starksinner
silly little cunt
em ✧ masterlist ✧ ao3
2080 posts
Don't wanna be here? Send us removal request.
Last Seen Blogs
janimay-sprout-cloud
Janimay
cassielies
Only Dreams
chepib3
jason todd es de boca
tandembicycles
Inventor of Flaccid Soda, I Guess
hitmelike
...a man,love me like a woman
Text
DEV PATEL as Kid
Monkey Man (2024)
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
March 8 posters throughout the years: Happy International Women’s Day from Palestine
6K notes
·
View notes
Text
Poor Things (2023) dir. Yórgos Lánthimos
4K notes
·
View notes
Text
Tony Stark dies today (17/10/23), according to the MCU timeline.
7K notes
·
View notes
Text
if you support israel right now, you're supporting the extermination of the palestinian people.
it really is that simple.
this isn't a 'complicated conflict,' it isn't a situation that 'requires nuance,' it's not a 'geopolitical event' that requires us to condemn the 'bad actors' on 'both sides.'
it's a genocide.
there is no 'nuance' to be had here. it's a genocide, committed by the israeli state against the palestinian people, and it's happening right now as we speak. you don't have to infer anything: israel has openly, with next to no pushback from so-called liberal democracies, cut off gaza's access to water, food and electricity. that's more than two million palestinians denied even the basic necessities for life. a million of them, children.
what is that, if not a genocide?
and that's only the latest escalation. we could go all day, listing the atrocities the palestinian people have been subjected to. the killings, the beatings, the children sexually abused in detention center, all the hospitals and ambulances being blown up, videos of palestinians being heckled by settlers as they're driven from their homes, israelis gathering on hilltops to cheer as their military drops bombs on gaza...
but all westerns want to talk about, is hamas.
because the murder of palestinians by the IDF is status quo; it doesn't affect them. what's one more dead palestinian but a statistic? but if hamas has killed a handful of israelis — if they've go as far as to even kill babies — then that justifies the extermination of two million palestinians, children and infants included.
westerns will even say that the palestinians brought it on themselves; that they should have know that a drop of israeli blood requires a river in return.
and just so we're clear, you don't have to like hamas. but when you equate hamas with the IDF, when you derail every conversation by demanding a condemnation of 'both sides,' or when you, god forbid, agree that israel is justified in dismantling hamas — which, as israel themselves have outlined, will involve the complete destruction of gaza and the murder of hundreds of thousands of civilians — then either wake up, or own up to the fact that you're a participant in the extermination of the palestinian people.
do you think i'm being harsh? then imagine how it's like living under constant aerial bombardment. with no food, no water, no electricity. constant air-raid sirens. a bomb, dropping every minute. never knowing a moment a peace, always wondering if today is going to be your last day, if you and your family are still going to be here tomorrow.
could you stomach living in gaza, for even a day? i doubt it.
and still, now, on the eve of what might be the ground invasion of gaza — with one million palestinians being told to flee, with nowhere to go — i'm getting messages from people who demand my sympathy... for israel.
well, you're not getting it.
i'm not even humoring your hand-wringing.
if you live in israel, and you're one of the ones who've turned a blind-eye to the suffering of the palestinian people, if you've fought for the IDF or tacitly supported them, if you've callously called upon the memory of the holocaust thinking the death and suffering of your ancestors would wash the blood of your own hands....
then yeah, i think you deserve every single hamas rocked lobbed at you and so much more.
11K notes
·
View notes
Text
Why Didn't You Stop Me?
Summary: You left and you horribly wish he would’ve forced you to stay.
Pairing: Trevor Philips x AFAB!Reader, Franklin Clinton x AFAB!Reader
Warnings: Smut, Sexual Content, Possessiveness, Fuckbuddies, Unhealthy Relationship, Average GTA Stuff
November 16th, 2017.
It was easy to regret not catching a ride back to Los Santos with Franklin in his sexy white Bravado Buffalo S.
Regret is easy, regret you know. Regret can grow and grow it does as you make eye contact with the hillbilly jacking off next to the icebox in front of the Yellow Jack Inn.
After a couple of days gallivanting around the desert shit-pile that was Sandy Shores, Franklin deemed that your weed-fuelled, fuck-filled adventures had reached a necessary end.
Despite his intriguing offers of more shenanigans and freaky sex once you both got back home, you weren’t all that keen on leaving the town of meth production and Republican rednecks just yet.
“M’gonna go see him,” you sighed, resting your head back against the stained motel pillow.
Moments before, as Franklin had fucked you raw into the cheap motel mattress, you were met with the smell of blood and piss and cum as your face was shoved into the shitty cushion.
Despite the abysmal scent, the man was taking you so good and so fuckin’ hard, you couldn’t force yourself to care.
Now though, as you laid sated in your post-climax glow of sweat and semen, the smell against your cheek served as an unignorable reminder of your still bleeding heart.
That man, that asshole, that meth-head-Trevor-Philips-piece-of-fucking-shit—goddamnit.
You still hopelessly, stupidly, selfishly loved him. The fucked kind of love.
Always caked in blood, smelling like piss after running off to get high and grinning like an evil bitch as he came all over your chin and tits. The smell of the Derelict Motel—the sheets, the pillow, the musty air—was all just a nauseating reminder of how much you missed him.
Your therapist was gonna kill you.
“You know that ain’t a good idea,” Franklin murmured, running his thumb over the plushness of your bottom lip.
Your eyes met his and you couldn’t help but shiver at the way he looked at you, his gaze so soft and so full of adoration.
He made you feel like you weren't just a burning shitpile of flesh, bones, and substance abuse issues.
Frank is a good friend, a great man, a nice fuck. He was always there to bring you back down to Earth. He was so easy to love and you sure as shit loved him a whole lot. Beautiful fuckin’ man. “He ain’t right in the head about you.”
“We both know he ain’t right the head about nothin’,” you argued, leaning your body over his. Beautiful man.
“And he’s a big boy. He can take it. Whatever I wanna throw at him.” Your legs quickly became tangled, Frank’s hands resting over your hips as you smiled and played with his chest hair. “He can fuck all the people he wants, but I can’t touch or look or fuckin' breathe around anyone but him? He’s a fuckin’ ass.”
“He fell for you, girl. T’s always been crazy an’ possessive, his shit ain’t nothin’ new.” Franklin snuggled your body closer to his, sighing softly as he pressed his face into the warm crevice of your neck.
He couldn’t control himself, not when he had you like this. You were so hot and so sweet and just so fucking delicious.
Shit.
His lips lingered over the sensitive spot at the base of your throat, his tongue reaching out to tease a fading bruise. He did that. He made that. He marked you.
Fuck.
He groaned as you gave him easier access by raising your chin, letting him worship you like the real fuckin’ princess he always thought you were.
“He was fuckin’ paranoid and possessive in all the worst fuckin’ ways, Frank. I fuckin’ hate him for how he acted when I said I was leavin’ but I still...miss him.” You hummed softly as you felt Franklin’s lips suck right over your pulse point, his teeth just brushing over your delicate skin.
You held down the urge to beg him to bite you.
“Yeah, you miss him, but ain’t nothin’ gonna be solved if you both end up killin’ each other...or fuckin’ each other,” Frank breathed roughly against the shell of your ear as his hand wandered across your stomach and down to your aching clit.
He immediately preened at your wetness and teased the bundle of nerves with soft, circular motions. You gasped as you felt his cock harden and twitch against your thigh, begging for your pretty fucking attention.
He grinned and quickly shoved a finger into your cunt, making you moan and writhe oh so beautifully against him. “Jus’ come back home with me, baby…”
You could barely solidify your thoughts, whimpering like you were.
His motions were so smooth and perfect and rhythmic. Frank was good at a lot of things, but you considered his talent of fucking you mindless as one of his top three.
You immediately felt your wetness start to leak down your thighs. “If he still isn’t over it...I’ll fuck off, hitch a ride, meet you back at your place…yeah?”
“Yeah, baby,” he gripped your throat just how you like and shoved another finger into you, leaving you mewling and squirming in his grasp. You reached for him, hard and thick in your palm, and squeezed.
The best girl.
If you were parting ways, Franklin was gonna have you one last time. He understood Trevor’s possessiveness. You were great company, a great fuck, a great woman.
Addicting, hell blazing, heavenly—you were everything. So fuck yeah, he was gonna have you as many times as he possibly could. “Lemme take care of you, babygirl, then you’ll be all good to go.”
The Yellow Jack Inn has never been known for its posh customers or regular demonstrations of human decency, but a man jacking it in front of such a fine all-American establishment is still a sight you couldn’t have properly braced yourself for.
As the ash of your blunt falls to the dirt, your eyes stay transfixed on the man by the icebox as he lets out a disturbing howl and drops to the ground.
His pants are stained, his dick disgusting and soft. He lets out a series of groans as he turns to lie flat on his stomach, his cock scraping against the sand.
Jesus H. Christ. What a charmer.
You manage to twist away from the scene in repugnance and perhaps a more sinister part of you in mild delight, settling yourself in the alley next to the bar.
You restlessly attempt to settle yourself against the brick, picking at its shoddy green paint job before you begin rolling another blunt.
You’re stalling. Like a little bitch. It's embarrassing how much a man can turn you into such a conniving fickle coward. Perhaps not just any man. Your paranoid fuckin’ shitshow of a somewhat ex-lover.
Embarrassing. Unbecoming. Completely mindfucked.
You know Trevor’s inside. He’s an enigma, a loud, idiot one at that. Over the noise of clanked bottles and shitty laughter, you can hear him.
Stupid, how much of him you can hear. And see. And smell. And understand. In everything and anywhere and with anyone. He never leaves you even when he’s left you. He never leaves you even when you've left him. He’s a parasite that you’ve coddled, and cared for, and loved and fucked.
The timber of his voice warms you in a special, fucked up kind of way. It’s familiar and it’s settling and it kills you to know that he’s spent fourteen months ridding you of it. Of him. His clinical insanity has rubbed off on you beautifully. You left and you horribly wish he would’ve forced you to stay.
God.
Would he kill you? Kiss you? Fuck you? You’re still stalling.
Maybe all three?
Being the oil to a homicidal cannibal’s match, you could never really know what the fuck you were gonna get. You anticipate an explosion, but you’re clueless to its degree.
You pocket your blunt, walk over the man with his dick in the sand, and open the door to the biggest health hazard in California.
Chapter 2
a/n: found this oldie from 2021 that i was in the mood to refresh & post! i haven't written in literal years, be nice to me! also, happy ten years to this stupid fucking game. i love u. i feel old (i'm not) and i'm tired (constantly) and i hope you enjoyed (lie to me if you didn't) :3
✧ masterlist ✧ ao3 ✧ send me an ask / let's chat! ✧
133 notes
·
View notes
Photo
Julien Baker | Boygenius Apple Music Interview
3K notes
·
View notes
Text
Why Didn't You Stop Me?
Summary: You left and you horribly wish he would’ve forced you to stay.
Pairing: Trevor Philips x AFAB!Reader, Franklin Clinton x AFAB!Reader
Warnings: Smut, Sexual Content, Possessiveness, Fuckbuddies, Unhealthy Relationship, Average GTA Stuff
November 16th, 2017.
It was easy to regret not catching a ride back to Los Santos with Franklin in his sexy white Bravado Buffalo S.
Regret is easy, regret you know. Regret can grow and grow it does as you make eye contact with the hillbilly jacking off next to the icebox in front of the Yellow Jack Inn.
After a couple of days gallivanting around the desert shit-pile that was Sandy Shores, Franklin deemed that your weed-fuelled, fuck-filled adventures had reached a necessary end.
Despite his intriguing offers of more shenanigans and freaky sex once you both got back home, you weren’t all that keen on leaving the town of meth production and Republican rednecks just yet.
“M’gonna go see him,” you sighed, resting your head back against the stained motel pillow.
Moments before, as Franklin had fucked you raw into the cheap motel mattress, you were met with the smell of blood and piss and cum as your face was shoved into the shitty cushion.
Despite the abysmal scent, the man was taking you so good and so fuckin’ hard, you couldn’t force yourself to care.
Now though, as you laid sated in your post-climax glow of sweat and semen, the smell against your cheek served as an unignorable reminder of your still bleeding heart.
That man, that asshole, that meth-head-Trevor-Philips-piece-of-fucking-shit—goddamnit.
You still hopelessly, stupidly, selfishly loved him. The fucked kind of love.
Always caked in blood, smelling like piss after running off to get high and grinning like an evil bitch as he came all over your chin and tits. The smell of the Derelict Motel—the sheets, the pillow, the musty air—was all just a nauseating reminder of how much you missed him.
Your therapist was gonna kill you.
“You know that ain’t a good idea,” Franklin murmured, running his thumb over the plushness of your bottom lip.
Your eyes met his and you couldn’t help but shiver at the way he looked at you, his gaze so soft and so full of adoration.
He made you feel like you weren't just a burning shitpile of flesh, bones, and substance abuse issues.
Frank is a good friend, a great man, a nice fuck. He was always there to bring you back down to Earth. He was so easy to love and you sure as shit loved him a whole lot. Beautiful fuckin’ man. “He ain’t right in the head about you.”
“We both know he ain’t right the head about nothin’,” you argued, leaning your body over his. Beautiful man.
“And he’s a big boy. He can take it. Whatever I wanna throw at him.” Your legs quickly became tangled, Frank’s hands resting over your hips as you smiled and played with his chest hair. “He can fuck all the people he wants, but I can’t touch or look or fuckin' breathe around anyone but him? He’s a fuckin’ ass.”
“He fell for you, girl. T’s always been crazy an’ possessive, his shit ain’t nothin’ new.” Franklin snuggled your body closer to his, sighing softly as he pressed his face into the warm crevice of your neck.
He couldn’t control himself, not when he had you like this. You were so hot and so sweet and just so fucking delicious.
Shit.
His lips lingered over the sensitive spot at the base of your throat, his tongue reaching out to tease a fading bruise. He did that. He made that. He marked you.
Fuck.
He groaned as you gave him easier access by raising your chin, letting him worship you like the real fuckin’ princess he always thought you were.
“He was fuckin’ paranoid and possessive in all the worst fuckin’ ways, Frank. I fuckin’ hate him for how he acted when I said I was leavin’ but I still...miss him.” You hummed softly as you felt Franklin’s lips suck right over your pulse point, his teeth just brushing over your delicate skin.
You held down the urge to beg him to bite you.
“Yeah, you miss him, but ain’t nothin’ gonna be solved if you both end up killin’ each other...or fuckin’ each other,” Frank breathed roughly against the shell of your ear as his hand wandered across your stomach and down to your aching clit.
He immediately preened at your wetness and teased the bundle of nerves with soft, circular motions. You gasped as you felt his cock harden and twitch against your thigh, begging for your pretty fucking attention.
He grinned and quickly shoved a finger into your cunt, making you moan and writhe oh so beautifully against him. “Jus’ come back home with me, baby…”
You could barely solidify your thoughts, whimpering like you were.
His motions were so smooth and perfect and rhythmic. Frank was good at a lot of things, but you considered his talent of fucking you mindless as one of his top three.
You immediately felt your wetness start to leak down your thighs. “If he still isn’t over it...I’ll fuck off, hitch a ride, meet you back at your place…yeah?”
“Yeah, baby,” he gripped your throat just how you like and shoved another finger into you, leaving you mewling and squirming in his grasp. You reached for him, hard and thick in your palm, and squeezed.
The best girl.
If you were parting ways, Franklin was gonna have you one last time. He understood Trevor’s possessiveness. You were great company, a great fuck, a great woman.
Addicting, hell blazing, heavenly—you were everything. So fuck yeah, he was gonna have you as many times as he possibly could. “Lemme take care of you, babygirl, then you’ll be all good to go.”
The Yellow Jack Inn has never been known for its posh customers or regular demonstrations of human decency, but a man jacking it in front of such a fine all-American establishment is still a sight you couldn’t have properly braced yourself for.
As the ash of your blunt falls to the dirt, your eyes stay transfixed on the man by the icebox as he lets out a disturbing howl and drops to the ground.
His pants are stained, his dick disgusting and soft. He lets out a series of groans as he turns to lie flat on his stomach, his cock scraping against the sand.
Jesus H. Christ. What a charmer.
You manage to twist away from the scene in repugnance and perhaps a more sinister part of you in mild delight, settling yourself in the alley next to the bar.
You restlessly attempt to calm yourself against the brick, picking at its shoddy green paint job before you begin rolling another blunt.
You’re stalling. Like a little bitch. It's embarrassing how much a man can turn you into such a conniving fickle coward. Perhaps not just any man. Your paranoid fuckin’ shitshow of a somewhat ex-lover.
Embarrassing. Unbecoming. Completely mindfucked.
You know Trevor’s inside. He’s an enigma, a loud, idiot one at that. Over the noise of clanked bottles and shitty laughter, you can hear him.
Stupid, how much of him you can hear. And see. And smell. And understand. In everything and anywhere and with anyone. He never leaves you even when he’s left you. He never leaves you even when you've left him. He’s a parasite that you’ve coddled, and cared for, and loved and fucked.
The timber of his voice warms you in a special, fucked up kind of way. It’s familiar and it’s settling and it kills you to know that he’s spent fourteen months ridding you of it. Of him. His clinical insanity has rubbed off on you beautifully. You left and you horribly wish he would’ve forced you to stay.
God.
Would he kill you? Kiss you? Fuck you? You’re still stalling.
Maybe all three?
Being the oil to a homicidal cannibal’s match, you could never really know what the fuck you were gonna get. You anticipate an explosion, but you’re clueless to its degree.
You pocket your blunt, walk over the man with his dick in the sand, and open the door to the biggest health hazard in California.
Chapter 2
a/n: found this oldie from 2021 that i was in the mood to refresh & post! i haven't written in literal years, be nice to me! also, happy ten years to this stupid fucking game. i love u. i feel old (i'm not) and i'm tired (constantly) and i hope you enjoyed (lie to me if you didn't) :3
✧ masterlist ✧ ao3 ✧ send me an ask / let's chat! ✧
#trevor philips x reader#franklin clinton x reader#trevor philips#trevor philips x oc#franklin clinton#gta v#grand theft auto v#gta fanfiction#gta fanfic#the protagonist#gta online
133 notes
·
View notes
Text
Succession (2018-2023) ~ Nobody Is Ever Missing, This Is Not For Tears, All The Bells Say, With Open Eyes \\\ Saturn Devouring His Son - Francisco Goya, The Taking of Christ - Carravaggio, Stańczyk - Jan Matejko, Love's Shadow - Frederick Sandys
5K notes
·
View notes
Text
I really value when people use violence for me, it's actually one of my love languages.
BOTTOMS (2023) dir. Emma Seligman
8K notes
·
View notes
Text
Our worlds have misunderstood one another for far too long.
THE LITTLE MERMAID (2023)
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
oh my god mitski
8K notes
·
View notes
Text
phoebe bridgers styled by jared ellner and photographed by davis bates
52K notes
·
View notes
Photo
SARAH GOLDBERG as SALLY REED
BARRY
4x05 | tricky legacies
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
The Rooftop
Summary: You want to kill Frank; Frank wants to kill you. You want to fuck Frank; Frank wants to fuck you.
Pairing: Frank Castle x Reader
Warnings: Smut, Rough Sex, Blood, Mild Breathplay, Mild Painplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Dom Frank Castle
When you stepped onto the rooftop that night, the horizon of New York’s skyscrapers and dazzling night lights served as a grating reminder of the gravity of your choices and the weight of your mistakes.
Borderline black and expansive in the moonlight, you silently acknowledged that the asphalt you drudged your feet upon would either be painted with the sacrifice of your blood or serenaded with items of ripped clothing, courtesy of Frank Castle’s ruthlessness and/or your pent up lust.
As most things are with Frank, your relationship with him could only be described as broken, complicated, and volatile. What began as mutual respect, occasional friendly banter, and silent sexual tension seemed to only fester into something brutal, intense, and devoid of innocence.
As your interactions grew more frequent along with the city’s crime rates, so did your disagreements and violent solutions to them. Each time seemed more barbaric than the last; him breathing heavily against a wall with a gaping knife wound, thanks to your indoctrinated skills with a blade; and you grunting on the ground with several flesh wounds, thanks to his precious M16.
You hated guns, Frank cultivated their power for a living. You liked tequila, he only drank bourbon. You’re fueled by empathy, he’s fueled by rage.
You’re a bitch, he’s a total fucking asshole.
The only thing you and Frank Castle seemed to agree upon was the failure of the law: the corruption of systems and the oppression of society’s most notable institutions. He may be a lot less eloquent than you are, but you imagine these beliefs that the two of you share have always superseded the dislike and argumentative nature of your relationship — professional or otherwise.
Years of knowing the Punisher had led to this moment: the Autumn wind hitting your face, your feet dragging their way across a New York rooftop into the darkest parts of the night. You knew tonight held merit — you’d kill him or he’d kill you; you would ride him on the asphalt or he would fuck you against the nearest billboard.
The situation and its possible outcomes were as black and white as he was. There were no grey areas with the possibility of compromisation. A mutual understanding this was: you both had let the rage between you simmer and now it was time for it to be served.
Knowing Frank Castle was knowing his anger, and when Frank’s anger grew, so did the black of his pupils and the power of his dominating glare. You knew what that look meant, and you knew he would be too stubborn and headstrong to ever act upon the fantasies rolling through his head. His familiarity to pain had merged his lust with his most dominant emotion, and you being you, found great pleasure in exploiting his attempts at keeping his beast at bay.
You’d do anything in the world for Frank Castle to crack — for you to be the one to crack him. To anger him enough that he had no option but to take you where you stood, to fuck some silence and some goddamned sense into you. He never did, after all this time, and you confidently thought he never would, after all this time.
You had put your best bets on the more gruesome outcome for tonight, the one that concluded with bloodshed and pain, rather than moans and pleasure.
“You always scurry around lookin’ like a lost puppy?”
From where you stood, Frank was merely a dark silhouette hidden between the most intimate of shadows. He sauntered towards you casually, his features rough and jagged under a small, blue glare of light. The frown of his lips was perceptible, as was the large purple bruise he wore across his left cheek. You couldn’t remember a time where you’d ever seen Frank without the visible consequences of war.
“You always cower in the dark like a little pervert, Castle?” You tilted your head almost condescendingly, enjoying the huff of hot air that caused his nostrils to flare.
“That mouth shoulda’ killed you by now, sweetheart,” he grinned, expertly cocking the 1911 in his left hand. Ever the egotist and drama queen. “I look forward to makin’ that happen.”
You barked out a laugh that was alarmingly — unnervingl y — loud, letting your brash and impulsive nature drown out any and all of your unease. You gloated to yourself as you noticed Frank momentarily tense at your outburst. “You an’ your empty promises, Frankie. You enjoy threatening women?”
“You ain’t no woman,” he grunted, stepping further into the light. You peered at the spray painted skull across his bulletproof vest, the white almost glowing in the pale moonlight. “You ain’t nothin’ more than some shit on my boot I shoulda’ scraped off a long time ago.”
“Awe, now careful, Frankie,” you breathed, stepping up to him. You both stood a couple of feet away from each other: not quite close, not quite far. “You know I’m into degradation.”
“That right?” His boots echoed against the ground.
“You know it is.” Your fingers caressed the handle of your knife.
“Mhm.” His nose brushed against yours.
Copper with a hint of oak.
That’s what Frank Castle smelled like. His eyes — the richest of browns, dark and passionate. The bruises across his skin violet, a stark contrast to your favourite light coloured lavender flowers.
You silently studied each other, predator examining predator, his hot breath fanning against your hairline and yours barely tickling his chin.
“I’m gonna kill you, Frank,” you spoke softly, like you were sharing a sacred secret with a friend. He was a friend, at one point. You liked thinking that maybe he still was. He was something, he had always been something to you. “I’m killing you.”
“You gonna turn your words into actions, big girl?” His tone was patronizing — you were going to kill him, you were going to brutally kill him. “Or are ya gonna keep talkin’ off that pretty mouth’a yours until I shove a bullet into your skull?"
The pride you held for yourself as your fist collided with the underside of his jaw was something you hoped to still remember as you burned in the fiery pits of hell. The way the Punisher staggered back, his eyebrows raising in shock — at your actions, your fire, your rage. That shit was completely priceless.
He dodged your next three attacks with that irritatingly efficient military precision of his, knocking you onto the ground as he violently kicked his boot into the bone of your ankle. You managed to kick his sidearm away and send him crashing to the ground just as quickly, your reflexes moving you just in time as his fist collided with the asphalt near your head.
You swung around his hunched form and locked your arm around his neck, pressing against his windpipe, your free hand digging into a reopened gash above his left ear. Your knee was held harshly against his spine as you audibly and visibly struggled to keep him low and on the ground.
Before you could hold a secure stance, Frank had risen from the ground with you still clinging to his back. He threw you backwards instantly, your chest and limbs colliding with the ground in a violent welcome back.
You screamed as he crushed your torso against the pavement, hearing one of your ribs strain under the pressure of his weight. Your mind was cloudy as your adrenaline spiked sharply as pain blossomed in your chest cavity. Frank’s grunts were all you could decipher as he held you down by your neck and lower back, pushing and pushing and pushing. You weren’t dying like this, not this quickly.
You hastily grabbed a small blade that was strapped against your thigh and stabbed any part of Frank that you could find. Even through your awkward angle and weakened strength, the blade seared through the skin of his shoulder — giving you the opportunity to burst his ego and escape out from under him expertly.
“That all you fuckin’ got?” You were wheezing and swaying on your feet as your lungs tried to get familiar with the feeling of proper airflow again.
He turned to you and removed the blade from his shoulder, giving you the pleasure of seeing him slightly wince. “You can barely fuckin’ stand, princess.”
Just as he reached for you again, you caught him off guard and punched him straight in the neck, sending him straight back to the ground. Straddling him in the blink of an eye, you pressed your hand against his forehead so he could look at you — really look at you — as you shoved a serrated blade deep into the side of his abdomen.
He moaned in pain as you pushed the knife deeper into his mass and punched his nose for good measure. Your pupils blown wide, splatters of blood on your face, your fingers numb, you sat on his chest and stared in awe as the big, bad Punisher crumpled at the pain you bestowed upon him.
“That feel good, Frankie?” You taunted, giggling manically. His jaw was seething and desperate to be punched again, so you did — did you hear it shift? “Am I making you feel good, baby?”
You knew Frank could handle strenuous amounts of pain compared to what you’d ever be able to give him, but in a self-absorbed way, you liked to think that since this was you making him hurt, you making him bleed, you making him suffer — he was wallowing a lot more than usual.
As you harshly pulled the blade out of his body, desperate to hear him wail, Frank dug his fingertips into the base of your hair, clenched his hand, and shoved you back against the ground next to him.
The way your skull bounced against the concrete wasn’t pleasant. The sounds you made as Frank’s fists collided with your face again and again and again weren’t pleasant. The way your brain screamed at you to beg for his mercy wasn’t pleasant. The feeling of the barrel of his gun pressing against the side of your head wasn’t pleasant.
If Frank was going to murder you, you weren’t going to let him give you the easy way out. You wanted his pain, the excruciating pain he would give you, to be the last thing you felt as you fell off the Earth and settled into your personalized pit of death. You’d reunite with him there, surrounded by fire and heat — you’d be patient, you’d be content, you’d look forward to reminiscing with the Punisher in the place the both of you belonged.
“With your hands,” you begged. You felt blood pool beneath your head as you grasped Frank’s wrist in another plea. “Kill me with your hands, no guns.”
Frank moved the barrel away from your head and rested his arms at his sides slowly. His eyes never left yours but his expression seemed hollow and harsh — a bit unnerving. He licked at his cut lip inelegantly and tried to calm himself. You breathed harshly underneath him and followed the trail of blood from his nose, to his jaw, creeping down his jugular and disappearing into his shirt.
He was mesmerizing.
The Punisher in all his brutal glory.
Then, he grinned.
Frank grinned.
He breathed and inched his face closer to yours , his body moving against yours , perfectly molding against yours . Your breaths mingled: yours sharp and wary, his deep and strained. His lips parted slowly, he licked them again , and then he grinned again .
That’s when you felt him, hard and straining against your stomach. Thick, hard, and big and fucking perfect .
He rutted against you, grunting, just testing the waters.
Fuck.
His nose traced along your jaw, swept over your cheek, your blood collecting on his skin. He rutted against you again, his length pressing into the seam of your jeans and rubbing against your clit.
Oh, fuck.
“Beg,” he commanded, grinding himself against you in a criminally — agonizingly — slow way. You whined, your heart hammering. He smiled, chuckling against your skin. “Beg for me to fuck you, princess. Or beg for me to kill you.”
“Make me,” you challenged, your voice but a mere whisper. “Fuckin’ make me...fucking...make me…”
Whiny.
Bordering on needy.
Only Frank could bring this out in you.
His immediate response to your challenge was shoving his hand out to wrap around your throat, his fingers pressing right against the sensitive spot of your pulse point. That cocky grin of his reappearing, spreading across his lips, twisting his features. Asshole. He’s such an asshole.
You laughed, as best as your lungs permitted you to. “Can’t even fuckin’ choke me good...fuckin’ weak…”
Yeah.
Bitch. You’re such a bitch.
He squeezed harder, his brows furrowing.
You moaned for him, your lips parting.
You felt good . In pain and so fucking good. You were high and relishing in the heat that made your cunt throb , the lack of oxygen that made your cunt wet , and the deadly look in his eyes that made your cunt desperate .
“You like that?”
“Yeah.”
He squeezed harder.
“Beg. Use that big girl voice a’ yours for me, yeah?”
With your vision getting spotty, your heart desperately trying to jump out of your chest, and your cunt viciously pulsing, you had to take a moment to regain your surroundings, your situation.
The situation in which Frank Castle was pinning you against the ground on a rooftop in the middle of the city, pressing his weight onto you as he heaved: bloody and battered, choking you into submission, ripping you of your pride.
It was everything you’d ever wanted.
He loosened his grip on your throat, waiting — patient man. Patient asshole.
“Fuck me, Frank. Fuckin’ fuck me, please, please, please. I need you, so fuckin’ bad...need you to fuck me hard...please…”
“Yeah? You need me that bad, huh?”
You nodded frantically and he hummed, pressing his knee right up against your sex in the most taunting and ruthless way — you wailed and squirmed. He pressed himself against you harder.
“Please, so bad…so fuckin’ bad, Frank...I’ll be good, I’ll be all yours...All fuckin’ yours...”
You were gone. You were so fucking gone.
“You’ve always been mine. I’ve always been what you need, yeah?”
You could only whine in response.
“Yeah, s’right… I know, princess. I fuckin’ know.” He moved his knee away from you, leaving you more needy and wanting than ever. You huffed impatiently, Frank laughed mockingly.
Dickhead.
Tangy, disturbing, and brutal, the taste of Frank’s blood mixing with yours as he crashed his lips to yours and kissed you, no — devoured — you, was as disgusting as it was beautiful.
Your hands trembled as you moved your fingers over his face, tugging and clawing at the ends of his hair. You relished in the way he tensed so beautifully as your nails scraped his scalp, feeling all of him. You quickly changed trajectory and tugged off his vest, then found the hem of his shirt, struggling to swiftly pull it off of him. Frank noticed and helped you rip it to shreds instead.
His hands were frantic as he slid them over any part of you he could touch, massaging and gripping and pinching. Your shirt was gone as quickly as he could get it off, your skin prickling and stinging as it met the cold air. Frank, the asshole , the tease , licked a path from the waistband of your jeans all the way up to your chin.
You groaned and immediately pierced your fingernails into his shoulder blades, causing a cascade of goosebumps to travel across the expanse of his skin.
Your pain and his pain, your pleasure and his pleasure, completely came together into this one colossal moment of pure fucking bliss .
As your mouths moved against one another’s and your hands roamed the plains of each other’s bodies, you became one solid mass of passion, disorder, and desire.
Biting and groping each other; your body aching, your hair bloody and skin bruised; Frank wounded, his skin painted in crimson and in cuts; he suddenly ended it all as he removed his lips from your mouth, sighing, and pressing his forehead firmly to yours.
His eyes shut sternly and he began muttering a plethora of incoherent sentences, huffing breaths of hot air against your face. You tried to even your breathing in response as you pressed your palm tenderly — yes, tenderly — against his cheek.
“Frank?”
His eyes shot open and bore into yours. You swore his irises were black. Completely black.
“...Been wanting you for so long, yeah? Always wanted...Been needin’ you this way for years...Your fuckin’ attitude and your fuckin’ teasin’. You always testing my patience and makin’ me goddamn homicidal—”
“You’re always homicidal, Frankie.”
That earned you a harsh slap against your thigh.
“See? Fuckin’ brat, you are. Always flirting and bein’ a little shit...s’like you were begging me to put you right and all I’ve ever wanted is to take my goddamn dick out and shove it right into your—”
“You gonna turn your words into actions, big boy?” You kissed him and grinned as you pulled away, Frank’s lips leaning back into yours, trying to coax another one out of you. “M’here, needy and under you. Fuckin’ bleeding out and wanting nothing more than your cock, Frank. Fuckin’ do something about it.”
“Yeah...” He harshly palmed at your breast, his eyes never leaving yours as you hissed in pain (fuck you , Frank) and panted in pleasure (fuck me , Frank) . “Fuck...so good...”
It was a pain for the both of you to remove your jeans, especially as yours caught between the chunk of your boots and Frank’s zipper busted and wouldn’t budge. When the hassle of removing clothes was over, he just leaned back on the soles of his feet, groaning and muttering fervently to himself. His wandering eyes raked over your nearly naked form with an almost primal sense of possessiveness and pride.
You lifted your head, groaned, and pressed your fingers along the laceration at the back of your head that continued to ooze blood. You sighed and leaned back into the ground again.
“Can’t believe...was gonna kill you before I could ever fuck you...”
You never realized how rough and calloused Frank’s hands were until he caressed and explored his way down your body. He groaned as he pinched your thighs, causing you to squirm and gasp. His thick fingers pressed into the skin of your love handles, causing you to whimper. He brought his mouth against your belly and began kissing everywhere he could, causing you to sigh.
“You gonna kill me after you fuck me?”
His eyes found yours again as he sucked a trail of love bites up your stomach, all the way to the valley of your breasts. “With that mouth? It’s real likely.”
“I’ll be ready, then.”
“You do that, princess.”
“Shut up.”
“No.”
You hate him. Him and his cocky, expected attitude.
What you didn’t expect, however, was for Frank to — hurriedly and enthusiastically — shuffle his way down your body and press his tongue flat against the underside of your panties.
Shit.
You couldn’t help but cry out — poor, pitiful, completely ruined you — as his tongue circled along your clothed clit and up and down your slit.
“Frank! God...just fuck me already! Oh, fuck,” you whined as you heard the tear of your undergarment and felt the chill, New York air cool your throbbing slit. “Please, Frank...”
“Always wanted to hear you beg,” he panted, licking a clean line up your cunt. You whined and thrashed, he held you down and chuckled. “Yeah, look at you...You’re so fuckin’ messy for me, girl. My needy little...needy little slut, yeah?”
“Oh, fuck you!” You screamed — screamed like a fucking wanton whore (of which you would happily admit you were) — as his tongue entered you and his finger began working your clit. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!”
You were right on the edge and that fucking bastard knew it. Frank Fuckin’ Castle wanted nothing more than to feel you — the bitchy-smart-ass-manically-unstable woman he loved and loathed — to completely come undone all over his goddamn face.
And you did.
Loudly.
In a more conscious light, you’d have been extremely thankful for the loud streets of the city that completely drowned out the cries and the moans and the colourful expletives you were screaming — all thanks to Frank Castle.
You couldn’t even comprehend the feeling of your own body as the white light behind your eyes slowly began to fade. Your heartbeat was violent, your pants loud and heavy. You were sure that you’d just died and resurrected.
For Frank, the feeling of your thighs: thick and trembling and so fucking soft , wrapped around his head was the only place that he would ever willingly lay down his arms and let himself die.
Your taste, your sounds, you — Frank was starving and all he fucking wanted was more, more, more.
“Goddamn, girl...” You felt his fingertips graze your cunt, causing you to squirm and immediately pry your eyes open. “I ain’t never seen something as perfect as the way you cum for me, princess.”
“Frank...”
“God, look at you…” His breaths were as hot and heavy as yours, your slick smeared and shining across his face. “Shoulda’ made you come for me ages ago.”
A devious smile — he’s an ass, remember — ghosted over his lips as he began peppering tiny kisses all over your jaw, his right hand around your throat, holding you still. “Did I break you the way you wanna be broken?”
“Frank...”
“Oh yeah,” he grunted, his fingers pinching your nipples. It felt like he was everywhere and anywhere at once. You cried out for his mercy. He didn’t relent. “I made you all dumb an’ empty now, huh? M’gonna break you all over again.”
“Frank…”
You affirmed to yourself that you had to let Frank Castle completely destroy you in order for you to be put back together again. Perhaps it was the cold air, or the way that you were bleeding out and edging closer to death on a shitty rooftop, or the way that the Punisher had granted you the most intense orgasm of your life — when his cock entered your cunt, you were convinced that you had never been more fulfilled and alive in your entire life.
He filled you and stretched you in the most delicious and agonizing way. It was evil how he fit so fucking perfectly , that a slow, calculated thrust had him immediately reaching your special little sweet spot.
“Fucking fuck,” he panted, his gaze travelling down to the intrusion of his cock entering your cunt. He nearly came right then, feeling your walls pulse and tighten around him.
Art.
That was fucking art .
“Don’t think I’ll be lastin’ so long with the way you’re — fuck — squeezing me so tight...s’like I’m a damn boy again.”
“Yeah? I’m...just that fucking good.”
You cried and moaned and gasped as Frank retaliated with some experimental thrusts, chuckling against your ear and sucking an icy bruise into the skin of your neck.
“There’s that big girl attitude of yours,” he grunted, biting your neck. You whimpered as his teeth sunk and ripped into your skin — he licked the blood away. “That damn mouth...”
As he kissed and licked at you, you were scratching and marking up his chest and stomach. You knew he was enjoying himself, especially as he began grunting and claiming you harder. The both of you — the two lust-blinded psychopaths — had completely forgotten about the gaping knife wound in Frank’s side, even as his blood smeared and gushed across your abdomen.
“Just break me good, Frank.”
That’s when he began rutting into you like a grotesque fucking animal, his hips smacking and shattering against your pelvis. You felt him cup his hand against the back of your head to protect you from the impact of the ground, a contrasting kindness compared to the way he was completely ruining you.
It was all so urgent and necessary. Your ankles pressing into his ass, his right hand gripping your throat, his left holding himself up. The way you two fucked was rough and raw and everything right.
You were happy to relay that mister Frank Castle’s vocabulary was about as colourful as the rest of him.
“‘Fuck yeah. – So tight. – Atta girl. – There ya go. – Mine. – Slut. – Shit, shit, shit...’”
How very Frank.
As you both came; your mind floating through a state of delirium as your heart attempted to burst out of its cage, Frank muttering and panting against the crook of your neck and shoulder — that’s when you heard it.
“Jesus Christ!”
Frank reaching for his gun and the presence of your favourite lawyer in a devil’s costume are the last things you acknowledge — right before you lose consciousness.
2K notes
·
View notes
Photo
YELLOWJACKETS 1.08 | Flight of the Bumblebee
2K notes
·
View notes