Milo ૮꒰ྀི◜༝◝ ꒱ྀིა

🏳️‍⚧️ Multifandom Artist||18 Poor ass sleep schedule

[milosstag]

Overall Intro on this Blog:

Hi ! My name’s Milo, I’m a trans man (ftm) and autistic :)

I’m currently in art school. It’s very draining lawl.

Most of my art is about Daredevil, MCR, Hannibal, and Jschlatt (special intrests…)

I will be opening up commissions soon! And in the process of making merchandise from different fandoms..!^.^

Okok that’s rlly it :3

Jdjdjsj socialz are:

Insta: Milostag (most active there)

Tiktok: milostag

Okay baiii :3

[podkadottie]

hihiii^^

i discovered your blog like, few days ago and I'm in love, ur writing is sooo good

anyways, this might be a strangely specific request but can you do headcannons for kakyoin x fem reader, but the reader is his favorite character from a video game? like for example would he buy merch, would he spend extra money on the game for the reader (like a skin or a new weapon for her), would he subconsciously draw fanart of her, etc etc, wherever your creativity takes you lolol. ♥

always the main ୨ৎ N. KAKYOIN ꒰ in which you're his favourite video game character! ꒱

ever since you got released, picking another character stopped being an option. it was like love at first sight. your bubbly personality, your enthusiastic voice lines and your colorful design just made it unable for him to take his eyes off of you.

winning is easier than it has ever been when he plays with you. it's not that you're overpowered or an objectively strong character, just that he's more attentive when it comes to you.

female characters always get hate in male dominated fandoms, and unfortunatelly you have also been a victim of such immature behavior. kakyoin makes it his life's mission to protect your dignity online. he always defends you when some random teenagers with racing hormones say that you're useless or that the company only added you for fanservice.

whenever a new outfit for you gets released, he's the first one to buy it. they're all so cute and unique, he just can't help himself. he likes seeing you all dolled up while you kill monsters with an ungodly weapon.

he always buys your merch. his bookshelves are decorated with multiple figures of you in different outfits and poses. he also has lots of your posters but he's too ashamed to hang them up, so he just keeps them hidden at the bottom of his desk drawer.

if something goes wrong while playing and you're on the verge of losing the battle, he'll completely shut down his computer. he hates seeing your defeat animation and hearing your disappointed voice lines.

he has a folder in his computer filled with screenshots of you in-game.

he unconsiosly sketches you when he's bored. he doesn't start with your image in his mind. just something abstract, a rough outline of a pose and some shapes for the characteristics. but as he keeps on adding details, the sketch takes on your form. your eyes are always the most detailed part. he'll sometimes even draw new outfits for you, ones that don't exist in the game but thinks they would look cool on you.

he's a bit ashamed of his attachment to you so he hasn't told anyone else. you're his little secret.

a/n: this request was soo creative, thank u for ur kind words anon! (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

© podkadottie 2026. — do not plagiarize or feed my work into artificial intelligence. do not modify or repost my work anywhere other than tumblr.

[cigarettepup]

Crimson and Clover | Frank Castle

Frank is looking for purpose, not some bambi eyed boy at a party. So, naturally, it's then that love finds him and smacks him upside the damn head.

18+, very plot heavy, 2005 setting, brief commentary on Iraq war, ftm! reader, weird, off-putting!reader implied reader experienced SA but never explicit, dom! marine! Frank, daddy kink, creampie, fingering (reader receiving) pet names used, AFAB terms used.

wc: 10k.

an: Sorry for the long wait, I'm a freshman in college, so I've been very busy !! Lowkey still feral over Frankie as always. Thank u for all the continued support!

Frank’s been moving his whole life, he thinks. 

Always running, always moving, a fleeting face in a crowd. Coming and going is constant. To him, it’s normalcy. Was normalcy. He’d signed himself away at a mere eighteen, hadn’t ever held a gun before when he’d ducked a broad shoulder into the recruitment office. 

He’d hadn’t had a purpose before that. Before he was a Jarhead with his hair shaved tight against his cranium, so tight the razor had kissed at the slope of his skull, he was nothing. A speck in the fucking universe, a blip in the city, a nothingness. When he’d watched it that September, it changed. It changed everything, the melting steel, the screams. The dust that flooded down so heavily, Frank’s sure a part of the Center still coats his lungs with how thick it had poured down. 

He’d signed up the next day. It hadn’t been an original idea. American propaganda works wonders on the mind of young men. Uncle Sam had wanted him, after all. It was a lack of knowledge, of understanding, the kind of things that were drilled into him by history classes. Figured he could do something good, protecting his country. Playing hero. 

He’d gotten the call and the response was simple- he followed. 

That call morphed into Frank’s first tour into sunny, sunny Iraq. 

Seven months, burnt in the sun, with blood all over his hands. Seven months, and he’d bonded with his gun. Seven months, he’s got sand in places he’d never had sand in, drenched in the saline of his own sweat as it washes down the protruding brow bone of his forehead. Seven months, he sees the suffering but it’s only his own. It will only register to him later, about the oil. That what they search for isn’t truly there.

In seven months, he has returned home, in a new form. Like a snake whose shed it’s skin, sliding out of the shell of himself into something bigger, something more predatory, something monstrous. 

He sleeps in a proper bed now, out of the heat, but in his dreams he runs. He runs fast, the desert still spanning under him, weighted back by gear that tugs him downward until he spirals into the sand below. He lies there, in this world, the sun’s furious fists meeting his face in a fierceness he can never shake. He is open, vulnerable. He is going to die, he knows it. But it’s too heavy, everything is too heavy, and he’s trapped under the weight of it. 

The dreams are normalcy. The Jarhead life is normalcy. It is what it is- he’s got two more years like this. Active service, at least. 

It’s normalcy until he met you. 

Apparently, Frank was good at shootin’ things. Killing things. Ripping flesh apart. It makes him good. Respectable. The boys know they can count on him. They don’t look at him in disgust when he strips himself with ease, letting the water dump over him in the cramped space of the shared showers. They just look him in the eye like brothers do. They throw around faggot, sneering and jabbing but never towards him. Like he doesn’t take offense and Frank pretends he doesn’t. Like it doesn’t matter at all.

 He’s a man in every sense of the traditional word. The sort of thing, the sickness they think men like him have, it’s under his skin. Hidden. Tucked close to his heart. 

Don’t ask, don’t tell. 

He wants to tell. 

You’re stupidly pretty, Frank thinks. Been thinking it since the June of 2004. He pictures you the way you looked the first time you’d met. 

The stench of beer was heavy in the air as it sloshed about in the pretty, translucent brown bottles whose rims catch at the low lighting. Somewhere between the bodies bumping together, close knit and tangled together, the tiny, metallic body of an IPod mini is sitting prettily nestled between two speakers that rumble the bass too high. House party of some old friend since grade school, deep within the belly of Hell’s Kitchen. 

It’s between bodies, he spots you.

The low light makes you look like you’re glowing like a pretty little angel. The kind you find at somebody’s grandma’s house on a Sunday, their little faces all turned up, ready to spread their wings. 

You haven’t gotten a drink in your hand, he realizes. No drink, no girl hangin’ off your hip and pawing at the crotch of your jeans like the boy beside you. You’re looking all around without ever turning your head, observing, taking it all in. The bodies move all around you, swirling and melding together, but you don’t move an inch. 

You look like Bambi he thinks. 

Your eyelashes curve down when you blink and he can see the bitten edges of your nails when they curve around the ledge of the windowsill you’ve pressed yourself into, just waiting, it looks like. 

It’s not the sort of waiting that he’s seen girls do. It’s not a “come and get me”, there’s no flirtation, no lustful tone that floods through you. You’ve cast a hook without meaning to, though, and it’s caught him in the upper lip. Reeling him, catching and pulling in some heavy gravitational pull, the kind he’s only felt when he digs his heels in and refuses the acknowledgement of it. 

Like sneaking glances when he was a boy, watching the soccer team, the way the elder boys moved. He felt it then. Felt guilt for it. 

He’s drunk just enough, spinning and spitting out that guilt. He wants. He wants and he’s so sick. Sick of being alone in that desert. 

He’s staring. 

You’ve noticed.

It’s a slight tilt of your face in his direction that does it. You’ve spotted him now and it’s analytical, the way you looked back, calculating. But there’s recognition in the way you look back, the sort of I know you. I know what you are. Instinctive. Sin in the eyes of society, recognizing sin. 

Frank moves before he can stop himself. 

The bottle sweats heavily in Frank’s grasp as he moves, big bulky body, awkward in nature as he pushes through the crowd. By the time he’s made his way over, he’s half regretting it. 

Frank knows how to talk to girls. He could get any girl he wants, could flash that pretty little US Marine card and flex his biceps out, could prove himself a thousand times over with what he’s packing between his legs. He knows that. Men are different. Men are- he doesn’t know. Off limits. Look from afar but never touch, never ever touch. 

He’s not so sure right now.

His palms are sweating, and it’s so odd. It’s a feeling that’s crawling down his throat to settle in his chest. It’s a kin to the rush of the wind, the way the desert had kicked up before. It’s not fear, no, it’s a twin sister. Anxiety. Something almost sparking with excitement as it buzzes under his skin.

“Hi,” he grunts it out in his nerves, staring back at you. He’s big, towering, but he’s got the look of a schoolboy trying to give a pretty girl a little pink valentine. His fists twitch a little, curling, unfurling as his Adam’s apple bobs wildly. 

It’s all he says. 

“Hi.” You counter back simply. Your  back is on the wall. You don’t say anything else, either. Fuck. He’s fucked. Can’t even talk to you- twenty one year old marine, he’s killed people, and he’s practically shitting himself talkin’ to a pretty boy. 

He watches you instead while you bite the inside of your cheek- taking in a nibble of the fat and pulling- eyes on the floor. 

“So, uh,” he motions behind himself with a large hand, mindless and sloppy as it cuts through the air. “why ain’t you dancin’ with anyone?” His execution is poor, god, it’s barely even there. He ducks his head a little, pawing at the heavily crooked form that shapes nose for a long moment. 

You squint at him, really at his audacity, watching as he throws a glance sideways instead of at you. In the light that spills out from the city through the glasspane, you can see the thin sheen of nervous sweat that makes his hair curl into pretty little ringlets at the sides as he shifts from foot to foot. 

“Are you asking me to dance with you?” It comes out slightly edged from your mouth and Frank tries not to shrink back, just shrugs. He paws at his nose again, scratching causally. You’re killing him. You’re killing him, shyly and defensively, without even knowing it. 

“Yeah, maybe.” He huffs out. “ Why, you don’t wanna dance with me?” He’s fumbling. Hard. Comes off more pushy than he’d like, too rough, like a nervous dog backed into a corner even though he’s the one who asked. If anything, it’s only revealing how much heavier your hand is weighing on him. 

You teeter a little in his vision, stepping forward, only a little. Indecisive. You’re testing the water, waiting for the shark to reveal all those rows of razored teeth. He doesn’t. He just inches a little closer. His arm is tentative as it offers itself out. 

He feels your hand, warm and soft, the way it tendrils up upon his bicep. It’s tender, more tender than the touch of any woman he’s ever felt, and it feels different. In his heart it feels different. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t pull you closer against his hip, doesn’t push his pelvis to grind against your own. No, he lets you stay at that length, his other arm draping gently against your waist. Slowly, so slowly, he feels you shift until your head tucks against his chest. 

He’s cradling you. His palm is flat, soothing over the soft skin when the fabric of your shirt rides up, swaying you in his grip. 

“didn’t mean to scare you,” he mumbles out, a little, his lips a gentle flutter against the crown of your head. “I ain’t that kind of man.” 

It feels silly, this domesticated dance with you, in the flurry of twisting bodies all around you. But you’re in his arms, and that’s enough. 

“You don’t scare me.” He feels your breath tickle the dip of his collarbone when you speak, quiet and low. Like he’s a spooked animal. Like you can see through him. “But If you aren’t that kind of man, what kind of man are you?” 

Frank pauses at that, brain reeling, and for a long time he’s quiet. In all his life, he’s never been asked that. What he wanted to be when he grew up, what he was doing after high school, all those typical things. People don’t usually ask him about himself- who he thinks he is. He doesn’t ask himself either. 

He doesn’t know if he should know, if everyone else knows. 

It’s honesty that leaves him instead, slightly slurred and turning his face gently against the crown of your head.  “I don’t know what kind of man I am. I just wanna dance with you, that enough of an answer for you?”

He hopes it is. He’s drunk and you’re warm, and you speak to him in a way his brain can barely comprehend. You’re muddling him up and he likes it. 

“Yeah,” you mumble back in that little odd way he’s noticed you do. You don’t push him away. You don’t press further. You accept it. He doesn’t, didn’t then, doesn’t really know now, what you meant by it. All he knows is he’s glad you did. “Yeah, ‘s enough of an answer for me.” 

You stay in his arms like that for a long, long while. Just there. Lingering. Molded against him, chin tucked. He learns little things from you, and from him so do you. Memorizes the feeling of your skin, he’s never done that,  not once before. Especially not with a man. The slight curve of your arm, the freckle that hides against your elbow. 

“You’re weird, you know that? Asking me a  question like that. Never had anybody ask that before.” He speaks up again after a few minutes of silence, lifting one hand to lightly feel over the curve of your hip. He doesn’t grab at you, doesn’t grope at the globes of fat he could grab handfuls of. His hands don’t wander any further. 

“You’re weird,” you counter him, peering up with your brows furrowed, a slight scowl etched into your features. “You asked me to dance by grunting at me like an animal. You’re lucky I even said yes.” 

It’s funny, he sees it now. That little bit of spark. A personality beyond the way you hide away. 

You’re trouble, and he’s unable to get himself to unlace himself from you. He can’t help but barb, wiggle under your defenses. 

“I am lucky, got a little spitfire dancing with me.” He huffs right back, but still, his touch is gentle. He takes his time, swaying you, letting you feel over his shoulder as your own hand creeps against him. Its tentative at best, unsure at most.“You gettin’ handsy on me?” 

You rip your hands off him so fast it has him spinning, like burned you, fried off down to the sensitive layers with bone showing clear through. He can’t help but chuckle, still hazy with the alcohol when he watches the color flood your face at his comment, the way you glance away. 

“ ‘m not.” You insist, already stepping back from him, but his hands catch you, encasing over your wrist lightly. Not pulling, not tugging, just there. “You were the one touching me. I’m not handsy.” You’re voice gets all pitched. Different. A little higher, almost distressed. 

“Hey, hey, woah.” He hurries, his thumb rubbing loosely against the curve of your wrist bone. He lets you hold him at that distance, still glowering. He knows that look. It’s the look of worry, of embarrassment. The look of distrust when someone who’s sensitive to that- to that teasing- begins to duck and cover. “I pushed too far, yeah? Won’t happen again. Lemme walk you home if you’re gonna leave, at least.” 

And just like the dance, it’s unspoken. You leave, Frank follows. His grip doesn’t loosen up on your wrist though, just shifts it a little. You lead, he follows. His hand slips, catches at your pinky, and his own curves over it in the shadow of the buildings and streets you slide through. It’s in the darkness he feels safe. In the darkness, in this moment, he is holding a man’s hand. 

Frank isn’t a faggot. 

And when the street lights bleed over him, over the conjoining of you both, he is just a man. 

“Im not inviting you inside,” you warn when you reach the steps that slope upward into the pretty red brick apartment, just standing there, arm splayed where he holds your wrist. It’s a clear cock block. One you must be used to making perfectly obvious, he thinks, but he doesn’t care. Wasn’t the point in walking you home. You look so stiff up there, glancing down at the pavement. “sorry.” It comes out softer, that little part. You’re apologizing. Like it needs to be softer delivery, like he’ll be pissed you won’t let him- a random man you danced with- come inside and fuck you. There’s a guilt in it. Like it’s transactional, him walking you. 

“I didn’t walk you home for that.” His face twists up, just a little in disgust as he watches you, not at you, of course. At the notion. “I don’t expect you to fuck me because I walked you home. ‘Was hoping maybe for your name and number. ‘s okay if it’s a no. Ain’t gonna be upset.” 

You sort of squint down at him when he says it, like you’re just now seeing him. Like holding a bug under a microscope and honing the focus in until he’s pressed flat against the slide. You don’t dissect. Not yet. But he feels the pressure, the blade you poke at his hard exterior with. Like you’re trying to peel back a layer of deceit. He just shrugs. 

“Maybe that’s the kind of man I am.” He adds, low and heavy, under his breath as he paws at his nose- again. Just as he did before. Nervous, now that you’ve tilted the scales of power back to yourself. It’s such a juxtaposition, how timid and awkward you are, and yet you’ve got this spell on him. Over him, he doesn’t know, he’s too drunk to fucking care. Drunk on you. “‘m Frank. By the way.”

You shift back against the stairs in consideration. He doesn’t let go of your hand. He waits. Let’s you think. And then he watches you reach back, and then you slide that winning ticket into his hand. The little Blackberry is light and tiny in his hand but he punches his numbers in as quick as he can.

 He’s reeling in a fish, a catch. He can’t let you go, not now. You tell him your name, and he lets it settle deep in his brain until it seeps into each and every crevice. He doesn’t promise he’ll call, doesn’t make anything empty. 

He squeezes your hand one last time, just to savor it, he does do that. And you let him. Just slip that phone back into your pocket and step further back up another step. He doesn’t chase. Just lets himself feel the skin slide from his own, the fleeting of warmth.

“Goodnight, Frank.” 

It’s mid July, when he calls you. But he’s been thinking about it, really has. You’re all up in his head, messing with him, making him think of you. You’re the weirdest, strangest fucking thing that’s happened to him- all cryptic and shit. But he can’t get rid of you nor can he shake you free. You’re just there, always there. He’s had three dates since then. If dates can count, he guesses. He’s hooked up with two of ‘em, pretty girls, they are. Good girls. But when he’s got his tongue down their throats, he’s thinking of you. Of the little curves of your cheeks, the way you batted those lashes. When he’s got his hands on the headboard, nosing down their delicate necks and breathing in their perfumes, he finds himself missing the smell of cologne that lingered just a little on your own. 

He thinks, and he thinks, and he drinks. Almost calls you. Doesn’t. Fights the regret of not calling but then fights the heavy guilt, the shame of his longing to do so. In his dreams, you invade him there, too. When he finds himself in the sand, buried and tortured, he feels you there. You sit beside him, without a word. He can’t run from you. 

He calls you. It rings twice before you pick up. 

“Hello?” God, it’s so good to hear you again. It’s quiet, wherever you are. It’s not late, the sun still lingers, but it feels exactly how it did that night he held you. He hesitates for too long, long enough that there’s a stiffness when you repeat into the line. “Hello?”

He swallows around the lump in his throat as he cradles the phone. “Hey.”  He grits out, hardly remembering how to breathe. It should be easier, he’s already got the number, got you in his arms a month before. But it’s different. There’s no alcohol to ground him. “It’s Frank.” He spits out dumbly into the receiver and immediately rubs over his face with his eyes screwed shut. He’s weak. That’s exactly what he is. And because you’re too damn smart- especially with that damn mouth. 

“I know.” You tut back without hesitation, and he can almost picture the way you’re rolling those half lidded eyes at the phone. “Caller ID.” I mean, what he is supposed to say to that? Tell you to stop bein’ such a brat and to just please go on a date with him so he’ll stop pulling his hair out over you? 

“Well, I just,” he grunts a little, trying to not focus on the way his hands are shaking around where he holds his phone. You can probably hear it, the deep breath he pulls in, before exhaling. “I wanted to ask you out. Take you to a nice dinner or a movie. Whatever you want. Fuckin’ walk in the park if you don’t wanna do neither of those.” Hell, you could sit by his side in pure silence and he wouldn’t care. As long as you were by him, close enough, he could do all the talking. 

He waits. Let you exchange your own exhale beyond the line. He doesn’t mind. God, he doesn’t. You take things at a pace that’s so careful but there is no irritation, not even a spark in him. He wants to be careful with you. He wants to be the one you decide is worth it, worth the time to be gentle with. 

You breathe out and he breathes back in, intermixing, flowing at the same level. Intertwined. Feeling between the lines. 

“Yeah, okay.” You murmur back into the phone and it’s like for a moment time is stopping, fluttering, rewinding like an old tape. You’re agreeing, you’re gonna let him. Let him take you out on a proper date, gonna let him show you that he can be worth your time. “I’d like that, Frank.” 

I’d like that. He shudders. 

“Yeah?” He can’t help but confirm it, just to make sure he’s not dreaming up some stupid fantasy. He hears you hum out a soft agreement- little mmmhmm-  that makes his stomach start to flutter and warm- warmer than the way liquor settles, warmer than the sun beating down upon him in Iraq. “Gonna pick you up at eight on Friday, wear somethin’ pretty, okay? ‘m taking you somewhere real nice.” 

“See you then,” he hears a little fainter, signaling the way you pull away from the phone, and his mouth feels dry. Like it was stuffed with cotton. Before he can muster up a goodbye, you’ve hung up. 

It’s a long three days before he shows up at your doorstep. Polished up, wearing’ his nice leather shoes that his mother bought him for graduation, his good jacket and pants. His fingers crunch, crinkling heavily around the plastic wrap of the bouquet he’s got his fingers stiffly around. He’s nearly snapping the stems of the soft, baby pink Peonies. He managed to tame the curls on his head that threatened to cut through the gel that slicks down his overgrown hair- once shaven down completely. 

He flicks up his wrist to squint at the sheen of the glassy plane of the watch that hugs his wrist. It’s early, nearly 7:45 at best. He’s early, chronically, foolishly. He’ll wait. 

Maybe he’s not the only fool, because he lifts his head up, and watches the rusty door of your apartment building creak open. 

You look so handsome Frank wants to kick himself just to make sure he’s alive and breathing. 

He swallows, his throat bobbing rapidly, and he steps forward. He shifts the bouquet gently into his arms in attempt to keep himself from crushing the petals as he forces himself to tear his eyes away for a split second. 

“You’re early,” You bite your lip, but he can see the slight flush creeping up your cheeks, like you didn’t expect him at all. And it hits him that you didn’t. Especially not like this. And yet, you still got all prettied up. All for him. You gave him that chance.

“Couldn’t wait any longer.” He replies simply enough, sticking his arm out with the bouquet. The petals shake a little, a couple falling out, but he’s kept it close. “I thought maybe you’d like these, dunno, hope you ain’t allergic.” 

Your fingers graze his own when you gather the flowers into your own grasp and he watches as the lip you had been biting into frees itself, starting to curl up just a little, until this smile is all present. No teeth, no, he doesn’t get that privilege yet. 

“How did you know I’d like Peonies?” You smile up at him, light and fleeting, as you hold the flowers closer. He watches you thumb over the slender bow that holds the stems all together, the ribbon shining in the soft summer glow of the settling sun. He’d taken the time to get them with ribbon, to select something without roses. He thought about it. 

“Didn’t think you’d like plain ole roses.” He muses, letting himself return that little smile with a slight huff as he shuffles a little closer. Just enough to get a closer look at you, just to admire. “Deserved better than that.” 

He dares just a little, to stick his hand out for you. 

You take it. 

Your thank you gets muffled in his brain when he takes your hand again, slotting against your own, and he squeezes just a little. He walks you all the way down the street with careful consideration of matching each step you give- not willing to walk too fast in front of you, nor let you step off the curb. If you notice, which of course you do, you seem to notice everything, you say nothing of it. Just let it happen. 

He, as he predicted, talks enough for the both of you. He tells you about the places he’s been, points out spots he hung around as a teenager, runs his mouth about the dumb things he shouldn’t have done. He tells you about his momma, he tells you about being Italian, he tells you about everything he can think of. You listen, head tilted to watch him as you both walk. 

It doesn’t take long until you start talking too. A lot. More than he’d ever expected. But he likes it. Likes the way your mouth curves up when you speak, how you ramble a little in the same way he does- giving too many details, too many little thoughts all pushed together. When he laughs at something you said, he can feel the way you squeeze at his hand, like a silent thank you. An involuntary reaction to his praise. 

“You’re a damn chatterbox,” he chuckles, only releasing your hand to place carefully against your waist, leading you up towards the restaurant just so he can beat you to opening the door. “ ‘s nice, when you talk, you know.”

“I don’t know what to say sometimes.” You admit as you slide into the building, blinking rapidly at the scene in front of you. Expensive. That’s the first thing you can think of. Fucking expensive- not any of that Michelin star bullshit but nice. Wooden floors, one of those places that’s been nestled in New York City between generations, drinks with wine you probably can’t pronounce and Frank knows he fucking can’t. He watches as your brows furrow a little, the way you glance around. “We could’ve gotten a burger or something, you didn’t have to do this.” 

He shrugs like it’s nothing at all, letting himself give you one last squeeze before letting the host lead you away, settling you into a pretty little corner. 

He props up the menu causally, skimming over all the fancy little dishes like this isn’t about to take a hefty chunk from his paycheck just to impress you. “You could get a burger here. ‘Can get whatever you want, alright? I’m gonna take care of you.” 

I’m gonna take care of you. 

He does. He lets you order whatever you want, even when you hesitate. Gets you fucking desert. He gently wipes the corner of your mouth with a napkin, dabbing gently. When you try to pay, he gives you a look and paws your hand away with a grunt of disapproval. “Put that away, don’t think for a second you payin’.” 

It’s the same gentleness on the walk home. It’s the same gentleness at the door that earns him a kiss against his stubbled cheek. it’s lingering and soft, all warm. He turns his head, tilting, but doesn’t aim for your lips, he doesn’t nip at your neck, just pecks your forehead. 

The summer drags on, turning to the gentle touch of fall, and he finds you by his side day by day. It’s a slow growth that he adores, the warmth of holding you close, of how he learns your body. Your mind. Of the things you’ve been through, the routine you follow, how he falls into it because he knows you hate to break your structured schedules. His kisses move from your forehead, to your cheeks, they grace your lips. And when he touches you, it’s with reverence. It’s frightening, he knows that for you. But he figures it out, slow and lightly, the things you like. Like how you squeak when he thrusts in real deep, real slow, and cooes at how good his boy takes it. He fucks all those terrible, destructive thoughts out of you until you’re jello in his arms, his sweet boy, so relaxed and brainless. Apparently, you’ve always been a proper Daddy’s boy at heart. He likes that in a man. He’s your man. 

The only day he sees you cry is when fall turns to winter. The JFK airport is hustling, bodies bumbling into each other along with the faint roar of the jets in the distance. The duffle is hefty in his arms, packed so full it’s obscenely heavy, but it’s his heart that’s heavier. It’s fucking breaking, splintering, and he can’t look at you. Not now. God, if he does, he fears he might go goddamn AWOL. Literally just scoop you up into his arms and run through those big glass doors, disappear far away where it’s just you and him. 

It’s only seven months, he had whispered into your ear the night before as he stroked over your bare back as you sobbed into his chest. It’ll be done before you even know it. But you had just cried and cried, and he knew no amount of promises could make it any better at all. Like now, as he stops before the corralling line of military that departing their own loves. He settles the bag onto the glossy tile, biting his cheek as he struggles in another breath. It hadn’t been so fucking hard the first time around. Hadn’t ever been so hard. It’s not just home, hes leaving. It’s his heart. 

If he’d known, even for just a second that you’d been out there that day he signed up, he would’ve turned heel and wandered until he found you. Until he could crawl into your arms, until he could realize that you’re his purpose. 

“Sweetheart,” he mumbles lowly, so quiet it’s just for you, resisting the urge to just cradle you as close as he can. But the uniform, it’s the uniform in the wall, always the uniform. But you’re shaking your head, staring at the floor below his boots. “I’ll call you when I can, you know that. ‘Write you everyday. Every single day until my hands cramp up.”

You nod, fast and feverishly, but the low choking noise that escapes you- so broken and shuddering- make it so that his arms find you nonetheless. You’re silent, just like that first night you met, but he can feel the saline tears soaking his army greens. He tucks you close, pressing his hooked nose against your cheek with a tender touch. 

“Breathe,” he reminds, squeezing his own eyes shut, willing himself strength that he knows you bring him. It’s what he’ll be without, all broken pieces, yearning for his place beyond the sea. “Be my good boy, c’mon. Need you to breathe for me.”

You suck in shaky inhale of air, your arms slung around him so tightly it’s squeezing out the air from his own lungs, but if it’s supplying you air it’s not even a thought of his mind- that little burning sensation. 

“I love you. You’re the only man I’ve ever loved, you know that?” He whispers, shallow, his hand catching against the gentle downy hairs that brush against your nape. Savoring, remembering. “Gonna come back and take you to a real nice restaurant. Get you some pretty Peonies. Gonna take care of you.” 

He feels you squeeze, once and then twice, tipping up forward on your tiptoes to let him hear you over the rustle all around you. It’s all white noise, always has been, until you talk, until you speak to him in a language only the two of you know. “I love you more, Frank.” Deep down, he knows it. Knew it a couple months ago. But hearing it, hearing you say it. It’s completely different. It’s everything all at once tumbling and churning together. 

He swallows, before he finally steps back, nodding roughly. He’s running, he’s always fucking running. His head ducks, his feet shift back, and it’s the knowledge that if he doesn’t move in that movement, he’ll be frozen. A part of him doesn’t care to move, not unless it’s back to you, back to the magnetic pull you still have on him. 

He can’t and he won’t.

For seven months, he survives off of letters. 

They come in steadily, never missing a week, not once. Pretty cream colored envelopes, always addressed just right so he never misses one. It’s a serious affair, your letters. Drops everything when he gets ‘em, just sits his ass right into his bunk and reads. Reads about your day, about how New York has changed, reads about how much you miss him. He lets his fingers trace over each little line, lets himself drink in the faint smell of parchment and the way your cologne settles just below it. The little kisses goodnight at the bottom of each one, it’s serious to him. Doesn’t let anyone see him reading them, nobody gets the things that are for his eyes, his heart only. 

He keeps each one. 

By the time your fifth letter comes in, it’s predecessors got blood splatter all over it. 

It’s not his pride, that Frank fought over. It’s not like that. The boys in his company, they all knew it, how defensive he was over the damn things. Always keeping those letters all dry, flat and perfect in his things. Neat. Safe. And thing was, it was a damn well known fact you didn’t touch Frank’s stuff. The type of guy that wouldn’t leave a brother behind, one that would take a bullet for you. But you didn’t push that line- not with Frank. Never with Frank. But there was always someone who pushed it. Who teetered that line until Frank raised his hackles. 

There are four letters hidden in his cot when he ducks out of the old plywood and tented structures that made up the base for the up-coming weeks, and when he returns his mouth is still slightly burning from the mint of his shitty, military toothpaste. 

His bulked frame makes his cot creak in whining protest as he flops down, not caring for the low snickering of a few of the boys in the tent’s corner, the way they crowd around one private. Backed turned, he doesn’t see them sneaking those glances at him. He’s not got time for the brats, anyway, only  he knows two things: he’s fucking tired and all he’s missing you so damn bad it’s driving him crazy. 

He fishes one large paw down under the cot, feeling alone the lines of wire, fingers catching the precious evalopes underneath. He counts one, tracing over the edges in the way he imagined you had when you licked the seal. Two, he exhales. Three, he inhales. His finger drags forward, expecting the soft edge of paper of a fourth, and finds his skin dragging across scratchy, canvas cot and cool wiring. Four, his brain scrambles, tracing again, but its bare. 

All he can hear is Private dickhead snickering- the little mockery of your sweet, sweet kisses goodnight, the way you tell him you’re waiting for him back home. That Castle’s getting love letters. And it tells him all he needs to know. It’s like his brain shuts off, and his vision tunnels so violently it’s like watching a panther lock onto its prey. 

He’s launched himself off his cot before he can stop himself, his body propelling so hard the bed screams out in protest from the force he’s created. Frank doesn’t think before he moves. He doesn’t think about anything, it’s chemical reaction that directs him. Just like how his fist collides with the face of the Private. It makes a sickening snapping noise when his knuckles smash into the kid’s nose- the spray of blood is warm when it paints his face but he doesn’t stop. He draws back and pummels, again and again, and he’s screaming and spitting, but he can’t tell if the noise is him or the private. It’s all just noise when it isn’t you speaking.

“You touch my fuckin’ letters again, I swear I’ll kill you, I’ll rip you to fuckin’ shreds-!” he’s snarling, lips drawn back in a nasty display of glinting teeth, his pupils blown wide. It’s pure fury, again and again, and he can’t stop himself. He’s so tired. He’s so angry. He’s only got you, and you’re getting dirtied by the hands of some private that at this rate, won’t have hands when Frank is through. “-fuckin’ kill you, gonna kill you, you stupid bitch-!” He’s got Bill hauling him off, stumbling as he cries out for more men to pry Frank off, but it’s damn nearly impossible. Between dislodging 270 pounds of muscle and the way Frank is screaming and clawing, it takes the force of four men to throw him off completely. 

He’s panting, labored and bloody, sweat dripping down in the heavy mixture of red rusted blood from the spray. He stumbles back, shoving hard when Bill tries to coral him elsewhere. Just snatches your letter off the ground, smoothing the paper as best he can, the smears of dirt and blood muddling the pretty ink you’ve drawn all your words in. 

He finds a new hiding spot with hellishly bruised knuckles and his control reestablished. 

It does nothing to stop the ache in his heart. Nothing can pacify that. 

It’s better when he can call you, hear your voice again. It brings him to tears the first time he got a hold of the phone. When you ask how he is, he only tells you the good things, though he knows you can see right through him. He can’t bear the thought of you worrying that pretty head, the one that’s no doubt exhausted already with dread, so he talks about how shitty the food is. Reminds you that he loves you. That he’s thinkin’ bout you every step of the way. Tells you to be good for him, and that before you know it, he’ll be home.

It’s hard to hang up, and when he does, for a long moment he just holds the phone closer to his ear in hopes that you’ve misclicked and he can catch one more moment. 

It’s hard, when Bill comes up for the phone, and Frank practically has to pry his hand off of the thing. 

“You didn’t tell me you had a girl back home,” Bill counters, carefully. It’s a simple look that tells him how Frank feels, how he’s staring out at the sandy terrain that scatters beyond the tents below. 

“It’s private.” Is all he can say, lowly, running his fingers over the material of his fatigues. Slow and grounding. Nobody can know, his brain aches when he remembers it. His sweet boy. It’s private. 

“More like it’s serious.” Bill’s voice is low as he fills in the gaps of the story, with a low whistle. “You put a ring on it when you get back, then?” 

A ring on it. Frank wishes he could. He’s toyed with the idea, but he’s not sure if he could, law abiding. Maybe if you looked girly enough when you sign off the papers, maybe a little ceremony with just you and him, a witness or two. He doesn’t know if he can put you through that, though. That one time, just the one, that he met your parents it had been god awful. 

You’d looked so trapped, sitting between him and your mom, in that stupid pink dress Frank had reluctantly helped zip up. Tight and pretty, with your fit stuffed into kitten heels under the table- one foot tucked against his own in seeking comfort. Skin to skin. 

He was watching you wither away, head tucking towards your chin, bearing the weight of your mother chittering about how happy she was that her daughter found a man that brought out her femininity. That you’d gotten back on the straight and narrow and left that silly queer stuff behind, that her pretty girl was doing what was right. Frank had left a dent in the silverware from clutching it so hard it bent backward just to keep his mouth shut.

He’d unzipped that dress, spat on it, and thrown it into the trash the minute you got home. Made quick work of cutting and rounding the bandages, smoothing them over your chest, and settling you into his own shirt instead. ‘Till you looked yourself again. 

He can’t put you through that again. 

“Maybe.” Is all he says, rubbing over his ring finger for a moment, before he shoulders away into the tents again. Maybe.

It’s seven long months, and he’s running. But this time, it’s to you. He sprints faster than he ever has in his life. It’s a long stretch, his body aches, and it’s nearly insufferable. But there’s you. It’s always you, and a part of him knows it’s always been you. 

If he could run, run as fast as his heart is slamming into his chest, he would. 

His feet drag across the tiles of JFK, shouldering through the crowd, hauling his bag after him. It had been a slight fib, just a little, tellin’ you he was gonna be a day later than he would. Poor thing, he’s knocking you off your precious routine, but he can’t help it. He’d gotta get himself down to the florists and he can’t if you’re behind him. ‘s silly, maybe, he knows soldiers get spoiled when they come back. But you’re his baby, and his baby gets flowers no matter the occasion. So, still in his fatigues, he gets down to business. 

Baby’s breath, Peonies, tied up in a pretty ribbon ‘round the base and a pack of condoms to last him for at least a week. He looks a-fool, flowers and the little flash of silver packaging snuggled in his arms while his pack weighs heavy on his back but what does he care? It’s you. For you. Embarrassment can’t even begin to comprehend the idea of him. 

It doesn’t matter anyway, because when he knocks on your door, and when you open it, those flowers go flying across the hallway at the speed that you launch yourself onto him with- his hands jerking back and the petals flying about while the greenery lays limply on the dirty floor below. You shriek, loud enough that the neighbors have probably turned their heads, but he doesn’t care. Because that noise, pitched and squealing, is the loudest he’s ever heard you and it’s for him. You aren’t thinking about anyone perceiving you, that’s what makes it so special, it’s just you. It’s you in such a pure, beautiful form. 

He can feel you. He can feel you. The way your fingers bite into his skin where you dig your nails in, clutching and biting, the way your thighs lift and latch against his waist, letting out these noises of pure relief he’s never heard before. 

“You said Saturday-!” You sob into his chest, letting him squeeze you as he walks himself into your apartment- letting the door slam behind himself without a care. “- it’s Friday, it’s fucking Friday, Frankie.” It’s all you can say as he just grins, all teeth, nodding proudly. It’s him who’s got you all worked up, excited in ways he’s never seen before, and he’s proud of it. 

Hell, you’re the type of guy that would just politely smile and say thank you if Frank bought you the whole world. He knows you, knows you love being seen, just your face never reflects it the ‘right’  away. 

And here you are, hanging on to him so tightly, and you aren’t letting go. 

“I know I did, baby.” He laughs, slightly gurgled with the way his throat constructs upon holding you again. He’s messy, pressing his lips wherever he can, left, right, across your cheeks until they smack wetly all over your face, but never right on the mouth. He’s too distracted for proper kissing, that is. “Wanted to surprise you, is that okay?”

You just nod, again and again, and he pressed his face into your throat to breathe in deep- only tipping his face towards yours to kiss away at those pretty tears running down the slopes of your cheeks. “You missed me, huh?” He teases, but he can’t stop kissing, can’t stop touching, can’t stop staring at you. 

“Course I did,” you grumble, letting his arms swoop up and under you, shifting until you settle with your legs over his arms, all bridal. “missed you more than anything, don’t play around with me.” He likes the look on your face- a mix of a scowl at his rougher handling and the undoubtable soft look of adoration that pours over it in your eyes. 

“Not playin’ around with you,” he mumbles, tilting down until he can give you a proper kiss, the burn of his stubble scratching at your skin as your lips meet. He doesn’t pull back after, letting his lips drag over your own while he speaks, slow and steady, breathing in where you’ve already exhaled. “just missed you too. Nearly lost my damn mind without you, you know that.”

He’s moving, slow but sure, inching down your hallway with a low hum between kisses. His feet hit the bedroom door, kicking open, and strutting himself inside with comfortable ease. He settles you onto the bed, his back cracking stiffly as he shoulders off the pack with a thump onto the floor, and then he’s straddling over your waist for another kiss- stopping just above you when he notices the way you’ve situated yourself. Not quite resisting, but not like you’ve got your legs spread, not wanting all the way. Just laying, head on the pillows, looking up at him. 

“I wanted to make you dinner or something first,” you mumble out, staring back at him, almost disappointedly though that isn’t the correct word. Almost ashamed. But then again, he was the one who came early, after all, messing with your plans. “it’d be more romantic, you just got back.” 

He hums in acknowledgment, but doesn’t move quite yet, just lifts a hand to move a few strands of your hair before letting that fall to cup a cheek instead. “If that’s what you want, that’s what we can do. I can wait.” It’s always like that, so simple. He can wait. He’ll wait weeks, months, years even. “I love you either way. Ain’t gonna change that.” 

“I want to,” you shift, quietly, and he exhales instead. Squints a little at you. He soothed over your cheek again, nodding a little, gentler. “I just wanted you to know, I don’t know, you mean more than sex to me, Frank. I love you.” 

He laughs before he can stop himself, shaking his head, staring down at you in disbelief- though it’s not mean spirited in the slightest- he just will never, not ever get over you, he thinks. 

“Baby, I know that.” He chuckles as your face goes pink under him like you’ve actually done something embarrassing instead of just reveal that layer of sweetness he only sees so often. “I got 212 letters reminding me I got the sweetest boy who loves the shit out of me back home. Even if he’s got funny ways of showin’ it.” 

He leans down again, murmuring a little “use your words if you want me to stop,” before pressing another kiss to your jaw, following the curve all the way up until he’s nibbling at your ear while his hand maps steadily over your body. It’s the agreement you have- you say it, he’s done and out. Not that he can’t read the signs you give beforehand, however. A freeze, a squirm away that feels just too much, if you stop making those sweet noises? He’s hauling himself off and making sure his boy is okay. Always making sure. 

“Still feels so damn good,” he groans, lowly, letting his fingers slip up and under your shirt until his palm spread over your stomach- big fingers all played out. “just touchin’ like this, feels so fucking good, been thinking about this for months.” He makes quick work of another kiss, no qualms turning it into something much longer and filthier. He licks into your mouth the way he laves his tongue around an ice cream cone, warm and wet as he tangles the pink muscle against your own. He guides you like that, letting you feel the rhythm he begins. 

The moan he coaxes from you has his hips buckling at the sound, happy to draw more out and quick on the draw. He fumbles with his belt, shuffling quickly until he can kick off his fatigues. He’s more muscular than when he left, his chest coated in a thick layer of muscle that flows down his abdomen under the thick hair of his chest. The hair thins, just a little, before trailing down to the nest of curls around the base of his cock- still tucked into his briefs, but thickening against the fabric. “God, imma fuck you so good,” he huffs out, bare, not wasting another moment to settle between you again. 

He’s smug, hell, he’s cocky when he thinks with his dick and not that gentle mind that’s shutting off in his brain. He can’t help it, not really, when he hasn’t had you in so long. 

“Frank,” you whine when he gives a rough roll of his hips that isn’t nearly enough. He’s just like that, wanting you to really tell him what you want. He knows, knows exactly what you want, but he won’t ever just give it up- not when he knows you can. “You’re being a prick.” You grit out, arching up a little to rub the seam of your jeans against his bulge, letting the pressure seep against your clothed clit. 

“Nah, I ain’t.” He grins wolfishly, using the drive of his cantering hips to force you back from the way you’ve twitched your hips up. He lets you squirm for just a moment longer before he speaks again. He lets it get low and thick in his throat, almost growling, but it’s a tease instead. “You wanna tell Daddy what you want, huh? Gonna let me hear you? Tell me about all the things you wanted while I was gone?” 

Daddy. Daddy, daddy, daddy. 

He’s getting you, and he’s getting you good. 

He knows you, knows what you want. But you know if you just ask him for his cock, he won’t give it. Won’t let you hurt yourself around him stretching you wide open. He pressed further until his entire body is a heavy weight  against you, feeling the mattress moan lower than your own pitch, letting the roughness of his body hair sear against your softer skin on your stomach. “c’mon, tell me.” 

It’s hard to breathe under him but the weight is comforting if not downright dumping fuel into the fire of pleasure that’s kicking up sparks between your thighs. “want your fingers.” You utter out finally with a struggled breath. You bite down harshly against the plush of your bottom lip, your eyelashes fluttering a little. “Please, Daddy. ‘m saying please.” 

“Yes, yes, you are.” He rumbles out, all pleased. He’s always liked it when you used your words, always melts when you call him your Daddy. That’s exactly what is, anyway. He protects you, takes care of you, just like a man should. Thats what he always is sayin’. “You’re still my good boy, yeah, you are. Let’s get you out of these clothes.” 

His hands are warm as they strip you of the fabric, sliding up your hips, peeling off each little layer. He takes liberty of moving your arms, your hips up, everything. Like you’re just a doll he’s playing dress up with, maneuvering and manipulating. Shirt, pants, panties- they all end up in a pile across the scuffed floors with ease. 

He tuts at the state of you, laying on his side beside you now. He slips his thick fingers between your thighs, long the thick hair that coats your mound, until he drags his fingers along the sticky syrup of your wetness between the folds of your cunt. “Oh, honey.” He tuts sweetly, brows furrowing in pure delight at the feeling, at the sound of your sweet cry when he spreads you open to thumb over your swollen clit. “This wet over just a little kissin’? You that pent up?” 

You keen, turning your head restlessly against the pillows, hair falling into your eyes with each little gasping breath you release. You’re so warm, so warm, it’s maddening as he sinks a thick, calloused finger into your hole. You clench so damn tight, the squelch of the wetness fills the air, he swears it’s like your pussy is telling him it missed him on its own. 

“Oh-“ you hiccup softly, eyes trailing down to watch. It’s slow in motion, the flex of his bicep, the way his knuckles move when he sinks in his finger again, pumping in and out. “-feels, uh, feels good.” You mewl a little, sharp and breathy, and he knows he’s got that little spot found deep in you when he slides in a second finger and rubs all over again- letting the pleasure overwhelm you until you’re melting. 

“I know, I know it feels good.” He soothes and pressed his face against your forehead, kissing at the soft skin, taking all the time in the world to let you feel his fingers slowly pry apart- stretching your hole wider and wider, until he knows he won’t practically tear you apart. Each little squelch makes him harder, twitching and leaking in his briefs. “So tight, your pussy is squeezing so hard, gonna lose circulation-“ 

You let out a little cry again, pitched again, louder this time and he can’t help it. He wants you to cum, just not ‘round his fingers, wants it on his cock instead more than anything. Not anymore, not when he’s been waiting, wanting, about to ruin busting his load in his briefs if he can’t get into you soon. 

“ ‘s okay, lil boy.” He mumbles against your forehead as he slides his fingers out- letting you clutch and flutter widely with a moan of disappointment when he pulls his digits free. There’s a line of slick, wet and shiny, drooling down his fingers. “know I’m being mean, ain’t I? Gonna give you my cock instead, yeah?” 

He uses his still sopping fingers to hook around his waistband, pulling until he’s thrown them off himself. His cock, hard and thick, springs out and curves against his stomach. It’s leaving a trail of pre-cum from the way it rubs against his coarse hair. It’s seven inches of need, hot and the prettiest baby pink at the blunt, slitted tip. His hand slides down to pump himself a little to spread your wetness all ‘round to slick his shaft up, cup at his balls just a little, rubbing with a groan. He’s spoiled you, never lets you give him pleasure unless you really, really beg. Poor thing like you, terrible gag reflex anyway. And in any sense, he doesn’t want his boy trying to pleasure him. He’s got fingers, a tongue, and a hell of a big dick all for you. 

He shifts his hips, nudging his cock between your thighs when he pulls your leg up and under the crook of your knee. He loves you like this, pliant and soft, head loling onto his shoulder while he taps his tip against your pussy with a loud, wet smack. Little angel you are, just clutching against him, holding at his nape with shaky fingers. His hips jolt and he hisses quickly, cursing himself for teasing, but it’s so heavenly.  

“Please?” It’s a tiny, sweet noise that you make. The gentlest, most beautiful plea, and it breaks him. You don’t say Daddy, you don’t rock your hips, you look at him and wait. Wanting. You’re being good. Showin’ him how much you’ve been waiting. 

The tip of his cock sinks inside you, stretching despite the way he had you stuffed with his fingers, and it’s a lot even just for that little inch or so. He twitches between each inch he feeds into you, distracting with each kiss he graces over every inch of your cheeks. 

“I know it’s big,” he soothes, again and again, as sweet as he can because he can feel you- wet and fluttering around him- welcoming home into you. He lets his pelvis grind forward, balls slapping up against your puffy folds, as he finally gets every single inch in. “ain’t as big as that toy I got you, huh? You’ve been playing with your toy?” 

You choke, eyes screwed shut, and he watches that pretty mouth fall open- wordlessly mouthing around nothing but he knows it’s a yes. The way you squeeze down is a yes. Your nails bite at his skin but he doesn’t care- just draws his hips back, and pushes right back in. Again and again, groaning lowly at the velvet of you. 

“That’s real good, baby. ‘cause I was using my right hand that whole time away thinkin’ bout you. You know how much better this pussy is than my hand?” His nose drags along the curve of your jaw with each word, hiking up your leg a little higher, trying to reach even deeper into your guts while he rearranges them. He’s not pounding, not hard and fast. It’s almost romantic despite his filth. 

“I- fuck- I dunno,” you’re gettin’ dizzy and he knows it. You always do when he’s inside like this, his breath hot and body on your own. He tuts against your throat at the response and slides his palm up and over your hip- crawling until his thumb rests against your clit again. 

“ ‘s okay, ill tell you, okay?” He nods at you with a little huff, watching as you hazily mirror his movement, lips still slightly open as he fucks into you. He’s so deep, so damn deep, his tip rubbing that perfect spongy spot inside over and over. 

“Okay,” you mumble, whiny and pretty and completely slipping into that space he gets you into so easily. He fucks you into submission that’s just for him, the way you trust him to take care of you through. Through, after, before, any damn time. 

“Million times better.” He cooes with a little smile and snaps his hips forward again. He needs to push home now, when you get like this. You’re slipping pretty close to the edge when you get so dreamy and he loves it- means you’ll be left boneless and satisfied under him. You’ve been making that cute little “uh, uh, uh” noise that he adores when his cock kisses inside you.  “Daddy’s boy is always gonna feel a million times better.” 

He feels it before he sees it, when you cum. You tense all over, drag your heel down tight into the mattress, and it’s like your body is sucking him in. You cry out again, broken, and he catches that little I love you that slips out so fast it makes him reel. You’ve got him. Milking him dry more like, because as much as he loves watching you cum, it’s a biological need when he starts groaning at the sight- the feeling of your own tipping point and sayin’ you love him, Christ,- and he drills his hips forward once more to spill inside you with a broken snarl into your temple. 

“Shit, oh fuck, baby- baby-“ he’s babbling a little, panting heavily into you, letting your thigh fall back finally- sore and tired, but so loose. “-I love you, I love you, I love you.” The fit of his cock is still snug where he’s buried into your hole- a creamy ring of cum dribbling down the side of his softening shaft from your used pussy, messily sticking to his balls and the downy hair of your own thighs. 

His chest is still heaving when he presses his sweat slicked forehead against your shoulder, a few curls breaking the gel cast as they brush your own saline-coated skin. He withdraws his fingers from your clit only to put his palm over your tummy, against the place he’s still buried deep into. 

“You know I ain’t pulling out for the next seven months, right, baby?” 

[milosstag]

Oughhhp my god still thinking about this..

[cigarettepup]

Crimson and Clover | Frank Castle

Frank is looking for purpose, not some bambi eyed boy at a party. So, naturally, it's then that love finds him and smacks him upside the damn head.

18+, very plot heavy, 2005 setting, brief commentary on Iraq war, ftm! reader, weird, off-putting!reader implied reader experienced SA but never explicit, dom! marine! Frank, daddy kink, creampie, fingering (reader receiving) pet names used, AFAB terms used.

wc: 10k.

an: Sorry for the long wait, I'm a freshman in college, so I've been very busy !! Lowkey still feral over Frankie as always. Thank u for all the continued support!

Frank’s been moving his whole life, he thinks. 

Always running, always moving, a fleeting face in a crowd. Coming and going is constant. To him, it’s normalcy. Was normalcy. He’d signed himself away at a mere eighteen, hadn’t ever held a gun before when he’d ducked a broad shoulder into the recruitment office. 

He’d hadn’t had a purpose before that. Before he was a Jarhead with his hair shaved tight against his cranium, so tight the razor had kissed at the slope of his skull, he was nothing. A speck in the fucking universe, a blip in the city, a nothingness. When he’d watched it that September, it changed. It changed everything, the melting steel, the screams. The dust that flooded down so heavily, Frank’s sure a part of the Center still coats his lungs with how thick it had poured down. 

He’d signed up the next day. It hadn’t been an original idea. American propaganda works wonders on the mind of young men. Uncle Sam had wanted him, after all. It was a lack of knowledge, of understanding, the kind of things that were drilled into him by history classes. Figured he could do something good, protecting his country. Playing hero. 

He’d gotten the call and the response was simple- he followed. 

That call morphed into Frank’s first tour into sunny, sunny Iraq. 

Seven months, burnt in the sun, with blood all over his hands. Seven months, and he’d bonded with his gun. Seven months, he’s got sand in places he’d never had sand in, drenched in the saline of his own sweat as it washes down the protruding brow bone of his forehead. Seven months, he sees the suffering but it’s only his own. It will only register to him later, about the oil. That what they search for isn’t truly there.

In seven months, he has returned home, in a new form. Like a snake whose shed it’s skin, sliding out of the shell of himself into something bigger, something more predatory, something monstrous. 

He sleeps in a proper bed now, out of the heat, but in his dreams he runs. He runs fast, the desert still spanning under him, weighted back by gear that tugs him downward until he spirals into the sand below. He lies there, in this world, the sun’s furious fists meeting his face in a fierceness he can never shake. He is open, vulnerable. He is going to die, he knows it. But it’s too heavy, everything is too heavy, and he’s trapped under the weight of it. 

The dreams are normalcy. The Jarhead life is normalcy. It is what it is- he’s got two more years like this. Active service, at least. 

It’s normalcy until he met you. 

Apparently, Frank was good at shootin’ things. Killing things. Ripping flesh apart. It makes him good. Respectable. The boys know they can count on him. They don’t look at him in disgust when he strips himself with ease, letting the water dump over him in the cramped space of the shared showers. They just look him in the eye like brothers do. They throw around faggot, sneering and jabbing but never towards him. Like he doesn’t take offense and Frank pretends he doesn’t. Like it doesn’t matter at all.

 He’s a man in every sense of the traditional word. The sort of thing, the sickness they think men like him have, it’s under his skin. Hidden. Tucked close to his heart. 

Don’t ask, don’t tell. 

He wants to tell. 

You’re stupidly pretty, Frank thinks. Been thinking it since the June of 2004. He pictures you the way you looked the first time you’d met. 

The stench of beer was heavy in the air as it sloshed about in the pretty, translucent brown bottles whose rims catch at the low lighting. Somewhere between the bodies bumping together, close knit and tangled together, the tiny, metallic body of an IPod mini is sitting prettily nestled between two speakers that rumble the bass too high. House party of some old friend since grade school, deep within the belly of Hell’s Kitchen. 

It’s between bodies, he spots you.

The low light makes you look like you’re glowing like a pretty little angel. The kind you find at somebody’s grandma’s house on a Sunday, their little faces all turned up, ready to spread their wings. 

You haven’t gotten a drink in your hand, he realizes. No drink, no girl hangin’ off your hip and pawing at the crotch of your jeans like the boy beside you. You’re looking all around without ever turning your head, observing, taking it all in. The bodies move all around you, swirling and melding together, but you don’t move an inch. 

You look like Bambi he thinks. 

Your eyelashes curve down when you blink and he can see the bitten edges of your nails when they curve around the ledge of the windowsill you’ve pressed yourself into, just waiting, it looks like. 

It’s not the sort of waiting that he’s seen girls do. It’s not a “come and get me”, there’s no flirtation, no lustful tone that floods through you. You’ve cast a hook without meaning to, though, and it’s caught him in the upper lip. Reeling him, catching and pulling in some heavy gravitational pull, the kind he’s only felt when he digs his heels in and refuses the acknowledgement of it. 

Like sneaking glances when he was a boy, watching the soccer team, the way the elder boys moved. He felt it then. Felt guilt for it. 

He’s drunk just enough, spinning and spitting out that guilt. He wants. He wants and he’s so sick. Sick of being alone in that desert. 

He’s staring. 

You’ve noticed.

It’s a slight tilt of your face in his direction that does it. You’ve spotted him now and it’s analytical, the way you looked back, calculating. But there’s recognition in the way you look back, the sort of I know you. I know what you are. Instinctive. Sin in the eyes of society, recognizing sin. 

Frank moves before he can stop himself. 

The bottle sweats heavily in Frank’s grasp as he moves, big bulky body, awkward in nature as he pushes through the crowd. By the time he’s made his way over, he’s half regretting it. 

Frank knows how to talk to girls. He could get any girl he wants, could flash that pretty little US Marine card and flex his biceps out, could prove himself a thousand times over with what he’s packing between his legs. He knows that. Men are different. Men are- he doesn’t know. Off limits. Look from afar but never touch, never ever touch. 

He’s not so sure right now.

His palms are sweating, and it’s so odd. It’s a feeling that’s crawling down his throat to settle in his chest. It’s a kin to the rush of the wind, the way the desert had kicked up before. It’s not fear, no, it’s a twin sister. Anxiety. Something almost sparking with excitement as it buzzes under his skin.

“Hi,” he grunts it out in his nerves, staring back at you. He’s big, towering, but he’s got the look of a schoolboy trying to give a pretty girl a little pink valentine. His fists twitch a little, curling, unfurling as his Adam’s apple bobs wildly. 

It’s all he says. 

“Hi.” You counter back simply. Your  back is on the wall. You don’t say anything else, either. Fuck. He’s fucked. Can’t even talk to you- twenty one year old marine, he’s killed people, and he’s practically shitting himself talkin’ to a pretty boy. 

He watches you instead while you bite the inside of your cheek- taking in a nibble of the fat and pulling- eyes on the floor. 

“So, uh,” he motions behind himself with a large hand, mindless and sloppy as it cuts through the air. “why ain’t you dancin’ with anyone?” His execution is poor, god, it’s barely even there. He ducks his head a little, pawing at the heavily crooked form that shapes nose for a long moment. 

You squint at him, really at his audacity, watching as he throws a glance sideways instead of at you. In the light that spills out from the city through the glasspane, you can see the thin sheen of nervous sweat that makes his hair curl into pretty little ringlets at the sides as he shifts from foot to foot. 

“Are you asking me to dance with you?” It comes out slightly edged from your mouth and Frank tries not to shrink back, just shrugs. He paws at his nose again, scratching causally. You’re killing him. You’re killing him, shyly and defensively, without even knowing it. 

“Yeah, maybe.” He huffs out. “ Why, you don’t wanna dance with me?” He’s fumbling. Hard. Comes off more pushy than he’d like, too rough, like a nervous dog backed into a corner even though he’s the one who asked. If anything, it’s only revealing how much heavier your hand is weighing on him. 

You teeter a little in his vision, stepping forward, only a little. Indecisive. You’re testing the water, waiting for the shark to reveal all those rows of razored teeth. He doesn’t. He just inches a little closer. His arm is tentative as it offers itself out. 

He feels your hand, warm and soft, the way it tendrils up upon his bicep. It’s tender, more tender than the touch of any woman he’s ever felt, and it feels different. In his heart it feels different. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t pull you closer against his hip, doesn’t push his pelvis to grind against your own. No, he lets you stay at that length, his other arm draping gently against your waist. Slowly, so slowly, he feels you shift until your head tucks against his chest. 

He’s cradling you. His palm is flat, soothing over the soft skin when the fabric of your shirt rides up, swaying you in his grip. 

“didn’t mean to scare you,” he mumbles out, a little, his lips a gentle flutter against the crown of your head. “I ain’t that kind of man.” 

It feels silly, this domesticated dance with you, in the flurry of twisting bodies all around you. But you’re in his arms, and that’s enough. 

“You don’t scare me.” He feels your breath tickle the dip of his collarbone when you speak, quiet and low. Like he’s a spooked animal. Like you can see through him. “But If you aren’t that kind of man, what kind of man are you?” 

Frank pauses at that, brain reeling, and for a long time he’s quiet. In all his life, he’s never been asked that. What he wanted to be when he grew up, what he was doing after high school, all those typical things. People don’t usually ask him about himself- who he thinks he is. He doesn’t ask himself either. 

He doesn’t know if he should know, if everyone else knows. 

It’s honesty that leaves him instead, slightly slurred and turning his face gently against the crown of your head.  “I don’t know what kind of man I am. I just wanna dance with you, that enough of an answer for you?”

He hopes it is. He’s drunk and you’re warm, and you speak to him in a way his brain can barely comprehend. You’re muddling him up and he likes it. 

“Yeah,” you mumble back in that little odd way he’s noticed you do. You don’t push him away. You don’t press further. You accept it. He doesn’t, didn’t then, doesn’t really know now, what you meant by it. All he knows is he’s glad you did. “Yeah, ‘s enough of an answer for me.” 

You stay in his arms like that for a long, long while. Just there. Lingering. Molded against him, chin tucked. He learns little things from you, and from him so do you. Memorizes the feeling of your skin, he’s never done that,  not once before. Especially not with a man. The slight curve of your arm, the freckle that hides against your elbow. 

“You’re weird, you know that? Asking me a  question like that. Never had anybody ask that before.” He speaks up again after a few minutes of silence, lifting one hand to lightly feel over the curve of your hip. He doesn’t grab at you, doesn’t grope at the globes of fat he could grab handfuls of. His hands don’t wander any further. 

“You’re weird,” you counter him, peering up with your brows furrowed, a slight scowl etched into your features. “You asked me to dance by grunting at me like an animal. You’re lucky I even said yes.” 

It’s funny, he sees it now. That little bit of spark. A personality beyond the way you hide away. 

You’re trouble, and he’s unable to get himself to unlace himself from you. He can’t help but barb, wiggle under your defenses. 

“I am lucky, got a little spitfire dancing with me.” He huffs right back, but still, his touch is gentle. He takes his time, swaying you, letting you feel over his shoulder as your own hand creeps against him. Its tentative at best, unsure at most.“You gettin’ handsy on me?” 

You rip your hands off him so fast it has him spinning, like burned you, fried off down to the sensitive layers with bone showing clear through. He can’t help but chuckle, still hazy with the alcohol when he watches the color flood your face at his comment, the way you glance away. 

“ ‘m not.” You insist, already stepping back from him, but his hands catch you, encasing over your wrist lightly. Not pulling, not tugging, just there. “You were the one touching me. I’m not handsy.” You’re voice gets all pitched. Different. A little higher, almost distressed. 

“Hey, hey, woah.” He hurries, his thumb rubbing loosely against the curve of your wrist bone. He lets you hold him at that distance, still glowering. He knows that look. It’s the look of worry, of embarrassment. The look of distrust when someone who’s sensitive to that- to that teasing- begins to duck and cover. “I pushed too far, yeah? Won’t happen again. Lemme walk you home if you’re gonna leave, at least.” 

And just like the dance, it’s unspoken. You leave, Frank follows. His grip doesn’t loosen up on your wrist though, just shifts it a little. You lead, he follows. His hand slips, catches at your pinky, and his own curves over it in the shadow of the buildings and streets you slide through. It’s in the darkness he feels safe. In the darkness, in this moment, he is holding a man’s hand. 

Frank isn’t a faggot. 

And when the street lights bleed over him, over the conjoining of you both, he is just a man. 

“Im not inviting you inside,” you warn when you reach the steps that slope upward into the pretty red brick apartment, just standing there, arm splayed where he holds your wrist. It’s a clear cock block. One you must be used to making perfectly obvious, he thinks, but he doesn’t care. Wasn’t the point in walking you home. You look so stiff up there, glancing down at the pavement. “sorry.” It comes out softer, that little part. You’re apologizing. Like it needs to be softer delivery, like he’ll be pissed you won’t let him- a random man you danced with- come inside and fuck you. There’s a guilt in it. Like it’s transactional, him walking you. 

“I didn’t walk you home for that.” His face twists up, just a little in disgust as he watches you, not at you, of course. At the notion. “I don’t expect you to fuck me because I walked you home. ‘Was hoping maybe for your name and number. ‘s okay if it’s a no. Ain’t gonna be upset.” 

You sort of squint down at him when he says it, like you’re just now seeing him. Like holding a bug under a microscope and honing the focus in until he’s pressed flat against the slide. You don’t dissect. Not yet. But he feels the pressure, the blade you poke at his hard exterior with. Like you’re trying to peel back a layer of deceit. He just shrugs. 

“Maybe that’s the kind of man I am.” He adds, low and heavy, under his breath as he paws at his nose- again. Just as he did before. Nervous, now that you’ve tilted the scales of power back to yourself. It’s such a juxtaposition, how timid and awkward you are, and yet you’ve got this spell on him. Over him, he doesn’t know, he’s too drunk to fucking care. Drunk on you. “‘m Frank. By the way.”

You shift back against the stairs in consideration. He doesn’t let go of your hand. He waits. Let’s you think. And then he watches you reach back, and then you slide that winning ticket into his hand. The little Blackberry is light and tiny in his hand but he punches his numbers in as quick as he can.

 He’s reeling in a fish, a catch. He can’t let you go, not now. You tell him your name, and he lets it settle deep in his brain until it seeps into each and every crevice. He doesn’t promise he’ll call, doesn’t make anything empty. 

He squeezes your hand one last time, just to savor it, he does do that. And you let him. Just slip that phone back into your pocket and step further back up another step. He doesn’t chase. Just lets himself feel the skin slide from his own, the fleeting of warmth.

“Goodnight, Frank.” 

It’s mid July, when he calls you. But he’s been thinking about it, really has. You’re all up in his head, messing with him, making him think of you. You’re the weirdest, strangest fucking thing that’s happened to him- all cryptic and shit. But he can’t get rid of you nor can he shake you free. You’re just there, always there. He’s had three dates since then. If dates can count, he guesses. He’s hooked up with two of ‘em, pretty girls, they are. Good girls. But when he’s got his tongue down their throats, he’s thinking of you. Of the little curves of your cheeks, the way you batted those lashes. When he’s got his hands on the headboard, nosing down their delicate necks and breathing in their perfumes, he finds himself missing the smell of cologne that lingered just a little on your own. 

He thinks, and he thinks, and he drinks. Almost calls you. Doesn’t. Fights the regret of not calling but then fights the heavy guilt, the shame of his longing to do so. In his dreams, you invade him there, too. When he finds himself in the sand, buried and tortured, he feels you there. You sit beside him, without a word. He can’t run from you. 

He calls you. It rings twice before you pick up. 

“Hello?” God, it’s so good to hear you again. It’s quiet, wherever you are. It’s not late, the sun still lingers, but it feels exactly how it did that night he held you. He hesitates for too long, long enough that there’s a stiffness when you repeat into the line. “Hello?”

He swallows around the lump in his throat as he cradles the phone. “Hey.”  He grits out, hardly remembering how to breathe. It should be easier, he’s already got the number, got you in his arms a month before. But it’s different. There’s no alcohol to ground him. “It’s Frank.” He spits out dumbly into the receiver and immediately rubs over his face with his eyes screwed shut. He’s weak. That’s exactly what he is. And because you’re too damn smart- especially with that damn mouth. 

“I know.” You tut back without hesitation, and he can almost picture the way you’re rolling those half lidded eyes at the phone. “Caller ID.” I mean, what he is supposed to say to that? Tell you to stop bein’ such a brat and to just please go on a date with him so he’ll stop pulling his hair out over you? 

“Well, I just,” he grunts a little, trying to not focus on the way his hands are shaking around where he holds his phone. You can probably hear it, the deep breath he pulls in, before exhaling. “I wanted to ask you out. Take you to a nice dinner or a movie. Whatever you want. Fuckin’ walk in the park if you don’t wanna do neither of those.” Hell, you could sit by his side in pure silence and he wouldn’t care. As long as you were by him, close enough, he could do all the talking. 

He waits. Let you exchange your own exhale beyond the line. He doesn’t mind. God, he doesn’t. You take things at a pace that’s so careful but there is no irritation, not even a spark in him. He wants to be careful with you. He wants to be the one you decide is worth it, worth the time to be gentle with. 

You breathe out and he breathes back in, intermixing, flowing at the same level. Intertwined. Feeling between the lines. 

“Yeah, okay.” You murmur back into the phone and it’s like for a moment time is stopping, fluttering, rewinding like an old tape. You’re agreeing, you’re gonna let him. Let him take you out on a proper date, gonna let him show you that he can be worth your time. “I’d like that, Frank.” 

I’d like that. He shudders. 

“Yeah?” He can’t help but confirm it, just to make sure he’s not dreaming up some stupid fantasy. He hears you hum out a soft agreement- little mmmhmm-  that makes his stomach start to flutter and warm- warmer than the way liquor settles, warmer than the sun beating down upon him in Iraq. “Gonna pick you up at eight on Friday, wear somethin’ pretty, okay? ‘m taking you somewhere real nice.” 

“See you then,” he hears a little fainter, signaling the way you pull away from the phone, and his mouth feels dry. Like it was stuffed with cotton. Before he can muster up a goodbye, you’ve hung up. 

It’s a long three days before he shows up at your doorstep. Polished up, wearing’ his nice leather shoes that his mother bought him for graduation, his good jacket and pants. His fingers crunch, crinkling heavily around the plastic wrap of the bouquet he’s got his fingers stiffly around. He’s nearly snapping the stems of the soft, baby pink Peonies. He managed to tame the curls on his head that threatened to cut through the gel that slicks down his overgrown hair- once shaven down completely. 

He flicks up his wrist to squint at the sheen of the glassy plane of the watch that hugs his wrist. It’s early, nearly 7:45 at best. He’s early, chronically, foolishly. He’ll wait. 

Maybe he’s not the only fool, because he lifts his head up, and watches the rusty door of your apartment building creak open. 

You look so handsome Frank wants to kick himself just to make sure he’s alive and breathing. 

He swallows, his throat bobbing rapidly, and he steps forward. He shifts the bouquet gently into his arms in attempt to keep himself from crushing the petals as he forces himself to tear his eyes away for a split second. 

“You’re early,” You bite your lip, but he can see the slight flush creeping up your cheeks, like you didn’t expect him at all. And it hits him that you didn’t. Especially not like this. And yet, you still got all prettied up. All for him. You gave him that chance.

“Couldn’t wait any longer.” He replies simply enough, sticking his arm out with the bouquet. The petals shake a little, a couple falling out, but he’s kept it close. “I thought maybe you’d like these, dunno, hope you ain’t allergic.” 

Your fingers graze his own when you gather the flowers into your own grasp and he watches as the lip you had been biting into frees itself, starting to curl up just a little, until this smile is all present. No teeth, no, he doesn’t get that privilege yet. 

“How did you know I’d like Peonies?” You smile up at him, light and fleeting, as you hold the flowers closer. He watches you thumb over the slender bow that holds the stems all together, the ribbon shining in the soft summer glow of the settling sun. He’d taken the time to get them with ribbon, to select something without roses. He thought about it. 

“Didn’t think you’d like plain ole roses.” He muses, letting himself return that little smile with a slight huff as he shuffles a little closer. Just enough to get a closer look at you, just to admire. “Deserved better than that.” 

He dares just a little, to stick his hand out for you. 

You take it. 

Your thank you gets muffled in his brain when he takes your hand again, slotting against your own, and he squeezes just a little. He walks you all the way down the street with careful consideration of matching each step you give- not willing to walk too fast in front of you, nor let you step off the curb. If you notice, which of course you do, you seem to notice everything, you say nothing of it. Just let it happen. 

He, as he predicted, talks enough for the both of you. He tells you about the places he’s been, points out spots he hung around as a teenager, runs his mouth about the dumb things he shouldn’t have done. He tells you about his momma, he tells you about being Italian, he tells you about everything he can think of. You listen, head tilted to watch him as you both walk. 

It doesn’t take long until you start talking too. A lot. More than he’d ever expected. But he likes it. Likes the way your mouth curves up when you speak, how you ramble a little in the same way he does- giving too many details, too many little thoughts all pushed together. When he laughs at something you said, he can feel the way you squeeze at his hand, like a silent thank you. An involuntary reaction to his praise. 

“You’re a damn chatterbox,” he chuckles, only releasing your hand to place carefully against your waist, leading you up towards the restaurant just so he can beat you to opening the door. “ ‘s nice, when you talk, you know.”

“I don’t know what to say sometimes.” You admit as you slide into the building, blinking rapidly at the scene in front of you. Expensive. That’s the first thing you can think of. Fucking expensive- not any of that Michelin star bullshit but nice. Wooden floors, one of those places that’s been nestled in New York City between generations, drinks with wine you probably can’t pronounce and Frank knows he fucking can’t. He watches as your brows furrow a little, the way you glance around. “We could’ve gotten a burger or something, you didn’t have to do this.” 

He shrugs like it’s nothing at all, letting himself give you one last squeeze before letting the host lead you away, settling you into a pretty little corner. 

He props up the menu causally, skimming over all the fancy little dishes like this isn’t about to take a hefty chunk from his paycheck just to impress you. “You could get a burger here. ‘Can get whatever you want, alright? I’m gonna take care of you.” 

I’m gonna take care of you. 

He does. He lets you order whatever you want, even when you hesitate. Gets you fucking desert. He gently wipes the corner of your mouth with a napkin, dabbing gently. When you try to pay, he gives you a look and paws your hand away with a grunt of disapproval. “Put that away, don’t think for a second you payin’.” 

It’s the same gentleness on the walk home. It’s the same gentleness at the door that earns him a kiss against his stubbled cheek. it’s lingering and soft, all warm. He turns his head, tilting, but doesn’t aim for your lips, he doesn’t nip at your neck, just pecks your forehead. 

The summer drags on, turning to the gentle touch of fall, and he finds you by his side day by day. It’s a slow growth that he adores, the warmth of holding you close, of how he learns your body. Your mind. Of the things you’ve been through, the routine you follow, how he falls into it because he knows you hate to break your structured schedules. His kisses move from your forehead, to your cheeks, they grace your lips. And when he touches you, it’s with reverence. It’s frightening, he knows that for you. But he figures it out, slow and lightly, the things you like. Like how you squeak when he thrusts in real deep, real slow, and cooes at how good his boy takes it. He fucks all those terrible, destructive thoughts out of you until you’re jello in his arms, his sweet boy, so relaxed and brainless. Apparently, you’ve always been a proper Daddy’s boy at heart. He likes that in a man. He’s your man. 

The only day he sees you cry is when fall turns to winter. The JFK airport is hustling, bodies bumbling into each other along with the faint roar of the jets in the distance. The duffle is hefty in his arms, packed so full it’s obscenely heavy, but it’s his heart that’s heavier. It’s fucking breaking, splintering, and he can’t look at you. Not now. God, if he does, he fears he might go goddamn AWOL. Literally just scoop you up into his arms and run through those big glass doors, disappear far away where it’s just you and him. 

It’s only seven months, he had whispered into your ear the night before as he stroked over your bare back as you sobbed into his chest. It’ll be done before you even know it. But you had just cried and cried, and he knew no amount of promises could make it any better at all. Like now, as he stops before the corralling line of military that departing their own loves. He settles the bag onto the glossy tile, biting his cheek as he struggles in another breath. It hadn’t been so fucking hard the first time around. Hadn’t ever been so hard. It’s not just home, hes leaving. It’s his heart. 

If he’d known, even for just a second that you’d been out there that day he signed up, he would’ve turned heel and wandered until he found you. Until he could crawl into your arms, until he could realize that you’re his purpose. 

“Sweetheart,” he mumbles lowly, so quiet it’s just for you, resisting the urge to just cradle you as close as he can. But the uniform, it’s the uniform in the wall, always the uniform. But you’re shaking your head, staring at the floor below his boots. “I’ll call you when I can, you know that. ‘Write you everyday. Every single day until my hands cramp up.”

You nod, fast and feverishly, but the low choking noise that escapes you- so broken and shuddering- make it so that his arms find you nonetheless. You’re silent, just like that first night you met, but he can feel the saline tears soaking his army greens. He tucks you close, pressing his hooked nose against your cheek with a tender touch. 

“Breathe,” he reminds, squeezing his own eyes shut, willing himself strength that he knows you bring him. It’s what he’ll be without, all broken pieces, yearning for his place beyond the sea. “Be my good boy, c’mon. Need you to breathe for me.”

You suck in shaky inhale of air, your arms slung around him so tightly it’s squeezing out the air from his own lungs, but if it’s supplying you air it’s not even a thought of his mind- that little burning sensation. 

“I love you. You’re the only man I’ve ever loved, you know that?” He whispers, shallow, his hand catching against the gentle downy hairs that brush against your nape. Savoring, remembering. “Gonna come back and take you to a real nice restaurant. Get you some pretty Peonies. Gonna take care of you.” 

He feels you squeeze, once and then twice, tipping up forward on your tiptoes to let him hear you over the rustle all around you. It’s all white noise, always has been, until you talk, until you speak to him in a language only the two of you know. “I love you more, Frank.” Deep down, he knows it. Knew it a couple months ago. But hearing it, hearing you say it. It’s completely different. It’s everything all at once tumbling and churning together. 

He swallows, before he finally steps back, nodding roughly. He’s running, he’s always fucking running. His head ducks, his feet shift back, and it’s the knowledge that if he doesn’t move in that movement, he’ll be frozen. A part of him doesn’t care to move, not unless it’s back to you, back to the magnetic pull you still have on him. 

He can’t and he won’t.

For seven months, he survives off of letters. 

They come in steadily, never missing a week, not once. Pretty cream colored envelopes, always addressed just right so he never misses one. It’s a serious affair, your letters. Drops everything when he gets ‘em, just sits his ass right into his bunk and reads. Reads about your day, about how New York has changed, reads about how much you miss him. He lets his fingers trace over each little line, lets himself drink in the faint smell of parchment and the way your cologne settles just below it. The little kisses goodnight at the bottom of each one, it’s serious to him. Doesn’t let anyone see him reading them, nobody gets the things that are for his eyes, his heart only. 

He keeps each one. 

By the time your fifth letter comes in, it’s predecessors got blood splatter all over it. 

It’s not his pride, that Frank fought over. It’s not like that. The boys in his company, they all knew it, how defensive he was over the damn things. Always keeping those letters all dry, flat and perfect in his things. Neat. Safe. And thing was, it was a damn well known fact you didn’t touch Frank’s stuff. The type of guy that wouldn’t leave a brother behind, one that would take a bullet for you. But you didn’t push that line- not with Frank. Never with Frank. But there was always someone who pushed it. Who teetered that line until Frank raised his hackles. 

There are four letters hidden in his cot when he ducks out of the old plywood and tented structures that made up the base for the up-coming weeks, and when he returns his mouth is still slightly burning from the mint of his shitty, military toothpaste. 

His bulked frame makes his cot creak in whining protest as he flops down, not caring for the low snickering of a few of the boys in the tent’s corner, the way they crowd around one private. Backed turned, he doesn’t see them sneaking those glances at him. He’s not got time for the brats, anyway, only  he knows two things: he’s fucking tired and all he’s missing you so damn bad it’s driving him crazy. 

He fishes one large paw down under the cot, feeling alone the lines of wire, fingers catching the precious evalopes underneath. He counts one, tracing over the edges in the way he imagined you had when you licked the seal. Two, he exhales. Three, he inhales. His finger drags forward, expecting the soft edge of paper of a fourth, and finds his skin dragging across scratchy, canvas cot and cool wiring. Four, his brain scrambles, tracing again, but its bare. 

All he can hear is Private dickhead snickering- the little mockery of your sweet, sweet kisses goodnight, the way you tell him you’re waiting for him back home. That Castle’s getting love letters. And it tells him all he needs to know. It’s like his brain shuts off, and his vision tunnels so violently it’s like watching a panther lock onto its prey. 

He’s launched himself off his cot before he can stop himself, his body propelling so hard the bed screams out in protest from the force he’s created. Frank doesn’t think before he moves. He doesn’t think about anything, it’s chemical reaction that directs him. Just like how his fist collides with the face of the Private. It makes a sickening snapping noise when his knuckles smash into the kid’s nose- the spray of blood is warm when it paints his face but he doesn’t stop. He draws back and pummels, again and again, and he’s screaming and spitting, but he can’t tell if the noise is him or the private. It’s all just noise when it isn’t you speaking.

“You touch my fuckin’ letters again, I swear I’ll kill you, I’ll rip you to fuckin’ shreds-!” he’s snarling, lips drawn back in a nasty display of glinting teeth, his pupils blown wide. It’s pure fury, again and again, and he can’t stop himself. He’s so tired. He’s so angry. He’s only got you, and you’re getting dirtied by the hands of some private that at this rate, won’t have hands when Frank is through. “-fuckin’ kill you, gonna kill you, you stupid bitch-!” He’s got Bill hauling him off, stumbling as he cries out for more men to pry Frank off, but it’s damn nearly impossible. Between dislodging 270 pounds of muscle and the way Frank is screaming and clawing, it takes the force of four men to throw him off completely. 

He’s panting, labored and bloody, sweat dripping down in the heavy mixture of red rusted blood from the spray. He stumbles back, shoving hard when Bill tries to coral him elsewhere. Just snatches your letter off the ground, smoothing the paper as best he can, the smears of dirt and blood muddling the pretty ink you’ve drawn all your words in. 

He finds a new hiding spot with hellishly bruised knuckles and his control reestablished. 

It does nothing to stop the ache in his heart. Nothing can pacify that. 

It’s better when he can call you, hear your voice again. It brings him to tears the first time he got a hold of the phone. When you ask how he is, he only tells you the good things, though he knows you can see right through him. He can’t bear the thought of you worrying that pretty head, the one that’s no doubt exhausted already with dread, so he talks about how shitty the food is. Reminds you that he loves you. That he’s thinkin’ bout you every step of the way. Tells you to be good for him, and that before you know it, he’ll be home.

It’s hard to hang up, and when he does, for a long moment he just holds the phone closer to his ear in hopes that you’ve misclicked and he can catch one more moment. 

It’s hard, when Bill comes up for the phone, and Frank practically has to pry his hand off of the thing. 

“You didn’t tell me you had a girl back home,” Bill counters, carefully. It’s a simple look that tells him how Frank feels, how he’s staring out at the sandy terrain that scatters beyond the tents below. 

“It’s private.” Is all he can say, lowly, running his fingers over the material of his fatigues. Slow and grounding. Nobody can know, his brain aches when he remembers it. His sweet boy. It’s private. 

“More like it’s serious.” Bill’s voice is low as he fills in the gaps of the story, with a low whistle. “You put a ring on it when you get back, then?” 

A ring on it. Frank wishes he could. He’s toyed with the idea, but he’s not sure if he could, law abiding. Maybe if you looked girly enough when you sign off the papers, maybe a little ceremony with just you and him, a witness or two. He doesn’t know if he can put you through that, though. That one time, just the one, that he met your parents it had been god awful. 

You’d looked so trapped, sitting between him and your mom, in that stupid pink dress Frank had reluctantly helped zip up. Tight and pretty, with your fit stuffed into kitten heels under the table- one foot tucked against his own in seeking comfort. Skin to skin. 

He was watching you wither away, head tucking towards your chin, bearing the weight of your mother chittering about how happy she was that her daughter found a man that brought out her femininity. That you’d gotten back on the straight and narrow and left that silly queer stuff behind, that her pretty girl was doing what was right. Frank had left a dent in the silverware from clutching it so hard it bent backward just to keep his mouth shut.

He’d unzipped that dress, spat on it, and thrown it into the trash the minute you got home. Made quick work of cutting and rounding the bandages, smoothing them over your chest, and settling you into his own shirt instead. ‘Till you looked yourself again. 

He can’t put you through that again. 

“Maybe.” Is all he says, rubbing over his ring finger for a moment, before he shoulders away into the tents again. Maybe.

It’s seven long months, and he’s running. But this time, it’s to you. He sprints faster than he ever has in his life. It’s a long stretch, his body aches, and it’s nearly insufferable. But there’s you. It’s always you, and a part of him knows it’s always been you. 

If he could run, run as fast as his heart is slamming into his chest, he would. 

His feet drag across the tiles of JFK, shouldering through the crowd, hauling his bag after him. It had been a slight fib, just a little, tellin’ you he was gonna be a day later than he would. Poor thing, he’s knocking you off your precious routine, but he can’t help it. He’d gotta get himself down to the florists and he can’t if you’re behind him. ‘s silly, maybe, he knows soldiers get spoiled when they come back. But you’re his baby, and his baby gets flowers no matter the occasion. So, still in his fatigues, he gets down to business. 

Baby’s breath, Peonies, tied up in a pretty ribbon ‘round the base and a pack of condoms to last him for at least a week. He looks a-fool, flowers and the little flash of silver packaging snuggled in his arms while his pack weighs heavy on his back but what does he care? It’s you. For you. Embarrassment can’t even begin to comprehend the idea of him. 

It doesn’t matter anyway, because when he knocks on your door, and when you open it, those flowers go flying across the hallway at the speed that you launch yourself onto him with- his hands jerking back and the petals flying about while the greenery lays limply on the dirty floor below. You shriek, loud enough that the neighbors have probably turned their heads, but he doesn’t care. Because that noise, pitched and squealing, is the loudest he’s ever heard you and it’s for him. You aren’t thinking about anyone perceiving you, that’s what makes it so special, it’s just you. It’s you in such a pure, beautiful form. 

He can feel you. He can feel you. The way your fingers bite into his skin where you dig your nails in, clutching and biting, the way your thighs lift and latch against his waist, letting out these noises of pure relief he’s never heard before. 

“You said Saturday-!” You sob into his chest, letting him squeeze you as he walks himself into your apartment- letting the door slam behind himself without a care. “- it’s Friday, it’s fucking Friday, Frankie.” It’s all you can say as he just grins, all teeth, nodding proudly. It’s him who’s got you all worked up, excited in ways he’s never seen before, and he’s proud of it. 

Hell, you’re the type of guy that would just politely smile and say thank you if Frank bought you the whole world. He knows you, knows you love being seen, just your face never reflects it the ‘right’  away. 

And here you are, hanging on to him so tightly, and you aren’t letting go. 

“I know I did, baby.” He laughs, slightly gurgled with the way his throat constructs upon holding you again. He’s messy, pressing his lips wherever he can, left, right, across your cheeks until they smack wetly all over your face, but never right on the mouth. He’s too distracted for proper kissing, that is. “Wanted to surprise you, is that okay?”

You just nod, again and again, and he pressed his face into your throat to breathe in deep- only tipping his face towards yours to kiss away at those pretty tears running down the slopes of your cheeks. “You missed me, huh?” He teases, but he can’t stop kissing, can’t stop touching, can’t stop staring at you. 

“Course I did,” you grumble, letting his arms swoop up and under you, shifting until you settle with your legs over his arms, all bridal. “missed you more than anything, don’t play around with me.” He likes the look on your face- a mix of a scowl at his rougher handling and the undoubtable soft look of adoration that pours over it in your eyes. 

“Not playin’ around with you,” he mumbles, tilting down until he can give you a proper kiss, the burn of his stubble scratching at your skin as your lips meet. He doesn’t pull back after, letting his lips drag over your own while he speaks, slow and steady, breathing in where you’ve already exhaled. “just missed you too. Nearly lost my damn mind without you, you know that.”

He’s moving, slow but sure, inching down your hallway with a low hum between kisses. His feet hit the bedroom door, kicking open, and strutting himself inside with comfortable ease. He settles you onto the bed, his back cracking stiffly as he shoulders off the pack with a thump onto the floor, and then he’s straddling over your waist for another kiss- stopping just above you when he notices the way you’ve situated yourself. Not quite resisting, but not like you’ve got your legs spread, not wanting all the way. Just laying, head on the pillows, looking up at him. 

“I wanted to make you dinner or something first,” you mumble out, staring back at him, almost disappointedly though that isn’t the correct word. Almost ashamed. But then again, he was the one who came early, after all, messing with your plans. “it’d be more romantic, you just got back.” 

He hums in acknowledgment, but doesn’t move quite yet, just lifts a hand to move a few strands of your hair before letting that fall to cup a cheek instead. “If that’s what you want, that’s what we can do. I can wait.” It’s always like that, so simple. He can wait. He’ll wait weeks, months, years even. “I love you either way. Ain’t gonna change that.” 

“I want to,” you shift, quietly, and he exhales instead. Squints a little at you. He soothed over your cheek again, nodding a little, gentler. “I just wanted you to know, I don’t know, you mean more than sex to me, Frank. I love you.” 

He laughs before he can stop himself, shaking his head, staring down at you in disbelief- though it’s not mean spirited in the slightest- he just will never, not ever get over you, he thinks. 

“Baby, I know that.” He chuckles as your face goes pink under him like you’ve actually done something embarrassing instead of just reveal that layer of sweetness he only sees so often. “I got 212 letters reminding me I got the sweetest boy who loves the shit out of me back home. Even if he’s got funny ways of showin’ it.” 

He leans down again, murmuring a little “use your words if you want me to stop,” before pressing another kiss to your jaw, following the curve all the way up until he’s nibbling at your ear while his hand maps steadily over your body. It’s the agreement you have- you say it, he’s done and out. Not that he can’t read the signs you give beforehand, however. A freeze, a squirm away that feels just too much, if you stop making those sweet noises? He’s hauling himself off and making sure his boy is okay. Always making sure. 

“Still feels so damn good,” he groans, lowly, letting his fingers slip up and under your shirt until his palm spread over your stomach- big fingers all played out. “just touchin’ like this, feels so fucking good, been thinking about this for months.” He makes quick work of another kiss, no qualms turning it into something much longer and filthier. He licks into your mouth the way he laves his tongue around an ice cream cone, warm and wet as he tangles the pink muscle against your own. He guides you like that, letting you feel the rhythm he begins. 

The moan he coaxes from you has his hips buckling at the sound, happy to draw more out and quick on the draw. He fumbles with his belt, shuffling quickly until he can kick off his fatigues. He’s more muscular than when he left, his chest coated in a thick layer of muscle that flows down his abdomen under the thick hair of his chest. The hair thins, just a little, before trailing down to the nest of curls around the base of his cock- still tucked into his briefs, but thickening against the fabric. “God, imma fuck you so good,” he huffs out, bare, not wasting another moment to settle between you again. 

He’s smug, hell, he’s cocky when he thinks with his dick and not that gentle mind that’s shutting off in his brain. He can’t help it, not really, when he hasn’t had you in so long. 

“Frank,” you whine when he gives a rough roll of his hips that isn’t nearly enough. He’s just like that, wanting you to really tell him what you want. He knows, knows exactly what you want, but he won’t ever just give it up- not when he knows you can. “You’re being a prick.” You grit out, arching up a little to rub the seam of your jeans against his bulge, letting the pressure seep against your clothed clit. 

“Nah, I ain’t.” He grins wolfishly, using the drive of his cantering hips to force you back from the way you’ve twitched your hips up. He lets you squirm for just a moment longer before he speaks again. He lets it get low and thick in his throat, almost growling, but it’s a tease instead. “You wanna tell Daddy what you want, huh? Gonna let me hear you? Tell me about all the things you wanted while I was gone?” 

Daddy. Daddy, daddy, daddy. 

He’s getting you, and he’s getting you good. 

He knows you, knows what you want. But you know if you just ask him for his cock, he won’t give it. Won’t let you hurt yourself around him stretching you wide open. He pressed further until his entire body is a heavy weight  against you, feeling the mattress moan lower than your own pitch, letting the roughness of his body hair sear against your softer skin on your stomach. “c’mon, tell me.” 

It’s hard to breathe under him but the weight is comforting if not downright dumping fuel into the fire of pleasure that’s kicking up sparks between your thighs. “want your fingers.” You utter out finally with a struggled breath. You bite down harshly against the plush of your bottom lip, your eyelashes fluttering a little. “Please, Daddy. ‘m saying please.” 

“Yes, yes, you are.” He rumbles out, all pleased. He’s always liked it when you used your words, always melts when you call him your Daddy. That’s exactly what is, anyway. He protects you, takes care of you, just like a man should. Thats what he always is sayin’. “You’re still my good boy, yeah, you are. Let’s get you out of these clothes.” 

His hands are warm as they strip you of the fabric, sliding up your hips, peeling off each little layer. He takes liberty of moving your arms, your hips up, everything. Like you’re just a doll he’s playing dress up with, maneuvering and manipulating. Shirt, pants, panties- they all end up in a pile across the scuffed floors with ease. 

He tuts at the state of you, laying on his side beside you now. He slips his thick fingers between your thighs, long the thick hair that coats your mound, until he drags his fingers along the sticky syrup of your wetness between the folds of your cunt. “Oh, honey.” He tuts sweetly, brows furrowing in pure delight at the feeling, at the sound of your sweet cry when he spreads you open to thumb over your swollen clit. “This wet over just a little kissin’? You that pent up?” 

You keen, turning your head restlessly against the pillows, hair falling into your eyes with each little gasping breath you release. You’re so warm, so warm, it’s maddening as he sinks a thick, calloused finger into your hole. You clench so damn tight, the squelch of the wetness fills the air, he swears it’s like your pussy is telling him it missed him on its own. 

“Oh-“ you hiccup softly, eyes trailing down to watch. It’s slow in motion, the flex of his bicep, the way his knuckles move when he sinks in his finger again, pumping in and out. “-feels, uh, feels good.” You mewl a little, sharp and breathy, and he knows he’s got that little spot found deep in you when he slides in a second finger and rubs all over again- letting the pleasure overwhelm you until you’re melting. 

“I know, I know it feels good.” He soothes and pressed his face against your forehead, kissing at the soft skin, taking all the time in the world to let you feel his fingers slowly pry apart- stretching your hole wider and wider, until he knows he won’t practically tear you apart. Each little squelch makes him harder, twitching and leaking in his briefs. “So tight, your pussy is squeezing so hard, gonna lose circulation-“ 

You let out a little cry again, pitched again, louder this time and he can’t help it. He wants you to cum, just not ‘round his fingers, wants it on his cock instead more than anything. Not anymore, not when he’s been waiting, wanting, about to ruin busting his load in his briefs if he can’t get into you soon. 

“ ‘s okay, lil boy.” He mumbles against your forehead as he slides his fingers out- letting you clutch and flutter widely with a moan of disappointment when he pulls his digits free. There’s a line of slick, wet and shiny, drooling down his fingers. “know I’m being mean, ain’t I? Gonna give you my cock instead, yeah?” 

He uses his still sopping fingers to hook around his waistband, pulling until he’s thrown them off himself. His cock, hard and thick, springs out and curves against his stomach. It’s leaving a trail of pre-cum from the way it rubs against his coarse hair. It’s seven inches of need, hot and the prettiest baby pink at the blunt, slitted tip. His hand slides down to pump himself a little to spread your wetness all ‘round to slick his shaft up, cup at his balls just a little, rubbing with a groan. He’s spoiled you, never lets you give him pleasure unless you really, really beg. Poor thing like you, terrible gag reflex anyway. And in any sense, he doesn’t want his boy trying to pleasure him. He’s got fingers, a tongue, and a hell of a big dick all for you. 

He shifts his hips, nudging his cock between your thighs when he pulls your leg up and under the crook of your knee. He loves you like this, pliant and soft, head loling onto his shoulder while he taps his tip against your pussy with a loud, wet smack. Little angel you are, just clutching against him, holding at his nape with shaky fingers. His hips jolt and he hisses quickly, cursing himself for teasing, but it’s so heavenly.  

“Please?” It’s a tiny, sweet noise that you make. The gentlest, most beautiful plea, and it breaks him. You don’t say Daddy, you don’t rock your hips, you look at him and wait. Wanting. You’re being good. Showin’ him how much you’ve been waiting. 

The tip of his cock sinks inside you, stretching despite the way he had you stuffed with his fingers, and it’s a lot even just for that little inch or so. He twitches between each inch he feeds into you, distracting with each kiss he graces over every inch of your cheeks. 

“I know it’s big,” he soothes, again and again, as sweet as he can because he can feel you- wet and fluttering around him- welcoming home into you. He lets his pelvis grind forward, balls slapping up against your puffy folds, as he finally gets every single inch in. “ain’t as big as that toy I got you, huh? You’ve been playing with your toy?” 

You choke, eyes screwed shut, and he watches that pretty mouth fall open- wordlessly mouthing around nothing but he knows it’s a yes. The way you squeeze down is a yes. Your nails bite at his skin but he doesn’t care- just draws his hips back, and pushes right back in. Again and again, groaning lowly at the velvet of you. 

“That’s real good, baby. ‘cause I was using my right hand that whole time away thinkin’ bout you. You know how much better this pussy is than my hand?” His nose drags along the curve of your jaw with each word, hiking up your leg a little higher, trying to reach even deeper into your guts while he rearranges them. He’s not pounding, not hard and fast. It’s almost romantic despite his filth. 

“I- fuck- I dunno,” you’re gettin’ dizzy and he knows it. You always do when he’s inside like this, his breath hot and body on your own. He tuts against your throat at the response and slides his palm up and over your hip- crawling until his thumb rests against your clit again. 

“ ‘s okay, ill tell you, okay?” He nods at you with a little huff, watching as you hazily mirror his movement, lips still slightly open as he fucks into you. He’s so deep, so damn deep, his tip rubbing that perfect spongy spot inside over and over. 

“Okay,” you mumble, whiny and pretty and completely slipping into that space he gets you into so easily. He fucks you into submission that’s just for him, the way you trust him to take care of you through. Through, after, before, any damn time. 

“Million times better.” He cooes with a little smile and snaps his hips forward again. He needs to push home now, when you get like this. You’re slipping pretty close to the edge when you get so dreamy and he loves it- means you’ll be left boneless and satisfied under him. You’ve been making that cute little “uh, uh, uh” noise that he adores when his cock kisses inside you.  “Daddy’s boy is always gonna feel a million times better.” 

He feels it before he sees it, when you cum. You tense all over, drag your heel down tight into the mattress, and it’s like your body is sucking him in. You cry out again, broken, and he catches that little I love you that slips out so fast it makes him reel. You’ve got him. Milking him dry more like, because as much as he loves watching you cum, it’s a biological need when he starts groaning at the sight- the feeling of your own tipping point and sayin’ you love him, Christ,- and he drills his hips forward once more to spill inside you with a broken snarl into your temple. 

“Shit, oh fuck, baby- baby-“ he’s babbling a little, panting heavily into you, letting your thigh fall back finally- sore and tired, but so loose. “-I love you, I love you, I love you.” The fit of his cock is still snug where he’s buried into your hole- a creamy ring of cum dribbling down the side of his softening shaft from your used pussy, messily sticking to his balls and the downy hair of your own thighs. 

His chest is still heaving when he presses his sweat slicked forehead against your shoulder, a few curls breaking the gel cast as they brush your own saline-coated skin. He withdraws his fingers from your clit only to put his palm over your tummy, against the place he’s still buried deep into. 

“You know I ain’t pulling out for the next seven months, right, baby?” 

[screenzicons-deactivated2025122]

— frank castle / the punisher

[screenzicons-deactivated2025122]

— frank castle / the punisher

[urween]

❝ Autumn Ride ❞

| Frank Castle x ftm!reader

made for @rottenblur 's and I pleasure ;)

smut / porn with a plot / established relationship / dom!frank / sub!reader / phone sex / sextos / masturbation (for both) / pillow humping / dirtytalk and soft degradation / kind of smell kink / mention of Daredevil, fights, violence, wound, dysphoria / and maybe a bit of voyeurisme

reader references as : darling, babe, baby, naughty boy, baby boy, brainless, little thing, smart, cowboy, good boy

terms used for reader’s anatomy : sex

summarize : Frank went to help another vigilante in Hell’s Kitchen, but he finds time for a little distraction on a calm evening.

wc : 2.4k

English isn't my first language, sorry for the mistakes <3

You'd never really imagined this part in your previous relationships. They couldn't be described as boring, but let's just say the flame wasn't always as strong as in your relationship with Frank. One of your exes had asked you for nudes, but you refused, finding it odd at the time.

Yet, the day you officially established your relationship with Frank, it was as if hundreds of doors had opened for you. So this is trust, you told yourself.

Frank had experienced this with Maria, but he never thought he'd find happiness again.

So you'd been a little shy at first about the idea of ​​sharing your intimacy somewhere other than in bed, but Frank quickly reassured you, and now you were the first to start sexting in your messages. Especially since your boyfriend's long absences were the perfect excuse for these activities.

Right then, sitting on the pillows of your shared bed, your phone in the palm of your hands, you chewed your lower lip in deep thought. Frank had been gone for exactly eight days, in Hell's Kitchen to help the man he called "Red." He was due back in two days, which meant it was the perfect time to start teasing. Realistically, you could have done it sooner, but if you were honest, you didn't because, unlike Frank, you didn't have fights to distract you, and so you ruminated on your conversations and his photos.

“—Hii” —Are you awake?? —Please be awake, and alive.”

You unmuted your phone, placing it under the covers. Weakly stretching your back, aching from the day before, you took the opportunity to gaze out at the dark night outside. A smile touched your lips when you thought that a few kilometers away, Frank was surely seeing the same sky, the same stars.

Your attention wandered to the decorations in your room, which you'd made yourself at the beginning of October. Orange lights shaped like pumpkins, teddy bears dressed as ghosts or skeletons, and jars filled with Halloween candy. Frank had surprised you when he admitted he enjoyed Halloween. You'd imagine he hated the holiday, as it was the perfect opportunity for criminals to commit their crimes in masks, and since the Punisher had become known, many people took advantage of the holiday to dress up as him. And of course, seeing little children knocking on your door with big smiles always made your heart ache, imagining the memories Frank must have had with his children during that time.

But ultimately, he loved Halloween. He loved seeing people out in costumes in the streets, hearing children's screams and then their laughter, or simply admiring the decorations people took the time to put up in their homes. It's warm, he told you one evening while you were strolling around your neighborhood.

This year, you had decorated your home alone, Frank being away, but you could already imagine his smile at the cozy autumnal atmosphere mixed with spooky Halloween.

"💌 —Yea im here babe"

Hearing the distinctive little sound of a message, you almost threw yourself at your phone. You had to admit that you missed Frank, a lot, despite the dozens of messages you exchanged every hour. At times, you even suspected he was replying to you in the middle of a fight, or at least when he was with other people—like Daredevil. You liked to imagine those kinds of scenarios actually, the great Punisher replying to your messages with his little loving smile.

So you picked up your phone again and started a rather banal conversation, because you still wanted to know how Frank was doing before diving into the heart of the matter. He briefly explained the end of his day, calm because he had "only" been spying from afar while Red dealt with personal stuff. You told him about yours, just as calm—although your definitions of that term differed—you had taken advantage of that Saturday to clean the apartment and add new decorations. You sent photos of the orange leaf-shaped garlands you had installed in the bedroom, Frank admitted that they gave the room a comforting vibe. Your messages gradually turned to other topics, such as the healing of one of Frank's wounds, which was hurting a bit, then little by little you introduced the subject.

"—And in another tone, are you alone?"

A short pause passed before the reply came, perhaps he was checking the surroundings, or closing a door.

“💌—All alone, yes 💌—Ya?”

Your smile doubled at his question. Frank was naturally jealous, and even though he trusted you completely, he surely couldn't stop his worried mind.

“—Yes, I’m alone, Frankie —Just me and my horniness 💌—Horniness, huh? Well, maybe I can help with that.”

You briefly thought about where Frank might be. Staying at Daredevil’s HQ? Hiding in an abandoned building? Lying in the back of his car? Maybe there were people nearby, maybe not.

“—I’d appreciate it, since it’s your fault 💌—My fault?”

Lying back a little further, you could almost hear Frank’s tone through his message. His smirk, and his look full of "I already know everything that's going on in your head, but I want you to say it out loud."

"—You go help your super friend and you let me here alone, for weeks."

Under other circumstances, you wouldn't have written this message because you knew Frank well enough to know that he felt very guilty about leaving you for so long. But this was a different situation.

"— With only my poor hands to satisfy my needy body 💌—Such a shame bby 💌—Bet you desperately rock against my pillow, aren't you darling?"

You couldn't help but glance at the famous pillow, which indeed served as both a giant stuffed animal and an improvised sex toy. How could you not? It was permeated with Frank's scent.

“—I did yes, the night you left. 💌—So soon? You really are a naughty boy. 💌—You’re in bed right now? —Yes. 💌—Good, can we call? If you want to darling?”

Despite your rising excitement, you had a fond thought for his question. Frank was always so attentive to you, knowing your dysphoria and how stifling it could be in private if things were done wrong.

“—Yes, we can :)”

You barely had time to close the bedroom door—just to mask any future noises for the neighbors—before your phone rang. You hurried to answer, and after half a second, your boyfriend's gravelly voice echoed in your ears. Instinctively, your shoulders relaxed. Frank had a knack for calming you, even when you thought you didn't need it.

"Hey baby boy."

Your pulse automatically quickened when you heard that particular tone of voice that Frank only reserved for you on these occasions. You answered, trying to keep your voice not too feverish, but you couldn't help but imagine your boyfriend lying in some random bed, his bare chest perhaps still slightly damp from a shower, his muscles tensing with that disconcerting ease. You saw him again in your shared bed, stretched out on the pillows, breathless, his face twisted in an expression of pleasure while you were taking his cock in your mouth. The image alone made you drool.

Your attention refocused on the man on the other end of the line when he asked you a question. You asked him to repeat it, not having heard.

"Aready all brainless?" He asked rhetorically before repeating his question. "I said, do you feel okay with pillow humping tonight?"

The way the word rolled so perfectly off his tongue made you shiver, and you immediately accepted the offer. You sat up in anticipation and grabbed Frank's pillow.

"Just need to picture ya' on top of something," he continued.

Your teasing smile returned to your face as you put the call on speakerphone—the neighbor problem no longer having a place in your head.

"Does that mean you'd have let me ride you, if we were together?" you asked.

A small, muffled chuckle came through the phone, letting you imagine the look that accompanied it : Frank turning and then lowering his head with a smile that meant "you're a smart little thing." Then you heard a soft "maybe," making your smile double. Frank had a bad habit of always ending up in missionary position when you rode him, which at the time hardly frustrated you, but in hindsight, it bothered you. This position put Frank in a “submissive” place because, in fact, you were the one controlling the pace, and it was always hard for him to accept completely letting go and letting you do what he wanted. He wanted so much to please you.

"Anyway," his voice continued, slightly more breathless, "ride that pillow f' me darlin'."

All your gentle teasing quickly left your brain, preferring to be replaced by a pleasant fog. You made a small noise of affirmation before grabbing the pillow already placed between your legs. Your hands firmly gripped the end of the fabric, making it bulge between your thighs. You quickly grabbed your cell phone and placed it nearby. With the call in front of you, you took the time to admire the photo of Frank that you'd associated with his number.

You exchanged for several minutes, the time it took to build a palpable and lasting excitement. Then, you took off your boxers before Frank even asked. The feel of the warm fabric against your bare skin made you gasp, drawing teasing from your boyfriend.

"Don't you dare change that fuckin' pillowcase when you're done," Frank growled. "Want to smell your scent when I come back."

You nodded weakly, before remembering he couldn't see you. Your already breathless voice vaguely answered him with a "promise."

"Good boy," Frank rolled off his tongue before a moan interrupted him, "fuck baby—speed up for me, k? Need to hear ya moan."

Your pelvis reacted before you could really register the information. Your sex met the soft fabric of the pillow in a steady rhythm that drew a few moans from you. Your thighs contracted with each thrust, creating additional friction that made you want to continue for hours. You took just two seconds to get into a more comfortable position, and as if Frank were reading your thoughts—or seeing you—his voice echoed through your phone again.

"Tell me how ya' do it, I need to—picture yourself."

A small smile played on your lips as you imagined Frank's cock throbbing from the image he had in mind. You decided to give a precise description, but above all, slow, just to make him wait a little longer.

"Well, I am on my knees," you began almost in a whisper, "your pillow between my thighs. My feet are further away from my legs, so I can move with more ease." You took a short break to savor your boyfriend's heavy breathing, “and my upper body is leaning back, supported by my hands. Remember? This position is perfect for riding your cock, Frankie, you don't even need to lift me up."

The raspy moan that followed made your head tilt back slightly. You knew Frank too well, so well you could perfectly see the gestures that went with that sweet sound. One hand wrapped around his dick, the other clamped around his phone for fear that you'd disappear. He must have been naked, or perhaps he'd only taken his cock out, remaining fully clothed in his impatience. A layer of sweat covered his body, giving his muscles a shiny appearance with each in-and-out movement. He was definitely head back, pressed against a pillow, eyes closed, mouth half-open to let out all his grunts.

Your pelvis accelerated its movements, bringing your sex against the soaked fabric. The mixture of your scent and Frank's perfume was getting to your head, making you moan louder and louder. Your ears caught Frank's voice, growling encouragements, even though your mind could no longer fully interpret what was coming out of his mouth.

"Fuck—good boy, such a fucking good boy," he said, interrupted by his own moans, "riding my pillow like a real cowboy, that's my man, huh?"

Your lips parted on their own, guided by an instinct that only emerged in Frank's presence. You repeated variations of the same word several times, earning a broken, tender laugh from Frank.

"Would give anything to see your dumb face," he declared, "bet ya' got those glassy eyes, aren't you?"

You imagined Frank next to you, he would surely have cupped your face with one of his hands so you could look at him, then he would have smiled, and you would have melted even more into his arms. Unfortunately, he wasn't physically with you at the moment, so you let out a higher-pitched moan, dripping with frustration, the kind Frank got when he made you wait to come.

"Is my boy edgy?" smiled your boyfriend's voice on your cell phone. "Do you want to cum, baby?"

Your breathless voice answered quickly, making Frank's cock throbs on the other end.

"Then go on, and make as many noises as you want," he continued. "Want all the neighbors to know you're fucking mine baby, even when 'm not there."

Your thighs clenched so tightly around the poor pillow that your pelvis could barely move, only making a few broken movements. You sat up reflexively as your orgasm hit you, gripping the headboard with a force that turned your knuckles white. Your voice breaking completely on Frank's name, which you repeated as if it were suddenly the only known word in the dictionary.

Across town, Frank had just painted his chest with white streaks, his hand still making slight movements as if he were continuing to accompany you through your orgasm. His forearm covered his moan, trying to soothe his conscience, even though deep down he knew very well that Red must have heard everything from his room. His teeth tightened a little more around his skin, imagining the demon from Hell's Kitchen enjoying your moans.

"Frank?" your softened voice interrupted.

He sat up slightly, grabbing his phone again to bring it to his ear. His other hand managed to snatch two tissues to clean his skin.

"Yes, baby, I'm here."

"Do you have time for another round?"

His laughter echoed deliciously through the call, making you smile even more.

"Of course, darling."

The neighbors enjoyed your moans for several more hours, and perhaps a certain lawyer also picked up on them.

images : Pinterest

dividers : @/cafekitsune , @/sister-lucifer, @/solitary-serendipity and @/rmstitanics

[monicfever]

dd n punisher characters with a hypersexual/overly hormonal reader? of course if you're not comfortable with this type of stuff you don't have to write <3

hypersexual!reader 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher hc’s

r e q u e s t e d ♡

characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / james wesley / muse

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

matt pretends to be unbothered by how forward you are, but he absolutely notices every suggestive comment, every lingering touch, every flirtation. it always gets under his skin more than he lets on. he’ll smile that smug little half-smile, tilt his head like he’s trying to read you, and say something like, “you really don’t hold back, do you?” — but it’s always a little breathless.

he’s always listening. you think you’re being sneaky when you touch yourself in the other room, but matt hears everything. every breath, every rustle of sheets, every quiet whimper. it drives him insane. he’ll usually let you keep going for a while (just to hear it). eventually he’ll show up in the doorway, arms crossed: “having fun?” and the moment you smile at him, it’s over.

he likes the chase. you being constantly turned on doesn’t bother him, but he enjoys making you wait. you’ll try to crawl into his lap when he’s doing paperwork or patching himself up, but he’ll smirk and say, “you want something?” like he doesn’t already know.

he has rules, but you’re the exception. matt tries to set boundaries. “no distractions before patrol.” “not while we’re in public.” “not when i’m bleeding.” yet, somehow, your lips on his neck or your hand creeping under his shirt makes him forget every one of them. you’ll hear him groan out, “you’re gonna be the death of me.” while pulling you closer.

you fluster him more than he’ll admit. you’ve whispered things to him in church before. at nelson & murdock while foggy’s in the other room. across a dinner table while he's pretending to focus. every time, you catch the faint pink in his cheeks, the way he adjusts his posture like he’s suddenly uncomfortable in his skin. “you’re incorrigible.” he’ll mutter. and then he’ll kiss you like he’s punishing you for it.

sometimes, when you’re being especially over-the-top — dropping innuendos in public, texting him filthy things while he’s in court — he’ll give you that warning tone. quiet, dangerous, voice low and right at your ear.

when you’re feeling particularly needy, he’s infuriatingly good at switching the roles. “oh, now you want my attention?” he’ll murmur, catching your wrists as you crawl into his lap. “you seemed just fine earlier.” he knows exactly how to drag it out until you’re the one begging, and when he does finally give in, it’s intense, focused, and a little overwhelming in the best way.

aftercare means a lot to him, even if you’re the one instigating all the time. he’ll kiss your shoulder, your knuckles, the top of your head. he’ll ask, “you okay?” even if you’re giggling and glowing. “again? insatiable.”

on a heavier note, sometimes your intensity stirs something deeper in him. his own guilt, his conflict between pleasure and penance. there are moments when he’ll gently pull back, not to reject you, but to steady himself.

sometimes he worries he’s not enough. he knows you’re intense, that your needs don’t exactly quiet down. even though he’s more than capable of keeping up, there are nights where he wonders if he can keep satisfying you.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

notices everything. every suggestive glance, every teasing touch, every time you slide up beside him wearing next to nothing. he won’t always react — not right away — but you’ll catch the slight tilt of his head, the shift in his breathing. he’s got that stillness that says don’t push me unless you mean it. and you always mean it.

he’s not one for words, especially not when it comes to sex. so when you’re being flirty, constantly on him, slipping innuendos into everyday conversation, he mostly just hums or raises a brow. when he does speak, it’s in that rough voice — something like, “you keep talkin’ like that, you’re gonna find out how far i’ll take it.”

he holds back for a while. you’re always testing the line, always touching, always turning things suggestive. he plays it cool at first, lets you push and push. once he gives in, he doesn’t hold back. it’s intense, fast, physical — he grabs, lifts, pins. after he’s quiet again. catching his breath. wiping his hand down his face like you’ve just unraveled him.

tries not to act like he cares about how much you want him, but the truth is it gets to him. you wanting him like that, so openly, so often; it gets to him. there’s something healing in it, something anchoring. sometimes when you’re curled up next to him afterward, he’ll press a kiss to your forehead and murmur, “you’re trouble.”

he doesn’t judge. never once makes you feel like you’re too much. your neediness, your teasing, your constant desire doesn’t scare him, doesn’t annoy him. if anything, it pulls him in. you’re real, alive, shameless about what you want. frank’s been in the dark too long not to be drawn to that kind of light.

he tries to ignore you when he’s focused, but you are relentless. sitting in his lap while he’s working on something. whispering, “wanna take a break?” with your fingers ghosting over his chest. he doesn’t look at you at first — keeps his hands busy — but his jaw tenses and his breath slows, like he’s trying to pray his way through it. “i’m tryin’ to get this done.” he’ll rasp. you smirk, “i’m trying to get you done.”

he doesn’t like being teased when he’s busy, so when you push him too far, pressing against him while he’s fixing something or whispering filthy things in his ear when he’s trying to clean a gun - - he’ll give you a warning. just a look. if you ignore it? he shuts the whole world out and shows you exactly what happens when you don’t listen.

when you’re being dramatic about needing him, he’ll act annoyed, but deep down it kills him in the sweetest way. “frank,” you’ll whine from across the room, “i’m bored and horny and you’re ignoring me.” and he’ll sigh like you’re exhausting — but then walk over and manhandle you into his arms without a word. picks you up and lays you out like he’s been waiting for you to ask.

he worships your body in private. all that heat and teasing you throw at him gets returned in full once he’s got you alone. he takes his time, holds you still, tells you exactly what he’s going to do in that deep, steady voice. “you want this?” he’ll ask, even though he already knows.

but he’s also so soft after. runs his thumb along your cheekbone like he’s checking you’re real. presses a kiss to your shoulder, your forehead, the curve of your hip.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

he is constantly flustered. like. constantly. you’ll say something absolutely filthy with a straight face while he’s drinking his morning coffee and he’ll choke every time. stammering, red in the face, eyes wide. “you — you can’t just say that while i’m holding hot liquid!”

he brags to matt. not in detail (he’s respectful, okay), but he definitely walks around with that post-you glow, hair messy, tie a little crooked, sipping coffee like he’s untouchable. matt raises a brow. foggy just shrugs. “what can i say? i’m being thoroughly appreciated.” — casually mentions to karen that he “had a very energetic weekend” while sipping his fourth cup of coffee.

he pretends to be shocked, but he loves it. he lives for it. he’ll say things like “you are so inappropriate” while his hand is already on your waist, pulling you closer. he’s not fooling anyone, not with that little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

he loves making you feel good. your neediness doesn’t put him off, he’s just thrilled to be the one you want. he takes his time with you. he listens. and when you’re breathless under him, gripping the sheets and begging for more? he looks at you like you hung the stars.

you make him feel like a king. you’re bold about it. you want him, loudly and often, and foggy melts. literally melts. “you want me that bad?” he asks, half in disbelief, half smug. and when you say yes without hesitation? he gets that cocky little glint in his eyes.

you make him nervous in the best way. like, this is a guy who can argue a courtroom into submission, but the second you lean in at the office and whisper something filthy in his ear, he loses all ability to function.

public teasing turns him into a mess. you run your hand along his thigh under the table, whisper dirty things while you’re walking beside him, and he’s just trying to not combust. “can you not?” he hisses through a grin, but there’s no real protest. he’s into it.

he calls you a menace all the time. lovingly. half-scold, half-swoon.

he tries to retaliate. he’ll flirt back. maybe even whisper something filthy of his own, thinking he’s got you now. you double down. he immediately regrets it in the best way. “okay, okay, you win,” he laughs, hands up. “you’re dangerous.”

he’s an aftercare king. gets you water, fluffs your pillow, runs a bath. holds you close while you both come down. if you so much as hint at being ready for another round he’ll fake-complain (“you’re trying to kill me!”) while already kissing down your neck.

when he tries to keep up with you, it’s adorable. you’ll say something filthy and he’ll try to match you with a slick comeback; but the timing’s off, or he blushes halfway through, and it just ends up being the cutest thing you’ve ever heard.

he’s a cuddler with no shame. after you’ve exhausted him (and let’s be honest, you do), he’s all tangled limbs and sleepy kisses. “you’re insane,” he mumbles, burying his face in your shoulder. “i love it. don’t stop.” his voice is warm, a little hoarse, completely smitten.

he can’t keep secrets. not real ones. if he’s been thinking about you all day, he’ll tell you. “you left me like that this morning and expected me to go to work like a functioning adult?” he texts you during court. you send back a selfie in something slightly obscene. he slams his phone face-down on the desk and mutters “i’m in hell” with a dazed smile.

“no more sending suggestive photos while i’m at lunch with matt’s priest friend.”

he loves you exactly the way you are. loud, needy, bold, inappropriate — he eats it up.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

she tries to be professional. she’ll be typing up a story, dead focused, and then you saunter in, leaning over her chair, whispering something that should absolutely be illegal. her jaw tenses, her eyes stay on the screen. “i’m working.” but she’s already shifting in her seat, biting her lip.

she has a secret mouth. when she wants to, she’ll say something so filthy it stuns you into silence. usually in a whisper. close to your ear. “you gonna beg for it, or just keep looking at me like that?” and then she just waits. calm. still. eyes on you, daring you to do something about it.

you flirt like it’s breathing, kiss like it’s urgent, touch like you need her; it leaves her reeling. she’ll try to keep her cool but you’ll catch the way she exhales a little too hard, or stares at your mouth a second too long.

she teases right back. once she’s comfortable with you, you’re in trouble. she’ll wait until you’re the one trying to focus, then lean in and say something devastating in that soft, matter-of-fact voice. “if you keep looking at me like that, we’re not making it to dinner.” and then just walk away. smirking.

but you also unravel her. she’s used to bottling things up, being composed. you’re all touch and need and hunger and affection. it pulls something raw out of her. when you’re whispering her name, clawing at her shirt, telling her how good she makes you feel, she loses her edge.

she’s fiercely attentive. your hypersexuality doesn’t scare her, doesn’t make her pull away. if anything it makes her want to understand you better. know your needs, meet them fully, love you through it. she’ll read you like a book — figure out exactly what makes you tick — and then use it.

she absolutely uses your energy to distract you. when she wants your attention, she’ll give you that look, chin tilted, eyes sharp, and say something devastating in a calm voice. “get over here.” and suddenly you’re the one undone, aching and obedient.

she knows when you’re trying to seduce her and lets you. she’ll play along like she’s unfazed, arms crossed, head tilted. “you think you’re being subtle?” she’ll say while you’re practically crawling into her lap. but the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth? the way her eyes darken just a little? yeah, you’ve already won.

she does not shy away from intimacy. your neediness doesn’t embarrass her, it draws her in. she’s not here to shame you or play coy. she wants to be wanted like that. to be touched like she matters. when she gets overwhelmed, she clings. yeah, you’re the hypersexual one — but when she finally lets go, she gets wrapped up in it too. hands in your hair, lips on your throat, whispering your name like it’s the only thing that matters.

she absolutely teases you in public. she’ll press up behind you at the grocery store, whisper something obscene with the most innocent look on her face, then walk off like nothing happened. you’re the one standing there stunned, clutching a box of cereal like it just said something inappropriate.

gets handsy when she’s tired. maybe it’s after a long day, maybe it’s when she’s half-asleep on the couch, but her hands start wandering, slow and lazy and full of intention.

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

absolutely thinks it’s amusing. from the start, she watches you with that signature, smug little smile every time you throw yourself at her like a live wire. her eyes are dark, hungry, like she’s daring you to want her more.

she matches your energy with terrifying ease. you flirt to fluster — she flirts to destroy. you say something filthy and she just smiles, leans in, and whispers something ten times worse in your ear while touching you exactly where it counts.

you don’t scare her. she welcomes all of it. feeds off of it. where others might pull away, elektra leans into it. and when you beg? her grin gets sharp.

she teases you to the edge of madness. she’ll touch you under the table during dinner, drag her nails over your thighs when you’re trying to focus, kiss your jaw and say, “you’ll behave, won’t you?” in public — knowing damn well you won’t. she wants you to break. that’s the game. taunts you when you’re needy. you’ll whine, cling, kiss her like you’re begging for something, and she’ll laugh — low and wicked. “you’ll have to earn it.” she’ll purr, dragging her fingers down your back.

she owns the aftermath. after you’ve lost your mind on her, desperate and clinging, she turns soft. unexpectedly so. hands gentle, voice low, fingers brushing your hair back as she says, “look at you. i do love how pretty you are when you fall apart.”

she lives for your attention. she won’t admit it, at least not easily, but the way you’re always reaching for her, needing her, dragging her in like you’re starving for her? it feeds something in her. reminds her she’s wanted.

she doesn’t believe in moderation. so you being constantly touchy, constantly turned on? she meets it with equal force. doesn’t ask why you want her again, just laughs, low and cruel, “on your knees, then.” like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

she gets mean when she’s turned on. in that smirking, dominant, slightly dangerous way. “what’s the matter, sweetheart?” she’ll say when you’re writhing under her, voice honey-sweet and mocking. “this is what you wanted, isn’t it? all that begging…”

she tests how far you’ll go. she’ll push you in public, press a hand between your thighs under the table, kiss your neck just a little too long, and ask in your ear, “going to behave, or make a scene?” and when you shiver, grip her wrist, beg for more — that’s when she grins like the devil. “that’s what i thought.”

watches you like prey. doesn’t matter how many times you’ve kissed, or how many times you’ve begged her to take you apart, she always looks at you like she’s deciding where to sink her teeth next. you flirt with her in front of someone else? challenge her in that low voice? she’ll take you home and ruin you.

when you come onto her in a bad mood she melts. she could be fresh off a mission, furious, bloodied, but you crawling into her lap and saying, “let me help”? she softens instantly. not in a weak way, in a worshipful way. like your desire grounds her.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

at first, he doesn’t know what to do with you. you flirt like it’s breathing, kiss him like it’s urgent, touch him in casual greedy little ways that short-circuit his brain. he tries to act normal, tries to hold himself together, but you catch him clenching his jaw, fingers twitching, chest rising a little too fast.

he gets obsessed fast. the second he realizes how much you want him — how openly, constantly, shamelessly — you flip some hidden switch in him. he wants more. needs it. suddenly he’s tracking your every move, memorizing the way you kiss him, the way you look at him like he’s the only thing on your mind.

he follows instructions like they’re oxygen. “sit.” “stay still.” “hands behind your back.” you say it, and he does it. instantly. without blinking. it’s instinct at this point — his body reacting before his mind catches up. the second he obeys, he’s looking up at you, waiting for approval, wide-eyed and aching for your praise.

he’s dangerous when you rile him up too far. you flirt too much, grind against him when he’s trying to behave, whisper something filthy in his ear when you’re supposed to be focused, and he snaps. drags you somewhere private, presses you against the wall, and just takes. it’s quiet, intense, almost reverent. “you drive me crazy.” he groans, forehead to yours.

he doesn’t know how to handle being needed. you tell him you want him — again and again and again — and it undoes him. makes him shaky. makes him cling. sometimes after you’ve worn each other out, he just holds you too tight and buries his face in your neck. like he’s afraid if he lets go, it’ll all disappear.

he gets flustered in the cutest, darkest way. you say something explicit and he freezes — eyes dark, jaw clenched, pulse ticking in his neck. he doesn’t laugh it off or blush. he stares. silently. like he’s deciding how many rules he’s willing to break right now. spoiler: it’s all of them.

he’s so good at ruining you in return. the minute you start pushing him he gives it back, tenfold. pins your wrists. makes you beg. says nothing for most of it, just stares at you like you’re the most perfect thing he’s ever seen. when you come undone he whispers, “look at you… look at what you let me do.”

your neediness makes him feel safe. he doesn’t always say it. but knowing you want him that much? that openly? it quiets the noise. the guilt. the rage. he touches you like you’re salvation. holds you after like you’re the only thing keeping him on the edge of sanity. you are.

he spirals when you tease him and then act innocent. you’ll straddle his lap, whisper something obscene, kiss his neck, then just walk away like it didn’t happen. dex sits there, frozen, jaw clenched, staring at the wall like he’s trying not to snap a pencil in half. by the time he finds you again, he’s feral. “you think this is a game?”

he thrives when you lose control. the moment your composure cracks — the moment you beg, or whimper, or grab at him like you can’t take it anymore — his whole demeanor shifts. his lips curl into this possessive little smirk.

he's insatiable once you’ve broken the seal. if he’s gone too long without touching you he gets ravenous. rough, shaky hands. kisses that don’t stop. taking you again and again, like he’s trying to make up for all the hours he went without you.

he doesn’t know how to take it when you praise him. he stares at you like he doesn’t know how to absorb it. like part of him doesn’t believe he deserves that softness. but he needs it. and when you say it again, gentler this time, he kisses you like he’ll die without it. he adores being praised. when you tell him he’s good, or strong, or perfect, his whole body trembles, just a little. his breath catches. it’s like he’s hearing it for the first time, every time, and it shakes him to his core. “you like that, don’t you?” you’ll tease. and he’ll look at you with this raw, desperate expression. “say it again,” he’ll whisper, voice hoarse, “please.”

he gets needy in the best way. the more you touch him, the more you praise him, the more desperate he becomes. the man who usually has all the control suddenly becomes weak for you. he’s a mess when you praise him during sex. when you tell him he’s good in bed, that he’s making you feel good — that’s when he absolutely falls apart. his hands go slack, his body goes rigid, and he’ll mumble, “don’t stop.” over and over. every word that spills from your mouth is like a drug, and it’s ruining him in the best way possible.

he loves when you take control. push him down. tell him not to move. give him orders like you expect them to be followed — because he wants to follow them. he wants to earn your touch, your words, your love. when he gets it he’s panting, melting, gripping the sheets like it’s the only thing keeping him from floating away.

his obedience isn’t about power — it’s about love. he doesn’t kneel for you because he’s weak. he kneels because he trusts you. because he knows that when you give him orders, you’ll also give him affection. and that means everything to him.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

tries to be cocky about it at first. smirking while you straddle him, talking shit like, “gonna take what you want, baby?” but the second you actually do — grab his wrists, grind down, whisper “be good for me” — his whole body shudders. the smirk fades. his jaw clenches. and he’s whispering, “fuck… okay. okay.”

he gets jealous of your attention. not just who you give it to — but when you withhold it. you tease him, flirt then walk away, or spend more time on your phone than in his lap, and he’s immediately pressing up behind you, voice low: “what, you done using me already?”

you catch him off guard constantly. dragging him into the nearest room, climbing into his lap during meetings, whispering something unholy while he’s trying to concentrate. and he plays it cool, sure — but the way he grips the edge of the table or clenches his jaw? oh, he’s losing it.

he becomes so obedient under the right pressure. you tell him stay still and he does. every muscle tight, breathing uneven, eyes locked on you like he’s waiting for his next instruction. he looks cocky, but that tension in his body? that’s need. he wants your praise. needs your permission.

he thrives off your desire. knowing you want him all the time, that you’re always thinking about him — it makes him feel powerful. desired. worshipped. he’ll tease you for it —“you really can’t keep your hands off me, huh?”

but the more you want him, the more needy he becomes. it stops being a game and starts being obsession. now he’s the one touching you constantly, dragging you into bed at all hours, whispering, “just one more time, baby. can’t stop thinking about you.”

he’ll let you use him. no ego, no fight — just “tell me what to do.” if you’re extra desperate, pulling at his clothes and grinding on him like you’ll lose your mind without it, he lets you take it. lets you pull his belt loose and ride him breathless. hands on your thighs, eyes locked on you like you’re holy.

he melts for praise but tries to hide it. you call him good and he lets out this shaky breath, head dropping back, hands fisting the sheets. “fuck,” he whispers, like he’s embarrassed at how much it affects him. you tease him for how much he likes it. “look at you,” you’ll purr, dragging your nails down his chest, “mr. billy russo. ceo. soldier. killer. begging for my approval.” and he groans. because yeah. he is. and when you call him your pretty boy, your sweet thing, your favourite toy — he thrives. eats it up. all of it. he follows instructions so, so well. you train him without even meaning to. tell him how to touch you. when to stay still. where to put his hands. he gets desperate for your praise. he’ll push himself to the edge trying to make you feel good, looking up at you like a starved thing. “you feel good?” he pants.

he wants you to ruin him. not physically — emotionally. he wants you to strip him down. take all the masks off. make him yours in a way no one else ever has. when you say, “mine,” and grip his chin so he has to look at you? his body goes limp. he nods, quiet, obedient.

he’s competitive about keeping up. you want it again? again? oh, he’s rising to the challenge. he won’t back down — won’t let you think for one second he can’t handle it. but by round five, he’s on his back, breathless, hair damp, muttering, “jesus christ— what are you trying to do to me?”

he starts scheduling around your sex drive. literally moves meetings, delays calls, closes his office door and texts you a simple: now. and when you show up already knowing what he wants? he just leans back in his chair, unbuttons his shirt, and smirks — “i knew you couldn’t resist.”

but the second you get needy? oh, he crumbles. you press up against him, whine a little, tell him how bad you want him — and suddenly the smug façade shatters. he’s flustered, hands already on your hips, murmuring, “yeah? tell me what you need, baby. i’ll give you everything.”

he keeps things on him just in case. backup condoms. lube in his desk drawer. a change of clothes. because he knows you — knows you’re unpredictable, insatiable, always two seconds from crawling into his lap and making him lose every ounce of professionalism he has left.

he talks a big game but loses it so fast. he’ll say shit like “you gonna ride me like you mean it?” or “hope you can handle what you’re asking for”— and then you do, and suddenly he’s gasping, clutching at you, swearing under his breath like his whole body’s going haywire.

your appetite breaks his composure. you get him worked up in public, and suddenly mr. smooth-talker is stammering. distracted. flustered. he’ll pull you aside, grab your face, and growl, “you need to stop or i’m gonna fuck you in the nearest locked room.” (spoiler: you don’t stop.)

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

slow mornings where you can’t keep your hands off her while she’s brushing her teeth, trying to read case files, trying to drink her coffee — she doesn’t stop you, just mutters “insatiable” with a smirk. late nights on the couch with your legs tangled over hers, your fingers tracing the scar on her side, whispering everything you want to do to her — she listens quietly, then pulls you into her lap.

you call her detective when you're being flirty — she pretends to be annoyed, but the flush in her cheeks always gives her away.

she’s the calm to your fire, but when she snaps, when she lets go — you learn that she’s been holding back so much more than you thought. your need for touch grounds her; sometimes it’s the only thing that pulls her out of her head after a long day.

she’s not overly verbal during sex, but you are — and she loves it. loves how uninhibited you are, how you make her feel wanted in a thousand ways. sometimes she doesn’t say anything at all — just looks at you with that heavy gaze, hands on your hips, and you know exactly what she needs.

you send her texts during work: i need you, thinking about your hands, wear that button-down tonight — she leaves you on read, but always shows up exactly how you want.

she’s the type to make you wait. edge you for hours just because you’ve been too much all day and she wants to remind you who’s in control.

she sets boundaries with you early on — not because she wants distance, but because she knows your appetite could swallow her whole if she let its “you don’t get to touch me just because you’re needy,” she says, low and measured, her hand firm on your wrist — but she never pushes you away, not really.

she gives you rules. no touching without asking. no teasing when she’s on the phone. and god help you if you break them — she doesn’t yell, she disciplines. when you push too far, she doesn’t lose her temper — she goes cold, calculated. “take your hands off me. now. you don’t get me when you’re acting like a brat.” she uses your hypersexuality to train you — gets in your head, turns your hunger into obedience.

you test her constantly, and she lets you — up to a point. then it’s “knees. now.” and you’re on the floor before your brain can catch up. she loves that you want her all the time — but she makes sure you need her on her terms, not yours.

⏜︵ JAMES WESLEY. 𐂯

he’s amused by how needy you are — not mocking, just indulgent. “insatiable little thing, aren’t you?” he says without looking up from his glass. he doesn’t initiate in public, but you can feel it in his stare across the room — the promise of what he’ll do to you later if you don’t behave.

he makes you ask. always. “use your words.” and if you whine or pout? “that’s not asking. that’s begging. i haven’t decided if you deserve it yet.” his discipline is precise — never cruel, always controlled. he doesn’t punish out of anger, but out of principle.

you learn very quickly not to touch him without permission. not because he doesn’t want you to — but because he enjoys denying you just enough to keep you desperate.

“if you can’t sit still through dinner without thinking about my hands, maybe you don’t need dessert tonight. or tomorrow.”

he knows your body like a weapon — keeps you right on the edge with barely a touch, just his voice, just the way he looks at you when you’re squirming in his lap. he buys you luxury — lingerie you’re not allowed to wear unless he puts it on you, jewelry that marks you as his, bruises that match your diamonds.

there’s a cold satisfaction in how he makes you obey. “no talking back.” if you try to argue he silences you with a kiss, a firm grip on your jaw, “i’ll speak when i want. you’ll listen.” he loves the way you bend to his will.

when you’re on your knees, obedient and desperate, he takes his time with you, savoring the control he has over your every move, over the way you look at him like he’s the only thing that matters. he loves when you’re desperate, when you can’t hide how much you crave him. “beg for it,” he’ll say, casually, and the way you do makes him smile with that dangerous satisfaction.

in those rare moments when he decides you’ve earned it, he’ll show a sliver of tenderness. a brush of his fingers on your cheek, a gentle word in your ear — it’s the only time you get a glimpse of the softer side he hides behind his icy control.

he doesn’t let you forget who’s in charge. if you slip up, if you get too demanding or bratty, he’ll pull back with a simple “that’s not how this works. try again.” he holds back just enough to make sure you’re always wanting more. when he finally gives you what you crave, it’s a slow, calculated act — drawing you to the brink, then pulling you back again, just to see how much you’ll beg.

“you’re not getting anything until you prove you can behave.” — you have to be good for him to get what you want.

⏜︵ MUSE. 𐂯

he calls you his favourite canvas, but he never means it metaphorically. his fingers drag across your skin like brushes, like he’s trying to paint need into your bones. he doesn’t understand restraint — when you want him, it feeds something primal in him. “say it again,” he demands, breathless and too close.

blood on his hands, paint under his nails, and you pulling at his shirt like you’re starving — he doesn’t care what time it is or what mess he left behind, not when you’re looking at him like that. he laughs when you get desperate, but it’s not mocking — it’s delighted. “look at you,” he purrs, “so hungry. like a little beast. i could make something beautiful out of that.”

he marks you in more than bruises — red smudges from pigment he won’t name, his fingerprints staining your thighs, your back, your neck — like he’s signing you. he gets obsessed with patterns — the way your body responds to certain touches, sounds, pressure — like he’s studying a new medium. “arch your back. no — slower. let me see the shape of it.”

he doesn’t like being told no. not because he’s cruel, but because he can’t comprehend being denied something he craves. your desire fuels his delusions of devotion. when you touch him, it drives him manic — like being wanted back is a concept he can’t entirely believe, and he spirals into reverence or obsession. sometimes both.

he doesn’t knock when he enters — he appears, silently, suddenly, like inspiration itself. and when you look at him with need in your eyes, he exhales like he’s relieved. “oh good. you’re ready for me.” he doesn’t understand why you crave him so often — but he adores it. treats it like proof. like you were made for him. like your desire validates the madness in his head.

he feeds on your desperation — physically, mentally, artistically. your need becomes his muse, your body the altar he builds madness on. when he ties you up, it’s not just for control — it’s a frame. your body, trembling and aching, becomes the exhibit. “stay still. you’re art now. don’t ruin it.”

he’s rough, but never careless. every bruise is intentional. every handprint, every bite — a signature. he gets frustrated when you wear something that hides his marks.

after, when you’re ruined and trembling and boneless, he presses his forehead to yours, whispering in rapid, breathless phrases: “my perfect, filthy little thing.”

and then he sketches. right there, with you still shaking, sprawled over his lap — he sketches the aftermath. the glow. the way you fell apart.

started 4.27.2025. finished 4.28.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[starsm00n]

Is he a scary man covered in blood? Or is he my baby girl? Spot the difference

[shhuuga]

hey, don't cry. morally grey men that tower over you physically falling to their knees and worshiping the ground you walk on, okay?

[lanae111]

When he’s a red flag but you need him

[angelsautumn]

[choscookie]

been smiling a little too hard at pics of older men lately

[yuckmr-deactivated20251218]

maybe I'm the pervert

[rhaenyraeri]

frank castle headcanons <3

i wrote these quick on my break today bc he’s been plaguing me 😭 no warnings, just little thoughts i have about frankie <3 short sweet and to the point lol also not proofread!

- frank castle who doesn’t say i love you often. but you know he does, and he knows that you know it, too. he’s lost a lot and went through a lot— it’s part of loving frank to accept that he takes more caution in putting his heart on the line. he couldn’t go through it again.

- frank castle who holds you tight every night, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear before he wakes up. it’s not that he thinks you would, but he’s got people that want to do harm to him, and he doesn’t put it past them to go for the one he cares for most. it can feel a little suffocating, but you know he doesn’t mean for it to be. he just wants to know that you’re there, you’re safe, and he’s got you.

- frank castle who teaches you some self-defense, even if he knows you can hold your own. you can never be too careful, and going back to before, frank wouldn’t be surprised if you fell victim to someone wanting to get to him. even if you know defense, he’ll want to run you some courses of what he wants you to know. he’s extremely experienced, so you know you’re in good hands.

- frank castle who follows the gentleman rules to a tee. you walk on the inner part of the sidewalk always. he won’t let you open the car door yourself, and once he’s in the driver’s seat, he reaches over and buckles you in. always pulls the chair out for you on dates. you first, then himself.

- frank castle who comes to you with injuries. sure, he can care for himself. he has before and will again in the future, no doubt. but your touch is different. you’re more graceful with the care than his calloused hands. you’re more tedious, making sure each wound is dressed, and if need be, sewed up properly. and he just watches as you dote on him, with that familiar gleam of admiration shining in his eyes. the smallest of a smirk raises when you nag to him about ‘not being more careful out there’.

- frank castle who always drives with one hand on the steering wheel, the other placed on your thigh. every so often he’ll rub his thumb up and down, give a light squeeze, or pat your knee— one of his many ways of saying i love you.

[deviette]

pov old pictures from date night with younger!frank castle

[milosstag]

Backshots HERE !!