welcome to the tornado zone🌪️

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 who’s the sweetest. And the tightest. 

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 🤎

One of your favorite things to do is to surprise Frank on the job. Hell, it’s one of his, too, even if he’s got to fend off the drooling, indecent rats he works with. 

But today? 

Today you get a surprise. 

And you’re not very fond of it. 

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 that’s usually empty. But, when you can’t get ahold of Frank—like today—this is where you check on the off chance the site manager’s around and he’ll retrieve your husband. 

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. It’s not much, but it’s all you could manage over your thirty minute break at work. Frank’s favorite sandwich from the deli downtown. 

Nearing the door, though… voices carry from the prefab. You scuff to a stop, ear tilting to listen. 

“Jeez, Pete, it’s not a cookie eating contest,” says a feminine voice; one of velvet and easy confidence and breathy laugh. “I made them for you, big guy.” 

Pete. Surely there are other Petes. Peters. Whatever. Surely it’s not your Frank someone else is baking cookies for. 

“Mm,” but it’s your husband that hums, his mouth obviously stuffed. “Shit’s good. Real good. Ain’t had some ‘a these in a while.” 

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. 

“Well, you said they’re your favorite, and they’re easy enough to make, so… I figured, why not?” A little pause, like maybe she’s watching Frank, relishing in his satisfaction. “…You like them?” A lift of her tone, seeking approval… seeking your husband’s approval. 

“Yeah,” Frank says. “Yeah, real good. Did a nice job on ‘em.” 

“Thaaanks!” she chimes, and you’re almost sick imaging what kind of smile she has plastered to her face right now. 

Whoever the fuck this is. Last you checked, women didn’t work here. So— who the hell is she? Frank’s done nothing wrong. It’s not him you’re worried about. But you’re not blind, not stupid. 

“So you said it’s been awhile, Pete. Since you’ve had any of these. I’m only here part-time. I bake a lot in my free time. Why don’t 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. How’s that sound?” 

Face cinching with a scowl, you brace for the answer. 

“Sounds like ‘m gonna get fat,” Frank huffs. “Wife ain’t gonna like that.”

“I have a feeling it’d just turn to more muscle on you, big guy,” carried by an undercutting laugh at your mention. “Well, then your wife should be the one feeding you, not me—”

Before the conversation skins you alive, your shoes stab up the two grated stairs and yank open the flimsy prefab door. 

In a whirl of wind, dust, and threat, you appear with the shriek of hinges. 

Old tactical memory—to react to surprise—Frank whirls to face the door, fists around a cookie and a plastic cup of water. 

And there, at the fucking desk— her. Whoever the fuck she thinks she is, making your husband cookies. “Uhm, ma’am—?” Comes a polite scoff instead of who the fuck are you?, but Frank’s the one to answer with a low, praising whistle. 

“Hey, there she is,” he says, a smirk pulling sideways to show his teeth. “There’s m’girl. Look at ‘er, huh?“ Frank discards the water and cookie on the desk like yesterday’s 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. “Showin’ up here, wearin’ m’favorite shirt like that, Jesus— how I get so lucky, huh?“ 

“So lucky,” 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. “Luckier now, since I’m feeding you, hmm?” And you hold you the brown baggie with the stiff raise of your brow, a smile too rigid. “I’d hate if you had to get full on junk food.” 

Bag in his periphery, his eyes leaving yours for half a second to confirm it’s a sandwich from that deli down on Main, Frank’s expression sparks. “I got th’ best wife, huh? Tell these guys all th’ damn time. Best damn woman I ever met. Still dunno what she’s doin’ what an asshole like me, ‘less this’s m’last meal.” 

“Well, it’d be a way to go,” you say, too tight. “Dessert before real food.” 

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. 

The gentleman he is, Frank’s 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. 

“Hey, uh…” Frank opens up, but keeps you tucked snug into his side. “Marissa, this’s m’wife. Sweetheart, this’s Marissa. Temp site clerk.” Frank gestures an introduction. 

Wrecking ball sounds more fitting, you think. 

The worst part is she’s… 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 Frank’s side, standing tall. Unmovable from what’s yours. 

“…Hi.” She forces a smile. 

“Hi.” You don’t. 

And nothing else follows. Nothing but the nasty humidity of possession; a tangible ick of a woman’s place being challenged. Not threatened. Challenged. 

Sensing the tension (repulsion) in the air from either side, Frank shifts. Holds you closer, bounces you a bit. 

“Say, uh… Marissa made these cookies here,” Frank says, nodding at the plate on the desk. “Ain’t bad. Try one, yeah? You’re the cookie expert. See what you think, huh?” 

You glance at the cookies. At Marissa. A flick of cold indifference in your eyes. Then back up to Frank. God, he’s 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 Frank’s side, lips in a cutting smile. 

Marissa rolls her eyes elsewhere. 

You don’t. You stare. Unrelenting. A threat that doesn’t require speech. And you take a bite. 

“Mm,” you hum, moving the cookie you don’t chew into your cheek. “Tastes like the prepackaged cookies from Walmart. Using real ingredients’ll take that right out.” 

You’d like to say it didn’t bother you that much. Earlier. Marissa. You’d really like to. But your heart rate hasn’t gone down since noon, your responses come out all bark waiting to bite, and Frank knows to tread lightly—just doesn’t know why. 

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 rat’s ass what’s on. The only place you allow Frank to touch are your feet, and he dragged those over into his lap himself minutes ago. 

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 doesn’t say anything. He’s waiting for the right time, questions on his tongue, suspicions stuck behind his teeth. 

“Would you like some real dessert?” 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. “…S’a weeknight.” 

“And?” 

“You don’t bake on weeknights.” 

“Want me to start?” 

“Sweetheart— why’d I want that, huh? Think ‘m some kinda asshole? ’Spect you t’come home after workin’ all day t’make me dessert?” Frank huffs at the thought, faint shake of his head. 

“Yeah, but would you like that? Someone that does come home after work to whip you up some store-bought crap so you’re not going unfed?” 

Now Frank stops. His hands go motionless. Eyes slit. “You mad over that? Her makin’ cookies?”

“It’s not making cookies. She’s flirting, Frank.” 

Frank’s in the middle of scoffing a laugh, but the look you give shuts him the fuck up. His brows pitch up, face screwed. “…That’s flirtin’?”

“Frank.” You face palm. “Good god, yes. That’s the equivalent of pulling your pants down and sucking you on the spot.” 

“S’a, huh, lil’ extreme, sweetheart—”

“Frank. It is.” 

“…So, uh…” The memories rewind, his eyes searching ahead. “All those times before we…” vague hand gestures to signal fucking, getting together, admitting feelings, whatever, “…you baked f’me… you was flirtin’? ……….with me?” 

Deadpan disbelief, you blink at him. “…Are you seriously just now realizing that?” Yes. The silence says yes. “…God, it’s a good thing you’re not single.” 

“Alright.” Frank nods slow understanding. “So you’re mad ‘bout that. You mad with me?” 

“Not mad…” you mumble, brows pinched as you find the right words. “Okay. Maybe mad, yeah. Mad somewhere along the way you said I wasn’t baking them, that she found out they’re your favorite so she felt the need to take it upon herself to satisfy you.” 

“Satisfy—? Christ. Ain’t like I asked f’any ‘a that—”

“I’m not saying you did. That’s 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 that’s some pretty intentional flirting, right?” You ask, both brows hiked up to drill the essence of your case across. “It’s not a harmless joke or even a comment about your rugged good looks. She put time into this. Planned it.” 

In slow motion, it unfolds. His brows smooth out. His jaw unlocks. His mouth opens, but it’s for a small inhale to help finalize the message between the lines. 

“I don’t like someone else feeding my husband like he’s some neglected stray that needs attention,” you say as he processes. “No one else should ever think they get that right.” You scoff, take your feet back to burrow into yourself. Blanket at your chin, glaring at the D-Day documentary instead of him. “And I hate she did. And I hate that you enjoyed it. And that you didn’t realize they’re the bullshit refrigerator cookies that taste like stale dog ass.” 

Normally he would’ve 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, you’re right. He says it, too. “Yeah, sweetheart,” hoarse with realization. “Yeah. You’re right. No one’s got that right but you, hm? Ain’t no one compares t’you, know that? Yeah. You’re my goddamn everythin’. Give me everythin’ thought I’d never have. Shit I don’t deserve.” 

Jealousy’s 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. “Don’t say that…” you mumble, the fire diminished. Smoke in its wake. “You 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 it’s the small things like that, that speak the loudest… right? And I do, god, I do… I love you so much, Frankie. It made me sick seeing someone else so… so… lit up by you.”

“Baby… C’mere. C’mon. Come t’Frankie, yeah?” Both legs spread wide, he pats his thighs. Wants you close. Wants to hold you, feel you, love you. 

You fervidly shake your head. How’re you supposed to melt into him when you’ve been a bitch the entire night? When he’s so fucking sweet even after you’ve been so fucking sour? 

“Look at me, sweetheart.”

Nuh-uh nuh-uh nuh-uh. 

“No?” he asks. “Alright. Fine.” 

“Eee! Frank!” Jostling as he yanks you across the couch, a gentle manhandle as he tucks you in a cradle for a comforting timeout. 

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.

“You’re it f’me, sweetheart,” he says, finger scratching under your chin. “No competition. You. M’ number one. You got me, I got you, yeah? How it’s always been. Ain’t gotta worry ‘bout nothin’. No one, hm?” 

Cheeks hot from Marissa irk, you huff, eyes slanted away. He’s right. You know he’s right. It doesn’t make it any easier to witness someone actively providing a service for your husband. “It’s not you I worry about. I trust you. I don’t trust her.” 

“Said you trust me?” Frank settles back between the cushions, your rigid weight defrosting over his chest and stomach. He waits for you to nod. “Then you gotta trust I’ll handle it, sweetheart. Trust your man’ll handle it?” 

You don’t know what handling it looks like. He won’t punch an innocent (unfortunately it’s not criminal to flirt) desk clerk. So what will he do? God it pisses you off. Being in this situation. Some dumb bitch thinks it’s okay to spend money on your husband, bake for him, even dare to soil your name like you don’t cherish him enough because you haven’t made cookies in a while. 

“Hey.” Frank bounces an arm, getting you from your thoughts. “Asked you a question. Trust me t’handle it?” 

“Yeah,” you mutter, a fierce thought spearing through your mind. If you can’t get rid of Marissa… you’ll make sure she’s never even a thought. “I know you’ll handle it.” 

You’ll believe it when you see it. 

In the meantime?

You have your own plan. 

Frank’s 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 ‘cause it’s personal. 

When you hear him? 

Shit. 

Always come runnin’. 

Frank loves the way you slide into the hall, feet goin’ too damn fast for polished wood, body fishtailin’ as you bulldoze straight into him after a day apart. 

Today, though…

Today Frank comes in. Made all his usual noise. Didn’t work. Nothin’. No you. So he made more noise. Sniffed. Huffed. Cursed. Even coughed. Hacked up half a goddamn lung, still— nothin’. 

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 fannin’ out from the kitchen. 

Baked. 

You baked. 

Christ. That can’t mean anythin’ good. Not after yesterday. 

“Sweetheart?” he calls. 

Two… three… four…

The seconds tick up in time with his worry. 

Seven… eight… nine…

“Frankie?” Ultra sweet, drifting down the hall from the kitchen. 

Longest ten seconds ‘a his goddamn life. 

His shoulders deflate, a sigh of relief puffing his cheeks. 

“You alright in here, sweetheart?” He asks while in motion; an intuitive navigation to you. “Didn’t hear me come in, huh?” 

“I heard you,” you hum, voice growing closer. “Just finishing… dessert.” 

Jesus. He ain’t in the dog house. He’s in the fuckin’ pound, huh? 

“Dessert,” Frank repeats, a wary amble through the hall, light at the end showin’ him an empty stove. “‘Fore dinner?” 

“Mmmhmmm… Figured you could use a real treat. You want a treat? Would you like a treat?” 

Rounding the corner with the roll of his eyes, “Baby, I ain’t a fuckin’ dog—”

You prove him wrong.

The sight? Stuns him. Stops him dead in his tracks, mouth open ‘cause he’s either speechless or might start barkin’ like a fuckin’ dog. Whatever comes first. Drools beats both, saliva submerging his teeth. 

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. 

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 Frank’s, relishing in the way he looks back over his shoulder like he walked into a dream instead of his own home. 

“Welcome home, honey,” 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. “Are you… hungry?” 

“Jesus,” his throat slinks, eyes roving you. “Fuckin’ starved.” Downright hypnotized when you inhale the cherry between your puckered lips, trapping it between your teeth for a slow… devastating… tempting… delicious… crush. 

A spurt of red juice trickles down your chin as you chew. “Oops,” as if it’s not your plan when the sticky sweetness slides down your neck. “You wanna… get this for me, baby?” you ask, lashes batting innocence. 

Frank’s feet carry him to the paper towels, but he can’t stop looking at you. Is it a game? A threat? A test? After last night, it can’t be a reward. 

…Right? 

“Ah-ah,” you correct as he goes to rip a towel off. “Don’t waste one of those. You can clean me up yourself, can’t you?” 

Say less. 

Frank approaches like he’s 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 fuckin’ beautiful he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch. Tries anyway. Both hands lift, an automatic reach for your breasts, but stops himself. Eyes you for permission. 

“Waited all day to see you like this,” you tease, grin lopsided, quieter under the weight of his wonder. “Don’t make me beg for it.” 

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. 

“Whatchu doin’, huh?” he asks, question hot against the subtle mound of your throat. “Sittin’ here like m’last goddamn meal.”

Your head falls back, eyes closing. “Reminding you there’s no place like home…”

His tongue pads a small sweep over your adam’s apple, tasting cherry-sweetened skin. Lips latch, sealing the saliva with a kiss disguised as good-natured. “Ain’t no place like home,” he mumbles against you, skimming along the juice line with a pointed tongue, planting an open-mouthed kiss every inch. 

You’re 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. 

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. 

Both of you wear the same expression: hazy lust, the apologies of yesterday. 

“Still mad?” he asks, a hand holding your jaw, fingers lightly squishing your lips. 

“Mmm… not really,” you murmur, words slurred. 

“Not really ain’t no, pretty girl. Lemme ask again…” a pause, the two of you sharing the same hushed, hot breath. “You still mad?”

Your shoulders bunch gradually. “A bit. I don’t like her, Frankie.” 

“You ain’t gotta worry ‘bout her—”

“I know…” 

“You don’t. Didn’t lemme finish. Gonna lemme finish, hm?” Soft, no bite. He gives your head a little sway by his hand, smooshing your mouth up more. 

You nod, bunching your hands in the front of his shirt. 

“Requested a site transfer. Got th’ transfer.”

You snap upright. “What? Frank, I didn’t mean to—”

“Sh-sh. Didn’t do nothin’ wrong, pretty girl. You had a problem with somethin’, I handled it. S’how this works, yeah? I ain’t gonna keep us ‘round trouble. Ain’t gonna worry you like that. Told you that, day one. Trouble don’t always look like blood ‘n guns, baby.” A warmth in his stare down at you, face hovering yours. The smallest tug of a smirk softens his face. “Trouble looks like that goddamn Walmart cookie dough ‘n tastes like stale dog ass.”

You laugh, cheeks pudging under his fingers. It spurs him. 

“Huh? Yeah? You like that? Trouble lookin’ like bullshit cookies ‘n tastin’ like dog ass? Yeah, there she is. There’s m’ girl.” He leans the rest of the way down. Slots your lips to his though you’re mid-laugh. A firm mold claiming you as his number one, promising again, through actions and words, you’re always first. You taste like cherries and powdered sugar icing—the real stuff, nothin’ from the fridges. Forgiveness has a taste. It’s this. 

Frank tastes like gum and coffee. Safety has a taste, too. It’s him. 

Separating in a quiet, reluctant smooch, Frank grazes a finger back and forth over your lips. Slow. Content. “Where else you got cherry juice, huh? Where else I need t’get?” 

You uncross your knees, the movement getting Frank’s attention, and when it does…

“Fuck, you been sittin’ here like that th’ whole time?” Standing between your knees, the realization so profound it’s 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. 

You catch fire under his blatant stare at your bare cunt. 

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. “Wider, baby. Spread ‘em wider, yeah? Gotta fuckin’ taste you.” 

Little movements, you shake your head. 

“No?” Frank’s brows jerk up. Maybe this is punishment. “Ain’t wantin’ that? Alright, sweetheart. Alright. How ‘bout you ride my hand, huh? Make a mess on me ‘fore I fill you up, yeah?” 

His hand dips down but you snatch his wrist. “No. No, Frank, please. I want you to feel how tight I am for you. I need you to feel this, please.”  

A groan lodges in his throat, a sound of borderline agony. “Baby… I gotta,” hoarse, his brows knit up, pained honesty. “You know I gotta otherwise it don’t fit.” 

Your knees latch over his hips, fingers digging into the tabletop. “Make it fit.” 

His eyes go black, devoured by hunger. “Don’t know what you’re askin’ for,” he pushes through his teeth, hands kneading the crease of your thighs as he drags you against him. 

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. “I’m asking you to make it fit, Frank. Please.” 

“Goddamn it…” 

You know Frank’s magic words. You know Frank can’t deny you. 

Your hands fumble for the hem of his shirt, shoving your palms up his abdomen. “Off,” you pant, a frenzy of anticipation. “Off now.” You’ve never had your husband like this before— never without his hands working you open first. 

You’ve tried. It just… doesn’t fit. He’s too big. You’re too small. 

Hand in the collar of his shirt, Frank hauls it over his head. Throws it on the stovetop, burner still warm. 

You dive for his belt, tearing his hips side to side in your struggle. 

“Got it, baby, got it,” Frank mutters his assurance, replacing your hands with the swift solution of his. 

The buckle jingles; the prelude to what’s yours. Pants and boxers go down together, the vein-threaded rod of his cock bowing free and heavy. 

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. 

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. 

Chest heaving, cunt aching, twitching with the swipes of his head, you hook your arms around his neck. 

“Ready, baby?” he asks, all heat and husk. 

You nod quick bursts, words lost and dried up. 

“Breathe, baby, alright? Don’t f’get t’breathe f’me. Gonna get you open f’me. Make it fit, alright? Make you sit real nice ‘n pretty on it—”

Agony equal to bliss, your eyes widen, your chest inflates with a searing gasp as just the fat tip of Frank’s cock splits the vise of your cunt. Your spine springs a deep arch into him, nails flying to his shoulders to dig into the meat—to cling. 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ—” Frank hisses through clenched teeth, face contorted like he’s 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. “Breathe f’me, baby, c’mon. Relax, huh?” One hand blankets your lower stomach, his chest heaving as he pauses. Relaxes with you, an instruction for you to follow. “You sure ‘bout this, baby? Want you comfortable, hm?” The hand from your belly cradles your face instead, fingers extended into your hair, thumb pushing rough assurance over your cheek. “Wanna make you feel good. Don’t wanna be hurtin’ my pretty girl.” 

Teeth chattering, body trembling, you lean into his touch. “Please, Frank…” a velvety whisper, a desperation popping out your collarbones. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.” 

Surrender to your please, Frank’s forehead drops against yours. “Tell me ‘f it’s too much, yeah?” A low rumble. “You tell me. Ain’t nothin’ you gotta prove like this, alright? Nothin’.” A hand kneading the crease of your thigh, the other dragging down the lace-lined curve of your spine with reverent patience. “Love you, pretty girl.” 

Your cunt pulses around his heavy tip once—he grunts, jolts.  

You gasp, hum. “Love you so much, Frankie.” 

And brace. 

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. 

“Fuck yeah, baby,” Frank groans into your mouth, his hips rolling a persistent nudge. “Fuck, feel so good.” 

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. “More.” 

“Yeah? Gonna fill you up. Ain’t gonna have room f’more,” he pants, eyes hooded as he marvels over the spit-sheen on your lips, the string draped between your mouths. “Spit on it f’me, hm? You do that, pretty girl? Spit ‘n I’ll give ya more.” 

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 ruts—so fucking careful you whine—he pushes the hot clench of your cunt to open you up. 

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. 

“Yeah, baby, yeah. Love how you take m’fuckin’ dick. So fuckin’ good. Look at ‘er,” he says, a thumb skimming your folds to graze them apart as he tip-fucks you, rub your arousal over the soft, sensitive skin. “C’mon baby, you forget you need t’spit on me, hm?” 

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. 

“Ooh, that’s it, attagirl,” 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. “Fuckin’ chokin’ me baby, huh? Pussy’s chokin’ me, fuck.” 

“F-fuck!” You cry, body jolting once with the electric on of feeling him everywhere, prodding your guts. “Fuck, I told you, Frank. T-told you. So tight. So tight I didn’t think you’d fit—”

“—almost there, baby, almost, c’mon—”

“So tight around my own fingers, Frank, fuck—had to- had to feel you like this.” 

He growls. An animalistic heave of possession; a starvation stemming from your confession. “Touchin’ yourself ‘fore I got here? Huh? Playin’ with that pretty pussy ‘fore I got home?” 

“Couldn’t- couldn’t wait—” you pant, hands everywhere on him. Tearing through his hair, nails piercing his shoulder blades, clawing down the sides of his neck. “Thought about you. This. All day. All fucking day, Frank.  Had to feel how wet I got just from thinking about you.” 

A harder slam of his hips—punishment, praise. Reward for you in the stretch that sucks your breath dry, parching the cry leaving your lips. 

“You cum?” 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. “Make y’self cum without me, hm?” 

“No,” you adamantly shake your head, knees spurring his ribs. “No. Just- just felt. One finger! That’s all. I was so fucking tight I needed you to feel, Frankie. I waited on you. Just like this. Just for you.” 

Sweat slipping your foreheads, Frank grunts, hips rolling greedier, short snaps as the last. inch. goes. in— 

“Oooh-ahhh! Frank—!” 

Stuffed until you choke on the sob in your chest, body seized by an outburst of brilliant pain, a sharp sensation of such fullness you’re complete. 

“Fuuuck, baby,” 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. “Pussy’s so fuckin’ perfect, baby, so fuckin’ tight. Look at you. Look at that. Every fuckin’ inch in that tight little pussy. Still breathin’, baby? C’mon. Breathe f’me.” 

You do. You listen. Small huffs. Stunned hums. A tumbling, breathy laugh as you look down and see how you sheath him. 

“Feel your fuckin’ heartbeat ‘round me, baby,” Frank murmurs, lips grazing the corner of your parted mouth, “yeah, feels so fuckin’ good. Ain’t no one made f’me like you.” 

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. Frank’s 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. “Then fuck me like no one’s made for you but me.” 

Without blinking, Frank leans that one inch in. Opens his mouth. And swallows your finger to the goddamn knuckle. 

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 sparking— you’re done for. 

And so is he. 

Instinct over thought, you both clash. Both find union in desperation, in the hot vulgarity that hunger breeds. 

Bodies tacky with sweat, both you grind. Frank stays buried inside of you, ruts into you, unwilling to leave the rapture of your pussy. 

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. 

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. 

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 touched—places no one else can reach. 

The table creaks, legs scraping resistance thrust by thrust until it drives into the wall. Pinned—just like you. Nowhere to go. More leverage for Frank to wreck you. 

“All fuckin’ mine—” he slams in. 

“Mine.” 

Slam. 

“My pretty fuckin’ wife.” 

Slam. 

“Pretty fuckin’ pussy.” 

Slam. 

“Cum on my cock, baby, c’mon. Cum f’me, hm? Gettin’ close. Feel it, way you’re suckin’ me, yeah, fuckin’ love it.” 

“Frank!” you cry out with urgency, clawing every conceivable place on him—biceps, chest, eventually sinking into his shoulders—as your world starts to plummet. Legs quaking. Stomach quivering. Eyes fluttering back. Then, softer, a plea you know he’ll answer: “Hold me, Frank, please, hold me while I—” 

His arms form an immediate cage around you, unbreakable and unconditional. The safest place for you to fall apart in. Him. 

“C’mon, pretty girl, c’mon— cum on m’cock, baby.” 

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 until—

“Oooh, Frank! Frank, I’m—!” 

Cumming. Bliss, straight in his fuckin’ ear. Moans a fuckin’ choir, his name a prayer as you fall apart, climbing him for relief until relief’s all you have and you need him to come back down. 

You gush on his dick, walls thrumming frantic compressions around him. 

“Oh, yeah, there she is,” Frank coos, hips slowing to an agonizingly tender tease, hitting each pulsating shock. “There’s m’fuckin’ girl. Attagirl.” 

Hair stuck to your face, you collapse over him. Cheek smooshed on his shoulder, arms locked in a shaking bolt around him. “Mm,” you hum, soft pants through the little part of your lips. One weak leg falls off his hip, and you’re too spent to care. 

Frank rumbles a chuckle. Picks your leg up so it doesn’t dangle. Pins it back against his hip with his elbow. Strums his fingers over your thigh, other hand rubbing the nape of your neck. “You good, huh?” Softer now, still rough with lust. “Pretty girl. Always so good f’me. Look so fuckin’ pretty when you cum on m’dick like that.” 

“Mhm,” your lashes flutter, head picking up. Heat blankets your face, chest. The lingerie’s damp and itchy on your skin. You sit up just enough to prove you’re okay, and Frank… god, he— Well, he looks like he’s seen God.  

But it’s you. 

“You ain’t done yet,” he says, and it’s a warning. “Ain’t done makin’ you mine. You do somethin’ f’me, baby, hm?” 

Cock still buried, cunt sucking him with aftershocks, your breath catches as you nod. “Tell me. Anything.” 

“Marks. Want ‘em. Fuck— want ‘em all over. You do that f’me? Bruise me up, huh?” 

“Wha— Frankie, you sure? You never—”

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. 

“Lemme feel you,” he says, head canted to offer the thick conduits of muscle and tendons in his neck. 

A second—one—of mesmerization, your eyes dart from his to his neck. The stretch of his neck’s all you need. 

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. 

“Fuck, yeah, s’it,” 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. “Don’t fuckin’ stop. Use that pretty lil’ mouth. Show ‘em what I got waitin’ at home, huh? Good girl waitin’ f’me. Tight fuckin’ pussy. Fuckin’ cupcakes—” 

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 again— the squeeze. Low in your belly, whittling ecstasy over your clit. 

Pussy drunk, lust-induced, Frank’s 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. 

Head spinning, lips swollen, you pry yourself off Frank in a gasp. Tits bounce in lace, hair disheveled, face flushed. You’re a goddamn angel of sin. You meet his wild stare. He’s just as disoriented as you. He’s beautiful, the strength in his neck and shoulders blooming contusions in the print of your teeth and shape of your lips. 

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. 

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. 

“Frank,” his name quakes out your mouth. You swallow, legs quivering around his waist. “I’m gonna— oh, god, I’m gonna cum again, Frankie.” 

“Yeah, baby?” he pants, “too full, huh? Can’t get enough, can you?” 

“F-feel you everywhere,” you choke out, hole clamping down around him as your body seizes. 

“Yeah? Where. Show me. C’mon. Show me, sweetheart. Where you feel me, huh?” 

A trembling hand grasps your tummy. Here. It skates up your chest, squeezing your sternum. Here. And around your throat. Here. 

That does something to him. 

Rewires every fuckin’ instinct in his head ‘til it’s just you. You. You. You. It becomes consumption, fucking you to an oblivion where you’re one. Whole. Fucks you like he’ll die without you. Fucks you like his cock’s sustenance you need. 

Fucks you to completion. 

Neither without the other.

He fucks you stupid, your jaw slack as little, breathless moans punch out. 

Primal inclination to breed you, to blow his load so deep you taste it in the back of your throat, Frank climbs onto the table—with 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, Frank’s arm jerking them up for a deeper angle, for a harder drive so when he does bust? You’ll get every fucking drop. Yeah. 

Trying to breed you. 

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. 

Fuckin’ folds you in half. Growled grunts knock out of him in time with his hips. The pace stutters as pressure builds in his gut. 

“Gonna fill you ‘til you fuckin’ leak,” he says, a man possessed. “Ain’t gonna be able t’walk without thinkin’ ‘bout me. That what you want?” 

You nod, but it’s not enough. 

“Words,” he coaxes, a gentle reprieve. “Use your words, baby. C’mon. Lemme hear you, huh?”

“Yes,” pure bliss, your nails hooking into his sides as your eyes roll back. “Yes, Frank, fuckyes. Wanna feel you in my stomach for days after. Want my legs to shake every step I take. Forget my own fucking name—”

“Nuh-uh, nah, ain’t f’gettin’ your name. You’re m’ fuckin’ wife. Mrs. Castle. My wife. You got that?” 

“Your wife. I’m your fucking wife. Mrs. Castle.” 

“Fuck yeah you are.” 

“Frank, I’m close—!” 

“Let go f’me me, baby. Yeah, yeah, yeah— ‘m gonna fuckin’—”  

As you reach your peak, Frank’s name tearing from your lungs as you claw into him, Frank plows two more balls-deep ruts before he’s spilling hot ropes of cum into your pulsating cunt with the guttural mercy of your name. 

There’s nothing left but panted breath, sweat, and chocolate cupcakes. 

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. 

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. 

“You okay?” he murmurs, a gravel dredge, nudging his nose against yours. 

“…I think I’m gonna need a wheelchair.” 

Crickets. 

Then—

You both laugh. 

You bubble. 

He rumbles. 

“Le’s start with a cupcake, yeah?” 

“Frank, are you seriously—?”

“Oh yeah.” 

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. 

Hovering inches from your face, ass cheeks out, Frank takes a bite equivalent to half the cupcake. Groans all over again, eyes fluttering. 

“Good thing ‘m still in you. Think I came again,” he praises with a mouthful of cupcake, frosting smeared on his bottom lip. “Need your pussy ate f’this one, sweetheart.” 

“That good, huh?”  

“Need broads t’flirt with me more often.” 

“Ass.” 

“Great idea, pretty girl. Flip over. Gonna eat this off your ass, hm?” 

“Frank—!” 

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. And… other places. Different noises when he cleans up the mess he makes. 

One thing about you and Frank? 

This is it. 

You. Him. 

Handling trouble as it comes your way. 

Trouble isn’t always blood and guns, remember. 

Sometimes it’s dog shit cookies and a goddamn temp. 

Trouble can’t touch this. 

Frank won’t let it. 

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It’s not as if there had been a particular moment where Simon Riley had sat down and decided that he was done with having sex.

Rather, it was the accumulation of torture over the years that had left damage- nerves misfiring or simply not firing at all beneath scar tissue that had healed wrong.

Then there were the other injuries layered over it across the years: the fractures, surgeries, concussions, medications, chronic pain and the permanent state of low grade readiness his body seemed incapable of leaving even when he was technically safe.

Simon had spent enough time in hospitals to know the human body was less a machine than people liked pretending it was. Things went wrong. Sometimes they healed. Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes nobody could tell you why.

His cock, apparently, had decided not to.

And ofc somehow this becomes entirely your fault bc nobody questions Price or considers that the problem might not be you because he’s the king, he’s healthy, he’s strong, he’s already proven himself in every other way that matters to these people, so obviously it must be his wife who’s defective.

And you spend two years being poked and prodded by royal physicians and forced to drink disgusting tonic things and tracking your cycles and praying at shrines and enduring every older noblewoman at court giving you unsolicited advice while rumors about the “barren Queen” spread through the palace.

And Price doesn’t exactly stop them. Maybe in the beginning he tells you not to listen, tells you there’s still time, but as the months pass he starts treating your inability to conceive like a personal failure.

And ofc there’s this one woman at court who makes your life like absolute hell over it. Daughter of some powerful duke or neighboring kingdom or whatever, beautiful and fertile looking and exactly the sort of woman everyone whispers Price should have married in the first place.

She makes little comment about children whenever you’re nearby, brings babies into conversation just to watch you go quiet, maybe even starts getting increasingly bold because Price is starting to favor her. And you know they’re sleeping together long before he admits it. You just don’t have any power to do anything about it.

Then Price divorces you.

And he’s not quietly about it either and that’s the part that really destroys you because he could’ve found a dozen political reasons to dissolve the marriage, could’ve protected whatever dignity you had left and let you save face but instead he specifically cites your failure to provide an heir as the reason for the divorce. Has it entered into the official decree that the marriage produced no issue and that you’re presumed barren, basically stamping it into history that you failed in the single duty expected of a queen.

And to add insult to injury he marries the woman who spent the last two years tormenting you, who becomes Queen, and suddenly all those rumors about how she’d always been better suited for him become accepted fact.

Meanwhile you’re just… there. The discarded Queen. Technically still noble, technically still wealthy enough, but socially ruined because who is going to marry the woman the King publicly declared barren?

Except Simon, Price’s knight who’s his own kind of social outcast cause he’s scarred, disfigured, and everyone assumes will never marry anyway because nobody has ever exactly been lining up to become Lady Riley to a monster, you know.

So when Simon asks for your hand, you say yes. Maybe Price even allows it because he thinks there’s something almost amusing about it. His unwanted wife and his disfigured knight. Two things the court has decided are damaged being tucked neatly away together.

Except Simon doesn’t treat you like you’re damaged. And then the absolute fucking scandal when, before the end of the year, you start appearing in court with a very obviously rounding stomach.

At first everyone tries to pretend they don’t notice because surely not. Surely the former Queen who spent two years unable to conceive isn’t pregnant within months of marrying Ser Simon Riley.

Except you are and it isn’t even ambiguous after a while. You’re glowing with health, Simon is hovering around you like some enormous armored guard dog, the physicians confirm the pregnancy is progressing perfectly, and suddenly all those old whispers start changing direction because Price’s new Queen still isn’t pregnant even after and entire year.

Meanwhile you give birth to this enormous fat healthy Riley baby and suddenly the court has to reckon with the fact that maybe their discarded barren Queen was never barren at all.

Which means maybe the King publicly humiliated and divorced his wife, destroyed her reputation, married his mistress, and announced to the entire kingdom that she was incapable of giving him an heir-

when the problem had been him the entire fucking time.

she gets enough of a head start that she's able to make it to a small village on the outskirts of the city (she stole the lord's horse or something and then set it free so it wouldn't give her away) and then begs the first person she sees to hide her (the village blacksmith because his forge is at the end of the main road leading into town, and she's so desperate that she barely even registers the way his eyes glow with the same heat as the red hot iron resting on his anvil), and he tells her he will.

only what he doesn't divulge, until a few knights of the realm come galloping into town, is that his plan to conceal her identity involves telling them that the woman sitting anxiously in his house is his wife of several years and yes of course, he saw the smallfolk woman they speak of come riding through not long ago, they should be able to catch up with her if they don't tarry.

Then he releases a sigh so deep and profoundly exhausted that the paperwork on his desk flutters.

There are moments in a man’s life when he reflects upon the choices that brought him to his present circumstances. Price has had more of those moments than most, usually while being shot at, occasionally while filling out expense reports, and once while watching Soap attempt to determine whether a grenade could be used to open a particularly stubborn jar of pickles.

This, however, may be the first time he has seriously regretted not accepting that desk job his uncle offered him straight out of school.

Corporate office. Nine to five. Sensible shoes. Perhaps a retirement party where the greatest threat to his life would’ve been Sandra from Accounts becoming emotional after two glasses of prosecco.

Instead, he is staring at a photograph of Lieutenant Simon Riley tied to a chair in what appears to be a dungeon.

he wants her so badly, but clearly not as badly as she wants him given the way she lunges, the way she pins him down with snarling teeth and tears in her eyes, pressing her leaking cunt against his codpiece and riding it like it's his cock. begging him to breed her and ghost is going crazy because he wants to knot her more than he's ever wanted anything in his life. the man is salivating, foaming at the mouth to be inside of her, and poor princess who is sobbing and crying for him, asking why he won't fuck her, she can feel how hard he is but he won't fuck her :( as if he codpiece were his cock and not hard steel. and poor ghost who is going to come in his armor, fat cock attempting to knot his breeches while his princess rubs her poor pussy raw on hard metal until she manages to come and relieve some of the heat insanity.

the way john sinks into your warm cunt after a long day, letting out a sigh into your neck, relieved that he finally has you all to himself just like he's been thinking about all day...

the way the sheer girth of his cock splits you open like you've never experienced before with any man, making you feel every ridge and vein sliding against your sensitive walls that leaves you ruined and his completely...

the way he has you on your back, his giant form engulfing you entirely, bodies pressed together and drenched in sweat, his hairy chest squishing your breasts as he thrusts into you so soo deep and hard it reaches places that has you screaming his name just the way he loves...

the way he kisses you while slowly fucking you, claiming you with hungry, frantic movements, saliva everywhere as his tongue slips through your lips and explores your mouth sloppily while holding your jaw in a firm grip as if you're gonna move away, biting your bottom lip and licking the metallic taste of blood, leaving you breathless and your lips bruised and swollen...

the way he grinds into you, not thrusting in and out, just a deep grind and roll of his hips that has your toes curl and your eyes roll back into your skull, your legs closing involuntarily around his waist, nails raking all over his back and teeth sinking into his shoulder that would surely leave him bruised the next day...

the way he overstimulates you, thick cock drilling into your sloppy poor cunt that's feeling too sensitive and raw from all the orgasms he's pulled from you. "shh, it's okay, love. just one more." he coos, "you can give me one more, princess. right?" and you babble away some incoherent words in your dazed state as he pushes you over the edge for the nth time, "theeere you go. my good girl."...

statue!kyle 'gaz' garrick x sculptor!reader inspired by myth of Pygmalion | a gift to anonymous for their donation to Anishinabek Nation 7th Generation Charity | if you would like your own gifted fic made by one of incredibly talented people participating in our initiative, you can find more details in this post or you can go to @charitywriters for more!

Prompt: sculptor!reader craves love but feels safer observing the world from afar. their only comfort is in the repetitive motions of chiselling away at their statue, lovingly their pièce de résistance. slowly, it all becomes too real.

cw: angst, themes of isolation and alienation, possessive Kyle, size difference, i was made for you - come take me, the fic is very cool toned and cool-aired, how shameful it is to want for someone to love you, reader has issues with connecting to people, hurt/comfort, mild smut mentioned

(Source) August 2nd, 2026.

driver!simon rescuing runaway bride!reader from the church where your wedding was supposed to take place. you’d left it all–your family, your phone, your responsibilities, your no-longer-husband-to-be–behind so you could sit in the back of simon’s cab and tell him all the reasons you ditched.

“he's just… he's boring. he likes to eat dinner the same time as our 74-year-old neighbor! he didn’t wanna go anywhere or do anything. he’d come home after all day at work, just to half-ignore me. doesn't believe in kissing for any longer than 0.7 seconds. and dear god–simon, is it? right?–the sex…”

all neighbor tropes but NOT a series

a better man (tw cheating)

creepy neighbor!simon drabble

home invasion