Would You Ever Write A Reader/jj/john B Three Way? Only Write What Ur Comfortable With. I Love Reading

would you ever write a reader/jj/john b three way? only write what ur comfortable with. i love reading your stuff!!!!

ahhh thank you so much!! consider it written bby ;) she’s on her way

writing prompt #1

person A: “I’m kinda hungry.”

person B: “For what? Revenge?”

person A: “No, just for like, Chinese. Maybe some fries.”

The threeway fic and john b, kie and reader fic were amazing!!! Would you ever write any more or a jj x reader x kie fic? ((If any one knows of any more pls lmk))

hey!! thank you so much :) i definitely would write more! i have a few asks in my inbox for that type of stuff which i plan to work on sometime soon, so look forward to that ;) how are you doing anon? are you kicking quarantine’s ass? if anyone else knows of any more threesome stuff obx related feel free to link in the replies for anon to find. big love! - nat

band-aids and bullet wounds

summary: frank comes home with bumps and bruises. you sing him a little tune to brighten his night.

pairing: frank castle x fem!reader

word count: 1.2k

warnings: general frank castle injuries :(

a/n: back to posting! although it’s still irregular, i have a break from school on the horizon in which i may or may not have some prompts lined up. in the mean time, i love writing for lovable trash men, so please send in requests!

She woke to the sound of jangling keys in the doorway. Shuffling feet, and a clang of them falling to the floor had her up and out of her uncomfortable position on the armrest. Her feet patter against the hardwood floor of Frank's apartment, and behind the bed she hid, her eyes peeking out from above the comforter. She groped the floor for a gun she knew was there. There was a grunt of pain, the keys jangled again, and watched with baited breath. She sighed in relief as Frank walked through the door. Then furrowed her brows in panic as she quickly surveyed his bruised body.

Before she can do, or even say anything, he collapses into a chair near the door and bends down in pain, wincing as he attempts to undo his large combat boots.

"Frankie..." She criticizes, almost pouting as she makes her way over to his seat.

"Oh, don't start," He begins in an attempt to comfort her. He's hunched over, breathing shallow, yet laborious.

"What did you do, Castle?" She asks quietly, getting down on one knee to undo his boots.

He leans up slowly, allowing himself to relax into the shitty upholstery of his chair. He’s pretty sure he got it from a garage sale. It certainly feels like it. Frank gives no response. Instead he grimaces and sighs, closing his eyes and moving his hand to run it over his hair and face.

Without words, she's up off her knee, extending her hand to him. He mindlessly moves his to rest in hers. A gentle tug from her and a grunt of pain from him, and he resists, instead pulling her in towards him. She stumbles over his boot and whimpers as she accidentally bumps into his leg, her face planting straight into his severely bruised shoulder. He whimpers, but drowns it in her neck, letting himself lay idle there as she tried to figure out where to place herself in order to not hurt Frank. She settles for his knee, and for also wrapping her warm arms around his broad, tough shoulders.

"Frank," She murmurs into his jawline, her body rotated so that she could turn into him.

"What happened?" She inquires, running her hands over his freezing ears.

"Just a few bad guys, sweetheart. Don’t worry about it. Nothin' I haven't handled before." He reminds, letting his frigid hands run under her shirt for warmth. He hears her sharp intake of breath, and her chuckle into his ear and he melts. All the cold from outside and the pain from a few hours ago just melts away and he lives in her breathing for a second, before she removes herself from his lap carefully.

"C'mon," she encourages, taking his hand and gripping it tightly. With intent.

He sighs and removes himself from the chair.

She drags him unceremoniously into the bathroom, and sits him down on the side of the tub. Frank closes his eyes and, seemingly, for the hundredth time that night, sighs. He watches her, and wonders how he got to be so lucky. These patch-up sessions happened so often now, that he just let himself be cared for. Maybe he was getting sloppy. Did he deserve the aftercare? Probably not. But he had resisted long enough to realize that whether he likes it or not, if he comes back home and she’s waiting for him, he’s getting stitched, bandaged, and iced.

“What hurts?” She asks. He doesn’t answer.

“Frank—” She begins, but he interrupts her.

“I’m okay.” He lies.

“Bullshit. You’re sitting there, looking like Barney the dinosaur and you’re just gonna, fuckin', lie to my face?” She jokes, halfheartedly.

“Sweetheart,”

“No—don’t even, don’t even pull that shit with me, Castle. God. You know—do you even know what you look like right now, Frank?” She says, opening the mirrored medicine cabinet wide, so that frank could take a good look.

The dried blood on his temple immediately stuck out to him. A large gash where the skin was frayed definitely looked like it would hurt tomorrow. Not to mention the bruises. The cut on his lip would make eating anything spicy a pain. Though he had to admit, he’s seen worse.

“Would you believe me if i told you I won?” He asks, grinning at her.

“Unfortunately, 100%.” She answers. She rolls her eyes and takes the first aid kit from the cabinet.

On the floor next to him, after he takes off his jacket and his shirt, and all other unnecessary clothing items, she spends a ridiculous amount of time deciding what to use on him. Band-aids, gauze, ice packs, and a small suture kit were intermittently attended to as she cared for Frank. Not before long, the gash on his head was closed as best she could, and the majority of the larger cuts were bandaged up. The only things left were the small thin scrapes, littered over his face and arms, and the medium sized laceration on his bicep.

In the middle of applying comically small band-aids to the wounds, she decides that the fastest way to get through the process would be to murmur a very relevant, catchy tune. She sings it proudly yet quietly, applying one of the sticky ends methodically to Frank's face.

"I am stuck on band-aid brand, ‘cuz band-aids stick on me,” she sings under her breath. Frank recognizes the melody. It’s the only commercial that came on kids television, apparently.

“What?” He questions anyway.

“I am stuck on band-aid brand ‘cuz band-aids help heal me,” She croons, looking up at Frank’s incredulous expression.

“I can’t deal with you,” he chuckles, and turns away to watch the wall, before his gaze falls back to her smiling widely on her knees, getting the alcohol to disinfect the scrapes. Without warning, she pours the alcohol into the gash in his arm. He growls. 

“Ah, watch the fuckin'... thing, please.”

“I’m gonna put a band-aid on your mouth,” she mutters, “maybe it’ll fix your language.”

“Ah shut up,” he retorts, and tries to run his sticky, dirty, bloody hand through her hair.

“Nooo!” She whines, dodging it.

“I’m almost done, and then, ah shit—“ she cuts herself off, realizing she should’ve had him take a shower first. Too late now

“Well, we can have it sit for a while, then I’ll hop in the shower with you?” she suggests. He rests his hands on the edge of the tub.

“Sounds good to me,” he responds, listening to her hum and take paper off of band-aids. 

He watches as she meticulously covers each cut with nurturing hands. He doesn’t mind the touch. The cheap whiskey stings a bit when first applied, but the pain become dull after a while. Like a tattoo needle. He only realizes he’s tired when he yawns, and then again when she reaches up to rub the back of his neck after she’s finished. He closes his eyes, just for a moment, and relishes in the undisturbed tranquility of the night. A clock ticking from somewhere inside his apartment. Nearly ancient walls creaking. A car driving by every now and again. He’s glad he’s not alone, is the only thing he can think of when his lips meet hers.

lock, stock, and barrel

summary: your dog locks you out of your car. the locksmith who shows up to let her out? is kinda hot 

pairings: scott lang x reader

word count: 1.7k

warnings: you have a big dumbass dog (but a cute dumbass) and your dad is your wingman (and if you dont have a dad im ur dad now have you taken your meds today? wanna go fishing?)

a/n: this is based off of a tiktok i found, which you can watch here (x) nobody requested this but i love scott so much. big love. 

A van pulls up to the house, and parks in front of the driveway. It’s repurposed, definitely, with the words “X-Con Security Consultants” lovingly (read: clumsily) painted (read: scrawled) onto the side. 

“That’s Hank Pym’s kid,” your father says to your mother, and she scoffs.

“No he’s not, he's the intern boy,” she argues, but you don’t care who’s son he is or if he’s interning. He’s beautiful. He has a wide smile on his face as he makes his way from his sketchy van with a bag of tools in hand.

“Scott!” Your father greets, leaving your mother to grumble amongst herself about the man’s origins.

“Hey! Morning, sir!” Scott calls back, and your father gives him a firm handshake. Your father doesn’t notice the pain in Scott’s eyes when he does this, but you do, and you like him immediately for it.

Your father leads the conversation as he guides him over to your car, you shamefully stand by the passenger side, treats and toys in hand. You come around to greet them both.

“—it’s good for extra cash since our expertise is locks and security,” Scott finishes, and your dad listens with intense curiosity.

“Tell Pym I said hi,” he says, before noticing you.

“Ah, Scott, here’s the culprit,” he says, leading him over to you.

“Technically, Delilah is the culprit, dad,” you complain, and he scoffs a little.

“Who locked her in there?” he says playfully, and you gasp.

“She did!” you say, laughing, and there are smiles all around.

“Hi,” you say, introducing yourself, and Scott holds out a hand for you.

“I’m Scott,” he says, and you notice his hands are firm and soft, “I’m here to save your dog. And also your car.”

You smirk, “Thank you.”

You notice he smiles a lot, which is not something you mind. He places a small work bag down on the ground near your driver’s side. He bends his neck at awkward angles to try and make out where your buttons are through your tinted windows.

“Tell him what happened,” your dad encourages, crossing his arms with an ‘I told you so’ look on his face, though it doesn’t apply to this situation.

“I put her in my car to take her on a ride, and I was walking around the other side to get in, and she hit the lock button,” you say sheepishly, staring at Delilah.

Your father laughs and shakes his head, telling you to call him if you needed anything, returning inside to catch the rest of the baseball game for a team he couldn’t care less about.

“It happens to the best of us. She’s really cute,” he says encouragingly, and you smile, because she’s not the only cute one in your general vicinity.

“Hi Delilah!” He coos, and she barks at him.

“Delilah, no,” your mother scolds, and she stares at you from the passenger seat with her tongue out.

“Well, I see how it is,” he mutters, and you laugh. He looks back at you when you do and you notice the light on his hair and how he squints just a little bit when he smiles. He turns back to your car, and works a car door wedge into the window of the driver’s side door. His focus is intense. 

“Where you guys headed?” He asks, budging the wedge in and turning a crank on the side.

“We were just going on a ride. I kinda wanted to take her to get Starbucks, but now I’m not sure she deserves it,” you say, crossing your arms, knowing full well Delilah would get her puppuccino anyway.

“Aw, of course she does,” he says, looking at her panting at him through the glass.

“Isn’t that right, Delilah?” He says. She pays no attention to him. But it’s okay. You’re paying enough attention for the both of you.

“She has beautiful eyes,” he muses, and you hum in agreement.

“You have really nice eyes too,” you compliment accidentally, and you can feel the heat on your face as you try to play it off.

“Thank you,” he says, and you note his smile in the reflection of your car window as he falters with the wedge and the crank.

“Can I get you something to drink?” you say, and he stops. 

“Uh, sure,” he says. He kneels down in your driveway to look for something in the small bag of tools he brought with him.

“I think we have coke? And orange juice probably, unless you want like, a water or something,” you say, and he accepts the water offer.

You turn to leave, but your mom is already halfway in the house.

“I can go get it,” your mom says, throwing you a smile over her shoulder. 

You’re stuck in an awkward silence for a few minutes as he wiggles and pushes and tinkers with wires through your window. He pulls out a malleable wire and shoves it through the window wedge. You watch him work, with precise hands and concentration plastered on his face. But soon enough, with persistence and skill, Scott unlocks your car from the inside, carefully removes the car door wedge, and subsequently frees your poor pooch from her automated prison. 

He opens the door, and Delilah moves to the driver’s side to smell Scott. She jumps out of the car and starts sniffing around him, her leash hanging limply on the ground.

You retrieve it and let Delilah do her thing.

“Thank you so much,” you say, as he crouches down to say hello to your pup.

“Ah, it’s no problem,” he says, and begins speaking to Delilah in a baby voice, “especially when I meet cute puppies like you, yes I do, yes I do!”

Delilah is loving the attention, and she smiles as he pets her behind the ears. You give her butt a few taps and go to speak to Scott again, but your mom returns from the kitchen.

“I cut up some fruit for you guys,” she informs, like you two were best friends having a sleepover. She balances two cold bottles of water, and, sure enough, a plate of fruit she stole from a platter sitting in your fridge.

“Mom,” you whine a little, and your dad follows soon after, in pursuit of the fruit.

“I’m alright, ma’am. Thank you though.”

Your mom yells your dad’s name in the direction of the front door, clearly not seeing him behind her. He steals a chunk of fruit off the platter and complains, “I’m right here, woman,”

“Oh,” she says, laughing in your direction, before she informs him Scott had gotten Delilah out.

“Someone had to,” he grumbles, and he runs back inside to grab his wallet. 

You watch as Scott stands and grabs his bag, smiling at Delilah and turning to return the stuff to his van. Delilah decides to follow him.

“Delilah, please,” you beg, and she stops pulling on her leash, sitting like a good girl. You watch as he puts some things in his truck, fiddling with something in there, before you realize you’re staring. 

You open your driver’s side door, letting Delilah hop in that way instead, and climb in after her, bumping her off your seat. You stare at her intently. She smiles back, none the wiser. 

“You, are going to be the death of me,” you assure her, and you're startled by a knock at your window. 

You expect Scott, but it’s your dad. You roll down your window. 

“I asked specifically for Scott,” he assures, and smiles at you.

“Dad,” you groan, head thumping your headrest. You sigh.

“Don’t be weird,” you plead, and he scoffs.

“When have I ever been weird?” He asks, followed by, “Don’t answer that.”

You absentmindedly pet Delilah.

“You want his number?” he asks, credit card in hand. You turn in your seat to look at Scott. He’s walking around to the other side of his van for something. 

“Not from you!” you muse, and that’s all your dad has to hear, grinning in triumph. 

“Dad!” you whisper harshly, “Don’t be weird!”

“I won’t!” he says, mocking your raspy whisper. 

You watch in your rear-view mirror as your dad goes up to Scott and hands him his credit card. Some words are exchanged, and then your mother goes up to him too. You decide you can’t watch anymore, and you hide your face in Delilah’s fur. 

“Delilah, what are we gonna do?” you say, and her ears perk up, because in her mind, you two are going to Starbucks for puppuccinos. 

“Not that, Delilah. Scott is so cute,” you inform her. She already knows, her eyes tell you, and you look back over at them. 

Scott is smiling at your car. He sees your face, and he waves, causing your parents to look over at you. You blush, and wave back at him. Your dad sends you a signal, but you don’t know what it means, and your mom’s exaggerated wink is overkill. 

You sigh and check your phone. No alerts, alarms, or notifications to take your mind off of the situation. 

You hear Scott’s truck start up, and he pulls away as easily as he pulled in, and that’s that. Just another candle in the wind, a cute guy you’d never see again. But apparently, your parents had other plans.

Pulling out of the Starbucks drive-thru, you pull into a parking spot to let Delilah enjoy her cup of whipped cream. You take a sip of your icy beverage, and you hear your phone ding. Checking your notifications, you realize it’s from an unknown number, and your heart jumps thinking who it could be.

Opening your phone, Delilah whines in anticipation for the whipped cream in the Starbucks cup in the holder. 

“Hang on, ‘Lilah,” you say and you open your phone to read the message.

did delilah get her puppuccino?

You smile at the text, and move to take a picture while you let Delilah go to town on her treat. Your phone chimes again and you hold the cup with one hand, skillfully checking your messages with the other. 

it’s scott by the way. didn’t know if you could tell.

You text back Delilah’s picture. You could tell it was Scott. 

“Delilah,” you say, “thank you so much for locking my door. You’re such a good girl,”

She knows. She decides to accept her payment in puppuccinos from now on.

hE knOWS hiS HeRbS 🌿