Schlangenring

• 24y • autistic girl • she/her

[sounddesignerjeans-deactivated2]

I wish kinky sex ed wasn't so stigmatized even among left-leaning "sex positive" circles. Everyone's all "uwu I'm a sub I'll do anything you ask" okay mommy wants you to read The New Bottoming Book so you learn how to sub without hurting yourself since your sex ed up to this point is porn and your ex boyfriend Jared who liked to choke you incorrectly

[sounddesignerjeans-deactivated2]

I’m so glad you asked! Let me list off what I’ve got for you:

Books I personally recommend:

- The New Topping Book and The New Bottoming Book, by Dossie Easton and Janet W. Hardy

If you’re having kinky sex at all, you need to read at least one of these two books. Point blank. They’ll teach you the very basics of negotiating properly (which is critical!), and help you identify what you are and aren’t into.

- Mindfucking Mindfully, by Sir Ezra Where this book really shines isn’t actually in helping you “mindfuck” people, it’s in taking a close look at how to do so ethically. It’s a great answer to the question “how do I get someone to consent to something and still surprise and shock them with it?”

- Real Service by Raven Kaldera and Joshua Tenpenny This is a slightly niche pick but there simply isn’t a better book on the subject. It’s written from a 24/7 M/s perspective, which is not what I do, but the book itself is an indispensable guide to giving and receiving service. The phrase “if the Master doesn’t want it, it isn’t service” will be burned into my psyche for quite some time. I love this book a lot. Maybe my favorite out of all of these.

- Enough To Make You Blush: Exploring Erotic Humiliation, by Princess Kali This one’s high on my reading list; I’ve heard it recommended by a number of people whose opinions on these things I trust.

- Pretty Much Anything Midori Has Ever Done Midori is a great resource for this stuff - I haven’t personally read much of her work, but she’s a well known sex educator and great at what she does. She’s known for bondage, but has a lot of range beyond that.

- This Negotiations Worksheet from Bex Talks Sex This is what I default to using a lot of the time for negotiations. Forget BDSMtest, you don’t need that, it’s no good. Just look through this worksheet’s wordbank with your partner. Big fan especially of the “how do you want to feel?” section.

Books I can kind of recommend:

- The Ultimate Guide to Kink, edited by Tristan Taormino This book is weird. There’s a lot of good info for experienced players, but some of what’s written here skeeves me out. I think if I had a top that thought the way some of the tops in here think, they would not be topping me for long. But there’s some good techniques and so on to pick up that I wouldn’t have otherwise. I liked the distinction one of the authors makes between being sadistic in the sense of inflicting pain and being sadistic in the sense of doing something your sub doesn’t “enjoy.”

- The Ritual of Dominance and Submission, by David English Man, this book fucking sucks. The writing and editing are garbage, and the fear and protocol play described need way more careful negotiation than he ever lets on, let alone recommends. This is some 50 Shades bullshit. The only time I recommend this book is to tops like me who tend to be very affirming to their partners and need a guide on how to really scare them - when their partner consents and when you negotiate it, which this book sucks at teaching you. Really good content on fear, punishment, and protocol play, really terrible presentation of the topic though. Don’t read this if you don’t already know what you’re doing.

- Paradigms of Power, by Raven Kaldera I love this book. Great book. Very focused on 24/7 M/s play though, and, being an anthology, some chapters are better than others. If you can’t read something and pick out what is and isn’t for you, don’t bother. But some really great inspiration, and generally pretty well written. Big fan of the discussion of leather throughout the book.

Hope some of these are helpful for people ^-^ for the average person reading this I recommend New Bottoming/Topping, but they’re all important parts of my library and I’ve recommended all of them to friends at some point or another.

[sparklefartstheunicorn]

May I also suggest Hell on Wheels and Kneeling in Spirit by Raven Kaldera, d/s companion books that address kink with a disability. They're a should read for everyone, imo. You never know when you or a partner are going to have changes in your body that affect what you can physically do. Temporary illness/injury and even just age can affect your sex life.

[dogspouse]

I'd like to suggest Better Bondage for Every Body! It goes really in depth on anatomy, pain processing, self-tying, and has chapters specifically focusing on how to do rope bondage on/for someone who is disabled or has chronic pain, which was really important to me.

[friendlycoffeefiend]

reblogging specifically for these last additions bc I don't think I've ever seen resources for kink w/ disability

[silverapex]

The Lap Incident

🐺 main masterlist | Wolff's Pretty Scandal Series

Toto Wolff x girlfriend!reader

Summary: You arrive in a very short mini skirt, the paddock forgets how to breathe, and Toto lets you sit on his lap during the race because apparently Mercedes PR no longer has rights.

Warnings: age gap, suggestive humor, paddock scandal, jealous gossip, Toto being shamelessly in love, Bradley suffering professionally.

Word count: 2.5k

a/n: Since Toto’s Controversial Girlfriend seems to have really clicked with you all, I decided to turn it into a new light, chaotic series full of scandalous adventures involving Toto and his very young and controversial girlfriend 😉

The skirt is short. Very short. The kind of short that makes mirrors feel judgmental and photographers feel blessed.

You look at yourself one last time in the hotel mirror, smooth your hands over the fabric, tilt your head, and smile.

Perfect.

Toto is sitting in the armchair near the window, phone in one hand, glasses low on his nose, pretending to read something important. Pretending.

Because he has looked at your legs at least four times in the last thirty seconds.

You catch him on the fifth. “Problem, Mr. Wolff?”

His eyes lift slowly. Too slowly. “No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“You look like your strategy model just crashed.”

“My strategy model is fine.”

You turn slightly, just enough for the skirt to shift higher. Toto’s jaw tightens. Very satisfying.

“I can change,” you say sweetly.

“No.”

The answer comes too fast.

You grin. “No?”

“No.”

“You didn’t even pretend to think about it.”

“I am an efficient man.”

“You are a predictable man.”

His mouth curves. “With you? Never.”

You walk toward him, boots clicking softly against the floor. His gaze follows you with the focus of a man watching a qualifying lap on fresh softs.

You stop between his knees and adjust his collar. “Will this cause a scandal?”

“Yes.”

“Will Bradley cry?”

“Yes.”

“Will you do anything about it?”

Toto leans back, looking up at you like you are the best mistake he has ever made.

“No.”

You beam. “That’s my man.”

His hand finds the back of your thigh, warm and steady, just beneath the edge of the skirt.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

You bend closer. “You first.”

He exhales through his nose, half laugh, half warning. “You enjoy making my life difficult.”

“I keep you young.”

“You keep Bradley medicated.”

“Same thing.”

By the time you arrive at the paddock, the cameras are already hungry. The first flash comes before you even step fully out of the car. Then another. Then twenty.

You feel Toto behind you, tall and calm, his hand settling at your waist as if he is personally signing the scandal into existence.

The paddock turns. George sees you first. His eyes go from your face to your outfit, then immediately up to the sky like he is asking for divine intervention.

“Nope,” he says. “I am not commenting.”

Kimi appears beside him, looks once, and turns around. “I saw nothing.”

“You both saw everything,” you say.

George points at Toto. “Your girlfriend is trying to get the FIA involved.”

Toto looks bored. “The FIA has no jurisdiction over skirts.”

“They will after today.”

You smile at George. “You like it?”

“I like keeping my contract, so I will say you look very nice and also I have a race to prepare for.”

Kimi nods. “Smart answer.”

You blow them both a kiss.

George mutters, “Mascot behavior.”

Toto’s hand slides slightly lower on your back. “Strategic emotional support asset,” he corrects.

From behind, Bradley appears with a coffee and the expression of a man already experiencing a migraine in preview mode. He sees you. Stops. Blinks once. Then looks at Toto.

“No.”

You grin. “Good morning, Bradley.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to do.”

“That is exactly why I’m saying no.”

Toto raises an eyebrow. “She is wearing a skirt.”

“She is wearing a headline.”

You glance down. “A cute headline.”

Bradley points at you with his coffee. “That skirt is going to have its own hashtag by lights out.”

“Great,” you say. “Organic engagement.”

Bradley turns to Toto. “Please tell me you understand the optics.”

Toto looks at you. At your legs. At your smile. Then back at Bradley.

“I understand them.”

“And?”

“And I like them.”

Bradley closes his eyes. Somewhere nearby, James Allison walks past, takes one look at the scene, and keeps walking.

“No,” James says without stopping. “I’m an engineer. This is outside my department.”

“You’re all cowards,” you call after him.

James raises his coffee in surrender.

The paddock has always stared at you, but today it stares with commitment. You feel eyes on your legs, on Toto’s hand, on the way he walks just close enough for everyone to know exactly where he stands.

Beside you. Always.

A few journalists whisper. A photographer nearly walks backward into a tyre trolley. One mechanic from another team forgets what he is carrying and has to be redirected by his colleague.

Then Lando appears, because apparently chaos has a subscription service. He slows down dramatically when he sees you.

“Oh,” he says.

Toto’s face immediately loses all humor.

“Careful.”

Lando lifts both hands. “I was going to say nice shoes.”

“No, you weren’t,” you say.

“No, I wasn’t.”

You laugh. Lando grins at you. “Respectfully, this paddock has suffered enough. You can’t just arrive looking like that next to him. It confuses the young drivers.”

Toto looks at him. “You seem easily confused.”

“I drive for McLaren. Emotional confusion is part of the job.”

You snort. Lando points at your skirt. “Anyway, if Mercedes gets tired of being scandalous, we offer papaya.”

“I look terrible in orange.”

“You don’t.”

Toto’s arm tightens around your waist. “She does.”

You look up at him. “Toto.”

“You said you hate orange.”

“I do, but I enjoy being complimented.”

“I compliment you.”

“You glare at men who compliment me.”

“Yes.”

Lando nods. “Healthy. Mature. Very post-divorce.”

Toto’s smile is sharp enough to cut carbon fiber. “You have somewhere to be?”

“Far away from your midlife crisis? Probably.”

You gasp, delighted. “Oh, that one made Twitter.”

Lando winks. “I read the classics.”

Toto leans down slightly. “She is not my midlife crisis.”

Lando’s grin softens just a little. “Yeah,” he says. “We know.”

And then he disappears before Toto can decide whether silence counts as murder.

*

The race begins with noise, heat, and the kind of tension that makes even your jokes come out quieter. At first, you stand beside Toto in the garage screens, arms crossed, watching the timing gaps.

You understand enough now to follow the strategy. Enough to know when Toto’s jaw tightens. Enough to know when George is managing tyres. Enough to know when Kimi is about to get told something deeply unhelpful like “push now.”

The opening laps are messy. A virtual safety car. One bad pit stop from Ferrari. A Red Bull complaining about traffic. Normal Sunday religion.

Toto stands behind the monitors, headset on, one hand resting on the table, completely focused.

You watch him more than the race. That is your own problem. There is something unfair about him like this. Controlled. Commanding. Untouchable to everyone else. Yours in every way that matters.

After lap twenty-two, the race settles. Mercedes is in a decent position. Nobody is actively ruining Toto’s blood pressure for once.

You glance around. Bradley is away dealing with journalists. George is on track. Kimi is on track. James is in engineering mode.

Toto is standing behind his chair. Perfect.

You step closer. He notices without looking away from the screen.

“What are you doing?”

“Watching the race.”

“You were already watching the race.”

“I want a better seat.”

His eyes flick to you. Then to the chair. Then back to you. There is one second of silence. One small, dangerous second where he could choose wisdom.

He does not. Toto Wolff, team principal, billionaire, grown adult, public figure, man who should absolutely know better, sits down. And lets you slide onto his lap.

The garage freezes. Truly freezes. A race engineer looks at the screen with such intensity he might burn through it. Someone drops a pen. Someone else whispers, “Oh my God.”

Toto adjusts his headset calmly. You settle sideways on his lap, one arm around his shoulders, legs angled neatly enough to keep the skirt from becoming a national incident. Mostly.

His hand rests on your thigh. Casual. Protective. Possessive.

The cameras find you within five seconds. You know because Bradley’s voice comes through somewhere behind you.

“No. No, no, no. Absolutely not.”

You turn your head and smile at him. He looks pale.

“Toto,” Bradley says, voice strangled. “There are cameras.”

Toto keeps watching the timing screen. “I know.”

“Broadcast cameras.”

“I know.”

“International broadcast cameras.”

“I know.”

You lean into Toto’s shoulder. “He knows, Bradley.”

Bradley looks like he wants to resign and become a florist. James removes his glasses and rubs his face. “I miss when our biggest problem was tyre temperature.”

George’s radio crackles faintly. “Why is everyone laughing on the pit wall?”

Nobody answers. The silence that follows is suspicious.

You bite your lip. Toto’s mouth twitches. “Don’t laugh,” he murmurs.

“You started this.”

“I sat down.”

“You gave me permission.”

“You took initiative.”

“You like initiative.”

His hand squeezes your thigh once. “I do.”

You shift slightly, getting comfortable. His breath changes. Only a little. Enough for you to notice.

You smile against his shoulder. “Problem?”

“Behave.”

“I am watching the race.”

“You are sitting on my lap during the race.”

“And?”

“And your skirt is very short.”

“That sounds like a design feature.”

His jaw moves. You love when he is trying not to react. It is your favorite hobby.

Lap thirty-one. George gains a place. The garage cheers. You clap softly, still on Toto’s lap, and kiss his cheek.

The camera catches that too.

Bradley makes a sound behind you that might be the death of hope. Toto says nothing. He just turns slightly and presses a kiss to your temple.

The paddock, the internet, and every gossip account in existence probably combust at the same time.

You lean closer to his ear. “Do you think they’re still calling me an accessory?”

His fingers trace a small, slow circle over your knee. “They can call you whatever they want.”

“And what do you call me?”

His eyes stay on the screen. “Mine.”

Your stomach flips. Ridiculous. One word from him and you are done. Absolutely pathetic.

You lower your voice. “Careful, Mr. Wolff.”

His thumb stills. “Why?”

“Because when we get on your jet tonight…”

He turns his head slightly. Just enough. His eyes meet yours. Dark. Focused. No longer on the timing screen.

You smile, innocent as sin. “I have plans.”

His fingers tighten against your thigh. The race keeps happening. Somewhere. Probably.

“What kind of plans?” he asks quietly.

You lean closer until your lips brush his ear.

“The kind Bradley doesn’t need to schedule.”

His jaw tightens. You continue, whispering just enough to ruin his concentration. “The kind where you stop pretending you’re calm.”

Toto inhales slowly. “Tread carefully.”

You smile. “The kind where that black shirt does not survive the flight.”

His eyes close for half a second. Tiny. Barely visible. A victory.

Then he opens them and looks back at the screen like a man trying to remember he runs a Formula 1 team. “You are dangerous.”

“You knew that before you took me home.”

“I underestimated the operational risk.”

You nearly laugh into his neck. “Want me to stop?”

“No.”

The answer is immediate. Again.

You grin. Toto turns his head slightly, his mouth near your ear now. “When we get on that jet,” he says, voice low and rough, “you will behave until we are in the air.”

Your breath catches. He continues, calm enough to be cruel. “Then you can tell me every single one of those plans properly.”

Oh. Well. Your brain leaves the paddock. Possibly the continent.

You blink at the timing screen. “Copy.”

His mouth curves. “Good girl.”

Your heart performs a qualifying lap.

Behind you, James says, “I am going to pretend I heard none of that.”

Bradley sounds like he is seconds from spiritual collapse. “I am calling communications. And legal. And maybe a priest.”

You sit up straighter. “Bradley, relax. We are helping engagement.”

“You are creating a scandal.”

Toto’s hand settles more firmly around your waist. “She creates many things.”

James stands up. “No. I draw the line. I am leaving.”

You laugh so hard you have to hide your face against Toto’s shoulder. Toto, traitor that he is, looks deeply pleased with himself.

The race ends with George and Kimi on podium, and Mercedes avoiding disaster. A miracle.

The bigger miracle is that Bradley has not fainted. The second Toto stands, he keeps you close, one hand at your waist while cameras flash from every angle.

You know what the photos will look like. You on his lap. His hand on your thigh. Your mouth near his ear. His face calm, but his eyes giving him away.

By midnight, every social platform will have opinions. By morning, there will be articles.

Toto Wolff’s Girlfriend Causes Stir in the Mercedes Garage. Young Partner Sits On Mercedes Boss’s Lap During Grand Prix. Paddock Romance Or PR Nightmare?

You can already see the comments.

She’s embarrassing him. He’s embarrassing himself. She knows exactly what she’s doing. He should know better.

You glance at Toto as you walk back through the paddock. He looks completely unbothered. Actually, worse. He looks happy. Warm. Proud. Like the whole world can point and laugh, and he will still pick you every time.

“You know this is going to be everywhere,” you say.

“Yes.”

“You’re really not worried?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

He stops near the Mercedes hospitality entrance and looks down at you. His fingers brush your chin gently. “I spent too much of my life worrying about what people think.”

Your smile softens. “And now?”

“Now I worry whether you had lunch.”

You roll your eyes, but your chest goes warm. “You are impossible.”

“You love me.”

“I do.”

His expression softens. Still, after all this chaos, those words do something to him. Every time.

You step closer and fix the collar of his shirt. “Also, I did have lunch.”

“Good.”

“And I’m still thinking about the jet.”

His eyes darken instantly.

“Toto?”

“Yes?”

“You are blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I am planning logistics.”

You laugh. “Is that what we call it now?”

His hand slides to the small of your back. “Careful.”

You rise on your toes and press a kiss to his cheek. “Never.”

Bradley appears from nowhere, holding his phone like a weapon. “Please tell me there will be no more incidents today.”

You look at Toto. Toto looks at you. You both look at Bradley.

“No promises,” you say.

Bradley turns around and walks away. James, passing by with coffee, mutters, “Smart man.”

Toto watches them go, then leans down close to your ear. “Jet leaves in two hours.”

Your stomach flips again. You look up at him, smiling sweetly. “Plenty of time to create one more headline.”

Toto’s laugh is quiet, dangerous, and entirely yours. Then he takes your hand and leads you inside, while the paddock watches, whispers, judges, and burns with curiosity.

Let them.

You are twenty. He is Toto Wolff. The scandal is already written. And Toto, as always, has absolutely no intention of apologizing.

[mostlymarvelgirl]

I really miss those old avengers tower fics

1. Clint in the vents

2. Bruce and Tony in the lab... science bros

3. Cap being accused and called out by his team ... either it's the "language" or "I understood that reference"

4. Loki for some reason being imprisoned in the tower by Odin to learn humanity blah blah

5. Thor and his poptarts

6. Natasha and wanda being the bestie

7. Reader either dating Loki or Bucky

8. Fury calling out reader initially as a threat as they were an orphan who was a lineage of witches type of trope. OR reader is Tony's kid.

9. Bucky randomly becoming besties with Sam and them having their own fights.

10. Peter and Shuri becoming besties with reader

11. Maria, pepper, wanda, Natasha and reader having sleepovers.

12. Tony having a party every time after a mission. Everyone ends up trying to lift thor's hammer and reader turns out to be worthy.

13. Loki teaching reader how to use magic.

And the list goes on....

[evilwizard]

say no more

[nefertarisgranddaughter]

good job tumbler you've showed me every single fic about that man x reader and now I'm refreshing like an abandoned dog looking for its owner hoping that maybe someone just posted another fic.

it's 3 am rn and I can't sleep without reading. I'm an addict yeah.

[dirtylittlediary]

hold it steady- frank castle

pairing : frank castle x f!reader

summary : learning to handle a gun is way too distracting when frank is your teacher

warnings / tags : mentions of firearms, mentions of bodily harm, MDNI, smut, P in V, doggy , mating press, praise, size diff (are we surprised), hand kink, unprotected sex (pls wrap it up i cannot stress this enough), established relationship

word count : 8.2k

a/n: i thank my lucky stars for this rq every single day. not proofread !

"Will you teach me how to hold a gun ?"

Frank almost chokes on his lasagna.

Frank coughs, fist smacking against his chest as his free hand reaches for his cup, unable to swallow the bite that is now lodged in his throat. Frank coughs so hard he nearly knocks over his water. He manages to grab it, downs half the cup, and looks up at you.

"Christ- What ?" Your cheeks go red and you look down at your lap, shaking your head.

"I-I mean, i know how to shoot one, that's not the issues- I just-" You groan, burying your face in your hands to hide the evidence of your blushed cheeks. "I think it'd be smart for me to learn how to hold one properly if one day I need to use one." You attempt a glance up at Frank.

His face has fallen as he's staring at you, his lips parted.

"Baby.." He reaches across the table for you. "I don't want you to ever have to hold a gun- let alone shoot someone."

"But what if someday I have to ? What if all the shit out there catches up to me and I need to defend myself-"

"Mama, do you not feel safe ?" Your body locks up.

"What ?" You look at Frank, and he looks devastated. As if you'd just kicked his puppy.

"Do I not make you feel safe anymore ?"

"Frank." The hurt on his face gets worse.

"Baby."

"No." You immediately reach across the table and grab both his hands. "No, no, no." His jaw tightens. Because Frank isn't hearing the words.

He's hearing something else. He's hearing that after everything he's done, after every promise he's made, after every nightmare he's fought through to build a life with you— You still think you need protection from somewhere else.

"Frank."

"You wanna learn how to hold a gun."

"That's not—"

"It kinda sounds like that." Your heart squeezes. Because suddenly you understand.

"Oh." Frank looks away. And somehow that's worse. Much worse. "Frankie." His eyes immediately flick back to yours. You rarely call him that. Only when you're being serious. Only when you're trying to get straight to the heart of something. "You make me feel safer than anyone ever has." The tension in his shoulders eases. Just slightly.

"But?"

"There is no but." His eyebrows pull together.

"Then why?" You sigh. Searching for the words. The right words.

"It's because of you." Frank blinks.

"What?"

"It's because of you."

"That don't make any sense."

"It does." You squeeze his hands. "Frank, before I met you, I never thought about stuff like this." His expression softens. Just a little. "I didn't." You shrug. "I assumed bad things happened to other people." A humorless smile touches your mouth. "Then I met you." Frank groans immediately.

"Jesus Christ."

"I'm serious."

"I know."

"You showed me what the world actually looks like." Silence. "The good parts." More silence. "And the bad parts." Frank's eyes drop to your intertwined fingers. You continue softly. "You taught me to pay attention."

"You shouldn't have to."

"Maybe not." Your thumb brushes over his knuckles. "But I do." Frank swallows. Hard.

"Baby."

"I'm not asking because I think you'll fail me." The words land. You see it happen. Like something unclenches inside him. "I'm asking because life is unpredictable." His eyes meet yours. "What if you're not there?"

Immediately:

"I'll be there."

"Frank."

"I will." You can't help smiling. Of course that's his answer. Of course it is.

"You know what I mean." His jaw tightens. Because he does know. He just hates it. Hates even imagining it.

"What if you're deployed?"

"I'm retired."

"Okay, well- What if you're at work?" Silence. "What if you're hurt? What if someone is trying to hurt me ? What if someone takes me- and my only way to get out of there is to shoot ?" More silence. "What if something happens and I have to protect myself before you can get to me?" Frank looks down. You watch him think. Really think.

Not as a soldier. Not as a fighter. As your husband. As the man who wants to wrap you in bubble wrap and personally fistfight every bad thing in existence. Finally he sighs. Long and heavy.

"You really thought this through." You nod.

"Yeah." His thumb brushes yours.

"You ain't scared?" The question is quiet. Honest. You shrug.

"A little." Frank stares at you. Then laughs softly. Not because it's funny. Because that's exactly what he'd expected. Your fear has never stopped you from doing things. That's one of the things he loves most about you. And one of the things that drives him absolutely insane.

"You're stubborn."

"So I've heard."

"You got any idea how much I hate this?"

"Yep."

"You care?"

"Nope." That finally earns a laugh. A real one. Frank shakes his head.

"Unbelievable." You beam.

"Thank you."

"I didn't say yes."

"You were about to."

"I wasn't."

"You absolutely were." Frank points at you.

"You are a menace."

"And?" His mouth twitches. Then he sighs. Again. The sigh of a man surrendering to his fate.

"Fine." Your face lights up immediately.

"Really?"

"Yeah." You nearly launch across the table. Frank catches your wrist before you can.

"Hold on." You freeze.

"What?" One eyebrow rises.

"If we're doing this, we're doin' thing on one condition." You nod rapidly.

"Okay."

"You listen to every single thing I say."

"Okay."

"No arguing." You hesitate. Frank narrows his eyes. "No arguing."

"Okay."

"No smartass comments." You gasp.

"Frank."

"Nope."

"That's unreasonable." His grin appears. Slow. Victorious. "See? We ain't even started yet." You groan. Frank laughs. Then his expression softens. Warm. Affectionate. The look he only gets when he's looking at you. His thumb brushes across your knuckles.

Frank looks at you for a long moment. Then lifts your hand and presses a kiss against your knuckles. Slow. Tender. Protective. And when he finally lets go, he points his fork at you.

"Saturday." You grin.

"Saturday."

"And sweetheart?"

"Hm?"

"If you point the thing at me, I'm takin' it away."

-------

Saturday rolls around a bit too soon for Franks liking, but nevertheless, he waits for you to return from your weekly brunch with Karen, guns spread out on the dinner table. Frank keeps many pistols stashed around the house for easy access incase something horrible happens, and seeing them all taken from their dedicated hiding spots makes his stomach churn, like his body is telling him today is the day all those bad things will come beelining for this apartment.

Like he's tempting fate.

Like the universe is watching.

The sound of keys jingling outside makes him glance toward the door. A second later you walk in.

"Hi, baby." Then you spot the table. "Oh." Frank immediately stands.

"You can still change your mind." You shake your head.

"Nope."

"Still time."

"Frank."

"I'm serious."

"I'm not." His mouth twitches.

"Yeah. I know." A few minutes later you're seated beside him at the table. The actual lesson starts much slower than you'd expected. Frank doesn't even let you touch a gun at first. Instead he talks. And talks. And talks. By the time he's finished explaining safety rules, basic handling, storage, ammunition, trigger discipline, and approximately fourteen thousand other things, you're pretty sure you've aged three years.

"Frank."

"What?"

"I know."

"No, sweetheart." His eyes narrow. "You don't." You groan. He ignores you.

"Rule number one."

"I know."

"Tell me." You immediately straighten.

"Treat every firearm like it's loaded." Frank nods.

"Good." The lesson continues. Eventually he slides one of the unloaded pistols across the table. Your stomach flips. Not because you're scared. Because suddenly this feels real. Frank notices immediately.

"Hey." Your eyes lift. His expression softens. "We're just learning." You nod.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay." Finally he stands.

"Come here." You follow him toward the living room. Frank positions you facing the far wall. Then takes the pistol back from your hands.

"First thing." His voice drops into that calm instructor tone.

"The way you hold it." You nod. Trying very hard to pay attention. Trying. Frank steps behind you. And immediately your brain short-circuits. Because now he's close. Very close. Close enough that you can feel his body heat. Close enough that you can smell his soap. Close enough that your heart starts doing stupid things.

"Alright." His voice rumbles beside your ear. Your pulse jumps. "Shoulders relaxed." You swallow.

"Okay." One of his hands settles lightly against your upper arm. Guiding. Adjusting. The touch is completely innocent. Unfortunately your brain is not.

"Not so stiff." Frank gently nudges your elbow. "There." You stare straight ahead. Very determinedly. Then his hands move again. Large. Warm. Calloused. One wraps around your wrist. The other adjusts your grip. And suddenly all of your concentration evaporates. Completely. Gone. Missing. Presumed dead. "Like this." Frank's fingers curl over yours. Guiding them into place. Your throat goes dry. "Got it?" Absolutely not. You have no idea what he just said. You are staring at his hands.

Which is becoming a problem. A serious problem. Because Frank's hands have always been distracting. The veins. The scars. The roughness. The ridiculous size difference between his hands and yours. Normally you can manage it.

Today? Not so much.

"Sweetheart." You blink.

"What?" Frank pauses.

"You listenin'?"

"Mhm." He nods against your neck, as if only half believing you- and his hands travel down to your waist. Frank's hands settle on your waist.

Warm. Heavy. Completely ruining your ability to think.

"You're gonna wanna stand at an angle," he says, nudging your hips slightly. "Helps distribute the recoil."

"Right."

"You ain't listenin'."

"I am."

"You absolutely are not." You clear your throat.

"I'm listening." Frank hums. The sound vibrates through your back and right down to your core. Dangerous. Very dangerous. Because now he's close enough that every time he talks you can feel it. His hands leave your waist only to reposition your arms.

"Straighten this one." You immediately do. "Not that much." He chuckles, his breath hot on your neck. Your own breath hitches and you nod, shifting your weight from leg to leg. His hands are back on your waist, steadying you. The heat of his palms seeps through your thin shirt, and you have to fight the urge to lean back into him.

"Easy there," he murmurs, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "Don't wanna fall over before you even shoot. You'll end up shooting yourself and not your target."

"I'm not going to fall," you manage, though your voice comes out shakier than you'd intended. Frank's chuckle is low, rumbling through his chest and into your back.

"Could've fooled me." His fingers press gently into your sides. "Now. Eyes forward. Hold it steady, baby." You force your gaze to the blank wall ahead, trying to focus on anything other than the man pressed against you. It's a losing battle.

"Good," he says, though you're pretty sure you're doing a terrible job of following instructions. "Now, I emptied the chamber, so, when you're ready to shoot, you're gonna want to exhale slowly. Don't hold your breath."

"Right." Exhale. You can do that. You try, but your breath catches when his hands slide from your waist to your hips, positioning you exactly how he wants.

"Like this," he says, his voice dropping to that low register that makes your knees weak. "Feet shoulder-width apart." You shift your feet, trying to follow his guidance while your brain short-circuits.

"Almost there," he encourages, and you wonder if he's talking about your stance or something else entirely. "Now, bring the pistol up." Your hands shake slightly as you lift the weapon, and Frank's hands immediately cover yours again.

Your finger finds the trigger, and you try to follow his instructions. You exhale slowly, just like he said, and begin to squeeze. Your heart jumps into your throat and you shake your head.

"Frank," you start, turning towards him. "I don't—"

"Hey- hey," His hands palm your waist as he spins you around, pinning you to his body as he straightens out your grip. "Focus. You're the one who said you wanted to learn." You bite your lip, trying to concentrate.

"Yeah, how to hold it- not how to shoot it. I know that part."

"Baby." His hands tighten slightly over yours. "Knowing how to hold it as it goes off will help you to not dislocate your shoulder at the recoil."

You take another breath, trying to ignore the way his thumb is stroking the back of your hand. You exhale. You squeeze.

Click.

The sound is unnaturally loud in the quiet room. It's not the boom you expected, but a sharp, metallic snap. You're panting, staring at the gun in your hands. Your body is on fire. And Frank's head hand resting on your stomach is not helping.

At all.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The click of the empty chamber seems to echo through the apartment. Then Frank exhales. Slowly.

"See?" he murmurs. "Didn't kill anybody." You laugh weakly. The sound comes out a little breathless. A little shaky. Frank notices immediately. Of course he does. His hand slides away from your stomach. Not far. Just enough to take the pistol from your grip. The second it's out of your hands, he sets it carefully on the table beside him.

Safe. Out of the way. Then he turns back to you. And suddenly there's nothing left to focus on except him.

His eyes drop to your face. Your flushed cheeks. The way you're still breathing a little too fast. The way you won't quite meet his eyes.

"Sweetheart." You finally manage to meet his gaze, and what you see there makes your breath catch even more. His eyes are dark, intense, and focused entirely on you.

"What?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. Frank doesn't answer with words. Instead, he closes the small distance between you, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb strokes gently across your skin, and you lean into his touch without thinking.

"I think," he says, his voice low and rough, "that's enough gun lessons for today." You nod, unable to form coherent thoughts as his face inches closer to yours.

"Okay."

"Okay?" he asks, his lips hovering just above yours.

"Okay," you repeat, and then he's kissing you. It's not gentle or tentative. It's hungry and demanding, exactly like you imagined it would be. His other hand slides around your waist, pulling you flush against his body as he deepens the kiss. You respond eagerly, your arms wrapping around his neck as you melt against him. His mouth is all heat, all greed, teeth dragging your lower lip until you whimper. The sound sets something loose in him; both hands move to your waist again, hoisting you up with such little effort that your sneakers barely scrape the hardwood before your ass meets the edge of the dining table. Frank cages you between his hips and the tabletop, mouth trailing from your lips down your jaw and the sensitive skin below your ear.

“You been listening so good,” he mutters, voice thick with pride. “Always do, don’t you, sweetheart?” Your response is a mewl, which you vaguely hope translates as affirmation. Frank bites at the hinge of your jaw, then moves lower, nosing aside the neck of your t-shirt so his lips can find your collarbone. His hands are on you everywhere—raking up the line of your thighs, squeezing the back of your neck, up under your shirt to palm your ribs. His devotion to safety doesn’t extend to your clothing. Frank is careful with weapons, meticulous with ammo, and utterly heedless with cotton and lace. Your shirt is shoved up and off, your bra unhooked and tossed aside before you can protest. He palms your tits, running his thumbs over your nipples until you arc into his touch.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he groans, giving a gentle twist that sends a bolt of heat through your core.

“I think I have an idea,” you gasp, watching the way his eyes go molten when you lean in and kiss him again, needier now, tongue pressing against his, hair tangling in his rough fingers. His hand lifts your thigh, hiking it up his hip so your center presses flush to his jeans. You can feel how hard he is already, and the knowledge only makes you squirm. Frank’s mouth finds its way back to yours, barely giving you time to catch your breath.

“Turn around,” he growls, all gravel and steel, and you do, bracing your palms on the table. He steps in behind you, pressing his body along yours, hot and heavy, aligning your hips until you’re bent over just right. The guns, piled artfully in a wide fan near the centerpiece, glint with threat; Frank’s got you bent over just beside them, and the implication—of violence, of danger, of how terrifically safe you are in his hands—hits you in a wave so shivery you have to tighten your grip on the edge. He’s careful with his hands, but nothing else. Frank grabs your wrists, holds them pinned to the tabletop, and brings his other hand under you, slow at first, using two big fingers to stroke between your legs over your still-on shorts. His hand is huge, almost comically so; his touch reaches everywhere at once. The denim is quickly too much—it’s all friction, not enough skin.

“Please—Frank,” He hooks his finger in the waistband and peels your shorts down, panties going with them. He kneels briefly to help you step out, then stands and runs a palm down your back, lingering at the base of your spine.

“Still with me?” His voice is low, but there’s an edge of concern, as if he could break you by accident if he isn’t careful.

“Yes,” you say, desperate, rocking back against him. Frank’s zipper lowers and you hear the sound, the little click of metal teeth, followed by the hiss of fabric as he guides his cock out. He leans over, chest covering your back. He nips at your shoulder, the edge of your jaw.

“You know I’d never let anything happen to you, right?” he murmurs. The question isn’t rhetorical; he waits for you to answer. You nod, swallowing, because you do know. There is nothing in the world Frank wouldn’t kill or die for, except maybe you. For you, he’d do both, then come back and do it again. His body is a wall against your back, his cock already nudging wetly between your thighs, thick and hot and so much more than your memory has managed to ever do justice. You gasp as the blunt head pushes in, stretching you wide. It isn’t gentle, exactly, but it isn’t rough, either—Frank’s hand is spread wide between your shoulderblades, keeping your chest against the cold wood of the table, and you feel the tremor in his fingers as he slides home, inch by inch.

“Shit,” he grits out, folding over you, the stubble on his chin scraping your cheek, “I’ll never get used to how fuckin’ tight you are.” He rocks forward, locking you in place with both hands, pushing you open until you’re gasping, spread around his tip. You whine at the stretch, and he kneads your ass in his hands, kissing his way up your spine. He rocks his hips with slow, devastating patience, half in and half out, making you feel every goddamn inch.

“That’s it, baby,” he croons, rough and unbearably tender all at once, “take it.”

You try, but he’s too thick, the stretch almost overwhelming—almost, but not enough to make you want to stop. Frank knows it, senses it, reads every hitch in your breath and every squeeze of your walls. He goes deeper, steady and inexorable, spreading your trembling legs until you’re flush to his pelvis.

“You’re doing so fuckin’ good for me, honey,” Frank says, and the pride in his voice makes you clench even tighter around him. “Keep going. You got it. Let me in.” One hand leaves your shoulder to guide your hips, holding you exactly how he wants you, keeping you still as he ruts forward. Each thrust makes you moan, shameless and desperate. When he hits bottom, you cry out, and Frank stops, hips pressed tight to your ass, just holding you there while you adjust. His arm wraps around your middle, massaging slow circles into your stomach, grounding you.

“Breathe,” he orders softly, nuzzling behind your ear. “You can take it, I know you can. You always take it so fucking good, pretty girl. C'mon, be good f'me.” His hips start again, a little faster, a little rougher, and now the whole table is shaking in time with his rhythm. The guns rattle. It sends a thrill of fear and want through your bloodstream; you could get shot with safety off, he could fuck you through a wall—none of it would matter as long as his hands stayed on you.

You arch, bracing yourself on the table, and whimper as he picks up his pace, a deep feral growl building in his chest. He lets go of your wrists but you don’t move—couldn’t if you tried. Your body belongs to him, every nerve and muscle and cell. He strokes your clit with two fingers, fast and precise, and the jolt of pleasure makes your knees weak. You gasp and buck against his cock, chasing friction, and his praise keeps coming:

“Atta girl. That’s my girl. That's my good fuckin' girl.” You can feel the heat and throb of him, so deep you swear you must be leaking down your thighs.

“Frank—oh my god—” He doesn’t fuck you hard, not at first. He moves inside you like he’s afraid you’re going to slip away, each thrust slow and measured. Your forehead bumps the table and you can see your reflection in the polished wood, cheeks flushed, eyes wet, mouth a shocked-perfect O. He’s in you deep, and you feel impossibly full, clawing at the wood grain for leverage. You gasp, and Frank’s palm comes up, gentling for a moment as he strokes the side of your face, his thumb working slow circles over your cheek.

“Too much?” he asks, gravelly-soft, and you shake your head, greedy for every inch. The stretch is obscene, and your body shakes with it—you curse, and Frank shushes you, praises you, tells you how fucking good you are for him.

“That’s it, that’s my girl,” he pants between gritted teeth, his hips angling just so as he works further inside, the slide somehow both torturous and perfect. You’re split around him, slick and hot and pulsing. Every time he pulls back, you feel the pop and drag; every time he thrusts in, he knocks all the air out of your lungs. He keeps you pinned with one hand, the other spreading over your ribs, holding you in place as if you might really try to scramble away. He rocks forward, slow and relentless, and the slap of your skin echoes off the high ceiling, punctuated by your desperate little moans. Each thrust rocks you on your toes, your knees buckling as he goes deeper, driving you against the edge of the table with enough force to bruise.

You feel drunk on it. Your mind floats, hollowed out with pleasure; you’re nothing but sensation, nothing but the feel of Frank covering you, bounding you, putting you exactly where he wants you.

“Look at you,” he breathes, “so needy—so fuckin’ perfect f'me.” He works his cock and his fingers together, a brutal combination, rhythm never faltering. You arch, hips stuttering, and he laughs, a low, feral sound. Your eyes blur with tears and the world narrows to a point: the rough drag of his cock, the swirl of his fingertip, the sweet, ruthless pressure building in you. He hammers into you until he groans, shaking his head.

“Fuck, I can’t-” He rasps, choking on his words. “I can’t come like this,” He manages. You whine.

“What ?” You manage.

“Need t’see your face, pretty girl.” he chokes, then pulls out so fast you yelp in shock. You’re empty, shaking, and then he’s flipping you over, manhandling you onto your back against the table. He hikes your knees to your chest, spreads you wide; the edge of the table bites into your ass as he lines up and slams back inside, making you scream and clench your thighs together. The sound you make is something animal, clawed out of you by brute force. Frank’s hands are everywhere: two bear-paw palms bracketing your calves, shoving your knees up to your ears. He folds you flat, leans over until you’re nose to nose, his breath tangled with yours.

“Easy, baby, easy,” he pants, and the careful sugar in his voice runs rough against the filth of what he’s doing to you; he’s barely inside and you’re already quaking, legs braced on his shoulders, arms flailing for purchase until he grabs your wrists and pins them above your head, shoving you down with the whole weight of his body—hot, barely restrained, trembling against the bunched muscle of your thighs.

“Shit, honey, you’re squeezin' me fucking tight i can barely get in,” he groans, and you feel every inch of it, the monstrous stretch of him, as if he’s splitting you open. “Look at you,” he demands, eyes narrowed and wild. “C’mon, pretty girl. Open up f'me.” He wriggles his hips, inching deeper, and you curse out a desperate sob, forehead slick with sweat and eyes rolling back in your head.

“Baby,” he whispers, and you think maybe he’s proud, proud because he’s made you fall apart so completely. His hand comes up, thumb gentling over your cheekbone, touch so achingly tender you almost miss the next snap of his hips, the way he sinks into you full length, grinding down until your body is flush against the table and his balls are pressed tight to your ass.

“Frank,” you gasp, but he’s already bending to kiss you, mouth bruising and rough, tongue pushing into the back of your throat. He lets go of your wrists so he can frame your face with both hands, holding you steady as he fucks you deeper than you thought possible. You feel him everywhere: in your cunt, in the pulse behind your eyes, the low hot ache blooming in your pelvis.

“Just like that,” he says, a little breathless, voice gone low and awed. “Taking it so goddamn good. My best girl. Oh, fuck—yeah—there you go.” Every word is a stripe of heat across your scalp, every hum of praise tightening the coil in your belly. He holds you open, grinding deep, and you swear you can feel him in your core, pressing against something high and perfect and devastating. He starts to move, slow at first, withdrawing just enough to really feel the drag, and you sob into the side of his head, nails digging desperate crescent-moons into his back.

“Frank,” you whimper, not sure what you’re asking for, only that you want—need—more. He eggs you on, crooning,

“You want it, honey? Want it harder?” You nod, helpless, and then he’s slamming into you, rhythm brutal and relentless. The table protests, legs scraping the floor, and every thrust knocks another gasp from your lungs.

“Good girl,” Frank rasps, driven, sweat sliding down his brow. Frank holds you wide open, his forearms bracketing your thighs, massive hands palming the undersides of your knees. You catch a glimpse of his cock driving into you, thick and slick and devastating, and then you squeeze your eyes shut, overwhelmed.

“Yeah, baby, just like that. Take all of me.” His voice is a spike right to your core; you whimper, hips bucking as he pounds you into the tabletop, the world reduced to the creak and slap and thunder of Frank inside you. He’s all the way in, bottoming out, the pressure so intense you think you might split apart—and you want it, have never wanted anything more in your life.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Fuckin’ made for me, weren’t you?” His hands are everywhere, fingers fanning along your thighs, stroking your calves where they’re hitched over his shoulders, big palm cupping your face with a tenderness that doesn’t match the brutality of his fucking.

“Frank,” you sob, desperate for air, desperate for more. The look on his face—full of awe, and hunger, and a gutted, worshipful softness—punches all the breath from your lungs. You wonder how a man so gentle can fuck so hard.

“You’re takin’ it so good,” he rasps. “So fuckin’ tight, Christ.” Frank slides in and out, deeper, each thrust more relentless, more perfect, his words winding around you like a hand at your throat. “Tell me if it’s too much, baby. I can slow down.”

"Don't you dare. Please, Frankie.” And it’s true, you want to feel him everywhere, want him to ruin you forever. He grins, wolfish and sweet, and suddenly he’s angling his hips just so and the whole world explodes into fragments of color and heat. You cry out, surprise and pleasure crashing over you in a tidal wave. Frank fucking loves it, groans low in his throat and rocks harder into you.

“There you go,” he grits out. “So smart, so brave. Didn’t think you could take all of me, did you? But here you are, baby. You fuckin’ did it.” You can’t speak, just whimper and grab at his forearms, your hands dwarfed by the cords of muscle flexing beneath his skin. “Just a little more. Can you give me a little more, sweetheart?” You nod furiously, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. Frank wipes them away with his thumb, then fucks you harder, punishing and blissful.He bows his head, mouth hot against your clavicle, biting down to muffle the sound he makes when you clamp down on him, milking his cock for every drop.

“Fuck, fuck,” he groans, hips grinding brutal circles. “You’re so tight, baby, s’too much.” He braces both hands flat beside your shoulders, the whole weight of him caging you down, and fucks you harder, shoving the table an inch with every slam. You’re slick and overstretched, cunt fluttering in aftershocks as you try to process the sheer size of him, the way he molds your insides around his cock. You want to tell him it’s too much, but he’s right—you can take it, you want to take it, even when the world goes white and your body locks up, seized by an orgasm that breaks you wide open. Frank’s breath is ragged, desperate. He’s staring at your face, like he can’t believe how good you look coming undone.

“You’re a fuckin’ miracle,” he says hoarsely, and the raw edges in his voice threaten to break you apart. You don’t just feel claimed, you feel worshipped—destroyed and remade, everything you are held together by the force of his hands and the heat of his mouth. He slows, just barely, when it seems like you can’t take anymore. Presses in, slow and mean, making you feel every unbearable inch, his cock so thick it burns and then soothes as you adjust. He smells like soap and skin and sweat and Frank, every inch of his body radiating heat. He wipes your tears away with his tongue, sucks your lip into his mouth, and his cock keeps you stretched so wide it warps your sense of time and space.

“There you go. That’s my good girl. Fuckin’ takin’ it all, you’re perfect—knew you could do it, knew it.” His hand skims your throat, thumb pressed to your pulse, gentle and careful and still commanding. You whimper, helpless, body desperately trying to keep up with what he’s asking of it.

“Frank—” you sob, voice cracking. You don’t know what you’re begging for. Maybe mercy, maybe more of the same. He just drinks it in, grinning like he’s got a fever.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Squeeze me, just like that. Shit—Want to fill you up so bad, baby.” He fucks you, cock punching deep and unyielding. You’re split apart on him, an obscene fit, and it drags another broken sound from your throat. He lets go of one knee, and the hand goes straight to your clit. He circles you in ruthless, obscene patterns, never looking away from your face. You clench around him again, and his composure unravels a little. He lets go, pace stuttering into ragged, needy thrusts that get rougher and rougher, chasing the end. Your nails dig into your own thighs as you grip your legs close, whimpering as your orgasm builds.

"That's it," he groans, voice dropping to something feral and wrecked. "Let me feel it, baby. Come for me." His thumb presses down harder, rubbing tight, frantic circles that make your vision blur at the edges. You're so full, so stretched around him, every thrust hitting that spot inside that has you seeing stars. "Fuck—look at you. Taking me so good."

Your head falls back against the mattress, a keening cry tearing from your lips as the pressure snaps. Your orgasm crashes through you in brutal, relentless waves, your body locking up, muscles clamping down around his cock in rhythmic pulses that make him snarl. He doesn't stop—can't stop—fucking you through it, chasing his own release with single-minded desperation now that you're coming apart beneath him.

"Shit, shit—" He buries his face in your neck, teeth sinking into your shoulder as his hips slam forward one last time, pinning you open as he spills inside you. His cock throbs, pulse after pulse, and he groans your name like a prayer and a curse, body shuddering against yours as he empties himself completely. For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of ragged breathing, the sweat-slick press of skin on skin. He stays inside you, still half-hard, pressing sloppy, breathless kisses to your jaw, your throat, anywhere he can reach.

"God," he mumbles, voice wrecked. "You're perfect. You know that? Fucking perfect." Your thighs are shaking when he lowers them back down to rest near his hips. Your body feels like it weighs like a bag of rocks, and you feels so blissfully fucked out that you would fall asleep right then and there, if it wasn't for the sensation of his come dripping down your thigh making you shudder. You dread him having to pull out, so you wrap your arms around him, desperate for him to stay close, trying to avoid that painful sensation. He feels you cling, feels the tremor in your arms, and he hushes you immediately, big hand cupping the back of your head, fingers threading through your sweat-damp hair.

"You did so good. You were such a godd girl f'me, baby." He shifts his weight, careful, settling more of himself over you so his warmth blankets you completely. His cock twitches inside you, still thick enough to keep you stretched, and you whimper at the sensation, oversensitive and raw. Frank kisses your temple, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth. His big hand massages your thigh, as if trying to get your body to focus elsewhere, to distract your brain from the stretch as he starts to slowly pull out. You whine, tears flying up to your eyes. He kisses your cheek.

"I know. I know. M'sorry." He hisses, his eyes closed. This part always makes you feel hollow, and the ache that settles into your guts right after he's pounded you like this always gets worse whenever he pulls out. The drag of him leaving is torture—thick, insistent, every vein and ridge catching on your tender flesh until finally, finally, he slips free with a wet, filthy sound that makes your face burn. You gasp, hollowed out, and immediately feel the rush of him spilling out of you, hot and copious, slicking your thighs, pooling beneath you. The ache blooms deep in your belly, a throbbing emptiness where he used to be, and a sob catches in your throat before you can stop it.

"Hey, hey," Frank croons, already there, already knowing. He doesn't pull away—never pulls away. Instead he presses closer, thighs bracketing yours, one hand sliding down to cup you possessively, palm warm and grounding against your sore, swollen cunt. "I got you, baby. I know it hurts, i'm so sorry." He holds you through the shudders, through the embarrassing spill of his release dripping out of you, his hand applying gentle pressure like he can somehow keep you together, keep you full. He kisses your tears, murmuring praise and apologies against your damp skin—"So good, so brave, took me so well"—until your breathing evens out and the worst of the ache settles into something manageable, something warm.

"Let's get you up, hm?" He moves carefully, sliding an arm beneath your shoulders and another under your knees, lifting you from the mess you've made of the table. You whimper at the shift, at the fresh spill of wetness down your legs, and he shushes you, pressing his face into your hair. "I know. I got you." He carries you to the bathroom, sets you on the closed toilet lid, and runs the tap until the water steams. You watch him through heavy-lidded eyes as he wets a cloth, his movements efficient but tender, and then he's kneeling between your knees, spreading your thighs with gentle hands.

"Gonna clean you up, sweetheart," he says softly, and then the warm cloth is there, pressing between your legs, wiping away the evidence of what he did to you. You hiss at the contact, still so sensitive, and he pauses, checking your face, waiting for your nod before continuing. He's thorough but gentle, worshipful almost, cleaning his come from your thighs, from your folds, from everywhere he marked you. When he's done, he presses a soft kiss to your hipbone, your navel, the inside of your knee. He stays there for a moment, kneeling in front of you, one hand resting on your knee, the other smoothing absent-minded circles over your calf.

Neither of you speaks.

The bathroom is quiet except for the soft rush of water from the faucet.

Frank looks up at you. Really looks at you. Checking for the little things. The way your breathing is evening out. The way your shoulders are relaxing. The way your eyes are beginning to lose that distant, overwhelmed look.

His thumb brushes across your knee. The soft smile that follows is enough to make your chest ache. You reach for him immediately.

Frank takes your hand without hesitation. Always. His fingers lace through yours as he rises to his feet.

"Come on, sweetheart." Your legs feel a little shaky when you stand. Frank notices instantly. Of course he does. One arm wraps around your waist before you can even pretend you're steady.

"I got you." He guides you back into the bedroom at an unhurried pace, one hand rubbing slowly up and down your back.

When you reach the bed, he sits you down on the edge of the mattress.

"Stay there." You immediately narrow your eyes.

"Bossy."

"Mhm." Frank disappears into the closet. A minute later he returns carrying one of his old t-shirts and a pair of soft sleep shorts. Your favorites. The ones you've stolen so many times they're basically yours now. The sight of them makes you smile. Then he kneels in front of you.

Not because you can't dress yourself. Because he wants to.

Slowly, carefully, he helps guide your arms through the oversized shirt. Pulls it down over your shoulders. Smooths the fabric flat against your sides. His touch is gentle. Almost absent-minded. Like caring for you is second nature. Like breathing.

"There." You glance down at yourself.

"My hero."

"Damn right." He helps you into the shorts next, tugging them into place before pressing a kiss against your knee. Then he stands and finally remembers he's still half-dressed himself. You laugh as he looks down.

"Nice outfit." Frank glances at his state and groans.

"Not a word."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinkin' it."

"I was." He points at you.

"Menace." You beam. Frank disappears long enough to pull on a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt. When he comes back, you haven't moved. Just sitting there watching him. The look in your eyes makes him pause.

"What?" You shake your head.

"Nothin'."

"That's a lie."

"Maybe." His expression softens. The teasing falls away.

"What is it, baby?" Your throat tightens unexpectedly. Because it's such a simple question. Because after everything, he's still looking at you like you're something precious. You hold out your hand. Frank doesn't hesitate. He takes it immediately. Then lets you pull him down beside you. The moment he's close enough, you curl into him. Frank wraps both arms around you and settles you against his chest.

Safe. Warm. Home. A kiss lands in your hair. Then another. Then another.

Neither of you says much.

You just stay there together beneath the blankets, tangled up in each other, while Frank slowly rubs your back. Like he's making sure you're comfortable. Like he's making sure you're okay. Like he's making sure you know he isn't going anywhere.

The room is dim now. Quiet. Peaceful. The kind of peace that only exists when you're exhausted and safe at the same time. Your eyes drift shut.

For a while, all you hear is Frank's heartbeat beneath your ear.

Steady. Strong. Familiar. Home.

One of his hands moves lazily through your hair. Untangling little knots. Massaging your scalp. The motion is so gentle it almost hurts.

Not physically. Emotionally. Because nobody has ever taken care of you quite like this. Frank notices the hitch in your breathing immediately. Of course he does.

"You okay, sweetheart?" You nod against his chest.

"Mhm."

"Liar." The word is affectionate. Warm. You laugh softly. The sound muffles against his shirt.

"I just love you." The hand in your hair stops. For a second. Just one. Then it resumes. Slower this time. Gentler. Frank swallows. Hard. As if those three words still catch him off guard every single time you say them- even if you've been married for years.

"Yeah?" You nod again.

"So much." A long silence follows. Then his arms tighten around you. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to pull you impossibly closer. His nose brushes your temple.

"I love you too." The answer comes immediately. Certain. Like breathing. Like gravity. Like something that simply exists. You smile. And Frank feels it against his chest.

"There she is."

"What?"

"That smile." You groan.

"You're ridiculous."

"Mhm."

"You say that every time."

"'Cause every time you smile at me I feel like I won the lottery." That earns a laugh. A real one. Frank grins against your hair.

"You're cheesy."

"You're in love with me." Unfortunately, he has a point. You pinch his side. Frank barely reacts.

"Ow."

"That was the worst acting I've ever seen."

"I thought it was pretty convincing."

"It wasn't."

"Damn." The two of you fall quiet again. This time comfortable. Easy. Outside, the world keeps moving. Cars drive by. People go about their lives. Problems wait for tomorrow.

But in here? None of that matters.

Carefully, he reaches over and pulls the blanket higher around your shoulders. Tucking you in. Making sure you're warm. Making sure you're comfortable. Making sure nothing can touch you. Then he settles back against the pillows and wraps both arms around you. Holding you close. Like it's the easiest thing in the world. Like it's exactly where you're both supposed to be.

"Frank," you whisper.

"Yeah, sweetheart?" He hums, lips pressed to your hairline.

"I think I'm starting to like guns." He laughs, full and genuine, and the sound vibrates through his chest and into yours.

"Is that right?"

"Mhmm," you murmur,"Maybe we should have lessons more often." Frank shakes his head, though you can feel the smile pulling at his mouth where it's pressed against your hair. His hand keeps moving through your hair.

Slow.

Steady.

Comforting.

The kind of touch that always makes you sleepy.

Then—

"You were terrible, by the way." Your eyes snap open.

"What?" Frank snorts.

"During the lesson."

"I was not."

"You absolutely were." You sit up enough to glare at him.

"I followed every instruction."

"Bullshit."

"Frank."

"You spent half the lesson starin' at my hands." The heat that rushes into your face is immediate.

"Did not."

"Sweetheart."

"I didn't." He raises one eyebrow. The exact eyebrow. The one that says he knows you're lying.

"Baby, you were so distracted out lesson ended with me fucking you on our kitchen table." He says, kissing your nose. You try to swat him away, but then you just sling your thigh up and straddle his lap, trying to hide the wince as your core protests.

"It was a good fuck though." You mutter, wrapping your arms around him. Frank grins against your shoulder.

"Mama, any chance I get to be close to you is amazing. Especially when it's like that."

"My husband, the sex addict." You grumble, kissing that soft spot under his ear. He laughs, shaking his head, his hands trailing your spine and massaging the joint where your back meets your hips, as if he already knows it's sore from the way you were folded earlier. 

"Says the one who was screaming my name less than an hour ago."  You immediately smack his shoulder.

"Frank!"

"What?" he asks, entirely too pleased with himself.

"You are impossible." He grins.

"And yet."

"And yet nothing."

"And yet you're currently glued to my side."

You glance down. Unfortunately, he's right. You're wrapped around him like a particularly stubborn blanket. Your face heats.

"That's different."

"It is?"

"Yes."

"How?" You open your mouth. Then close it. Because you don't actually have an answer. Frank laughs. The sound is low and warm and entirely unfair.

"You got nothin', huh?"

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"I dislike you very strongly."

"There she is." You roll your eyes. Frank just smiles. For a while, neither of you says much. The room is quiet except for the distant hum of the air conditioner and the occasional creak of the bed when one of you shifts. His hand keeps moving over your back.

Slow. Comforting.

The kind of touch that always makes you feel sleepy. You look up at him, and. you smile, your finger coming up to graze his jaw.

"You're so beautiful, Frankie." The effect is immediate. Frank's entire face changes. Not dramatically. Just enough.

That little softness that only ever appears when you're looking at him like that. His eyes narrow slightly. Suspicious.

"Alright." You blink.

"What?"

"What do you want?" A laugh escapes you.

"I can't just compliment my husband?"

"You can."

"Then why are you lookin' at me like that?"

"'Cause every time you get sweet outta nowhere, you're usually about to ask for somethin'." You gasp.

"Frank." You smack his chest. He doesn't even flinch. The giant. "I am being serious." His expression softens again.

"I know, sweetheart." His hand slides up to cup your cheek. "And for the record?" You hum. "I think you're pretty beautiful yourself." Your face immediately heats. Frank grins. "Oh, now you're shy?"

"Shut up."

"Nope." You groan and bury your face against his shoulder. A second later, fingers suddenly wiggle against your side. You jolt.

"Frank." The fingers wiggle again. Warning. "Oh no." His grin turns positively evil.

"Oh yes."

"Frank."

"Sweetheart."

"Don't."

"Don't what?" His fingers dig into your ribs. You shriek.

"Frank!" He laughs so hard he nearly misses when you try to escape. Nearly. A massive arm catches your waist.

"Oh no you don't." You immediately dissolve into helpless laughter as he starts tickling you properly.

"Frank—stop—"

"Nope."

"I hate you!"

"Liar." You kick and squirm and try to shove him away. Frank barely moves. The unfairness of it all only makes you laugh harder. Eventually your attempt to escape turns into both of you getting tangled in the blankets. One second you're trying to crawl away. The next Frank is pulling you back toward him. And both of you end up toppling backward onto the mattress. You land half on top of him with a startled yelp. Frank's laughter fills the room. Warm. Happy. Completely unguarded. The sound makes your chest squeeze.

"You done?" he asks.

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"I might require revenge."

"Threatening a decorated veteran?"

"I'm very brave."

"That's one word for it." You poke his chest. Frank catches your hand immediately. Then brings it to his mouth and presses a kiss against your knuckles. Just because. Your heart does that stupid little flip it always does. The one he still causes after all these years. Frank notices the look on your face and smiles.

"You're thinkin' about how handsome I am." You groan dramatically.

"You're insufferable."

"I'll have you know, Mr Castle- That I know how to shoot and hold a gun." Frank immediately starts laughing.

"Oh no, Mrs Castle. Should I be scared ?"

"Terrified."

a/n- okay i know the ending is long but i looooove writing aftercare guys soft!frank is my safe space

taglist !

@overdrive1975 , @alialuvsreid, @nanni197, @goawayplease95 , @yesshewrites1, @carolinaxvz , @sofianotvergara , @bearisbored , @jbrownta , @cafieeee, @hardnightmarekitten, @kikibear33, @sweetbabygirlsworld, @rainyapricotcreatorparty , @gingin3-blog , @pinkypiezzz

[hyperfixationsgobrr]

Frank Castle aka The Punisher who has been feeling wierd lately, like he's being watched constantly, honestly it wouldn't surprise Frank to find out someone was stalking him or something shit. But this just feels wrong. It feels like he's being watched by something that wasn't human. He'd look behind him in alleys to see a shadow dissappear. 

One very late night, Frank sat on a bench, reflecting, when the hairs on his back stood. He whipped around, hand already on his gun to see absolutely nothing. And empty, dark playground. Whatever, Frank knew he was a messed up man, it wouldn't be crazy for him to be imagining problems that weren't there. 

Frank stood, gettign ready to head home when something shines caught his eye, he leaned down, it was a feather, completely iridescent, almost a foot long. No bird had wings that color that long. Frank pocketed the strange feather and walked home a bit faster than normal.

A few days later, Frank eas getting ready to invade a location where a gang that had been causing havoc was supposed to be, he was about 20 steps away when the most excruciating buzzing filled his head. Frank crumpled against the wall clutching his head, he could feel blood pouring from his ears. It felt like bugs were crawling through his brain.

Frank's vision was full of spots, but he looked up, there was someone standing infront of him. No, not someone, something. It was easily 8 feet tall, probably more. It stood with its hands....no not hands, claws, clasped together, it had owl like features, giant black eyes with white rings. Behind it was a set of wonderfully iridescent wings, each feather was huge. Over its head was a circle of piercing light. It hurt Frank even more to look at, almost as if this creature wasn't ever meant to be perceived by a human.

Its head slightly cocked, like it was observing Frank. 

It reached out a long arm, 3 claws attached pitch black to rest on Frank's forehead, its grip was freezing cold. In a moment, the screaming im his head completely vanished, making him wonder if it was ever there to begin with, just at the same time, the creature completely disappeared.

Frank struggled to his feet, his body feeling like ice. He looked over to the location, he hadn't even noticed that there had been some kind of blast. It looked deadly. If Frank had entered the building he probably would have been killed. 

As Frank attempted sleep that night, he was plagued by nightmares, not his usual ones of his wife and kids, but something else entirely. Drifting in an endless pit of darkness, white light blinding him, endless things he couldn't begin to describe.

He went to Matt. Matt belived in all that bullshit so maybe he could shed some light. They met at Matt's church.

"Frank, that dosent sound like anything I know. But- i mean, it says that angels were never meant for human perception...so maybe it was an angel?"

"Matt, the hell would any angel want with me."

"I honestly couldn't tell you, Frank"

Frank huffed and rubbed his face, then he saw it again.

It stood on a windowsill, illuminated in the many different colors of the stained glass. In a blink, it was behind Matt. 

"Matt, its fuckin' behind you." Frank hissed.

"I don't hear or smell anything, are you sure?" 

Matt reached behind himself, feeling for a beating that Frank claimed to be behind him, his hand met nothing but air.

Frank watched Matt's hand go straight through it, the creature still watched Frank. Whispers filled Frank's name, like ig was trying to talk to him in a language that made Frank's head hurt.

Frank pulled out his gun.

"Duck, red."

Frank fired at the creature. A flash followed. When it cleared, Frank saw the bullet case lying flattened on the ground, the creature had its uncanny iridescent wings wrapped around its body like a cocoon.

The wings unraveled, the light behind the creature’s head began to shine brighter, it took a step forward, if Frank could call it that. It stepped around Matt until it was only a few inches from Frank.

Frank waited with bated breath.

The creature held forward a piece of paper, worn with time, yellowed. It was folded into fourths. As soon as Frank took it, the creature disappeared, its shadow lingering for just a moment.

Frank unfolded the paper to find scribbled handwriting, he knew it anywhere, it was Lisa’s in purple crayon. 

‘We miss you! You’re so brave, we watch you all the time! Don’t worry, we’re protected all the time! Mommy misses you, I do too, Love Lisa!’ With a little heart and a flower.

“What the fuck.”

[schlangenring]

this would kill Frank Castle in a instant

[deadlynightshade26]

[crowttore]

Heavy man folding you in half and apologising under his breath while his hips pick up the pace breathe if you agree

[hellmonstercock]

ALSO

I think a lot about breeding room scenarios

Like you know the rooms where you can just see lower halves cuffed to the other side of walls and men are lined up to fuck the exposed cunts? Like that

Not knowing who's on the other side, not knowing when a man is going to choose you or how he'll fuck you, feeling a cock head press against your hole and push in right away like you're an object, hearing the grunts and groans he makes because your hole is such a good toy, maybe in pain because his cock is too big but he's making it fit, over and over and over, until he cums inside your filthy hole

Being recorded. Later the staff will show you the video of your lower half getting fucked so hard that you jerk against the cuffs, six or seven men breeding you in a row as your legs jerk, hearing your faint whines from the other side of the wall, watching white slip out of your hole and drip onto the floor

[clawxmoon]

── .✦ I'll warm you up

surviving cold winter cabin days with your husband frank!!

ᯓ tags │fluffy, established relationship, kissing│word count: 2.4k

a/n: I know summer JUST started but I already miss colder weather:(

rain taps softly against the cabin roof, against the windows, against the world outside, creating that peaceful sort of white noise that makes it impossible to know what time it is. the room is dim and gray, wrapped in the kind of soft rainy light that makes staying in bed feel less like laziness and more like a perfectly reasonable life decision.

under the blankets, everything is warm. your feet are tucked beneath the comforter, your head resting against frank's chest, one of his arms around your waist while the other is trapped somewhere beneath the pillow. at some point during the night you'd apparently stolen most of the blanket, because it's wrapped around you like a cocoon while only half covers him. somehow he doesn't seem to care.

you stir first, pressing your face deeper against his shirt for a moment before opening your eyes. frank is still asleep, or at least he looks asleep. his breathing is slow and even, his jaw relaxed in a way it rarely is when he's awake. outside, rain continues falling through the forest surrounding the cabin. the trees sway gently in the wind, their dark silhouettes visible through a gap in the curtains.

it's cold enough outside that the windows have started to fog slightly around the edges. meanwhile inside the bed feels impossibly warm. you shift your legs, searching for a more comfortable position, and accidentally brush against a colder spot in the sheets. immediately you pull back with a small shiver. the reaction is tiny, barely noticeable. unfortunately, frank notices everything. his eyes open immediately.

"cold?" he asks, voice rough from sleep.

you smile. "good morning to you too."

"you cold?"

"maybe a little."

his arm tightens around your waist before you've even finished speaking. then he shifts, pulling you closer until you're practically draped across him. one large hand slides slowly up and down your back through the fabric of your shirt, sharing warmth without even thinking about it. you feel his chin settle lightly on top of your head.

"c'mere," he murmurs. "lemme warm you up." there's something so simple and automatic about the way he says it that your chest immediately feels lighter. you tuck yourself closer against him and feel his arm tighten a little more.

"better?" he asks after a minute.

"a little," you admit.

"little?" he repeats skeptically. "a little aint enough."

"frank, i'm fine." you smile up at him and hide your face in his neck.

the rain continues outside while the room remains perfectly still. frank's fingers trace lazy patterns along your arm beneath the blanket, absentminded and comforting. eventually you glance up and discover he's looking at you. he kind of look that says he's checking whether you're comfortable. checking whether you're happy. checking whether you're still cold.

"what?" you ask.

"nothin'."

"you're staring."

"so what? can't stare at my girl anymore?" he lets out a sleepy huff that sounds suspiciously close to a laugh. then his gaze drifts toward the rain-covered windows. "don' wanna get up," he mutters.

you blink. "what?" he doesn't answer. "did frank castle just admit he doesn't want to get out of bed?"

now he looks annoyed. "don't start." frank simply pulls you back down onto his chest before you can continue arguing. "discussion over."

the rain grows heavier as the morning continues. every now and then water slides down the windows in long silver streaks. the cabin feels smaller in the best possible way. cozy. sheltered. hidden from the rest of the world. neither of you has checked your phone in hours. there's nowhere to be. nobody expecting anything.

just the two of you wrapped beneath warm blankets while the weather does whatever it wants outside. frank's hand remains settled against your back the entire time. whenever you shift away even slightly, he unconsciously follows.

when your feet brush against his legs, he immediately moves closer. at one point you try creating a little distance just to test something. less than thirty seconds later his arm automatically pulls you back.

"you know you're clingy, right?" you tell him.

he looks genuinely offended. "says the person usin' me as a pillow."

another long silence followed, the comfortable kind. the kind married couples have after years together where neither person feels pressure to fill every second with conversation. rain taps against the roof. the blankets are warm. frank's fingers lazily trace circles against your shoulder while your eyes drift toward closing again.

every so often one of you says something random. comments on the weather. wonders whether there's enough coffee downstairs. debates whether breakfast counts as brunch if neither of you gets out of bed before ten. the conversation goes nowhere and somehow that makes it perfect.

you leaned in for a kiss slowly, hesitantly, like you weren’t sure if frank would even allow it. but the second your lips touched his - soft and chaste, the air between you shifted.

frank didn’t hesitate for long. within a breath, he deepened it, tilting his head just slightly to angle better and pressing back. his large hands slid from your cheeks down to cradle the sides of your neck.

his lips moved against yours with tenderness. each press was deliberate, a soft parting of mouths before meeting again deeper this time, testing how far you’d let him go.

the kiss lingered - long, peaceful and unhurried. frank’s mouth stayed warm and patient against yours. frank shifted carefully beneath you, not pushing you down or pulling you closer too fast, but simply adjusting so he could hold your body better.

his right arm slid around your shoulders while his left hand came up to rest low on your back, palm flat between your shoulder blades, cradling every curve gently as if afraid of breaking something precious.

eventually you tilt your head up and find frank already looking at you again. this time neither of you says anything. he simply brushes a strand of hair away from your face before pulling the blanket a little higher around your shoulders.

"there," he mutters.

"frank, I'm not cold anymore."

his expression softens slightly. just enough for you to notice.

eventually, despite neither of you wanting to move, the promise of coffee becomes impossible to ignore. it starts with frank glancing toward the bedroom door, then toward the window, then back at you as though calculating whether staying in bed is worth the caffeine deprivation.

judging by the reluctant look on his face, the answer is very nearly yes. unfortunately, you know him well enough to recognize the exact moment he gives in.

"okay, let's go, c'mon" he lets out a long sigh, the kind that sounds personally offended by the existence of responsibilities, and carefully shifts upright.

cold air immediately slips beneath the blankets, making you pull the comforter tighter around yourself. before standing, frank pauses long enough to tug the blanket around your shoulders, making sure it's wrapped securely despite the fact that you're perfectly capable of doing it yourself.

when you point this out, he simply ignores you. his hand briefly squeezes your shoulder as he climbs out of bed, and for a moment you find yourself watching him move around the room while snow continues drifting outside the window.

the cabin feels warm and cozy, the kind of place that encourages people to move slowly. sunlight filters through the clouds in pale silver beams, catching on the snow-covered branches outside. everything feels peaceful in a way that seems increasingly rare.

downstairs, the cabin is even cozier than the bedroom. the fireplace has long since burned down to embers, but the lingering warmth remains, mixing with the scent of cedarwood and old pine.

the kitchen sits beside a large window overlooking the forest, and through the glass you can see snow piled high on the porch railing and scattered across the surrounding trees. while frank starts the coffee maker, you begin gathering ingredients for breakfast.

neither of you is particularly talkative yet. it's the comfortable quiet of two people who don't feel the need to perform wakefulness for each other. mugs are set on the counter.

drawers open and close. somewhere outside, a bird lands briefly on a branch before disappearing again. by the time you begin mixing ingredients, the smell of fresh coffee has started filling the entire cabin.

frank appears behind you before you even realize he's left the coffee maker. one moment you're focused on cooking, and the next two familiar arms are wrapping around your waist from behind.

"clingy frankie"

"shush" his chest settles against your back, warm even through both layers of clothing, and his chin comes to rest lightly on your shoulder.

he simply stands there holding you while you continue trying to work around him. it would be easier if he moved. significantly easier. unfortunately, frank seems perfectly content where he is.

every time you shift to reach something, he shifts with you. every time you step sideways, he follows. at one point you attempt to open a cabinet and discover that doing so while dragging an attached six-foot-tall man around the kitchen is surprisingly difficult.

still, you can't really find it in yourself to complain. there is something deeply comforting about the quiet weight of him against your back. one of his hands remains loosely clasped over your stomach while the other occasionally rubs slow circles against your side.

he doesn't seem to need conversation this morning. just proximity. every now and then you glance over your shoulder and find him watching you with that soft, sleepy expression he only ever wears in private. his eyes follow your movements around the kitchen.

when you smile, something faint and almost invisible tugs at the corner of his mouth. it isn't quite a smile. more the beginning of one. the possibility of one.

by the time everything is finished, steam curls from both mugs of coffee and the entire kitchen smells warm and inviting. outside, snow continues falling in lazy drifts, transforming the forest into something that looks almost unreal.

the two of you settle at the small wooden table near the window, and for a while the only sounds are the clink of silverware and the occasional creak of the cabin settling around you. sunlight briefly breaks through the clouds, scattering diamonds of light across the snow outside.

"your hands are cold." frank mentions.

"they're fine."

he reaches over and grabs one anyway. "cold." frank rubs his thumb across your knuckles.

you find yourself staring out the window, mesmerized by the view. when you look back, you catch frank watching you rather than the scenery. his gaze shifts away almost immediately when he realizes he's been caught, but not before you see the softness there.

there is something about winter mornings that seems to make time slower. breakfast stretches comfortably into late morning. coffee is refilled. conversation drifts lazily from one topic to another without any urgency. plans for the day are mentioned and then abandoned.

"you're smiling." you point out. he looks away toward the trees. which only proves your point. "frank."

"what."

"you like me."

he groans immediately. "married you, didn't I."

"that doesn't answer the question."

"pretty sure it does." he lets out a breathy chuckle as he kisses your temple.

neither of you seems particularly interested in doing much beyond existing in the same space. eventually you push your chair back and start gathering dishes, only for frank to stand at the exact same moment and quietly take the plates from your hands. there isn't any discussion about it. there rarely is.

he simply takes over with the calm certainty of someone who has already made up his mind. while he carries dishes to the sink, you lean against the counter watching him for a moment.

there is something oddly domestic about the sight. sleeves rolled up. shoulders relaxed. warm winter light filtering through the kitchen window while snow falls outside. frank standing at the sink washing dishes should not affect you as much as it does, and yet it always seems to. perhaps because it is such a normal thing.

he catches you watching and lifts an eyebrow in silent question. you shake your head with a smile he narrows his eyes slightly, unconvinced, but returns to cleaning anyway.

when the dishes are finally done, you carry your coffee onto the front porch. the cold greets you immediately, crisp and clean without being unpleasant. the wooden boards creak softly beneath your feet as you settle into one of the large chairs facing the forest.

from here, the view is breathtaking. endless trees draped in white. snowflakes drifting lazily through the air. distant hills softened by winter haze. the world looks untouched. peaceful. as though someone has pressed pause on everything beyond the cabin.

you wrap both hands around your mug and breathe in the scent of coffee while watching the snowfall. for several minutes you're alone, listening to the gentle hush of winter. then the front door opens behind you. you don't need to turn around to know it's frank.

his footsteps are instantly familiar. slow and steady across the porch boards. a second later he appears beside you carrying his own mug, and rather than choosing the empty chair farther away, he drags the closest one directly beside yours before sitting down.

the legs scrape softly across the wood. close enough that your shoulders touch. close enough that you can feel his warmth even through your coat.

for a long time neither of you says much. the silence isn't empty. it's shared. the kind of silence built through years of knowing each other. frank leans back in his chair, one hand wrapped around his coffee mug, his gaze fixed on the snowy landscape stretching beyond the porch.

the cold has painted a faint flush across his cheeks. his expression is calm in a way few people ever get to witness. there are no sharp edges here. no tension. only quiet contentment. every now and then he takes a sip of coffee, and each time he lowers the mug his shoulder brushes lightly against yours again.

"if a bear showed up right now, what would you do?"

frank looks at you over his mug.

"why."

"just answer."

"depends."

"on what?"

"whether he's bothering us."

you immediately start laughing. "you're gonna evaluate the bear first?"

"maybe he's minding his own business."

"frank."

"what."

"that's insane."

eventually you shift closer, resting your head against him as you smile. immediately frank adjusts without looking away from the scenery. his arm drapes across the back of your chair. his shoulder angles slightly toward you.

somehow he manages to make the space between you disappear entirely. you watch snowflakes tumble through the trees while warm coffee heats your hands and winter air nips gently at your face. behind you, the cabin glows with warmth. ahead of you, the forest stretches endlessly beneath fresh snow.

and sitting there together, wrapped in winter silence and the comfort of familiar company, it becomes impossible to imagine a place you'd rather be. some mornings aren't memorable for anything extraordinary. just coffee, snowfall, a quiet cabin in the woods, and the simple comfort of sharing it with the person who feels most like home.

[doglike]

[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. 

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[sochkila-side]

His Wife

You and Frank tie the knot and he's taken quite a liking to his new title.. and yours

Warnings: husband!frank x wife!reader, protective!frank, feisty!reader, PinV, smut, MDNI, 18+, pwp, lots of plot, semi-healed frank, encounter with a-hole side character, lots of cute fluff, oral (m receiving), lowk breeding kink, lowk cumplay, lots of use of the word wife lol and husband but that’s kind the whole premise of this

w.c: 4.5k

—

It was the perfect little ceremony, perfectly you and Frank. Small and intimate, in the backyard of your home. The closest people to you both gathered to watch you and Frank officially tie the knot.

In the few days after you notice how Frank loves using that word more and more. “Wife” it rolls off his tongue with so much pride.

He’d be on the phone to someone and you hear him say “gotta check with my wife” or “yeah I’ll drop my wife off then I’ll come” and how he would always emphasise the “my wife” each time. It made you chuckle a little when you’d look up at him with butterflies in your tummy. You’re not sure if it was the 'my' or the 'wife' or both words strung together that got you all giddy but everytime you look up at Frank you’d always see that big dumb grin on his face when he says it.

You also notice how Frank is just a little more… well, Frank. Outside of the house he was more protective, he hovered more, he was always there, more..yours and you were more his - if that was even possible. He made sure everyone around him knew it too. His hand always on your hip or around your waist, the glint of the wedding band on his finger ever present.

Inside the your home it was much the same, you and Frank still doing the same things you liked doing for each other. Like the way you made and packed his lunch every night and how he would always bring you your night time tea a little before you’d both head off to bed. But it all felt a little more intimate. Realistically you both knew a ring wouldn’t change how much you both loved each other. Ring or no ring you knew you were his forever and he was yours.

There was juuuuust one thing that had changed a little. A minor thing really - Frank was being so gentle in bed. You loved it, you did - it was slow and sensual and passionate.

But god you needed him to demolish you. He had you feeling like such a desperate little thing, you were almost ashamed.

Here he was - your loving husband making sweet sweet love to you, making you see stars every time. But you wanted the depraved version of him. The one that would sound like an animal when he'd pound into you. The way he would let his base instincts take over, how his pupils would blow wide when he’d fuck you so hard you could barely speak.

You weren’t sure why marriage had changed the way he was in bed. Maybe he was just feeling a little more ‘sentimental’? And this is how he could show it since you knew he wasn’t a big “words” guy when it came to this stuff.

You’d heard the horror stories of people who get bored of each other after they get married and have robotic mechanical sex till they eventually stop all together but stay together for the sake of staying together. But it had only been a couple of weeks, surely he wasn’t bored.. right? You tried your best not to spiral. No, you’d just try a different tactic - maybe it was a short term thing anyway.

What you didn’t know was that, Frank was trying really really reeeeally hard to not break you. He was still counting all of his lucky stars that by some good grace of the universe he was given another chance at this life. A life with you, as his wife - another chance to start over. When he was on top of you, pumping in and out of you he just needed to show you how much he loved you, how grateful he was that you had given this to him. And this is how he thought he could, by making love to you, slow and sweet. But when he would see the little piece of gold on your ring finger there was something that would start clawing deep in his gut. You were his, his wife he was your husband and fuck he just wanted to claim you over and over again.

But he wouldn’t fuck this up, is what he told himself. So he relented, slowing himself and his brain down. Little did he know that under the surface of your soft moans and cries was that side of you that needed him in that carnal, animalistic way.

🌀🌀🌀🌀

It's a Sunday afternoon and you both make your way through the grocery store, Frank steering the trolley and you linked on his arm. “Want that sub for lunch tomorrow?” You ask him with your eyes moving down your list checking items off. “Whatever’s easy honey” he hums, scanning the isle and the people walking through it as he usually does.

“Wanna make what you want baby” you reply pouting up at him. He looks down at you with a smile pausing before he continues “yeah subs good, thank you sweetheart” he says kissing away the pout on your lips. You smile as you walk forward to grab the baguettes you know he likes. When you turn to walk back to him he’s already there, right behind you. Like he can’t leave any room for someone else to get near you.

“Okay, all done I think” you chirp, checking off the last item on your list. When you look up you see Frank chuck a bag of chocolate covered pretzels in the full trolley. You look up at him confused “I ain’t driving back when you complain about not having a ‘sweet treat’ ” he chuckles, sandwiching the last two words between his air quotation marks. You roll your eyes but laugh anyway as you walk towards the registers.

It’s a Sunday afternoon so you’re not surprised that the line is long with everyone else doing the weekly prep grocery run, but it’s a little more full with the self serve registers not working. “Shit! I forgot the milk” you sigh in frustration “can you get it pleeeease we’re almost at the front frankie” you plead unnecessarily because he’s already moving. “Oh we need 2!” You call out to him “yes ma’am” he laughs as he weaves out of the line and disappears.

You’re smiling to yourself when you turn back. Triple checking again if you haven’t missed anything. When you look up you’re one person away from the register. You move to the front of the trolley to start piling items onto the conveyer belt when you see a man cut in front of you with a hand full of groceries.

He pushes your groceries that you had already placed down back and places his own down in front. “Uhh, excuse me? Did you not see the line?” You pipe up - annoyed. “Calm down lady I only got a few you got a whole trolley get over it” he drawl’s dismissively.

And honestly, sure if he had just asked politely, you would have absolutely let him go in front. But talking to you like that and telling you to ‘calm down’ ooooh no no no, you were not going to let that slide.

“Yeah, and if you had just asked like a normal person I would have let you, but since you wanna be an ass then go wait in line like everyone else” you retort, rolling your eyes at the fact that you had to teach common decency to a grown man in a grocery store line.

“What are you some fuckin bored housewife? Got nothing goin on so you gotta pick fights with people in the supermarket” he laughs arrogantly before he turns back around “what happened don’t get fucked enough?” he smirks looking over his shoulder.

Your nostrils flare as your mouth opens again to retaliate but in the blink of an eye all you see is the back of Franks hoodie. He slams the cartons of milk down on the conveyer belt. Staring down at the poor excuse of a man in front of him.

“Talk to my wife like that again and I’ll break your fuckin jaw - I suggest you listen to her and get your shit and go wait in the back” he grunts out like a bull ready to run at a red flag. You look down and see his hands twitching as they close and open. You pray for the guys sake that he doesn’t open his mouth and say something stupid. He looks up at Frank, his mouth opens as if he’s about to reply before he closes it. Atleast he’s got some sense you think to yourself.

He picks up his items and tries to move around Frank to go wait at the back of the line before Frank side steps and blocks him again. Frank tilts his head down, bringing him nose to nose with the man, chest puffed out, teeth clenched with his muscles around his jaw feathering out.

“And trust me, she gets fucked reaaaal good - the next time you so much as think about my wife like that you don’t get a warning, got it?” He growls out through bared teeth, in a decibel low enough for only the man to hear.

The guy doesn’t even say any thing he just gives Frank a hurried nod before scampering away.

After he disappears out of sight Frank turns to you, his eyes scanning your features. “y'alright?” He asks concern and curiosity in his tone, you nod as you stack the rest of the groceries on the conveyor. “what happened ?” Frank asks wanting to hear from the beginning. “He cut in, was a dick about it so I told him to fuck off” you shrug as if it was no biggie. A small smirk breaks out across franks lips

“that’s my girl” he laughs before grabbing the back of your head and kissing your forehead.

You stood there, a mess between your legs watching him to pay for everything as you try your best to not drop to your knees for him in front of everyone right there and fill your mouth with him. God you felt heated - he’d called you his wife before, sure, multiple times. But not like this, not laced with this much possession and protectiveness behind it. His wife, Frank Castle’s wife.

🌀🌀🌀🌀

On the ride home you give Frank a play by play of what happened. He’s listening intently with one of his hands on the steering wheel and the other intertwined with yours. “And THEN he LAUGHED, can you believe it?! Ugh asshole” you huff, finishing your recount. Frank is quiet as he spins the wedding band on your finger “fuckin jagoff, shoulda knocked his teeth out” he mutters, annoyed at himself.

“and then what? spend the night by myself while my husband sits in a jail cell” you say flatly, staring up at him with a pointed look in your face.

You catch the little smile on his face “your what?” he asks, squeezing your hand a little. You smile, pulling his hand up to your lips “what? My husband” you say in a playfully singsong-y way as you kiss the top of his hand.

He places his hand back down, palm wide on your thigh “yeah that’s right, your husband” he chuffs, squishing the meat of your leg as he pulls up into the driveway, not missing the way your legs squeeze together a little.

God he’s so cute, your heart swells when you look at him - the big bad punisher - gleaming from ear to ear at the title he gets to wear now - your husband and he’s never been more proud.

You hop out of the truck, and grab Franks keys. In the years of being together you’ve learned - there’s simply no use trying to help bring the bags in, he won’t let you. So you unlock the house and hold the door open for him instead as he lugs everything inside like a pack mule.

🌀🌀🌀🌀

After helping pack everything away Frank retreats to the couch. He sinks into the plush sofa as he clicks on the TV. Pushing himself further into the seat as his legs splay out wider while he gets comfy. You’re watching him from the kitchen as you start prepping veggies for the week to make life easier for yourself after work.

You keep getting distracted as your eyes keep floating up to him. He just looked like the perfect seat for you, the want still there between your legs. Growing more ravenous at the way he was just sitting here. One arm propped behind his head watching whatever game replay was on the TV. With his big meaty thighs spread wide, one foot resting on the coffee table.

As you continue to wash and prep for the week you keep thinking back to the store. The almost growl he had in his voice when he called you his wife. The way he was infront of you in a heartbeat, like an immovable wall not letting anything touch you. You try to ignore the sticky mess in your panties as you dry your hands off.

You grab a cold beer from the fridge, crack it open and pad towards him. He looks up at you then at the beer in your hand outstretched towards him “s’this for?” He asks with a curious smile on his face as he takes it from your hand.

“Just cos” you hum with an innocent little smile as you straddle him.

“I got the best wife huh” he says taking a quick swig of the beer as he places the it down on the side table to run his hands - cold and wet with the condensation of the bottle - up your legs, skimming just under your dress and resting on the curve of your ass.

“Hmmm yeah you do” a breathy laugh leaves you as your hands slide up his chest and around his neck. You lower your lips down to his, kissing him slow. Before pulling away ever so slightly “hey, thank you.. for today” you whisper looking into his eyes, your tone more sincere than before.

He looks between your pupils “for what baby?” He asks confused

“Just, y’know the store, being you, being my husband” you smile kissing the tip of his broad nose.

He smiles again that proud one “say it again” he asks, voice a little more soft. You laugh into him “my husband” you coo, emphasising the my. You feel his hips shift up at the word when you lean back down to kiss him.

He wraps one arm firm around your waist as the other slides up your back, his hand cradling your head. He deepens the kiss and you feel his tongue open your mouth up further. You comply, easily.

You feel that mess in your panties as your hips push down on him, feeling him harden under you. You feel his shaky exhale into your mouth when he feels the way your hips are grinding on him. He can’t help but rut his hips up into you. A small sigh leaves your mouth as your hands trail down his torso to rub firmly over his hardening length causing a sharp hiss to escape franks throat which you swallow in your mouth.

You wiggle your hip back a little to pull his half hard cock out. Keeping your eyes locked on his as you spit a string of saliva straight down that lands right on his tip and trickles down. You see Franks eyes grow wild when you wrap one hand around his cock, smearing your spit before you start pumping his cock up and down. The action pushing your tits together between your arms "s-so fucking pretty baby" he exhales lowly his eyes falling down to your tits then back up to your eyes.

"take your shirt off frank" you almost order, not without a flutter of your lashes of-course. He doesn't even respond with words, just quickly ripping his shirt over his head and throwing it behind the couch.

"so fucking pretty" you whisper teasingly in his ear mirroring his words. But he was, just so. fucking. pretty. His pretty big chest, littered in his pretty scars that your tongue and lips had spent hours upon hours running over as he told you the stories of most of them.

You give him one last kiss before you lift your hips up and sink down on the rug in front of him between his legs.

“Baby-wh-what are you doing” he exhales out sharply

“Shh, just want my husbands cock-keep watching the game” you smile as you hook your hands around band of his jeans and pull them down. His eyes still trained on you still, you see the little furrow in his brow and the twitch in his nose at the word.. husband as he lifts his hips to help you pull them off.

Your eyes fall down to his pretty cock, hard and beading with that delicious pre-cum. Your tongue darts out licking your lips, hungry for it. Leaning forward you like a stripe up the vein that runs from the bottom of his shaft up to the tip and lick up the pre-cum before wrapping your lips around him.

"g-gggod baaby" he drawls, his head falling back on the couch. You start bobbing your head up and down. Humming around his cock as you savour the taste of his cock. The vibrations causing his hips to twitch.

You look up at him, his cock in your mouth and see his heaving chest his fists balled tightly by his thighs like he doesn't know what to do with them. He looks down at you through hooded lids, mouth slightly agape as he watches you slobber over his cock.

Your cheeks hollow out as you suck his cock , pushing him further down your throat. Frank starts breathing deeper, you see the muscles in his abdomen tighten. You bring your hands up and place them over his balled fists and caress up and down soothing him before picking them up and placing them on the back of your head.

You pull your mouth off him, eyes locked on his, tilting your head to the side as you start placing little kisses from the bottom of his shaft up. Franks hands start to card through your hair, sweeping it out of your face before lightly keeping them at the back of your head as he holds you hair. "its ok frankie, use me" you whisper sweetly as you take his cock in your mouth again and push it down do the back of your throat causing you to gag a little. "oh-fuck honey" he grunts, hips twitching up as you feel his grip tighten - his resolve starting to form tiny cracks.

You bob up and down a few more times before you feel Frank gently push your head further down, you smile a little around his cock - your pussy crying tears of joy, so proud of your big man for using you. You guzzle his cock down as Frank pants above you, holding you in place as he fucks your mouth gently before you feel yourself being pulled off him. You look up at him, lips still glistening with your saliva and his pre cum.

Both of your chests heaving, breaths deep and heavy "need your pussy baby p-please" Frank pants out reaching forward he scoops you up lifting you as you wrap your legs around him. His lips are on yours in an instant, your tongues tasting each other, the kiss so desperate it’s like you both need each other more than air.

Frank walks you both back into the bedroom and drops you down before climbing on top of you. And like he cannot handle a split second of not being connected you his lips are on you, kissing and licking down your neck as his hands grab your dress to pull it off you.

He starts kissing lower before he feels your hands grab his face "baby please I need you" you pant "but bab-" he starts before you cut him off, as much as you love the feeling of his tongue licking through your pussy you need him, inside of you, desperately. "frank-please" you beg and he concedes. The first crack in the wall, and you see glimpses of your animal coming back.

He kisses back up to your lips, and you feel his hands pull your panties down, you bring your legs together for him to peel them off your legs before you spread them wide for him again to settle between them.

Your hands run up his big arms, hooking behind his neck to pull him closer down to you. "you sure baby?" he asks softly, looking deep into your eyes. "y-yyessss frankie-baby please" you whine as you grind your hips up and down his cock. Frank groans when he feels your soaked pussy slick up the shaft of his cock.

He kisses you deep as he lines up his tip right at your entrance and pushes in slowly. "christ-youre so fuckin warm and wet baby, all this for me?" He groans as he fills you to the hilt. You moan into his mouth "mhmm all for you frankie" you mewl at the stretch of his thick leaking cock.

He starts moving in and out of you in long slow strokes. You feel the drag of his heavy cock through your walls as he splits you open. "feel so fuckin good baby" you hear frank muttering to himself above you. Your eyes flutter open as you look up at him, at the way his eyes are screwed shut, with his teeth gritted like he was still holding himself back. Your hands run up his tense veiny forearms, one caged on the side of your head and the other fisted in the sheet beside you.

Your mind thinks back the bob in his throat and the shift of his hips when you called him your husband, and a bright idea comes to mind to help him let go.

You reach your hands up and cradle his big face and he opens his eyes "c'mon baby, be a good husband and fuck your wife" you coo, trying your best to hide your cheeky little smile between your kiss on his lips.

and Frank absolutely looses it - the wall of restraint bursting open as he literally whimpers dropping himself down to you pressing your bodies close, wrapping his brawny arms around you tight before he starts hammering his cock into you - rough and deep.

"goddamn it-fuck-" he breathes heavy before kissing you hastily. All tongue and teeth "my little wife wants to get fucked huh that it?" he rasps between kisses.

He's fucking into you so hard that you cant even form a full sentence "uh-fu-ck-yess-puh-lease" is all you can pant out with each brutal thrust forcing your body to jut up with your breathy whimpers between each syllable as tears prick through your waterline.

He thinks back to that mans comment and a small part of his brain wishes he was here to see just how good he fucks you."what kind of husband would I be huh, not giving my wife what she asks for" he grunts, like he was trying to fuck the title all the way deep inside of you. You look up and see that hunger set ablaze in his pretty brown eyes. There he is, your Frankie that you missed so much.

You feel that coil tightening fast deep in your belly at his eyes, pussy drunk on you. The way he's growling as he shoves his cock deep in and out of you pushing the air out of your lungs with each harsh thrust. "ffffuuuck m'gonna c-come baby-god-f-fill me up frankie-please-wanna b-be so full of my husbands cum" you cry out into his mouth.

'yyyyeeahh? god baby-gonna fill ma fuckin wife up-fuck-gonna be so fuckin full of me huh, my good little wife, my beautiful fuckin wife" he hoarsely whispers into your mouth like he’s chanting a prayer to whichever god gave him you.

"mmmfuckk baby, please please please i'll be such a good little wife for you-please-cum inside of me frankie" you whine out before your cunt starts clamping around his cock. Your words and your slutty little pleads send him over the edge "yeahyeahyeah fuck im cummin honey-christ-so fucking deep baby" frank grunts out like an animal as he slams his cock into you - your walls pulsing as you milk his creamy sticky warm cum out "you feel it baby? Yeah? So fuckin full honey thatsss it gonna take it all yeah? my pretty wifes gonna take it all” frank all but whines out. His arms wrapped tightly around you keeping you there like his little fleshlight as he fills you full of his seed.

Frank swallows your moans and mewls as your body writhes in his hold as you come down from your high. You feel Franks full weight drop on top you, crushing you a little but you welcome it as you tighten your legs and arms around him. He litters kisses down your jaw and neck while continuing his lazy rut of his hips.

You feel the the sticky mess between where the both of you are connected and smile. You feel franks heart hammering away in his chest as you run your hands up and down his upper back. You run your hands through his hair as you feel his lips dot kisses up your neck.

“Missed you baby” you coo gently

Frank lifts his head up to look at you “been right here honey” he says a little confused. “Missed you, like this” you clarify with a cheeky little smile. “Yeah? Missed fucking you like this” he says somewhat shyly as he presses a kiss on the side of your head.

“Why’d you stop?” You ask hesitantly after a moment of silence. He looks down at you for a beat before answering “I don’t know baby, just wanted to show you how much I love you” he says so sincerely it makes your heart bloom and he smiles at the way he feels you pulse around his length, still sheathed inside of you.

“Baby you show me every day how much you love me, you don’t have to hold back… I thought you were getting bored of me already..” you say that last line a little lower.

Frank looks at you like you’ve grown three heads “bored of you? Sweetheart, there is no version of me in any universe that would ever get bored of you” he coos placing another gentle kiss on your lips. “Where am I gonna find someone else who likes fighting with guys in grocery stores huh” he jokes a little and “shuttt uuuup” you smile.

He gives you another kiss before he sits up and pulls himself out of you. His eyes fall down to your cunt, hypnotised by the way his cum oozes out of your hole. He runs his hands up your thigh, and you see the way his softened cock starts twitching back to life at the sight of you.

“What is it?” You ask him nudging him with your foot. “Hm nothin, you just look so pretty when you’re full of me” he says breaking out of his trance.

"gonna get a towel honey" he sighs as he attempts to get up. You pull him back down to the bed and climb on top of him "I don't think we're done yet frankie" you whisper licking up his neck.

"you're gonna fuckin' kill baby" he says in a low chuckle and a slap on your ass before flipping you on your back. You hit the bed with a shreik as you laugh "let me clean you up a different way then huh, heard you got a his & hers special between your legs" he says, voice laced with mirth as he snakes his hand down and runs two of his thick fingers through the mix of the both of you and pushes his fingers inside of you making you moan. “Gotta taste it myself baby, see what all the fuss is about” he whispers as he makes his way down your body.

Yeah you both had a bit of catching up to do.

—

a/n: I hope you guys liked this!! 🫣 lmk if yall wanna see more of husband Frank! Also this is like a semi healed version of Frank that lives rent free inside my head xx

(Sorry for any grammatical errors, I did proof read but I also have really bad period cramps rn and my brain was struggling)

[dark-moonlust]

A swirling abyss with tentacles reaching out.

Monsterfuckers: Do I need therapy? Probably. Am I letting the tentacles take me anyway? Absolutely.

[shadydruid]

Baldurs Gate 3 Origin Characters Oracle Cards! Almost all of them have been updated since I first posted them. The last one is my Durge Amaranthine 💜 Which card do you like the most?

[mischievous-mami-deactivated202]