frank castle is hung. it’s long and thick when it’s soft, but when he’s hard, it’s almost intimidating. there’s a curve in his anatomy, and his veins give the shaft natural ribbing. how is that supposed to fit inside of you? first time he fucks you, he only lets you have the tip, and you’re still whining about how full you feel.
second time he fucks you, he decides he can put half of his cock inside of you, but not before putting his length against your belly and saying, “this is where i’m gon’ be, baby…” getting half of his cock is enough to have you drooling, babbling incoherent nonsense as he thrusts.
it takes multiple sessions before he actually sinks his full length in between your folds and stretches you around his cock. “m’not going to thrust just yet, sweetheart. why don’t you get used to the feeling of me all the way inside?”
he feels you spasm beneath him, eyes clamping shut as your walls tighten around him. you didn’t mean to finish, it’s not like he’s actually pressing his hips against yours to stimulate that special spot. he’s doing absolutely nothing except letting you stretch around him. just the imagery of his leaky tip as deep as he can go inside of you prods an orgasm. “you’re giving me one already? atta girl… made just for me, isn’t that right?”
♡ tags: spoilers for spider-man: brand new day, established relationship, frank calls reader sweetheart, reader calls frank frankie and baby
The burner phone you always keep on your person rings once before you answer. You don’t even need to look at the caller ID to know who’s calling. There’s only one person who ever contacts you through this line. The same person who bought you the device in the first place.
“Hi Frank,” you cheerfully say. Your good spirits dissipate and your brows knit in concern when all that greets you on the other end of the line is heavy breathing. You press the phone closer to your ear. “Hey, is everything okay? Is something wrong?”
“Meet me at the hospital,” Frank says in lieu of answering either of your questions. “Back entrance.”
Your heart tightens with worry. What’s he doing at the hospital? “Are you hurt?” you ask, your feet already moving in the direction of the hospital Frank mentioned.
Luckily, you’re not too far from the place, only a few blocks away. You know there was a commotion going on earlier in the city, but you have no idea what it was exactly.
Frank heavily sighs. Your heart drops to your stomach. “I’m alright, sweetheart,” he soothes, and you can feel some of the tight worry unwind itself from your heart. “Nothing serious, I promise. Nothing I can’t handle.”
He pauses and sighs again. He sounds more weary this time.
“It’s the kid.”
Your worry spikes again. There’s only one kid that Frank could be talking about.
“You mean Spider-Man?” you hurriedly say as you quicken your pace. The hospital is entering your view now. The front of the building is flooded with people. You weave through them as you make your way towards the rear of the hospital.
“Yeah, he’s in pretty rough shape. I shot him.”
“Frank, what do you mean you shot Spider-Man?” you hiss, making sure to keep your voice down, as your brows rise to your hairline. You speed up even more, nearly breaking out into a jog.
You know Frank and Spider-Man have definitely had their fair share of disagreements as they fundamentally differ on how those who do harm should be dealt with, but you never in a million years would have that things would escalate like this. Even if Frank doesn’t want to admit it to himself, much less to you, you know he has a soft spot for the masked hero, so you truly cannot wrap your head around Frank shooting the damn kid.
“I didn’t mean to shoot the kid. Was aiming for someone else, but the kid was the one who took the bullet instead. Always trying to play fuckin’ hero,” Frank explains, humorlessly chuckling as he trails off. “Rushed him to the hospital as soon as I could.”
“Oh Frankie,” you sympathetically say.
Frank looks up as he hears the crystal clear sound of your voice. You end the call with a press of your thumb as you quickly approach Frank who’s leaning against the wall of the hospital. Your eyes scan his form, looking him over to make sure he’s as okay as he claimed he was. He definitely has some cuts and bruises on him, but thankfully, they seem pretty minor. Not that you ever like seeing Frank hurt, but you know to count your lucky stars that his injuries are non-serious.
“Hey sweetheart.”
Frank leans into your touch as you reach a hand to cradle his cheek. You’re careful, your touch gentle, mindful of the bruises blooming across the expanse of his cheek.
“You didn’t mean to, Frankie,” you say, echoing what he said over the phone. Your frank would never hurt anybody (at least intentionally) who he didn’t think deserved it, and Spider-Man of all people definitely doesn’t.
“Still did it.”
“Yeah,” you softly say. The pad of your thumb skirts over a shallow cut on his cheekbone. “You still did it.”
Because Frank did shoot Spider-Man even if he didn’t mean to.
“Is he going to make it?” You rip the bandage off, quickly and cleanly. Better to ask now than later.
Frank takes a deep stuttery breath. You brace yourself for his response. Heroes come and go, but you can’t imagine a New York City without Spider-Man.
“Think so. The girl I was aimin’ for is using some kind of psychic shit to keep him alive right now. Until he’s out of critical condition.”
You breathe out a sigh of relief. You don’t understand half of what Frank is saying, but all that matters is that Spider-Man is going to be alright. Good, you wouldn’t want Spider-Man’s death on his conscience.
“Good. That’s good,” you say, “Means you can apologize when he wakes up.”
You lift your hand from Frank’s cheek as he runs a heavy hand over his face. You wince at how roughly he runs it over his various cuts and bruises.
“Apology isn’t gonna be enough.”
“Maybe not,” you concede, “but it’s a start.”
You step closer to Frank, smoothing your hand over the front of his tactical vest. The thing is filthy, covered in dust and debris, evidence of the kind of a day frank’s been having thus far.
“And I don’t think Spider-Man is the type to hold grudges.”
“Sure as hell the type to lord things of your head,” Frank grumbles, and you lightly laugh. That sounds more like your Frank.
“Like how he saved you that one time in Staten Island?” you tease.
Frank loudly groans.
“Kid’s never going to let that go.”
“Well, he might now that you almost killed him. Much easier thing to lord over someone.”
You wince slightly when Frank gives you a look that reads too soon. You run your hand over his shoulder and give his bicep a gentle squeeze in apology.
“Y’know, I saw his face?” Frank says, out of the blue.
“What?” you say, full of surprise. “I thought you said he never takes his mask off.”
“Kinda hard to keep it on when you need a oxygen mask.”
A feeling of soberness replaces your shock. What kind of situation did Frank and Spider-Man find themselves in for this to happen? You’re sure that Frank will tell you the details later, but you can’t help but wonder how things got to how they are now.
Frank continues on. “Looks just like what I thought he would.”
“Yeah? And how’s that?”
Frank tears his gaze from the distance and looks at you with glassy eyes. The sight slightly startles you. In all your time with Frank Castle, you’ve only ever seen him get choked up or cry a handful of times.
“Like a nice kid.”
“Oh Frank,” you exhale. Frank wraps you in a hug, and you return it just as fiercely. The edges of his bulky tactical vest dig into you, you’re sure to be covered in dust and debris when you pull away, but none of that matters in the face of your lover needing to be comforted. “Things are going to alright, Frank. That girl is keeping him alive, so he’s going to wake up in no time and you’ll be able to apologize to him then. It's all going to be okay, Frankie.”
You lean back slightly to get a look at Frank’s face, your eyes searching, prompting him to meet your gaze. “Alright?”
“Alright,” he repeats.
“Good, now get off me and get back up there,” you gently push Frank back and motion with your head towards the hospital behind him. “I’m sure the kid could use you by his side.” You look down at yourself, grimacing when you see just how dirty you are now. The things you do for love. “And I could do with a change of clothes.”
“Yeah,” Frank clears his throat, “You’re right. Should keep on eye on the kid.”
His hands drift down to cover your own.
"See you later?"
You lean in and press a gentle kiss to his cheek, featherlight so as to do no more damage. "Course, baby. Keep me updated?"
"Will do," Frank says. He turns his head to capture your lips in a brief kiss, resting his forehead against yours in the afterglow. You allow yourself to bask in the moment, even if it's brief.
"C'mon. Time to get moving." You nudge your nose against Frank's.
"I'll call," Frank promises as he finally separates himself from you.
Description: Spiderman takes you to Frank who’s going to protect you and MJ while he handles Jean but you happen to take a liking to Frank right away.
Warning: Smut, age gap, unprotected sex, counter sex, marking, a little clit rubbing and palming Frank’s dick through his pants.
Word Count:1,677
Author’s Note: I used a different POV this time. Let me know if it should stay this way in the future.
Spiderman who you knew as Peter, the only person that got to see his face, told you that he needed to get MJ to safety after Jean got inside of her body to trick Peter. Jean was dangerous and since Peter and you were so close he wanted to get you to safety as well and that was with this guy named Frank.
“Who’s Frank?” You asked as you made it to this interesting looking mouse trap.
“Frank is a friend, well sorta but I trust him to protect you and MJ while I go and stop Jean.” He told you as he took inside.
“This is a strange place.” You said as you looked around.
“And who the fuck are you to judge that?” You turned to look at who said that and you did a double take.
“Holy shit.” You breathed out staring at him.
This was the hottest man you have ever seen. Like you don’t think any man has ever come close.
“Who’s this?” Frank asked, pointing to you.
“This is-” But before Peter could introduce you, you walked up to him, swaying your hips and holding out your hand.
“Hi handsome, I’m Y/N.” You winked and Peter face palmed.
Frank smirked and looked amused, “Handsome huh?” He asked and took your hand.
“Yeah uh this is Frank.” Peter said but he was not amused by this.
“You think you can protect me?” You asked in an innocent voice.
Frank laughed and checked you out, “Sweetheart there’s a lot I could do to you.” He said.
“Ok ok that’s not, No.” Peter said walking up to you guys and pulling you apart.
“Frank you cannot sleep with my best friend.” He pointed a finger at him.
Frank held up his hands but winked at you. “Where’s MJ?” You looked at Peter who took you to her.
Peter had just left to what it seemed like was to save Jean rather than take her down. You waited a second before walking into the kitchen where Frank was.
“So you’re the big bad Punisher that I've heard so much about.” You said seductively and he turned around to look at you.
“How old are you?” He asked and you laughed.
“Old enough.” Frank could tell that you were an adult but he’s never been with someone in their early twenties before.
You were confident, he liked that a lot.
“You think Spidey would approve?” He asked and you bit her lip.
“You don’t care. And frankly nor do I. You’re seriously the hottest man I have ever seen.” You chuckled and got closer to him.
Frank nodded and walked up to you, your eyes were wide with lust and just begging for him. He cupped your face and you tilted your head, closing your eyes to fall into the his touch. When you opened your eyes, he was staring at you with dark eyes.
“You’re right. I don’t care.” He says and kisses you hard.
You moan into the kiss loving the feeling of his lips against yours. Your arms went around his neck, pulling him closer, just wanting his body on yours. Frank groaned and deepened the kiss, his hands moving down to your shirt. He wanted to rip it off you but he held back and just lifted it. You gasped into the kiss, feeling his warm hands on your body.
“Take this off.” He tells you and you pull away tugging the shirt off.
It landed somewhere in the kitchen. Your lips found his again and his hands moved all over your torso. Your bra was still on and Frank wasted no time in removing it, letting it fall to the ground.
“Frank please.” You breathed out against his lips and he chuckled, biting your bottom lip.
He pushed you against the counter before you got up on it. One of his hands moved up your leg. You felt yourself getting hotter the closer his hand was to your pussy. You wanted him to rip off your jeans and fuck you but he kept his hand on your thigh as you made out. You felt dizzy with need as your hands moved to his shirt.
“Off.” You said and Frank pulled back from the kiss to remove his shirt, making you gasp at the sight.
He was built and looked so good. You moaned at the sight and tugged him closer again. His lips were on yours again as your hands felt him up. His abs were perfect, felt perfect and if you got another chance after this with him you wanted to rub your pussy on his abs. Your hands moved up to his chest and to his biceps that were large.
It made your mouth water as you pulled away from the kiss, breathing hard. Frank leaned down and started kissing your neck. You let your eyes close and your head fell back against the cabinet with a moan, giving him better access. He bit your neck making you moan as he tugged a little.
“Frank.” You whimpered and your hands that were on his neck, moved to his hair to tug.
While he was abusing your neck, his hands moved to your jeans, unbuttoning them. You heard the zipper and bucked your hips so he could pull them down. The panties you were wearing were soaked and useless at this point so he just ripped those off. You pulled him away from your neck to kiss him again.
Your body was so turned on and ready for him. You gasped into the kiss as you felt his finger rub your clit.
“Fuck.” You breathed out. His finger was rough and perfect.
“That feel good?” He asked you and you nodded, eagerly.
Frank chuckled and went back to kiss you as he played with your pussy. Your hands went to his pants and you felt his hard dick through them. He hummed into the kiss as you pressed your palm into it.
“Please.” You begged, wanting him to fuck you right now and not waste any time.
Frank let you tug down his pants and his boxers. He pulled away from the kiss and tugged your hips to the edge more. You have never felt this needy for a man before it was pathetic. You were breathing hard and seeing how large his dick was giving you butterflies in your stomach.
“You gotta be quiet for me baby.” He tells you, and you nod even though you knew that there was no way that was going to happen.
You wanted him too much.
“It’s been awhile. I don’t have condoms.” He tells you and you shrug, not really caring.
“I’m on birth control.” You say and kiss him.
You felt him against you and whined into the kiss.
He chuckled and rubbed your noses together, “Such a needy girl.” He teases.
When he pushes inside of you, your hands gripped his biceps hard, your nails digging into him. He groaned at the feeling and how tight you were. He watched as your head fell back against the cabinets, letting him see all the marks that littered your neck.
“Frank you’re so big.” You moaned and he chuckled.
“S’amazing.” You mumbled and your eyes shut as he was now fully inside of you.
He started thrusting right away, but the pace was brutally slow. But each thrust took your breath away. Your legs moved to wrap around his waist as you pushed him closer. He paced started to pick up and leaned in and kissed your neck which was a little sensitive from the marks. You whimpered.
“You feel incredible.” He whispers in your ear.
His heavy breaths hit your ear and your neck making you shiver in delight at how close he was. You wanted him to go faster, you wish that you were riding him because he’d have the time of his life right now. His pace picked up again and he pulled away from your neck to tilt your head and kiss you again. This felt passionate and intense but you loved it.
“Frank please.” You begged and bit his bottom lip.
He groaned and picked up the pace again. This time it was fast and you were moaning non stop. Frank didn’t want MJ to hear but he wasn’t going to silence you either. He thought the sounds that you made were sexy and it drove him crazy. It was a mission to get you to cum on his cock.
Your hands that had left marks on his biceps had moved to his back, leaving more marks. The sound of skin slapping could be heard, and you forgot that you guys weren’t alone.
“Fuck.” Frank grunted and watched as your eyes rolled and you moved to hug him closer as he pounded into you.
“Frank.” You repeated his name, non stop.
It was all he could hear. Your pussy squeezed him like a vice and was not letting him go. You were panting and your legs felt weak and your thighs shook as you felt your orgasm approach.
“Frank yes baby I’m cumming.” You cried out and hugged him tighter.
His dick twitch inside of you as you gushed all over him. It was the hottest thing to him and his pace didn’t slow until he was cumming. You whined and sobbed as he filled you up. Your orgasm had subsided and he was getting soft. Your eyes closed and you sighed, nuzzling into him. He chuckled as he hugged you back and sighed, loving how cuddly you are with him. He had just met you but he planned to protect you forever.
“Frank.” You mumbled and he hummed.
“Spiderman could probably use your help.” You sighed, not wanting to let him go.
Frank’s eyes widened and he pulled away to look at you. You looked tired and worn out, that almost made him smirk but he remembered your words.
“I’ll look after MJ.” You yawned but you had planned to go to sleep after he left.
A/N: saw the new spiderman movie and im a sucker for the punisher as well, i just had to write a Frank fic so here we are!!
Pairing: Frank Castle x Reader
WORD COUNT: 1.4k
WARNING: !!!! Spider-Man: Brand New Day spoiler !!!!
SUMMARY: You're surprised to see Spider-Man and an unknown girl at your boyfriend's hideout. Learning about what the kid is going through you discuss what you'd do if it happened to you, if you forgot about Frank.
MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!
Walking into the old warehouse that’s Frank’s hideout you notice that something is off, instantly. Some of the traps have been triggered, that’s obvious and your heart rate jumps instantly as scenarios fill your mind where Frank is ambushed by criminals, hurt and alone. But then you realize there’s no signs of fighting, no blood, no bullet holes in the walls, it’s like someone just walked in, accidentally tripped over the wires and was then invited inside by Frank himself.
You make your way down into the bunker where he lives, hiking your bag higher on your shoulder so you don’t drop it and cautiously look around once you’re in the tiny kitchen area. You remember the first time you were here, Frank didn’t want you to see where he lives, he was afraid his lifestyle would scare you away for good.
“Frank, you could live under a rock and I’d still love you,” you told him before kissing him softly and making yourself home.
You’ve offered him to move in with you several times before, but one, you live in a literal shoebox that’s filled to the brim with your stuff, he wouldn’t be able to fit a single sock in there and two, you kinda both agreed that keeping his weapons and all kind of weird tech stuff away from your home is a great idea, so he stayed in the warehouse, you stayed in your apartment and you rotate between the two places.
Looking around you notice two extra cups on the table, three plates in the sink with some chili smeared on them, instant signs that he is not alone. You drop your bag by the wall and as you walk further inside you see two sleeping figures in the back room. A girl on the top bed and…
Is that Spider-Man?
Your eyes widen just when two hands grab your waist, pulling you back.
“Shh, don’t wake the kids,” Frank murmurs into your ear and pulls you into his bedroom.
“Is that fucking Spider-Man sleeping in the back?” you gape at him once you turn in his arms, hands coming up to rest on his shoulders instantly. Frank growls, like he is irritated, but you see something else in his eyes too.
“He is in trouble and now he is hiding his girlfriend here as well. Fucking nuts.”
“Girlfriend? Spider-Man has a girlfriend?”
“Well, he is clearly in love with her, but she doesn’t remember him or some shit? I don’t know, he rambles too much and makes no sense to me most of the time,” he sighs, his gaze settling on your face as he pulls you closer against him. “Didn’t know you were dropping by today.”
You love how his voice turns softer when he is talking to you and though he would never admit, his whole being turns mushier once you’re around.
“I could get off work earlier and thought I would surprise you.”
Leaning in you kiss him softly and when he hums happily against your lips you can’t help but smile.
“Have you eaten?” he asks pulling back. “Saved some chili for you.”
“You’re sweet, but I’m good. I’m gonna take a quick shower and then we can go to bed.”
“Go ahead, Princess,” he winks, giving your ass a gentle smack as he lets you go.
Twenty minutes later you’re climbing into bed next to him, wearing one of his shirts. He drops the book he’s been reading instantly and opens his arms so you can climb into his embrace under the covers.
“Mm, you smell good,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
“I used your soap, I literally smell like you,” you chuckle.
Moving around Frank rolls to his back and you lie half on top of him, chin resting on his chest. His hands are aimlessly wandering your body, slipping under the shirt, drawing circles on your soft skin.
“Are they in trouble?” you ask, nodding towards the other room where the two guests are sleeping.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You’re gonna help them, right?”
“It’s his business, not mine,” he growls with a frown, but you pinch his peck lightly. “Ow!”
“Don’t even try to tell me you don’t care about that kid. We both know you do.”
“What gives you the idea?” He asks, arching an eyebrow at you.
“The fact that he is sleeping in the other room. You haven’t let anyone here before.”
“I let you.” His gaze softens and a tiny smile tugs on his lips.
“Okay, you let me here and you love me, right?”
“Of course I love you.”
“So that means you let people here who you love and care about.”
Frank opens his mouth to say something, but he can’t argue. He sighs in defeat as you smirk at him.
“Sure, I’ll help him,” he mumbles, giving your hips a squeeze.
“Because you’re a good man,” you tell him, pressing a kiss on his chest before laying your head on it.
You both go silent for a while. Listening to his steady heartbeat you stare at a photo of the two of you pinned to the wall above his dresser. You love that picture, it was taken on your birthday last year, it was still at a time when Frank was fighting himself over you. It took him a long time to allow himself to love you and not feel bad about it. He was so paranoid that something would happen to you, he tried to stay away from you over and over again, but he always ended up crawling back to you until he just gave up and accepted that he can’t live without you.
And you feel the same.
You have never loved a man like you love him and it’s scary and sometimes you hurt each other but you wouldn’t want to live a life without him in it.
“You said she forgot him? The girl, she forgot Spider-Man?” you ask, still looking at the picture.
“Yeah. The kid said something about… a magic spell or some shit? I don’t know.”
“That must be horrible.”
Frank just hums, but doesn’t say anything. Lifting your head you look at him, finding him already watching you.
“If I forgot you, would you come after me and try to get me back?”
His eyes darken as he thinks about your words. His fingers that have been gently caressing your sides stop and you feel him gripping you, like you’re about to slip out of his hold.
“I don’t know. That would be a chance for you to not be a target anymore,” he then says.
“But I told you I would rather be a target than live without you,” you remind him. Reaching up you cup his face gently, running your thumb across his cheekbone. He leans into your touch instantly.
“I know. That doesn’t mean I stopped worrying about you.”
You understand him and his worries. It hasn’t been a battle only he’s been fighting, you tried to prioritize your safety as well, but you felt miserable every time you put distance between you and him. At last you had to realize it’s a price you’re willing to pay to love him and be loved by him.
“I would want you to find me,” you tell him after a few beats of silence.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. I would want to get to know you again and fall in love with you again.”
You see that soft shift in his gaze again, his hands squeezing you tighter. Pushing yourself up you move up on his body until you can kiss him. At first it’s soft and gentle, but it turns deep and passionate quite fast, as if you’re actually about to forget him and you want to drink up every bit of each other one last time, though that’s not happening. You still remember and love him just like a minute, an hour, a day or months ago.
“I think,” you whisper, panting against his lips, “I think I could never forget you.”
“Yeah?” he asks, biting your lower lip playfully.
“Mhm. I love you way too much to ever forget about you.”
Grabbing his hand that’s on your naked thigh you pull it up until it’s laid over your heart.
“You’re here. Forever.”
“Forever,” he breathes out through hazy eyes as your heart pounds against his palm. Then he kisses you, repeating that word over and over again with his actions, showing you that he feels the same way.
Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!
Warnings: Smut- oral, fingering in the Hawkins High bathroom, King Steve days, reader's in Student Council
"Steve! Oh my god... Steve- someone's going to... ahh- someone's going to hear us-" you manage to gasp out, the words tumbling out of your lips and bouncing right off the tiled bathroom walls, echoing in the small space.
Steve doesn't even look up from between your thighs. His tongue drags a slow, merciless line up your slit that makes you a let out a shriek, your head falling back against the wall.
"Relax, babe," he murmurs, pulling back momentarily to suck in a breath. He looks up at you through his impossibly long lashes, the brown in his eyes nearly swallowed by his dilated pupils, his expression practically dripping with smugness. "Everyone's supposed to be heading over to the assembly right?"
"E-exactly! And I- I'm the president of the Student Council, Steve-" you choke out as he leans forward once more, his tongue tracing a lazy wet circle right over your swollen, aching bud before he takes it between his lips, sucking lightly on it. The agonizing pressure sends a fresh wave of heat shooting up your spine, and your knees nearly buckle. "I have to be- oh - on... on stage in a few minutes and-"
"Which means you're just going to have to be quick for me, won't you baby?"
Before you can make any more weak protests, Steve's hands shout out to grip your waist over your creasing shirt, angling you so that the the smooth edge of the porcelain sink digs into the small of your back, your pleated skirt bunching up even higher around your waist.
Your fingers fly down to his head instinctively, curling into the thick, dark waves of his perfectly styled hair, your nails scraping against his scalp as you try to anchor yourself to something while the world tilts off its axis.
Your legs are shaking so hard it's a miracle you're still standing, the sheer terror of someone walking in and the urgency of the situation warring with the blinding, selfish need for him to just keep wrecking you, to feel his tongue and his teeth and his lips where you needed him most.
"But.... but Steve please.... I- I have to... it's my job to- mhhm!" your voice breaks off into a high, pathetic whimper as he slides two thick fingers up inside you. You're so wet by this point that they slide in smoothly without any friction, and he curls them deep inside you with a slow deliberate stretch that steels the breath from your lungs. His nails drag against your gummy walls, hitting that perfect spot that makes your eyes nearly roll back into your head.
"Yeah? That feels good, baby?"
Your frantically nod your head, unable to think clearly anymore past the overwhelming pleasure coursing through your veins like liquid fire. Nothing exists past this- nothing except your boyfriend and the heat pooling low in your belly.
He catches your clit between his teeth, a sharp, teasing nip that makes you buck off the sink with a broken cry, your thighs clamping instinctively around his head.
"Steve, oh my god, I'm so close..." you whine, your mouth falling open as you move against his face, desperately chasing the friction.
"I know, sweetheart, I've got you," he whispers, his voice huskier than you've ever heard it.
He doesn't hold back anymore after that. The frantic, merciless rhythm he sets is maddening- his tongue and teeth lashing fast and hard against your over-sensitive flesh, while his fingers pump in and out, heavy and relentless. Every slide hits your G-spot with pinpoint accuracy, turning your thoughts into a scrambled, delirious mess, and your body a trembling, high strung mess.
Wet, squelching sounds echo through the bathroom- evidence of how embarrassingly wet you are, but you're too far gone to feel any shame. If anything, the sounds turn you on further if that was even possible- Steve sucking on your clit, fingers driving up hard into you, your own ragged, sobbing gasps...
"STEVE-"
"That's it sweetheart, come for me," he breathes...
The pressure snaps.
A blinding white light flashes behind your eyelids, a violent, rolling wave of pleasure slamming into you so hard your spine arches off the sink. You cry out Steve's name, and he responds with a rough groan, keeping his mouth locked against you as you convulse, your inner muscles clamping desperately around his fingers as he milks every last shuddering tremor straight out of your body until you're completely, utterly undone.
in which jack gives you unsolicited advice on vibrators and how to use them.
genre: smut!! 18+ mdni!!!
(a/n: can't sleep, feeling weird. deciding to write to get my mind off things. sorry it's kinda filthy lol what can i say.)
You were running on four hours of sleep and weeks of agonizing physical frustration. So yes, technically, sitting in the breakroom with a tab open to a high rated silicone toy review page wasn't ideal workplace decorum. But you were on your break. Off the clock, tired, frustrated, and researching every available avenue to make something happen.
"That one’s no good."
You froze, every muscle locking up. You slowly turned around to see Jack leaning over, eyeing your phone screen.
Before you could scramble to lock your phone or throw it across the room, Jack gave a casual, unbothered shrug and walked right out the door.
The rest of the night was psychological torture. Back on the floor, Jack acting like he said nothing. Not a smirk. Not a lingering look. Nothing. By the time you clocked out, you were convinced you’d hallucinated the entire breakroom encounter.
…
Two glasses of wine later back at your apartment, unwinding on the couch and feeling comfortably tipsy, your phone buzzed on the coffee table.
Jack: I can make some good recommendations for you.
You snorted into your glass, staring at the screen. The wine gave you a reckless surge of courage, and your thumbs moved before your brain could filter them.
You: you gonna show me how to use it?
His reply came back within seconds.
Jack: Yeah. My place tomorrow?
…
So that’s how you were here. On Jack Abbot’s lap, writhing as his thumb guided a small, buzzy, impossibly effective vibrating bullet directly against your center. His hand was around your hip, holding you steady while his hard length pressed hot against you through the fabric of his sweatpants.
"Told you the other one was overrated." he murmured against your neck, his voice raspy.
You let out a breath, hands clutching his shoulders as you rolled your hips into his palm.
"That good?" Jack said into your skin, tightening his grip on your hip as you squirmed against him. "Need you to come all over my lap, sweetheart."
you know helping the bleeding man in the alley next to your apartment is risky, yet something compels you to do just that. after that night, you don’t ever expect to see him again. but frank castle keeps surprising you.
warnings/tags: wound care, descriptions of blood and injuries, strangers to lovers, reader is a trauma nurse, some very minor angst, brief encounter with a creepy man, no use of y/n, pet names (angel), tension and mutual pining, use of alcohol, frank might be kinda ooc at times but idc i’m just having fun, may or may not have been heavily inspired by how matt and claire met in daredevil season one!
author’s note: i originally started this early last year. i’ve been on a bit of writing break this summer, but i wanted to try to finish this in celebration of frank being in spiderman brand new day! big smooches to @fru1t4fr0gs and @myrrh-dock for the encouragement with this <3
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
You’ve always gone back and forth on whether to believe that being a light sleeper is a blessing or a curse.
On one hand, you take comfort in knowing that you’re more likely to wake up quickly at the sound of potential threats. On the other hand, it can be exhausting to wake up at every little thing that goes bump in the night.
Hell's Kitchen isn’t exactly a quiet place. The average night is filled with sounds of police sirens and noisy neighbors. Shouting, stomping, fucking, fighting – you name it. Over the course of the year that you have lived here, you have grown accustomed to it – and with the help of melatonin and a white noise machine, you're able to drown most of it out. Usually.
Usually does not typically include the sound of gun shots in the alleyway below your apartment in the middle of a random Thursday night, however.
The initial shot causes you to jolt upright in your bed. Before you can process what you heard, another shot fires from somewhere outside your window, this time unmistakable.
Instinctively, you roll off of your mattress and onto the floor, using the bed as a barricade in case any bullets come flying through your window. Your heart feels as if it’s going to beat right out of your chest, and you try your hardest to regain control of your breathing while not moving a muscle.
Thirty seconds pass, then a minute, and then two while you wait for the sound of another gunshot that never comes. You’re unsure of how long you lie on your floor before finally sitting up and reaching into the drawer of the bedside table directly above your head. You pull out the Glock 42 that you purchased prior to moving to this part of town, though you haven’t truly worried about needing to use it until right now.
As quietly as you can, you crawl with the gun in hand to the opposite side of your bed, closer to the window. Your curtains are closed, and you intend on keeping them that way, but there’s a big enough gap between the fabric and the window for you to peek outside.
At first, you see nothing out of the ordinary. There’s enough light from a streetlamp at the mouth of the alleyway that you’re able to make out the trash bins and a dumpster that belongs to the bakery next door to your apartment building. You watch with bated breath, waiting for any kind of movement.
Just when you’re convinced that the shooter (or shooters) have fled the scene, a flash of movement catches your eye from the far end of the dumpster. You can tell that it’s a man – he had been hiding behind it, just out of your field of view. His head peeks around the corner, as if checking to make sure the coast is clear.
He steps out from behind the dumpster, taking several wobbly steps before leaning against the metal siding for support. Thanks to the streetlamp and tonight's full moon, you’re able to see that the side of his head is caked in what is presumably blood – whether it’s his or someone else’s, you have no idea. You watch as the man pulls back his coat, revealing a white t-shirt soaked in dark red near his shoulder.
You can’t stop the small gasp that escapes from your lips. You immediately cover your mouth with your hand, backing away from the window to search for your cell phone. He has clearly been shot, you need to call for help—
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit,” you whisper as renewed panic begins to surge through you.
Your fucking phone is dead. You press the power button repeatedly, hoping for it to miraculously turn on. You worked a sixteen hour shift at the hospital yesterday and crashed as soon as you got home. Didn’t eat anything for dinner, didn’t shower, didn’t even change out of your scrubs…and didn’t plug your phone in to charge.
You peer out of the window again. The man is still slumped against the dumpster, seemingly clutching at his wounded shoulder in an attempt to slow the bleeding.
You rack your brain, knowing that you need to do something. You’re a trauma nurse for Christ’s sake. You see this kind of thing and worse every day. You can’t just leave him to bleed out in the street while you watch from the comfort of your apartment.
You fear that if you turn your bedroom light on, he’ll see the light from the cracks in your curtains and attempt to run away. So you fumble around in the dark until you find a pair of slippers and a coat, cramming your pistol into an interior pocket.
You want to help – but you have no way of knowing why he was being shot at. The assailant could have a reasonable excuse as to why they put a bullet in this man’s shoulder. He’s injured, yes, but what if he deserves to be?
Your brain and your heart go back and forth with each other the entire trek down the apartment building’s stairwell. Ultimately, your heart wins, and you ease open an emergency exit door that leads directly into the alley where the man still sits with his back against the dumpster.
The second that he notices you step out of the building, he forces himself to his feet. He turns away from you, but not before you note just how much blood is all over him. He tugs the hood of his jacket over his head and begins to walk in the opposite direction, still obviously unsteady on his feet.
“Hey!” You call after him against your better judgment. “Judging by the way you’re walking and the amount of blood on you, I’d bet that you’ve lost a fair amount.”
You notice that he has a bit of a limp that causes him to walk slowly, but he doesn’t stop or so much as look back at you.
“’M fine, lady,” he grunts over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about me, just go back inside.”
You know that you should listen to him. Every rational and logical part of your brain is screaming at you to do as he says – turn around, go back to your apartment, and lock the fucking door.
But the pain etched in his voice roots you right where you stand. If he had any desire to harm you, why wouldn’t he do so right now? There’s no one else around. But he isn’t jumping at the opportunity to attack you – he’s actively trying to distance himself from you.
“I can help you,” You implore, your voice a bit louder this time. “I’m a trauma nurse. Let me help you.”
He stops, bracing a hand against the brick wall beside him for support. He glances back at you over his shoulder – just enough to give you a view of his side profile. Even from here, you can tell that his nose looks broken.
“See,” you continue, opening your coat enough to let him see the mauve colored scrubs that you had fallen asleep in. “No cops,” you add, reading the hesitation on his face. “I just wanna patch you up so I can go back to sleep with a clear conscience.”
Still, he says nothing. He turns, eyeing you up and down like he’s weighing the pros and cons of putting his trust in a stranger.
Truthfully, you should be doing the same right about now.
You shiver, closing your coat once more at a sudden gust of wind. “Or bleed out,” you shrug. You take a step backwards, towards the emergency exit you had come out of. “At least I know that I tried.”
You turn around, grabbing the door handle but freezing before pulling it open when you hear him finally speak.
“Wait,” he starts, his voice gruff and strained. You look back at him expectantly. “No cops?” he reiterates.
“No cops,” you promise. “Just a nurse trying to do what she went to school for.” You pause. “And maybe get some good karma out of it.”
You hold the door open for him, motioning with your head as if to say after you. He hesitates for a second longer, and then begins to limp towards you. The thought crosses your mind to help him up the stairs to your apartment on the second story, but you quickly remind yourself that you do not know this man. You’re already being risky by simply offering him help – you should at least attempt to keep some amount of space in between the two of you.
He hobbles up the stairwell, one hand clutching the railing and the other holding pressure to his shoulder wound with his t-shirt that is already soaked through with blood. You can tell he’s in a decent amount of pain, despite how he tries to conceal it.
You open your door for him before you can talk yourself out of it, mentally saying a prayer to whatever higher power may be listening that you don’t end up regretting this.
“You can take a seat on the couch,” you say as you close the door behind you. “And remove your coat and shirt, if you can. I’ll gather my supplies.”
You instinctively begin to shrug out of your own coat, but then remember the pistol that rests in the pocket and decide it’s safer to resume wearing it. He is a complete stranger, and a bloody, bruised one at that.
With his back still turned to you, he slowly slips off his coat and then carefully pulls the blood-soaked t-shirt over his head. He hisses in pain, which isn’t shocking considering the intense bruising that decorates the thick muscles of his back.
Your gaze lingers for a moment longer than it should before you start gathering the necessary supplies from around your small apartment. Towels, sterile saline, medical shears, gauze, bandages…
When you reenter the room a moment later with everything you managed to scrounge together on such short notice, he’s already sitting on the couch, fiddling absentmindedly with the wilted petals of the dead flowers in a vase on the table in front of him.
Your eyes are instantly drawn to the entry wound just under his clavicle, near his left shoulder, and you breathe a small sigh of relief. Though it still leaks dark red, it isn’t gushing as you had feared it would be.
“I’m going to do a basic assessment first,” you tell him as you take a seat on the edge of the coffee table in front of the couch, your voice doing little to conceal how nervous the newfound close proximity makes you. You reach for his left hand, which you take in your own. “Any numbness or tingling?”
He shakes his head after a split-second. “No.”
“Can you wiggle your fingers for me?”
He does so without hesitation, the calloused, blood-streaked fingers flexing against your palm.
“Good,” you murmur, bringing two of your fingers to check his radial pulse.
He makes a low sound, something halfway between a laugh and a grunt. “Am I dead?” He hums, voice gravelly but light with amusement.
You roll your eyes. “Not yet.” You pause, feeling the steady beat of his pulse beneath his skin. “I’m just making sure you’ve got good blood flow to this arm and hand.”
“And?”
“And you got lucky,” you tell him, dropping his hand to reach for a towel and the bottle of sterile saline. “Another inch to the left and the bullet would’ve nicked your subclavian artery. You would have already bled out behind that dumpster.”
“Lucky,” he scoffs, the word dripping with sarcasm. “If I’m lucky, it’s only because I chose the right alley to get shot in tonight.”
You snort a laugh without meeting his gaze as you begin to wipe away the excess blood from his skin, the words and the rough timbre of his voice sending goosebumps across your skin.
“Try not to make it a habit,” you mutter, forcing yourself to focus on the wound instead of the pair of dark brown eyes that appear almost black in the dim lighting of your living room.
The man is silent while you work to clean up all of the blood that is dried to the skin of his neck and chest.
“What about you?” He asks when you pull the now red-tinged towel away for a final time. “Do you make a habit of bringing strange, wounded men into your home?”
“Can’t say that I do. You’d be the first.” Then, because the way he’s looking at you makes you feel like you’re the one who lost a liter of blood, you speak again before he has a chance to respond in that voice that makes it hard for you to focus on what you’re supposed to be doing here.
“There‘s no exit wound, so that means the bullet is probably still inside. I’m going to leave it there, because attempting to extract it here could do a lot more harm than good.”
He gives a nonchalant half shrug. “Wouldn’t be the only bullet to live inside me.”
“Oh?” You quip, somehow only mildly surprised by the admission. “You collecting them?”
The corners of his mouth tug upwards into something resembling a smirk. “Something like that.”
As curious as that makes you, you don’t pry. You don’t think you could possibly like the answer. You do the rest of your work in the kind of silence that doesn’t actually feel quiet because it only gives your thoughts time to get louder and louder.
You blot a few fresh droplets of blood. What the hell is this guy involved in?
You place a sterile dressing over the wound. If this isn’t his first time getting shot, how many times has he been shot?
You secure the dressing to his chest with medical tape. What is his name?
As soon as you pull your hands away, he starts to stand in front of you. “Oh,” you squeak, “No, I wouldn’t stand up quite yet. You should give it a few minutes to make sure your bandage doesn’t soak through—”
The man, now towering over you, shakes his head. “This should hold me together. I’ve had worse.”
Jesus Christ.
“At least let me give you something for the pain,” you try to reason with him, standing up. When you do, your chest is only a few inches from his, still bare in front of you. You instantly start to put some space between you. “Seriously, that’s going to fucking hurt—”
He chuckles low, cutting you off. “Extra strength ibuprofen doesn’t really do much for me these days, but I appreciate it.”
You’re at a loss for words for a moment, and you aren’t even sure why. It’s not like you should be thinking of an excuse to make the man hang around your apartment for any longer than necessary. You’ve done what you set out to do - bring him inside, make sure he isn’t going to bleed out, and patch him up. Mission accomplished. Now all that’s really left is to send him on his way and lock the door behind him.
“Right,” you huff a humorless laugh. “Well, I would tell you to stay out of trouble, but something tells me it wouldn’t do much good.”
He grabs his jacket and blood-soaked t-shirt off of the couch, choosing to forgo the latter and instead slip only the zip up hoodie back on.
“No, probably not,” he deadpans, the huskiness of his voice making your apartment feel hotter than it actually is. “Thank you, though. I appreciate this. You didn’t have to help me.” He pauses, looking you directly in the eye, his expression grave and unreadable. “And if you were smart, you wouldn’t have. So let’s keep this the one and only time you do this, yeah?”
The way he’s looking at you gives you very little confidence to fight him on that. Every smart retort that pops into your head dies on your tongue under his stare.
You only nod, and after another wordless, tense moment, he begins to show himself out.
“You at least gonna tell me your name?” You call after him, willing your voice not to crack.
He doesn’t so much as look over his shoulder when he answers with another humorless laugh.
“I promise, it’s better for us both if I don’t, angel.”
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
Three days pass, and with each one, you’re a little more convinced that the man with the haunted, espresso-colored eyes who sat bleeding in your living room was nothing more than a figment of your imagination.
Then you see the blood-stained hand towel you had used to wipe his skin clean, and you’re reminded that it was not a fever dream. He really had been here, and you had helped him, and you have no reason to believe you’ll ever see him again now.
That is, until a knock from outside your bedroom window wakes you up at seven o’clock in the morning on your day off.
At first, you think you dreamed it. But then you quickly remember what happened last time you heard something from outside this very window, and before you’re fully awake, you’re swinging your legs over the side of your bed and walking the short distance to the window. You peak out of the curtain, and upon first glance, you see nothing.
What would there be to see, anyway? You’re on the second story. Someone would have had to climb your fire escape to—
You glance down and freeze, your entire body going rigid at what lay on the platform of your fire escape.
Flowers.
It’s nothing extravagant. A small bunch of wildflowers tied together mid-stems with a string. But still, flowers. On your fire escape at seven o'clock in the morning.
A folded piece of paper rests beneath the stems, enticing you to open the window and see what it says. To see who the hell they could possibly be from, though a specific, bruised face already pops into your mind in answer.
You look around again, peering both ways down the alley outside your window. There’s nothing but a few trash cans and the same dumpster that your mysterious, after hours patient had hid behind.
If not him…then who the hell else? You can’t even recall the last time someone gave you flowers. The dead, wilted ones currently on your coffee table are from a street vendor that sells them down the block from the hospital you work at. You bought them for yourself.
Once you have convinced yourself that no one is lurking in the alleyway, watching for you to open your window, you do so, quickly grabbing the small bouquet of multi-colored wildflowers and the piece of paper before shutting (and locking) your window once more.
The handwriting on the folded note is a masculine scrawl.
The flowers in your living room need to be thrown away
Thanks again, angel
- F
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
You installed a security camera outside of your bedroom window the following day.
Its position allows you to see your fire escape, as well as the mouth of the alleyway outside of your bedroom.
You didn’t do it because you’re creeped out, or because you feel unsafe. You did it because if he were to come again, you don’t want to miss him. You don’t want to be left wondering if it’s really him.
The man with a scar just under his clavicle, the man who left flowers on your fire escape and then ran before you had a chance to get out of bed, the man who called you angel, the man whose name starts with F.
You’ve been referring to him as Frederick in your head for two months now. You spent an embarrassing amount of time scouring baby naming websites for male names that start with F, and Frederick stood out the most. It means peaceful ruler, and the irony of that makes you laugh considering the circumstances under which you met, but unless he ever returns and tells you his actual name, you will continue to let yourself believe it’s Frederick.
Fred, for short.
After two months, you begin to doubt that will ever happen. You helped him, and he returned with flowers to thank you, and that is the end of that. You eventually stop glancing out your window at every little bump in the night, you stop checking the Ring camera footage hoping that one of the notifications is him, and you resume life as normal.
So when a tapping sound randomly wakes you in the middle of the night after more than two months without a trace of him, you first assume it’s only the thunderstorm raging outside. You think so little of it that your initial response is to simply turn over, pull your comforter tighter, and close your eyes.
Then you hear it again.
Just a bit louder this time, but now undeniable. Knuckles against glass. Still, you hesitate, the fear of realizing that someone is outside of your window, on your fire escape in the dead of night momentarily paralyzing you. Then, still half asleep, you remember what happened last time there was a knock on your bedroom window, and you quickly grab your phone off of your nightstand, jerking it from the power cord.
Your most recent notification is informing you of movement on your security camera. The description reads a person is standing on the fire escape knocking on a window.
You pull up the live footage as your heart threatens to beat right out of your chest. Your hands go clammy, anticipation surging through—
His hair is longer and his beard has grown in full since you last saw him, but there’s no doubt in your mind that it’s him.
Your trembling thumb hovers over the microphone button for a moment before you’re able to work up the courage to press it.
“No flowers this time?” You speak into your phone, loud enough for him to hear you over the rain that pours down around him. Right away, he glances at the camera located in the upper corner of the window, his expression somewhere between a smirk and a pained grimace.
“Sorry,” he huffs. “Didn’t exactly have time to pick any in between getting my ass kicked and climbing your fire escape at three in the morning.” He pauses. “So what’s it gonna be, angel? You gonna let me in or do I need to walk to the closest emergency room?”
You don’t answer him over the camera. Instead, you put your phone down, flick your nightstand lamp on, and then take a few steps to your bedroom window. Your curtains are closed, and you take a deep breath before pulling them open.
You’re actually doing this again. Letting this stranger, this injured man, into your home again in the middle of the night.
Only this time, he’s sopping wet.
He doesn’t say anything when you first open the window. He just ducks beneath the frame with a sharp hiss, one forearm braced against the sill as he carefully maneuvers one leg through the opening. For a moment, he pauses halfway inside, his shoulders tense beneath the rain soaked fabric of his hoodie. His eyes squeeze shut as he shifts his weight, and a low, involuntary grunt escapes him.
You automatically reach out, your hand hovering near his elbow.
“I’ve got it,” he mutters through gritted teeth.
You don’t argue, but you still stay close while he swings his other leg through the threshold of the window and then straightens his posture as much as he can manage. One arm instinctively folds across the right side of his ribcage, guarding it, while rain droplets drip from the ends of his hair onto your bedroom floor.
“Sorry about the mess,” he grunts, glancing down at his boots that squeak against the hardwood.
You offer a small shrug. “I need to mop anyway.”
Now that he’s inside, you take a closer look at him. There’s a bruise forming along his cheekbone, and another reddish, puffy knot at his temple. His bottom lip is slightly cracked, caked with dried blood. There’s bags beneath his brown eyes, as if he has hardly slept since you last saw him.
“You look like hell, Fred.”
Thick brows scrunch together. “Fred?”
You nod. “That’s what I’m going to call you until you tell me your actual name. Which I’m assuming is not Fred, then?”
Air blows through his nose in a near silent laugh, his chest shaking with the movement before another pained grimace flashes across his face. “Not Fred.”
Your eyes rake downwards where he still clutches his side. “Let me guess,” you sigh, “ribs?”
“Yeah,” he grunts. “Think so.”
You jerk your head in the direction of your bedroom door. “Go to the living room. I’m gonna see if I can scrounge up some dry clothes that might fit you.”
He hesitates, another ghost of a laugh escaping him as his eyes trail downwards. “Maybe grab some pants for yourself while you’re at it, yeah?”
By the time your brain processes his words, he’s already walking towards your bedroom door, leaving you wide-eyed and warm-faced. You glance down in confirmation of what you’re already painfully aware of: you aren’t wearing any pants.
A t-shirt just long enough to conceal the curve of your ass, but no pants.
You recover from the embarrassment quick enough, springing into action to find a pair of pants for yourself as well as a change of clothes for the drenched man in the other room. Luckily, you still have a bag of random clothes your ex had left at your place forever ago that you had forgotten to throw out. He’s a bit stockier, more muscular, than your ex, but they are similar in height. These might be a little bit tight, but they will at least be more comfortable than wet, cold clothes.
When you enter the living room with a plain white t-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants only a minute later, he has already removed his jacket and undershirt.
His eyes flicker downwards and back up again, lips twitching with the threat of a smirk at the realization that you had taken his advice and put on a pair of pajama pants before his gaze lands on the men’s clothing in your hands.
“Ex boyfriend’s,” you explain, probably quicker than necessary as you place them on your coffee table. “They got pushed to the back of my closet. Should fit you well enough.”
His gaze softens a tad at that. “Thanks.”
You nod, then glance down, your attention instantly drawn to the right side of his ribcage. The skin there is already darkening, a bruise beginning to bloom beneath a patch of angry redness and subtle swelling. You take a small step towards him, a tentative hand coming to his side. Your fingertips brush the skin there ever so lightly, and he lets you, the muscles there tensing.
“Take a deep breath for me,” you murmur.
He inhales, his torso stiffening and muscles in his jaw clenching before he releases a shaky exhale.
“Again.”
Though it clearly brings him discomfort, he’s able to take a reasonably deep breath, which puts your mind somewhat at ease.
“You know, telling me exactly what happened would help me assess the injury more accurately,” you hum, dropping your hand from the warm skin of his side and crossing your arms over your chest.
He snorts. “Got kicked. Boot to the ribcage.”
Considering he had a bullet in him last time he was in your living room, the answer is only mildly alarming.
“People seem to enjoy beating the shit out of you.”
He raises a brow at you. “Is that my official diagnosis?”
You sigh, eyes flickering back down to the puffy, red skin of his otherwise toned abdomen. “It’s impossible to know for certain without an x-ray,” you shrug. “It’s probably just a bruised rib or two. Possibly fractured. Not much to be done either way.”
“Yeah,” he grunts, reaching down for the t-shirt on the coffee table in front of him with a grimace. “That’s what I figured.”
Now it’s your turn to cock a brow. “Why’d you come here, then?”
You can’t help the question as it slips out. He has clearly had more than his fair share of injuries - the evidence of them are littered across his body in old, fading bruises and scar tissue. A cracked rib is minor in comparison to the marred skin of his chest where you had patched him up just two months ago.
For once, he doesn’t meet your gaze. Instead, he gives a nonchalant shrug as he maneuvers the dry t-shirt over his head.
“Guess I thought it would be a safe place to lay low until this storm blows over.”
A crack of thunder booms in the distance as soon as the last word leaves his lips. Part of you wants to press for more, but you figure that is likely as honest of an answer as you will get from him, so you hold back all the other questions that threaten to spill from you.
What kind of mess have you gotten yourself into? Why here? You really had nowhere else to go?
Who the hell are you?
Instead, you say nothing. You simply pick up the pair of sweatpants still sitting on the table next to you, and hand them to him in offering until he accepts them.
“There’s a bathroom just down that hallway,” you tell him with a small nod in the direction of the guest bathroom. “You can throw all of your clothes in the dryer, if you’d like.”
For a moment, he only stares at you. His mouth parts slightly as if he’s going to speak, but then changes his mind and only nods.
“I’ll get you an ice pack. If you’re going to hang out here, you’re going to ice that rib, Fred,” you sigh as you start to walk in the direction of your kitchen. “And you’re going to take some ibuprofen—”
“It’s Frank.”
You stop in your tracks, quickly turning to look at him. “What?”
“My name,” he clarifies, voice gruff, “it’s Frank.”
Your surprise undoubtedly shows on your face at the revelation. You repeat the name, more to yourself than anything, with a slow nod.
“Nice to meet you, Frank.”
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
To your disappointment, but not your surprise, Frank had already left when you woke up later that morning.
Frank. At first, it felt odd to finally know his actual name after calling him Fred in your head for over two months. You got used to it quickly, though. By the fourth, fifth, sixth time that he shows up on your fire escape, you forget how it ever felt to not know Frank Castle’s name.
His appearances became somewhat predictable.
Every two to three weeks, you wake up to soft tapping on your window in the late hours of the night. Sometimes he has cuts, sometimes bruises. Sometimes both. You patch him up to the best of your abilities, you offer him food and water, you let him sleep on your couch until daylight comes, and then he slips out of your front door so silently that it doesn’t even wake you.
That is, until his most recent visit, when you woke up and found him still snoring softly in your living room. He had shown up on your fire escape, as he always does, with a split lip and black eye. The injuries hardly warranted a nurse’s consultation, but you welcomed him in, anyway.
You walked into your living room that morning fully expecting him to be gone. When you realized that he hadn’t moved, you couldn’t help but stare at him for a moment. Early morning sunlight was trickling in through your curtains, spilling across his face and catching on the bruises that colored his skin.
It was by far the most at peace you’ve seen him in all of the months that you’ve known him.
But Frank is a light sleeper. As quiet as you tried to be, he woke as soon as you started moving around your kitchen to make yourself a cup of coffee.
He seemed just as surprised as you were that he had slept so long. And then, when you offered him breakfast, he surprised you both again.
He stayed.
He stayed while you cracked eggs into a bowl and whisked them together with a splash of milk and extra shredded cheese - just like your grandmother always did when making omelettes, you told him. He leaned against your kitchen counter with a cup of coffee, quietly watching you move around your apartment as if he had done so a hundred times before. As if it was any other Tuesday morning.
Conversation flowed easier than it had ever had. You told him about some of your patients from the past week. About a little boy who had proudly showed you his dinosaur bandage after getting stitches, and about the elderly man who shamelessly flirts with every nurse in your unit despite having recently celebrated his fiftieth wedding anniversary.
More than anything else, you talked about yourself, because Frank asks more questions than he answers, but you did learn that he hates mushrooms with a passion, and takes his coffee black.
That was a month ago now, and you haven’t seen him since.
Not a word. No late night visits, no flowers or thank you notes left on your fire escape in the dead of night. You had given him your phone number scribbled on a post-it note the fourth or fifth time that he showed up to your place, but he hadn’t made any use of that, either.
The first couple of weeks, you didn’t think anything of it. It was normal to go a few weeks without seeing him. But now that it’s been a whole month, you’re worried.
Why hasn’t he come by? Is he okay? Did he skip town? Did he get into some kind of altercation that he wasn’t able to walk away from? Is he even alive?
You stay up late each night, unable to find sleep, your thoughts racing with all of these questions that you have no way of finding the answers to.
You’ve spiraled over the unknown more than you care to admit. From randomly checking your security camera footage in the middle of a shift to searching for his name in local obituaries, you’ve let his extended, unexplained absence consume you. When you’re awake, you’re wondering where he is, what he’s doing, and when you’ll see him again. When you’re asleep, his brown eyes and scarred skin appear in your dreams.
Friends and coworkers have started to notice how distracted you’ve allowed yourself to become, too. Hence the reason you’re at a crowded, noisy bar at 10:30 on a Wednesday night.
A couple of coworkers had all but drug you with them after your shift earlier today, insisting that you needed to get out, have a few drinks, and get the mystery man who you refuse to admit actually exists off of your mind.
For the first hour or two, it worked.
You mingled, gossiped, laughed. But now? Two martinis in, exhausted from a twelve hour shift, and listening to some twenty-one year old sing karaoke off key? You can’t stop your thoughts from wandering back to the very person that you had hoped to drown from them.
When you tell the coworker who had invited you that you’re going to head home because you’re exhausted, she tries to convince you to stay for one more drink. When that doesn’t work, she tries to convince you to let her walk you home, and although you appreciate the offer, your apartment is only a few blocks from here and you really just want to be alone with your thoughts and the crisp night air.
Very quickly, you regret not letting her walk you home, or ordering yourself an Uber, or flagging down a fucking taxi.
“Hey, sweetheart. You need a ride somewhere?”
Something in your gut tells you the sudden, masculine voice is talking to you without even looking. You stumble the slightest bit, but you keep walking, giving no acknowledgment that you had even heard him. Your hand instinctively goes to your purse that rests against your hip. Inside is your Glock that you’ve still never actually had to use.
Footsteps thud against the pavement behind you. Your fingers twitch against the leather fabric, preparing to reach down inside.
“Hey!” The voice calls out, louder this time, right behind you. A hand clamps down on your shoulder. “I’m talking to you. Don’t be rude now—”
Three things happen at once.
You shove your hand down into your bag to grip the gun nestled inside, you come face to face with the tall but scrawny man still grabbing your shoulder, and a faceless, hooded figure emerges from the shadows of the nearest alleyway.
“Doesn’t seem like she’s very interested to me,” a deep, gruff voice booms from beneath the hood. It startles the man enough to release his hold on your shoulder and take an immediate step back. It startles you, too, but for different reasons.
You instantly recognize that voice. You’ve thought of it every night since you last heard it a month ago. You’ve thought of it every night since you first found its owner bleeding outside of your apartment.
And if the voice isn’t confirmation enough, the thick, dark beard peeking out from beneath the hood is plenty.
“Oh, I was—” The scrawny man stutters, taking a few steps backwards, attempting to put some distance between him and the unexpected presence, “—was just seeing if she needed a ride—”
“Wrong woman,” Frank barks, lifting his hood enough to reveal eyes so dark that they look black beneath the streetlamp, fixed on the man with an unwavering intensity that silently promises violence.
The man continues to stumble backwards and your grip on the Glock, still tucked out of sight, relaxes.
“S—sorry, man,” he squeaks. “I don’t want any problems. Swear—”
“Get the fuck out of here.”
The man doesn’t say another word before scampering away in the opposite direction, leaving you alone with Frank Castle.
Are you hallucinating? Did someone spike your fucking drink at the bar? Or is he actually standing in front of you, beard fuller and hair longer than you’ve ever seen it, looking at you like he doesn’t know if he should stay or disappear again?
“Hey, angel.”
The words seem to snap you out of a trance. One second, you’re standing there, staring at him with squinted eyes, and the next, you’re pulling your pistol out of your bag, the muzzle pointed directly at his chest.
He takes an involuntary step back, his hands raising in front of him in shocked defense. “Christ, what the fu—”
“I had that handled.” You wave the gun around haphazardly for emphasis.
Frank grabs the barrel of the Glock, pushing it downwards. “Would you stop swinging that thing around?” He pauses, leaning in to take a closer look at you. “Are you drunk?”
You’re unable to stop the laugh that escapes you at that. “Why don’t you tell me? You know, since apparently you’re stalking me.”
“Stalking you?” Frank scoffs, almost offended. “I ain’t stalking you.”
You shove the gun back into your purse without taking your eyes off of his incredulous expression. “Oh, no? You just so happened to be in the exact right place at the exact right time after ghosting me for a month?”
He falls silent, giving a small nod to himself as his gaze wanders up and down the street before settling on the cracked pavement beneath his boots. Anywhere but your eyes. “I wasn’t trying to stalk you, alright? I was in the neighborhood and saw you go into the bar. Just wanted to make sure you got home alright.” He pauses, meeting your gaze once again, his dark eyes as intense and unyielding as ever. “And it’s a good thing that I did.”
It’s your turn to scoff at that. “Right. So you care enough to make sure that I get home safely…” You take a step closer to him, your stare unblinking as you look up at him in the light of the streetlamp, “but you couldn’t pick up a phone and call me? Couldn’t leave a note? Couldn’t climb my fire escape at any point in the last month to let me know you hadn’t been gunned down in a random alley in Hell’s Kitchen?”
Frank’s jaw tightens as he swallows thickly. No answer.
You snort a humorless laugh, taking a step back. “That’s what I thought.”
You start to turn around, to walk away, when the small, petty part of you easily influenced by alcohol begs you to open your mouth again. “And just so you know, Frank, I checked the obituaries to see if you were dead.”
He opens his mouth to respond, but you’re already walking in the opposite direction.
He lets you go and does not try to hide the fact that he follows you the rest of the way to your apartment, not turning around until you’ve safely entered the building.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
That night, Frank Castle appears in your dreams.
It isn’t the first time he’s been conjured by your subconscious, but it is the first time that you wake up and have to question what is fantasy and what is reality due to how utterly lifelike it had all felt.
You hear a gruff voice calling you angel. You see tortured brown eyes staring at you the way they had beneath the streetlights, heavy with the weight of everything he had refused to say. But instead of staying silent when you start to walk away, he stops you. He calls out for you with a restrained grunt of your name, and asks you not to go.
When you jerk awake to the sound of your alarm, your heart is racing, and for a few disorienting moments, you have to remind yourself that you’re alone in your bedroom. Frank Castle is not here. He’s not snoring in your living room, he’s not waiting on your fire escape for you to open the window and let him inside.
You don’t know if he ever will be again.
It’s the kind of dream that leaves you in a melancholic headspace for hours after waking.
You try your hardest to go about your day as normal. You clock in for a twelve hour shift at the emergency department, feeling severely unrested and slightly hungover. You drink more coffee than you usually do to get you through the first few hours of the morning, in between patients.
First, a seven-year-old boy with a fractured elbow. Skateboarding accident. Next, an elderly woman with a nasty grease burn. Bacon accident. Then, a construction worker with a mangled finger. Nail gun accident. And now…
“There’s a man in Central 12. Says he hit his head. Possible concussion.”
You briefly look up from your task of restocking a crash cart to give your charge nurse, Jenny, a nod of confirmation. “I’ll be with him in just a moment.”
She’s silent for a second. “He asked for you by name.”
That gets your undivided attention. You look up again, this time noticing an amused expression on Jenny’s face that piques your interest even further. “Do you know who it is?”
Jenny shrugs. “Never seen him before. Says his name is Fred?”
You drop the oxygen mask you’re holding out of surprise. “Fred?” You echo as Frank’s face flashes through your mind.
She nods, the amusement on her face quickly shifting into confusion. “Yeah, why? You know him?”
You can’t bring yourself to say yes until you walk to Central 12 and see him with your own two eyes.
And even then, when you see Frank Castle sitting on the exam table in his normal attire of bruises and all black, you still have to question whether or not you’re actually awake, or in your bed, still dreaming.
You close the door before speaking. “You know, showing up to my job isn’t really helping you with the stalker allegations.”
His broad shoulders lift with silent laughter as he looks around the room, not meeting your gaze. “Tried to go by your place this morning,” he says simply. “You weren’t there, so I took a guess…figured you might be here.”
You hum, crossing your arms over your chest as you come to stand directly in front of him. Your eyes skim over his face, looking for any sign of visible injury. “Here I am,” you exhale. “Let me guess. You didn’t actually hit your head?”
Another snort of laughter as his gaze meets yours. You’re aware that it could be your imagination playing tricks on you, but you swear that for a split-second, his eyes flicker down to your lips and then back up.
“I’m having a hard time remembering,” he grunts, a spark of something humorous appearing and then disappearing from his stare. “Maybe you should check me over and make sure I’m not concussed while you hear me out.”
Maybe it’s the rough timbre of his voice, or maybe his choice of words, or maybe the way he’s looking at you, but whatever it is makes goosebumps spread all the way down your spine.
There’s a waiting room full of people waiting to be seen just down the hallway. People with actual injuries. People who might really be concussed. People who don’t come in and out of your life like ghosts.
At least a dozen different reasons as to why you shouldn’t indulge him come to mind, but none of them stop you from reaching for the penlight clipped to your scrub pocket.
“Follow the light.”
He obeys without complaint, lips quirking slightly at the corners as his eyes track the beam left, right, up, and down.
“Any dizziness? Blurred vision? Nausea or vomiting?”
You already know the answers before he opens his mouth.
“No. None of that.”
You click the pen off. “Tell me your full name.”
He huffs something between a laugh and a sigh. “Francis David Castle Sr.”
That answer does take you by surprise. Not the fact that his first name is actually Francis. No, what surprises you is the suffix. Senior. Because if Frank is actually Francis David Castle Sr., then that can only imply…
“You have a son?”
His expression changes almost immediately. The slight amusement disappears from his face, but he doesn’t drop your gaze. “Had,” he grunts. “Had a daughter, too.”
He doesn’t need to say anything else. His choice of words makes it clear. Had. Past tense. No more.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” you murmur sincerely.
Frank nods, so small that it’s nearly imperceptible as he clears his throat. “Yeah. Me too.”
You don’t press the subject further. Not here, not now. You just lock the information away with every other fact he’s hesitantly handed over since meeting him. Like his name and how he takes his coffee.
“Alright. Last question,” you say gently. You swallow down the small lump that has unexpectedly formed in your throat, forcing your attention back to the matter at hand. “Why are you here right now, Frank?”
He studies you for a long moment before answering, making the small exam room suddenly seem suffocating.
“I’m here to tell you I’m sorry,” he says, his voice and expression equally grave. “For disappearing the way that I did. For…making you worry. I didn’t think…” he trails off, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. He shakes his head, a humorless laugh escaping him. “Hell, I don’t know what I was thinkin’.”
You nod slowly, taking a seat on the stool in front of him before responding. You glance down at your hands in your lap. “Why did you?” You ask, voice meeker than you intend for it to sound. “Disappear?”
Another moment of silence that feels eternal. “Thought it’d be better for you. Safer.” You meet his gaze at that. His lips purse, and you think that’s as much of an explanation as he’s going to give, but then his lips part again. “…and I guess it’s been a long time since I’ve had someone care about me like that. Kinda forgot what it feels like.”
He swallows thickly at that, like he’s holding himself back from saying anything more. Without thinking, you wheel yourself closer to him until your knees are nearly brushing his where they dangle from the exam table. He stares down at you, and you up at him, and the rest of the hospital outside of these four walls seems to fade away.
“Safer?” You murmur. “You know you’re talking to the girl who invited a bleeding stranger into her apartment in the middle of the night, right?”
He chuckles low, his broad shoulders rising and falling with it. “Exactly,” he sighs. “You won’t keep yourself safe, so I guess it’s up to me.”
You quirk a brow. “So you were stalking me last night, then.”
He hesitates just long enough for you notice the faint, barely visible blush that blooms beneath his beard. “Stalking is a strong word.”
“I knew it.”
The blush on his cheeks grows a deeper pink and he rolls his eyes, now avoiding yours. “Look, I wasn’t…wasn’t trying to follow you or anything weird. Just…every now and then, I’d check in. Make sure nobody’s hanging around your building.” He pauses, his jaw clenching. “Make sure that nobody has connected you to me.”
Although that might possibly be the most honest Frank Castle has been since you first met him, it somehow leaves you with more questions than answers.
It’s never been a secret that the man who shows up on your fire escape bloodied and bruised on a regular basis has his fair share of secrets that reek of violence and destruction, but hearing it come from his own mouth that merely being associated with him could potentially jeopardize your safety…
It’s the kind of honesty that should send you running in the opposite direction. But then again, there’s a lot about Frank Castle that should have sent you running in the opposite direction a long time ago.
Yet here you are. Not running. Not even telling him to leave. You weren’t able to walk away from him the very first time that you found him bleeding outside of your apartment, and you sure as hell aren’t able to now.
Slowly, you rise from the stool you’ve been sitting on. Once at eye level with him, you take a small, tentative step closer, stopping when your thighs brush against his knees. Usually, the two of you are only ever this close when you’re examining a black eye or busted lip, but right now, there’s no injuries in sight. Just his big, chocolate brown eyes and slightly chapped lips inches from your own.
“You were wrong about one thing,” you murmur, voice breathy. Your hands hover awkwardly for a moment before settling atop his thighs, the touch intimate in a way that’s brand new. “You disappearing wasn’t better for me. It only made me feel like I was losing my mind.”
The air in the room turns thick and heavy at the admission. Borderline asphyxiating. At first, he says nothing, but brings one hand to rest against your hip. His grip is loose enough that you could easily step away if you wanted to, but tight enough for you to know that he hopes you don’t.
“Yeah,” he grunts, voice low. “That makes two of us, then.”
The confession comes as a pleasant surprise that gives you enough courage to ease yourself just between his legs, further into his embrace. His eyes flicker down to your lips for not the first time since stepping foot in this room, this time undeniable and unabashed.
You clear your throat a bit in a failed effort to break the tension. “Well, good news,” you breathe, “I don’t think you’re concussed.”
He chuckles low, his gaze unwavering. “That is good news. I’d hate for you to think I’m not thinking clearly right now.”
And before you even have a chance to wonder if he’s really about to do what you think he’s about to do, he leans forward and closes the small amount of space separating your lips from his.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
Your phone rings at 8:30 that night, just one hour after you get home from your twelve hour shift at the hospital. You’re stepping out of the shower when your screen lights up with an unknown number.
Normally, you ignore or send them straight to voicemail. More than half of the calls that you get these days are robocalls, but this particular number isn’t being flagged as a potential spam risk. In fact, it’s a local number, with a Hell’s Kitchen area code.
And though there’s no way of knowing for sure who it is, you secure your towel around your midsection and answer as if you do.
“I was starting to think you’d lost my number.”
You’re first greeted by silence. Then a familiar, rough chuckle that makes goosebumps bloom on your still damp skin.
“Nah.” There’s another beat of quiet. “Just took me a while to work up the nerve.”
You snort a laugh and take a seat on the edge of your mattress. “The man who gets into gunfights on a regular basis was afraid to call a girl?”
He doesn’t deny it. “I didn’t say it made sense.”
You hum in response, trying to fight down the flight of butterflies in your stomach at the mere sound of his voice in your ear. “So, where are you bleeding right now?”
Another low laugh pours through the speaker. “No blood yet tonight,” he sighs. “That’s not why I’m calling.”
“Oh?” You chirp with a hint of sarcasm. “Anything you’d like to share with the class?”
More silence. He clears his throat, as if he’s trying to force the words out, “I’m calling to ask you something I should’ve asked you earlier.”
You grin despite the small bundle of nerves in the pit of your stomach.
“You got any plans tomorrow night?”
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
When you hear a knock on your front door at exactly seven o’clock, you’ve already been dressed and pacing your apartment for nearly half an hour.
Even though you already know who is on the other side, you instinctively glance through the peephole. You see a freshly shaven Frank Castle - looking around almost nervously and holding a small bouquet of wildflowers.
Just like ones he had left on your fire escape several months prior.
You take a steadying breath, smoothing your hands over the front of your outfit and hope that it’s good enough for whatever the hell you’re going to be doing tonight. When you had asked what he had in mind, he had laughed, painting a vivid picture in your mind of the light blush that was undoubtedly blooming on the apples of his cheeks.
“Haven’t figured that out yet,” he murmured. “Wasn’t sure I’d even get this far.”
You struggled to see Frank Castle taking you to a five star restaurant, so you picked something somewhat casual but still cute. Comfortable, and weather appropriate, but cute.
At least you hope so. You don’t even remember the last time you had to select an outfit for a date. A date or…whatever this is.
Before you can overthink that, you open the door for him.
For a second, neither of you say anything.
Frank’s eyes travel over you slowly, but not in a way that makes your skin crawl like it would if it were literally anyone else. He looks at you in a way that makes you feel like he’s trying real hard not to look at you, and that makes you feel warm all over.
“…Hi,” he says at last.
You can’t help but smile at how simple yet nervous the singular word sounds coming from his lips. “Hi.”
His gaze drops to the flowers in his hands as though he’d forgotten he was holding them. “These are for you.” He holds the bouquet out to you in offering. “Figured the others probably needed to be replaced a long time ago.”
You exhale a shaky laugh, thinking of the flowers he had left on your fire escape just days after you first met. You had kept them in a vase in your kitchen for long after they wilted, not wanting to throw them away.
You don’t tell him that, though, or that you intend to keep these for even longer.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
….i had originally planned for this to be longer, but life and my brain had other plans, so i hope it’s still cute as is. sorry if the ending seems rushed. maybe one day i will pick this story back up and write a part two with my original plans for this fic, if people are interested and inspiration strikes!
thank you for reading, as always comments/reblogs are very appreciated <3
Three, almost four nights a week, he comes in, dressed in his black scrubs and Carhartt jacket, and sits himself in your section. Every night, he orders a black coffee, a slice of chocolate pie ("And can you put an extra dollop of whipped cream on that, hon?"), and stares at you like it's his damn right.
"Robby," he finally introduces himself as one rainy night, making you almost drop the notepad in your hands.
You're too stunned to repeat it back to Robby so you merely smile politely. The one he returns is marginally less cordial. It's tight, tired in the way that he never seems to sleep off.
The silence between you begins to feel impossible. You pull your pen from your apron.
"Black coffee and a slice of chocolate pie?" You ask, just like every other night. Tradition is nice. Comforting.
"Yes," he says. "With an extra dollop of whipped cream, please."
You nod the second the words are out of his mouth, throwing your notepad shut and turning on your—
“Oh, hon?”
You freeze. That’s not part of our regularly scheduled programming.
“Yes?”
Robby clears his throat, eyes scanning the diner behind you. He leans in and says, “They don’t pay you enough here.”
You shift. “Well—“
Robby puts his hand up, and for some reason you shut up. “Don’t argue. I know they don’t.” He scratches his beard, observing you. “You should quit.”
You laugh because it feels like your only option. It’s beginning to feel hot, and the few other people in the place are noticing you two. You’re sure if it wasn’t empty tonight, you’d get an earful about wasting time from your manager.
“I can’t,” you say. Your skin is buzzing— you should go. “I can’t pay rent without it.”
Robby smirks. “Okay.”
Your face twists at Robby’s tone. You press, “I can’t.”
“You’d be surprised.”
That’s the last word he says all night. Not even a thank you when you drop off his coffee and pie (along with the check). You stick behind the bar, wiping various coffee mugs with a rag.
When Robby eventually leaves, you stay behind the bar longer still. You check on all the pies in the case, counting each and every slice left, and then doing that twice more before deciding it's about time to go grab the twenty dollar bill Robby always leaves.
Except, it's not a twenty– it's a fifty. Twenty of them.
You choke on nothing, nabbing receipt only to find something scribbled hastily in pen on the bottom– a phone number and a message.
✶ ONE NIGHT ONLY.ᐟ ⎯ steve harrington x fem!reader au
SUMMARY: in which you and steve used to be in a band together. now he’s in the crowd at your sold out solo gig.
WARNINGS: smut; mdni! oral (fem receiving), unprotected pinv, mentions of past substance abuse & strong language.
WORD COUNT: 2.2k +
Steve could feel the bass thrumming through his chest as he made his way through the dimly lit theatre, muttering quiet apologies until he found his seat hidden away in the wings. Admittedly, because he didn’t need anyone recognising him, but mostly because he’d only bought his ticket at the box office a couple of hours ago.
He wouldn’t have even known about the show if it wasn’t for Robin. He’d been on the phone to her, another one of her check-ins, when she let slip about a one-off show in Indianapolis to celebrate the release of your EP.
“Don’t even think about it.” She’d said to him, knowing what was going through his head without even having to see his face, “You’re both doing better now. Don’t you dare ruin it.”
He shouldn’t have been there, he knew that. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t bring himself to get up and leave.
The first few songs went over his head, a collection of soft rock ballads that he didn’t recognise. He wasn’t paying much attention to the music though, too transfixed by your figure in the middle of the stage. It was a strange feeling, seeing you up there living a dream that he was once a part of. He was proud of you, of course, but that didn’t mean it didn’t make his heart ache.
It wasn’t until you switched your electric guitar for an acoustic one and told the crowd to sing along if they knew the words that he found himself straightening up in his seat. He watched the way your fingers hovered over the strings, a soft, tentative breath escaping your mouth. Then you started playing the unmistakable opening chords of Great Minds Think Alike and suddenly it was like no time had passed at all.
You’d think all the cocaine he’d enjoyed over the years would have tainted his memory, but no.
Steve remembered everything.
He remembered the summer after high school when the two of you wrote that song. Both of you sprawled out on your bed, his guitar resting lazily over his stomach as you basked in the sunlight. Your eyes might have been glued to the notebook in front of you, but he was watching you like you were the only other person in the world.
He was pretty sure that was the moment he realised he was in love with you.
You spent countless nights performing in bars around Hawkins, hauling your gear in and out of the trunk of his BMW and hoping and praying that one day all your hard work would be worth it.
And it was.
A talent scout happened one of your sets at The Hideout, pulling Steve aside afterwards to tell him how much he admired your sound. Shortly after, you signed a record deal, called yourselves The Novas and packed up and moved to New York without so much as a second thought. Within the first year, you were branded as one of the most influential indie duo’s of the late eighties.
It was like everything he’d wanted since he was a kid had been handed to him on a silver platter, but he couldn’t bring himself to enjoy any of it. Because somewhere between the tours, the fans, and the albums, he was forced to watch as you fell in love with someone who wasn’t him.
He found himself looking for ways to fill the void, be it a quick joint before a show or a little plastic bag pressed into his hand by someone he couldn’t even name — which was exactly how he ended up on the floor of his apartment with white powder dusted over the coffee table and his phone pressed to his ear.
“I’m sorry.” He’d uttered before you had the chance to say hello, “I’ve booked a plane ticket back to Hawkins. I can’t do this anymore, it’s fucking killing me.”
Your voice cracked through the speaker, as soft as ever. He hated it. “What is? What’s wrong?”
“You.” He let out with a bitter laugh. “You’re what’s wrong.”
Even two years on, the memory of that phone call still lingered like a bruise that refused to fade.
The lights in the theatre suddenly switched on, pulling Steve harshly back into the present. He rose to his feet, following the crowd down the aisle. On his way out, he spotted a familiar head of auburn hair and quickly spun on his heels. "Robin!"
She straightened at the sound of her name, then immediately deflated when she saw him jogging over to her, "Oh, you have got to be shitting me."
"I know." He got in before she could, "I'm not supposed to be here."
"Yeah, no shit."
"I just want to talk to her, Rob." He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. Then a quiet, "Please."
She could have argued, but there wouldn't have been much point. Steve had always been a stubborn bastard and no amount of rehab could fix that. "Fine." She resigned. "But if it blows up in your face, don't blame me."
It took everything he had not to roll his eyes as she turned and lead him backstage. She stopped outside your dressing room door and folded her arms over her chest.
"Try not to kill each other." She warned.
"I'll do my best." He deadpanned, watching as she shot him a sarcastic smile and pushed herself off the doorframe, padding back down the hall. Steve sucked in a breath, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans before rapping his knuckles against the wood.
"Come in!"
His stomach swirled at the sound of your voice and despite his brain screaming at him not to, he wrapped his hand around the knob and pushed open the door.
You almost didn't hear him, too wrapped up in taking off your makeup infront of the mirror. You set your wipe down on the vanity and glanced over your shoulder, your breath hitching at the sight of him.
He shut the door behind him and stuffed his hands into his pockets, lips pressing into a small smile. "Hi."
You stood up from your seat with slow, shaky legs. "What are you doing here?"
“You sounded great out there.”
“Steve.”
His demeanour crumbled instantly when you said his name, the way it always did. “I heard you were back. I couldn’t not come and see you.” He paused, warm brown eyes set on yours, “And I thought maybe we could talk, about what happened.”
You were frozen in place, your heart beating so loudly that you wouldn't be surprised if he could hear it. There was so much you wanted to say but you weren’t sure you could get the words out.
You swallowed thickly. “You told me you loved me. And then you ran away.”
“I know.”
“You left the state,” You continued, throat tightening, “You left the band and you left me to pick up the pieces. You don’t do that to someone you love.”
“I know,” He repeated quietly, rubbing his jaw, “I was an addict and asshole and I’m so sorry.”
You’d waited so long for him to say those words, but now that he finally had? It only seemed to hurt more. You let out a shaky breath, “You could have just talked to me.”
“How could I? You were with Matt—”
“I’m talking about before.” You cut him off, voice cracking. “If you really felt that way about me, why didn’t you say something sooner?”
He mirrored your growing frustration, his hand falling fruitlessly to his side, “Because I couldn’t lose you. You were the most important person in the world to me, and if I didn’t have you—” He shook his head, “I don’t know what I would’ve done. So I kept my mouth shut.”
“That wasn’t up to you, Steve.” You relented, your eyes glistening. “You don’t get to decide for me."
His hands twitched at his sides as he watched the tears spill down your cheeks. He knew he didn’t have the right to comfort you, not after everything he’d done, but he couldn’t help himself. His feet moved on their own accord, crossing the distance until there were only a few inches of space between you. He brought a hand up to cradle your face, wiping the dampness away with his thumb.
His gaze dropped to your mouth, a silent question hanging in the air.
You were the first to lean in, your eyes fluttering shut as your lips brushed his, soft and testing. The second he registered the kiss, whatever composure he had left melted away completely. His hands slid down to your waist, pulling you closer whilst you tangled your fingers in his hair.
Without breaking the kiss, he tightened his grip on you and lifted you up onto the vanity like you weighed nothing. Hairbrushes and perfume bottles fell to the floor as your back hit the mirror, but you didn’t pay them any mind. Especially not as he sunk to his knees in front of you and lifted up your skirt, easing your legs apart. He lowered his head, pressing a gentle kiss to your thigh and slowly trailing higher.
He paused as his mouth hovered over your underwear, glancing up at you in search of doubt. When he didn't find any, he hooked his fingers under your waistband and tugged them down your legs until they hit the floor.
Your breath caught in your throat as his tongue slid tenderly up your folds, “Oh, god.”
He hummed against you, his eyes fluttering shut as he wrapped his hands around your thighs, muscles flexing under the sleeves of his shirt.
You tilted your head back against the mirror, threading your fingers through his hair and tugging at the strands. That only spurred him on, his nose bumping against your clit with every flick of his tongue.
“Mmf— Steve,” You whimpered, thighs tightening around his head. He gave your skin a gentle squeeze, silently telling you it was okay to let go, and that was all you needed.
He rode it out with you, strong hands keeping you grounded as your orgasm washed over you. Once you came down, he lifted his head to look at you, pupils blown and lips glistening. Without a word, he leaned up and pulled you in for another kiss, letting you taste yourself on him.
He broke it to tug off your top then dove straight back in, tongue slipping into your mouth. You could feel him hard against your leg and it sent a spark through you. As good as his mouth was, you needed more. You needed all of him.
"Steve," You whispered against his lips, "Please."
He pulled back, his chest heaving. “Not here.” He rasped, grabbing you by the hips and picking you up again.
He carried you over to the couch in the corner of the room, lowering you down onto the cushions before peeling off his shirt. He then moved to unbutton his jeans, pulling them and his boxers down in one swift motion. His cock sprung free, head already leaking, but he didn't rush.
Steve hovered over you, one hand braced beside your head to hold himself up and the other brushing your hair away from your face. "Are you sure you want this?" He asked softly.
“More than anything.”
At your confirmation, he reached down, guiding himself to your entrance and pushing in slowly. The feeling of you, warm and tight around him, had his brain short circuiting.
“Fuck,” He groaned, dropping his forehead against yours and taking a moment to breathe.
Eventually though, instinct took over and he started moving with slow, gentle rolls of his hips. It wasn’t rough or desperate like you’d imagine sex with Steve to be. It was surprisingly reverent, a lifetime of unspoken feelings poured into every thrust.
A hand slid down to your waist as his lips found your neck. “You’re so beautiful.” He murmured against your skin, “I love you so much, always have.”
Your heart swelled at his words and your hands wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him closer, "I love you, too."
As the tension began to build, he reached down to grab your thigh and hitch it higher around his waist so he could feel you as deeply as he possibly could. A gasp tore through you, stars bursting behind your eyes as your nails sunk into his back.
“Oh my— fuck, I’m close,”
“Go on, baby.” He urged, “I’ve got you.”
It didn’t take long for the coil in your belly to snap, your back arching off the bed and your vision blurring. Steve’s rhythm faltered as your walls clenched around him, your release triggering his own. He buried his face in your shoulder, hips stuttering as he spilled into you with a guttural moan.
The dressing room fell silent as you stayed pressed together, bodies slick with sweat as your breaths returned to normal. He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then another to your neck before collapsing beside you and tucking you into his side, moonlight flickering through the window and illuminating your naked bodies.
He pressed his nose to the top of your head, inhaling your scent. “Don’t go back to New York.” He pleaded softly. “Not yet.”
Your reply was immediate as you wrapped your arms around his torso, “I’m not going anywhere.”
summary: you and steve promised a long time ago to never go to sleep angry. imagine your suprise when he breaks that promise.
warnings: angst, arguing, steve is stubborn and a little mean, reader is also stubborn as hell, cursing, he doesn’t in fact break the promise, hurt/comfort, crying, kiss and makeup, happy ending! he still manages to be sweet
word count: 3.2k
Dating with Steve Harrington was bliss, it truly was. He was a kind man, always a loyal gentleman. He was protective and was always there for you – physically and emotionally. He was funny and so incredibly charming.
By definition, he was the perfect man.
But with all of his perfections, he had one singular flaw. His stubbornness.
Steve Harrington was as hard headed as a brick wall.
And you? Well, you could almost give him a run for his money.
Any normal day for you two was loving. Except for today.
Today, Steve seemed to have woken up on the wrong side of the bed. He claimed you hogged the blankets all night, even though it was his monster feet who kicked them to the floor.
At first it felt like tired bickering. Once the sleep washed away from him and he got a little bit of food in his tummy, all would be well.
Wrong.
At breakfast, you argued about who’s turn it was to do the dishes. You told him everything in the sink was left by him the night before – he argued that your name was next on the chore list.
You argued about how he forgot to make the coffee for the morning. He argued that you could’ve done it too – even though he’s always done it.
You argued over his misplaced keys. Over what time Nancy said to meet at the station. Over who gets to drive – this one was entirely your fault considering you don’t even like to drive, but he was really pissing you off.
The car ride there was spent with your arms crossed tight and your legs tucked into the passenger door – away from his touch – and his fingers gripping the wheel so tight, his knuckles whitened. By the time you two made it into the station, you both angrily agreed not to talk to each other.
It’s pettiness and stress masked as arguments about nothing. The tension between you two was palpable and the group picks up on it quickly.
You’re all standing around the common room, ready to disperse into your own jobs. You and Steve always go with Dustin to monitor Hopper – leaving everyone else back at the station to take care of things.
You’re dreading the idea of sitting in the pre-existing tension between Steve and Dustin, and it doesn’t help the fact that you’re now arguing with him too.
You move to grab your jacket when he speaks up.
“Not you.” Steve says, his voice firm but cold. You blink up at him. “Byers is taking your spot tonight,”
You laugh incredulously. “Wha – Jonathan?”
He nods down at you, zipping up his own jacket. “He knows how to handle the navigation,”
Your face pinches at his answer. “So do I,”
Steve avoids your eyes as he gathers the rest of his things. It’s not because of shame or fear, but from annoyance. “Do you?”
Your eyes narrow and you can feel the fury bubbling in your chest. “Do I?” You repeat. “You know what Steve, you really have to get over whatever bug crawled up your ass today, alright? You’re acting like –.”
Steve cuts you off before you can finish.
“No, do you know what?” He slams his walkie down on the cushion of the couch. When his eyes meet yours, they’re dark and clouded. There’s not a trace of patience or love in them and for a moment, that scares you. “This isn’t about you. Who knows how many more chances we’re gonna get if this goes wrong and the last thing I need is you fucking up the navigation. So for once, I need you to listen to what I’m saying and quit nagging me, alright?”
Everything around you seems to still.
All that you can focus on is the irritation covering your boyfriends face and for the first time, maybe ever, it’s all aimed at you. For whatever reason, he seems to think you’re the root cause of his sour mood today.
So what if you don’t have the best track record with reading the map? Steve’s lived in his town his entire damn life, he should know the streets by now.
It’s not just frustration you feel anymore. Now it’s shame and insecurity and embarrassment. Shame because apparently, you nag him enough for him to remember. Insecure because you couldn’t even guess how long he’s been holding this in. And embarrassed because everyone around you has also stilled – now staring at the two of you like you’re a pair of animals in a cage.
That thought angers you even more.
Your jaw clenches so hard you can almost hear your teeth grinding against each other and you can feel the way your nails dig into the skin of your palms as a way to calm yourself down.
Steve stares back down at you and after a beat of silence, he seems to register exactly what he said. His eyes flutter shut and he sighs, raising his hand to gently grasp your hand.
Your face is steel as you take a step back before he can reach you. You won’t cause a scene and you also won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he hurt you just now.
“You should go then.” You tell him. He grimaces at your cold tone and makes no move to leave.
He says your name gently. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just – just come with and we can –.”
You cut him off this time. “No thanks, I wouldn’t want to fuck up the navigation again.”
Steve’s shoulders deflate when you echo his earlier words.
It looks like he’s ready to say something else but before he can, you’re spinning on your heels and downstairs to the basement to meet with Joyce at the intercom. You can feel his eyes following you as you disappear but not once do you turn or falter.
It didn’t matter what was causing his sudden attitude change. You were done trying to be empathetic and understanding. He wasn’t about to use you as an emotional punching bag – if he didn’t want to be around you then you would give him that.
It’s hours later when Steve finally arrives back at the station. In that time, his voice cracked over the intercom a few times with updates about movements and any military activity. Each time you ignored the pang in your chest and let Robin respond.
The crawl ended up being just another tally mark under the dead end section and you all began to filter home, completely defeated.
Steve didn’t offer any words as you climbed into the car together, but neither did you. It was still tense but not as tense as when he left. His foul mood is still obvious but it’s no longer white hot anger. It gives you a little bit of hope.
When you finally make it home, it’s after 10. He still hasn’t spoken to you but he lets you shower first, and you take the opportunity to try and get rid of your own anger.
You weren’t sure if he really cared it wasn’t your voice he was hearing. It didn’t seem like he cared about your absence in the van, but then again it wasn’t the focus of the night. His earlier words rang in your head.
It’s not about you.
Yet here you were, making it about you.
You’re smart enough to realize his blow up had little to do with you. It was a culmination of stress of the crawls, stress from his newly strained relationship with Dustin, stress from everything. You were just the only constant in his life and it seemed like you were the best thing to take it out on.
It doesn’t make it right, but at least you understand.
Still, you’re annoyed at the very least.
But you two have made a promise years ago – to never fall asleep mad and with the way exhaustion is clawing at you, you’re ready to climb into bed and apologize for arguing all day. It’s nothing a few sweet words and a few more sweeter kisses can’t fix and the more you think about it, the more you crave it.
Fighting with Steve was one of your least favorite things in the world.
You quickly clean your mess in the bathroom and change for bed but when you step out of the bathroom and into your shared room, you freeze.
It’s not the darkness or the quietness that stops you. It’s the fact that Steve is already on his side of the bed, his back turned towards your side and asleep.
That asshole actually fell asleep.
You stand there, five feet away from him, in complete disbelief. It was his stupid idea to promise that and he’s the one who broke it first.
Your newly dissolved anger reignites and this time, it’s scorching. You have to fight the urge to abuse him with your pillow as you look at his sleeping frame. You’ve spent the last few hours trying to think of ways to make up with him and he’s just sleeping.
Your body is tense as you finally climb into bed. You make it a point to leave as much distance between your bodies you can without falling off the bed.
Steve is unmoving as you settle on your side and it angers you even more.
Now it’s not just the arguments from today. It’s everything.
It’s the arguing, it’s his careless words from earlier, it’s the coldness you’ve been getting from him all day, it’s the short temper he’s met you with.
You feel small and almost like you mean nothing to him. It’s a stretch considering all he actually did was fall asleep but damnnit, it’s the principle of it all.
Before you know it, tears are slipping from your eyes and soaking the pillow beneath your cheek. You bite your lip to keep the sounds as muffled as possible because the last thing you want is for him to see you cry.
For the first night in your entire relationship, you don’t want to be anywhere near him.
You’re not sure how much time passes when you finally stop crying.
You feel pathetic for it but it’s not out of sadness – because he didn’t hurt your feelings (he did) – it’s because you’re just frustrated about the whole thing.
He’s laid beside you, peaceful and still as he lets his body loosen and forget all its troubles. All the while, you’ve been lying here crying.
There hasn’t been a second where your frustration has even slightly dwindled. Instead, it keeps building and your exhaustion isn’t helping matters.
The sound of Steve’s slow and even breathing behind you is enough to make you break. You don’t take a second to rethink things before you’re shoving the blankets off of you and snatching your pillow in one hand.
You trudge into the darkness downstairs and throw your pillow against the couch. You pull the blanket that rests over the back cushion and settle into the couch.
It’s achingly lonely down here but somehow it feels better than trying to stay beside Steve. You know you’ll wake up in an even worse mood because of how uncomfortable the couch is. The cushions are lumpy, it’s almost too short for your body, it’s colder down here without the warmth of Steve comforting you.
Still, you force yourself comfortable and take another chance at sleep.
Upstairs, Steve’s subconscious has him flipping over in his sleep and his arms instinctively reach out for you. His hand slides across your side of the bed, ready to grab your waist and pull you into his chest but he feels nothing.
His eyes flutter open at the feeling of emptiness beneath his palm. It takes him a few seconds to adjust to the darkness of the room but when he finally does, he sees your side of the bed is empty and cold.
He leans up on his elbow then, taking a quick glance at the bathroom but the light is off and the door is shut. He scans the rest of the room but is met with nothing. It doesn’t really register for him until he realizes your pillow is also gone.
He feels his stomach twist with nerves before he pulls himself out of bed.
His feet pad against the hardwood floor of your shared home as he makes his way out of the bedroom. The rest of the house is quiet and dark – he almost worries you left entirely.
He makes his way down the steps, into the living room and that’s when he finally sees you.
Steve feels guilt hit him like a truck when he sees your small frame squished uncomfortably on the couch. You’re lying on your side, knees curled into your chest and a small throw blanket covering your body.
He hates seeing you like this and even more, he hates being the cause of it. He knows without a doubt it’s his fault. He knew what he said earlier was cruel and completely uncalled for – and he didn’t blame you for a second when you chose not to talk to him over the radio.
When he got back and saw how angry you still were, he felt like the best thing to do was give you space. He’d been blowing up over the tiniest things all day, the least he could do was give you time to yourself.
So when he climbed into bed, it wasn’t to break his promise – it actually wasn’t even on his mind. He just didn’t want to overwhelm or upset you even more.
Obviously that was the wrong choice.
His feet pull him towards you and he bends down so he can lift you up. He carefully pulls the blanket from you and slides one arm beneath your neck. He’s ready to slide the other under your knees when you begin to stir.
Your head turns, lashes fluttering against the skin of your cheeks as you try to focus on what woke you up. There’s a softness in your eyes, one personally reserved for your boyfriend and he feels his heart ache at the sight.
But just as fast as it appeared, it’s gone when you blink.
You pull away from his hold and Steve lets his arms fall to his sides.
“What?” Sleepiness laces your voice but he picks up on the anger beneath it.
He swallows and kneels beside the couch so he’s eye level with you. “Come back to bed,” He whispers.
“I’m comfortable here,” You lie easily. Your hands grab the blanket at your feet and pull it back up to cover yourself, just before you shift to turn away from him.
Steve stares at the back of your head for a moment, immediately missing the sight of your beautiful face.
“Baby..” He sighs. He’s ready to argue more but you cut him off.
“I don’t want to sleep next to you, Steve.” Your voice is detached and cold.
His heart cracks at your response.
His ego tells him to walk away. To leave you to deal with your temper tantrum and to enjoy the bed to himself.
He’s never ignored a thought so quickly.
“Then let me sleep on the couch. You go to bed, babe,” He offers softly.
Your anger aimed at him and your exhaustion has you groaning into the air. You twist your head just enough to face him.
“Just forget it, Steve. I want to sleep.”
Steve feels his own stubbornness filter back. “I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.” He says your name firmly – like a parent scolding a child.
You glare at him, your eyes so dark, there may as well be daggers shooing out of them.
“Why not? You were sleeping so peacefully a few minutes ago. Go back and do it again,” You huff before turning your head to face the cushion again.
Steve’s jaw clenches, not from anger but from more guilt. He never wanted to make you feel like this – like you didn’t matter.
Carefully, he moves to sit on the couch with you. You grumble something like go away but he ignores it. He brings his hand up to cup your cheek, and you try to pull away but his hold is firm.
“I’m sorry, baby,” He whispers, his thumb stroking over the apple of your cheeks. It’s a little damp and sticky from your earlier tears you didn’t even bother to wipe away. He watches the way you avoid his gaze and the way your jaw ticks. “I shouldn’t have spent all day arguing with you, and I definitely shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I was pissed off about these crawls and the way Henderson’s been acting lately and I took it out on you,” His voice is so soft and gentle – it’s a dangerous contrast to how he spoke earlier. “You didn’t deserve that, baby and I’m sorry.”
Your eyes gloss over again at his apology and you can slowly feel your resolve break. You’re so tired and all you want is to wrap yourself in his arms again.
But you’re still pissed.
“I’m not your punching bag, Steve.” You say firmly. There’s a hint of a waver in your tone but he doesn’t catch it. He nods, his eyes sad and regretful.
“I know you’re not,”
“And you don’t get to take it out on me every time you’re pissed off.”
He nods again. “I won’t, I promise.”
Your eyes narrow, but it’s not as angry this time. “And you’re not allowed to go to bed without me again.”
Steve breaks a smile at your words but quickly tries to cover it, worried you’re not ready to joke with him again. It technically was meant to be lighthearted but the sentiment was serious.
“I’ll stay awake forever if you asked me too, baby,” He responds, his hand gently stroking your skin.
You roll your eyes at his theatrics, but he doesn’t miss the ghost of a smile on your lips.
He leans down, pressing his lips to yours in a tender kiss. He doesn’t try to deepen it – just lets you both feel the other close and intimate. When he pulls away, he leans his forehead against yours. “I really am sorry, baby.” He whispers.
You nod gently. “I know,” You bring your own palm up to his cheek this time and he plants a kiss to your palm before letting himself lean onto your hold.
It’s quiet for a few seconds as you hold each other before you speak up.
“Can you carry me to bed now?” You breathe out, a smile plastered across your face. Steve grins down at you and within seconds, you’re in his arms bridal style. You gasp in surprise from his swiftness and he’s easily carrying you up the stairs.
He plants kisses across the skin of your face the entire way back to bed and once you’re finally settled in, he doesn’t let you go for a second.
warnings; uhhh well, 18+ please. nothing to graphic, but it’s very much insinuated what’s happening. i haven’t written in a while so this sucks (my apologies) and i’ve never really written anything mine this so that’s why it definitely sucks lol.
no name because i will more than likely be deleting
Your lipstick is smudged to the side, chest heaving, and fingers gripping at warm skin until you're close to drawing blood to the surface.
The smell of warm cashmere has your head turning and nose nuzzling into the head of hair that brushes against your jaw as his lips move against the soft skin of your neck.
He’s a blanket of warmth. Golden skin, painted with a constellation of freckles that has you wanting to trace every single one with your lips, leaving marks of yourself.
Your nails drag over his shoulder blades as his own palm slips from your side to slide towards the arch of your back, his own fingertips just as greedy and leaving behind streaks of red. His other hand does the same to your right side.
A soft moan escapes your parted lips, before they press against his forehead. Suddenly your hand that had stayed on his right bicep climbs up to his jaw pulling his head from your neck, only to brush your nose against his own, lips brushing against one another, breathing one another in.
“Steve.” Your voice is wrecked and all you’ve been doing is making out and feeling his nails claw down your back and side.
His hips roll forward, hitching your legs up just slightly on his hips, tilting his head when he notices the small hitch in your throat. A tiny smirk twitches at the corner of his lips. “Does that feel nice?”
“I don’t like when you do this.”
He pouts then, eyes widening just a fraction to show how big they truly are. “Don’t like when I do,” he shifts closer, rolling his hips once more as his hand that had remained on your side drags down to your thigh, gripping softly and pushing further up his side. “this?”
It’s slow. Torture.
He knows what you mean and he’s being mean himself.
“I’m kidding, sweetheart,” his voice is low, slightly mocking, intertwining your lips softly, dropping his hand from your spine to press down on the mattress below you, yet keeping his other hand placed on your thigh. He pulls away, nudging his nose gently against yours.
You follow after his lips but he only pecks the corner of your mouth. His hand leaves from the mattress now, cupping your jaw while his thumb presses into your chin gently.
“I’m gonna take such good care of you,” he whispers, eyes dropping to your lips as the pad of his thumb seemingly has a mind of its own, leaving your chin to trace around the plush of your lips. “You’ll be beggin’ me to stop.”
summary: somehow, you and yelena end up on her couch after a night out, where you get to lay your eyes on her teammate Bucky Barnes for the very first time. thankfully, the alcohol in your system doesn't stop you from making a move on him.
cw: reader is also a spy but doesn't work with the thunderbolts, light intoxication, flirting
wc: 1.3k+
Yelena steps in front of you the second you get into the elevator, one arm outstretched to block you as she presses the button to the tower’s residential floor. You giggle, dropping your head against her back when a little compartment opens in the elevator wall, a laser scanning her pupils to verify her identity. The compartment shuts, and the elevator begins moving upwards. Yelena turns towards you with a wide grin, snatching the bottle of wine from your hand as she immediately asks “What are we watching? No, what are we ordering?”
You shrug slowly, closing your eyes as you try to imagine the taste of several different cuisines. The elevator dings and your eyes snap open. “Taco bell.” You mumble, following Yelena’s beeline towards the couch in the living room. You’re happy to throw yourself over its back, landing on the soft cushioning that has you moaning happily. Yelena laughs at you, her cropped shirt riding up her torso as she rolls over, reaching for the television remote while you unlock on your phone.
When you add your food order to the cart, you toss Yelena your phone, and she instantly ditches the remote for your phone. She hums to herself as she adds her likely questionable meal option to the cart, holding out your phone for you to grab when she's done. She glances at you from the corner of her eye as she picks up the remote, and upon realising that you aren’t going to sit up to retrieve it, she flicks her wrist, sending the phone flying towards you.
With a huff of disapproval, you pick the phone off your chest, poking Yelena’s thigh with your foot while lazily commanding “Put something on.” She grumbles to herself, trying to find the bottle of wine she had discarded somewhere.
The elevator dings again and you hum, lifting up your phone with furrowed eyebrows. You just ordered the food, so there’s no way it’s already here. You and Yelena both glance up at the same time, and you gulp thickly at the sight of a man stepping out of the elevator, and you sit up straight, gasping as you miscalculate how far up on the couch you are, instead rolling directly onto the floor.
Yelena lets out a loud cackle as you straighten up with a disoriented groan, but you still push yourself up to land onto the couch, swallowing thickly at the sight of the man who has left the elevator. You turn to Yelena, mouthing ‘wow’ when you catch her eye, and she grins, pointing a hand towards the mysterious man. He’s serious eye candy — his thick muscles constraining underneath his leather jacket, dark hair perfectly framing the sharp bone structure of his face.
“That’s my teammate, Bucky.” Yelena says, finally clicking onto a show. Its theme song begins playing loudly as you wave awkwardly towards Bucky, and he chuckles deeply, returning the wave. He walks towards the open kitchen, and you turn back towards Yelena, your eyes wide. You crawl closer to Yelena, mouth agape as you stare at her. “Why didn’t you tell me you had someone so attractive on your team?” Yelena rubs her eye with an enclosed fist as she smiles widely, listening to you as you continue muttering “I would’ve joined your stupid superhero team had I known he was on it.”
“Don’t worry, Bucky barely makes up for Walker. He’d be enough to turn you away no matter how hot you think Barnes is.” You hum, glancing back towards the kitchen where Bucky is drinking from a glass of water. You lick at your lips, eyes staying on him until you feel a sharp dig into your lower back. “Don’t be so obvious.” Yelena mutters, and you sink back into the couch, biting at your short nails.
From the kitchen, Bucky smiles to himself. He can hear absolutely all the words you and Yelena are exchanging, but he’s sure that in Yelena’s drunken state, she’s forgotten about that specific detail. Or she doesn’t care. That’s probably more likely. But Bucky knows who you are, or at least he knows of you. Yelena’s wallpaper is a photo of the two of you from years ago, equally talented spies but only much younger. Bucky knows that whenever Yelena disappears from the tower, she’s in your apartment. He knows whenever you’re out on your assignments, because Yelena never fails to mention it, and knows exactly what your sense of style is based on the contents of Yelena’s wardrobe. ‘Oh, she’s been looking for this jacket for ages. Don’t tell her I have it.’ Yelena has mumbled in the past, strutting around in your clothes.
But to know that someone like you — who’s so close to someone high-strung like Yelena — thinks he’s attractive? Well yeah, it certainly feels good. Especially when you’re easy on the eyes yourself.
“Going to the toilet,” Yelena announces, standing up as she grumbles “Too much wine, I think!” She zooms out of the room, and Bucky grins when you sink further into the pillows.
“Glass of water?” Bucky offers from the kitchen. You perk up, glancing behind you and shaking your head softly. “No, it’s okay. I’m fine. Thanks.” Bucky walks over to you, sitting next to you on the couch, cradling his glass of water in hand. “Didn’t know the spy life allowed for nights out like this.” He comments, eyeing your outfit. You swallow thickly, tugging at the fabric on your body in an attempt to make yourself seem more modest. “It doesn’t, really. This may be the first time I’ve gone out in over a month.”
Bucky smiles softly, nodding in relatability. “Yeah, I get that. The most I’ve gone out is for groceries.”
You laugh softly, a twinkle in your eyes as you question “Not even a dinner with a special someone?”
“Yeah, because this job allows us mental capacity to have a ‘special someone’.” Bucky scoffs. You grin; he’s immediately taken your bait. “Well I can be your special someone if you’d like. We can be the two wrongs that make a right.”
“Yeah?” Bucky puts his glass down turning his torso towards you. You straighten up a little, shrugging your shoulders as you kick your heels off, letting them clatter onto the floor. “Yeah, maybe.” Bucky smirks, unsure why he’s even flirting with you. He hasn’t even been on so much as a date since his hydra days, but something is different about this. You understand his lifestyle without being someone he already knows and sees everyday, but somehow, you’re not a stranger either. Bucky didn’t know a dating scene could even possibly exist in this profession.
“Let me take you to dinner, then.” He suggests, and you smile to yourself, feeling your face grow hot despite the fact that you were the one to flirt with him first. “Okay. Might have to do it tomorrow so you can catch me now rather than never.”
“Tomorrow it is, then.” You nod joyfully, and Bucky reaches out to squeeze your knee before standing. He takes his glass of water with him as he leaves, and you find yourself staring at the circle of condensation it left on the table. Your phone lights up with a notification and you jump excitedly at the notification that reads ‘Your driver has arrived.’
Footsteps enter the room again, but before the sneaky blonde girl can say anything, you order “Yelena, go get our food.” She groans, and you don’t need to look at her to know that she has thrown her head back in annoyance, arms hanging loosely by her sides. “At least tell me you flirted with him.”
“Would you believe me if I said I got a date with him?”
“Okay, you don’t have to lie to me now.”
“Bitch, go get my taco bell.”
From around the corner, Bucky smiles to himself, thinking he’ll get along with you just fine.
thinking of being langdon's gf during s1 and the day that he gets found out and robby kicks him out of the hospital he comes home and is so riled up he fucks you crazy style, like manhandles you into every position till 2 orgasms later you end up with your face shoved into the bed in doggy and you just barely hear him under his breath muttering "could an addict do this?"
and you're so dazed drooling on the sheets but you still manage a shaky, "w-what?"
"nothing, baby" his hips pick up pace, fucking the question out of your head, a professional at deflecting. "let me fuck this pussy, honey. you like it? tell me."
he's fucking you so hard n fast that the headboard is slamming against the wall, "s-so good," you sob, "always fuck me so good, frankie—"
"who fucks you best, huh? can anyone fuck you better than me?"
he growls it, fingers digging into your hips like he's trying to prove a point. that he's irreplaceable. that he's the best at everything he does. "n-no, no one else no one else no one else—"
he grabs at your hair and tugs till your head is forced up to stare at the ceiling. "say it again."
"no one fucks me better than you," you're gasping, chocking on a sob, feeling so fucking good and yet... something niggles at you. your tummy turning and nervous under all the pleasure. "I promise, no one is better, promise, promise."
it's not until later, in the dark while you both pant and try to catch your breath that you finally get to ask why he's home so early. and it's also then when frank decides to lie.
You like to rush things. Clark takes things slow until he can’t anymore. (Or, you attempt to seduce your coworker in a series of little skirts, and while Clark falls in love with all of you, the skirts don’t hurt.) 4k words, fem.
˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚
It’s mildly manipulative, what you’re doing to him. Subtle seductions stretched far and wide between weeks of work, your eyes alighting a moment too long on his lips and his neck and his arms.
You don’t flirt. That’s important. You don’t tell him how handsome he looks when the cold has rosed his cheeks. Won’t mention the poor fit of his gray suit, how it’d look far better on a bedroom floor, or draped across a bathroom stall. Nothing severe. You’re… teasing him.
For no reason, really. It might be frustration, but wow, wouldn’t that be introspective? You know you could never land a guy like Clark, so you pretend. Blah blah blah, it’s all very boring and your skirt is very short.
Alright, it’s not that short. It’s the illusion of the thing. The idea that he could get a glance at something, even though the skirt has an inner lining.
You’re not, you know, obvious about it. Clark might not be looking. But you place your hand on the counter as you reach up with the other for a mug, and you know there’s a stretch of thigh on show if nothing else, heat of a real or imaginary eye on the backs of them as you sigh softly. You genuinely can’t reach.
You settle back on your heels and turn to find Clark not too far away. “Hey, would you help, please? If you can reach it.”
You can’t glean any overt interest from his expression, but he says, “Sure,” with warmth on his lips, like he’d gone to say something else and let it fizzle out.
Clark opens the cabinet door wider and reaches in for a pink mug. It has ‘sweetheart’ written on the side in white, textured font, though the script is elegant.
“Here, sweetheart,” he says.
You laugh, mostly to see his satisfied smile. “Thank you.”
“Can I make it for you?” he asks.
Clark could hang you upside down and shake you for spare change if he wanted. “You know how I like it.”
Teasing aside, you spend the afternoon sipping at your coffee with Clark a desk away, Lois adjacent, listening to the click of tens of keyboards and the scritch of shuffled paper on the edges of desks. You work on your small cooking column in relative silence. Three recipes a week, minimum. If you do especially well, Perry lets you slide a conversational piece across his desk for reviewing. You’ve had a couple on the third page. Clark has taken the front page again this week —an exclusive interview with Superman about the Jelly-Mecha that attempted to swallow the WGBS building.
You’re leaning back with a leg over your knee, your eyes dedicated to the little clock in the corner of your monitor, when somebody hooks the empty chair in the desk beside yours and wheels it over. Clark is sitting next to you before you can protest, a dark-sugared donut in his hands.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Are you sharing?”
“Obviously.” He grins, pulling the donut in his hands apart. Sugar crumbles down into his lap, and the smell of it erupts between you. Apple-cinnamon, miraculously warm when he presses it to your fingers.
“Thank you.”
Your quiet doesn’t perturb him. He matches your tone, “Yeah, don’t mention it.”
“Where’s this from?” you ask, taking your first bite.
He takes his own, covering his mouth with his hand as he answers. “Beanies.”
“That explains why it’s still warm.”
He shrugs. You don’t get what it means but you don’t care to argue, savouring each mouthful of dough and sugar. You lick the crumbs from your fingers and the corners of your mouth. Clark ate his own half fast, ‘cos he’s a giant with an appetite you envy and revile; in your most humble opinion, it is both impressive and audacious to watch Clark house a BLT in half a minute.
“Was that good?” he asks quietly, his eyes on your shining fingertips.
You wipe them on the edge of his napkin. An achy heat eats at your stomach. “You’re spoiling my appetite.”
“Do you have big dinner plans?”
“Huge! I’m testing something new tonight. Snow mountain garlic and pea risotto, for health week. It’s not particularly healthy,” you confess. “But snow mountain garlic has all these supposed special properties. Doesn’t matter if it’s true, though.”
“Why not?”
You like his tone. “It has more allicin. That’s what makes it taste good.”
“Allicin is antibacterial,” he says.
“Brilliant. Antibacterial risotto.”
He holds your eyes for a moment, his own big and especially blue behind his straight frames. “I hope it goes well,” he says.
It’s a measured sentence, like he’s crafted each word carefully as he said it.
“I’ll bring you some if it does.”
“I’d like that.”
You hide how warming it is to be spoken to like that, carrying the feeling home with you to unravel against the stovetop. If you try harder than usual to make a good meal, it is nobody’s business but your own, and Clark’s, who sits waiting and ready at his desk the following morning.
“Clark Kent on time?” you tease, letting the handles of your handbag fall into your elbow. “Who would’a thought we’d ever see the day?”
“I can be punctual,” he promises.
“Can you? Aren’t you on probation?”
“That wasn’t for tardiness, it was for sick days, and no. I’m no longer on probation.” He smiles with white, shy teeth, a peek of them from between his lips. “I’m on the straight and narrow.”
You imagine the hardness of them against your own lips as you lean in for a kiss, for a split second. The clack you’d inevitably make as your teeth knocked into his, as you hooked your arm behind his neck and dragged him down to you for some light force.
“‘Cos you’re a good boy,” you murmur, mumble, more to yourself than him (though he is definitely meant to hear you).
Clark’s face is still. His hands less so, a fist curling against his thigh. His smile is remarkably genuine. “Coffee?”
Calling Clark a good boy might be flirting. Or not! What’s important is the way it softens him for the working day. How quietly awed he sounds as you unveil a Tupperware container full of risotto for him. He tells you it’s good between big bites. You want to nibble on him, taken by the curve of his bicep each time he brings up his fork, and the tip of his tongue darting out to catch a grain of rice. He’s killing you. You’re dying at the Daily Planet.
Dramatics aside, he compliments your risotto egregiously, returning the Tupperware with a pristine shine. You don’t play short-skirt with him for days.
When you do, the skirt is a delicate thing that isn’t as short as you’d expect considering the name of the game, but it’s nearly sheer. Standing in the right light, your hip smushed to the pillarway near his desk while Jimmy tells you about a new kind of giant slug they found living in West Africa, you assume you’re displaying what you’d seen in the mirror that morning. Given enough sunlight, the lavender fabric of your skirt goes translucent. Anyone in looking distance can make out the barest hint of your legs, their shape, a shadow of your thighs and the neat little underwear you have on beneath. You aren’t trying to harass him, but, this is Metropolis. It’s not the most conservative place when it comes to fashion. It isn’t much different to wearing a pair of daisy dukes.
It’s not entirely a sex thing. It’s to feel sexy, sure, as an arm to feeling beautiful, desired. You want to know that Clark (handsome, kind, beautiful Clark) sees it, that he wants it, even if it’s a fleeting flash of lust and nothing else.
And Clark —he doesn’t notice. Doesn’t say a word about it, doesn’t clench his fist or take in a sharp breath.
You decide you like that just as much and return to your desk, happily ashamed.
—
The pasta you made yesterday is far better today. The mushroom sauce has soaked into the fusilli. With a scratching of fresh cheese, you lay it over a fresh bowl of rocket and watercress, coat the entire thing in lemon juice, balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and flaky salt, and eat it enthusiastically behind your computer.
“That smells amazing.”
You lighten at his dulcet tone. “It’s pretty good. D’you want some?”
“I’m trying to keep you fed, sweetheart,” Clark says, placing down your ‘sweetheart’ mug and a small plate, “not the other way around. Thank you.”
His thank you is diligently gentle. He must work at it, to sound so docile. It has to be practised.
The small plate homes two cupcakes. One has golden cake with a great dollop of fresh cream and cut raspberries atop it, and the other looks like a darker flavour. Ginger? The buttercream is thick and caramelised, with cookie crumbs between its peaks.
“What have I done to deserve all this?” you ask.
“You don’t have to do anything at all. It’s your afters. Your dessert.”
“I haven’t done anything?” you ask.
He shakes his head kindly. “It’s inherently deserved.”
If he’s charming or teasing, you can’t tell.
His eyes fall from your face. You get distracted by his details, the clean hills of his cheeks, his dark brows, sweet mouth and a sweeter nose broad enough to take a kiss or two, and you almost miss the stroke of his gaze lingering on your collar. His fingers twitch. “Can I?” he asks.
You follow his finger. One of your straps has fallen down, leaving the simple pale elastic of your bra alone. You couldn’t have faked it better. “Sure,” you say under your breath.
Clark hears it regardless, slipping a fingertip up your arm, a backwards tumble that threatens to send tattle-tale goosebumps over your skin. He hooks the strap under his fingers and brings it over your shoulder, pulling at it enough to make your eyes widen. Then his touch is gone, leaving a strange sensation in its place.
“You’re dressed really pretty, today,” he says.
You smile at the joke before you’ve said it. “As opposed to every other day,” you say.
“This is beautiful. You look beautiful.”
You duck your head. Sincerity in the face of your sarcasm inspires an amazingly dizzy feeling in the stem of your neck. You have to force back a smile.
“Thank you, Clark. I’m… glad you think so,” you say eventually. There’s emphasis there for him to take or leave.
You can see his hesitation, then, a palpable pause while he makes a decision.
“It’s a nice skirt,” he says quietly.
There’s nothing imposing in his tone, but there doesn’t need to be. He isn’t tall, dark, and handsome, he’s incredibly, scarily brilliant. He’s smiling at you like you’ve given him a compliment.
“It’s a little brave,” you say.
“Bravery suits you. Anyways,” —he touches your arm briefly— “don’t let me keep you. Eat your lunch. Hopefully your coffee won’t be too cold to enjoy when you’re finished.”
You wish he’d press you up against a wall. He did notice the skirt. He has the self control to leave it alone, or at least to wait for you to bring it. And… yeah, that’s working for you, actually. Really working. You stood in the sunshine to give him an explicit view of your legs and he brought you cupcakes to say thank you.
—
Apparently, there are limits to Clark Kent’s self control.
You’re lavishing in Centennial Park under a gorgeous sun. It’s barely seventy two degrees, a tame heat for July in Metropolis, and yet the sun is hitting you just right, kissing at your skin, leaving you sated and heavy under its weight. Clark has rolled up his sleeves (a contributing factor, perhaps, to the contentness you’re carrying) and loosened his tie, sitting where you’re laying down, a sweet hand held to your knee. Today’s skirt is a bias-cut midi dress made of a dark sage green. There are bell-sleeves like petals and a neckline you aren’t worried about, not when he’s guarding you like this. You shift on your back to better feel the sun on your face, and he pulls the skirt along the inside of your thigh. Keeping it in place to protect your modesty, setting every nerve-ending you have aflame with pleasure.
“Tell me if you feel too warm,” he says.
“I’m not worried about the sun.”
“What are you worried about?”
“Oh, the usual. That some weird space creature is gonna break the atmosphere and kill us,” you croon.
He delights in your tone, his thumb sweeping a line into your leg. “I won’t let anything kill you.”
You’d kissed his cheek in the elevator because the line of his nose had looked rather unkissed, and his cheek had been the politer option. You hadn’t expected the quick turn of his head, or the complete lack of nonchalance about him as he’d smiled and laughed and pressed that same cheek to your temple as he’d hugged you with one arm.
So now you’re here in the park because you hadn’t wanted him to stop touching you. The summer dress wasn’t part of your seductions but it seems to be working all the same. You’re hoping you’ll get a kiss of your own to settle the score before the sun goes down. With where his hands are resting, you aren’t sure where you want one most. One hand on your thigh, one on your knee, his body turned to you like it’s the natural thing to do. He could be generous and give you a kiss beneath both palms. You think you’d quite like that.
“Do you worry about that a lot?”
“Hm?”
“The aliens… The space creatures, do you worry you’ll get hurt?”
“Not really. We have a great protection detail, don’t we?” you ask.
He’s quiet for a bit. “What do you think about him?”
You don’t ask, Superman? Of course he’s talking about him. “He’s extremely handsome.”
Clark laughs boisterously and shakes you by the leg. “Alright. Knock it off.”
“Or what?”
“Or nothing. Just knock it off.”
He makes everything sound so satiny.
“I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” he adds.
“Promise?”
Half a joke. Clark pushes his glasses up onto his nose and finally leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your elbow where your arms are crossed over your chest. “Yeah. I promise.”
You let him walk you home. That night, one of the star-shaped superaliens appears in the air near your apartment and then there’s a breathless Clark on the line asking if you need some company. You tell him no, ask if you can see him tomorrow when the dust settles, and he promises you that his Saturday was all yours. He actually says it, says, “I think you could ask me for anything after today and I’d try to do it for you.” He’s laughing to diffuse the weight of it, but you take it to heart.
A Saturday turns to Sunday. A week turns to two. You and Clark trade careful kisses anywhere but the mouth and he doesn’t mention your little skirts. You keep wearing them, especially the velveteen lavender one too sheer for summer, layered over a short silk underskirt to protect your own wits. You’ve seduced him (have you?) but now you’d really like to keep him.
It’s a Tuesday morning with little to give. The air is already warm, the tram platforms are full. You commute to the Daily Planet for another day of dedicated journalism.
Jimmy begins the morning with praise. “I made your honeycomb macarons. I actually made them.”
“And?”
“And? They were amazing! You’re such a goddamn genius,” he says.
He gives you a macaron from a tin shaped like Yoda. The cookie is sweet with that perfect, delicate crunch, and the honeycomb ganache is better than your own. You take another one from his tin, giving him a congratulatory pat on the elbow. “They’re amazing!” you say, shells and honeycomb pieces thick in your mouth.
“What’s amazing?”
You remember where you are urgently.
“I made macarons,” Jimmy says.
Clark doesn’t make fun of his pride. “Really? That’s awesome, man. Can I try one?”
You swallow the lump in your mouth, washing it down with a quick swig of coffee.
“Morning,” Clark says.
“Hi. Good morning.”
“Hi,” he says, fond. “How has your day been so far?”
You lick your lips without thinking, sweetness lingering in the stick of your lipgloss. “It was good, yeah. The tram was hot.”
“You look good.”
Jimmy wrinkles his nose. “Guys, we talked about this.”
“‘Bout what?” Clark asks, finishing his macaron in one bite.
Jimmy is kind enough to roll his eyes and leave it alone, wandering off with his tin clutched to his chest. Clark rolls his eyes too, a secret gesture that has you laughing through your nose.
“You do look good,” he says again.
You look down in mild bewilderment. “It’s laundry day.”
You’re in a pair of black slacks that threaten to slip off your hips at any moment and a button up that should be tight to the waist but unfortunately isn’t. You’d saved the outfit with a necklace and a handful of jewelled rings, but it’s nothing like the stuff you’ve been wearing as of late. Of course he’d notice.
“This…” He raises a hand to your hip but doesn’t touch.
“What?”
His thumb presses to a slip of skin so small you hadn’t noticed it was visible. His brow creases like he’s been burned, yet his hand remains where it is. After a heavy second, he squeezes, and he says something too quiet to hear to himself.
“Clark?” you ask tentatively. “You okay?”
“You have no clue… no clue what you do to me.”
His eyes are all on you. Deep, indigo-blue.
Heat leeches up your neck. Your heart capers suddenly. “What do I do to you?” you ask, your tentativeness turned to silk.
“Don’t.”
“What do I do, honey?” you ask, nearly whispering now. “I don’t have a clue, right? So tell me, then, what I do to you?”
“What am I supposed to do?” His fingers adjust against your hip. “Why would you do this here?” Clark’s voice breaks with a put-upon heartache. He’s still smiling. “What am I supposed to do, here?”
“Take me somewhere else.”
His hand falls away from your hip. You can feel where his fingers had shaped your skin for minutes afterward, following him with a poorly faked casualness to the elevator.
He hits the button for the basement as you step in.
“I think they’re still printing,” you say. The mock-up copies get made in the basement, and it’s an all day affair. “It’ll be as busy there as it is–”
No sooner has the elevator started moving than Clark is hitting the emergency stop.
“Clark!” you say.
“Can I kiss you?”
He doesn’t laugh. You lean away from him to take in his long body, his grey suit and red tie and the wetted run of his bottom lip. He has honeycomb in the very corner of his mouth.
You raise your hand to wipe it away.
“Yeah, okay,” you say, tilting your chin up slowly.
Clark grabs two great, heaping, greedy handfuls of your back, long fingers spread out and guiding you in for a kiss you aren’t expecting. There’s genuine hunger there, your teeth clicking as you’d always imagined, a voracious sort of meeting that quickly gentles. He lets out a sigh against your lips and melts against you like a stick of butter over a flame, lax, a hand traversing upward and over and– and his mouth, his kisses are these open, warm mouthings you meet with a stammering heart. This isn’t the slip of control you’d imagined it to be.
Clark’s kissing you without an ending in mind. You can feel it in the tenderness of his open palm, seemingly laid to sleep at the small of your back.
“How long does that work?” you ask in a murmur, your lips happily stung.
“I don’t know. I’ve never done that before.”
“Really?”
“When would I have had reason to try?” Clark asks, cupping your cheek in his hand. “You’re so pretty.” He steals another quick kiss. “Do you know that?”
“I can’t believe this is what got you to crack,” you laugh.
His eyebrows pinch. “What?”
“This,” you gesture to your clothes. “Of all the things I’ve worn.”
“I don’t understand.” Though it’s dawning on his face quickly. “Oh. You– The… Oh.”
His neck goes all shades of rose.
“Sorry,” you whisper.
He tips your head back nicely. “For what? I would’ve cracked anyway. You could’ve worn anything, but… The little purple skirt, that was for me?”
You press your flushed face to his chest, arms crossing lazily behind a strong neck. “Clark…” you mumble.
He digs his face into your neck to kiss the softness beneath your ear. You’re surprised he doesn’t whine your name back to you, what with the mood he’s in, but Clark’s got a propensity for sweetness that won’t quit.
“On purpose,” he whispers, vindicated. “I knew it.”
The elevator chugs back to life.
—
You are delightfully, blissfully human. There comes a time when you need saving, and it just so happens that Metropolis brags its very own (and very only) Krypton superbeing. One minute you’re being squeezed in the fist of a raspberry-furred mega fox thing, and the next you’ve been freed and grabbed and propelled through the air in arms that feel oddly familiar.
“Miss, are you okay? Miss? Miss, are you alright?”
You look down at the ants of your city and nearly puke up your dinner. “Oh my fuck,” you squeeze out.
“I’m sorry! I’m taking you back down. There’s a girl, breathe in for me. Deep breaths.”
You can hardly breathe at all, but your shallow breaths earn you a thank you and a proud pat on the back. Your legs are shaking so hard at touchdown that Superman has to physically arrange them beneath you, his arm glued to the small of your back when you list unsteadily.
“You’re okay,” Superman assures you.
His little curl is ever so darling. “Like Clark’s,” you say unthinkingly, wrapping the short strands of hair around your finger.
“Are you alright?” he asks, generously ignoring your moment of delusion.
“I thought I was gonna die.” You blanche, glancing back over your shoulder for signs of the megafox. “Fuck.”
“Everything’s fine, now. I promise you.”
You take a deep breath. Superman holds you by both shoulders, forcing you to copy a second, deeper breath, then a third.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
Too much like Clark. “My boyfriend, he was–”
“Everyone’s safe.”
You let out a shaky breath. The last of your panic ebbs from your shoulders. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah, thank you. For saving me. Thank you so much.”
“You don’t have to thank me for anything,” he says. His voice goes bendy and weak.
“I really do. If I died in this skirt, my boyfriend would never forgive me.”
Superman gives you an appraisal, up and down. Heat flares in your stomach and refuses to cool as he smiles. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin a skirt like that,” he says knowingly.
You shake your head, not without fondness.
All boys are the same.
˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚
thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed <3 and thank you Bec for reading it twice at different times
i hope i never see what your face looks like going
a face i swear that i could spend my whole life knowing
***
travis meacham x fem!reader
unlike your boyfriend Travis, you're usually pretty quiet and reserved and sometimes you worry your love for him isn't loud enough, but he secretly bookmarks all the ways you show up for him.
contains: fluff, reader overthinking, Travis being the perfect boyfriend, swearing, Griffin being a dick
part of the 200 follower celebration
***
The one fundamental thing that everyone knew about Travis was that he was loud about the things that he loved. If there was a new film he’d seen recently and enjoyed, best believe he’d be chewing everyone’s ear off about the important plot points. If there was a song he stumbled upon, he’d be singing it slightly off key for anyone to hear. Even if he found a new pair of jeans that fit nicely, he’d be singing from the rooftops about the store that he got it from. Needless to say, if there was something he cared about then anyone within a five-mile radius knew about it.
The one thing he was loudest about was how much he loved you.
Ever since you first started dating, you had caught on about how loud and passionate Travis was about the important things, but it still never failed to amaze you how he took any and every opportunity to remind you and anyone else just how much you meant to him. Walking down the street he’d make sure to always have his hand intertwined with yours, not letting go unless he needed to hold a door open for you or pull a chair out when you were out for dinner. He loved taking cheesy photos with you, posting them on his socials, even though he wasn’t exactly inundated with followers the ones he did have knew you were together. Even when you told him a new joke or fun fact, he made a point of telling everyone he worked with the next day. “My girlfriend told me that one, isn’t she the best?”
You loved how loud Travis was about how he cared about you, and he never seemed to mind that it wasn’t the same on your part. Of course you adored your boyfriend, he was the best thing to ever happen to you. But the way you showed up was different, you did it in the small and silent ways, You loved giving him sentimental gifts, yearned for the nights in when it was just the two of you and you talked for hours, made a habit of remembering the small details and celebrating them. Shouting from the rooftops wasn’t your style but you still made a habit of proving how much you loved him. It was never an issue, you and Travis were happy and secure in your relationship.
So it came as a surprise when something as simple as a throwaway comment shook you up so much.
You’d come into work to surprise Travis that evening, having been working the whole day, and you were stood at the front desk chatting to Naomi when he appeared from the elevator. The second he saw you, his whole face lit up and he came bounding over to you, wrapping his arms around you and kissing the top of your head.
“Hey, baby.” He grinned, pulling you impossibly closer and you giggled. “I missed you.”
“It’s only been a few hours.” You reminded him. He pulled away slightly so he could look at you, shaking his head.
“That’s way too long.” He told you. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Naomi cleared her throat loudly. “OK, as much as you love you both, do I always have to watch this insane amount of public affection? Get a room.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault I have the best girlfriend ever.” Travis fired back. She rolled her eyes but she was smiling.
Griffin suddenly made an appearance, waltzing through the front doors like he was doing everyone a favour simply by being there. You had to stifle a groan when you saw him, and Travis put an arm around to pull you into him. Griffin was a creep who would take any opportunity to hit on you but with your boyfriend next to you, you knew you were safe. He took all of you in standing around the front desk and rolled his eyes.
“Hey assholes, don’t you have work to do.”
“Oh, settle down Griffin.” Naomi responded. “It’s the night shift at a storage unit, not exactly excitement central.”
“Yeah, relax. We’ve got it under control, man.” Travis chimed in.
“I’m not paying you to stand around and chitchat.” He fired back. “Get to work.”
“Technically you’re not paying me at all.” You pointed out, making Travis chuckle next to you. It wasn’t often that you verbally expressed your distaste towards Travis’ boss, not wanting to put his job in jeopardy at all, but sometimes you couldn’t hold back. Griffin gave you a look of disdain.
“Wow, look who finally figured out how to talk.” He chuckled to himself. “Didn’t think you knew how. Always wondered why Teacake keeps you around.” The last part was muttered under his breath, loud enough for only you to hear. The comment made you stiffen slightly as his words hit you like a tonne of bricks.
Because you wondered if he was right?
Travis remained blissfully unaware of your inner turmoil as he rolled his eyes and sighed loudly. He leaned in to whisper in your ear. “I swear, if he didn’t pay my wages.”
“I should probably head off and let you focus.” You told him, stomach still churning.
“Are you sure? I hate that I didn’t get to see you today, but I’m off tomorrow. We can hang out all day then.”
“That sounds nice, as long as you really want to?” You forced a smile onto your face. “We can go out somewhere if you like.”
Travis shrugged. “I’m happy hanging out at home, I know you’d prefer that.”
“Yeah, but-“ you were cut off by Naomi yelling something at Griffin, at which point Travis stepped in to help her out. You admitted defeat. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow, baby. Love you.” He called out to you as you walked away.
“Love you, too.” You wandered out, inner monologue completely spiralling.
***
Griffin’s words weighed heavy on your mind over the next few days. You hated that you were letting him have such an effect on you but you couldn’t help it. Of course people had mentioned before the contrast between yourself and Travis, how your boyfriend could easily talk for the both of you, but it was always light-hearted and breezy. No one had ever voiced the idea that Travis didn’t really want you. It couldn’t be true, could it? Travis adored you, he told you every day. Would he ever doubt your relationship? You loved him so much, surely he couldn’t ever doubt that. Could he?
Despite how much you insisted it wasn’t true, you could feel yourself pulling away from Travis over the next week. You didn’t want to but your brain was telling you it was easier to do it that way, cushion the blow. You stopped going in to see him at work, stopped texting him on your breaks to update him on any work drama, even made sure you were asleep when he got home in the mornings. That one hit the hardest, feeling him climb into bed next to you so gently so as not to wake you up, stroking your hair gently. You could practically feel how much he wished you were awake so he could talk to you about his night but he never woke you up.
Still, he could feel the space growing between the two of you. And he hated it. You were always there, when he reached out he could just trust that he would find you. So this new tension was really getting to him.
Day eleven was when he finally caved in. You were in the kitchen making some coffee and he wandered, looking a little bit lost. He took you in, still as gorgeous as the first day he met you, and the way you were keeping your back to him. The two of you had perfected your kitchen routine and it always consisted of chatting happily, cracking jokes, sometimes even dancing around together like children. Today there was this uneasy silence that he wasn’t used to. Something inside him cracked.
“Did I do something?” He asked, voice tinged with sadness. You immediately spun around and frowned, face wrinkled in that way that always made Travis’ heart skip a little.
“What are you talking about?”
He sighed, face crumpling and it broke you. That face was always so happy and joyful, you never got tired of it. You always said to yourself that Travis’ face was one you could spend your whole life knowing, though you’d never said it out loud. This was where all your problems were currently stemming from and you couldn’t let it eat you up anymore,
“Travis, can I talk to you for a minute?”
His face immediately registered panic. “Oh God, are you breaking up with me?” He crossed the kitchen in two strides, scrabbling to grab your hands and keep you close. “I swear whatever I did I can fix it, please don’t do this, baby.”
“No, no. Travis, I’m not breaking up with you.”
He exhaled loudly, relief flooding through him. “Jesus Christ, don’t do that to me again, please.”
“I’m sorry.” You couldn’t help but smile a little as he tried to regain his composure. “But I do want to talk to you about something.”
“Anything, honey. Tell me what’s going on?”
You tried to figure out how to open the conversation, unsure of how to navigate this unfamiliar ground. In the end you decided to just go for it. “Do you ever feel like I’m too quiet for you?”
Travis tilted his head, looking puzzled. “What do you mean?”
A sigh escaped your lips. “It’s just…Griffin said something the other day when I came in to see you.”
“What did that asshole say? I swear to God, I’m not above fighting my boss, I know I could take him.”
“You don’t need to do that.” You assured him. “It’s just, he said he didn’t understand why you kept me around because I was so quiet. And I guess I started to worry that he was right.”
Travis’ felt like his heart had shattered at your admission. “Baby, you don’t really believe that, do you?”
You shrugged, folding your arms into yourself. “I don’t know, sometimes I worry that you don’t know how much I love you because I don’t say it as much as you do. Because I swear, I do. I love you so much, Travis. Even when I’m quiet about.”
“Hey, hey. Breathe, honey.” He reached out and pulled you into him, rubbing circles into your back to calm you down. “Look at me a second.” He stepped back slightly so he could see you. “Just give me one minute.”
He walked out of the kitchen towards the bedroom, leaving you standing there. “Travis, where’d you go?”
“I’m coming.” You heard him shout through, the sounds of him rummaging under the bed also coming through. After a few minutes, he reappeared clutching a small cardboard box which he placed on the counter. “Here, look at this.”
“What is that?” You chuckled, walking over as he took off the lid. Inside the box was stuffed full with little trinkets and ornaments. Travis began gently taking each one out so you could see it.
“You see this?” He took one out. “This is receipt from the first coffee you bought me when I got sick. It was pouring rain but you insisted on running out and getting me my favourite because I was dying from a cold. And this?” He continued. “These are the movie tickets you waited two hours in line for because you knew how much I wanted to see this movie on opening night. And this? The leaf you bought home for me because it was starting to turn golden brown and you know how much I love autumn.”
He pushed the box towards you as you stared in disbelief. “Travis. You kept all this stuff?”
“Of course I did.” He said with a smile. “Because you gave them to me.”
“I can’t believe this.” You leafed through everything in the box, all the beautiful evidence of the relationship you’d built with Travis. “This is amazing.”
“So are you.” He affirmed. “Fuck what Griffin, or anyone else thinks. It never mattered to me that you aren’t as loud as I am, in fact I always thought we were like a fine wine and cheese. We balance each other out perfectly.”
You were full on beaming now. “I never thought about it like that before.”
“Well, I hope you never think that I don’t want you, because that couldn’t be further from the truth. I love you so much, baby.”
synopsisyou and Trinity decide you've had enough of being the casual booty call, agreeing to play hard to get to prove to your partners you can go without them. easier said then done
warningsmut. oral (f! receiving) fingering, language, pinv, unprotected sex, MDNI. slight praise kink. no use of y/n
authornotethe way in which i need to be driven mad by this man using me is concerning to feminism
main masterlist. other Robby fic
“I don't get it!” said Santos for... well, you had no idea how many times she'd repeated herself but you were considering making it a drinking game. Every time she said she 'didn't understand' you resolved to take a shot. “I thought we were fine, doing great and casual- what- what is casual?”
Whitaker's hand hesitated in the air like they were in class. “Well I think by casual she means-”
“I know what casual means, Fuckle-berry,” said Santos quickly. “But it was casual now it's just weird.”
You nodded along, humming.
She groaned, hands running through her hair in frustration. “I don't get it!”
You took a long gulp of your wine.
“How do you handle it?” Trinity asked, arms wide in question at you.
“Me?”
“Yeah, how do you and Robby do casual?”
“Oh- we... it's- um-” you stumbled over your words, hoping that if you let it up long enough she'd take it back and start on her problems again. She didn't and she stood in front of you and Whitaker, waiting for an explanation.
The whole thing between you and Robby had started about the same time Santos and Garcia started. In an awkward confrontation that was you and Trinity bumping into each other in your shared bathroom, both your hairs messed up and both supporting bruises suspiciously in the shape of lips on your necks.
When you returned to your room you and Robby waited eagerly to see who would flee Santos's room. Neither too shocked to find Garcia.
“It's um?” Trinity asked.
“It's going,” you said into your wine glass, finishing it and pouring in more. The truth was for a while things had been odd, on your end more so.
Casual was a label you thought you could do, that when Robby said to you a week after sleeping together, his sheets over the both of your bodies that he liked keeping it simple. Sex. Release. You thought you could do it.
Almost three months since then and you were regretting it because every time you saw doctors eyes lingering over Robby, every time you heard his 'seven-week rule' and every time you saw happy couples fawning over each other in the ED your stomach twisted.
You didn't realise you wanted that until it was dangled in front of you and snatched away all in the same minute.
Trinity's brows rose. “Oh?”
You looked to where Whitaker was next to you, hoping for sympathy. You only found curious eyes. “It's just different than before.”
“Different how?” asked Dennis.
“Is it still casual?”
You scoffed, mumbling under your breath. “Yeah to him.”
“You want to be more?”
You didn't know if she was accusing but your room-mates expecting eyes on you heated your body in shame and embarrassment. “And you don't with Garcia?"
“Ok, enough!” suddenly Whitaker stood up. “The two of you, we need to sort this out.”
With a vacant seat next to you Trinity plopped herself down and you gave her your wine. You just decided to take the bottle.
“I cannot stand it anymore, okay! The two of you, we're gonna change this,” he said. “Trin- no more pining and waiting for Garcia to call at like one am.”
She was wanting to retort but only folded her arms over her chest as he carried on.
“And you-” he focused on you. “Need to stop crying over Robby. You guys can do better.”
“Yeah in a world where we're not working twelve hour shifts five days a week,” you said. The idea of casual hook ups wasn't anything new to the ED, not even the hospital. It was easy way of escape without the pressure of dating when all their time was spent saving lives or charting about saving lives or studying how to save lives.
On the coffee table in front of you Trinity's phone pinged and she reached for it like it was seconds away from self-destructing.
She tucked her phone into her chest to read the text before slamming it back down.
You caught a glance at the words and the contact. Can't make it tonight, I'll hit you up tomorrow- G
“You're gonna leave them,” he said.
You and Trinity sat up. “What?”
“No!”
There was a flicker of fear in his eyes.
“Okay- I take it back,” he said, surrendering. “Then how about give them a taste of their own medicine.”
“Their medicine?” you asked.
Whitaker gently nudged the empty glasses and cans of beer aside, perching on the edge of the coffee table, appealing to the two of you. “How many times have they cancelled plans, or said you couldn't come over to ask you to come over two hours later?”
You hadn't realised how perceptive he was.
“Now, make it so you guys call the shots. They want to come round, you say no.”
The idea was new to you. You'd always wanted Robby. You spent half your spare time wanting him and the other half having sex with him. You'd never even wanted to say no.
“So then we what, don't have sex?” asked Santos.
“You will,” he said. “You create distance, get them wanting and crying or what-whatever and then they'll realise they've messed up.”
You thought we was giving them too much credit.
Santos chuckled. “Huckleberry, are you telling us to play hard to get?”
He thought about it, eyes moving as if he was calculating it. “Yes!”
That's how plan 'hard to get' started. It was agreed you and Santos, the next time Garcia and Robby asked you to come over you'd say no.
Easier in practise when you work with them.
The next day was a slower day, un-usual in that sense. It meant everyone had more time to linger around each other.
“And so I said to him- officer-” said Myrna, lying on the bed between you and Robby. She'd seizure, hurt her leg and needed it disinfected and cleaned- not for the first time in her life. There was a mix of glass and gravel that needed plucking out and apparently the attending of the ED had nothing better to do that join you in the task. “What would you have done if you caught your third husband eating out another woman?”
“And did he say shoot him?” asked Robby. He was bent over the same leg as you, your heads so close you were either gonna head butt or kiss. Not likely over the state of her leg.
“No, he didn't say anything, he just arrested me!”
Robby hummed, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. “Imagine that.”
“You know Myrna sometimes I can't tell if all these stories are true,” you said, taking a small bit of glass and adding it to the pile you'd already created.
“Oh they're all true, honey, I never lie. Unlike Mark that two faced bastard.”
“Which one was Mark?” you asked.
“The fourth husband. Good body and shit everything else!” she said with a wheeze. Abruptly she grabbed your hand. “Are you single?”
Robby glanced up at you, creases of amusement at the corner of his eyes.
You looked away first. “Why, you asking me out?”
“If you're single, stay single!” she said. “Men, all they are are liars! Lying bastards! And babies! I hardly even shot the guy!”
“Am I so bad, Doctor?” asked Robby looking over the frames of his glasses at you.
Was he so bad? No. He was short-tempered sometimes, moody, didn't accept help from anyone. But you knew he could be gentle, you knew his true belly laugh and the smile he gave at mornings when you were still in bed. You just wish you knew if he ever saw himself staying in that bed a little longer, if he ever wanted to make breakfast and take the day together, stealing moments throughout.
“No,” you said, looking back down to her leg that was almost clean. “You're not.”
Myrna was oddly silent but you could see her head moving between the two of you. “Don't go there sweetheart,” she said, a word of warning. “This one might look fun but he's all danger and heartbreak.”
“Me? No,” said Robby with an air of un-care. “I'm a teddy bear.”
Five minutes later you and Robby were instructing Perlah wrapping her leg before throwing off your gloves and leaving her to it.
“How many husbands you think Myrna had?” he asked.
“Oh there's no telling,” you replied, fetching her chart to finish off the notes. At some point someone had put a star next to her name, as if she was VIP.
Robby leant next to you, scanning around the ED. “Any plans tonight?”
“On a Wednesday? Nop.”
“Wanna come over?”
There was an abrupt and loud clear of a throat.
You hadn't realised Whitaker was there but he was watching the two of you, closely. When you met his eyes he gave a small subtle shake of his head.
Robby looked. “You got a cough, Whitaker?”
He cleared his throat, sliding down in his chair. “No.”
The agreement. It was all fine in practise but how were you supposed to say no when you just said you had no plans and you really wanted to have sex with him! It was the glasses, you were sure that was what did it. The way he pulled them on and pulled them off, the focus it gave him and the way they slipped down his nose.
“So, tonight?” he asked again, voice low.
Only a few people knew, like your room-mates and you were sure others had guessed. Robby wanted to keep it private. Or a secret, you'd never asked for clarification.
You caught Whitakers gaze on yours, watchful. He didn't say anything but you wondered if he'd be disappointed. Would you even be disappointed in yourself? “I can't tonight.”
“Oh,” he said, nodding. “Okay.”
He didn't sound annoyed. He didn't sound anything. It was impossible to tell.
“Yeah, we just- there's this thing-”
“Thought you had no plans?” he asked, an almost amused rise in his brows.
Ah. “It's like- not a plan- just a- a room mate thing. You know?”
Robby looked to Whitaker as if to confirm.
He nodded. “Yeah! Every Wednesday. We watch films.”
“Films,” you confirm.
“And talk.”
“We talk.”
Robby nodded. “Sounds thrilling.”
“Robby!” Dana called. “Got a trauma, woman in her thirties. Five minutes.”
“Got it," he said but he was still slumping over the counter. He took his time moving, stretching up till his shirt rode up enough to expose that slither of skin that held so many promises. “Some other time then.” His hand ghosted the small of your back before he disappeared.
You watched him go, realising you wouldn't spend the night buried in his bored but sleepless and restless.
Whitaker replaced Robby at your side. “See? Doesn't that feel good?”
You answered truthfully. “No.”
That night you, Santos and Whitaker sulked on the sofa, face masks over your faces with a bowl of popcorn left on the table and a shitty movie filling the silence.
Your phone lay face up with nothing from Robby and from Trinity's expression you figured she'd had nothing either.
You'd been to the bathroom once, took your phone with you and debated texting him but you never got that far. You only flicked through texts, casual one's at first. Small 'Are you coming over?' or 'You left your shirt at mine.' There were some dotted from him, on times you were both too busy to meet where things got more... riskier. His texts started simple but you could always catch on to his wants, leading his want.
Things like 'Thought about you today,' or 'you looked good today,' but he never just complimented you for the sake of it.
The texts didn't help so you turned your phone off and re-joined the two all the while your head and heart were in bed with Robby.
The next day passed like another dry spell.
It was busy- too make up for the quiet day beforehand. You didn't have time to greet Robby before being thrown into the chaos from a pile up on the highway. All day your bodies shuffled past each other, his hands lingering on your arms when he passed or always standing next to you in trauma.
It felt something like punishment.
Or a test.
By Friday you were crawling out of your skin, still dealing with the ramifications of the last two days. You hadn't even seen that Robby had text you the night before, so exhausted from work you crashed only spotting his name on your phone the morning you woke from the blare of your alarm.
“You're avoiding me,” he said, kneeling at the computer you typed furiously at to get your charting down. It was a casual move he used, usually un-tying and re-tying his shoes. This time, he simply knelt, seemingly done with pretence.
“What? No.”
“I've barely seen you the last few days," he said, wetting his lips. “Is there something wrong?”
“No, no, I've just been super busy,” you said, tapping on the computer.
Robby shuffled next to you. His hand laid next to yours. He didn't take your hand or stop you but his fingers fidgeted like he didn't know what else to do with himself. “Did I do something?”
You looked down at him, spotting the crease between his brows. “No.”
It was the closest you'd got to seeing him vulnerable.
“So tonight?” he asked. “Feel like I'm losing my damn mind.” His finger was light as it traced your hand, slowly drawing circles.
Tasting Robby was like the first sip of alcohol. It always left you wanting me. Sweet. Bitter. Whatever. You were just left wanting and nothing else, which was why you went crawling back every time. Why saying no had never crosse your mind before. Why the smallest touch from his hand was leaving you in shivers.
You squeezed your eyes shut. “I can't tonight-”
Robby smirked, breathing out a puff of air.
“I would,” you said quickly, turning in your chair to face him. “Believe me, I would, it's just... Trinity is going through some stuff and I just- I don't want to leave her alone, you know.”
It was the truth. Trinity was taking Garcia's silence worse than you or Dennis had anticipated. You knew there was more going on, you only wanted to be there to help her.
Robby perked. “You need me to speak to her?”
“No, no, it's just stuff. She'll be okay I just, want to be safe.”
He nodded but his finger fell from your hand. “Okay.”
“Doctor Robinavitch!” his name was called by the familiar dread of Gloria.
He sighed under his breath as he pushed himself up. “Oh so help me, God.”
By Saturday you were sure Robby thought you were lying and sort out to punish you. He was practically glued at your side all day long. He didn't ask to see you, didn't put his lips near you. But he lingered.
“Okay we don't have a lot of time, there's a lot of bleeding,” said Robby in the face of a trauma, looming over you. “We'll do a Hilar flip.”
“A Hilar flip, are you serious?” said Trinity.
“No other choice.”
You gulped, staring down at the bleeding and misplaced lung. “I've never done one of them before.”
“I'll talk you through it, we'll go easy,” he said, coming at your side. “You're gonna rotate the lung one-eighty, very slow. Very gentle.”
Perhaps it shouldn't have been as erotic as it was. The way his chest heaved against your back, his arm stretching along yours to hold your hand and guide it through the blood to his lung. His face was concentrated next to yours but his breath was hot on your cheek and breathless.
“Go slow.... go slow. Easy.... gentle.... just like that, there we go,” he uttered against your ear.
“Blood loss is slowing down.”
“There we go, you got it,” he mumbled as you slotted it back into its place. “Okay-” Robby moved on like your whole body wasn't trembling. You had to carry on trying to save the guys life after it, like you weren't picturing his entire body draped over yours, whispering filthy things in your ears.
“Thought I was watching a porno there,” said Santos as you all fled the room when the guy was stable.
“Jesus-” you caught your breath, throwing off the gloves and running your hands through your hair, trying to get some air to your neck that sweat.
Santos chuckled to herself. “So does Doctor Robby talk you through it?”
“Trin-” you snap.
“Does he praise you? Is that the kind of thing you're into.”
You didn't respond, hiding in the bathroom to throw cold water onto your face and calm the rush of blood but you could hear Santos outside the door. 'This is a teaching hospital!' she teased.
It became a thing you had to do, get away from him. You couldn't be distracted when dealing with patients. It was bad enough working with him when all you could think about was fucking him!
But Robby seemed to insist in helping you.
“Gaping wounds like this, under the skin we use sub-Q to bring it together,” he instructed as started the stitching for a mans wound on his leg. It was just like anything else, hardly a teaching wound when you knew how to do it. As it was under tissue and there was just no other nurse around Robby insisted.
“Five-O under skin, three-O after that,” he said.
“You think you could show me?”
You both knew you didn't need to be shown but Robby still gave you a small smile and sat on the stall, coming close to you till his meaty thigh was against your own. His hands- though gloved as yours were- still grazed yours as he took the instruments to do it.
“Guide it through... it's finer so you want to extra gentle... lotta care...”
You hummed but you couldn't say you were watching it with keen eyes. You weren't watching the way the stitches came together just the way his hands flexed, his fingers moved.
“Start deep... all the way in... bury the knot in... yeah, see how it comes together just like that?”
You nodded with an absent mind.
Robby held the equipment out to you. “Go ahead.”
You hesitated. Maybe you should have paid more attention.
He all but shoved them into your hand. “You're a big girl, you got it.”
Santos's voice played it your head. Were you into this?
With a breath you steadied yourself and went in. As he had before Robby leant over you, his body practically weighing you down.
You took the thread under the skin, pulling together just like he had.
“Bit deeper-” Robby's hands guided your arms. They were as light as a feather at your elbows before slowly sliding down your arms with a firmer hold, leading the threads.
You remembered his tight hold on you when he wanted you in place on the bed, when he was was dragging clothes off your body or wrapping a hand around your neck-
Robby called your name, watching you expectantly. His eyes were softened at the edges but they grew darker, the smallest bit of a smirk at the corner of his lips. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
“Right... sorry-” you went as deep as he instructed, knowing his face was concentrated on you and your hands.
“Do you want me to leave?” asked the patient.
If he could leave his leg and leave it would've been great.
“We'll get you out of here in no time,” said Robby.
You'd thought that maybe the stitching at taken so long it was almost time to leave. Maybe you could talk to Whitaker and Santos about this hard to get thing. It was only eleven and you had more than six hours left with situations that constantly brought you and Robby together. Even when it didn't, there he was, whispering words of encouragement.
“You got this... nice and easy.... doing really good there...”
Or the simple phrase that had you hiding in the bathroom for five minutes.
“Good girl.”
When the end of the day came you ran out of there, gasping in air and rushing back back to your place.
“Hey,” you greeted walking through the door.
Trinity was already there, looking like she was ready to leave, jacket thrown over her scrubs she hadn't changed out of even though she finished an hour before you. “Hey.”
“Where's Huckleberry?”
“Oh he's at Amy's tonight.”
You scoffed. “Woah. What a speech about doing better and playing hard to get but as soon as the chance comes to play farm. So, movie tonight? I can order pizza?”
“Actually, I'm just on my way out too,” she said. “Garcia called.”
You slumped. Your entire body slumped. Your heart gave up. “What? I thought we all made a deal?”
“We did, I played hard to get now she wants to see me,” she said.
“I haven't seen Robby in three days!”
“So go to his, get dicked down, girl,” she said, moving past you with a breeze. “I'm sorry, we can talk about how much of a bitch I am when I'm back from having the best sex yet! Later!”
She was out the door before you could chastise her. You shut it after her, falling upon it.
You'd ran from the ED to stay strong, to avoid another interaction with Robby that would have you climbing his bones in an empty room. You'd happily have done it with the teasing he'd subjected you to all day. For your friends and the promise you'd made you remained strong.
You'd never do that again.
Saturday night after the longest shift of your life and you had the place to yourself. It was rare. Either Denis or Trinity were home or you were spending the night at Robby's.
Your phone was heavy in your pocket.
Call him.
But the problem still lied un-answered. You were still at Robby's beck and call, begging for his attention. Begging him to be hard thinking about you so he could fuck you into the mattress to be professional the net day and treat you like you were just another MR.
You didn't want special treatment so to say, didn't want him to give you the easy patients or get you into the traumas more. You just wanted a smile, or a glimpse of .... love.
Maybe your friends were okay with what they had. You weren't.
You turned your phone off for the night and stripped from your scrubs, changing into a large shirt and blasting music Trin hated and Denis claimed to hate (but you'd heard him playing your playlist in the shower). For a crazy night alone you caught up on washing several pairs of scrubs and anything else, cleaned out the freezer leaving you barren of anything to eat. Maybe you'd even iron some normal clothes-
That's at least what you were thinking when there was a knock at the door.
You'd hoped it was Denis or Trin coming back, tails between their legs, keys forgotten.
Robby stood on the other side of the door.
You stood, frozen, shocked to see him there. He was just as still, waiting with raised brows. “Doctor Robby. Is everything okay?”
His backpack was slung over his shoulder, his scrubs only slightly dirtied from the day. But his eyes were alive and his body didn't sag with exhaustion like usual. His eyes darted back behind you. “Can I come in?”
You held open the door, closing it slowly behind you.
Robby had only been to your place once before. He looked the open living space open with interest. Typically your meet ups were at his, on account he lived alone and his bed was much nicer to be down on than yours.
“Er- Whitaker and Santos aren't home, if- if this is a hospital thing.”
“It's not,” he said, lowering his bag at the sofa.
“Oh?”
He turned, leaning against the back of it. “It's a me and you thing.”
“Oh.”
His arms flexed as he folded them over his chest, the green of his top under his scrub bunched at the forearms. His head ducked, trying to get a read on you. “So?”
You rocked on your heels, realising the shortened of the shirt you wore. Not that it wasn't anything he had seen before. “So...”
“What's going on?” he asked. There was still nothing in his voice to give away his true thoughts, only a slight edge of urgency.
“What-what-what do you mean?”
Robby listed off what he saw was wrong like symptoms. “You've been avoiding me, you never answered my texts, you didn't want to see me the other night nor tonight though you have the place to yourself-”
“I didn't realise they were gone,” you said.
“Okay so every other time?” he asked. “If I did something you can tell me. I'm a big guy, I can take it.”
It was a chance to voice up every ill thought you'd had but all you could think about was how big he was. Standing there, jutted on the back of the couch with his scrubs around his arms and thighs.
“You didn't do anything,” you said, though you weren't looking at his eyes more his arms.
They flexed again like he knew what he was doing. His voice dropped, finally to something you could name. “So tell me. what's going on.”
If you threw yourself at him you knew the chances of him taking you to bed were high, but the chances of you regretting it in the morning when he had rolled out of bed, dressed and left you were higher.
“I just-” you blew out a breath, readying yourself for the dismiss. “I don't think I can do this anymore.”
Robby waited like he was listening to the words re-play. His head lowered as he nodded, taking it in. “May I ask why?”
“It's the casual thing,” you rushed out before you could take it back. “I don't think I can do casual. I thought I could, but I-I can't.”
He nodded, chin tucked into his chest and for a moment you thought you really had upset him. But then he straightened up, pushed himself from the sofa and shrugged. His boots thudded heavy as he stepped to you slow. “Okay then.”
Was this the moment when you got the door for him on the way out?
“Okay, so... um.... I guess I'll see you-”
Robby's hands grasped your cheeks and he kissed you quick, hard. His lips tasted as they always did with a hint of mint-freshness. They were rough as always as they worked against yours, opening you up to him as always-
You brushed away, shaking your head. “I um- Robby I can't-”
He took a deep, shuddering breath. He stepped closer to you, the heat of his body waving over you. “We don't have to be casual anymore, I don't want to be casual- not anymore.”
Everyone knew Robby only knew casual. Only selected few ever got past seven weeks. Heck you hadn't counted how long this had been going on for, maybe ten weeks but that could be nothing. You were good sex, that was all.
“Robby-”
“Listen, listen-” he said, arms waving around you before settling on your forearms. “You don't want casual, neither do I. You want me to ask? You want me to ask you to be my girlfriend, I'll ask.”
“Robby you don't date,” you tried to tell him.
He scoffed. “I date. But not anymore, not if I have you.”
Had word of the deal got out? Was Robby just tired after his shift? Delusional?
“Hey, hey-" his hands ran through your hair, cradling your cheeks. “I should've said it earlier, I know but I want this. I want serious.”
His eyes crinkled as he looked at you, the edges of his gaze soft. “You don't just have to say this. You can have anyone else-”
Robby's head ducked into the crook of your neck, brushing your hair back and pressing light kisses to the expanse of your neck. “I don't want anyone else, I want you.”
Your body awakened in shivers that he elicited.
His fingers wound to the front of your body, slowly peeling away the buttons of the shirt till it pooled at your ankles. He didn't move to ravage you, his lips remained light as they kissed down your neck, finding your collarbone and working a mark there.
Your hands wound up his arms, clutching at his shoulders. “Robby-”
“Not this time,” he uttered against your collarbone.
You knew what you called him when it was you and him. “Michael-”
“Good girl.”
You moaned out at the words, the moan you'd held all day revibrating around your flat.
He slowly kicked odd his boots and helped you throw off his scrub top before he kissed you again.
You only got a short glimpse at the body you craved before his tongue, hot and heavy, slid into you mouth, bathing in the warmth. His hands were rough as they studied every inch of your body, fingertips digging into skin.
“I want you, sweet girl,” he mumbled against your lips as you scaled your hands under his shirt and along his stomach till your fingers skimmed under his waistband.
His mouth opened against yours, groaning at this slightest touch. “Oh-”
His arms scooped you up, bringing your body up and flush against him as his arms were strong on your back, kissing you. It was all wet tongue and soft lips as he stumbled back on the edge of your couch.
“Santos will kill me if we have sex on our couch,” you gasped.
Robby rose a brow. “Oh, we're having sex?” he teased.
“I should hope so.”
You kissed you hard again, wetting the both of your mouths in delectable smacks of your lips. The two of you stumbled away to your room and his body caged you in as the two of you fell atop your sheets.
You crawled up the bed as Robby's face fell between your chest. His tongue made wet paths from each breast, taking a nipple in his mouth and his hand groping at the other one till you withered against his body.
“Michael-”
He moaned into your breast and shoved a meaty thigh between your legs. “Grind on me,” he demanded.
Your body did against him as if it only listened to his command.
He mouthed your other breast, groping where his tongue had pressed before. All the while you body moved against his thigh, dragging your pussy against him.
“Yeah.... jus' like that... god.... can feel you.... so good,” he uttered as he jutted his thigh against you.
Your hands went to his shoulders, messaging the skin there until he came back up your body and shoved his tongue down your throat again. Your arm wrapped around his neck, keeping him into you.
All the while you wet down his scrubs.
“You want serious?” he uttered against you, pulling back enough to see you.
You nodded, hair splayed over your pillow.
Robby nodded along, eyes hooded. His hand slid down between your bodies. “I can do serious.”
His finger slid into you, working in and out in slow thrusts. But even the meassured curl of his finger had you holding him, back arching from the bed.
“Mmph-”
“Don't be quiet,” he said, nuzzling his head in you neck, biting the skin there. “Don't do that.”
Another finger curled in and you moaned on. You weren't quiet usually, there was nothing more than Robby liked than being loud. Everything was measured in the ED, out of it, buried inside of you or hot mouths on each other had Robby groaning, moaning and wanting you to do the same.
His fingers thrusted knuckle deep in and out again, the soft moving of skin moving around the room as your breaths covered the sound.
His fingers moved quick as your breaths grew laboured. He sucked the skin of your neck, thrusting and curling as his hips sort some sort of friction.
You withered against him. “I'm gonna- Michael I'm gonna-”
He released your skin with a small bite and laid his mouth open on yours. “Cum,” he uttered.
“Michael-”
His voice turned harder, the hand that wasn't inside of you wrapping around your neck, pushing you into your bed. “Cum.”
With just the right curl Robby had your pussy in the palm of his hand, slick with your release as he worked you through it, rubbing his hand along your clit with jolts of your body.
“God so good,” he said, looking up at you as a thin sheen of sweat glistened on your bodies. “And all mine?”
You nodded, cheeks flushed. You could feel the heat of your body as strong as it was when he walked in.
“All mine, huh?”
“Yes,” you said, breathless.
Robby slowly took out his fingers from you, putting his fingers in his mouth and licking them clean like it was nothing. He fell back on his feet, fingers working on the ties of his scrubs. “That why you were avoiding me?”
“I wasn't-” your words died in your throat as he dropped his scrubs and boxers in one.
You'd seen his cock enough to know it by memory but the size and fullness of him always rendered you speechless.
Robby knew it to. He stood there with a smirk. “You weren't avoiding me?”
Slowly, he sank to his knees.
“No,” you said, mesmerised by the sight of him going down.
Robby's hands grabbed your thighs, spreading them. He tapped your ankles, getting them on the bed as he got closer to your heat, still leaking from the last orgasm. “Promise?”
The words had hardly left your lips before his tongue pressed into you.
Your entire body moved into his but his arms wrapped around your hips, keeping you pressed into the bed. He moved further up, burying himself in you.
“Aw- fuck-” your hands waved for purchase before curling into the sheets.
He licked a stripe up and down before nudging your lips open and finding himself in there. It wasn't the slow drag of fingers but the desperate kisses and licks of a man hungry. He pulled back, spitting against you. “You won't avoid me again, will you baby?”
You shook your head.
Robby's eyes remained on yours until he buried himself in your pussy. You watched his eyes roll into the back of his head as he moaned into you.
His hands kept you spread open every time they quivered but it didn't take long for his hand to wind down to his cock. You prepped yourself up onto your elbows to watch as he pumped his cock agonizingly slow.
“Want your cock, Robby-”
He halted his movements and you but down on your lip.
“What did you just call me?” he asked, slowly moving up your body.
You knew you were supposed to call him Michael but watching the full swing of his cock stand to attention as he made his way over you was far too distracting.
“Hey-v his hand cupped your chin, forcing you to look up. “Michael.”
You nodded. Your hands reached for his cock, straining to wrap around him.
The only notice of the effect you had was the clench of his jaw.
“Michael,” he repeated, voice almost a growl.
“Michael.”
He nodded.
“Condom?” he asked, jutting back on his heels.
Your hand slowly worked his cock, the pre-cum beading at the tip. You shook your head. You were both clean, you were on the pill but tonight you wanted to feel everything, wanted him to even fill you-
Robby bent his head, spitting down on his cock and your hand. For a moment that's all it was, you hand moving on his cock as your other circled your clit. “God... your hand.... missed you...”
When your strokes got heavier, faster Robby's head fell back and he groaned. His cock was pink, heavy in your hand-
Quickly he grabbed your wrist and threw it off before grabbing the hilt of his own cock and slowly pushing into you.
His throat strained as he groaned at the push in and your back arched into him. “Fuck!” he fell atop you, arms braced at either side. “Shit- ah-”
Your arm wrapped around his shoulders, keeping you in.
“God, you make me crazy,” he uttered, searching for your lips.
The two of you collided in a mess of salvia, tongue, lips as he pushed into you, catching your gasps.
Eventually the rock of his hips grew steady. The creak of your old bed echoed the moves of him against you.
“Shit- ah-” he groaned, shaking off the sweat and the tension.
“Michael,” you said, holding him in closer. “I want you to... go hard.”
Hard he could do. Soft he could do. He would do anything you asked.
His tongue darted out, swiping your lips. “You missed me?”
“So much, so much, so much,” you pulled him down till his weight tested yours, cock deep. “On me.”
“Okay, okay,” he mumbled to himself. He put all his weight down, crashing your body into his bed. He wasn't as young as he once was. By no means but if you wanted it, he'd give it.
Pressed into you his cock went far and deep and he couldn't fully withdraw so it was small, maddening movements.
“Oh god,” he uttered.
You moaned, loud, as he wanted and he was breathless, groaning.
The dull thump of your headboard banged on the wall and something on your bedside table fell off.
Robby's arm stretched out, grabbing your hand and stretching your arms to the headboard, trying to steady it. With the stretch of the bodies he reached that spot in you.
“Aw fuck!” You yelled out, louder than anticipated. “Michael I'm gonna- I'm gonna-”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck-” he grunted with you. His other hand threw to your hip, holding your pelvis flush into you. “Fuck!”
In seconds he let go inside of you and the gush of his cum and the sound of the wet bodies threw you over the edge. His clutch on your hand grew tighter as his body trembled with yours, the spurts of your releases cooling down.
If this was casual Robby wouldn't have lingered, he'd have pulled out, flashed you a smile before using the bathroom.
He moved slower, staying till the both of you were spent. He kissed you, soft and sweet, lips moving around to remember the taste. “I'll move out,” he whispered as he took out his cock.
You stole a glance of both of your release leaking from you and around him before Robby moved aside.
He didn't flee, he didn't go to the bathroom. He pulled the sheets from under your bodies and got the both of you into bed. He laid beside you.
Robby tucked you under his arm, sweat on both your bodies cooling as you laid together. “Feels better when we're serious.” His fingers moved slow on your shoulder, delicate touches like a feather.
If he woke with a new thought, woke with regret you'd deal with it. For the moment you allowed yourself to feel the thump of his heart as the two of you slowly lulled to sleep.
Your alarm was the first thing you picked up in the morning. It's beeping ringing in your ear as you moved to turn the thing off or throw it at the wall-
A weight over your stomach made the effort harder but you got it.
Last night came back to you in the spill of scrubs on the floor and the ache between your legs.
Robby stirred next to you. Last night.
He stayed.
“You on today?” he asked, morning voice rough. You got a look at him, it was a rare sight you got to see him in morning light. His eyes were still shut, his face without the stress the day job gave him. He asked so casual, as if this was a morning routine you'd slipped into years ago.
You hummed, nodding and readying to move-
His arm tightened, drawing you in. “Call in sick.”
You chuckled, but your eyes closed. You promised yourself five more minutes. “My attending might have something to say about that.”
Robby grumbled. “Have a word with him, I'm sure you can be very persuasive.”
Somewhere in you apartment you heard the front door open and close, voices moving around the place.
You hadn't closed the door.
“Hey! We brought coffee and bagels!” called Santos.
“We're sorry for leaving you- we- huh?” you heard Whitaker. “What the?”
The clothes on the floor. The scrub top that would have his doctors badge on it.
You groaned and suddenly Whitaker and Santos were passing the doorway, one smirking, the other shocked.
Robby beside you didn't even stir.
“Good morning, Doctor Robby!” called Santos.
He only lifted a hand in greeting before making sure the covers were over the two of you.
You reached for something heavy, landing on a cushion and aiming at the door. It closed in front of your laughing friends.
if i was steve’s girlfriend he could not get me off of him. not even in a sexual way, would always be hugging him or sleeping on him, pretending im tired and my feet hurt so he can carry me and i can fulfill my wish of climbing him like a tree
as previously established i feel like steve is a level one clinger so he definitely would not mind this at all. obviously time and place but this is the kind of casual PDA i think he would go for around trusted family and friends. if anyone gave him shit for it he would just throw it right back like "oh, sorryyyy i'm in love, you should try it sometime"
something very sweet.... to me.... is thinking about how maybe you've been hanging out with The Group (the adults) and you've been lounging around on the couch shooting the shit and it's late and you're very sleepy and you just. decide to rest your eyes with your head on steve's shoulder for a second. but the second you do you're out. everything feels heavy and you're drifting off to dreamland and steve is so warm suddenly you're curling up a little more into his side and your breathing is evening out and you're no longer just resting your eyes
and steve is such a sap. he's pulling you in a little closer and wrapping a large hand around your waist to anchor you there and your hair is tickling his neck and the side of his face but your shampoo smells really good and he loves the little clicky sounds you make when you're asleep. he just lets you stay like that for a little and no one brings any attention to it, this is just kind of what the two of you do. the conversation is dying down anyway and you hear more crickets chirping outside than you do words that make sense
eventually everyone's calling it quits and is heading out or heading upstairs and steve hates to wake you but he has to move if he wants the two of you to sleep in your own bed. so he's tucking your hair behind your ear, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, and whispering that it's time to go home. and you're a little grabbier than usual and you're so sleepy and you don't know if your legs will move properly to get you back out to the car. and steve knows this without you having to say it, so he just scoops you up and carries you out bridal style to the car and buckles you in and keeps his hand on your thigh the whole way home while your head rests against the window. rinse and repeat to bring you up to bed.... at some point you wake up enough but you continue to feign sleep anyway just so he'll dote on you for a little longer
