Din Djarin, The Star (XVII) 🌠

There’s A String Tied to My Lower Left Rib, Third From The Bottom

dick grayson x afab!reader

aka the professional boyfriend

warnings: she/her pronouns used, reader wears dresses, sexual content at the end (18+)

Dick Grayson is a vigilante. He’s a master martial artist and gymnast. He’s something of a playboy and a heavy flirt. But the claim he really takes pride in is that he’s basically a professional boyfriend. That he’s your professional boyfriend.

And pride really is the right word. He’s so proud that he gets to have this pretty girl on his arm and buy her pretty things even when you insist you have enough. He loves getting to help you take your makeup off when you’re too tired and make you laugh like it’s his job. He’s absolutely gratified that he gets to be your prodigal, sweet boyfriend that, despite your protests, insisted on carrying all five of your shopping bags for you.

You step over an uneven stretch in the sidewalk and lean slightly against Dick’s shoulder. “I’m worried the navy one is too…much.” You say, thinking back to how the blue cocktail dress fit on you, how it stopped barely below your ass.

He furrows his eyebrows with a pout, “Too much?”

You look over at him, matching his expression. “It’s really short. I mean it’s cute and I like it, but…I don’t know, this is kind of a fancy event isn’t it?” 

He puckers his lips, shaking his head. “Short’s good. I like short.” Yeah, you’d noticed with the way his eyes had been glued to the hem of your dress, willing it to slip up just a little more.

You laugh, “And I’m sure you and all the old businessmen will appreciate it greatly.”

His face drops at that, not thrilled at the prospect of those, usually very sleazy, old men getting to see so much of you. “The black one’s good too.”

You peer over into one of the bags, “Or there’s the red one with the—”

Dick shakes his head quickly, “Not red.”

You snicker at that, knowing full well what his problem is with it. “Then why did I get it?”

“Just for me.” He pauses, “Or for something my brother won’t be at.” He mumbles, scanning both sides of the street. He shuffles the bags in his right hand onto his forearm so he can take your hand in his as you step into the road. “No, the black one looked great on you. And we won’t have to go searching for a matching tie.” 

Once you reach the other side he lets go of your hand and he circles behind you, nudging you over to the inside of the sidewalk.

You glance down at the row of bags littering his arms and the red indents beginning to mark his skin. “Will you please let me hold some?” You frown.

“Will you please hold my hand?” He echoes, matching your serious tone with faux urgency of his own. You deadpan him but take his hand anyway. You don’t notice it, but he’s got a dedicated gaze focused on your fingers intertwined in his.

You continue on down the street, hand in hand, the warm sun shining on your necks. You pick up the pace a bit as you approach your apartment building, aiming to get the door for your boyfriend. You reach for the handle only for Dick to call out, “Don’t touch that!” followed by him clamoring like you’re about to touch a hot coal, rushing over to beat you to the punch.

“Oh my god..” you mumble to yourself, biting back a smile. The bags haphazardly fall further down his arms, no doubt uncomfortably as he pulls the door open for you, pretending to be far more eloquent than he actually was. He gestures you in and smiles sweetly at you when you give him a flat look. 

“What is wrong with you?” You ask, glancing over your shoulder at him with amusement glittering across your face as you dig for your keys.

“Not a thing.” He grins, watching with adoration as you open the apartment door. Frankly, you’re surprised he didn’t attempt to juggle the bags and unlock the door himself.

He kicks the door shut behind him as you help slide the bags off of his wrists, piling them on the counter. “When do we need to leave?”

“Uh…” he glances at the wall clock, “Not till seven.” He places his hands nicely on your waist, looking down at your lips. “You wanna get something to eat before we go?”

You muse, “This is the one with those mini stakes, isn’t it?” He nods. “No, I wanna get my fill on those. Oh, and the bruschettas! I love these caterers.”

His eyes flicker back up to meet yours, a sly smile playing on his lips. 

You break away from his gaze and turn to the counter, preparing to scoop the shopping bags up when you’re interrupted by his relentless fervor.

“Ah, ah.” He hooks a finger into the loop of your jeans, tugging you back to him. “Give me a kiss.” 

“Dick.”

“Just one.” Yeah, right. You oblige him though, pushing up on your toes to meet his lips. His thumb strokes your cheek as he kisses you deeply. You break the kiss after a moment only for him to chase your lips to follow it up with another. And then another. And another. He hums against your lips, smiling wide. “Thank you, baby.”

You pull back again and smile as you stop his chest with your hand when he follows. “Ah, I’m not new around here. I know where this’ll go if I let you.”

He nods complaisantly, “Then let me.” His eyes are focused on the small space between you, where his touch lingers along your ring finger. You lean up again and place a kiss on his forehead that has him getting hopeful, only to be met with disappointment when you back away from him, bags in hand. He throws his head back with a groan just to really hammer home the severity of his dismay.  

It doesn’t last too long though because the second you’re back in the room he’s trailing after you like a puppy, following you down to the couch. You roll your eyes at him when he opts to sit ridiculously close to you, though there’s a ghost of a smile on your lips that makes your act lose all credibility.   

He nestles his face into the crook of your neck and is clearly very pleased when you wrap your arms around his shoulders. You exhale contentedly, resting your cheek against his head. You lie idle like that for a few minutes, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck and casting a daydreaming gaze out the window. And apparently, he was daydreaming too. 

“I wanna marry you.” He murmurs into your neck after a while. 

You laugh incredulously, “Have you been drinking when I have my back turned?”

“‘M serious.” He nudges you off him so he can look at you.

You hum, sweeping his hair back from his forehead. “You’re being very…” you scrunch up your mouth to the side, “…Ostentatious today.” 

He barks out a laugh, “Wow. Word-A-Day teach you that one?”

You shove at his forehead back with no real force, biting back a giggle. His eyes flicker back and forth between your mouth and the crinkle in your eyes as he grins. “I’m going to let that one go because you got me some really nice clothes today. As your repayment.” you say, running your finger over his lips. 

He takes your hand, pressing a firm kiss to it. “Let me marry you?” 

You sigh bashfully, “Dick—”

“Please?” He sticks his bottom lip out and gives you his puppy eyes, causing you to avert your gaze quickly. You’re not convinced he doesn’t have a superpower in that area.

You know he’s not really proposing right now, he’s too much of a romantic to do it like this. He’s just getting the idea in your head, getting you excited about it. It’s working.

“I’d be such a good husband to you.” He kisses your collarbone, “So good.” He murmurs against your skin, lips never departing. You struggle to keep your face neutral, making a point of closing your eyes in an attempt to increase your odds of success. He’s being nice though, you know. To let you play pretend right now when you know he could break your facade in a second if he really wanted to.  

“Mrs. Grayson…” he squeezes your hips, lips traveling further down. “Doesn’t that sound pretty?”

It really does. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about marrying him before. He’s nothing if not husband material and honestly you really really want to hear him call you his wife. Call him your husband.

Your hand moves to his hair, petting it softly as he goes on. “Buy you a nice ring. Pretty white dress ‘n a big party just for you.” He brushes your shirt up and trails open mouthed kisses down your stomach. Your chest feels warm and you can feel your pulse thrumming all throughout your body.

He slowly guides your underwear down your thighs, his lips following the hem close behind. “Come home to you every night, kiss these pretty thighs,” He scoops both of your hands up in one of his, pinning them to your stomach. “Kiss this pretty pussy.” He places a chaste kiss on your clit and looks up at you expectantly.

You’re not nearly as hesitant on this as you’re pretending to be, and you both know it. But he’s perfectly fine with begging a little while you pretend you’re not lightheaded at the idea of marrying him. “I’ll think about it…” 

He grins at you before going in on your core without mercy.

He’s trying real hard to land that promotion.

🩵 reblogging = supporting; likes don’t do the job

➤All the places that Matt Murdock loves to fuck you-

A/n: Matt is such a cutie

Matt Murdock isn’t a man who allows himself many indulgences. His life is filled with shadows, sacrifice, and the weight of the city pressing down on him. But when it comes to you—the quiet, kind-hearted nurse who’s softer than anyone in his world should be—he finds himself craving every part of you.

And while you turn warm so easily,squeaking under his touch, Matt learns quickly that once he gets you alone, there’s a fire beneath that shyness.

A fire only he gets to stoke.

1. His Apartment – Against the Bookshelf

✨:

It started innocently enough.

You had come over to check on his injuries—again. Despite knowing he heals fast, you had been adamant about making sure he wasn’t reckless.

Matt had been sitting on the edge of his couch, listening to your heartbeat flutter as you pressed gentle fingers to his ribs.

“You don’t have to—”

“Shut up and let me do this, Murdock,” you had mumbled, heart rate spiking

He smirked.

And then, something shifted.

Maybe it was the way your fingers lingered too long against his skin.

Maybe it was the way his own hands itched to touch you, to map out every inch of the woman who had become his quiet salvation.

Either way, the next thing you knew—Matt had pinned you against the bookshelf, lips devouring yours.

You had gasped, hands gripping his shoulders, and the sound had destroyed him.

He had lifted you easily—one hand beneath your thigh, the other bracing against the shelf behind you. The books dug into your back, but you didn’t care. Not when Matt was kissing you like that.

Desperate. Rough.

Like he had been starving for you.

And by the time you were both done, you were breathless, shaken, and laughing softly when he finally let you back down on shaky legs.

You two didn’t even bother fixing the books that had fallen to the floor.

2. Your Bedroom – With the Windows Open

✨:

Your apartment was small but warm—much like you.

And Matt had fallen in love with it.

Not just because it smelled like vanilla and the faintest hint of antiseptic, or because you had soft blankets everywhere (which he would never admit he loved).

No.

He loved it because it was yours.

And when he was in your bed, tangled in sheets that smelled like you, listening to you whisper his name, he felt like he could breathe.

One night, with the windows cracked open, letting the cool night air in, he had taken his time with you.

Letting his hands trace every inch of you soft, warm skin.Letting his mouth memorize every spot that made you whimper.

Letting you fall apart beneath him, whispering his name like a prayer.

And when you came apart on his fingers, your voice barely above a breath—the city outside had disappeared.

Because in that moment, it was just you and him.

3. His Office – On His Desk

✨:

It was a mistake.

You both knew it the second you walked in, wearing that damn dress.

Foggy had already gone home for the night. Karen had left too. It was just you both—you had stopped by to drop off something he had forgotten at your place.

But the second he heard your heartbeat spike—the second he smelled the faint scent of your shampoo, your perfume, the lingering traces of something sweet on your lips and the rustle of the fabric of your dress.

He had lost all control.

You had barely set down the folder before Matt had you pressed against his desk, your hands gripping his tie as you gasped into his mouth.

“Matt—”

“Tell me to stop,” he had murmured against your skin, trailing kisses down your neck, listening to the way your pulse fluttered.

You hadn’t.

Not when he had lifted you onto the desk, pushing papers aside.

Not when he had slid his hands beneath your dress, pulling a moan from your lips as his fingers brushed your core through your panties.

Not when he had taken you apart right there, in the very office where he fought so hard to be the “good man.”

Because around you—he didn’t always want to be good.

He just wanted you

4. The Rooftop – Under the Stars

✨:

You had never been a fan of rooftops.

They made you nervous, made you feel like one wrong step would send you plummeting.

But when Matt had pulled you up there one night, promising he wouldn’t let you fall, you had followed.

And somehow, sitting there with him, the city below wasn’t so scary.

You had leaned into his side, warm beneath his touch, whispering about your day, his scars, the things you two never told anyone else.

And maybe it was the intimacy of the moment.

Or maybe it was just Matt Murdock, the way he made you feel like you were the only thing in the world worth touching.

Because suddenly—his lips were on yours.

Slow. Gentle.

Not like before—not rough, not desperate.

But like a man who had finally come home.

And there, under the stars, with nothing but the wind against both of your skin and the city buzzing beneath you both, Matt made love to you like you were something sacred.

And for once, you believed him.

5. The Church – When it Shouldn’t Have happened

✨:

It had been wrong.

So very, very wrong.

Matt had been struggling—torn between his faith, his demons, his feelings for you.

And you had just wanted to comfort him.

But when he had pulled you into the dimly lit confessional, hands gripping your waist, breath hot against your ear, you had known that you both weren’t going to stop.

And you hadn’t.

He had touched you like he was searching for salvation.

Matt Murdock is not an easy man to love.

But you love him anyways. You love his scars, his sins, the way he worships you when no one is watching.

And no matter where you two are—

His apartment.

Your bed.

His office.

A rooftop.

Even a place that was meant for prayers, not sins.

You will always comes back to him.

And Matt?

Matt always lets you.

Because he loves you, more than life it's self.

i love you, always and forever ࿐‧₊ rekindling

chapter summary: You and Logan celebrate your 5th wedding anniversary.

word count: 6.1k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: the ending of this chapter might be one of my favorite scenes

warnings/tags: reader wears glasses, mention of sickness (not reader), fluff, logan is a lovesick puppy, gala mission, star wars reference

series masterlist - chapter 8 → chapter 10

Some years ago, right after the two of you got engaged, you tried making and fermenting your own beer for Logan. Turns out, beer doesn’t need to and shouldn’t ferment for more than a few months at the most.

So, you pivoted, and made homemade whiskey, which had been sitting in a secret part of your lab for the better part of 5 years.

And now, after Logan had taken you out on a date to an Italian place and a nearby observatory which he booked for the two of you, you dragged him to your lab, where you had the bottle of homemade whiskey.

You pulled out a drawer and grabbed the small, but hefty, gift bag. Its weight made your arm dip slightly as you turned to face Logan, who was leaning against the counter in your lab with a quizzical but amused expression. His hair was still slightly tousled from the wind at the observatory, his sleeves rolled up casually from dinner.

"What's this, sweetheart?" he asked, nodding toward the bag. "Another one of your science experiments?"

You rolled your eyes, adjusting your glasses as you handed him the bag. "Just open it. And no, it’s not radioactive or alive. This one’s safe, I promise."

Logan smirked as he pulled the tissue paper out, revealing a dark amber glass bottle sealed with a simple cork. His eyebrows lifted in surprise as he held it up, reading the handwritten label: “Logan’s Reserve – 5-Year Aged Whiskey.”

"Wait a second…" His eyes narrowed, a grin spreading across his face as he looked at you. "Is this what I think it is?"

You nodded, clasping your hands behind your back nervously. "Yeah. Remember when I tried making beer for you right after we got engaged? And it… well, it exploded in the basement?"

Logan chuckled, the sound warm and rich. "How could I forget? Smelled like a brewery down there for weeks."

"Exactly. So, I switched gears and decided to try something a little more… sophisticated." You gestured to the bottle. "I distilled it, let it age, and hoped for the best. Five years later, here we are."

Logan stared at the bottle for a moment, then at you. His expression softened, the teasing glint in his eyes replaced by something deeper. "You did this… for me?"

You shrugged, feeling the blush creep up your cheeks. "Of course. I wanted to give you something special. Something that lasts, you know? Like… us."

For a moment, the room was silent except for the faint hum of the lab equipment. Logan set the bottle down carefully on the counter, then stepped toward you. His hands rested gently on your waist, pulling you closer.

"You’re somethin’ else, darlin’," he said, his voice low and full of affection. "Nobody’s ever done anything like this for me before."

You smiled up at him, your shyness melting away under his gaze. "Well, there’s a first time for everything."

He leaned down, brushing his lips against yours in a kiss that was soft but full of unspoken gratitude. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

"Let’s crack it open," he said with a grin. "I’ve waited five years for this, after all."

You laughed, grabbing two small glasses from a nearby shelf. As Logan uncorked the bottle, the rich aroma of aged whiskey filled the room. He poured a small amount into each glass, the amber liquid catching the light.

"To us," you said, raising your glass.

Logan clinked his glass against yours. "To five years… and many more."

You both took a sip, and Logan’s eyes widened slightly as he savored the taste. "Damn, sweetheart. You’ve outdone yourself. This is better than anything I’ve had in a bar."

You beamed. "Really?"

"Really." He leaned in and kissed you again, the whiskey still warm on his lips. "Best anniversary gift ever."

As you stood there, sharing the moment and the whiskey you’d poured your heart into, you couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of contentment. Life hadn’t been easy—especially the past few years—but moments like this made it all worth it.

---

You were making chicken noodle soup for Rogue, Kitty, and Jubilee, who all somehow caught the same stomach bug at the same time.

The three girls sat at the table in the corner of the kitchen, after being asked by Logan to “move, or else you’re gonna get her sick.”

Now, while the three waited, they also watched. Rogue, Kitty, and Jubilee sat bundled in sweaters with mugs of tea that Logan had insisted they use instead of touching anything else in the kitchen. The soup was still simmering on the stove, and Logan leaned casually against the counter near you, your perpetual shadow.

Jubilee nudged Rogue with her elbow and whispered, “Look at him. He follows her like a freakin’ lost puppy.”

Rogue, pale but still managing an amused smirk, turned her attention to Logan, who was wordlessly following you as you shuffled over to the pantry. All you had done was mutter, "need a new bottle of parsley," and Logan had immediately fallen in line, watching you like you hung the moon.

“He does,” Rogue said, shaking her head. “I swear, I’ve never seen him this whipped.”

"Right? Like, what does she do to him?" Kitty chimed in, half-giggling despite her queasiness. “The man’s basically walking PDA.”

The three of them stared openly now, watching how Logan stood slightly behind you, his hand instinctively brushing the small of your back as you reached up for the spice jar.

“See that?” Kitty whispered, her voice thick with poorly stifled laughter. “His hand is always on her. Shoulder, back, waist—doesn’t matter where, just as long as he’s touching.”

“Bet he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it,” Rogue murmured, propping her chin on her palm.

You turned back toward the counter, glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of your nose as you set the parsley down near the cutting board. Logan was immediately there, adjusting the spice rack for you, though it wasn’t even askew.

“Thanks,” you murmured softly, giving him a small, shy smile.

“Anytime, sweetheart,” he replied without hesitation, his voice laced with warmth.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard him sound that…” Jubilee paused, wrinkling her nose in thought, “...soft.”

Logan shifted closer, his hand brushing against your waist as he leaned in and glanced at the soup. “Need anythin’ else, darlin’?”

You glanced up at him, adjusting your glasses. “No, I think I’ve got it. Maybe grab a loaf of bread from the fridge for dipping?”

He nodded and moved toward the fridge like it was his life’s mission. Jubilee blinked slowly.

“He cooks now?” she whispered.

“Logan,” Rogue called across the room, “do you even know how to make soup?”

Logan didn’t even glance back as he grabbed the bread. “Nope. I just carry the bread. Y/N handles the rest.”

The three girls stared at each other, jaws slightly agape.

“He’s domesticated,” Kitty said in awe. “I didn’t think that was possible.”

You didn’t seem to hear any of this, far too focused on stirring the soup and rambling softly about the science of cooking. “The steam comes from the water molecules vibrating faster with the heat. They spread out, break apart from the surface tension…”

Logan’s low hum of acknowledgment interrupted you, his hand returning to rest lightly against the curve of your back. You leaned into the touch without thinking, comfortable in his presence.

Kitty let out a mock-dramatic sigh, dropping her head onto the table. “I can’t watch this anymore. It’s too cute, and I feel like death.”

Jubilee grinned slyly, glancing at Rogue. “What if we pointed it out to him?”

“Don’t you dare,” Rogue warned with a half-laugh. “Man’s happier than I’ve ever seen him. Leave ‘em be.”

The three shared a conspiratorial smirk but kept their remarks low enough to remain unnoticed. Even if Logan somehow picked up on their teasing with his hyper-sensitive senses, he showed no sign of it.

You turned back to the girls, smiling softly. “It’ll be ready soon. How’re you all feeling?”

“Like crap,” Jubilee said with zero hesitation.

“Marginally better,” Rogue offered, though it was mostly for your benefit.

“It helps watching Logan act like a lovesick Labrador,” Kitty muttered with a grin. Rogue elbowed her.

You glanced at Logan, eyebrows raised slightly. “What are they whispering about?”

“Not a clue,” he lied smoothly, focusing on slicing the bread.

You didn’t push it, simply chuckling and going back to your task. Logan leaned in closer, his lips brushing your ear.

“You’re good at takin’ care of everyone,” he murmured. “Never stops amazin’ me.”

You flushed under the quiet praise, your heart flipping in your chest. It wasn’t much—just one of his usual tender comments—but coming from Logan, it felt monumental every single time.

---

You paused walking again in the hall, adjusting your liner socks for your heels. Just a few months ago it was your birthday, and Scott got you the pair of heels you’d been wanting, probably only knowing about them from Jean.

It was too cold back then, but now it was warming up and you could finally wear them.

Other than the fact that blisters are probably forming on your feet from them fitting improperly. It wasn’t Scott’s fault; they were the right size and everything, they just didn’t fit your feet.

While you were bent down adjusting your heels in the hallway, Logan walked up behind you silently, his hand brushing gently against your back.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice low and concerned.

You looked up briefly before going back to fiddling with the strap on your shoe. “The heels Scott got me for my birthday—they don’t fit as well as I’d hoped. They’re a little tight, and I think I might’ve miscalculated how much walking I’d have to do today.”

Logan let out a soft, knowing grunt. Without warning, he scooped you up in his arms effortlessly, one arm around your shoulders and the other under your legs. He shifted your heels into his hand with the same movement, holding them beneath you like an afterthought.

“Logan!” you exclaimed, instinctively gripping his shoulders. “What are you doing?!”

“What does it look like?” he replied, already walking. “If the shoes are botherin’ you, you’re not gonna wear ‘em.”

You sighed, flustered. “I can walk perfectly fine! It’s not that bad, I promise.”

Logan didn’t even slow down. “Yeah, sure. Tell that to the blisters you’re about to get. Don’t argue, darlin’—you’re stuck with me now.”

Your protest was drowned out when Logan rounded a corner and found Scott mid-lecture in one of the training rooms. The students turned toward the two of you with wide-eyed curiosity.

“Logan, come on,” you whispered, mortified, but Logan only tightened his grip.

“Hey, Summers!” Logan barked, his voice cutting through the room.

Scott paused, looking up with an annoyed but inquisitive frown. Before he could say a word, Logan tossed the pair of heels directly at him. They smacked him square in the chest before falling into his hands.

“Next time, get the right size,” Logan said flatly, turning back toward the door.

“Logan!” you gasped, half-horrified and half-apologetic, your face heating up. “I’m so sorry, Scott!”

Scott was still standing there, stunned, holding the shoes as his class erupted into barely stifled laughter. “What—” he started, but Logan didn’t stick around long enough to let him finish.

Logan carried you straight to the common room, ignoring your continued protests. He set you down gently on the couch, crouching in front of you. “Stay put,” he commanded, already moving toward the med kit nearby.

“Logan, seriously, I’m fine—”

“You’ll be fine when I say you’re fine.” He popped open the first aid kit and returned to kneel in front of you. “Now, lemme see.”

You sighed, defeated, as Logan gingerly took your foot in his hand, inspecting the reddened spots on your heels. His touch was careful, almost reverent, as he applied adhesive bandages to the forming blisters.

“I don’t even feel it that much,” you muttered.

“Uh-huh,” Logan said dryly, not buying a word of it.

When he finished bandaging the other foot, he paused, still crouched with one of your feet resting on his knee. Instead of moving back, he began to gently knead the arch of your foot, his fingers deft and soothing.

“Logan…” You blinked, taken aback.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he said softly, not looking up. “You’re always takin’ care of everyone else. Lemme do somethin’ for you for once.”

The words, combined with the warmth in his tone, sent a wave of unexpected emotion through you. You leaned back against the couch, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. His touch was firm yet tender, every movement speaking volumes about how much he cared.

As his thumbs worked over a particularly sore spot, you bit back a laugh. “When did you learn how to do this?”

Logan glanced up with a hint of a smirk. “Long life. Picked up a few tricks here and there.”

“Pretty sure you’re better at this than a licensed professional.”

“Damn right I am,” he said with mock seriousness, though his smile softened.

When he finally set your foot down, he stayed kneeling for a moment longer, his hands lingering on your legs. “Feel better now?”

You smiled down at him, your cheeks warm. “Yeah. Thanks, Logan.”

He nodded, pushing himself to his feet and bending down to press a kiss to the top of your head. “Good. Now you just sit here and relax for a bit. I’ll grab you some tea or somethin’.”

As he walked away, you couldn’t help the affectionate smile that spread across your face. Moments like this reminded you that, despite his gruff exterior, Logan had a heart bigger than anyone you’d ever known.

---

You realized you should’ve told Logan this before he found out for himself.

For the past 4—5 years?—you hadn’t worn your cherry lip gloss, only because you couldn’t find it anywhere once you ran out. Turns out, it was discontinued. So, you pivoted to regular nude lip glosses or chapstick.

But this past weekend when you, Jean, and Ororo went on a girl’s shopping trip to the mall to hang out, you found a cherry lip oil that in your opinion had a better texture, and a less artificial flavor, than your original discontinued one.

The hallways of the mansion were buzzing with the usual mid-morning energy: students rushing to classes, a few sparring matches audible from the training rooms, and the faint hum of voices echoing off the walls. You adjusted the strap of your satchel, balancing it against your side, and smoothed the hem of your cardigan as you made your way toward your classroom.

As you turned a corner, Logan appeared from the opposite direction, walking toward his next class. He spotted you instantly, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips as his eyes softened. This was routine by now—a quick kiss or two between classes, a quiet moment to ground yourselves in a sea of chaos.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greeted, his voice low and rough in the way that made your heart flutter.

“Hey,” you smiled back, the warmth in his tone settling over you like a blanket.

He leaned in for the usual kiss, his hand brushing against your lower back as you tilted your face up to meet him. But instead of the brief, customary peck, Logan lingered. His lips pressed against yours with a sudden, deliberate intensity, and his other hand rose to cradle the back of your head.

You stiffened in surprise at first, but quickly melted into it, your hands lightly gripping the fabric of his flannel shirt. The kiss deepened, slow and consuming, with Logan angling your head slightly for better access. He tasted faintly of coffee, and the familiar warmth of him flooded your senses.

“Logan,” you managed to breathe out between kisses, your voice breaking the silence in short bursts. “We need—” kiss “to get—” kiss “to our—” kiss “classes.”

“Fuck, I missed that,” Logan murmured, his voice rough and filled with a longing you didn’t quite understand. Before you could respond, his lips captured yours again, his hold on you firm but careful, as though he was memorizing the moment.

The sound of a throat clearing broke through the haze, and you both froze. Turning your heads, you found Charles sitting in his wheelchair a few feet away, a bemused but patient expression on his face.

“I do hate to interrupt, but I believe there are a few dozen students waiting for their teachers at the moment,” Charles remarked, his tone light but pointed.

Heat rushed to your cheeks as you stepped back, adjusting your glasses and smoothing your hair. Logan, unfazed as ever, gave a small shrug, though you could see the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Right,” you stammered, gripping your satchel strap tightly. “Sorry, Charles. We were just—uh—”

“Testing the laws of attraction?” Charles quipped, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

Logan grunted, his hand still lingering on your back. “We’re goin’. Don’t get your wheels in a spin.”

Charles merely chuckled and rolled past, leaving you to shoot Logan a flustered glare.

“You could at least pretend to be embarrassed,” you muttered, adjusting your satchel again.

“Why?” Logan asked, his voice tinged with amusement. “You look cute when you’re all flustered.” He leaned in close, brushing a final kiss against your temple before stepping back. “See you later, darlin’.”

As he turned to walk away, you shook your head, a faint smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. You brushed your fingers over your lips, still tingling from the intensity of the kiss.

---

Logan adjusted the cufflinks of his tux, muttering under his breath about how "these damn things are more trouble than they’re worth." The sound of his grumbling carried through the slightly ajar bathroom door, making you smile as you finished touching up your lipstick. Jean’s red shade was bold, but it worked, complementing your minimalist black dress.

You capped the tube and gave your reflection a once-over. The dress fit perfectly, the sleek design emphasizing your figure without feeling over the top. You adjusted your glasses and smoothed a hand down the fabric before stepping out into the bedroom.

Logan was by the dresser, still fidgeting with his cufflinks, but the moment his eyes landed on you, his hands stilled. His lips parted slightly, the earlier irritation on his face melting into something softer, something almost reverent.

“You clean up nice,” he said, voice lower than usual. His gaze roamed over you, lingering on the curve of your waist before meeting your eyes. “Real nice.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, feeling a heat creep up your cheeks under his scrutiny. You crossed the room, and as you did, Logan closed the distance between you in two strides. His hand found your waist, warm and steady, before moving to rest gently against your stomach.

“Turn around for me,” he said, his voice a mix of request and command. His fingers pressed lightly, guiding you into a slow spin. As you moved, his hand never left you, sliding from your waist to the small of your back, then back to your waist again when you completed the turn.

“You’re somethin’ else, darlin’,” he said, his words filled with quiet admiration. “Should’ve made you wear this dress sooner.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t help but smile. “It’s not exactly standard mission gear.”

His other hand came up, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Maybe not, but you wear it better than anyone at that gala’s gonna.” His thumb grazed your jaw, and for a moment, the mission faded from your mind entirely. It was just you, Logan, and the soft pull of his presence.

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself back to reality. “We should get going. The sooner we get in, the sooner we can find what we’re looking for.”

Logan smirked, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “You’re the brains of this operation, sweetheart. Lead the way.”

---

The gala was held in a grand hotel in the heart of the city, the kind of place that practically dripped with wealth and excess. Chandeliers sparkled overhead, and the soft murmur of conversation filled the air, punctuated by the occasional clink of glasses. You and Logan entered arm-in-arm, blending seamlessly into the crowd of well-dressed elites.

The two of you moved with purpose, your fingers lightly resting against Logan’s arm as he guided you through the throng. You kept your movements casual, your faces relaxed, though beneath the surface, the tension of the mission buzzed like static. The target was somewhere in this room—or at least someone who knew how to access the server room where the sensitive information was being stored.

“Keep your eyes open,” Logan muttered under his breath, his voice low enough for only you to hear.

“Always,” you replied, offering a soft smile for the benefit of onlookers as you tilted your head toward him. “You see anything yet?”

“Just a bunch of rich assholes,” Logan said, his tone gruff. “No sign of the guy.”

You nodded subtly, letting your gaze sweep across the room. The gala attendees were exactly as you’d expected—wealthy, polished, and exuding an air of untouchable arrogance. The kind of people who could fund black-market experiments on mutants and still sleep soundly at night.

Jean’s voice crackled softly in your hidden earpiece. “Remember, the server room is two floors down, heavily guarded, and keycard access only. If you can get the host’s card, it’ll save us a lot of trouble.”

“Yeah, yeah, we got it,” Logan grunted, briefly touching his ear to acknowledge the message.

You gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll figure it out. Just follow my lead.”

Logan shot you a skeptical look, but the corner of his mouth lifted in a faint smirk. “You’re the brains, sweetheart. I’m just here to look good in a tux.”

“And to punch people if necessary,” you teased, your voice light despite the weight of the mission.

Logan chuckled, the sound low and warm. “That too.”

As you approached the bar, you caught sight of the host—a tall, broad-shouldered man with slicked-back hair and a predatory smile. He was surrounded by a small group of sycophants, his laugh too loud and his gestures exaggerated. On his lapel was the small, telltale glint of a security badge.

“There he is,” you murmured, leaning slightly into Logan as though sharing a private moment.

Logan followed your gaze and grunted in acknowledgment. “What’s the plan?”

You considered for a moment before replying. “We split up. I’ll distract him and see if I can get the keycard. You keep an eye on the exits in case things get messy.”

Logan’s hand tightened slightly on your waist. “Don’t get too close, darlin’.”

You smiled, the expression meant to reassure him. “I’ll be fine. Trust me.”

“I always do,” he said, his voice softer now.

With that, you slipped away from him, weaving through the crowd with ease. You approached the host with a disarming smile, your movements graceful and deliberate.

“Excuse me,” you said, your voice carrying just the right mix of politeness and charm. “This is my first time at one of these events. You wouldn’t happen to be the host, would you?”

The man’s eyes lit up as he turned his attention to you, his smile widening. “Indeed, I am. Samuel Kane, at your service.” He extended a hand, and you shook it lightly, careful not to show any hesitation.

“Y/N,” you introduced yourself, tilting your head slightly. “I’ve heard so much about you. It’s a pleasure to finally meet the man behind all of this.”

Kane laughed, clearly pleased by the flattery. “Well, I do my best to keep things interesting. And you, my dear, are an absolute vision. Your husband must be a lucky man.”

You felt a flicker of unease at the comment but maintained your composure. “He’s around here somewhere,” you said with a laugh. “But he’s not much for mingling.”

As you engaged Kane in conversation, you subtly shifted closer, angling yourself to get a better look at his security badge. The clip was loose, the badge slightly askew—a small detail, but one that worked in your favor.

Behind you, Logan lingered near the edge of the room, his sharp eyes never leaving you. He sipped his drink, outwardly relaxed, but you knew better. His tension was palpable, even from across the room.

Kane was still talking, his voice smooth and practiced, but you weren’t really listening. Instead, you focused on the timing, waiting for the perfect moment to make your move. When Kane turned slightly to greet another guest, you acted quickly, brushing against him just enough to unclip the badge without drawing attention.

“Oops,” you said, feigning a stumble as you steadied yourself against his arm. “Sorry about that. These heels aren’t the most practical.”

Kane laughed, clearly oblivious. “No harm done.”

You smiled apologetically before excusing yourself, slipping the badge into your clutch as you made your way back to Logan. He raised an eyebrow when you returned, his expression a mix of amusement and approval.

“Got it,” you whispered, holding up the badge for him to see.

Logan smirked. “That’s my girl.”

He slipped the badge into his jacket pocket, and the two of you began weaving through the crowd toward the hallway that led to the restricted areas. You kept a pleasant smile on your face, casually nodding at attendees as you passed. Beside you, Logan's body was tense, ready for a fight if it came to that.

Reaching the hallway, you slipped through the door labeled Authorized Personnel Only. Logan glanced back to make sure no one was following before pulling the door shut behind you.

The ambiance changed immediately, the buzz of the gala replaced by the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional beep of security monitors. The luxurious carpet was gone, replaced by plain industrial tile.

“Where to, sweetheart?” Logan asked in a low voice.

“The server room’s at the end of the hall, on the left,” you whispered, nodding ahead.

Logan led the way, his posture relaxed but his hands loosely curled at his sides. You reached the server room without incident, and Logan swiped the badge through the reader. It flashed green with a soft beep, and the door clicked open.

Inside, the room was dimly lit, racks of servers glowing faintly with green and blue lights. You stepped in first, your eyes scanning for the console you needed. Logan followed, closing the door quietly behind him and planting himself by it.

“You do your thing. I’ll keep watch,” he said, his voice steady.

“Got it,” you replied, already making your way to the terminal in the corner.

Sitting down, you pulled a flash drive from your clutch and inserted it into the port. Typing quickly, you navigated through the system, bypassing firewalls and locating the files you needed. Jean’s earlier instructions echoed in your mind—what to look for, how to find it, how to pull it without alerting any alarms.

Logan’s voice broke the silence. “How’s it goin’, darlin’?”

“Almost there,” you murmured, biting your lip as a particularly stubborn firewall slowed your progress. After a few more keystrokes, the file began to download.

“I’m in,” you said softly. “Just need a few more seconds.”

Logan didn’t reply, but you could feel his sharp gaze fixed on the hallway outside, ready for anything.

The download finished with a soft ping, and you quickly ejected the flash drive, slipping it back into your clutch. As you stood and turned to Logan, his head jerked up slightly, his ears picking up on something you couldn’t hear.

“Guards,” he muttered. “Two of ’em, comin’ this way.”

Your mind raced. “Okay, uh… we can do what they did in that movie we watched the other night. You know, the spy one!”

Logan frowned, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “The hell you talkin’ about?”

“Logan,” you hissed, stepping closer to him. “We have to pretend we’re—” Before you could finish, you reached up, gripped his shirt, and tugged him down into a kiss.

Logan tensed for a split second before relaxing, his arms instinctively sliding around your waist. The kiss deepened quickly, his lips pressing against yours with a mixture of surprise and intensity. One of his hands rested at the small of your back while the other gently cradled the back of your head.

The sound of footsteps stopped just outside the server room.

“Hey!” one of the guards called out, his voice sharp.

You and Logan broke apart abruptly, panting softly as you both turned to face the guards. The red lipstick you’d meticulously applied was now smeared—not just on your face but faintly on Logan’s lips as well. One of the guards squinted, clearly caught off guard.

“This area’s off-limits,” the other guard barked.

Logan’s arm was still around your waist, and he stepped forward slightly, putting himself between you and the guards. “Sorry ’bout that. Thought we were sneakin’ off for some privacy. Didn’t realize we weren’t supposed to be here.” His voice was gravelly but calm, carrying just enough irritation to make the act believable.

The guards exchanged looks, then groaned in unison. “Just—get out of here,” the first one said. “Go back to the gala before we have to call someone.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Logan grumbled, steering you back down the hallway. He kept his hand at your back, a silent reassurance.

You stayed quiet until you were back near the main gala floor. When Logan finally looked down at you, his lips quirked into a sly grin.

“You’ve got some guts, darlin’,” he said, his voice filled with approval.

You laughed softly, still catching your breath. “You’ve got lipstick on your face.”

His grin widened as he rubbed his thumb against his mouth. “You sayin’ it’s not my color?”

“Not exactly,” you teased. “But it definitely makes a statement.”

He chuckled, slipping his hand into yours as the two of you rejoined the party, the flash drive safely tucked away.

---

Logan had given in, allowing you to finally trim his beard. You sat perched on the bathroom counter, knees brushing against his sides as he stood in front of you. His rugged face was in your hands, the razor gliding carefully over his jawline.

As you worked, you started rambling, like always when you were focused on something. “Did you know razors date back to the Bronze Age? They found tools that were basically sharp stones or metals people used to shave with. Imagine that—scraping your face with a rock.”

Logan gave a quiet, non-committal grunt, his eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance.

You weren’t deterred, though. “Then in the 18th century, straight razors became popular. Those were sharp as hell, like something out of a horror movie. Then King Camp Gillette comes in and invents the safety razor in—Logan?”

You suddenly paused, pulling back the razor to wave your hand in front of his face. His eyes snapped up to yours, startled.

“What?” he rumbled.

“You weren’t listening,” you accused, narrowing your eyes at him.

“I was listening,” he argued, his voice dipping into a softer tone, almost playful. “Just… got distracted.”

You arched a brow. “By what?”

His gaze dropped, just slightly. His focus lingered for a second too long, and then it dawned on you. You glanced down and realized the problem. Since you were sitting on the counter, your chest was right at eye level for him.

“Oh my God,” you blurted, rolling your eyes as heat crept into your face. “Is that the only reason you agreed to let me do this?”

Logan’s lips curled into a small smirk, one that almost made you drop the razor. “Maybe,” he drawled, voice low and teasing. “I had a good view. Figured I’d let you have your fun.”

“You’re impossible,” you huffed, swatting at him lightly.

His chuckle was a quiet rumble in his chest, and for a moment, you couldn’t decide if you were more annoyed or charmed. Maybe both.

“Finish up, darlin’,” he said, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Can’t have half a beard. Not a good look for me.”

Shaking your head, you returned to your task, though the edges of your mouth tugged upward in a reluctant smile.

---

Later that day the two of you decided to watch a movie in the common room. The bowl of popcorn was already empty, thanks to Logan, but you were more than content to watch the new DVD Scott got you to replace the heels.

It was Star Wars: The Clone Wars: Season One, with director’s cut episodes, behind-the-scenes featurettes, and a few other things.

By the time the fifth episode came on, Logan had fallen asleep. His head rested face down against your stomach, his arm draped lazily over your waist, hanging off the edge of the couch. The quiet sound of his breathing filled the room, his broad shoulders rising and falling steadily.

You smiled down at him, your hands gently weaving through his hair. You couldn’t help but feel a certain tenderness as you sat there, watching the animated battle play out on the screen while he snored faintly against you. This was rare—Logan being so unguarded, so completely relaxed. It was a stark contrast to the usual gruff, sharp-witted man you saw most days.

For once, you were grateful he’d conked out. Not that you didn’t love spending time with him, but movie nights with Logan usually involved endless questions.

"Wait, who’s the green guy again?"

"What kind of idiot jumps into a fight with no backup?"

"So these clones just follow orders without asking questions? Sounds like bad programming."

Sometimes it was cute; other times, it was infuriating. Now, though? Peace. No commentary about Yoda’s battle strategies or sarcastic remarks about Anakin's life choices.

You shifted slightly to readjust, trying not to disturb him, though the weight of his head made it tricky. When you moved, he let out a small, contented grunt, his grip on your waist tightening just a little.

The scene switched to an intense lightsaber duel, and you caught yourself absently stroking Logan’s hair again. He groaned softly and nuzzled his face further into your stomach.

"Mm, warm," he mumbled, his voice gravelly, not quite awake.

"Logan," you whispered, shaking your head with an amused smile. "Are you seriously sleep-talking?"

"Not talkin'," he grunted, burying himself further against you like a sleepy dog finding the perfect napping spot.

"Uh-huh," you said, unable to suppress a laugh. Your fingers stilled for a moment, then continued combing gently through his thick hair. His faint snoring resumed, the small hitch in his breathing telling you he’d sunk back into whatever dreamland had him so quiet.

This—this was your Logan. The Logan who melted around you, softened in ways no one else ever saw. It made all the challenges—the struggles, the years of trying for a baby, the losses—feel worth enduring. You might not have everything you'd once wished for, but you had this. A quiet moment of contentment, wrapped in an old blanket on a threadbare couch, Logan safe and completely at ease in your arms.

For the first time in a long while, your heart didn’t ache for what could’ve been. Instead, you closed your eyes briefly and focused on the gentle weight of him, the comfort of his presence, and the sound of his steady breath.

When you opened them again, the episode was winding down. You grabbed the remote carefully, switching to the next before setting it down. Logan shifted again, his arm curling tighter around you.

“Y’can keep playing it,” he murmured groggily, not lifting his head.

"Thought you were asleep."

"I am," he muttered, eyes still closed.

"You mean you were," you teased.

"Same difference," he rumbled, the corner of his mouth tugging into a tiny smirk before he pressed closer. "Now stop talkin’. I’m comfortable."

You chuckled and let him settle again, absentmindedly tracing circles at the base of his neck. If this was Logan at peace, you couldn’t bring yourself to disturb him, not even for a galaxy far, far away.

that was 2010!

and i can't help but make a star wars reference whenever i can! especially a clone wars reference cause i'm a prequel girly... which is only because of anakin but-

if you don't like star wars literally just imagine anything else (no need to leave rude comments!)

THE MANDALORIAN CHAPTER 8: REDEMPTION

MAY THE FOURTH BE WITH YOU!!!! Created by George Lucas in/sp

it may take me a month to put out a chapter but at least im not using ai to write it.

it may take me a month to put out a chapter but at least im not using ai to write it.

it may take me a month to put out a chapter but at least im not using ai to write it.

it may take me a month to put out a chapter but at least im not using ai to write it.

it may take me a month to put out a chapter but at least im not using ai to write it.

IT MAY TAKE ME A MONTH TO PUT OUT A CHAPTER BUT AT LEAST IM NOT USING AI TO WRITE IT

Ohhhhh I ate this up fr!

fall with me {frank castle}

synopsis: short n sweet. the one where frank meets a girl at a bar, and agrees to go home with her.

warnings: none! cotton candy clouds of fluff ahead, folks.

“Tonight's the night, pal. I can feel it.” 

“Yeah? Can you feel this?” Frank scowls around the rim of his beer bottle and flips David the bird. 

“I won't take that personally, Frank,” He sniffs before taking a gulp from his own bottle. “Even though I think you'd prefer it if I did.” 

Frank waves him off with a scoff and mumbles, “What's your fixation with me gettin’ laid, anyway?”

David's blue eyes widen before he elicits a breathless guffaw. “It's hardly a fixation, Frank. Consider it a genuine concern for your well-being, cause I can't even imagine the state of your balls right now.” 

“Jesus,” He lets out an exasperated laugh and shakes his head. “‘Fuck outta here, Lieberman.” 

The younger man laughs along with him, before taking another drag from his bottle and shrugging. “On a purely self-indulgent note, I’m hoping it'll turn you into a less grumpy bastard.” 

Frank's only response to that is a muffled grunt. 

“Besides,” He shrugs. “I hate to break it to you, Frank, but you could really benefit from a little joy every now and then.” 

David Lieberman was never someone he assumed would take a permanent position in his life, so his words hit him in a surprising way. Sharing a beer with him now, it’s obvious that he's one of a scarce handful of people who have his back in every sense of the word. 

“And like, let’s be real for a second,” David clears his throat and signals to the bartender for another beer. “If you can make out with Sarah, talking to any pretty lady here isn’t going to be too much of a stretch.” 

Frank’s eyes fall shut before he utters a string of hoarse curse words. He wonders briefly if David’ll ever let him forget it, and then figures he probably won’t. He certainly wouldn’t if it were Maria. A surge of grief passes over him like a rain cloud on a sunny day, and when his eyes open again, David is pointing very indiscreetly to someone at the other end of the bar. 

“Someone like her, for instance.” 

Frank huffs before turning around to view the poor soul in which David has so glaringly singled out and wants to wave him off, but he’s dumbstruck by the mere sight of her. She’s wearing what can only be described as a hideous cowboy hat; some sort of leopard print number with gold stars and a pair of well-worn fire-engine red cowboy boots. She's laughing loud and genuinely with a small group of her friends, and he's inexplicably wondering what it would feel like to be the cause of that laughter when she glances up at him as if hearing his thoughts. He licks his lips and quickly averts his gaze. 

“Go up and talk to her,” David smirks. “I double-dog dare you.” 

Frank rolls his eyes. “Christ, what is this? Middle school?” 

He's about to let David have more of a piece of his mind when the piercing sound of microphone feedback splits the chaotic din of the bar in half, drawing his attention to the makeshift stage upfront.

A man leans into the microphone and taps it twice to check that it's in good working order before announcing, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to karaoke night at Rudy's. First up tonight is a first-timer who wants to apologize in advance if she-" He leans forward, squinting at the paper in his grasp and laughs. “- Who wants to apologize in advance if she sucks. Please put your hands together for our first guest!” 

Frank chances a glance back at the cowgirl at the bar and notices she's gone, but that her friends are creating uproarious applause for her on the stage. She lifts a hand to shield herself from the glaring spotlight and grins. 

“Howdy, y'all. Here goes nothin’.” She tilts her head to the side and winks at someone off stage and the opening double bass notes to Nancy Sinatra’s These Boots Are Made For Walkin’ crackle to life, filling up every space of the bar with glorious sixties nostalgia. 

Frank's powerless to wipe the smile from his face as he watches her dance around the stage. Despite her lacking any semblance of natural grace, she commands presence from the small crowd before her, and like a moth to a flame, he finds himself drawn to her light.

You keep playin' where you shouldn't be playin'

And you keep thinking that you'll never get burnt, ha!

I've just found me a brand new box of matches, yeah

And what he knows you ain't had time to learn

More than anything, he can tell she's having the time of her life up there. She seems bolstered by the raucous cheering from her friends, but he gets the feeling that even if she were alone, she’d be the same way.

“Are ya ready boots?” She simpers into the microphone. “Start walkin’!” 

She twirls around the stage, kicking her boots (entirely out of time) to the finishing notes. When the song ends, she bows so low that her hat falls from her head, and in one swift motion, she's upright again, fastening it back on with a cheeky grin. Frank’s gaze follows her as she jumps from the stage into the open arms of her cheering friends. 

“Well that was unexpectedly charming,” David laughs. “Consider me unexpectedly charmed.” 

Frank glances back at him and nods his head. “Yeah, me too.” 

“You should buy her a drink, Frank.” 

David's singsong tone itches just beneath the surface of his skin, and causes him to roll his eyes. “How did I know that was comin’, huh?” He finishes off the rest of his beer, and sets his bottle back against the scarred wooden countertop with a resounding clank. “I got no business buyin’ her anything, Lieberman. She can take care of herself. She’d probably tell me to go pound sand if I offered.” 

He’s expecting a smart-ass remark from the man next to him, but all he gets is silence, and a growing smirk. 

“What?”

Someone clears their throat behind him.

“My friends and I are celebrating tonight. Can we buy you two a drink?” 

Frank swivels around on his stool, he's so close to her that he can smell the floral scent of her perfume on her skin, and it makes him slightly lightheaded. 

David sighs dramatically and rises from the bar stool, patting the back pocket of his jeans to check that his wallet is still there.

“While I would love nothing more than to tie off a couple more cold ones, my kid's got a piano recital at the ass-crack of dawn tomorrow morning,” he turns to Frank. “You still coming, right?” 

Frank nods. “Wouldn't miss it.” 

David shoots him a thumbs-up, and then turns to grin at the cowgirl. “Keep on yeehawin’ in the free world, lil' lady.” 

That makes her laugh, and she salutes him as he turns his back to leave. 

“So, what'll it be then?” She asks, once they're alone.

Frank clears his throat, shakes his head. “Ah, I'm okay, thanks. Nothin' more for me.” 

She looks momentarily crestfallen. 

Frank clears his throat again and tilts his head toward the handsome young man at the other end of the bar. “Why do you wanna buy me a drink, huh? He looks like he could use one.” 

She wedges her bottom lip between her teeth and shrugs. “Because, he wasn't looking at me up there the way you were.” 

Frank doesn't blush often, and thanks a higher being that David's no longer there because he would've noticed it immediately, and Frank would've never heard the end of it. 

“Why are you celebrating tonight?” He asks, by way of changing the subject. 

“My friends bet me that I wouldn't get up in full western attire and do karaoke tonight.” 

A gruff laugh erupts from Frank. “You sure proved them wrong. You were uh… pretty great up there.” 

Despite the minimal lighting in the bar, Frank can clearly see the sudden rush of blood to her cheeks and he chokes back a smile at the notion that he caused it.

“I definitely was not, but it's very kind of you to say so.” 

Silence settles between the two of them before she plucks up enough courage to ask for his name, and he hesitates a beat before telling her. 

“Frank Castle,” she savors the combination of his letters on her tongue, and he decides right then and there that his name sounds infinitely better when she's saying it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Frank.” 

A smile dances on his lips. “Pleasure’s all mine, ma'am.” 

It's quiet between them before she asks, “Well if you won't let me buy you a drink here, will you at least let me make you one at my place?” 

He's taken aback by her audacity, and he allows himself a moment to briefly ponder what that drink could end up entailing, while also ignoring the sudden spike in his heart rate.

“Not to brag, but I do make a mean redneck margarita.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, as if the mere mention of mountain dew and jose cuervo could sway his decision her way, and Frank can't help laughing at that. 

When the dust eventually settles, he very quietly assures her that she does not want to go home with him; he stops himself just short of saying - I'm bad news bears, kid. He lets the silence linger a while longer before shrugging. “Besides, I'm sure your friends aren't done galavanting around for the evening.” 

She shakes her head, adamantly. “They aren’t. But I'm done for the night. Maybe for a while, even, and I can promise you that.” 

Any excuse he can think of crumbles entirely when David's mug appears to him, his words from earlier ringing through the confines of his mind like a bell.

At this point, what is there to lose?

“Alright,” He resigns. “Show me the way."

He spends the majority of the ride to her apartment convincing himself that there is no conceivable way the beautiful woman next to him wants him, so he’s a little surprised when she jumps out of the truck first, cocks her head to the side, and asks if he’s coming today or tomorrow. 

He shakes his head, and lets out a low, incredulous laugh before eventually nodding. “Right behind ya.” 

Frank follows her into her apartment, and waits patiently while she flicks on a couple of lamps which bathe her quaint space in a soft, orange glow. She sets her purse down on the coffee table and falls back against the wall next to her expansive bay window with a soft sigh.

Taking a steadying breath, she eyes him and confesses that she doesn’t make a habit of doing these kinds of things.

Frank keeps his distance and shrugs. “Neither do I." 

His heart pounds harder the longer they gaze at each other, and the irony that it doesn’t do that nearly as intensely when he punishes, isn’t lost on him.  

“Will you do me a favour, Frank?” She asks. 

He swallows hard; knows they're quickly approaching a precipice, of which there can be no turning back.

“Yes ma’am.” 

“Come here and kiss me.” 

He doesn’t have to be told twice. Closing the distance between them in a couple of strides, he takes her face in his hands, and kisses her. It’s an ornate push-and-pull that could go on until he takes his last, rasping breath, as far as he's concerned. He’s positive he could get drunk on the sheer taste of her; all spearmint gum, and the faintest hint of cigarette smoke, and it only succeeds in making him hunger for more of her. He comes up for air first, resting his forehead against hers while he tries - in vain - to regulate his breathing. 

“Was that alright?” His voice is all gravel and shattered glass as he brushes the calloused pad of his thumb over the rounded curve of her warm cheek and leans forward to kiss it. He doesn’t realize how much he’s missed doing that small thing until he has the pleasure of doing it to her.

“Yeah,” she whispers, and reaches down to take his hand. “Come with me, Frank.” 

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until he steps past the threshold of her bedroom door, and releases a pent-up rush of air. While she flicks on the lamp beside her bed, Frank wonders how on earth it’s possible that it feels like he’s known her for years, instead of a mere hour.  

“I need another favour from you.” 

He swallows. “Name it, Boots.” 

“Will you lie down with me for a spell? I’m entirely out of practice with this sort of thing.” 

Frank agrees, and crawls into bed beside her, turning so that they’re nearly nose-to-nose.

“We don’t gotta do anything, you know.” 

She stifles a yawn. “Oh no, we are. And it’s going to be nothing short of mind-blowing when we do.” 

Frank laughs. “Alright, then.” 

It’s quiet in her room, the only other muffled sounds are that of the city outside her window. 

Her fingers dance across the chiseled line of his jaw, and down his neck to the gold chain around it. A lump swells in the hollow of his throat as he waits for her to ask about it.

“There’s a story here.” She whispers, tracing the warm metal of his wedding band.

Frank nods. 

“You don’t have to tell me.” 

He clears his throat; has a desire to be honest with her, even though he really doesn’t have to, and maybe shouldn’t. 

“I had a wife, and kids. They’re uh… they’re gone.” 

He’s stopped saying he lost them, because it’s not as if he could ever find them again, no matter how badly he wants to sometimes. 

“I’m sorry.” She swallows. 

Frank brushes a stray piece of hair from her eyes, his voice barely above a whisper when he tells her he's been 'workin’ on making my peace with it.'

“How’s that going?” She asks. 

He manages a small shrug. “Some days are better than others.” 

Like earlier in the evening, the silence that settles between them isn't uncomfortable, and he reckons it’s the kind of silence he could live in for the rest of his days.

She traces a fingertip down the bridge of his crooked nose and smiles. “This is a good nose, Frank. I like this nose.” 

His frown morphs into a curved smile. “You’d be the first, Boots.” 

“Boots, huh?” She yawns. 

He nods. “On account of the ones you had on earlier. And the song.” 

“And the song,” She hums. “It's a classic.” 

“Sure is.” Frank agrees. 

“I might fall asleep on you,” She warns. “Will you still be here when I wake up?” 

Frank lifts her hand to his lips and presses a kiss to each of her knuckles. “If that’s what you want.” 

“It is.” She smiles at him once more before her eyes close for good, and he feels a block of ice the size of Jersey chip away from his left ventricle. 

“Sweet dreams, Boots.” 

i love arm

Star wars men you will always be famous, i’m in love with them.

All fanfic writers are hot.