❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
titsay
Love Begins
No title available
Show & Tell
if i look back, i am lost
sheepfilms
taylor price
Cosimo Galluzzi
@theartofmadeline
★
No title available
Cosmic Funnies
YOU ARE THE REASON
occasionally subtle
Kiana Khansmith
Product Placement
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Not today Justin
macklin celebrini has autism
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Bulgaria
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Pakistan
seen from United States
@livfastdieyoung69
WELCOME TO LIV’S
Hello!! Im liv ;) Like my works? Please send a request my way!! Take a look at this first please, though.
SEND ME A REQUEST, PLEASE I BEG!!!!!
BONES, BODY, SOUL. (A Jeff Hardy Story)
ROCKSTARS NEVER DIE (A Nikki Sixx Story)
WORKS BY LIV HERE!
(i hate updating my masterlist and very often forget to if im being honest. if you’re looking for something specific, check out my tag!)
for as much frank castle fluff that i enjoy writing i also very firmly believe that he would never want to remarry or have children again
and what if i said i also think he wouldn’t (at least in most cases) want to do anything but sweet passionate love making where he holds your face and calls you sweet names and talks you through the deep and warm and careful rolls of his hips and presses hot open mouth and out of breath kisses all over you and looks at you with those sweet brown eyes like you are his entire will to live because you probably are
and i do hate to say this as one of the contenders of worlds biggest daddy kink but he doesn’t like it :(( he listens to his dead children’s voices calling him daddy, as children call their father, hearing it does nothing but remind him of them. at the end of the day he’s just a grieving father and a grieving husband. you’re never going to mean more than them.
….he would 100% be into you hitting him though. and you know he’s eating that pussy like a damn mad man and he likes his woman grown! with bush!
when I say this is the exact point I was trying to make like an hour ago u get me bae
AYY THATS WHAT IM HERE FOR
grown woman who sleeps with a weighted stuffed animal and collects action figures btw
frank castle who makes you get off your phone when he wants to go to bed
i know i literally just said i was working on asks and things that weren’t frank castle but i guess i lied. it’s my birthday so i can do whatever i want:)
Truth be told, you’re tired. Your eyes are achey and sick of looking at your bright phone screen and it really would feel great to just close them and not open them back up but you just don’t feel like it yet. Whatever’s on your phone isn’t all that interesting, but your phone time was cut into earlier long enough to aggravate you and allow you to extend it well into bedtime. You really, really, should go to bed with how early Frank wakes up and how often he accidentally wakes you too. He’s quiet, but you’ve always been a very light sleeper.
You don’t know how he does it, stays up so late reading a book and then wakes back up at the ass crack of dawn. Well, you do, actually, it’s the nightmares. Really, what you mean is you aren’t sure how he’s as much of a functioning person as he is — any less that eight hours a night and you aren’t very nice.
Frank knows that. He knows at the time it is now, you’ll be getting seven and you’ll wake up with a grimace and grumble and toss around and shove your face back into the pillow. You’ll stomp around all day, give yourself a headache from being angry, then get back on your phone and do it all over again.
That’s why he closes his book and snatches your phone from your hands.
“Alright,” He huffs, pulling it from your grip and shutting it off. “Bedtime.”
Surprised, you look over to him and stutter out his name.
“I was watching that!” You shift up onto your elbows, the fabric of your shirt pulling up and pressing your tummy against the sheets. He doesn’t bother responding with anything other than a grunt while plugging your phone into his charger on his bedside table. He charges his own phone every other day and it could probably go longer than that, he hates the thing. Doesn’t use it for anything besides having your number and a couple others. Plus, if he gave it back to you to put on your charger he knows you’d be a brat about it — you’d spin around to face away from his and get right back on it, staying up even later than you would’ve in the first place just to prove him.
“C’mon,” He shifts down onto his back again, one arm propped up over his head on the pillow and the other patting your bum. “Up.”
Frank also knows you can’t sleep without going to the bathroom first. His attentiveness has never been more annoying and also maybe a little attractive, but that just makes you even more annoyed. You stare at him in disbelief for a moment, like he doesn’t do this a minimum of three times a week, and he stares right back at you with his eyebrows raised expectantly.
You groan when he tilts his head towards the door, but clamber out of the bed with the roll of your eyes anyways.
“Thinks he’s the boss of me…” Frank catches you muttering to yourself as you stomp off down the short hallway and smiles fondly, shaking his head. You’re stumbling back into the room soon, rubbing your tired eyes and climbing under the covers with a yawn.
“I want it back, Frank.” You attempt, knowing it will get you absolutely nowhere.
“Yeah,” He sighs, pulling you into his side. “Tough luck, sweetheart, time for bed.”
You grumble about it a little more, but situate yourself to be more comfortable against his warm, barren chest. It’s not long after your eyes close and his big hand starts petting over the side of your head and dragging back and forth over your arm that you fall asleep.
Frankie stares down at you with a small, tender smile as you fall into a deep sleep. He’ll whisper something sweet like, sweet dreams, baby, and kiss your forehead all gentle. Sometimes he’ll fall asleep right after you, but most of the time it takes him a few more hours. He doesn’t mind it; in fact, with your slumbering form tucked right up into his side, it’s the only time he can enjoy the quiet without his own thoughts taking it over.
i promise i am also working on asks and not just dilly dallying around thinking about frank castle
for as much frank castle fluff that i enjoy writing i also very firmly believe that he would never want to remarry or have children again
and what if i said i also think he wouldn’t (at least in most cases) want to do anything but sweet passionate love making where he holds your face and calls you sweet names and talks you through the deep and warm and careful rolls of his hips and presses hot open mouth and out of breath kisses all over you and looks at you with those sweet brown eyes like you are his entire will to live because you probably are
and i do hate to say this as one of the contenders of worlds biggest daddy kink but he doesn’t like it :(( he listens to his dead children’s voices calling him daddy, as children call their father, hearing it does nothing but remind him of them. at the end of the day he’s just a grieving father and a grieving husband. you’re never going to mean more than them.
….he would 100% be into you hitting him though. and you know he’s eating that pussy like a damn mad man and he likes his woman grown! with bush!
mikey helps birdie hang a picture (og post)
Grandma loved you very much, she had always made that very clear. Since the moment your parents had dumped you and Richie and ran off to whatever military land and houses and missions and bullshit they wanted, grandma had welcomed you with a warm smile, a tight hug, and a fenced in backyard. How your mother came from her, you’ll never understand.
You and Richie had been her lifeline for a long time, but there’s only so much time a person can spend feeling that tired and frail. Towards the end you knew she was hanging on for you. Rich had an apartment, a job he’d been at for more than six months, and a long-time girlfriend soon-to-be fiancé. You had the same bedroom in grandmas house you’ve been living in since you were six, often unemployment, and a best friend who’s best friend is your brother instead of yourself.
That’s why grandma left you the house and not Richie. She knew he had his shit together (at least a little bit) and as much as she loved you, her little Birdie, she was very well aware that you didn’t. She still loved you, though, and she understood you, most importantly. Like Mikey.
Mikey and Rich have been calling you a lot, they’ve been trying to cheer you up since grandma passed. It’s hard, being in her house all alone with all of the remembrance of her everywhere. The cookies you made together are still tucked away in a Ziploc bag in the freezer. You feed the sourdough starter still, it’s been your chore since the seventh grade. You had an estate sale, as guilty as you felt getting rid of her things having so much of it felt even worse, but her hummingbird feeders are still on the tiny deck outside. You still watch the birds come zipping by every morning, just by yourself now.
She never asked you about work. Grandma really, really understood you.
Maybe that’s why you decided to call Mikey and ask him to come help you with the new painting instead of Rich. You love your brother with every piece of you, but he would’ve asked about work and you don’t have it in you to tell him those job applications haven’t moved off the coffee table since you printed them two weeks ago.
“Hey, my Birdie girl,” Mikey greets you after the phone rings twice. You can hear his big grin over the phone and your mind conjures the imagine of him sitting in the office of The Beef. “Was’ going on?”
“Hey, Bear,” You smile back, softly, at the picture of his smile lines engraved into your memory. You hear the flicker of paper, and assume he’s looking through the stacks of bills and receipts and advertisements and everything else he’s thrown onto his desk. “You busy?”
“Ahhhh,” He scoffs, loud and brash and gruff, and you love it because he’s Mikey. “Never, for lil’ Bird. Why, was’ up?”
“I got this painting at some garage sale. I know you got one of those uhm, what’s it called, those stick things that show you when stuff is straight?”
“A level?” You picture his eyebrow raising and the amusement on his face.
“Yeah, yeah. I know you got one at the restaurant, was gonna see if I could stop by and pick it up.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout it, i’ll swing by,” Before you can protest, he continues. “You eat anything yet? Nah, I know you haven’t. See you thirty after closing, Birdie girl.”
He hangs up before you can get a word in. True to his word, Mike is knocking on your door thirty after closing. Well, it’s supposed to be your door. It still feels like Grandma’s.
“Birdie!” He calls from outside, knuckles rapping on the wood while his other hand holds a take-out bag that has the porch smelling heavenly and the level.
“Coming!” You yell right back, trotting down the stairs. He watches you through the stained glass, grinning and maybe laughing just a little bit as you curse out the lock that jams every other time it’s twisted. You finally get it to swing open and with a huffed breath move over so he can step inside. “Hey, Bear,”
“Hey, lil’ Bird,” He greets back, smoothing his big hand that still kind of smells like Italian Beef’s over the side of your head. He hands you the take-out bag and leans the level against the door so he can slip his work sneakers off. His hand grabs at your shoulder, using you as balance support. “Brought you a sandwich n’ a couple of Marcus’ doughnuts.”
“Oh, thanks, Mike,” You pat his hand on your shoulder. The bag crinkles as it swings and hits against your knee. “Didn’t need to do that.”
He straightens back up, hand on your shoulder running over your back and bringing you into his side.
“‘Course I did. Gotta take care of my Birdy girl, huh?” He murmurs, kissing your temple. “C’mon, I’m starvin’.”
He practically swallows half of an Italian Beef in one bite.
“Watchu been up to, Birdie?” If anybody else had asked that it would have meant how long is your screen time on Indeed, but Mikey and his gross open mouthed chewing as he speaks wants to know everything else. How making Grandmas house yours is and if you’ve come up with any more sourdough discard recipes and what fun crafts you’ve been up to. If you’ve found any concerts that are on his days off or if he needs to pretend to be sick on a random Saturday so you can belt Staind at each other and pretend to resonate with the lyrics even though neither of you have had a relationship last over six months at most.
“Been a minute.” He nods to himself, licking oil from his fingers. The last time you saw each other was at the funeral. You stood in between him and Rich while she was lowered into the ground and cried into Bears shoulder at her viewing. You will be eternally grateful for his presence there because it had allowed Richie to grieve and process with the help of Tiff instead of having to provide comfort for you. You’ve proved that too, your thankfulness, with all of the cookies you’ve sent his way through Richie’s visits. From the pictures you’re texted, it seems the whole restaurant is enjoying them. You don’t blame him for not being able to come around, not with how chaotic The Beef always is. He calls, anyways, texts occasionally. He’s just as bad at texting as his brother is.
“Mm,” You shrug, not sure what to say. Everything’s been boring and depressing around this side of Chicago. “Been busy with the house stuff. Went to some garage sales last weekend, that’s where I got my painting.”
“That’s nice. Good deal?”
“Mhm! Five bucks, it’s really cool.”
Mikey leans back in your old, wooden chair and pats his full tummy, legs spreading wide. He lets you finish the portion of the sandwich you can stomach, welcoming the peace and quiet after his daily shift from hell.
“You been up to anything, Mike?” You finally ask him back after finishing and propping your feet up in the empty space between his thighs in the chair.
“Eh,” He shrugs, just like you had, and pats your feet. “Nothin’ much, Birdie girl. Glad you called, makes my whole week seeing you, you know that?”
You grin, titling your head into your shoulder all bashfully.
“Thanks, Bear. You can always come see me, love havin’ you over.” You’d tell him you’re a night owl, and you’re up at all hours of the day anyways, so it’s not like you’d be waiting for him, but he already knows that.
He blushes back, nodding with a smile so huge his crows eyes are crinkling. His big hands over your feet squeeze your ankles as his own way of saying thank you, lil’ bird, I know.
“Rich still drivin’ you crazy?” Your feet shift side to side, knocking into his thighs.
“‘Course he is.” Mikey confirms, fondly.
“Mom still drivin’ you crazy?” He laughs a little, and it sounds exhausted and a lot less fond. His eyebrows raise and his forehead crinkles like there is no other possibility.
“What do you think?” It shouldn’t be that funny, not at all, but he’s Mikey and he says it in that stupid nasally, lispy, voice that he and Rich do to make you crack up. And you do, stupidly.
“Yeah, stupid question.” You admit, calming down from your laughter, and the two of you fall back into the comfortable silence while you wrap up the remainder of your sandwich.
Then, just as you’re about to stand, Mikey is tickling your ankles and mimicking your words in another silly voice — this time it’s high-pitched and girlish. He puts one arm around the chair, the other now holding both of your feet back from kicking right forward into the worn center of his jeans, like he needs to step back to get a better view of you as you try not to give in to his silliness.
“I was trying to make conversation, Bear,” You attempt to defend yourself, lips twisted and bitten down on to stop the smile that’s trying to escape, but Mikey’s right here in front of you, brown eyes full of so much happiness and love and affection and expectancy for the laughter that he’ll pull out of you that your lips twist up anyways.
He repeats the voice again, even higher and mousy as he spews gibberish. The snicker you’ve been holding in slips out and your attempt to quiet it only makes it louder. He watches you, pridefully, as you hide behind your hand and try to scold his name.
While your still breathless, he pushes the chair he sits in back with his thick legs, socks sliding on the floor. It makes a harsh sound against the cold, tiled floor as your feel fall from it and he stands up.
“C’mon, Birdie girl,” His knuckles rap on the table. “Let’s get this picture up.”
He goes to the bathroom as you grab the painting,. He put the level against the wall exactly where you wanted to hang the painting without being asked.
There’s a gallery of paintings and pictures of all sizes in the small hallway — on one side is the bathroom and your bedroom, on the other is what was grandma’s room. The small sunroom in the back qualified as Richie’s room until he moved out. You’ve had most of the gallery for quite some time, but there’s one spot up at the top that always had a missing gap you couldn’t reach.
“That’s real pretty, Birdie girl.” Mikey speaks over your shoulder, freighting you just enough to make your breath hitch.
“It is, isn’t it?” You grin at him. “I couldn’t believe it, five dollars.”
It fits your collage perfectly, all of the neutral warm colors that decorate the house. It’s warm and full and comfortable and will always feel like Grandma’s home. Mikey’s fingers, damp from just patting them dry, drag across the nature scene, the long pine trees and the dusky sky full of a flock of birds, and over the big body of water before tracing over the outline of the brown bear front and center.
“Yeah,” He nods. “Real pretty.”
Luckily the step ladder usually stored in the small garage is already out — you were rummaging through the ridiculously tall and skinny linen closet on the same end of the hallway as the bathroom earlier in the week and never put it back. Mikey only has to climb two steps instead of the whole four like yourself, and only realizes he doesn’t have a pencil to mark where the stud is after he’s up there. And yes, he brought his stud finder too.
“Okay,” You round the corner back into the short hallway, a little out of breath from trying to find a pencil quickly. “I found one — Oof!”
With a great, dramatic tumble you trip over absolutely nothing and fall to the floor.
“Oh, shit, Birdy-“ Mikey starts to climb down the ladder before realizing you’re completely okay and laughing at your own demise from where you still sit on the floor. His deep, loud chuckles fill the hallway when your vocals give out and your laughter turns silent. He leans against the ladder, shoulders shaking hard as he palms his forehead.
“How the hell you the one fallin’ when i’m on the damn ladder?” You can’t even try to answer, not when your chest burns and your cheeks ache and your eyes are beginning to water. It’s stupid, really, like everything else you’ve laughed at today, but that’s what happens to you when Bear’s near by. You wish Richie was there for a second, he’d have something else stupid to say that would leave you even more hysterical.
You stand eventually, handing him the pencil before you wipe the wetness from your cheeks.
“I don’t even know how I did that,” You sniffle, watching Mikey draw a mark on the wall. His shoulders still shake and he’s clearly trying to hold on his laughter.
“Just,” He shakes his head, throwing the pencil and the stud finder down. “Just give me a second-“
A half-suppressed laugh slips out and he takes a deep breath to hold it back in, but all that it does is make you start laughing again.
“Lemme do this Birdie,” Now Mikey’s laughing again, too.
“Okay, okay,” Your smile wiggles as you try to take control over it. “M’sorry,” You turn away from him because seeing him, even just his big muscled back and his full head of brown hair and the little rip at the bottom of his navy t-shirt will make you smile and your cackles will rip back out.
Mikey picks up the hammer, holding the pretty painting against the wall as he focuses as best as he can while knowing his lil’ Bird stands right behind him, happy as can be.
You’ve got the image of him in your head and for some reason, you start thinking about high school. Specifically, Mikey in high school. Maybe it’s because you noticed he’d gotten a haircut as soon as he walked in the door, and you had always loved his hair. Bear wouldn’t cut it for the world in high school.
There’s this picture you have of the two of you from prom — it should be the both of you and Richie, but you’d gotten two prints and cut your brother out of one as a teenager. You wouldn’t have the guts to do something like that now but even still, you get that warm feeling in your gut when you look at it. He’s got an arm around your waist, tucking you right into his side and you’re both mid-yelling or maybe laughing. Richie should be on the other side of you with his arms wide open, and his mouth even wider. In the picture you didn’t cut, Tiff’s head is popped into the frame and Donna’s hand is waving into it from behind the camera.
He’d looked so handsome in his suit with that long, curly hair, and his big brown eyes staring down at you sweetly, and maybe blushing a little bit, but you’d always thought that was your own mind wishing. He’d told you that you looked really pretty in your dress and you told him he looked really handsome and his eyes glowed and you bit down on your lip and tugged at his big ear. That had been a fun night; him and Rich were going to spike the punch but realized that would just mean less booze for them and instead the three of you got wasted by yourselves. Richie embarrassed the fuck out of himself in front of Tiff, but she didn’t seem to care all that much. The memory, all of you flushed and spinning around on the dance floor, has you starting to laugh again.
Then, just as he goes to nail the painting in, Mikey hears you and starts laughing, too. You’ve always been like that — when one of you laughs, the other can’t help but do the same. For whatever reason, Bear still tries to hammer the nail into the wall and with his shaky form and blurry vision, the hammer lands right on his pointer finger.
“Oh, fuck!”
“Oh my God, Bear!”
Mikey groans again, the hammer toppling from his grip. He very clumsily steps down the ladder, squeezing his throbbing finger in the palm of his other hand and bending in half.
“Oh, that fuckin’ hurt!” He shakes his hand back and forth, eyebrows furrowed down and his lips twisted in of a grimace.
“Are you bleeding? Is it okay? Should we drive to the hospital?”
“No,” He shakes his head after taking a pitched breath. “No, baby, it’s okay, just a lil’ swollen.”
“Lemme see it.” You step closer, completely invading his personal space as you jam yourself right against his chest and grab his wrist. “Bear, that looks bad! You should ice it, I think.”
“Nah, it’s fine,” He tries, shaking off his pain like it’s nothing the way all men try to do. “I gotta get your painting up, Birdy.”
“My painting can wait, it’s been on then floor all week, it wont hurt it.” You use your hold on Mikey’s wrist to your advantage and drag him back into the kitchen. He goes, willingly with no resistance, even when you push him back down into the chair he sat in earlier. He watches you grab an ice pack from the freezer and suddenly realizes how domestic the entire thing is. You catch him staring when you close the freezer door and turn back around — his eyes are doing that soft, watery glowy thing they did when you told him he was handsome at prom. Mikey swallows and lets his eyes dart around the room when you shove the ice pack into his hand and wander into the living room, expecting him to follow. He does.
Your painting isn’t hung for another two weeks. The two of you fell asleep on the couch watching Bar Rescue and a re-run of Rambo. He fell asleep first and you realized, while Jon Taffer yelled at another bartender and you listened to Bears snoring from underneath you and felt his calloused, warm, big fingers play with your hair unconsciously, that he called you baby.
thinking about frank castle with a girl who’s just so shy…
One of Franks favorite things in the whole world is your giggle. When you get all shy and embarrassed and giddy and bashful and he calls you out on it, every single time, you’ll hide your face and giggle your sweet little giggle.
You’d do it now, if he were to wake you up, but that’s the last thing he’d ever think of doing. Your eyes blink open anyways, though, and he watches you rub them with a sleepy little groan. Your breath hitches and your head turns when his big fingers push your messy hair off your forehead.
“Mornin’ pretty girl,”
You smile, bashful and still half asleep, while you wrap around his bare chest. He’s always so warm, and his heartbeat pumping in your ear has you lulling back to sleep.
“Tired?” His voice murmurs, while he drags a paw over your cheek. You nod against him, snuggling closer. “Yeah, baby? I tire you out, huh?”
There it is.
You whine his name, covered by giggles, while stuffing your face into the crevice between his arm and stomach, embarrassed like he hasn’t had you worn out and out of breath, laying in bed with legs you didn’t know could shake that much.
“Oh,” He laughs, grinning down at you. “Ain’t gotta be embarrassed. Just me, just your man.”
His hands cup your head and pry you out of hiding.
“Just your Frankie.” Then, just to see you flush again, while his fingers hold your jaw and sweep over your face, he adds, quiet and soft, “Look so pretty all flushed, no reason to hide fr’m me. Think I had you lookin’ a lot worse for wear last night, this ain’t nothin’ to be blushin’ ‘bout.”
“Frank!” You repeat, rolling over to the other side of the bed while your hands cover your face and the smile that you can’t force away.
“Baby,” He chases after you, chastising you with puppy-dog eyes and an ear-to-ear grin. “C’mon,”
“You’re dirty, Frank,” You let him push you back against his side anyways.
“Oh, am I? Am I, my dirty girl?” He’s murmuring down at you, holding you close and tight enough that there’s no where else to hide. “Gets so shy, like she ain’t just as nasty, my sweet, dirty baby.”
“Frank,” You whine once more, quieter, and maybe just a little bit needy. It’s his fault; he can’t talk like that and expect nothing! He grins again, delivering a swift and forceful kiss to your lips.
“There she is,” He pulls back, holding you against his chest. “My girl already wantin’ some more from me?”
“Frank!” His laughter bellows through the small bedroom. God, there isn’t anything that he loves more than this.
guys why am i go triple platinum silver double gold viral right now
why is there not a single picture of the bottom half of michael berzatto. I NEED TO KNOW WHAT SHOES YOU WEAR LET ME SEE YOUR LEGS MICHAEL
craig cody and his childhood best friend / never ending situationship take complete advantage of Smurf’s pool (og post)
(i tried my best for you @scrmqwn ! hope you like mells :)) they’re just silly little stupid guys)
There isn’t many days that have gone by without the two of them enjoying some kind of body of water — Smurfs pool, the ocean, an occasional trip to the hot tub in the gym Craig bought both of them memberships for, and frequent shared showers where he bends in half and makes her wash his hair.
Smurfs pool is, because they are barely in their own apartment anyways, their most common swimming hangout. J realized this very quickly into moving in. Technically, he wasn’t even moving in yet and they were already swimming, but once he finally was, there wasn’t a single school day he would come home and not find them splashing around.
They were supposed to be out of town for the day, every once in a while they’ll pick a random day and go on a hike (and maybe make out in the woods) so J took the opportunity to invite Nicky over to swim peacefully for once. It’s very clear that won’t be happening when they pull into the drive way and can already hear them shouting.
Once they’ve walked around to the back yard, they find Craig standing on the cement with his hands on his hips and his eyebrows scrunched in frustration. Water pools at his feet and drips from his swim trunks.
“That was not a 7!” He demands.
“Yes it was!” She yells right back from where she stands in the shallow end in a skimpy bikini with a speaker playing music behind her. “7.5 at best, a cannonball should have a way bigger splash.”
“There was a big splash, dude!”
“And how would you know that, dummy? You couldn’t see it.”
“‘Cause I felt it! That was a 8.5 at worst!”
She shakes her head, arms crossing. This seems to be a very serious situation for the two of them — J is pretty positive this is the longest he’s ever seen them without stupidly big smiles decorating their faces.
“I’m not changing my rating unless you do it again and it’s better.”
“I don’t wanna do it again,” Craig whines, his face crumpling dramatically. “It hurts my ass.”
“Seems like a you problem.” She shrugs, sipping the White Claw she stole out of the fridge earlier before noticing J and Nicky walking into the backyard. “Oh, hey guys. Craig’s gonna do a cannonball.”
“Hey-“ J’s attempt to butt into the conversation is interrupted by Craig.
“No i’m not!” He yells from across the pool, standing at the back of the diving board so he could have a running start. “Pick a different one!”
“Okay, fine,” She rolls her eyes, thinking for a second. “Do a dive.” He’s being a stupid little brat and he’s really good at diving, the high score will put him back in a good mood.
“I thought you guys were going on a hike?” J asks, looking towards her.
Craig nods and decides a dive is an acceptable move, pushing his wet hair from his face like a toddler.
“Ready? You have to watch.” She has a record of not watching.
“I’m watching!” She turns to J. “We woke up too late and didn’t have enough gas in the truck and Craig didn’t feel like going to the gas station. Might go tomorrow.”
“Dude, you have to watch!”
“I’m watching!” She looks back in his direction, standing up straight. It seems to be enough proof that her attention is on him, because he makes a running jump and dive into the pool. He resurfaces all the way next to her with the same grin he has after every single jump — already given an ego boost and feeling victorious. Not that either of them noticed, but J and Nicky have left and are heading to the beach instead.
“10!” She throws her hands up into the air and he scoops her up into a big hug, feeling up her backside as her knees wrap around his torso. As predicted, the perfect score makes him forget about the semi-weak one.
Craig sets her on the edge of the pool, pressing kisses to her cheek. His beard scratches over her jaw as he pushes himself up, palms holding up his arms on the scratchy concrete.
“Craig,” She giggles as her back flattens to the ground and the water ripples as he leaves the pool and shades her laying figure from the sun. Her knees bend, knocking into the sides of his hips as he trails sweet kisses and grazes his teeth over her neck. “Craig, we’re in your moms backyard,”
“Never stopped us before,” He murmurs, smug, while pulling on the tiny string of her bikini bottoms. “Nobodies home, baby, don’t matter,”
Turns out, Deran was home.
He watches them stroll into the kitchen with a knowing grimace on his face.
“Can we watch Batman when we go home?”
“Uh, which one? Hey, Der,” She greets, leaning onto the kitchen island while Craig raids the freezer for popsicles.
“Hey.” He nods, watching his brother slam two wrapped popsicles onto the counter, one in each fist. If it were anybody but her, he’d maybe attempt some small talk but her and Craig were at Smurf’s the day before and the day before that and a few more days after that. He’s sees her more than his own…whatever Adrian is.
“Uhh….Dark Knight?” The popsicles pop out of the plastic and he shoves the red one in his mouth, handing her the blue.
She thinks for a second, before nodding.
“I’ll allow it.”
Deran’s judging scowls returns when they turn away — his eyes follow the pair as they make their way back outside and sun bathe. There’s a purple mark on the side of her hip, and another peeking out from her bikini bottom. Craig comes back in two hours later when she wants to get back in the pool to grab two more popsicles and another White Claw.
It’s dusk by the time J and Nicky get back and the two are still in the pool.
“Oh my God,” J scoffs, looking out into the backyard from the big glass windows. Craig is walking around the shallow end with a beer in one hand and the other holding her to his front by way of a handful of her ass.
“Do you think they play mermaids?” Nicky asks from next to him.
“I think they might just be normal fucking mermaids. They don’t even live here, they’re squatting in the pool.”
“We should probably stop watching before they start fucking out there again.”
“Again?” J whips his head towards his girlfriend, who still stares out the window.
“Yeah,” She looks at him, laughing at the disgust on his face. “You haven’t caught them? They kinda do it a lot, I’m pretty sure I caught Pope watching once.” She glances back outside very briefly, looking right back to J. “Yup, there they go, let’s get out of here.”
“Oh, ew!”
how it feels looking up an x reader tag and finding my own work
for as much frank castle fluff that i enjoy writing i also very firmly believe that he would never want to remarry or have children again
my sourdough starter is named after jessica jones bc she’s very difficult and also smells like alcohol
he’s so fucking stupid god i need him
The Wall We Built
1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5
Somehow by the grace of God, you had managed to avoid Mikey for a year.
A year of no random text messages
A year of no phone calls
A year of no tag team babysitting
A year of no invites to the same parties
A year of nothing but peace and quiet…. Mostly.
Richie still would come see you all the time, you hosted a party for Eva that was separate from Richie’s and Tiff’s. However after the party Tiff wasted no time calling you to tell you how Mikey had to get pulled out of the party by Neil, Sam, and Tommy. Neil still came over every Thursday for dinner, and Carmy still called you 3 times a week, and constantly sent you texts messages of the food he was making. You were sure he was doing the same to Mikey, but you were just thankful it wasn’t in a group chat setting.
You didn’t ask about the restaurant, you didn’t ask about Mikey, as far as you were concerned, he was happy, healthy, and had a new girlfriend… you knew the last part wasn’t true, but you needed to tell yourself that on the days where all you wanted to do was click his contact name, and call him. As far as you were concerned, he didn’t ask about you either.
You were now self employed, since your corporate job didn’t approve of your depressive episode that happened after the last time you saw Mikey. Your home became your studio, and your business, and you even had the occasional employees, who you paid in home cooked meals. Neil was the only one though who knew where you got most of the recipes though, and was the only one who called you out for making Mikey’s version of Diane’s spagetthi.
Richie was the first person you ever created a commissioned piece for, he wanted two painting made. One was for his mom, and one was for Eva. You had them to him in a week, and he immediately hung up Eva’s, and loaded his car with the other and drove it to its new home.
“Richie, I don’t want some dumbass painting in here.” Mikey snapped as Richie was leveling the painting right next to Mikey’s rolling chair. A smile on his face as he replied, “Cousin, trust me you will love it.”
“Is this what you do when you aren’t being Tiff’s bitch, or with me? You look at artwork, and get excited?”
“No, this is what I do when I see my best friend is struggling, because he fucked up his only shot with his dream girl.”
“So you bought me a painting?”
“Not just any painting.” Richie finally backed up, and pointed to the signature at the bottom right hand corner, “Read it.”
When Mikey looked he saw your name, a rock sank to the pit of his stomach as he read it over and over.
He ran a hand over his face, his thumb digging into his eyebrow as his breathing hitched. "Where’d you get this, Cousin?"
"She made it," Richie said, his tone softening just a fraction, dropping the usual loud-mouthed bravado. "She’s doing commission work now. Working out of her apartment."
Mikey stared at the canvas, tracing the brushstrokes with his eyes. "She... she talk about me?"
"No," Richie replied honestly, leaning against the doorframe. "She doesn't ask. And nobody brings you up. But Mikey... look at the fuckin' colors, man. She’s still in it. You just gotta fix it."
Mikey didn't answer. He just sat back down in his rolling chair, staring at your signature until Richie finally left him alone in the quiet, cramped room.
Six months later, Richie pulled up to your curb, honking the horn of his car like he was picking you up for a high school getaway. When you opened your front door, he was leaning against the hood, holding two iced coffees.
"Get in the car, artwork," Richie barked affectionately. "We’re going for a ride."
"Richie, I have three canvases drying in the kitchen," you said, crossing your arms over your chest, though a faint smile tugged at your lips.
"They’ll dry better if you aren't breathing on 'em. Come on. I wanna show you the shop. My favorite person needs to see the place."
Your heart did a immediate, familiar drop. You took a step back. "Richie, no. I’m not going to The Beef. I told you—"
"He ain't there!" Richie held his hands up in a dramatic gesture of solemn legal oath, swearing up and down to the sky. "I swear to God, on my daughter's life, Mikey is not at the shop right now. He’s out doing a run. Beef delivery. He won't be back for hours. I just want to make you a sandwich. My specialty. Come on."
You searched his face for any sign of a setup. Richie could be a lot of things, but he was terrible at keeping a secret when he was lying to your face. He looked completely earnest.
Sighing, you grabbed your purse. "If he walks through that door, Richard, I am throwing a jar of marinara at your head."
"Fair deal. Let's move."
The ride across Chicago was filled with Richie ranting about local politics and Carmy’s latest absurd culinary text messages. When you finally pulled up to The Beef, the neon sign was buzzing softly in the afternoon light. Stepping inside brought a rush of sensory memories—the smell of slow-simmered beef, roasted peppers, floor cleaner, and stale bread.
"Sit, sit," Richie commanded, gesturing toward a stool near the counter. "I’m making you the Richie Special. You’re gonna cry, it’s so good."
"I highly doubt a sandwich is going to make me cry, Cousin." you teased, sitting down.
As Richie clattered around behind the line, pulling out rolls and tongs, your eyes wandered. The shop was loud with the hum of the refrigerators, but behind the counter, a door stood half-open. The office.
Curiosity, mixed with a sudden, heavy pull in your chest, got the better of you. You slipped off the stool quietly while Richie had his back turned, arguing with a stubborn jar of giardiniera.
"Richie, I’m just gonna use the bathroom," you called out quietly, stepping toward the back hallway.
"Yeah, yeah, down the hall to the left!" he yelled over the sound of sizzling meat.
Instead of turning left, you pushed the office door open the rest of the way and stepped inside.
The room was tiny, chaotic, and smelled faintly of tobacco, old paper, and cheap cologne. But as your eyes adjusted to the warm light of the desk lamp, your breath caught in your throat.
Right next to his beaten-up leather rolling chair hung your painting. It was positioned at eye level, pristine and cared for despite the grease and grime of the restaurant surrounding it.
Then your eyes drifted to the walls.
It wasn't just receipts and vendors' invoices pinned to the corkboards and taped to the wood paneling. The entire office was covered in pictures of his family. Dozens of them. Carmy as a kid, Sugar laughing at a holiday table, Neil looking ridiculous in a party hat, Donna holding a glass of wine.
And you.
You were in so many of them. A photo from five years ago where you were sitting on the hood of his truck, laughing so hard your eyes were squeezed shut. A polaroid from a lake house trip where Mikey had his arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders, his grin massive and fond. A tiny cutout from a photo booth where you were pressing a quick kiss to his cheek while he looked straight at the camera, looking completely undone.
He hadn't thrown anything away. He had built a sanctuary out of his family, and you were woven through every single corner of it.
A floorboard creaked behind you.
You turned around fast, your heart hammering against your ribs, expecting to see Mikey.
It was Richie. He was holding a wrapped sandwich in one hand, standing in the doorway. The usual loud, frantic energy had completely vanished from his face. He looked down at you, then at the wall of photos, and then back to your eyes.
The silence hung heavy between you.
Richie walked in slowly, setting the sandwich down on the edge of the cluttered desk. He stepped closer, staring at the picture of you on the hood of the truck.
"He hung every single one of 'em up the second the drywall dried after the renovation," Richie whispered softly, his voice rough and devoid of its usual sarcasm. "And every time he finds another old picture of you in a box somewhere, it goes right on the wall. Cousin... he’s always loved you. You gotta know that."
Your throat felt tight, a sharp, burning sensation building behind your eyes. You swallowed hard, but your gaze remained completely glued to one specific photo pinned right near the center of the desk lamp's warm glow.
It was a faded, grainy shot of you, Richie, and Mikey as teenagers. Mikey and Richie both had unlit cigarettes dangling recklessly from their lips, grinning like absolute lunatics as they shoved their middle fingers straight at the camera—where a blurry, teenage Neil Fak was clearly holding the lens. But what kept your eyes locked on the paper was Mikey’s other arm. It was wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling you flushed against his side. Your head was turned up toward him in the shot, your mouth wide open as you yelled something directly into his face while he laughed.
Richie leaned over your shoulder, following your line of sight down to the photo. A faint, nostalgic smirk tugged at his mouth. "Man, I remember that day. What were you screaming at him for?"
A quiet, breathless chuckle escaped your lips before you could stop it, softening the tension in your chest for just a second.
"I was telling him to get his hand off my ass," you said softly.
Your throat felt tight, a sharp, burning sensation building behind your eyes. You swallowed hard, your eyes shifting to find another polaroid of Mikey holding you tight, this one taken by Sugar on Christmas morning in 2017.
Without saying a word, you pulled out your phone. Your fingers were shaking slightly as you unlocked the screen and pulled up a contact name you hadn't touched in three hundred and sixty-five days.
You: Come to the shop. Right now. Richie is here too.
You hit send before you could talk yourself out of it.
"What did you do?" Richie asked quietly, noticing the light of your phone screen.
"He's coming," you whispered, wrapping your arms around yourself as if to keep the sudden surge of panic from splitting you open.
Ten minutes felt like ten hours. You stood in the middle of the main dining area, staring out the front window while Richie stood awkwardly by the register, unusually silent, wringing a dish towel in his hands.
Then, tires screeched outside.
A car door slammed shut, and a second later, the front door burst open.
Mikey stood in the doorway, chest heaving, hair a little messy, wearing his faded black "The Beef" t-shirt, jeans, and work boots. His eyes swept the room frantically until they landed on you. He froze dead in his tracks.
He looked tired. He looked like he hadn't slept a full night in a year. But the moment his gaze locked onto yours, a wave of raw, unfiltered emotion washed over his face. His lips parted, his breath catching in his throat.
"You're... you're here," Mikey rasped out, stepping forward, his hands trembling slightly at his sides. "Jesus... you're really here."
The panic in your chest flared, hot and suffocating. A whole year of distance, of building up your walls, of convincing yourself you were fine—it was all crumbling in a fraction of a second just looking at him. If you stayed here for another minute, if you let him speak, if you let him pull you into a hug, you knew you’d break down completely right on the sticky linoleum floor.
You needed control. You needed space.
You took two steps toward him, stopping just outside his reach. You looked him dead in the eye, keeping your voice as steady as humanly possible while your pulse thundered in your ears.
"Dinner. Tomorrow. 7:30," you said, your tone sharp, clear, and leaving zero room for debate. "Wear something nicer than the Beef shirt."
Mikey blinked, stunned into absolute silence, his mouth opening and closing like he couldn't process the words. "Wait—what?"
Before he could pull himself together to say anything else, you brushed past him, pushing open the glass door and stepping out into the cool Chicago air. You walked fast away from the resturant, knowing that either of the tall men you left behind could easily catch up to you. As you walked, you were trying to do everything in your power to hide the wild, terrifying surge of adrenaline and panic tearing through you at the thought of letting Michael Berzatto back into your life.
Inside the shop, the heavy glass door clicked shut behind you.
Mikey stood frozen, staring out out the window as your figure disappeared into the crowd.
Slowly, Mikey turned his head toward the counter.
Richie was still standing there, holding his dish towel, staring back at Mikey with wide, completely bewildered eyes.
"What the fuck just happened?" Mikey asked, his voice barely a squeak.
Richie slowly shook his head, staring at the door. "I have no fuckin' idea, Cousin."
I think neonwifu3 stole your frank castle x shy!reader fic? I can’t tell if im missing something here or its as blatant as it seems
thanks for letting me know!! i can’t seem to find whoever that is, so they either have me blocked or i’m not looking hard enough.
if someone wants some likes that bad, they can have them. i’m not all that worried about it as much as it sucks. for my own sake, im going to just say we had a similar idea and released it at a similar time, but who knows if that’s actually the case.
still, thanks for letting me know!! it’s nice to know yall got my back out there :))
sam wilson takes stark!reader up on those phone calls — turns out, degrees do get you places
(og post)
“Yello?” She yawns, answering the phone. Sam is already rolling his eyes.
“Did you just wake up?” She grunts something close to an affirmation. “It’s one in the afternoon.”
“And? I got caught up last night.” There’s all sorts of rustling on the other side of the call as she fumbles out of bed.
“With?”
“None of your business, Mr. Captain America.” Glass bottles clang as she picks them up and tosses them into a half-full cardboard box. “What’s with the call? Miss me that much?”
“I gotta cash in those calls you offered,” Sam admits. “There’s a gala I have to get into, figured maybe there’s some high-up science techs you might know attending.”
“Yeah, i’ll see what I can do,” She hums mindlessly, flopping onto her shitty, highly uncomfortable couch. “Text me the name of the thing and i’ll stalk a couple Facebooks and LinkedIn profiles. Bound to be someone bragging about it.”
“And you said you weren’t any help.” Sam grins. “Let me know what you can get.”
“Uhuh.” She hangs up. Two hours later, Sam gets a FaceTime call. She’s ordering a sandwich at a bodega when he answers and tells him to wait a second, like she wasn’t the one that called. While petting the stores cat, she admits that one of her professors who loved her, including both her smart brain and her smart mouth, is attending and would love to see her and as many guests as she would like to have.
“Come to my place — thank you, Ana, I love you baby, how much I owe you?” Sam lets an exasperated sigh when the camera pans up to the ceiling and he watches the exchange of cash for a black grocery bag. His view rattles around again as she picks up the phone and the bells over the door clang while she leaves. “Yeah, so, just come to my place, it’s, like, not that far and we’ll have to get there together anyways — oh, Mark, my man! What the hell you been up to, haven’t seen you around!”
“Stark,” Sam tries to get her attention. “What time?”
“—Joey got arrested? For what? Yo, I know a really good lawyer, I can hit him up. ‘Course, bro, anything!”
Sam hangs up and texts her what time he’s showing up at her place. Here’s there, knocking on the door exactly at 7, an hour before the event starts just in case.
She isn’t answering. Bucky, whose attendance she is unaware of, sighs and adjusts his suit with irritation.
“This is so stupid.” He grumbles.
“She’s getting us in the building—“ Sam, equally as irritated and trying not to let it show, bangs on her door some more. “Stark!”
The door flings open, finally.
“Haven’t you learned by now, I don’t lock the door? I don’t like answering the door, just come in.” She’s aggravated too, rolling her eyes like his one prior visit should’ve made that clear as she fumbles with huge, dangly, costume jewelry, earrings. “I’m almost ready.”
“You look nice.” Sam, followed by Bucky, who very reluctantly steps into the apartment, tells her. What she was caught up in last night becomes very apparent when they take in the sight of her living room covered in all kinds of wires and metals and screws and computer chips.
“Thank you,” She grins, and Bucky catches the glint of Tony in her. “I got this at one of those overpriced vintage stores in SoHo. God, I wanted to gag just being in that place, but whatever, I needed a funeral dress.” Her hands splay over her stomach and smooth over the black fabric of the full length dress. She turns back around to face them, and her eyes light up at the sight of Bucky. “Hello, soldier!”
“Uh,” He glances around awkwardly, the hand that had been playing with his cuff links dropping to his side. “Hi.”
“The haircut is nice.” She nods. “I liked the length, though. Anyways,” She claps, headed towards the door with heels in her hand. “Let’s get out of here, we’ll miss the E.”
“We’re taking the subway?”
“You think I gotta car, Cap?”
“Figured an Uber would be safer, that’s all.”
“You think I can afford an Uber?”
She has to help Bucky pay the subway fare. He doesn’t have Apple Pay set up on his phone, and after almost missing a very awkward train ride where she stands directly (like the fabric of her dress is brushing his belt, direct) in front of Bucky and talks to some other random man she somehow knows about Joey being locked up, and a small walk, the three are outside of the gala thirty minutes late.
“Professor Al-Alami!” She shouts through the crowd once they’ve entered the building, raising her hand into the air to wave her fingers.
A very distinguished looking man in an equally as distinguished looking suit immediately turns and starts pushing through the crowd.
“Oh, look at you, the smartest girl in the world has come to see me!” He grins and money signs practically glimmer in the reflection of his glasses while he pulls her into a gentle hug. “How have you been, honey?”
Sam and Bucky exchange looks while she grins right back at the man, Professor Al-Alami — this does not seem like a normal student-professor relationship. That being said, most of her relationships seem much closer than average acquaintances.
“Hanging on by a thread, but what’s new, right?” Al-Alami laughs and gold spills out in his chuckles. “You look as amazing as always.”
“Well, with you coming I had to look my best, right?”
Bucky and Sam stand awkwardly behind the two as they catch up. After laughing obnoxiously-rich like and landing a hand on her past professors chest, she’s sends him a goodbye. They hug again, tender as he cups her arms and rambles greatness in her name, before she spins around to the two.
“Let’s get a drink, shall we?” She walks off, excusing herself through crowds that part like she is whoever the stupid gala is for.
“So, uh, you seemed very close.” Sam acknowledges the odd relationship as she hands him and his metal-armed friend and flute of champagne. She shrugs, gulping down half of the bubbly drink.
“We wrote a textbook together a few years back after I got my idea for my dissertation and realized there was no actual work I could site besides what I had done in class.” She swallows the rest of the champagne, replacing it with a new one as a waiter walks by with a tray full just in time. Her Stark side is shining a little too bright for Bucky’s comfort. “They must have something else around here, right? I don’t like the fizzy stuff.”
Sam shakes his head before declaring he has to get on with whatever he needed to be at the gala for — talk to someone, steal some artifacts, who knows. Bucky attempts to go with him but Sam thinks that two people will be too risky, so he’s forced to say with her.
“So,” She licks across her teeth, champagne swirling in her glass as her eyes look him up and down. “What’ve you been up to all these years, soldier? Got a woman waiting for your return from war?”
With a locked jaw, his eyes scan her cocky expression and her slouched stance — the way she just looks so comfortable everywhere. On the subway, even in a fancy dress and tall heels, she talked to that man and slouched against the metal rail and leaned with the rocking train and used stupid slang and loud words and clapped while her laugh echoed in the small space. In her home she guzzled half of a pop can, fixed smeared red lipstick in the reflection of her microwave, stuffed cigarettes in her clutch and jumped over her couch to get to the door faster. Here, she flips her hair over her shoulder and crosses her legs and smiles sweetly, just a little too sweet that you think she wants something from you, and talks low and like she’s at a customer service job.
“She’d be dead by now if I did.”
“But you didn’t, is what i’m hearing?”
He doesn’t bother to respond, just stares at her and scoffs, shakes his head a little and mumbles something about Sam taking too long.
“Thought you were supposed to be some kind of lady killer, Barnes?” She questions. “I should probably rephrase that, shouldn’t I? A playboy, a charmer. You know what I mean.”
“You always talk this much?”
“Yes,” She nods. “Your quiet, brooding aesthetic is making it worse, I don’t cope well with silence. Not that i’m complaining — I have a record with men like you.”
She pauses, shutting her mouth for the longest amount of time that night as she swallows the rest of her champagne and pats her clutch.
“I want a cigarette. Accompany me, would you?”
They stand outside against the old building in the cold night. The cigarette in between two of her fingers and her pretty, smart lips keeps her busy enough not to notice him staring.
“There are no men like me.”
Her head turns, finding him already looking in her direction. She plucks the cigarette from her lips, smile growing with a scoff.
“Oh, really now? What, you mean PTSD ridden brunette soldiers who think they’re the worst person in the world for things they couldn’t control? Little rough around the edges, doesn’t talk much, but once you know him — once he knows you,” She swallows, taking a drag, and looking back out into the street. “He’s the funniest man you’ll ever meet. The sweetest, most caring, most fucked-in-the-head man you’ll ever meet.”
Bucky isn’t sure how to respond to that, but it sounds a little too familiar. She finishes her cigarette and stubs it out before picking it back up and throwing it into the nearest trash can.
“Don’t worry, I may like to flirt a little, but I don’t have the emotional capacity to deal with another one of you. Not that I had it for him in the first place.”
