I need a ficlet of Franco being slapped around and stepped on, maybe also spat on.
I just want yo make him whimper and beg -w-
Summary: You just wanted your wedding day to look perfect and with the perfect wedding means the perfect flowers…
Windows cast ribbons of color across the aisle, rows upon rows of handcrafted pews stood in perfect formation, and at the far end, a grand stage awaited for you to walk up and marry the man of your devotion.
But your head tilted at the flowers hanging from the cathedral’s high arches. Peonies and hydrangeas.
“Franco,” you called sweetly.
He hurried to your side, all smiles and laughter. “What is it, Tesoro?” He slid his hands around your waist, resting his head on your shoulder, gazing up at you like you were the sun itself.
“Oh, well, I was just admiring the beauty of the church—”
“Lovely, ain’t she?” he said, beaming. “My father was married here more than a few times. A real special place. Wanted it to be the place I got married at—”
“Yes,” you cut in sharply, then softened it with a smile. “I agree it’s lovely, but, aha… what’s that?” You pointed upward.
Franco lifted his head. “The flowers? That’s what the wedding planner recommended—”
Your hand cracked across his face before he could finish. The sound echoed through the church, freezing every mafia member and planner in their tracks. Franco didn’t even have time to look surprised before you seized his cheeks and forced him to meet your eyes.
“It was supposed to be lilies and irises.” You batted your lashes, voice sweet as venom, while your grip tightened. He sank lower, your hand guiding him down. “I told you specifically, I wanted this weddin’ to look perfect. And now—” your smile faltered, eyes narrowing, “now you’re trying to make a fool of me? on my own day?”
Franco shook his head frantically, muttering broken apologies, his hand trembling against your wrist.
You dug your heel into his crotch.
He gasped as the sharp point pressed cruelly into his sack. His hands scrambled for your leg, clutching it as you leaned down, your breath brushing against his face.
“I want this wedding to be perfect.” you snarled, grinding your heel deeper. “I want to sing”, you pressed harder,“I want to dance.” You leaned forward until he was flat on his back, eyes wide and glistening as he looked up at you. “And I want our guests to feel every bit of wonder and magic when they arrive because that’s what our love should look like!” Your heel came down hard against his crotch.
Franco’s head snapped back, a strangled moan tearing from his throat as his grip tightened around your ankle. He could feel the tip of his cock soiling his trousers.
“Not—whatever that shit is!” You jabbed a finger toward the flowers overhead.
You take your leg back and step forward, both heels pressed into his chest, pinning him to the marble floor. Yet he still clung to your calves, grounding you, trembling beneath you while he made sure you wouldn’t wobble off.
“So,” you asked coolly, “what kind of flowers are we getting tomorrow?”
“L–Lilies and irises,” he wheezed.
You didn’t say anything but stepped to either side of his body, crouched, and grabbed the front of his suit, hauling him upright. You inhaled deeply then spat right in his face. Franco flinched, eyes squeezing shut as the spit slid down his cheek.
“Don’t make any more mistakes, ya’ got that?”
He stiffened instantly. “I–I mean yes… yes, mommy. I won’t make any more mistakes.” His head bowed, shame and arousal warring across his face.
You patted his cheek with a sharp slap and smiled. “Good boy.” You kiss his other cheek, leaving a wet kiss just to even it out.
Standing tall, you brushed the imaginary dirt off your dress, turned, and strode down the aisle. The church doors creaked open, sunlight flooding the space as you exited. Franco sat up slowly, red-faced, breath heavy, wiping the spit from his skin. The eyes of everyone in the room were on him.
“What?!” he barked, glaring around. “You’ve never been married before?!”
At once, they looked away, pretending to busy themselves with the decorations.
