#angsty fic

⤷ ALMOST SAID : TRUTH BLEEDS , JASON TODD . | PART IV.

summary 𓂃 oliver asks you out. Finally, you say yes. Dick tells Jason over coffee at the Clocktower. Jason shrugs. Says he doesn't care but he’s lying. On the date, Oliver talks about how Gotham's losing its grip. Pulls out his phone. Shows you a grainy photo—the Red Hood, caught mid-deal. You recognize the helmet. You excuse yourself. Take a cab home. Confront Jason in his living room with the screen still glowing in your hand. The cat's out of the bag. The lies have piled too high. And Jason realizes—too late—that he's spent months pushing you away, and now he doesn't know how to ask you to stay.

tags 𓂃 part four of childhood bsf!jason todd x fem!reader. heavy angst , emotional hurt/comfort , childhood best friends to lovers , slow burn , mutual pining , canon lore , Jason’s backstory , morally grey!jason todd , post-red hood: the lost days , Jason’s pov , university au , jealous!jason todd , reader finds out , confrontation , the distance between them grows.

wc 𓂃 4k words

PREVIOUS : read parts one , two , and three .

The Clocktower smelled like coffee and old paper and the faint metallic tang of Barbara's servers humming in the walls. Jason had been standing in front of her main display for twenty minutes, not looking at anything in particular, while she worked through something on her end that required exactly zero input from him.

He was here because Dick had asked him to be. Something about a case. Something about needing his "expertise."

He should have known it was bullshit.

"She's going out with Oliver," Dick said, not looking up from whatever he was pretending to read on Barbara's tablet.

Jason didn't react. Didn't turn around. Just kept his eyes fixed on the screen in front of him—a map of the Bowery, red dots marking recent gang activity, none of which he cared about.

"Okay," he said.

"Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay. She can go out with whoever she wants."

Dick set the tablet down. The sound was deliberate. A performance. "That's not what I meant."

"I know what you meant."

"Then say something."

Jason turned. Leaned against the console. Crossed his arms. His jacket creaked—the leather one, the one you always stole because it "smelled like him." He'd worn it today without thinking. Or maybe he had thought about it. He wasn't quite sure anymore.

"What do you want me to say, Dick? That I'm thrilled? I'm not thrilled. He's pretentious. He uses words like 'heretofore' in casual conversation. He probably owns a boat."

"He is not the point."

"He's exactly the point." Jason pushed off the console. Walked toward the window. The rain had stopped, but the clouds were still low and gray, pressing down on the city like a bruise. "She deserves someone who isn't—" He stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. "Someone who shows up."

"And you don't?"

"I show up covered in blood and leave before she wakes up. That's not showing up. That’s being an asshole."

Dick was quiet for a moment. Then: "You know why she said yes to him, right?"

Jason didn't answer.

"Because you're not giving her a reason to say no."

Jason's jaw tightened. His hand curled around the edge of the window frame. The words hit somewhere he didn't want to feel—somewhere that still remembered being twelve years old and watching Bruce turn away from him after a mission gone wrong. You can do better, Jason. You have to be better.

He'd never been better. Not then. Not now.

‘Better’ isn’t in the books for him.

"I've got patrol," he said.

"It's four in the afternoon."

"Don’t recall crime havin’ a schedule."

He was at the door when Dick's voice stopped him.

"Jason."

He paused. Didn't turn around.

"She's not going out with him because she wants to. She's going out with him because she's tired of waiting."

Jason's hand tightened on the doorframe.

"Maybe you should give her something to wait for."

He walked out without answering.

——

His apartment was empty when he got home.

Not physically empty—the furniture was still there, the books still on the shelves, the copy of Wuthering Heights still on the coffee table with your annotations in the margins. Colorful highlighters and sparkly pens. He used to think it was ridiculous, but now he just misses it. You weren't there. You'd been staying at your own place the last few nights. Your window was fixed. You didn't have an excuse anymore.

He should have been relieved. Space was good. Space meant he could think. Space meant he could figure out how to tell you the truth without destroying everything.

Instead, he just felt cold. Like when you walked out of his door you took the warmth with you. But Jason knows his apartment’s never been warm—not without you being the source, at least.

He pulled a beer from the fridge. Sat down on the couch. The cushions still smelled like your shampoo—the stupid floral one he pretended to hate. He'd washed the blanket twice and it was still there, woven into the fabric like you'd marked him without meaning to. He fucking hated it.

The TV was on. Muted. Some news report about the uptick in gang violence. He wasn't watching it. Not really.

Then the screen changed.

A photo. Grainy. Taken from across the street, probably by someone's phone. The Red Hood standing over a table covered in cash and baggies. Tables of cash. Bags of powder. The helmet glinting under the fluorescent lights of a warehouse he recognized.

He stared at it.

His own face—not his face, the helmet, the mask, the thing he put on when he wanted to be someone else—stared back at him.

The crawl at the bottom of the screen read: RED HOOD IDENTIFIED IN MULTIPLE DRUG TRAFFICKING OPERATIONS. GCPD ISSUES WANTED NOTICE.

He watched the photo cycle through a few more times. The voice stirred in his chest. It made him want to find whoever took that photo and make sure they never picked up a camera again.

He thought about the first time. Not the warehouse in Ethiopia—before that. Years before. A stairwell in the Bowery, a dealer whose name he never bothered learning, the one who sold his mother the pills that killed her. Jason had been eleven years old, small for his age, skinny and angry and already dead inside in ways he didn't have words for.

The stairs. He'd pushed him. Watched him fall. Watched his body crumple at the bottom.

That was when it started, he thought. That was when I became this.

He'd never told anyone. Not Bruce. Not you. Not even Dick, during those early days at the manor when he'd pretended he didn't have nightmares.

That's the difference between us, Bruce. I was a killer before I ever put on the cape.

He picked up the remote and turned the TV off.

The silence was louder.

He thought about you. About what you'd say if you saw those photos. About how you'd look at him—not with fear, you never looked at him with fear—but with something worse. Disappointment. Betrayal.

He finished the beer. Got another one.

The rain started again. Soft. Tapping against the window.

He didn't move.

Thought about you. Your date. Oliver. How he was probably making dumbass jokes you were forcing laughs at. How he was probably finding every excuse to touch you.

Jealousy reared its big ugly head at the thought. The feeling, so gross, made his stomach churn.

——

The key turned in the lock at eleven-thirty. Even though he wasn’t expecting anyone.

He knew it was eleven-thirty because he'd been watching the clock on the microwave for the past hour, counting the minutes, telling himself he didn't care what time your date ended or what time you went home.

The door opened. You stepped inside.

The first thing he noticed was how different you looked. Your clothes were different. Your hair was different—you'd done something to it, curled it maybe, or pinned it back. You'd dressed up for him. For Oliver.

For Oliver.

He wanted to gag.

You shut the door behind you. Didn't take off your coat. Just stood there, holding your purse in front of you like a shield, and looked at him.

He was still on the couch. Still in the same clothes. The second beer was half-empty, sweating onto the coffee table, leaving a ring on the wood he'd have to clean later.

"You're home early," he said.

You didn't answer. Just looked at him. Your face was strange—not sad, not angry, not anything he could name. Just... blank. Like you'd turned something off inside yourself. That fucking terrified him.

"Did Oliver do something?" he asked. The words came out sharper than he meant. "Because if he tried something—"

"This isn't about Oliver."

Your voice was flat. Cold. Not the voice you used when you were tired or frustrated or sad. This was something else. Something he hadn't heard before.

"Then what's it about?"

You walked past him into the living room. Set your purse on the same coffee table his beer’s staining. Your hands were shaking—he could see it, the way your fingers trembled as you unzipped your coat.

"I left early," you said.

"Why?"

You didn't answer. Just pulled out your phone. Unlocked it. Turned the screen toward him.

The news article. The photos. The Red Hood standing over tables of cash and bags of powder.

"When were you going to tell me?"

The words hit him like a crowbar to the chest.

He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared at the screen—at his own reflection in the dark glass, at the way your hand was shaking.

"I don't—"

"Don't." Your voice cracked. Just a little. Just enough. "Don't fucking sit there and lie to me. Not tonight."

He looked up at you. Your eyes were bright, but you weren't crying. You were holding it together by a thread, and he could see it fraying. Strand by strand.

"Oliver showed me these," you said. "During dinner. He was talking about the news. About how dangerous the city's gotten. About how the Red Hood is 'officially wanted' now." You laughed, but there was no humor in it. "And I just sat there. Smiling. Nodding. Pretending I didn't recognize the helmet."

Jason stood up slowly. His legs felt unsteady. His hands were cold.

You should have told her, the voice in his head said. It sounded like Bruce. It always sounded like Bruce. You should have trusted her.

But Bruce had never trusted anyone with the full truth, had he? Not Dick. Not Barbara. Not the son he'd buried and replaced within a year.

"How long, Jason?"

He could lie. He could say it was recent. He could say he'd just started, that it wasn't a big deal, that he was planning to stop.

"Months," he said.

Your face didn't change. "Months."

"I was going to tell you."

"When?"

He didn't have an answer.

You tossed the phone onto the couch. Turned away from him. Your shoulders were tight, your fingers ran through your hair so roughly he thought you might pull it out.

"I waited for you," you said. Your voice was quieter now. Not yelling. Just just. "I waited for months. I slept on your couch. I cleaned your blood off my hands. I stayed when everyone else would have left. And you were out there—" You gestured at the dark TV. At the ghost of the photos. "You were selling drugs."

"I’m—"

"The same drugs that killed Catherine."

His jaw tightened. "Don't."

"Don't what? Don't say it out loud? Don't make you feel bad about the poor choices you made?"

"You don't understand."

"Then make me understand." You turned to face him. Your arms were crossed now, your chin lifted, your eyes blazing. "Explain it to me. Explain why you've been lying to my face for months. Explain why you thought I didn't deserve to know."

Jason ran a hand through his hair. The memory flickered—Bruce's voice, cold and disappointed, standing over him after he'd beaten a suspect too hard. "This isn't who I trained you to be, Jason. You're better than this."

But I'm not, he'd thought. I was never better. You just didn't want to see it.

"I was trying to protect you."

The words came out before he could stop them.

You stared at him.

"From me," he should have said. "From what I am. From what I've done to myself."

"Protect me from what?" Your voice rose. "From the truth? From the fact that you've been running the same poison that killed your mother? How does that protect me, Jason?"

"Because if something happens to you—"

"Nothing's going to happen to me."

"You don't fucking know that, [name].”

"I know more than you think I do." You stepped closer. Close enough that he could smell your perfume—something soft, something floral, something that didn't belong in the same room as this conversation. "I've been in danger before. I've had bricks thrown through my window. I've had men threaten to kill me. And you know what? I survived. Because I'm not weak and I'm not fragile and I'm not something you need to shield from the world."

"I never said you were."

"You didn't have to." Your voice cracked again. "You showed me. Every time you pushed me away. Every time you lied. Every time you chose silence over trust."

He thought about the warehouse. About the crowbar. About the way Bruce had looked at him in the coffin—not the real Bruce, the one in his nightmares, the one who'd replaced him with a better model before his body was even cold.

"Tim Drake," the dream-Bruce always said. "He's what you should have been. What you could have been.”

"I don't know how to do this," Jason said.

"Do what?"

"This." He gestured between the two of you. "Us. Whatever this is. I don't know how to—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I don't know how to be what you need."

"Then stop trying to be what I need and just be here."

"I am here."

"You're not." Your voice broke completely this time. A tear slipped down your cheek. You wiped it away angrily. "You're not here, Jason. You're in warehouses. You're in safehouses. You're in the middle of deals that could get you killed. But you're not here. You haven't been here for months."

He wanted to argue. Wanted to tell you that you were wrong, that he'd been here, that he'd been thinking about you every second of every day.

But you weren't wrong.

He hadn't been here. He'd been running. The same way he'd been running since he clawed his way out of that grave—running from Bruce, from Dick, from the ghost of the boy he used to be.

"The drugs," you said. "Why?"

He could lie. He could give you a noble answer—I did it to protect the kids on the street or I did it to control the supply or I did it because someone has to.

He thought about Bruce's voice again. "You can't stop crime, Jason. That's not how this works."

"You can't stop crime. That's what you never understood. I'm controlling it. You want to rule them by fear, but what do you do with the ones who aren't afraid? I'm doing what you won't. I'm taking them out."

You can't stop crime, Bruce had said.

Watch me, Jason had answered.

But Bruce had been right, hadn't he? He wasn't stopping anything. He was just becoming another part of the problem.

"Because I can." His voice was flat. Borrowed. Not his own. "Because someone has to control this city, and Bruce—Batman won't. Because I'm already damned, so what's a little more blood?"

You stared at him. "That's not a reason."

"It's the only one I have."

"That's not good enough."

"I know."

You turned away from him again. Walked to the other side of the living room. Leaned against the wall. Your arms were still crossed, your shoulders still tight.

"I don't understand you," you said.

"I know."

"You could have told me. You could have trusted me. And you didn't."

"I know."

"Stop saying that."

"Stop saying what?"

"'I know.' It doesn't fix anything."

He didn't have an answer for that.

You were quiet for a long moment. The rain tapped against the window. The air conditioner hummed. Somewhere in the building, a neighbor's TV was playing static.

"Oliver asked me why I kept checking my phone," you said finally. "During dinner. He thought I was waiting for an emergency. I didn't tell him I was waiting for you."

Jason's chest tightened.

"I kept thinking—" You stopped. Swallowed. "I kept thinking you'd text. Or call. Or show up. Something. Anything. To prove that you cared."

"I do care."

"Do you?" You looked at him. Your eyes were red, but the tears had stopped before they even started. "Because I've been here for months, Jason. I've been here through all of it—the blood, the nightmares, the distance. And you've given me nothing. No explanation. No honesty. No—" You shook your head. "No sign that any of this matters to you."

"It matters."

"Then act like it."

He stepped toward you. Stopped. Stepped again. He was close enough to touch you now, close enough to see the exhaustion carved into every line of your face.

"I don't know how," he said.

"Then figure it out."

"That's not fair—"

"I'm not going to do the work for you." Your voice was firm now. Steady. "I've been doing the work for months. I've been the one reaching out, the one staying, the one waiting. And I'm tired, Jason. I'm so tired."

"I know."

"Stop saying that."

"Then tell me what you want me to say."

You stared at him. Your jaw was set. Your hands were balled into fists at your sides.

"I want you to tell me the truth," you said. "All of it. Not the version you think I can handle. The real version."

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

The truth.

He'd been running from the truth for so long he wasn't sure he remembered what it looked like.

"I started because I was angry," he said. The words came out slowly, like he was pulling teeth. "At Bruce. At the Joker.”

“That’s no excuse, Jason,” you scoff.

“I never said it was. You wanted the truth—will you listen?”

“Go on.”

"I wanted control. I wanted to prove that I could do what Batman wouldn't. That I could clean up the streets in a way he never could." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Instead, I became exactly what I used to hate."

"And now?"

“I can’t stop.” He paused. Ran a hand through his hair. "Someone has to do it. Bruce won't. The cops won't. If I walk away, someone worse takes over. Someone who won't draw the line at kids."

You were quiet for a long moment.

"That's the lie you tell yourself," you said finally. "So you can sleep at night."

Jason flinched.

"I'm not judging you," you continued. "I'm not saying I understand. I'm just saying—that's not the truth. That's the story you tell yourself so you don't have to face the real one."

"And what's the real one, huh?” He scoffs back.

You stepped closer. Close enough that your chest almost touched his. He could feel the heat of you, the warmth of your breath on his chin.

"The real one is that you're terrified," you said. "Not of me. Not of what I'll say. You're terrified of being left behind again."

The words hit something deep—something that had been festering since the day he woke up in that Lazarus Pit and realized the world had moved on without him. Bruce had a new Robin. Dick had a new brother. You had... what? A ghost? A memory? A boy who'd died and come back wrong?

"You think if you push hard enough, if you make enough noise, if you become something nobody can ignore—you won't disappear again."

He didn't say anything.

"But I remember, Jason." Your voice softened. "I remember who you were before all of this. I remember the boy who was my best friend."

"That boy is dead."

"No, he's not." You reached up and touched his face. Your palm was warm against his cheek. "He's still in there. You've just buried him so deep you can't hear him anymore."

He thought about the stairwell again. About the dealer’s body at the bottom. About the way he'd felt—empty, satisfied, nothing—and how that nothing had scared him more than any nightmare ever could.

Jason closed his eyes.

He wanted to lean into your touch. Wanted to wrap his arms around you and hold on and never let go. Wanted to tell you that you were right, that he was scared, that he was terrified of losing you, that he'd been pushing you away because he didn't know how to ask you to stay.

"I don't know how to be that person anymore," he said.

"Then let me help you find him."

He opened his eyes.

You were looking at him with those eyes—the ones that saw too much, that had always seen too much. And for once, he didn't look away.

"The drugs," you said. "Are you going to stop?"

He wanted to say yes. Wanted to promise you that he would walk away, that he'd find another way, that he'd be the person you deserved.

You can't stop crime, Bruce's voice echoed. That's what you never understood.

But maybe he didn't need to stop crime. Maybe he just needed to stop being the thing that made it worse. But he’s knee deep into this already. What’s the point of backing out?

"I don't know," he said. It’s a lie. He knows—he knows he won’t stop even if you got on two knees and begged him.

You nodded slowly. Your hand dropped from his face.

"I need some time," you said. "I need to think about whether I can do this."

"Do what?"

"Love you. Knowing what you are. Knowing you might not stop."

The word hung in the air between you.

Love.

You said it like it was a burden. Like it was something you were carrying even though it was too heavy.

"You don't have to," he said.

"I know." You picked up your purse from the counter. Sling it over your shoulder. Walked toward the door.

"Where are you going?"

"My apartment. I need space."

"You could stay here."

"I could." You paused with your hand on the doorknob. Didn't turn around. "But I won't. Not tonight."

"Then when?"

"I'll call you."

Jason nodded. He didn't ask how much time. Didn't ask if you'd come back. Didn't ask if there was anything he could do to make this easier.

"Jason?" you said.

"Yeah?"

"You should have told me."

You opened the door and walked out.

The door clicked shut behind you.

He didn't follow you.

He wanted to. Every instinct in his body was screaming at him to go after you, to catch you before you reached the elevator, to say something—anything—that would make you stay.

But he didn't.

Because you were right. He should have told you. He should have told you months ago, when the guilt first started eating at him, when the money started piling up, when he realized he was becoming exactly what he used to hate.

He should have trusted you.

Instead, he sat down on the couch. Picked up the remote. Turned the TV back on.

The news was still running the photos. The Red Hood. The cash. The drugs.

He watched himself for a long time.

He thought about what you'd said. "That's the lie you tell yourself so you can sleep at night."

Maybe you were right. Maybe he had been lying to himself. Telling himself he was doing this for the greater good. Telling himself he was protecting people. Telling himself he was different from the men he killed.

The thought sat in his chest, heavy and unfamiliar. He didn't know if he was capable of stopping. Didn't know if he deserved to try.

He thought about Bruce again. About the way the old man had looked at him when he'd first come back—not with relief, but with guilt. With fear. With the knowledge that Jason was a living reminder of his greatest failure.

"I'm sorry," Bruce had said.

"Sorry doesn't bring me back," Jason had answered.

© nagumolvr , you do not have permission to translate, steal, repost, or feed my work to ai.

A/N: I am quite liking the pacing of this so far because I personally am not the patient kind of reader who can sit through hundreds of filler events LOL, I AM AMAZEDDD BY THE SUPPORT ON THIS SERIES SO FAR😭 I never thought it would get this much attention but I am really happy, this is awesome.

STATUS :

໒𓏼﹚﹒REQUESTS : ﹒OPEN﹒𓂅

Frank Castle x F!Reader 

masterlist | tag list open. Comment or DM a 💀 to be added, 18+ only, age must be in bio. 

Summary: You go to a bar Frank’s told you hundreds of times not to, and you find out what makes the place so dangerous. When you get home, Frank grills you about your decision—and suddenly you can’t breathe. 

Warnings: this is heavy imo. Hurt, unresolved comfort, violence, yelling, panic attack/panic, mentions of drugs, prostitution, neo-nazis. both are in the wrong, mentions of reader’s vague past abuse, attempt of SA on reader (foul language, no graphic details, it doesn’t happen, NOT FRANK). Protective!Frank = unintentionally loud, angry, scared Frank. MDNI, reader is always 18+. 

requested by anon

w/c: ~4k

song rec

Frank doesn’t ask you for much. When he does, it’s in your best interest. Boundaries to keep you safe. 

So you aren’t why, tonight, you cross him. It isn’t intentional… you really don’t see the harm in it, walking into this bar with your friends. It’s just a bar. You’ve not heard anything of it other than your come and go friends—Tabitha and Johnny’s—incessant nagging to try out this hole in the wall. There’s thousands of them. Little bars, quirky dives. 

Frank’s just… overprotective. That’s what you tell yourself, reasoning the bad decision against his unproven logic. 

It didn’t start out this way. Your friends wanted to hit a few bars on the usual strip, so you did. It was fun. Laughs, drinks flowing, familiar camaraderie. But after those few places… you ended up… here. Exactly where Frank doesn’t want you. Where you promised you’d never go. And you find out why Frank made you swear this place off limits. 

But maybe it’s the bartender with inked black eyes, surgically implanted horns on his head, and the repulsive black sun tattoo sprawling his neck handing you your drink with the snarl of a creature, not a man. 

Or red light bleeding from the curtained room beyond the bathroom. The crowd of half-dressed prostitutes working a street siren’s magic to paying customers. Or the pimp that the tears open the curtain to bitch slap one of them for no reason other than lack of cashflow. 

Two guys in the corner shake hands and blatantly exchange baggies of coke, cut with…? 

Oh, god. No wonder Frank told you to never, ever come here. 

And… no one blinks. 

Bar stuffed to the brim with New York’s unfinest, the filth tacks onto your skin. You feel… dirty, just being here. Dirty, because you don’t belong. You’re not a vagabond or a prostitute or a pimp or someone that agrees with the iconology of a black sun… 

You clutch your drink so hard the sweat squeaks on the glass. Death metal assaults the speakers in bloody shrieks. Red strobes batter your retinas to the point of a dull, gnawing headache. Your friends—Tabitha and Johnny—nudge you, laughing about the characters here, how insane is this?, how anything goes, and the cheap drinks and a guaranteed show when a game of pool goes awry. 

You can’t hear over the music (if it can be called that). You can’t see through the haze of smoke, pot, cigarettes, the flashing lights. It smells rancid and you wonder if your goodness is eroding with it just by being here. Your friends being your ride, your begging to leave was shrugged off. Your discomfort, your nerves all disregarded for the sake of… fun? This isn’t fun. It’s sick and scary and not you. 

Somewhere right after your first sip of your drink and the vulgarity of watching a suited man shove a prostitute’s face in a pile of coke and laugh about it, you excuse yourself from the bar, from your ‘friends’, leaving the drink behind. You need air, to see a world beyond this depravity. 

Weaving through the crowd of leather vests and ill intentions, you pull your phone out as you head out the back door. The light flares blue over your face, a shaking thumb typing a text to the one person who’d never do this to you. Never leave you in a place like this, never shrug off your discomfort. The person that told you to never, ever go here. Frank. 

You: Can you please come get me? Please don’t be mad. I’ll explain everything later. 

With the address. 

You pocket your phone and push outside. The cool breeze drags the scent of lit cigarettes and phlegmy laughter. 

You don’t see the ten missed calls from Frank. Or the barrage of texts telling you to lock yourself in a bathroom stall ‘til he gets there. 

The last one? The most important one. 

Frankie: Whatever you do, princess, don’t fuckin go outside, you hear me? Bathroom. Pepper spray in your purse. And wait. 

☠︎ 

You bound down the two steps, music muffled by the steel door closing behind you. Closing one door opens another. You hear it just as you take your first breath. 

One that could be your last. 

A low wolf-whistle from the shadows. 

You startle, hands sinking deeper into your pockets. An instinctual step back, yet you bump into something solid. 

A tongue clicks behind you, grimey breath on your ear. “D’awww, lookie here. This one’s puuuurdy.” 

You jolt forward with a gasp, spinning to face him. A head skinned hairless, the nose of a pig, tattoos etched everywhere but his eyeballs. 

“I’m- I’m leaving,” you state, a sharp bite to your tone. And you stamp forward, but— boof. Another solid body. 

“Leaving so fast?” A second voice chides with a tut. Your eyes flash up to him. This second man—horrifying. Skin gnarled like someone’s dumped acid on him, leathery mouth stretched to show crack-black teeth. “No, no, noooo,” he sings. “Stay. Hang around me and my guys awhile… We’ll show you one hell of a time, baby. You like coke, huh? You got some coke. Get you nice and coked up and have a little fun with us, little fox.” 

“NO!” You shout. “I’m leaving! Get- get your fucking hands off me!” 

But they laugh at you. Push you around into each other, passing you like the piece of meat they see you as. 

“Hey, boys!” The pig squeals over his shoulder. “Come look at the pretty pussy we got over here!” 

Two more depart from the shadows, as though darkness breeds them. The third saunters with a bum leg, chain-link belt rattling pestilence with every step closer. 

“Who gets to go first?” The fourth calls out. Through the bodies cramming you, you see him. Face full of meth craters, a greasy slick of hair over his head. His eyes, though… it’s looking at the devil himself. It’s sin. It’s evil because it understands innocence, right versus wrong, and chooses temptation. 

“Don’t gotta go just one at a time,” the one with scarred skin hums with hunger. 

You shove. Kick. Punch. Scratch. You fight against the cage of four men. And the fight is futile.

You cry—scream—for help. What you get is Frank. 

An engine thunders through distance alleyways; the sound of pure reckoning.

You press back against the wall, brick biting your palms as you spit indignation. “You better- you better back the fuck off! My boyfriend’s coming—and he’s gonna be pissed!” 

They laugh in your face. Spittle on your cheeks. Their breath hot and stale with beer. They laugh. 

Tires screech rage over the streets. It’s a screaming symphony of: he’s coming, and blood will follow. 

They won’t be laughing. 

Their hands prod, crossing boundaries where your yells of no, stop, leave me alone! mean nothing. Your stomach. A brush at your thigh. The fine line down your neck. Your gut flips—their touch, the suffocation of retribution like iron in the air. You tremble. You wait. You taste imminent death in the air. Copper on your tongue. Bile in your throat. You jerk your head out of their hands. You’re prey. You’re their victim. How many victims before you? How many lived? And you should’ve listened to Frank. 

One of them grabs the bottom hems of your shirt. Rips. One bottom button flies off, clattering down the sewage drain. One piece of innocence defiled with a promise of more to come. 

You swing, battery ram your fists. But there’s too many. They’re bigger. Stronger. Drunker. And you? You should’ve listened to Frank. 

As the pungency of the dumpster mingles with their breath on your skin; putrefying gases tell you time is running out.

The shriek of tires comes down this alley, a rubber skid charred on the asphalt. 

A headlight. 

The bike’s fucking mean as it barrels down the narrow road. Black plague tonnage; a beast of heavy chrome exhaust pipes flaring out from the sides.  

And over that headlight? The first glimpse at destiny, the promise of what’s to come…? Something they all know. And fear. 

The skull. 

Its rider’s name is Death. 

And Hell follows with him. 

☠︎

The kick stand cuts a scrape over the ground. A shrill grate of metal as Frank stomps it down, walking off the motorcycle as it growls in idle. 

His boots move the ground, an earthquake from the soles. Each step closer, each step unraveling his thin leash. 

 It razes up your spine, seeing this version of Frank. 

Disgust solidifies Frank’s face as he storms forward, upper lip raised in a snarl, preserving his face as the personification of righteous fury. “Think you gotta right to fuckin’ touch her, huh?!” he sneers, voice lurching to a boom, the savagery of his physique backlit by the beam from the headlight. 

The hands breaching your body snap off in startled curses. The men congregate together, forming a swaying wall to barricade their treat: you. 

“It’s- it’s The Punisher—” Pig stutters. 

“Oh, fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, go!” The gimp cries. 

“Get your goddamn guns!” Greasy orders, fumbling for his shoved down the back of his pants. “He’s in our territory now.” 

They scramble together in a frenzy, but Frank’s voice seizes them. That’s the power of Frank Castle. 

“I asked you a fuckin’ question. When I ask somethin’, I want a goddamn answer. You fuckin’ deaf?” Frank roars, tearing a lead pipe one-handed from the wall without breaking stride. 

Two feet of lead. Five pounds of blunt force. And Frank stops three feet short. Flips the pipe once. Tests the weight. Cements his fist to the end. The musculature of his shoulders knots. Nostrils flare, nose quivering undeterred ire. Becoming man in his truest form… 

Violence’s overture. 

Just one man. A pipe. 

Four disgusting men standing between you two. 

“You alright, sweetheart?” Franks grits while dark eyes clock his targets. Doesn’t wait for an answer—you gotta be. No choice right now. “Need you t’do somethin’ brave right now, hm?” 

You peel yourself from the wall with gelatinous legs, safety disguised in his mere presence though you’re far out of reach yet. You nod little bursts, mouth dried shut. 

“Walk ‘round,” Frank instructs, head canting to signal where. “Wait on the bike. C’mon, sweetheart. Now. Ain’t no one gonna move while you walk outta this.” 

Silence in agreement. Silence in waiting. 

Eyes darting between the men, Frank, your escape route of the motorcycle behind him, you dash a wide berth on your tiptoes. As you get within his reach, Frank extends the pipe around you. Uses it like a lead revolving door to guide you out. 

Reaching the safety of the motorcycle, you throw a leg over it. Straddle the rumbling leather, fingers digging into the warm seat to placate the tremble wracking your spine. Over the dormant hostility of the bike, you can’t hear carnage coming to a crescendo. 

☠︎ 

“How many times she say no, huh?” Frank asks, dragging the head of the pipe in jarring rakes over the asphalt beside him. “Do I wanna know?…Yeah. Yeah, think I do. ‘Cause how many times she said no’s how many I’ll take t’break your goddamn head open.” 

“You’re- you’re just one man!” Greasy spits out, his gun rattling in the terror-lock of his hand. “There’s four of us, man, you’re fucking s-stupid for trying us like this!” 

Frank wears solemnity. A vacancy in his expression known as acceptance. Acceptance in the mission, the nature of the beast, the necessity to make sure this won’t happen again. 

“Yeah,” Frank says, raising the pipe. “One man they mistake for a goddamn army.” 

☠︎

Skulls got a specific sound when they break. Yeah. Not like other bones. 

Other bones splinter. Crack. 

Skulls’re different. It’s a wet kinda crunch. 

So when the lead pipe lashes down into Pig’s head—bone ‘n brain squelch. Yeah. Wet. Crumples the swiney fucker in a gushing heap. 

Gimp charges Frank with a belligerent wail, leg dragging. S’fine. No problem. WHOOMP. 

Frank slams the shaft of the pipe into his gut. Chain belt jingles. Gut blows got a dense, meaty sound, the choked punch of breath knocked out of ‘em as the guy stumbles back, clutchin’ his insides. Jams the jagged end through his chest like a fuckin’ kabob. Frank hauls the belt off. Winds the metal links around his neck. Takes the end of that chain… and hoists it over bar the sign. Pipe speared through his chest oozes blood. Chains seizure ‘til he stops movin’. Public hanging for all of ‘em to see. 

From behind—raisin skin slings a heavy fist at Frank’s head.

Turning, Frank slips the punch. No thought, pure instinct. Instinct like this can’t be learned. It’s innate. 

Frank snatches Raisin’s wrist. One sharp snap down. Crrallllck. Screams “NOOO, AHHH, NO NO NO—!” Bone raptures up from his skin. Sprays a fan of blood over Frank’s face. 

“No?” Frank mocks. “Ain’t a word we know, ‘member?” Yanks him by the broken wrist… and grinds the bone down the brick wall ‘til it’s a bleeding nub. Makes for damn sure these hands won’t touch another woman again. Then? Then he uses his face like a goddamn sponge. Grates his skin over the prickled brick, peeling off tattered ribbons of flesh ‘til he can’t make another sound. 

Greasy guy’s got the most sense. Runs. Frank’s never lost sight. Raisin’s body dropping at his feet, Frank goes for the holster on his hip. 

“HEY!” Frank yells, the baritone of his voice an augury of the night. Raises his Beretta in a final send off. 

Greasy trips a step. Doesn’t fall. Twists back to look as he runs for his goddamn life down the blackened alley. His last mistake. 

“Ain’t no runnin’ from me.” 

And one shot rings out. 

Body falls. 

Blood glugs from the hole between his eyes. 

☠︎

Wind slices through the visor of your helmet as Frank tears down the streets of New York with you latched on his back. It cools your skin, but not the guilt turning over and over under your skin. Your arms wind around the tense width of his midsection, jittery fists bunched in the front of his shirt.

Streetlights blur much like the night.

Frank doesn’t reciprocate anything. A stoic wall in front of you radiating raw, humming anger. 

You bury your helmeted face into his back, trying desperately to break the ice, to get his affection back, but there’s no give. No forgiveness. All you can do is sit here, behind him, and wait. 

☠︎

song rec

In the apartment, you try to slink off for the bathroom. One sallow light tinks above the sink, as if it’s petrified to bring light to what you’ve brought home. 

Try. You get two steps in, then— 

“Where the hell you think you’re goin’?” 

The smallest flicker of a wince in your shoulders. You stop right then and there. Fingers lace together, cold and clammy under rightful scrutiny. “…I wanna take my makeup off,” you say, so mousy it’s sour on your tongue. “Can I please go take my makeup off?” 

“Ain’t goin’ anywhere ‘til we talk,” Frank says in a low, grave tone. He posts up at the center island of the kitchen, palms flat and shoulders wide. The posturing of an animal asserting indisputable dominance. 

You inch a half turn until you partially angle towards him. Your arms bunch around yourself, scared if you let go, your insides might spill out. You glance over at Frank and your stomach drops. Dried blood under his nails. Red-hot anger in the razor-sharp slant of his jaw. His eyes—dark and domineering—welded to you. 

“Wanna tell me how the fuck you ended up there?” Frank asks, so low it’s venomous. “Ain’t where you said you were goin’. You forget I told you t’stay the fuck away from there, hm?” 

“No, I didn’t mean to—”

“Then what?” he snips, words dragging harsher with each one. “Didn’t meant to, but you’re the one that walked in those fuckin’ doors, yeah?” 

“No! Yes! I mean, yes! No, I did— I did, Frank, and I’m sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry, that’s not what the evening was supposed to be!” 

It’s not good enough. 

Frank snaps. 

“You’re smarter th’n that! C’mon. Get real. Jesus fuckin’ Christ, coulda found you dead ‘n the alley after those sick fucks did whatever the fuck they wanted. What I tell you ‘bout goin’ t’that bar, huh? What’d I tell you?” It’s a literal question, a demand for answers. “Fuck. Anything I ask ‘a you’s f’your own damn good.” 

Coming down from the alcohol, heart working overtime, your feet inch together. Your shoulders curl in, forging a weak shield around yourself. “I just- I was with friends, I thought it’d be fine if I was with my friends. The plan wasn’t to go there, Tabitha and Johnny walked us there and I didn’t realize what it was until we got there! They- they were my ride, I couldn’t just—”

“You could. You call. I answer. Every fuckin’ time. See how that works? How fuckin’ easy that woulda been? Some fuckin’ friends lettin’ you go alone in a place like that.” 

His justified anger, his disappointment—it’s palpable. Eats at you until your insides are mush, your worth ruptured in a few sentences. If only you would’ve listened. Why didn’t you listen? You had one simple task and it was to listen to Frank and you still didn’t do it. 

Frank throws a hand up, frustrated with the lack of sense. Drags that hand down his face, then presses just his fingertips into the countertop. A repetitive jab of them on the granite—a demand—his brows hiked up to burn the severity of the look into you. “Your friends offer up an idea s’ dumb s’that? Shit. You sure you wanna be friends with ‘em? People hangin’ out there, huh, wanna be ‘round all that? They say somethin’ as stupid s’that, that’s when you say no. S’when you don’t go, you hear me? Don’t give a shit ‘f it’s someone’s dyin’ wish—you don’t go. Need some new goddamn friends.” 

He’s- He’s mad. He’s mad at you. You did this. Your actions did this. If you just would’ve opened your mouth, said no, heeded his warnings, listened—your night could’ve looked grossly different. 

Air clogs in your throat. Your pulse beats manic emergency, heart raging against your ribs. Breath tighter. Breath shorter. Oh my god, you can’t fucking breathe. Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong. Your throat jumps a frantic test. Air won’t move. Words freeze up on the back of your tongue. 

“What ‘f I didn’t get t’you in time, hm? You think ‘bout that? Got all those brains, where was they t’night? You forget ‘em at home? Christ. Tryna understand this. Tryna understand where the hell your head was at.” 

The floor sways under you. The room tilts. Lightheaded, heart pounding too fast, choking on your own pulse. 

“Goddamn it, say somethin’!” The demand in his tone. The raise of his voice. “Use your words! Stand here all goddamn night ‘f I got to.” 

Oh, it triggers the old, wounded parts of you… The parts you can’t heal. Parts you didn’t ask for when someone else—long ago—decided yelling meant you’d understand. You were just a kid. Yelling didn’t make you understand. It made you scared. 

The back of your throat clicks a dry suck—no room for air. Your heart ramps to the point of danger. If you don’t calm it— oh my god, what if you don’t calm it? If it goes any faster, you might induce a heart attack. Oh my god… what if it’s already a heart attack? Your knees knock together in the wobble. Tears burn down your face, but you don’t feel them. No, you only feel the life-threatening pain twisting shards in your chest, your lungs scorching for air you can’t collect. When your crooked fingers claw at your throat, your bulging eyes red-rimmed as your vision swims, Frank stills. 

A falter in his reprimand. A one second pause to calculate. 

“B-baby—?” Frank tests. 

“Frank— can’t- can’t—” a wheezy rasp sears down your throat; a noose of someone else’s making still strangling you. 

Frank moves. He’s on your side in an instant, one big hand splayed and pressed over your chest, the other right on the other side of you, on your back. Squeezes you, compressions to breathe for you. 

“Hey, hey, hey—” Frank rasps, all ire parched from his body. “C’mon, sweetheart, c’mon—“ His eyes bolt over your face, tracking the blanched terror as your breath drops to hyperventilations. “No, no, no. C’mon. Easy, sweetheart, easy. Control it, hm? In f’four. Ready? C’mon. Do it with me, baby girl. C’mon.” 

With his hands packing you together, holding the shaking pieces, Frank demonstrates a loud, deep inhalation through his nose. For four seconds. 

You jolt in place with the count of each second; a systemic failure wringing your body to catastrophe. 

One—you could die. 

Two—right here. 

Three—because you didn’t say no. 

Four—and there’s no room for a full breath, your chest stuffed with panic. 

“Hold it f’four, sweetheart, c’mon. Hold.” 

Four seconds have never felt so long. Or stupid. You go catatonic, face stuck in a gasp, fingers contorted around your throat. 

When the corrective breathing doesn’t ease anything, Frank binds an arm around you to drag you along. 

You ain’t got legs? He’ll be your legs. 

Arms won’t work? He’s got two. 

You’re making all kinds of noises that scare the shit out of him. Heaves, wheezes, hummed cries as you gasp for help. Frank rips open five drawers. Rummages the contents, shit clattering to the floor. 

“Gum, sweetheart. Gum. Where’s th- the gum, huh? Mint. Get you that mint gum, hm?” Vocal panic of his own, dark eyes wet as he digs for one of your antidotes. Mint gum. 

Finally—finally—Frank finds it. Big fingers fumble the pack open, tearing three sticks from the wrapper. Shoves them all in your mouth. More means it’ll work better, right? 

“Chew, baby. Chew. C’mon, pretty girl. Yeah. Yeah, there she is. Atta girl.” Hand on your back, he uses the other to guide your chin. Help you chew. 

The tang of spearmint explodes in your mouth. Forces salvia back into it. You chew, chew, chew. Masticate the wad, breaking out the potency of the flavor, swallowing it down to hose out the uncontrollable fire in your chest. 

“Atta girl. Keep doin’ that, hm? You keep chewin’ f’me, alright? Lemme know you hear me, baby. Nod f’me.” 

You do. It’s stiff and mechanical, his voice distanced by the nauseating pump of your heartbeat in your own ears. 

“Alright. Good. Doin’ so good, baby. Gonna be jus’ fine, got my word. Ain’t nothin’ you can’t handle. Strong girl, you know that? Won’t let it get you.” 

Your shoes drag squeals over the floor as Frank lugs you to the kitchen sink. He slaps on the water, tugs it to the coldest setting with a grunt. “Alright, here we go. Gimme your hands, sweetheart, you do that f’me? C’mere,” gently—so fucking gentle you’d cry if you felt it—he unwinds your hands from your neck. 

Bracketing your hands with his, Frank dunks them under the shocking freeze of the running tap. Holds your hands open and under the rush, his thumbs on the tendons of your wrists. 

Under his thumbs, your pulse’s in a crisis. Rapid fire on his calluses, each frenzied knock accelerating the rot in his gut. 

But the water, the mint, the full-weight press of Frank’s chest into your back… it’s a remedy. 

The water a rapid reset for your nervous system. 

The mint gum forcing you into mobility, the crisp flavor a distraction. 

And Frank’s weight? Deep pressure, heaviness severing the emergency alarms in your body. 

Minutes go by. How many, you aren’t sure, but Frank’s there the entire time. Undivided attention and gravelly praise, his thumbs pushing gentle strokes from the veins in your wrists to the heel of your hands. 

“You with me?” he asks, eyes closed with a pinched brow, his stubbled chin against your temple. “Talk f’me, princess. Gotta hear you. Gotta know you’re okay.” 

Clear rills of snot down your nose, tears wiping tracks of makeup from your face, your lashes flutter back from the separation in your mind. “I- I, yeah. Here,” you croak, vocal cords afflicted yet. 

“Thank god,” Frank breathes, mashing his nose against your head when he sticks a rough, relieved kiss to your temple. “There she is. There’s m’girl.“ 

Water drenches your arms, his, splatters to the floor at your feet with his as your shadow. 

Chest stuttering, lungs cooperative, you take one big, full breath. Your lungs belong to you again. Frank’s heartbeat on your back, yours slows to match it. You’ll follow him. Anywhere, even the mechanics of your heart knows that. 

“Yeah, there,” Frank murmurs. “Easy. Slow.” 

“Frank, I–” you shift in place, throat closing with a well of tears. “I’m sorry.” 

“Sh-sh,” Frank hushes. Blinks his eyes open, but keeps them low on your shoulder. “Ain’t doin’ that right now. All’s that matters is I got you.” 

An appreciative hum crackles in your ribs. You nod. Okay. Not right now. 

“Alright f’me to turn this off?” 

You nod. 

He does, hand lingering on the facet. 

A weighted quiet now. Heavy with your mistake. Heavier with his regret. 

The quiet plink… plink… plink of water dropping into the sink basin, remnants of the night; decisions water can’t make clean. 

Side of his face pressed against yours, rough stubble to soft skin, Frank grabs the hand towel. Drapes it over your hands, squeezing them dry one by one. 

“That happen ‘cause ‘a me?” he asks, thick with remorse. 

“Not… you…” you whisper, licking salt from your upper lip as you watch his hands work on yours. “Just… your… tone. I don’t- I don’t like ye—”

“I know,” he softly interjects, eyes pinching shut for two seconds. “Yellin’. Got… too loud.” Thinks about saying he didn’t mean to, but that was the excuse he wouldn’t let you have earlier. “Shouldn’t’a got loud with you like that.” 

“I get it—”

“No. Don’t gotta do that shit. F’give like that when I fucked up.” Hands dried, Frank sets the towel aside with unnecessary precaution. Like now he doesn’t trust himself not to make more ruin. 

“Can we… can we just go to bed? I think I wanna go to bed. Forget about all this ‘til the morning,” you say, voice scratchy, all of your weight leaned back on Frank. “We can have a more constructive talk… in the morning. I just… I just really want you to hold me and touch me and tell me everything’s all right for tonight. Can we, please?” 

Big arms band around your waist. Frank buries his face in the sweat-slick curve of your neck, breathing you in, seeking penance. “Yeah, sweetheart. Yeah. Can do that.” 

“It’s… on hold,” you say, “until tomorrow.” 

“Yeah,” Frank sighs against your neck, fans warmth. Tightens his arms around you; an apology in its strength. “‘Til tomorrow.” 

content is mine, always without the use of AI. do not share or repost on any other site without consent of the author (hi, me). characters are not mine.

this is not a place for anyone under 18.

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hi lovies, i just have to add a little warning, this is an extremely angsty and psychological fic. as someone who’s been in a relationship like think please if you ever find yourself feeling like this or relating to this fic please get out, there is always someone better out there and you deserve someone who makes you feel loved. tw!! asshole lando lots and lots of angst.

holding on would break you, but breaking up broke you more or in which the hardest thing you ever did was walking away when you were still madly in love with him.

pairing: idol!kim taehyung x you/reader

warning: angst, heartbreak (i’m sorry)

word count: 3k

authors note: someone stop me from only writing angsty fics

"i can't do this anymore, taehyung."

your voice didn't sound like yours at first, it sounded like someone else whispering through you, someone braver, someone who wasn't shaking so hard their fingertips felt numb. his head snapped up slightly, eyes narrowing, confusion folding across his features as if he was trying to replay your words in his mind to make sure he hadn't misheard them. the words left your mouth before you could catch them, soft but sharp, trembling but final, and the moment they hung in the air between you, you already felt your chest collapsing under the weight of them. you didn't look at him, couldn't, because you knew that if you did, if you met his eyes, you would fall apart before you even explained why.

ᯓ★ : joe burrow x fem!oc

ᯓ★ summary: a relationship built on promises, empty ones. she was different, definitely didn’t fit into his world. for that, she was kept in a box, one that no one dared to open. waiting for him was all she could do, until she ran out of time.

ᯓ★ warnings: angsty, asshole joe??, mistakes that i promise i didn’t see.😝 let me know if you want a part two???

ᯓ★ word count: 3.8k

ᯓ★ navigation || masterlist.

it was ironic really.

growing up, one of her ‘phobias’ was the dark.

in a game of hide and seek, she was the first to be found. always meant to stand out. never standing too long in the dark.

in this game between her and joe, she was still hidden.

hiding for so long, she forgot that she was in the dark to begin with.

she didn’t exactly know how she ended up in this situation, but she knew how it started.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

11 months before.

sorry, staying in tonight.

she hits send as she goes to the elevator, her right hand burdened by many many contracts and papers that were going to give her a headache tonight.

looking down she notices sneakers, probably a man, assuming its her neighbor she goes to look up to him.

but something else catches her attention.

the metal space shutters, stopping abruptly with a jerk, the lights flicker, plunging them into dim emergency lighting. she was stuck.

“Great. just great” She huffed out, frustration in her tone.

“Uh… we’re stuck” she hears a voice behind her.

“No kidding” she mutters, rolling her eyes. Before she could press the emergency button, a hand reached out and did for her.

She looks up, and her breath shortens. Chiseled jaw, amazingly beautiful eyes, gorgeous hair. Just gorgeous in general.

“Hi” he says, his eyes holding hers. A beat of silence passes between them, tension thickens.

“Are you- are you my neighbor?” she stutters. Before adjusting her full right hand against her, the paper creasing sound fills the elevator.

“No, my best-friend lives here, in this floor” he says awkwardly, looking down, his face flushed.

“Oh let me guess, Jamarr?” She asks, eyebrows raised, a small smile on her face.

“Thats him” He nodded his head at her. “What’s your name?”

“Sunday” She says, his eyes widen. “My dad named me after his favorite week-day, he’s a big fan of football” she explained, her cheeks blushing a little, a hint of embarrasment in her tone.

She was used to everybody’s reaction to her name, most of her close family and friends usually called her by her middle name.

Joe let out an amused chuckle. "You a fan?"

"No, not really, i like basketball though" She said, holding the stack of papers now close to her chest. The sound of papers being crushed, brought Joe's eyes to go to her chest. Sunday could swear she could see his eyes go a bit lower than that though.

"What're those?" He asked, a finger pointing lazily to the papers.

"Documents" She said, somehow making one hand free before pointing at the logo on one of the files. GOLDMAN SACHS. Joe nodded his head at her, impressed.

"Are they like Secret Documents?" He teased her, shaking his head a little, and bending down his head down a bit to make direct eye contact with her.

"Maybe" Sunday let out a laugh, a grin planted on her face. Joe stopped, a grin on his face too, he took a step closer towards her, both of his hands now on his chest.

"You know, i can keep a secret" He finally said, stopping himself two steps away from her.

"Oh I'm sure you can" Sunday said, a small smirk on her face. The two went back and fourth for another 20 minutes.

No way a man that looked like this is perfect, everybody had secrets. Sunday could tell his run way deeper, she could tell his eyes longed for something, anything that could give him a small sliver of real.

The elevator noise starts again, the dim lights now blinding. The two stopping their conversations. The elevator doors open, both steo out with their right foot. The air now awkward between them.

"Well, it was nice meeting you" Sunday dipped her head towards him, before turning around to go into the other direction.

“Don’t you wanna know my name?” He yelled out.

She laughed, glancing back over her shoulder.

“I may not watch football,” she said, “but I don’t live under a rock, Burrow.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖

present

From that point on , they’ve been seeing each other in private, dinners at his place, late night calls, brushed hands in hallways, but in public, he’s someone else.

His friends don’t even know. Jamarr, her cousin, doesn’t know either.

At first it was fun, the sneaking around, late night phone calls, secret kisses, him rushing into her apartment in case his best friend runs into them. It was all fun, until it wasn’t.

He was everywhere; billboards, instagram feeds, tiktok edits, talk shows, interviews, smiling charming, not once ever mentioning her.

He’s everywhere, expect with her.

When the thoughts came to her head, she mentioned it to him.

“It’s better this way, more peaceful, something just between us” he said.

She softly smiled, and went back to watching the movie.

As time went on, they did everything a normal couple would do ; dates ( in her apartment ), sleepovers, i love you’s.

But Sunday realized, this wasn’t normal, this was her new normal.

She kept telling herself ; she loved him, so if this is the only way to be with him, she would put up with it.

She noticed, this was her worry only, he never had the insecurity if she was ashamed of him because she simply wasn’t in the spotlight. Not in his spotlight.

He says it’s better that way for her safety, her peace.

but she’s starting to realize that maybe, it’s easier for him this way.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

“Thank you for coming neighbor” Jamarr yelled out over the music, giving her a side hug.

“Happy Birthday ,you oldie” She laughed “Watch yourself , breaking a hip could be any day now” She teased, the Bengals player let out a big laugh, guiding her towards the living room.

She could feel him before she saw him, goosebumps across her skin.

Turning her head towards the right, she made direct contact with her favorite shade of blue. He looked at her, looked down and then turned towards his friend, not sparing her another glance.

Oh right.

“Come I wanna introduce you to my girlfriend” His best friend says to Sunday, she forces a smile on her face, her mood already sour.

How is it possible someone she loved and had the best memories of love with; could ruin her night with just a glance?

The night went on, she made conversations with people, changing shifts as the clock ticked, her mood still sour.

An empty drink on her right hand, she turned left towards the kitchen. Just as she was about to go in, she halted.

“Nah man Gianna’s the best one “

“But did you see Jamarr’s neighbor out there, Sundays her name i think, total smoke show” She heard a male voice say. She peeked, seeing her favorite man there with them.

Say something, anything, this is your chance, tell them who i am to you.

She begged silently. Her eyes closed, a heavy feeling in her chest, a minute went by and they went on to change the conversation. Not a word from him.

"You know, i can keep a secret" He finally said.

Sunday remembers his words, if only she knew, she was the best kept secret he ever had.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

“You up?”

seen

“sunshine, open up baby”

seen

She sighed, shutting her phone off and getting of the bed. As much as she tried to ignore him ,she never went through with it.

Whatever time she could get with him, she will.

Unlocking the door, she stepped away from the door, not even bothering to open it.

His scent filled her nostrils immediately, her body filled with goosebumps once again. The sound of his shoes knocking against hers, his jacket being hung next to hers, his keys placed on top of the hallway table next to hers, and his wallet dropping against her mail.

Her apartment became a familiar place with his things, he would always put them in the same place, often joking he would never lose something here.

Compared to his big mansion, her apartment was homie. He always preferred to be at hers instead of his. But, he would always complain, her bed being too small to fit his tall size, her couch too close to the tv.

He loved her placed, but theres no place like home.

Sunday started to wonder, was she the place that he would go to in secret, before returning back to one where he doesn’t have to hide, why doesn’t he just tell someone, anyone?

She could feel his eyes glare at her back as she walked towards her kitchen counter, grabbing a glass she filled it with whatever cheap wine she had left, and opened a beer bottle on the seat opposite of hers.

She sat down on the high stool, watching the red liquid through her glass.

Over the last months, he knew her very well, one look in her eyes and he could tell somethings wrong, with that Sunday stared at a glass a while longer, giving herself space to hide her feelings.

“Did you have fun tonight?” He asked, sitting down opposite her, bringing the beer up to his lips. Sunday only nodded still looking far into the wine glass.

“Why are you so far away?” He questioned, puzzled, Sunday imagined his eyebrows would be pulled together.

Next thing she knew, he hooked a finger under her chair and dragged her towards him. When Sunday finally looked away from the glass - still looking down mind you - Joe put his head a little down, finally making eye contact with you.

“There she is” He muttered, a small smile on his face. Sundays head returned to normal, he placed a kiss on her forehead. “Wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

He, he was, one of the best people Sunday had ever met in her life. Caring, sweet, kind, loving, perfect gentlemen. The one time she was in his car, he had flowers and a blanket ready for her, knowing she was always cold, the sex was amazing, he whispered so many sweet nothings in her ear, washing her in the shower afterwards. The dates ; he would come to hers early, setting up a perfectly lit dinner. He did everything right, expect he hadn’t been with her, to everyone else at least.

Sunday wasn’t one that wanted the spotlight, in fact, she was sure if Joe would make it public that she wouldn’t even bother to post anything, but why not make it public and keep it private?, why hide it from your friends?, why make me hide it from my own friends?

She wasn’t mad that the world got to love him, she was just mad that she couldn’t.

“Just had-” Sunday sighed “- a long night”. You made it so much worse.

“What happened?” He asked, now concern dripping from his voice. “Come on, tell me”

“You happened” She whispered softly, her expression now sad. She looked up, his eyes full of confusion.

“What?” He questioned

“You, Joe.” She said again, now her hand rubbing her forehead. “You can’t pretend not to know me every time we’re on the same room together” She finally let out.

His body posture became tense, his hands now crossing each others on his upper body. Eyes looking down, lips pursed together, and then a deep long sigh the finally. If he had been to trial, he would’ve gotten life.

“You know i can’t, not there” He said, eyes now closed, almost as if he couldn’t bear to look at her.

“You’re always somewhere you can’t” She scoffs.

“What do you want from me Sunday? I’m giving you everything else, everything else” He emphasizes the last words. His hands now behind his head in frustration. His tone getting a bit higher.

“You’re right, you’re giving me every thing else, but i would rather you tell Jamarr about us, than worry he catch us. I would rather tell my best friend about us, than feel guilty every time i see her. Every thing else means nothing when i can’t actually have you” She says softly, a hint of sadness in her voice. Chest full of pain and her eyes almost wet, Joe finally opened his eyes, saw her wrecked figure, and said

“You said you didn’t want attention. You said you liked things quiet. Now suddenly that’s not enough?”

She blinks at him, the tears finally spilling over. “I liked quiet, not invisible.”

He looks away, can’t handle her eyes, can’t handle himself. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Being dramatic?” she repeats in shock, her eyes widen. “Do you know, that nobody, nobody has witness us talk? Ever. Because we’ve never been in public together. Your best friend is across the hall and tonight i had to pretend now to know he had a girlfriend, because you told me that.” She points a finger at him, now standing up. Tears stream down her face, Joe still looking down, can’t bear her like this because of him.

He flinches at the last word, doesn’t admit she’s right. Just runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, like she’s the problem.

“Do you have any idea what happens if people find out? They’ll twist it, drag you, drag me—”

“They always drag you, at least then i’d know it was for something real” She says back. Silence fills between them, neither not moving or saying anything.

A few minutes pass, she gulps down the rest of her glass and puts it into the kitchen sink. “Lock up when you leave” AKA don’t come into my bedroom.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

10 months 25 days before

“Hey Sunday” She heard the voice call out to her. Turning her head she was met with her favorite doorman.

“Hi Bo, how are you?” She asks, a sense of comfortability with the older man. A conversation passing between them. Jobs, dating, his wife and kids, the usual.

“I saw you had a special delivery waiting for you at your door” He grins, she halts, eyebrows coming together, didn’t remember ordering anything. Saying her goodbyes, she waits excitedly in the elevator, when the ‘ding’ and the doors open, she hurries out.

Mouth dropping at the sight on her front door, a big, massive bouquet of white Gardenias with hints of yellow Acacia, stood there, picking it up, it covered most of her body.

Dropping everything and going towards the kitchen counter, she looks at the bouquet in adoration. Finally noticing a note tucked in, so small she wouldn’t have noticed it if she wasn’t looking hard enough.

Opening it, her jaw dropped in shock once again.

consider this an apology for the world’s worst elevator ride. you can thank me later. — joe ( xx-xx-xxx)

Biting her lip in excitement, she pulled out her phone, and saved his number.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

4 months before

she’s scrolling through her phone, sees a clip of him on a talk show.

the host asks, “anyone special in your life right now?”

he laughs, shakes his head. “nah, just focused on the season.”

she locks her phone, face blank.

the kettle starts to whistle.

it keeps on whistling, before finally she shuts her phone off from rewatching it more.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

present

“Hi” Sundays says as he opens up the door. The ‘fight’ was two weeks ago, and after a couple days of the silent treatment, a bouquet of gardenias stood at her door. Along with “i know you don’t like me right now, but i know you’ll keep the flowers”

“Hey” He says against her lips, immediately pulling her towards him, his hands gripping her waist. She lets out a laugh when he pulls her even tighter.

“You look cute” She says, after he finally lets her breathe. He puts his hands around her shoulders before gripping her chin and kissing her lips in thanks.

“You look beautiful, sunshine” He says,eye glinting down at her. She was now faced against him, his hands gripping the sides of her head.

“Thank you J” She says.

These moments kept Sunday alive throughout this whole period, these kinds of moments made her hiding worth it, in her mind; this way she got to keep him, and he was worth it.

“Oh my god Joe” She says shocked, his dinning room table, full of candles, a bouquet of Gardenias on her seat, and dinner- that she knew was home made- sitting in two plates. She glanced behind at him, his eyes looking at hers , full of sparkles. “I love it, thank you”

“Least i could do” He says, reaching her and placing a kiss on her forehead. “I love you”

“I love you too”

45 minutes later, the couple drinking their second glass of wine, plates empty, and laughter in the air.

The sound of a car pulling up in the driveway was heard. Both stopped talking, a look of confusion on both of their faces. Joe pulled out his phone, the video feed from his cameras on there. Tee Higgins, Jamarr Chase and Justin Jefferson all slowly getting out of the car and walking towards the front porch.

Joe halted, standing up quickly, turning towards his girlfriend of almost a year “Go, go, go” he ushered her. “I’ll try to get rid of them”

Opening the door of his garage that was next to his kitchen, and grabbing her coat and shoes with him. He pushed her towards the garage, not bothering to check the look on her face.

Because if he only had looked, he would know, it was over.

After turning the lock to the garage door, he greeted his friends in, made a lame excuse of the candles and threw the flowers quickly when no one was looking into the trash.

An hour went by, when they finally went out of his house.

The quarterback let out a sigh of relief, immediately going to the garage door, “I’m so sorry-” he cut himself off. No one was there.

Pulling out his phone, he had only one message.

one message; two words ; dreadful meaning behind them.

We’re done.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

WandaNat x [struggling, former Catholic] reader

Mea Culpa (My Fault)

"Errare humanum est, perseverare autem diabolicum, et tertia non datur." — To err is human, to persist is of the devil, a third option does not exist.

Summary:

Things have been building up for a while, draining your energy and capacity to cope with the demands of life. When reality finally comes crashing down, you seek help despite knowing a certain dark spiral may ensue. But through it all, they are there: Wanda and Natasha, ready to catch you whenever and however you fall.

Featuring:

Established relationship between Wanda, Natasha & Reader; mommy kink; daddy kink; angst; hurt/comfort; ADHD burnout (part 1); disordered eating; self harm; religious guilt (of the Roman Catholic variety); an abundance of Latin; dom/sub dynamics; ethical questions of agency and control.

Author's Note:

If you are reading this after my other work, please know that this will be heavy in comparison. I'm writing this piece to work through some feelings and behaviours I have been struggling with lately. As such, this may not be relatable or enjoyable to read, and that's okay. I'm just sharing this in the hopes that someone else may feel seen, perhaps along with me. This work will include a prologue, three core parts, and a bonus chapter. Please mind the tags, and take care ♡

Masterlist

Prologue: Three Strikes Part I: In my thoughts and in my words Part II: In what I have done Part III: And in what I have failed to do Interlude: The brink of a bad decision

HEY GUESS WHO'S BACK AFTER A MONTH OF RADIO SILENCE THAT WILL RESUME INSTANTLY AFTERWARDS!? It's me. Teehee! :3c

Anyhow! I had the honor of joining the ISAT 2025 Artbang as both an artist and an author, and while you'll have to wait a bit longer for the efforts as the latter, here's my illustration for Just A Little While Longer by Sarah_Bee.