🌹

Misty doesn't have a lot of luggage, and most of the stuff in the heavier duffle is guns and ammo. Annie doesn't touch most of that, so she just focuses on the other bag. Clothes, mainly. A half empty bottle of bare vanilla. A velours make up bag that says Firecracker and has the little Vought-V dangling from the zipper. And - "And what's this, huh?"

Misty turns a shade of red that comes alarmingly close to her hair. "It's - That's nothing, what are you doing, spying on my personal stuff like that!" She makes a grab for the golden polyester-satin pouch, but Annie holds it out of reach. "If it's nothing, I'm sure you won't mind me taking a look."

"What! No-"

sorry baby x

+ Bonus (without subtitles)

Sam huffs, shrugging out of his suit jacket and letting it fall where he stands. Yeah, Dean gets the picture, he’s not going anywhere any time soon. At least the motel they’re currently staying at isn’t one of the sticky carpet variety.

“Eight, Dean,” Sam says, leaning in to nuzzle Dean’s neck and pull on his tie. “We left at ten. Not about that, anyways.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, halfway distracted, head falling back against the door. “And we met up for lunch at noon, so — Oh!” He straightens a little, realisation shooting down his spine. “That’s what this is about.”

“No,” Sam says against his throat. Hands on his collar, unbuttoning. They hesitate when Sam realises his rookie mistake, but only for half a heartbeat, hardly noticeable. Half a heartbeat, then his hands are back at work, mouth too. Trying to brush over the slip up. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

Dean grins, gets a hand into Sam’s hair. And he could pull, look him in the eyes and catch his pink cheeks. But he’s a nice guy (today, that is), so he just holds him close. “I’m flattered, baby, but you know there’s only room for one pretty brunette in my heart.” It’s cute, Sam getting all huffy and broad-shouldered when waitresses try to slip Dean their numbers. But he’s a nice guy (all the time, honestly, when Sammy’s concerned), so he made sure Sam’d see him throw the receipt with the pink scribbles on the back out with the rest of their trash. He’s a sweetheart, really.

Sam huffs against his collar bone, then fucking bites at his throat, fucking kinky freak, making Dean yelp and pull his hair, knee-jerk reaction. “Fuck, man, watch it!” Heat in his cheeks, pumping through his veins, a tug just below his bellybutton and damn it, “Kinky freak!,” but Sam’s not even listening, got his hand on Dean’s fly and oh —

Right.

“De—“ Soft puppy-voice, all sweet and hot. “Fuck.”

They’re black lace, sitting low on his hipbones and Dean almost forgot about them, picked them this morning because they don’t show through his trousers but yeah, he’s wearing them, and Sammy’s staring, glittering eyes and mouth all soft and open. “De,” he says, breathes, sighs.

That’s Dean’s cue, but before he can think of something to say, Sam’s on his knees, nuzzle-kissing his cock, tongue hot through the pattern of the lace. “Hey—“ Dean finally says, gasps, moans. “Hey, get up here—“

But there’s no real heat behind it. Not when Sam’s tan paws are such a nice contrast to his pale skin and the black lace, not when Sam’s hair is so soft and curls so nicely around his fingers, not when Sam’s mouth is so hot.

Not really the sadness....more like....you know, Billy as that gorgeous, lush-slow, dangerous creature. Manipulative and needy, proud and desperate, cool and possessive.

-

I'm stronger than all my men...except for you, babe —

Frank Castle isn't a pretty man, he really isn't. Bill's been with pretty men, laughter like champagne poured in glittering flutes, soft hands, nails like pearls. Hell, if he wants beauty, he just has to go and find a mirror.

but you haven't seen my man...you haven't seen him.

The very first time he laid eyes on him, he scoffed inwardly. Beast, his mind'd supplied. Most guys are, overseas. Rough, snarling, big, broad. Beasts, easily tamed. Nothing remarkable, not to someone like Billy (gorgeous, glittering, glamorous, sweet and cool like champagne, teeth like pearls).

But —

Billy never knows how to end that sentence. Most of the time, he ignores it, shoves it down. Except Frank reminds him of it time and time again, reminds him with his dark eyes and his mouth, his cheekbones, his steady hands, his fists, his snarl, his blood-dripping nose, his shoulders, his power, his fire, Billy doesn't think about it, he doesn't, but it sneaks up to him, crashes into his side. But —

I'm a sad girl, I'm a bad girl... Watch what you say to me, careful who you're talking to...

He's poured on a divan overlooking the city, shirt unbuttoned, sweet and cool like champagne, and he's in a mean mood. He always is when he's got Frank to himself. Sharp canines, sharp nails, sharp tongue. Frank never complains, doesn't even mention it. Blood-streaked back, bitten neck, bruised ego, he just takes it with a grunt, a laugh.

Indulges him, like Billy isn't a Macchiavellian prince, as if he hasn't killed —, as if Frank hasn't —

The city glitters and the window turns into a transparent mirror, showing inside and outside. Billy watches the city, watches the lines in his face, cracks in delicate pottery filled with silver.

Don't say you need me if you know that you're leaving... I can't do it, I can't do it —