my surfboard but I’m too in my zone to think much of anything. I watch as the tsunami like waves crash down on the beginner surfers, breaking their boards and forfeiting their teams entirely. From this distance, we only have five surfers left. Two girls lead the pack of five and we wait for another wave, hearts in our throats with greedy anticipation. I did not come this far to fail. I rest the palm of my hand atop the crystal clear water and listen. 

(Alive by Sia)

I feel the current around my finger tips, shut my eyes and breathe. I lose myself and listen to mother nature. The waves are the only sounds I hone in on until I feel it. The shift. Something snaps in me and I charge forward, arms burning, begging for mercy. Drifting far past the boundary line. I see the wave before it’s even been born. “LOOKS LIKE IT’S GAME. I’M NOT SEEING ANYTHING, PAUL!” An announcer says. One of the girls trail behind me but the rest think I’m crazy, that they’ve won and there’s nothing left. In my heart, I know they’re wrong. The feeling is confirmed when a wave begins to break forth. The other competitors are too far behind but still try to make it. I push my body harder than I’ve ever done before. When I make it to the wave, I’m ready. Standing up on my board, I dive head first and twist my body. Three 360*’s and two shifts, I’m only starting. I twist and turn against the current, making me a force of reckoning. 

Through my eardrum thumping, I can hear the screams and cries, cheering out my name. And though the water is warm, I’m cold with nerves and excitement. When I slip through the last wave opening, the announcer screams the loudest. “THE WINNER OF SURFER OLYMPIAD IS NUMBER TWENTY THREE, (Y/N) (Y/L/N)!” I stand up tall and bow, laughing too hard with pride. Letting my muscles take a break, I float back to the shore and I can’t help but grin at the sight. Of what seems like hundreds of people crowd around me, some of which are my old fans from back when I sung and modeled. They still came to support me. The mere idea makes my heart flutter. Someone takes my board and hands, eager to shake mine rush forward. But before anymore hands can greet mine, I’m lifted into the sky and showered with champagne. The crowd chants my name, leading me up to the podium. Three judges stand before me with wide, prideful smiles. 

“Congratulations! You are the winner of the twenty second annual Surfer Olympiad!” They put a metal around my neck and hand me the biggest trophy I’ve ever seen. And before I can even do anything, a body comes out of nowhere and kisses me. I’d know those lips anywhere and apart of me wants to pull away, not prepared for such affection, especially in front of such a large audience. “I’m so proud of you baby!” Dustin says against my ear and I can’t help but smile up at my betrothed. His eyes as blue as the ocean that I was just in make me swoon. This time I throw caution to the wind and kiss him roughly. Fuck the cameras. He lets go of me, lingering back against the wall as I take in this moment, this time of accomplishment. After years of work, I finally did it. But that pride and happiness don’t last long when I meet a pair of familiar honey eyes, ones I’ve missed for so long. 

Shawn looks up me with a faint smile, one that seemed much bigger before but lessened for another reason. It doesn’t take me long to realize he saw Dustin and I kissing. In that moment, it’s just him and I looking into missed eyes. I want, no- need to talk with him but the crowd parts us away. Like always, he knows what I’m thinking before I’ve even utter words. Later. A promise I know he will keep and one I’m intending on. We part ways and I go back to my hotel room to change for the dinner party before the festival. “Are you okay?” Dustin asks. “No. . “ I answer honestly. “I’m not okay. I’m just so overcome by emotions. I just-” He takes my face in his hands and the action makes my heart thump. “I know, I know. The Olympiad.” No, that’s not it. I want to yell back at him but I know that would malicious. “It’s more than that. I just need to think, get my ducks in a row.” 

He nods understandingly but he doesn’t know the half of it. I’m angry at Shawn for changing my life by his presence alone. Dustin is grinning and smiling from cheek to cheek as we walk back into the venue. He’s born for these kinds of events and shows me off with pride, pecking my cheek before whispering, “That’s my girl.” The action makes me swoon. Nicer than normal attire but I still feel unsettled, would prefer a swimsuit versus this contraption. After hugging and shaking hands with at least a hundred people, I slip onto the porch deck and take a deep breath. The salty air feels heavenly in my lungs and I don’t even flinch at the humidity. I tug at my collar again and recoil when a voice comments, “You always did hate nice outfits. Preferred the casual clothes, things that were easy to take off when you wanted to go swimming.” Shawn’s voice is just as smooth as I remember and it takes everything in me to not melt right there. He looks dashing in his suit, not too nice but not too casual, either. 

I think of my fiance for a moment and ponder. He’s a good man, a sensible one. I can see us in a house by the beach with our kids and it’s almost planned. But when I look into Shawn’s eyes, I feel everything shift. “So what brings you to the coast? Thought you’d be back home after your tour.” The question I’m sure he’s prepared for throws him off anyway. He shuffles his feet side to side before making home next to me. I keep my eyes on the sunset, refusing to meet his honey gaze. “I performed yesterday at a venue near here and I heard that you were competing in the Surfer Olympiad. You were incredible out there. I’ve never seen anything like it.” I can’t help but shake my head. He’s gotten smoother with his words. Wonder how many times he made the girls swoon. That was one of the reasons why I turned away. He loved the attention from his female fans, especially the other models. The mere idea leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I remember how distant we became. How much colder he was towards me and his family thanks to the greed and money. 

“Why are you really here? You didn’t need to come to the Olympiad. You didn’t need to see me? So what is this really? And don’t tell me you care because we both know you didn’t, not when I told you about my dream near the end.” The accusation makes him take a step back, unaccustomed to the strength in my tone. “I- I came back to you. I wanted to try it again. I miss you, (Y/n).” I try to look back at my fiance’ but meet Shawn’s warm gaze instead. I want to believe him but I can’t see anything other than the cruel version he showed at the end of our relationship. “I miss the old you.” The words come out like word vomit. “Change is good. But I miss the way you use to laugh at my jokes, especially the cheesy Harry Potter ones. I miss the way you use to sing me to sleep when I was so frustrated and grumpy. And the days I would come over sobbing because the day was hard, you’d be there. But then suddenly you weren’t. Look, Shawn. All of that is in the past now. I hope we can be good friends. But I think I should get back to my fiance’.” 

The last sentence makes his whole body tense and I feel a hand grab my arm. “Wait! Please!” Our bodies are inches apart, too close in proximity for my liking. I take a step back out of habit and listen despite the fact that I don’t want to. It’s too much for my heart to handle. “Please. I miss you. I miss everything we had together. I miss us.” His touch is like a thousand embers, quakes and burns my skin. I feel my body turning into dust and I can’t breathe. It’s like someone took away my ability to catch air, it hurts so much. “Where were you when you wanted to fix things? Why didn’t you see how bad things had gotten until now? Why hadn’t you said something?! I’m engaged, Shawn!” The words alone of my evident marriage make him cringe with disgust which only make me angrier. He has no right to come into my life like this. He lessons the space between us, forcing to inch my jaw upward to meet his gaze. “I was stupid and foolish. I want to fix things between us before it’s too late. I want another chance to be happy with you.” 

I look back at the venue at Dustin, eyes gleaming with the vibrant blue that I’ve always loved. We’ve argued and grown as a couple should, overcome obstacles that I never thought were possible. Where was that Shawn when I was with him? “I don’t get it, Shawn... You had four years to call me up, to contact me, write, but I’m engaged to another man. Where was all of this when we were together? The fight to fix what was broken? How can I trust that you’ll be better when I’m with someone that has given me everything I need?” The question leaves him speechless as I thought it would. The mere idea of contacting him again has passed my mind but I was with someone else. Someone who gave me what I needed, not what I wanted and helped me flourish into the proud woman I am today. When I was with Shawn, I felt tired and weak, fighting for a light that died long before. “I’m sorry, Shawn.” He wants to keep fighting, I can see it in his eyes but Dustin is not far from the scene and whisks me away into the crowd. He had his chance with me and there’s no chance to revive what’s already dead. 

(I hope you guys liked it! PLEASE FUCKING COMMENT!) 

[noir0neko]

the sofa- knj(m)

where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire. 

(m)- mature / 6.4k words / rough, fwb!namjoon / enjoy !

req(s): namjoon giving you oral, with him nipping/pinching your thighs and you may or may not like it, byE I LOVE YOU (+) can i get a namjoon smut with a lot of dirty yet sensual stuff and maybe some orgasm denial too? your writings are awesome!

The highway whizzes past the tinted windows of your cousin’s car, tuning out the sound of his girlfriend singing obnoxiously loud in the passenger seat for favor of the smoke blowing from the boy's lips beside you. It’s a quiet night, the four of you deciding to ditch the rest of the group in order to have some real, unchaperoned fun. He hadn’t driven up there with the rest of you guys, but there was something alluring about being able to sit in the tiny back seat of your cousin’s car with him that caused you to insist you were completely fine scrunching up, watching puffs of vape leave his puckered lips.

Namjoon’s lips.

It smells of candy, the vapor cool and tickling the skin of your legs as they bump against his in the cramped space. Kim Namjoon had only been a recent acquaintance, a friend of your cousin’s that he had introduced you to, but it was fairly obvious the two of you had the potential to become good friends quickly, understanding one another in a way most people couldn’t after just one brief ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’.

He’s tall, broad yet lanky, with a quiet attractiveness about him that seems to continuously be bringing you close throughout the night, like a magnet or a moth drawn to flame. Everything he says feels like it means something more, like there’s something between the lines he’s expecting you to be reading. Like a book, full of words in black and white that lay out every detail, yet so completely open to interpretation depending on the audience. With a low sigh, you let your head loll to the headrest behind you, seeing a concerned look pass from Namjoon’s face to you out of your peripheral just as you begin glazing over into your thoughts.

“You alright?” Namjoon asks, lips parted slightly to reveal the white of his teeth.

You nod, smiling a bit, “I’m perfect,” you pause, then continue to not sound short, “the smoke is just cold on my legs. It feels nice in the heat.”

You watch with piqued interest as the comment brings him to inhale deeply from his vape and blow the thick, candied air out directly onto the skin of your outer thigh. “Thanks,” you shake your head at his teasing, falling head first for the lopsided grin you get in return.

You feel an odd happiness spread over you as you look at him, high on life, on smoke, and mostly on him. It has been ages since you’ve been out with people your age, since you’ve had any sort of fun, and you can think of a million worse places to be than stuck in a really small back seat with a really charming guy. He gives you another little smile as if he can read your thoughts before turning his head down to the bright illumination of his phone as you readjust to stare out the window again, not wanting to be creepy by just staring at him.

You guys had met once before, only briefly at a small get together, but tonight you had walked and talked and the more you got to know him, the more his presence felt known whenever he was around. He could hold conversations, seemed gentle, kind, respectful and funny… but there was something else too. Something deeper. Whenever you looked at him, you could see it swimming around in his eyes… something beneath the surface that was begging to come out.

Begging for you to let it out.

“Are you alright, Namjoon?” You turn back to him, suddenly wanting to keep his attention.

“Yep,” he shrugs, nonchalantly, blowing more smoke from his vape along your legs.

“That’s giving me some crazy goosebumps,” you chuckle, rubbing your hand along your thigh to try and get rid of them.

“Crazy goosebumps?” He raises an eyebrow in the dark, “not just normal ones?”

His teasing tone lights a fire in the pit of your stomach, “the craziest goosebumps in the land of all goosebumps.” You retort with a smirk, watching his eyes flit to the hand that is furiously washing the shivers from your leg.

“Here,” he offers, replacing your hand with his, warm palm causing your lips to part as it comes into contact with your skin. “It’s always better when someone else does it.” And while his words sound sweet, they are laced with something that draws heat to your core, stomach churning with underlying intention.

His hand continues to ignite hot fire on your skin, trying not to breath in too sharply as to alarm the still singing duo in the front seat, but the feeling of Namjoon’s hand along your thigh is taking your mind to places it has no justice going with someone you just met the day before last.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” He asks just as you turn to the window to hide the redness on your face.

“Nothing, I’m pretty sure,” you’re proud of how steady your voice sounds.

But then his fingers lightly pinch the skin of your inner thigh, sending shockwaves zinging up your body and an audible breath from your lips, “the coffee house in the mall? Four o’ clock?”

“Okay,” you’re sighing, his hand going back into his lap as if nothing ever happened when your cousin begins talking to him. The loss of contact is almost jolting, blinking your eyes rapidly and trying to focus on the world going by instead of the going of your dirty thoughts. Namjoon definitely had something, and you were hooked into finding out.

Even if it ruined you.

-

Nearly 16 hours later, you’re parking your car in front of the drink shop at the mall, feeling nervous for a million reasons yet no actually sensible reason at all. “We just met, it’s just a friends thing, he just wants to be nice and be your friend, that’s all.” You repeat in your head over and over.

But your inner pep talk falls short, as you are still completely suffering from an eclipse of your sanity after him touching you yesterday. All night you thought about it, you planned your outfit in your head, thought of things you’d say to him, what the two of you would do together. There had been so much darkness surrounding your life lately, as if you were stuck in some unwanted purgatory you couldn’t get out of, but after meeting him it’s like a small ray of sunshine has penetrated through the night, and you can feel Namjoon weaseling his way into places you thought had stopped beating.

The air is sticky and hot with summer, hitting you as soon as you open the car, Namjoon just a shadow in front of the sun as he walks towards you from the next row over. “I can’t believe you beat me here!” You exclaim, shutting your door and locking the vehicle as you hurry to meet him halfway, both of you there ten minutes before 4, “usually I’m the one who’s early.”

“I know all the shortcuts,” he says, a twinkle in his eyes.

You give him a playful shove in the shoulder, rolling your eyes and running across the street with him to avoid the oncoming traffic. “Are we actually here to get coffee?” You ask, hiking your purse up.

“Not if you don’t want to,” he says, ever the gentlemen, “there’s actually a nice bookstore in here I’ve been meaning to check out.”

“And there is a shop upstairs with maple buns you gotta try.”

“Lead the way,” he motions you in front of him on the escalator, his hand casually resting so close to yours on the railing you are envisioning how it felt on your thigh again, tossing a look back at him only to see he is staring off in thought.

“It’s this way,” you bring him back as you hit the landing, getting a smile as he walks by your side down the long pathway, “you’re not going to regret this, I swear. It’ll be the best bread you’ve ever had.”

He laughs, a really cute and wholesome laugh that twists your insides and leaves you feeling like a melted pile of dough. “I’m holding you to that.”   

Entering the store after a few moments of silence, three different people greet you with cheerful voices, Namjoon respectfully interacting as you smile, letting him follow you through the aisles like a lost puppy.

“This is so cute!” You exclaim, holding up a cute plastic bowl with a little duck face stickered onto it. Namjoon gives you a look, a grin on the corner of his lips as his teasing begins.

“It would go great in a bubble bath with my rubber ducky.”

You narrow your eyes, giving him a cross look and skulking off down the next aisle, grazing the glass shelves with your fingers as you pass. Namjoon is observant, taking in his new surroundings just as you’d do in the reversed situation, finding your likeness of mind exciting. His eyes catch yours, and you turn away quickly with a lick of your lips, busying yourself in the food aisles until you nearly pass by the bread in your embarrassment.

“Found it!” You say triumphantly, Namjoon knocking into you because of your abrupt stop. You wave your head, displaying the different kinds of flavored buns, “pick your poison.”

He looks for a moment, pursing his lips and rubbing his hand on his chin, an attractive gesture that send you into grabbing the maple one off the shelf. “This is my favorite.” You explain.

“I’ll just share that with you then,” he responds, “if that’s okay?”

You nod, walking up to the register and turning around to ask if he wants anything when you see he is no longer behind you, but preoccupied with the shelf of hi-chew. “Oh my god,” he says, a boyish excitement to his voice, “they have tons of flavors. They even have sour.”

Walking over, you observe the shelves of candy with him, laughing as he picks out the biggest bag, squawking when he swipes the bun from your hand and hurries to the register with a smirk on his face before you can even register what’s happening.

“You don’t have to pay for it,” you pout, giving him the side eye when you make it to the register.

“I know,” he says, swiping his card and passing politely when the woman offers him a receipt.

You thank him when he hands the bun over, feeling the warmth of his hand graze yours ever so slightly. Ripping open the packaging, you take a chunk of the moist loaf  and passing it to him. “Get ready,” you warn him, watching closely as he pops it into his mouth and chews slowly, thinking.

“Well…?”

“Damn,” he gives you a smile, nodding his head in defeat, “that’s good.”

“Oh! Let’s go in here,” you say, continuing on to quickly rub your rightness in his face, listening to him laugh and shake his head before he suddenly stops. In front of him is a long, L- shaped couch, bright frame and pillowy whiteness sitting clothed on the wood floor.

“I think we have to sit on it,” he says, giving you a look laced with invitation as you both rounded either side of the staged coffee table. He sits on it first, eyes widening and face slacking as his body sinks into the material.

“Wow,” is all he can muster, patting the spot next to him until you plop onto it.

“This is like-”

“-the perfect couch,” he finishes your sentence.

The stuffing is soft, pillowy, allowing you to sink into the sofa, but firm enough to support the weight of both of you together. The cushions are wide, long, easily being able to fit two people side by side, next to one another… or in any other imaginable position with each other. The L shape lends itself to the design, Namjoon being the first one to speak after a few minutes of awed silence at the perfect of this couch.

“Whoever made this was definitely thinking of more than just sitting on it.”

You’re completely relieved at the similarity of his thoughts to yours, laughing in agreement, “honestly. I have a whole new perspective on couch engineers now.”

“It’s so soft…”

“And it’s white.”

“So minimal noticeable staining,” he carries on, admiring it with you.

“This is definitely big enough for anything.”

“Literally anything,” he consents, the tone of your conversation completely casual while the topic strays further and further from the norm.

“I wonder if they have any in the back, for people who ask to test it out.”

“They can just do it in the store,” he smirks to himself.

“But there’s cameras,” you point out, giving him a look.

“So,” he comes back with, unable to keep your lips from peeling back in a large grin. With every word he said the more you fell into him, the more you could see him with you, next to you, on top of you, inside of you…

His intellect pulled you in, but every layer of unpeeled comfort he became intriguing, like minded, and undeniably sexy as hell. The two of you are still in a staring contest of heated sexual tension when he gets a phone call, the loud dinging breaking you from your stupor, standing up and wandering into the next staged area as he takes his call.

You’re imagining him pushing you down on the sofa, making you scream his name, filling you up, letting you drip down your thighs and denying you orgasm over and over again. You’re imagining him touching every inch of your body, seeing him naked in front of you, feeling him and maybe even getting him to groan your name if things got really naughty. Like with your lips wrapped around his-

“Hey,” he catches up with you staring at a lamp, not even seeing the lamp but his lips when he speaks, remembering them blowing vape smoke, and having reveries of his fingers, curling up your thigh- “I have to go. I totally forgot I have to do a favor for my friend tonight.” He waits for your reply, which comes a second too late and a beat off tone.

“Oh,” you say, trying to jump back into safe friend mode, where he seems to already be standing, “I still have a few things to get so, I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah,” Namjoon smiles, pulling you in for a quick hug that sweetens your sinful thoughts, “we’ll take a rain check on that bookstore.”

Nodding, you watch him walk away with a sort of sadness in your heart. You could spend all day with him and not get bored, no matter the amount of awkward silences or weird conversations you enjoyed being with him. And yeah maybe he wanted a simple, quiet life and you were more of a fast paced, non stop kind of girl, but you could see something going into the future with him. Your vivid imagination couldn’t help it, everything circled back to Namjoon.

With one last glance at the dream sofa, you leave the store and move on with the rest of your errands, wondering if you’d ever get the chance to fuck him on it.

Or fuck him at all.

-

“Are you still out?” He asks as you’re leaving the mall an hour later, a weird ring to his voice and urgency to his tone. You couldn’t say you were upset to be talking to him so soon after you guys parting, the entire time you were there without him your brain was on a loopy circle with the things he said and did.  

“Yes…” You begin, “you know it’s illegal for me to be on the phone right now, Namjoon.” You half tease, keeping the device well below the window.

“I need you to come here right now, apartment b, floor 2.” “Why?” You ask, suddenly worried with a pit in your stomach, “are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” his voice is off, almost as if he’s in disbelief, “just get here if you can.” “I’ll be there in five.” You say, suspicion coloring your tone before he gives you an affirmative response and hangs up. You make a u-turn at the next light, wondering why in the hell he would be asking you to come there with him? Was something wrong? Did he forget something? Did you? Was his friend okay?

After turning right into the apartment complex at the next green, you follow his directions up the stairs to the apartment he said, knocking on the door nervously, waiting a few seconds before the door opens and Namjoon appears.

The house smells like must, and a little like Febreeze, a weird combination of odors filling your nose. “What’s so urgent?” You take off your shoes in the tiled foyer, letting him lead you down a small hallway lined with family portraits before he takes you into the living room.

The light is on, softly illuminating the space with a yellow glow, opening your mouth to repeat your earlier question about the fuss when you see it. “Is that…?” You start, “is that… what I think it is.”

“Yep,” Namjoon says, his presence next to you suddenly a million times bigger as the realization dawns on you.

“Your friend… has the couch…” You stand there with him, just staring at it. The irony of this situation is covering you, shading your body in a million tones of red and embarrassed and excited and expectant.

“Do you wanna sit on it?” He asks and wordlessly you walk around the opposite side of the table and plop yourself down on the pillow top of the couch. It’s white, just like the one in the store, and soft and so good for sinking into and lounging or laying… or fucking.

“Definitely as good as the one in the store,” you joke to lighten the suddenly heavy mood, but it doesn’t really work, repositioning your legs and sitting stick straight.

“Where is this friend? What time will they be back?” You clear your throat.

“Not until tomorrow night,” he responds, frame lean and long and a sliver of his pearly skin exposed above his pant line and between his risen shirt.

“Nice,” you swallow, nodding awkwardly but trying not to make it awkward.

“Yeah,” his voice drops at the end, “since you’re here though, do you want to watch a movie or something? There’s this new psychological thriller that just came onto DVD that I got.”

“I’ve heard of that!” You exclaim, “put it in.”

He gets up with a little grunt, swiping the disk container from the table and walking over the the player within the TV’s entertainment center. You watch the lines of his back move beneath the cotton of his tee, the curvature of his spine as he bends down, the long bones of his fingers as they push buttons, pressing eject, fast forward, and then play. When he turns around, you’re chewing on your bottom lip unconsciously, pinching your leg to drag yourself out of the trance on him.

“Is there any popcorn?” You stand up, pushing your hair behind your ears and following his direction as he says there’s some in the pantry to make. Once in the kitchen, you take a deep breath, shaking your head at your own dishevelment.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mumble under your breath, tearing the plastic off the popcorn and placing it in the microwave for the allotted time. As the white noise of the microwave moves your thoughts from one thing to another, you can hear the sound of the movie begin in the other room, a creak signaling Namjoon sinking back into the couch.

Everything about this situation feels like some weird twisted trick of fate, what were the chances that the same exact couch the two of you had sat on in the store, determined would be the perfect couch to have sex on, would end up in his friend’s house that you are now in, and about to watch a movie with him on?

“Get a grip,” you repeat, bracing your hands against the counter and startling lightly when the microwave beeps. “Do you want any butter, Namjoon?”

“No, I’m good,” he calls back, “I got some hi-chew out here.”

Pouring a generous amount of salt on the snack, you plaster a carefree look on your face and trapeze back out into the living room. “Are these movie reviews good?” You ask, while plopping next to him.

“I read the book that this movie was based off of a couple years back,” he begins, “and that was phenomenal, but I’m going into the movie pretty blind as to how it is. I didn’t want to spoil it anymore.”

You nod, shoving some popcorn in your mouth to fill the silence as slow music begins in the intro to the film. You can smell Namjoon’s cologne, hear his steady breathing, see out of the corner of your eye his fingers working at each hi-chew wrapper and his lips puckering around the sweet chewables.

His face turns to you, and for a second you can feel him watching you as you keep your eyes furiously glued to the TV screen, counting the pixels with newfound fascination. Swallowing, you can feel tension building around the two of you, releasing a quiet breath when his head moves back to the television and not you.

“Intense…” You mutter stupidly when a deep man begins to voice over.

Namjoon’s returning chuckle brings more of a smile to your face than you’d like to admit and you’d been shoveling so much popcorn in your mouth to fill the weird hole in your stomach that you hadn’t even realized how gross you’re hands had gotten.

“Do you want any candy?” Namjoon holds the bag towards you, eyebrows raised in question.

“Sure,” you set the popcorn down on the coffee table, “my hands are covered though, hold on.”

You begin sucking the butter from your lips when suddenly he is on you, grabbing your wrist and waiting until you turn your body to speak. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

His tone seems joking, but his look is serious, your face flushing and mouth opening to try and formulate a response, but before you can even push a stutter out he is leaning forward and closing his eyes so you are leaning in and closing your eyes and-

The first kiss he gives you is slow, calculated, testing, wondering what you’ll do or say or feel. His lips taste sweet, like the smoke from his vape and candy, and he smells clean like soap and cologne. You lean into him, his body seeming to jerk in surprise before you settle together. One kiss turning into two and two into three and three into four…

Your bodies mold together, subtle, soft kisses turning into heated tongues and his hands wandering to your waist as he guides you from your position next to him into a position on his lap. You’re running your hands through his hair, body rising and falling with the rhythm of your mouths colliding, small groans getting swallowed by his throat as inevitable sounds of pleasure escape your esophagus. The stretchy material of your dress is soft between his fingers, moving it up your thighs as you straddle him and dig your hips down, begging to get closer to him. The couch makes no sound as he gets ahold of your midsection and takes you down below him, the softness of the sofa catching your fall with perfect grace, springing you back up against his lips as his fingers pinch and tease higher and higher up your leg.

It feels so amazing to be with him like this, to feel wanted by someone, to make plans and carry them out to someone who already seems to know exactly how to please you. The past days of sexual tension are finally combusting, exploding in one fiery display of passion and affection and sin.

“Namjoon…” You moan, high pitched tone of voice giving away your raw, unparalleled desperation to feel him in every way humanly possible. He leaves a trail of kisses down your chin, beginning to leave dark purple blossoms on the supple skin of your neck, smiling at the wild beating of your pulse beneath his lips. You take his face in between your hands, forcing him back up to you.

“This is a good fucking couch,” you repeat his words from earlier, “and I really want you to fuck me good on it.”

His lips curl up in a devilish smirk, wetting them with his tongue before continuing to smother you with his mouth and hands and body, thrumming and taut like a live wire. His hands are pulling at your dress, lifting it over your head and marvelling the soft of your skin with his hands and eyes and lips. You can’t tell where he ends and you begin anymore, your fingers in his hair and removing his shirt in a messily beautiful sweep over his head that has his body laid out in front of you.

His chest is long, sculpted softly with bone and lines that lead below the waistband of his sweats. You’re breathing is embarrassingly erratic, trying to settle yourself down before an orgasm occurs before any of the actual orgasm inducing things begin. Namjoon seems to feel the same, taking his time to guide your hand along the dips of his chest, kissing you softer, slower, more intimately than before. You hook your ankles on his back, slowly grinding your core along his erection, layers of clothing giving just enough friction to drive the both of you crazy.

“More,” you plead, unable to keep your desperation at bay any longer.

His growl is an obliging one, somehow still tasting like the candy he had been eating while you were actually watching the movie that has long since been abandoned by all of your senses. Everything is just filled with him, or waiting to be filled with him, and they say the waiting is the hardest part and that when relief comes it will be so, so-

“Sweet.”

You cry out, not even realizing in the heat of your thoughts and passion he had worked his way down between your legs, nuzzling your core through your drenched panties, flattening his tongue to taste you despite the cotton. His fingers push the fabric aside, moving a long digit between the petals of your flower, feeling the soft, sensitive skin laid out just for him.

You lift up your bottom half, giving him clearance to completely remove your panties, suddenly completely naked, save for your bra, and at his complete mercy. His tongue lips and nips and sucks and pulls at you, completely obliterating any trace of thought you might have had for at least the next.

And then, in one swift motion, he is gone, standing up near the sofa and instructing you with a firm voice. “Sit up,” you do as you’re told, “now,” his hands are smooth around your waist, guiding you on your knees and lightly pushing on your back until you are on your knees and gripping the back of the couch, dripping down your legs in arousal.

“That’s a good girl,” he praises, bringing a happy smile to your lips.

You hear him shuffle, blowing air on your legs to signal he is bent down, kitten licking his way back up your thighs from the trails of wetness that had leaked from your core. He begins to eat you out again, the new position offering him a new kind of stimulation that is driving you off the edge quicker than you thought possible.

With cruel slowness, Namjoon teases your slit with his long finger, waiting for your pleading whimpers before he slides his finger into you, feeling the soft tightness of your walls clench and squeeze around him. His hand connects with your ass, giving you a loud spank that seems to reverberate and echo off of the walls just as much as the moan that follows from your lips.

“That’s a good girl,” he repeats, moving around to pull lightly at your nipples, circling the perky nubs with such gentle care. You can’t take much more, feeling yourself approaching orgasm before you’ve even gotten to touch him yet.

“I want to feel you,” you groan, reaching one of your hands back to scrape along his chest, sighing when he pulls you back into his warm embrace and kisses your cheek softly. There is something so raw about the way you two are fucking, something feral yet unstripped and sweet.

His fingers are gone from inside of you, mourning the loss, but gaining something in a different way, feeling his wet hands leave trails along your stomach as he snakes his arms around you and sucks purple blossoms into the skin of your neck and junction between your jaw and earlobe.

“Namjoon,” you whisper, voice breaking at the end with sensuality.

He goes down at the sound of your voice, back bouncing beautifully as the couch lifts you weight and his presence gone from above you as he settles himself back in between your legs. Two of his fingers pinch your thigh, reddening the skin and bringing a hot trail of shivers up your spine, causing you to arch your back as he begins again.

The L shape of the couch is just long enough for him to lay on with you, knees closing in around his ears as his tongue licks and lips suck at your swollen clit. He pinches you roughly, hands going back to grip the back of the couch as you moan for him. Faster, harder, don’t stop, a million things that were running through your head ten minutes ago completely drowned out by one thought, one feeling, one emotion: lust.  

“Fuck,” you curse, earning another thigh pinch that has you spinning. He walks his fingers up your stomach to unclip your bra from the front, the strapless support falling behind the couch to leave you completely vulnerable, “Namjoon…”

“Say my name again,” his tone is deep, dark, “let me hear you.”

“Namjoon!” You are clenching your fists to keep from screaming, barely able to shove your cries down at the way he is ferociously working his magic on you. If you’re already feeling like this, it was only going to get better from here. When he removes himself, you’re left empty and gaping, watching wordlessly while he takes his finger into his mouth and sucks on the taste of you, couch silently jostling beneath you as your body twitches with arousal.

But watching his lips shape and hollow gives you an idea, and before you can fall back into oblivion, you spin around and sit open legged in front of him, the gentle plush of the sofa cushioning you so well. With a delicate raise your eyebrows, and deliciously curling your fingers under the waistband of his pants, you shove them down to the floor in one fatal sweep.

“It’s unfair how clothed you are,” you say, eyes wandering from the devilish look on his face, down his abdomen and the lines of his torso with an appreciative sigh.

His erection is straining against his boxers, grinning victoriously when you let those go too, finally allowing sweet, cool air to hit him. His intake of breath is all the encouragement you need to keep going, feeling his eyes on you, tracking every single move you intend to make.

“Let me see you,” you coo, licking your lips and firmly taking his shaft between your hands. He groans, a beautiful sound that is like music to your ears, firmly gripping a chunk of your hair and pulling it back to make you look at him.

“You don’t have to…” His words are incredibly soft, perpendicular to the roughness of his actions.

“I want to,” you lick your lips once more, keeping eye contact as you wrap your mouth around him, taking his throbbing heat in slowly, inch by inch. He is beginning to murmur sweet nothings and blessed profanities, calling you baby, whispering shit, feeling the warm recesses of your tongue swirl and taste him.

“Harder,” he gives you direction, which you are more than happy to take, hollowing your cheeks and letting him guide himself in and out of your mouth. You can barely breathe, loving every single second just to see him above you, desperate, breathless, looking at you through your lashes and watching pool at the corners of your pink lips.

“Shit, babe,” he moans, the pet name causing you to smile around him.

You swallow, thinking you’ve done something wrong at the feral, almost inhuman sound that comes from him. But his eyes are rolled back, fingers tightening on the roots of your hair, and his torso is twitching with pleasure and sensation.

Continuing to work your tongue and throat and lips, you can feel your own arousal pooling between your legs, slickening your thighs with cum and now testing the perfect couch stain theory. You felt bad for his friend, that you two were now having sex on his nice couch, but you didn’t feel bad enough to stop, reaching your hand between your legs to satisfy some of the craving while you satisfied him.

But it seems Namjoon wants to be the only one allowed to pleasure you, removing himself from your mouth with a hollow pop before snatching up your hand with a light tsk. You’re not sure what comes next, but by the deep tone of his voice, you can tell it’s not good.

“Get on your knees,” he instructs, scrambling to do as he asks.

Before you even settle back into the cushions he spanks you, the sound repeating itself off the walls and making you whimper, the taste of him in your mouth making his dominance so much more erotic.

“I never said you could touch yourself, did I?” He asks.

You’re silent for a moment, licking your lips, “I didn’t know I had to ask.”

The snarky response earns you two spanks, the cum dripping down your thighs completely giving you away as you challenge him. He spanks you again, and again, and again, letting you feel the sting of his punishment.

“No,” you moan, “no, you didn’t say I could.” You relinquish your stubborn control, humming as he softly strokes the irritated and flushed skin. Relief is so sweet, and so is he, asking permission again as to whether or not he can go all the way.

“Yes,” you love his ability to switch in a second, going from rough to soft, dominant and hard to submissive and sweet, “I need you.”

Not needing more, he positions himself at your entrance, taking a breath as to steady himself and warn you of his arrival before pushing into you, inch by beautifully torturous inch letting your absolutely wonderful tight tunnel take him in. The pain is ephemeral, blissful, so good it fades into pleasure at a surprisingly fast rate.

Guttural sounds are coming from your throat, unable to even muster a moan as his shaft, lubricated with your spit and arousal, slides into you with such easy friction it shatters you apart. The foreplay has you teetering on the edge of a cliff, waiting for him to catch up so you can leap off together. You can’t stop making noises, body twitching and arching below him.

He watches the lines of your spine curve with desperation, tracing them down your back to spank you every so often, falling in love with the loud and high pitched reaction he gets from you. You’re milking him so well, release inside of you so long awaited he can already feel himself spiking.

You’re literally begging Namjoon to cum at this point, tightening your walls and crying out for him, gripping the back of the couch for dear life in finding some sort of stable surface as he fucks you into the most mind ripping orgasm you’ve ever experienced.

Colors blur into formless shapes around you, eyes rolling and body falling completely still before eclipsing into short, spasms. You can’t think about anything but the feeling of him inside of you, the warmth of his body, the width and length and soft of his skin, and the sound of his grunts and groans and gasps as he pulls out just before he cums, grabbing a coincidentally placed empty cup from the table and gracefully unloading into that.

You can’t seem to catch your breath, body tingling all over and fingers cramped from gripping the sofa so hard, releasing them softly and falling face first into the back cushions. You’re exhausted, physically and emotionally, closing your eyes and trying not to think about what this now means for the two of you.

“You okay?” his touch makes your body spark alive again, rising up to look at him.

He’s standing over you, still naked, erection free, and suddenly looking so cuddly and perfect as a pillow for you to sleep on. As always, like he’s reading your mind, he lets you adjust so that he can scoot in next to you, opening his arm for you to climb in.

The two of you are quiet, and your mind is racing. All you know is you liked that. You liked that a lot. And it pretty much confirmed you liked him. You liked him a lot. His breath is now steady and deep, the only sound the end credits of the film, and just when you think he fell asleep his voice shakes the air.

“Damn,” he chuckles, looking up to hear him from your spot on his chest, “this sofa…”

“I should buy it a thank you gift,” you say, tracing circles absent mindedly on his chest.

“You should buy me a thank you present,” he retorts, bringing a smile to your face.

“How about this?” You turn your body until your forearms are on his torso, kissing him softly, “my present to you will be my hand in date-age.”

“I would gladly accept that present,” Namjoon says, a glorious grin spreading his lips. His brown eyes are like melted chocolate, completely melting your heart in two. His next words bring you to laughter, feeling the beginning of some sunshine rising within you.

“In return I’m buying us this couch.”

gimme ur thoughts ! much love~

~Admin Eggplant

[caindoglover]

Play Time

Yeeeeeah. What happened? 13 Reasons Why happened. It put me in the exact opposite head space of what I needed to be able to write this story. Like holy hell that show. That lasted for about a month. After that I have no excuse. lol I've just been having general trouble getting back into my writing groove. Anyway, this one was done to give everyone a break from all the pain of the last few chapters.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12387858/10/The-Thin-Line

Enjoy!

Batman trudges in after his first day of searching, a long sigh passing his lips. It’s not that he’s tired. He could go on for days if he really needed to. It’s just he has never failed so miserably at finding someone in his entire career as Batman. He comes to a sharp halt and his face goes blank for a minute as he enters the living room and sees the scene before him.

Harley sits on one side and Joker on the other, both bent over Richard. Harley snickers. “This looks awesome.”

Joker grins from ear to ear. “He’s like a little me.”

Richard puts all his energy into remaining perfectly still. His eyes shine with excitement and a wide smile splits his lips.

Batman blinks and breaks his daze. “What the heck do you think you’re doing?” He crosses his arms in an attempt to hide how stunned he really is.

Harley sits upright. She flashes Batman a devious smile. “Just a little fun.”

Joker pops into a standing position. “What do you think?” He thrusts his hands out toward Richard to present him in his full glory.

Batman’s eye twitches. Richard’s face is completely white, startling red sticking out on his lips and searing green coloring his eyebrows. It clashes terribly with the color of his hair.

Richard beams up at Batman. “I’m the Joker,” he does his best to alter his voice so he sounds like Joker. In the end his words taper off into senseless giggles.

Batman gapes. “Oh…my…God. No. Absolutely not. Put him back. Make him normal again.”

Harley snorts. “Relax, Bats. It’s only make-up. Comes right off.” She smears the white.

Batman looks incredulous. “Why would you even…?” He shakes his head.

Joker shrugs, unable to keep himself from smiling. “Just for fun. I’ve gotta be real with you right now, I have always wanted to try this out on the kid.” He covers his mouth to muffle the laughter.

Richard jumps to his feet. “I just wanted to have some fun. They did this and I loved it.” He squirms in place from all the pent up glee. “You should be happy too.”

Batman moves his lips from one side to the other to keep himself from speaking impulsively. Right, right, it’s fine. Totally fine. “Just…please don’t use my son as a guinea pig for your…whatever you’re doing.”

Harley’s lips curl into a smirk. “How about we use you then?”

Batman freezes. He shakes his head. “Ha.” He turns on his heel and speeds away. “He’s all yours.” He waves a hand over his shoulder.

Richard gapes. “Hey!” He doesn’t mind being used as a mannequin, quite the opposite actually, but he doesn’t like being handed over so easily. “You traitor.” He looks indignantly at his dad’s back.

Batman stops. “Wait a minute.” He turns and narrows his eyes. “How did you even get ahold of stuff like this?”

Harley shrugs. “You know. Went out.”

Batman is stricken. “What the heck is wrong with you? Did we not go over this yesterday?”

Harley bursts out laughing. “Relax, Bats.” Her eyes sparkle with something between glee and mischief. “Al is the one who got it. I wouldn’t break your precious curfew.” Her next words are as sour as her expression, “If it can even be called that. More like confinement.”

Joker takes a huge step forward. “Oooookay.” He holds his hands up. “Anyway, how about we do something else then. Huh?” He looks from one to the other with a trembling smile on his face. “Twister, anyone?” He raises a brow at Batman.

Batman ducks his head. “I don’t-”

“Yes!” Richard’s voice rises up over Batman’s. “You, me, Miss Harley, and Mr. Joker.”

Batman grumbles beneath his breath. He knows he’s lost the battle of playing this game already, but there is still time to make conditions. “Only if you get that awful stuff off my son’s face.” He looks hard at Harley in particular.

Harley scoffs and rolls her eyes. “You big whiner.” She stomps toward Richard and lifts him beneath his arms, drawing him to her chest. “Come on, Richie. Before Bats has a heart attack.” She wanders toward the nearest bathroom.

Richard giggles. He more than happily lets her carry him.

Joker lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Don’t let Harley get to you.” He half laughs. “Besides, if you pretend it doesn’t bother you it sucks the fun right out of it and she’ll eventually stop.”

Batman snorts. “Yeah, okay. Cause I’m so good at not letting people get to me.” He shoots Joker a deadpan look.

Joker grins from ear to ear. “Being your greatest enemy wouldn’t be half as fun if you were any good at ignoring picking.”

Batman shakes his head and looks as far from Joker as he can to try and hide the smile twitching at his lips.

Eventually Richard reappears in the room with a box clasped to his chest. “Got it!” He skips over to them. His eyes shine like thousands of stars. “Ready?”

Batman narrows his eyes and leans over, examining every inch of his son’s face. He hums for a long moment before standing tall once more and grumbling, “Yeah, yeah. We’ll play.”

Richard hops in place. “Okey Dokey.” He sets the box down and grabs the mat and spinner from within. He flings the flimsy mat about to extend it to its full length, finally managing after a minute. “So-”

“I call spinner,” Batman seizes this opportunity.

Richard gapes. “Nuh-uh. That’s not allowed.” He crosses his arms and puffs his cheeks out as he scowls at his father.

“Seconded.” Harley stares with raised brows, looking thoroughly unimpressed. “If anyone gets to be spinner it’s me. I’m not letting you weasel out of this.” She points s finger at him. “Besides,” a smile curls her lips. “If I played I’d cream you all.” She grabs her leg and lifts it so it’s vertical with her body.

Batman scoffs. “I can do that too.”

“No you can’t,” Richard pipes.

Batman fumes. “Let’s just do this already.” Normally he’d call Barbara and Alfred to join in, but he isn’t sure that’s the best idea since these two are playing. It’s no secret Barbara doesn’t like the criminals. More than that though he realizes he doesn’t want her here because she would relentlessly tease him about Joker. He is definitely not about to put up with that.

Harley snickers. She nabs the spinner and throws herself onto the nearest couch. She flicks the needle and watches it spin. “Right hand red.”

Joker and Batman head for the side closest to the reds and Richard throws up his arms. “Hey! Hey! No. That’s not how you do it.” He herds Joker to one side of the mat and Batman to the other. “One foot on yellow and the other on blue.” He points as he directs. “And then I stand on the reds.” He plants his feet on the red circles at the center of their row.

Batman blinks at Richard. “How do you know all this?”

Richard shrugs. “Barbara plays with me all the time. She says it’s a good stretching exercise but I think she really just likes the game.” He giggles. “Aaaanyway, right hand red.” He leans sideways and easily accomplishes it.

Batman does the same.

Joker has a bit more difficulty with the circle on his left. He crouches and twists so that his right hand is able to touch it.

“Left hand blue,” Harley calls.

They twist and turn their bodies to follow every call she makes. For a while her commands are quick and they are just as quick to move. The deeper into the game they go, however, the longer she pauses and the higher Batman’s suspicion rises.

“Hey!” Batman glares at Harley. “What’s taking so long?”

Harley blinks at him and tilts her head. “Hm? I don’t know what you mean.”

Batman scoffs. “I’m sure you don’t.”

Harley flicks the spinner, her eyes never leaving the colored mat. The gears in her head whir away and then a smirk curls her lips. “Right foot yellow.”

“You didn’t even look!” He jerks a hand up to point a finger, but can’t manage it. He flails about before slapping his hand down to regain his balance. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

Harley grins from ear to ear. “Right. Foot. Yellow.”

Richard puffs his lips out in a pout and gives Batman a meaningful look.

Batman growls beneath his breath, but there’s no resisting that face. He leans his body Joker’s direction, teetering just inches away from the clown’s body, and draws his leg closer to himself in order to get around Joker’s leg before extending it to place on a free yellow space.

Joker considers his position. He could maneuver around Batman completely. In fact that would be the sensible option. Instead he slides his foot forward and bends his limb around Batman’s leg, curls hard and fast and with intent.

Batman yelps as his leg is knocked out from under him and he loses his balance completely. His body leans hard and he falls into Joker. He throws an arm up as if to grab onto something for traction, but that only makes it worse.

They tumble and when they stop Joker is on the bottom. For a moment his expression is blank, but with the blink of an eye a smile begins to curl his lips and his eyes light up.

Batman is on top, but it sure doesn’t feel like it. He feels completely defenseless with his face mere inches from Joker’s. So close he can feel the criminal’s breaths beating a soft, steady rhythm on his skin. He swallows hard.

Joker snickers. He pops his head up and lays a quick, soft kiss on Batman’s lips.

Batman freezes. His face burns a deep red, enough so that it appears below the mask. He realizes he needs to move or respond one way or another, but his body just won’t listen. He is paralyzed in this dizzying moment.

Richard sits back and shoves his hands over his mouth to hide the grin spreading clear across his face. But there’s no stopping the way his eyes shine.

Harley smirks, her eyes dancing with pure pride. Henceforth she will be known as the Master Matchmaker, at least in her head.

Batman opens and closes his mouth around empty words for longer than he cares to admit. And when he finally does find his voice it is weak, “You made us lose.” Once more he realizes there were infinitely more and better things to say, but his mind is still scattered.

Joker flashes a sly grin. “I don’t know.” He pushes Batman onto his back and straddles him. “Pretty sure I won.” He leans closer.

Batman smiles despite himself. When his brain catches up with the action, his face turns a deeper shade of red and he acts impulsively. He shoves Joker off and sits up. “Well,” his voice is an octave too high, “game’s over so I’m going.” He leaps to his feet and flees the scene.

Once Batman is out of sight, Harley bursts out laughing. “That was too good.” She lifts a hand in Joker’s direction.

Joker sits up, a smile plastered on his face, and he high-fives Harley.

Richard giggles and bounces in place. "Your plan was awesome Miss Harley."

Harley holds her head high. "You bet it was."

Richard leaps to his feet. "What are we gonna do next?" He clenches his fists and an almost devious gleam comes to his eyes. Just as fast as it comes that foreign look is gone again, replaced by sheer excitement.

Harley snickers. "I think we're good." She ruffles Richard's hair. "We just let time and proximity work their magic." She grins at Joker in particular.

Richard nods. "If you say so." Harley is the master at this after all.

Joker returns Harley's sentiments. He can hardly wait. This crazy archer ordeal might just be what they needed all along.

I have the chapters ahead more or less planned out but I'm not entirely sure when I'll get to them. I hope soon, but I'm juggling quite a few writing projects so I'm not going to make any promises. Regardless, I hope you enjoyed this update. It was fun. Also do tell me if there are any mistakes. I try to go through and make sure it's as good as it can be, but as the author my head sometimes autocorrects on its own. lol