callsignnova

[callsignnova]

the thing about bob wanting praise is that it's less about recieving it, and more about earning it. he wants to get a 'good boy' only after he's spent half an hour between your legs, wants you to beg him to put his cock inside you, because that means he's doing a good job, and wants to feel your legs shake underneath him while he fucks you nice and slow, one thumb circling your clit.

and you notice, because he was never subtle, specially when it came to sex stuff. that dazed look on his eyes when he coaxes the praise out of you, the way his cock twitches when you pull him closer, how he moans with you whenever you flutter around him.

he loves getting his cock snug inside your pussy, all warm and wet and safe, and he will never say no to it. but nothing compares to rubbing his cock all over your slit, collecting your wetness on his sensitive tip, hips snapping foward on their own chasing the feeling. he could stay like that for hours, stopping himself every now and then to breath and stop himself from cumming all over your glistening folds.

if you suggest that he fucks you with just the tip, he'll go crazy, because to him, being able to make you cum like that means that he's making you feel good, and therefore he's good. because bob would never bother you by asking you to praise him, and so he drains the praise he needs from your reactions, like the slow grind of your hips trying to suck his cock back inside.

so if you whine and beg for him, it's very likely he'll cum on the spot. when you start being vocal, giving him instructions and telling him if he's doing good, you can feel his cock twitching. he drools a little when you start talking, his hips move faster, and his hands never stop working on your clit and tits. bob was made to please you, and he'll be damned if he doesn't.

[callsignnova]

Here’s your 1,000mg prescription of reassurance

[callsignnova]

//hi i know this is the pot calling the kettle black but.

"matt murdock who fucks you so hard and makes you cum" "matt murdock who is a sex god" IM TIRED OF IT. BRING BACK YEARNING.

matt murdock who does not believe in soulmates until he meets you.

matt murdock who learns you, who memorizes you-- your favorite foods, your hatred of certain textures, the last color you painted your nails, the things that make you tick, the way your breathing changes when you've had a long day.

matt murdock who finds himself distracted when he hasn't heard from you, wondering if you're doing okay.

matt murdock who sends flowers to your office, just because.

matt murdock who goes from bachelor with only beer in his fridge to keeping the pantry fully stocked with snacks for whenever you get hungry.

matt murdock who feels his skin start to burn when you give him the gentlest of touches-- a caress of his arm, a hand on his shoulder. it drives him crazy.

matt murdock who is intoxicated by the mere sound of your voice, learning all the different tones you take in various situations, the way your voice softens when talking to anyone you deem a baby (cats, dogs, kids, drunk foggy), or the way it hardens when you're dealing with someone you find annoying (clients, assholes at the bar, etc)

matt murdock who gets drunk with his best friend one night and leaves you 27 voicemails, ranging from twenty seconds long to fourteen minutes, all rambling about how much he loves you.

matt murdock who spends months trying to hint that he likes you, buying you lunch, asking if you need anything, always pouring your coffee just the way you like it, asking if the book you finished was good and letting you ramble about it for twenty minutes.

matt murdock who has the biggest, fattest, most disgusting crush on you.

matt murdock who blushes whenever you enter the room.

matt murdock who yearns. yearns for you.

and yeah, also, he fucks. of course. get yourself someone who can do both. get yourself someone who makes you cry from overstimulation AND spends hours kissing literally every inch of your skin because he can and he wants to.

get yourself someone like matt murdock, who can only be described as head over heels in love with you.

[callsignnova]

BOB REYNOLDS WHEN HE... FINGERS YOU.

Robert is nervous the first time his fingers slip under your clothes.

Not because he doesn’t want it—God, he wants it—but because he doesn’t trust his strength. He keeps looking at you like he’s afraid he’ll break something precious. Like you’re glass, and he’s the hurricane that forgot how to breathe gently. His fingertips hover above your inner thigh for so long it makes your skin tingle with anticipation, and when he finally touches you, it’s featherlight. Like he’s apologizing before anything’s even happened.

“I… I’ll be gentle,” he whispers, voice tight in his throat. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

It’s never too much. If anything, he’s too careful—tentative and trembling with restraint as he traces circles over your underwear, eyes glued to your face for any flicker of discomfort. You guide him through it at first, whispering praise and soft gasps against his cheek, letting him know that he’s doing good, that you want this—want him. That you trust him, even if he doesn’t trust himself yet.

When his fingers finally slip inside you, stretching you out, he gasps like he’s the one being touched. His mouth falls open just a little, breath hitching as he feels your warmth tighten around his knuckles. You watch the way his brows furrow, the way his lips part—so red and kiss-bitten—as he watches your body react to him. There’s reverence in his gaze, awe, like he can’t believe someone like him is allowed to make you feel this good.

And once he realizes he can—really can—he starts to fall apart. Every soft moan you let out seems to undo him, unraveling his nerves thread by thread. He breathes your name like it’s a prayer, fingers moving slow and deep, trying to memorize how you sound when you gasp, how you shiver when he curls them just right.

You can feel his wrist trembling with effort—he’s holding back so much, scared he’ll push too far, go too fast, lose control. But his need is growing by the second, and you can see it in the way his free hand clutches the sheets, knuckles white.

When you whimper and arch into his touch, his control falters.

“Does that feel okay?” he asks breathlessly, voice wrecked. “I—I wanna make you feel good. Please, let me—”

You do. You let him. And when your body clenches around his fingers and you come undone beneath him, his eyes go wide like he’s witnessed something holy. His lips part in stunned silence, and you swear he nearly comes in his pants just from the sight.

And through it all—he’s still blushing.

[callsignnova]

I love deeply traumatized men with haunted eyes. Like hell yeah babe look at me as if I'm the only good thing you've ever known.

[callsignnova]

I heard about the summer skins and I’m excited about them, but nobody warned me about Loki. Like, excuse me sir but it is staring at me.

[callsignnova]

[callsignnova]

before long

Frank Castle x F!Reader

Summary/Excerpt: Some people say spending time apart is good. Those people clearly haven't spent almost a year without hugging their partner.

CW: 18+, explicit, tragedy-free frank/no punisher, marine!frank, fluff, romance, longing, kind of long-distance relationship, established relationship, mention of marriage, frank and reader are engaged, making out, hj.

Word Count: 1.5k

— Links: AO3 | Frank Masterlist

You never saw yourself as a military wife. Hell, you never pictured yourself married at all. You’re not yet anyway, but it feels just like it. There’s already an engagement ring around your finger holding that promise of a future linked to Frank. Saying yes to him was the easiest thing you’ve ever done right before he was called away. Before the ring had time to feel real on your finger. Before you got a chance to be engaged, to plan anything that felt like a future. It was the most natural step in the course of your relationship.

He's already yours. On paper or not. And you're already his with ring or no ring. But the idea of sitting at home, going on about your day, waiting for the rare call, or trying to write one of those letters you managed to write during the past year— it sometimes seems like watching someone else’s life.

Some people say spending time apart is good. Those people clearly haven't spent almost a year without hugging their partner. Distance might make the heart grow fonder, but some days, when it truly hits how much you miss him, you wish he’d just work at the grocery store down the street. You’d love to be sick of seeing his face every day, sick of kissing his lips, sick of him changing the temperature of the damn thermostat.

But Frank is nearly perfect. Present or not. You are all he thinks about. It’s the only thing that keeps him going. Loving you is the thing that keeps him alive when he’s gone. You’re etched in his armor, waved into that shield that he keeps up 24/7 when he’s on uncharted territory.

Today he's coming home.

Waiting at the base, you wring your hands around a paper cup filled with coffee, watching the plane land on the runway beyond the tall windows. In the distance, you survey a line of Marines descending like ants through the narrow boarding stairs. Upon touching ground, they break off to different groups to board different vans.

After tossing the paper cup into the nearest bin, your feet dash toward the doors, step into the tarmac as the transport gets closer and closer.

You spot him the moment he steps off the van.

Dressed in clean fatigues, his broad shoulders slightly drag to the side where his duffle is perched.

Frank scans the crowd, eyes flickering with a sliver of doubt, as if part of him fears you might not be there.

But his heart knows better.

And then he sees it. Clear as day. The red dot in the crowd. The color of your dress shining under the glaring sun, unmistakable between the sea of uniforms and strangers, like a signal flare just for him. It's the same dress you wore that he proposed to you in Central Park last summer.

His breath catches in his throat when he sees you running towards him.

He drops his duffle bag to the ground like it doesn’t matter, arms already out, ready to catch you. You jump, launching yourself into his open embrace like gravity’s been waiting for this reunion as much as you have.

Your arms lock around his neck, your legs around his waist. His hands hold tight, keeping you up though his knees feel like they're about to give up on him. It's overwhelmingly sweet to feel the weight of your love pressed directly against his chest again. It hurts and heals just as much as he thought.

His arms tighten around you with a quiet, desperate force, as if letting go isn’t an option.

You bury your face in his shoulder, inhaling his familiar scent mixed with aftershave and sun-warmed fabric.

He murmurs your name against your hair, like a prayer, like a promise. And for the first time in months, you can finally breathe.

You don’t know how long you stay wrapped around him—seconds, minutes, maybe longer. Time folds in on itself when his arms are around you again, when the ache in your chest finally lets up.

When you lean back just enough to look at him, your breathing falters.

His eyes are glassy, rimmed with red, and when they meet yours, the rest of the world disappears around you. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just stares at you like he’s making sure you’re real. His fingers touch your face, tracing your features just to make sure. You are a vision, but a real one. Solid and stunning, making him whole.

You raise a hand to his face, fingers brushing over the freshly shaved skin of his jaw that's already starting to pickle. And that's when you realize he's on the verge of tears. The kind he would never let fall in front of anyone else. But for you, he doesn’t even try to hide it.

“You okay?” you whisper, voice barely there.

He nods once. “Now I am.”

You nod too, swallowing the lump in your throat as you rest your forehead against his.

“I missed you so damn much,” you say, and it breaks something loose in both of you.

He pulls you in tighter, arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through the cracks.

“I thought about this every day,” he murmurs.

“I’d do it again,” you whisper. “Not because I want to. But because I love you.”

He finally manages a breath out a laugh, that small, familiar sound that melts your heart.

“Let’s not do it again.”

“Deal.”

You stay like that for another long moment. And then he shifts you gently in his arms as your feet touch the pavement.

“Come on,” he says, voice still thick with everything he hasn’t had the chance to say yet. “Let’s go home.”

The red dress doesn’t last long once you’re inside the house.

You barely make it through the front door before his hands are bunching your skirt, pushing the fabric up your body and over your head. His lips find yours like he’s been holding his breath since the day he left. You drop your bag somewhere behind you. Shoes are kicked off. Keys barely dangle on the keyhole, without even bothering locking it properly.

It all blurs in a frenzy of never-forgotten passion as you clumsily make your way into the bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes and shoes scattered all over the floor.

Both of you are already half naked when you fall into the mattress pulling him down with you. Frank extends your arms over your head, holds your wrist up for a moment. He stops moving, almost stops breathing upon the precious sight that is your body, but his heart still races, pumps a little faster in his chest. His eyes stare, really stare at you like he’s memorizing every inch of you again.

You let him look for as long as he needs. Though you can feel the pressure building behind the soft fabric of your panties when he nestles between your legs—his body trembles with something bigger than want. It’s not about sex. Not entirely. It’s about closeness. Proof. The physical reminder that you’re not dreaming, that this isn’t a memory. He’s real, and he’s finally home.

He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t fumble this time. His fingers brush over your skin with the kind of reverence that only comes from going too long without it. Your skin rises into goosebumps when they glide down your ribs. He whispers a “sweetheart” over your lips like a secret before kissing you with the bruising force of a man who’s been starved and deprived of water for a hundred years. He devours your mouth trying to make up for every missed morning kiss, every forgotten stroll at sunset, every late night I love you.

Your hands cling to his neck for dear life while the heat rises between his skin and yours. His tongue becomes desperate for more, grows hungrier than it already was if that’s even possible.

The lower half of his body starts rocking, pushing firmly between your legs to aid that aching arousal at his core.

“Fuck”, he grunts, abruptly breaking the kiss, stopping the motion of his body at the same time.

“Hmm. What is it, babe?” You frame his face with your hands and tilt it up so you can look at his lust-drunk stare.

“I think… uh…” He grins shyly, one corner of his mouth pulling up. “Think I’m gonna come already.”

“Yeah?” You scoff, angling your hips to tease and feel his cock twitching behind his boxers. “Well, I’d be worried and offended if I didn’t have that effect on you after all this time.”

“You like that, huh?” He chuckles, kissing your face sweetly.

“Love that,” you purr, sliding a hand down your body. “Let me help you, Lieutenant.”

He lets out a scoff as you tug his boxers down to palm his hardness. It’s hot and hard and already dripping when your fingers curl around it.

“No one to impress, baby. Just come for me,” you whisper in his ear while you pump his raging erection, ready to explode. It doesn’t take you more than a minute or two to have him spilling all over your hand.

“God, I love you so much.” He pants against the crook of your neck. “I’m gonna make it up to you. I promise.”

[callsignnova]

THUNDERBOLTS* (2025) dir. Jake Schreier

bonus:

[callsignnova]

frank castle who likes putting his hands on random parts of your body just to see how big he is are compared to you ;

cupping your face in his hands, he loves the fact they just completely cover your cheek’s. like they were made to be there.

around your neck, just one of his HUGE hands can almost wrap fully around your neck. (he especially loves doing this in bed)

your waist, he likes being able to wrap his hands around your waist. whether it’s to pick you up, when you are cuddling, coming up behind you if you’re doing something like brushing your teeth or picking an outfit.

a/n this is a drunk thought sorry if the grammar or anything is asscheeks 🙈🙈

[callsignnova]

★ group grocery run

[callsignnova]

SEBASTIAN STAN and WYATT RUSSELL as BUCKY BARNES and JOHN WALKER

THUNDERBOLTS* (2025) dir. Jake Schreier

[callsignnova]

Anyways

[callsignnova]

i will fry you in butter, garlic, and herbs

[callsignnova]

“Ultimate Husband. Ultimate Girl Dad.” || Jason Todd ||

A/n: i love Jason

The world knew Jason Todd as the brooding, gun-wielding vigilante who didn’t play by the rules. Gotham’s Red Hood. Ruthless, relentless. The guy who once came back from the dead and made Hell look like it owed him rent.

But at home?

At home, he was someone else entirely.

He was barefoot in the kitchen, shirtless with a pair of low-slung sweats, a sleepy smile on his face as he danced your baby girl around the stove while cooking pancakes.

“Is she helping?” you teased from the doorway, rubbing your swollen belly—another little girl on the way.

Jason turned, his hair tousled and eyes crinkled from a rare night of sleep. “Of course,” he said with mock seriousness. “She’s my sous chef. Aren’t you, peanut?”

Your toddler, with her jet-black curls and Jason’s piercing blue eyes, nodded solemnly from her perch on his hip. “I mix,” she announced proudly, holding up a dripping whisk.

“Mix?” you echoed, eyebrows raised. “Or taste-test?”

Jason smirked, leaning in to kiss your temple. “We’re multitasking.”

Jason Todd: Girl Dad Moments™

• He lets your daughter paint his nails pink while pretending to hate it, but will glare at anyone who so much as snickers when he forgets to take it off before a mission. (“You got a problem with ballet slipper pink, Nightwing?”)

• Tea parties? Every damn day. He fits his massive frame into tiny plastic chairs, wears glittery tiaras, and sips invisible tea like it’s whiskey. You once caught him deep in a philosophical conversation with a stuffed unicorn named Sparklebutt.

• He’s the one who cries during princess movies. Blames allergies. You let it slide.

• He teaches her to throw punches and protect her heart. “Anyone makes you cry? Daddy will ruin their credit score and make it look like an accident.”

As a Husband?

Jason is fiercely devoted. Protective in that quiet, simmering way that doesn’t always need words. He folds your laundry, rubs your back when the baby kicks too much at night, and memorized all your cravings before you did.

One night, when the baby wouldn’t stop crying, he took her out on the balcony and sang old Bruce Springsteen songs under the stars, rocking her until she calmed, unaware that you were standing in the doorway—watching, aching, loving him more than you thought possible.

When you curled up beside him later, he whispered, “I don’t care if they inherit my temper or your sweet tooth. As long as they know they’re loved.”

You smiled against his chest. “They will. Because they’ve got you.”

Bonus:

• He keeps a picture of you and the girls tucked into the lining of his Red Hood helmet. Says it reminds him what he’s fighting for.

• He cries at every birthday. Every one. (“She was just born like five seconds ago, babe.”)

• He still calls you “sweetheart” in that gruff, gravelly voice like you’re the only thing grounding him to this world.

Jason Todd may have been born in Gotham’s gutter and risen through fire and fury.

But with you?

With your girls?

He was home.

And that—that was his greatest victory.

[callsignnova]

just posted joybait to trick you into having a good day

[callsignnova]