p9rrs - Tumblr blog

[p9rrs]

What is a fact: his hands are exploring every soft curve of her body. What is truth: he wants her. His desire is a hum of electricity that goes from his body to hers. His desire is a smell, a taste, a touch, a sound, a feeling. Selina Kyle could get drunk from it, how desperate he is to claim her again, and presumably, again.

He gives her breath, she stops his.

❛ Maybe I don't want you anymore. ❜ She says it suddenly, she never even went over a draft of that statement in her mind. She's pushing her body into his, she's participating in this dance of theirs, but the confession comes out in a rush. Maybe she really, really doesn't.

It’s irrational to the logical man. The way his body grows taut against hers ─ hard and hungry. How his grip flows and ebbs against the waves of her dress to feel those familiar curves, permanently etched into the walls of his skull. And that warm graze of lips and breath against his cheek that grips his chest in her choke hold. 

[1] It was nearly impossible to breathe. 

He exhales, hands now roaming more freely. Breathing her in with his nose pressed deep into the crook of her neck. The scent of her wild, vivid and intoxicating. His internal reaction a restrained growl trapped in his throat. “ Not for long. “

[p9rrs]

He knows. Of course he knows. Her breath settles into a hum, and she doesn't fight him as he brings her closer. As he touches her with the intimacy of someone fluent in how her body works.

❛ He's not Bruce Wayne. He's not you. ❜ She leans into him, tilts her face to kiss his cheek sweetly. ❛ Can you smell him on me? ❜

A hand curls roughly against the curve of her hip, pulling her closer, back flush to his chest and lips a hair's width from her ears.

" What's his name then, @p9rrs? "

[p9rrs]

❛ i feel like that fucker won't be able to put hands on me or any other girl ever again. ❜

she speaks through her teeth. she's proud. which isn't to say she feels good or bad or shitty or sad. killing stan was another example of what selina kyle has done her whole entire fucking life: survived.

selina whipes a hand across her face, smearing makeup and blood and snot across her skin. it's like she morphs into another person. gone away is the deer in the headlights, the baby vamp who just had her first taste of blood. in its place is a monster, maybe, with how she grins, with how she laughs.

he has misunderstood her: she's not so wrapped in regret that she doesn't want to be tended to. she doesn't want to be tended to because, she likes the pain.

the laughing stops. her green-eyed gaze fixes on him again, and she shows her teeth. they're smeared with red, lipstick maybe. or maybe blood. ❛ i want... ❜ she considers. wanting is dangerous. wanting isn't survival. wanting is a fantasyland. and girls like selina don't get to indulge in fantasies.

❛ i want to stop surviving. i want to start living. think you can help with that? ❜

she offers him her wrist again.

frank looks her up and down, takes in the tattered remnants of the catsuit, the wild look in her eyes, the dried blood on what skin is exposed. he may not remember his first kill, because it hadn't changed him in any fundamental way--but he can see it in her eyes, in the duffel bag she throws on the table.

he doesn't bother unzipping the bag to reveal its contents because he knows enough. it's been twenty years. they haven't talked about it, but frank knows about selina's line of work, because while he's never met anyone like selina, he's met countless others. ain't his place to judge, all things considered, and he doesn't, but he feels a sense of pride well up within him when he takes in the blood that's caked under her nails.

' that shitbag had it coming. ' that doesn't make things any simpler, frank knows that--not for anyone else, anyway. ' you feel good about it? '

when she insolently wretches her wrist away, frank raises a brow, sets down his supplies. he stands at his full height, tipping her chin up to meet his gaze.

' if you uh, if you wanted to get tended to, you would've gone anywhere else. but you came to me. use your words--tell me what you want. '

[p9rrs]

❛ dustballs would be an upgrade from the last time we tangoed, handsome. ❜ it's a quick response that selina immediately hates herself for voicing. she would cringe, but she doesn't want frank to think it's at the memory. maybe he wasn't her first, but for a long time, he was the only one she had sex with that she actually liked. it didn't bother her at all, that it was his first time, or that she didn't reach a climax herself. it's one of the only nice memories she has attached to sex. honest.

she is almost as quick to say: ❛ i'm sorry, frank. ❜ the sincere apology is a rare show of vulnerability. so is the way she places her wine at his bedside table and gathers him in her arms. the embrace is warm and she doesn't want it to end. she is aware that he asked her a question, but she can't bring herself to answer how she's been.

like a goddamn movie, her life over the last few years plays in her mind. including the evolution of the catsuit she squeezes into every night. the truth is that she's making a name for herself, frank. just not one most people would agree with. but cat thief has a certain ring to it, does it not?

she is still holding him, her nose nuzzling against his shoulder, taking in the scent of him. when he left, she figured that was it, she'd never see him again. and that was fine. it was good, even. he was off to bigger and better things that didn't include her. but god, if she isn't glad to have him back. no matter how temporary it is.

❛ i missed you. ❜

there, frank. that's how she's doing. she missed you.

for a moment, it feels like they're still teenagers, that they're meeting up after school to go over selina's english homework or to the museum or the park or something. only for a moment, however, because he's in the kitchen pouring them each a glass of the cheap, sweet white wine in his fridge he'd grabbed in anticipation of seeing her and coming back into the room with it a moment later.

he sits beside her, offers her the glass of wine, and it's because of her comment that he freezes up for a moment. quickly, he realizes it's a joke and a huff of a laugh escapes.

still, it does little to prevent the way his face heats up as his mind wanders. not his fault, because can you blame him?

he sits back against the pillows, glass in hand. the wine is so sweet, especially in comparison to the swill he's used to thanks to his time at boot camp and the past several months spent stationed at fort brooklyn. his other hand toys idly at his dog tags.

"ah, fuck off with that, kyle," he says instead, shoots her a sidelong glance. " - unless you wanna go to my folks' room. smells like baby powder and dustballs in there."

he looks her over, the way her lithe body stretches over the length of his bed, the way she wrinkles the sheets thoughtlessly. he drinks a sip of the wine to give him something to do with his hand and his mouth for just a moment, nostrils flaring at the sweetness he can't quite get accustomed to.

"how've you been? 's been awhile."

[p9rrs]

Ana de Armas | Deep Water (2022)

[p9rrs]

❛ wine's good. ❜ selina doesn't know shit about wine. just that she spit it out the first time she tasted it, wondering why the fuck adults were obsessed with consuming shit that tasted like poison. there isn't a trace of disgust or doubt in how she holds her face now, though. she's a decade away from becoming sleek and elegant, but she has the confidence down to a science.

her green eyes flicker around the room, taking everything in. selina is not a messy person but frank has got her beat when it comes to being tidy. this sudden image of them living together pops randomly into her mind, and she wonders how he'd feel about the trail of underwear she leaves in her wake.

selina is quick to toe across the threshold of his bedroom and stride right towards his perfectly-made bed. she plops down on the mattress on her back, and likes the feel of it, likes the feel of anything other than the shitty bed she has in her even shittier apartment. small blessings.

she turns on her side and props herself up with an elbow. she's staring at him now.

❛ so. we gonna screw in here or your folk's room? ❜ she's just kidding but he's up to him to decipher her humor.

' ain't special, ' is all frank has to say in reference to his parents' house--their former home, anyway, considering they're both in the ground by now. there's remnants of them everywhere, still--his mother's nicknacks, his father's triangle american flag framed over the mantle, the old coffee decor of the kitchen that his mother had meticulously spread. loss ain't easy, but his parents had been old, and it is what it is.

frank's always been okay with death, accepting of it in a morbid way.

either way, when he walks @p9rrs inside, he shows her the living room, the hallway leading to his parents' old room and finally, his room, with its full-sized bed meticulously made. the entire house is neat, orderly. a marine would have it no other way.

he suddenly feels flushed, embarrassed, standing in the threshold leading to his bedroom that he's outgrown by several years. his fingers rub at the bristles of his crew cut sheepishly.

' you, uh, you want something to drink? i got wine, but i got other shit too. food, too. '

[p9rrs]

he knows the buttons to press to piss her the fuck off, but does he know which are necessary to turn her on? to really get her going? does he even want that?

selina churns her teeth together before she mimics biting, unclenching her jaw and chomping in the air. there's something graceful about the action, though; she's feline, not canine, and there's no mistaking it.

❛ you think i'm not gonna bite you, frank? ❜ she shakes her hips, arching her back further. ❛ you think i won't take you between my teeth and have my way? ❜

a brow raises at pretty boy, another incredulous huff of a laugh escaping. can't say he's ever been accused of that before.

in stark contrast to the refrigerated chill of the van, selina's warm against him, even in the limited contact between them.

' i like putting my money where my mouth is, lady. ' a smirk tugs at his features. flirting's never been frank's strong suit, but antagonizing sure as hell is. ' you haven't changed at all. always running your goddamn mouth -- all bark, no bite. '

[p9rrs]

❛ a night with me isn't wasting your time, pretty boy. ❜

consider it a direct, definitive response. she looks at him, cat eyes sharp and deadly, with plump lips the color of wine. they stretch into something like a smile.

by all accounts, it would appear the cat has found her mouse for the night. she always did have a habit of playing with her food.

in the van, she crawls over to frank , setting her elbows on his knee and her stomach is flat against the seats.

❛ so, tell me shit about your stamina. a lady's dying to know. especially when it seems like you're not going to make it through an hour of this, and she's used to playing all night long. ❜

' - i ain't a fan of dead ends. or wasting my goddamn time.'

that is a resounding yes, selina. like a shark in water, frank can't stop moving, which is evident given the way his leg shakes seemingly of its own volition. there's nothing in the world he hates more than stillness, than silence--almost, anyway.

a brow raises at the offhand statement before an incredulous chuckle escapes. it's so obviously an inflammatory statement, meant solely to get a rise out of him. he shouldn't respond, shouldn't even fucking indulge it at all.

unfortunately, he can't quite help himself. he swigs the coffee right out of the thermos, but not before he comments offhandedly,

' you clearly don't know shit about my stamina, '

[p9rrs]

❛ i took back the night. ❜

by force, selina kyle claimed what she wanted to be hers. she was never going to be your smiling waitress at the greasy dinner, was never going to be a kind face behind a counter. she has this inkling of who she wants to be, and stan was only going to keep dragging her into the past if he remained alive. he was only going to dictate who she could be and who she could become. now, the flames of rebirth are rallying inside her belly and if you want the truth, it's that she feels no guilt or shame over having taken a life. just this strange sense of misdirection. who are you once you kill?

ignoring the sharp pain in her wrist, selina throws a duffel bag on the table. she nods for frank to look. ❛ the fucker wanted me in this so bad, and guess what? he got me in it with his last breath, ❜ selina says, nodding to indicate the formless pile of tattered leather that was once a catsuit. it had made her feel far more powerful to kill in it than fucking in it ever would, she knows that for sure.

she waits for frank to put the picture together: the bloodied leather suit, those nails of hers that have blood and skin and dirt buried beneath them. she retracts her wrist from frank's hand and looks at him with storms in her eyes.

❛ don't be gentle with me. i thought you didn't do gentle. ❜

frank busies himself digging for the kit he keeps under the sink, lets selina get comfortable in her own space with the temporary physical distance between them. there's a tremble in her tone that is unrecognizable, so far from her usual bravado and charm. he's never met anyone, in all of his years, more certain of themself than selina kyle. but everyone breaks, don't they? frank knows that more than anyone.

he sets the metal kit down on the kitchen table and pulls out a chair to sit adjacent to her. it creaks loudly under his weight as he shifts forward, their knees brushing as he gently reaches for her arm to examine her broken wrist.

his brow furrows at the inquiry as he puts the pieces together. he can't remember the first time he'd killed someone, it's been so goddamn long--let alone how he'd felt when it'd happened.

' - it depends, ' he says honestly, ' sometimes it's uh, it's good. other times, it's not--i don't like it. but it's necessary to do what needs to be done, y'know? and it's what i am. y'know, scorpion and the frog and all that shit. '

frank glances up at selina at the twinge of desperation in her tone, and he reaches his hand upward to push her hair back in what he hopes is a calming gesture.

' what did you do, selina? '

[p9rrs]

❛ you getting bored, castle? ❜

a perfectly trimmed eyebrow rises. she is staring off into the distance, not even offering him a proper glance. but what she will do is take the coffee he gives to her and drink it down in gulps that are somehow graceful, crimson lips staining the mouth of the cup.

❛ i'd hate to have to tell you the bat has better stamina than you. ❜

the sharp smell of cheap instant coffee fills the air between them when he unscrews the worn thermos between his hands. it does little to warm his fingers despite the hot beverage between them, thanks to the refrigerated van they’ve made their mobile headquarters. he misses his fucking van.

he offers the first cup full to @p9rrs.

‘ it’s late, y’know. ’

[p9rrs]

it's the beginnings of the cat. the heavily made-up eyes, the manicured nails. the black dress that's a few inches too short- it will be years before she perfects this look. it will be years, a decade maybe, before selina kyle morphs into the catwoman with the ease of someone finding their true selves. for now, she looks shockingly more like a girl than a woman, let alone the feline master of crime.

black eye make-up is smeared, but not from tears. the skin of her knuckles are torn, and a couple false diamonds are missing from her fingertips. but maybe it's the look in her eyes that is the most concerning, or maybe it's the quiver of her lips. strange, how you might see all this and think she actually looks... innocent. selina hasn't been innocent for a very long time, but how bewildered she is? it's not an act.

for the record, she does what frank says, she sits. she cradles her wrist in her other palm, and it's clear that it's broken, maybe among other things.

she gets this distinct feeling that frank castle can cut right through her. (she'd let him, too.)

❛ what does it feel like when you kill someone, frank? ❜

blunt, to the point. tell her what it's like, frank. tell her what it's like to take matters in to your own fucking hands and deliver a form of justice that's fatal. that makes sure the bad guys don't get back up. that makes sure the good guys don't, either. that makes sure you're not so certain which one you are anymore, either: good or bad.

❛ frank. ❜

it's been down-pouring all night––the humid kind of downpour that makes the air sticky and the ground steam. a night of reconnaissance had quickly led to an unexpected but sure as hell welcome slew of violence that made his late-night shower all the more satisfying.

somehow, mowing down lines of men is the only place where frank feels at peace.

he's already sweating by the time he exits the shower, even dressed in a tank top and light uniform pants. that is what it is, too, and the leather of his salvation army chair sticks to his skin as he scribbles in a legal pad turned log turned journal. when a knock sounds at the front door, he stands, reaches for the gun tucked in his waistband before his eyes set on @p9rrs from the window who peers in, eyes wild and distant.

frank tucks the gun away and opens the window. intrigue prompts the choice more than whatever good nature is left in him.

' you look like shit, cat. ' a quick glance at her hands reveals cuts at the knuckles, blood buried under manicured nails––his gaze flicks up to her features, meeting her gaze with a quirk of his brow. he gestures to the old kitchen table steps away.

' sit. '

[p9rrs]

Andrea Gibson, "DEPRESSION [VERB]", Lord of the Butterflies

[p9rrs]

and i wouldn't marry me either, argumentative antithetical dream girl, or whatever tswift said....

[p9rrs]

Send me "Good boy/girl" for my muse's reaction to your muse saying that to them!

[p9rrs]

Please Please Please

[p9rrs]

M.S. (via coffee-crinkled-pages)

[p9rrs]

ANA DE ARMAS // No Time to Die x Chopard