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firesunflamed · 3 months

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thinking about Frank and mirror sex with an insecure partner

(nsfw, chubby fem!reader, internalized fatphobia?, degradation kink. smut with angst and a little bit of fluff and an attempt at exorcising some personal demons)

maybe he gets the idea when he sees you looking at your naked body in the mirror one day, the way you try to suck in your stomach, smooth out the curves he loves. maybe he even asks about it, and maybe you even admit to it—knowing that you’re not ugly, but you’re not beautiful, not like him. knowing that you get looks when you go out together, and the only way you can make sense of them is that people can’t believe someone who looks like him would be dating someone that looks like you.

and he hates it, because how could you think that, think about yourself like that? they’re looking at his ugly mug, not you. and maybe you smile weakly, try to change the subject, and he lets you then, already thinking about how to fix it.

and then when you have sex later that day he asks to try something different. you end up sitting on the edge of the bed, the floor length mirror moved to reflect your body, your spread legs as he plays with your clit. his face peeks over your shoulder and you’re leaning against his chest, and he’s telling you how beautiful you look, one hand holding the curve of your lower stomach. His thumb strokes the skin there and then he’s moving up to hold your waist, hand spread wide over the folds of fat above and below it. and you know this is a kindness, know he means well, know he’s trying to make you feel better. but it feels fake, feels like a lie, like he’s saying what he’s supposed to say because it’s not true, you aren’t beautiful, you know you’re not, why is he lying to you? And if he’s lying to you about this then, logically, maybe he’s lying to you about wanting you at all. maybe he’s lying about his love. maybe he’s with you because you know who he is and he’s worried about being turned into the police and maybe—

and you’re burying your head in your hands and then it’s “c’mon sweet girl, look at yourself, c’mon— fuck you’re beautiful, look at you- fuck-” and you’re shaking your head because if you open your eyes you will see nothing but every single flaw on your body, and if this is a kindness shouldn’t it feel good? but it doesn’t it doesn’t it doesn’t, and you don’t want it, and he’s asking now, softly, as his fingers move from your clit to push inside you and find your g-spot, asking you to look at how beautiful you are taking him. and there’s pleasure there, but it seems very far away, like it’s happening to someone else because he couldn’t possibly be talking to you. and he keeps asking, keeps praising, keeps using that terrible awful attempted kindness of a lie and you can feel him hard against your back but you know neither of you are going to come like this. you call yellow. he stills, slipping his fingers out of your cunt.

“What is it, sweet girl? what do you need?”

and you keep your head buried in your hands, trying not to cry, and ask if you can do something else. “I know you’re trying to be nice, but Frank, this… this isn’t making me feel better. I don’t feel that way about myself and you just insisting I should isn’t going to make me feel that way.”

It’s a long moment of silence before he says, “I’m gonna move us so we’re facing away from the mirror, yeah?”

“Okay,” you agree.

he moves his legs so they’re no longer on either side of yours before grabbing your waist and laying you down on your sides, facing each other. Your hands fall away from your face, even though your eyes stay closed, and he kissed your forehead, once, gently. “Tell me what you’re thinking about, yeah? don’t like seeing you like this.”

you take a breath, try to put your emotions into words. “I can’t— I can’t be told that you think I’m beautiful like that. It feels like a lie.”

“S’not a lie,” he says, with barely concealed fury. “You’re so fucking gorgeous sometimes I don’t even know how I got you.”

and you shake your head because he’s just making it worse and worse. “I know you think that and it’s very nice of you-" he scoffs at that description but you keep going “but I don’t feel that way. If you’re telling me that then I need it in a…. a different way. A way that doesn’t feel like it’s for me.”

it takes him another second to say, “alright sweet girl. alright.” he presses another kiss to your forehead. “you want something else right now, or do you just want this?” and you don’t want sex anymore, haven’t really wanted it since he started with the “beautiful”s, and you hesitate, because you feel bad that your insecurities mean he’s not getting to come, but you realize that he’s only half hard now. You’ve already ruined the mood.

“Just this,” you say, and you stay like that, wrapped up in each other for a long while.

he lets it go, doesn’t bring it up again. acts like he never realized your insecurities in the first place, except for how he’ll drape an arm over the largest part of your stomach instead of your waist when you cuddle, or the way he’ll sometimes grope your flat ass like it’s big enough to bother when you kiss or fuck. And you forget about the conversation altogether.

and then it’s a couple of months later, and he’s spent the last hour making you come over and over and over until you’re overstimulated, legs shaking. thoughts are hard and words are harder and all you know is that you’re his good little slut, and you take him so well. you’re trying to beg for mercy, but you think it’s coming out more as a collection of mumbled syllables that might form “please”, if one’s being generous.

“C’mon, you got one more for me, sweet girl. one more for me.”

you whine because you can’t take it you can’t take it how can you take it when you’re already this wrecked?

“shshsh… c’mon sweet girl, c’mon.” your back is to his front, the head of his cock teasing your entrance. “open your eyes. open your eyes.” you can’t you can’t you can’t— “be a good whore, and open your eyes,” he orders lowly, and you gasp and you do, finding your reflection staring back at you. it might’ve caught you off guard but you’re already so fucked out that it only just registers.

“there she is.” He pulls your leg out to the side, the mess he’s made of your folds on display. He places a finger on top of your clit, but offers no additional pressure. “Look at you. So fucking beautiful covered in my cum.”

You whine, because the barely-there touch on your clit and the brush of his cock against your entrance are cruel cruel cruel. You try moving your hips, try to sink onto him, but his hand moves from your leg to your hip, holding you in place.

“Don’t,” he warns, and you have no choice but to obey the easy power in his voice. “Wanna look at you like this. Fuck you’re gorgeous. Think I could keep you like this all the time. You want that, huh? Want me to keep you like this, ready to be fucked like a good whore whenever I want.”

You don’t even try to answer, mesmerized by the sight of your swollen pussy painted with white, his thick cock visible below.

“You’re so beautiful. Jesus Christ, sweetheart, you’re beautiful,” he says, more softly this time, and the words start to break through your fucked-out headspace. Then he’s thrusting into you, rough and deep, and any thoughts you might’ve had are lost as he hits your g-spot with each thrust, fingers busy on your clit. Your eyes slip closed, and he orders you to open them again. “Watch as I fuck you,” he says, speeding up his pace, and you’re begging, pleading, but for what you don’t know. For more, for less? It doesn’t matter. Your entire purpose has narrowed down pleasing him. “Tell me how beautiful you are taking me.”

You know he knows you lost your words a while ago. You manage a high sound of pleasure, watching his cock split you open with each thrust. “Say it,” he orders again. “Need my girl’s pretty voice in my ear when I come inside her again. ” You’re stuttering now, mumbling, trying to form the words. “Say it.”

“ ‘M so- pretty- taking your- your cock. Frank!” You eventually manage, rolling your hips, watching him disappear inside you. The sight is so erotic, you think you could come from that alone.

“Keep goin’ sweet girl, c’mon-” and his voice is lower and lower in your ear, the way it always is when he gets close.

“ ‘M beautiful- covered- in your cum-! Please please please, Frank, please-”

“Once more for me sweetheart, need it to come, need to hear you say it-”

“ ‘M beautiful- I’m - I’m - beautiful-” and the hand on your hip moves to band around your waist as he moves faster, until you are nothing but sensation, nothing but his beautiful little slut, so good for him, so good for him. “I’m- I’m- I’m-“

Still in his thrall, you come again, writhing on his cock, watching your bodies as you do. You can see the flushed skin of your cheeks and neck and chest, see the taut muscles of his thighs and arms as he fucks you. From here, you can’t see the small flaws of your body just the shapes and the colors. Then he comes with a low noise in your ear, and you keep your eyes open, watching as his face goes loose, soothed in a way you rarely see. It’s beautiful.

He rests his head against your shoulder and you sigh happily, still not quite back to yourself. He uses his grip on you to fall backwards into the mattress, tipping onto your sides as he slips out of your cunt. You both make a small sound at the loss, but you’re not back to yourself enough to ask him to stay inside you.

You stay there for a long moment, wrapped up in each other. But eventually the adrenaline starts to fade, and you realize what that last part of the scene was. Your request, from months ago.

As if he can sense that you’ve come back to yourself, he presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Too much?”

“Was that for me, or for you?” you blurt, instead of an answer. The intense pleasure you had just been made to feel seems now to have returned as grief, the warning of tears thick in your voice.

It takes him a second to respond, and then he’s shifting on the mattress. “Hey. Look at me.”

Trying to blink back the tears, you roll over to face him. He’s propped up on an elbow, looking at you with such love and care and concern in his dark eyes the tears become that much harder to stop. You press the heels of your hands into your eyes. His hands reach out to wrap around your wrists, and pull them away from your face, and you give up trying to stop them.

Frank wipes the tears from your cheeks. “Was for both of us, yeah? You’re so goddamn beautiful, and I get to see it every day but you don’t. Watching us like that, together? Never would of thought of it, but it was… fuck, yeah, it was for both of us.”

And that’s an answer you can accept, can appreciate. Maybe the only one. But the tears don’t stop, and he kisses your forehead. “How ‘bout we go shower, huh? That was… I pushed you hard. Let’s go shower.”

You nod, and he pulls you towards the en-suite, warms up the water and then helps you in, stepping in afterwards before beginning to wash your skin from the mess he'd made on you. You stand there, trying to stop yourself from crying, not entirely sure where the tears came from in the first place. But when you try to stifle your quiet noises, Frank tips your chin up, forces you to look at him.

"Don't pull that. Let it out, sweet girl. Let it out." It's the same thing you say to him when he comes home from a bad night, or when the nightmares chase him out of sleep. You let yourself sob for something you can't quite put words to. Frank holds you up through it all, massaging your scalp and washing your skin, whispering sweet words in your ear.

he gets out only when your tears have finally stopped, a few minutes before you to change the sheets, then comes back to turn off the water and bundle you in a towel. he dries you off before pulling you back to the bedroom, helping you underneath the covers and turning off the light.

You're both on your sides, facing each other in the dark. You can feel him hesitate, trying to decide if he should reach for you. You move closer, burying your face in juncture between his neck and his shoulder, breathing in his scent. His arm wraps around your back and brings you closer.

"You're not lying to me." Your words are quiet, little more than a mumble against his skin.

He doesn't have to ask about what. "Haven't lied to you since I told you my name. Won't start now."

You hum. "This won't be... enough to fix it."

"Yeah, but I'm gonna keep telling you. Gonna tell you whenever you let me. As many times as you need before you stop asking, yeah?"

You sigh happily. "Frank?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you. I really, really, love you."

He kisses the top of your head. "Love you too."

#frank castle x reader #frank castle x you #frank castle smut #this was supposed to be a little blurb i wrote on my phone and then it got out of hand!!!!!!#anyway i feel like a lot of mirror sex i see is kind of sweet and cute #and i know that would Not work on me lmao #i should probably go to therapy #frank castle #fic

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mermaidsirennikita · 5 months

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One reason why I think Mila Finelli's mafia books do work for me better than most other (Italian--I did really love Kresley's series) mafia romance novels I've read is that the characters do feel DISTINCT and so do the relationship dynamics.

In a lot of these somewhat darker, more erotic reads, you do get the sense that any of the characters could be switched out for one another. The heroes are always the same types of alphas, the heroines are always the same types of a) virgins or b) defiant rebels who may also still be virgins, and what really sets the books apart are a few bananas scenes here and there, and some distinct sex scenes.

And while I definitely think there are distinct sexual dynamics and kinks at play with each couple (Fausto/Frankie are obviously daddy kink-central, Enzo and Gia are.... generalized freaks with some heavier BDSM by way of CNC vibes, Giulio and Alessio also have some D/s vibes but with a more competitive edge and are very into each other's violence, and Giacomo/Emma are obviously a breeding kink/softer touch vibe) they're also just super different people.

I guess the closest couples would be Fausto and Frankie and Enzo and Gia, but even then... Fausto is a dick, but he's more rational, more doting (see: daddy), and though Frankie is absolutely defiant and strong, I actually think that though she and Fausto have more of a traditional partnership in terms of gender than Enzo and Gia (which also could be because Frankie wants a billion kids and yes she has her MBA but she's very much a wife and mom first, whereas Gia is more about her career, which keeps them from being too similar). Enzo and Gia are more into the defined D/s shit sexually, but you get the sense that she has more control in the relationship and that, at the end of the day, he is very much... her bitch. Enzo and Gia have a very similar age gap to Fausto and Frankie, but Fausto and Frankie have more of a care-focused DD/lg relationship, whereas Enzo and Gia thrive on the friction of her giving as good as she gets.

And Alessio and Giulio, aside from the obvious of being the only queer relationship in the series, are very much coded as D/s as well... But not as inflexibly as the previous two couples. Aside from them switching it up in the bedroom a little, there's also a lot of space for Alessio to take care of Giulio. Like, Giulio kinda doesn't know shit about what he's doing lol, whereas Alessio is hypercompetent (which also makes sense, as Fausto for sure spoiled Giulio and Alessio has been in essentially a different class his entire life). So while Giulio is more sexually dominant, Alessio is really the stronger, steadier, and more threatening partner otherwise. And again, they both really get off on watching each other do what they do best, which is: crime.

I do think Giacomo and Emma have the softest relationship in the series--but it's not so much because she's this kind of babe in the woods virgin (and I will say, I did love that Frankie and Gia were NOT lol) but because Giacomo is just a much more tender guy. Like, yes, Fausto and Enzo both also had loved ones, but I think that because they'd both been running their shit longer than Giacomo had before he met Emma, they had these very set roles. Fausto and Enzo come off as more brutal, and honestly more crazy (like, Enzo is THE CRAZIEST for sure, but Fausto is a fucking nutball). Giacomo seems like a dude who's good at killing people and doing mafia stuff, but it's really like? His day job. It's not his life and it doesn't feel like his culture, even, which makes sense because he was on the fringes of the types of levels Fausto and Enzo have always been in, because his father and brother kept him separate from it. Even Giulio is more connected to that space than Giacomo, because he was groomed to take over for years.

I think it would be very easy to rely on these great sex scenes and wacky plots she writes, but the thing that does make it clear that Mila has the chops (.... and it also makes it clear that she's very experienced, lol, and someone who has had to write series with very individualized characters for professional editors in the past........) is that the characters are very DIFFERENT. Like, Frankie and Gia may both have their partners' balls in their pockets, but you see Frankie do a wheedling kind of little girl pouting thing to get her way with Fausto because she knows he looooves it, whereas Gia is like LISTEN UP ASSHOLE with Enzo (and it makes the relationship the best because nobody else can do that with him, Enzo and Gia are the greatest, thanks for coming to my Ted Talk). Giacomo is willing to let Emma go in a way that Fausto, Enzo, and honestly I would say Giulio too after working out some things, really aren't okay with. He's probably the best guy out of the series, on a moral level, while also being a scary murder man.

(Except for maybe Alessio? Because Alessio is also a scary murder man, but he literally just does it for the cash or to protect Giulio. It's PURE BUSINESS.)

I find the distinctiveness of the characters really cool, especially when I reread the books, and that is probably why I've had a hard time finding a series that really clicks for me in the same way within the sort of Italian mafia genre.

(That, and: so much of the other books center on Italian-American mafia stuff and that shit DOES NOT HAVE THE SAUCE the way Mila's Italy-set books do. Like, be real here, the Italian-American mafia has not been raking in this kind of cash for DECADES.)

#romance novel blogging #anyway my musings on the mafia fuckbooks continue #i really do need to read annika martin's books #bc she's another author i have been pleased by with other books #and similarly to mila did a hard left into mafia novels #but yes #i do think that giacomo being sort of fringe-level with the mobster CEO shenanigans did deprive us of some of the funniest shit in the book #which would be like #enzo and fausto sending each other severed heads and getting on the phone like #'is that-' 'the severed head of your employee? yeah. :)'#or giulio bopping over to be like 'LISTEN UP THE ONLY COKE DEALER IN SPAIN IS ME NOW!!!!'#like i do remember her saying she hadn't originally been planning to write a book for emma #which seemed wild to me at the time #but you can tell this story was conceived of separately from the others #bc there's a pretty clear pipeline from fausto and frankie -> the villain enzo getting a book w gia ->#tying up the arc with fausto's son falling for the guy enzo paid to kill fausto lmao #(the comedy of this series will never top enzo fully forgetting he put a hit on giulio bc of all the bomb sex he was having on his yacht)#anyway that doesn't make mafia virgin a lesser book in any way it just reads as the most oN ITS OWN

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