「 ☠︎ cryptid ☠︎ 」

skeptical & sexy ☠︎︎ writer for our hot husband The Punisher ☠︎︎ 27 | scorpio | grown up goth girl 18+ only | MDNI *previously cryptidwriterrr*

[hellilovedit]

cryptid’s masterlist🫈

✨ Requests are open for: Frank Castle (The Punisher/Daredevil) and Fox Mulder (The X-Files) for x female reader ✨

Smut requests okay at this time, but NO ANON SMUT REQUESTS.

Find me on AO3!

18+ only, MDNI.

Works:

Marvel:

Frank Castle/The Punisher

Jake Gyllenhaal:

Detective Loki

X-Files:

Agent Fox Mulder

About me: 27, she/her. Writing fanfic when I need a break from my debut novel. Lover of fictional drama, angst, big scary men & their biceps & traumatic backstory, size differences. Also chai tea. Yes. Lots of tea. And chocolate. And did I mention fictional men????

[hellilovedit]

okie guys I go watch back rooms now I’ll see yall later!!

[hellilovedit]

It’s me again! (begging!Frank requester) I’ll sign my reqs with a 🧜🏾‍♀️ if that’s okay! And I will totally be requesting more because you’re incredible! Also: I’m so glad you liked the req so much— you can thank years of maladaptive daydreaming for the creativity hehe. Much love!! xoxo

Anon, absolutely 🩷

So excited to be able to see what you request in the future! I’ve been writing the begging!fic when im supposed to be working while my bosses aren’t looking. It’s gonna be a long one, OOPS!! I’m so excited for a reader that’s reluctant, if you will, and not so easy to forgive and forget. Thank you, wonderful brain and years of maladaptive daydreaming!!!! 😂

[hellilovedit]

ok so I’ve been supes exhausted lately

wrapping up a piece that I’ve been working on for a week or so that’s smut without much plot

then back to our regularly scheduled fics of smut that’s plot based lol

[fixedventilationsystem]

Micro what do YOU mean by that….? 🤨

[hellilovedit]

Omg that was me!! I’m virtually shaking your hand!! I literally cannot wait, I just know you’re gonna feed us and feed us WELL 😝

YOU.

YOU have a brilliant mind and I fw ur request so heavily.

HAND? SHOOK.

Please. Feel free to req more. I get to them all when I can (I typically write longer pieces as you might know)! If you ever wanna lemme know who you are while staying anon, feel free to make reqs with an emoji as ur sign off!!

I’m so excited for this!!

[hellilovedit]

Whoever sent me the wife & begging!Frank req yesterday get ur ass over here I wanna shake ur hand (keeping the req vague bc I need this to be a secret til I finish the fic & there’s only 1 of those reqs so you know who u r im so fucking excited for it)

[hellilovedit]

this might be a hot take but i wish there was more dry humping/ heavy making out then full on smut in the fan fiction world. could you do something like that with frank?? i also love your writing!! 🙂‍↕️🤞🏼💗

Anon—

Yes yes yes yes YES.

I 100% agree with you. The build is what makes it! The tension, the restraint, that push and pull of “do we, don’t we?”

I honestly prefer that over full blown smut because it’s hotter. It’s dramatic, drawn out to feel how hungry reader x Frank get.

I am more than happy to incorporate this in my fics because the slow burn element of it is my absolute favorite.

I thought of this while trying to sleep last night (lmfao) and it put me in the mind of a vanilla!reader x Frank. Not vanilla as in age gap (I personally don’t think Frank be with someone 20 years younger than him, he was a dad after all and would feel like a pervy old man BUT that’s just my personal opinion!! Def not hating or shading anyone that likes it or writes it lol I still read it - plus I keep the reader’s age unspecified in my stuff so it can be whatever the reader wants :) ANYWAY)

Vanilla!Sunshine!Reader as in, hasn’t been with someone like Frank before. Maybe careless partners in the past. But she’s also got a sunshine element to her. Like she’s such a sweet delicacy in Frank’s dark world and he treats her as such.

They take things slow. So fucking slow, so fucking cherished. I have a fic brewing in my head rn for this actually. I hope you like the concept!!! You’re welcome to tell me if you don’t, I only ask we’re all always respectful and kind😇

have a great day anon thanks for the req!! I am hoping I do your suggestion justice! I’ll put vanilla!reader in the tag so you’re aware & link this ask :)

[hellilovedit]

Pretty Little Fingers

Frank Castle x F!Reader

Summary: Frank’s… a little too obsessed with your manicures.

Warnings: explicit smut - freak? matched. lots of dirty talk, fingering (self), oral (m receiving), handy, softdom!Frank but reader lowkey slightly dom too, praise, use of the word “little” (again, Frank’s a massive guy, ain’t about reader), Frank a simp here, idk why but this one spoke to me as Frank being vocal asf lmao, size difference, established relationship. 18+ only, MDNI. reader is always a consenting adult.

W/C: 4.4k

Song rec: Physical by Nine Inch Nails (trust me, listen)

A/N: im so fuckin scared rn guys first time posting smut… thought about this after i got my nails done yesterday and i wish its how my s/o would react but alas i dream. here we go, fam…

please check out a beautiful, not depraved fic by @little-miss-dilf-lover about Frank lovin’ your pedicures (hers came first!) Man Sized Wallet

You and Frank both know what it means when you get a manicure. 

It happened on accident, really, months ago. Just a small observation on your end (or just blatantly obvious on his end). The first time you came home with fresh polish and ridiculously soft hands after having naked nails for so long. His eyes followed them everywhere, a faint crease in his brow, finding every excuse to touch them or watch them or see them put to light work. 

“Sweetheart, you hold this f’me?” he’d ask—the man that’d die before making you hold his shit—and pass off his coffee mug to you. 

“Oh, sure,” you’d happily oblige, but tilt your head with both hands cradling the mug when he brewed more coffee, looking back at your hold on it every other second.

It was like his eyes were magnetized to your hands. Comically so. You’d wipe the counter and his head would ping-pong back-and-forth while he watched.

One night, lying in bed under the soft glow of the lamp, he picked your hand up from the soft circles you traced on his bare chest. He turned your fingers over gently in his, that line present in his brow, manipulating your smaller fingers to see how the gleam of polish caught the light. 

“You keep staring, you know that, right?” you ask, a soft grin curling your lips up. 

“Hm? Mm.” Frank shrugs a shoulder, neither confirming nor denying. Keeps doing his thing, thumb smoothing over your joints to straighten your fingers. “Looks nice,” he finally mumbled, voice graveled with lack of sleep. “Like seein’ you do things f’you.” 

You prop up on an elbow beside him, both of you watching your hand in his. Warmth rushed through you, settling deep in your stomach at the attentiveness of his examination. Your throat slinks a tight swallow. “It’s just polish, Frank…” 

“Helluva thing. Make you feel good, yeah?” 

It’s your turn to shrug. “Yeah, but it’s a luxury, not a necessity.” 

Frank brought your fingers to his mouth, pressed a kiss to every one while looking you in the eye. “Looks real nice. Like when you feel good. Really, uh… like it. The, uh… stuff on ‘em.”

And then you had the bright idea of making him feel good. It ended with your hands around his cock and Frank’s gritted groan as he spilled his load and watched in awe as he coated those nice lookin’ nails. 

After that? Oh my god. Every month. Like clockwork. 

“Almost that time, yeah?”

“Put money in your purse, sweetheart. Dunno how much that shit costs. You tell me if it ain’t enough, hear me?”

“Those?” he’d ask as you show him a picture and bite back a smile. “Yeah. Yeah, those’re real nice, sweetheart. Like those.” 

And after he marvels over the artistry of your nails, you fuck like you’re crazed. Your hands everywhere, your nails where he can see them. Like. Fucking. Clockwork.

So like clockwork, you come home from your appointment, smell coffee, and beeline for the kitchen. 

And there he is. Dressed in all black, looking every bit of Frank, mug lifted to his mouth. The second he sees you? He perks up, eyes dart in a wordless question for the hands you keep buried in your pockets. Just to tease him. 

“Hey, sweetheart. Go all good, huh?” he asks, head shifting to get a glance you don’t allow. 

Purse slung over your shoulder, relishing in the theatrics of the reveal, you tip your chin up and grin the brightest grin known to this man. “Went more than good.” 

“More than good? Alright.” He sets the coffee aside, both hands flat on the countertop to tent the broad line of his shoulders. An intense expectancy to his stare, his head canted. “Gonna show me or what?”

Acting sheepish, you roll forward on your toes. Shrug. Look anywhere but him to get a rouse, busying yourself with setting your purse down, cherry charms clinking.

Baited to the chase, he quirks a brow. Thinks about being an ass about it, but can’t. Not when you’re standing there with a smile so big your face hurts, looking refreshed, adding to the shared energy of anticipation that follows your appointment. Frank submits. Sighs. Gives you a thorough once over—thinking of pouncing or demanding, who knows. Pushes off the counter, corner of his mouth twitching. He waves you on, lumbering closer. “Alright, sweetheart, put ‘em up, yeah, yeah.” 

You raise two fists in front of your face. Your eyes crinkle. You try to look like you’ll fight him, but your grin null and voids that attempt. 

“Yeah, look at that,” Frank eggs, stopping in front of you. His nose twitches, eyes flicking down to your fist before landing back on your eyes. His narrow. Jerks his chin. “Whatchu gonna do with that, huh, mean streak? Punch me with those soft hands?” 

“Pft, I can think of a much better way to use these hands…” but before he can reply, you flash your hands open. 

Stops him cold, getting every bit of attention as you waggle your nails in front of his starved eyes. You bend your fingers, light shimmering the holographic velvet of the cat’s eye effect. 

“How the…?” Micro-movements of his head, hypnotized by the plush three-dimensional polish. A scarred hand slowly lifts, as if you’re fragile, big fingers enveloping your palm to keep your fingers presented. Never a cage; a hold of pure delicacy. 

Your nose crinkles with your grin. “Cool, right? It’s magnetic.” 

“S’… somethin’, alright.” Heat lines his neck, throat tense around a swallow like the sight’s devastating.

You falter at the lack of enthusiasm. “What…? Don’t you like it?” 

Frank breaks from his trance in two blinks, eyes meeting yours between your fingers. “You like ‘em?” 

“I do…” you dip one slow, uncertain nod—uncertain at his behavior. 

“Looks like glass,” he says, lifting your hand above his head, fingers draped over his thumb, definitely confirming it is, in fact, not glass. “This shit safe t’go on your fingers, sweetheart?” 

You roll your eyes, grin softening to a smile. “Is any of it?” You open your mouth to ask—again—what he actually thinks. Because honestly? It does matter to you (never because he made it that way). But he pays for it. He makes it a reoccurring expense like any other bill. Because he wants to. Because he’s giving and kind and generous in quiet ways most people overlook. 

The repetitive question never leaves your tongue and the worry diminishes when Frank presses his thumb in your middle of your hand to manually close your fingers. He draws your hand in. Kisses your knuckles until your shoulders relax. “Real pretty, sweetheart,” he says, a rumble in his chest. “Looks real nice. I give you enough money for alla that?” he asks, brows up to deter any dishonesty. 

“Yup. Even enough for a coffee after,” you’re happy to report, bouncing again on your toes, smile so big it stretches the tendons in your neck. “Thanks, Frankie… really. You don’t have to keep doing this,” you murmur, manicured hands lifting to hold his face. 

“Mm… think I do,” he says, clearly enjoying it as much as you. Both of his hands plant on your hips, fingertips testing the feel of your body. 

A simultaneous draw, you shuffle in closer as Frank guides you in. 

“Have a good day?” gruff when he tries to quiet his voice. 

“Thanks to you,” you murmur, slotting a leg between his to mold your smaller body against the towering brawn of his, take from the warmth radiating off his skin. One hand trickles down his cheek, nails a faint, rasped drag over his stubble, landing the pad of your pointer finger on his lips. “Thank you.” 

His eyes strain for focus, lips parting fractionally to inhale a slow, controlled breath. Trying to mitigate the rush of blood to his dick, subdue the indecent thoughts of your little hands roaming his war-torn body, your nails cutting into his back. 

You slide the other hand to his cock, yet you’re the one hitching a gasp when you feel how heavy it is already, taut against his jeans. His face cements. No play. No teasing. Just that familiar intensity of want, clamping his jaw shut like that’ll save his composure. Shoulders tighten, eyes darken. 

You press harder, shuffling in to lean up on your toes and graze a warm, open-mouthed kiss—if it can be called that—to his jaw, finger pulling his bottom lip down to show teeth. “I said thank you…” you murmur, voice thickening. 

“Heard you the first time,” he mutters, eyes dropping to the hand you grind over his throbbing cock. Instead of rutting against you, he hooks the pad of your finger with his bottom teeth. Scrapes them over the soft skin; an intentional, prolonged rake of teeth to skin, his eyes drinking in the subtle widening of yours. “Sweetheart… don’t gotta. Never gotta. Ain’t why I do that f’you.” 

“I know,” you muse, mesmerized by the glimmer of your nail dragging open the fleshy pink inside of his lower lip. “But I like to. You like it, don’t you, Frankie? Like when I take care of you?” 

His breath stutters on the way out of his nose; a man at the end of his rope and you’re sawing it the rest of the way off. “Ain’t complainin’.” 

“Let me… I want to,” you whisper, kneading at the twitching bulge in his pants. “I wanna taste you. I thought about this the entire time I sat there,” a syrupy confession, one that you feel spasms his dick. “Couldn’t wait to get home to wrap my hands around you like this.” 

Restraint collapsing, Frank yanks you flush to him with a sharp grunt. Hands cinched to your hips, he rolls his into yours. You gasp, Jesus— the zipper of his pants ready to tear under the aggravated pressure of his erection. “See what you fuckin’ do t’me? You feel that? Spent the whole goddamn time sittin’ here tryna be decent.” 

Instinct to climb, to give him a place to bury himself, your leg slides up his hip. 

Instinct to catch, to take the warm slit given to bury himself, he hooks a hand under your knee. 

“And?” you prod, fingernails raking red lines down the sides of his neck. “Did you sit here and be decent?” 

“Got me fuckin’ leakin’,” he growls, head tipping to give you more to claw. “More than fuckin’ decent f’you.” 

Your eyes brighten with his confession, delighted and impish and downright empowered knowing Frank Castle’s at your mercy. You circle your hips against his again, reveling in the trembling, surrendering snarl of diminishing self-control he wears. It’s your goddamn trophy. 

“Let me taste how good you’ve been, hm?” you hum, unraveling your leg to tug his belt free with a fumbling hand. “I wanna see how these nails look on your dick, Frank, right now.” 

“Fuck, sweetheart. Needy, huh? Ain’t even sayin’ please.” 

Cheeks hot, skin an inferno of need, you use both hands, both sets of pretty nails, and rip at his belt so aggressively it actually sways him. 

“Fuckin’ Christ,” he curses, peeling his shirt off one-handed. Throws it aside, belt buckle jingling the preamble to a meticulously reckless fucking, only to grab yours by the hem and free you from it. “Lemme see you, huh? See my pretty girl.” 

Your tits bounce free, cupped by black lace, hair mussed volume around your head and he’s not even started in on you yet. That’s the power of Frank. 

“Get them off,” you demand through the shake of anticipation in your voice. “Pants off—please.” 

He’s on you. And you’re on him. Two feverish bodies clashing in a clink of teeth and moaned lap of tongue. Big hands work your breasts with unapologetic greed. Hours of imagining this very moment. Days of counting down to this animalistic version of him. Weeks of waiting for the next feral post-manicure round (though you definitely fuck between then—plenty). And it never disappoints. Frank never disappoints.  

Lips nipped and sucked swollen, heart vibrating in your throat, you pull back in a breathless recalibration to the mission. “Pants.”

“Yeah,” through the heaving of his chest. “Pants.” But yours come off. One swift haul and a squeal and you’re left in your bra and panties. 

Clothes strewn over the kitchen. The coffee pot gurgles its misery. 

Frank catches you by the wrists. Slaps your hands flat against his chest so he can stare down at that glittering polish, the feminine shape, your lotioned hands while he pops the button of his pants. 

You dig into the dense masses of muscle; your personal scratching post made six-feet tall and over two-hundred pounds of vengeful muscle. 

The zipper screeches down in one motion. The rasp of denim falling, his boxers with it. 

And there—

Here he is, all of him. Bare and exposed, dick out, and it stupefies you for a moment. 

Both of you stand together, you almost naked, Frank completely naked, in your kitchen. Coffee hot on the burner, your hands fragrant of sweet lotion and rejuvenation, and the heady sweat of snapped tension buzzing between you. It’s funny in the best way, because it’s real. It’s imperfectly perfect and you couldn’t be happier. 

Through the haze of lust, you’re… grateful. For Frank. Not the paid manicures or the vicious sex after them, but… him. 

He softens, too. A short break in the urgency. A hand lifts, brushing rough knuckles over the velvet of your cheek… being grateful for you, too, admiring your very existence. “…Love you, sweetheart,” he says, deep in his chest. “Don’t you ever forget that, yeah?” 

Yours swells. “I love you so much, Frank,” whispered honesty. 

Frank Castle’s a good man. 

You’re going to remind him of that. 

And it’s on. 

Your mouth latches to his neck, mashing hot kisses over the fading claw marks, over the hard mound of his throat. Lower, over the leathered scars on his chest. Lower, down the divot of his stomach. You drop to your knees before him—all godly muscularity that’s never asked for your devotion, but you’ve given it willingly. And you’re giving it again, right now, in a position of worship under his cock. Hands—nails—gripping your own thighs as you look up at him. 

It took him a long time to agree to head. He said it didn’t feel fair, didn’t want your mouth or throat hurting, said you don’t gotta do all that, but when you begged for it… fuck, who’s he to say no? 

Thick inches roped up in swollen veins above your spit-glossed lips. The head violently engorged. A smear of pre-cum wetting the slit. 

“See what you do t’me?” he says, reaching down to thumb over the empty pocket of your cheek… a reverent apology for the stretch to come. “Ain’t ever been this fucked f’someone.” 

That…? That says everything. 

It says you’re it. 

Lashes flush to your brows, you look up at him, open your mouth—see his mouth part in mirrored anticipation—and lap a slow, fat lick along the full underside of his dick, flicking the tip of your tongue over the head. 

“Fuck yeah, there you go, baby,” Frank coos, scooping your hair into one fist to hold, bind himself to you. “Spit on it ‘fore you try’n take it, yeah? Don’t hurt yourself.” 

He isn’t even being arrogant. It’s true. A genuine reminder that even on your knees—especially then—he’s looking out for you. Always. 

You roll your tongue over him, both sides, glossing the cords of veins on his shaft. 

He grunts above you, gaze torn between the hands idle on your thighs, your mouth working to fit his size. 

You know what he wants. So you give. Both hands lift, enveloping him from the base, and pump while you swallow his tip in your mouth. The tip is easy, but you’re already full. Big, pleading eyes stare up at him, your jaw dropping to invite more of him, one inch at a time. Each inch splits the corners of your mouth until it stings, hinge of your jaw pried to capacity. He’s clean with a delicious musk, the taste of him eliciting a soft whine on his cock.

“Easy, baby,” he says, the hand with hair following the exploratory pace. “Atta girl, s’my girl, takin’ all that.” Pupils blown black, Frank watches the inches disappear—in the hot saturation of your mouth, under the soft skin of your hands. “Nails look so fuckin’ pretty ‘round my cock, sweetheart. Look fuckin’ beautiful f’me like this.” 

He reaches his free hand down. Strokes his thumb over the bulge in your cheek, a craving praise laden in his touch, feeling himself in you through the thin skin. 

The lace between your legs is soaked. Painfully so. You know you’re swollen, muscles opening to welcome what’s buried in your mouth. 

There’s nothing you can do—no extra room—except choke his cock down until your eyes water and your jaw burns. 

“Fuck, princess, yeah,” Frank grits between his teeth, eyes wild as he devours the sight of your pretty hands wrapped around what you can’t swallow to pump him into your mouth. A groan—the ragged sound of defeat—tears from his throat as he watches a thick strip of spit spill down your chin. “Yeah, fuck, keep goin’ baby. So fuckin’ good f’me, huh? Puttin’ those pretty little hands t’work. That pretty little mouth sore yet?” 

You hum adamant protest on his cock, eyes pleading innocence despite the veined rod you drive against the back of your throat. 

That jerks his shoulders, reactionary restraint so he doesn’t slam himself down your esophagus. 

“Use those pretty fingers I paid f’,” he pants, nostrils flaring as his balls tighten. “‘N make yourself feel good ‘til I can, baby. C’mon. Lemme see it. Lemme see you feel good ‘til I can take care ‘a you.” 

You whine on his dick at the promise and feel the twitch of it in your mouth. You’re unraveling him. Frank Castle—any man’s executioner and you’re on your knees for him. And you obey. You slide one hand up your thigh and push just one teasing finger into your panties between your swollen folds. Slick coats it, so fucking sensitive your pace shudders. “Mmmm,”  you moan, drawing back on his length to smear sloppy, open-mouthed kisses on his tip you never let leave your mouth while you skim circles on your hyperactive clit, your legs jolting. 

One hand jerking him, one teasing your cunt, mouth red as you suck. 

“Lemme see,” he demands, thighs knotted. “Need t’ see how wet you are, sweetheart.” 

In a shiver of loss, you withdraw your hand. Lift it up to show him the creamy strings hanging between your fingers. 

“Fuck— give it here—” Bending as best he can, your lips suctioned around him, he seizes that wrist. Gently. A gentle catch, bringing your slick-covered fingers to his mouth to lick them clean on a flat tongue. 

The nail polish sparkles like sin. 

Salty, sweet, tasting like his fuckin’ girl, an appetizer to the feast he’s gonna have between your legs later. “Mm, yeah, baby, taste like a fuckin’ angel.” 

He releases your hand back to you. Licks his tongue over his bottom lip to collect anything he can, keep the musk of you imbedded in his tastebuds. “Back in.” 

Clean fingers make their way back, cunt pouring heat on your skin before you even touch. Sweat clings strands of hair to your face. The pace you set on his cock—a steady, eager dive—pops on your lips. You push a finger back in, curling a frantic swipe at your insides. Heat torches every nerve. From the fire of your cheeks, to the pool you drip onto your hand, to Frank’s husky octave, you’re getting there. So fucking close. 

“Shit, baby, look so fuckin’ good like that. Dick stretchin’ those perfect lips, hand down in the mess I made without even touchin’ you.” The deep ridges of his stomach contract, jaw grinding hard. Closer. You’re sucking and stroking him closer while you put on a show. “Put another finger in, sweetheart,” but it’s a demand. A ruined, rasped demand. “Gotta work yourself open, baby—my fingers ain’t so little.” 

God—you know. You know how little his fingers aren’t, how you can be split open and crying by his hands alone. Those hands have the power to convulse your legs, fuck back when you ride his fingers and press your knees to your shoulders to pound you senseless. You’re a good girl. So you listen. Pacifying yourself with his cock, you stuff it deeper as you sit down on two fingers. You moan around his dick, kneeling on the pedestal of your own hand. 

Frank throws his head back with a groan, thick neck exposed, eyes soldered to yours. Can’t miss a second, can’t blink. “Atta girl,” Frank praises, beautifully broken. “That’s m’good fuckin’ girl.”

Spongey walls clamp your two pretty little fingers, pulsing a plea for something bigger. Your jaw begs to be empty. Your pussy begs to be full. 

“Almost there, baby,” he wipes his thumb under your chin. Breaks the track of spit. His hand tightens in your hair, forearm swollen with reined impulse as you bob an obscene, dripping mess on his cock like it’s fuckin’ deification. 

“Where you want it, huh? In that mouth?” His stomach shudders back, an instinctual pull so he doesn’t spear your throat with his cock; his body breaking under your mouth, your hands. 

Jaw overstretched, hinges aching, you unlatch from his dick to beg. You pump him in one hand, fuck yourself with the other. “Fucking coat me, Frankie, please. All over. I’m gonna- I’m gonna cum soon, so fucking soon. I’m gonna cum for you.” 

His face twitches—something so amazed it’s a form of pain. It’s too much. It’s fuckin’ everything. The harsh shlick shlick shlick as you plunge into your cunt. Smells like bliss: spit, sweat, sex, coffee. Your little hand squelching over his drenched cock, the head chiseled purple. 

You can’t even imagine how it would feel right now, how defined the tip is, how you know it would scoop you out with each push and pull. It festers heat in your stomach, a tremble in your walls that clench to milk the cock it doesn’t have. 

“I need to taste you, please. Please. Please I’m so close, Frank. Right here, Frank, right here,” and you open your mouth under his tip, tongue stuck out so he can facet his load into you.  

Frank slaps his hand over yours. Pumps harder with you. Faster. Fuckin’ desperate while he watches you curl two fingers into yourself. Watches you come apart while you cry to be threaded in his load. “C’mon, baby,” he snarls out. “Cum, baby. Do it jus’ like Frankie would. Do it f’me, goddamn it, fuck yeah—”

At the tipping point of his orgasm, you combust first.

“There she is, fuck—“

“Gonna cum, sweetheart, Jesus fuckin’ Christ—”

A vulgar euphoria, your eyes convulse and roll back. Your knees—spread wide—quake under your own weight. Dizzy, hungry, tongue out as Frank spurts off and into your gaping mouth. 

“Fuck yes, Frank—” you cry out as you’re riding the high, thick white ribbons of salt coating your tongue as you both fuck him off. But you close your mouth, angling your hand down as it stutters and as Frank ruts himself to deliverance, painting his cum over your tits with a guttural plea of your name. 

This is what you begged for. 

Coated in his load. Mouth, chin. Neck, breasts. Mouth sore, hands aching… beautifully, blissfully ruined. 

You both slow. Surfacing again after drowning each other. Bodies slack in a sheen of sweat. 

You almost topple back thanks to useless muscles, but Frank’s there. 

Isn’t he always?

He hooks a hand under your arm so you never hit the floor. “Easy, baby, easy. You alright? You good, huh?” Already pulling you to your feet, both big hands under your arms to carry every ounce of your weight like it’s nothing. 

Even though he’s spent and shaking, you’re his only priority. He gets you standing up… mostly straight. 

Your head lolls, smile lopsided, goofy as hell, idyllic, you sway on your own two feet with a quiet giggle. “…Whoa.” 

He huffs, near a chuckle. “Alright. Breathe now, baby, hm? You’re alright, pretty girl. Lemme look at you.” 

An exaltation dedicated to you, only you, Frank inspects you. A massive hand splays across your back, that one hand acting as your spine, while he cleans you with the other. Brushes all the sweaty strands of your hair back. Snags the dish towel to clean your chin, neck, chest. “There we go,” he says, all gentle praise and hoarse admiration. “Clean you up, hm? Feelin’ okay, sweetheart?” He gathers your hands one at a time, cleaning those off, too. Tosses it aside when he’s satisfied that you’re dry. 

“Mmhmmm,” you nod fervid reassurance, bubbling a laugh. “You think I can start getting my nails done twice a month instead of once?” you tease, melting forward into him, your slack arms draped over his sweat-sticky shoulders. 

His chuckle rumbles from his chest into yours. He scoops you up with one arm, forearm a sitting bar under your ass. You dangle there, a mushy puddle of satiation, limp and trusting against him. “Think I could swing that,” he says, honest, but you both know it’s only a joke. “Sure you’re alright?” he tucks his chin to look down at you, your cheek smooshed to his shoulder. “Hurtin’?” he asks, touching your temple, smoothing his thumb over your cheek like he can soothe the ache he knows is there. 

“Mmm, no,” you report, lacing your ankles behind his back to nestle in closer. “‘M okay, promise.” 

“Alright, alright. Get you one ‘a those nasty gas-station cherry-limeade slushies you like when ‘m done with you, hm? Help soothe that mouth.” 

That seems to revive you. You sit up, at his eye-level, blink all bright-eyed and bushy tailed. “Really?…………Today’s awesome.” 

Frank huffs another chuckle, patting your ass. “Ain’t done with you yet, princess. Gotta sit you on this dick first, yeah?” 

Frank swats your ass just enough to make you yelp, that yelp turning into a fit of laughter as he stalks towards the bedroom.   

The two of you were too invested in each other to notice one crucial detail, though. 

The window. 

Open. Blinds, glass, the whole bit. 

So when the elderly neighbor across the alley catches the last glimpse of Frank’s bare ass walking you down the hall from the window, she faints. 

But hey, you got your nails done, got an insane pounding, and your diabetes-inducing slushie. 

Today…? 

Today was fucking awesome. 

You can’t wait for the next manicure. 

content is mine, always without the use of AI. do not share or repost on any other site without consent of the author (hi, me). characters are not mine.

this is not a place for anyone under 18.

please consider reblogging to help this reach more people! comments are massively appreciated! if you’re not comfortable commenting publicly, consider sending an anon ask! Just be kind 🩷🩷🩷 THANK YOU!

divider cred!!! @/pixopix

Tags (tag list open, only for 18+ users): @emma-frxst @jakegyllenhaalscharacters @tigerf-cker @harbouredsoulss @gingin3-blog @notimminent @yesshewrites1 @saintcastiglione

[hellilovedit]

Sinner, Saint

Husband!Frank Castle x Wife!Reader

Summary: Your touch is Frank’s salvation. 

Warnings: idk what to categorize this as, massage (m receiving), religious metaphors, love worship. 18+ only, MDNI, reader always a consenting adult. not proofread. tag list open.

W/C: 1.2k 

Song rec: Keep The Wolves Away by Uncle Lucius 

see the request for this fic here

You’re well aware of the physical sacrifices Frank makes for you. You see the toll in every part of his body. 

His eyes—crinkled weary, a little glassy by the time he gets home, but coming through the door and seeing you? God, how you resurrect something in him. 

His hands—calluses gnawed to oozing blisters. 

His hair—sweat-logged curls dumped over his forehead. 

His shoulders—a tight, indomitable ledge. But is it the fact he’s an element of his own making, or sheer exhaustion at the order of another man? 

Back—he groans every time it hits the mattress, spine prodded instead of cradled. 

Face—lines covered in grime, tacked with bits of debris. 

He comes home looking like a worn, fulfilled prophecy more than a man. 

A discharged apostle of his own mission. 

Tonight’s one of those nights where it hits you a little harder, though, because it’s hitting him harder. 

The bedroom’s quiet, a sanctuary you’ve both committed to sleep and sex and soft interactions; your mutual creed. Whatever happens beyond these four walls is a problem for another time, but never your time in here with him. As you collect a bottle of massage oil from the nightstand, knelt at the head of the bed behind him, you study him. 

The mattress at the end of the bed bows under his weight. Lamplight colors the chiseled mass of his back gold, the longer curls at the back of his head rich chocolate. There’s a heaviness in the stiff line of his shoulders, the grunted stretch of his neck that only coils the knots tighter. Your husband, the marine, The Punisher, your Frankie, and now… the guy with a sledgehammer knocking down concrete walls on construction sites for ten hours per day. Bare chest, ash black sweats banded to show the cratered dimples on his lower back. 

His body is a cathedral of grief, of biblical wrath. Leathered scars shine a muted pink, others gnarled grey like the blood never quite returned to color him in. Each one a testament to how man tried to rip him apart, but his body sewed itself shut.  

Maybe life just took pieces; punched holes. 

Crickets chirp muffled lullabies beyond the windows. Wind whistles around the house, but never makes its way in. Frank’s made sure the outside world can’t touch you. Not even the breeze. 

The bed creaks as you crawl on your knees to him, bottle in tow for your rites. 

Blindly reaching back for you, his hand catches the silk of your outer thigh as you settle in behind him, tall on your knees, parted to accommodate his physique. The white cotton of your nightgown skirts your upper thighs, rasps the dried out blisters on Frank’s fingers when he brushes the fabric, your skin. He radiates shower-warm skin and cedarwood; everything about him an invitation made just for you. His scent, his heat, all he has to offer, it’s yours. 

“Shoulders and neck?” you ask below a whisper.

“Yeah,” Frank murmurs, hushed gravel he’s never able to quiet. “Usual spots.” Thumb stroking arcs over your thigh, Frank twists back to look at you. Beautiful wife of his. His salvation. One glance and he’s reminded in an instant why he traded it all in. The blood, the vengeance. Retired the responsibility of balancing the justice scales and vowed to fight for you instead. Worth every second. “Really don’t gotta, sweetheart. Ain’t tryna put you out.” 

“You’re not putting me out any.” For good measure of reassurance, you bend forward and stamp a slow, lingering kiss to his bearded cheek. The kiss a promise to use your two hands to mend; an unending appreciation for the labor he exerts, the way he traded a mission for a hammer and let his family rest without ever being forgotten. “Relax, Frankie, I’ve got you, big guy,” quiet affection, but actions speak louder than words. 

The cap clicks open. You drizzle a pool of oil in your hand and warm it between your palms. And when you touch him—warm, slick hands on the knotted plane of his sculpted shoulders—he sighs. 

You haven’t even started yet. Your touch alone unthreads the hooks in his back, weakens the gritty scar tissue glued together and tweaked muscles and permanent nerve damage. 

You roll your thumbs into the mound of his traps, pushing through sinewy flesh and tangled ligaments. 

It frees another sigh from him—a sort of purification in your fingers—and his head hangs forward in a prayer he’s long forgotten how to speak. 

Your thumbs circle the knots as you would counting rosary beads. The reverence flutters your own eyes closed, lost in sensation of feeling him contract and surrender in your hold. 

You work him open and undo the snarls he’s been left in. 

Frank squeezes and smoothes your leg as though you’re the incarnation of divinity. 

Thumbs push up the back of his neck, following the rigid line of vertebrae. As you swirl your thumbs under the curve of his skull, you wonder if he was made in some god’s image. 

And then you drag down his neck, pulling the tension free.  

“Fuckin’ Christ…” he breathes without meaning to. 

You hum satisfaction. If only he knew what you’re thinking. 

In wide arcs, you follow the cut of his shoulder blades. Massive wings of bone beneath his skin, something holy about how he’s built in the image of mythology text.

He holds the backs of both of your thighs now, big fingertips slipped under your gown and impressing your skin. 

You’re his purity in a world of lawless sin.  

“You’re a goddamn saint, hm?” Frank rasps. 

“Oh yeah?” you hum, pretending to consider. “Then where is my statue?” 

But he has self-made a pedestal for you and it’s where you stand with him every damn day.

By the minute, by the muscle, Frank loosens, ceding his power to you instead.  

Your hands slant down his back to cradle his sides, fingers sprawling beside his pecs, over the valley of brawn lining his ribs. 

Society wanted to crucify him. 

You torched their stakes.

His head tips back in degrees, exposing the thick column of his throat. A vulnerable exhibit, giving you his windpipe, his jugulars, his pulse. 

You lift higher on your knees, anointing and holding a kiss to his forehead as your hands practice worship. 

As you restore his flesh in devout silence, Frank falls back into you. A rare latency to his body, simply existing as you unfasten his aches and tribulations. 

Night grows longer. 

You absorb minuscule cramps in your fingers, having willingly assimilated some of Frank’s pain. 

He’s pliant now, the wring of his muscularity satiated by your touch. 

You ease him fully onto the bed with you. He follows without protest, has faith in your direction; your heart. You won’t lead him to temptation, but to mercy. 

At the altar of you, at your thighs, he lays his head. You thread your fingers through his hair, silky waves separated through each finger. 

And he sleeps. 

Amen. 

content is mine, always without the use of AI. do not share or repost on any other site without consent of the author (hi, me). characters are not mine.

this is not a place for anyone under 18.

divider credit: @pixopix

please consider reblogging to help this reach more people! comments are massively appreciated! if you’re not comfortable commenting publicly, consider sending an anon ask! 🩷🩷🩷 THANK YOU!

Tags (tag list open, only for 18+ users): @emma-frxst @jakegyllenhaalscharacters @tigerf-cker @harbouredsoulss @gingin3-blog @notimminent @yesshewrites1 @saintcastiglione

[hellilovedit]

me with the reqs yall sending in so fuckin juicy i love the fictional drama got me fuckin barkin over here

[hellilovedit]

ok send me smut reqs

no fauxc*st, no r*pe, no bodily fluids that ain’t normal (period is ok!!), everyone’s always 18+, nothin sick, i think u get it

if i ain’t comfortable i won’t write it

please send reqs without being anon & age in bio !!

[hellilovedit]

Color Tag Game!

tagged by @finco99 ! 🩷 my Pinterest was shockingly forgiving??? wow it makes me seem so delicate lmfaooo also the smoking sniper bit is sooo fucking true

Go on pinterest and type in the prompts down below. Whatever image pops up first is your image.

Prompts: Color, quote, character, hobby, accessory, song lyrics, flower.

Tag, you’re it! ✨ @peacefulwriter88 @emma-frxst @jakegyllenhaalscharacters @saintcastiglione @lottie-sweetheart @sunflowersandsapphires

[pink-disco-bears]

Gladiator!frank castle/Princess!reader

Frank was a disgusting creature to all of Rome despite how loud they cheered for him. He caked his skin in blood and tore his hands through flesh without a second thought. He was like the very lions he was instructed to kill in his first days of being one of Athen's gladiators. He bared his teeth rage incarnate and spared not a single thought before ripping men's throats out.

However, to you, he was a novelty. You were taken from the moment you saw him enter the arena, sitting in the emperor's box beside your father, comfortable and perched like a finely plucked dove while Frank circled the dirt-caked arena like a vicious predator waiting to sink its teeth into any unsuspecting animal. Your chest warmed with an unfamiliar feeling that made you sure that you needed him.

…however you couldn’t bring up such a desire to your father, less he accelerate the time in which your to be wed. He had given you one year of freedom before being carted off to be a bride of a senator—you had no qualms before stepping into that arena, but leaving it you only had the desire for one person whom you hadn’t even spoken to.

But you weren’t a fool, you knew exactly what to say to be allowed to see them: “Father,” you’d say as you turnt to the man perched high in his emperor seat, “since your betting so much on that gladiator’s shoulders, may I visit him?”

Your father puffed out with pride at your display of loyalty to himself, spoken just loud enough for the senators and other nobility go hear and nod approvingly. He gave you a nod and sent you on your way with two gold coins pressed into your palm.

You bounded down to the market place on the first floor, bought the most delicious food and luxurious wine you could find, and raced to the stairs bellow the arena. You were suddenly greatful for your father flaunting you around in paraded prior to the games, as even thd guards in the dark chambers bellow the earth bowed their head and stepped aside.

“I’m here to see the champion,” you said, regarding the two men with nervous eyes (considering you could hear the pained grunts, shouting, and curses being spewed from the cages beyond the entrance). The two men directed you and watched you toddle further in like a dumb sheep into a wolves den.

You found Frank at the end of the hall, and you just stared. He sat on his cot without much other than a loincloth. His body was a statuesque figure of copper, scarred and beaten, but nonetheless beautiful. You lost all your words as you stood there, holding your gifts while you stared blankly at him...as if he was a god you were unsure you could worship.

“Um,” you managed softly as you stood in front of Frank’s enclosed barrack, trapped in steel and only allowed to train. He didn't look at you, so you stepped forward and pushed your gifts between the bars and set them on the floor. "Well wishes," you said.

"From who?" He grunted.

“From the emperor…” you answered hesitantly.

“You the emperor?” He scoffed sarcastically. “Who the hell are you?” He asked, turning to look at you with those dark, calculating eyes that aided in ripping the flesh from his enemies’ bones.

“Princess,” you answered.

“Ah…princess,” he hummed. “Let me tell you something, princess”—he stood up, towering over you as he approached the bars of his cage—“you take back your gifts and give em back to that daddy of yours that bought them.”

“I bought them—!” You protested as he tossed him back through the bars.

“With whose money?” He hummed, and you shut your mouth.

“And if I come back with gifts of my own money?”

“Don’t think princesses like you know how to make your own money,” he huffed, slinking back over to his cot and plopping down. He spoke without fear of the very real consequences you could enact on him for disregarding your rank…but that just made you even more taken with him.

Just a few weeks later, you found yourself face to face with the goliath of a man that was Frank. This time, there were no bars, no dim torch lights, just you, Frank, and the entirety of the noble class around you. It was a banquet to celebrate Frank's most recent victory that scored elites and everyone who betted for him a lot of money.

Of course, that didn't mean Frank was free to socialize. No, instead he was chained to the floor and left as a spectacle as the socalizing happened around him.

As for you, you were sat beside your father, sipping on wine as suitors attempted to capture your interest. You mimicked the action of paying attention, but in reality, your attention kept teetering over to Frank--stone faced and jaw set. After hours, the party began wrapping up and the guards grabbed Frank, unfastening him to drag him back to his cell under the city.

"Excuse me," you said softly, grabbing the wine skin you had kept beside you all evening, nodding to your father as you left. He paid you little mind. You scurried after the guards leading Frank away, following them out to the courtyard before making your presence known. “Pardon me,” you called out to the guards, who paused and visibly tensed as they saw you.

“Princess,” they dropped to a kneel before you dismissed them with a wave of your hand.

“No need for that, I need a moment alone with this gladiator to present some gifts from the emperor,” you lied easily, smiling politely as the guards fastened Frank’s chains to sizable stone you were sure he could move if he wished to. You watched the guards scurry behind the courtyard walls—giving you privacy to bestow the “emperor’s” gifts to the prized gladiator. You looked to Frank, taking in his hulking form before sitting down in the dirt path, setting the two cups in front of you. “Drink with me?”

“Whose wine is this?” He hummed, dropping gracelessly to the ground in front of you.

“If you mean whose money bought it, then mine. If you mean whose hand made it, a sweet woman from the marketplace.” You tipped the wine skin, filling his cup before moving to yours.

Frank grunted before grabbing the cup and downing the drink in nearly one gulp—the red liquid dripping down his chin as if he had never been taught manners…but perhaps he hadn’t, so you made no comment as you sipped on your drink. “More?”

“Up to you,” he huffed, his eyes finding great interest in the flowers. You just hummed and filled the cup once more.

“Do you enjoy being a gladiator?”

“No,” he said without hesitation. You were surprised for a moment—assuming the bloodshed was perfect for a man you had believed reveled in it. Your shock must’ve played on your face because Frank sat taut, jaw set and eyes narrowed. “You think I enjoy killing?”

“I never said—“

“Shut up,” he said and your lips clamped shut—despite the fact that you could get him executed for such disrespect. Your head hung, ashamed over your belief, as you slowly sipped in your drink. He finished his quickly in the silence, and you moved to refill his cup. “I wasn’t born here,” he grunted without prompt. You looked up at him as his cup filled with the red blood of the grapes. “I was born up north, lived in a village with my wife and children—before your people killed them and took me for entertainment.” Your mouth went dry and the blood pumping through your ears went cold. “My physique was the only reason they kept me alive—to train me to become an object of enjoyment and violence.”

You knew the question before it tumbled from his lips: “So, are you cut from the same cloth—why do you bring these gifts to me?”

You had no suitable answer for him as you left the garden, abandoning the half-full wineskin at his knees. His eyes, set with cold understanding of his situation and standing, haunted your shoulders as you walked back to join your father at the table and engage in festivities. You knew the answer, and you could've simply said it:

"I desire you--I find you facisnating."

And you would've been just like your father and the people who enslaved him and killed his village. You suddenly found yourself staring at the crimson reflection of yourself in your goblet, identifying the woman looking back as the most disgusting creature in all of Rome.

[hellilovedit]

Ok oh my god I NEED more of this!!! I’m BEYOND obsessed with this AU!!!

Your dialogue is so fit for the genre/time, I felt so immersed in the story. I also appreciate how you didn’t make Frank fall for princess right away, that’s so true to his character.

Pelase please please tag me, if it’s no trouble, if/when you post more of this! It’s fantastic!!

[hellilovedit]

If u looking for a fluffy fic for some relief I have a suggestion, but I'm sure u have many already so feel free to leave it if not. HusbandFrank coming home from the site, neck and shoulders aching from the workout of thumping concrete all day, and WifeyReader gets him to sit down and gives him a shoulder massage. Nothing particularly sexy (tho he loves ur hands on him of course) but it's about giving him comfort, affection and no expectation for anything other than his wellbeing in ur hands - could end with his head dozing in ur lap like a big cat 😺

Anon…

The way I took this fic and turned it into a sermon of love….? LMAO. Now I know this ain’t what you had in mind but clearly I had shit to get off my mind 😂😂😂 I had a lot of fun with this honestly. Thank you SO MUCH for your req!!! It got me the right boost of creativity I needed!!

I hope you enjoy worshipping our husband!Frank Castle here!! Click the rosary for your fic

📿

[hellilovedit]

Sinner, Saint

Husband!Frank Castle x Wife!Reader

Summary: Your touch is Frank’s salvation. 

Warnings: idk what to categorize this as, massage (m receiving), religious metaphors, love worship. 18+ only, MDNI, reader always a consenting adult. not proofread. tag list open.

W/C: 1.2k 

Song rec: Keep The Wolves Away by Uncle Lucius 

see the request for this fic here

You’re well aware of the physical sacrifices Frank makes for you. You see the toll in every part of his body. 

His eyes—crinkled weary, a little glassy by the time he gets home, but coming through the door and seeing you? God, how you resurrect something in him. 

His hands—calluses gnawed to oozing blisters. 

His hair—sweat-logged curls dumped over his forehead. 

His shoulders—a tight, indomitable ledge. But is it the fact he’s an element of his own making, or sheer exhaustion at the order of another man? 

Back—he groans every time it hits the mattress, spine prodded instead of cradled. 

Face—lines covered in grime, tacked with bits of debris. 

He comes home looking like a worn, fulfilled prophecy more than a man. 

A discharged apostle of his own mission. 

Tonight’s one of those nights where it hits you a little harder, though, because it’s hitting him harder. 

The bedroom’s quiet, a sanctuary you’ve both committed to sleep and sex and soft interactions; your mutual creed. Whatever happens beyond these four walls is a problem for another time, but never your time in here with him. As you collect a bottle of massage oil from the nightstand, knelt at the head of the bed behind him, you study him. 

The mattress at the end of the bed bows under his weight. Lamplight colors the chiseled mass of his back gold, the longer curls at the back of his head rich chocolate. There’s a heaviness in the stiff line of his shoulders, the grunted stretch of his neck that only coils the knots tighter. Your husband, the marine, The Punisher, your Frankie, and now… the guy with a sledgehammer knocking down concrete walls on construction sites for ten hours per day. Bare chest, ash black sweats banded to show the cratered dimples on his lower back. 

His body is a cathedral of grief, of biblical wrath. Leathered scars shine a muted pink, others gnarled grey like the blood never quite returned to color him in. Each one a testament to how man tried to rip him apart, but his body sewed itself shut.  

Maybe life just took pieces; punched holes. 

Crickets chirp muffled lullabies beyond the windows. Wind whistles around the house, but never makes its way in. Frank’s made sure the outside world can’t touch you. Not even the breeze. 

The bed creaks as you crawl on your knees to him, bottle in tow for your rites. 

Blindly reaching back for you, his hand catches the silk of your outer thigh as you settle in behind him, tall on your knees, parted to accommodate his physique. The white cotton of your nightgown skirts your upper thighs, rasps the dried out blisters on Frank’s fingers when he brushes the fabric, your skin. He radiates shower-warm skin and cedarwood; everything about him an invitation made just for you. His scent, his heat, all he has to offer, it’s yours. 

“Shoulders and neck?” you ask below a whisper.

“Yeah,” Frank murmurs, hushed gravel he’s never able to quiet. “Usual spots.” Thumb stroking arcs over your thigh, Frank twists back to look at you. Beautiful wife of his. His salvation. One glance and he’s reminded in an instant why he traded it all in. The blood, the vengeance. Retired the responsibility of balancing the justice scales and vowed to fight for you instead. Worth every second. “Really don’t gotta, sweetheart. Ain’t tryna put you out.” 

“You’re not putting me out any.” For good measure of reassurance, you bend forward and stamp a slow, lingering kiss to his bearded cheek. The kiss a promise to use your two hands to mend; an unending appreciation for the labor he exerts, the way he traded a mission for a hammer and let his family rest without ever being forgotten. “Relax, Frankie, I’ve got you, big guy,” quiet affection, but actions speak louder than words. 

The cap clicks open. You drizzle a pool of oil in your hand and warm it between your palms. And when you touch him—warm, slick hands on the knotted plane of his sculpted shoulders—he sighs. 

You haven’t even started yet. Your touch alone unthreads the hooks in his back, weakens the gritty scar tissue glued together and tweaked muscles and permanent nerve damage. 

You roll your thumbs into the mound of his traps, pushing through sinewy flesh and tangled ligaments. 

It frees another sigh from him—a sort of purification in your fingers—and his head hangs forward in a prayer he’s long forgotten how to speak. 

Your thumbs circle the knots as you would counting rosary beads. The reverence flutters your own eyes closed, lost in sensation of feeling him contract and surrender in your hold. 

You work him open and undo the snarls he’s been left in. 

Frank squeezes and smoothes your leg as though you’re the incarnation of divinity. 

Thumbs push up the back of his neck, following the rigid line of vertebrae. As you swirl your thumbs under the curve of his skull, you wonder if he was made in some god’s image. 

And then you drag down his neck, pulling the tension free.  

“Fuckin’ Christ…” he breathes without meaning to. 

You hum satisfaction. If only he knew what you’re thinking. 

In wide arcs, you follow the cut of his shoulder blades. Massive wings of bone beneath his skin, something holy about how he’s built in the image of mythology text.

He holds the backs of both of your thighs now, big fingertips slipped under your gown and impressing your skin. 

You’re his purity in a world of lawless sin.  

“You’re a goddamn saint, hm?” Frank rasps. 

“Oh yeah?” you hum, pretending to consider. “Then where is my statue?” 

But he has self-made a pedestal for you and it’s where you stand with him every damn day.

By the minute, by the muscle, Frank loosens, ceding his power to you instead.  

Your hands slant down his back to cradle his sides, fingers sprawling beside his pecs, over the valley of brawn lining his ribs. 

Society wanted to crucify him. 

You torched their stakes.

His head tips back in degrees, exposing the thick column of his throat. A vulnerable exhibit, giving you his windpipe, his jugulars, his pulse. 

You lift higher on your knees, anointing and holding a kiss to his forehead as your hands practice worship. 

As you restore his flesh in devout silence, Frank falls back into you. A rare latency to his body, simply existing as you unfasten his aches and tribulations. 

Night grows longer. 

You absorb minuscule cramps in your fingers, having willingly assimilated some of Frank’s pain. 

He’s pliant now, the wring of his muscularity satiated by your touch. 

You ease him fully onto the bed with you. He follows without protest, has faith in your direction; your heart. You won’t lead him to temptation, but to mercy. 

At the altar of you, at your thighs, he lays his head. You thread your fingers through his hair, silky waves separated through each finger. 

And he sleeps. 

Amen. 

content is mine, always without the use of AI. do not share or repost on any other site without consent of the author (hi, me). characters are not mine.

this is not a place for anyone under 18.

divider credit: @pixopix

please consider reblogging to help this reach more people! comments are massively appreciated! if you’re not comfortable commenting publicly, consider sending an anon ask! 🩷🩷🩷 THANK YOU!

Tags (tag list open, only for 18+ users): @emma-frxst @jakegyllenhaalscharacters @tigerf-cker @harbouredsoulss @gingin3-blog @notimminent @yesshewrites1 @saintcastiglione

[darlingshane]

my boyfriend's back and you're gonna be in trouble...