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mandos-co · 2 years

Note

Din Djarin + kintober 13 and 20?

here we are, the end of the month!! and to round out Kinktober, here's the most on-brand thing I could come up with: Din being chaotically and unabashedly submissive

happy Halloween, besties 🎃👻

Din Djarin + Kinktober #13/20: Handcuffs + Rough

Rating: E/18+ (minors, scram)

WC: 2.4k

Tags/warnings: afab!reader (no specified gender); mild description of blood & a dead body; D/S dynamics (sub!Din, dom!reader); sexual content (PIV, reader on top, use of restraints/handcuffs that is probably unsafe so don't use this as a guide); dirty talk

✨ v's october requests | masterlist ✨

Get back.

Keep going.

Just get back.

Exhaustion courses through the Mandalorian’s body as he stumbles onto the gangplank of the Razor Crest. The limp form of the bounty behind him just weighs him down more. There’s blood on the bounty and on Din’s armor; he has no idea whose is whose. As he drags the quarry into the hold and deposits it in carbonite, he hears quick footsteps from the direction of the cockpit.

“Din?” your voice carries through the hallways. “Are you okay?”

He calls back something in response, but it’s more of a grunt than words. With the quarry freezing behind him, Din sags against the doorframe. His mind is scrambled as adrenaline courses through his exhausted body, forcing him to keep moving even as he wants to collapse.

There’s very nearly a collision as you rush from the cockpit to the hold and Din heads from the hold to the cockpit. Your shoes scrape against the floor as you skid to a stop in front of him.

“Din?” Your eyes widen as you look him up and down. Your gaze catches on every splatter of blood on his armor. Worry is written all over your face. Your fingers twitch at your sides.

He can see where this is going. If he lets you, you’ll steer him towards his alcove and interrogate him while you tend to his wounds. You’ll carefully strip him of his armor and patch him up while cautioning him to be more careful next time.

Kindness is not what he needs right now. Gentleness won’t help him. He keeps walking towards you and you back up into the cockpit as his heavy footsteps approach. When your back is against the captain’s chair with nowhere else to go, he reaches for you.

“Please,” he rasps. “I need you.”

It’s rare that Din gets like this, but you know that tone of voice. You know what it means when he asks for you, stripped bare of his pride: he needs you. With his blood running hot from the hunt, he needs your help bringing him back to center—and you know exactly how he wants you to do that. With his hand still curled around your wrist, you guide him to sit in the captain’s chair. He tries to tug you into his lap, but you bat his hands away. Before you get any closer, you need to know what you’re dealing with.

You frown down at him. “Are you hurt?”

There’s blood flecked all over his armor and flight suit, and it’s hard to tell if it’s his or the quarry’s.

Din shakes his head. “Not badly.”

“Let me rephrase: do you need immediate medical attention?”

He shakes his head again. His fingers flex in his gloves, making the leather creak. From that alone, you can tell that you have only a limited window of time before his patience frays and snaps.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” you ask.

It’s a fair question. Din might think he knows what he wants, but bloodlust addles the brain. He could very well be lost in a haze underneath that helmet—you won’t do anything with him until you know he’s thinking clearly. He nods in response. His fingers curl around the arms of the chair and your stomach flips; you know he’s gripping the chair like that because he doesn’t trust himself to touch you like this.

“Yes, mesh’la,” he rasps. His voice is hoarse, but he speaks clearly. He reaches for you, finally, and pulls you in between his thighs. “I-I need— bring me down, please. Help me.”

His hands shake as he reaches for his belt, unclipping something from his side and placing it in your hand. Your fingers curl around thick metal and your eyebrows shoot up as you realize what he’s given you: his binders. Uncertainty makes you hesitate and study him. Not for the first time, you wish you could see his face and understand why he’s asking this of you.

He curls his fingers on top of yours, closing your fist around the binders. “Do it, cyare,” he instructs. His hands shake slightly. “Please.”

Swallowing hard, you nod. On rare occasions, Din comes back from hunts different. Particularly bloody ones make him unsteady; he has trouble finding his way back to normalcy after diving so deep into base instinct to survive. At times like this, he needs you to guide him. To control him.

Din’s gloves are first to go. He’s surprisingly pliant under your hands as you strip him of the leather gloves and tug his arms behind his back. When he hears the binders click shut around his wrists, he lets out a shuddering sigh. With your face inches from the side of his helmet, you turn to look at him.

“If you want me to stop, I want you to say red,” you murmur. “And if you want to slow down, you say yellow. And if you want to keep going…”

He finishes your sentence. “I say green. I know.”

“Good.”

Stepping back, you study the sight in front of you. With his hands twisted behind his back, Din’s chest is thrust slightly forward and his helmet is turned up to look at you. The rush of power you get looking at him like that is heady; you feel it throb under your skin, making your heart race and heat pool between your legs. You’re not the only one affected. As your gaze rakes down Din’s body, you see the bulge forming in the front of his pants. Just from this. Just from being restrained by you. For you.

Shit, he really needs this.

You set to work.

The Mandalorian’s body is feverishly hot as you settle in his lap. His head lolls forward against your shoulder as you set about stripping him of his armor. The clothing underneath will stay—to be bare would be far too vulnerable in his adrenaline-laced state—but the armor needs to go. Each piece you place on the floor with care, showing your respect for him and his creed as you treat his armor as if it were your own. The slow unwrapping of him just makes him harder, rutting shallowly against you and threatening to unseat you from his lap.

He murmurs unintelligibly as you remove the last piece of his armor—his chestplate—and set it on the floor. The last bit of his sentence you catch: don’t tease.

“I’m not teasing,” you murmur. Your fingers work quickly at the fastening of his cloak, loosening and exposing his neck to you. “You would know if I were.”

He gasps when he feels your fingers brushing the underside of his jaw. He jerks his hips involuntarily and you bite your lip to stifle a moan as he drags his clothed length between your legs. Leaning down, you nip at the thick muscle between his neck and his shoulder.

“If you throw me off, this will be done before it’s even started.” You kiss the place you just bit and, just to see what he’ll do, you flatten your tongue over it and lick.

The noise that escapes his vocoder sounds like a death rattle. Your eyes widen; he’s far further gone than you expected. All your plans to tease go straight out the window. You have one job here: take control and bring him down. He asked for it, and you obliged.

Focus.

Tugging his shirt free of his trousers, you trace your nails down the sparse trail of hair under his navel. His belly is soft but you still feel it tense as he reacts to your touch. As you trail your hand lower, you swear you can hear his heartbeat in his chest.

“Mesh’la, please. Need to feel you,” he groans.

You clench around nothing. The desperation threaded through his voice just turns you on more. Nodding, you flick your tongue along his throat at the same time you free his weeping cock from his trousers. Under your lips, he swallows hard. He flexes his fingers, unable to move his hands with the binders holding them tight.

When you spit into your hand and wrap your fist around his length, he has to bite his lip and focus to avoid coming on the spot. He’s needed this so badly. For days he was lost in the blood-haze of the hunt, feeling barely human as he tracked the bounty through jungles and swamps. He’s craved this—the humanity of it, the surrender, giving himself over to you—for days.

He doesn’t even notice you shedding your pants and your underwear. He only comes back to himself when you guide him to your entrance and he feels you soft and wet and open for him. His breath catches in his chest and his eyes roll back as you sink down onto him, achingly slow.

His heart stops when he sees you wince. With your face contorted in something almost like pain, he forgets about the bonds and tries to reach for you—pull you off him—stop you from hurting yourself on his body. But he can’t; all he manages to do is lean forward and twist his arms and get an even closer view of you biting your lip and wincing.

As if you can sense the fear radiating through him, you reach up and cup his helmet like you would his cheek. Your thumb brushes over the sharp curve of it.

“It’s okay. I’m okay. Just…” You trail off as you drop your left hand down to where your bodies meet, circling the tight bundle of nerves and shuddering as pleasure courses through you. “Oh.”

Din feels it, the moment your body gives way to let him push further in. Slicker and wetter and softer, you sink down on him inch by agonizing inch. He wants to tell you to take it slow, but the patient part of him is buried under the animalistic part of him that wants you now. Apparently you feel the same, because as soon as you’ve taken all of him you’re rising up in his lap once more.

The pace you set is brutal. Your cunt is a vice around him but you ride him hard and rough, finally giving into the desperation seeping from Din. When you see his head start to roll forward, you grab the blades of his helmet and force his face back up.

“Is this what you want?” You punctuate your sentence with a sharp roll of your hips, dragging your clit against his body. “Do you want to be used?”

“Yes,” he rasps, dizzy with it. Yes, that’s exactly what he wants: he wants to be nothing but your toy. Not a killer. Not a monster. Just a thing to make you feel good.

You lean in and Din realizes you’re licking his helmet. He sees the pink of your tongue shaded through his visor and his stomach clenches.

“I like it when you’re like this. Helpless. Cuffed with your own binders.”

Your voice is liquid sin trickling down Din’s spine. He moans and nods, leaning in to rest the curve of his helmet against your chest.

There's a flicker of doubt across your face. “Green?” you ask, hesitantly.

“Green,” he groans. Gods above, he needs more of this.

You slip easily back into your role as if the interruption never happened. “You like it, huh? Watching me fuck myself on your cock with no choice but to take it.”

He nods, his helmet cool against your skin as he rests it on your collarbones.

For a moment, a look of irritation passes across your face. You’re so close, but not quite—Din can feel your frustration in the tight little circles of your hips. His arms scream in protest as he fights against the binders. If his hands were free, he could help you. He could make you come in a second. But he just has to watch, helpless, as you rub yourself with your hand and come around him. His name is on your lips and your body shakes in his lap as you practically soak him.

Din follows just a moment afterwards. You watch, breath caught in your chest, as he freezes, jerks, and spills deep inside you. His thighs tense under you and he keens through his vocoder. It’s so intense he feels like he might black out—nothing exists except the pleasure flooding his veins and the tight warmth of you wrapped around him. His ears start to ring as you rock your hips in his lap, tearing a whine from your lips as you overstimulate the both of you.

As he comes down, he’s like a rag doll. Loose-limbed, he lets you reach behind him and free his hands. He realizes he’s still inside you as you begin to rub slow circles on his wrists to encourage circulation to return properly to his hands. His cock gives a half-hearted twitch against your walls and you smirk down at him in his enthusiasm.

“Not now,” you instruct, still in charge but far less stern. “Let me take care of you.”

Your lips are so soft as you bend down and press gentle kisses to the inside of each wrist and then the palm of each hand. The intimacy of it makes him shiver. You mutter something about the ‘fresher and get up to move, but Din shakes his head in response. His tongue is still too thick to speak.

“I was going to get it warm for you.” You smile down at him and run your finger over the side of his helmet. “No?”

He shakes his head again. Lazily, he wraps his arms around the small of your back, tugging you in until your chest is pressed to his. “Wanna hold you,” he mumbles.

You smile into the crook of his neck. Your fingers dance up his shoulder to the nape of his neck, teasing at the curls that stick out under his helmet. From the slurring of his voice and the heavy movement of his hands, you can tell that he’s back. This is your Din, not the wild creature who came storming into the Crest with a bloody body behind him.

You did as he asked: you helped him back to himself.

You breathe out a heavy sigh against his neck and rub your face there, taking in the smell of gunsmoke and sweat clinging to Din’s skin.

“Okay. We can do that.”

[fin.]

#delicious #10/10 will be reading again #din #dirtydin #beauty and the beast type vibes. for sm fuckin reason

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mandos-co · 2 years

Note

Cara behind her rock like 'thats my girl'

please could i request 36 from the kinktober list with a side order of "you have to be quiet" said by reader to your lovely sub!Din?

excellent choice, my dear nonnie 😈 any excuse to write more sub!Din is a good excuse!

Din Djarin + Kinktober #36: "You Have to Be Quiet"

Rating: E/18+ only (minors, scram)

WC: 1.5k

Tags/warnings: cis F!reader; established relationship; sexual content (unprotected PIV, mild voyeurism/semi-public sex, dirty talk, one (1) mild instance of choking); sub!Din

✨ v's october requests | masterlist ✨

The desert is eerily quiet after the sun sets. All the Mandalorian can hear through the filter of his helmet is the sound of the coals crackling as they die out, leaving the campsite cold in the night air. Beside him, you’re shivering; he can sense the subtle shake of your body as you try to keep yourself warm.

Fumbling for you, he wraps his arm around your waist and drags you closer. You stifle an exclamation of surprise as Din pulls you flush against his body. Even with the cool surface of his armor between him and you, he’s still warmer than you, and you let out a content little hum now that you're in the comfort of his arms.

Tugging the blanket over the two of you, he studies the curve of your cheekbone in the light provided by the dying fire. You usually sleep in complete darkness beside him—it’s a rare joy to see the curves of your sleeping form in the purple of dusk.

Well, at least he thought you were sleeping.

Wriggling around, you make yourself comfortable on the thin bedroll that you share. Somewhere in the distance, your allies sleep, too: Kuill beside his blurrg, Cara and Karga near their weapons. They’re out of sight, hidden behind a scattering of rocks. The only thing that fills Din’s visor is the soft form of you under the blanket as you nestle into his embrace.

He’s never laid with you in the open air before. It feels—strange. Yes, strange; that's a good word for it. Usually, you spend your nights tucked away in the safety of the alcove, accompanied only by the child snoozing away above you in his hammock. Out here, Din feels exposed.

Naked.

You don’t seem to mind in the least. You let out a slow sigh and press yourself further against Din, closing the gap between you so tight that only atoms can pass through. He’s suddenly very aware of the curves of your body under the soft fabric of your underclothes. His hand rests on your belly, his favorite of your curves, and he doesn’t miss the way you wiggle your hips when his fingers tease at the bare skin exposed by your shirt riding up.

“Mm,” you sigh. Your head rolls back onto Din’s shoulder.

It’s a dangerous sound, halfway to the noises you make during other nocturnal activities. Din wills away the heat rising inside him and focuses on the middle distance, trying to make out the shape of the landscape of Arvala-7. It’s an entirely unstimulating and futile task, but that’s the point—it distracts from how quickly his body reacts to your closeness.

Then you shift again, the length of your body dragging along his, the soft swell of your ass pressing against the front of his pants. His hand darts out and grabs your hip, stilling the movement of your body.

He says your name like a warning.

“Something wrong?” you ask, all innocence.

He grits his teeth. What’s wrong is how soft and warm you are, enticing him to touch you despite the fact that you’re literally outside.

Before he can stop you, your arm twists back and dips between your bodies. He tries to jerk his hips away, but you already feel it—the bulge at the front of his trousers, growing bigger and firmer by the second.

“Stop,” he hisses.

You freeze. Slowly, you roll over. He sees your face now, carved out in shadow by the starlight. “Why?”

Din breathes in slowly through his nose. Unfortunately, that just brings the scent of you into his helmet, swirling around him in the enclosed space: your sweat and your skin and the distinctive smell of the soap you use to wash your clothes.

“We’re outside,” he hisses. He doesn’t need to remind you that Kuiil, Karga, and Cara are all asleep on the other side of the rocks.

You shrug. Your hand is still between the two of you, creeping up his stomach over the black fabric of his sleep shirt. “So?”

“So stop it,” he commands. It’s a little louder than he expected. Chagrined, he watches as you push yourself up and peer over the rocks to see if his exclamation woke anyone.

When you drop back down, a sly smile has crept across your face. “If you were worried about volume, that didn’t seem to wake them up.”

His resolve is slipping through his fingers like the sand beneath him. It’s been a long week without you, forgoing intimacy due to the presence of your shared allies on his ship. His fingers itch to touch your bare skin. His cock throbs in the confines of his pants, reacting instinctively to the closeness of you.

“Fine,” he grits out. “But you have to be quiet.”

“Oh, sweet boy,” you coo. The world tilts as you hook your legs around Din’s hips and roll him onto his back. “It’s not me I’m worried about.”

The constellations above him sparkle, but it’s nothing compared to the starlight shimmering under his skin. You’re so wet and warm around him and so tight at this angle. With your breasts pressed to his chest, it’s a miracle he didn’t spill inside you the moment you caught the tip of him at your entrance. His fingers press deep dimples into your lower back as he eases the motion of your hips with his own strength.

“Sweet girl,” he rasps. He noses against your throat, admiring the column of your neck as you tilt your head and give him access to kiss you there. “So fuckin’ tight like this.”

“Mm, I knew you’d like it.”

You look down at him and it feels like you can see into his soul. He feels bared to you, laying supine on the sand of Arvala-7 just feet away from his friends and letting you take what you want from him.

“Fu-u-ck,” he groans. His vocoder struggles to capture the frayed details of the sound.

He blinks as your hand comes into view. You press a single finger to the front of his helmet, approximately where his mouth is. His eyes widen.

“You have to be quiet,” you murmur. The throb of your inner walls tells him the opposite: you’re enjoying the desperate noises he makes. “You don’t want to wake them up, do you?”

He shakes his head, the sand beneath him scraping against the beskar shell of his helmet.

“Isn’t that a pretty idea, though?” you whisper. Your hips have stilled to a slow rock in his lap, not ever letting him escape your tight warmth. “Waking up the sound of the Mandalorian moaning, begging to come…”

“I’m not begging,” Din grunts.

“Not yet.”

His head falls against the sand again. It’s a fair point. With the way you’re dragging this out, there’s little to no doubt that the evening will end with him begging for something.

“Imagine if they saw you like this. All spread out for me, letting me fuck myself on your cock…” You lean in to kiss the small area of skin exposed between his helmet and the collar of his shirt. “Imagine if they knew this is how you like it. Helpless. Desperate. Needy.”

Din doesn’t even try to stifle the groan that tears from his chest, nor do you have any way to stop it. His hips buck as the vision flashes across his mind: his friends waking up to see you take him, right out in the open, laid out across the sands of this planet. He tilts his head and watches the way you rub yourself on the plain above his cock, seeking your own high. It turns him on, being used like this. He likes it: he likes it when you use his body for your own pleasure, treating his own need like an afterthought. The thought makes him whimper. It’s a pitiful sound.

“I thought I told you to be quiet,” you tease.

“Can’t,” he wheezes. His hands flex on your hips. “Not— not when it’s this good. Fuck, mesh’la— shit, shit, shit. I’m so close, s’close, shit…”

Even in the dark, he sees the way your eyes light up. You can always tell when he’s right there on the edge. He gasps when your hand creeps up from his chest to his neck. Your hand is small but firm as you wrap your fingers around the column of his neck.

“I can feel it,” you murmur. Your breath fogs his visor and whites out his vision. “I know you’re almost there, baby. Let go. And be loud.”

He jerks his head to face you, trying to make your face out through the haze of your breath across his helmet.

A sly grin creeps across your face. Your fingers tighten around his neck. “Come on, Din. Let them know who fucks you this good.”

Dank farrik.

That’s the last thing he thinks before he falls headfirst into the storm of pleasure gathering under his skin. If he makes noise, he's not aware of it; he's too far gone.

The next morning, you’re practically preening as you walk into camp. Din thanks whatever gods are out there that he can hide behind a helmet so he doesn’t have to look anyone in the eye.

And if they heard anything, his friends are polite enough not to mention it.

[fin.]

#sodkfkejejdo #'let them know who fucks you this good' WITH A HAND AROUND HIS THROAT????#ARE U TRYING TO KILL ME #cause its fucking working #dirtydin #din

226 notes · View notes

mandos-co · 2 years

Note

Hiii! For the KT

Can you do frankie + begging? But he's the one to beg 😬😬😬

hey? hey bestie? you're a genius

Frankie Morales + Kinktober #27: Begging

Rating: E/18+ only (minors, scram)

WC: 1.4k

Tags/warnings: fem reader; established relationship (they're married); mild hurt/comfort; sexual content (handjobs, begging, dirty talk); pet names galore

A/N: Frankie flopping on top of reader on the couch at the start is heavily inspired by some brainstorming sessions with @tuskens-mando <3 just two touch-starved gals yearning for a Frankie-shaped weighted blanket

✨ v's october requests | october taglist form | masterlist ✨

“Bad day?”

Instead of answering, Frankie grunts as he slumps onto you. His hat hits the rug as his right hand dangles over the edge of the couch and he kicks his boots off onto the hardwood floor. They land with a muffled thump. He’s heavy, complete dead weight, but you welcome the press of his body on top of yours. Together, you sink into the worn-soft cushions of the sofa.

“You smell like engine grease,” you tease, running your fingers through Frankie’s curls. They’re flattened from his baseball cap, but his hair is always soft under your hands. He responds by rubbing his face against your chest, his prickly scruff catching on your t-shirt as he makes himself comfortable on top of you.

“When did you get home?”

You glance at the clock in the hallway. “Not that long ago. I’d just laid down when I heard your truck in the driveway.”

Frankie hums in acknowledgement. It’s a low, rumbling sound, and you swear you can feel it through your whole body. Your husband is needy today—he hasn’t said as much, but you can tell by the fact that he made a beeline to you on the couch as soon as he returned home from work. Now he’s wrapped himself up in you, your thighs bracketing your hips and your hands in his hair and on his shoulders, and you can feel the worry of the day slowly draining out of him now that he has you. It’s awful convenient that Frankie’s idea of comfort—crushing you on the couch like a human-shaped weighted blanket—is the same as yours. Sometimes you both need to be grounded by each other.

“Missed you today,” he mutters.

You huff out a laugh. “You saw me this morning. What was that, eight hours ago? Ten?”

Frankie looks up, his chin poking into your sternum. “I’m not allowed to miss my wife?”

“Of course you are.” You push his hair back off his forehead and run your fingers over the shell of his ear. “What made you miss me?”

Frankie shrugs. He pulls himself up the couch with a groan, fitting himself between you and the back cushions and propping his head on his hand. “Dunno. Just kept thinking, ‘I don’t wanna be here. I’d rather be with her.’”

“Aww.” Leaning in, you rub your nose against Frankie’s.

It’s sickly-sweet, and it just gets sweeter when he brings his hand up to cup your cheek and drag you into a kiss. His lips are soft and dry under yours, a chaste peck on your mouth, but it only stays that way for a moment. His fingers creep to the back of your head, cupping the whole left side of your face with his broad palm. He licks at your mouth like he’s trying to taste you. It’s the easiest thing in the world to let him in. His breath fans across your face as he slowly maneuvers on top of you again, resting his weight between your thighs and pushing your knees apart to make room for himself.

When you break apart, you find yourself short of breath. “I thought— I thought you’d be tired after a bad day, baby,” you murmur. You trace your knuckle down the side of Frankie’s face.

“I need you to make it better, pretty girl, always do.”

Then he’s kissing you again, his body surging against yours, and you can’t help the moan that comes from deep in your chest. He growls against your lip and grinds down on you. The seam of his jeans rocks against your core and you can already feel the ridge forming at the front of his pants. His growl turns into a low, desperate moan as you snake your hand down between your bodies and palm him over his clothes.

“Baby,” he whispers.

“Shh.” You lean in and kiss his cheek, making your way back to his ear. “You had a bad day, honey. Let me take care of you.”

He drops his head to your shoulder and pants against your t-shirt as you unbutton his jeans and yank the fly down. He’s already half-hard when you get your hand in his boxers and it’s only a few strokes before you pull him out full mast.

He tilts his head to look down and his gut twists with arousal. His cock looks so big in your hands; he’s flushed red and leaking in your small hands and he can’t help it, he ruts into your fist and muffles his moan in your shirt.

“Please— please don’t tease, baby, please. I can’t. Not today.” He trails off as your lips find his neck, kissing him right where he’s sensitive. He lets out a whine and rolls his forehead against your shoulder; it’s too overwhelming to look you in the eye.

“I got you, okay? I’m gonna take care of you.”

He breathes a sigh of relief but his breath hitches again when you bring your hand to your mouth and lick a long stripe up the center of your palm. When you put your hand on his dick again, it’s slick and warm with your spit, just like your mouth and your cunt when he sinks into you—fuck—fuck—

“Hey,” you murmur. Your free hand curls under his chin, tilting it up to face you. You rub your thumb over the crease between his eyebrows. “Don’t look so worried. I told you, I got you. All you gotta do is feel good.”

The noise that Frankie makes is akin to a sob. You curl your hand around the back of his neck at the same time you rub your thumb over the head of his cock and he grabs your arm so tight it might leave a mark. His hips start to move of their own accord, thrusting into your fist, and you slide your hand down the length of his back to the back of his jeans. You love his butt, small as it is, and you grope him through his back pockets.

“That’s it, just like that. Take what you need, honey.”

“Please,” he slurs. “Please. Oh, shit, shit…”

He tucks his chin to look at the slide of his cock in your fist. Your fingers are slick with spit and his own precome and he feels his arousal sharpen into something burning and hot. He wants to see his come spilling over your hand, adding to the mess—he wants to mark you. Dimly, he hears you murmuring as you nose at his jaw.

“If you need something, all you have to do is ask.”

He nods once. “I want—oh, ngh, fuck—I wanna c-come on you, baby, wanna cover you with me. Please.”

Glancing up, he sees your eyes brighten and your lip catch between your teeth. You like it. You like it, the idea of him covering you with his spend. Filthy girl.

“Where do you want it?”

God, you’re breathless with how much you want it. He feels his orgasm building faster and faster with every stroke of your hand.

“Wanna come on my tits? I just gotta—fuck, gotta get out of my shirt—shit,” you curse, wriggling around under him.

He stops you with his hand on your arm and shakes his head. “Not gonna last,” he groans. “Not when you—nnh…”

Your eyes widen when you realize exactly how close he is. You stop your fruitless scramble to twist out of your top and an idea strikes you. Frankie watches, his pupils blow so wide there’s almost no brown left around them, as you hitch your shirt up. He realizes what you’re offering at the exact moment he feels his orgasm hit him, and fuck, it’s like a truck runs over him. The last thing he sees before he closes his eyes and groans your name is his come splattering across your bare stomach.

Frankie comes hard and then slumps on top of you, trapping your hand between your sweat-slick, sticky bodies. His face lands in the crook of your shoulder, his favorite place, and you turn your cheek to rub against his curls.

“I told you,” you murmur, “I got you.”

His shoulders shake with an exhausted laugh. Your fingers dance across his back, where his flannel draws tight across the broadness of his body. It always amazes you that this strong, stoic man is willing to let himself be weak with you—weak for you. Your fingers creep up to the back of his head, weaving through his hair.

“How about a shower, then take-out, then bed? It can't be a bad day if you're asleep.”

Frankie nods and finally looks up at you. He kisses the side of your mouth, his beard scratchy against your skin.

“'s not a bad day,” he mumbles. “Not anymore.”

You snort. “Sap.”

He sighs and lets himself go loose and heavy on top of you again. Guilty as charged.

[fin.]

#filthyfrankie #frankie #ive got no fucking words

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