A/n: Hey all! I know it’s been like fifteen years but I’ve been super busy and will probably stay super busy. But I wrote this out last night after thinking about it for days. I hope you all enjoy and thank you all for all your support, it means a lot to me. I love you!
Summary: He’s all bronzed confidence, a stupid fly boy you should hate. Yet, you can’t help the little thoughts that plague your mind.
Warnings: f! reader, kissing, mentions of violence and panic attacks, angsty ending
Sometimes you wonder what it would be like to hold him. To reach out and run your fingertips across his brazen skin. To trace along the dips of muscle and curves of his form. To take him into your embrace and hold him tight.
It’s a lost thought, but you wish you could run your fingers through the strands of his blond hair, too perfect and too neat. To pull parts free and release him from the chains of impeccability. Hold his head against your chest, let him hear your fluttering heart in exchange for the closeness of his form, the comfort his weight can bring.
What it would be like to hold the side of his jaw, feel the strength as it flexes in your palm, see the pink lips that are slightly chapped. Feel the apple of his cheeks when they stretch to show his dashing smile, all sparkling white teeth with the one small chip in the bottom, thanks to a metal gate in his childhood on the farm.
You often wonder about touching your forehead to his own, resting your heads against one another, a simple and intensely intimate gesture. To lock eyes, to share a million words through a single silent glance. To watch his green eyes flutter closed, long eyelashes soft, the delicate skin of his eyelids stretched. To lean forward and feel the warmth of his breath wash over your face. To slowly press your lips against his own.
He would be a soft slow kisser, you know it.
To run your fingers along his arms, down the sun kissed skin pulled taut over strength and overwork. To find the little faint freckles that map across his body like tiny constellations, tiny stories of the life he's lived and how he's grown. To reach his palm, five fingers full of dexterity and ability. The blunt tips of his nails, the few hangnails, the calluses on the pads.
Intertwine your hands, let him completely envelope yours, let him run his thumb along the meat of your palm. Let him bring it to his lips and press a long kiss to the top of your hand. Let him gaze into your eyes, his own swirling with warmth and worship and just love.
His kisses would speak a thousand words with one touch, you know it.
You wonder what it would be like in the mornings, soft light flooding the room, vision hazy before the world seemed to be awake. The warmth of his form next to yours, chest rising and falling, blond lashes closed and lips slightly parted.
Maybe one arm would be wrapped around you, maybe his legs would try and tangle with yours, maybe his arm would be behind his head. It’d be perfect. Him shirtless and warm and snuggly.
You didn't find chest hair attractive until him.
You’d let your eyes rake over him as long as you were able. Burn his form into your memory, when he’s soft and sated and the facade is torn down. The hid away boy, full of love and life and excitement brought out from his hole for you to see.
He would slowly stir, waking up and smiling once realizing you’re next to him. He’d turn into your form, tuck his head away into your neck and breathe you in. His fingertips would trace the tip of your ear, find purchase on the back of your head, hold the weight in his palm.
He’d press a kiss to your neck, a kiss to the spot beneath your ear, a kiss along your jaw, another one for good measure, a kiss to your cheek, up to your temple, over to the midst of your forehead, down to the spot between your eyebrows, down to the tip of your nose.
Your cheeks would already be aching from the large smile on your face, your heart bursting beneath your chest, your hands running along the strength of his arms holding him above you.
A kiss to the corner of your mouth, another one to the other corner, down to the base of your chin.
“Jake, please.”
He wouldn’t say anything, but a chuckle would rumble through his chest, his eyes still closed.
He would brush his nose against yours, rubbing it back and forth like a dog until finally he’d be fed up with his teasing and press those plush lips against your own. You’d instantly relax into it, your head falling into his palm, his lips curling up into a grin.
When he pulls back, you’re all giddy and happy and his eyes would fall onto your face, full of mirth and adoration, that dashing smirk proud on his face.
“You’re annoying.”
“You’re pretty.”
Your eyes would roll and your cheeks would be set ablaze, but you’d wrap your arms around his neck and pull him back down for another kiss, and another after that.
His kisses are addictive, you know it.
You can’t help but to watch him at the Hard Deck, watch him in training, listen to his voice over the comms.
The confidence, the pride, if only it was directed at you. If that teasing grin would be held for you. If his voice would call your name. If those green eyes scanned and searched for yours. If they would light up when they found your form.
You didn’t find hot shots attractive until him.
God, what it would be like for him to saunter over, pull you into a hug, not paying attention to anyone else. For him to whisper in his ear how happy he is to see you, how much he missed you. To press a kiss to the spot beneath your ear, soft and delicate and private. The little shy boy uncovering his head for only a quick second. Then he’d press one to your lips, loud and riveting and showing the world who you belong to, all macho confidence.
He’d love showing you off, you know it.
But the coldhearted boldness, it’s an act, something that makes it easier for him to work through the stress. It reassures him, it’s something he can control in a world where you can never rely on anything.
You wonder what it would be like to say to him it’s okay, it’ll be alright. To hear the same words echoed back.
We’ll figure it out, don’t worry.
To be able to break down the thick stony walls of “hangman” and meet the well mannered, kind hearted “Jacob Seresin.”
He has the biggest heart, you know it.
To be able to run to him in the middle of the night when your thoughts can’t slow down or stop. When fear rears its ugly head and rules your emotions. When the things you’ve done come bubbling up to the surface.
For him to open his arms, let you hide away in his embrace. Tuck yourself away from the thoughts, away from the world, away from war. Anchor yourself to his heart, let your soul tangle with his.
He would lean his head on top of your own, his hands would rub up and down your spine, he wouldn’t say anything, he wouldn’t need to.
He already knows what you need, what you feel, what your heart breaks for, you know it.
He wouldn’t let go until he was sure you were okay. Even if that meant pulling you into a warm bath and keeping you firmly tucked into his chest. Even when you teased him about just wanting to see your boobs to try and lighten the mood.
You wonder if he’d ever let you do the same. When the confident mask cracks, when the little boy, afraid and small is left vulnerable, if he would run to you. When the silent tears run down his cheeks, ones he can’t hold back no matter how hard he fights. If he would let you brush them away, if he would let you rub the knots from his shoulders, if he would let you coo into his ear.
You never wanted to care for someone until him.
But you can’t. It won’t happen. It’s just a fleeting thought.
He’s untouchable, off limits, not safe.
The confidence, the personality he’s given himself is one where no connections are formed, no bonds.
You’ve done just the same.
It’s easier that way, less painful.
When it’s flags that come home instead of smiles and laughter, when parents can no longer hug their sons and daughters, when the deepest bonds are severed permanently.
It’s easier that way, safer.
No one to count on, no one to fear for, no one to lose.
So as you watch him laugh with the others, when you feel your heart reach out to him, you can’t, you know it.
A/n: Hey all! I know it’s been like fifteen years but I’ve been super busy and will probably stay super busy. But I wrote this out last night after thinking about it for days. I hope you all enjoy and thank you all for all your support, it means a lot to me. I love you!
Summary: He’s all bronzed confidence, a stupid fly boy you should hate. Yet, you can’t help the little thoughts that plague your mind.
Warnings: f! reader, kissing, mentions of violence and panic attacks, angsty ending
Sometimes you wonder what it would be like to hold him. To reach out and run your fingertips across his brazen skin. To trace along the dips of muscle and curves of his form. To take him into your embrace and hold him tight.
It’s a lost thought, but you wish you could run your fingers through the strands of his blond hair, too perfect and too neat. To pull parts free and release him from the chains of impeccability. Hold his head against your chest, let him hear your fluttering heart in exchange for the closeness of his form, the comfort his weight can bring.
What it would be like to hold the side of his jaw, feel the strength as it flexes in your palm, see the pink lips that are slightly chapped. Feel the apple of his cheeks when they stretch to show his dashing smile, all sparkling white teeth with the one small chip in the bottom, thanks to a metal gate in his childhood on the farm.
You often wonder about touching your forehead to his own, resting your heads against one another, a simple and intensely intimate gesture. To lock eyes, to share a million words through a single silent glance. To watch his green eyes flutter closed, long eyelashes soft, the delicate skin of his eyelids stretched. To lean forward and feel the warmth of his breath wash over your face. To slowly press your lips against his own.
A/n: Hey all! I know it’s been like fifteen years but I’ve been super busy and will probably stay super busy. But I wrote this out last night after thinking about it for days. I hope you all enjoy and thank you all for all your support, it means a lot to me. I love you!
Summary: He’s all bronzed confidence, a stupid fly boy you should hate. Yet, you can’t help the little thoughts that plague your mind.
Warnings: f! reader, kissing, mentions of violence and panic attacks, angsty ending
Sometimes you wonder what it would be like to hold him. To reach out and run your fingertips across his brazen skin. To trace along the dips of muscle and curves of his form. To take him into your embrace and hold him tight.
It’s a lost thought, but you wish you could run your fingers through the strands of his blond hair, too perfect and too neat. To pull parts free and release him from the chains of impeccability. Hold his head against your chest, let him hear your fluttering heart in exchange for the closeness of his form, the comfort his weight can bring.
What it would be like to hold the side of his jaw, feel the strength as it flexes in your palm, see the pink lips that are slightly chapped. Feel the apple of his cheeks when they stretch to show his dashing smile, all sparkling white teeth with the one small chip in the bottom, thanks to a metal gate in his childhood on the farm.
You often wonder about touching your forehead to his own, resting your heads against one another, a simple and intensely intimate gesture. To lock eyes, to share a million words through a single silent glance. To watch his green eyes flutter closed, long eyelashes soft, the delicate skin of his eyelids stretched. To lean forward and feel the warmth of his breath wash over your face. To slowly press your lips against his own.
synopsis ; you make jake's dreams come true. aka the face sitting fic
wc ; 2.7k
warnings ; 18+ only, minors do NOT interact; literally just filth; established relationship; face sitting; like one mention of choking; dirty talk; tiny bit of spanking; some power dynamics but nothing crazy; oral (f!receiving); one mention of public sex
note ; a lot of people wanted this pls don't blame me. technically part of the bad habit universe but can 100% be read separately!
title from lovesick by banks.
Jake looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.
“Or maybe, like… not,” you backtrack immediately, feeling the blood rushing into your cheeks. “Forget I said anything. It doesn’t matter, it’s fine, never mind….”
“Sweetheart,” Jake says, enunciating very clearly, from where he’s still spread out on the bed, propped up on his elbows. “What the fuck?”
“Say it again.”
Jake has this thing he sometimes does. When his voice goes just a little stern, a little tense, the tone clipped with a mixture of authority and anticipation that leaves no room for argument.
Jake has this thing he sometimes does. When his voice goes just a little stern, a little tense, the tone clipped with a mixture of authority and anticipation that leaves no room for argument.
Immediately, your knees go weak, and before whatever part of your brain is responsible for logic can talk you out of it, you’re saying, “I want to try sitting on your face.”
And that’s a lot for a Tuesday afternoon.
In the few months you’ve been with Jake, you thought most of your inhibitions were swept away in the waves of filth he seems to spew like he gets paid for it. You’ve fucked all over his apartment - in the kitchen and the living room and the shower - and you even had a pretty memorable moment in a bathroom at the Hard Deck that ended with your soaked panties stuffed into his service khakis.
Now you find that, apparently, there’s still some shame left in you.
You can’t look at him, so you stare down at the paisley print of the bed sheets. The weight of his gaze crawls across your skin.
“You want to sit on my face?” Jake repeats, his voice simmering with a low heat that travels straight from your ears down your spine.
“Only if…” You bite your lower lip, shrug, feel your heartbeat kick up a notch and then another. “Only if you want to.”
Jake laughs, and the sound startles you. You glance up at him, his tanned body awash in the dimming afternoon light, the sheets folded like mountainsides around him.
“Honey,” he says, “I think I told you to sit on my face the first time I ever fucked you. Fuck do I want this.”
It always makes you giddy to hear he’s just as hungry for you as you are for him. It’s all the time too, in the morning, in the evening, at dinners with your friends and his hand way too high up on your thigh. Incredible that either one manages to get any work done in between Jake railing you to the brink of consciousness.
“Come here,” he says and stretches his arms out to you.
You go immediately, always so easy for it. The mattress dips beneath your weight, the sheets crinkle where your knees dig into the fabric, and then his mouth is on yours, his fingers tangled in your hair, his tongue slips between your teeth. It’s the warmth of familiarity, of knowing what it is that makes him tick the same way he does, and it lights a spark inside of you.
Jake fucks his tongue into your mouth a few times, sloppy and filthy from the beginning. There’s no use for pretending, for coyness, for pleasantries, not after so much time together. You know who he is.
His thumb drags down the front of your throat, and he presses down just once, the barest hint of pressure. Against his mouth, your breath hitches. It’s a promise of something else he’ll show you, something else he’ll offer, and you’ll deny first, scared and curious in equal measures, and then you’ll come back in a few months and ask for it. And he’ll give it to you. It’s the way it always goes with the two of you. A familiar dance.
“Look so hot,” Jake whispers into your mouth, tugging at the edge of your shirt. His shirt, really, old and worn and holes littering near the collar. “Had me staring at this little ass every time you bent over.”
An open palm lands on your asscheek. It’s not forceful enough to hurt, but the sound of skin on skin claps through the air regardless and you yelp, jerk forward.
“Hey!” you call, pushing away from him, but Jake just laughs and pulls you in again, pulls you over him, arranges you so your legs fall open around his hips, so he can drag you down towards where he’s half-hard in his boxers.
Then he’s grinning up at you, hair still a mess, eyes still lidded with lassitude, but something else sparkling behind them too. He keeps his hands high up on your legs, cupping the backs of your thighs, thumbs digging into the skin.
“You did it on purpose?” he asks, his pointer finger traveling up and in, inching slowly, ever so slowly, towards where you know slick is beginning to gather. “Not wearing any panties so I can get a good look at your pretty pussy?”
You’re shaking your head in protest, but the effect is diminished when the hand around your thigh tightens and you moan.
“No,” you gasp, and it’s pathetic considering you’re rocking down against him, voice breaking when your clit catches against his dick, settles on the fabric of his boxers, “couldn’t… dryer’s not through yet.”
He grins, and you can’t describe that expression as anything but devious. “So you decided to walk through the house without panties, huh?”
You shrug even though you’re already teetering on top of him, stomach clenching rhythmically. “It’s just you,” you say.
Jake hums, using the leverage on your legs to pull you more forcefully against him, your center moving over his length. Voice a tad breathless, he says, “And I get to see your pussy any time I want, huh? You gonna let me get a good look soon as I ask, won’t you, sweetheart?”
Embarrassment curls low in your chest, but you barely notice it. Not with the shivers racking up and down your back at his words, not with the heat he pours into your veins. He knows the answer, of course, as do you, but hearing him say it is exhilarating every time. Because you’re Jake’s, just as he’s yours.
“Yeah,” you breathe softly. “Anytime.”
Jake’s grin grows. “Good girl,” he says, then he taps the side of your thigh. “Now get up here and sit on my face.”
The nerves get the better of you somewhere over his chest, and you hover, hesitance roaring its ugly head. What if I crush him? that’s all you can think, and you bite your lower lip, sink your fingernails into the top of your thighs.
Jake raises an eyebrow. “I thought I told you to get up here, didn’t I?”
You swallow around the lump in your throat, shrug, say, “I don’t… maybe this is a bad idea.”
Without looking at him, you make a move to climb off, but Jake’s quicker. He catches you by the wrists, lets his fingers slide down over the plane of your palms and tangles them with your own. Pulls your arms down into the sheets on either side of his head.
“Do you really not wanna do this,” he asks, “or are you just getting cold feet? Cause one we can work around, the other we can’t.”
You glance at your interlocked hands, his skin against yours, and shrug again.
“Not an answer, honey,” Jake reprimands gently but firmly.
The longer you’re with him, the more you understand that Jake isn’t really someone you can lie to. He’s painfully perceptive, at least when it comes to you. Like he’s attuned to your every minuscule expression, every dip or rise in your voice.
You sigh and nod. “I’m nervous,” you admit.
“Nervous about what?”
“I don’t know….” You blink into the sunlight streaming in from the window just to avoid his eyes. “Maybe you won’t like it.”
Jake scoffs. “Honey, I think about eating your pussy up in the air so often it’s a wonder I haven’t gotten discharged for dishonorable conduct yet.”
It punches a laugh out of you. He’s ridiculous.
And then the apprehension trickles back in, sudden and dousing.
“What if like… I choke you or something?”
Jake rolls his eyes at the same time he squeezes your hands. He says, “If I drown in a pussy as pretty as yours, I think I’ll get a medal. I mean, what a way to go.”
You untangle one hand to swat at his chest, but Jake just laughs. With you on his chest, he can’t possibly reach your lips, so he turns his face to the side and presses a tender kiss to the top of your thigh that has your stomach seizing.
“Don’t worry, honey,” he mumbles into your skin. “You won’t choke me, okay?”
The fear hasn’t completely dissipated, but Jake seems so eager, so confident, that it reassures you at least somewhat. “Alright,” you agree slowly.
“Thank god. Now would you please finally sit on my face?”
He doesn’t really wait for you to comply, just gets his second hand out of your grip, too, both of them finding the tops of your thighs again, and tugs you the last few inches up unceremoniously. Your clit bumps against his nose, your knees dip the mattress by his ears, and you yelp, you gasp, you whimper.
Below you, Jake hums, and you feel it against your pussy, feel the warm exhale of his breath, feel your whole body clench in answer.
"Taste so fucking sweet," he moans.
Jake wastes no time, diving in straight away. He plants a single kiss on your clit, then lathers his tongue all around it, spreads his fingers wide and firm on your hips, and pulls you more securely against his mouth. Like he really wants to make good on that prospect of drowning in you.
It’s a weird position, balanced on top of his face as you are. There isn’t really anywhere to go except down, down against his mouth and his tongue and his chin and his lips. Gravity makes damn sure of that, drags your weight to him, onto him, into him. You feel strangely tall, towering over him as you are with Jake pressed flat to the mattress.
Then he thrusts his tongue into you without preamble, and a strangled shout rips from the back of your throat. You teeter precariously, hands coming forward to brace yourself against the headboard with a resounding thud. Your head spins like one of those wheels of fortune at a fair, round and round in rapid circles.
Jake fucks his tongue in and out steadily, presses his nose into your clit, and you swear you’ve never been this wet before. With the position, it just seems to pour out of you, streams of it, and then you think of his face smeared in you, the evidence of what he’s doing to you staining his chin and his neck and his cheeks, and your eyes roll backward in your head.
“Been dreaming of this,” Jake whispers as he draws back just a little, his voice rough. Another kiss to your clit, almost tender if it didn’t send currents of electricity through you that sizzles somewhere in your fingertips. “You on top of me, my face in your sweet little cunt… god, sweetheart, you don’t know how fucking hard this gets me.”
Part of you wants to turn around, reach over your shoulder and find out, but Jake’s mouth latches back onto your pussy, wide open and wet and hungry, and it’s all you can do to whimper, to grab onto the headboard for dear life. White-knuckling the wood.
His fingers tighten on your hip to the point of pain, and it takes you a moment to realize what it is he wants. Then it’s nothing but obedience, logic having no part of it. Instincts only, your whole being reduced to nothing but bare, primal basics with Jake’s tongue shoved into your pussy.
You start moving your hips slowly, carefully, still scared you might hurt him somehow. Still scared he won’t like it.
But Jake’s answer is enthusiastic, to say the least: Fingers clutching even harder, tongue fucking deeper, a moan that vibrates all the way up to your chest.
Tossing your head back, mouth opening around the shape of a keen you don’t let out, you press your eyes closed and let the heat wash over you. Swallow you. Burn away any last traces of propriety or apprehension or thought.
It’s just this now: Jake’s mouth on you, Jake’s fingers on you, Jake curling around you and beneath you and inside you. Jake everywhere. Even the bedsheets smell like him, the shirt you’re wearing, your hair from using his shampoo in the shower earlier - cinnamon and spice.
Every time you rock your hips forward, it knocks your clit against the tip of his nose and has your stomach clenching. Every time you rock back, Jake’s tongue is already there to meet you, the wide wet stretch of the muscle spearing you open.
You’re pretty sure you’re close to tears, lower lip swollen from the sting of your teeth. You can’t even stay upright, slump against the cushion of your folded arms against the headboard.
Jake’s fingers leave your hips once he’s sure you’ll maintain the motion that has you riding his face the way you ride his cock, trail down to sink into your ass instead. To knead it, to spread, to tug you forward with more force, to help you along, or maybe to take you apart completely.
With Jake, you can never be sure if it’s his kindness or his sadist streak that is at the wheel.
You can feel it building, feel it gathering in the pit of your stomach. Tension tightens every muscle now, everything locking up, your toes curling and mushing into the sheets, your mouth open and leaking drool onto your own forearm.
“Jake,” you whimper, press your eyes closed tighter until stars reel across your vision, fuck yourself forward and sob at the open pressure of his mouth, “Jake, I’m gonna… Please, please, I….”
You don’t even know what it is you’re asking for. You just can’t take it anymore, you can’t, it’s going to take you apart, it’s going to crack you open, it’s going to bowl you over, it’s going to…
You think Jake is saying something, but it’s muffled by your cunt in his mouth, by the blood rushing in your ears, by the roaring, screaming, deafening jackhammer of your own heart. It sends even more tremors through you, your thighs shaking, trembling, and then his fingers tighten in the flesh of your ass, his tongue drags a long, long, long stretch from your hole to your clit, and then he wraps his lips around the swollen bud and sucks, and you’re falling.
The tension drains out of you all at once, a lighting of relief, and you’re sobbing, you’re babbling, you’re chanting his name as the pleasure washes over you. As you fall apart in the best of ways, with your nerve-endings on fire and your body numb and not a single fucking thought in your brain, nothing but good good good so fucking good.
You’ve got nothing left, melt into a puddle right on top of him, go sliding off his face on a wave of spit and cum and drained energy. Jake is whispering something in your ear, gathering you against his chest and peppering kisses to the top of your head. His face is wet with you, sticks to your hair.
You can’t help it. It makes you grin.
“See?” Jake whispers, nudging his nose against your cheekbone. That’s damp too. “That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”
The answering grunt you give makes Jake laugh.
“God,” he says, and when you glance at him through the curtain of your lashes, too tired to open your eyes all the way, he’s the picture of debauchery: cheeks flushed, hair a mess, chest rising and falling rapidly, lips swollen, face wet and glistening with your cum. Where you’re soaking into the fabric of his boxers, your cunt clenches just once, makes you hiss softly. “That was so worth the wait.”
A/n: Hey all! I know it’s been like fifteen years but I’ve been super busy and will probably stay super busy. But I wrote this out last night after thinking about it for days. I hope you all enjoy and thank you all for all your support, it means a lot to me. I love you!
Summary: He’s all bronzed confidence, a stupid fly boy you should hate. Yet, you can’t help the little thoughts that plague your mind.
Warnings: f! reader, kissing, mentions of violence and panic attacks, angsty ending
Sometimes you wonder what it would be like to hold him. To reach out and run your fingertips across his brazen skin. To trace along the dips of muscle and curves of his form. To take him into your embrace and hold him tight.
It’s a lost thought, but you wish you could run your fingers through the strands of his blond hair, too perfect and too neat. To pull parts free and release him from the chains of impeccability. Hold his head against your chest, let him hear your fluttering heart in exchange for the closeness of his form, the comfort his weight can bring.
What it would be like to hold the side of his jaw, feel the strength as it flexes in your palm, see the pink lips that are slightly chapped. Feel the apple of his cheeks when they stretch to show his dashing smile, all sparkling white teeth with the one small chip in the bottom, thanks to a metal gate in his childhood on the farm.
You often wonder about touching your forehead to his own, resting your heads against one another, a simple and intensely intimate gesture. To lock eyes, to share a million words through a single silent glance. To watch his green eyes flutter closed, long eyelashes soft, the delicate skin of his eyelids stretched. To lean forward and feel the warmth of his breath wash over your face. To slowly press your lips against his own.
Quick Hiatus from now until July 5th! I’m doing some summer stuff and won’t have access to internet all the time. I’ll be lurking every now and then. But I won’t be writing or anything. Thanks for understanding! Sending you all love and hugs!
Hey girl I just wanted to tell u that the frank Castle fics u right are a piece of heaven and thank u for serving us those amazing pieces cause it's hard to find fics about him n when I do they are all so rough and nothing is that but I just not into that I like the gentle stuff and it's so hard to find a fluffy fic about him altogether but u write those too so thanks a lot 🥺 💕 💕 💕
Oh my goodness. No, thank you! 🥰🥰🥰 This was so sweet and totally what I needed today.
I’m glad to hear that you like my frank stuff so much, I absolutely love writing for him! So you’ve made my little writer heart so happy! I also love him more as a big ole softie 😂 so we can agree on that!
Could you please do #8 from the fluff prompt list with either Din or Frankie Morales please? Thank you 🥺
A/n: Holy moly I don't know what overcame me to write this. But I could not stop myself. No discipline whatsoever. I hope you enjoy! (However, if you're like Lordy what the hell I wanted fluff- i totally understand and I am so sorry for my unhinged thoughts)
It shouldn’t be working him up this much. It shouldn’t be creeping under his skin and making heat roll through his veins. It shouldn’t make him feel so goddamn dirty.
He can’t take his eyes off your lips. The cherry red painted over them. The way they move as you talk and pull over white teeth when you smile.
His breath gets caught in his throat, heartbeat echoes in his ears, fingers digging into his palms.
You look so pretty. So beautiful, tantalizing…sinful. Your dress hugs your curves perfectly, low cut neckline showing the top… a very hint of your cleavage, black kitten heels accentuating your legs.
The tie wrapped around his neck suddenly feels too tight, the navy suit blazer suddenly too warm, the matching slacks suddenly too small.
He’s never been more thankful for the white linen tablecloth covering his lower half, for it covering his growing problem.
It’s some summer wedding, an old friend from their basic training days. Round tables on green grass, string lights and blush pink tulle matching the foliage and flowers. The guys sit with him, in their own gray and navy suits, laughing and teasing as you tell them some story from work.
He can’t focus, eyes glued to your mouth and when you wrap them around the straw to whatever fruity cocktail you’re drinking, he can’t help the devilish thought of how they would look so much better wrapped around his dick.
And with that simple thought, it’s like the floodgates opened with full force.
Scenes of you on your knees looking up at him with those beautiful eyes fill his head, the phantom feeling of your tongue trailing from his base to the head, the thought of you licking the beading precum off the tip. You’re so good at it, always making him feel so good, so-
“Fish, you good?”
Benny smacks his hand onto his shoulder and it rips him from his train of thoughts. His eyes try to refocus, to pull away from your lips, but he finds that only his head leans towards his friend, a faint mmh hmm coming from tightly pressed lips.
“Dude seriously.”
Your eyes flicker over to him and your gaze makes him regain his head. He blinks a couple times before turning to his friend. He finds all eyes on him and it makes fire rise up to his cheeks, his fingers nervously rubbing the seam of the tablecloth.
“Yeah, man.”
Benny’s eyes scan over his face, eyebrows together in that way that tells him he’s not getting away with anything. But he just shrugs and restarts the conversation. Everyone flows back into the previous rhythm and with eyes closed, he sends a silent thank you out into the universe.
But when Frankie turns back to you, he finds you already looking at him. Eyes full of mischief and cherry red lips upturned.
Fuck, he’s been caught.
He’s not sure where to put his hands, where to grab and hold on because he feels like he’s no longer tethered to this world. One threads into your hair, the other grips the wall of the small bathroom.
You look up at him through thick lashes, black from mascara, eyeshadow sparkling from the sunlight that peaks through the frosted window. Your tongue slides along the underside of him, along the vein that you always tell him you love and makes goosebumps rise on his skin.
Then you kiss the tip, soft enough it makes his heart leap with adoration and affection, and it’s as if time stopped. You pull away, one hand holding the base of him, he meets your gaze and he can feel his chest blossom in warmth. The hand that was in your hair shifts to cup your jaw and let his thumb trace the delicate skin above your cheekbone.
With those plump red lips you smile up at him and it's the most goddamn sweet smile he’s ever seen.
But then with no warning, you slide down his entire length, taking him to the base and he has to bite down a yelp. Your cheeks cave in from where you suck and suck and holy fucking shit you’re so good at this.
Tears bud and swell at the corners of your eyes, you’re doing so good for him, taking him so well, but his favorite is the way your lips wrap around him, puffy and still painted that bright red.
It makes his core tighten, and when one of your hands snakes up his thighs, trailing your nails against his skin, until you reach up and cup his balls, rolling them in your palm, he swears he meets Jesus.
He’s never come that fast in his entire life. And if you weren’t swallowing him down while staring up at him with such love he’d be a little embarrassed. But then again, you’re perfect.
Giving him one last firm suck that pulls a harsh gasp from him, you slide off with a pop! Then he watches with half lidded eyes as you rise and press a kiss to his lips. He melts even further into the kiss, humming out his approval and lazily moving against yours with practiced ease.
You smile at him, mischievous and full of mirth, hand trailing down and resting over his softening length. Kissing his cheek you smile and turn to the mirror, “Left my mark.” Then you quickly reapply the cherry red and fix your dress.
He’s confused, but only for a few seconds until he looks down to tuck himself back away. There at the base, centimeters from his pubic bone, is a ring of red lipstick painted over his dick and he has to close his eyes, spent cock twitching at the sight.
“Dios mío.”
His voice is breathless, still recovering from the soul shaking orgasm you had given him seconds ago. “Your mark” telling him exactly how far you were able to take him down your throat. His fingernails dig into his palms as he tries to regain control over his lower half.
“I think you might be my soulmate.”
You giggle and meet his blissed out gaze in the mirror. “I love you too.” Then you slide out of the bathroom door and back into the world.
And when he rejoins the table and you smile at him with those cherry red lips, as if you hadn’t been drinking down his load mere minutes ago, he decides right then and there that the next wedding he’s going to is going to be when he marries you.
i think i died. this was so hot and so well written. frankie and losing his shit over the woman he loves is literally addicting to read about and this has made it up there with one of my favorites! i love it!!
Haha thank you so much! I’m glad you liked it! And Im so honored that this has made it onto your favorite list! I had a blast writing and kinda became unhinged writing it 😂.
Could you please do #8 from the fluff prompt list with either Din or Frankie Morales please? Thank you 🥺
A/n: Holy moly I don't know what overcame me to write this. But I could not stop myself. No discipline whatsoever. I hope you enjoy! (However, if you're like Lordy what the hell I wanted fluff- i totally understand and I am so sorry for my unhinged thoughts)
It shouldn’t be working him up this much. It shouldn’t be creeping under his skin and making heat roll through his veins. It shouldn’t make him feel so goddamn dirty.
He can’t take his eyes off your lips. The cherry red painted over them. The way they move as you talk and pull over white teeth when you smile.
His breath gets caught in his throat, heartbeat echoes in his ears, fingers digging into his palms.
You look so pretty. So beautiful, tantalizing…sinful. Your dress hugs your curves perfectly, low cut neckline showing the top… a very hint of your cleavage, black kitten heels accentuating your legs.
The tie wrapped around his neck suddenly feels too tight, the navy suit blazer suddenly too warm, the matching slacks suddenly too small.
He’s never been more thankful for the white linen tablecloth covering his lower half, for it covering his growing problem.
It’s some summer wedding, an old friend from their basic training days. Round tables on green grass, string lights and blush pink tulle matching the foliage and flowers. The guys sit with him, in their own gray and navy suits, laughing and teasing as you tell them some story from work.
He can’t focus, eyes glued to your mouth and when you wrap them around the straw to whatever fruity cocktail you’re drinking, he can’t help the devilish thought of how they would look so much better wrapped around his dick.
And with that simple thought, it’s like the floodgates opened with full force.
Scenes of you on your knees looking up at him with those beautiful eyes fill his head, the phantom feeling of your tongue trailing from his base to the head, the thought of you licking the beading precum off the tip. You’re so good at it, always making him feel so good, so-
“Fish, you good?”
Benny smacks his hand onto his shoulder and it rips him from his train of thoughts. His eyes try to refocus, to pull away from your lips, but he finds that only his head leans towards his friend, a faint mmh hmm coming from tightly pressed lips.
“Dude seriously.”
Your eyes flicker over to him and your gaze makes him regain his head. He blinks a couple times before turning to his friend. He finds all eyes on him and it makes fire rise up to his cheeks, his fingers nervously rubbing the seam of the tablecloth.
“Yeah, man.”
Benny’s eyes scan over his face, eyebrows together in that way that tells him he’s not getting away with anything. But he just shrugs and restarts the conversation. Everyone flows back into the previous rhythm and with eyes closed, he sends a silent thank you out into the universe.
But when Frankie turns back to you, he finds you already looking at him. Eyes full of mischief and cherry red lips upturned.
Fuck, he’s been caught.
He’s not sure where to put his hands, where to grab and hold on because he feels like he’s no longer tethered to this world. One threads into your hair, the other grips the wall of the small bathroom.
You look up at him through thick lashes, black from mascara, eyeshadow sparkling from the sunlight that peaks through the frosted window. Your tongue slides along the underside of him, along the vein that you always tell him you love and makes goosebumps rise on his skin.
Then you kiss the tip, soft enough it makes his heart leap with adoration and affection, and it’s as if time stopped. You pull away, one hand holding the base of him, he meets your gaze and he can feel his chest blossom in warmth. The hand that was in your hair shifts to cup your jaw and let his thumb trace the delicate skin above your cheekbone.
With those plump red lips you smile up at him and it's the most goddamn sweet smile he’s ever seen.
But then with no warning, you slide down his entire length, taking him to the base and he has to bite down a yelp. Your cheeks cave in from where you suck and suck and holy fucking shit you’re so good at this.
Tears bud and swell at the corners of your eyes, you’re doing so good for him, taking him so well, but his favorite is the way your lips wrap around him, puffy and still painted that bright red.
It makes his core tighten, and when one of your hands snakes up his thighs, trailing your nails against his skin, until you reach up and cup his balls, rolling them in your palm, he swears he meets Jesus.
He’s never come that fast in his entire life. And if you weren’t swallowing him down while staring up at him with such love he’d be a little embarrassed. But then again, you’re perfect.
Giving him one last firm suck that pulls a harsh gasp from him, you slide off with a pop! Then he watches with half lidded eyes as you rise and press a kiss to his lips. He melts even further into the kiss, humming out his approval and lazily moving against yours with practiced ease.
You smile at him, mischievous and full of mirth, hand trailing down and resting over his softening length. Kissing his cheek you smile and turn to the mirror, “Left my mark.” Then you quickly reapply the cherry red and fix your dress.
He’s confused, but only for a few seconds until he looks down to tuck himself back away. There at the base, centimeters from his pubic bone, is a ring of red lipstick painted over his dick and he has to close his eyes, spent cock twitching at the sight.
“Dios mío.”
His voice is breathless, still recovering from the soul shaking orgasm you had given him seconds ago. “Your mark” telling him exactly how far you were able to take him down your throat. His fingernails dig into his palms as he tries to regain control over his lower half.
“I think you might be my soulmate.”
You giggle and meet his blissed out gaze in the mirror. “I love you too.” Then you slide out of the bathroom door and back into the world.
And when he rejoins the table and you smile at him with those cherry red lips, as if you hadn’t been drinking down his load mere minutes ago, he decides right then and there that the next wedding he’s going to is going to be when he marries you.
The way you would write the shit out of this. Please! i beg!
A/N: Steve Rogers x F!Reader x Thor Odinson. Threesome. Voyeurism. Dis trash! Thanks to my bae @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa for brainstorming the way this situation would get out of hand due to Thor's competitiveness HAHA.
It started after a dismal mission in Virginia of all places. It was you, Steve, and Thor stuck inside a shitty motel room in the middle of fucking nowhere. They’d had to take down an underground weapon facility that had, unbeknownst to them, been experimenting on humans. Not many survivors. Too many surprises. The three of them were waiting for SHIELD to fly in and clean up the rest.
Steve scraped his hand through his hair as he watched you tip the aquamarine bottle back. Your throat bobbed once, twice and then you wiped the excess from your mouth. Thor had you in his lap. He rested his forehead against your shoulder - a broad hand clamped down on your knee like he was attempting to anchor himself to your body. Already, Steve could tell that the two Asgardians were buzzed - slightly loose and playful from their homebrewed liquor.
“You want some?” you offered Steve, raising an eyebrow.
He shook his head. “Probably shouldn’t.”
You rolled your eyes before standing up, extracting yourself from Thor’s arms. Slow as honey, you stepped toward him, your hips swinging in your kevlar catsuit. Steve shifted on the edge of the bed - trying not to stare so blatantly, but it was proving to be difficult. It was a challenge to not look at you most days - impossible not to appreciate how pretty you were and how stupidly powerful with all that Asgardian strength.
You slipped him the bottle. “C’mon, Rogers,” Your lips quirked as you wedged yourself between his knees. Suddenly, Steve was uncertain where the direction this was going and if he had missed the initial twist. You were affectionate with everyone, but this was intentional. This was more than just you offering him a drink.
“You know,” you remarked quietly. “Thor and I sometimes have to get all of our adrenaline out after a mission.” Steve glanced up at you, his brows lifting curiously. “It’s how we deal with the stress - the guilt that sometimes comes. The grief.”
Yes - Steve knew all about grief and the way it could wield its burdens so well after a fight. It hadn’t been his fault that there had been humans experimented on in that facility. But - still - it seemed like he should have known. It was how he had felt when Bucky had returned.
I should have known he was alive. I should have sensed him. I should have gone back into that dense cold valley beneath the train and found him.
He curled his thumb around the cold bottle. He was at eye-level with your tits - the silver zipper sparkled against the dark grey.
It was no secret. He knew all about you and Thor and how you celebrated. How you really spent most of your free time with him. It echoed through the compound: Thor’s hands on your ass during Stark’s parties, you straddling him in the kitchen, the way you sometimes couldn’t walk straight the next morning while Thor grinned arrogant and suggestive.
“Did you break another bed?”
“I’ll buy you another, Stark.”
“You don’t have earth money, Point Break!”
Behind you, Thor was still spread out on the small, ugly motel chair. His legs splayed apart, his armor glinting in the soft orange light. He had ash smeared across his forehead, his hair damp from sweat. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, cocking his head. You dropped down beside Steve, your body grazing his arm and it jolted him. Everything about you jolted him.
He took a sip of the liquor and it burned in the best way - clearing his throat and his chest. It made him relax, unfurl as his fingers brushed yours. He could smell you: ivory soap and artillery smoke and a little blood. A nip of jasmine and brine.
It was a slow and deliberate slide into each other. Your head turned and he mimicked the motion - foreheads touching as he felt your breath puff warm against his mouth. He wasn’t drunk and he couldn’t quite believe that everything inside him was encouraging him to touch you like this - to kiss you when Thor was right there.
The room was thick with tension - rolling with a blinding sort of ache as if sex and arousal had filtered through the rumbling AC unit.
You inched forward before cupping his cheek and then you kissed him. You licked into his mouth and smoothed his hair away as your thumb curved over his jaw.
“Is this okay?” you murmured, drawing away for only a second as he made a muffled noise of protest. He chased your mouth, fisting a hand into your hair to bring you back.
“Is Thor okay with it?” he asked between kisses, his eyes sliding to Thor to see that the god was firmly grasping himself over his trousers, his expression hungry, and pointed to where Steve was clutching at you.
Your lips peeled into a blinding smile. “Of course,” you crooned as you began to unbutton his suit, ripping at the velcro. “Thor speaks of this all the time. He wants to see another warrior take me as he does. He said you’re the only one who could come close.”
“Oh,” Steve replied - quite stunned at this revelation. It wasn’t that Thor was controlling, but he was possessive. He wrapped himself around you, catered to you in every sense of the word. You were his and he had seen a number of unfortunate enemies get decimated by the god when they had tried to hurt you.
“It’s true, Rogers,” Thor rumbled as the chair creaked under his weight. “You can fuck her as hard as you’d like. She won’t break.”
Steve swallowed. He felt a fever start in the middle of his groin, expand across his ribs and lungs and -
“C’mere then,” he growled as he dragged you into his lap, palming your jaw and capturing your mouth.
***
“Fuck,” you whimpered as your hands scrambled at the cheap itchy sheets. Your legs were spread open as Steve fucked you with his fingers. He was crouched at the end of the bed - his muscular wide shoulders parting your knees. Thor was lying beside you, watching every act closely - studying the way you responded to Steve. The soldier nipped your inner thigh, sinking three fingers to the knuckle as he curled and massaged them. You stretched around him, dripping and hot and jerking up underneath his ministrations.
Steve was a quiet lover, which didn’t surprise you. You didn’t think he’d be someone who would talk about “fucking your tight wet pussy” or “enjoying my big cock” or “baby baby baby”. He was all muted noises - grunts and groans and his body shivering above yours as he kissed you like he was dying. It was Thor who narrated most of it, who slicked his tongue up your throat as he told you how the Captain was eating your cunt like he’d never tasted anything so good - so sweet -
“Rogers,” Thor said suddenly.
Steve ignored him, either too lost in the act or on purpose. He continued to lap at you, his fingertips bruising the underside of your thigh as he kept it hitched over his shoulder. The wet, loud wriggle of his tongue inside you caused you clench and shudder. Thor allowed you to grip his hand, nearly breaking it as your lower muscles bore down upon Steve’s chin and gorgeous mouth with building intensity.
“Rogers!”
Steve glanced at him, his brow creased in irritation. The lower half of his face was blushed and glossy from your pussy and it really shouldn’t have been as hot as it was “You need to twist your fingers up,” Thor instructed. “Turn your wrist. You want to curl - no - not like that - let me do it.”
You yanked your hand from Thor’s grasp before punching him hard in the shoulder. “Don’t be a prick, Odinson, or I swear I’ll make you sit in the bathroom by yourself.”
Thor narrowed his eyes. “It’s against the rules for me not to be here.”
“Then stop talking.”
Steve rested his cheek against the inside of your leg, his lips twitching into an amused smile as he watched you bicker with Thor. “Can I keep going or -”
“Please.”
“Yes - but let me show you-“
“Shut the fuck up, Thor.”
***
“Right there,” you panted as Steve fucked you into the mattress. He had your knees pressed to your chest, your body practically folded in half as each snap of his hips knocked a whimper from your mouth. He had to curl his hand around the corner of the mattress in order to leverage his weight and rail you the way you needed it. He’d already broken the headboard.
“That good, sweetheart?”
“So good - so-so good, Steve.”
“Thor - stop,” Steve grunted.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re making that face.”
“I am not.”
Steve's expression was dubious, but he didn't argue. Instead, he switched positions with an abruptness that startled you. He sat back on his haunches, yanking you up into his lap so you could wind your arms around his neck. “Ride me like that, baby,” he urged in a hoarse, low voice that bulleted through your veins, making you tremble. You loved hearing stern Steve Rogers stammer and pulse beneath you - his hands unsteady as they gripped your hips. You fisted the back of his hair, dragging his face against your tits and he latched to the perky bud of your nipple. You peeked at Thor who was regarding you both intently, staring at where Steve was disappearing inside you.
“You’re so fucking big, Steve,” you gasped against his temple, the comment seemed to spurn him forward and he gave you a rather sharp thrust in reply. “It-it feels like you’re splitting me in-”
“Pfft,” Thor blew out a breath just as you knew he would.
You circled your arms tighter around Steve’s neck as you directed a pointed glare at Thor. “Don’t be mean,” you mouthed. He was a bit too competitive and perhaps you should have realized that might happen, especially when Steve was actually fucking you in a way that snapped the breath from your lungs.
He was better than you expected. Much. Much. Better. You didn’t know why you assumed he was a prude or unadventurous. He just must not have been as open about his sexual escapades because he had to be fucking someone if his stroke - his unrelenting pace - was this good.
His super-soldier stamina was overworking you. It blinded you, wrecked you in a shocking way. It wasn’t Thor, but Thor had the advantage of knowing your body and your pleasure. The years you had been together and the experience that they had as beings who lived for thousands of years. What had they not tried?
Thor sat up - gluing himself to your spine, hand snaking between your bodies so he could circle and tease your clit. It was too much, especially with Steve spearing deep into your cunt, his mouth on your nipples - sucking and licking and -
“I know what you want,” Thor husked into your ear. “I know what will make you choke his cock.”
“What’s that?” you breathed - voice locking up tight as you tried to take Steve’s punishing pace. Cap was damp with sweat - all golden and flushed, blue-blue eyes searching yours for what felt like hours and on and on it went -
“You’re gorgeous,” he marveled just as Thor’s fingers stroked between them and he lightly shocked the bead of nerves at the peak of your sex with a dart of electricity.
It worked a little too well. You screamed - arching into Steve who had to catch you roughly around the waist so they both wouldn’t topple off the bed. Your body went taut - your cunt clenching unforgivably around his shaft.
“Shit,” he rasped. “Shit-fuck I’m gonna come.”
You were throbbing like a heartbeat - gripping him in tiny little pulses over and over again - a song - the incessant tap of a piano key.
“Please,” you begged before nipping his generous lower lip.
In response, the slamming of his hips grew clumsy. The rhythm broke as he grabbed your face and brought you closer to his mouth. He kissed you fiercely - tongue darting behind your teeth as he snarled and bucked - his pleasure colliding and exploding across him like a crack of a whip.
For a few moments, you couldn’t remember where you were. Stars zapped and sparked behind your eyes.
“Breathe,” Steve ordered - his knuckles running over your cheek. “Breathe, honey.”
From beside you, Thor barked a laugh as he shifted on the mattress. His muscular arms created a band under your tits and he abruptly hauled you off Steve. You cried out at the loss and the soreness between your legs that felt so utterly empty. Steve - still trying to steady his heart - glared at Thor.
“Jesus, Thor. Give her a minute.”
Thor lifted an eyebrow before nuzzling his nose against your throat - under your ear. “Please, Rogers,” he drawled. “She can withstand the blast of an exploding star.” He brought his hand down across your ass so hard it echoed in the tiny room. You lurched - groaning from the bright spot of pain that swelled deliciously around the remaining aftershocks of your orgasm. “She’s a god - a warrior - she can go for hours and hours - sometimes days.” You tried to smother a giggle and he tugged you against his front - the jut of his cock prodding into your lower back. “She likes it. Don’t you, my love?”
You nodded and Thor made a pleased sound from his chest. He dropped his head, peppering kisses across your cheek and shoulder. “What do you think? Want to try both of us at once, little goddess?”
You glanced at Steve whose jaw flexed and his nostrils flared at the sight of Thor grinding into you - his hand wandering between your legs to slide through the wet, puffy slit of your cunt that was dripping with Steve. Rogers combed his damp hair away from his handsome face, his pink tongue sweeping over his lower lip. His expression darkened a blush - just enough that you knew he was interested. “Steve?”
He huffed, lips breaking into a feral grin that looked so unlike him. You instinctively knew that you were seeing an intimate piece of your Captain - a soft, throbbing center of the unyielding soldier that few got to access. Maybe - you and Thor seduced it out of him.
Steve curled a finger, beckoning you forward. "Come here then so I can get you ready."
hope youre still taking requests, id love to ask for prompts
angst: #12 why are you awake or #10 do you even still love me combined with fluff: #15 "i missed you so much" for frank castle plss <33
looking forward for more of your work im so happy youre growing, it's well deserved bc u write beautifully and i love revisiting your works 💕
Warnings: f! reader, oral (f receiving), smut
He comes to you in the night. Bloody, wafting of gunpowder and sweat mixed into a hypnotic concoction that is purely him. His eyes swirl with danger and he moves with calculated, slightly deranged, yet practiced movements.
You look up from your computer, eyes wide as you take him in. He slides across the room with no sound, a predator with a violent taste… a want.
His large hands encompass your knees, his torso lodges between your thighs, his nose bumps into your chest.
“Frank… are you alright?”
His lips drag across the delicate skin of your neck, a few millimeters away from the blood pumping through your veins, he can feel your pulse against his tongue, just a harsh nip away from your demise. Just a bite and you’d be gone from this world. He breathes it in, heart squeezes, something deep and dark growing with delight.
“Hmm why are you awake?”
He dodges your question, asking one of his own, but you know not to push. You know what he needs.
It rarely happens. Only on the nights where he danced with death and somehow won. When he becomes lost in a war, far away from earth and swept up in the fight. When his thoughts jumble together until he can only follow his training, relying on his primal instincts.
His skin prickles with the lasting adrenaline, fingers still twitching, mind still craving a fight. His jaw aches with the need to sink his teeth into flesh, his fists clench with a yearn to twist into bone, his brain still programmed to kill… to serve.
Your fingers lift the base of his chin, bringing his eyes to meet your own. The dark brown is intense, piercing, and clouded with epinephrine. You nod towards him, heart hammering and core pulsing.
“It’s okay soldier, go ahead.”
You give him permission, give him an order.
He dives in, he obeys.
Your sleep shorts and ripped from your hips, underwear in no better shape. He moves with a fierceness, an eager want to please.
His mouth is on you, sloppy and frantic and overwhelming. His tongue moves through your wet lips, gaping maw dangerous and sucking. He’s aggressive with it but oh how it feels good.
Your hands find the back of his strong head, fist in the cushion of the couch, tug at your covered breasts until he takes over. Powerful fingers that have brought death to so many slide under your shirt and grope at the flesh of your chest, pinch at your sensitive nipples.
It shouldn't turn you on as much as it is. The fact that the man kneeling before you will never kneel for another. The knowledge locked behind those eyes of every way to kill, to murder, to bring pain, and yet he only brings you pleasure. The dark sticky blood still painting his chest and arms that you know is not his.
His nose presses into the sensitive bundle of nerves at the top of your lips, you can hear him breathing it in, filling his lungs with you and only you. It makes your hips buck, your breath hitch, a keen whine fall from your lips.
A dark, low chuckle vibrates against your skin, causing another whimper from you. Calloused hands dig into the meat of your thighs, bringing them up to rest on his broad shoulders, commanding them to open wider for him.
You gaze down at him with heavy eyelids and when his eyes bare into yours, you’re met with a warrior, a soldier, a killer.
“You smell good sweetheart… taste fucking good.”
It’s direct and vulgar and filthy. Your heart hammers in your chest. Pumps strong against your ribs, strong enough you’re afraid they’ll crack open.
“Frank, please.”
It’s breathy, soft, full of want.
“Yeah? What do you need?”
You have to search for words, mouth not wanting to work properly.
“Don’t- don’t stop.”
He doesn’t, he won’t, even if you asked, he's so far gone it’d take convincing to get him to stop.
Your teeth pull your bottom lip taut, your eyes roll back, your skin burns as he shoves his face back into you. You can feel yourself clech, clamp down like a vice as he brings two fingers to curl into you, to spread your slick, to reach that spot that makes you quiver and burrow up into yourself.
Your pleasure pulls back the layers within him, peels away the anger and violence until it reveals obedience and intimacy. It soothes him in some messed up way. Your body calling out and tethering him back down to earth. Sex is the only way he knows to deal with this.
Before he didn’t have the ability, the gift of being able to bury himself in your wet heat. Instead he had to stitch himself, care for himself, let the fiercely burning adrenaline either fuzz out or wrap his hand around his weeping cock and tug a release out.
But it never truly worked, only took his mind off his sins for a quick second, left him feeling defeated despite his victory. Left him to wonder what he’s really doing, why he’s the way he is, and he hated it.
Now he can surround himself with you, can hear your forgiveness, can bring pleasure to balance out the pain he dealt earlier.
He knows it’s not the answer, a therapist would scream down his neck, would declare him sadistic and insane. But they don’t know. Don’t know the things he’s seen, the things he’s done, the things he’s had to move on from, the things he still struggles with.
But you do.
Maybe that’s why he loves you.
He spends the night kissing you, eating you out, shoving his dick inside you. It’s a lot. He lets you calm him, sedate the primal side of him, cup his cheek and tell him how loved he is.
Until he can feel himself go passive, go easy and soft. You handle him, deal with both sides of him, and he’s forever grateful for it. He loves that you always know, always help him in the way that you know will work.
He works through it until he’s finally captured the darker side of him, sealed it away for another time. This side of him just wants to hold you, to take you in his arms and never let go.
With bumping noses and gentle subdued kisses he cleans you, cares for the oversensitive nerves. He murmurs at you, listening to your breathing, finally laying down and pulling you onto his chest, just happy to be in your presence.
You have a smile on your resting face and it makes his heart bloom with warmth. He rubs into your hips, silently scolding himself because you’ll be so sore tomorrow.
hope youre still taking requests, id love to ask for prompts
angst: #12 why are you awake or #10 do you even still love me combined with fluff: #15 "i missed you so much" for frank castle plss <33
looking forward for more of your work im so happy youre growing, it's well deserved bc u write beautifully and i love revisiting your works 💕
Warnings: f! reader, oral (f receiving), smut
He comes to you in the night. Bloody, wafting of gunpowder and sweat mixed into a hypnotic concoction that is purely him. His eyes swirl with danger and he moves with calculated, slightly deranged, yet practiced movements.
You look up from your computer, eyes wide as you take him in. He slides across the room with no sound, a predator with a violent taste… a want.
His large hands encompass your knees, his torso lodges between your thighs, his nose bumps into your chest.
“Frank… are you alright?”
His lips drag across the delicate skin of your neck, a few millimeters away from the blood pumping through your veins, he can feel your pulse against his tongue, just a harsh nip away from your demise. Just a bite and you’d be gone from this world. He breathes it in, heart squeezes, something deep and dark growing with delight.
“Hmm why are you awake?”
He dodges your question, asking one of his own, but you know not to push. You know what he needs.
It rarely happens. Only on the nights where he danced with death and somehow won. When he becomes lost in a war, far away from earth and swept up in the fight. When his thoughts jumble together until he can only follow his training, relying on his primal instincts.
His skin prickles with the lasting adrenaline, fingers still twitching, mind still craving a fight. His jaw aches with the need to sink his teeth into flesh, his fists clench with a yearn to twist into bone, his brain still programmed to kill… to serve.
Your fingers lift the base of his chin, bringing his eyes to meet your own. The dark brown is intense, piercing, and clouded with epinephrine. You nod towards him, heart hammering and core pulsing.
“It’s okay soldier, go ahead.”
You give him permission, give him an order.
He dives in, he obeys.
Your sleep shorts and ripped from your hips, underwear in no better shape. He moves with a fierceness, an eager want to please.
His mouth is on you, sloppy and frantic and overwhelming. His tongue moves through your wet lips, gaping maw dangerous and sucking. He’s aggressive with it but oh how it feels good.
Your hands find the back of his strong head, fist in the cushion of the couch, tug at your covered breasts until he takes over. Powerful fingers that have brought death to so many slide under your shirt and grope at the flesh of your chest, pinch at your sensitive nipples.
It shouldn't turn you on as much as it is. The fact that the man kneeling before you will never kneel for another. The knowledge locked behind those eyes of every way to kill, to murder, to bring pain, and yet he only brings you pleasure. The dark sticky blood still painting his chest and arms that you know is not his.
His nose presses into the sensitive bundle of nerves at the top of your lips, you can hear him breathing it in, filling his lungs with you and only you. It makes your hips buck, your breath hitch, a keen whine fall from your lips.
A dark, low chuckle vibrates against your skin, causing another whimper from you. Calloused hands dig into the meat of your thighs, bringing them up to rest on his broad shoulders, commanding them to open wider for him.
You gaze down at him with heavy eyelids and when his eyes bare into yours, you’re met with a warrior, a soldier, a killer.
“You smell good sweetheart… taste fucking good.”
It’s direct and vulgar and filthy. Your heart hammers in your chest. Pumps strong against your ribs, strong enough you’re afraid they’ll crack open.
“Frank, please.”
It’s breathy, soft, full of want.
“Yeah? What do you need?”
You have to search for words, mouth not wanting to work properly.
“Don’t- don’t stop.”
He doesn’t, he won’t, even if you asked, he's so far gone it’d take convincing to get him to stop.
Your teeth pull your bottom lip taut, your eyes roll back, your skin burns as he shoves his face back into you. You can feel yourself clech, clamp down like a vice as he brings two fingers to curl into you, to spread your slick, to reach that spot that makes you quiver and burrow up into yourself.
Your pleasure pulls back the layers within him, peels away the anger and violence until it reveals obedience and intimacy. It soothes him in some messed up way. Your body calling out and tethering him back down to earth. Sex is the only way he knows to deal with this.
Before he didn’t have the ability, the gift of being able to bury himself in your wet heat. Instead he had to stitch himself, care for himself, let the fiercely burning adrenaline either fuzz out or wrap his hand around his weeping cock and tug a release out.
But it never truly worked, only took his mind off his sins for a quick second, left him feeling defeated despite his victory. Left him to wonder what he’s really doing, why he’s the way he is, and he hated it.
Now he can surround himself with you, can hear your forgiveness, can bring pleasure to balance out the pain he dealt earlier.
He knows it’s not the answer, a therapist would scream down his neck, would declare him sadistic and insane. But they don’t know. Don’t know the things he’s seen, the things he’s done, the things he’s had to move on from, the things he still struggles with.
But you do.
Maybe that’s why he loves you.
He spends the night kissing you, eating you out, shoving his dick inside you. It’s a lot. He lets you calm him, sedate the primal side of him, cup his cheek and tell him how loved he is.
Until he can feel himself go passive, go easy and soft. You handle him, deal with both sides of him, and he’s forever grateful for it. He loves that you always know, always help him in the way that you know will work.
He works through it until he’s finally captured the darker side of him, sealed it away for another time. This side of him just wants to hold you, to take you in his arms and never let go.
With bumping noses and gentle subdued kisses he cleans you, cares for the oversensitive nerves. He murmurs at you, listening to your breathing, finally laying down and pulling you onto his chest, just happy to be in your presence.
You have a smile on your resting face and it makes his heart bloom with warmth. He rubs into your hips, silently scolding himself because you’ll be so sore tomorrow.
hope youre still taking requests, id love to ask for prompts
angst: #12 why are you awake or #10 do you even still love me combined with fluff: #15 "i missed you so much" for frank castle plss <33
looking forward for more of your work im so happy youre growing, it's well deserved bc u write beautifully and i love revisiting your works 💕
Warnings: f! reader, oral (f receiving), smut
He comes to you in the night. Bloody, wafting of gunpowder and sweat mixed into a hypnotic concoction that is purely him. His eyes swirl with danger and he moves with calculated, slightly deranged, yet practiced movements.
You look up from your computer, eyes wide as you take him in. He slides across the room with no sound, a predator with a violent taste… a want.
His large hands encompass your knees, his torso lodges between your thighs, his nose bumps into your chest.
“Frank… are you alright?”
His lips drag across the delicate skin of your neck, a few millimeters away from the blood pumping through your veins, he can feel your pulse against his tongue, just a harsh nip away from your demise. Just a bite and you’d be gone from this world. He breathes it in, heart squeezes, something deep and dark growing with delight.
“Hmm why are you awake?”
He dodges your question, asking one of his own, but you know not to push. You know what he needs.
It rarely happens. Only on the nights where he danced with death and somehow won. When he becomes lost in a war, far away from earth and swept up in the fight. When his thoughts jumble together until he can only follow his training, relying on his primal instincts.
His skin prickles with the lasting adrenaline, fingers still twitching, mind still craving a fight. His jaw aches with the need to sink his teeth into flesh, his fists clench with a yearn to twist into bone, his brain still programmed to kill… to serve.
Your fingers lift the base of his chin, bringing his eyes to meet your own. The dark brown is intense, piercing, and clouded with epinephrine. You nod towards him, heart hammering and core pulsing.
“It’s okay soldier, go ahead.”
You give him permission, give him an order.
He dives in, he obeys.
Your sleep shorts and ripped from your hips, underwear in no better shape. He moves with a fierceness, an eager want to please.
His mouth is on you, sloppy and frantic and overwhelming. His tongue moves through your wet lips, gaping maw dangerous and sucking. He’s aggressive with it but oh how it feels good.
Your hands find the back of his strong head, fist in the cushion of the couch, tug at your covered breasts until he takes over. Powerful fingers that have brought death to so many slide under your shirt and grope at the flesh of your chest, pinch at your sensitive nipples.
It shouldn't turn you on as much as it is. The fact that the man kneeling before you will never kneel for another. The knowledge locked behind those eyes of every way to kill, to murder, to bring pain, and yet he only brings you pleasure. The dark sticky blood still painting his chest and arms that you know is not his.
His nose presses into the sensitive bundle of nerves at the top of your lips, you can hear him breathing it in, filling his lungs with you and only you. It makes your hips buck, your breath hitch, a keen whine fall from your lips.
A dark, low chuckle vibrates against your skin, causing another whimper from you. Calloused hands dig into the meat of your thighs, bringing them up to rest on his broad shoulders, commanding them to open wider for him.
You gaze down at him with heavy eyelids and when his eyes bare into yours, you’re met with a warrior, a soldier, a killer.
“You smell good sweetheart… taste fucking good.”
It’s direct and vulgar and filthy. Your heart hammers in your chest. Pumps strong against your ribs, strong enough you’re afraid they’ll crack open.
“Frank, please.”
It’s breathy, soft, full of want.
“Yeah? What do you need?”
You have to search for words, mouth not wanting to work properly.
“Don’t- don’t stop.”
He doesn’t, he won’t, even if you asked, he's so far gone it’d take convincing to get him to stop.
Your teeth pull your bottom lip taut, your eyes roll back, your skin burns as he shoves his face back into you. You can feel yourself clech, clamp down like a vice as he brings two fingers to curl into you, to spread your slick, to reach that spot that makes you quiver and burrow up into yourself.
Your pleasure pulls back the layers within him, peels away the anger and violence until it reveals obedience and intimacy. It soothes him in some messed up way. Your body calling out and tethering him back down to earth. Sex is the only way he knows to deal with this.
Before he didn’t have the ability, the gift of being able to bury himself in your wet heat. Instead he had to stitch himself, care for himself, let the fiercely burning adrenaline either fuzz out or wrap his hand around his weeping cock and tug a release out.
But it never truly worked, only took his mind off his sins for a quick second, left him feeling defeated despite his victory. Left him to wonder what he’s really doing, why he’s the way he is, and he hated it.
Now he can surround himself with you, can hear your forgiveness, can bring pleasure to balance out the pain he dealt earlier.
He knows it’s not the answer, a therapist would scream down his neck, would declare him sadistic and insane. But they don’t know. Don’t know the things he’s seen, the things he’s done, the things he’s had to move on from, the things he still struggles with.
But you do.
Maybe that’s why he loves you.
He spends the night kissing you, eating you out, shoving his dick inside you. It’s a lot. He lets you calm him, sedate the primal side of him, cup his cheek and tell him how loved he is.
Until he can feel himself go passive, go easy and soft. You handle him, deal with both sides of him, and he’s forever grateful for it. He loves that you always know, always help him in the way that you know will work.
He works through it until he’s finally captured the darker side of him, sealed it away for another time. This side of him just wants to hold you, to take you in his arms and never let go.
With bumping noses and gentle subdued kisses he cleans you, cares for the oversensitive nerves. He murmurs at you, listening to your breathing, finally laying down and pulling you onto his chest, just happy to be in your presence.
You have a smile on your resting face and it makes his heart bloom with warmth. He rubs into your hips, silently scolding himself because you’ll be so sore tomorrow.
hope youre still taking requests, id love to ask for prompts
angst: #12 why are you awake or #10 do you even still love me combined with fluff: #15 "i missed you so much" for frank castle plss <33
looking forward for more of your work im so happy youre growing, it's well deserved bc u write beautifully and i love revisiting your works 💕
Warnings: f! reader, oral (f receiving), smut
He comes to you in the night. Bloody, wafting of gunpowder and sweat mixed into a hypnotic concoction that is purely him. His eyes swirl with danger and he moves with calculated, slightly deranged, yet practiced movements.
You look up from your computer, eyes wide as you take him in. He slides across the room with no sound, a predator with a violent taste… a want.
His large hands encompass your knees, his torso lodges between your thighs, his nose bumps into your chest.
“Frank… are you alright?”
His lips drag across the delicate skin of your neck, a few millimeters away from the blood pumping through your veins, he can feel your pulse against his tongue, just a harsh nip away from your demise. Just a bite and you’d be gone from this world. He breathes it in, heart squeezes, something deep and dark growing with delight.
“Hmm why are you awake?”
He dodges your question, asking one of his own, but you know not to push. You know what he needs.
It rarely happens. Only on the nights where he danced with death and somehow won. When he becomes lost in a war, far away from earth and swept up in the fight. When his thoughts jumble together until he can only follow his training, relying on his primal instincts.
His skin prickles with the lasting adrenaline, fingers still twitching, mind still craving a fight. His jaw aches with the need to sink his teeth into flesh, his fists clench with a yearn to twist into bone, his brain still programmed to kill… to serve.
Your fingers lift the base of his chin, bringing his eyes to meet your own. The dark brown is intense, piercing, and clouded with epinephrine. You nod towards him, heart hammering and core pulsing.
“It’s okay soldier, go ahead.”
You give him permission, give him an order.
He dives in, he obeys.
Your sleep shorts and ripped from your hips, underwear in no better shape. He moves with a fierceness, an eager want to please.
His mouth is on you, sloppy and frantic and overwhelming. His tongue moves through your wet lips, gaping maw dangerous and sucking. He’s aggressive with it but oh how it feels good.
Your hands find the back of his strong head, fist in the cushion of the couch, tug at your covered breasts until he takes over. Powerful fingers that have brought death to so many slide under your shirt and grope at the flesh of your chest, pinch at your sensitive nipples.
It shouldn't turn you on as much as it is. The fact that the man kneeling before you will never kneel for another. The knowledge locked behind those eyes of every way to kill, to murder, to bring pain, and yet he only brings you pleasure. The dark sticky blood still painting his chest and arms that you know is not his.
His nose presses into the sensitive bundle of nerves at the top of your lips, you can hear him breathing it in, filling his lungs with you and only you. It makes your hips buck, your breath hitch, a keen whine fall from your lips.
A dark, low chuckle vibrates against your skin, causing another whimper from you. Calloused hands dig into the meat of your thighs, bringing them up to rest on his broad shoulders, commanding them to open wider for him.
You gaze down at him with heavy eyelids and when his eyes bare into yours, you’re met with a warrior, a soldier, a killer.
“You smell good sweetheart… taste fucking good.”
It’s direct and vulgar and filthy. Your heart hammers in your chest. Pumps strong against your ribs, strong enough you’re afraid they’ll crack open.
“Frank, please.”
It’s breathy, soft, full of want.
“Yeah? What do you need?”
You have to search for words, mouth not wanting to work properly.
“Don’t- don’t stop.”
He doesn’t, he won’t, even if you asked, he's so far gone it’d take convincing to get him to stop.
Your teeth pull your bottom lip taut, your eyes roll back, your skin burns as he shoves his face back into you. You can feel yourself clech, clamp down like a vice as he brings two fingers to curl into you, to spread your slick, to reach that spot that makes you quiver and burrow up into yourself.
Your pleasure pulls back the layers within him, peels away the anger and violence until it reveals obedience and intimacy. It soothes him in some messed up way. Your body calling out and tethering him back down to earth. Sex is the only way he knows to deal with this.
Before he didn’t have the ability, the gift of being able to bury himself in your wet heat. Instead he had to stitch himself, care for himself, let the fiercely burning adrenaline either fuzz out or wrap his hand around his weeping cock and tug a release out.
But it never truly worked, only took his mind off his sins for a quick second, left him feeling defeated despite his victory. Left him to wonder what he’s really doing, why he’s the way he is, and he hated it.
Now he can surround himself with you, can hear your forgiveness, can bring pleasure to balance out the pain he dealt earlier.
He knows it’s not the answer, a therapist would scream down his neck, would declare him sadistic and insane. But they don’t know. Don’t know the things he’s seen, the things he’s done, the things he’s had to move on from, the things he still struggles with.
But you do.
Maybe that’s why he loves you.
He spends the night kissing you, eating you out, shoving his dick inside you. It’s a lot. He lets you calm him, sedate the primal side of him, cup his cheek and tell him how loved he is.
Until he can feel himself go passive, go easy and soft. You handle him, deal with both sides of him, and he’s forever grateful for it. He loves that you always know, always help him in the way that you know will work.
He works through it until he’s finally captured the darker side of him, sealed it away for another time. This side of him just wants to hold you, to take you in his arms and never let go.
With bumping noses and gentle subdued kisses he cleans you, cares for the oversensitive nerves. He murmurs at you, listening to your breathing, finally laying down and pulling you onto his chest, just happy to be in your presence.
You have a smile on your resting face and it makes his heart bloom with warmth. He rubs into your hips, silently scolding himself because you’ll be so sore tomorrow.
hope youre still taking requests, id love to ask for prompts
angst: #12 why are you awake or #10 do you even still love me combined with fluff: #15 "i missed you so much" for frank castle plss <33
looking forward for more of your work im so happy youre growing, it's well deserved bc u write beautifully and i love revisiting your works 💕
Warnings: f! reader, oral (f receiving), smut
He comes to you in the night. Bloody, wafting of gunpowder and sweat mixed into a hypnotic concoction that is purely him. His eyes swirl with danger and he moves with calculated, slightly deranged, yet practiced movements.
You look up from your computer, eyes wide as you take him in. He slides across the room with no sound, a predator with a violent taste… a want.
His large hands encompass your knees, his torso lodges between your thighs, his nose bumps into your chest.
“Frank… are you alright?”
His lips drag across the delicate skin of your neck, a few millimeters away from the blood pumping through your veins, he can feel your pulse against his tongue, just a harsh nip away from your demise. Just a bite and you’d be gone from this world. He breathes it in, heart squeezes, something deep and dark growing with delight.
“Hmm why are you awake?”
He dodges your question, asking one of his own, but you know not to push. You know what he needs.
It rarely happens. Only on the nights where he danced with death and somehow won. When he becomes lost in a war, far away from earth and swept up in the fight. When his thoughts jumble together until he can only follow his training, relying on his primal instincts.
His skin prickles with the lasting adrenaline, fingers still twitching, mind still craving a fight. His jaw aches with the need to sink his teeth into flesh, his fists clench with a yearn to twist into bone, his brain still programmed to kill… to serve.
Your fingers lift the base of his chin, bringing his eyes to meet your own. The dark brown is intense, piercing, and clouded with epinephrine. You nod towards him, heart hammering and core pulsing.
“It’s okay soldier, go ahead.”
You give him permission, give him an order.
He dives in, he obeys.
Your sleep shorts and ripped from your hips, underwear in no better shape. He moves with a fierceness, an eager want to please.
His mouth is on you, sloppy and frantic and overwhelming. His tongue moves through your wet lips, gaping maw dangerous and sucking. He’s aggressive with it but oh how it feels good.
Your hands find the back of his strong head, fist in the cushion of the couch, tug at your covered breasts until he takes over. Powerful fingers that have brought death to so many slide under your shirt and grope at the flesh of your chest, pinch at your sensitive nipples.
It shouldn't turn you on as much as it is. The fact that the man kneeling before you will never kneel for another. The knowledge locked behind those eyes of every way to kill, to murder, to bring pain, and yet he only brings you pleasure. The dark sticky blood still painting his chest and arms that you know is not his.
His nose presses into the sensitive bundle of nerves at the top of your lips, you can hear him breathing it in, filling his lungs with you and only you. It makes your hips buck, your breath hitch, a keen whine fall from your lips.
A dark, low chuckle vibrates against your skin, causing another whimper from you. Calloused hands dig into the meat of your thighs, bringing them up to rest on his broad shoulders, commanding them to open wider for him.
You gaze down at him with heavy eyelids and when his eyes bare into yours, you’re met with a warrior, a soldier, a killer.
“You smell good sweetheart… taste fucking good.”
It’s direct and vulgar and filthy. Your heart hammers in your chest. Pumps strong against your ribs, strong enough you’re afraid they’ll crack open.
“Frank, please.”
It’s breathy, soft, full of want.
“Yeah? What do you need?”
You have to search for words, mouth not wanting to work properly.
“Don’t- don’t stop.”
He doesn’t, he won’t, even if you asked, he's so far gone it’d take convincing to get him to stop.
Your teeth pull your bottom lip taut, your eyes roll back, your skin burns as he shoves his face back into you. You can feel yourself clech, clamp down like a vice as he brings two fingers to curl into you, to spread your slick, to reach that spot that makes you quiver and burrow up into yourself.
Your pleasure pulls back the layers within him, peels away the anger and violence until it reveals obedience and intimacy. It soothes him in some messed up way. Your body calling out and tethering him back down to earth. Sex is the only way he knows to deal with this.
Before he didn’t have the ability, the gift of being able to bury himself in your wet heat. Instead he had to stitch himself, care for himself, let the fiercely burning adrenaline either fuzz out or wrap his hand around his weeping cock and tug a release out.
But it never truly worked, only took his mind off his sins for a quick second, left him feeling defeated despite his victory. Left him to wonder what he’s really doing, why he’s the way he is, and he hated it.
Now he can surround himself with you, can hear your forgiveness, can bring pleasure to balance out the pain he dealt earlier.
He knows it’s not the answer, a therapist would scream down his neck, would declare him sadistic and insane. But they don’t know. Don’t know the things he’s seen, the things he’s done, the things he’s had to move on from, the things he still struggles with.
But you do.
Maybe that’s why he loves you.
He spends the night kissing you, eating you out, shoving his dick inside you. It’s a lot. He lets you calm him, sedate the primal side of him, cup his cheek and tell him how loved he is.
Until he can feel himself go passive, go easy and soft. You handle him, deal with both sides of him, and he’s forever grateful for it. He loves that you always know, always help him in the way that you know will work.
He works through it until he’s finally captured the darker side of him, sealed it away for another time. This side of him just wants to hold you, to take you in his arms and never let go.
With bumping noses and gentle subdued kisses he cleans you, cares for the oversensitive nerves. He murmurs at you, listening to your breathing, finally laying down and pulling you onto his chest, just happy to be in your presence.
You have a smile on your resting face and it makes his heart bloom with warmth. He rubs into your hips, silently scolding himself because you’ll be so sore tomorrow.
hope youre still taking requests, id love to ask for prompts
angst: #12 why are you awake or #10 do you even still love me combined with fluff: #15 "i missed you so much" for frank castle plss <33
looking forward for more of your work im so happy youre growing, it's well deserved bc u write beautifully and i love revisiting your works 💕
Warnings: f! reader, oral (f receiving), smut
He comes to you in the night. Bloody, wafting of gunpowder and sweat mixed into a hypnotic concoction that is purely him. His eyes swirl with danger and he moves with calculated, slightly deranged, yet practiced movements.
You look up from your computer, eyes wide as you take him in. He slides across the room with no sound, a predator with a violent taste… a want.
His large hands encompass your knees, his torso lodges between your thighs, his nose bumps into your chest.
“Frank… are you alright?”
His lips drag across the delicate skin of your neck, a few millimeters away from the blood pumping through your veins, he can feel your pulse against his tongue, just a harsh nip away from your demise. Just a bite and you’d be gone from this world. He breathes it in, heart squeezes, something deep and dark growing with delight.
“Hmm why are you awake?”
He dodges your question, asking one of his own, but you know not to push. You know what he needs.
It rarely happens. Only on the nights where he danced with death and somehow won. When he becomes lost in a war, far away from earth and swept up in the fight. When his thoughts jumble together until he can only follow his training, relying on his primal instincts.
His skin prickles with the lasting adrenaline, fingers still twitching, mind still craving a fight. His jaw aches with the need to sink his teeth into flesh, his fists clench with a yearn to twist into bone, his brain still programmed to kill… to serve.
Your fingers lift the base of his chin, bringing his eyes to meet your own. The dark brown is intense, piercing, and clouded with epinephrine. You nod towards him, heart hammering and core pulsing.
“It’s okay soldier, go ahead.”
You give him permission, give him an order.
He dives in, he obeys.
Your sleep shorts and ripped from your hips, underwear in no better shape. He moves with a fierceness, an eager want to please.
His mouth is on you, sloppy and frantic and overwhelming. His tongue moves through your wet lips, gaping maw dangerous and sucking. He’s aggressive with it but oh how it feels good.
Your hands find the back of his strong head, fist in the cushion of the couch, tug at your covered breasts until he takes over. Powerful fingers that have brought death to so many slide under your shirt and grope at the flesh of your chest, pinch at your sensitive nipples.
It shouldn't turn you on as much as it is. The fact that the man kneeling before you will never kneel for another. The knowledge locked behind those eyes of every way to kill, to murder, to bring pain, and yet he only brings you pleasure. The dark sticky blood still painting his chest and arms that you know is not his.
His nose presses into the sensitive bundle of nerves at the top of your lips, you can hear him breathing it in, filling his lungs with you and only you. It makes your hips buck, your breath hitch, a keen whine fall from your lips.
A dark, low chuckle vibrates against your skin, causing another whimper from you. Calloused hands dig into the meat of your thighs, bringing them up to rest on his broad shoulders, commanding them to open wider for him.
You gaze down at him with heavy eyelids and when his eyes bare into yours, you’re met with a warrior, a soldier, a killer.
“You smell good sweetheart… taste fucking good.”
It’s direct and vulgar and filthy. Your heart hammers in your chest. Pumps strong against your ribs, strong enough you’re afraid they’ll crack open.
“Frank, please.”
It’s breathy, soft, full of want.
“Yeah? What do you need?”
You have to search for words, mouth not wanting to work properly.
“Don’t- don’t stop.”
He doesn’t, he won’t, even if you asked, he's so far gone it’d take convincing to get him to stop.
Your teeth pull your bottom lip taut, your eyes roll back, your skin burns as he shoves his face back into you. You can feel yourself clech, clamp down like a vice as he brings two fingers to curl into you, to spread your slick, to reach that spot that makes you quiver and burrow up into yourself.
Your pleasure pulls back the layers within him, peels away the anger and violence until it reveals obedience and intimacy. It soothes him in some messed up way. Your body calling out and tethering him back down to earth. Sex is the only way he knows to deal with this.
Before he didn’t have the ability, the gift of being able to bury himself in your wet heat. Instead he had to stitch himself, care for himself, let the fiercely burning adrenaline either fuzz out or wrap his hand around his weeping cock and tug a release out.
But it never truly worked, only took his mind off his sins for a quick second, left him feeling defeated despite his victory. Left him to wonder what he’s really doing, why he’s the way he is, and he hated it.
Now he can surround himself with you, can hear your forgiveness, can bring pleasure to balance out the pain he dealt earlier.
He knows it’s not the answer, a therapist would scream down his neck, would declare him sadistic and insane. But they don’t know. Don’t know the things he’s seen, the things he’s done, the things he’s had to move on from, the things he still struggles with.
But you do.
Maybe that’s why he loves you.
He spends the night kissing you, eating you out, shoving his dick inside you. It’s a lot. He lets you calm him, sedate the primal side of him, cup his cheek and tell him how loved he is.
Until he can feel himself go passive, go easy and soft. You handle him, deal with both sides of him, and he’s forever grateful for it. He loves that you always know, always help him in the way that you know will work.
He works through it until he’s finally captured the darker side of him, sealed it away for another time. This side of him just wants to hold you, to take you in his arms and never let go.
With bumping noses and gentle subdued kisses he cleans you, cares for the oversensitive nerves. He murmurs at you, listening to your breathing, finally laying down and pulling you onto his chest, just happy to be in your presence.
You have a smile on your resting face and it makes his heart bloom with warmth. He rubs into your hips, silently scolding himself because you’ll be so sore tomorrow.
hope youre still taking requests, id love to ask for prompts
angst: #12 why are you awake or #10 do you even still love me combined with fluff: #15 "i missed you so much" for frank castle plss <33
looking forward for more of your work im so happy youre growing, it's well deserved bc u write beautifully and i love revisiting your works 💕
Warnings: f! reader, oral (f receiving), smut
He comes to you in the night. Bloody, wafting of gunpowder and sweat mixed into a hypnotic concoction that is purely him. His eyes swirl with danger and he moves with calculated, slightly deranged, yet practiced movements.
You look up from your computer, eyes wide as you take him in. He slides across the room with no sound, a predator with a violent taste… a want.
His large hands encompass your knees, his torso lodges between your thighs, his nose bumps into your chest.
“Frank… are you alright?”
His lips drag across the delicate skin of your neck, a few millimeters away from the blood pumping through your veins, he can feel your pulse against his tongue, just a harsh nip away from your demise. Just a bite and you’d be gone from this world. He breathes it in, heart squeezes, something deep and dark growing with delight.
“Hmm why are you awake?”
He dodges your question, asking one of his own, but you know not to push. You know what he needs.
It rarely happens. Only on the nights where he danced with death and somehow won. When he becomes lost in a war, far away from earth and swept up in the fight. When his thoughts jumble together until he can only follow his training, relying on his primal instincts.
His skin prickles with the lasting adrenaline, fingers still twitching, mind still craving a fight. His jaw aches with the need to sink his teeth into flesh, his fists clench with a yearn to twist into bone, his brain still programmed to kill… to serve.
Your fingers lift the base of his chin, bringing his eyes to meet your own. The dark brown is intense, piercing, and clouded with epinephrine. You nod towards him, heart hammering and core pulsing.
“It’s okay soldier, go ahead.”
You give him permission, give him an order.
He dives in, he obeys.
Your sleep shorts and ripped from your hips, underwear in no better shape. He moves with a fierceness, an eager want to please.
His mouth is on you, sloppy and frantic and overwhelming. His tongue moves through your wet lips, gaping maw dangerous and sucking. He’s aggressive with it but oh how it feels good.
Your hands find the back of his strong head, fist in the cushion of the couch, tug at your covered breasts until he takes over. Powerful fingers that have brought death to so many slide under your shirt and grope at the flesh of your chest, pinch at your sensitive nipples.
It shouldn't turn you on as much as it is. The fact that the man kneeling before you will never kneel for another. The knowledge locked behind those eyes of every way to kill, to murder, to bring pain, and yet he only brings you pleasure. The dark sticky blood still painting his chest and arms that you know is not his.
His nose presses into the sensitive bundle of nerves at the top of your lips, you can hear him breathing it in, filling his lungs with you and only you. It makes your hips buck, your breath hitch, a keen whine fall from your lips.
A dark, low chuckle vibrates against your skin, causing another whimper from you. Calloused hands dig into the meat of your thighs, bringing them up to rest on his broad shoulders, commanding them to open wider for him.
You gaze down at him with heavy eyelids and when his eyes bare into yours, you’re met with a warrior, a soldier, a killer.
“You smell good sweetheart… taste fucking good.”
It’s direct and vulgar and filthy. Your heart hammers in your chest. Pumps strong against your ribs, strong enough you’re afraid they’ll crack open.
“Frank, please.”
It’s breathy, soft, full of want.
“Yeah? What do you need?”
You have to search for words, mouth not wanting to work properly.
“Don’t- don’t stop.”
He doesn’t, he won’t, even if you asked, he's so far gone it’d take convincing to get him to stop.
Your teeth pull your bottom lip taut, your eyes roll back, your skin burns as he shoves his face back into you. You can feel yourself clech, clamp down like a vice as he brings two fingers to curl into you, to spread your slick, to reach that spot that makes you quiver and burrow up into yourself.
Your pleasure pulls back the layers within him, peels away the anger and violence until it reveals obedience and intimacy. It soothes him in some messed up way. Your body calling out and tethering him back down to earth. Sex is the only way he knows to deal with this.
Before he didn’t have the ability, the gift of being able to bury himself in your wet heat. Instead he had to stitch himself, care for himself, let the fiercely burning adrenaline either fuzz out or wrap his hand around his weeping cock and tug a release out.
But it never truly worked, only took his mind off his sins for a quick second, left him feeling defeated despite his victory. Left him to wonder what he’s really doing, why he’s the way he is, and he hated it.
Now he can surround himself with you, can hear your forgiveness, can bring pleasure to balance out the pain he dealt earlier.
He knows it’s not the answer, a therapist would scream down his neck, would declare him sadistic and insane. But they don’t know. Don’t know the things he’s seen, the things he’s done, the things he’s had to move on from, the things he still struggles with.
But you do.
Maybe that’s why he loves you.
He spends the night kissing you, eating you out, shoving his dick inside you. It’s a lot. He lets you calm him, sedate the primal side of him, cup his cheek and tell him how loved he is.
Until he can feel himself go passive, go easy and soft. You handle him, deal with both sides of him, and he’s forever grateful for it. He loves that you always know, always help him in the way that you know will work.
He works through it until he’s finally captured the darker side of him, sealed it away for another time. This side of him just wants to hold you, to take you in his arms and never let go.
With bumping noses and gentle subdued kisses he cleans you, cares for the oversensitive nerves. He murmurs at you, listening to your breathing, finally laying down and pulling you onto his chest, just happy to be in your presence.
You have a smile on your resting face and it makes his heart bloom with warmth. He rubs into your hips, silently scolding himself because you’ll be so sore tomorrow.
