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â・â§ËĘđÉËâ§ď˝Ąâ
oh how i wish i was spending my summer with frank <3
Playing just the tip because you're too little for the full thing
can you sexualize me again so i know you love me and didnât replace me lol

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Daddy? Sorry.
DADDY?
I wish I had a bag of chipsssuhhhhh
Save me bearded Frank castle, save me!!!!!!!!!
Well Fed
Husband!Frank Castle x Wife!Reader
Summary: Some bitch at work flirts with your husband by baking for him. Frank makes sure it never happens again. You make sure Frank never forgets whoâs the sweetest. And the tightest.Â
Warnings: jealousy, slight angst, hurt/comfort, explicit smut, jealous/possessive sex, biting/hickies, matched freak sex, table sex, standing sex, breeding kink, size diff, cock stomach bulge, dirty talk, lowkey funny ending bc you gotta be silly with the love of ur life, pwp. 18+ only. MDNI. Reader is always a consenting adult. smut written while listening to this banger
w/c: 7k
MASTERLIST
requested by a moot via DMs that wishes to remain anon đ¤
One of your favorite things to do is to surprise Frank on the job. Hell, itâs one of his, too, even if heâs got to fend off the drooling, indecent rats he works with.Â
But today?Â
Today you get a surprise.Â
And youâre not very fond of it.Â
Through the white haze of the sun, you walk from the gravel construction lot and to the prefabricated office building. Nothing more than a box of four walls and two screen windows by the door. Inside, just as bare. A water jug, a portable AC unit for the manager (perks of being up on the ladder, eh?) and a desk thatâs usually empty. But, when you canât get ahold of Frankâlike todayâthis is where you check on the off chance the site managerâs around and heâll retrieve your husband.Â
The heat brings flush to your cheeks, neck. The wind over the metal skeleton landscape slings bits of dirt into the grease-sponged brown paper bag you swing at your side. Itâs not much, but itâs all you could manage over your thirty minute break at work. Frankâs favorite sandwich from the deli downtown.Â
Nearing the door, though⌠voices carry from the prefab. You scuff to a stop, ear tilting to listen.Â
âJeez, Pete, itâs not a cookie eating contest,â says a feminine voice; one of velvet and easy confidence and breathy laugh. âI made them for you, big guy.âÂ
Pete. Surely there are other Petes. Peters. Whatever. Surely itâs not your Frank someone else is baking cookies for.Â
âMm,â but itâs your husband that hums, his mouth obviously stuffed. âShitâs good. Real good. Ainât had some âa these in a while.âÂ
Okay. So. It is your husband. And she called him big guy. What the fuck? No other woman needs to be calling your husband big guy.Â
âWell, you said theyâre your favorite, and theyâre easy enough to make, so⌠I figured, why not?â A little pause, like maybe sheâs watching Frank, relishing in his satisfaction. ââŚYou like them?â A lift of her tone, seeking approval⌠seeking your husbandâs approval.Â
âYeah,â Frank says. âYeah, real good. Did a nice job on âem.âÂ
âThaaanks!â she chimes, and youâre almost sick imaging what kind of smile she has plastered to her face right now.Â
Whoever the fuck this is. Last you checked, women didnât work here. Soâ who the hell is she? Frankâs done nothing wrong. Itâs not him youâre worried about. But youâre not blind, not stupid.Â
âSo you said itâs been awhile, Pete. Since youâve had any of these. Iâm only here part-time. I bake a lot in my free time. Why donât I bring you in some stuff when I can? You can be my taste tester. I get to bake, you get to go less than a while without cookies and such. Howâs that sound?âÂ
Face cinching with a scowl, you brace for the answer.Â
âSounds like âm gonna get fat,â Frank huffs. âWife ainât gonna like that.â
âI have a feeling itâd just turn to more muscle on you, big guy,â carried by an undercutting laugh at your mention. âWell, then your wife should be the one feeding you, not meââ
Before the conversation skins you alive, your shoes stab up the two grated stairs and yank open the flimsy prefab door.Â
In a whirl of wind, dust, and threat, you appear with the shriek of hinges.Â
Old tactical memoryâto react to surpriseâFrank whirls to face the door, fists around a cookie and a plastic cup of water.Â
And there, at the fucking deskâ her. Whoever the fuck she thinks she is, making your husband cookies. âUhm, maâamâ?â Comes a polite scoff instead of who the fuck are you?, but Frankâs the one to answer with a low, praising whistle.Â
âHey, there she is,â he says, a smirk pulling sideways to show his teeth. âThereâs mâgirl. Look at âer, huh?â Frank discards the water and cookie on the desk like yesterdayâs news: old, over it. He makes room for you, on you as you make the step in, his hand finding yours to help you up. Wired for you. âShowinâ up here, wearinâ mâfavorite shirt like that, Jesusâ how I get so lucky, huh?âÂ
âSo lucky,â you reiterate with your chin tipped up to him, a burning attention fixed entirely on Frank hot enough it singes the air. The mildew of the AC recycles the sweetness of the cookies; the stench of undermining. âLuckier now, since Iâm feeding you, hmm?â And you hold you the brown baggie with the stiff raise of your brow, a smile too rigid. âIâd hate if you had to get full on junk food.âÂ
Bag in his periphery, his eyes leaving yours for half a second to confirm itâs a sandwich from that deli down on Main, Frankâs expression sparks. âI got thâ best wife, huh? Tell these guys all thâ damn time. Best damn woman I ever met. Still dunno what sheâs doinâ what an asshole like me, âless thisâs mâlast meal.âÂ
âWell, itâd be a way to go,â you say, too tight. âDessert before real food.âÂ
Frank falters, but before he can question the tension in your cheeks, the subtle lashings of your tongue, she interrupts. A forced clearing of her throat, the chair rolling in place for attention.Â
The gentleman he is, Frankâs attention does divide. Two more seconds, though, his eyes linger on you. Trying to dissect the ice in your stare, the scrunch of your face.Â
âHey, uhâŚâ Frank opens up, but keeps you tucked snug into his side. âMarissa, thisâs mâwife. Sweetheart, thisâs Marissa. Temp site clerk.â Frank gestures an introduction.Â
Wrecking ball sounds more fitting, you think.Â
The worst part is sheâsâŚÂ pretty. Ridiculously pretty. Your stomach flops over, inverts like it might dispel your breakfast. A seemingly flawless complexion only few people are blessed with. A long sheet of silk for hair, hiked into a neat, slick ponytail so it swishes an intoxicating pendulum when she moves her head. You wedge deeper into Frankâs side, standing tall. Unmovable from whatâs yours.Â
ââŚHi.â She forces a smile.Â
âHi.â You donât.Â
And nothing else follows. Nothing but the nasty humidity of possession; a tangible ick of a womanâs place being challenged. Not threatened. Challenged.Â
Sensing the tension (repulsion) in the air from either side, Frank shifts. Holds you closer, bounces you a bit.Â
âSay, uh⌠Marissa made these cookies here,â Frank says, nodding at the plate on the desk. âAinât bad. Try one, yeah? Youâre the cookie expert. See what you think, huh?âÂ
You glance at the cookies. At Marissa. A flick of cold indifference in your eyes. Then back up to Frank. God, heâs so handsome. Handsome and oblivious. Quiet delight in his dark eyes, in the crinkles in the corners of them that only appear at the sight of you. Damn him. So you shrug. Take a step to grab one without leaving Frankâs side, lips in a cutting smile.Â
Marissa rolls her eyes elsewhere.Â
You donât. You stare. Unrelenting. A threat that doesnât require speech. And you take a bite.Â
âMm,â you hum, moving the cookie you donât chew into your cheek. âTastes like the prepackaged cookies from Walmart. Using real ingredientsâll take that right out.âÂ
Youâd like to say it didnât bother you that much. Earlier. Marissa. Youâd really like to. But your heart rate hasnât gone down since noon, your responses come out all bark waiting to bite, and Frank knows to tread lightlyâjust doesnât know why.Â
You sit posted up on one side of the couch, back on the armrest. Chin high, face of stone angled away, bundled into yourself under a blanket, eyes glued to the television without giving a ratâs ass whatâs on. The only place you allow Frank to touch are your feet, and he dragged those over into his lap himself minutes ago.Â
Frank⌠Oh, your husband reads you like a book. One in simple English, magnified text, because your attitude speaks volumes without a peep. Big paws knead your feet in his lap. Thumbs drive into the sole of your foot as he blinks glances from the tv, to you. Tv, you. He doesnât say anything. Heâs waiting for the right time, questions on his tongue, suspicions stuck behind his teeth.Â
âWould you like some real dessert?â You finally offer, the question baited with petty contempt. Not towards Frank.
It gets his full attention. Hands work your feet, but his head turns to fully look at you. All icy reluctance and clipped words coming full circle. Confirming the suspicion. ââŚSâa weeknight.âÂ
âAnd?âÂ
âYou donât bake on weeknights.âÂ
âWant me to start?âÂ
âSweetheartâ whyâd I want that, huh? Think âm some kinda asshole? âSpect you tâcome home after workinâ all day tâmake me dessert?â Frank huffs at the thought, faint shake of his head.Â
âYeah, but would you like that? Someone that does come home after work to whip you up some store-bought crap so youâre not going unfed?âÂ
Now Frank stops. His hands go motionless. Eyes slit. âYou mad over that? Her makinâ cookies?â
âItâs not making cookies. Sheâs flirting, Frank.âÂ
Frankâs in the middle of scoffing a laugh, but the look you give shuts him the fuck up. His brows pitch up, face screwed. ââŚThatâs flirtinâ?â
âFrank.â You face palm. âGood god, yes. Thatâs the equivalent of pulling your pants down and sucking you on the spot.âÂ
âSâa, huh, lilâ extreme, sweetheartââ
âFrank. It is.âÂ
ââŚSo, uhâŚâ The memories rewind, his eyes searching ahead. âAll those times before weâŚâ vague hand gestures to signal fucking, getting together, admitting feelings, whatever, ââŚyou baked fâme⌠you was flirtinâ? âŚâŚâŚ.with me?âÂ
Deadpan disbelief, you blink at him. ââŚAre you seriously just now realizing that?â Yes. The silence says yes. ââŚGod, itâs a good thing youâre not single.âÂ
âAlright.â Frank nods slow understanding. âSo youâre mad âbout that. You mad with me?âÂ
âNot madâŚâ you mumble, brows pinched as you find the right words. âOkay. Maybe mad, yeah. Mad somewhere along the way you said I wasnât baking them, that she found out theyâre your favorite so she felt the need to take it upon herself to satisfy you.âÂ
âSatisfyâ? Christ. Ainât like I asked fâany âa thatââ
âIâm not saying you did. Thatâs not the point. The point is she thought of you enough to remember that. Go to the store. Spend money on them. Buy them for you. Bake them for you. Bring them in for you. You do realize thatâs some pretty intentional flirting, right?â You ask, both brows hiked up to drill the essence of your case across. âItâs not a harmless joke or even a comment about your rugged good looks. She put time into this. Planned it.âÂ
In slow motion, it unfolds. His brows smooth out. His jaw unlocks. His mouth opens, but itâs for a small inhale to help finalize the message between the lines.Â
âI donât like someone else feeding my husband like heâs some neglected stray that needs attention,â you say as he processes. âNo one else should ever think they get that right.â You scoff, take your feet back to burrow into yourself. Blanket at your chin, glaring at the D-Day documentary instead of him. âAnd I hate she did. And I hate that you enjoyed it. And that you didnât realize theyâre the bullshit refrigerator cookies that taste like stale dog ass.âÂ
Normally he wouldâve chuckled at the language. Right now he just nods. Looks down. Gnaws his bottom lip. Hands empty on his thighs, he offers them up in a yeah, youâre right. He says it, too. âYeah, sweetheart,â hoarse with realization. âYeah. Youâre right. No oneâs got that right but you, hm? Ainât no one compares tâyou, know that? Yeah. Youâre my goddamn everythinâ. Give me everythinâ thought Iâd never have. Shit I donât deserve.âÂ
Jealousyâs an ugly monster. And when she leaves? She leaves a sickening guilt behind, residue jellied to your insides. Face falling to that guilt, frowning, you look down at the blanket; a safe space from the pound-puppy look you know Frank has. âDonât say thatâŚâ you mumble, the fire diminished. Smoke in its wake. âYou deserve every good thing. And I try to give you all of them. All that I can, anyway. Sometimes I think I get so caught up in the day-to-day I forget. Forget how easy it is to whip up some brownies or cookies or whatever just to say I love you. Because itâs the small things like that, that speak the loudest⌠right? And I do, god, I doâŚÂ I love you so much, Frankie. It made me sick seeing someone else soâŚÂ soâŚÂ lit up by you.â
âBaby⌠Câmere. Câmon. Come tâFrankie, yeah?â Both legs spread wide, he pats his thighs. Wants you close. Wants to hold you, feel you, love you.Â
You fervidly shake your head. Howâre you supposed to melt into him when youâve been a bitch the entire night? When heâs so fucking sweet even after youâve been so fucking sour?Â
âLook at me, sweetheart.â
Nuh-uh nuh-uh nuh-uh.Â
âNo?â he asks. âAlright. Fine.âÂ
âEee! Frank!â Jostling as he yanks you across the couch, a gentle manhandle as he tucks you in a cradle for a comforting timeout.Â
Frank paws the blanket around your arms, under your chin. Tucks you comfy in the curve of his arm, your body draped over his lap. So sweet, so gentle you do nothing but lock your mouth shut. Quieted by his determination for resolution, your glare softening with reluctance.
âYouâre it fâme, sweetheart,â he says, finger scratching under your chin. âNo competition. You. Mâ number one. You got me, I got you, yeah? How itâs always been. Ainât gotta worry âbout nothinâ. No one, hm?âÂ
Cheeks hot from Marissa irk, you huff, eyes slanted away. Heâs right. You know heâs right. It doesnât make it any easier to witness someone actively providing a service for your husband. âItâs not you I worry about. I trust you. I donât trust her.âÂ
âSaid you trust me?â Frank settles back between the cushions, your rigid weight defrosting over his chest and stomach. He waits for you to nod. âThen you gotta trust Iâll handle it, sweetheart. Trust your manâll handle it?âÂ
You donât know what handling it looks like. He wonât punch an innocent (unfortunately itâs not criminal to flirt) desk clerk. So what will he do? God it pisses you off. Being in this situation. Some dumb bitch thinks itâs okay to spend money on your husband, bake for him, even dare to soil your name like you donât cherish him enough because you havenât made cookies in a while.Â
âHey.â Frank bounces an arm, getting you from your thoughts. âAsked you a question. Trust me tâhandle it?âÂ
âYeah,â you mutter, a fierce thought spearing through your mind. If you canât get rid of Marissa⌠youâll make sure sheâs never even a thought. âI know youâll handle it.âÂ
Youâll believe it when you see it.Â
In the meantime?
You have your own plan.Â
Frankâs intentionally loud when he gets home. Finagles the key in the lock so the ribs scratch and click. Rattles the doorknob unnecessarily before actually turning it. Scuffs and stamps his boots, the sound streaking through the house. Works better than any doorbell âcause itâs personal.Â
When you hear him?Â
Shit.Â
Always come runninâ.Â
Frank loves the way you slide into the hall, feet goinâ too damn fast for polished wood, body fishtailinâ as you bulldoze straight into him after a day apart.Â
Today, thoughâŚ
Today Frank comes in. Made all his usual noise. Didnât work. Nothinâ. No you. So he made more noise. Sniffed. Huffed. Cursed. Even coughed. Hacked up half a goddamn lung, stillâ nothinâ.Â
Shuffled to a stop in the entryway, Frank pauses. Listens. Drone of the kitchen fan. Squeak of the dish washer. The smell, though⌠His nose takes to the air, nostrils flexing in their search. Cocoa⌠sugar⌠Warm oven air fanninâ out from the kitchen.Â
Baked.Â
You baked.Â
Christ. That canât mean anythinâ good. Not after yesterday.Â
âSweetheart?â he calls.Â
Two⌠three⌠fourâŚ
The seconds tick up in time with his worry.Â
Seven⌠eight⌠nineâŚ
âFrankie?â Ultra sweet, drifting down the hall from the kitchen.Â
Longest ten seconds âa his goddamn life.Â
His shoulders deflate, a sigh of relief puffing his cheeks.Â
âYou alright in here, sweetheart?â He asks while in motion; an intuitive navigation to you. âDidnât hear me come in, huh?âÂ
âI heard you,â you hum, voice growing closer. âJust finishingâŚÂ dessert.âÂ
Jesus. He ainât in the dog house. Heâs in the fuckinâ pound, huh?Â
âDessert,â Frank repeats, a wary amble through the hall, light at the end showinâ him an empty stove. ââFore dinner?âÂ
âMmmhmmm⌠Figured you could use a real treat. You want a treat? Would you like a treat?âÂ
Rounding the corner with the roll of his eyes, âBaby, I ainât a fuckinâ dogââ
You prove him wrong.
The sight? Stuns him. Stops him dead in his tracks, mouth open âcause heâs either speechless or might start barkinâ like a fuckinâ dog. Whatever comes first. Drools beats both, saliva submerging his teeth.Â
You. On the table. Dolled up in black lingerie. Black lace. Silky legs dangling. Crossed at the knee. A hand propping you up, nails ticking a leisurely click.Â
Beside you. Cupcakes. A full platter. Pink cups. Perfect top over the crinkled paper. Dark chocolate cake. Icing swirled high and tight. A dark, fat cherry the color of sin in a pillow at the peak.
Your eyes pin Frankâs, relishing in the way he looks back over his shoulder like he walked into a dream instead of his own home.Â
âWelcome home, honey,â you say with a hum, casual as you pluck a cherry from the icing by the stem. You twirl it in your finger and thumb, head tilting so your hair falls. âAre youâŚÂ hungry?âÂ
âJesus,â his throat slinks, eyes roving you. âFuckinâ starved.â Downright hypnotized when you inhale the cherry between your puckered lips, trapping it between your teeth for a slow⌠devastating⌠tempting⌠deliciousâŚÂ crush.Â
A spurt of red juice trickles down your chin as you chew. âOops,â as if itâs not your plan when the sticky sweetness slides down your neck. âYou wanna⌠get this for me, baby?â you ask, lashes batting innocence.Â
Frankâs feet carry him to the paper towels, but he canât stop looking at you. Is it a game? A threat? A test? After last night, it canât be a reward.Â
âŚRight?Â
âAh-ah,â you correct as he goes to rip a towel off. âDonât waste one of those. You can clean me up yourself, canât you?âÂ
Say less.Â
Frank approaches like heâs waiting to catch trip wire. A cautioned excitement scuffing his boots to a stop in front of you, towering over you where you sit. His tongue traces slow over the line of his upper lip, eyes everywhere. Every inch of your face. Following the line of juice where it stops on your throat. The swell of your tits in the lingerie. So fuckinâ beautiful heâs not sure heâs allowed to touch. Tries anyway. Both hands lift, an automatic reach for your breasts, but stops himself. Eyes you for permission.Â
âWaited all day to see you like this,â you tease, grin lopsided, quieter under the weight of his wonder. âDonât make me beg for it.âÂ
Frank musters some decency. Remembers the task at hand. Using the curve of his bent finger, he eases your chin up, baring your neck. Enthralled when the column moves. A slow, rolling swallow under delicate skin.Â
âWhatchu doinâ, huh?â he asks, question hot against the subtle mound of your throat. âSittinâ here like mâlast goddamn meal.â
Your head falls back, eyes closing. âReminding you thereâs no place like homeâŚâ
His tongue pads a small sweep over your adamâs apple, tasting cherry-sweetened skin. Lips latch, sealing the saliva with a kiss disguised as good-natured. âAinât no place like home,â he mumbles against you, skimming along the juice line with a pointed tongue, planting an open-mouthed kiss every inch.Â
Youâre getting lost in it. The gravity of intention in his touch. His hands smooth over your sides, thumbs spanning lazy arcs to memorize the soft lace rasping under his worn hands.Â
He kisses up to your chin. Nips the round of it. Hovers his lips over yours, the last spot he needs to clean. He waits there until you bat your eyes open. Look up at him, all soft surrender decorated in lace.Â
Both of you wear the same expression: hazy lust, the apologies of yesterday.Â
âStill mad?â he asks, a hand holding your jaw, fingers lightly squishing your lips.Â
âMmm⌠not really,â you murmur, words slurred.Â
âNot really ainât no, pretty girl. Lemme ask againâŚâ a pause, the two of you sharing the same hushed, hot breath. âYou still mad?â
Your shoulders bunch gradually. âA bit. I donât like her, Frankie.âÂ
âYou ainât gotta worry âbout herââ
âI knowâŚâÂ
âYou donât. Didnât lemme finish. Gonna lemme finish, hm?â Soft, no bite. He gives your head a little sway by his hand, smooshing your mouth up more.Â
You nod, bunching your hands in the front of his shirt.Â
âRequested a site transfer. Got thâ transfer.â
You snap upright. âWhat? Frank, I didnât mean toââ
âSh-sh. Didnât do nothinâ wrong, pretty girl. You had a problem with somethinâ, I handled it. Sâhow this works, yeah? I ainât gonna keep us âround trouble. Ainât gonna worry you like that. Told you that, day one. Trouble donât always look like blood ân guns, baby.â A warmth in his stare down at you, face hovering yours. The smallest tug of a smirk softens his face. âTrouble looks like that goddamn Walmart cookie dough ân tastes like stale dog ass.â
You laugh, cheeks pudging under his fingers. It spurs him.Â
âHuh? Yeah? You like that? Trouble lookinâ like bullshit cookies ân tastinâ like dog ass? Yeah, there she is. Thereâs mâ girl.â He leans the rest of the way down. Slots your lips to his though youâre mid-laugh. A firm mold claiming you as his number one, promising again, through actions and words, youâre always first. You taste like cherries and powdered sugar icingâthe real stuff, nothinâ from the fridges. Forgiveness has a taste. Itâs this.Â
Frank tastes like gum and coffee. Safety has a taste, too. Itâs him.Â
Separating in a quiet, reluctant smooch, Frank grazes a finger back and forth over your lips. Slow. Content. âWhere else you got cherry juice, huh? Where else I need tâget?âÂ
You uncross your knees, the movement getting Frankâs attention, and when it doesâŚ
âFuck, you been sittinâ here like that thâ whole time?â Standing between your knees, the realization so profound itâs painful, Frank licks his lips at the sight of the crotchless lingerie. Puffy little pussy on display, waiting for him, right there on the goddamn table. A wet glisten already on your folds. Access to the main course while the rest of you stays gift-wrapped.Â
You catch fire under his blatant stare at your bare cunt.Â
He licks his lips, eyes snapping to yours in a blink. No play. All hunger, a necessity to satiate himself on the taste of your pussy as your thighs break his neck. âWider, baby. Spread âem wider, yeah? Gotta fuckinâ taste you.âÂ
Little movements, you shake your head.Â
âNo?â Frankâs brows jerk up. Maybe this is punishment. âAinât wantinâ that? Alright, sweetheart. Alright. How âbout you ride my hand, huh? Make a mess on me âfore I fill you up, yeah?âÂ
His hand dips down but you snatch his wrist. âNo. No, Frank, please. I want you to feel how tight I am for you. I need you to feel this, please.â Â
A groan lodges in his throat, a sound of borderline agony. âBabyâŚÂ I gotta,â hoarse, his brows knit up, pained honesty. âYou know I gotta otherwise it donât fit.âÂ
Your knees latch over his hips, fingers digging into the tabletop. âMake it fit.âÂ
His eyes go black, devoured by hunger. âDonât know what youâre askinâ for,â he pushes through his teeth, hands kneading the crease of your thighs as he drags you against him.Â
A rattled breath leaves you, your wet cunt pressed against the taut denim of his pants. You leave a glistening streak over the dark wash. âIâm asking you to make it fit, Frank. Please.âÂ
âGoddamn itâŚâÂ
You know Frankâs magic words. You know Frank canât deny you.Â
Your hands fumble for the hem of his shirt, shoving your palms up his abdomen. âOff,â you pant, a frenzy of anticipation. âOff now.â Youâve never had your husband like this beforeâ never without his hands working you open first.Â
Youâve tried. It justâŚÂ doesnât fit. Heâs too big. Youâre too small.Â
Hand in the collar of his shirt, Frank hauls it over his head. Throws it on the stovetop, burner still warm.Â
You dive for his belt, tearing his hips side to side in your struggle.Â
âGot it, baby, got it,â Frank mutters his assurance, replacing your hands with the swift solution of his.Â
The buckle jingles; the prelude to whatâs yours. Pants and boxers go down together, the vein-threaded rod of his cock bowing free and heavy.Â
Just as his clothes are shed in a heap, you perch on the edge of the table, legs gathering him, ankles hooking above his ass.Â
Frank lines himself up. Uses a hand to wedge the tip over the slick of your folds, coating the leaky slit, other hand planted on the table behind your ass to cage you there with him.Â
Chest heaving, cunt aching, twitching with the swipes of his head, you hook your arms around his neck.Â
âReady, baby?â he asks, all heat and husk.Â
You nod quick bursts, words lost and dried up.Â
âBreathe, baby, alright? Donât fâget tâbreathe fâme. Gonna get you open fâme. Make it fit, alright? Make you sit real nice ân pretty on itââ
Agony equal to bliss, your eyes widen, your chest inflates with a searing gasp as just the fat tip of Frankâs cock splits the vise of your cunt. Your spine springs a deep arch into him, nails flying to his shoulders to dig into the meatâto cling.Â
âJesus fuckinâ Christââ Frank hisses through clenched teeth, face contorted like heâs malfunctioning under the pressure, the slick defiance of your cunt. His eyes cross from the wet clamp. Flared nostrils, bared teeth. A snarl of overwhelming euphoria as he tries to feed you another inch. âBreathe fâme, baby, câmon. Relax, huh?â One hand blankets your lower stomach, his chest heaving as he pauses. Relaxes with you, an instruction for you to follow. âYou sure âbout this, baby? Want you comfortable, hm?â The hand from your belly cradles your face instead, fingers extended into your hair, thumb pushing rough assurance over your cheek. âWanna make you feel good. Donât wanna be hurtinâ my pretty girl.âÂ
Teeth chattering, body trembling, you lean into his touch. âPlease, FrankâŚâ a velvety whisper, a desperation popping out your collarbones. âDonât stop. Please donât stop.âÂ
Surrender to your please, Frankâs forehead drops against yours. âTell me âf itâs too much, yeah?â A low rumble. âYou tell me. Ainât nothinâ you gotta prove like this, alright? Nothinâ.â A hand kneading the crease of your thigh, the other dragging down the lace-lined curve of your spine with reverent patience. âLove you, pretty girl.âÂ
Your cunt pulses around his heavy tip onceâhe grunts, jolts. Â
You gasp, hum. âLove you so much, Frankie.âÂ
And brace.Â
Frank dips his head. Scoops your mouth into a slow, crude kiss. All tongue between your lips, drawing yours out. Spit slick and deliciously warm, your tongues lap and lips suck around each other. Greedy, sloppy kisses of ownership.Â
âFuck yeah, baby,â Frank groans into your mouth, his hips rolling a persistent nudge. âFuck, feel so good.âÂ
Arms winding around his shoulders, head dropped to the side, you suck his bottom lip into your mouth. Free it by raking your teeth over the flesh on the draw back. âMore.âÂ
âYeah? Gonna fill you up. Ainât gonna have room fâmore,â he pants, eyes hooded as he marvels over the spit-sheen on your lips, the string draped between your mouths. âSpit on it fâme, hm? You do that, pretty girl? Spit ân Iâll give ya more.âÂ
Breathless, lust-drunk, you nod quick agreement and peel back. Head dropping, your eyes widen when you see how he tries to conjoin you. Engorged veins cinch down his shaft, the first two inches (all he can fit right now) coated in your slick. In careful rutsâso fucking careful you whineâhe pushes the hot clench of your cunt to open you up.Â
Frank meets you there, his head bowed in sheer awe as you both admire the tight fit, the near-impossible stretch of your pussy for his cock.Â
âYeah, baby, yeah. Love how you take mâfuckinâ dick. So fuckinâ good. Look at âer,â he says, a thumb skimming your folds to graze them apart as he tip-fucks you, rub your arousal over the soft, sensitive skin. âCâmon baby, you forget you need tâspit on me, hm?âÂ
Taking everything in your mouth, you pucker your lips. You drop out a cord of spit spanning from your pretty lips to his shaft, drizzling over him in thin spins until it all pools down.Â
âOoh, thatâs it, attagirl,â Frank praises in a ragged breath, thrusts picking up with the added slip. Tendons in his neck wire. Muscles in his forearms carve out, hands locked at the crease of your thighs. Pushes his cock in deeper, pushes through the strangle of your pussy around him. âFuckinâ chokinâ me baby, huh? Pussyâs chokinâ me, fuck.âÂ
âF-fuck!â You cry, body jolting once with the electric on of feeling him everywhere, prodding your guts. âFuck, I told you, Frank. T-told you. So tight. So tight I didnât think youâd fitââ
ââalmost there, baby, almost, câmonââ
âSo tight around my own fingers, Frank, fuckâhad to- had to feel you like this.âÂ
He growls. An animalistic heave of possession; a starvation stemming from your confession. âTouchinâ yourself âfore I got here? Huh? Playinâ with that pretty pussy âfore I got home?âÂ
âCouldnât- couldnât waitââ you pant, hands everywhere on him. Tearing through his hair, nails piercing his shoulder blades, clawing down the sides of his neck. âThought about you. This. All day. All fucking day, Frank.  Had to feel how wet I got just from thinking about you.âÂ
A harder slam of his hipsâpunishment, praise. Reward for you in the stretch that sucks your breath dry, parching the cry leaving your lips.Â
âYou cum?â he grits, yanking you so your ass teeters the very edge of the table. Forehead smashed against yours, mouth panting open and salivating for yours. âMake yâself cum without me, hm?âÂ
âNo,â you adamantly shake your head, knees spurring his ribs. âNo. Just- just felt. One finger! Thatâs all. I was so fucking tight I needed you to feel, Frankie. I waited on you. Just like this. Just for you.âÂ
Sweat slipping your foreheads, Frank grunts, hips rolling greedier, short snaps as the last. inch. goes. inâÂ
âOooh-ahhh! Frankâ!âÂ
Stuffed until you choke on the sob in your chest, body seized by an outburst of brilliant pain, a sharp sensation of such fullness youâre complete.Â
âFuuuck, baby,â Frank grits out, head bowed to gape at how your cunt throbs around every fat inch. Cunt pressed flush to his base. Fit so perfectly, a bulge prodding the lace over your lower tummy where his cock banks. âPussyâs so fuckinâ perfect, baby, so fuckinâ tight. Look at you. Look at that. Every fuckinâ inch in that tight little pussy. Still breathinâ, baby? Câmon. Breathe fâme.âÂ
You do. You listen. Small huffs. Stunned hums. A tumbling, breathy laugh as you look down and see how you sheath him.Â
âFeel your fuckinâ heartbeat âround me, baby,â Frank murmurs, lips grazing the corner of your parted mouth, âyeah, feels so fuckinâ good. Ainât no one made fâme like you.âÂ
Perked through the lace of the lingerie, you graze your nipples over his chest, a feline arch to your back. The cupcakes wait within reach. Ass perched on the ledge of the table, arms draped over his shoulders. Frankâs both your rescue and your ruin. You shimmy your hips just to hear him grunt a curse, feel the jump of his cock as it sits an idle pipe inside of you. Blindly reaching over, you scoop a glob of icing onto your finger. Head tipped back, you hold it an inch from his lips and his eyes cloud black. âThen fuck me like no oneâs made for you but me.âÂ
Without blinking, Frank leans that one inch in. Opens his mouth. And swallows your finger to the goddamn knuckle.Â
Your eyes widen, breath catches. As you begin a lewd, languid retreat of your finger, Frank flattens his tongue. And sucks. Drags off every bit of icing as your joints come out in a slow, spit-shimmering leave and pop off his lips. Stomach fluttering, eyes sparkingâ youâre done for.Â
And so is he.Â
Instinct over thought, you both clash. Both find union in desperation, in the hot vulgarity that hunger breeds.Â
Bodies tacky with sweat, both you grind. Frank stays buried inside of you, ruts into you, unwilling to leave the rapture of your pussy.Â
Shaky moans spill from your mouth and into the strong slant of his neck. Your hips curl down, out, in time with his, chasing the friction, the galvanizing totality of your husband.Â
A filthy slow motion, your swollen clit grinding the coarse hair at his thick base. Smears a white cream circle in his hair, frothing over his cock.Â
It starts low in your belly. The squeeze. The exhilarating, white-hot panic from overstimulation. Watching as his cock shifts under your lace, feeling the tip knock the deepest parts of you; places no one has ever touchedâplaces no one else can reach.Â
The table creaks, legs scraping resistance thrust by thrust until it drives into the wall. Pinnedâjust like you. Nowhere to go. More leverage for Frank to wreck you.Â
âAll fuckinâ mineââ he slams in.Â
âMine.âÂ
Slam.Â
âMy pretty fuckinâ wife.âÂ
Slam.Â
âPretty fuckinâ pussy.âÂ
Slam.Â
âCum on my cock, baby, câmon. Cum fâme, hm? Gettinâ close. Feel it, way youâre suckinâ me, yeah, fuckinâ love it.âÂ
âFrank!â you cry out with urgency, clawing every conceivable place on himâbiceps, chest, eventually sinking into his shouldersâas your world starts to plummet. Legs quaking. Stomach quivering. Eyes fluttering back. Then, softer, a plea you know heâll answer: âHold me, Frank, please, hold me while IââÂ
His arms form an immediate cage around you, unbreakable and unconditional. The safest place for you to fall apart in. Him.Â
âCâmon, pretty girl, câmonâ cum on mâcock, baby.âÂ
The wet slap of skin. The pouring heat of sex and sweat and possession. Intoxicating lust teetering explosion as he rocks into you, hair scraping just right over your needy clit, arms an enclosure untilâ
âOooh, Frank! Frank, Iâmâ!âÂ
Cumming. Bliss, straight in his fuckinâ ear. Moans a fuckinâ choir, his name a prayer as you fall apart, climbing him for relief until reliefâs all you have and you need him to come back down.Â
You gush on his dick, walls thrumming frantic compressions around him.Â
âOh, yeah, there she is,â Frank coos, hips slowing to an agonizingly tender tease, hitting each pulsating shock. âThereâs mâfuckinâ girl. Attagirl.âÂ
Hair stuck to your face, you collapse over him. Cheek smooshed on his shoulder, arms locked in a shaking bolt around him. âMm,â you hum, soft pants through the little part of your lips. One weak leg falls off his hip, and youâre too spent to care.Â
Frank rumbles a chuckle. Picks your leg up so it doesnât dangle. Pins it back against his hip with his elbow. Strums his fingers over your thigh, other hand rubbing the nape of your neck. âYou good, huh?â Softer now, still rough with lust. âPretty girl. Always so good fâme. Look so fuckinâ pretty when you cum on mâdick like that.âÂ
âMhm,â your lashes flutter, head picking up. Heat blankets your face, chest. The lingerieâs damp and itchy on your skin. You sit up just enough to prove youâre okay, and FrankâŚÂ god, heâ Well, he looks like heâs seen God. Â
But itâs you.Â
âYou ainât done yet,â he says, and itâs a warning. âAinât done makinâ you mine. You do somethinâ fâme, baby, hm?âÂ
Cock still buried, cunt sucking him with aftershocks, your breath catches as you nod. âTell me. Anything.âÂ
âMarks. Want âem. Fuckâ want âem all over. You do that fâme? Bruise me up, huh?âÂ
âWhaâ Frankie, you sure? You neverââ
One look shuts you up. Pupils a total eclipse of over his eyes, he wears this exact face into a war zone: brutal, a man unafraid to take victory by whatever means necessary, all dark possession with the mission but this is different. This is warfare in home territory; a battle where loss is unacceptable.Â
âLemme feel you,â he says, head canted to offer the thick conduits of muscle and tendons in his neck.Â
A secondâoneâof mesmerization, your eyes dart from his to his neck. The stretch of his neckâs all you need.Â
You bite down on the sharp slant, a mouthful of muscle and his pulse. Hard enough he hisses. Hard enough your teeth impress to bruise.Â
âFuck, yeah, sâit,â Frank groans and lifts you off the table. Standing, balancing you both, his fingers sprawl hooks under your ass and thighs, dropping you down and lifting you up on his cock in time with the plunge of his hips. âDonât fuckinâ stop. Use that pretty lilâ mouth. Show âem what I got waitinâ at home, huh? Good girl waitinâ fâme. Tight fuckinâ pussy. Fuckinâ cupcakesââÂ
You leech onto his skin as he bounces you upright on his dick. Spit smearing your mouth, his neck, a trail of red-mottled bruises in your wake as tongue and teeth collide to assert your rightful possession over this body, this man. It starts againâ the squeeze. Low in your belly, whittling ecstasy over your clit.Â
Pussy drunk, lust-induced, Frankâs head tips back. The shlick thumps of his cock bottoming out your cunt fills the kitchen, the slap of his balls, your muffled moans scoring through the walls.Â
Head spinning, lips swollen, you pry yourself off Frank in a gasp. Tits bounce in lace, hair disheveled, face flushed. Youâre a goddamn angel of sin. You meet his wild stare. Heâs just as disoriented as you. Heâs beautiful, the strength in his neck and shoulders blooming contusions in the print of your teeth and shape of your lips.Â
You watch in flustered awe how he impales you, your cunt dripping and folds adhered to him. Crammed so fucking full, no more stretch to give, thrown on his cock with the sharp slap of skin.Â
The wide span of his fingers pull your ass apart so your cunt chokes tighter around every throbbing inch as he hammers up and in. His balls tighten. Biceps pumped from dragging your weight effortlessly over his cock.Â
âFrank,â his name quakes out your mouth. You swallow, legs quivering around his waist. âIâm gonnaâ oh, god, Iâm gonna cum again, Frankie.âÂ
âYeah, baby?â he pants, âtoo full, huh? Canât get enough, can you?âÂ
âF-feel you everywhere,â you choke out, hole clamping down around him as your body seizes.Â
âYeah? Where. Show me. Câmon. Show me, sweetheart. Where you feel me, huh?âÂ
A trembling hand grasps your tummy. Here. It skates up your chest, squeezing your sternum. Here. And around your throat. Here.Â
That does something to him.Â
Rewires every fuckinâ instinct in his head âtil itâs just you. You. You. You. It becomes consumption, fucking you to an oblivion where youâre one. Whole. Fucks you like heâll die without you. Fucks you like his cockâs sustenance you need.Â
Fucks you to completion.Â
Neither without the other.
He fucks you stupid, your jaw slack as little, breathless moans punch out.Â
Primal inclination to breed you, to blow his load so deep you taste it in the back of your throat, Frank climbs onto the tableâwith you beneath him. One hand glued to the edge of the table, using it for leverage. Your head rests in the crook of his elbow, thrown back over his forearm as he fucks a brutal, senseless pace. Your hips lift off the table, Frankâs arm jerking them up for a deeper angle, for a harder drive so when he does bust? Youâll get every fucking drop. Yeah.Â
Trying to breed you.Â
Broad shoulders acting as spreader bars, Frank hooks your knees over them. Spreads you wide, deep, your legs down his back. By the plunging neck of the lingerie, he rips two fingers down it, breaking your tits free. Both of his hands bind around the edge of the table, veins swollen channels up his forearms, disappearing into the biceps that ensnare you.Â
Fuckinâ folds you in half. Growled grunts knock out of him in time with his hips. The pace stutters as pressure builds in his gut.Â
âGonna fill you âtil you fuckinâ leak,â he says, a man possessed. âAinât gonna be able tâwalk without thinkinâ âbout me. That what you want?âÂ
You nod, but itâs not enough.Â
âWords,â he coaxes, a gentle reprieve. âUse your words, baby. Câmon. Lemme hear you, huh?â
âYes,â pure bliss, your nails hooking into his sides as your eyes roll back. âYes, Frank, fuckyes. Wanna feel you in my stomach for days after. Want my legs to shake every step I take. Forget my own fucking nameââ
âNuh-uh, nah, ainât fâgettinâ your name. Youâre mâ fuckinâ wife. Mrs. Castle. My wife. You got that?âÂ
âYour wife. Iâm your fucking wife. Mrs. Castle.âÂ
âFuck yeah you are.âÂ
âFrank, Iâm closeâ!âÂ
âLet go fâme me, baby. Yeah, yeah, yeahâ âm gonna fuckinâââ Â
As you reach your peak, Frankâs name tearing from your lungs as you claw into him, Frank plows two more balls-deep ruts before heâs spilling hot ropes of cum into your pulsating cunt with the guttural mercy of your name.Â
Thereâs nothing left but panted breath, sweat, and chocolate cupcakes.Â
Frank unfolds you gently, without a word. A bead of sweat trickles from his sweat-logged hair, easing your legs from his shoulders. With a kiss to each knee, Frank places your legs down on the table, cock burrowed deep in you yet.Â
Lingerie hanging on by willpower, you lie beneath him. Winded, blissed, dripping his cum. Heavy, hazy eyes follow his every move, the silent praise in his fingers as he carefully tucks your breasts back into the lace. He drops his head, pressing a kiss to the swell of each one. Then the sweat-salted curve of your neck. The soft line of your jaw. And finally, the parted line of your lips.Â
âYou okay?â he murmurs, a gravel dredge, nudging his nose against yours.Â
ââŚI think Iâm gonna need a wheelchair.âÂ
Crickets.Â
Thenâ
You both laugh.Â
You bubble.Â
He rumbles.Â
âLeâs start with a cupcake, yeah?âÂ
âFrank, are you seriouslyâ?â
âOh yeah.âÂ
Dick in you, still riding the high in aftershocks, Frank reaches beside your head and grabs a cupcake. Settles back in, elbows on either side of your head.Â
Hovering inches from your face, ass cheeks out, Frank takes a bite equivalent to half the cupcake. Groans all over again, eyes fluttering.Â
âGood thing âm still in you. Think I came again,â he praises with a mouthful of cupcake, frosting smeared on his bottom lip. âNeed your pussy ate fâthis one, sweetheart.âÂ
âThat good, huh?â Â
âNeed broads tâflirt with me more often.âÂ
âAss.âÂ
âGreat idea, pretty girl. Flip over. Gonna eat this off your ass, hm?âÂ
âFrankâ!âÂ
Laughter rings through the kitchen. His impish chuckle. The slow, lazy smooch of kisses and murmured nothings. More laughter when he plops icing on your nose. AndâŚÂ other places. Different noises when he cleans up the mess he makes.Â
One thing about you and Frank?Â
This is it.Â
You. Him.Â
Handling trouble as it comes your way.Â
Trouble isnât always blood and guns, remember.Â
Sometimes itâs dog shit cookies and a goddamn temp.Â
Trouble canât touch this.Â
Frank wonât let it.Â
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when im older i want to go somewhere quiet and be there by myself

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He looks like he works with his hands, and smells like Marlboro Reds
You can put out your cigarette on me btw
Jon wearing cowboy hats
âyouâre too young for meâ ⌠you and i both know that turns you on !!

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call me ur kid again im almost there
I need frank viscerally oh my fuck thatâs dada