manipulatedstars

[manipulatedstars]

Every time I have to read "his MASSIVE clothes DWARFED your positively DIMINUTIVE frame" another piece of my fat lil soul shrivels up and dies lmao

[manipulatedstars]

could we have some frank boyfriend hcs please? love ur writing !! <3

frank castle as your boyfriend. 𝜗𝜚 hc’s

r e q u e s t e d ♡

cw ᝰ .ᐟ gender neutral reader ,, sfw ,, it’s frank castle so 🤨 mentions of blood and stuff

FRANK AS YOUR BOYFRIEND . . . loves quietly. fiercely. like it’s carved into him. he’s not the type to write poems or whisper sweet things — but he brings you coffee before you wake up and keeps his arm around you in every crowded room. he remembers how you take your tea, what shirt you sleep in, the exact sound you make when you laugh too hard.

frank doesn’t fall in love. he commits to it. like a vow. something permanent. he watches over you the way most people breathe — effortlessly, constantly, without needing to think. puts himself between you and danger before you even register that something’s wrong. it’s not dramatic for him — it’s just instinct.

watches bad action movies with you and critiques the gun work the whole time. “that’s not how recoil works.” “no way that guy walks away from a wound like that.” but when you laugh at him for it, he gets all smug. “just saying. i could do it better.”

frank’s not invincible. he carries grief in his ribs and guilt in his spine. sometimes it catches up with him. some nights he won’t come to bed. just sits on the floor beside it, back to the wall, eyes dark. like if he closes them, he’ll lose everything. including you. he doesn’t talk about his past much. doesn’t talk about feelings either. but when he holds you it’s with this kind of aching gentleness, like you’re the last good thing in a world he doesn’t trust anymore.

he never asks for anything, but he always lights up when you touch him first. when you kiss his shoulder without warning. when you reach for his hand. like it catches him off guard, every time — the idea that someone like you could choose someone like him.

he always drives. always. he won’t say it out loud, but he needs to be in control — needs to protect you, even from a fender bender or a bad intersection. keeps one hand on the wheel and one on your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth. sings quietly when his favourite old songs come on. you almost miss it the first few times.

has a quiet little grunt-laugh when you get sarcastic. never full-on laughs — not the belly kind — but it’s a sharp exhale, a crooked smile, head tilted like “you got me.”

“you tired?” you’ll ask, and he’ll grunt something half-hearted. “i’m good.” but then he’s pulling you in, pressing his face into your neck, one heavy arm around your waist like a shield.

he doesn’t say i love you much. but he shows it in the way he always notices when you’re cold, the way he drives a little slower when you’re in the passenger seat, how he keeps an extra sweatshirt of his in your closet like it belongs there. frank listens when you talk. keeps your words tucked away like secrets. remembers names you mentioned once, the kind of books you like, the way you bite your lip when you’re about to cry but don’t want to.

he’s not scared of bullets or pain or anything that can be solved with his fists — but he gets scared of you leaving. scared that you’ll wake up one day and realize you deserve someone softer. someone safer, someone cleaner. so he’s careful. careful not to break things, careful not to raise his voice. careful not to bleed too close to you, even when he’s hurt.

keeps a toolbox in your apartment before he ever brings a toothbrush. fixes that squeaky cabinet door without being asked. rehangs your shelves, patches your drywall, silently wires your lamp so it stops flickering. doesn’t make a big deal about it — just hands you a cup of coffee after and kisses your forehead like it’s nothing.

does your dishes without saying a word. folds laundry with sleeves tucked in and socks matched. gets grumpy if you try to help while he’s in the zone. “i got it,” he mutters, brow furrowed like laundry’s a mission he must complete correctly. then he’ll look over and gently nudge you onto the couch. “sit. rest.”

like taking care of you is just part of his day.

he doesn’t sleep through the night, but he tries not to wake you. gets up quietly, makes tea in the dark. reads worn paperback thrillers with a flashlight like he’s still out in the field. but if you come find him — sleepy and barefoot, rubbing your eyes — he just opens his arms. pulls you into his lap, tucks his chin over your head.

gets oddly proud when he teaches you how to shoot. or fix a leak. or throw a punch. grins when you hit the target, calls you a natural. but the truth is he never wants you to have to use any of it. he’d burn the world down before he let something hurt you.

keeps a knife in the drawer by the bed. one in the glove compartment. one taped under the coffee table. it’s not paranoia — it’s habit. he was trained to anticipate the worst. but when you ask him about it, he softens. “just in case,” he says, hand resting on your back. “nothing’s gonna happen to you.”

he’s the kind of boyfriend who always knows when something’s off. even if you’re smiling, even if you say you’re fine. he notices when you’re quiet for too long, when your shoulders are tight. doesn’t push — just pulls you close, rubs slow circles into your back.

won’t ever tell the world what you are to him, but he keeps a photo of you tucked behind his driver’s license. always checks on it before he leaves for anything dangerous. you’re his anchor. his reason. he’s not a man who believes in second chances — but somehow, you are his.

he cooks like he’s back in the marines. efficient. fast. always enough for leftovers. but over time, he starts adding things just because you like them. makes your eggs how you like them, even if he doesn’t eat that way. tries your weird coffee orders without complaint. grumbles when he actually likes it. “too sweet,” he says, but finishes the whole thing.

when you fall asleep on the couch, he carries you to bed. always. tucks the blanket around you, kisses your forehead, brushes your hair back with hands that have broken bones and pulled triggers — but only ever touch you like you’re made of silk. then he lays beside you, arm wrapped around your waist, breath evening out to the rhythm of yours.

still wakes up too early. still checks the locks. still sits with his back to the wall in restaurants, even when it’s just brunch on a sunny sunday. but now he does it with your hand in his, thumb tracing soft, absent-minded shapes across your knuckles. he doesn’t say it, but his body speaks for him: i’ve got you.

he keeps things simple. practical. doesn’t like clutter. but then your books start piling up on the nightstand, and your sweater ends up on his desk chair, and your perfume lingers in the bathroom air — and he doesn’t move any of it. not even once. instead, he adds to it. a second toothbrush. a pair of slippers in your size. a grocery list stuck to the fridge that says “your coffee” in his blocky, all-caps handwriting.

he won’t say i miss you when you leave for a few days, but he’ll text to ask where you keep the cereal. then follow up with “never mind, found it.” when you come home, the bed’s made, the dishes are done, your favorite blanket’s draped over the couch. he doesn’t know how to say i missed you, so he just lives it.

he starts to laugh more. not loud, not often — but the kind that makes you freeze for a second because it’s real. usually when you tease him. or when you trip over nothing and pretend it was “parkour.” that little huff he gives, the crinkle by his eyes — it feels like a gift every single time.

he does that thing where he kisses the top of your head every time he walks behind you. in the kitchen, brushing your teeth, putting on your shoes. just a soft press of his lips to your crown.

you’re the only one he lets bandage him. he’ll brush off broken ribs like they’re nothing but sits still when you press alcohol-soaked cotton to a split knuckle. watches you like you’re something holy. like your hands could undo every war he’s fought.

reads labels now. like, really reads them. checks if the cereal has too much sugar. makes sure the medicine doesn’t interact with the one you take. won’t admit it, but he googled the skincare brand you use to see if it was safe.

refuses to let you carry heavy groceries. like, absolutely not. you once tried to bring in two bags and he took them out of your hands mid-step. “what the hell are you doin’?” he said, annoyed, already loading up his arms.

doesn’t like crowds, but he’ll go anywhere with you. leans down and says “stay close” in your ear, hand low on your back the whole time. doesn’t let go until you’re home again.

he won’t dance. won’t sing. won’t go to parties. but he’ll hold you in the kitchen, swaying slightly to the radio while you hum into his chest. that, he’ll do.

major dog person. duh. doesn’t care that he’s tough. doesn’t care that he’s seen things — nothing melts him like a dog wagging its tail. he’s the kind of guy who’s out in the yard throwing a ball, talking in that low, soft voice that only dogs get to hear. “go get it, buddy!” and you almost can’t believe it’s him saying it.

makes sure your car is always in running condition. not just oil checks, either. he replaces your windshield wipers, cleans the headlights, checks the tires — all without you asking. it’s like his way of protecting you, even when he’s not around. he knows it’s a small thing, but it’s one more way to make sure you’re taken care of. you get a flat tire? frank’s there in a second. doesn’t matter what time it is, doesn’t matter if he’s just gotten home after a week-long job. he’ll grab the tools, roll up his sleeves, and take care of it — no problem.

when he gets home after a mission, he’s quiet at first. but then he’ll slide into bed next to you, pull you close, and breathe you in like he can’t quite believe he’s back. “missed you.” he’ll whisper, voice hoarse, like it took everything out of him just to say it.

when you’re quiet, lost in thought, he notices. doesn’t pry, but always checks in with a low “you alright?” just so you know he’s paying attention.

frank is actually really into music, but only plays it when he's alone with you. he has an old guitar stashed in a corner of the apartment and you’ll catch him strumming it softly in the mornings before either of you are fully awake.

whenever you’ve had a bad day, he’ll quietly take care of things around the house — extra dishes done, the laundry folded without you asking, everything wiped down and cleaned up. not because he has to, but because he wants you to feel like home, like you have one less thing to worry about. he doesn’t say anything about it; he just silently goes about it while you take a nap or relax.

he’s sentimental about your things. you’ll catch him carrying around a keychain you gave him, or putting a postcard from your last vacation on his fridge. it’s subtle, but there are all these little pieces of you around his place — items that remind him of you, things that carry a piece of your heart.

good at remembering all your friends’ names. and the names of their kids. and their jobs. you’ll be like, “i saw claire today,” and frank will be like, “the one with the twin boys? she doin’ okay?” like it’s his job to keep track of your whole social circle now.

he has a weird soft spot for baking shows. says he doesn’t care, just watches ‘cause you do — but then suddenly he’s dead serious about whether the sponge is overbaked. sits there with his arms crossed, judging the contestants like he’s on the panel. “too much fondant. gonna cost ‘em.”

he’s surprisingly good at picking gifts. not flashy ones — thoughtful ones. a new mug because your favorite one cracked. a hoodie from a concert you couldn’t go to. a book by that author you said you liked once, six months ago. he remembers everything.

he buys you snacks when he’s mad at you. not big mad — just quiet, brooding, stubborn mad. instead of talking it out right away, he drops a bag of your favorite chips or candy on the counter and walks away like that settles it. it kind of does.

he’s so gentle with your stuff. your phone, your clothes, your decor — he handles all of it like it’s fragile, even if you toss it around like nothing.

he has zero patience when you’re sick. not annoyed — just worried. extra gruff. keeps asking “you need anything?” even though he just brought you tea, tissues, meds, and a hoodie. paces around the house like he’s prepping for battle against your cold.

he doesn’t talk in the mornings. just grunts and nods. but if you’re up before him and being cute or busy or just existing in his space, he’ll pull you into his chest without saying anything.

he’s not a big texter, but he reads all your messages the second they come in. always leaves you on “read” because he’s looking at it immediately, even if he replies 3 hours later with just “ok” and a thumbs-up emoji he definitely didn’t mean to send.

he always checks the expiration date on your food. opens the fridge and mutters under his breath about the milk “cutting it too damn close.” doesn’t want you eating anything that’ll make you sick. throws out the sketchy yogurt when you’re not looking.

he’s so good at reaching things for you. doesn’t matter how tall you are, he lives to reach the thing on the top shelf before you can. you stand on your toes, and he’s suddenly behind you like, “you’re gonna hurt yourself.” then hands it over like a knight returning a holy relic.

he doesn’t like you walking home alone. ever. if he can’t come get you, he’ll track your location. texts you the whole way like, “where are you now?” “you inside yet?” “door locked?” and you know the second you stop answering he’s already throwing on his jacket.

he uses your bath products and thinks you don’t notice. you’ll wonder why your fancy shampoo is suddenly disappearing faster, but then he walks past smelling like lavender and vanilla and acts like nothing’s different. you bring it up once and he grunts, “smells nice. don’t make it a thing.”

he tucks your legs into his lap when you sit next to him. even if he’s sore. even if you’re fidgety. he just wants you there — anchored to him, warm and close. sometimes he absentmindedly rubs your calves or traces circles on your ankle while he watches the news.

he hates being away from you overnight. says he doesn’t mind, but when he’s gone, he sleeps like shit. texts you random things at 3 a.m. — “you lock the door?” “the heater working?” “dog okay?” you know he only really rests when he’s home and you’re curled up next to him.

he always brings you water before bed. even if you don’t ask. even if you forget. there’s always a glass or a bottle on your nightstand when you crawl under the covers.

he kisses the inside of your wrist when he’s too tired to speak. when the day’s been too much. when his body hurts and his mind’s too loud — he pulls your hand to his mouth and presses his lips there.

he never lets you pump your own gas. doesn’t matter the weather. rain, snow, heatwave — he takes the keys and gets out before you even unbuckle. doesn’t say a word about it. just does it because it’s second nature now.

he always opens jars for you, even when you don’t ask. like you’ll just be holding it, about to try, and suddenly he’s there. doesn’t say anything, just takes it, opens it, hands it back.

he lets you warm your hands on him. no complaint, no hesitation. just grabs your frozen fingers and presses them to his neck, under his shirt, into his palms. grunts when it stings, but never pulls away. just says, “go ahead. s’okay.”

always lingers at the door when you leave. watches you walk to your car, stands there until you’re out of sight. won’t move. won’t blink. like part of him won’t settle until you’re home again.

he’s weirdly good at untangling necklaces. big hands, thick fingers, but somehow he’s patient as hell with tiny knots. sits at the table, squinting like he’s disarming a bomb.

he knows which drawer all your stuff is in. at his place, at your place, doesn’t matter — he knows where you keep your chargers, your snacks, your pain meds. grabs things before you even ask. sometimes you wonder how he pays that much attention. you forget — he’s a soldier. he notices everything about what he loves.

he lowkey judges your shoes. not fashion-wise — function. “you’re gonna walk five blocks in those?” and if you say yes, he just sighs and gives you his arm the whole time. doesn’t say another word. but if you stumble once? “told you.”

has a deep, secret love for hot chocolate. doesn’t ask for it, never buys it, but if you make it? he’s sipping it silently, eyes half-lidded, shoulders relaxed. you catch him making it for himself once. refuses to make eye contact.

he gets the mail before you can. every day. rain or shine. not because he cares what’s in it — because he wants to be the one to deal with anything stressful before it reaches you. bills, notices, whatever. you only ever get the fun stuff. the packages. the postcards.

he remembers anniversaries you forget. first date. first road trip. the day you moved in. doesn’t make a big deal out of it, just quietly brings home your favourite dinner or sets a movie up you mentioned on that day.

he absolutely has a favorite mug. won’t admit it. but if you’re ever using it, he pauses for a second like he’s been emotionally robbed. won’t take it back, though. just pours his coffee into something else and quietly hopes you offer to switch.

he fixes things that don’t even belong to him. neighbor’s broken porch light? fixed. squeaky gate down the block? doesn’t squeak anymore.

never lets you walk through the door first if it’s dark. goes in ahead of you, even if it’s your place. checks the rooms out of habit. flips the lights on.

knocks before entering your space, even when you live together. bathroom door cracked? he knocks. bedroom door half-closed? still knocks. doesn’t matter if he knows you’re alone — he respects your space.

weirdly good at calming you down in traffic. if you’re driving and someone cuts you off? hand on your thigh. if you're stressed about getting lost? “take the next right, i got you.”

he teaches you how to punch — gently. wraps your hands himself, touches your wrists like he’s afraid they’ll bruise. he holds the pads out and murmurs “that’s it, right there,” every time your form’s good. he doesn’t teach you so you can fight. he teaches you so you won’t ever feel helpless.

so careful when you’re sleeping. gets out of bed like you’re made of glass. turns the TV down low. covers you up without waking you, tucks your hair behind your ear, kisses your shoulder and just stares for a second like he still can’t believe he gets to have this.

he writes down your car’s license plate. and the make. and the year. and the tire pressure. keeps it in a little notebook in his glove box — not because he’s nosy, but because he needs to know in case anything ever happens.

puts his name down as your emergency contact without asking. just does it. one day you’re filling something out and he goes, “already on file.” like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like of course it’s me. who else?

he reads manuals. like, actually sits down and reads them. toasters. phones. whatever you buy, he knows how to fix it, clean it, use every setting.

he wears your hair ties on his wrist. even when you didn’t ask him to. finds them in the bathroom or under the couch and just keeps them there like it’s a reflex. you don’t notice until one day he silently hands you one without looking and you realize — he’s always paying attention.

calls you “kid” sometimes, even if you’re not younger. not condescending — it’s fond. soft. it slips out when he’s feeling protective. like, “c’mon, kid, get some rest,” or “you did good, kid.” and if anyone else calls you that, he bristles like no — mine.

he gets tense when you’re near windows at night. especially lit ones. moves around the room in ways that put him between you and the glass. not paranoid. just hardwired to protect you. you don’t notice until one night you go to close the curtains and he’s already there, pulling them shut with a soft, “let me get that.”

he texts you like he’s on a recon mission. all short updates: “headed back.” / “store’s packed.” / “traffic’s shit.” but every now and then, he’ll throw in something like “you eat yet?” or “thinking about you.” and those are the ones that wreck you a little.

he always leaves the porch light on if you're out late. even if you say you don’t need it. even if you’re only gone for ten minutes. it’s not about the light. it’s about you always having something to come home to.

he’s secretly a little superstitious about you. doesn’t let you say things like “what if something happens to you.” knocks on wood under the table. leaves the porch light on even when you’re only gone ten minutes. he’s seen too much not to be cautious. and you — you’re the one thing he refuses to lose.

double-knots your laces. crouches down in front of you without a word, doesn’t make it a thing. just ties them up snug and gives your ankle a gentle pat before standing.

sets your things by the door if you’re running late. bag, keys, jacket, water bottle. lines them up neatly like he’s giving you every small advantage he can. “you’re gonna be late,” he says, already handing you your coffee. you kiss his cheek on the way out. he pretends it didn’t make him smile.

he gets fussy if you don’t eat. doesn’t scold, just… fusses. quietly. starts cooking something without asking. sets a plate in front of you like “you don’t gotta finish it, just eat a little.”

wears your chapstick when he can’t find his. acts like it’s no big deal. “same stuff, right?” but if it smells like you he ends up keeping it in his pocket the rest of the day.

refills your water bottle. always. before bed. before work. if you leave it in the car, he brings it in and tops it off. just does it. in his head, hydration = survival = love.

he buys you medicine before you even realize you’re sick. notices you sniffling or rubbing your temples, and the next day it’s already there — cold meds, your favorite tea, tissues, cough drops.

started 4.27.2025. finished 4.29.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[manipulatedstars]

hungry like a wolf

pairing: lumberjack!bucky barnes x female reader

summary: your morning gets derailed when you dare to get out of bed without waking your lumberjack; it turns into him chasing you down—and mounting you.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex, possessive sex, creampie, predator and prey kink/primal play kink/chase kink, choking, biting, some breath play, bit of dumbification, very brief overstimulation, dirty talk, daddy kink, praise kink, pet names (bunny, baby), aftercare, established relationship

word count: 3.3k

a/n: here's my week 4 entry in @buckybarnesevents's Hot Bucky Summer event!! y'all voted for lumberjack!Bucky chasing and mounting reader, and i'm very happy to deliver this fic. it's just a fun bit of smut, i don't even have much to say about it except i really enjoyed writing lumberjack!Bucky 🤭 he's just so big and beefy in my head!! anyway, i hope y'all enjoy!! ♡

prompt: FREE WEEK | [Optional prompts: “A” - Auto-fellatio, Aftercare, Aphrodisiac, Anal Play, Ass-to-mouth, Ahegao]

Hot Bucky Summer 2025 masterlist

You slipped from beneath the warm blankets just as the sun was beginning to peak out from between the nearby mountains. Pale, pearly light crept across the cabin’s wooden floorboards, which were cool beneath your toes, the chill of night still clinging to the corners of the bedroom.

Lingering at the edge of the bed, you glanced back at the small mountain of blankets, knowing your lumberjack, Bucky Barnes, was buried beneath it. You could hear his soft, rumbling snores, and could easily imagine the comforting weight of his arms wrapped around your waist, his nose buried in the back of your neck.

It was tempting to get back into bed and snuggle up to your beefy lumberjack, but you knew it was time to start the day. So you pushed up from the mattress and padded across the room on silent feet.

Although it was the start of summer, it still got cold at night up in the mountains, and it seemed to be chilliest just after dawn. So, as much as you knew Bucky would love to find you in the kitchen without a stitch of clothing on, you needed to grab something to ward off the chill.

One of Bucky’s flannels was draped over the arm of a chair in the corner by the dresser, and a smile tugged at the corners of your mouth when you recognized it as the shirt he’d worn the day before. You knew it would smell like him, and you couldn’t stop yourself from snatching it off the chair.

You probably should’ve tugged on some leggings and a sweater, and gotten dressed for the day in your own clothes. But as you slid your arms into the sleeves of the flannel shirt, Bucky’s scent filled your senses—like woodsmoke and oakmoss—and you couldn’t imagine wearing anything else. 

Especially since you knew how Bucky would react when he eventually followed you out of bed and saw what you were wearing. Your lumberjack always loved seeing you in his clothes, and you knew that morning would be no different.

The worn wool of the flannel shirt was warm against your bare skin, and you closed your eyes, savoring the feeling of it as you swiftly did up the buttons. Before you left the bedroom, you tucked your nose into the collar and breathed deep, letting Bucky’s scent calm you before you started your day.

Not wanting to wake your lumberjack, you moved quietly through the rustic, cozy cabin he’d built. The floorboards were smooth and clean beneath your feet as you padded down the stairs from the lofted bedroom, and made your way to the kitchen.

With perfect, practiced movements, you set about making coffee, snacking on some leftover strawberry rhubarb pie you’d made earlier that week. While the coffee brewed, you stood at the sink, watching the sunlight creep across the yard, illuminating the stack of wood that fed the cabin’s furnace, and the dense forest beyond.

It wasn’t until after the coffee was brewed and you were nearly done sipping on a warm mug, still watching the growing light of day, that you heard Bucky’s lumbering gate crossing the bedroom above you. 

He’d no doubt risen when he’d discovered you were no longer in bed with him, and you tracked his movements as he followed you to the kitchen.

Thick, burly arms wrapped around your waist from behind and his broad chest pressed to your back, his big body curling around your smaller form. His chin rested on your shoulder, his scruffy cheek brushing against your soft skin enough to make you giggle softly.

“G’morning, bunny,” Bucky rumbled in a deep, sleep-roughed voice that sent gentle sparks darting down between your thighs. 

Already, your body was responding to the closeness of your lumberjack, a warmth blooming in your core as your desire unfurled like the petals of a flower searching for the sun. 

With a little hum of delight, you rose up on your tiptoes until you felt the bulge in Bucky’s sweatpants, a smile teasing your lips when the hard length wedged between the curves of your ass. Turning your head to the side, you caught his eye over your shoulder.

“Good morning, Buck,” you murmured, reaching up, your nails scraping teasingly through the scruff on his jaw. You dug in, pulling his face close enough to press a kiss against the corner of his mouth over your shoulder. “Did you sleep well?”

There was a teasing lilt to your tone, and you weren’t surprised when a playful growl rumbled in your lumberjack’s chest. After all, you’d been the one to keep him up late into the night, riding his cock until you were both too exhausted to move.

“I slept great,” Bucky rasped, pressing his face into your neck and brushing a kiss to your pulse point. Then without warning, he nipped that same sensitive spot and your breath hitched in your throat. “Until I woke up in a cold bed when I should’ve had a sweet bunny warming my cock.”

You hummed not-so-sympathetically and took another sip of your coffee before putting it in the sink. You were trying your damndest not to let your lumberjack know just how tempting his words were. 

But when he hugged you more tightly in his arms, pinning your hips against the counter and grinding his cock deeper into your ass, it was all you could do to bite back a moan.

“You look good in my shirt,” Bucky purred in your ear before nipping the fleshy part. His bite was sharp enough to make you gasp, your spine arching and pressing your ass harder against his bulge.

You knew Bucky well enough to know what he was doing—trying to delay the start of the day by working you up with his cock and his mouth until you were a whimpering mess begging him to fuck you.

Well, two could play that game. You didn’t want to go to work anymore than he did.

Turning in Bucky’s hold, you wrapped your arms around your lumberjack’s broad shoulders and dragged him closer, until his bulge was throbbing against your belly. You gave him your most innocent smile, and said, in your sweetest voice, “Thank you, daddy.”

The playful smirk slid off Bucky’s face, replaced by a hungry snarl. As you watched, his eyes darkened, growing hungry like a wolf’s after a hard winter. Between your bodies, his cock twitched with an impatience you knew all too well. 

“I see you’re choosing violence first thing in the morning, huh, baby?” Bucky asked, his hands grabbing your hips and holding you pinned against his broad, muscular body. 

His bulge was digging into your soft belly so deliciously that you wanted to lift your leg and hook it over your lumberjack’s hip. You wanted the thick, hard length of his cock grinding against your pussy, making you both desperate until he’d had enough and took you right there in the kitchen.

But instead, you gave an insolent shrug.

“It’s not first thing in the morning for me, daddy,” you said sweetly, putting extra emphasis on the dirty pet name that drove Bucky wild. “I’ve been up for a little while now.”

Another growl rumbled in Bucky’s chest, this one low and menacing. His blue eyes were dark with lust as he stared down at you, and his hands were hungry in the way they groped your hips roughly. 

It took every bit of your self-control to suppress a victorious grin, knowing you’d won by getting Bucky all riled up before he could do the same to you. You held your breath, waiting with breathless anticipation to see how he’d respond to your teasing provocation. 

“You better run, bunny,” Bucky warned in a deep, rumbling tone, giving your hips one last squeeze before he began easing away. “Because when I catch you, I’ll make you scream for daddy.” With a sharp, encouraging swat to your ass, Bucky stepped back, giving you room to flee. 

For one long, delicious moment, you stared into Bucky’s eyes, reveling in the tension crackling between the two of you. This was one of your favorite games to play, and Bucky knew it. He knew how much you enjoyed being chased, being caught, being fucked with your body pinned beneath his beefy form.

All thoughts about going to work and how you should’ve started getting ready for the day were completely abandoned by the time the moment ended—and you took off like a shot.

Scampering through the lower level of the cabin, you bounded up the stairs to the second floor as fast as you could, your feet pounding on the wood. Your heart was racing in your chest, your blood pumping in your ears, and yet you could still feel the heavy, thumping footfalls of Bucky giving chase. 

He’d given you a few seconds head-start, but you knew it was an inevitability that he’d catch you. And that was exactly what you wanted. 

You wanted him to snatch you off your feet, bend you over the nearest surface and fuck you like a beast staking a claim on your cunt. He was the wolf and you were his prey—his bunny. 

You could feel your heartbeat hammering against your ribs and thrumming between your thighs, you pussy growing more and more damp with every desperate step you took. You knew Bucky was hot on your heels, and you anticipated the moment he’d grab you even as you raced across the loft to escape him for just another second. 

The hungry lumberjack caught you at the edge of the bed, tackling you onto the soft blankets. His arms wrapped protectively around your body, one big hand tucking your head beneath his chin to ensure you weren’t hurt while he took you down to the mattress.

Before you could even gasp for breath, Bucky rolled you under him, your back to his front, his cock brushing your ass through his sweatpants. He yanked you up onto your knees, kneeling behind you while his hands groped your hips and thighs hard enough to leave marks.

Bucky’s big body curled around yours, and he was everywhere—surrounding you, overwhelming you. His hands snuck under your soft flannel shirt, groping your tits and pinching your nipples while you gasped and squirmed beneath him. 

When he dragged his blunt teeth down the curve of your neck, you shuddered. Instinctively, you melted into the bed, your body going pliant in your lumberjack’s hands as you submitted to his delicious torture. 

“Gotcha,” he growled into your skin before sinking his teeth mercilessly into the base of your throat, where your neck met your shoulder. 

“Ah!” you cried, trembling from the exquisite edge of pain and pleasure. Already, you were dripping down your thighs, and you pushed your ass back into Bucky’s bulge, a whine rising in your throat as you tipped your head to the side in a show of submission.

“That’s my good bunny,” Bucky rumbled, his hands kneading roughly at your tits, rolling your nipples between his fingers and dragging needy whines from your lips. “Such pretty, perfect prey for daddy, yeah?” 

There was a slight breathlessness to Bucky’s voice, like he was still catching his breath from the chase you’d led him on, and it made pride surge in your heart. A dazed smile curled the edges of your mouth and your eyes were glazed over, but you nodded slightly. 

“Yeah, daddy, your prey,” you mumbled, barely knowing what you were saying. 

Bucky pressed his grin into your cheek, growling, “Good girl,” before he caught your lips in a fierce kiss. You moaned at the taste of him, and he licked the sound from your mouth, his lips hungry as they devoured yours. 

All too soon, Bucky pulled away, leaving you gasping. But then you felt him pushing down his sweatpants, one arm still curled around your waist to hold you in place.

His thick cock bounced between your legs, and you moaned obscenely, your cheek pressed to the blankets as you pushed your hips back, squeezing your soft thighs around his stiff length. You could feel him slipping through the desire coating your skin, but he wasn’t inside you, which was what you really needed.

Before you had a chance to beg Bucky to fuck you, he was lining up the tip of his cock with your entrance, dragging the head teasingly between your folds. Then, with a vicious grunt, Bucky shoved inside, burying his cock deep in your cunt with one thrust.

“Bucky,” you choked out, pleasure slicing through you like a winter wind through the trees, stealing your breath and leaving you trembling. Your eyes rolled back in your head as you let the pleasure overwhelm you, turning you into a babbling mess. “Oh god, it’s s’good, s’full—daddy.”

Your lumberjack chuckled huskily against your neck, clearly delighted that he’d already made you mindless with his cock. 

Then he was wrapping you up in his big, burly arms, one strong hand going around your throat while the other curved around your shoulder from the front. 

In seconds, he had you pinned so securely to his chest, you couldn’t move. Something about his hold settled you, and you relaxed in his arms, giving your body over to his. 

He’d won the chase, he’d caught you, and you wanted him to do whatever he wanted with you.

“If you think that’s good, baby,” Bucky began, grinding his hips into your ass, making you feel every inch of his cock where it was buried to the hilt inside you. “Just wait till daddy fucks your sweet cunt so hard you’ll be screaming my name.” He squeezed your throat lightly. “You’re my prey, bunny, now be a good girl and take my fucking cock.”

Even if you’d had anything to say to Bucky’s filthy words, even if you’d managed to formulate a tart response to sass your lumberjack, you wouldn’t have been able to voice it. Because just then, Bucky started fucking you—hard and fast and so deep, you swore you could feel him in your guts.

Bucky rutted into you like a man possessed, pounding his cock into your cunt as if he was intent on making you feel him for every minute of that long summer day while you were apart from each other. His hips clapped against your ass with every brutal thrust, his balls swinging between your thighs to smack against your clit.

And all the while, he held your throat in his strong grasp, squeezing you firmly, possessively. His hand collaring your throat was a constant reminder that you were his while he claimed your body in the most primal way possible.

Your lumberjack fucked you so thoroughly, all you could do was moan and take it, so that’s what you did. You took his cock happily, eagerly. Your lips were parted in an endless stream of obscene sounds, your pleasure spilling from your mouth so Bucky knew how much you were enjoying him using your body.

He held you so securely, that there was nothing for you to do as he pulled you back and forth to meet his cock with every thrust. Your hands fisted in the blankets of the bed, nails digging into the soft fabric as you sobbed and moaned in pleasure, heading toward a decimating release.

You were helpless to the bliss Bucky wrought on your body. All you could do was feel, and it felt so. Fucking. Good. Heady, prickling pleasure swirled through your body, gathering like a thunderstorm intent on breaking the heat and tension coiling tight in your belly.

Your lumberjack must’ve recognized the signs of your body hovering on the edge—the way your voice went higher-pitched and needier, the way your pussy fluttered around his pounding cock—because he started fucking you harder and faster, his harsh breaths filling your ears. 

“Come for me, baby, come on daddy’s cock like my perfect little bunny,” Bucky commanded in a gruff voice, his scruffy cheek jaw over your cheek. “C’mon, let me feel that cunt milking my cock, baby—come for me.”

Bucky’s fingers dug into the sides of your throat, choking you enough that your head went a little fuzzy and your sounds of pleasure turned to rasping whimpers and desperate mewls. At the same time, his other hand slipped between your thighs and rubbed your clit, and it was exactly what you needed to push you over the edge.

“BUCKY!” you screamed your lumberjack’s name as you shattered apart. The storm broke and the tension in your body snapped, giving way to a torrent of pleasure that swept over you and carried you away. 

Distantly, you were aware of Bucky grunting viciously when he felt the tight clench of your pussy, and he fought against the rhythmic pulsing of your body to fuck you harder. His thrusts turned wild as he chased his own pleasure in your squeezing cunt.

A moment later, he gave a deafening roar and spilled inside you, his cock twitching and dragging a mindless moan from your lips as he filled you up with his come. His hands tightened on your body while his hips worked, fucking his come deeper and deeper into your hot cunt as he shot rope after rope inside you. 

You gave a weak whimper, your pussy throbbing around his thick cock as he dragged out your pleasure. But Bucky wasn’t done—he kept fucking you until you were both trembling from the overstimulation. Then, he finally relented. 

The two of you collapsed into the blankets of the bed, Bucky rolling onto his side and turning you to face him. The movement caused his cock to slip from your well-used pussy, and his come spilled down your thighs, making a mess.

Neither of you cared, though, as you caught your breath together, tangled up in each other’s arms. You placed a hand gently over the center of Bucky’s chest, feeling the power of his racing heart beneath his skin. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, holding you tight in his strong arms.

“Now that is how you have a good morning,” you joked, your voice still a little breathless. With a smile, you tipped your head back, your mouth searching for Bucky’s.

When he ducked his head, his lips meeting yours, you shared a slow, sweet good morning kiss with your lumberjack, the both of you basking in the afterglow of your pleasure. The growing sunlight was streaking across the bedroom, teasing your bare feet with its warmth, but you couldn’t be bothered to pull away from Bucky just yet.

“I always have a good morning with you, baby,” Bucky rumbled, his tone steeped in so much affection and warmth, it nearly took your breath away. Then he nipped gently at your lower lip, catching it between his teeth in a teasing bite. “Even if sometimes I have to chase you down to get it.”

Your lumberjack’s taunting words had a laugh bubbling up your throat and spilling from your lips. Before he could rub it in any more that he’d caught you, you dragged him back in for a longer, deeper kiss. Soon, your hands began to wander over his broad shoulders and down his beefy, burly chest.

By the time you and Bucky dragged yourselves from bed and actually started your days, morning was half over and the coffee in the pot had long since burned. Still, you took your time getting dressed, making more coffee and sharing kisses in between, both of you getting to work late. 

But you wouldn’t have traded your morning for anything. You loved every minute you spent with your lumberjack, Bucky Barnes—and you couldn’t wait for the weekend when you got to have him all to yourself. Then the two of you would really have some fun.

thanks for reading!! comments and reblogs are always appreciated ♡

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How about Frank with like a baby vigilante? Like a younger more hopeful version of himself, someone who looks up to The Punisher but who’s heart is too tender, who’s morals aren’t as muddled. Someone who wants to fight for justice like him, but doesn’t have the means to do so. Maybe she is struggling with it all and he helps her through it and become a mentor for her? And he saves her even though he’s reluctant to at first. He toughens her up and she softens his heart kinda deal.

Summary: You are a younger vigilante who ends up becoming Frank Castle’s reluctant partner, and eventually his soft spot.

Frank Castle x Reader (platonic/mentor bond)

Warnings: Violence, injuries, trauma mentions, recovery, language

==================

The first time he saw you, you were bleeding. Not a cinematic, gut-shot, screaming-in-an-alley kind of bleeding. No, it was the stupid kind. The kind you get from charging in with more nerve than sense. There’s a cut across your ribs, your hoodie’s torn, and your knuckles were raw from a punch you threw too wide and too slow.

Frank Castle watches you drag yourself across the floor toward a guy twice your size, who was unconscious now and barely breathing. You should stay down; probably call for some backup. But Frank notices that look in your eye. That determination...that stupid look.

“Stay down,” he mutters, shotgun still slung across his shoulder. You glare at him, teeth bloodied, breathing ragged. “He sells to kids. I’ve been tracking him for weeks.” Frank’s jaw tightens. “Yeah? That why you’re looking like roadkill?” You just flip him off and continue pulling the unconscious man across the floor.

And he almost smiles--almost. Until he sees you pass out. "Damn kid" he mutters going over to you.

==================

You wake up in a dusty apartment, bandaged and sore. Your notebook’s sitting on a table nearby, open to a page you’d never shown anyone. It’s got addresses, faces, names, notes scribbled in your messy hand. A map of a drug ring. It was impressive, Frank could tell you'd been working on it for months. Frank sits in the corner, arms crossed. “You’re an idiot,” he says without looking up. You blink at him. “You stitched me up?” He grunts. “You were bleeding on my floor.”

You try to sit up. “You’re The Punisher?"

“Yeah. And you’re a kid with a death wish.” You meet his eyes. “I’m just trying to keep actual kids safe.” He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move. Just watches you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re brave, broken, or just stupid. He’s starting to come to the conclusion it’s probably all three.

He leaves the next morning. Doesn’t say anything, just ghosts through the front door. You don’t stay very long anyway. The second time you find him; it’s outside a warehouse. You’re quiet this time, but not quite enough. He grabs you by the collar before you can peek around the corner. “Follow me again,” he growls, “and I’ll let them shoot you next time.” You roll your eyes at the audacity of him thinking you’re just following him around. “I ain’t your shadow. They’re moving kids through this building,” you whisper. “I’ve been watching them for a month now.”

Frank doesn’t let go of you, but he doesn’t push you away either.

==================

You never asked him to teach you. You somehow just kept showing up. You do start shadowing him a bit. You watch his routes. You pick up on how he clears a room, how he moves like a ghost, how he looks exhausted all the time.

The first time you try to talk a guy down instead of shooting him, Frank shoves you out of the way and breaks the guy’s arm. Later, he snaps: “You’re gonna get yourself killed hesitatin’ like that.”

“I don’t kill if I don’t have to.” He looks at you, really looks, and says, “Then you better be faster than everyone else.” You try to be. Every night. Every mission.

You’re the one who keeps the silence full. Frank doesn’t talk much, but you do. Little things, like, “You ever drink coffee that doesn’t taste like death?” or “You ever try that pizza place on third?” He answers when he feels like it. Mostly grunts. But he listens. He sharpens your knives. Puts protein bars in your bag. Patches your gear when you’re asleep on his couch. He’d never says it, but you know—it means something to him, having you around. You remind him of who he was. And you? You look at him like he’s still worth more than just death.

Then it happens.

You get hit. Hard. Bad recon, wrong alley, wrong timing. A gunshot low in your stomach. You make it to the safehouse, barely. The world starts to spin. You’re ready to hit the floor before Frank hurries to catch you.

He can't bring himself to leave so he stays... two whole days. Anyone would do that though, right? Anyone would just not leave your side. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t eat. Just watches your chest rise and fall like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. When you finally wake up, hoarse and aching, the only thing you whisper is, “Fuck” He doesn’t say anything right away. Just brushes blood-crusted hair from your forehead and mutters, “You scared the shit outta me, kid.”

Your voice cracks and you try to give him a cocky smirk but the pain on your face washes it away. “Knew you cared.” He looks at you like you just said something dangerous. Then finally, he nods. “Yeah. I do.”

You slowly get better. You slowly heal. You start moving like you’re not so afraid anymore but you don't become cold, either. You still don’t kill unless you have to. You somehow don’t lose the heart that got you into all this mess. And Frank finally accepts it, he finally lets you in, not quickly. It's still just baby steps.

You see the man behind the mission. The pain beneath the armor. You sit on rooftops, side by side. You drink shitty coffee together. You draw little skulls in your notebook, and he scowls when you give him cartoon wings. “Justice,” you say, tapping the page. “But also, like hope ya know?” Frank just shakes his head. But you catch the hint of a smile. And when you walk into a fight now? It’s not him leading and you following. You move together.

Things became a well-run routine between the two of you. Then things went sideways.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. The plan was tight. Clean. You’d gone over it with Frank twice, three times over, if you counted the gruff mutters and quiet nods on the car ride over. In and out. Deal with the head of the op, torch the files, disappear. But something went wrong.

You lost sight of him in the chaos. And now he’s bleeding out on the floor of a warehouse in Queens, half-shielded behind an overturned table, trying to hold pressure on a gunshot wound in his side while three men close in on him with rifles.

You don’t hesitate. You move like he taught you. You were quiet, you were fast, you were furious, and you were damn precise. Two shots, one blade. Three bodies drop quickly.

When it’s over, you’re shaking. But he’s alive just not as much as you’d like. “Frank,” you whisper, dropping to your knees beside him, hands already on his chest ripping the rest of his shirt to get to the wound. There’s blood. A lot of it. Your heart spikes, but your hands stay steady. “Hey--hey, look at me. You’re good. I got you.” His eyes flicker open. He squints at you.

“Kid…”

“Shut up,” you say, voice cracking as you tear your hoodie and press it hard to his side. “Don’t you dare say some dramatic shit right now. You’re not dying in this fuckin dump.” He gives you a weak, crooked smile. “You get taller or somethin’? You feel taller.”

“You’re bleeding out on me and think now is the time to be making dad jokes? Christ Frank.” He groans. “Gimme a sec. I'll walk it off.”

“Frank, shut up.” Your voice shakes then. Just for a second. You feel his hand-- rough and wet from blood--settle over yours. “‘M not goin’ anywhere,” he mumbles. “You’ll drag me back if you have to, huh?” You nod fiercely. “Damn right.” And that's what you do.

You get him to a safehouse. It’s not one of the usual ones—it’s small, off-grid, tucked above a laundromat and barely stocked—but it’s clean. Isolated. It's safe enough. You stitch him up. It’s messy job, and he groans a few times, but he doesn’t fight you. Just watches you through half-lidded eyes like he’s seeing something he never thought he would. You stay awake all night, sitting in a busted armchair cleaning all the weapons that you and Frank had just to keep busy and to not focus on the blood still under your fingernails.

When he wakes, you're still there.

He’s quiet the first day. The second day, he mutters something about your terrible coffee. By the third, he’s able to sit up more comfortably. “You saved my life,” he says flatly. You glance over. “Yeah. Figured we could be even.” He watches you for a moment. Then he decides to say two words that made you freeze. “You cried.” He shrugs. “Heard you. You thought I was out. Heard you sayin’--‘don’t die, I can’t lose you too.’” You swallow hard and your eyes harden in a way he's never seen before. “Wasn’t gonna bring it up,” he adds. “Then don’t,” you say quietly.

He’s quiet for a long time. Then, softly, gravel in his throat: “You’re not some kid anymore.” You don’t look at him. “sure as hell didn’t feel like one when I thought you were dying in my arms.”

“You ain’t just some shadow anymore either. Not some lost stray I picked up.” You glance at him. He’s staring at the wall like it’ll hurt less if he doesn’t look at you. “You’re mine now,” he says finally, voice rough. “Far as I’m concerned. You’re my kid.” Your throat tightens. “And if anything, ever happen to you…” He trails off, jaw clenched. “I’ll burn the whole fuckin’ world down.” 

Silence settles between you, thick and raw.

You stand from the battered chair, moving to sit beside him on the bed, shoulder against his. “Good,” you whisper. “Because I was ready to do the same.”

He lets out a slow breath. Then, like it costs him something sacred, he tilts his head and presses it gently against your shoulder. For the first time in a long time, you both allow yourself to breathe.

If you like my work, please let me know! Reblogging, commenting, and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work, and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Requests are open for Bob Reynolds, Bucky Barnes, Frank Castle, and Eddie Brock/Venom <3

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Frank castle/fem!reader. angst, hurt/comfort. wc: 3k.

Explicit/NSFT

an: god i love an ansty making up fic so this goes out to me. sorry about the pov changes i always fuck that up

It was a mutual decision, one you and Frank came to softly, after too many weeks of silence filling the space where connection used to live. There hadn’t been fighting, no cruel words or slammed doors. Just a growing distance, the kind that crept in slowly. Missed calls. Short replies. His side of the bed empty when you fall asleep and empty again when you wake up. You aren’t sure when he stopped kissing you in the morning before he left, maybe he still does. But it doesn’t wake up anymore, so you assume he’s let that go too.

You still love him, so much that it hurts. But loving him doesn’t stop the loneliness. It doesn’t keep you warm when he’s working late again or make the couch feel less empty on weekends he was gone. You started to feel like a guest in his life, like you’re just a squatter in his apartment. And he felt it too, didn’t he? The shift. The weight of what you were both pretending hadn’t changed.

So you let go. Quietly. Carefully. Because neither of you wanted to leave angry, you just didn’t want to stay hurting.

So you let go. Quietly. Carefully. Because neither of you wanted to leave angry, you just didn’t want to stay hurting.

But now he’s here, helping you pack, like it's just another thing he does for you, like it’s not the end of something that once felt permanent. He held open the wonky closet door while you folded your clothes, his knuckles gripping the frame like they’ve got nothing better to hold. You keep catching yourself watching him. His hands. His face. You try to memorize every inch of him, knowing that you’re losing him now.

You’re lucky, you guess. You still have your own apartment. You’d almost let the lease run out, back when things were good and the future felt shared. But now…well. You’re grateful for a place to land, even if it feels less like home than he did.

Your things are scattered around his place like echoes. A plastic basket of toiletries rests in your arms; your toothbrush, your face wash, that little jar of bag balm he used to tease you for. All the bits of you that made this feel like more than borrowed time. Now they feel out of place. Like artifacts from a life you don’t get to live anymore.

Now, you’ll have doubles of everything. Toothbrushes. Shampoo. Too much of what you don’t need. And not nearly enough of what you do.

You walk out to the living room to find Frank carefully sorting your books from his, setting them aside in a neat stack. The sight makes your chest ache. The bookshelf he built for you, back when you were tired of carting your novels back and forth between apartments like a mobile library. You told him he didn’t have to. He told you he wanted to.

You place the plastic basket on the table and drift into the kitchen without a word, pulling out another box. There’s still more to gather; your mismatched thrift store mugs, the ones you found together and never brought back to your place. Your pink-handled cooking tools, the ones you stared at in the aisle long enough for Frank to sneak back and buy them without telling you.

Really, you should leave them behind. He paid for them. But you know he’d only tell you to take them, just like he has with so many of the other little things he bought only because you were here. Because you made this place feel full.

On the top shelf sit your fancy wine glasses, the ones you always joked were too nice for the kind of nights you had. You get one knee up on the counter and go to hoist yourself up. But before you can get anywhere, Frank is behind you, one arm around your waist, pulling you gently back down.

“Jesus, what are you doing? C'mere,” he mutters, voice low and chastising as he sets you firmly back on your feet. “You know better than that.”

He reaches up for the glasses himself, and you let him. You try not to lean into his touch. Try not to want it. But his hands are still careful on you, still warm, and it hits you all over again how much you already miss him.

You pack up the rest of your things quickly. Now they all sit by the door, ready to be taken down to the car. Frank is still here, already loading bags into his arms, figuring out how many he can carry in one trip. You stand frozen in the hallway, just staring.

“Frank.”

He doesn’t look at you, he just shifts the weight of a duffel bag, eyes scanning for the most efficient path to the door. He hasn’t really looked at you since you both agreed to end it. And somehow, that hurts more than anything. But there’s something in his face, in the way he won’t meet your eyes. Not indifference. Not relief. Just...resignation. Like this is something he’s forcing himself to live with.

But distance is what broke you, and now it feels like he’s already moved on. Like he doesn’t even care.

“I got it, honey. You grab the small ones.” His voice is casual, but his hands are clenched too tight around the straps.

“Frankie, I-” You stop yourself, but the nickname slips out on instinct. It’s enough to make him pause. His eyes finally meet yours, face unreadable. Guarded.

“I-I changed my mind. I don’t want this,” you blurt, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. He just stares at you, his mouth slightly parted, eyes scanning your face like he doesn’t trust what he’s hearing. Like he wants so badly to believe you but doesn’t think he’s allowed to.

“I’m sorry, I'm so sorry, Frank. I know it was mutual. I know. And if you don’t- if you don’t want-”

You can’t say me. You don’t have it in you. So instead, your face crumples, and your gaze falls to your socked feet, shame and hope mixing so tightly it hurts to breathe.

But you don’t need to say it.

Because suddenly, Frank is on you. His arms wrap around you tight and certain, and it’s him, all of him, his warmth, his strength, the smell of his skin, the way he holds you like something fragile and sacred. It’s everything you’ve missed.

“I’m so sorry, baby. I’m sorry,” he whispers into your hair, holding you like he might never get the chance again.

 “I just thought… I haven’t been what you need. I ain’t been fair to you.”His voice cracks, just barely. “You’ve been alone even when I was right here. And I didn’t know how to fix it. I thought… letting you go was the only decent thing I had left to offer.”

That breaks something in you. He whispers into your hair as you bury your face in his chest. “I always want you, honey. I promise. We’re gonna be okay.”

You can’t do anything but cry. For a long while, that’s all there is. You and him, tangled in the quiet, your sobs muffled against his chest. Eventually, he scoops you up and carries you to his big, beat-up old man armchair, the one you always teased him about. He settles down with you in his lap, wrapping you in his arms like he can shield you from all of it.

He presses his forehead to yours, trying to catch your eyes through the tears.

“‘M gonna fix this, baby. I’m gonna make it better. I promise. We’ll figure it out.”

Frank never lies to you. Never has. So you nod, because that’s all you can do, your voice caught somewhere behind your ribs. He lets you fall forward again, pressing your cheek to his chest as he rubs your back in slow circles, just the way you like. You breathe him in, trying to memorize it.

After a long while, your voice comes out, small and cracked against the fabric of his shirt.

“I just… I really miss you.”

He stiffens, just for a second. Then exhales, shaky, like the words knocked the wind out of him.

“I miss you too,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers through your hair. “Every damn day. I’ve just been wrapped up in my own bullshit- ‘s not right.”

His hand finds your jaw, tilting your face up. His eyes are glassy, almost pleading, and then his mouth is on yours, feeling desperate and full of everything he hasn’t said. He kisses you like he’s starved for it, like the weeks of emotional distance have made him feral. His tongue dominates yours, drawing out a soft whimper you can’t contain.

When you finally pull back for air, his lips don’t stop. They trail down your jaw, your neck, relentless.

“I love you,” he murmurs between kisses, breath hot against your lips. “Love you so much, sweetheart. I’m so damn sorry I ever made you doubt that.”

His hands slip under your shirt, palms gliding up your sides, fingers tracing the curve of your spine like he’s trying to memorize it. The contact sends a shiver through you.

“I love you too, Frankie. I’m sorry I’m so- so needy, I-”

You don’t even finish the thought. He growls, actually growls, like the very suggestion offends him on a cellular level. The sound is low and raw, vibrating against your mouth.

Your shirt is gone before you can blink, flung somewhere behind you, and his lips are back on yours and dominating your mouth with his tongue, cutting off whatever apology you were trying to make. By the time he pulls back, you’re breathless, dazed. But he’s already at your back, fingers undoing the clasp of your bra as he speaks.

“You're my girl, you ain’t never too needy, specially when I’ve been neglectin’ you. My perfect girl, I love when you need me, just as much as I need you, I promise you that baby.”

His hands cup and squeeze your breasts as he speaks, slow and reverent, and you’ve long since started grinding on his lap, your panties soaked through, sliding slick against the fabric of your shorts. Every shift of your hips makes your breath catch.

Words fall away as his mouth finds your chest, his lips wrapping around one nipple while his fingers work the button of your shorts with practiced ease. He wastes no time, slipping a hand inside, pushing past the damp cotton to slide through your soft, dripping heat.

A low groan tears from his throat the moment he feels how wet you are, part arousal, part pure guilt.

Christ.

How long had you been wanting like this? Waiting for him, needing him, not just like this but in every way? He could kick himself for all the time you spent aching without him there to hold you.

His poor girl. His good girl.

It’s enough to sting behind his eyes, but there’s no time for shame. He tugs your shorts and panties down your hips, and you rise onto your knees to help, shimmying them off one leg at a time. All the while, he mouths at your chest, kissing and licking, biting gently, like he can’t get enough of you.

And then you’re bare. Completely naked in his lap, flushed and soft and trembling in his hands.

He looks up at you like he’s seeing something holy and it nearly breaks him to think he almost let this fall through his fingers.

"My pretty girl… look at you. So fuckin’ beautiful,” he breathes, eyes roaming over your body like he can’t believe you’re real. “Don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me.”

Words feel impossible now, like your brain can’t hold anything except the need to be closer.

“Frank… Frankie, please-” you whisper, breath hitching as your hands slide under his shirt, tugging at the fabric. He gets the message instantly, yanking it over his head and tossing it aside.

You’re already fumbling at the fly of his jeans, pulling his cock free and he’s barely got time to groan before you’re lining yourself up, desperate to take him in.

But he stops you. Big, firm hands catch your hips before you can sink down, holding you still.

“Hey. Hey, hold on,” he murmurs, steady but gentle.

You nearly sob from the frustration, head dropping against his shoulder. He hushes you softly, rubbing his thumbs into your hips, grounding you.

“You’re alright, honey,” he says, voice thick with guilt and care. One hand slides down between your legs, fingers circling your clit with that familiar, perfect pressure. “I gotta get you ready first. You’ll hurt yourself like that, rushing.”

He kisses the side of your face, your jaw, your neck, slow and worshipful, as his fingers slip into you, and under the steady rhythm of his touch you shake and shudder.

You whine loudly, grinding into his hand with a feverish urgency. He lets you ride his fingers for a moment, watching, letting you take what you need, but then he starts to move in earnest, pumping deep and slow, working you open gently. When he slides in a third finger, your breath catches, and your hand flies to his forearm, tugging desperately.

“’M ready, Frankie, please- come on,” you beg, voice wrecked with need.

He almost feels bad denying you a second longer, but he’d feel worse if he hurt you. Still, it takes everything in him not to cave right then and there.

He pulls his fingers from you and brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a low, filthy growl. The taste of you makes his eyes flutter shut for a moment.

If I didn’t know what you needed right now… he thinks. He’d be on his knees for you in a heartbeat, but that could come later.

Right now, you’re already lining yourself up with his cock, and he moves quickly to steady you, but big hands gripping under your thighs and anchoring you in place before you can slam down the way he knows you want to. You whimper, frustrated, but he holds firm.

“Easy,” he murmurs, tightening his grip as he begins to lower you down slowly, carefully. Inch by aching inch.

You gasp and squirm, trying to take more, faster, but he won’t let you rush. Not tonight.

He knows he didn’t prep you like he usually does. He’ll feel bad about it tomorrow when your you’re feeling sore but tonight everything feels like it’s burning.

You’re soaked, clenching, trying to drag him in faster, but he keeps the pace torturously slow, his biceps flexing under your weight.

By the time he bottoms out, your mouth falls open on a broken moan. You feel impaled, the thick head of him pressing against your cervix and your hole practically suckling around the wide base. You tremble in his lap, slick and pulsing around him, overwhelmed by how deeply he fills you.

His jeans are going to be soaked, but neither of you care. Not when he’s inside you like this and clutching you so close.

One hand rubs up and down your back, slow and steady, drifting over the curve of your ass. The other is buried in your hair, fingers gently scratching your scalp in a way that would have made you moan if you weren't out of breath just from taking the length of him. You pant into his neck, arms wrapped tight around his shoulders like you might fall apart if you let go.

You stay like that longer than usual, just sitting and breathing the same air. His cock is a searing weight sat deep in your core, your chest pressed to his. You feel closer to him than you have in months, and it’s almost too much. It’s so good it hurts.

Eventually, he shifts, easing the recliner back until you’re sprawled across his chest. He plants his boots on the floor and begins to guide your hips into a slow, grinding motion.

Your clit catches perfectly against the base of him, pressure blooming hot and immediate. The stretch of his cock, the warmth of his body, the soft rumble of his voice in your ear, it has you trembling again.

You find a rhythm, slow and filthy, with him doing most of the work, strong hands controlling your pace, keeping you from getting frantic, murmuring soft, steady reassurances the entire time.

“Yeah, baby… just like that. You’re doing so good. Got me feelin’ crazy, you know that?”

Minutes pass like this, the tension building, humming low and molten through your limbs, until suddenly he stills.

His hand flies to your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your eye.

“Shit,” he breathes. “Baby, are you hurting?”

You can barely speak, so you just sob, pressing your wet cheek into his palm like it’s the only thing keeping you anchored.

“No,” you choke out. “No, don’t stop. Please.”

And something in him breaks a little, realizing how emotionally overwhelmed you are. You're not in any physical pain, but your heart is reeling from the neglect suddenly being over. You finally have him back and its almost too much.

“Alright,” he whispers, pulling you in to kiss your forehead, lingering there. You tremble in his arms. “Alright, c’mere. I got you.”

He holds you tighter, hand stroking up your spine. Then his voice drops low again, rough and tender all at once.

“Come on, honey. I know you’re close. Come for me, and I’ll take you to bed, fuck you proper like you deserve.” His hand slips back to your hips, helping you rock just right. “I need it, baby. Need to feel you.”

His fingers find your clit again, moving with the rhythm that’s second nature by now, he could never forget how to make you feel good. He lets you grind harder, lets your body chase what it needs, and keeps his hand right there to guide you through it.

You cum with a ragged sob, still crying, your whole body trembling as it overtakes you. It’s not just release; it’s relief. Raw, overwhelming, and completely consuming.

“There it is,” he breathes, holding you through it. “My perfect girl. Love you so much, baby. Did so good for me.”

You go limp in his arms fingers barely clutching at his damp skin. He presses kisses to your hair, your cheek, your shoulder, anywhere he can reach as he rocks you gently, helping you come down.

When your breath evens out and the shivering fades, he carefully slips out of you, still achingly hard. He tucks himself back into his boxers for now, adjusting you in his arms like you weigh nothing at all.

And then he stands, gathering you close again, holding you like something precious.

He carries you to the bedroom, his bedroom, your bedroom, and lays you gently across the sheets, where you belong.

His hands don’t leave you. His mouth doesn’t stop. He plans on making up for every second you missed him, even if it takes all night and many nights to come.

[manipulatedstars]

hey pookie! I LOVE your frank castle writing i’ve been in my punisher era for like 5 months and finding your account was the best thing ever. I was wondering if you’d maybe could make a drabble or fic of frank castle reacting to reader flinching in the middle of an argument because maybe he raised his hand to run it through his hair and the reader jumps back or something. I’ve been in several abusive relationships and find myself reacting like this due to muscle memory and anxiety and i would love to see how frank would react <33

Hey, thank you so much for your kind words! I'm happy that you found my page and that it brings you comfort enough for you to trust that I could write something like this. I'm really sorry you have to go through that. I did my best to capture what you asked, and I hope you like it 💜

Frank Castle x Reader

Summary: An argument with Frank brings out an old trauma response you thought you had under control.

CW: angst, ptsd, past trauma, past abuse, emotional hurt/comfort, arguing, established relationship.

WC: 777

flinch—

There’s nothing you can say to make him understand where you’re coming from. There’s nothing he can say to make you change your mind. Your voice is exhausted. So it’s his. You’ve exerted every point, every argument to a boiling point where you can’t understand anything coming out of his mouth over the sound of your own voice that cracks every other second. The words burn your throat, especially the ones you didn’t mean to say. The ones that came out of sheer anger, the ones that were louder and meaner. Cause when you have nothing left to say to make him see your point of view, you have to resort to yelling that old same bullshit just for the sake of winning the argument.

Truth is there are no winners here. You’re both losing, and hurting by standing in your unmovable positions. You can see his frustration slipping out of the wideness of his tired eyes, the tightness of his jaw, the scrunch of his lips. The way his hands fly a little too close for comfort, too fast for safety, when he reaches up to push his hair back.

Your body reacts before your brain does.

You flinch.

It’s not overly dramatic. Just a sharp step back, your shoulders curling in, like you're bracing for that impact that never comes. But it’s enough. Enough for the air in the room to shift. Enough for him to go quiet just a second later after you clench your teeth together. Enough for the fire behind Frank’s eyes to snuff out in half a breath.

His hands, caught in motion, freeze instantly. He tugs his hair slightly before ever so slowly bringing them down. Arms slacked now, he gently shows his palms up where you can see them, like a cat rolling onto its back, exposing its belly in a gesture of trust.

There’s a sting, a burn in your eyes of tears prickling from the inside, threatening to pour on the next blink.

“Hey,” he says, softer than you expect. “Hey—no. No, no, sweetheart…”

The space in between suddenly feels like a chasm. You’re not looking at him. You can’t. Your stare stays fixed on the lines and hard calluses of his palms. It’s a map you know by heart from all the times you’ve traced them with your fingers. They’re just like him, rough on the outside, tender on the inside. You know they’d never hurt you, still there’s that moment of hesitation, of uncertainty that is only triggered by something rooted deep inside you.

“I wasn’t—I wasn’t gonna touch you.” His voice is low now under a heavy breath. “I’d never do that.”

Silence rings louder than the shouting did. You try to swallow, but your throat is tight. It’s not him. It’s never been him. But your body doesn’t know that, not in moments like this. It only remembers fear. It only remembers past hands that didn’t stop.

“I know,” you manage to say with a thin sigh. “I know you wouldn’t.”

Frank takes a step back instead of going forwards, opening that claustrophobic space that seems to be closing around you. His eyes soften, so does every tense muscle of his body, reeling every thought, every yell, every disagreement that led him to this point.

“I scared you,” he says, more to himself than to you. His voice cracks like he’s the one flinching now. “Shit.”

You shake your head. “It’s not your fault.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “I scared you.”

He stays still. He doesn’t reach for you, not yet. Not until you give him something, anything to say it’s okay for him to do so.

When you finally glance up, he's looking at you like you hung up the moon, and he just broke it by accident.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Don’t be,” he says immediately, firmly, like the words sting him. “You ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry for, sweetheart. Not for this. Not for somethin’ somebody else put in you.”

That’s what undoes you.

Because you’ve never heard someone say it like that before. Like it’s not yours to carry. Like you’re not broken for it. Like you’re not too much work.

You let out a shaky breath. Frank doesn’t move. But the second you step toward him, even just an inch, he meets you there. Not rushing, not grabbing, just opening his arms so you know you can come in if you want.

And you do.

You press your face to his chest, and his arms wrap around you like armor.

“I got you,” he says, resting his chin on the crown of your head. “Always.”

[manipulatedstars]

Girl just got back and is already putting me on my ass again with no effort at all

Stuff that's indisputably true about Frank Castle

He's a boob man. OF COURSE HE LOVES YOUR ASS TOO. Don't be silly. But your tits? He is bbuuuuttteerrrr. An inch more cleavage than normal and he's semi-hard in the booth of the restaurant and feeling shameful. He. cannot. help. it. They are magnificent and every time he cups them in his rough hands he lets out that rumble in the back of his throat because they're always softer and warmer than he remembers.

He's a munch. Sorry but duh. This is his pure dom instincts on display. Having you be GOO because of his mouth alone -- before he's even inside you -- DELIGHTS HIM. He smiles as he's tucked between your thighs. He relishes in it. He takes his time. He admires his work. He ignores his needs. He gets slow and playful. He's in it for the love of the game. Don't stop him before he's had his fill.

He doesn't really do "toys". He considers it cheating. Because what he's doing with you is WORK for him. Yes, he's in it for the pleasure too but first and foremost there's duty. You have a need and Frank has a solution. Frank is nothing if not a hard worker, a good soldier. He's doesn't need the help and he knows it.

He wants you naked. Lingerie looks nice and all -- he's never gonna turn down the chance to see you in it. But it ALWAYS gets removed almost immediately. Frank is part animal and his brain needs to see every inch and curve and fold and quiver. He needs you unencumbered. He's cranky as he fiddles impatiently with a bow or a snap, saying "Fuckin' thing is in my way sweetheart."

He needs to see it in you. Him. His work. His effort. He needs to see how it spreads you and fills you. His eyes get locked on the way you take him -- marveling at how you manage to fit him and how much you trusted him to keep it from hurting. He takes it deadly serious. And when he's done, he lets himself the indulgence to watch it drip from you. It's fast enough that you don't notice but he never misses a time, feeling as territorial as a bear over you for the few hours after.

He likes it in the morning. Damn does he love it when you're sleepy and warm and relaxed. It gives him a chance to take his time and sink to his knees and lap you up. And then slide behind you and drape your leg over his hip to take you from behind when you feel extra tight around him. He shushes you to keep your eyes closed. Rest. Let him do the work-- he's been awake for hours anyway. He works until your walls choke him and you whimper and then he kisses your shoulder and tells you what a good girl you are today.

He wants you in his lap. Fully clothed or otherwise. Why the hell else would he have those expanse thighs? He's always patting his thigh absentmindedly, coaxing you over when you're on a phone call or reading a book. You float over equally as oblivious, so used to his prompt that it's nearly like a Pavlovian response. You spend hours there-- snuggling, sleeping, cumming, laughing, eating.

[manipulatedstars]

oxytocin - nsfw fatws bucky barnes

disclaimer: depictions of mental health issues ie ptsd, depression, etc. slight suicidal ideation if you squint. rough, fully consensual sex. mentions of trauma and past abuse (bucky/hydra you know how it is).

inspired by oxytocin by billie eilish??? if you look closely you'll see the lyrics i pulled from the song

longest one shot i’ve ever written at 5.1k!!!

~~~

life after hydra was miserable for a lot of reasons.

obviously the guilt, and the shame, and the pain, none of it would ever go away.

the nightmares. the flashbacks. all of it tore him up inside day in and day out. but there came a point when things seemed to be... bearable again. tolerable.

dare he say, even, enjoyable?

he didn't think he deserved to enjoy anything anymore, ever again. he deserved the emotional pain he felt in his head, eternally punishing him for the terrible acts he'd committed as his alter ego.

and then, one day, you came along. the prettiest girl he'd ever seen with an attitude that could rival his own. you were utterly perfect.

getting it through his thick head that he deserved to have you, to have some sense of happiness and love in his life was almost an impossible task.

you got through to him with enough soft touches and sweet words and maybe the best head of his life.

and suddenly, you were his ride or die.

~~~

after hydra, and once things seemed bearable again, he began to miss his old life.

can you blame him? in a world of crazy unknowns, fancy technologies, and weird colorful rocks, he longed for the life he used to have.

he missed living in Brooklyn. he missed his best friend who up and left him (he's still working on coming to terms with that). he missed the simplicity of how things were in the 1940s before the chaos rained down on the world as he knew it.

he would never get to see his family again, or any of the local haunts he loved frequenting as a young man.

he fought himself day in and day out for missing all these things. he didn't deserve to have any of those delights anymore, after all. and he certainly didn't want to make you think that he longed for a different life than the one you two had built together.

sure, once upon a time, you'd get married in the middle of a terrible world war. he'd be gone for months at a time, and afterwards, you would pop out a couple of cute kids. you would be the homemaker and he would be the breadwinner.

he missed a lot, but he absolutely wouldn't trade the relationship you had together, no matter how different it is from what he once pictured his life to look like. he loved you and would absolutely not trade you for anything in the world.

not even those miserable 80 years, because they had at least brought him to you.

~~~

there was nothing wrong with your relationship with Bucky. you loved him more than anything, without a doubt. you'd take a bullet for him.

but you sucked at comforting him when he woke up from a nightmare, or when he was having a bad day. the words always failed you somehow. so you made up for it as best you could with your actions, holding him tight as he cried or silently taking over his tasks so he could get some rest.

he was perfect, no matter how broken he thought he was. he was a good man at heart, always so good to you, and god he was so pretty, too.

you would never tell him how hot he looked when he got angry, or violent, because he did everything in his power to hide that side of himself from your innocent eyes. if you ever saw him like that, he wouldn't be able to live with it.

you secretly, silently craved it. you would love the chance to watch him work, for him to come home all bloody and bruised. to shove you on the floor, take what he wanted, leaving rug burns on your back and bite marks all down–

it was a fantasy, nothing more. you would never force him to relive the trauma he'd endured just to satisfy your own horny desires. you would keep that shit to yourself. he'd probably think you were crazy for it, anyway.

so you relished in the moments when his hands gripped your hips just a little too tight as he came, and the flashes of pure, raw emotion you could see in his eyes sometimes. you committed those to memory.

you hid the hand-shaped bruises from him, knowing he'd refuse to touch you ever again if he saw them. you'd press your own fingers into the marks when he wasn't looking, just to replicate the feeling, to make you wince, particularly when you were alone and had time to get yourself off.

he would never know you were always left craving more. it wasn't fair to hurt him like that.

~~~

the worst part of life after hydra was the constant reminder that he didn't trust himself.

he only adjusted to the differences in his body due to the serum after he escaped from hydra, when he could retrain his brain on how strong he was now and how to control it.

although he had a grip on it now, he still didn't trust his own strength, his own power. he couldn't trust that he wouldn't lose it again.

this was made worse when you got together. it was his biggest fear that he would end up making you scared of him and pushing you out of his life.

of making you see him as the monster he saw in the mirror.

if that ever happened, he wouldn't see any point in living anymore. so he was always careful with you, treating you with the utmost delicateness of touches, of words, all of it controlled and deliberate.

yet there was a part of him from before hydra that still lingered.

the part of him that wanted to just act without thinking, take without asking, really give it to you. but that was entirely off-limits, he couldn't even entertain the thought of being rough with you because what if he went off the rails again?

so no, he wouldn't entertain any of the ideas he used to get off to before the war, before hydra, before he was a weapon of mass destruction. there was no way he could cross that line. no.

~~~

one day, you were curious. you scrolled on your phone as he watched tv, his arm wrapped around you. you couldn't help but get it stuck in your head. it was an innocent enough question, right?

"how strong are you, really?" you ask. he freezes for a moment, looking down at you before turning his gaze back to the television.

"dunno, why?" he grumbles, acting uninterested.

"curious, I guess," you respond honestly. you scroll for a few more minutes before you push again. "but like, if you went to the gym with me, what's the heaviest you could lift?"

he shifts as though uncomfortable. why are you asking?

"lets just say the gym would be... a pointless endeavor for me."

you scoff. "that strong, huh?"

"why are you asking?" he asks as he looks back down at you, this time pausing the movie on the screen.

"curious," you repeat. he's not satisfied with that answer, clearly. "what, it's hot to have a boyfriend who's strong, okay? and clearly I'm beating out all my friends in that department."

"so you're asking so that you can brag to your friends?"

you roll your eyes. "that's what you got from what I just said? I just told you it's super hot, okay." you reach to grab at his bicep just then, afterwards trailing your fingertips down the vein that bulges in his upper arm and trails all the way down to his hand.

he's got a little smirk on his face when you look back up. you take it as an invitation to ask another question.

"what about your left hand? is it stronger?"

"yeah," he grunts. "better grip strength, probably. doesn't get tired out, either."

"were you stronger than Steve?"

he's the one scoffing now. "obviously."

that makes you laugh. "obviously," you repeat, and you settle back against his arm as he turns his attention back to the television.

you know better than to ask for a demonstration of his real strength.

~~~

Bucky's good days far exceed the number of bad days he has nowadays. but that doesn't mean a bad day never happens.

you get out of bed in the morning and give him a kiss as you leave for the day. you have a feeling he'll be in the same spot when you get home that evening.

you stop and pick up dinner on your way home, knowing your time will be better served being with him in bed than spending an hour in the kitchen.

you enter the bedroom, and sure enough, he hasn't moved from the bed. you kick off your shoes at the entryway and walk over to where he's laying.

"you awake, baby?" you ask tentatively. he says a quiet "yeah."

"have you eaten today, baby?" you continue, even though you know the answer. he opens his eyes to look at you before shaking his head 'no.'

you hate seeing him like this. you wish he saw himself the way you saw him.

you change your clothes and crawl into bed with him, encouraging him to sit up. he thanks you when you hand him his meal and you sit in the silence together as you eat.

he all but wraps himself around you after you're both done with your dinner, burying his face in the crook of your neck. you hear him whisper into your ear unintelligibly. you ask him to repeat himself, and it takes him a minute to gather the courage to ask you the question again.

"why aren't you scared of me?"

you had wondered if this was one of the things on his mind today. of all the cruel thoughts his brain came up with, you hoped he wouldn't be forced to endure his insecurities regarding your relationship. you loved him so much, you wished you could pluck all those thoughts out of his head.

"because I trust you, baby. even when you don't trust yourself. I trust you," you reassure him. you keep your hands in his hair, gently massaging his scalp. it takes him a few minutes to speak again.

"what if I hurt you?"

that makes you want to roll your eyes to yourself.

"you won't hurt me," you tell him. he's a good man, he loves you. you know he would never lay a hand on you ever, even if you asked him to. which you know better than to do, exhibit A being this right here.

"what if I do?"

"how exactly would you do that?" you ask, almost laughing, though not at him but at the incredulity of what he's asking you. he shrugs his shoulders in response. "you could never hurt me."

"I could. I... I have."

now, you think, he's just being ridiculous. he pulls back to look at you.

"the other day," he clarifies.

what the hell is he even talking about?

he continues, "I'm not... not stupid, baby. I left bruises on you."

you shake your head. "yeah, but that didn't hurt me," you say without thinking. he looks confused, so you try again. "that's not, like, a bad thing, James."

"I hurt you."

"no, you didn't," you say with more force than you intend. "it didn't hurt me, James. it was... good."

you can't believe you're actually admitting this to him right now. you never planned to, but right now, your only goal is making sure he knows he didn't do anything wrong. you would sooner take a bullet than let him think he hurt you in any way.

"don't lie to me to make me feel better," he says, clearly upset.

"I'm not lying to you!" you reinforce. "please, baby, don't think I'm lying. and don't think I'm crazy either when I say that it feels good, alright?"

he looks appalled at what you're saying right now. you hope he doesn't end up hating you for this, you think, as he sits up again.

you're not prepared for the next words out of his mouth.

"can I see them? the marks?"

you nod, still lazily laying down, and adjust your pajamas so he can see the yellow markings on your waist where the bruises are half-faded.

he brings his flesh hand to them, lining his fingers up and pressing into them. you can't help the moan that comes from your mouth.

he looks up to your face, astonished.

neither of you say anything about it as he moves your clothes back into place and again lays down next to you, pulling you in to hold you tightly against him.

~~~

the thought stays with him for days afterwards.

he believed what you said, that you weren't lying to him. that you actually liked it. but, why?

you should be scared of him, he thinks. you should run away from him.

but god, the way you moaned so shamelessly when he pressed on the marks... surely they were still slightly painful. and yet you liked it.

he refuses to let himself think it's okay going forward. he refuses to let himself wonder about leaving his handprints on you deliberately, or pulling on your hair to manhandle you, or...

he can't let himself think about it. he doesn't trust himself. he can't entertain any ideas that might possibly lead to actually hurting you, even if you might possibly be okay with all of this, or if you might even welcome it, just maybe?

would you let him? did you want it so bad that you might even beg him for it?

he wonders if maybe it's not the end of the world to entertain his sinful thoughts.

~~~

the next time you have sex, something is different.

he still treats you with the utmost love and care he always does, asking if you're okay with things and kissing every inch of you.

it's different, though.

his fingers dig into you a little bit deeper, hardly even noticeable. but you notice it as he grabs more harshly at your ass, uses your hair to pull your head to the side to expose your neck to him to leave a mark on you.

he never leaves marks.

when he eats you out, he works with conviction. it's faster and more desperate, and you're not prepared for how much more whiney you are for him.

it even shocks you when he pulls away at the last minute. he never pulls away before you finish.

you cry out, whining and pleading for more in your shock, and he doesn't wait before he begins to fuck you so nicely to make up for it.

it's not that different. but something's changed.

you can't help but wonder if he'll do even more next time.

~~~

he never gets any rougher than that, though. he starts to make a habit of edging you, though, something that makes you want to scream at the top of your lungs in frustration. and yet, it's so good.

one time, he does the same exact thing, using his mouth on you so perfectly, all up until–

god, you actually do scream when he pulls away this time.

"James, you're torturing me," you all but sob.

"do you like it when I torture you?" he whispers into your ear.

your ruined orgasm is forgotten, and your breathing stops. what did he just say? he sounded so hot saying it, but you could tell there was a genuine question in asking.

"yes," you whine in response. he takes a moment before speaking again.

"do you want me to do it again?" he says, somehow even more seductive than the first time.

"yes," you repeat, sounding desperate as all hell.

he nips at your inner thighs, making you gasp with every pinch.

he turns you onto your stomach, which isn't that rare of an occurrence, but it was still unexpected.

he edges you again from behind, making you cry out, "please!" before he finally shoves into you.

~~~

you lay next to him, staring at the ceiling, breathing heavier than you think you ever have before. you look over at him, and he's looking at the ceiling too, so you revert your gaze.

you swallow, trying to will the words to come. you have to talk about it. he wants it, he's capable of it, you just have to ask–

"I'm gonna hop in the shower," he says, standing and walking to the bathroom without looking at you.

you don't end up asking.

~~~

something is wrong with your for-you page. every damn video you see as you scroll through tiktok is one of those stupid videos about other people's sex lives. a video of a girl on a stairmaster, "forced to do cardio because the cardio I want to do is busy." Bucky never fails to make you come, but god the videos drive you up a wall thinking about what you want but can't have.

eventually, you've had enough of tiktok. you're stressed, and you're confused, and you can't get yourself to just ask him for what you want. it's still too much for him.

you shove yourself up off the couch in your frustration, which of course, he notices.

"what's wrong, baby?" he asks you so sweetly. god, he's so perfect, why do you have to go and want more from him? you're going to ruin this.

you turn to him with a fake smile. "nothing, baby. just going to the gym."

"okay. should I make us dinner reservations for tonight?"

that would be great, you think to yourself. a nice, romantic evening with your perfect man.

"yes! that sounds fun," you smile for real this time.

although you're going to the gym to distract yourself, you can't help but think about all the things you wish you were doing instead.

~~~

that evening after dinner, you can't keep your hands off one another. you hurry back home, skipping dessert, craving only each other.

he grabs at your skin like he needs you, needs this so bad or he'll just about die if he can't have it.

he's holding you tight to his chest, his arms wrapped around your back, putting his mouth to your neck as he unzips your dress. without thinking, he places a harsh smack on your ass, and you all but jump.

he freaks and pulls away from you. "baby, shit, sorry. I didn't mean to."

"do it again," you plead, grabbing the lapels of his suit. "again. please."

you wait a minute, waiting for a reaction. when he doesn't move, you drop your head in resignation, pulling your hands away from him.

"we need to talk about this," you begin.

"what- what are you talking about?" he tries. he's so afraid of this conversation, so afraid you're gonna tell him off.

"you've been different lately," he hears you tell him. no, fuck, has he fucked this up for good?

"I'm so sorry, I never meant to..." he trails off, although he's not sure what it is exactly he's trying to say.

"I like the way you've been different lately. I want more," you say, and you feel like you're baring your soul to him right now.

"you want-"

"yes. I want you to do anything you please, anything at all. just use me, goddamnit."

if he wasn't straining against his pants before, he was now.

"that's not right, baby, you deserve better than that," he says, almost laughing in his nervousness.

"but I want that," you say quietly.

he pauses for a solid minute, absorbing what it is you're saying to him. it's not right, it's not, he tries to tell himself.

but how can it be wrong if you both want it? you trust him, something that took him months to come to terms with. you trust him wholeheartedly. you trust him to just... use you. take you, as he pleases.

you see the moment it clicks in his head. his head tilts in your direction, ever so slightly, as his eyes go black.

yes.

"you sure about this?"

you nod.

"any limits?"

you shake your head.

his eyes go darker than you thought possible.

he moves towards you again. his hands come to your waist where your dress loosely hangs, unzipped but still not discarded. his hold on you is more firm, more confident than ever before.

"you tell me the second you want to stop."

you nod.

"good. now, you're gonna do everything I say."

you shudder. you all but melt into the floor as you realize he's finally going to give you everything you want.

"yes, I will," you affirm. you feel like you're in a dream. is this a dream? is he really about to fuck you into next week?

he proceeds to gently pull off your dress, half hanging over your shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. "so pretty. all mine," he comments as he looks you up and down. "take the rest off," he orders.

you begin to reach for your heels when he stops you. "not those. leave those on."

you smirk as you strip down, bared in front of him. it feels kind of weird to be standing here like this, on full display for him, but the look in his eyes is hungry. you can't help but blush and feel good about yourself when he looks at you like that.

he reaches for your hand, bringing you to the bedroom with him. he lays down first and pulls you on top of him. his flesh hand runs through your hair gently before gripping it like a handle.

he pulls you down, down, down, until you've shifted enough to the point where your face is level with his belt buckle.

"I think you know what to do," he taunts, still holding your hair. you immediately listen, working to undo his belt and his pants. you gasp when you see he's gone commando.

"nice little surprise for you, huh, baby?" he teases. "I've got one more for you too. come on, now, don't keep me waiting."

you wrap your lips around the tip, sucking on him like he's your lifeline.

"I'm gonna use that bratty mouth of yours, and you're gonna take it like a good little girl," he directs. you moan at the thought. god, yes please, you think to yourself. "you need me to stop, you squeeze my knee."

you nod while you still can, and suddenly, he's well and truly fucking your mouth. his hand in your hair leaves no room for you to move, or pull against his grip, not like you would want to anyways. he shoves himself down the back of your throat, grunting every time he does.

you know he's got stamina, but damn, this is something else. he's moving so fast, you can't help but wonder how good it's going to feel when he actually fucks you at this pace.

he slows to a halt, holding you down on him completely. your nose is pressed up against his lower abdomen and you try your best to breathe through it.

"fuck, swallow, babygirl. swallow around my dick while I'm buried deep in your throat."

you don't hesitate. it takes you a minute to get your throat to cooperate, but you do it, and the noise he makes is music to your ears.

"again," he whines, voice rough and broken.

you do as he says once more before he picks up the pace again.

"you're gonna swallow every last drop, or I'm gonna smack your ass until you can't sit down tomorrow."

you moan like hell when he comes down your throat, listening obediently to his words, happy to do everything he commands.

he pulls you off him and pulls you by the hair to bring you in to kiss him. it's rough, and messy, and you love it. you grip the lapels of his jacket as he's still fully clothed, and it makes you even more slick between your thighs.

before you know it, he's moving you again, and you're on your elbows and knees.

"fuck, babygirl, you look so good like this for me, you know that?" he begins, rubbing his hands across the expanse of your back before leaning to whisper in your ear. "you know something else?"

you whimper in response.

"I wanna do bad things to you."

god, you can barely take it. his voice is like a chill down your spine, and you crave every thing he plans on doing to you.

"yes, yes, please," you whine. you hardly even sound like yourself with how desperate you are.

"the only words out of your mouth from now on are please, yes, or stop. do you understand me?"

your eyes roll back in your head and your limbs struggle to hold you up.

"understood."

"good girl," he coos before moving back behind you.

he takes his hands off you entirely, and you mourn the loss, whimpering into the otherwise quiet room. all you want is his touch, no matter how he gives it to you, and now he's not even doing that?

his hands come to your ass and pull you apart for him, leaving you more exposed and on display than you've ever been in your life. he can see everything right now, and you're completely at a loss.

"that's right, look at you, dripping all over the place for me," he says, running a finger up and down your wet folds, teasing you. he does it a few more times, making you whimper once more for him.

"oh, I know, you just wish I'd give it to you," he mocks, pulling his hands away. anything, anything at all, you swear–

suddenly, his thumb is pressing into your asshole, and you yelp.

"you're so loud, aren't you?" he continues to tease, barely working you open, just enough to make you feel the presence. "what do you think the neighbors would say if they were listening through the walls, princess, huh? you think they'd think you're a little slut?"

you're almost shaking. you're nodding, even though he can't see it, and begin to chant, "yes, yes, yes," like a mantra.

he chuckles. "yeah? you enough of a slut to let me put a little plug up here, hmm? you just need me to fill all your little holes like a little fleshlight, a little toy, all for me to use."

the noises you make dastardly. he's right, the neighbors are gonna hear you, you think. you try to get a handle on it, biting down on your lip.

his thumb presses forward again, making you inhale sharply. "don't you dare be quiet. I don't give a crap if the neighbors hear, because I expect you to let me hear. I wanna make you yell my name."

"yes, yes, James," you repeat, absolutely fucking wrecked under his touch.

suddenly, both of his hands are once again gone from your skin, no longer giving you the beautiful shock of energy they always give you.

"spread your legs some more," he orders, and you do, jutting your knees further apart to make more room for him. "that's it. wanna see what you can take."

his vibranium hand comes down, smacking your pussy with a wet slap. the motion makes you jolt forward, but you right yourself back into position, knowing he won't be pleased otherwise.

his hand comes down on you again, again, and again. you're in pure bliss, feeling overly sensitive and craving it more than you ever have. you almost can't believe you're finally getting what you want, that he's finally taking it from you.

"I think you're ready for your next surprise, babygirl."

he seems to be making a habit of surprising you this evening, or maybe your brain is just too intoxicated by him to keep up. you whine, trying to indicate to him to go on.

"what do you say?" he says, pulling at your hair to make you look him in the eyes.

"please," you say, water falling from your eyes and your mouth.

"I'm gonna give you what you've been asking me for. I"m gonna fuck you raw, baby."

you're not at all ready when he pushes his dick in and begins to thrust like there's no tomorrow, not even prepping you or giving you any chance to adjust.

you cry out, making noises dirtier than you ever have before. the thought of him finally being inside of you without any protection... you've been waiting patiently for this day to come.

any words you might be trying to say come out unintelligible. every other sense in your body has turned off, and all you can do is just feel the way he's ruining your body, doing to it what he wants.

suddenly you can hear again when he reminds you, "come on, sweetheart, you know what I want to hear," coupled with a slap to your ass for good measure.

"James," you begin to say, over and over in time with his movements.

"are you ready for this?" he asks, beginning to sound as wrecked as you feel. it's nice to know he's just as ruined as you.

"yes," you tell him.

"come with me, baby, come on. you can do it. say please,"

"please," you try, and it barely makes it past your lips.

it must be good enough for him to hear, because his fingers come to your clit, making you feel that all-encompassing pleasure you've been craving since the first time you had sex with this man.

it's perfect. the moment he releases deep inside you, the first time he's ever come deep inside you, it spurs your own orgasm, making your jaw drop in a silent scream.

the minute he pulls out of you, you collapse onto the sheets, a sweaty mess. you reach a hand down to feel where he drips out of you, and you're ready to get down on your knees and thank him for finally giving it to you.

it all comes back to you after a minute that your heels are still on, your jewelry is still in place, and your mascara is surely smeared all over your face by now.

you feel him lay half on top of you, holding an arm around your waist as you come down.

you turn to face him, smiling, and he's smiling too.

"was that good, babygirl?" he asks, breathless. he truly does just want to know that he did good for you, and it makes your heart melt even more.

"I love you so goddamn much," you breathe, laughing from the pure joy you feel in the moment.

"I love you too," he assures you, kissing your forehead.

"I got some even worse ideas for next time..." you taunt. he laughs and presses his lips to yours, kissing you into oblivion.

~~~

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[manipulatedstars]

You've been in a relationship for a short time, and a lingering question has been eating at you—are you truly good enough in bed? After some thought, you finally ask him what kind of sex and positions he likes the most.

🎨 Rafayel – "A Canvas of You"

He doesn’t answer right away. He never does. Instead, he watches you—too long, too intensely—until your skin warms beneath his gaze, your breath shallows, your body betrays you before he’s even touched you.

Then, he moves. Not rushed. Not hesitant.

Fingers brush your shoulder, catching the strap of your dress. A single shift of his hand, and it slides down, fabric slipping over your skin like a sigh. His knuckles graze bare flesh—unhurried, deliberate, as if testing the way you react to the smallest touch.

"You know, Cutie," he murmurs, voice rich and smooth, "I’ve always thought you’d make the perfect canvas."

Then, just as easily as he came to you—he’s gone.

Your body sways before you catch yourself, the absence of him too stark, too sudden. Across the room, you hear him move. A clink of glass. The whisper of bristles lifting from their place. And then—the slow swirl of ink, thick and black, rolling against the brush like liquid night.

You exhale, only to inhale too sharply when he turns back.

"You’re not serious."

His lips curve, just slightly. "I never joke about art."

Then—he paints you.

The first stroke is nearly nothing, a whisper-light touch against the slope of your shoulder. The ink is cool, pooling where the fine bristles meet skin, spreading like something secret. His breath, warm and steady, lingers close—too close—as his free hand finds your waist. His palm fits there like he’s done this before.

"Hold still," he murmurs. Low. Dark. A warning wrapped in velvet. "Or I’ll have to start over."

You don’t move. You can’t move.

The brush glides downward, slower this time, tracing something unseen, something only he understands. Right where your pulse betrays you.

"Do you know what it says?"

You shake your head.

His lips tilt—not quite a smirk, not quite soft. And then, before you can form a thought—he kisses the ink.

A slow, claiming press of lips against bare skin, sealing the mark he’s left on you.

"Mine."

The brush moves again, lower, lazier, dragging out the moment like he enjoys the wait, like he enjoys watching you wait.

Then—he switches hands.

And everything shifts. Fabric slips further. Falls.

Your breath catches as his gaze flicks upward, locking onto yours.

The moment stretches, the room too still.

Then, a quiet click of his tongue. "Tsk," he muses, tilting his head as if in contemplation, the brush tapping lightly against his fingers. "Now I really will have to start over."

And this time, there’s no mistaking the intent in his voice.

☀️ Xavier – "A Public Revelation"

You expect restraint. A flicker of amusement. The usual walls of composure, too perfect to crack.

But this—this is something else.

He moves without hesitation, without a single wasted second. One sharp step forward, and suddenly, his hands are on you. Firm. Unyielding. Fingers pressing into your waist as he pulls you into him, his grip absolute. Your breath stumbles, your body caught in the shift before your mind can catch up—

Then—his arms tighten.

The ground vanishes beneath you.

Your hands grasp at his shoulders, legs instinctively locking around his waist in search of balance, but he doesn’t give you that either.

"Like this," he murmurs. The words are soft. The meaning isn’t.

You open your mouth—to question, to push back, to remind him who he is.

But his hold shifts, pressing you closer.

And everything else fractures.

Because Xavier doesn’t do this.

Not like this.

Not with raw certainty, without calculation, without the endless steps ahead he always keeps in his back pocket.

But right now? Right now, he isn’t thinking.

His next words land like the first snap of a fire in a quiet room.

"Especially in public."

Your heart stops. Then slams into motion, too fast, too much.

"What?"

He doesn’t explain. He doesn’t have to.

His eyes are darker now, their usual cool edge gone, replaced by something thicker. Heavier. The kind of quiet hunger you’ve always known was there—but never like this.

"I wonder," he muses, too casually, "if you’d still be so composed if someone walked in right now."

Heat floods through you. "Xavier—"

"Shh." His lips graze the edge of your jaw, a whisper of contact, soft and deadly.

Your breath stutters. He smirks against your skin.

"Oh? Now you’re quiet?"

One of his hands moves, dragging slowly up your spine, deliberate in a way that makes it impossible to ignore just how firmly he’s holding you in place.

How easily he could keep you here.

Everything inside you screams to push back, to push him, but your body is already betraying you, already tilting into him, already wanting.

Because Xavier is always the one in control.

But now? Now, he’s letting you see exactly what happens when he stops pretending.

And the worst part?

You want him to keep going.

🩺 Zayne – "A Lesson in Restraint"

The question lands between you like a scalpel on steel—clean, precise, dangerous in the wrong hands.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he adjusts his stethoscope.

Cool metal meets warm skin as he presses it just below your collarbone, his touch impersonal, professional—except it isn’t.

"You should breathe normally," he reminds you, voice smooth, even, impossible to read.

But you don’t. Because you can feel him.

The warmth of his fingers as they rest just beneath the curve of your ribs. The calculated press of his palm steadying you—not too firm, not too soft, but just enough to remind you who’s in control of this room.

You swallow. He hears it.

His lips twitch. "That’s not normal breathing."

Your chest rises too sharply as you force air into your lungs, but it does nothing to steady your pulse. He listens anyway.

Slowly. Methodically.

He moves the stethoscope lower, following the delicate line of your sternum. The sensation is impersonal. It should be impersonal.

Except his gaze never leaves yours.

"You know," he muses, tilting his head slightly, as if considering something, "your heart rate tells me more than you ever do."

Your fingers tighten where they rest on the edge of the examination table.

A slow inhale. A calculated pause. Then, finally—he answers you.

"I like discipline." The words are soft. Absolute.

The stethoscope lingers.

"I like knowing you can listen."

A small flick of his wrist—the stethoscope is gone. But his hand?

Still there. Palm resting lightly against your ribs, right over your heart.

He can feel it. The way it betrays you.

"I like when you stay exactly where I put you," he continues, still clinical, still calm. "When you don’t move until I say you can. When I touch you—" his fingers barely shift, but it’s enough, more than enough, "—and you tremble, but you don’t pull away."

Your breath catches. His thumb moves, a single slow drag against bare skin.

"You like that too, don’t you?"

Heat spreads.

His lips curve, slow, knowing, as if this was never a real question—just a test you were bound to fail.

Then—he leans in. Not touching. Not yet.

"If you don’t believe me," he murmurs, "let’s run an experiment."

His breath is warm against your jaw, his voice dropping lower. "For the rest of the day, you do exactly what I say. No questions. No hesitation."

A pause.

Then, his lips barely move, but the words strike like a direct hit to your pulse.

"I wonder how long you’d last."

Your fingers twitch. A fraction.

His smirk sharpens.

"Well." He exhales, deliberate, slow. "Just the idea made your hands shake."

His eyes flick down—brief, knowing.

Then, finally, he steps back, scribbling something onto his clipboard like nothing just happened.

"I’ll take that as a yes."

🐱 Sylus – "The Edge of Control"

He lets the silence stretch. A deliberate thing. Like he’s daring you to take back the question before he answers it.

Instead, he laughs—low, rich, like the hum of an expensive engine, the kind built for speed, for power. The kind that always wins.

Then—he moves. No hesitation. No warning.

Your back hits the desk.

Glass rattles. Papers scatter. The entire room shifts around him—because he is the one who dictates movement here.

One strong hand pins your thigh open, fingers digging into bare skin like a silent command. The other?

Wrapped around your throat. Not tight. Not cruel. But undeniable.

"You really want my answer, kitten?" he murmurs, head tilting, watching the way your pulse slams against his palm.

Your breath catches. He sees it. Feels it.

His grip flexes. A silent dare.

"Because if you do," he continues, tone almost conversational, like he’s discussing something as ordinary as stock prices, "you better be ready for it."

His thumb drags up—slow, deliberate—over the fragile line of your pulse, over your jaw, over the part of you that always betrays you first.

"You wanna know what I crave?" he muses, lips curving—not mocking, but daring you to ask again.

Then—he leans in.

The heat of him, the undeniable weight of his presence, his breath against your cheek, like he’s already claimed the space between you as his.

His lips brush against your ear.

"You," he whispers.

One word. Absolute.

"You," he repeats, slower this time, savoring it.

Not a single hint of hesitation. Not a flicker of doubt.

"You, when you stop thinking."

His teeth graze skin. A slow drag. A threat.

"You, when you let go."

And then—his hand moves. The one at your throat? Gone.

Before you can even process the loss, before you can catch your breath, his palm is already flat against your stomach, pressing down—hard.

Not enough to hurt.

Just enough to make you feel it.

Just enough to force you to recognize what’s happening.

Just enough to remind you who you’re dealing with.

"You, when you take me without hesitation," he continues, his free hand dragging slowly, lazily down your thigh. "When you stop waiting for permission."

His fingers flex.

"You, when you give in to it."

A pause.

Then—his smirk sharpens.

"But, kitten—" his breath warms your lips now, so damn close, so deliberate, so Sylus.

"You already knew that, didn’t you?"

Your fingers twitch. He sees.

He grins.

"Well." A slow exhale. "Just the idea made your thighs shake."

And then—he leans back. Lets go.

Like it was all his choice to begin with.

His eyes flick down—brief, knowing.

Then—a lazy stretch, a roll of his shoulders, a smirk so smug you want to slap it off his face.

"You got what you wanted," he murmurs, running a hand through his silver hair as if he wasn’t just wrecking you without lifting a finger.

Then, with obscene, devastating confidence:

"So." A tilt of his head. A challenge in his voice. "You gonna do something about it?"

🍎 Caleb – "No Holding Back"

He stops stirring.

The question lingers in the air, sweet and dangerous, like the scent of warm batter and fresh coffee—except he’s not thinking about breakfast anymore.

Slowly, he looks up from the mixing bowl, brows lifting, like he needs a second to process the fact that you just said that.

Then—a quiet chuckle.

A small, breathless shake of his head, like you’ve just thrown him completely off-balance. Like you don’t even realize what you’ve done.

"Damn it, Pip-squeak," he mutters, setting the whisk down with deliberate ease. "You really startin’ my morning like this?"

But you don’t take it back. Of course you don’t.

And that? That’s all it takes.

Because Caleb’s already too far gone for you.

His fingers curl around the mixing spoon, scooping up a bit of batter, thick and golden, before lifting it between you.

A test.

You meet his gaze, and instead of moving away, instead of hesitating—you take it.

Lips parting. Tongue flicking against his finger, slow, unshy.

And that’s it.

The spoon clatters onto the counter as his free hand is suddenly at the back of your neck, dragging you in, swallowing the little smirk he knows was there.

He kisses you like he’s been starving for days. Like he doesn’t care that the stove is still on, that the batter’s going to burn, that the sun hasn’t even fully risen yet—because none of it fucking matters.

Not when you’re here.

Not when he finally has you.

His hands are everywhere at once, gripping, pulling—desperate, but never careless. Because he knows you. Knows exactly where to touch, exactly where to press, exactly how much to take without pushing too far.

You make a sound—a soft, startled little thing—when he lifts you right onto the counter, right between his arms, right where he wants you.

"You wanna know what I like?" he breathes against your lips, forehead still pressed to yours, chest rising and falling like he’s barely holding himself together.

His hands tighten on your thighs.

"This."

A pause.

Then, lower. Rougher.

"When you’re not expectin’ it."

His lips graze your jaw.

"When we shouldn’t have time."

He kisses the corner of your mouth—a tease, a warning.

"When I wake up and you’re still half-asleep, curled up in my sheets, lookin’ soft as hell, and I know—I know—the second I touch you, you’ll let me."

His fingers flex, breath rougher now.

"Or when it’s the middle of the damn day, and you say shit like this, and suddenly I don’t care if breakfast burns, ‘cause, princess—"

He leans in.

Nose brushing yours. Smirk curling against your lips.

"You really think I’m just gonna let you walk away after that?"

[manipulatedstars]

What do you think !NeighborFrank would do if you called him in the middle of the night because someone was following you home after work?

I have this idea of moving to the city and not really knowing anyone except your neighbor, Frank. Only knowing each other for maybe a few weeks bc you’re still new to the area, but maybe he helped you move in or helps you with your trash and you occasionally give him leftovers. Then you had to work overtime/late and missed the bus or something, and someone started following you and you didn’t want to lead them home- so in fear you call the only person that you’ve created a somewhat-friendship with, Frank.

This may seem really niche but this plot/idea has been on my mind all week, I think it’s because I’m planning on moving to a new area after I graduate college in May. Imagine Frank being your new/protective neighbor!!

Frank falls off the map sometimes, letting Curtis's calls go to voicemail for weeks on end, but never with you. He'd only known you a few weeks but he felt connected to you in a way that terrified him. He'd designed his whole life lately to ever avoid the pain of human connection because all it had ever brought him was unthinkable sorrow. But you with your goddamn smile and your vanilla scent and your apartment that somehow glowed-- he hated the way he craved it.

Just this leaky kitchen sink, he'd said to himself. Just this radiator. Just this load of trash. Just this tricky window. Just this text after the blackout. Until it was just this inhale at the scent of you and just this hand to feel the curve of your lower back and just this peck on the forehead to reassure you.

So when your named popped on his phone at 11:32pm, he was already sitting up from his bed, prepared to be a solution if it meant stealing another moment with you.

"Hey sweetheart," he growls into the phone, his voice rough from disuse.

"Frank," you whisper into the phone, keeping your voice low so you won't be heard. Frank's heart starts to pump in his ears when he hears your trained tone.

"Where are you sweetheart?" he asks urgently, already striding toward his shoes.

"Um," you reply quietly, concerned the man following you could pick up on the conversation.

"You don't feel safe to talk doll?" he asks, sensing your circumstances have you hesitant to make noise. He can barely hear you with the way the blood is pounding through his ears.

"no," you barely whisper and Frank nearly cracks a molar at the way his jaw clenches.

"Stay on the phone with me sweetheart," he directs you and just the the proximity to his competence has relief flooding you. You barley knew Frank but you knew Frank would know what to do.

"Gonna ask you some questions--just say yes or no doll. You coming home from work?" he huffs into the phone, swiping his keys from the bedside table.

"yes," you whisper in reply, gripping the phone so hard in your hand you swear you could crack it. Your quick glance to the left reveals the looming figure is still keeping pace with you.

"Walkin' down 47th?" he asks, recalling your workplace. If you weren't currently terrified, your heart would swell at that. You had only mentioned your work once.

"Mhmm," you reply and Frank can sense your breathing picking up pace. He reaches for the gun on his kitchen counter and stuffs it in his waistband, his hands nearly shaking with rage at whoever has you so terrified.

"Some fucker followin' you home?" he asks, knowing the answer before you mumble a quiet "yes." The terror and strain in that one word was enough to incite Frank into war, an audible growl leaving his lips as he slammed his apartment door behind him and made for his truck.

"You're ok sweetheart," he coos with a sheen of calm he doesn't feel. His voice is soft but his hand is clenched into a fist that makes his knuckles white. "Just keep walkin' f'me" he directs you and you exhale at the fraction of relief it makes you feel.

Frank climbs into his truck and peels out of his spot on the street, heading down 47th and treating stop signs as optional. "Almost there doll," he assures you, "I'll take care of it." He drives for another four blocks until he spots you striding in the space between two streetlights with the phone glued to your ear, a tall gangly figure about 8 steps behind you, hoodie pulled over his head.

The mere sight of it makes Frank's blood boil - that all-encompassing rage that threatens to swallow him whole. Frank slams into park exits the trucks, leaving the keys in the ignition and the driver side door open as he charges toward you.

You spot him before he has the chance to call your name and you run toward him, barreling into his chest as you whimper "Frank" and a sob chokes out of your chest. Frank pins you to his side, one broad arm wrapped around your shoulders and his heavy hand pressing your head to the warmth of his chest.

"I got ya honey," he says and you feel him take a microsecond to kiss the top of your head, "It's ok now," he coos as he takes the gun from his waistband with his free hand and points his arm outstretched at the figure. The man skids to a halt, his hands up in surrender, mumbling "hey man, you don't wanna do this."

You feel Frank vibrate against you, his form stiffening as he pins you closer. You didn't see the gun but you felt the position of Frank's form-- the way his free arm was outstretched beside you. You hear the faint click of Frank's thumb cocking the bullet. You hated whoever that man was but you knew one thing unequivocally--you didn't want someone to die.

"oh no. no no no no no," you mumble to yourself, curling further into Frank and using a hand to cover your ear. Despite the white hot rage coursing through him, Frank turns his senses to the way you feel beneath him -- your quiet mumbles, the way your shoulders can't still themselves from shivering, the way your fists are balled into his jacket.

If Frank had his way, the fucker would already be dead ten times over. If Frank had his way, you'd never be on the streets alone again. If Frank had his way, he'd move heaven and hell to never hear your pained whimper again in his life.

With his eyes still locked on the man and the gun still pointed from Frank's outstretched arm, Frank grits his teeth and says "Run." Without hesitation, the motherfucker spins on his heel and runs in the opposite direction and turns into the first open alley.

Frank drops his arm and tucks the gun back into his waistband, encompassing you with both arms and ducking his head so that he could murmur into your ear, "You're alright now. Didn't do it sweetheart. Everything's alright now," reassuring you as much as he was reassuring himself, his trigger finger flicking against you.

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headcanons about getting aggressively ate out by our man? heheee *hits send and runs away*

Ok. ok ok ok ok. Ok.

When Frank Castle Eats You Out

He's not neat. Maybe it starts that way but it escalates quickly. Actually, maybe it doesn't even start that way lol. He's HUNGRY. The man is starved and usually by the time he has his hands on you, he's already waited too long so he's sloppy--- like llloooonnng, eager licks with his wide, flat tongue. He's in EVERY crack and crevice lol.

He's also so loud about it. The action itself is making all sorts of slurps and slops but then he's just so so vocal. Way more vocal than when you're having traditional sex. When he's eating you out he's grunt and moaning and growling and murmuring all sorts of shit like "mmm fuck thats good" and "mm mmmm" and "fuckin christ."

Don't interrupt him when he's doing his thing. You could be begging him to give him a blow job and he just pins you down further and mumbles "ain't fuckin' finished yet sweetheart." Like he'll let you know when you're dismissed but until then, assume that he's busy and will be for the foreseeable future.

He's manhandling you so much when he's eating you out. He's just a little less concerned about your comfort when he's doing his favorite thing on Earth. So either he's got his hands on your hip and stomach and he's pinning you to the bed or he's anchoring your legs open or he's pushing your knees up and putting your feet on his shoulders or he's yanking you down to sit on his face or he's pinning your hands to your sides--- he's putting you where he wants you so that he can get his work done.

I think he prides himself on doing it all with his mouth. Sure he uses some fingers now and then but he wants you to have an orgasm-- a screaming one -- with his mouth alone. He'd have the sloppiest shit-eating grin on his face when you did too. That's half of his delight, to see how thoroughly he can make you fall apart.

You get the sense he's got some sort of private tally with himself. You don't know what exactly but the way he eats you out with such fervor is like he's trying to beat a record or something. Either how fast you cum or how hard you cum or how loud you cum -- he's keeping track of something and always trying to best himself.

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Hhmmmmm…..Alpha!Bucky. 🥴 What’s he like during his rut?? Is he somewhat coherent or is he so far gone that his Omega is just along for the ride? What’s he like after his rut?

Pairing: Alpha!Bucky x Omega!Reader

Warnings: Oral (fem receiving), smut, minors DNI.

A/N: Sinday drabble.

During a rut, Bucky becomes very possessive and protective of you. He won't let anyone near you--no one is allowed to do anything for you. You don't mind because Bucky makes sure you're cared for, he provides everything you need. He acts as if you're the one about to go into heat. His primal Alpha instincts ramping up, telling him to 'protect her, make her happy, give her what she needs.'

A few days before his rut starts, his natural scent, spiced orange, vanilla, and white tea, gets heady, more fragrant and it drives your fucking wild. He always smells incredible, but this is another level and all you want to do is bury your face in the curve of his neck and inhale him.

And Bucky is a goddamn tease.

He strolls past you, shirtless, a pair of light gray sweatpants, slung so low over hips you can see the thin bluish vein on his lower belly trailing down to his cock and he scents you. And then it's like he's everywhere at once. It's enough to make you scream.

Especially when he doesn't let you touch him.

Bucky. will. not. let. you. touch. him.

And he won't let you touch yourself, won't let you relieve the ache pounding in your clit, but he touches you all the time, his hands, large and warm and rough, slide around your hips as he pulls you to his firm, corded chest.

His lips slide over your skin like he owns you and fuck when he sucks a bruise right below your ear, you're so wet and throbbing so hard it feels like your heart is beating between your thighs, you would let this man do anything he wants to your body.

And you would thank him.

But that's all he does.

You want him so fucking bad, you're climbing the walls, thighs slick from the constant arousal, almost brainless from sheer, raw need. Your pussy clenching around nothing and it hurts to feel so empty. And his only response is a cocky smirk and his lips ghosting over your ear. "Aw Bunny, you want me to fuck your greedy little pussy don't you?" Yes yes, you do.

Then his rut hits.

"You want me to stretch you out and fuck my knot so deep inside you that you feel me in your throat don't you?" He asks, pushing his hard cock into the small of your back, scenting along your throat. Before you can whimper out a single please Bucky, he's shoving his fingers in your mouth.

"You're going to wait for my cock like a good little omega." The command in his voice has you shamelessly grinding on him even as you nod your reluctant assent.

One second you're standing in the kitchen, searching through the fridge, the next you're upside, a large palm on your ass and his broad shoulder digging into your belly. The way he manhandles you treats you like you weigh absolutely nothing is intoxicating.

His feral, breathy grunts pour out of him as he storms up the stairs to your bedroom. Bucky barely clears the landing when he smells you. He turns his head, his nose pressing into your hip, a soft growl escaping his lips and he drops to his knees with a dull thud.

You've been waiting for this and you have to bite on your fist to keep from shouting--yesyesyesyesletsgo.

"Bucky," you gasp, the hallway spinning as you're moved to the floor. It happens so fast, you don't have time to process that he's ripping your panties off, large rough hands sliding up your thighs until his tongue, wet and warm and long, flicks through your pussy and around your pulsing clit with such precision you stop breathing, mouth going slack, back arching off the ground.

"Ohmigod," you slur, twisting your hands in his messy, long hair. Fiery sensations bursting inside you with every deep wet kiss and suck and drag of his mouth and tongue. He calls your pussy greedy but he's devouring you like he's fucking starving. It's obscene the way he moans your name into your cunt and you get even wetter, your slick coating his face when his eyes glance up at you.

You feel him grin, his nose scrunching up at you. There's a calculated wickedness gleaming in his smokey grey eyes. His lips wrapping around your clit, two fingers sliding inside you as he curves his other hand under your ass. Ohgodohfuckohgod.

Bucky lifts you up, your legs dangling uselessly and he slams his fingers in and out, twisting and curling, dragging along your sensitive slick walls, dragging your bud into his warm, wet mouth. A high keen leaves your lips, your belly tensing as pleasure rushes through you, sultry heat winding up your spine, seeping into your limbs.

Bucky senses the very moment your orgasm barrels into you, releasing you as your pleasure peaks into pure bliss. Crawling over your body, he plants his hand beside your head and sweeps his lips over yours. Gripping his cock, he slides it through your glistening cunt, tapping your clit with his swollen head before teasing your entrance until you're begging him to fuck you.

Resting his forehead on yours, he gazes into your eyes, his lust-blown pupils piercing through you. "Need you so bad Bunny," he groans, his weight dropping on your body. "You gonna be a good little 'mega and let me inside your pretty pussy." It's not a question but you answer anyway, spreading your thighs even further.

You both watch his thick, veiny cock disappear inside you, inch by inch, his arms shaking as he controls himself, knowing he's so big that he has to let you adjust first. The burn coursing through as you're stretch tight around him as he rocks his hips until he's bottomed out.

But once you're ready for him, once you tell him to fuck you, once you rake your nails down his back until they're digging into his firm ass as you cry out, oh god he becomes feral. "You're mine Bunny," he grunts, his teeth gritted as the feel of your silky walls clamping around him strips away his crumbling control.

He's possessive, claiming you, marking you with his lips and teeth, grazing your throat. His hips snapping into yours, each powerful thrust sliding the both of you along the smooth floors until he has to reach out and brace his hand between the wall and your head. His pace increases until all you can hear is the vulgar wet sloshing of his cock pounding your pussy, your moans and gasps echoing throughout the house.

Part of you is worried the neighbors can hear you but when he changes his angle and hits your gspot so good your vision blurs, you don't give a fuck who hears you. Arching into his chest, you sob his name.

"Good girl," he groans in your ear. "That's it bunny, take care of your Alpha. Let me feel you cum all over me, there ya go." He keeps praising you, telling you how good you're making him feel even as he's making you see stars, splitting you in two so thoroughly all you can do is lay there and take it.

He doesn't stop after you cum again. By the time you catch your breath, he's carried you to the room, bending you over the bed, his hand around your throat as he fucks you from behind, guiding your head until you're staring at the mirror. "Wanna see your pretty face when you fall apart for me."

Then again in the shower with your back pressed to the wall, water streaming around you as he rails you until you can't even make coherent sounds.

The two of you lose track of time, only stopping to eat, and even then it's with you on his lap, warming his cock as he hand feeds you strawberries and kiwi.

By the time his rut breaks, you're splayed across a mess of sheets and pillows, his cum running down your thigh, he's taken every ounce of pleasure he could from your body and you did thank him. Over and over.

You're so sore that you can't move without feeling him inside you.

And Bucky--he's sated and happy with a drowsy smile permanently etched across his pink lips. The bond humming with love and happiness.

After his rut, he's so gentle and tender and relaxed. He's normally the one to handle aftercare but for once it's your turn to take care of him, praising him for being a good alpha, reminding him how good he is to you until his cheeks are pink and he's preening.

The day after the rut is your second favorite part. You'll start the morning sharing a bath, his body settled between your thighs, gently washing his hair with your favorite shampoo followed by breakfast on the deck, later you'll order take out while he chooses a movie, the night ending with him carrying your sleepy body up to bed.

And Bucky is counting down the days until your next heat. He has big plans for you and he's going to give you an experience you'll never forget.

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hands

frank castle x fem!reader

word count: 777

summary: when things get heated, you just need a little something more from frank.

warnings: oral fixation, smut, kinda dom frank, kinda shy reader, a tad bit of praise

a/n: like the bio says, i am a slut for this man. if you want to be added to a frank taglist, let me know!

pic is from pinterest! credits to owner!

“fuck,” frank grunted as he slid in, the tight heat of you consuming his entire being.

he had started slow, he always did. pulling you onto his lap, attacking your lips with desperation. then he moved onto gently nipping at your neck. then your earlobe, letting you hear his low, heady groans.

you rocked your hips, squirming with need. he let you, god he would always let you. you were so beautiful like this, coming apart in his lap from his mouth on yours alone.

he knew you were getting impatient by the way you started bucking against his aching cock. unintentional whimpers slipped out of you, making way for your cheeks to heat with embarrassment.

you threw your face into his neck, attempting to conceal your embarrassment. but he would have none of that.

“shh.. shh baby, i’ll take care of you,” he soothed while rubbing your back.

“please,” you whimpered lowly.

“i’ve got you,” he said, turning you in his arms so your back was to his chest.

he pulled at the waist band of your sleep shorts, removing them from your body.

frank lightly grazed every inch of your body moving downward. his soft touch on your arms, across your stomach as he lifted your shirt, your thighs, was driving you out of your mind.

“god please,” you begged. it was too much, you needed him.

“you don’t have to beg, sweetheart. i’ll get there,” he chuckled. he took his time caressing you, getting you as needy as humanly fucking possible.

finally, finally, his fingers reached your core, running down past your slit.

“wow baby. got you that worked up, huh?” he said. you could almost hear the grin on his face through his voice.

he continued to warm you up, fingers slowly pressing into your core and working you open.

after what felt like hours in agony, you couldn’t wait another second.

“frankie please. i need you,” you said, hips bucking up as his fingers pumped in and out, his other hand splaying across your stomach to keep you from moving off his lap.

“need me baby? yea, yea i know. won’t make you wait anymore,” he said, flipping your body beneath his.

you were a mess. cock drunk and needy, panting and moaning for more.

god why was he going so slow tonight? you needed more than this. you needed something else.

“more frankie. need more,” you were near tears at this point.

but this was nothing new to him. in fact, it happened quite often. you’d work yourself up to this point and feel like you were missing something. and frank knew exactly how to fix it.

all you needed was him a little bit closer. a little more of him filling you up.

“shh, i know sweetheart. cmon, open up,” he said, bringing the hand that had been lying next to your head to your mouth.

you complied instantly.

his thumb slid just past your lips and you released a sigh of contentment.

“yea, just needed a little bit more of me, huh baby?” he said, enjoying the satisfied look on your face.

you swiped your tongue over his digit, soothing yourself as he continued to pound into you. your hand held his wrist steady, not letting him out of your clutches.

“that’s it. just a bit more,” he said as he felt you begin to flutter around him. it worked like a charm every damn time. like the second his fingers touched your lips you dissolved and became a puddle for him.

your body began to buck underneath his, his thumb still firmly in your mouth as you moaned around it.

“you got it, baby. keep taking it. you’re right fucking there,” he said. with another thrust, you were over the edge.

it’s like you were floating. the pleasure you felt at the hands of him was otherworldly. the only thing tethering you to this dimension was the weight of frank in your mouth.

“that’s it, you’re fucking incredible,” he said with a final few thrusts, emptying himself inside of you.

he grunted as his body fell nearly limp after expending himself, still hovering above you.

he rolled off of you, slowly removing his thumb from your mouth.

a soft whine escaped as he pulled it past your lips.

“aw i know, baby. needed that,” he remarked as you curled into his chest, embarrassed by your neediness.

“no need to hide honey,” he said, “i’ll give you anything you want. give you the whole fucking world if you wanted me to.”

you smiled against his stony chest. he always knew just what to do. and just what to say to ease your mind.

taglist:

@crumbledcastle28

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Just a psa for fic writers who use the “trauma bond” tag, please make sure you’re using it correctly. A trauma bond is not two people who experience similar trauma and bond over it. It’s a carefully curated, manipulative bond between abuser and victim to keep the victim coming back because of the addictive highs and lows that come with abuse.

If you want to tag two characters bonding over shared trauma, a good substitute tag would be “bonding over shared trauma.” Trauma bonding is, by definition, an abusive relationship and may steer people who have experienced it away from your fic. Please spread the word and happy writing!

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DIETPEPSI ⋆˚࿔ JWY

ׂ ִ 𝓟𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑠. 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌．． 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍. • 𝐩. 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽!wooyoung 𝗑 𝑓.𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝐠. 𝑠𝑢𝑔𝑔𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑒, 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟𝓈 𝐰. 𝗉𝗁𝗒𝗌𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁, 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗂𝖾𝗌, 𝑒𝑡𝑐. | 𝐃𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐂𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐊.

the radio was the only other sound playing in the background other than the occasional hums coming from wooyoung. you both were pressed against each other in the back of his corvette, lips attached to one another.

it was supposed to be a regular summer evening where you and your best friend went for a drive, blasting your music as loud as you could and living life like you were still teenagers. that was the plan, not this.

you knew this wasn’t supposed to happen. friends aren’t supposed to kiss. friends aren’t supposed to touch each other the way wooyoung touched you. but neither of you could help it.

the kiss became more intense, wooyoung gripped the sides of your thighs, pulling you closer—if that was even possible. his tongue dragged across your bottom lip, tasting the faint hint of diet pepsi you’d been taking sips of only an hour ago.

“woo,” you tried to say his name in between kisses, but he was too distracted. his lips traveled from your lips, to your cheek, and down to your neck within a few seconds.

“w-wooyoung,” you called him again, letting out a shaky breath. he hummed in response, lips attached to your neck, probably creating a mark.

your fingers tangled in the back of his long hair, gripping onto him like you were about to lose the last bit of sanity you had.

“we can’t do this.”

“why not?”

“because we’re friends.”

“so what?” he chuckled lowly, his hand coming to squeeze your cheeks together lightly, pulling you in for another kiss.

he pecked your lips once, “friendship won’t change the way i feel about you, love.”

💌 ──── something quick before i head to bed :p inspo by addison rae’s ‘diet pepsi’

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sometimes you need dialogue tags and don't want to use the same four

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I'M STILL AT THE GYM, NORA

i’m in the worst mood and i feel irritated for no reason and i wish frank was here to fuck the fussy out of me

Welp. He so would.

I do have this Daddy!Frank fic where he adjusts your attitude.... Worth a read.

But Daddy!Frank aside, Frank would be so transactional about the whole thing. He could already tell you were moody and irritated for the last two days and when you finally whine to him how you're so crabby he'd just offer "Need me to take care of it sweetheart?" like he's offering up some kind of service. He'd sorta just been waiting for you to request it because he knew damn well it was exactly what you needed two days ago.

"Like how?" you eye him suspiciously even though you felt pretty certain you knew what he meant.

He just puts his hands on his hips and pulls a face, replying "Come on, bedroom."

Then you're no longer in charge of anything. It's like you waived all rights to independent thought the moment you walked in the bedroom. It's all "stand there sweetheart," as he undresses you and "lay there doll" when he directs you to the bed and "open those legs" and "nah, wider than that. Don't make me angry sweetheart," and then you start listening right because Frank didn't make threats he didn't follow through on.

And he'd be relentlessly edging you the whole damn time. The whole thing would be a game of how long he could deny you so that you could do nothing but beg for him to make you feel good. Frank knew you didn't need babying right now, you needed begging.

He'd pump his hips forward so that his pelvis was anchored to your core -- his length so deep inside you that all you could let out was a squeak of air and then he'd just still. His girth stretching you wide and pressing just enough on your pathetically engorged clit that you could nearly cry at the absence of friction. You wait for him to move but he doesn't.

"Fra--" you whine, lifting your head from the bed to look down at where he's inside you. You look up to him with desperation on your face, reaching down with your hand to rub your own clit or die.

He tsks at that, his hand flying out to capture your wrist and pin it to your side. "Don't you fuckin' dare doll" he growls, pissed that you'd even considered it.

"please," you whimper, reduced to nothing more than a wild animal as he fills your walls and squeezes the air from your lungs, "please frank please," you chant.

"We ain't finished yet baby," he replies, releasing your wrist and reaching up to brush the hair out of your face, his touch gentler. "Takin' care of you till you're feelin' better," he grunts as he pulls his cock out at a snail's pace and then taps the heavy tip three times on your core, making you buck your hips and growl.

He smacks the meaty part of your hips to get you to flip onto your stomach and says, "Now be good and get on your hands and knees sweetheart."