Crimson and Clover | Frank Castle
Frank is looking for purpose, not some bambi eyed boy at a party. So, naturally, it's then that love finds him and smacks him upside the damn head.
18+, very plot heavy, 2005 setting, brief commentary on Iraq war, ftm! reader, weird, off-putting!reader implied reader experienced SA but never explicit, dom! marine! Frank, daddy kink, creampie, fingering (reader receiving) pet names used, AFAB terms used.
an: Sorry for the long wait, I'm a freshman in college, so I've been very busy !! Lowkey still feral over Frankie as always. Thank u for all the continued support!
Frank’s been moving his whole life, he thinks.
Always running, always moving, a fleeting face in a crowd. Coming and going is constant. To him, it’s normalcy. Was normalcy. He’d signed himself away at a mere eighteen, hadn’t ever held a gun before when he’d ducked a broad shoulder into the recruitment office.
He’d hadn’t had a purpose before that. Before he was a Jarhead with his hair shaved tight against his cranium, so tight the razor had kissed at the slope of his skull, he was nothing. A speck in the fucking universe, a blip in the city, a nothingness. When he’d watched it that September, it changed. It changed everything, the melting steel, the screams. The dust that flooded down so heavily, Frank’s sure a part of the Center still coats his lungs with how thick it had poured down.
He’d signed up the next day. It hadn’t been an original idea. American propaganda works wonders on the mind of young men. Uncle Sam had wanted him, after all. It was a lack of knowledge, of understanding, the kind of things that were drilled into him by history classes. Figured he could do something good, protecting his country. Playing hero.
He’d gotten the call and the response was simple- he followed.
That call morphed into Frank’s first tour into sunny, sunny Iraq.
Seven months, burnt in the sun, with blood all over his hands. Seven months, and he’d bonded with his gun. Seven months, he’s got sand in places he’d never had sand in, drenched in the saline of his own sweat as it washes down the protruding brow bone of his forehead. Seven months, he sees the suffering but it’s only his own. It will only register to him later, about the oil. That what they search for isn’t truly there.
In seven months, he has returned home, in a new form. Like a snake whose shed it’s skin, sliding out of the shell of himself into something bigger, something more predatory, something monstrous.
He sleeps in a proper bed now, out of the heat, but in his dreams he runs. He runs fast, the desert still spanning under him, weighted back by gear that tugs him downward until he spirals into the sand below. He lies there, in this world, the sun’s furious fists meeting his face in a fierceness he can never shake. He is open, vulnerable. He is going to die, he knows it. But it’s too heavy, everything is too heavy, and he’s trapped under the weight of it.
The dreams are normalcy. The Jarhead life is normalcy. It is what it is- he’s got two more years like this. Active service, at least.
It’s normalcy until he met you.
Apparently, Frank was good at shootin’ things. Killing things. Ripping flesh apart. It makes him good. Respectable. The boys know they can count on him. They don’t look at him in disgust when he strips himself with ease, letting the water dump over him in the cramped space of the shared showers. They just look him in the eye like brothers do. They throw around faggot, sneering and jabbing but never towards him. Like he doesn’t take offense and Frank pretends he doesn’t. Like it doesn’t matter at all.
He’s a man in every sense of the traditional word. The sort of thing, the sickness they think men like him have, it’s under his skin. Hidden. Tucked close to his heart.
You’re stupidly pretty, Frank thinks. Been thinking it since the June of 2004. He pictures you the way you looked the first time you’d met.
The stench of beer was heavy in the air as it sloshed about in the pretty, translucent brown bottles whose rims catch at the low lighting. Somewhere between the bodies bumping together, close knit and tangled together, the tiny, metallic body of an IPod mini is sitting prettily nestled between two speakers that rumble the bass too high. House party of some old friend since grade school, deep within the belly of Hell’s Kitchen.
It’s between bodies, he spots you.
The low light makes you look like you’re glowing like a pretty little angel. The kind you find at somebody’s grandma’s house on a Sunday, their little faces all turned up, ready to spread their wings.
You haven’t gotten a drink in your hand, he realizes. No drink, no girl hangin’ off your hip and pawing at the crotch of your jeans like the boy beside you. You’re looking all around without ever turning your head, observing, taking it all in. The bodies move all around you, swirling and melding together, but you don’t move an inch.
You look like Bambi he thinks.
Your eyelashes curve down when you blink and he can see the bitten edges of your nails when they curve around the ledge of the windowsill you’ve pressed yourself into, just waiting, it looks like.
It’s not the sort of waiting that he’s seen girls do. It’s not a “come and get me”, there’s no flirtation, no lustful tone that floods through you. You’ve cast a hook without meaning to, though, and it’s caught him in the upper lip. Reeling him, catching and pulling in some heavy gravitational pull, the kind he’s only felt when he digs his heels in and refuses the acknowledgement of it.
Like sneaking glances when he was a boy, watching the soccer team, the way the elder boys moved. He felt it then. Felt guilt for it.
He’s drunk just enough, spinning and spitting out that guilt. He wants. He wants and he’s so sick. Sick of being alone in that desert.
It’s a slight tilt of your face in his direction that does it. You’ve spotted him now and it’s analytical, the way you looked back, calculating. But there’s recognition in the way you look back, the sort of I know you. I know what you are. Instinctive. Sin in the eyes of society, recognizing sin.
Frank moves before he can stop himself.
The bottle sweats heavily in Frank’s grasp as he moves, big bulky body, awkward in nature as he pushes through the crowd. By the time he’s made his way over, he’s half regretting it.
Frank knows how to talk to girls. He could get any girl he wants, could flash that pretty little US Marine card and flex his biceps out, could prove himself a thousand times over with what he’s packing between his legs. He knows that. Men are different. Men are- he doesn’t know. Off limits. Look from afar but never touch, never ever touch.
He’s not so sure right now.
His palms are sweating, and it’s so odd. It’s a feeling that’s crawling down his throat to settle in his chest. It’s a kin to the rush of the wind, the way the desert had kicked up before. It’s not fear, no, it’s a twin sister. Anxiety. Something almost sparking with excitement as it buzzes under his skin.
“Hi,” he grunts it out in his nerves, staring back at you. He’s big, towering, but he’s got the look of a schoolboy trying to give a pretty girl a little pink valentine. His fists twitch a little, curling, unfurling as his Adam’s apple bobs wildly.
“Hi.” You counter back simply. Your back is on the wall. You don’t say anything else, either. Fuck. He’s fucked. Can’t even talk to you- twenty one year old marine, he’s killed people, and he’s practically shitting himself talkin’ to a pretty boy.
He watches you instead while you bite the inside of your cheek- taking in a nibble of the fat and pulling- eyes on the floor.
“So, uh,” he motions behind himself with a large hand, mindless and sloppy as it cuts through the air. “why ain’t you dancin’ with anyone?” His execution is poor, god, it’s barely even there. He ducks his head a little, pawing at the heavily crooked form that shapes nose for a long moment.
You squint at him, really at his audacity, watching as he throws a glance sideways instead of at you. In the light that spills out from the city through the glasspane, you can see the thin sheen of nervous sweat that makes his hair curl into pretty little ringlets at the sides as he shifts from foot to foot.
“Are you asking me to dance with you?” It comes out slightly edged from your mouth and Frank tries not to shrink back, just shrugs. He paws at his nose again, scratching causally. You’re killing him. You’re killing him, shyly and defensively, without even knowing it.
“Yeah, maybe.” He huffs out. “ Why, you don’t wanna dance with me?” He’s fumbling. Hard. Comes off more pushy than he’d like, too rough, like a nervous dog backed into a corner even though he’s the one who asked. If anything, it’s only revealing how much heavier your hand is weighing on him.
You teeter a little in his vision, stepping forward, only a little. Indecisive. You’re testing the water, waiting for the shark to reveal all those rows of razored teeth. He doesn’t. He just inches a little closer. His arm is tentative as it offers itself out.
He feels your hand, warm and soft, the way it tendrils up upon his bicep. It’s tender, more tender than the touch of any woman he’s ever felt, and it feels different. In his heart it feels different. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t pull you closer against his hip, doesn’t push his pelvis to grind against your own. No, he lets you stay at that length, his other arm draping gently against your waist. Slowly, so slowly, he feels you shift until your head tucks against his chest.
He’s cradling you. His palm is flat, soothing over the soft skin when the fabric of your shirt rides up, swaying you in his grip.
“didn’t mean to scare you,” he mumbles out, a little, his lips a gentle flutter against the crown of your head. “I ain’t that kind of man.”
It feels silly, this domesticated dance with you, in the flurry of twisting bodies all around you. But you’re in his arms, and that’s enough.
“You don’t scare me.” He feels your breath tickle the dip of his collarbone when you speak, quiet and low. Like he’s a spooked animal. Like you can see through him. “But If you aren’t that kind of man, what kind of man are you?”
Frank pauses at that, brain reeling, and for a long time he’s quiet. In all his life, he’s never been asked that. What he wanted to be when he grew up, what he was doing after high school, all those typical things. People don’t usually ask him about himself- who he thinks he is. He doesn’t ask himself either.
He doesn’t know if he should know, if everyone else knows.
It’s honesty that leaves him instead, slightly slurred and turning his face gently against the crown of your head. “I don’t know what kind of man I am. I just wanna dance with you, that enough of an answer for you?”
He hopes it is. He’s drunk and you’re warm, and you speak to him in a way his brain can barely comprehend. You’re muddling him up and he likes it.
“Yeah,” you mumble back in that little odd way he’s noticed you do. You don’t push him away. You don’t press further. You accept it. He doesn’t, didn’t then, doesn’t really know now, what you meant by it. All he knows is he’s glad you did. “Yeah, ‘s enough of an answer for me.”
You stay in his arms like that for a long, long while. Just there. Lingering. Molded against him, chin tucked. He learns little things from you, and from him so do you. Memorizes the feeling of your skin, he’s never done that, not once before. Especially not with a man. The slight curve of your arm, the freckle that hides against your elbow.
“You’re weird, you know that? Asking me a question like that. Never had anybody ask that before.” He speaks up again after a few minutes of silence, lifting one hand to lightly feel over the curve of your hip. He doesn’t grab at you, doesn’t grope at the globes of fat he could grab handfuls of. His hands don’t wander any further.
“You’re weird,” you counter him, peering up with your brows furrowed, a slight scowl etched into your features. “You asked me to dance by grunting at me like an animal. You’re lucky I even said yes.”
It’s funny, he sees it now. That little bit of spark. A personality beyond the way you hide away.
You’re trouble, and he’s unable to get himself to unlace himself from you. He can’t help but barb, wiggle under your defenses.
“I am lucky, got a little spitfire dancing with me.” He huffs right back, but still, his touch is gentle. He takes his time, swaying you, letting you feel over his shoulder as your own hand creeps against him. Its tentative at best, unsure at most.“You gettin’ handsy on me?”
You rip your hands off him so fast it has him spinning, like burned you, fried off down to the sensitive layers with bone showing clear through. He can’t help but chuckle, still hazy with the alcohol when he watches the color flood your face at his comment, the way you glance away.
“ ‘m not.” You insist, already stepping back from him, but his hands catch you, encasing over your wrist lightly. Not pulling, not tugging, just there. “You were the one touching me. I’m not handsy.” You’re voice gets all pitched. Different. A little higher, almost distressed.
“Hey, hey, woah.” He hurries, his thumb rubbing loosely against the curve of your wrist bone. He lets you hold him at that distance, still glowering. He knows that look. It’s the look of worry, of embarrassment. The look of distrust when someone who’s sensitive to that- to that teasing- begins to duck and cover. “I pushed too far, yeah? Won’t happen again. Lemme walk you home if you’re gonna leave, at least.”
And just like the dance, it’s unspoken. You leave, Frank follows. His grip doesn’t loosen up on your wrist though, just shifts it a little. You lead, he follows. His hand slips, catches at your pinky, and his own curves over it in the shadow of the buildings and streets you slide through. It’s in the darkness he feels safe. In the darkness, in this moment, he is holding a man’s hand.
And when the street lights bleed over him, over the conjoining of you both, he is just a man.
“Im not inviting you inside,” you warn when you reach the steps that slope upward into the pretty red brick apartment, just standing there, arm splayed where he holds your wrist. It’s a clear cock block. One you must be used to making perfectly obvious, he thinks, but he doesn’t care. Wasn’t the point in walking you home. You look so stiff up there, glancing down at the pavement. “sorry.” It comes out softer, that little part. You’re apologizing. Like it needs to be softer delivery, like he’ll be pissed you won’t let him- a random man you danced with- come inside and fuck you. There’s a guilt in it. Like it’s transactional, him walking you.
“I didn’t walk you home for that.” His face twists up, just a little in disgust as he watches you, not at you, of course. At the notion. “I don’t expect you to fuck me because I walked you home. ‘Was hoping maybe for your name and number. ‘s okay if it’s a no. Ain’t gonna be upset.”
You sort of squint down at him when he says it, like you’re just now seeing him. Like holding a bug under a microscope and honing the focus in until he’s pressed flat against the slide. You don’t dissect. Not yet. But he feels the pressure, the blade you poke at his hard exterior with. Like you’re trying to peel back a layer of deceit. He just shrugs.
“Maybe that’s the kind of man I am.” He adds, low and heavy, under his breath as he paws at his nose- again. Just as he did before. Nervous, now that you’ve tilted the scales of power back to yourself. It’s such a juxtaposition, how timid and awkward you are, and yet you’ve got this spell on him. Over him, he doesn’t know, he’s too drunk to fucking care. Drunk on you. “‘m Frank. By the way.”
You shift back against the stairs in consideration. He doesn’t let go of your hand. He waits. Let’s you think. And then he watches you reach back, and then you slide that winning ticket into his hand. The little Blackberry is light and tiny in his hand but he punches his numbers in as quick as he can.
He’s reeling in a fish, a catch. He can’t let you go, not now. You tell him your name, and he lets it settle deep in his brain until it seeps into each and every crevice. He doesn’t promise he’ll call, doesn’t make anything empty.
He squeezes your hand one last time, just to savor it, he does do that. And you let him. Just slip that phone back into your pocket and step further back up another step. He doesn’t chase. Just lets himself feel the skin slide from his own, the fleeting of warmth.
It’s mid July, when he calls you. But he’s been thinking about it, really has. You’re all up in his head, messing with him, making him think of you. You’re the weirdest, strangest fucking thing that’s happened to him- all cryptic and shit. But he can’t get rid of you nor can he shake you free. You’re just there, always there. He’s had three dates since then. If dates can count, he guesses. He’s hooked up with two of ‘em, pretty girls, they are. Good girls. But when he’s got his tongue down their throats, he’s thinking of you. Of the little curves of your cheeks, the way you batted those lashes. When he’s got his hands on the headboard, nosing down their delicate necks and breathing in their perfumes, he finds himself missing the smell of cologne that lingered just a little on your own.
He thinks, and he thinks, and he drinks. Almost calls you. Doesn’t. Fights the regret of not calling but then fights the heavy guilt, the shame of his longing to do so. In his dreams, you invade him there, too. When he finds himself in the sand, buried and tortured, he feels you there. You sit beside him, without a word. He can’t run from you.
He calls you. It rings twice before you pick up.
“Hello?” God, it’s so good to hear you again. It’s quiet, wherever you are. It’s not late, the sun still lingers, but it feels exactly how it did that night he held you. He hesitates for too long, long enough that there’s a stiffness when you repeat into the line. “Hello?”
He swallows around the lump in his throat as he cradles the phone. “Hey.” He grits out, hardly remembering how to breathe. It should be easier, he’s already got the number, got you in his arms a month before. But it’s different. There’s no alcohol to ground him. “It’s Frank.” He spits out dumbly into the receiver and immediately rubs over his face with his eyes screwed shut. He’s weak. That’s exactly what he is. And because you’re too damn smart- especially with that damn mouth.
“I know.” You tut back without hesitation, and he can almost picture the way you’re rolling those half lidded eyes at the phone. “Caller ID.” I mean, what he is supposed to say to that? Tell you to stop bein’ such a brat and to just please go on a date with him so he’ll stop pulling his hair out over you?
“Well, I just,” he grunts a little, trying to not focus on the way his hands are shaking around where he holds his phone. You can probably hear it, the deep breath he pulls in, before exhaling. “I wanted to ask you out. Take you to a nice dinner or a movie. Whatever you want. Fuckin’ walk in the park if you don’t wanna do neither of those.” Hell, you could sit by his side in pure silence and he wouldn’t care. As long as you were by him, close enough, he could do all the talking.
He waits. Let you exchange your own exhale beyond the line. He doesn’t mind. God, he doesn’t. You take things at a pace that’s so careful but there is no irritation, not even a spark in him. He wants to be careful with you. He wants to be the one you decide is worth it, worth the time to be gentle with.
You breathe out and he breathes back in, intermixing, flowing at the same level. Intertwined. Feeling between the lines.
“Yeah, okay.” You murmur back into the phone and it’s like for a moment time is stopping, fluttering, rewinding like an old tape. You’re agreeing, you’re gonna let him. Let him take you out on a proper date, gonna let him show you that he can be worth your time. “I’d like that, Frank.”
I’d like that. He shudders.
“Yeah?” He can’t help but confirm it, just to make sure he’s not dreaming up some stupid fantasy. He hears you hum out a soft agreement- little mmmhmm- that makes his stomach start to flutter and warm- warmer than the way liquor settles, warmer than the sun beating down upon him in Iraq. “Gonna pick you up at eight on Friday, wear somethin’ pretty, okay? ‘m taking you somewhere real nice.”
“See you then,” he hears a little fainter, signaling the way you pull away from the phone, and his mouth feels dry. Like it was stuffed with cotton. Before he can muster up a goodbye, you’ve hung up.
It’s a long three days before he shows up at your doorstep. Polished up, wearing’ his nice leather shoes that his mother bought him for graduation, his good jacket and pants. His fingers crunch, crinkling heavily around the plastic wrap of the bouquet he’s got his fingers stiffly around. He’s nearly snapping the stems of the soft, baby pink Peonies. He managed to tame the curls on his head that threatened to cut through the gel that slicks down his overgrown hair- once shaven down completely.
He flicks up his wrist to squint at the sheen of the glassy plane of the watch that hugs his wrist. It’s early, nearly 7:45 at best. He’s early, chronically, foolishly. He’ll wait.
Maybe he’s not the only fool, because he lifts his head up, and watches the rusty door of your apartment building creak open.
You look so handsome Frank wants to kick himself just to make sure he’s alive and breathing.
He swallows, his throat bobbing rapidly, and he steps forward. He shifts the bouquet gently into his arms in attempt to keep himself from crushing the petals as he forces himself to tear his eyes away for a split second.
“You’re early,” You bite your lip, but he can see the slight flush creeping up your cheeks, like you didn’t expect him at all. And it hits him that you didn’t. Especially not like this. And yet, you still got all prettied up. All for him. You gave him that chance.
“Couldn’t wait any longer.” He replies simply enough, sticking his arm out with the bouquet. The petals shake a little, a couple falling out, but he’s kept it close. “I thought maybe you’d like these, dunno, hope you ain’t allergic.”
Your fingers graze his own when you gather the flowers into your own grasp and he watches as the lip you had been biting into frees itself, starting to curl up just a little, until this smile is all present. No teeth, no, he doesn’t get that privilege yet.
“How did you know I’d like Peonies?” You smile up at him, light and fleeting, as you hold the flowers closer. He watches you thumb over the slender bow that holds the stems all together, the ribbon shining in the soft summer glow of the settling sun. He’d taken the time to get them with ribbon, to select something without roses. He thought about it.
“Didn’t think you’d like plain ole roses.” He muses, letting himself return that little smile with a slight huff as he shuffles a little closer. Just enough to get a closer look at you, just to admire. “Deserved better than that.”
He dares just a little, to stick his hand out for you.
Your thank you gets muffled in his brain when he takes your hand again, slotting against your own, and he squeezes just a little. He walks you all the way down the street with careful consideration of matching each step you give- not willing to walk too fast in front of you, nor let you step off the curb. If you notice, which of course you do, you seem to notice everything, you say nothing of it. Just let it happen.
He, as he predicted, talks enough for the both of you. He tells you about the places he’s been, points out spots he hung around as a teenager, runs his mouth about the dumb things he shouldn’t have done. He tells you about his momma, he tells you about being Italian, he tells you about everything he can think of. You listen, head tilted to watch him as you both walk.
It doesn’t take long until you start talking too. A lot. More than he’d ever expected. But he likes it. Likes the way your mouth curves up when you speak, how you ramble a little in the same way he does- giving too many details, too many little thoughts all pushed together. When he laughs at something you said, he can feel the way you squeeze at his hand, like a silent thank you. An involuntary reaction to his praise.
“You’re a damn chatterbox,” he chuckles, only releasing your hand to place carefully against your waist, leading you up towards the restaurant just so he can beat you to opening the door. “ ‘s nice, when you talk, you know.”
“I don’t know what to say sometimes.” You admit as you slide into the building, blinking rapidly at the scene in front of you. Expensive. That’s the first thing you can think of. Fucking expensive- not any of that Michelin star bullshit but nice. Wooden floors, one of those places that’s been nestled in New York City between generations, drinks with wine you probably can’t pronounce and Frank knows he fucking can’t. He watches as your brows furrow a little, the way you glance around. “We could’ve gotten a burger or something, you didn’t have to do this.”
He shrugs like it’s nothing at all, letting himself give you one last squeeze before letting the host lead you away, settling you into a pretty little corner.
He props up the menu causally, skimming over all the fancy little dishes like this isn’t about to take a hefty chunk from his paycheck just to impress you. “You could get a burger here. ‘Can get whatever you want, alright? I’m gonna take care of you.”
I’m gonna take care of you.
He does. He lets you order whatever you want, even when you hesitate. Gets you fucking desert. He gently wipes the corner of your mouth with a napkin, dabbing gently. When you try to pay, he gives you a look and paws your hand away with a grunt of disapproval. “Put that away, don’t think for a second you payin’.”
It’s the same gentleness on the walk home. It’s the same gentleness at the door that earns him a kiss against his stubbled cheek. it’s lingering and soft, all warm. He turns his head, tilting, but doesn’t aim for your lips, he doesn’t nip at your neck, just pecks your forehead.
The summer drags on, turning to the gentle touch of fall, and he finds you by his side day by day. It’s a slow growth that he adores, the warmth of holding you close, of how he learns your body. Your mind. Of the things you’ve been through, the routine you follow, how he falls into it because he knows you hate to break your structured schedules. His kisses move from your forehead, to your cheeks, they grace your lips. And when he touches you, it’s with reverence. It’s frightening, he knows that for you. But he figures it out, slow and lightly, the things you like. Like how you squeak when he thrusts in real deep, real slow, and cooes at how good his boy takes it. He fucks all those terrible, destructive thoughts out of you until you’re jello in his arms, his sweet boy, so relaxed and brainless. Apparently, you’ve always been a proper Daddy’s boy at heart. He likes that in a man. He’s your man.
The only day he sees you cry is when fall turns to winter. The JFK airport is hustling, bodies bumbling into each other along with the faint roar of the jets in the distance. The duffle is hefty in his arms, packed so full it’s obscenely heavy, but it’s his heart that’s heavier. It’s fucking breaking, splintering, and he can’t look at you. Not now. God, if he does, he fears he might go goddamn AWOL. Literally just scoop you up into his arms and run through those big glass doors, disappear far away where it’s just you and him.
It’s only seven months, he had whispered into your ear the night before as he stroked over your bare back as you sobbed into his chest. It’ll be done before you even know it. But you had just cried and cried, and he knew no amount of promises could make it any better at all. Like now, as he stops before the corralling line of military that departing their own loves. He settles the bag onto the glossy tile, biting his cheek as he struggles in another breath. It hadn’t been so fucking hard the first time around. Hadn’t ever been so hard. It’s not just home, hes leaving. It’s his heart.
If he’d known, even for just a second that you’d been out there that day he signed up, he would’ve turned heel and wandered until he found you. Until he could crawl into your arms, until he could realize that you’re his purpose.
“Sweetheart,” he mumbles lowly, so quiet it’s just for you, resisting the urge to just cradle you as close as he can. But the uniform, it’s the uniform in the wall, always the uniform. But you’re shaking your head, staring at the floor below his boots. “I’ll call you when I can, you know that. ‘Write you everyday. Every single day until my hands cramp up.”
You nod, fast and feverishly, but the low choking noise that escapes you- so broken and shuddering- make it so that his arms find you nonetheless. You’re silent, just like that first night you met, but he can feel the saline tears soaking his army greens. He tucks you close, pressing his hooked nose against your cheek with a tender touch.
“Breathe,” he reminds, squeezing his own eyes shut, willing himself strength that he knows you bring him. It’s what he’ll be without, all broken pieces, yearning for his place beyond the sea. “Be my good boy, c’mon. Need you to breathe for me.”
You suck in shaky inhale of air, your arms slung around him so tightly it’s squeezing out the air from his own lungs, but if it’s supplying you air it’s not even a thought of his mind- that little burning sensation.
“I love you. You’re the only man I’ve ever loved, you know that?” He whispers, shallow, his hand catching against the gentle downy hairs that brush against your nape. Savoring, remembering. “Gonna come back and take you to a real nice restaurant. Get you some pretty Peonies. Gonna take care of you.”
He feels you squeeze, once and then twice, tipping up forward on your tiptoes to let him hear you over the rustle all around you. It’s all white noise, always has been, until you talk, until you speak to him in a language only the two of you know. “I love you more, Frank.” Deep down, he knows it. Knew it a couple months ago. But hearing it, hearing you say it. It’s completely different. It’s everything all at once tumbling and churning together.
He swallows, before he finally steps back, nodding roughly. He’s running, he’s always fucking running. His head ducks, his feet shift back, and it’s the knowledge that if he doesn’t move in that movement, he’ll be frozen. A part of him doesn’t care to move, not unless it’s back to you, back to the magnetic pull you still have on him.
For seven months, he survives off of letters.
They come in steadily, never missing a week, not once. Pretty cream colored envelopes, always addressed just right so he never misses one. It’s a serious affair, your letters. Drops everything when he gets ‘em, just sits his ass right into his bunk and reads. Reads about your day, about how New York has changed, reads about how much you miss him. He lets his fingers trace over each little line, lets himself drink in the faint smell of parchment and the way your cologne settles just below it. The little kisses goodnight at the bottom of each one, it’s serious to him. Doesn’t let anyone see him reading them, nobody gets the things that are for his eyes, his heart only.
By the time your fifth letter comes in, it’s predecessors got blood splatter all over it.
It’s not his pride, that Frank fought over. It’s not like that. The boys in his company, they all knew it, how defensive he was over the damn things. Always keeping those letters all dry, flat and perfect in his things. Neat. Safe. And thing was, it was a damn well known fact you didn’t touch Frank’s stuff. The type of guy that wouldn’t leave a brother behind, one that would take a bullet for you. But you didn’t push that line- not with Frank. Never with Frank. But there was always someone who pushed it. Who teetered that line until Frank raised his hackles.
There are four letters hidden in his cot when he ducks out of the old plywood and tented structures that made up the base for the up-coming weeks, and when he returns his mouth is still slightly burning from the mint of his shitty, military toothpaste.
His bulked frame makes his cot creak in whining protest as he flops down, not caring for the low snickering of a few of the boys in the tent’s corner, the way they crowd around one private. Backed turned, he doesn’t see them sneaking those glances at him. He’s not got time for the brats, anyway, only he knows two things: he’s fucking tired and all he’s missing you so damn bad it’s driving him crazy.
He fishes one large paw down under the cot, feeling alone the lines of wire, fingers catching the precious evalopes underneath. He counts one, tracing over the edges in the way he imagined you had when you licked the seal. Two, he exhales. Three, he inhales. His finger drags forward, expecting the soft edge of paper of a fourth, and finds his skin dragging across scratchy, canvas cot and cool wiring. Four, his brain scrambles, tracing again, but its bare.
All he can hear is Private dickhead snickering- the little mockery of your sweet, sweet kisses goodnight, the way you tell him you’re waiting for him back home. That Castle’s getting love letters. And it tells him all he needs to know. It’s like his brain shuts off, and his vision tunnels so violently it’s like watching a panther lock onto its prey.
He’s launched himself off his cot before he can stop himself, his body propelling so hard the bed screams out in protest from the force he’s created. Frank doesn’t think before he moves. He doesn’t think about anything, it’s chemical reaction that directs him. Just like how his fist collides with the face of the Private. It makes a sickening snapping noise when his knuckles smash into the kid’s nose- the spray of blood is warm when it paints his face but he doesn’t stop. He draws back and pummels, again and again, and he’s screaming and spitting, but he can’t tell if the noise is him or the private. It’s all just noise when it isn’t you speaking.
“You touch my fuckin’ letters again, I swear I’ll kill you, I’ll rip you to fuckin’ shreds-!” he’s snarling, lips drawn back in a nasty display of glinting teeth, his pupils blown wide. It’s pure fury, again and again, and he can’t stop himself. He’s so tired. He’s so angry. He’s only got you, and you’re getting dirtied by the hands of some private that at this rate, won’t have hands when Frank is through. “-fuckin’ kill you, gonna kill you, you stupid bitch-!” He’s got Bill hauling him off, stumbling as he cries out for more men to pry Frank off, but it’s damn nearly impossible. Between dislodging 270 pounds of muscle and the way Frank is screaming and clawing, it takes the force of four men to throw him off completely.
He’s panting, labored and bloody, sweat dripping down in the heavy mixture of red rusted blood from the spray. He stumbles back, shoving hard when Bill tries to coral him elsewhere. Just snatches your letter off the ground, smoothing the paper as best he can, the smears of dirt and blood muddling the pretty ink you’ve drawn all your words in.
He finds a new hiding spot with hellishly bruised knuckles and his control reestablished.
It does nothing to stop the ache in his heart. Nothing can pacify that.
It’s better when he can call you, hear your voice again. It brings him to tears the first time he got a hold of the phone. When you ask how he is, he only tells you the good things, though he knows you can see right through him. He can’t bear the thought of you worrying that pretty head, the one that’s no doubt exhausted already with dread, so he talks about how shitty the food is. Reminds you that he loves you. That he’s thinkin’ bout you every step of the way. Tells you to be good for him, and that before you know it, he’ll be home.
It’s hard to hang up, and when he does, for a long moment he just holds the phone closer to his ear in hopes that you’ve misclicked and he can catch one more moment.
It’s hard, when Bill comes up for the phone, and Frank practically has to pry his hand off of the thing.
“You didn’t tell me you had a girl back home,” Bill counters, carefully. It’s a simple look that tells him how Frank feels, how he’s staring out at the sandy terrain that scatters beyond the tents below.
“It’s private.” Is all he can say, lowly, running his fingers over the material of his fatigues. Slow and grounding. Nobody can know, his brain aches when he remembers it. His sweet boy. It’s private.
“More like it’s serious.” Bill’s voice is low as he fills in the gaps of the story, with a low whistle. “You put a ring on it when you get back, then?”
A ring on it. Frank wishes he could. He’s toyed with the idea, but he’s not sure if he could, law abiding. Maybe if you looked girly enough when you sign off the papers, maybe a little ceremony with just you and him, a witness or two. He doesn’t know if he can put you through that, though. That one time, just the one, that he met your parents it had been god awful.
You’d looked so trapped, sitting between him and your mom, in that stupid pink dress Frank had reluctantly helped zip up. Tight and pretty, with your fit stuffed into kitten heels under the table- one foot tucked against his own in seeking comfort. Skin to skin.
He was watching you wither away, head tucking towards your chin, bearing the weight of your mother chittering about how happy she was that her daughter found a man that brought out her femininity. That you’d gotten back on the straight and narrow and left that silly queer stuff behind, that her pretty girl was doing what was right. Frank had left a dent in the silverware from clutching it so hard it bent backward just to keep his mouth shut.
He’d unzipped that dress, spat on it, and thrown it into the trash the minute you got home. Made quick work of cutting and rounding the bandages, smoothing them over your chest, and settling you into his own shirt instead. ‘Till you looked yourself again.
He can’t put you through that again.
“Maybe.” Is all he says, rubbing over his ring finger for a moment, before he shoulders away into the tents again. Maybe.
It’s seven long months, and he’s running. But this time, it’s to you. He sprints faster than he ever has in his life. It’s a long stretch, his body aches, and it’s nearly insufferable. But there’s you. It’s always you, and a part of him knows it’s always been you.
If he could run, run as fast as his heart is slamming into his chest, he would.
His feet drag across the tiles of JFK, shouldering through the crowd, hauling his bag after him. It had been a slight fib, just a little, tellin’ you he was gonna be a day later than he would. Poor thing, he’s knocking you off your precious routine, but he can’t help it. He’d gotta get himself down to the florists and he can’t if you’re behind him. ‘s silly, maybe, he knows soldiers get spoiled when they come back. But you’re his baby, and his baby gets flowers no matter the occasion. So, still in his fatigues, he gets down to business.
Baby’s breath, Peonies, tied up in a pretty ribbon ‘round the base and a pack of condoms to last him for at least a week. He looks a-fool, flowers and the little flash of silver packaging snuggled in his arms while his pack weighs heavy on his back but what does he care? It’s you. For you. Embarrassment can’t even begin to comprehend the idea of him.
It doesn’t matter anyway, because when he knocks on your door, and when you open it, those flowers go flying across the hallway at the speed that you launch yourself onto him with- his hands jerking back and the petals flying about while the greenery lays limply on the dirty floor below. You shriek, loud enough that the neighbors have probably turned their heads, but he doesn’t care. Because that noise, pitched and squealing, is the loudest he’s ever heard you and it’s for him. You aren’t thinking about anyone perceiving you, that’s what makes it so special, it’s just you. It’s you in such a pure, beautiful form.
He can feel you. He can feel you. The way your fingers bite into his skin where you dig your nails in, clutching and biting, the way your thighs lift and latch against his waist, letting out these noises of pure relief he’s never heard before.
“You said Saturday-!” You sob into his chest, letting him squeeze you as he walks himself into your apartment- letting the door slam behind himself without a care. “- it’s Friday, it’s fucking Friday, Frankie.” It’s all you can say as he just grins, all teeth, nodding proudly. It’s him who’s got you all worked up, excited in ways he’s never seen before, and he’s proud of it.
Hell, you’re the type of guy that would just politely smile and say thank you if Frank bought you the whole world. He knows you, knows you love being seen, just your face never reflects it the ‘right’ away.
And here you are, hanging on to him so tightly, and you aren’t letting go.
“I know I did, baby.” He laughs, slightly gurgled with the way his throat constructs upon holding you again. He’s messy, pressing his lips wherever he can, left, right, across your cheeks until they smack wetly all over your face, but never right on the mouth. He’s too distracted for proper kissing, that is. “Wanted to surprise you, is that okay?”
You just nod, again and again, and he pressed his face into your throat to breathe in deep- only tipping his face towards yours to kiss away at those pretty tears running down the slopes of your cheeks. “You missed me, huh?” He teases, but he can’t stop kissing, can’t stop touching, can’t stop staring at you.
“Course I did,” you grumble, letting his arms swoop up and under you, shifting until you settle with your legs over his arms, all bridal. “missed you more than anything, don’t play around with me.” He likes the look on your face- a mix of a scowl at his rougher handling and the undoubtable soft look of adoration that pours over it in your eyes.
“Not playin’ around with you,” he mumbles, tilting down until he can give you a proper kiss, the burn of his stubble scratching at your skin as your lips meet. He doesn’t pull back after, letting his lips drag over your own while he speaks, slow and steady, breathing in where you’ve already exhaled. “just missed you too. Nearly lost my damn mind without you, you know that.”
He’s moving, slow but sure, inching down your hallway with a low hum between kisses. His feet hit the bedroom door, kicking open, and strutting himself inside with comfortable ease. He settles you onto the bed, his back cracking stiffly as he shoulders off the pack with a thump onto the floor, and then he’s straddling over your waist for another kiss- stopping just above you when he notices the way you’ve situated yourself. Not quite resisting, but not like you’ve got your legs spread, not wanting all the way. Just laying, head on the pillows, looking up at him.
“I wanted to make you dinner or something first,” you mumble out, staring back at him, almost disappointedly though that isn’t the correct word. Almost ashamed. But then again, he was the one who came early, after all, messing with your plans. “it’d be more romantic, you just got back.”
He hums in acknowledgment, but doesn’t move quite yet, just lifts a hand to move a few strands of your hair before letting that fall to cup a cheek instead. “If that’s what you want, that’s what we can do. I can wait.” It’s always like that, so simple. He can wait. He’ll wait weeks, months, years even. “I love you either way. Ain’t gonna change that.”
“I want to,” you shift, quietly, and he exhales instead. Squints a little at you. He soothed over your cheek again, nodding a little, gentler. “I just wanted you to know, I don’t know, you mean more than sex to me, Frank. I love you.”
He laughs before he can stop himself, shaking his head, staring down at you in disbelief- though it’s not mean spirited in the slightest- he just will never, not ever get over you, he thinks.
“Baby, I know that.” He chuckles as your face goes pink under him like you’ve actually done something embarrassing instead of just reveal that layer of sweetness he only sees so often. “I got 212 letters reminding me I got the sweetest boy who loves the shit out of me back home. Even if he’s got funny ways of showin’ it.”
He leans down again, murmuring a little “use your words if you want me to stop,” before pressing another kiss to your jaw, following the curve all the way up until he’s nibbling at your ear while his hand maps steadily over your body. It’s the agreement you have- you say it, he’s done and out. Not that he can’t read the signs you give beforehand, however. A freeze, a squirm away that feels just too much, if you stop making those sweet noises? He’s hauling himself off and making sure his boy is okay. Always making sure.
“Still feels so damn good,” he groans, lowly, letting his fingers slip up and under your shirt until his palm spread over your stomach- big fingers all played out. “just touchin’ like this, feels so fucking good, been thinking about this for months.” He makes quick work of another kiss, no qualms turning it into something much longer and filthier. He licks into your mouth the way he laves his tongue around an ice cream cone, warm and wet as he tangles the pink muscle against your own. He guides you like that, letting you feel the rhythm he begins.
The moan he coaxes from you has his hips buckling at the sound, happy to draw more out and quick on the draw. He fumbles with his belt, shuffling quickly until he can kick off his fatigues. He’s more muscular than when he left, his chest coated in a thick layer of muscle that flows down his abdomen under the thick hair of his chest. The hair thins, just a little, before trailing down to the nest of curls around the base of his cock- still tucked into his briefs, but thickening against the fabric. “God, imma fuck you so good,” he huffs out, bare, not wasting another moment to settle between you again.
He’s smug, hell, he’s cocky when he thinks with his dick and not that gentle mind that’s shutting off in his brain. He can’t help it, not really, when he hasn’t had you in so long.
“Frank,” you whine when he gives a rough roll of his hips that isn’t nearly enough. He’s just like that, wanting you to really tell him what you want. He knows, knows exactly what you want, but he won’t ever just give it up- not when he knows you can. “You’re being a prick.” You grit out, arching up a little to rub the seam of your jeans against his bulge, letting the pressure seep against your clothed clit.
“Nah, I ain’t.” He grins wolfishly, using the drive of his cantering hips to force you back from the way you’ve twitched your hips up. He lets you squirm for just a moment longer before he speaks again. He lets it get low and thick in his throat, almost growling, but it’s a tease instead. “You wanna tell Daddy what you want, huh? Gonna let me hear you? Tell me about all the things you wanted while I was gone?”
Daddy. Daddy, daddy, daddy.
He’s getting you, and he’s getting you good.
He knows you, knows what you want. But you know if you just ask him for his cock, he won’t give it. Won’t let you hurt yourself around him stretching you wide open. He pressed further until his entire body is a heavy weight against you, feeling the mattress moan lower than your own pitch, letting the roughness of his body hair sear against your softer skin on your stomach. “c’mon, tell me.”
It’s hard to breathe under him but the weight is comforting if not downright dumping fuel into the fire of pleasure that’s kicking up sparks between your thighs. “want your fingers.” You utter out finally with a struggled breath. You bite down harshly against the plush of your bottom lip, your eyelashes fluttering a little. “Please, Daddy. ‘m saying please.”
“Yes, yes, you are.” He rumbles out, all pleased. He’s always liked it when you used your words, always melts when you call him your Daddy. That’s exactly what is, anyway. He protects you, takes care of you, just like a man should. Thats what he always is sayin’. “You’re still my good boy, yeah, you are. Let’s get you out of these clothes.”
His hands are warm as they strip you of the fabric, sliding up your hips, peeling off each little layer. He takes liberty of moving your arms, your hips up, everything. Like you’re just a doll he’s playing dress up with, maneuvering and manipulating. Shirt, pants, panties- they all end up in a pile across the scuffed floors with ease.
He tuts at the state of you, laying on his side beside you now. He slips his thick fingers between your thighs, long the thick hair that coats your mound, until he drags his fingers along the sticky syrup of your wetness between the folds of your cunt. “Oh, honey.” He tuts sweetly, brows furrowing in pure delight at the feeling, at the sound of your sweet cry when he spreads you open to thumb over your swollen clit. “This wet over just a little kissin’? You that pent up?”
You keen, turning your head restlessly against the pillows, hair falling into your eyes with each little gasping breath you release. You’re so warm, so warm, it’s maddening as he sinks a thick, calloused finger into your hole. You clench so damn tight, the squelch of the wetness fills the air, he swears it’s like your pussy is telling him it missed him on its own.
“Oh-“ you hiccup softly, eyes trailing down to watch. It’s slow in motion, the flex of his bicep, the way his knuckles move when he sinks in his finger again, pumping in and out. “-feels, uh, feels good.” You mewl a little, sharp and breathy, and he knows he’s got that little spot found deep in you when he slides in a second finger and rubs all over again- letting the pleasure overwhelm you until you’re melting.
“I know, I know it feels good.” He soothes and pressed his face against your forehead, kissing at the soft skin, taking all the time in the world to let you feel his fingers slowly pry apart- stretching your hole wider and wider, until he knows he won’t practically tear you apart. Each little squelch makes him harder, twitching and leaking in his briefs. “So tight, your pussy is squeezing so hard, gonna lose circulation-“
You let out a little cry again, pitched again, louder this time and he can’t help it. He wants you to cum, just not ‘round his fingers, wants it on his cock instead more than anything. Not anymore, not when he’s been waiting, wanting, about to ruin busting his load in his briefs if he can’t get into you soon.
“ ‘s okay, lil boy.” He mumbles against your forehead as he slides his fingers out- letting you clutch and flutter widely with a moan of disappointment when he pulls his digits free. There’s a line of slick, wet and shiny, drooling down his fingers. “know I’m being mean, ain’t I? Gonna give you my cock instead, yeah?”
He uses his still sopping fingers to hook around his waistband, pulling until he’s thrown them off himself. His cock, hard and thick, springs out and curves against his stomach. It’s leaving a trail of pre-cum from the way it rubs against his coarse hair. It’s seven inches of need, hot and the prettiest baby pink at the blunt, slitted tip. His hand slides down to pump himself a little to spread your wetness all ‘round to slick his shaft up, cup at his balls just a little, rubbing with a groan. He’s spoiled you, never lets you give him pleasure unless you really, really beg. Poor thing like you, terrible gag reflex anyway. And in any sense, he doesn’t want his boy trying to pleasure him. He’s got fingers, a tongue, and a hell of a big dick all for you.
He shifts his hips, nudging his cock between your thighs when he pulls your leg up and under the crook of your knee. He loves you like this, pliant and soft, head loling onto his shoulder while he taps his tip against your pussy with a loud, wet smack. Little angel you are, just clutching against him, holding at his nape with shaky fingers. His hips jolt and he hisses quickly, cursing himself for teasing, but it’s so heavenly.
“Please?” It’s a tiny, sweet noise that you make. The gentlest, most beautiful plea, and it breaks him. You don’t say Daddy, you don’t rock your hips, you look at him and wait. Wanting. You’re being good. Showin’ him how much you’ve been waiting.
The tip of his cock sinks inside you, stretching despite the way he had you stuffed with his fingers, and it’s a lot even just for that little inch or so. He twitches between each inch he feeds into you, distracting with each kiss he graces over every inch of your cheeks.
“I know it’s big,” he soothes, again and again, as sweet as he can because he can feel you- wet and fluttering around him- welcoming home into you. He lets his pelvis grind forward, balls slapping up against your puffy folds, as he finally gets every single inch in. “ain’t as big as that toy I got you, huh? You’ve been playing with your toy?”
You choke, eyes screwed shut, and he watches that pretty mouth fall open- wordlessly mouthing around nothing but he knows it’s a yes. The way you squeeze down is a yes. Your nails bite at his skin but he doesn’t care- just draws his hips back, and pushes right back in. Again and again, groaning lowly at the velvet of you.
“That’s real good, baby. ‘cause I was using my right hand that whole time away thinkin’ bout you. You know how much better this pussy is than my hand?” His nose drags along the curve of your jaw with each word, hiking up your leg a little higher, trying to reach even deeper into your guts while he rearranges them. He’s not pounding, not hard and fast. It’s almost romantic despite his filth.
“I- fuck- I dunno,” you’re gettin’ dizzy and he knows it. You always do when he’s inside like this, his breath hot and body on your own. He tuts against your throat at the response and slides his palm up and over your hip- crawling until his thumb rests against your clit again.
“ ‘s okay, ill tell you, okay?” He nods at you with a little huff, watching as you hazily mirror his movement, lips still slightly open as he fucks into you. He’s so deep, so damn deep, his tip rubbing that perfect spongy spot inside over and over.
“Okay,” you mumble, whiny and pretty and completely slipping into that space he gets you into so easily. He fucks you into submission that’s just for him, the way you trust him to take care of you through. Through, after, before, any damn time.
“Million times better.” He cooes with a little smile and snaps his hips forward again. He needs to push home now, when you get like this. You’re slipping pretty close to the edge when you get so dreamy and he loves it- means you’ll be left boneless and satisfied under him. You’ve been making that cute little “uh, uh, uh” noise that he adores when his cock kisses inside you. “Daddy’s boy is always gonna feel a million times better.”
He feels it before he sees it, when you cum. You tense all over, drag your heel down tight into the mattress, and it’s like your body is sucking him in. You cry out again, broken, and he catches that little I love you that slips out so fast it makes him reel. You’ve got him. Milking him dry more like, because as much as he loves watching you cum, it’s a biological need when he starts groaning at the sight- the feeling of your own tipping point and sayin’ you love him, Christ,- and he drills his hips forward once more to spill inside you with a broken snarl into your temple.
“Shit, oh fuck, baby- baby-“ he’s babbling a little, panting heavily into you, letting your thigh fall back finally- sore and tired, but so loose. “-I love you, I love you, I love you.” The fit of his cock is still snug where he’s buried into your hole- a creamy ring of cum dribbling down the side of his softening shaft from your used pussy, messily sticking to his balls and the downy hair of your own thighs.
His chest is still heaving when he presses his sweat slicked forehead against your shoulder, a few curls breaking the gel cast as they brush your own saline-coated skin. He withdraws his fingers from your clit only to put his palm over your tummy, against the place he’s still buried deep into.
“You know I ain’t pulling out for the next seven months, right, baby?”
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