stella

﹟ she · her ㅤ࣭ : ᯓ 00 !

[starry4stella]

All Mine (18+)

Peter Parker x fem!reader

synopsis : Peter's gentle demeanor shifts at a frat party, revealing a possessive side.

warnings : Jealousy, hair tugging, gripping hips, neck biting/sucking leading to potential bruising, and minor emotional buildup from the party.

wc : ~1,300 

The bass from the frat party thrummed through the soles of your shoes, a sickening beat that matched the growing dread in your stomach. You could feel Peter’s gaze on you from across the room, but you were trapped, smiling politely at the guy from your statistics class who was telling a story you’d stopped listening to five minutes ago.

"So, I was thinking," the guy, Mark, maybe, said leaning in closer than you'd like. His breath smelled like cheap beer. "We should study together. For the midterm."

"I think I've got it covered, thanks," you said, trying to edge away. Your eyes darted back to Peter. He was standing by the makeshift bar, a red plastic cup in his hand, but he wasn't drinking. He was watching. His jaw was a tight, hard line, and the sweet, shy smile he usually wore was gone, replaced by a look so intense it made your stomach clench.

Mark, oblivious, put a hand on your arm. "Come on, it'll be fun. We could grab dinner after."

That was it. You saw Peter set his cup down on a nearby table with a sharp click. He moved through the crowd making your heart pound.

"Hey," he said, his voice deceptively soft as he appeared at your side. He didn't even look at Mark. His eyes were locked on you. "Ready to go?"

"Uh, yeah," you said, pulling your arm from Mark's grasp. "Nice talking to you."

Peter's hand found the small of your back, a proprietary weight that guided you through the throng of bodies. He didn't say a word as you walked out of the stuffy house and into the cool night air. The silence was worse than yelling. It was heavy, charged with all the things he wasn't saying.

You walked the two blocks back to your apartment building, your footsteps echoing on the pavement. You tried to take his hand, but his fingers were curled into a fist at his side.

"Peter, talk to me," you finally said, as you reached your door.

He didn't answer. He just waited while you fumbled with your key, his presence a burning heat behind you. The moment the door swung shut, he was on you.

He kicked the door closed with a solid thud that made you jump. Before you could turn, he spun you around, crowding you against the hard wood. His hands slammed against the door on either side of your head, caging you in. The shy, sweet diver from the university pool was gone. In his place was a stranger with dark, possessive eyes.

"Peter, what—"

"He touched you," he growled, cutting you off. His voice was low, rough, a sound you felt vibrate through your chest.

"He was just talking," you started, but you knew it was useless.

"He put his hand on you," he said, his gaze dropping to your arm as if he could still see the ghost of the other man's touch. He leaned in, his face so close to yours you could feel the warmth of his breath. "Did you like it?"

"No," you breathed, your heart hammering against your ribs.

"Good." His hands moved from the door to you. One gripped your hip, pulling you flush against him, while the other tangled in your hair, tugging your head to the side, exposing the long line of your throat. "Because this," he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin, "is mine."

His mouth was hot and demanding on your neck. He didn't kiss you gently; he claimed you. His teeth scraped your skin, followed by the soothing, possessive sweep of his tongue. He sucked hard, a deliberate, bruising pressure that you knew would leave a dark mark. A brand.

"Peter," you gasped, your hands clutching at his shoulders. He was solid muscle beneath his thin t-shirt, coiled tight with a tension that was all for you.

"Say it," he commanded, his voice a dark rumble against your ear. He moved to another spot on your neck, determined to leave his mark everywhere he could. "Tell me who you belong to."

"You," you moaned, as his hand slid from your hip to the curve of your ass, squeezing hard. "I'm yours."

"Damn right." He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes wild with a jealousy that was terrifying and intoxicating all at once. He grabbed the hem of your dress and yanked it over your head in one fluid, aggressive motion. He didn't bother with your bra, just hooking a finger into the center cup and pulling it down, exposing your breast to the cool air. His mouth was on you instantly, sucking your nipple into a tight, sensitive peak.

He was all rough hands and demanding mouth, stripping away your panties with an impatience that made your core ache with need. He didn't give you a moment to think, to breathe. He spun you around, pressing your chest against the cold wood of the door.

"Hands on the door," he ordered. "Don't move."

You placed your palms flat against the door, your body trembling with anticipation. You heard the sound of his belt buckle, the rasp of his zipper, and then his hands were on your hips again, pulling them back, arching your spine.

He didn't prep you, didn't tease. He drove into you with one hard, deep thrust that stole your breath. You cried out, your palms slipping on the door as he set a punishing rhythm, each thrust a declaration of ownership.

"Look at you," he grunted, his grip on your hips bruising. "So fucking beautiful. All mine." He leaned over you, his chest to your back, his mouth next to your ear. "He looked at you like he wanted to fuck you. Did you know that?"

You could only shake your head, your mind going blank with pleasure as he hit that spot deep inside you.

"But he can't, can he?" he continued, his voice a low, possessive snarl. "This is mine. This tight little pussy is all mine."

His words were filthy, degrading, and they sent a bolt of pure desire straight through you. He was marking you from the inside out, erasing the memory of any other man who had ever dared to look at you. One of his hands snaked around your hip, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, merciless circles.

"Come for me," he demanded, his thrusts becoming erratic, harder. "I want to feel you come on my cock. Now."

The command was all it took. Your orgasm crashed over you, a blinding wave of pleasure that made your legs shake. You cried out his name, your body convulsing around him as he continued to fuck you through it. He followed you over the edge with a guttural groan, burying himself deep inside you as he came, his forehead resting against your shoulder.

For a moment, you both just stayed there, breathing heavily, the only sound in the room your ragged gasps. Then, slowly, he pulled out and turned you around. His eyes were soft again, the anger and jealousy replaced by a familiar adoration.

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheeks gently. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I hate it when they look at you."

You leaned into his touch, your body still humming. "I know," you said softly. "But I'm yours, Peter. I'm always yours."

He leaned down and kissed you, a soft, tender kiss that was a stark contrast to the rough, dominant sex you'd just had. It was a reminder of the boy you fell for, the one who got nervous before a dive and blushed when you complimented him. But as he kissed you, you could feel the faint, tender ache of the hickeys blooming on your neck, a delicious reminder of the man who owned you, body and soul.

[starry4stella]

Hands-On Training (18+)

Frank Castle x fem!reader

synopsis : You, a vigilante, learns hand-to-hand combat from Frank in his warehouse gym. When a training demonstration puts you in a straddle position against him, the tension you two have been ignoring for weeks finally snaps.

warnings : Age gap (reader is in their 20s & Frank is in his 40s), references to violence, semi-public sex (warehouse), minor biting and gripping, and minor mischaracterization.

wc : ~850 words

You leaned against the heavy bag in Frank's shitty warehouse gym, nursing a water bottle that had gone warm about twenty minutes ago, while Frank adjusted the tape around his hands with the kind of focus most people reserved for defusing bombs.

"Your stance is still too wide," he said, not looking up. "You're telegraphing every move."

You rolled your eyes, even though he couldn't see it. "You've been saying that for three weeks, Frank. Maybe I'm just built different."

He finally looked up, and God, those eyes. Forty-something years of hard living in them, lines around his mouth that weren't from laughing, and this permanent shadow of stubble that somehow made him look even more dangerous. Also, weirdly hot. But mostly dangerous.

"Get over here," he said, and it wasn't a request.

You pushed off the bag and walked over, trying not to feel like a kid called to the principal's office. You were 26, for fuck's sake. You'd taken down a human trafficking ring last month. You weren't some rookie.

But Frank Castle had this way about him. This gravitational pull of competence and barely contained violence that made your stomach do stupid things.

"Show me the chokehold again," he said, standing there in his black t-shirt and cargo pants, arms crossed.

You'd been working with him for two months now, learning hand-to-hand because guns were loud and left evidence and you were trying to be smarter about your extracurricular activities. Frank had found you mid-fight with some low-level enforcers, stepped in when you were about to get your skull caved in, and somehow you'd ended up as his reluctant protégé.

"Fine," you said, stepping in close.

He smelled like gun oil and soap and something else, something warm that you tried not to think about. You reached up to position your arms around his neck, but he caught your wrists.

"From behind," he said, voice rough. "Like I showed you."

"Right, right." You moved around him, trying to ignore how broad his shoulders were, how the fabric of his shirt pulled tight across his back when he shifted. You wrapped your arms around his neck from behind, pressing your chest to his spine.

"Good," he said. "Now drop your weight."

You did, which naturally made you slide down a bit, your hips settling against his ass. You felt him go very, very still.

"Sorry," you mumbled, adjusting. "You're like, really tall."

"Yeah," he said, and his voice sounded different. Thicker.

You were supposed to be practicing the takedown, but instead you found yourself noticing how his pulse jumped in his neck, right there under your forearm. How his breathing had changed. You were straddling his thigh now, technically, your position all wrong for proper technique but somehow exactly right for something else entirely.

"Frank," you said, and you hadn't meant for it to come out like that. All soft. Questioning.

He turned his head, just enough that you could see his profile, the harsh line of his jaw. "You should move," he said, but he didn't sound like he meant it.

"Should I?" you asked, and you were definitely flirting now, definitely crossing a line that had been blurry since day one.

He turned fully, breaking your hold, and suddenly you were facing him with your legs on either side of his thigh, practically in his lap. The warehouse was dead silent except for the distant hum of the city outside and your own heartbeat in your ears.

"You're 26," he said, like that explained something.

"And you're what, mid-forties?" You didn't back down. "Last I checked, that's not a crime."

"Last you checked," he repeated, and his hands came up to grip your waist, heavy and warm and so fucking sure of themselves. "You don't know what you're asking for."

"Try me," you said.

His mouth crashed into yours like he'd been holding back for months. Maybe he had. His beard scratched against your skin, his hands pulling you flush against him, and you could feel exactly how not-a-problem your age was based on the hard length pressing against you through his pants.

"Fuck," you breathed against his mouth. "Okay, yeah, that's—"

"Get up," he growled, and for a second you thought he was stopping, but then he was lifting you, his hands under your thighs, walking you backward until your back hit the heavy bag you'd been leaning against earlier. "Hold on."

You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms around his shoulders, and he ground against you with enough force to make you see stars. The bag swung with the impact, creaking on its chains.

"You're supposed to be teaching me," you managed, even as you rocked against him, seeking friction.

"I'm teaching you," he said, his mouth finding your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. "Lesson one: don't start something you can't finish."

"Pretty sure I can finish," you said, and then moaned when he rolled his hips just right.

He laughed, actually laughed, low and rough against your skin. "Smart mouth."

"Less talking," you said, dragging his mouth back to yours.

He got his hands between you, fumbling with your leggings and his belt, and you helped, fingers clumsy with urgency. When he finally pushed inside you, you both groaned, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air.

"Okay?" he asked, and that gentleness was back, the one that surprised you every time.

"Don't go soft on me now, Castle," you teased, tightening your legs around him.

He huffed out something that might have been a laugh, might have been a prayer, and then he was moving. Hard. Deep. The heavy bag swung with every thrust, your back hitting it again and again, and you were pretty sure you'd never look at this warehouse the same way again.

He was strong in a way that should have been terrifying but was just hot, holding you up like you weighed nothing, his arms trembling slightly with the effort. You could feel the age difference in the way he moved—confident, controlled, knowing exactly what he was doing—and in the way he watched you, like he was memorizing this, cataloging every sound you made.

"Close," you warned, your nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt.

"Yeah," he said, his rhythm stuttering. "Come on, let me feel it."

You came with a cry that probably echoed through the whole warehouse, your whole body tightening around him, and he followed seconds later, burying his face in your neck and groaning long and low.

For a minute, neither of you moved. The heavy bag swayed gently between you and the wall. You could feel his heart hammering against yours.

"So," you said, your voice wrecked. "Does this mean I passed the lesson?"

He pulled back enough to look at you, and there was something almost like a smile tugging at his mouth. "You need a lot more practice."

"Good," you said, grinning. "I like practicing."

He let you down slowly, your legs unsteady, and you fixed your clothes while he did the same. The tension that had been between you for weeks was gone, replaced by something warmer, looser.

"Same time tomorrow?" you asked, picking up your water bottle.

Frank looked at you, really looked at you, and nodded. "Same time."

You were halfway to the door when he called out, "Hey."

You turned.

"Your stance is still too wide," he said, but he was smiling now, barely. "We'll work on it."

"Sure we will," you said, and winked.

The door closed behind you, and you could hear him laughing as you walked away.

[starry4stella]

"I like big noses" (18+)

frank castle x fem!reader

synopsis : At a crowded party, Frank Castle overhears you telling a friend that big noses are attractive for very specific reasons. Once he gets her home, he demands she demonstrate exactly what she meant.

warnings : oral sex, face-sitting, established relationship dynamics, and references to violence (implied through character background only)

wc : ~750 words

The music at the warehouse-turned-loft party was too loud, the lights too dim, and the crowd too packed with people pretending they weren't carrying. You'd lost sight of Frank twenty minutes ago—probably making the rounds, scanning exits, doing that whole broody guardian thing he did even when he was supposed to be relaxing.

You leaned against the exposed brick wall, nursing a beer that had gone warm, while your friend waved her hands around about some guy she'd matched with on Tinder.

"He's got this nose," your friend was saying, wrinkling her own. "Like, prominent. Roman statue vibes."

You snorted. "I don't know, big noses are kinda hot."

She paused. Turned to you. "Really?"

"Really." You shrugged, feeling the pleasant buzz of your drink. "When you ride their face, you know? It feels good. Better angle or something. More to hold onto."

Maya's eyes went wide, then she dissolved into giggles, swatting your arm. "Oh my god, you're ridiculous."

"I'm serious!" You laughed, but you were already feeling the heat creep up your neck. "Don't knock it till you try it."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say—"

You didn't notice the shadow that lingered a beat too long near the hallway behind you. You didn't see the way Frank's jaw tightened, his eyes tracking the line of your throat before he slipped back into the crowd.

The ride back to your place was silent in that heavy, charged way. Frank drove his truck with both hands on the wheel, knuckles white, eyes fixed on the road like it had personally offended him. You'd tried making conversation twice. Gotten grunts in response.

"Everything okay?" you asked finally, reaching for the radio.

Frank caught your wrist before you touched the dial. His thumb pressed against your pulse point, deliberate, and your breath caught.

"I heard you," he said. His voice was gravel over glass.

"Heard me what?"

"At the party." He glanced at you then, and there was something dark and focused in his eyes that made your stomach flip. "Talking to your friend. About what you like."

Your brain stuttered. Rewound. Oh. Oh.

"Frank—"

"Big noses," he said, almost casual, but his grip on your wrist tightened. "Said they feel good. When you—" He stopped. His jaw worked. "Show me."

Your mouth went dry. "What?"

"You said it feels good." He turned onto your street, the truck's engine rumbling low and hungry. "I want you to show me."

Your apartment door barely clicked shut before he had you pressed against it, his hands framing your face, his thumbs dragging across your cheekbones. You could feel the calluses, the violence he carried in his skin, but his touch was careful. Reverent.

"You sure?" you breathed, even as your fingers found the hem of his shirt.

"Yeah." He kissed you then, rough and claiming, and you felt it in your knees. "Want your thighs around my ears, sweetheart. Want you to tell me how good it feels."

You laughed, breathless, and he swallowed the sound.

The bedroom was dark, just the streetlight filtering through the blinds. Frank sat on the edge of your mattress like he was waiting for orders, and you climbed over him, your dress riding up, your hands shaking only a little. He helped you, big rough palms sliding up your legs, thumbs pressing into the soft skin of your inner thighs.

"Come here," he murmured, and you went.

The first roll of your hips made him groan, the vibration of it sparking up your spine. He wasn't gentle—he didn't know how to be—but he was there, present and desperate and yours, his hands gripping your hips to guide the rhythm, his nose pressing exactly where you needed it, the angle perfect in a way that made your vision blur.

"Frank—" You gasped, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling. "There, right there—"

He made a sound against you, encouraging, hungry, and you felt it building fast and sharp, coiling tight in your belly. You rode him like that, shameless and loud, the wet sound of it obscene and perfect, until you were shaking, until your thighs were trembling and your head fell back and you came apart with his name breaking across your lips.

He didn't stop. Kept you there, oversensitive and writhing, until you were pushing at his shoulders, laughing and gasping and begging.

"Okay," you managed. "Okay, you proved your point—"

Frank finally pulled back, his mouth glistening, his eyes blown wide and dark. He looked wrecked. He looked proud.

"Good?" he asked, rough and smug.

You slapped his chest, weak and giggling. "Shut up. You know it was."

He caught your hand, pressed a kiss to your palm, and the tenderness of it after the filth of before made your chest ache. He helped you down, eased you onto the mattress beside him, and pulled you into the circle of his arms.

"For the record," he mumbled into your hair, his heartbeat thudding slow and steady against your back, "you can talk about me like that anytime you want. I'll be listening."

You huffed a quiet laugh against his chest. "Seriously?"

Frank let out a low breath and covered your hand with his. "Yes." His voice was rough, softening at the edges with exhaustion and something warmer. "You looked at me from across that room and I was done. Three seconds. That's all it took."

You turned your head to press a kiss to his jaw, feeling the smile there. "Hopeless."

"For you?" His arm tightened around you, anchoring you close. "Yeah. Always."

You drifted off like that, tangled in him, the party and the world and everything else fading to nothing. Just you. Just him. Just the quiet after.