he wrings them together, squeezes stupid stress balls, picks at his nails and cuticles until they bleed.
jake tossed his hand away when he left. swiped bradley's palms off his hips and backed out the door.
jake shook his hand when they landed safe on the carrier’s tarmac.
in grocery stores, movie theaters, bars, kitchens, bed, bradley reaches out, aching, dying for something to hold in his hand, something to resist when he squeezes, to lock around him when he fidgets. he usually gets it, jake happy to be clutched like a ragged lovey until bradley can regulate himself again.
he drops his ring down a gutter on jake’s first tour after they put them on, and well. that’s what he gets for worryin' the damn thing, twirling it around his first knuckle, breath short and stiff. face plastered against the rain-cooled asphalt, his hand at the end of his twisted arm closes around nothing but air.
jake thinks this is equal parts hilarious, adorable, and embarrassing. he tells the jeweler when they step up to the desk, has the story locked and loaded like it would've spilled off his tongue whether they'd been greeted at that second or not.
the shop is sold out of the set's match, but bradley picks out something similar. his heart aches over the whole thing.
"here," jake says, slipping off his lightly scuffed gold band. it's barely been a year. he grabs at bradley's neck, and a second later, his dogtags feel just a little heavier. "do you have both of this pair?" he asks the clerk, nodding at bradley's hand.
bradley hadn't expected that they'd both walk out with new rings. he didn't mean to make a whole thing of it, to make jake get a new one. he's caught out by his frown.
"quit that." jake tugs him toward the passenger side with an arm around his waist. "it's okay, really. plus, if this one gets lost," he says, fingering the addition to bradley's chain, "i'll know i've got bigger problems."
he smiles until bradley does, until his chest gives with a relieved sigh.
jake holds bradley's hand as he drives home. bradley holds jake's ring while he's away. bradley holds jake's hand when he comes back safe.
hi hi i’m here for the prompt game c: i choose tsukishima and #140 ty!!
“would you just shut up and kiss me already?”
word count - 341
it was late in the afternoon, school's ending creeping up. the clock couldn't go fast enough, something everyone thought, everyone even tsukishima kei. he sighed, trying to block out your not stop talking. usually school seemed long enough- but you would just not shut up.
"are you even paying attention?" you huffed, waving your hand in front of his face.
he swatted it away. "stop." he put his hand down and slipped his headphones back on.
you rolled your eyes and continued anyways. though he was ignoring you he couldn't help but continue to look at your face. you noticed this but brushed it off. you continued to ramble on about who knows what. he didn't care. he didn't want to, but he did. this whole time anyone would have assumed he put on his music to ignore you, but truly behind the bitchy façade, there was no music. he was listening the whole time. though he had a limit and you were indeed talking his ears off he couldn't help but hold back a smile. he liked you, a lot more than he wish he did. he wanted to keep the tough image he was known for but he couldn't help but to fall for you.
he took off his headphones and placed them on the table, turning to look at you. “would you just shut up and kiss me already?”
you immediately stopped what you were saying. "what?"
"you heard me." he said, turning away from you. a faint blush was dusted on his face.
you paused, processing it. "yes.. yes I can."
"good." he turned back to look at you, waiting.
"good.." you mumbled. looking around to see if anyone was looking. thankfully no one was. you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips. he gladly kissed you back quickly.
when you both pulled away your faces were covered in a shade of pink. you both sat silently blushing.
"you know I'm not actually going to shut up.." you comment.
Okay wow I never thought I would even get close to reaching 1,000 followers if were being serious. I'm blown away by how much love and kindness you guys have showed my silly little thoughts that I choose to share.
To Celebrate!! I am going to be coming up with some holiday drabbles that people can request with their chosen character, 992 of you are so amazing and I can't believe that many of you like my writing but THANK YOU SO SO SO SO MUCH. I love you all!!!!
Summary - Frank is your lifeline, protecting you like only he can do but you harbour not-so-secret feelings for him that threaten to shake the foundation of this steady, necessary partnership.
“There is pain in the fire, but beauty in the ashes.”
Pairing - Frank Castle x Reader
Warnings - Mentions of injuries, swearing, sexual tension, smut.
A/N - This was a drabble request from my love @avengerofyourheart which took on a life of its own. Dialogue was “If you slit my throat tonight, I’m gonna have a hard time forgiving you for that.”
The motel was dingy. Low key, Frank called it. Right.
The neon sign out front had a few missing bulbs, the letters didn’t even remotely resemble a name anymore but it didn't matter. It held it’s aura, the too bright sign in the shadows of a long forgotten town, desperate melancholy hanging in the air and clinging to your bones as you follow him to the room. He doesn’t check to see if you still follow, he knows you have nowhere else to go.
Frank glances to each side as he opens the door, always automatically marking his surroundings, checking for escape routes, for ambush opportunities. The door thuds against the wall of the room, the sound itself echoes in the empty lot behind you and further into the surrounding trees.
If loneliness was a place, you think, it would be here.
Frank switches on the light and continues inside, his bag is tossed beside the bed and he turns expectant, probably wondering why the door was still open and you were still standing on the concrete outside instead of the mouldy green carpet. When you say nothing, he raises an eyebrow and waits.
“There’s only one bed.” You say, stupidly, finally closing the door behind you and trying not to think about the sound the carpet made when you stepped inside.
“Better they think we are a couple.” He says, taking his gun from his back and sitting on the table, another from his ankle.
“Right.” Because what else could you say. He’s not wrong, the people after you were no doubt still out there, scouring the roads for any signs of either of you. A shudder runs through you at the thought. And still, you can’t help but sneak furtive glances at the bed, which looks exactly as it should, simple, average, maybe even a little comfy. Not at all like the bomb you imagine it to be.
You shed your jacket then, try and fail to hide your wince when pain lashes through your shoulder at the movement. Frank is in front of you in an instant, the fury in his eyes would make you cringe if not for the gentle way his hands pull the sleeve of your top down your shoulder so he can see. A walking contradiction, like always.
“You didn’t tell me you were hurt.” He says, his voice so low it scrapes the gutters, fingers delicate as they inspect, “There’s glass in it.”
“I didn’t notice.” You tell him honestly, watching as he pulls out what looks like a hastily prepared first aid kit from his bag. He brandishes tweezers at you, the tiny prongs look childlike in his hands and you fight the laugh that bubbles up, knowing he’ll think the opposite of you if you let it loose.
“That’ll be the adrenaline.” He doesn’t give you much warning before he dumps the contents of your water bottle over the wound, quickly and efficiently pulls the glass from it. You stay as still as you can, letting only the sharp hiss of breath escape between your teeth as he works, try not to focus on how close his face is to yours. “I need to put a few stitches in it, yeah?”
“Mmm, okay.” You can’t stand the way you sound, that you can’t help but show the pain in your voice when you know he’s likely in a worse state than you right now. You eye the offending dark patch at his side with suspicion before you feel the telltale sign of the needle piercing your skin. You hate this part, and so you find yourself glancing at him instead, watching the concentration in his face as he works. Wondering, not for the first time, what it might feel like to give in to that urge to smooth out the harsh frown lines above his nose, or run a finger along those infuriatingly soft lips. Another contradiction, those lips set against the hard lines of his face, so often punctuated by bruises and blood.
“There, all done.” He looks at you then, too quick for you to hide the road your thoughts had taken and stills, hand still clasped around your bicep and face still inches from yours. Your heart hammers so loudly in your chest you fear he might hear it. There's a heated ache in the air, a sudden scorch that makes you burn from the inside out, parched throat and desert lips. You run your tongue over those lips and try to keep all thoughts of his from your mind but instead, find yourself watching as Frank tracks the movement himself, scalds the newly found moisture with a look alone.
He blinks, once, then twice and releases his now tightened grasp on your arm, steps back with a forced casualness and you close your eyes to kidnap your mind, to try to find some balance in your gaze before you let it fall on him again. The sound of the bathroom door closing forces them open, the now empty room fades back to the cold, bitterness of before.
You wait your turn, not so patiently, picking away the edges of the faded throw on the bed, bag perched on your lap like you're waiting to run and not to shower. You're always waiting to run, a somber voice reminds you. He doesn't take long, the water shuts off after a few short minutes and the door opens in even less, dressed in a black tshirt and sweatpants. He looks very pointedly at the wall behind you.
“Waters cold.”
“Of course it is.” You roll your eyes on your way past him, desperate now to wash away the blood and dirt of the day, a familiar ritual these days. Another eyeroll.
The water is probably closer to freezing, you think, as you dance under the stream and expect at any second to feel the drops turn solid. It’s probably for the best, a cold shower to chase away the heat from your eyes. Frank will never want you the way you want him. He simply can’t. You repeat it again and again, trying to squash the tiny but of hope that always lives inside you, that always insists no matter how many nights you share together in rooms just like this, no matter how many times he turns from you just like tonight. You force yourself to stand there until the pink water turns clear and your skin turns numb.
You find an old hairdryer in the bathroom and use it to dry your hair as best you can, if nothing else to simply chase the chill from your bones. You glance at yourself in the mirror, wondering what he sees when he looks at you, wondering if he sees how you feel written so plainly across your face. After a full minute of staring, or stalling, you finally exit the bathroom to see Frank taping a knife to the bottom of his bedside table. Without thought, you sigh and he raises his eyebrows at you in question.
“If you slit my throat tonight, I’m gonna have a hard time forgiving you for that.” You joke, but even as you say it your mind drifts to nights past where Frank wakes suddenly and violently from a dream, where you lay quiet in the dark and pretend you don’t witness this private agony of his.
He frowns, instead of laughs, like he knows all too well where your mind just went, “I won’t hurt you.”
You climb into bed beside him, clinging helplessly to the edge of the mattress as darkness blooms around you. He is still for so long you wonder if he’s already asleep and yet, you say into that echoing dark, “I know, Frank.”
It doesn’t take as long as you thought it would for sleep to claim you. It takes even less for Franks moans to wake you.
The bed jolts with his sharp movements, head tossing from side to side in time with his agonised moans, “No. No, not them. Not them.” He doesn’t shout, but then he never does, just suffers as quietly as his body will allow him. You turn to him automatically, called closer to soothe but cautiously, knowing what he was capable of doing in a few short seconds it would take him to wake and realise.
“Frank.” You try, pushing against his shoulder with your fist but staying out of reach, “Frank, wake up.”
He doesn’t wake, simply whispers his pain into the space between, his every word is a bullet, every noise a wound. Fingers wound so tight in the blankets, the fabric stretching far beyond its limits. You hate seeing him like this, hate not being able to help him. A low whine erupts from his throat, a horrible, desperate sound and your fingers move without thought, hand cups his jaw with featherlike touches. Nothing at all like the way you shoved him just moments before, and yet, it’s those touches that pull him from the dream.
Suddenly, and forcefully, his hand is vice like on your wrist and you're pulled towards him, breath pushed from your lungs as you land against him with a soft thud. Wild eyes meet yours, dark pools of terror and it’s only when the pain of his grip flashes across your face that recognition finally settles on his. The terror morphes into regret, his grip loosens but doesn’t leave and he swallows loudly, a few times before forcing out, “M’sorry. Did I....did I hurt you?”
The pain in your wrist dissipates at the torment in his voice, “No, Frank. I’m ok.” You notice that he still hasn’t let go of your wrist, that you're still pressed up against his chest with nowhere to go. You can’t look away, won’t look away, just stare further into the fathomless, midnight eyes and listen as your heart roars, thunderous, inside your chest. The seconds pass, agonisingly slow and yet still, he doesn’t move or release you. It’s long passed the moment he would normally turn away and you can’t stop that tiny spark of hope within you. Even now, with his pain so laid bare, you still want him.
“Frank…” You whisper, if only to capture the memory of saying his name when his eyes are looking at you this way, fire-burned coals that threaten to combust at any moment. You see it, the want is his eyes, the hunger, but you also see the agony, the torment and you wonder which will win out. You feel the weight of your hope gather in your gut. His eyes drift closed, taking the battle within and your breath catches in your throat when he pulls your wrist to him, slowly, so slowly, presses his lips against the delicate skin there.
It’s nothing at all, and yet, it’s everything at once.
He opens his eyes again, fluttery glances between your eyes and your lips, still the raging of a war unwon within them. Still, his fingers remain anchored around your wrist.
He nudges forward, rests his forehead against yours with more intention than he means, eyes darting down and the back again, almost like he can’t help it. You let your own eyes close, no longer able to stand the pain you so easily cause him, guilt and grief reaching up from your gut and wrapping a hand around your throat. It’s OK, Frank, you want to say, try to say through the squeezing hand but only a soft, painful gasp escapes. You know then that if this is all he gives you, if this is all he can manage that it will be enough. The feel of his lips on your skin and the fire in his eyes, it will be enough.
You try to free your hand but his grip only tightens, pulls you closer to let your fingers rest on his jaw again, holding them there with that gentle firmness he has. You force yourself to look at him, barely have time to register the fierceness in his face before his lips find yours, soft but vehement, like he’s going to kiss away the demons that live behind his eyes and pass occasionally to yours. There’s no room for worry inside your head, anything and everything that isn’t the feel of Frank's lips pressed against yours is simply gone, forcibly removed by the curve of his mouth as it moves down your jaw and back.
Wildfire kisses engulf you, the heat spreads until your blood threatens to boil inside your veins. It thrills you and terrifies you, this feeling, that there was this whole other realm of human experience you’d underestimated. When the want and need were rooted so entirely in your bones in a way it never has been before.
His fingers grip under your ribcage, twisting in the material of your top as your own slip further up his jaw and into his hair, tugging him closer still. Taking as much of him as you can, stealing the moments before he undoubtedly comes back to himself, before he puts the wall back up and you're left with just the memories of the heat. Instead, he grips you tighter, kisses you harder, and rolls up and over till he's settled his weight on top of you. It’s better than you imagined, feeling the weight of him over you, tasting the hunger he keeps locked away so palpable on his lips. He pulls back to look at you, fire and fury held in his gaze and you wonder if this is the moment, fingers already slipping down to memorise his face, the feel of his lips and the sharpness of his jaw.
He surprises you both when instead, he growls low, “Tell me to stop.”
You watch him for a few seconds, breathing hard above you, the barely contained blaze in his eyes and wait for any of that regret to surface, for anything within you to not want this even if it’s just for the night, for the moment. It doesn’t come.
So, with what little breath you can find, you whisper right back, “Don’t stop.”
He knew, you think, that you would say it because no sooner had the words left your mouth, Frank transforms. You see it so plainly when he releases himself from the guilt of wanting you, see the way his muscles change and his face follows. He somehow relaxes and tenses simultaneously, relaxing into the moment and tensing with intent. The span of a lifetime built into a moment.
When he leans down to kiss you again, you realise exactly how much he had been holding back, wonder momentarily how deep this fire goes and get so willingly lost in the flames. Your fingers explore, scald a path over his skin and make quick work of his clothes, revealing all that solid, gritty muscle to your greedy touches. His scars stand out even in the dark, a patchwork story written across his skin that you take careful time to memorise, storing each one away in your mind.
His newly unrestrained hands draw patterns over your skin, making a map of his own as you sigh into each touch. When he kisses his way down your neck, you fight the urge to check for ashy marks left behind by the scorch of his lips. His teeth graze the meat of your neck, sink in enough to just be aware of them and not enough to hurt. The gesture feels possessive, but tender, and your fingertips respond automatically, gripping him tight enough to make your bones ache.
There’s not even an inch of space between you, lips to hips to toes. It thrills you, it terrifies you.
The heat is rolling up your body in waves, unrelenting, and settling low in your gut. He’s everywhere, tongue and teeth and hips, living gasoline on the open flame of your want. You feel the coil of your restraint snap at the nudge of his hips, pull and urge him to you with a renewed urgency, needing more, needing him. His answering growl makes your vision blur.
Hot tipped fingers gather you up and he watches from ferverous eyes as he pushes into you, slow and deliberate, matching your sigh with one of his own. His forehead falls to ours again, breathing turned harsh in the space between, and you see your eyes reflected in his, see the way they burn fierce for him. You notice, quietly, that his burn the same.
He moves, finally, rolls forward and up and it earns a mirrored groan, he carries the momentum through into the next roll, and then the next, each one licking fire up your spine. Had it ever felt like this, you wonder? Had you ever been so consumed? And that’s exactly what it is, being consumed, because there isn’t a single part of you that isn’t lit up by his touch, or molten by a look. Your soul is nothing more than embers and ash. He kisses you, frantic, just a need to have his mouth on you, swallows up your gasps like he is greedy for them. You arch into his touch, shudder with every roll of his hips and then his hand grips low on your neck, palm on your clavicle and you moan into the feel of it, the weight of it there. Another possessive gesture made tender for being unthinking.
“Fuck.” He groans, watching your response, “You’re perfect.”
You answer him with your lips, let your teeth scrape the length of his neck but lose the battle for cognizance when his hips snap harder, more precise, eliciting a steady stream of moans instead. You feel the fire within you building, stoked by the curve of his mouth under your jaw and the weight of his hands over your heart. It’s a rush of roaring flames, burning away your tethers to the earth until your floating skyward, carried away by the smoke filled clouds and ashen winds. Frank whispers his own release into your neck, melting muscles and simmering eyes. He kisses the underside of your jaw, soft and wet, and you let yourself basque in his attention for however long he’ll give it, wondering, hopelessly, what the morning will bring.
Despite your best efforts, you feel it, the change, feel his scorched handprint over your heart.
When he looks at you with those midnight eyes, you know he feels it, too.
seungcheol; “cheol! it’s cold, can we cuddle?” as soon as those words came out of your mouth, seungcheol would be tackling you with pillows and blankets ready to warm you up! after tucking you both under the blankets, he would let his hands settle on your waist gently.
“you know i love cuddles!”
jeonghan; he would smile softly, moving closer to your body, wrapping an arm around your waist. he would nuzzle against your neck, smiling against your skin to make you laugh. but beware, this angel is very touchy! his hands would be sneakily roaming your hips.
“ah, jagiya, your so warm.”
joshua; being the gentle he is, he would carefully wrap an arm around you, letting you rest against him. joshua would most likely bring you some warm drinks so you two could get cozy together.
“how does hot chocolate sound, love?”
junhui; we all know junhui looks like a greaseball on stage, but he is such a softie! the mention of cuddles would make him so flustered and shy, but of course he would pull you close to his chest and snuggle up!
“aish, do you see the effect you have on me? i’m burning up!”
soonyoung; “cuddles?” you would ask in a whining voice, pulling on his shirt. soonyoung would grin widely, wrapping his limbs all over you! soonyoung would blow raspberries against your neck, making you laugh out loudly.
“aren’t my cuddles the best?”
wonwoo; as one who is very quiet, but does show affection often, you could probably expect his reaction. once you whined for some cuddles, he would nonchalantly wrap his arms around you with a small, smug smile.
“needy for my affection, princess?”
jihoon; “babe~ please! i just want some love~” you would whine, pulling on his chair. jihoon would sigh as you sat upon his lap, cuddling his small frame needily. his cheeks would be red and hot, but he would hide them from you.
“i need to get back to work sweetheart- okay, only for five more minutes!”
seokmin; this boy lives for cuddles! you would barely have a chance to whine before he was snuggling up close to you, wrapping his arms around your torso. but, cuddles don’t come without kisses!
“smooch! smooch! y/n give me a kiss!”
mingyu; being the puppy he is, he would be just as needy as you are. he would let you lay on top if him, both of you snuggling close and peppering pecks on each other’s cheeks.
“y/n~ i love you~”
minghao; minghao looks like a greaseball on stage as well, not to mention his savage attitude towards the others, but he would turn into absolute mush for you. anything you want, he will give it to you. cuddles? be prepared to he snuggled to sleep!
“my princess wants cuddles? cuddles they get!”
seungkwan; seungkwan is a bit shy when it comes to skinship i’ve noticed, but he would definitely love cuddling. this little boy would be your perfect little spoon, treat him right!
“y/n, you’re so cold! let’s warm up.”
vernon; “can we snuggle?” you would ask quietly, looking up with big eyes. vernon would simply laugh at your adorableness, picking you up and carrying you towards the bed. he would toss you playfully, snuggle up close and kissing your neck playfully.
“always so whiny! you’re lucky you’re cute, baby.”
chan; lil’ chan would be super excited to cuddle with you! we all know he gets a bit embarrassed from his hyungs’ affection, but he would be in love with you’re hugs and kisses. chan would pick you up playfully, carrying you to the couch to smother you in love!
“only the best for my y/n!”
hey everyone!! please send in some requests for admin river and i, we are totally up for writing for you guys! show some love to seventeen and bts!
“What if…” Seresin starts, but then he shakes his head. He’s about to walk away when Bradley grabs for his wrist, nodding at him to go on. “It’s stupid,” he says, rolling his eyes, “but what if we go together?”
or: Bradley needs a date to Fritz's wedding, and he finds out Jake does too, and the natural solution is a fake-dating scheme.
heyyy so last february i posted what was supposed to be a oneshot for the valentine’s collection, and well… thanks to @whistler-king it has become a series.
so here is the kinky baseball verse! (as teased in this post, and this post, and this one!)
Major League Baseball catcher Jake Seresin swept off his feet by (hot) (kinky) (attentive) (annoying) (sweet) pitcher Bradley Bradshaw? More likely than ya think!
part one: and they were batterymates
part two (a prequel!): collective bargaining agreement
and no, we’re not done! there are currently um. like ten parts planned out (and i am always taking ideas and suggestions for funky sex situations!), so this will be ongoing for quite some time!
