#dadbod!frank

Under the plush of new dough, he’s still solid. Down to his foundation, he’s strong as an ox. Biceps loaded with meat, a new swole to them now—muscle and some squish.

You can’t blame him. You wouldn’t dream of it. To you…?

God, he’s perfection.

Strong and solid but… soft now. As if the years—the time passing—sanded away an existence built of pure spite. And time, it left you with this version of Frank.

Warm… soft… extra lovin’ around his middle.

Yeah… perfect.

Time caught up to him. Joints ached and locked up. Old wounds resisted, scar tissue hindering his range of motion. And the world didn’t need Frank as its executioner anymore. The world just needed him to have you.

“Baby… I got tits,” Frank deadpans as you cup his… softer pecs. Definitely not tits. Definitely not. “You like a guy tha’s got tits?”

You knead and nuzzle and practically crawl up his back where you’re latched around him. “Mmm, you don’t have tits, Frankie. Promise. I wouldn’t lie to you. Not about man boobs.” Your hands greedy and grabby as he stands shirtless in front of the bathroom mirror, essentially smearing yourself across his back.

“Jesus Christ.” Shakes his head. Rolls his eyes. Focuses on slapping the razor head into his beard clipper. “Guess I better watch out, huh? You likin’ fat guys all’a sudden. Guy down the street’s bigger ‘n me. Shit, he’s bigger th’n the truck. You might like his tits. Lotta titty there.”

“Nhmnhmnhm!” You hum devout rejection, body and limbs in a constant writhe over him. “No, Frankie, I don’t like man boobs, remember?”

“Uh-huh, yeah, whatever you say.” Frank clicks the clippers on. A whirring buzz fills the bathroom. Blades angled for his beard, he hesitates.

Stops.

Deadpans at your reflection while you enjoy whatever the fuck this is.

Still fuckin’ squirmin’ around against his back like a goddamn cat rubbing scent on him.

“Sweetheart. You gonna stop that anytime soon?” Sounds a little… twitchy.

“Hmmmm… no.” A content sigh, your arms snaking around his middle to grab the firm pudge where his abs used to be. “You look too sexy. I’m distracted. And needy.“

“No fuckin’ shit,” he huffs, stamping the clippers down on the counter.

In the clingy vise of your hold, Frank turns to face you.

Batting the daze from your eyes, you look at him, hands shifting instinctively to his chest and stomach to paw.

“You done?” he asks, brows raised.

“Problem?” you feign innocence, voice light.

“Yeah. You.”

A scoff punches out of you, one hand slapped over your chest. “I am your wife. I add absolutely nothing but sunshine and enjoy and love to your life.”

“That so? You sure ‘bout all that?” Teasing, his eyes narrowed.

You meet him with a vicious glare you’re begging god to help up uphold. But your lips twitch and your eyes strain to stay on his face when he’s all cozy bare-chested with his soft stomach in front of you. “Yes. I’m positive. You should be grateful I can’t keep my hands off you.”

“Thinkin’ I ain’t grateful f’that? F’you?” he asks, hands slinking over your waist.

“Thinking you’re being a grouch about it.” Hip jutted out, you cross your arms.

“You’re the one droolin’ over a fat guy,” he says, and both of you smirk, exchange a little laugh.

“Shut up, Frank… Just because you don’t have washboard abs anymore doesn’t mean you aren’t painfully, infuriatingly, addictively sexy.”

A red flush streaks up his neck, eyes rolling. “Alright, alright, alright. Got your point. You done now? Get it all out? Gonna lemme shave now?”

A moment of silence as you two eye each other.

Frank, skeptically.

You, glaring in consideration.

“…”

“…?”

“…no.” comes your verdict.

“Fine,” Frank grits. “Shut you up my way.”

And with a squeal-twisted-laugh, Frank flings you over his shoulder and stalks you to the bed.