Make It Stick
Husband!Frank Castle x Wife!Reader
Summary: Your first morning as the Castiglione’s starts with sex and ends with something new.
MASTERLIST
Warnings: explicit, graphic smut — MDNI, 18+ ONLY. cunnilingus (whatever that is), piv, breeding kink, reader tops but that don’t mean Frank ain’t soft dom, breeding kink ummm consequences, pron wit some plot, Frank calls reader "little" but I use this as reader being soft, not in actual size.
w/c: 6851
my first ever requested pic!fic! see the req here. requested pic is the first one in the banner
Frank sleeps like a marine is trained to: stone still, without a sound, and alert at the drop of a pin.
So when the paths of early morning sun spill through the sheer curtains of your bedroom and into your eyes for a gentle rousing to the day, you make no sound, no movement, other than fluttering your lashes open.
It’s as though the world’s softly coaxing you to this rare moment— one where you wake up before Frank.
The heavy knit blankets trap in heat from his bare body molded flush behind you, still trying to complete himself through you.
You must’ve fucked him to remission last night because he sleeps. A deep sleep slows his breathing, shoulders unraveled from their usual tension, a heavy arm draped over your body to keep you there. A natural, placid cadence to his body. The gradual rise of his chest with an inhale, white lace bedspread expanding with it.
The easy, prolonged deflation of an exhale. Your husband, finally—finally—at peace.
He’s heavy in the morning. Heavy limbed. Sleep-warmed. Heavy cock jutting against your ass.
You grin to yourself, sleepy victory. Your thighs squeeze together all over again, thinking about last night. I’m the luckiest woman alive, you think, your naked body snug against cotton sheets and the bulk of muscle behind you.
Still new on your finger, on the pillow beside your head, the morning light catches on your wedding ring.
Today begins the very first day as husband and wife…
Today… the start of a new forever.
Today… feels like The Punisher has finished, and Frank Castle can rest. Grow old with you. Learn to enjoy life. Take things one day at a time and unclench his fists, put down the gun.
Yeah…
Today will be different.
Today is everything—the start of something new.
As Frank sleeps, your eyes track your shared bedroom with a new perspective. Since when does everything look so… soft? Like a hole punched out of heaven and transplanted into your life. Your bedroom… it’s a place of patience where love can only grow, nurtured by the placidity of those who inhabit it. Mahogany wood, delicate sheets. Frank’s teased you relentlessly about the grandma decorations, but the rustic quality now shapes both of your lives.
White wedding gown in a lacy heap on the plush carpet, where, last night, Frank knelt before you as he shed it from you like you’re holy instead of human.
Books on the nightstand, a vase of fresh wildflowers that served as your wedding bouquet yesterday. A framed photo of you two, and a second of Maria and the kids beside it. Gone, never forgotten. You don’t want them to be forgotten or put away. So they have a place on the nightstand, right by you and Frank.
And above you… your eyes strain to lift to the wall, glancing at the photo there too. A pond landscape. Ornate details preserved in paint from decades ago. One of your favorites, the artist of no importance other than the serene grounding you feel looking at it.
In the stillness of morning, you decide to try your luck. How much can you get away with before your husband wakes? And what better way to wake than under your touch, being worshipped and appreciated and rewarded?
You arch your ass back, pushing against his dick. A movement easily disguised as shifting in your sleep.
A grunted breath pushes from his nose. An instinctual press of his hips forward, into the plush of you again. Chasing you, your body, even in sleep.
You bite your bottom lip to contain your grin. And for good measure… you do it again. A soft grind. Another sleep-conflicted breath from Frank. Another push of his erection flat against your ass cheek.
Cause and effect.
You move, he moves.
You tease, he seeks.
Somewhere during your experimental touching, Frank’s breathing shifts. The sound ceases. A reflective flex of his muscles as his eyes open. An intentional relaxing as he registers his surroundings.
Frank sleeps like a marine is trained to.
He wakes like it, all the same: muted sound, bracing for trouble, cataloging the world around him.
When there’s no war to be had, no danger to be found, his body slackens. Does some experimenting of his own as his arm curls in, tightens, hand spanning over your bare stomach.
You feel all of it behind you. Frank waking, remembering yesterday, two seconds into consciousness and he’s making his existence about you.
“Good morning, Mr. Castiglione,” you whisper, sleep hoarse and sweetly innocent, cheeks stifling your grin.
“Mornin’, Mrs. Castiglione,” he rumbles in a groggy breath, halfway distracted, probably wondering if what he felt was a dream.
In all honesty… Frank doesn’t hate it. His true last name. You don’t either. It’s something no other woman besides his mom has ever had. It’s his, and he’s giving all of it to you.
“How long you been up, hm?” he asks, thumb making wide arcs along your rib, just barely skimming the underside of your breast.
“Not too long,” you mumble your musing, exposing yourself as you not so innocently push into his hard-on again.
Grunting, Frank catches your hip with the hand from your tum. “Playin’ games, sweetheart?”
“Only ones I intend to finish.” You turn under his arm, face him.
Sleep heavy lines pull his face, but the light of a new day—a brand new day—deepens his complexion, those ever-assessing dark eyes. Makes him… a different man. A softer one. Someone who chose to leave his war and make a home with you instead. Still looking at you with raised brows nonetheless, a playful inquiry to your intentions.
You lift a hand, fingertips dancing featherlight over the bristles of his stubble, simply… admiring the man you share a bed with, a home, a last name… a life.
The affection, so light it’s heavier than a full hand, drags a breath from his nose. His hand traverses your body, full-palmed, memorizing the full of you as his wife. The arch of your ribcage. His thumb drags down the middle of your stomach. Over the soft curve of your side. The silky plane of your thigh, winding to your back to claim the small of it.
Gentle exploration in the early morning light. Soft breath mingling. The room smells of your leftover perfume, sleepy skin, the heat of the sun burning through the curtains.
Your affinity makes every little touch galvanic. Quiet gravitation pulls you two closer, drawn by something far greater and far older than attraction.
Your knee hooks over his hip.
His hips rut against you, hard cock prodding your stomach.
You tangle a hand in his hair, panting velvety breaths against the mouth you have yet to kiss today.
Rough hands squeeze and smooth your soft skin with reverence reserved for the holy.
A mutual compulsion for one another; a shared longing for surrender, to be undone and vulnerable at the hands of the person of you love, only to be remade by them, renewed in primal union.
The urge—the yearning—to be… complete.
“Frankie…” you whisper, eyes flickering between the intensity of his stare and his mouth. “I need you, please…”
“You got me,” a promise in a rough murmur as he rolls in closer, your mouths a breath apart. “All ‘a me.”
The clash is desperate, but… venerating.
Frank’s mouth slots to yours, swallowing your stifled moan. The kiss is a form of devotion that goes beyond fidelity. It’s a necessary salvation he can only find in you; loyalty the essence of his being.
Your brows knit as you kiss him back, throat closing because of the overwhelming piety he’s only ever shown you. You fucking taste it on him. You feel it in his hands, his fingers clasping into your side, clinging to the idea of forever like this, with you.
Tongues tease and lap outside of your mouths, just the very tips. A slow, sensual chase that has your thighs wet already.
Your hand drops to his dick, but before you can wrap around him, Frank shakes his head. Pulls back from your lips to mutter, “Nah, sweetheart. Ain’t ‘bout me. Want you. Lemme have you, huh?” An open-mouth kiss, quick and needy like he can’t help himself. “Lemme taste you, baby. Sit on my face, hm? Sit on your husband’s face.”
Sit on his face.
Not on your back, Frank between your legs.
No.
He wants you to use his face like a pedestal, giving you a seat to bare your naked body to the air as he weakens your legs, eats your orgasm out of you.
Your cheeks flare hot. “F-Frank…” weak protest, self-consciousness hesitating your hands on his chest.
“C’mon,” he jerks his chins, pupils swallowing his irises. “Up. Up, pretty girl, wanna taste m’ pretty goddamn wife. Wanna taste ‘er. Lemme help you up, hm?”
Shaking legs shift up, Frank’s hands steadying your waist as he lays back flat.
The blankets fall from your body. Frank’s eyes are everywhere, drinking you in with admiration exclusive to you. Your uncertain face, colored dark from his request. The slope of your shoulders, curve of your neck, plane of your stomach. Your full breasts, nipples hard from the cooler air beyond the sheets.
An enraptured look, an idolatry—his brows pitched up, eyes so soft but hungry, lips parted in awe—that look festered in him the day he saw you. Frank licks his lips. Voice dries to a rasp. “Yeah, baby, yeah. C’mere. Gotchu, pretty girl. Won’ let you be cold.”
He guides you into position.
Your body shakes. Knees bracketing his head on the pillow, your thighs trembling, Frank groans as heat pours from your cunt and over his face. Hasn’t even fuckin’ touched you and you’re hot, needy.
His hands—wide and flat—knead your ass, crawl up your sides, your ribs.
Faced with the picture frame on the wall, you white knuckle the headboard, looking down at him with beet-red nerves, flush deepening as he gapes at your pussy above his face, folds spread and glistening.
“Jesus,” he gruffs, jaw popping, nostrils flaring; primal itch burning his skin to take and claim what’s his. “Got the prettiest pussy, baby, fuck, si’down on me. Yeah, yeah, there you go, c’mere, mmph—”
The first lap comes with a slow, fat tongue. Long, indulgent, pushing through your folds to lick the slick from your hole to your puffy clit. Frank groans into your heat, your taste rolling his eyes back.
Face contorted as you watch him taste your cunt, your thighs quake around his head. Your hands fist into the headboard, rattling the frame.
One taste and he looks at you… And the look he gives is… cruel.
Stomach dropping out, heart hammering, your breath stutters at the blackened intensity of his glare. Eyes narrowed, nostrils wide, mouth tugging as he resists the temptation to devour you to oblivion.
“Fuck,” he praises in a ragged breath, the sweet saltiness of you igniting something dangerous. One fucking taste and he’s like this. Frank yanks your hips down.
You gasp his name as your cunt drops flush to his face, face screwing as you’re eaten alive.
He pins you there, mouth latched onto your slick folds, nose smashed against the hood of your cunt.
And he eats. Devours you, lapping eager worship as he spreads you down the middle with his tongue alone. Sucks your clit into his mouth, releasing in a delicate graze of his teeth but never fully, no. He won’t break off your pussy. Tongue works possessed hunger, hooking into your hole.
He eats and eats and eats.
You try climbing up the headboard for escape as the alarming white-hot elation rakes your insides. Terrifying pressure, that uncomfortable, blissful urgency causing you to try to flee.
Try.
“Stay put.” Frank grunts, forearms banding around your waist to drop you back down—and snare you. He traps you there, riding his face. His tongue, teeth and mouth feed in a frenzy.
Tears in your eyes, you stare at the painting in front of your face. Hips jolting. Thighs seizing. Your cunt suffocating your husband as he feasts on your slick and pussy as though it’s his only purpose.
Saliva and intimacy coat your inner thighs as Frank makes a mess of you. Smears his face every which way, kissing, sucking, snarling into you.
Arms hooking the headboard, you cry and huff a litany of moans in his name. Face to face with the painting above your bed, white-hot sparks searing your nerve-endings, you see your reflection in the picture. It’s you, just… a version of you to only exist with Frank. Mouth agape, jaw slack, desperation stinging tears in your eyes as the smell of sweat and sex basks in the heat of the rising sun.
You see this picture every goddamn day but now—right now, with your husband feasting on your cunt, making a mess of his face and your thighs—you see the fine details. A duckling treading water after its family. The cattails blowing in a gentle breeze. A fawn bent for a drink at the water’s edge.
You can’t stand it. The painting, your reflection, the panicked overstimulation of your clit on the verge of implosion into Frank’s mouth.
Escape futile, your legs cinch either sides of his head, stomach flipping as your peak vacuums out your breath, hips involuntarily grinding down, down, after more friction, more of his mouth. You shove against the headboard, knocking dents into the wall to deepen the ones already there. Drywall dust falls behind the bed.
Beneath you, Frank’s in heaven. Pussy drunk, slick disoriented, he ruts his flat tongue straight down your middle mercilessly. Aggressive scoops through your folds, eating your core out of your body, ending in ruthless swipes over your clit.
The wet suction of his spit mixes between your thighs. Obscene noises that have you blushing, flustered, hot and without a goddamn care because you’re close. “Oh, god, Frank, oh god, don’t stop, please don’t fucking stop—”
Grunts vibrate right into your cunt, starved and sloppy as he gnashes his tongue and lips over your engorged clit. “Yeah, fuck my face,” he snarls against your pussy, dick instinctively rutting the blankets over his lap. “Fuckin’ cum on m’face.”
Beyond your control, greedy and possessed, you rock down onto him. His stubble rakes your thighs raw. Slick sticky on your skin, his face, he groans incoherent praise against you. You can’t hear it, blood rushing in your ears, eyes falling back as your head does, lust disorienting—
“Ooooh, Frank! Fuck! I’m—”
Cumming.
With the sweetest fucking sound he’s ever heard, his name laced with a scream far too obscene for the time of day.
Frank eats you through it. Licks straight from the source of your empty cunt as it pulsates and clenches for something, anything, but he won’t give it to you yet. He slows as you come down from it, your head blooming with hazy pressure, relief.
Licking and sucking turns to rewarding kisses. One against your drenched folds. Another to your sensitive clit, jolting you. Last one with a hum against your thigh.
“Tasted so fuckin’ good, sweetheart,” he murmurs, using his hands to move your body for you when you can. “C’mere, Mrs. Castiglione, yeah. Come t’Frankie.”
Limbs reduced to jelly, jostled by the severity of your orgasm, you oblige, head empty, as Frank steers you back down, on top of him.
Curled in on yourself, spine weak so you hunch, straddled on his lap.
Frank tugs the blanket up around your waist, wiping the plaster of your slick from his face onto his shoulder.
“You good?” he asks, smallest smirk pulling the corner of his mouth.
Dumbfounded, forgetting every word in your vocabulary, you nod. Little shaky nods, eyes a thousand yards off, chest heaving.
A chuckle rumbles in his chest. He lifts a hand to beckon you down, come relax, but you stiffen. Shake your head a firm disagreement.
Hand paused mid-reach, Frank quirks a brow.
Exasperated, glowing, you bat his hand off stare down at him like he’s stupid. “I’m not done with you yet, are you kidding me?”
“Yeah?” A brow raises at the attitude, giving you one chance to correct it. “Pretty little wife gonna take this dick?“
“Your wife’s gonna ride your dick, baby.” You straighten on his lap, spine finding strength after the blowout orgasm, reaching behind you and beneath the blankets to pump him. Just to see his reaction.
It’s a jolt, a grunt, his face steeling as he throbs in the wrap of your hand. “Wife’s gonna get thrown on her goddamn knees ‘f she keeps playin’.”
You tut, condescending though you know the threat’s entirely true. Standing tall on your knees, teeth holding your bottom lip, you smear his tip through your sopping wet folds.
You suck in a staggered moan, belly opening and fluttery at the mere thought of having him stuffed so deep inside you.
Frank groans, stomach contracting. His hands plant on your hips, head thrown back on the pillow. Tendons in his neck rope out. Veins thread his forearms. Battling the willpower to not shove you down on his cock, Frank trembles. “Put. It. In.” A low, drawn out demand through clenched teeth. “Playin’ with me all goddamn mornin’. Lemme tell you sumthi— fuckin’ Christ, baby—”
You stop him. Shut him the fuck up. The vise of your cunt splits as you sink on his cock. Walls stretching, burning as the tip carves you out.
“Attagirl, attagirl,” Frank pants, rabid black eyes snapping from your slackened jaw to gawk at how your cunt pulses defiance around the fat inches it has to work desperately to fit. “S’my wife, m’perfect fuckin’ wife.”
Pussy hugging his overwhelming girth, coherent thoughts burn up in your throat, seared dry in your stomach. “Oh god, Frank, oh god, Frank—”
“Yeah? Whatchu prayin’ f’, huh? Prayin’ I’ll go easy? Prayin’ I’ll fill you the fuck up? Fuck you stupid?”
You nod. And nod and nod and nod. Yes, all of it. Yes, to whatever he says.
Feral awe as he stares up at you, Frank eases your hips down. “Last inch, baby, last inch. C’mon, pretty girl, yeah, yeah, there- there she is— fuck.”
His eyes cross, the hard mound of his throat exposed.
Red scrapes rise over his chest as you claw, his blunt tip punching breath out of your lungs.
And you both freeze with his cock bottomed out, head knocked against your cervix.
Cunt flush to his base… you’re fused together.
While you pant and flutter to adjust for his size, Frank marvels over you. His upper lip tugs in a snarl of no sound. Eyes rove. A hand stays planted on your hip to steady you. The other reaches up, pawing your tit, thumbing your perked nipple. “Dirty little wife,” he grits, low, rasped. The sound of complete devotion. “Wakin’ me up jus’ t’sit on my dick, huh? This what you want?“
“Oh, I need it so bad, Frankie. I need- need my husband so bad—” everything else lost to a hum as you start to roll your hips.
“Yeah, baby, c’mon, ride your fuckin’ man.” Head thrown in the pillow, Frank’s face twitches a snarl of pure ecstasy. His thighs jolt under you, animalistic restraint thrumming. “Yeah, ride your fuckin’ husband.”
An angel in slow motion, your head falls back. Mouth slack, slurs of fuck, I love you, Frank, my husband, spilling out in cock-intoxicated freedom. Spine curved in the shape of bliss, your tits bounce on display for your husband, navel taut with your arch.
“Fuck, baby, yeah, s’my beautiful goddamn wife,” Frank grits through his teeth, massive fingers pressed in the meat of your hips, thighs, digging into you for control. Without it? Without binding himself to you? He’ll fuckin’ lose it. Snap. Flip you over and rail you until you’re pumped so full you walk away pregnant.
With every rock of your hips forward, his cock bulges against your stomach. Makes a fucking outline in Frank’s image. Thick and domineering, scorching breath from your throat as he rearranges your insides. Cock so big, crammed to the brim, he hits everywhere you need him to. Tip prodding your cervix. Veined shaft rubbing that perfect spongy spot. Coarse hair at his base grinding your swollen clit.
Self becomes an abstraction. How can you be an independent being when you feel Frank in your stomach? In your throat? Everywhere?
“Pretty pussy’s drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy this mornin’,” his nostrils flare, control collapsing. “Gonna make me bust, that what you want, huh? Want your man t’fill you up?”
“Y-yes, yes, please. Frank, please,” you shudder on his dick, a hand planted in the middle of his chest to steady your grind.
Sweat clings to your bodies. Heat festers in the pursuit of primal release.
“C’mere,” Frank beckons, one hand leaving your thigh to grab your chin, guide you down. “C’mere, princess, yeah, need you closer. Yeahhh, there she is. There’s m’girl.”
Bent over him, bouncing your ass back on his cock, you drop your palms to cage both sides of his head.
“Open,” he orders, eyes fastened to your lips.
You comply. Your mouth opens wide. Wider than necessary, showing him how you’d look with his dick in your mouth. Doe eyed and fucked out.
Frank jams two fingers—middle and ring, left hand—into your mouth.
“Suck.”
You don’t need the order. You already are. Your lips seal around his fingers—his wedding band against your lips—tongue swirling between them, around them, as he finger fucks your mouth.
“Good girl,” Frank coos. “Listen so good f’me, huh? You like that? Bein’ told what t’do?”
The moan you give around his fingers, cheeks full with them, breaks something in Frank.
It starts slow, greedy. He ruts his hips up. Snappy bounces, plunging in so completely your moans punch out and muffle on his fingers. In the span of seconds, he drives faster. Harder. Impaling you on his cock, your ass smacking down.
He’s in your mouth. Your cunt. Your fucking head. You’re stuffed so full of your husband you’ve lost sight of separation. There is no you without him. No him without you.
Your eyes roll around in your head, tits skimming his chest as he pounds you.
The tidal wave builds again. A hot exhilaration rushing through your core, forcing you to writhe above him.
Hooking the two fingers under your tongue, Frank shakes your head. A little sway, keeping you coherent. “Eyes, pretty girl, hm? Lemme see ‘em. You look at me. You do that f’me?”
You wonder how you could be stuffed completely by him, every open, needy hole. Cock-drunk thoughts, but still. Your lashes flutter, perking open at his command.
“You look ‘t your husband when you cum. You hear me?” He draws his fingers from your mouth, licking your spit off them himself.
“Y-yes, Frank. I look at my husband when I cum. I look at my husband when he makes me cum.”
“Gooood girl. You keep bein’ good f’me, hm? Be m’good girl. Cum on your husband’s cock.”
You collapse on top of him. Tits to chest, elbows caging his head, your hands tear into his hair as he fucks you senseless.
“Jesus-fuckin’-Christ, baby, so fuckin’ wet. Drippin’ down my goddamn balls.”
Squelches from your soaked cunt echo in the room as Frank hammers into you. Your thighs are drenched. Your ass is slathered in your juices, his saliva. Everytime you drop down or roll back in time with him, you feel it on his thighs, his balls.
“P-please fill me up, Frank, please,” you whine, words stumbling out as he hammers your cervix. “I want it. All of it. So so so bad. Wanna be filled up, Frankie. Want your cum to stay in. Don’t wanna waste any of it. Please. Please.”
“Fuck.” Snarled temptation. Skin slapping. Greedy, primal inclination to give you what you’re not asking for. Grunted possession as he bands an around the small of your back, hand indented to the flesh of your hip to fuck you down as he spears up into you. “Say what the fuck you mean, hm? Bein’ greedy ‘bout it? Just wanna be filled up with cum, huh? Or you wantin’ somethin’ else?”
“S-something else,” you pant, teeth grazing his jawline in messy bites. “You know what I want.”
“Say it. Fuckin’ say it.”
He fucks up into you. Drags you down in tandem. A filthy grind as he chases your orgasm. Every inch of him driven to please every inch of you. Whatever you want—say it. He’ll fuckin’ give it to you.
Your head spins. Your stomach tightens again, core flaring like a faulty transistor. You’re going to cum again. Cum with your pussy throbbing around Frank’s rigid cock, coat him in it, sucking his out of him.
Sweat sticks your bodies, skin catching friction. Hot, ragged breath shared back and forth. Frank’s grunts into your ear. Your breathless moans into his neck. Not an inch of space to separate you. Sharing breath. Sweat. Hips working an angry pump onto each other.
Heaven.
“Wanna- wanna have a- a baby with you, Frankie, please—”
“Yeah? Wan’ me t’put a baby in you, huh?”
“Y-yes! Yes, Frankie, please.”
“Gonna give you so much fuckin’ load you’ll be spillin’ it out. Give you what you want, baby, yeah, fuck you ‘til you’re full ‘a me.”
“M-make it stick, Frankie.”
“It’ll fuckin’ stick.”
You whine at the idea of being pumped to the brim with his cum, no other choice but to leak what your cunt can’t swallow, using it to make life inside of you.
“Cum.” Frank grits, thrusts slipping pace. A jagged falter as he nears. “Be a good lil’ wife, huh? Cum on my fuckin’ cock.”
You go rigid, muscles locking until they quake, bracing for explosion as his base scrapes your clit, head kisses your cervix, shaft sliding over the sponge of your g-spot. It’s too much. It’s too fucking much.
Panicked bliss peeling your eyes wide, forearms planted by his head, hands ripping into his hair, you plead. “Oh- oh god, Frank. Oh, fuck, you feel so good. Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop, ‘m so close, so close, Frankie—”
His eyes. You’ve never seen something like them before. An innate tenacity twisting his face into a snarl of pure rapture. Eyes lock with yours, tracking every fine detail of your pleasure as he bounces you up and shoves you down on his cock. The warp of your face. Your mouth pulled open in high-pitched moans beyond your control, beyond your comprehension. Brows pinched, your body building up for the demolition at his hand.
And you crumple.
Your hands cage his face, eyes fastened to his while you cum so he can see it—you—all of it, what only he is able to give you. Ecstasy razes you. Shatters your foundation, leaving you crying out for your husband as you fall.
He’s right there to hold you through it. Fuck you through it.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, there she is,” Frank adds to the unbridled fit, his voice raising. “That’s my fuckin’ wife. Fuck, fuck— soakin’ my dick, so fuckin’ tight. Gonna fill you the fuck up, pretty girl, give you a goddamn baby—”
One pump— faltering.
Second pump— faster, chasing, hungry.
Third— final. Buried to the fuckin’ hilt. Frank plunges in balls deep, mouth sealing around yours for a mismatched, groaned kiss as he spews hot, thick ropes deep inside of you.
A percussive silence settles around you. Labored breath, weak limbs. Neither of you kiss properly, but your mouths stay layered, recycling the same shaky breath.
Your hands go lax on his face, and the rest of your body follows. You crumble on top of your husband, cheek smashed over his heart. It beats rapid thunder under your ear, same as yours.
Chest sawing, Frank unravels the binding hold, but thag doesn’t mean he lets you go. No, Frank Castle circles his fingers over your back. Chin tucked to his chest to peer down at you, his other hand smooths hair out of your face. Taking care of you first—always you first—even as his cock flexes aftershocks inside of you.
“Hey,” Frank murmurs, voice spent, rough. His hand tangles in the hair at the back of your head where he holds you. “The Mrs. still alright, hm?”
You manage a weak thumbs up and a croaky, “…never better, Mr. Castiglione.”
Frank actually huffs a laugh. Small, low, but it counts. “Hm. Good.” Two pats to your ass. “Gotta do sumthin’—”
Whoosh. The rustle of blankets. The tossing of limbs.
“Wha– Frank—!” You squeal as he rolls you. Both of you, flipping you onto your back.
Cock still in you, turning your world, you bounce back on the mattress but can’t go far with Frank looming over you.
“S’what you wanted, hm?” Breath heaving from his nostrils, Frank pulls out in a grunt.
You shiver at the loss, but you’re not empty for long.
He uses his middle finger to collect the cream spilling from your cunt. Swipes it up.
Then back in.
Pushes that finger—his cum—back inside, down to the goddamn knuckle.
You gasp in overstimulation, nails digging into his forearm to cease any cruel movements. “Frank, Jesus!”
“Jus’ Frankie, baby,” he teases. “Ain’t gonna do nothin’,” he murmurs sweet assurance, sweeter praise, finger plugging you up. “Jus’ givin’ this pretty pussy what she wants, huh?”
Moan hummed behind your chattering teeth, you nod fervid agreement. You cling to his forearm, his skin torched hot and sticky.
Laid back on the pillows with your legs spread, his finger stopping you up with his load, wisps of hair clinging to your forehead, you’ve never looked so goddamn beautiful.
You’re his. All his.
Name. Pussy. Life.
Mrs. Castiglione, his pretty wife. Leaking his cum. ‘Til the day he fuckin’ dies.
In degrees, your body relaxes around his finger. Your walls flutter, pulsing around him. Shaking, your hands skate up his arms, lying over the slants of his neck.
Frank leans forward. Presses a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead. Then your nose. Then both cheeks. “Tha’s it, baby. I gotchu. Relax, pretty girl. Givin’ what you asked f’, huh? Still want it? Still wantin’ that baby?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, drawing him in close again. That’s all you want. Frank, your husband, as close as possible. You bring him in for a kiss. Passion subdued, but not gone. Lips meet with languid gratitude, still buzzing dormant lust.
A few minutes pass. Soft kisses frequented. Frank’s rumbled whispers, his little crooked grin. Your breathy giggles, face bright with exertion.
After those few minutes, he withdraws his finger from yours. Forehead against yours, he pops his slick-covered finger in his mouth. Sucks it clean. Dips back in, planting a rough kiss to your mouth before he moves off the bed.
Buck naked, standing at full height with a geography of gnarly scars and brutal muscle, Frank takes one step for the door.
One.
“Hey!” You call out, brows pinching as you tuck the blankets over your chest, rising to your knees. “Where’re you going?”
Frank falters. Glances back at you over his shoulder, brows up. “Get you a washcloth, that alright?”
“…no.”
“…No,” he echoes, making sure he heard right.
“Right,” you nod once. “No. I said no.”
“First day married ‘n you’re wantin’ a UTI?”
You roll your eyes. “Nooo, I’m just… not finished with you yet.” A pause. Feigned innocence of your wandering eyes. “Still.”
“Baby… Christ. Permission f’a guy t’ take a piss?”
“Permission de-nied. Get back here.”
Before he can protest, you reach out. Snag his arm. And drag his ass right back to bed.
Four weeks doesn’t change much.
There’s still bills, work, dinner— the mundane routines of everyday life.
Four weeks is certainly plenty of time to forget what you begged your husband for the first day a married couple. He’d forgotten too.
But… it does give time for things to…grow.
As you pile up groceries on the checkout conveyor, you miss the frightened glance the cashier gives your cart.
Two tubs of peanut butter.
Three jars of pickles (bread and butter, dill, and spicy, obviously).
Triple brownie blast ice cream.
Ten pounds of red meat.
Screw vegetables, because yuck.
Mustard, which is for your family-sized bag of potato chips. If Frank gets his paws on these, you’ll have to cut them off. No other option.
Exactly nothing from the list of health-conscious foods you normally buy, because, fuck it, those don’t sound near as good as this assortment.
The cashier, weathered and far too intuitive without a fuck to give, eyes you up and down as you pop in front of the card reader.
“…Expecting?” Donna (according to her nametag) asks, movements mechanical as she scans the items.
Your laugh comes immediately, head shaking as you hover your card over the reader. “Oh, god, no,” you dismiss, humming the last of your laugh.
Expecting. You. No, you’re—
Oh. Oh- shit.
You’re not laughing now.
You’re acutely aware now of how you begged Frank to fuck you to pregnancy. Sound fades to a distant buzz, the register beeps like a distant heartbeat. Everyone goes about their business as you remember.
Make it stick, you begged and panted as he filled you over and over and over.
You gulp. Audibly. Your expression blanks out. Your eyes stare through the total.
Frank promised it would. That bastard. He always keeps his promises.
Donna snorts to knowingly herself, at your reaction, and slaps a box of pregnancy tests over the scanner. “Got three of my own. Crunchy peanut butter’s best with the pickles.” She nods at your wedding wing. “Hope he’s a good one.”
The best, you wanna say, but your mouth’s desert dry.
All you can think about is the possibility that… it stuck.
Your head bobs in time to Shining Star by Earth, Wind & Fire, CD player from the living room booming the fluidity of the disco through the house. One of Frank’s favorites.
Meat sauce bubbles on the stove, fragrant of basil and marinara. Lasagna noodles cool in the sink, cradled by the colander.
Glass bowl of whipped ricotta, chopped parsley, parm, and mozzarella cheese balanced on your hip, you stir the lasagna filling.
Frank will be home from the construction site any minute, and you want this to be… perfect. But also… not a big deal, right? Not… overdone.
You opt to make his favorite dish of yours, the lasagna.
From the oven, fresh rolls swell and carry the scent of dough from the cracked windows.
The pee stick waits on the counter, capped, results down by the calendar. Days change everything. One day, that’s all it takes.
The front door rattles, keys jingling in it.
Your pulse quickens. You stir quicker, like that’ll save you from something.
The heavy, easy prowl of Frank’s boots coming down the hall. You can hear the questions in his gait.
Oh god oh god oh god oh god.
Stirstirstirstir. Like your life depends on it.
Your back stays to Frank as he fills out the doorway, hulking body leaning against the frame. Skeptically amused, lips halfway quirked, eyes narrowed, Frank glances around.
The music. The food. You.
Tongue licking over the corner of his mouth, he nods to himself like yeah, uh-huh, alright.
You’re both aware of each other. You both say nothing. Yet.
He can’t hear your heartbeat, right? It’s not that loud, right? Flush pricks your throat, chest.
“What, uh, whatchu doin’, pretty girl? Hm?” Frank finally asks, head tilted.
“Makin’ dinner,” you shrug a shoulder, flicking a brief glance back at him just to shrug again, lips wriggled in a bashful smile.
“Alright. Whatchu makin’?”
“Lasagna.”
“Occasion?”
“Occasion?” You step to face him, the room’s distance between you. “I don’t need an occasion to make you lasagna.”
That furthers his suspicion. Slits his eyes more, chewing on his bottom lip. He nods at the shove, eyes fixed on you. “Whatchu got in the oven?”
You hesitate, look down at the cheese mix. “…Urmmm… just… buns.”
“Buns.”
“Buns.”
“Buns… with lasagna, sweetheart?”
“Okay, stop analyzing the bread type. I have a bun in the oven, Frank, yes.”
“…Jus’ one? It a big bun ‘r sumthin’?”
Frank pushes off the frame. Ambles for the oven, brushing you as he does. His hand finds your hip, pulling you into his side to trail you along with him.
He stops at the oven, keeping you tucked against him. He bends at the hip to peer in through the glass. Squints a fraction while you’re about to go into cardiac arrest.
“Sweetheart. Those’re rolls,” Frank says, standing upright, pressing a kiss to the middle of your forehead as he mutters, “Ain’t buns.”
Oh my god. You’re dying inside. Your husband. One of the smartest, most capable men you know isn’t getting it. Your shoulders sag. Laughter bubbles up, both over it and genuinely humored. “Frank, please. Give me a break here.”
“What? Jus’ sayin’ they’re rolls, baby.” Frank grabs your chin as he coos at you, evidentially in a very unserious mood. “Teachin’ my girl ‘bout her breads, yeah, can’t have you callin’ rolls buns.”
Normally you’d love it, laugh, slap his chest. Right now you’re about to dump the cheese on him because you’re about to scream with life-altering news.
“Damn it, Frank.” You pivot in. Face to face with him, your expression stone serious and mouth tight. You push the bowl into his chest, yours on the opposite end of the rim of it. “Read between the lines!”
Frank blinks. At you, the bowl. Big, beautiful idiot.
“Frank. Castle. For the love of god. I have a motherfucking bun in my motherfucking oven.”
You watch his wheels turn.
You see the equation solving in his head, his eyes drifting as the answer solidifies.
Bun.
Oven.
You.
Four weeks ago.
“It stuck,” you whisper now, hands shaking, palms sweaty on the glass.
Now he gets it. His eyes jitter, face terrifyingly smooth aside from the line between his brows like the news hurts in the best way.
“You, uh… you sure? Sure it, uh… stuck?” His throat slinks, demeanor ground down to a devastating type of hope. Hope’s a horrifying experience when you’re Frank Castle. His hand hovers by his thigh, fingers reaching for your stomach, stopping short because what if it’s too good to be true? What if he ruins it by touching?
You help him reach. Your fingers curl around his wrist, closing the distance.
Hand splaying wide and possessive over your stomach, Frank blinks a rapid succession as he stares through the glass bowl at your belly. Still not showing, but it’s there. His breath stalls. Words have little meaning compared to the war in his chest.
“It stuck, Frankie,” you whisper, tears streaking down your face the instant you see wet tracks down his cheeks. “It stuck. We did it.”
Shredded and thankful, he huffs a breath. Clears his throat. Fingertips press gently into your skin over your shirt. Red-rimmed eyes flurry to yours, tears exposed and awe on blatant display for you.
“…Thank fuckin’ Christ,” he rasps. “It stuck.”
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