[punpunkillchan]

Punpun | she/hers | 20s

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[punpunkillchan]

Frank’s heard some iteration of the question in regards to you.

“Aren’t they, you know, kind of difficult?”

“I’m surprised you’d want to be with them. They seem…cold.”

“Oh, I’m afraid to talk with them. I’m so surprised y’all have made it work.”

Not that Frank can blame them to a certain degree—you portray a cold demeanor, occupying a very rigid mien than some might gently classify as frigid. You do work with exacting neutrality, your voice schooled to specific impartiality.

But that’s because they’re not him.

And they don’t have the privilege alone of holding your body against the shelf of his muscle, arms working around yours as the two of you make pasta together. No one sees the way that you take a dollop of tomato paste from the tin and smear it on his nose; the way you shriek and giggle as he tries to repay the favor back to you.

No one sees the way that you take care to patch him up from injuries collected on patrol, dabbing the coagulated blood with such tender care. With a kiss applied to every band-aid that is pressed against the length of damaged skin, speaking worry—and salve of protection—for when he goes back out again.

They don’t know the way the two of you repose in tangled limbs on the couch, being careful big spoon to yours. As his hand languidly drifts up the angle of your temple and he’s rewarded with your side-eye—and your slow-spreading smile.

“I love you, Frank,” you murmur with warmth they’ll never know. And all the better for it. He hoards these moments like a starved man fights for food.

So he smiles, and says, “Well, I guess I just got lucky, you know?”

He doesn’t care if they’re confused or bewildered as he walks away. They don’t have to get it. All that matters is the secret that you’ve entrusted to him. And he’ll fight and tooth and nail to protect that with his life.

hope you enjoyed, request under the cut 👹

[punpunkillchan]

frank castle loves to give you a good back rub. He’s not exactly gentle, but the pressure is to die for. He’s a wonder with his fingers, the draw of his knuckles as they score down the terrain of your back. As they summon muffled groans that you try to suppress through the bite of your teeth.

But he knows what he’s doing—both to relieve the pressure, and to fluster you. To know just how to dare the encroaching push of his fingers as they sink into your vulnerable flesh; as they navigate further down the small of your back.

“My thighs don’t need to be rubbed, Frank,” you moan sleepily, lulled into a near-doze with the way he’s taken care to let his hands settle on the terrain of the skin. It’s sensitive—the way his nails scrape down to remind you of his presence make you squirm under his touch.

You can hear the smile in his voice, wicked and mischievous as he continues his hard work.

“Beg to differ, honey,” he breezes in that low tone—already working to push your legs open. You’re too jelly-limbed to resist him, the pleasurable way his hands feel as they dip down.

“Think you could use some more stress relief, don’t you think?” He asks. A coarse chuckle passes through as he feels the way you push into his touch.

Maybe he’s onto something after all.

[punpunkillchan]

frank castle loves seeing you in your little outfits you wear to the beach. Love pulling at the straps and the strings just taut enough so that they can snap against the vulnerable flesh of your hips, your shoulders. It always makes you gasp and squeal in indignation and a heat not borne of embarrassment, nor the sun that swelters down upon you both.

“Frank, it takes me like an hour to set this up the way I want it,” you grumble as you try to ignore the little pinprick of pain—though this is handled when he rolls over, letting you see the shelf of muscle in his stomach. And a great column of arm swings over you, dragging you across the landscape of the towel to him.

“What’s it matter, honey?” There’s a roguish element in his voice as he coaxes you closer, “it’s gonna come off you the same way in the end.”

You gasp as he growls behind that sensitive spot in your ear, and another wave of heat drums through you.

“Not here—not on the beach, baby,” you gasp in breathless manner—if you had sense, you’d be embarrassed.

“Don’t worry,” he mutters gruffly into your ear, “I’m patient. I can wait if you can.”

There’s a threat in that—an expectation that he’ll be doing his best to erode your sensibilities—especially as his hand wanders down the bare swell of your ass. And part of you is excited to see him try.

[punpunkillchan]

frank castle doesn't mind you dressing up in revealing clothing; matter-of-fact, bro encourages it. He loves the ability to have you sitting on his lap lookin' all cute and perfect, wearing the scent that he helped you pick out (and then, of course, had to later demonstrate his appreciation for all over your body)

anyone sends you a look? oh, that's no problem, because you're too busy sittin' on that thick thigh of his nursing the shots that the two of you are currently enjoying. and his hand is so large and warm as it rasps up the length of your own, as the burn of that drink scalds down your throat.

the mote of his cologne that clings to the soft palate of your tongue a taste that you want to dedicate time to remembering how it savors. you can tell from the way that he's nosing behind your ear, taking a slow, circulatory breath of your bouquet: he's thinking the exact same thing.

as he murmurs into your ear, "wait 'til i fuckin' get you home, baby, just fuckin' wait."

and if anyone catches you working to relieve some of the tension that his words are inspiring in you; well, they know better than to comment on it.

[punpunkillchan]

frank remembers everything. maybe it’s the training, but he knows dates like the back of his hand—anniversaries, your birthday, your family’s special dates—

He’s always the one who suggests something. “People like chocolate, how ‘bout chocolate? Or some’a those uh, fucking fruit flowers—“

He snaps his fingers in amusing display, trying to will the knowledge to arrive at the foreground of his mind. You can only barely resist the smirk as you supply him an answer.

“Edible arrangements?” You ask wryly; he brightens like the Fourth of July.

“Yeah—that good shit.” He snaps his fingers with ebullient manner. “People love that.”

“People,” you grin, “Or you?”

“Big man can’t have a reward every now and then?” He asks you, crossing over in easy stride. Leaning down to cage you within the spread of those big arms.

“What reward is that?” You smirk, having some inkling of the answer he’ll provide.

“Lookin’ at ‘em right now.” He grins. “Don’t need no other. Now come here.”

His mouth is rough, his tongue already making lave at the seam of your lips; but he’s excellent reward for you as well.

[punpunkillchan]

imagine Frank Castle who’s a sweet man but only with the privilege devoted to you: who brings you the flowers that he knows you like, who kisses you on the crown of your temple without any preamble. Who groans into the pulse of your throat how much he loves you when the two of you awaken

Who sloughs off the tough guy persona the second he meanders into your shared space, who becomes Frank again the second that his eyes settle on you—who knows that he’s home when he’s able to wrap you up in the swathe of his arms

“Missed you, honey,” he grunts in the tender spot behind your ear, his breath coaxing goosebumps up the vulnerable nape of your neck. “Y’miss me too?”

He already knows the answer—but like any big lug worth his salt—he wants to hear you say it.