rAwR XD ~dIz iZ MySpace nAo~~^_−☆

☆*:. 25. o(≧▽≦)o . she/her .:*☆

[mynorthernattitude]

I'm shy at first and then im like donkey from shrek

[abbotsmyhabit]

andrew cody who sneaks into the bathroom after staying over at your place to brush his teeth with his finger as usual and spots an unfamiliar green toothbrush in the little cup where your purple toothbrush has always sat. his throat immediately gets tight. he didn’t realize you were seeing other people. he certainly isn’t. and in a moment of hurt more than anger he grabs the green toothbrush and walks back out to your bedroom.

“what is this?” andrew says, holding up the toothbrush, as you rub your eyes and roll towards him with a groan.

“mm… good morning,” you hum, trying to wake up, “toothbrush,”

“whose toothbrush?” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed next to you, trying not to sound desperate.

“yours,” you say, voice still scratchy with sleep.

“this isn’t mine,” andrew says.

“well, i guess technically not yet, yeah,” you sigh, sitting up and shifting closer to him, placing a soft kiss on his cheek, “you gotta use it first,”

andrew just sort of stares blankly at you and you finally wake up enough to catch on to what’s happening in that head of his.

“i got it for you,” you say, threading your fingers through his curls which have fluffed up with sleep, “for when you stay here,”

“you got this for me?” andrew blinks at you.

“well, i know it’s not the most romantic gift,” you smile, placing a kiss on his shoulder, exposed by his muscle tee, “but i thought it might be nice,” you mumble against his skin.

andrew drops the toothbrush on the bed next to him and takes your face in his hands, kissing you sweetly. you giggle against his lips, pulling yourself closer to him.

“thank you,” he says your name tenderly, forehead resting against yours.

“you’re so sweet,” you say, placing another quick kiss on his lips, “it’s just a toothbrush,”

“no- it’s-” andrew sighs trying to collect his thoughts, “it’s just nice that you thought of me,”

“well, i think about you a lot,” you smile.

“yeah?” he says, a blush spreading across his cheeks.

“mhm,” you nod before leaning forward, peppering kisses to his neck softly, “i like you,” you murmur between kisses.

andrew sighs, his eyes fluttering closed, god he likes you so much. in a little burst he grabs you by your hips, lifting you around his waist as you grab the back of his neck with a giggle. he stands, swiping his toothbrush from the bed, carrying you to the bathroom.

“andrew,” you squeal, “what are you doing!”

“i gotta try out my new toothbrush,” he says, placing you gently on the counter next to the sink. he stands between you legs as the two of you brush your teeth, giggling and exchanging minty kisses. you both rinse, smiling almost shyly at one another before he passes you a little hand towel to wipe your mouth with.

“so…?” you say, resting your hands on the edge of the counter, leaning towards him, “i’d like the review for your new toothbrush,”

andrew just smiles at you, pushing further between your legs, resting his hands on your waist. he places a soft kiss on your lips, your mouths moving together slowly. he pulls you closer with a sharp tug, slipping his tongue past your lips, the sharp sweetness of peppermint dancing in your mouths.

[heav3nb9by]

this man have gotten me in a permanent chokehold n i don't wanna be anywhere else 😭🫶

[hellilovedit]

do you think frank is an ass or a boob guy

I love this question and my answer is gonna be so fucking corny but it’s true.

Frank’s falling for you first.

Not your ass or tits. Hear me out. Just wait.

If he decides to open himself up and love again, it’s going to be because of you and for you and your good goddamn heart versus your looks.

Looks (ass, tits, appearance, whatever) it’s all fleeting. We’re only young or perky or wrinkle-free for so long and Frank plays for keeps.

He’s at a point in his life—age and maturity if you will—where he understands love is more than looks. Being with someone is companionship and trust and love and selfless. The looks will fade away as you both do. You’re gonna get old and wrinkly and saggy but you’re gonna have each other and so much fucking love it carries you on when your bodies are too old and frail for sex. You’re it for Frank. Endgame.

SO. To answer your question. Frank is whatever you got, he’s down so fucking bad for.

You got a big ass? Awesome. It’s gonna be groped and praised nonstop. Touched when he walks by, patted right before he pulls back from a hug, and absolutely spanked in the bedroom if you’re into that.

You got nice tits? You’ll never stop hearing about it. He’ll see your boobs for the one millionth time and act like it’s the first and he’s star struck. His hand’s casually (or not so casually) gonna be up your shirt while you cuddle and watch movies.

You got neither or lots of both? He doesn’t care. He loves it ALL. Frank’s a simple man. He appreciates what you got. Big, small, flat, double dough, not even a handful… you’re gonna be worshipped. The kind of pious servitude and reverence that belongs to divinity. Frank’s gonna love all of you.

He appreciates both the same way a death row prisoner appreciates their last meal. Extreme? Yes. So is Frank and opening himself up to be with someone again.

[hellilovedit]

Frank Castle Headcanons

(NSFW & SFW | MASTERLIST)

⊹ Finds it unbearably sexy when you clean out your designer purse and out spills two pocket knives, three cans of mace, a handgun… along with tampons, lipgloss, a cherry-charm keychain… aaaaand two magnum condoms he currently is at a loss of words for.

“Christ, sweetheart, hidin’ an AK in there too?”

“It’s called protection, Frankie,” your sweetest smile. “It’s smart. You taught me all about that, remember?”

⊹ Isn’t opposed to bending you over his knee—boots on—to spank your ass

⊹ Has zero shame in buying you whatever feminine products you need. Wipes, pads, tampons, wash, doesn’t matter. He isn’t afraid to load up a basket and let the world see.

⊹ You never hear it, you’ve never seen it, but he has mantras/affirmations he’ll say in the front of the mirror once a day. Bits of blunt words to try to convince himself he’s worthy of you.

⊹ He hates when you patch him up, but can’t seem to stay away. Hates it because of how much he fucking craves it. Your touch is salvation. Your love is redemption. When he shows up bloody and beaten, there’s relief in knowing you’ll mend him. He doesn’t wanna be fixed. He wants whatever this is.

⊹ Loves you in lingerie. Pink, red and black being his favorite. Loves you more when you wearing his clothes. It triggers something primal and possessive in his brain.

⊹ Heels. The man loves heels. High heels. Kitten heels. Peep toe pumps. Boots with heels. Whatever. Ain’t picky. Just loves ‘em.

⊹ He’s a terrible texter, but he adores your messages. Keeps every single one.

⊹ Has a love-hate relationship with nudes. Loves getting them. Hates how easily compromised phones are, inadvertently exposing yourself to only god knows who. People like fuckin’ Micro without any decency.

⊹ Prefers to pin you down rather than tie you up.

⊹ Would be in awe if you gave him a lap dance in private, in the safety of your home.

⊹ Fucks more desperately after an opps. Intensely focused completely on you. Could go on for hours. Multiple orgasms or edging, whatever it leads to, but that man’s not leaving until every inch of you is thoroughly worshipped for simply existing in the world.

⊹ Loves reading to you in the lamplight. A slow, low rumble to his voice. Your bed or the couch, doesn’t matter. As long as your head’s on his chest as he reads, he’s happy. One hand will scratch your head and comb through your hair, the other holding the book open.

⊹ You will have to pry his Irish Spring soap out of his cold, dead hands.

gif from pinterest, not mine

[lalaleeiillaa]

“what kind of person saves fics for later but never goes back to read them?”

[hellilovedit]

Dad bod frank 🤤 ,who thinks he is getting fatter but nah he looks fucking delicious

Under the plush of new dough, he’s still solid. Down to his foundation, he’s strong as an ox. Biceps loaded with meat, a new swole to them now—muscle and some squish.

You can’t blame him. You wouldn’t dream of it. To you…?

God, he’s perfection.

Strong and solid but… soft now. As if the years—the time passing—sanded away an existence built of pure spite. And time, it left you with this version of Frank.

Warm… soft… extra lovin’ around his middle.

Yeah… perfect.

Time caught up to him. Joints ached and locked up. Old wounds resisted, scar tissue hindering his range of motion. And the world didn’t need Frank as its executioner anymore. The world just needed him to have you.

“Baby… I got tits,” Frank deadpans as you cup his… softer pecs. Definitely not tits. Definitely not. “You like a guy tha’s got tits?”

You knead and nuzzle and practically crawl up his back where you’re latched around him. “Mmm, you don’t have tits, Frankie. Promise. I wouldn’t lie to you. Not about man boobs.” Your hands greedy and grabby as he stands shirtless in front of the bathroom mirror, essentially smearing yourself across his back.

“Jesus Christ.” Shakes his head. Rolls his eyes. Focuses on slapping the razor head into his beard clipper. “Guess I better watch out, huh? You likin’ fat guys all’a sudden. Guy down the street’s bigger ‘n me. Shit, he’s bigger th’n the truck. You might like his tits. Lotta titty there.”

“Nhmnhmnhm!” You hum devout rejection, body and limbs in a constant writhe over him. “No, Frankie, I don’t like man boobs, remember?”

“Uh-huh, yeah, whatever you say.” Frank clicks the clippers on. A whirring buzz fills the bathroom. Blades angled for his beard, he hesitates.

Stops.

Deadpans at your reflection while you enjoy whatever the fuck this is.

Still fuckin’ squirmin’ around against his back like a goddamn cat rubbing scent on him.

“Sweetheart. You gonna stop that anytime soon?” Sounds a little… twitchy.

“Hmmmm… no.” A content sigh, your arms snaking around his middle to grab the firm pudge where his abs used to be. “You look too sexy. I’m distracted. And needy.“

“No fuckin’ shit,” he huffs, stamping the clippers down on the counter.

In the clingy vise of your hold, Frank turns to face you.

Batting the daze from your eyes, you look at him, hands shifting instinctively to his chest and stomach to paw.

“You done?” he asks, brows raised.

“Problem?” you feign innocence, voice light.

“Yeah. You.”

A scoff punches out of you, one hand slapped over your chest. “I am your wife. I add absolutely nothing but sunshine and enjoy and love to your life.”

“That so? You sure ‘bout all that?” Teasing, his eyes narrowed.

You meet him with a vicious glare you’re begging god to help up uphold. But your lips twitch and your eyes strain to stay on his face when he’s all cozy bare-chested with his soft stomach in front of you. “Yes. I’m positive. You should be grateful I can’t keep my hands off you.”

“Thinkin’ I ain’t grateful f’that? F’you?” he asks, hands slinking over your waist.

“Thinking you’re being a grouch about it.” Hip jutted out, you cross your arms.

“You’re the one droolin’ over a fat guy,” he says, and both of you smirk, exchange a little laugh.

“Shut up, Frank… Just because you don’t have washboard abs anymore doesn’t mean you aren’t painfully, infuriatingly, addictively sexy.”

A red flush streaks up his neck, eyes rolling. “Alright, alright, alright. Got your point. You done now? Get it all out? Gonna lemme shave now?”

A moment of silence as you two eye each other.

Frank, skeptically.

You, glaring in consideration.

“…”

“…?”

“…no.” comes your verdict.

“Fine,” Frank grits. “Shut you up my way.”

And with a squeal-twisted-laugh, Frank flings you over his shoulder and stalks you to the bed.

Yeah. Still strong as an ox.

[heav3nb9by]

soooooo bby Frankie has heard of ur newest milestone @hellilovedit n as a surprise, he tried to make a batch of double chocolate cupcakes with raspberry frosting just for u!!! but unfortunately, he only managed to salvage one n he's vry upset abt it, so be nice to him!!!

(he crafted the wrapper himself, isn't he a sweetheart 🖤🤍)

[hellilovedit]

OH MY GOD???? IM CRYING RIGHT NOW 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

Omg thank you so so so so SO MUCH, MOOT! I keep staring at this and giggle and petting Frank’s sad lil face and hair holy shit 🥹🥹🥹🩷🩷🩷 saved to my phone immediately. Showing my husband immediately.

The cupcakes are great Frankie I love you so much I could never be mean 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🫶🏻🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

[heav3nb9by]

awwww ty mootie for encouraged him!!! he have promise that for ur next milestone, he will try again so let's hope that his baking will get better 🤗🖤🤍

[heav3nb9by]

soooooo bby Frankie has heard of ur newest milestone @hellilovedit n as a surprise, he tried to make a batch of double chocolate cupcakes with raspberry frosting just for u!!! but unfortunately, he only managed to salvage one n he's vry upset abt it, so be nice to him!!!

(he crafted the wrapper himself, isn't he a sweetheart 🖤🤍)

[hellilovedit]

Imagine frank has one of his arms in a cast and you're sitting in his lap and drawing on the cast and he holds you to him with his other arm

THAT’S SO CUTE???????!!!!!!!

Omg. Here’s my lil blurbie!!!

“Draw a dick on it ‘n you’re done,” the threat rumbles from Frank without conviction, his eyes far too squinty and far too set on the tv to mean he’s actually watching it.

You scoff at the idea, readjust in his lap. Your side leaned against his chest, ass comfortably perched on his thighs, legs bent at the knee to balance his casted arm as you wield a pastel sharpie. “I’d never draw a dick on your cast, Frankie. I’m not a monster.”

…the thought definitely crossed your mind.

You are, however, enjoying yourself to a criminal degree. It does border cruel, how you decorate and beautify the dingy white gauze over his broken wrist.

Frank’s a lot of bark when it comes to you. He says don’t draw a dick, but cradles you in his good arm. Keeps you snug against him, sharing body heat bleeding between two cotton shirts. Your weight contents him. Soothes him. The pain’s nothing. Seriously. You’re mending the noise inside his head, the itch under his skin.

Bumpy Sharpie preserves evidence of your tic-tac-toe games on his forearm. He let you win a few times before saying “lemme show you sumthin’”, and teaches you the cheat code to winning every time.

By the time you’re happy with the mural on his arm, he’s asleep.

Head tipped back against the cushion, adams apple jutting sharp, snores rumble from his chest. Little involuntary twitches get his fingers now and then, stuck out of the cast.

You drew to your heart’s content on the cast. Hearts. Smiles. Swirls. Flowers. Butterflies. A horrific attempt at a pitbull that came out looking like an angry dragon.

And then you covered it with a fine layered roll of black self-adhering tape. The rubbery, nonstick kind. You wound it around until the cast was swathed in black, evidence masked.

The white sharpie settles between your finger and thumb. You ready it with artistic precision and get to work.

When Frank wakes in the middle of the night and you’re the one asleep on him, he sees it.

The cast. Your artwork. His memento mori.

The Punisher’s Skull.

[hellilovedit]

Helly’s Writing Tips & Resources

Hello, hello! Some of yall said you’d be interested in seeing some of my writing resources, tips, etc… okay! Soooo, here I am.

Before I dive in, I wanna say: there are no rules to writing you must live and die by. Writing is an art form. The more unique and different—the better! Take every piece of advice on writing with a grain of salt and your own reflection. Be a student, not a blind follower. I have links to my resources, and they are NOT any sort of affiliate bullshit links.

1. Read

Read published books. Read banned books. Read old books, hype books, new books, classic books. As you read… study. I can’t stress this enough. Read to enjoy, yes, get your creativity— but reflect. Observe, be a student. How did the author make you feel x y z? How did they use certain words to shape the tone and impact your feelings? While I read, I have my notes app pulled up so I can pluck out unique words I like, or make notes on how an author said something I felt was incredible, and write them down.

Read books about writing! Study it. Learn it. Keep up with it.

Some of my favorite books have been:

Stephen King’s On Writing. Like holy shit. Even in talking about writing, the prose is fucking beautiful.

Several Short Sentenced About Writing by Verlyn Klinkenborg

2. Make A List

…or whatever format helps you feel organized! I literally have a notes app of “words and phrases I like”. It ranges from people’s appearances, to settings, to the sky, to a tangible picture of violence. Write down these amazing words you find, the breathtaking sentences you form or hear. Keep them in a secure place! If you don’t write them down, you’ll forget. Now you have something you can always come back to. I use my Words & Phrases note every single time I write.

3. Use Adverbs Sparingly (…no pun intended there)

Stephen King talks about this in his book, too. What a difference it makes. Not everything needs an adverb when there are better words to describe something overall.

He ran quickly. He sprinted.

See the difference? Feel the difference?

She said loudly. She roared.

Cut out the “-ly” and use a word with impact. Your words need to mean something.

4. Try This Podcast:

Essential Guide to Writing a Novel by James (Jim) Thayer.

Okay. I swear by this one. It’s such a good listen. It’s so fucking insightful. It covers so much. And—if you email him?—there’s a good chance he emails back. I actually reached out to him about struggles with my novel, and let me tell you… I almost cried when he sent back thoughtful paragraphs offering advice and encouragement.

5. For The Love of God DON’T Use AI

There’s already so much that circulates in the fandoms. No one wants it. Don’t use it to “sharpen your sentences” or “edit” your fic. Put in the work and learn like the rest of us. Yall know not to get me started here.

6. Figure Out When You Do Your Best Work

When are you most productive? Have the most energy? My prime time is 7a-11a so as much as possible, I try to write then. Figure out your second best time, because if you’re like me, you’re working during those hours.

7. Get a Vocabulary App

I use “Vocabulary” lol. The free version. I have it set to send me notifications throughout the day for words & their definitions. I’m constantly learning new words, or figuring out how to use them in new contexts. When I get the notification, I think “how can I use this in a sentence?” and I’ll formulate a sentence based on that word. It’s fun and challenging and good to stimulate your brain.

8. Use Words To Build Emotion

Use your storytelling to really drive home a scene. Terrible example, but instead of writing “it was raining hard”. That’s fine. It’s to the point. But if you want more atmospheric? Write it like… “Rain poured from the sky like God cried”. Idk. But you feel me? Feel how different that is? You’re giving emotion to your setting and mirroring the tone of your scene.

Make the words work for you.

Find the smallest details to stick with your readers. Will you remember a “tall brunette” or a “a scar through her eyebrow”? It’s the small, nearly invisible things that make a piece come to life.

9. Try Not To Start Every Sentence With…

“He did ___”.

“She walked there.”

Again, you’re telling us. That’s okay. But give it some more oomf!

A pebble crunched under her shoe as she walked up the front steps.

^ Awesome! You’re giving it more life. You’re giving us sound to envision, realistic details rather than just slapping down facts over and over and over again.

10. Know When To Rest

Guys. Writing is hard. Your brain will need to quit and take breaks. You have to listen to it. It’s frustrating as fuck when the block happens, but it’s your mind and body saying stop. Use this time to be gentle with yourself. Do something nice. Take a walk. Phone a friend or relative. These blocks are giving your opportunity to pay attention to other areas. Do something else creative or physical. Sleep. Do something with your hands instead of your head.

Push through when you need to, but don’t exert yourself. It’ll make things worse. You can’t pour from an empty cup.

Welp. That concludes this lil bit! By no means am I a professional or anything like that. I’m all self taught and uneducated. These are some of my tried and true recommendations, tips, and resources as a writer wanting to publish eventually. I’ve absorbed all of this through my passion for writing and world building and storytelling. I hope you enjoy! If yall want more tips/recs, I am happy to provide another piece. Byeeeee 🩷🩷🩷

[spicymochi]

sitting animal friends

[ghoulishhx]

heeeeey i have been binging on all of ur fics, n ur writings rly suited him diva, so now i missed him again lolz

soooooo i was wondering if i could req a fluff one on frank's reaction to reader growing interest in beaded waist chain for the summer, so she decided to made one in his color scheme: black, white n red as a surprise for him n kept wearing them on her soft waist all day long, showing them off for him n unintentionally making him even more possessive when they're out in public n frank could see other men eyeing her waist 👀

take ur time n if this isn't up ur alley, feel free to ignore it!!!

got me blushing and kicking my feet oh myyyy

especially after brand new day ive had frankie on the brainnn

I can just imagine you get it custom made without telling him, and decide to surprise him with it when you two are out & about,

- ♡ -

you finally come downstairs yelling "ready frankie!!"

"took ya time dollface, we gotta hurry or we will-" he stops in his tracks as he gets a good look at you, drinking in the sight of his pretty girlfriend in the most adorable waist chain. he didnt even know they existed before today and he genuinely feels like the luckiest man in the world.

you follow his eyeline and gesture down, off handedly making a comment, "you like it frankie? had it made special for you.. see its got your colour scheme, I even had them put an 'F' on the red one-" he cuts you off as he delicately puts his finger in between the chain and your stomach, gently pulling you towards him in his embrace, "careful frankie I just got it! I swear to shit if you break it already.."

"shush baby 'm bein' careful," he mumbles, pecking kisses across your face, down your neck before dropping to his knees, "gotta get m'self a better view.." he hums as he takes the aforementioned red bead between his fingers "would ya look at that, huh? did all this for me, sweetheart?"

"who else frank? always for you baby," you blush as you trace your finger across his, that are so gently toying with the chain. "now c'mon, we're gonna miss our reservation."

"do we have to? theres somethin' else i'd rather be doin'.." frank sighs as he climbs to his feet, placing a possessive hand against the small of your back, still toying with the beads before resting on your ass giving it a playful squeeze.

the rest of the day feels like it's moving in slow motion for frank, all hes thinking about is taking you home and showing you just how much your little surprise got to him, as evidenced in his pants and how he keeps having to adjust them.. the whole time youre both out he seems more protective than usual, always keeping a hand on you, death staring any man who so thought of glancing at his girl. hes a ruined man. fantasising about how you're gonna look wearing nothing but those sinful beads across your waist, watching the way your stomach moves beneath it, the plush of your belly ever so slightly curving around it. taking it into his mouth as his tongue travels down your stomach before reaching your mound..

"everything okay, frankie? you're kinda quiet.."

"hmm? its nothin' doll, you just look too damn good.. can't stop thinking bout ya" he mumbles still transfixed, not making eyecontact as he stares at your body.

"cmon frankie, wanna get out of here? go back home, and you can show me just how much you love my new chain?" you smile as you take his hand into yours, guiding the two of you away from the function and towards his truck

"please"

- ♡ -

an : this is kinda buns but idk i love him and I love how whipped he is. thank u for the request my love mwah mwah I hope you enjoyyyy. and everyone go see bnd rn!!! okay bye xo

masterlist in bio & inbox is always open !!

[peterftpercy]

dex or frank jacking off maybe? 💞

what about both + matt?

Matt / Frank / Dex masturbating thinking about you

content: pure smut.

WC: 3.8k

clarification: english is not my native language, so i apologize in advance for any mistakes.

MATT MURDOCK

The steam in the small bathroom was thick enough to feel like a physical weight against Matt's skin, but it couldn't drown out the persistent echo of your voice. Under the relentless spray of the shower, he pressed his forehead against the cool tile, trying to find some semblance of Zen, some Catholic reprieve from the chaos of his own mind. But every time he closed his eyes, he didn't see darkness; he heard you.

He could still hear the sharp, precise cadence of your angry voice cutting through the heated air of the office. You hadn't backed down. When he had argued for the client for the principle of the defense you had met his gaze with those eyes that looked angelic but burned with something far more dangerous. You hadn't flinched at his professional veneer, hadn't offered the polite smile that most women gave him when he leaned in close. Instead, you had challenged him, your intellect clashing against his own like steel on steel.

The memory of your defiance sent a treacherous jolt through him. He remembered the way your jaw had set, the subtle flare of your nostrils, and the absolute refusal to be charmed. Most men would have been offended; Matt found himself dangerously drawn to it. The anger from your argument was curdling into something else entirely, something darker and more primal. His breathing hitched as the phantom sensation of your presence seemed to fill the steamy space. His pulse quickened, and despite the water pouring over him, he could feel the unmistakable heat gathering between his thighs as his body responded to the memory of your fire.

The water continued its relentless assault, but Matt's focus had shifted entirely inward, spiraling toward the image of you standing across from his desk. He could almost smell your intoxicating blend of expensive perfume and the sharp, metallic tang of adrenaline that always seemed to cling to you when you were provoked. In his mind's eye, you weren’t just a colleague; you were a predator, one who had seen right through his righteous indignation.

“You think you're so noble, don't you, Matthew?” Your voice echoed in his skull, dripping with that melodic inflection that made his blood sing. He could imagine you leaning over his desk now, your angelic features twisted into a smirk of pure contempt. “So concerned with justice that you forget how pathetic you look when you're trying to save everyone.”

A low groan escaped his throat as his hand finally slid down beneath the stream of water, finding himself slick and aching. His fingers wrapped around his cock, which was straining painfully against the heat of his arousal. As he began to stroke himself, his grip firm and desperate, he conjured your insults to fuel the fire. He wanted you to belittle him, to mock his faith, to tear down the carefully constructed walls of the 'good lawyer' until there was nothing left but the man beneath.

The friction of his palm against his swollen cock was almost too much to bear, each stroke sending electricity shooting up his spine. Matt leaned his head back against the tiles, his hips bucking involuntarily as his imagination took full control. He wasn't just hearing your insults anymore; he was feeling you. The fantasy shifted from the boardroom to the bedroom, vivid and visceral.

He imagined your silk skirt sliding up your thighs, revealing skin that looked as soft as it felt dangerous. In his mind, you weren’t mocking him from across a desk anymore; you were on your knees before him, those lips he so desperately wanted to taste wrapped around his cock. He could almost feel the wet, hot suction of your mouth, the way you would use that silver tongue not to argue law, but to worship his cock while maintaining that infuriating, haughty look in your eyes. He wanted to feel your teeth graze him, testing his control even as you drained him.

“Fuck,” he gasped aloud, his free hand gripping the shower handle so hard his knuckles turned white. The thought of your hand slender, manicured, and deceptively strong wrapping around him and milking him while you called him a hypocrite made his cock twitch violently. 

But more than that, he craved the feeling of breaking through your composure. He imagined pinning you against the wall, tearing away your clothes, and driving himself into your soaking wet cunt. He wanted to feel your walls clench around him as he fucked you hard, driving into you with the same relentless intensity he brought to a trial, forcing you to scream his name instead of insults.

The pressure building in his groin was becoming unbearable, a coiled spring of tension that demanded release. Matt's strokes became faster, more frantic, his breathing coming in ragged, desperate gasps that echoed off the bathroom tiles. The steam seemed to intensify, blurring the lines between reality and the vivid, filthy theater playing out behind his eyelids. He was close, so close he could feel the muscles in his thighs beginning to quiver.

His fantasies reached a fever pitch as the climax began to surge through him. He didn't want gentle release; he wanted something claiming, something that mirrored the intensity of your clash earlier that day. In his mind, he saw you pinned beneath him, your hair spread across the pillows like a halo of defiance, your chest heaving. But instead of burying himself inside you, he imagined pulling back at the last possible second.

He pictured you looking up at him with those sharp, intelligent eyes, expecting nothing but his usual restraint. Instead, he would surrender to the animal inside him. He imagined his cock throbbing against your cheek as he finally let go, erupting in thick, hot spurts that splattered across your flawless skin. He could almost feel the wet heat of his cum coating your lips, dripping down the valley between your breasts, and streaking across your cheeks. He wanted to mark you, to cover that angelic face in the evidence of his arousal, leaving you slick and undone.

He moaned your name in a way that seemed not to want to fight, but to surrender to the ghostly presence of your body. “Fuck,” his voice broke as his hips bucked violently forward. 

The dam finally broke.

With one last, desperate thrust of his hips, Matt's entire body convulsed as the orgasm tore through him. A guttural, raw sound escaped his throat somewhere between a prayer and a curse as he came hard, his cock pulsing violently against his palm. In his mind, he could still see you, your face flushed and glistening with the evidence of his release, your defiance melted into something far more primal.

The heat of the cum felt like liquid fire as it discharged in thick, rhythmic spurts, each one sending fresh waves of pleasure crashing through his nervous system. His muscles locked tight, his toes curling against the shower floor as the intensity pushed past the point of pleasure into something almost painful. For several long seconds, there was nothing in the world except the thundering beat of his own heart and the overwhelming sensation of his body betraying every moral conviction he held.

Slowly, the convulsions began to subside. Matt slumped forward, his forehead resting against the wet tiles as his breathing gradually slowed from ragged gasps to unsteady exhales. The water continued to cascade over his shoulders, washing away the sweat and the evidence of his transgression, but the phantom heat of you remained. The silence of the bathroom felt heavier now, charged with the aftershocks of his climax. As he stood there in the fading steam, spent and aching, the guilt began to creep back in, mingling with the lingering, treacherous memory of your smile.

FRANK CASTLE

The motel room has gone silent, save for the relentless drumming of rain against the window. You are asleep now or at least it seemed like it. Your breathing has steadied into that soft, rhythmic pattern that makes Frank's chest ache with something more dangerous than guilt.

Frank can't stay in the chair anymore. The tension in his muscles is too tight, his skin too sensitive. He retreats to the cramped, mildew scented bathroom, locking the door with a click that sounds like a gunshot in the quiet room. He leans his forehead against the cold tile of the wall, closing his eyes, but there is no escape. Behind his eyelids, it's all you.

The way you look at him not with fear, not with the disgust most people reserve for a man like him, but with something achingly tender. It haunts him. Those bright eyes that make him feel like he could actually earn redemption, even though he knows he's already damaged.

Frank stands in the cramped bathroom, the harsh fluorescent light overhead making his scarred hands look pale against the cracked porcelain of the sink. His breathing is ragged, uneven. He can feel the throbbing, insisting behind his zipper. His cock is rock hard, straining against the fabric of his pants, demanding release from the unbearable tension that has been coiled in his gut since he first laid eyes on you.

He closes his eyes, but that only makes it worse. Now, there's no visual distraction only sensation. He can almost feel the phantom heat of your skin against his calloused palms. He imagines you pressed against the bathroom wall, those angelic features twisted with something darker than innocence. He pictures your full lips parted, not speaking sweet words, but moaning his name as he claims you.

A low, painful growl escapes his throat as he fumbles with his belt, his fingers unsteady. When he finally frees himself, the cool air of the bathroom hits his heated skin, making him hiss through clenched teeth. His cock springs free, thick and pulsing, already weeping a bead of pre cum.

He wraps one hand around himself, his grip rough and desperate. He doesn't need gentle; he needs to burn this feeling out of him. As he begins to stroke, his mind races through a fever dream of you. He imagines his large, scarred hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises, pulling your pelvis flush against his. He imagines the contrast of his rough, violent body against your soft, sensual curves.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he whispers into the empty room, his voice breaking.

Frank grips himself harder, his knuckles whitening as he picks up the pace. His thumb smears the slick pre cum over the swollen head of his cock, each stroke sending lightning bolts of raw arousal straight to his groin. The guilt is there a familiar, bitter taste in the back of his throat telling him he doesn't deserve to think about you this way, that he should be thinking about ammunition and exit routes instead of your body. But the guilt can't compete with the furnace burning inside him.

His imagination runs filthy, unbidden. He pictures you on that grimy motel bed, legs spread wide, those soft, pale thighs wrapped tight around his waist to anchor him. He imagines the sight of your cute, tight little pussy, swollen, and slick with your own need waiting for him. In his mind, he's not being gentle. He's driving into you with the same relentless force he uses to hunt his enemies, feeling the wet, hot friction of your cunt clamping down around his cock, milking him with every thrust.

“Fuck... goddamn it,” he gasps, his head falling back against the tile. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple.

He envisions your face beneath him, your eyes rolled back in ecstasy, your fingers digging into his scarred shoulders as he bottoms out inside you. He can almost feel the phantom sensation of your walls squeezing him, the way you'd arch your back to take all of him, taking the violence of his passion and turning it into something primal.

His strokes become faster, more desperate, his hips bucking involuntarily against his own hand as he nears the edge. The tension is unbearable, a coiled spring ready to snap, and all he can see is you wet, open, and screaming his name.

Frank is past the point of controlled breathing. His heart hammers against his ribs like a trapped animal, each stroke of his hand becoming more frantic, more punishing. The fantasy has taken over completely, drowning out the rational part of his brain that tells him he needs to be alert, that he needs to be a soldier, not a man consumed by filth.

In his mind, he's already inside you. He can feel the wet, searing heat of your cunt swallowing him whole, the way your soft flesh stretches to accommodate its thickness. He imagines the way your thighs would tremble under his weight, those pale, silky legs locking around his lower back, pulling him deeper, begging for more. He sees your mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure as he pounds into you, each thrust driving him further into the fantasy of claiming something so pure, something so untouched by the blood on his hands.

“Fuck... I'd ruin ya,” he rasps, his voice cracking as the orgasm builds behind his eyes like a freight train.

The climax hits him like a physical blow. His hips jerk forward involuntarily, his body stiffening as he reaches the breaking point. In his mind, he isn't pulling away; he's thrusting one last time, bottoming out inside your deepest folds. He imagines the feeling of his cock twitching as he pumps thick, hot ropes of cum deep into your womb, filling you up, marking you as his in the most primal way possible. He imagines the mess of it, his seed spilling out of your swollen cunt and coating your thighs as he finally collapses against you.

The release comes in waves, violent and disorienting. Frank groans hoarsely, his forehead thudding against the tile as he spills across his own palm, his body shuddering through the aftershocks.

As the haze clears, the silence of the bathroom rushes back in, cold and unforgiving. The adrenaline fades, leaving behind only the hollow ache of exhaustion and a crushing, suffocating wave of shame. He stares down at his hand, at the evidence of his betrayal of your sweetness, and closes his eyes tight. He feels like shit. He feels like a monster. And the worst part is, even now, the ghost of your heat still burns against him.

DEX POINDEXTER

The hideout is cold, sterile, and smells faintly of gunpowder and old concrete, but Dex doesn't notice the chill. The only thing that matters is the small, delicate scrap of fabric clutched in his fist.

He sits on the edge of his cot, the rigid discipline that usually governs his every movement fraying at the edges. In his palm lies the silk panties he took from your dresser a calculated theft disguised as a phantom intrusion. He knows it violates every principle of operational security, every rule of restraint he taught himself during his years in the FBI, but protocol means nothing when compared to the ache in his chest.

He brings the fabric to his face. It carries your scent that maddening mix of expensive lotion and something warm, something uniquely yours. His pupils dilate as he inhales deeply, pressing the silk against his nose, his breathing becoming shallow and even.

The control he prides himself on is failing. His heart hammers against his ribs like a trapped animal. The image of you sleeping the way your hips curved beneath the sheets, the vulnerability of your exposed throat emerges through your mind with violent clarity.

Beneath the waistband of his tactical pants, his cock throbs, straining painfully against the fabric. The erection is sudden and demanding, a physical manifestation of the obsession that consumes him. He closes his eyes, imagining it isn't silk between his fingers, but the soft skin of your inner thigh. He imagines the heat of you, the way you would gasp if you knew he was here, claiming pieces of you in the dark.

His knuckles whiten around the fabric. “Mine,” he breathes into the empty room, the word a prayer and a threat. “You're mine.”

For Dex, sex has never been about the release of tension or the simple pleasure of flesh against flesh. As Bullseye, arousal is a distraction, a weakness that could cost him a target's life. His body is a tool, a weapon designed for precision, not for the messy, uncontrolled abandonment of lust. But this is different. This isn't about a biological itch; it's about the starvation of his soul.

He slides his hand down, fumbling with the button of his pants with unsteady fingers. The fabric falls away, but his other hand remains clenched tight around the stolen silk. He needs this connection. He needs to bridge the impossible distance between his violent reality and your angelic existence.

When his fingers wrap around his cock, the sensation is overwhelming because it's filtered through the image of you. He closes his eyes, and suddenly he isn't in a concrete cell; He's back in your apartment, watching the moonlight play across your collarbones. Each stroke is measured, precise, almost ritualistic, as if he is trying to calibrate his own heartbeat to match yours.

Your name is a broken sound, a whimper of desperation.

He imagines you watching him, not with fear, but with that knowing, steady gaze you reserve only for him. He imagines your hands soft, warm, medicinal guiding him, claiming him. The fantasy isn't just about the physical act; it's about the surrender. He wants to be owned by you so that he doesn't have to own himself anymore.

Dex's grip tightens, his movements losing their clinical precision and becoming something far more feral. The restraint he maintains in the field has evaporated, leaving behind something raw and starved. He isn't just imagining your presence anymore; he is imagining your dominance.

In the theater of your mind, you aren't passive. You are the predator, and he is the willing prey. He sees you straddling him, your hips rolling with a deliberate, devastating confidence. He imagines the crushing, heavenly weight of your thighs pinning him to the mattress, your body a warm anchor that grounds his fractured psyche. He can almost feel the friction of your breasts swaying with every thrust, the soft bounce of them against his chest as you claim him.

His breath comes in ragged stutters. “Yes... fuck, yes.”

He visualizes you leaning forward, your face twisted with a dark, sensual hunger. He imagines your pussy slick, hot, and impossibly tight sliding down his cock like you're swallowing him whole. He wants to feel your internal muscles clench around him, seizing his cock as if you were seizing his very soul. He doesn't want to fuck you; he wants to be consumed by you. He wants you to take every inch of him, to digest his violence and his trauma until there is nothing left of Benjamin Poindexter except what you choose to keep.

The fantasy intensifies: the wet sound of your bodies colliding, the way your voice would thicken into guttural moans as you ride him, driving him toward a breaking point he never thought possible. He imagines your hands gripping his shoulders, nails digging in, marking him as yours.

The pressure builds behind his eyes, a volatile mix of religious ecstasy and obscene need. He strokes himself faster, harder, his vision blurring as he chases the image of your taking possession of his entire existence.

The fantasy spirals into something darker, something more primal. The mental image of you consuming him evolves into a desperate need to leave something behind to mark you, to prove he exists within you.

He imagines the moment of climax not as a release, but as a surrender. In his mind, he has been the perfect soldier, the vigilant guardian, the quiet shadow waiting for her approval. He imagines you looking down at him with that fierce, possessive intensity as he bottoms out inside you, his cock buried to the hilt. He imagines the hot, thick flood of his seed filling you up, each pulse of cum feeling like a confession, a reward for being her loyal weapon. He wants to feel your body clench around his climax as if you were drinking him in, absorbing his very essence until there is no separation between them.

“Good boy,” he whispers to the empty room, his voice cracking. The imagined praise from your lips sends a fresh jolt of electricity straight to his groin.

Then, the image shifts, becoming more obscene, more vivid. He imagines himself pulling out at the last second, the friction leaving his cock throbbing and hypersensitive. He sees you arching your back, your breasts bared to the moonlight, those soft, perfect mounds pale and inviting. In his mind's eye, he sees himself painting your skin thick ropes of cum splattering across the swell of your tits, dripping down the valley between them. He imagines the way they would glisten under the lamplight, the way you would look at him, flushed and marked by his need.

His pace becomes frantic, his muscles locking as he reaches the precipice. His vision whites out. The image of you wet, marked, and utterly claimed is the last thing he sees before his body betrays his control completely.

The control he has maintained his entire life, the discipline of an agent, the precision of a marksman shatters completely. His body goes rigid, every muscle in his lean frame locking tight as the first wave of climax crashes through him with the force of a bullet.

Your name tears from his throat, not as a whisper this time, but as a strangled, desperate moan that echoes off the cold concrete walls.

The release is violent and uncontrolled. In his mind, he is still inside you, feeling the phantom heat of your walls milking him dry. His hips buck involuntarily against the empty air, his cock pulsing spasmodically as he pours himself out. Thick ropes of cum splatter across his own abdomen, hot and sticky, but in his delirium, he imagines each drop landing on your soft skin, marking those perfect breasts, claiming your flesh.

His vision whites out. The world ceases to exist. There is no hideout, no mission, no Bullseye there is only the overwhelming sensory overload of your imagined touch and the raw, aching pleasure of his surrender. His breathing comes in harsh, broken gasps, his chest heaving as his heart hammers against his ribs like a dying bird.

Slow as the tide recedes, the intensity fades, leaving him hollow and shaking. The aftershocks ripple through his thighs, leaving him weak and boneless. As the haze clears, the reality of the sterile, lonely room crashes back down on him. He lies there, exposed and spent, still clutching the stolen silk in his shaking hand. The high is already beginning to curl into something darker, a profound, aching loneliness that only your physical presence can cure.

notes: i already had dex and frank's done, i just needed to edit them, but when i reached 300 followers i decided to speed up the editing and add matt 🙂‍↕️

tag: @hellilovedit

[hellilovedit]

I literally have no words right now (compliment)

[strangelure]

Clingy dex that follows you no matter what time it is... you wake up to use the bathroom at 3am? he is there sitting on the sink ledge waiting to drag you back to bed, got hungry in the middle of the night? He is there leaning on the counter!

Need my man obsessed 🤞

OH. ABSOLUTELY. like you're trying to slip away quietly but the lack of your warmth and a single brush of the bedsheets is enough to wake dex up with a start and he's all like "where you going?" or worse "you leaving me?" he's so incredibly dramatic about it. and like- okay you let him follow you around the house at 3 am but then he's standing there the whole time looking half asleep, his eyes hazy and face so drowsy it makes you feel bad, but if you try to tell him he should go back to bed, that you'll be there in a sec dex just frowns and he huffs, he folds his arms over his chest sternly "no! i'm taking you with me"

[strangelure]

tying up fbi!dex on a chair and blind folding him and you get on your hands and knees to suck him off (ofc he can’t handle it)

using his own handcuffs on him, just to make sure his arms stay behind his back the whole time 🫣 the moment dex feels your hands trailing up his thighs he's already shaking like a pretty leaf moments from being blown away, he squeaks out a "baby, ohhh god i- i can't- can't do this, i want to see you-" and you're like i haven't even started yet dexie and that just makes him breathe out like you've just punched him in the stomach. when you finally swallow him down though? complete silence. he can't even make a sound because he's choking on air, gasping at the overwhelming feeling of your warm mouth when all his other senses are being limited, its not until you pull off him to breath in some much needed oxygen that dex's words finally rip out of him while he thrusts pathetically into the empty air "fuuuuuuuck! come back please- i'll die-". he won't last very long, you can tell as much.

[hellilovedit]

Birthday Surprises

Frank Castle x High School Sweetheart!Reader — Glory Days

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Series Summary: Before war and murder and vengeance, Frank existed as… well, Frank. Young, wary of the world, but determined to make an impact. And then…? Then came you. You changed everything. Ah… to be 18 again.

Chapter Summary: Frank has a minor crash out trying to bake you a cupcake for your birthday. His mom comes to the rescue. Just when you think you’ve had the best birthday of your life thanks to Frank, it quickly turns into the worst because of him.

Warnings: angry!frank at the start (he cares a lot), mother-son angst & baking, multi-pov, birthday fluff, implied underaged drinking & drug use (not active, not reader, you’ll see), grumpy!softie!bf Frankie, i do not specifically state it or write it but hand stuff (m & f) happens off page, unresolved angsty end. pic for aesthetic only, reader’s appearance not described. Frank’s 18, reader’s 19.

w/c: ~5700

(dedicated to @veralinasol - hbd friend, much love 🥳🎁)

Louisa Castiglione Castle considers herself a strong woman. 

Birthed a nine pound baby without an epidural for her one and only geriatric pregnancy. After thirty-six hours of labor, mind you. 

Moved across the globe with no more than a pocketbook full of English, a new husband, and two dimes for a better life, better opportunities. 

It cost her name. Castiglione. Discrimination. Language barriers. Loneliness and culture shock. Even… fear. 

It left her—even at sixty-three—with full, black curls and rich olive skin showing only a shiver of age from Sicily, to remind her of the home left. 

Those things, though, what it cost, Louisa gives credit to her grit, her resilience. It left her with a strict demeanor and a willingness to fight against anything that threatens the life and family she built. 

Having lived in two different countries… things rarely surprise her. 

…Until she finds her son in the kitchen after midnight on a Friday. 

“Francis!” she blurts, hanging onto the doorframe so she doesn’t fall through it. “Francis David, what have you done?” 

Globs of batter stick to the cabinetry in confectioner’s abstraction. 

A pot on the stove pipes steam, smoldering a low, blackened bubble of only god knows what. 

Flour coats the countertops and Frank’s sleep pants in a thick layer. 

Grains of sugar look like they’ve been thrown as edible confetti. 

Every bowl, pan, and whisk Louisa owns  and cherishes lay scattered and smeared in chocolate. 

Foil cupcake liners roll from the ledge and onto the floor, one by one in a mockery. 

At the middle of it all, hands twisted in his hair, looking every bit of wild as the kitchen… her son. 

Frank. 

Short, stout, and quick for her age, Louisa bundles her robe tight and scurries to her son. Concern and demand shake her words. “Answer me, Francis! What are you doing!?” 

She snaps off the burners and nearly has a stroke when she sees the oven’s set to 500* degrees. 

“She, uh—” his voice scratchy, thin. “She likes chocolate.” 

“Who!?” Louisa fires back as she dons a potholder, removing the scorched pot from heat as if it’s toxic waste. 

Frank throws a cold sidelong glare. Who do you think? 

“You suppose burning down my kitchen is going to get her chocolate?” 

Louisa’s always been good at damage control, physical and mental. 

“Tried,” Frank croaks, throwing a hand at the disaster. Flour on his pants, gooey chocolate plastered to his shirt, a silicon spatula melted in the sink. “Fucked it up.” 

His mom bites a groan at the language, her face flush as she zips around to extinguish the fire hazards and salvage her bakeware. 

She’s taught him to cook. 

Baking’s a different beast. 

It takes all of the strength life’s given Louisa Castle to not break as she watches her son stand in helpless shambles over cupcakes in her kitchen at midnight. 

Frank’s having some sort of out of body experience while his mom rushes around him, cleaning his mess, muttering colorful Italian curses. 

Frank doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Towers in front of the oven, unblinking eyes clouded, shoulders slumped. All six-foot-two looking pathetic instead of intimidating. 

The clock on the stove clicks another minute gone. 

1:47 A.M. 

It’s your birthday. And he doesn’t have a fucking thing for you like he planned. 

The shit to buy? Yeah, sure. Easy. 

The shit that actually means something? His mom’s scraping his failure into the trash. 

Louisa slaps the facet off and—

The silence is resounding. 

So fuckin’ final it echoes, grating static in Frank’s eardrums. 

He can do a lot of things. Can’t fuckin’ bake one. single. cupcake for you, though. How’s he supposed to provide when he can’t even do this? 

T-shirt and sweats stained, hair an unruly nest, Frank’s empty stare locks onto a cupcake foil rolling on the counter. Aggravating little arcs, catching air from the fan just right. 

Louisa bundles her arms around herself, standing across the room at the sink, facing the wall of Frank’s back. 

“Are you going to tell me what you’re actually doing down here, Francis?” she whispers with a frazzled edge. 

“Already did.” Short, mean. 

“No, you told me your girlfriend likes chocolate. That doesn’t explain why you broke my whisk and tried to boil my chocolate chips in a dozen eggs.” 

He’s exhausted. He’s pissed. He’s having his first quarter life crisis because you matter. 

Clipped words leave his mouth in tamed snarls. “She- she didn’t ask f’fuckin’ nothin’ cause that’s the type ‘a person she is,” he says. His hands find the chip on the underside of the counter and clamp on until the skin pricks open. “You wanna know what she asked me for?” Knuckles white, forearms cut in angry muscle. “Huh? You wanna know? This girl— this goddamn girl asked me f’the same shit we do every Saturday night. Asked f’a goddamn movie.” 

Louisa looks down. Instead of inspecting the mess on the floor, it’s a spot for realization. 

“Asked me f’that ’cause she’s scared t’ ask f’anythin’ else. ‘Cause she’s selfless ‘n fuckin’ scared ‘n she knows what it’s like to pay the goddamn bills.” 

Louisa’s a strong woman. 

And a good woman will always ache for babies in need, who’ve gotten less than her own. She blinks to bat away the sting. 

Frank turns two steps to face her, his face twisted into a spine-deep contempt. Frenetic eyes land on her, then around her, his massive hands coiled into fists heavier than lead. “Sound familiar t’ you, Ma?” His head tilts, repulsion not aimed at her, but towards the parallel realities you and his mom share. “Selfless ‘n scared ‘n tryna feed a goddamn family? Imagine bein’ eightee— sorry, nineteen—still in school, doin’ that shit. You imagine that, huh?” 

Louisa lowers a hand, a slight signal to calm down. It never works. “No. I can’t imagine that. But she’s a strong young woman, I do know that. And I know you’re a strong young man, Francis.” 

His seething glare finds the place right between her eyes; a challenge to keep talking. It doesn’t deter her the least bit. 

“You’ve got such a big heart, sweetie.” A whisper, the space between them chasmic instead of a few feet. “Sometimes I don’t think you know what to do with all of it. And it scares you, doesn’t it? Not being able to fix it for her. Francis, you’re only a boy too. Stop punishingyourself for that.” 

A bad dog’s snarl wrinkles his nose, bares clenched teeth. “‘Member what you said t’ me? Hm?” Shredded heaves shallow in his chest, his nose. “What you told me when we saw that scumbag piece ‘a shit beatin’ that old lady’s head in f’her five dollars?” 

The dead-on stare tells Frank she remembers and admits to it. 

“Told me t’ be a man ‘bout it, huh? God gave me six feet ‘n two hundred pounds t’ fuckin’ fix shit.” 

Fix shit the hard way. 

“I fixed it, yeah. I did. ‘Member that too?” 

Neither Frank nor Louisa can forget the bloodshed. 

A pool seeping on the sidewalk. 

A grateful old lady who took Frank’s bloody knuckles, squeezed them tight, and thanked him for doing what no cop would to keep her safe. 

Frank trembling as Louisa walked him home. But the shaking wasn’t fear, no… he just didn’t know what to do with the leftover violence. 

Hands out to implore him, Louisa speaks so softly it contradicts her usual nature. “You mustlearn the weight of the world is not yours to bear… There will always be problems and bad men in the world. You must focus on what you can control, dear.” 

Control. Pft. Frank can control if the man fuckin’ breathes or not. Yeah, he’s got control over that. 

“Never met ‘im ‘n I fuckin’ hate ‘im. Think if I ever do? S’gonna take everythin’ in me not t’ kill ‘im dead. World’d be better off without ‘im.” 

“And who gives you the right to make that decision?” 

“Ain’t it obvious he’s a piece ‘a shit? No goddamn purpose in the world. Jus’ a fuckin’ leechwastin’ oxygen.”

“There’s only one God, Frank. Leave those decisions to Him.” 

His ideology’s a losing battle. He knows. So he stuffs the rest behind his teeth, swallows it down. Regurgitates something else, though, something he has to tell someone because the severity’s making him ill. 

“I like her, Ma, like her a lot.” Rage subduing merely from the mention of you on his tongue, your face in his thoughts, Frank rakes a hand over his mouth. Speaks from behind it. “Hell, I— Hell, I love her. ‘N I don’t- don’t know what the hell ‘m doin’, y’know? Ain’t got a fuckin’ clue.” 

He relents a fraction. Drops his back against the edge of the counter, arms in a loose fold. Solemnity on his face now, quieted by the gravity of such a thing. An elemental force he’s never experienced. 

During Frank’s reprieve, it clicks for his mom. She knows what she has to do. Louisa marches through the kitchen, strategic in her operation. 

She grabs the one clean bowl. The only whisk left. Measuring cups. Dumps them all on the counter beside Frank. 

He blinks, brows coming together. “…The hell’re you doin’?” 

Without breaking stride, movements snappy by memory, Louisa turns a knob to preheat the oven. “Helping you figure this out. Come on now.” Two snaps. “Pay attention. Start a pot of coffee. Make it extra strong. Now, Francis, now.” 

A soldier in practice, Frank’s all systems go. He pushes off the counter and into action. Using his hands, movement… it eases the burden of those violent thoughts. He rinses the self-inflicted cut on his hand. Makes the coffee. 

Ma points. He follows. 

Louisa teaches him how to whisk without aggression. And how to properly measure flour by spooning it. And that coffee’s the trick for extra rich chocolate cake (cupcakes included). 

Frank makes the batter with step-by-step instruction and narrowed eyes. 

Iced it, too. A lopsided swirl his mom said “wasn’t bad”. From her? That’s praise. 

By four a.m., the messes get cleaned. It smells like chocolate cake, coffee, buttercream icing, and a tinge of Frank’s sweat. Quiet early morning existence after what started as a disaster. 

Frank slumps in a kitchen chair, struggling to keep his eyes open as he nurses his sixth cup of coffee. 

Louisa sits opposite of him at the table, watching the sky begin to change as the day inevitably comes. 

Between them? 

The one cupcake. 

“You’re a good boy, Francis…” she says after thirty minutes of silence, like maybe that’s what she’s been thinking the entire time. “Stubborn, but good.” 

He scoffs it off. A few months ago he was a watered down version of the Antichrist. Drinks more coffee, but nothing alleviates the weight under his eyes. 

“She will love it,” she affirms again, never once looking at him. “And you. You did good.” 

He isn’t so sure. His fingers tighten on the ceramic until it squeaks. Too tired to fight. 

The chair creaks as Louisa stands. Abandoning her mug, she pads for the door. She stops, though, at Frank. Leans in to press a light kiss in his tangle of curls that match hers. He can’t even bring himself to grumble about it. 

“Get another hour of sleep, Francis. Andare, go. Up to bed. Off with you.” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” 

Louisa snaps again, less demanding this time, as she shuffles from the kitchen. 

Again: Ma points. He follows. Usually. 

They part ways at the staircase. Frank goes up. She goes right. 

“And Francis?” 

Mid-stride, two steps between his legs, he pauses. Looks back over his shoulder. “Yeah?” 

“Don’t let your big heart kill you.” 

Frank thinks nothing of it as he drags himself to bed. Slides into the cool sheets, hand automatically finding your Polaroid as he settles onto his stomach, cheek smashed into the pillow. 

“Happy birthday, pretty girl,” graveled from lack of sleep, over the moon in its softness. “See you soon, hm?”

Your picture in hand, his eyes fall shut before he can resist. 

He sleeps an hour longer, not understanding yet his heart will be the death of him, in time. 

Again and again and again.

“This’s dumb ‘n this’s bad,” Frank grumbles, shoving an envelope and a Tupperware across the cab of the truck at you while he looks anywhere but you with red ears. 

“W-what?” You sputter a laugh at the abruptness, cheeks still invigorated from laughing the entire drive to the drive-in theater from the arcade. 

Parked in your usual spot, the cab of the truck is… cozier than usual. Exaggeratedly so. 

Blankets stacked in plush layer the bench seat, pillows stuffed in the corners to make hard plastic comfortable. And in your arms… a fat Grumpy Bear Care Bear (blue and frowning about its existence) Frank won for you at the arcade because you said it looked like him so you wanted it. 

You point. He follows. Always. 

“Take it.” The container and card push at you again. 

The sky blooms like a bruise, navy blues bleeding to black. It hides most of his face, but the flickering reel of film onscreen catches the nervous flit of his eyes. 

Arms around the bear, your eyes drift down to the container… and drag back up to his tense expression. Lock-jawed and avoidant. 

This—whatever it is—has him riled up and nervous like a bad dog. 

Bear sitting in your lap, you take both. The container joins Grumpy on your thighs. 

Card first, you hear the memory of your mom say. It’s polite. 

Soft rips as your finger inches through the envelope seal. It’s the only sound between you. 

Frank sits off to the side, his elbow on the window frame, hand over his mouth as he pretends to watch the movie. 

Your knees angle at him as you tug the card free. It’s minimal with no nonsense, but still pretty, tasteful. Printed cursive happy birthday on the front surrounded by watercolor candles. Something he definitely picked out himself. 

Right as your fingers go to open it, Frank interrupts in a strained tone. “Don’t gotta read it now. Leave it f’later, yeah?” 

Your thumb between the cover. “…But I wanna read it now.” 

“Nah. Do it later.” 

“I’m reading it now.” 

“Jeez—” Frank huffs, waves off arguing, cuts short the grumble of Jesus Christ it was going to turn into. 

You’re hungry for this. So hungry you forgot starvation is a form of acceptance you made friends with long ago. 

Careful… so fucking careful… you thumb open the heavy cardstock. Your breath catches when the inside’s packed with his sharp, blocky writing:

Sweetheart,

Ain’t good with words, you know that. But you make me wanna try. Don’t know what the hell I’m doin’, just know I wanna do it right with you. Ain’t ever felt like this before. How you make me feel. Think I’m goin’ crazy sometimes. For you. Don’t even know myself anymore ‘cuz you make me a whole damn person. Make me wanna be a better person, yeah. Better man. You deserve the world. Gonna give it to you, sweetheart. I swear on it & I ain’t a liar. 

Love you. Lots. Hope you love me too. Lots. 

Your Frankie 

You don’t recall curling your hand around your mouth to stifle a sob. Or when the words got blurry from tears in your eyes. 

Preventing a breakdown or trying to change the subject, Frank reaches out. Gently pulls the trembling card from your hand. Closes it nice. Sets it on the blanket by your thigh. Taps the lid of the plastic ware twice with one finger. 

“Ain’t much,” he says, voice so thin it’s almost gone. “Sorry.” 

Little bursts of shaking your head diminish his downplaying. “No,” wobbly but firm, “no, it’s gonna be great, whatever it is—” stopping yourself with a sniffle, you bat your eyes clear. 

Okay, open the lid. You can do this. You can do this and accept things without crying. 

But you’ve been so alone you forgot how overwhelming accepting love is. 

To love and be loved is to be vulnerable. There are no facades. Maybe that’s what gets you the most: the fact of Frank stripping away his gritty demeanor, willingly cracking himself open for you to see. To… accept him, as he’s accepted you. The good, the bad, the ugly. All of him, all of you… together. 

Peeling the lid off, the scent of decadent chocolate pours out, fills the truck. 

“…Wha…?” blinking down, a stunned laugh flings your mouth into a wide smile. “Frankie…” 

You pass Grumpy Bear to Frank, using both hands to cradle the cupcake out from the container. Much like you would a baby animal; the gentlest of hands protecting something delicate, precious. 

You scrunch to have it at eye-level, awe shaping your mouth in a circle, brows wiggling up under the magnitude of one singular cupcake. 

“Chocolate on chocolate…” you laugh again, marveling over the spongey cake, the plop of icing. “My favorite.” 

Mouth clamped shut, Frank gives one uncertain nod. “Pro’lly gonna taste like shit,” he gruffs. 

You shake your head again, glowing. “If it does I won’t tell you. I won’t even notice,” you tease. It won’t. You know it won’t. “You… made this?” you ask, your eyes over the icing peaks. 

He shrugs a shoulder, throws a hand up. “…Had help.” 

He glances over a second long enough to see your brow raised in question. 

“Ma,” he mumbles. “Can’t take all the credit. Almost burned the goddamn house down tryin’.” 

“You almost burned down your house… for me? For… this?” You hold up the cupcake. 

Frank shrugs again. Then nods. “Take a bite so if you gotta throw up it ain’t durin’ the good parts ‘a the movie.” 

The laugh stays in your belly this time, a fragment breathed out from your nose. Peeling the foil wrapped down one side, you indulge. You take a full bite, teeth scraping cool icing first. Thick, creamy. And then the cake. Velvety and moist and mashing flawlessly together as you chew, moaning around it. You can taste when something’s made with love. It’s rich, the effort mixed in, the love adding indescribable flavor. 

“Oh my god, Frank…” you hum, hand covering the crumbs on your lips from view as your eyes flicker shut. “This is the best cupcake I’ve ever had.” 

“Bullshit,” he glances back and forth at you. Won’t let himself stare, certainly won’t let himself believe it. “Blowin’ smoke up m’ass.” 

“Nuh-uh, mmm, nhm, no way… Here, try for yourself.” You scoot closer, placing the cupcake in front of his mouth and your other hand beneath to catch crumbles. 

Frank hesitates. Eyes cross at the cupcake in front of his nose, then at you for… permission? You can’t tell, he looks almost… skeptically bewildered. Eyes wide but sharp, head jerked back against the headrest. 

Encouragement he needs, you dance the cupcake in front of his mouth. “C’mon, seriously. Try it.” 

One last look at your smile—goofy and small—Frank surrenders. Takes a bite, his teeth carving out bigger impressions over your tracks. 

Knees touching his, you pull the cake close to your chest and study his reaction. 

He chews… cautiously. 

He eyes you… suspiciously. 

He swallows, throat slinking. 

You raise your brows, nodding along in a wordless right? right? 

“…Shit, that’s good,” he tilts his head, eyes narrowed with fondness on the cupcake. 

“So good.” 

You share the rest with him. You trade bites, feeding Frank when it’s his turn. He lets you. You wonder if there’s anything he wouldn’t allow. You doubt it.  

You dust the crumbs from the corner of his mouth with two fingers. 

He licks his thumb and smudges off icing from your chin. 

You scrape the wrapper clean with your bottom teeth. Frank doesn’t judge. 

When it’s all said and done, the container tucked into the footwell, you find yourselves tangled together. 

One long leg kicked up on the seat, Frank reclines against the driver’s side door, pillow propped behind his back. 

Grumpy Bear back in your arms, you lay between his legs, your back against his chest and your blanketed legs sprawled down the bench. 

The card pokes out the top of your purse. Your eyes keep drifting to the empty container. 

Head tipped back against the window, Frank watches the movie. Or looks convincing enough. One of his hands rests at your bicep, thumb smoothing your arm. The other drapes across your collarbone, a dormant possessiveness to it even in rest. 

Head forward and movie forgotten, you toy with the bear in your lap, hyperaware of every warm inch of Frank beside you, behind you, around you. The weight of his arm eases your breathing. The steady rise and fall of his chest lulls you to contentment.

“…So which one’s supposed to be dumb and which one’s bad?” you ask, quiet as the movie audio trickles in static from the radio. 

“Card’s dumb, cupcake’s bad,” he says without hesitation. 

“…No, Frank. Not even close. They’re both so… perfect.” Smile so profoundly happy it’s sad, your eyes glimmer as you crane your head back to look at him. “…Is that why you’ve been acting strange all night? You were nervous about giving those to me?” 

Frank tuts a breath off his tongue, does a double take with his mouth open, but no excuse comes. 

“…I love it,” your murmur, face smooth as you struggle for power over the aching flood of warmth in your chest. “…I’ve… only got one birthday card since my mom died. She… she used to get me one every year, like this.” You gesture to your purse, the envelope. “Write nice things in it and said some words were meant to be on paper so we can keep them.” 

“Yeah,” Frank says, pauses. “She was right. Smart lady.” His eyes track down to you finally. Jawline harsh, eyes soft. He lifts the hand from your collarbone, brushes his knuckles against your neck, the underside of your jaw. “Havin’ ‘n alright time?” 

You squeeze his hand with your chin, nod. “I’ve never had such a good birthday. This is the best one ever.” 

“Pfft.”  

“Stop, I’m serious… Thank you.” 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, taking your chin to tilt your head back, nudge his forehead against yours. “No problem. Like doin’ things f’you, you know that?” 

You push your nose against his, grin soft. “Gonna spoil me if you’re not careful.” 

“S’the plan.” 

“Shut up,” you laugh. 

“You’re the one that keeps talkin’ durin’ the movie,” but he’s grinning too. 

“As if you care about this movie.” 

“Sweetheart, I don’ even know what fuckin’ movie we’re watchin’.” 

As soon as you bust out laughing, his dumbass chuckle makes an appearance. All deep in his chest, out through his little teeth. It’s a sound that’s yours, since he only makes it with you. You cherish every one. 

The chuckle stops when you shift, his hands coming off you. 

You move with careful intention, seating yourself to face him in his lap. 

He swallows as he meets your stare, face skewed so much he’s unreadable. A line in his brows, dark eyes working a gentle assessment over you. 

“Whatchu doin’, huh?” he whispers, shifting to give your knees more room on either sides of his hips. 

Kissing him’s your answer. 

Hands planted on his chest, you lean down. Your lips find his with all the time in the world and every bit of gratitude you have. Soft lips, firm latches—your thanks best expressed physically. 

Frank bands an arm around your waist, sculpts the side of your face with his other hand. Tension bleeds from his body, melting under you. 

That’s the power you have over Frank. You leash the beast. Give him a safe space to be more than angry. 

As the kiss blisters to teeth and tongue and want, Frank yanks back. 

“Don’t,” he grunts, body jolting as if lashed. “Don’t gotta do this. Ain’t why ‘m doin’ this f’you, alright? You know that? Ain’t expectin’ anything like that outta this. You don’t owe me shit, alright? You tell me you know that?” 

Breathless, lips swollen and hot, you peer back to meet his wild, darkening stare. “I know,” you whisper. “I know.” 

The movie goes forgotten. 

Neither of you catch the title. 

In the passenger seat, you sit ramrod straight and electric with leftover thrill. 

As he drives you home one handed, Frank glances at you from the corner of his eye every other second, wearing an infuriatingly dopey little smile. 

Your leg bounces. 

The street lights cycle through the truck. 

Endorphins exploding inside of you, you almost blurt you love him again. You don’t, you keep your shit straight. 

Wind whistles through Frank’s cracked window. 

You feel… changed. And charged. And empowered. For the better, having given an untouched piece of yourself to the first person you‘ve loved and trusted. 

It wasn’t all the way, no. You’re not ready for that, he isn’t either, but it’s a start. Small start at a pace you’re both comfortable with. It’s trust and loyalty and the specific vulnerability that ties directly to loving someone. 

And you can hardly sit with the exhilaration of it. 

Brakes squeak as Frank rolls the truck to a stop outside of your apartment. 

Six stories of neglected brick, threads of ivy consume the building like it knows demolition is better suited. You stare at it through the passenger window. One light flickers beside the main door, begging to die out. The other’s long deceased. A tomcat—lean and mean with a clipped tail—prowls through tall, weedy grass littered with trash to hunt the bountiful vermin. 

Frank leans forward to stare too, a brow quirked as he bites his tongue. 

“Home sweet home,” you mutter, but it lacks your usual disdain. You can’t find hatred so close to the surface after tonight. 

Best birthday ever with the best boyfriend ever. You intend to keep him as long as he wants to stay. 

“Sure your old man ain’t gonna shit hemorrhage me bringin’ you home so late?”

“Hm?” A distracted hum, your eyes tearing away from the dregs of the complex. “No, it’s fine. He won’t know.” 

“You’re sure.”

“Positive.”

“Swear.” 

“Okay.” 

You turn, offering your pinky. His’s already there, thick and rough and you shiver at the thought. 

Your fingers bind together in a promise. 

Tension doesn’t leave Frank, but the promise appeases him, his shoulders falling as he lets out a breath. 

“Lemme walk you up, huh?” 

“Can’t,” you murmur, your smile an apology. “That would have him shit hemorrhaging if he was awake.”  

Frank sighs, easing your joint fingers to his chest. “Alright. Call you after I get home?” 

“Yeah,” a soft smile in place, scooting in closer for a final goodbye. “Call me when you get home.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Frank guides you by the hand to fall into him. 

You do, effortlessly. 

Your cheek on his shoulder, your arms around his neck. Eyes scrunched shut, you squeeze tight. 

“Thank you so much, Frankie,” you whisper, your arms bunched until they quake. 

“Hey, yeah,” he rumbles, big hands warm splayed across your back. “Anytime, pumpkin, hear me? Anytime.” And he seals it with a kiss to your head. “Ain’t no trouble.” 

Unraveling from the hug, you don’t get to go far.

Hands on your back, Frank grunts, head canted to stay in your face. “Forgettin’ sumthin’?” 

“Nooo,” you lean in, rubbing your nose over his. “You didn’t give me a chance. Patience goes a long way, Francis.” 

The grumbling starts, so you staunch it. 

You kiss him again, your lips curled into a smile so wide he gets your teeth. 

“Ain’t what I was talkin’ ‘bout,” he mumbles against your mouth, an impish little smirk twitching.  

“No?” you ask, teeth clicking his while you kiss and talk. 

“Nah.”

“Then what?” 

“S’pposed t’ say you love me, hm?” 

Head falling back, your laughter fills the truck. 

“Again— didn’t give me a chance. I was getting to it.” 

Playfully impatient, he waves a hand to have you get to it. 

“I love you,” you emphasize each of the three words. Slow, heavy rolls off your tongue as your forehead presses into his. 

“Yeah, s’what I was waitin’ for,” he stamps a kiss to your chin, tip of your nose. It feels like praise. “Love you too, pretty girl, really do.” 

“Lots?”

“Lots.” 

Goodbye kisses feel different, you’re realizing when you kiss him one last time. 

It’s a slower fit of mouths, a softer lock; memorizing the sensation and taste of someone before the seconds are gone and you’re without. 

And the seconds are up. 

With painstaking reluctance, you two separate in a soft click of lips. 

Your eyes settle on his face to commit him like this to memory. Soft and sweet for you, leading and generous without ever having been asked. You palm his cheek, the stubble rough. He leans into you without apology; an intrinsic force compelling him to your touch. 

You feel it too. See it, in the intensity of his stare, as though you’re an anomaly he’s yet to figure out and needs a lifetime to explore. The… invisible thread in the air made of something durable. Whatever it is—this energy, this force—wires you together in ways that… fit. Withstand. Complementary. Two halves coming to a whole when you’re with each other. Better together. 

“Call me?” you ask, fingers curling down his cheek. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, turning his head to catch your fingers in a fleeting kiss before they drop. “Call you real soon, sweetheart. Happy birthday, pretty girl.” 

Halfway out the door, purse over your shoulder, you look back at him. “…Thank you, Frank. For everything. I’m happy the world gave me you.” 

“Yeah,” he says, eyes flicking away like it’s too much to bear. “Me too.” 

You fly up the stairs and through the front door like a bat out of hell. 

The must of your dad’s territory downstairs can’t tarnish your excitement any. 

Stiff precaution, heart hammering, you whirl the front door closed and— stop before it hits the frame. Gently, so gently not even the hinges care to betray you, you twist the knob and slot the door closed. A quiet latch of the locks. 

Not a single conscious sound. Just the muffled reruns of The Price Is Right coming from the living room. You listen… and listen… eyes on the ceiling to focus for the one sound you need…

The snores. It comes in a piggish inhale from the living room recliner. Gut-deep, liquor-induced snores. 

Dad’s asleep. Good. 

You breathe a sigh of relief, liquifying against the front door until you slide your way to the floor. 

You’re alive and giddy in ways you’ve never felt before—no one’s ever made you feel this way. 

A new step taken, an exploration of touch that left you galvanized yet limp and blissful and entirely enamored by Frank Castle. 

Heat stays on your cheeks. The butterflies… oh, how wild they squirm in your stomach. The elation, it’s almost violent. Dizzied with giddy ecstasy, thrumming with excitement, you slap a hand over your mouth to giggle into it and fall over onto the floor. 

But under your temple… that’s not the floor. 

You blink, sit upright, and your heart does a flip. 

Another envelope. With your name on it. 

It’s card sized, but thick. You turn it over in your hands, testing the weight, the intention. Is it really from…?

Your eyes drift to the living room. All you can see is the back of the chair, the spilt bottle of Jim Beam, and your dad’s arm dangling off the side where he sits. 

“…You remembered?” you whisper to the idea of him, throat closing. “Maybe this really is the best birthday ever…” 

On a mindless track, you take yourself to your room. You read and reread your name etched onto the front. 

You haven’t seen Dad’s writing in… God, years? Maybe this is what it looks like now. Short, angry and all caps.  

Opening a card from your dad requires… privacy. How’re you supposed to react after a lifetime of inattention from him? Now you’re getting acknowledgment on the anniversary of the day you made him a father? 

The lock clicks shut behind you. Blindly reaching, you fumble on your bedside lamp and fold yourself on the mattress. The phone rattles as you drag it onto the bed with you. Frank’s gotta hear about this, gotta be the first person you tell. 

Okay. Okay. 

First thing’s first, you grab the card from Frank. Opening it with convulsing hands, you smooth the spine so his words lay up and stare right at you. Right now? His support’s exactly what you need, even if just in his note. 

“You’re the best,” you say to his handwriting, biting your bottom lip to rein in your smile. “Thanks for being my best friend, Frankie.” 

You’ll tell him that too once he calls. He promised he would, so he will. 

Taking in a steeling breath, you brace at the sealed lining of the envelope. 

“Okay… Here goes nothing…”

Little tears. Uncoordinated fingers. The glue must know you’re in a hurry because it’s uncooperative. 

“Jeez,” you laugh under your breath. “Must be something good in here.” 

Anything will be good, close to perfect, even. Right? 

With a final, decisive rip, you accidentally shred the envelope in half. 

“Ope! Oh!” 

Pictures fall out. Dozens of them. 

Blurry Polaroids unfamiliar to you. 

“…what?” another laugh pushes from your chest, but this one… it’s different. It’s a struggle to understand, your brows pinching down, your heart plummeting to your stomach. 

These aren’t your photos. 

“…What the hell?” 

They’re Frank’s. 

The cupcake curdles in your belly. The warmth of the night evaporates. Nausea churns and ties sickening knots in your gut. 

“Wh- what is this…?” 

Breath stutters from your nose, short, frightened trembles. 

Pictures spun out over your legs, Frank’s card, fear drains you of color as you lean in closer. 

Closer, and you see a different reality. 

Closer, and you see Frank.  

Frank with a rolled dollar in his nose and a line of white powder at the end. 

Frank with two forty ounce beers duct-taped to his hands, looking so glazed and gone he’s a fucking ghost.

Frank lounging on someone’s couch, another classmate—Vanessa, from the cheerleading squad—curled comfortably into his side as she grins and reaches for the joint in his mouth. 

And then other girls you don’t know. 

One with her arms around his neck. 

Another sitting on his shoulders as they both raise red solo cups. 

And another, Frank shirtless and on his knees as he slugs a beer bong held by three girls in crop tops and captivated smiles. 

Frank, stone cold serious and entirely wasted in a cutoff as he flexes one arm, and totes a pretty girl—you think you’ve seen her with Billy Russo before—on the other like it’s her personal perch. And the smile she wears…? She knows it, too. 

There’s no card. Only rotten evidence of a man you don’t know. Your Frank. Maybe who he really is when you’re not looking. 

Tears bite your eyes again tonight, but the reason’s putrid. 

Insides soured, your heart shriveled and combusted, the pain… god, it fucking oozes through you like disease. Sludgy and black, stopping up your arteries and windpipe. It chokes you, the stifling anguish of putting your full trust in someone and finding out you don’t know them at all. 

By your foot, to the side of the photos… you see it. A torn piece of paper with ratty corners and that same angry, striking writing from the envelope:

YOU REALLY THINK YOU KNOW HIM? THINK AGAIN. 

The phone rings. 

It’s Frank keeping his promise. 

And you puke all over the fucking floor. 

The phone rings again.

You never answer. 

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divider creds: pxrce-lain & cloudsuee / pics from Pinterest

[heav3nb9by]

THE ANGST IS HERE N I CAN'T HANDLE IT, THE HURT IS TOO MUCH

[elixirofoutcasts]

Kinda hate how anything in Bucky fluff is Bucky giving comfort instead of the other way round. Like my geriatric man needs someone to hold him together when he can’t, too, yk.

[heav3nb9by]

i will dotes on him so hard, he will never even think abt leaving me 😩😩😩