if i'm gonna look bad i'm not gonna look bad, know what i mean?
🍓Introduction: my name is Kory, I am currently using any pronouns (these may change and will always be in my bio for reference), I'm Italian and I'm 19. And that's my wife!!➡️➡️ @cactus-cuddler
🍓Requests: currently closed! My MASTERLIST is here!
🍓Characters I already wrote for:
Gareth Emerson (ST)
Shinsou Hitoshi (BNHA)
JJ Maybank (OBX)
Jason Todd (DC)
Duke Thomas (DC)
Eddie Munson (ST)
Bucky Barnes (just the one fic though, for my best friends' birthday!)
🍓Fandoms I'm in (or at least the ones I remember):
The Hobbit
Lord of the Rings
The Raven Cycle
Stranger Things
Good Omens
Boku No Hero Academia
Sailor Moon
Obey Me: Shall We Date
The Arcana
One Piece (Live Action) (I'll get around to watching the anime someday)
Criminal Minds
Outer Banks
Marvel
DC
AFK Journey
Marauders (fuck jkr!! if you buy ANY her merch unfollow me now)
Hunger Games
🍓DNI: as long as you're not a bigot you're free to roam. (I may be a fan of the marauders but I don't like any of you going-to-the-harry-potter-studios-in-a-marauders-way folks so piss off<3)
summary : you looooove sitting on frank's lap - his wide legs and his large hands just holding you steady. until one day, frank shows you there are other places you can sit that are just as - if not more- comfortable.
word count : 10.3 k (this fic is brought to you by poor self-control)
warnings : whew this is a doozy OKAY- 18+, MDNI, dry-humping, needy!frank, munch!frank, face-sitting , oral (f!receiving), size kink (i shouldn't even have to write it y'all should know its comin' ), praise, smut, unprotected sex, p in v, established relationship, reader uses she/her, i think thats it lmk if i missed anything !!!!
a/n : y'all ok when i tell u this came to me in a fkn dream im not kidding. initially based on this reblog of mine, and as usual, not proofread.
There’s something unfairly comforting about sitting on Frank’s lap.
Maybe it’s because he’s so big—warm and solid everywhere. Maybe it’s the way he automatically spreads his legs the second you come near him, making room without even thinking about it. Or maybe it’s because Frank holds you like he’s never once considered letting you fall.
Either way— you love it.
Frank notices, obviously. Frank notices everything. So it becomes a thing. Movie nights. Takeout. Late nights on the couch while he cleans guns or talks to Micro on the phone, one hand absentmindedly rubbing circles into your hip while threatening somebody in that rough voice of his. And eventually, you stop waiting for him to pull you down first.
You just climb into his lap automatically.
The second you get home from work. Halfway through conversations. While he’s drinking coffee. While he’s reading reports. Like your body already decided that’s where it belongs.
Frank fucking loves it.
You can tell by the way his hands grab your hips instantly every time. By the low sound he makes in his chest when you settle against him properly. By how his thighs spread wider automatically to make room for you, one hand sliding beneath your sweater to rest warm against your stomach.
And God. That hand.
Big. Rough. Always touching you somewhere. Resting against your waist. Slipping beneath your shirt just to feel your skin. Squeezing your thigh when you shift around too much in his lap.Especially when you squirm.
Frank likes when you squirm. You learn that very quickly.Because the more you crawl into his lap, the more obvious it becomes that Frank is very into having you there too. His grip tightens when you straddle his thigh instead of sitting sideways. His breathing changes when you absentmindedly wiggle around getting comfortable. Sometimes he buries his face against your neck like he’s trying to get himself under control.
Which honestly only encourages you.
And tonight, you want to crawl out of your own skin.
You kick your heels off by the door, groaning as you let your work bag slip down your shoulder and hit the hardwood. Your entire body is thrumming with the urge to just crawl into Frank's lap and forget about today. You stumble your way into the bedroom, already working at the buttons on your shirt.
"Baby? That you ?" You hear him call from the living room, and the hairs on the back of your neck prick up. You make quick work of getting out of your work clothes and slipping into the comfiest clothes you can find - one of Frank's old shirts that slips down your shoulder and a pair of shorts that disappear beneath Frank's shirt. You yawn as you pull your hair out of it's tight bun, and make your way to the living room, shoulders tight and tense from your day at work.
He’s exactly where you knew he’d be. Sprawled on the couch, one arm thrown along the back, the other resting on his stomach. The low glow of the television casts flickering blue light across his bare chest and the worn grey sweats riding low on his hips. He’s got that focused look, eyes narrowed slightly at whatever documentary is playing, but his attention shifts the second you appear in the doorway. His gaze sweeps over you, soft and immediate. A slow, easy smile touches his lips as he takes in his shirt on you, the way it hangs off one shoulder. He doesn't have to say a word. He just lifts the arm from the back of the couch in a silent, unspoken invitation, his legs spreading slightly to make space.
It’s all the encouragement you need.
You cross the room in a few steps, not bothering to be graceful, and climb right into his lap. You swing a leg over his thighs, settling directly over him, your knees bracketing his hips. It’s instinctual, the way your bodies fit together. Frank’s hands are on you instantly, warm and heavy, resting on your hips. His thumbs begin their familiar, slow strokes back and forth, a silent question and a steady comfort all at once.
"Hey, pretty girl." He hums, kissing your temple. You grumble in response, burying your face in his neck as you shift closer.
“Rough one?” he rumbles, his voice a low vibration against your ear as you lean your head against his shoulder. You just hum in response, too tired to form words. The tension from the day is a knot between your shoulder blades, a tight band around your chest. But here, in his lap, with the smell of him - clean soap and something uniquely Frank -surrounding you, it starts to loosen. You close your eyes, breathing him in. His other hand comes up to rest on your thigh, fingers tapping a slow, idle rhythm against your skin. You let the documentary’s narration wash over you, a meaningless drone of sound.
All you’re aware of is Frank.
The steady rise and fall of his chest.
The heat of his skin.
The reassuring weight of his hands on you.
It’s grounding. It’s home.
But the knot of tension isn't gone. It’s just… waiting.
Lurking.
And as you sit there, a new kind of energy starts to build beneath it. A slow, simmering restlessness. You shift, trying to get comfortable, and the seam of your shorts brushes against the worn fabric of his sweats. A faint spark of pleasure ignites, and you still. Frank’s hand stills on your hip. He doesn’t say anything, but you feel the change in him. The subtle tightening of his muscles. The way his breathing hitches for just a second. You do it again. A deliberate, slow rock of your hips. This time, the spark is brighter, a warm wave that spreads through your lower belly. Frank lets out a low sound, almost a grunt, and his hand tightens on your thigh, holding you still.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice a little rougher now. “Easy.” But you don’t want easy. You want to feel. You want to burn away the memory of your terrible day with the friction of his body against yours. You lean forward, bracing your hands on his broad shoulders, and press your lips to the side of his neck. He tastes like salt and skin. You lick a slow stripe up to his earlobe, nibbling gently. He shudders, a full-body tremor that you feel everywhere you’re touching him. His head falls back against the couch, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat to you. You take the invitation, kissing and sucking a path down his neck, your hips starting to move in a slow, grinding rhythm. It’s not frantic. It’s deliberate. A steady, rocking pressure against his growing erection. Each roll of your hips sends a jolt of pleasure straight through you, stoking the fire in your belly higher and higher.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his hands sliding from your hips to your ass, squeezing hard as he pulls you down against him. “Jesus, baby…” You can feel the last threads of his control starting to snap. His hips begin to lift to meet yours, a shallow, involuntary thrust that matches your rhythm. It’s intoxicating, the power of it, the way you can unravel this strong, steady man with nothing but your body and your mouth. You’re just getting lost in it, in the slick heat building between your legs, in the low, guttural sounds he’s making, when his hands suddenly still on your ass. He grips you hard, stopping your movements.
“Wait,” he pants, his voice strained. “Wait a second.” You pull back, confused and more than a little frustrated. He’s breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling, his eyes dark with a mix of lust and concern. He loosens his grip on you, but he doesn’t let you go.
“Hey,” he says softly, one hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your jaw. “Look at me.” You meet his gaze, your own breathing ragged. “What’s wrong?” He asks. You blush furiously, shaking your head.
“Nothin’s wrong,” You go to move off of him, suddenly embarassed.
"Hey, wait, no-" He grabs you by the waist, forcing you to stay seated exactly where you are. You shake your head, trying to escape his grip, not daring to make eye-contact.
"No, it's fine, Frank-" He frowns, clearly confused.
“Baby. Stop." He sighs, exasperated. "What’s gotten you so worked up, huh?” He asks, pushing your hair away from your face. You duck your head immediately, mortified now that the heat of the moment is fading just enough for embarrassment to creep in.
“Nothin’,” you mumble. Frank gives you a look.
“Sweetheart.” One big hand squeezes your hip. “C’mon.” You groan quietly and hide your face in his shoulder. Which only makes him more suspicious. “There it is,” he murmurs, amusement creeping into his voice now. “That’s the face you make when somethin’s goin’ on in that head.”
“There is no face.”
“Mhm.” His hand slides up your back slowly. “So you always grind on me like that after bad workdays?” Your entire body heats instantly.
“Frank.”
“What?” he asks innocently, though the grin tugging at his mouth says otherwise. “Just askin’ questions.” You try to climb off his lap again out of pure embarrassment, but his arms lock around your waist immediately. “Nah,” he mutters. “You started this. Sit back down.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.” Unfortunately, he sounds very sure of that. You bury your face harder into his neck with a miserable little groan, and Frank laughs softly under his breath, holding you tighter against his chest.
“Talk t’me, baby.” You hesitate. Then mumble against his skin:
“…like sitting on you.” Frank goes very still for half a second. Then:
“Yeah?” His voice drops lower instantly. You nod once without lifting your head. “Feels nice,” you admit quietly. “Makes my brain shut up.” Something in Frank’s expression softens so much it almost hurts to look at.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, guiding your face up gently with his hand. His thumb drags slowly across your cheek while he looks at you like you’re something precious. “Y’know I’d let you sit on me whenever you want, right?” Your stomach flips embarrassingly hard.
“I gathered.” A rough laugh leaves him. He cups your cheek, kissing your temple.
“And if grindin' down on me is your way of relieving whatever bullshit those people put you through today- be my fucking guest because I ain't complainin'." He teases, smiling with his tongue trapped between his teeth. You groan, embarrassed.
"Frank." You mutter. He laughs, head tipping back.
"No, mama, i'm serious." He sighs, look down at where your hand is resting on his bare abdomen. "You jus' gotta tell me, alright ? Don't want you doin' all the work. Wanna help make you feel better." He hums.
You swallow hard, suddenly unable to look at him. Because that’s the problem. Frank always sounds so sincere when he says things like that. So steady. So genuinely willing to give you anything you ask for that it makes your stomach twist up into knots. He taps a finger against your cheek.
"Baby." He hums. "C'mon, sweetheart, look at me." Your eyes drift over to his, chewing on the inside of your cheek. He grins, his head tilting to properly catch your eyes. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.
"Y'want to keep grinding down on me, or y'want me to help you ?" He asks, his voice sincere and so full of love you almost sink to your knees in front of him. Heat crawls all the way up your neck at the question. Frank watches it happen in real time, eyes going darker immediately.
“Frank,” you whisper weakly.
“What?” he murmurs, completely unrepentant. “Asked a simple question.” His hand slides slow up your thigh, rough palm warm against your skin. “Wanna know what my girl needs.” Your stomach flips hard at that. My girl. You duck your head, suddenly shy under the weight of his attention. Which is ridiculous considering you were just grinding yourself against him five seconds ago, but Frank has this way of looking at you that makes you feel completely exposed.
“You,” you mumble finally.
“Hm?”
“I want…” You trail off miserably. Frank’s mouth twitches.
“C’mon, sweetheart. Use your words.” You glare at him halfheartedly before grabbing his wrist and guiding his hand downward toward the waistband of your shorts. Frank lets you for exactly two seconds before a startled laugh punches out of him.
“Whoa—hey.” His hand catches yours gently. “Not that kinda help.” You blink at him, confused.
“…What?” Frank just grins. Slow and crooked and dangerous enough to make your pulse stutter.
“Cute, though.”
“Frank,” you complain, fully embarrassed now. “What does that even mean?”
“Means,” he says, already shifting beneath you, “I got somethin’ else in mind.” Before you can ask what the hell that means, Frank’s big hands settle on your hips and lift you easily. You let out a startled noise as he maneuvers you forward so your knees stay planted on the couch cushions.
“Frank—”
“Relax.” He kisses your thigh absently through your shorts. “Lemme take care of you.” And then— to your complete confusion— he slips downward off the couch. You stare as this giant man settles onto the floor between your knees like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His back slides against the couch until he’s comfortably sprawled there, broad shoulders pressed into the cushions, head tipped back slightly so he can look up at you properly. He watches you from the floor, eyes level with your knees. There’s a cocky set to his mouth—your favorite one, the one tucked in the left corner that means he knows something you don’t. His hands are gentle, guiding your thighs apart like he’s posing a painting, and you let him. The air in the room gets syrup-thick; the taste of your own heartbeat pulses in your tongue.
He tugs you to the very edge of the couch so your legs flank his shoulders. His palms skate up your bare thighs, thumbs stroking lazy up-and-down lines along the soft skin just beneath the hem of your shorts. You yelp, hands gripping into his hair.
“F-Frank, what are you-” You gasp, shaking your head, unease shooting up your spine. His hands are warm, grounding you, and all you can focus on is how enormous he looks below you, an immovable force wedged between your trembling thighs. His hands bracket your knees, thumbs stroking softly, steady and patient. His eyes flick up to meet yours, the sharp blue of them calm and so sure, and he grins in that slow, crooked way that got you into this mess to begin with.
“Relax, honey,” he says, voice low and level, almost soothing. “You’re good. S’just me.” Your legs are shaking a little, but it’s not from fear—at least not completely. It’s more anticipation, a hot coil of anxiety and longing twined tight through your gut. You try to say something, anything, but your voice cracks on the inhale, and Frank just watches you with a rare, gentle patience. His hands come up, grip steady but light, thumbs brushing up and down along your thighs until your skin feels electric. With a slow, practiced touch, he slides his thumbs under the hem of your shorts, waiting for your not-even-a-nod before peeling them down, tugging them over your knees, leaving the oversized t-shirt and nothing else. Embarrassment scalds through you as you realize how exposed you are, perched at the edge of the couch, knees spread, Frank’s face right there. It’s the kind of thing you should only ever fantasize about, not actually experience—but it’s happening, and you’re not dreaming, and Frank Castle is still patiently grinning up at you like your bare skin is some kind of reward. You can’t look at him. All you can do is stare at your own hands, knuckles pale from gripping the couch cushions, as warm air ghosts over the inside of your thighs. He presses his mouth there first, just above your knee. One lingering kiss, then another, and another, slow and deliberate, marching his way up toward your center. You want to close your legs, or say “Wait,” or do literally anything except sit here quivering, but he’s so goddamn tender. His lips are warm, and his beard is just a scratchy promise, and the whole thing is so unexpectedly gentle it makes your chest feel wobbly and exposed. You feel his hands splay out on your hips, pulling you a little closer, anchoring you to this moment. He sucks a mark just above the line where your thigh meets your core, not even close to where you want him, and you shudder, letting out a sound you’d never admit was yours. He chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin.
“There she is,” he murmurs, lips ghosting the words against your skin. “C’mon, pretty girl, let me hear you.” Frank ducks his head, mouth finding your inner knee—he always starts here, just to kill you with the anticipation. The first kiss is barely pressure, a ghost; the next, a slow drag of stubble that rasp-burns sweet enough to make your toes curl. His fingers tease upward, grip warm and wide, and the closer he gets to where you want him, the heavier your breath. He can’t miss it. Your lungs are making these embarrassing micro-hitches, and you can feel the heat blooming beneath your skin, spreading out in nervous waves. He drags his nose up the inside of your thigh and just… inhales. Slow, deep. It’s obscene, the way his nostrils flare. He opens his mouth to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss just above the leg of your shorts, his tongue sneaking beneath the fabric for a fraction of a second. You both exhale at the same moment, like you’re sharing the same pair of lungs.
Frank edges your panties down, easing them past your hips with big, patient hands. He’s not rushing. He’s not ever in a hurry with you, apparently. You look down, and Frank catches your gaze, holds it as he hooks his fingers around the waistband of your underwear. His thumb strokes absently at your hip, again, always grounding you when it should be the opposite.
It’s almost enough to make you laugh out of sheer nerves, but then he’s got his mouth right where you want him. He kisses your folds, slow and deliberate, lips pressing soft and then hard, the way he always kisses your mouth when you’re half asleep and pliant in his arms. There’s a gathering tension in your spine, a knot unspooling. Every cell in your body is buzzing with the need to move, to do something, to run or crawl out of your own skin. But you can’t, because Frank’s hands are holding you open, holding you here, and his mouth is warm and hungry and home. The first stripe of his tongue—flat and broad, from bottom to top, flicking at your clit, and your entire body rocks forward in surprise, clit bumping deliciously against his large nose. Your yelp turns into a startled moan as he grips your thighs harder and nudges his nose harder against your clit, groaning beneath your folds. You’re terrified of putting your whole weight on him, so much so that your thighs are shaking with the effort to stay hovering above him, to keep your thighs from clenching. You’ve got one hand tangled in his hair and the other clasped around a cushion, your entire body tense with unease.
You’ve never done this before and your body is making it clear. The shame is enough to make you want to vanish—levitate right off the couch, become air, become molecules. There’s nothing in your brain except the white-noise roar of panic and the sticky, needy pulse between your legs. You catch yourself holding your breath, releasing it in little shocked bursts every time Frank does something unexpected. Like he knows this, his hands move up, palms flattening on your waist to steady you.
“Breathe, sweetheart.” He says it quiet, not a command but a kindness, looking up at you like you’re the only person on earth. His mouth glistens, beard a little damp, utterly patient.
“S’okay, I got you. C’mon.” He squeezes your hips, grounding you, and just like that, your brain clicks back online, a little. Air in, air out. You let yourself lean on him, just a hair more weight, and Frank makes this low appreciative noise like you’re doing him a favor.
He mouths at you, slow and open, tongue tasting everywhere like he’s mapping you for future reference. He’s not pretty about it—his beard is rough and his jaw is strong and the groan he makes when he feels you shake is raw and real and a little bit ugly, the way he never bothers hiding how badly he wants you. But then, when you think you can’t do this, that you’re floating somewhere ten feet above your own body, he flicks his tongue right around your clit and everything telescope-zooms back to center. You choke on a gasp, and he grins up at you, eyes crinkled in real delight.
“Good?” The words vibrate against you, and you manage a weak nod. He hums approval into your skin, nosing further in, and you realize you’re gripping his hair so hard it must hurt but he makes no complaint. Frank’s hands knead your ass, coaxing you to move, to use him; you try, just a little, rocking forward a millimeter, and he rewards you with a strong broad lick and a filthy moan. His thumbs press into the crease of your thighs and he keeps you spread, keeps you tuned to his mouth. He taps your thigh, urging you to rock against him, and you whimper, shaking your head. You can hardly breathe, straddled over Frank Castle’s jaw, your thighs quivering with the effort not to crush his face or fall backward off the couch entirely. The thought of your full weight on him is mortifying, but his hands only tighten on your hips, pulling you down like he means to anchor you there for days. His tongue curls through you, patient, unhurried, mapping every slick contour with the greedy, single-minded devotion you’re used to seeing when Frank takes apart a gun.
You drag a hand through his hair—sweaty, yeah, but it’s Frank, and it’s softer than you expect—and the moment your grip tightens, he grunts like you’ve yanked the leash on a wolf. That rough sound vibrates through your whole pelvis and jerks you forward, dizzy and hollowed out. You’re shaking, trembling in every muscle group you’ve got, but Frank keeps murmuring
“Good girl,” between swipes of his tongue, half-drowned by you and impossibly smug with his mouth full. You know you’re soaking him, know the mess you’re making, can feel the tacky wet of your arousal under his jaw, but
Frank.
Doesn’t.
Care.
Every second he just gets hungrier, thumbs gripping you harder, kneading the soft of your ass. There’s a stubble burn developing along your inner thigh, the delicate skin starting to scream, and it only makes you more frantic.
The panic is still there, an icy knot in the back of your head. Frank is fucking gigantic, sprawled on the floor, one arm hooked around your thigh to keep you from running, but every time you start to freeze up, he pulls back just enough to catch your eyes with his own. The look is so goddamn fond it almost hurts; he’s grinning, a little drunk-slow, like he can’t believe what he’s doing is legal. You’ve never felt so seen, so wanted, and it lights you up from inside.
You can’t make herself move at first, but Frank seems determined to eat the shyness out of you. He murmurs,
“C’mon, baby, don’t be shy. Ride it. You know you want to.” The words are absurd, ridiculous, but the deep kindness in his face leaves no room for shame. You try, finally, hips barely inching downward, and holy fuck do his arms flex, pulling you flush to him. You practically yelp, and Frank starts to laugh, the sound muffled and filthily happy, like he’s waited his whole life for this exact moment. Frank’s tongue is obscene, relentless, circling your clit, then dragging broad and flat and greedy. He doesn’t have a rhythm; he improvises, like he’s learning her on the fly, sucking, licking, then finessing the tip of his tongue in tight, fast, deliciously mean flicks. You don’t notice you’re humping his face until his hands slide up your back, big palms bracing her, encouraging your to grind down harder. The praise spills out of Frank in a litany between desperate swipes of his tongue:
“Fuck, attagirl, that’s my good girl, just like that, ride it, sweetheart—" The heat in his eyes, the way he holds you, the praise spilling shameless—it’s almost worse than the sensation, the way you start to feel yourself unraveling under his mouth.
“You’re so good,” he keeps muttering, tongue flat and wide, chin slick, beard sticky. “So fuckin’ sweet, baby. Give it to me, go on.” The mortification peaks and dissolves, replaced by a trembling need to grind down, mashing your pussy over his nose and mouth, the pleasure so far past overwhelming it’s almost panic again, but good, the kind of panic that feels like survival. Your hands twist in his hair. His tongue flicks fast, relentless, and when he senses you trying to clench your thighs together he only shoves his head in further, greedy, devouring, brutal and perfect.
“Fuck, Frank, I—” is all you can say before your body’s convulsing, legs suddenly useless. You whimper, nearly sob, press yourself so hard against his face it’s a miracle he can breathe—but Frank fucking loves it, moaning into you, clutching your ass and pulling you down until your cunt shakes apart on his tongue. The afterspasms roll for a long time, your vision blurring, your hands fumbling for purchase on anything, his hair, the couch, your own legs, but nothing holds. Frank just pets you, hands moving up and down your thighs, stroking slow. It feels like he’s humming, and if you look down, you’d see him smirking, mouth glistening, beard even messier than before. He keeps kissing, licking soft, until you yelp and try to crawl away.You can’t breathe. You can’t move. Everything is numb except your thighs, which are shaking against either side of Frank’s face, and the wet, frantic throb between your legs. Your body wants to pitch itself off the couch and into the drywall, but Frank’s grip is relentless, holding you in place while your hips stutter and jerk—like he’s trying to squeeze every last tremor out of you, like he can’t believe his goddamn luck to have your cunt flush against his mouth. He only lets you pull away when your whimper turns desperate, when you’re halfway to tears from the aftershocks. Even then he doesn’t go easy; he licks you slow and purposeful, gentle only when you start babbling his name and scrabbling at his hair to stop.
The whole world is white noise and heartbeat. You can’t remember how to talk or move. Frank looks up at you, mouth and beard glossy, blue eyes so hot and pleased you feel yourself clench again just from looking at him. He presses a last kiss to your thigh and slides his hands up to cradle your hips, steadying you when you almost collapse sideways onto the couch.
“Shit,” you manage, voice hoarse. “Fuck, Frank—” He wipes his mouth, grinning crooked, and squeezes your thigh.
“You did so good, baby. You’re so fuckin’ good for me.” He sounds half-wrecked, proud like he’s just set a new world record or something. You want to sink through the floor, but he props his elbows on your knees and just… gazes up, like he’s never going to get tired of this view. The embarrassment is a slow, molten ache that somehow makes you want him even more. You shake your head, try to cover your face, but he tuts and grabs your wrists, pushing your hands away so he can see you properly.
“Nuh-uh,” he says, all rough affection. “Don’t go shy on me now.” His voice is gentle, which is almost worse than if he teased. Like you’re something breakable. Like he cares. You whimper, your thighs shaking, and he props himself up, concern knotting between his brows. “Hey, hey… shh, pretty girl. You okay ?” You nod, and his hands wrap around your waist. “C’mere.” He hums, and he softly drags you down his body until you’re on the floor with him, body shaking as you straddle his lap once more. He kisses your forehead, your temple, hands soothing at your back. You’re still trembling, your limbs rubbery and untrustworthy, but he stays so close, holding you up, petting your hair, pinning you there with the steady weight of his hands. You can’t meet his eyes—he looks too proud, too hungry, too much—and it burns all the way through you that you want him even more now, even as your whole body is a raw, throbbing wire. Frank tucks your hair behind your ear, the gesture so delicate it nearly undoes you again.
“Easy,” he murmurs, like you’re a skittish animal. But you don’t want easy. Not right now. You feel broken open, desperate in a way you’ve never been before, and you can feel the hard length of him pressing against your pussy so deliciously that it clenches at the mere thought of having him inside you after what he just did. You kiss at his neck, a harmless gesture, and he holds you against him tighter, feeling the heavy rise and fall of his chest. Your hand trails down his chest, going for his waist band- He catches your wrist, gentle but inescapable.
“Uh-uh,” he says, smile gone crooked and fond. “You’re sensitive right now. Lemme—”
“It’s not fair if I leave you like this.” you say, surprised by how rough your own voice sounds. “Please, Frankie, i need it." It’s barely a whisper and it’s still nearly ripped out of your throat. You meet his eyes, pulse wild, and you see his pupils blow wide.
“Baby,” he says, his thumb stroking circles on your hip. He wants to say no. You can see the words forming behind his teeth. But he’s soft for you, always, even when he’s hard everywhere else. “You know it’s gonna—”
“Don’t care.” You surge up, hands in his hair, mouth on his jaw, anywhere you can reach. You need him, need to feel him heavy and real, pinning you to the world. For a second Frank just holds you there, like he’s bracing you both against a wave. Then he groans, low and dangerous, and cups your face, forcing you to look at him again.
“Honey, no. I’ll hurt you. Don’t wanna do that.” He tuts. You whine, shaking your head.
His refusal only makes you hungrier. The thick band of him pressed between you, the way his hands tremble against your hips like he’s weighing how far he’s allowed to go—every ounce of resistance from him is just a dare. You shudder, hips rocking harder, chasing the friction, and Frank’s grip tightens. There’s a hot, pained flare behind his eyes. He holds you pinned to him, unmoving, but you can feel it: the throb of his cock, the way his breath shakes when you rut down slow and deliberate, grinding his length through layers of cloth. All at once, you think you might start sobbing if he doesn’t fuck you immediately.
“Frank,” you beg, and it’s the only word that matters. “Please.” He groans, shaking his head.
“I just had you fucking shaking as you rode my face, pretty girl. Don’t really wanna turn you to jelly just yet. I’ll be fine.” He hums, trying to drag you into him for a soft hug. You whine, grinding down on him, your hand falling flat on the hard ridge of his cock through his sweats as your tongue trails up the ridges of his chest muscles. He groans, teeth gritted, trying to hold onto his control.
“You tryna kill me, mama ?” Your shudder of need makes his effort at self-control moot, and Frank breaks first, just like you always knew he would. Big hands slide up, surround your jaw, frame it. He looks at you, really looks—blue eyes huge, so hot and grieving and desperate.
“Fuck it,” he murmurs. “Come here.” Then he’s kissing you, mouth filthy with your own taste, his tongue pushing you open, forcing you to feel every inch of the mess he’s made of you. You can hardly keep up, clinging to his shoulders .
“Ten seconds ago you were shaking so bad I thought you were gonna pass out,” he says against your lips, but he’s already shifting, hiking your hips up and dragging his sweats down just enough. The heat of him hits your tender skin and you flinch, a full-body shiver, but you keep going, greedy and insistent. He stops you with a hand on your hip, his thumb pressed hard to the bone. His cock springs up, flushed and leaking, heavy and thick enough you can’t believe it didn’t split the fabric. For a second you freeze, staring, because holy shit, everytime you see it you have to remind yourself that that’s not just tall guy big, that’s fucking dangerous.
Your boyfriend could seriously do some interior damage, ruin you for anyone else.
It’s a good thing you only want him, then.
You grab his cock, base to tip, and it feels so hot and solid in your grip your brain whites out. He hisses in a breath as your hand barely wraps around his base, his hand darting out to grab your wrist as his eyes roll back.
“Fuck- Fuck, wait.” He rasps. His eyes fly open to take you in, gulping. “This isn’t a good idea, baby. You’re gonna hurt yourself.” He says, his voice rough. You chuckle, shaking your head.
“I always do when i take you.” You hum. His face twists.
“That’s not fucking funny. I’m serious. You get really sensitive after you come. Trust me, I know. Let’s just take a few minutes-” You shake your head.
“I don’t want to wait a few minutes. I want you, now.” He expects you to play along, but you just tip the head of it up and smear the precum across the top with your thumb, the sensation so fierce you nearly combust. Frank’s mouth falls open, gorgeous and a little scared, like he can’t believe how bad you want this. He says your name, pleading, but you only line up the slick tip and start sinking down, slow and careful, so careful it damn near splits you in half. He groans, body arching up, hands bruising on your hips, and the stretch is so intense you whine, forehead dropping to his sternum. He goes still at the sound, shaking his head in a panic at your pain.
“Fuck- Nah, baby, I fuckin’ told ya-” You shake your head, hand clamping down on his mouth as your body trembles with the anticipation of how much more you still have left to swallow.
“Shut the fuck up, Frank.” His eyes narrow, and you watch with covetous pride as Frank’s whole immense body braces for impact, like he’s about to be shot. You take him slow, but deliberate; it’s the only way you can handle the stretch, the burning fullness that feels more like a punishment than a reward. You whine in pain, and. your hand slips off his mouth, fisting into the couch cushion behind his head.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he groans, and it’s like a prayer. You shudder, the blunt head of his cock slotting even further until you’re trembling with the effort of taking his size. “You’re a goddamn maniac. You know that?” You can’t answer, not when you’re sweating bullets, not even sure you’ve made it halfway down. Every inch is a sweet, punishing burn. But you’re grinning uncontrollably, pride sparking, because he’s the one who’s speechless now. You push your hips forward, greedier, and he’s digging blunt nails into your ass to steady you, not daring to thrust or even move except for the way his body trembles beneath you, muscles flexing, straining restraint.
“Attagirl,” he whispers, helplessly. “Christ, look at you. Takin’ me so fuckin’ good. You’re incredible, you know that?” You whimper, greed for praise overriding the pain. He kisses your cheek, your temple, your ear, anything he can reach.
“You’re doin’ amazing. Just—just like that, baby, c’mon. You can do it, I got you.” Hand braced on his broad chest for leverage, you rock your hips in tiny increments, letting up, then down, taking centimeter after centimeter. Each pulse brings a new shock of sensation; it throbs, sends filaments of raw heat up into your guts. Frank’s breathing is staccato in your ear, like he’s terrified and awed at once.
“I need a sec,” you gasp, panting. His body goes still, and his hands grip onto you so tight to keep you incredibly still.
“You okay ? Shit, baby, do you wanna stop ?” He asks, his voice rough. The idea is absurd, infuriating.
“Don’t you fucking dare.” You manage, and you dig your nails into his chest, use the hurt to balance the overwhelming fullness everywhere else. Frank forces his head back, staring down at where you’re connected.
You’re barely halfway down.
Frank is watching, stunned and reverent, eyes shot with panic and worship. You can see it—his desperation to take care of you warring with the crude awe of being split open by him, of letting him see every humiliating little sound and twitch and tremor your body can make. It’s almost worth the pain, just to see his breath hitch and his hands clench helplessly at your hips, to feel his cock pulse and twitch inside you, like he honestly can’t believe you’ll let him this deep.
“Mmph,” you rasp, teeth gritted. “Fuck, Frank—please—I can't do it alone. Need you to- Need you to push yourself in all the way.” He clamps a hand over his face, half laughing, half moaning as your thighs start to shake with the effort of slow descent.
“Baby. You sure? There’s no fuckin’ shame, you walk away right now and I’ll still brag about you for the rest of my life—”
“If you stop, I’m going to kill you,” you gasp. It’s not even a joke; you’d bite him. “Just—bottom out, c’mon, I need it.” He groans, so sin-soaked it’s almost broken.
“Fuckin’ Christ,” he says again, desperately, as if the name itself might actually save him—or you—from this. His hand slides from your hip up to your chin, tilting your face until you’re forced to look him in the eye. Even as you bear down, greedy for the rest of him, his thumb skims your cheek, gentle as a prayer. “You ever want me to stop, you better say so. You’re the boss, baby. Always.” You nod, barely coherent, and shove down the last impossible stretch, gasping when you finally sink, all the way, onto his lap. You swear your vision goes black around the edges for a second, but the bloom of pain is beautiful, dizzying. For a full moment neither of you can move, both too paralyzed by the sensation. Then the shock passes and you’re filled, completely, by a sense of ownership—yours, his, it doesn’t matter. The word you groan becomes a vowel, not a name. Frank’s eyes are squeezed shut, jaw clenched so hard you hear his teeth grind. He’s trembling like it’s his first time.
“Fuck,” he snarls. “You—good?”It’s not enough to nod; you need both hands braced on his chest, need to feel the pure animal strength beneath your palms as you start to move. The first roll of your hips makes you both gasp, and Frank’s hand flies to your lower back, broad palm spreading out over your skin to hold you steady, to keep you from flying apart.
“Jesus, baby. Attagirl. Givin’ me a fuckin’ heart attack over here.” You can’t find the words. All sensation, no language. You rise, grind, sink back down. The fullness never wanes, never gentles, but there’s an edge of heat now that makes every motion urgent. The head of his cock drags over a spot so deep you whimper, clutching at him. He sits up a bit more, moaning. His arms curl around you, cradling your lower back as he shifts, gentle and cautious—a man holding a live bomb to his chest. He whispers your name like he can will you whole, as if the syllables could knit your insides back together after he’s torn you open. But you don’t want that. You want to feel this, the shattering. You want him to watch you break and know he was the one who made you. Every roll of your hips makes him shudder, the tip of him bumping so deep you think it might break through your ribs. Frank pants, smearing kisses all over your jaw, his hands reverent on your sides but so desperately tight you know you’ll bruise. He tries to keep still, lets you set the pace, but you can feel his body’s rebellion: the trembling in his thighs, the way his stomach jumps with each movement, the wild flare of panic in his eyes every time you whimper.
“You’re so good for me, sweetheart,” he grits, voice low and taut, a prayer scrabbled together with spit and sweat. “Fuckin’—just a miracle, you are.” He watches, eyes dark and greedy, as you start to ride him with more confidence, the punishing fullness fading to something hot and wet and wonderful—like you can finally control it, direct it, make it part of you. The friction makes your nerves burn, but you want to bask in it, want to see what you look like with Frank Castle’s cock splitting you open. You can’t stop grinning, draped over him, loving the way your nails leave angry half-moons in his muscle. You lean up, just to see his face. He’s split wide open, not tough or hard but fragile, like he’s seeing a sunrise for the first time—in awe, in agony, in love.
“You okay, big guy?” you tease, and immediately he growls, arms flexing to haul you flush against his chest. The new angle makes him throb inside you, makes you gasp and grab at his hair.
“Don’t fuckin’ joke right now,” he breathes. “I’m hangin’ on by a thread, baby, you keep lookin’ at me like that and I’m gonna lose it.” His hands slip beneath your ass, steadying you as you start to ride in earnest, the heat building, slick and unrelenting. It isn’t graceful, but it’s honest, raw; he lets you use him as leverage, lets you go wild if that’s what you need. You catch his mouth, bite his lip, moan into him with every bounce. The coil of heat in your belly is stretched so thin it sizzles, and the pain is gone, replaced with an electric need to finish, to crash through. Frank makes desperate, soft noises every time you clamp down, every time you mutter his name.Frank’s hands roam your body, never still. He rakes through your hair, cradles the back of your neck, runs a worshipful palm down your spine to splay across the small of your back.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful. You are-” He breaks off, tongue thick. “-you’re incredible.” He means it, you can hear it in the reverent tremor of his voice. “Could watch you all day. Watch how you take me. No one else gets to see you like this, d’you know that? No one.” His words are pure worship.
“My gorgeous, greedy girl.” You whimper at the praise, hips stuttering, and the needy sound goes straight to his head. He meets you halfway, arching up to grind into you, thick arms braced under your thighs. The new angle makes you sob, a moan punched out against his throat, and Frank’s face goes slack with open-mouthed awe.
“That’s it, baby,” he pants. “Attagirl, just like that, c’mon, keep going for me.” He punctuates each word with a thrust upward, so gentle for a man who could tear you in half, but the force of him is still enough to send you reeling each time. You drag your hips up until just the head is inside, linger there for a heartbeat, then slam yourself back down like you want to shatter on his cock. Frank lets out a noise you’ve never heard—a bark of disbelief, utterly defeated—and his head thuds against the couch pillar with a force that might give a normal man a concussion.
“Oh my fucking god,” he chokes. He’s clutching you so hard it hurts, but it only makes you wetter, more reckless. The pain is a live wire in your core, but every second is worth it. You never want to let him go: you want to wring him dry, flatten yourself into his chest, drown in the sharp heat of him. You’re greedy now, riding him in desperate, ragged strokes, whimpering with every bounce. Frank’s face is contorted in pleasure and disbelief, sweat slicking the hair at his temples, mouth open and helpless as you take him over and over again. Every thrust makes the world go white around the edges; you can feel yourself getting closer, the sensation almost too much to bear, but you don’t stop, can’t stop.
“Fuck, baby, if you keep going like that, you’re gonna make me—” Frank’s voice cracks, and you feel the words more than hear them. He’s so deep your entire body pulses with the beat of his heart, and every flex of his hips threatens to tip you over the edge. He groans, a rasping crunch of sound behind his teeth, and his hands grab your waist, not to slow you but to anchor himself as he bucks upward. You whine as you can physically feel him pressing against the walls of your stomach, the thick outline of him pushing against the skin. You ride him like you want to leave marks he’ll never scrub off, nails digging in, hips slamming down. Frank’s begging now, except he won’t use words, just lets out long, ragged moans that sound nothing like the man you’ve ever known. Every time you drive down hard you swear you see stars, blacking out for a second, barely breathing through the overload. Frank curses, voice punched out, and tries to slow you, but you snarl at him, toss your head and clench harder. The veins in his neck pop, and he whines, an honest-to-god whimper, and you nearly lose control just from that.
“Jesus, baby, you’re so fuckin’ tight - gonna break me, you know that?” He pants, shaking, and you shiver with pride.
“That’s the point,” you groan, rocking down until you’re mashed flush to his hips, skin burning from the friction. He’s so deep you see double, splitting you open, his hands shaking where they clutch your thighs. You want to memorize this stretch—the way he can’t decide if he’s worshiping or afraid, the way he’s melting and unraveling and alive under you, for you, by you. It builds, slow at first, then all in a rush. Your legs start to give out, but Frank holds you steady, his palm gentle on your spine, cradling the back of your neck.Frank’s hand, bruised and calloused, slides up to the center of your chest, splay-fingered, pinning you gently to keep you from launching yourself into orbit.
“Jesus, sweetheart,” he rasps. The vein in his neck stands out, pulsing wildly, his eyes gone hazy and soft and just this side of unhinged. You bear down, riding him like a challenge, every greedy bounce lighting up your nerves, and he just lets you—lets you use him, arms locked around your hips but only to hold you together, not to control. He’s pliant, worshipful, at your mercy.
“Frank,” you whine, desperate. The pressure crowds your senses, heavy and bright, and you grind down hard so he’s somehow even deeper, the tip of him pushing your cervix into the bruised shape of his want. He shakes his head, wild with pride and terror.
“You’re… you’re fuckin’ unreal, y’know that?” He means it. His hands stroke your body, coaxing and possessive, as if trying to memorize the way your skin slicks together, the way your muscles tense around him. He keeps steadying you, guiding your rhythm without ever slowing you. Everything in him pulls towards you: his eyes, his voice, the shudder of his hips. You snarl through your teeth, and he laughs, a raw, unguarded sound.
“C’mon, baby, show me what you’ve got. You wanna take it all, don’t you? Wanna milk it outta me?” He rocks up into you, just once, and the crash of sensation makes you jerk, nails carving his shoulders open. You want to break him. You want to break yourself, just to see how far you’ll both go. Every thrust, every tight grind, sends that white heat up your spine. You barely remember your own name, only his. Only Frank, breathing you like oxygen, savoring every pained whisper.
“That’s it, that’s my girl. You can do it, ride it out for me, I got you,” he says, over and over, like he’s holding you together from the inside out. The words melt your insides, make you slick and reckless. You bounce, hard, angling your hips to drag against him, and the friction is blinding. The pressure builds sharp and mean, and you chase it, dizzy for release. He groans, losing himself in it, the edges breaking down.
“Don’t stop, baby, please—fuck, please,” he’s murmuring now, needy and on the edge. His cock twitches inside you, and you can feel every frantic pulse. You seize the moment, grind him in deep and slow until you’re both quaking. Your vision swarms with stars. You’re going to fly apart, but you don’t want to stop. You feel him lose his restraint, his body clenching, cock swelling, everything bracing for the crash. But you want to shatter at the same time he does. You grind down, finding that sweet, impossible angle, rocking back and forth so every movement draws a guttural moan from both of you. Your forehead presses to his, sweat mingling, and your bodies lock together, legs quaking so hard you think you might break.
“You’re - fuck, you’re gonna make me-” Frank doesn’t finish. His breath leaves him in one long, starving gasp, and you feel him spill inside you, so hot it burns, so much you shudder and cry out. The aftershocks rip through your body, nerves fraying to ribbons, and you clamp down hard, milking every last spasm out of him. He coaxes you through it, never letting go, whispering,
“That’s it, that’s my girl, you did so good, so fuckin’ good -” even as his own mind blanks out from the overload. You stay locked together for a long, shaking moment. His arms come up, cradle you, and for the first time since he pulled you into his lap, Frank’s body is gentle. He clutches you as you whimper, just keeps you sealed tight and caged in his arms, his nose in your hair, both hands carding up and down your slick, burning back. Your brain is a blank white roar. You’re shaking-quivering, really, spasming a little with the aftershocks that keep rolling up from where he’s still impossibly thick inside you. You’re not sure you could get off of him even if you wanted to.
“I told you I’d fuckin’ hurt you,” he says, voice hoarse but warm. “Warned you. Jesus.” His fingers slide up to wipe tears off your cheeks. He holds you, so careful now, like your body’s glass and you might shatter if he lets go.
“Easy, easy, I got you, honey.” He’s still hard inside you but you’re so raw and overstimmed you can hardly stand to breathe, let alone move. He doesn’t so much as twitch—not until your gasping slows, your full-body tremor easing off, the noise of your cries hollowed down to tiny little sighs. His hands stay, palms wide on your back, one thumb sliding up to trace the curve of your jaw, checking you, checking every inch like maybe you’re bleeding on the inside.It takes a minute to realize you’re whimpering, tears still leaking messily down your face. Frank’s thumb chases after every one, collecting them, dabbing at your cheeks with a gentleness that doesn’t match how he’s splitting you open below.
“You with me?” he says, voice low and sweet, the kind of tone you’ve maybe never heard from him before. Like you’re something precious that might crack if he raises his voice, something he can’t afford to let break. You try to nod, but your head is too heavy. Frank’s hand curves around the back of your neck, massaging the tensed muscle, and you melt a little more against his chest. He kisses your hair, the top of your head, your temple, your eyelid, giving you time, anchoring you piece by piece.
“Did so good, baby. You’re incredible, you hear me? Fucking superwoman. But—” he cuts himself off, cupping your cheeks to get a good look at your face, searching your eyes for any sign that you might actually be broken. “But you gotta tell me if you’re hurt. Like for real, honey. I mean it.” His concern flickers through the haze, and you manage a hoarse, breathless laugh.
“I’m fine,” you whisper, then, with more force, “I’m so fucking great.” You flex your inner muscles, and he groans outright, tipping his head back. “See? Still alive.”
“Don’t do that to me,” Frank growls, but it’s ruined by the open adoration on his face, the way his hands won’t stop stroking you everywhere, mapping your body like he might never get another chance. “’M'serious. Next time you want to do that right after coming all over my face, there’s gotta be a...a resting period. Like you work up to it, y’know?” He gives you a lopsided, sheepish grin, and it’s so stupidly earnest you nearly start crying again. You bury your face in his throat, breathing him in. You can taste your own sweat, his too, and the cleaner you’d used to wipe down the couch this morning—so basically domestic bliss, if domestic bliss came with the ability to walk the next day in question.
“Hey. Sweetheart, what do you need? Anything? Water, or—”He can’t seem to finish the sentence, instead pressing a reverent kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then down the sticky line of your jaw. “Didn’t mean to make you cry. I’m sorry, baby, shit, I’m so sorry.” You shake your head, still not ready to let go of him, arms clutching his shoulders so tight your knuckles shine white.
“M’good,” you breathe, voice breaking on the first syllable. “You feel so good, Frank. S’not bad, I promise.” The soft insistence in your voice cuts through the last of his panic, and he laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. His hand cups the back of your skull, holding you to him. His eyes scan your face, his chest heaving.
“Frank, I’m good. Swear.” You nuzzle into his skin, until he’s forced to believe you. He holds you like that for a long stretch, strong arms locked around your waist while you slowly remember how to exist. Eventually, when you feel almost normal, you try to shift your hips, easing up—but the fullness is so complete you gasp, breath knocking out of you. Frank tenses instantly, pushing your hair back to check your face.
Frank tenses instantly, both hands coming up to your face like he can physically steady the moment through touch alone.
“Hey—hey, look at me,” he murmurs, voice rough but controlled. “Still with me? You hurt anywhere?”
You shake your head quickly, breath catching as you try to settle your weight. It’s overwhelming in a different way now—less sharp, more full-body, like your nervous system hasn’t caught up yet. Frank studies your expression for a long second, jaw tight, eyes scanning every flicker of discomfort.
Then he exhales.
“Okay,” he says quietly, like he’s talking himself down as much as you. “Okay… c’mere.”
One hand slides to your waist, firm but careful, and he shifts beneath you with slow, deliberate patience. There’s no rush in him now—just focus. He eases you down against his chest, guiding you so you’re braced against him instead of holding yourself up at all.
“Gonna move you off me, alright?” he adds softly. “Nice and slow.”
When you nod, still a little dazed, he carefully helps you off his lap entirely with a careful, controlled exhale, trying not to beat himself up as you whine and clench your thighs together. He kisses your forehead.
"I know, baby, i know."
He kisses your forehead again, a soft, lingering press of his lips. "Just stay right there. Don't move."
He's surprisingly gentle as he maneuvers, easing you off his lap and onto the couch cushion beside him. You whimper at the sudden emptiness, at the slick mess between your thighs, but he's already moving. He stands, his sweats still hanging open, and you watch him for a moment—the powerful lines of his back, the confident way he moves even when he's just grabbing a throw blanket from the armchair.
He comes back, kneeling in front of you, and starts cleaning you up with the soft fleece. It's so careful, so methodical, it makes your chest ache. He wipes your thighs, your stomach, his brow furrowed in concentration like he's disarming a bomb. When he's done, he tosses the blanket aside and starts to get dressed again, pulling up his sweats and adjusting himself with a wince. He finds his discarded t-shirt and pulls it over his head, then turns to you.
"C'mere," he says, his voice still rough but softer now. He helps you sit up, his hands steady on your arms. He grabs your shorts from where they'd been kicked under the coffee table and holds them out for you to step into, his hands lingering on your hips as he pulls them up. Frank gets himself sorted next—sweats adjusted, shirt back on—then immediately returns to you like there’s no question about where he belongs. Before you can even fully settle, he’s lifting you again. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just Frank. He sits back down on the couch and pulls you right into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world, arms circling you to hold you there securely against his chest. You go willingly, folding into him with a tired little exhale that melts straight into his warmth.
“There,” he murmurs. “Better.” Your head ends up tucked under his jaw, cheek pressed against his collarbone, his heartbeat steady under your ear. Frank reaches for the blanket and drapes it over both of you without thinking twice, tucking it around your legs like he’s done it a hundred times before—and probably wishes he had. For a while, it’s just quiet.His hand rubs slow, grounding circles along your back. Yours, meanwhile, finds its own rhythm—light, absentminded tracing along his face. Your fingertips brush his jaw first… then his cheek… then finally settle along his lips, just barely pressing there like you’re testing the shape of him. Frank huffs a quiet laugh through his nose.
“Yeah?” he murmurs. “That what we’re doin’ now?” You don’t answer right away. You’re still catching your breath, still coming back into yourself, but the touch helps. Keeps you anchored. His lips part slightly under your fingers, and he gently kisses the pad of one of them without thinking. That makes you smile. A beat passes. Then, very matter-of-factly, you shift a little more comfortably against him and say,
“I think I found my new favorite place to sit.” Frank pauses. Looks down at you like you’ve just said something extremely important and also extremely correct.
“Oh yeah?” he asks, tone suddenly lighter. You nod once, serious about it in a way that makes it funnier. Frank’s mouth twitches into a slow grin.
“Well,” he says, tightening his arms around you just a little, “that works out real nice for me.” You blink up at him.
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I’m kinda partial to it too.” That earns a soft laugh from you, and Frank’s expression warms instantly at the sound—like it resets something in him.
“You’re ridiculous,” you mumble, still tracing lazy lines along his lips.
“Mm,” he agrees easily. “But you’re sittin’ on me anyway.”
“I didn’t say it was a complaint.”
“Good,” he says, leaning back into the couch like he’s fully settling in for the long haul. “’Cause I’m not lettin’ you up anytime soon.” You tilt your head.
“Yeah?” Frank looks down at you properly, blue eyes steady, a little amused, a lot fond.
“Oh, I’m 100% down with this arrangement,” he says. “My girl’s got a favorite spot, I’m just lucky it happens to be me.” That makes your smile turn soft again, your fingers slowing against his mouth as your breathing finally evens out. Frank catches your hand gently before it drops, holding it for a second and pressing another quiet kiss to your knuckles. Then, after a beat—his voice drops just a little, teasing again:
“And for the record? Whether you wanna sit on my lap of my face, I’m a real big fan of bein’ your furniture.”
Jason Todd, who needs you like he needs to breathe- scratch that, he needs you more than he needs to breathe. He genuinely cannot sleep unless you’re by his side, cuddling him or even holding his hand. He struggles to keep from hyperventilating after a rough night of patrol unless you’re right there in front of him, cupping his face and peppering little kisses anywhere you can reach. Crowds make him nervous, he can’t even walk through the city unless you’re in arms reach, where he can pull you to his side in order to keep himself grounded. He searches for you in every single room he enters, even if he knows you won’t be there. Call him cheesy, but he keeps a photo booth strip of the two of you from one of your dates by the pier in his wallet, he pulls it out to look at whenever he needs to calm himself down and you’re not around. Jason needs you so much, it literally hurts, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Summary: how they react to you waking them up in the middle of the night because you’re horny
Warning: fingering, thigh riding, use of vibrator, oral (f!receiving), implied sexual themes
DICK GRAYSON
“Dickie,” you whisper shaking Dick slightly. You already felt terrible waking him up, but you could not ignore the throbbing that was going on between your legs. You shook him again a little harder this time until a low hum left his lips. He opens his eyes slowly, but jumps to alertness when he sees you waking him up.
“Whats wrong? Are you okay?” He asks in rapid succession, looking around the room to assess for any danger. In a different scenario, this scene would be hilarious. Dick with his hair sticking out in all directions and a crazy look in his eye. But the longer this went on, the more you questioned your decision.
“Everything’s okay Dick, there’s no danger” you say, placing a comforting hand on his chest hoping to slow his racing heart. He releases a breath and lays back down slowly.
“Why’d you wake me up princess?” He asks, taking the hand that was on his chest and interlocking his fingers with it. Dick looked at you with soft eyes. His tone was not mad or accusatory, just curious as he watched you bite you lip.
“I- uhh…” you struggle at first “I was, I am really horny and I couldn’t sleep. I was hoping you could help me out” you say quickly, voice small and refusing to look at him as you felt your cheeks warm. Dick’s smile takes over his whole face as he gets closer to you and begins kissing your neck. He teases you by tracing your skin all the way down to your panties. You whimper when he finally begins to rub you over the thin material.
“My girl’s gone shy on me” he teases in your ear “Waking me up so I can touch her”. His voice was still husky with sleep, causing you to clench around nothing. Dick slipped his hand into your panties before dragging a finger up your folds. Finding your hole, he dipped one of his long fingers inside of you causing you to let out a broken moan.
“So wet for me. You should’ve woke me up sooner”
JASON TODD
You grunt in frustration taking your hands out of your shorts. You woke up to an incessant throb between your legs. Wanting to be a good girlfriend and let your vigilante boyfriend sleep, you tried to take care of it yourself. Unfortunately for you, your boyfriend had you spoiled you with touch, and nothing would compare to his hands on you. The way he caressed the soft, gentle plains of your body. You huff and roll over to your side taking in your boyfriend. Laying on his back, shirtless, mouth slightly open, and looking good enough to eat. You have always enjoyed watching Jason sleep because it is his most peaceful state. Temporarily unhaunted by the demons that plague him when his eyes are open.
That doesn’t stop you from straddling Jason’s thigh and laying on his chest. You were debating how horny you were and if it was worth it to wake him up or not. Luck for you, Jason was not a deep sleeper and the feeling of your weight on him had his eyes opening. He looks at you briefly confused before putting his hands on your back. He knows this is not how the two of you feel asleep last night, but leans his head back to close his eyes once more thinking you just wanted to cuddle.
“Everything alright ma?” He asks curiously. Jason’s body was relaxed knowing any real danger would have awoken him well before you. You press a couple kisses to his chest before looking at him.
“I’m okay baby,” you reassure. “Just got a little problem I wanted your help with”. Jason lifts his head again to look at you, raising his eyebrow in silent question. His thumbs rub soothing circles onto your back as you feel your body melt into his.
Without saying anything more, you grab one of his hands and make room for it between your bodies. Guiding his hand right over your mound. Jason’s eyebrows shoot up before a smirk settles on his face. He chuckles darkly looking at you.
“Awe, you woke me up to get yourself off?” He asks rhetorically and you nod in confirmation. Jason pulls you in to press a lazy kiss to your lips. When he pulls away he places both hands behind his head. It was your turn to be confused as you opened your eyes to question him.
“Oh c’mon baby, you just woke me up to use me” he says and before you can argue he flexes his thigh underneath you, cutting of your words. “Use me then baby”
BRUCE WAYNE
Laying next to your husband, you do everything to keep your moans down. The bullet vibrator working, pressed right against your clit while you close your eyes. You had been needy for Bruce all day, but when he came home he got into bed and passed out. It was so unusual for the man to get any sleep at all, so there was no way you were waking him up. Even if you wanted him desperately.
The bullet was not Bruce by any means but it would have to do. Despite your best effort, little huffs and moans spilled past your lips. You whisper to yourself, imagining it was Bruce down there and not some machine. Just as your climax was approaching, you feel Bruce’s large hard on your stomach. One of the consequences of being married to the world’s greatest detective was that not much got by him. Including your own failed attempt to get yourself off right next to him.
“You should’ve woke me up my love, instead of using that stupid thing,” he says kissing behind your ear. As much as you wanted Bruce to rest, you weren’t gonna lie and say you weren’t happy he was up now.
“Wanted you to rest Bruce. You know how I feel about your constant sleep deprivation,” you rebut feeling him take the vibrator from your fingers.
“How am I supposed to rest knowing my wife’s needs are not met?” he whispers to you. “Want my help?” He asks and you nod vigorously. He turns you onto your side, getting himself set to slide into you swiftly. When you feel him slip inside your heat, both of you release shuddered breaths. Bruce takes his time, making slow love to you.
WALLY WEST
You crawl on top of Wally and begin to press kisses all over his face, hoping to wake him up in the most gentle way possible. It takes a minute but his eyes flutter open to look at you. “Mmm babe… what time is it?” He grumbles, voice still hoarse with sleep.
“That is irrelevant. Remember when you said I could wake you up at any time if I ever needed something and you were asleep?” You ask, continuing to kiss all over his face and down his neck. His hands come up to yours hips out of instinct and he begins to massage them.
“Yea, of course I do?. What do you need?”
“I’m horny”
Wally blinks up at you before he starts to laugh. You pull away to look at him a pout on your face “why are you laughing at me?”
“Because babe. I was thinking that was more for emergencies and if you needed serious help” Wally says still laughing causing you to playfully hit his chest.
“But this is an emergency and I do need serious help! If my boyfriend doesn’t touch me I am going to die!” You say dramatically letting your body collapse fully on top of Wally’s. He rest his hands under your thighs before rolling you two over to be on top of you. He’s stopped laughing but his smile is still there.
“You want me to help out?” He asks, and now it is Wally’s turn to start kissing your neck.
“No, I need you too Wals. I need you to touch me so bad” you beg running your hands through his already messy hair. He looks at you with a smirk as his kisses trail down your body.
“I got you pretty girl. I’ll take care of you” he states before burying his face in your pussy.
❤︎ SYNOPSIS: the title is self explanatory—choso has a favorite camgirl, and now, she’s his project partner. in short, he is unwell.
❤︎ CONTENT: f!reader, alternate universe - college/university au, camgirl!reader, antisocial!chōsō (redundant), both are absolute nerds (also redundant), squirting, light angst, parties, alcohol, weed, first dates, bottom!chōsō, face riding, blowjobs, a pinch of deep throating, a splash of face fucking, non-sexual crying (happy tears) … 18+, minors and ageless blogs DNI.
❤︎ XOXO, PUMA: my first thought after seeing choso and pigtails—handlebars.
♫ NOW PLAYING: everything matters, aurora ft. pommes.
read on ao3 | 9k words | masterlist.
“YEAH BABY? YOU LIKE THAT?”
Chōsō exhales a small and stupid ‘uh-huh’ as a hand pumps his cock a mile a minute. Fast enough that he’d worry about chafing if he wasn’t drooling, and luckily for him, these videos always get him soaked.
Chōsō didn’t watch porn. (Note: didn’t—past tense.) He didn’t see the appeal of it, to be honest. Most of his jerk off sessions were to work away extra anxious energy, occasionally to hype himself out of bed in the morning or help him fall asleep. He’d scroll on some random social media site, aimless and looking at nothing sexual, just to keep something in front of his eyes. And, it worked, for a while.
Then, once, a fluke, Twitter puts soft core porn on his explore page. He doesn’t even know if it counts as that. It was a woman in a risqué cosplay, username cyberch!ck69, her identity protected and hidden behind a flu mask. Obviously, it was the cosplay that caught his attention—not necessarily the person in it—a male character, altered for the female form, from his favorite anime. Naturally, he clicks the account, wondering if she’s done more.
And boy, has she done more.
Now, Chōsō is fucked. Now, Chōsō can’t get off without looking at her, cyberch!ck69 officially and forever the first account in his Twitter search bar. If Twitter is down, he’ll cry for a little bit, before trying to recreate her from memory and failing. It’s become a nightly endeavor, a guilty pleasure, a secret he’s determined to take to the grave.
Because, having a parasocial relationship with a camgirl? Yuck.
She streams, once a week. Thursday. And every Thursday, Chōsō is scrambling, calling out of work, skipping class, doing whatever needs to be done to sit before his laptop by 7pm. He will be there, and he will donate—not enough to get noticed, but enough for him to know that the next time she buys coffee, it’s technically on his dime.
“Oh fuck, I’m gonna cum—”
Her chest shudders as she inches her hips closer to the camera, making sure Chōsō can see all of her: how her pussy soaks the dildo, obscene, slipping down the cleft of her ass. Chōsō’s hand manages to speed up on his own cock, bangs sticking to his forehead as he watches her current live stream with rapt eyes. His body is on fire—soaked with sweat and pre-cum—and the coil in his belly burns to be released. It won’t be, though. Not until she cum, first.
“Shit!”
Her legs lock as she drags out a moan, natural enough to make him shiver. She yanks the toy out and fingers find her clit, rubbing as she squirts, making an absolute mess that soaks the towel beneath her. Chōsō groans, his orgasm is pulled out of his gut before he could process any warnings, cumming all over his keyboard, and a little on the screen. It lands on her inner thigh, and yeah, the next time Twitter is down, he’s using that as fantasy fuel.
So, maybe Chōsō realizes he has a problem (which he’s realized, many times before, always during post-nut clarity, always absolutely mortifying) as he wipes down his laptop with a sigh. He should get a therapist, or something.
Or, he could keep jacking off to her.
SPARKPLUGDEEZNUTS wowowowow so hot, do it again
KENTO.NN sent 500$!
C.KAMO You’re so pretty
In class, Chōsō is trying to not fall asleep.
It’s not his fault. Once the stream ended, he had to start and finish his essay, all in one night. While he’s used to staying up late, he’s not used to getting up early—and a class had to be moved to the beginning of the day. (Something that the professor has to do, like a wedding, or something—Chōsō was zoning out. He really doesn’t know or care, but he does know and care that it’s 8 am, and his eyes keep closing.)
“For this project, you’ll be put in groups. Pairs of two…”
The professor drones on, but the word project and group catch Chōsō’s attention like wildfire. No. No, no, no, no—
He’s not scared that his partner won’t do the work—truly, that’s the last of his worries, he can always do it himself, or play snitch and tell a teacher. No, it’s that he doesn’t like talking to people. Doesn’t like interrupting the middle of his day to answer a text or a phone call, or, God forbid, hang out—jesus fuck—and definitely doesn’t like being himself around them.
(Which, he doesn’t mind, seriously. Most people don’t like Chōsō, anyways—they think he’s standoff-ish and a little scary. Chōsō has a grand total of one (1) friend, and he doesn’t mind.)
So, when the teacher calls his name, Chōsō shrinks into his seat.
“-and Y/N.”
Chōsō looks around in hopes someone will perk up, give him a clue as to who his partner is so he doesn’t have to stalk the class GroupMe for your name. He meets eyes with someone—a girl—and hopes against hope that it’s not her.
Forget about people. Chōsō definitely cannot talk to women, let alone pretty women. This feels like some sick, cosmic joke that he is not a part of, and he wants out.
Class breaks early. Probably to give partners time to find each other, to meet, to plan—Chōsō doesn’t know, he wasn’t listening again, too busy freaking out over two things: (1) having to talk to a stranger, and (2) the fact that this stranger may or may not be of the opposite sex.
He watches his worst nightmare unfold in front of his eyes.
The girl he made eye-contact with, the girl he deemed prettiest in the class after a very hearty scan, approaches him. (Because, let’s be clear—he doesn’t pay attention to his classmates. Chōsō looks at his feet on the way in, sits in his seat, stares at the board, and looks at his feet on the way out.) You hold a smile prettier than the sunrise, maybe a little shy, but not apprehensive. Not nervous—like he doesn’t look that intimidating, after all. Chōsō has yet to decide whether he hates or loves that fact.
“Hey! Uh, Chōsō, right? I think we’re partners.”
You two are definitely partners, but he thinks you might be acting polite, which is…cute. Chōsō’s heart beats way too fast, like he can feel it in his throat, fast, like it might beat right out his chest and make a break for it, fast. Chōsō wishes he could do that.
You stand there patient, expectant, and Chōsō has to take a big gulp before responding.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, great! When are you available?”
You take the seat next to him—the open seat, where he strategically placed himself, far, far away from people—without a second glance. Dropping your bag on the floor, you get comfortable, and chat like you’ve known him for years. There’s something familiar about you, but it’s not your face, so Chōsō can’t place it. Maybe, it’s from being in class together for half a semester, maybe you’ve been in his peripheral the whole time. Or, maybe you just look like a celebrity that he can’t immediately recall. “I’m available on Tuesdays and Thursdays after noon, most of my classes are in the morning. Though, on Thursdays I can’t do too late.”
You smile and wait for him to answer, again. Chōsō rips his eyes away from your lips.
“I can do Tuesday.”
“What about Thursday?”
Cyberch!ck69 streams on Thursdays. So, no—those are out of the equation.
“No.”
“Okay!” You nod, undeterred by his lack of enthusiasm. “I say we start with Tuesdays, and see if we need a second day. What’s your number?”
Your nails quickly clack against a glass phone screen to pull up your contacts, intricately designed and sharp, and that’s when Chōsō realizes—
“Are those…Tanjirō nails?”
“Huh?” You ask, before glancing down at your fingers—checkered green and black, both middle fingers tanned with a purple scar. The closer Chōsō looks at them, the more confident he is in his assessment. Demon Slayer. “Oh! Yeah.”
You look a little guilty about it, before returning to your phone. Chōsō nods. “That’s my favorite anime.”
“Really? Mine too!” You nearly squeal, and reel your backpack onto the table with a heavy thump—Christ, what do you carry in there? Chōsō missed it before, the countless keychains from different shows, some plush, some laminated, and some worn down more than others. You pull out a plush version of Tanjirō, and your nails match seamlessly. “Though, it might be a tie between that and AOT—or some random one season rom-com, God, I can never pick.”
You seem genuinely distraught by this, like it’s a thought process you’ve had many times before but have never been able to work through. As you ramble, you hold your phone out for Chōsō—which is when he remembers, right. His number.
He snatches it and quickly types it in.
“Great!” You say once you get your phone back, and stand in preparation to leave. Chōsō wants to whine. The only thing that placates it is that you have no choice but to see him again. “I’ll text you so you have my number, ‘kay? Then, we can figure out a time and place from there.”
Chōsō just nods. “Okay.”
“I’ll see you soon, pardner.” You tip an imaginary cowboy hat, accompanied by a poor accent, and Chōsō scrunches his nose in amusement. You’re so silly. He didn’t realize hot people could also have personalities. It doesn’t seem very fair to have both.
But, as Chōsō will soon come to learn, God doesn’t play fair.
CTRLSERO Do a flip!
C.KAMO I love your outfit.
SUKUNA_RYOMEN lemme lick you clean, baby
Chōsō has one (1) friend. Unfortunately, this one (1) friend has two (2) other friends, so Chōsō kind of guesses they’re his friends. too. Or something.
The cafe is rarely busy on Fridays. Most students are skipping class, at a party or preparing for a one, or just being plain lazy, the weekend too close that productivity starts to fizzle on its own. No one needs coffee at 3pm unless they’re a med student, and the med building is all the way on the other side of campus, with plenty of closer shops around. That leaves Chōsō and Suguru with nothing to do but spot clean and twiddle their thumbs. Shoko sits in a corner booth on her phone, quiet, unassuming, and disinterested.
“So, you meet with her Tuesday,” Suguru shrugs, wiping down a counter with a sigh. He keeps brushing his hair out of the way, lacking time on his rush out the door to even consider it, so Chōsō takes the spare tie on his wrist and holds it out. Suguru takes it gracefully, and ties a bun. “What’s the plan?”
“Try not to freak out,” Chōsō grumbles. He’s given up on being productive, and sits on one of their bar stools, cheek resting on a hand. He lifts an elbow when Suguru reaches that side of the table, and places it back down on the wet spot. “Try not to cry.”
“Yo, yo, yo! Hel-lo, party people!”
“Gojō, please,” Shoko groans from the corner, rubbing her ears. “I just got out of a three hour lecture.”
“Oh, big whoop,” Satoru rolls his eyes. Suguru sighs and drops the rag before Satoru can point at him and say, “Gimme my usual, Big Guy!”
“Stop calling me that,” Suguru hisses through grit teeth, rummaging through the fridge for a pre-made version of Satoru’s drink. (Something about him not wanting to make it once the white-haired guy gets here, something about Satoru hovering over his shoulder and making edits in real time.) He slides it across the counter. Satoru takes the seat to Chōsō’s left, and catches the drink mid-slide. “Heart attack, coming right up.”
“Thank you,” Satoru nods, before turning to Chōsō. Whatever he was going to say disappears at eye-contact, and Satoru’s face curdles as he takes him in. “Ew, what’s wrong with you?”
This is exactly why Chōsō has one (1) friend, and it’s not Satoru Gojō.
“He likes a girl,” Suguru answers with half a mind, busy using a new rag to wipe his hands clean. Chōsō rushes to fix the lax explanation.
“Uh, well, I don’t know,” he fiddles with the grout in the counter like there’s anything to fiddle with. “She seems cool, but I don’t know her like that.”
“You definitely won’t with that attitude,” Satoru sneers, before taking a long and loud sip of his drink and giving Suguru a chef’s kiss. “Fucking magnificent.”
“Yeah. Just don’t drink it all at once or it’ll spike your blood sugar,” Shoko huffs, sipping on her own black coffee. “That’s enough sugar to kill someone with hyperglycemia.”
“Oh, please,” Satoru waves over his shoulder, before taking a long and loud sip, peering from above his sunglasses like a dare. “Your mom has hyperglycemia.”
Shoko doesn’t even blink. “She is diabetic, so technically, yes.”
Satoru groans, collapsing his upper body against the freshly cleaned countertop. “You take the fun out of everything.”
Suguru approaches the counter from the other side, giving up on polishing for the time being, and taps Chōsō on the arm. “Hey. From what it sounds like, be yourself, and you’ll be fine.”
Chōsō smiles. Opens his mouth to say thank you, that actually helped his nerves a lot. Satoru doesn’t give him the pleasure.
“Boo! That’s the worst advice ever,” his scoff turns into a chortle, and Suguru’s glare is cutting. “I say, you tell her she looks pretty today, and you’ll get two answers—thank you, or ‘I look pretty everyday.’ Either way, you’re in.”
“Satoru,” Suguru laces his fingers together to look at his friend in utter disappointment. “That’s how you got hit last week.”
“No, I got hit last week because she couldn’t comprehend being swooned by such a handsome and intelligent man, an—”
“Whatever you do, don’t listen to him,” Suguru says, turning back to Chōsō. He doesn’t have to be told twice.
HIROMI_H Legally, I’m hard.
C.KAMO Your laugh is so cute
KENTO.NN sent 300$!
The first time you two meet, it's calm, chill, collected. Chōsō’s not freaking out.
“Okay, so, for the topic, I was thinking ‘The Effects the Heian Era had in the Modern World,’ but I don’t know if you wanted to do something else—do you want to do something else?”
To be honest, the project’s topic has been the last thing on Chōsō’s mind.
No, he’s been too busy panicking for today—wondering if his pigtails make him look childish or edgy, wondering if he should wear something more fitted instead of his usual loose clothing. He even debated wearing sunglasses indoors like Satoru, for a moment, before chucking that idea out the window so hard he tweaked a shoulder. Why would he do that?
“Um, no. That sounds good.”
“Okay, cool,” you breathe with something relieved. You push your laptop across the library table, decorated with cute, half-peeling stickers, just like your phone case. “Because, I already wrote half an outline.”
Chōsō looks your outline over. Thankfully, the project is an essay and not a presentation—if it was, Chōsō would’ve melted on the spot.
Chōsō skims it and nods. “It looks good.”
“Thank you,” you beam, grabbing the laptop back as he nudges it toward you with an inching finger. “I was a little bored the other night and couldn’t sleep, so…voila!”
Chōsō snorts.
“I’ll email it so you can edit and add to the doc…” You drag the words as your brain lags, focused on typing while trying to retain a completely separate train of thought. “And then, we can go from there! Cool?”
He nods. “Cool.”
The email goes through quickly. He focuses on nothing but his screen, and the conversation lulls, replaced by the clack of keyboards and the occasional sniff. He has to focus on his laptop, because otherwise, his mind drifts to either you or cyberch!ck69, when it shouldn’t, when it knows that’s dangerous territory. It’s just that it's almost Thursday, so he’s excited about the live stream. And, you’re dressed really cute. That’s all.
The second time you two meet, Chōsō skips breakfast.
It had been a busy morning—he got up late, later than normal, with just about thirty minutes to spare before meeting in the library. He got dressed in the dark, culminating in the strangest outfit combination he’s ever seen, and a set of mismatched socks. He’s surprised to see his shoes twin. And you, ever kind, so polite:
“Ooh! I like your outfit today!”
He looks like shit.
Chōsō lets it slide, though, with a small thank you as he settles into place. Slowly, a rhythm builds—tip, tap, tip, tap, click—the sound of your fingers clicking the keyboard a lot harsher than his. Eventually, you huff, and look over to the snack shack in the library’s lobby.
“I’m kinda hungry…want anything?”
Chōsō doesn’t even take a moment to consider, just shakes his head. “I’m okay.”
His stomach betrays him almost immediately, though, rumbling at the mere thought of food. And, it’s a quiet library. Chōsō puts an embarrassed hand to his stomach, while you giggle and lift an eyebrow.
“You sure about that?”
Chōsō sighs. He guesses he’s not.
He gets up with you—because, he’s not about to let you pay for him—and hates every inch of that walk. It’s maybe a minute long walk, but he feels hot eyes burn into the soft parts of his spine, even when there are none. You chatter the whole way—about your day, what you’re going to get, what is he going to get?
“Huh?” Chōsō asks. He was staring, again.
“What are you going to get?”
You look up at the menu with a finger to your lips, like you have options. Chōsō gets one thing, and one thing alone. “Chocolate muffin.”
“Okay,” you nod, then turn to the lady behind the register. “Can I get a Chocolate muffin, a caramel latte with oat milk…”
Chōsō doesn’t even get the chance to protest, get the chance to try to pay. What pisses him off is that he realizes he doesn’t mind, all that much.
The third time you two meet, it’s raining outside.
It was pouring, and he had to go from one class straight to this—another class moved for something else he couldn’t care less about. He didn’t check the weather this morning, and maybe that’s on him, but he never checks the weather. It’s a habit he’s willing to pick up, though, especially after dragging his feet into the library like a wet cat.
Also. It’s Thursday.
You were busy Tuesday, something about having to go back home. You kept the details vague, but Chōsō got the gist—you two wouldn’t be able to meet this week. So, you moved some stuff around, and now, Chōsō’s perfunctory him time gets snatched right from under his nose. Not that it matters, anyway. Cyberch!ck69 isn’t even streaming today.
But, like Chōsō said before, he has a Pavlovian response to Thursdays. On the fourth day of the week, he’s trained to go, walking around with something heavy simmering behind his belly button. The closer it gets to seven o’clock, the worse it gets—and it’s six thirty.
Chōsō is hanging on by a thread. A very thin thread, a thread the thickness of a fishing string.
It doesn’t help that you’re dressed all cute today—you’re dressed cute everyday, but today, the breasts...they’re nuzzled comfortably, peeking out the top of your low cut shirt, and Chōsō has…thoughts…
“—ōsō, Chōsō!”
You’re snapping his face now, and Chōsō prays the direct eye contact made with your nipples wasn’t too obvious. His face flushes, just in case.
“I—sorry, yes?”
“Are you okay? Are you getting sick?”
You take in his currently soaked state, and honestly, Chōsō might be. That has nothing to do with his thoughts, though, just the weird tightness in the back of his throat.
“I’m fine,” he shakes it off, and droplets of water drop from his bangs, to his nose, to the desk. He has half a mind to push them out of his face, but god forbid his forehead is on display, so he just suffers. In silence. He’s very good at that.
“You sure? We can call it early if—”
“No!” Chōsō answers quick, too quick, and backtracks before he can make a further fool of himself. “I—I mean, no. It’s okay, I’m fine.”
“Okay…” you say wary, not fully convinced, but not close enough to push him either. So, you just nod, and look back to your screen. “Just let me know.”
Chōsō doesn’t let you know. By the time you two are done meeting for the day, he’s still wet to the bone, and freezing, and yet, kind of hard?
SUKUNA_RYOMEN sent 15$!
ACTUALLYYUKI ooh, rawr
C.KAMO Did you do your hair different today? it looks nice
It’s Thursday.
It’s Thursday at seven pm, and Chōsō’s ready. He’s already eaten dinner, done all his homework for the night, washed his face and brushed his teeth. He’s hell-bent on watching the stream, cumming, and going straight to bed. None of that ‘oh no, I still have homework to do, but my brain leaked out my dick the second I came’ shit. Not today.
Finally, the aesthetic waiting screen cuts to the usual, cyberch!ck69 in a lilac lingerie set and flu mask. While he can’t see the lower half of her face, he knows she’s smiling—the mask bends under the weight of it. Chōsō’s been hard and pent up all day, his Pavlovian response for Thursdays, at this point, and there’s a subset of butterflies in his stomach letting him know. It’s pathetic, but there’s not much he’s willing to do about it, either.
“Good Evening,” she purrs, getting closer to the camera to read the comments. “How are my horny freaks?”
The comment section explodes, so Chōsō turns it off. He likes to gaslight himself into thinking it’s just her and him. It’s a little sad, but it’s something he’s, often, much too horny to consider. No, i’ts not until after he cums that he’ll slam his head into a pillow repeatedly, chanting in time, stupid, stupid, stupid, until he falls asleep. That’s most nights, anyways.
“Ooh, the park? That sounds fun,” she coos, tilting her head just enough for it to be tantalizing. Then, she shifts back, revealing a Hitachi Wand plugged into the wall behind her bed. “Well, today we’re going to do something familiar. My favorite.”
Yeah. Chōsō’s favorite, too.
He starts palming himself through his sweats because, while Chōsō is good at waiting, never for this. He hisses, dropping his head on a shoulder as he watches her get comfortable and assume the usual position—on her back, feet in the air, and pussy to the camera.
“I feel like we should get right into it,” she says, fiddling with the vibrating wand and its controls. “I’ve been horny all day. There’s this guy I’ve been talking to, and he’s kinda cute. Makes me wet.”
Chōsō stifles jealousy for a stranger like a pill that’s too big to swallow.
The Hitachi’s buzz is almost offensive. It’s strong enough that Chōsō can feel it through the screen, the vibrations rattling his brain just right. She places it over the lingerie set, right on her clit, and immediately mewls.
“F-fuck, oh my god,” she huffs, hips stuttering as she grinds into the toy, before recoiling like the feeling is too much. “Gimme a sec, it’s been—shit—been a minute.”
And, it really has. The last time Chōsō remembers her bringing that toy out was probably a few months ago. The stream ended with her squirting so much she soaked through the towel and onto her sheets—Chōsō knows, because she showed off the wet spot afterwards. He only prays that this one will end the same as he frees himself from his boxers.
“Okay,” she pants upon recovery, still out of breath, still placing the Hitachi flush to herself. “I set five alarms, and I’m allowed to cum after each one. Not before, though, which is going to be…tricky.”
Chōsō licks his lips. He doesn’t think he’s seen her cum more than thrice, and they all occurred close enough together that they might as well just be one long orgasm. Usually, she just turns the camera on, fucks herself, then turn it off. This is new.
“We’re graduating from amateur status!” She giggles, almost delirious, and weakly fist pumps the air with a free hand. “Kind of.”
It’s the fist pump where he sees it first. The flash of forest green.
He doesn’t think anything of it, though. No, his sex-soaked brain is focused on one thing alone: the way he can see her pussy flutter beneath thin lace. Chōsō sighs as he wraps a tight hand around himself and starts pumping slow—it sounds like it’s going to be a long stream—and relaxes into the feeling. Finally. It’s Thursday.
Then, she twists the vibrator a little. That’s when Chōsō realizes he’s fucked.
Tanjirō nails.
His orgasm takes him by surprise, chest hitching as he understands, oh, and proceeds to coat his fist and shirt in his own cum. There are spots in his vision, and though he lives alone, Chōsō slams his mouth shut into a thin line to mute the moan—it comes up and out his nose instead, but at least it's quieter.
Once he comes down—while annoyed that his own body betrayed him—Chōsō doesn’t even close the stream. Just slams his laptop shut.
Because, no. That had to be a trick of the light. It had to be his eyes seeing something that isn’t there because he wants to. Because, he’s a pervert.
So, he opens the laptop again. The stream hasn’t kicked him out yet, and she’s still writhing on the other end.
“So, this is going to be harder than I thought it’d be,” she huffs a laugh, and Chōsō groans when he realizes it isn’t a trick of the light—tricks of the light don’t affect fucking sound. “The holding back part, at least.”
The Hitachi rolls again, and your nails glint on display. Tanjirō’s stupid fucking scar mocks Chōsō from your middle finger.
He slams his laptop shut, again.
INO.OHNO oh my god that a s s
C.KAMO sjwepwuqabdqp
C.KAMO that was an accident
LARUEDADUDE And how do we feel about pegging?
It’s Friday, and Chōsō’s still freaking out about Thursday. Unfortunately, his one (1) friend doesn’t give him the opportunity to mope until Saturday. He had plenty of time to panic Thursday night, though. So much for going to bed.
fuck the big three (+choso) its just big me (+choso)
satoru g. [3:16 pm]
> party today, b there or b a FUCKING WHORE
suguru! [3:20 pm]
> that’s not the saying. also, party where?
shoko i. [3:21 pm]
> I’m good ty tho
satoru g. [3:21 pm]
> BOOO SHOKO U FUCKING WHORE
shoko muted the group chat ‘fuck the big three (+choso) its just big me (+choso)’
suguru! [3:25 pm]
> where’s the party, satoru.
satoru g. [3:25 pm]
> idfk @ som1’s house
suguru! [3:28 pm]
> mmm very informative.
satoru g. [3:28 pm]
> I WAS GIVEN A FLYER AND AN ADDY
satoru g. [3:28 pm]
> I DON’T LIKE UR SASS
suguru! [3:30 pm]
> stfu
suguru! [3:30 pm]
> yeah, i’m down.
suguru! [3:31 pm]
> choso?
me [3:34 pm]
> I don’t go to parties…
satoru g. [3:34 pm]
> WELL U DO NOW
satoru g. [3:35 pm]
> BUCKLE UP COWBOY
suguru! [3:35 pm]
> omg satoru, you give buckle bunny vibes.
satoru g. [3:35 pm]
> GET TH FUCK OUT MY FACE
satoru g. [3:36 pm]
> UR UNINVITED
suguru! [3:38 pm]
> you wish. you wouldn’t go without me.
suguru! [3:38 pm]
> choso, why not? it could be good to get out for a bit.
me [3:39 pm]
> Too many people
me [3:40 pm]
> Idk, they’re just icky
satoru g. [3:40 pm]
> oh no ur going
satoru g. [3:40 pm]
> u have no choice
satoru g. [3:40 pm]
> ik where u live
me [3:42 pm]
> Pls no
satoru g. [3:43 pm]
> FLY FLY LIKE A BIRD, FLY AWAAAAY
me [3:46 pm]
> Fly right into my bed?
satoru g. [3:47 pm]
> no
satoru g. [3:47 pm]
> fly to the p a r t y dude
suguru! [3:50 pm]
> well, it’s up to you choso, but i think you could have fun.
suguru! [3:50 pm]
> you can stand in the corner with me? i’ll glare at anyone who tries to talk to you.
satoru g. [3:51 pm]
> pfffffffft nobody is gonna talk to that boy tf
satoru g. [3:51 pm]
> he’s scary mary fr fr
satoru g. [3:52 pm]
> just dont smile and u’ll b fine
me [4:04 pm]
> I don’t know
suguru! [4:05 pm]
> and if you want to leave early, you totally can?
satoru g. [4:05 pm]
> NO TF HE CANNOT
satoru g. [4:06 pm]
> HE LEAVES WHEN I WANNA LEAVE
suguru! [4:09 pm]
> that doesn’t mean we have to stay. what are you thinking, choso?
me [4:15 pm]
> Maybe idk
me [4:15 pm]
> Was looking forward to moping today
satoru g. [4:16 pm]
> BOOOO YOU MOPE EVERY DAY YOU FUCKIGN INCEL
me [4:21 pm]
> Is your caps lock broken or something
satoru g. [4:21 pm]
> ME? PFFT NO
me [4:25 pm]
> Then why are you texting in all caps?
Choso was kicked out of the group chat ‘fuck the big three (+choso) its just big me (+choso)’
Chōsō ends up going, against his better judgement.
He wasn’t planning on it, honestly. But, Suguru and Satoru banged on his door until he answered, and barged into his apartment like it was their own. (Mainly Satoru, at least Suguru was really polite about it.)
Now, he’s here, crammed in some stranger’s apartment in an outfit he wouldn’t wear on a good day. Satoru shoved a red solo cup in his hands, but Chōsō doesn’t even know what’s in it. He takes a whiff and scrunches his nose. Definitely alcohol.
“—and then, she said never talk to me again, and I was like ‘what-what? Girl, you know you fuck with all thisssss!’”
Satoru gestures to himself and does a body roll, and Chōsō sighs. Moping at parties just doesn’t hit the same.
But, just as he’s about to say something, either about how Satoru’s story definitely counts as harassment or to reiterate that he would like to leave, the sea of people part, a light shines, and you step into the building. It’s like fucking visual poetry.
Immediately, Chōsō is tugging on Suguru’s sleeve. “I want to leave now.”
“Now? But we just got here!” Satoru whines, stomping a foot. Suguru sighs.
“I hate to agree with Satoru, but he’s right,” he shrugs and takes a swig of his drink—seriously, what’s in this? “I think we should shoot for at least ten minutes.”
“Yeah, and—” Satoru cuts himself off when you catch Chōsō’s eye, and wave. Now, he has no choice but to wave back. To acknowledge your presence. He’s not ready for this. “Oh shit, is that the girl?”
Chōsō clears his throat, shakes his head. Looks at the ground. “No.”
Suguru snarls, and slaps Satoru upside the head. He hisses a whisper, intended to be quiet enough for Chōsō to miss, but he hears anyways. “What other girl does Chōsō talk to—obviously it’s the fucking girl.”
But, when Choso looks up from his feet, you’ve gotten closer, now with a drink in hand—like you want to say hi, or something. You’re dressed…fucking…you are dressed, Chōsō can confirm, and the clothes hug your body in all the right places, just enough to make his mouth water. He swallows.
Then, there’s the whole camgirl thing—holy shit, he cannot talk to you.
“Let’s go,” Chōsō insists, bouncing a leg. Suguru looks at him like he’s acting weird—and he is, a little. Panicking, perhaps. “Let’s go now.”
Chōsō isn’t good when he panics. His heart leaps into his throat, cutting the oxygen supply to his brain off, leading him to make dumb decisions and even dumber reactions. He can’t talk, can’t think, can barely breathe. He cannot talk to you.
And yet, you approach anyway, despite the fact that he’s begging every God out there for you to not. That’s when it’s confirmed: God doesn’t play fucking fair.
“Hey! Funny seeing you here,” you grin, at Chōsō, and he kind of wants to die. Now, every time he hears your voice, he hears cyberch!ck69, and that absolutely cannot happen in public, good god.
All he can really do is hope that he doesn’t get hard. Or, like. Cry.
“Uh, yeah,” Chōsō darts his eyes to the corner of the room, hoping that if he stares hard enough, a black hole will form, and take him out of his misery. Rip him into a million, indiscriminate ribbons. “I don’t, um, g-get out super often. So.”
Satoru snickers. Suguru hushes him, but never quits watching. No, instead he introduces himself.
Well, fuck. There goes Chōsō’s shot. Not that he had one in the first place.
“Suguru Geto,” Suguru smiles, curt and polite and in the way that makes all women swoon. You take his hand when it’s offered.
“Y/N, nice to meet you!”
“And, I’m Satoru Gojō,” Satoru all but cuts you off, moving Suguru out of the way and lowering sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. “Let me know if you get tired of my boy.”
Satoru chucks a head back to gesture at Chōsō, whose grip is tight enough on the plastic cup to make it pop. You tilt a head to the side in innocent confusion, because you two are project partners and nothing else. It’d be cute if it were under any other circumstance. “What?”
“Oh, y’know, cuz he’s—ack!”
Satoru gets snatched by the back of his shirt, courtesy of Suguru, who just smiles, and says, “We’ll be right back.”
Chōsō watches as his one (1) friend absolutely abandons him, throws him to the wolves and chants fight. Satoru manages a choking ‘call me’ before he’s dragged into the kitchen, and far, far away from Chōsō. (Thank God—but also, Suguru, please come back.)
“Your friends are funny,” you giggle, and somehow, it makes Chōsō feel worse. Yeah, funny and hot and not at all like me.
“Thanks,” Chōsō nods, but he doesn’t really mean it. The conversation comes to a lull, and despite the loud music and grinding bodies, Chōsō feels overwhelmingly awkward. Maybe…maybe it’s because of the loud music and grinding bodies. He takes a big swig of alcohol and almost chokes on it, hyping himself up to ask a woefully uninteresting question.
“Um…” he starts, which gets your attention, somehow, hearing him over the heavy bass. “How’s your side of the project going?”
Your face flattens.
“I’m not talking about homework on a Friday night, Chōsō.”
“Right, right,” he nods, ignoring the throb in his noggin from immediately running into a symbolic invisible wall. You two don’t have anything else in common other than anime, to his knowledge. And, Lord knows he doesn’t want to talk about that, because, your nails, the porn—it’s all so fresh in his mind. Chōsō closes his eyes, and the image of your nails over your pussy are burned against it like a brand, hot and sharp and distinctly offensive. Chōsō has never suffered on such a psychological level.
Thankfully, you bridge the gap for him.
“You said you don’t get out often, right?” You ask, and Chōsō nods with a diligence. “What do you do for fun?”
Watch you. Another horrible answer, to technically, a horrible question. It’s all your fault.
“Play games,” he shrugs after a second of contemplation, a moment of wait, what do I do other than jack-off. “Watch movies.”
You hum like he’s given you a riveting answer. He has not. “Ooh, okay! What’s a movie you watched recently that you really liked?”
You, you, you, you, you, you—
Chōsō takes another swig and, despite the heat, shivers as it makes its way down.
“Um…” he thinks, because honestly, he doesn’t watch a lot of movies, he just said that because it sounded normal. Now, he’s stuck, trying to figure out which movie to lie about, a movie he’s actually seen. He stays stuck, the alcohol in his system slowing his judgement, he doesn’t drink a lot, okay, and, “…I don’t know.”
You snort, like what he said is endearing and not at all wholly embarrassing. “Okay, okay fair. What about video ga—”
“Man of Medan.”
Your eyes light up, just like when he pointed at your nails, shining with cosmic star stuff and impossibilities. You gasp, “Oh my God! I love the Dark Anthology—though, Little Hope is my favorite.”
Chōsō scrunches his nose, “That one stressed me out.”
“And Man of Medan didn’t?” You scoff, shoving a politely challenging finger into his chest. Chōsō kinda likes it.
“Touché.”
So. You two end up talking about video games for the next hour and a half.
Chōsō doesn’t know what he expected—he doesn’t know why he was expecting you to be somebody else, whether the party environment or his recent discovery is at fault. You are exactly who you always were—adorably nerdy, genuinely considerate, and blinding to look at. Watching you talk is like watching a statue come to life, almost unnatural in a way that feels ethereal. And, maybe Chōsō is a little tipsy, now.
“Y’know which one sucked, but in a good way? House of Ashes,” you nod, almost solemn. You two have moved to the backyard for air (which, surprisingly, was your request, not his), taking the floating bench on the porch. It’s quiet, and thankfully, much less crowded than indoors. Out here feels like Chōsō’s own little bubble. “The claustrophobia was real.”
“Oh, that makes me feel better,” Chōsō says, and stops rolling the joint for a second. His fingers are sticky from the flower as he uses your lip liner to pack it, before handing the pencil back. “I unironically dislike it because of that alone.”
You hum and nod, but your eyes seem preoccupied with what he does with his hands, as he twists the end of the joint to close it, and proceeds to burn it off.
“What,” Chōsō asks after following your gaze. He starts to wonder if you’re one of those people that hate weed—either for the smell or affects—and maybe, it wasn’t a good idea to bring it in front of a girl he’s trying to impress.
You clear your throat, looking a little guilty as you press the tips of your fingers together, “May I steal a hit?”
Chōsō relaxes. Oh, thank God.
“You may,” he snorts, holding the joint between his lips as he flicks the lighter once, twice, three times, and finally, the stubborn flame catches. “Though, if you wanted to steal, then why ask?”
“Because,” you shrug, and leave it at that, opting to curl your body in a position that seems much more comfortable. Chōsō inhales twice, before passing it to you. It becomes a rhythm, after that. 2:1.
And, naturally, when smoking with a semi-stranger at night, things get deeper than expected.
“Y’know,” you sigh, smoke following your breath on the way out. “Because of my job, most people think I’m a whore.”
Chōsō chokes on his spit. Fucking what?
And, like—yeah, he knows what you’re talking about, but you’re not supposed to know that he knows what you’re talking about, so he has no choice but to play it cool, right?
(Chōsō Kamo is severely underprepared for this conversation.)
“What?” He asks after recovering, after comforting his spasming throat with water and another hit. You’re swinging the bench a bit, watching the sky like there’s anything to see other than smog.
“My job,” you say, looking to him like he’s supposed to have the context. And he does, but like— “I do porn.”
Okay, okay. Deep, grounding breaths. Preferably with marijuana in his lungs.
What bothers him, honestly, is that he’s not the only person who knows. And, why would he be? All someone has to do is remember what nails you have (like he did), or superimpose your face over a video.
“I only do solo stuff, like, I’m so scared of people, but,” you shrug, and that’s the end of your sentence. Chōsō should say something, right? Something comforting?
“No, I think they’re just mad that you don’t want to fuck them,” Chōsō says, and you snort, like you weren‘t expecting him to say anything at all. “And, that you make double of the average college student salary.”
“Thanks, Chōsō,” you say with a smile, too soft for his comfort. “’Course you would say that. You’re a good boy.”
It takes everything in his being to absolutely ignore what you just said, because not only does he have other things to say, but he might cry until you call him that again. Nope, won’t do it—especially when you’re talking about guys being creeps.
He rushes to change the subject. Kind of.
“And, next time somebody says that, you let me know,” he says with a firm nod, and you scoff at him in disbelief, picking the joint from his fingers.
“What are you gonna do? Punch them?”
Chōsō looks at the awning for a second as he thinks, and then nods. “I’ll try.”
You giggle, and pass it back, “Do you even know how to fight?”
“Um,” Chōsō swallows, wavers. Imagines himself throwing a punch and perhaps, putting most of his body weight behind it. “I don’t know…I’ve never tried.”
“Oh Lord,” you collapse against the back of the bench. The cushions wheeze under the weight of it. “Chat—the man I like can’t fight, am I cooked?”
Now. There’s one word that catches Chōsō’s attention. One very specific one.
Like.
“W-Wait,” the joint ashes on his fingers and onto his pants, burning from a few embers, but Chōsō doesn’t even feel it. He sits up so quick. “What do you—you like me?”
You blink at him. “Was that not obvious?”
Chōsō wouldn’t know, people don’t like him! At least, not like that.
(Not that he’s putting himself out there, in the first place.)
“As in, like-like? Like, you like my face and personality, like-like?”
You make a face that looks semi-disturbed, sighing quietly to keep it polite. Then, “As in, I wanna see you naked, like-like.”
This time, there isn’t even anything to choke on. Chōsō’s throat just seizes for no fucking reason.
“Cool,” he nods, and snuffs the joint in a random ash tray nearby before dusting his hands. “Cool, cool, cool cool cool cool—”
“Chōsō, I think you’re freaking out a little bit,” you say, and place a hand on his knee. Physical contact just makes it worse.
“No, I’m fine, I’m chill—”
“Do you…not want me back? I understand if it’s, like—
“No! I mean, yes,” Chōsō clears his throat, pinches himself to make sure this isn’t a dream, then holds onto the bench’s arm rest for grounding. He needs water, or something. Instead, he nods vehemently—until his brainstem throbs. “Yes, I definitely want that—want you, um. Yes.”
You watch him flounder for a bit. Chōsō doesn’t really know what an endearing look is, but you might be wearing one—or he’s going insane. He’s probably, definitely going insane.
“Cool! And…this won’t get in the way of the project, right?”
Chōsō shakes his head and answers so quick it’s embarrassing. “Nope—my grade’s riding on it.”
“Great, because mine too,” you say with a heavy exhale, like it’s a weight off your shoulders. Then, snapping your fingers, “So…pick me up for a date next Tuesday? It’s not like we really have to meet for the project anymore, anyways.”
“Date,” Chōsō deadpans, before realizing you’re talking to him. “Yeah—yes, I can do that.”
KENTO.NN sent 450$!
TOFUSHI27 this is so much better than killing kids
S.KONG Literally shut the fuck up
The date was great.
Great is an understatement—it was only a movie and dinner, but Chōsō felt like he was floating on cloud nine. He held your hand for half of the movie—half, because he was hyping himself up for the first two acts—and never let go, not until you two got a booth and had to take opposing sides.
Now, though…
“Yeah Baby? You like that?”
If someone had told Chōsō a month ago that his favorite camgirl would sit on his face, willingly, he would assume they’re making fun of him. Cry from embarrassment afterwards, maybe. So, yeah—he likes it a lot.
He can’t say much of anything with his mouth full, though. He just whines and tries his hardest to nod under your weight, as your hips swirl and spell his own name on his lips.
Chōsō can barely breathe anything but you, and he absolutely loves it.
“Awh, of course you do,” you coo at his little whimpers muted by your pussy, and Chōsō wonders if you can feel them. His hands hold your hips in a performative manner—not necessarily keeping you in place or steady, just holding. You start his name all over again. “C…”
Chōsō’s tired tongue chases your clit as you roll. Whether you’ve been at this for fifteen minutes, thirty, or an hour is beyond him. Honestly, it could be tomorrow, and he’d be perfectly fine with that.
“H…”
Chōsō is hard. He’s so unbelievably hard that he’s worried about blood loss. His mind goes blank, either from asphyxiation or the overwhelming taste of you, and his nose tattoo crinkles with every uptick of your hips.
“O…”
O’s are his favorite. The languid drag, the way he circles his mouth with your hips is nothing short of intoxicating. It’s so, so tempting to close his eyes and lose himself in it, but Chōsō’s determined to see you, in ways he couldn’t if he just watched another one of your streams, or videos on Twitter. He wants to see your face.
And, it’s—
“S…”
Swollen and spit shined lips tuck behind your teeth, eyes fluttering behind lidded lashes. Chōsō really hopes you're close, because he sure is and he hasn’t even touched himself yet—one accidental brush, one strong breeze, and he’s a goner.
“O…oh, I’m about to cum,” you huff behind a laugh, hands finding his pigtails and wrapping around their bases. You tug him sideways a bit, pushing against his head like he could go any further. Chōsō groans and sucks harder, neck weak and pliable. Eventually, you start to lose yourself, forgetting about spelling his name for the sake of your own orgasm, using his face like your own personal sex toy, and fuck, maybe Chōsō shouldn’t have had that thought—
Your moans peak, softer than the ones heard through his laptop and a little more natural. Intimate. Warm wetness meets his lips, and Chōsō drinks what isn’t smearing all over his cheeks and chin. His eyes never leave your face—your beautiful, absolutely stunning face—as it twists in pleasure and your hips stutter, momentarily losing their ever-increasing rhythm.
You pull away from Chōsō, whose lips chase your pussy until he realizes what he’s doing. You take a moment to catch your breath, sticky pussy to his sternum, and he wonders if there’s a way he could get it tattooed right there, in the valley of his chest.
But, he’s too busy reeling, busy licking the rest of you off his face, busy debating whether he’ll get in trouble for sticking a finger in you just to taste. He doesn’t—he’s not about to push his luck—but he wants to.
Slowly, you start moving down his chest.
You lift your hips and place a kiss where they once sat, littering them across and below, slowly working your way down. Chōsō doesn’t realize where you're headed until you pass his belly button, fingers wrapping around the band of his underwear.
You give him a questioning look. “Can I?”
“Yes,” Chōsō nods, almost vehemently, and lifts his hips to help you yank off the offending clothing. “Yeah, please.”
His dick frees itself with vigor, slapping his belly button and leaving a smear of pre-cum in its wake. The tip is an angry shade of red and weeping, punishing him for ignoring it with sensitivity. The air is too cool, and he shivers.
There’s no way Chōsō is going to last long.
Not when you look at him like that, all hungry like he’s something to eat, a highly coveted delicacy to never turn your nose at. He watches as your nails—the same set he’s seen on stream—wrap around his cock as he’s seen you do many times with many dildos. But now, it’s with him, his dick, and Chōsō takes another moment to understand how insane all of this is.
You take him into your mouth, and Chōsō chokes.
“Oh fuck,” the sound is punched out of him, straight from his diaphragm to his chest, and Chōsō presses his lips together to keep himself from making anything else embarrassing, or God forbid, high pitched.
He doesn’t even have a chance, though. Not when you take him all the way to the hilt, not when you hum on your way back up, not when your eyes flutter like you enjoy watching him writhe beneath you. You drag a hand down his chest, nails pressing into his skin and leaving harsh red lines in your wake, and Chōsō’s back bends under the pleasure.
“Fuck—fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Chōsō’s hands open and close at his sides, absolutely useless. But, he doesn’t want to put them on your head and accidentally push you down—not when he’s fighting the thrust of his hips and failing miserably. You grab him by the balls and his arms pull tight to his chest, unsteady fists squeezing the space by his head. “So-sorry, I—”
You giggle, and caress his inner thigh like it’s okay, like he’s doing good for taking what he wants, and it makes Chōsō’s head spin. He’s sweaty—so sweaty—pooling on the backs of his knees and sticking hair to the nape of his neck. When you moan, it sends aftershocks up his spine.
“I…” Chōsō tries. To be honest, he isn’t sure what he’s trying to say, but he feels like he needs to say something. Something hot and sexy, preferably, something not too mortifying that he’ll cringe about before falling asleep once you don’t call him back. “I…”
Whatever it was dies on his tongue, though. You rake your nails down his chest again, catching a nipple on the way down, and Chōsō whines. His voice is too high pitched for comfort, but he can’t necessarily help that when you’re sucking his soul out by his dick.
“Fuck, no, I can’t—”
The feeling is so much yet not enough, and he finds himself stuck between forcing himself deeper down your throat and squirming away. Squirming away doesn’t work though, not when you have him by the hips. You seem to be enjoying this, eyes wide and trained like you might miss something if they’re not, like you want to see him like this, and that’s enough of an incentive for his arousal-addled brain to keep going.
“I…I’m gonna cum,” it’s more of a realization than a warning, as he feels the twist in his gut, feels that he isn’t going to last much longer. You hum but don’t move, and panic starts rising in his chest along with the orgasm, his hands shooting to pull you off by your hair. You don’t budge. “N-No—I’m gonna cum, you gotta—no, no, no, no, no—”
Chōsō mewls a choked moan, back arching as he fills your mouth. He wanted to see—wanted to watch you swallow if you're so intent on it, maybe find a hint of arousal in your eyes at the sight of his orgasm—but he can’t. Whether it’s because his eyes are closed, or because of the spots dancing in his vision, he can’t. His body is on fire, every match lit and nerves ablaze, and Chōsō can confirm he’s never felt this good in his life.
When he comes down, his head kind of aches.
You look at him like he holds the world—like he’s everything you want with a few surprises, like he’s a surprise gift on Christmas. Once you climb back up his body, his dick twitching and softening, you press your lips to his. Your mouth is still full.
You push Chōsō’s cum into his mouth, and he moans at the taste. He kisses you back weakly as he swallows himself, and you along with it. This post-orgasm cocktail is not for the weak, and Chōsō is, in fact, just that.
After a few more minutes of making out through quiet whimpers, you finally pull away, and collapse on his chest. Chōsō collapsed a long, long time ago.
“Holy shit,” he blinks at the ceiling, wrapping his arms around your body. Holy shit. You just…and he…
“You good?” You snort, and he can feel you vibrate with the words, you’re that close. What the fuck.
“Yeah,” he responds after a moment. After he blinks more of the spots in his vision away, he wonders how close he was on his way to passing out. That would’ve been humiliating. He looks down at you, and you look…so peaceful. Like you ended up exactly where you wanted to, in his bed, in his arms, and body wrung out loose from an orgasm. Comfortable. Chōsō swallows the lump in his throat. “What—what about you?”
You smile, so sweet, and Chōsō sniffles. “I feel great.”
“Ye-ah?” He asks. The crack in his voice gives him away, but Chōsō fights the tears anyway. He will not. “That’s good.”
He gets caught, though. Your smile turns into a frown, and you thumb at the corners of his eyes, only for them to come back wet. Fuck.
“Are you crying?” You perk up immediately, scooting closer to get a better look at his face. Chōsō tilts his head so you can’t see. Hopefully. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
Chōsō nods, then shakes his head, then gives up on non-verbal responses. “I-I’m okay. I’m sorry.”
Your bottom lip juts in a pout, hands finding his face to turn it. And Chōsō is a weak, weak man, so he lets you. He feels bad once he sees the panic in your eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Chōsō shakes his head, letting out a wet laugh. He pulls your body closer and tucks his head into your neck, hoping it’ll save his dignity a little. (Yes, his dignity—the thing already in tatters.) “I’m just…they-they’re happy tears.”
He feels your breath hitch. The arms you’ve wrapped around his neck pull a little tighter, like it could make him melt into your body, and Chōsō falls right into it.
Then, you start to giggle.
“Don’t make fun of me,” he whines, then sniffles. The giggles die, but still peak every once and a while.
“I’m sorry,” you soothe, and rub circles into his back. “You’re just too cute.”
Chōsō’s face burns at the admission, and he tucks it into your neck further. God forbid you see that, too.
18+ MDNI i'm ovulating! :: simon riley x fem!reader
ever since you and your husband, simon, decided to have children, you've been on each other nonstop, fucking on every surface in the house and knocking over several expensive items while lost in the heat of the moment. doesn't matter. he'll replace them with the ungodly amount of money he has in his account.
he'd bend you over the counter every time he finds you in the kitchen cooking, a thin sundress hugging all your delicious curves just right, images of your swollen belly flooding his mind, full and round with his seed. the food is forgotten every single time. only you and putting a baby in you on his mind.
he'd fold you in half when you're in bed reading, wearing only a tank top that gives him easy access to your tits and leaves your belly exposed and a pair of shorts that accentuates your perky ass. he'd tear them off you and put your legs over his shoulders as he splits you wide open for him.
he finds you absolutely irresistible in every state. you know it as a fact. it bleeds over in his every word and action. yet it doesn't make your worries go away. still, your mind wanders. would he ever get tired?
you push the thoughts away. a feral need bubbling inside you as you think about your husband, his scarred lips on your hot skin, bulky weight pressing you into the mattress as his burly arms cage your body beneath him, broad shoulders holding your legs beside your ears, a large rough hand wrapped around your throat while he's buried to the hilt inside you.
you're ovulating. and you need him right now. so you call him. "si, i need you." and he's on his way. doesn't matter that he's on base in an important meeting. he's leaving right away, ignoring price's shouts of protest. he'll understand when simon tells him later. his wife needs him. and there's nothing more important than that.
you're pouncing on him as soon as he walks through the door. he catches you with ease as you wrap your legs around his waist, kissing him with an untamed desperation.
"sorry, si. i know it was important—"
"doesn't matter, love."
"by the way, i'm ovulating."
"bloody hell, woman. lead with that next time."
immediately, your mouths are on each other, lips and tongues latching onto one another, kissing, nipping, biting every part of skin you can find, covering in saliva and marking each other, hot and heavy, your hands moving desperately across the other's body to grab every piece of flesh.
you're discarding each other's clothes when you mention it. breathing shakily as your movements subside, looking away from his intense eyes, you finally tell him.
"si, i'm worried that it becomes a chore."
he stops.
looking you over, an expression of utter disbelief takes over his face.
"a chore?" he finally speaks, voice laced with subtle mockery.
you look into his eyes for a moment, only to shy away again and look down.
he guides you to lay back on the bed as he hovers above you.
leaning in, dangerously close, his lips graze yours. he grabs your jaw to make you look at him, eyes darkened as he speaks in a deep voice.
"you think fuckin my wife is a chore for me?"
you don't dare to respond.
his lips capture yours briefly, only to slide down to your jaw, then your neck, coating your skin in a string of saliva as he glides down to your collarbone, tracing its line with his lips as his hands find your breasts, squeezing as if it's a warning to your previous words, his calloused skin a delicious contrast on your silky smooth one that makes you go wild. his lips wrap around your hard nipples, sucking and licking as you moan softly for him. he chuckles at your reaction, causing heat to spread across your cheeks.
he grabs your hips, kissing your exposed belly and covering the expanse of it with his hand, gently touching as he thinks about filling you up, all soft and swollen with his seed growing inside you. his hard cock throbs at the mere thought of it, dripping precum onto the sheets as his hips jerk forward involuntarily and he humps the mattress.
his lips reach your mound and he stops just above your slit, lifting himself up on his hands. his adoring eyes marvel at your beauty, drinking in the literal work of art splayed out before him. his pupils are blown out, eyes completely black as he looks at you and leans in, rough fingertips sliding up and down your wet slit, spreading your arousal along your folds.
"you think i'd ever get tired of this pussy?"
you gulp audibly. his hot breath fanning against your lips, he cups your pussy with one large hand, his middle finger sliding through your folds and teasing your entrance.
you gasp. "please, si..."
you grasp his shoulders in a desperate hold as he goes on teasing you.
"please what, darling?"
a sly smirk spreads across his face, only adding to your frustration.
"please. i need you inside me, si." you beg, "please, si. need your cock so bad."
in that moment, he thinks you're the most beautiful you've ever been, pleading so sweetly for him, sprawled out beneath him like an offering, all for him to take.
his lips are on yours in an instant, spreading your legs further apart and pushing your knees to your chest before propping them over his shoulders.
he slides into you so easily, your soaking wet pussy ready to take him in, thick throbbing cock splitting your needy cunt open. his lips never leave yours as he lets out a groan into your mouth, mixing with your whiny moans as you're all stretched out by his fat cock.
"fuck! look at this greedy pussy," he breathes in between kisses, bottoming out inside you, "so fuckin wet and desperate for me."
giving you no time to adjust, he starts thrusting in and out ferociously, yet with the meticulous precision of a man on a mission.
"fuckin swallowing me whole, baby." he grunts, "like you were made for me."
his relentless assault on your needy cunt leaves no room for you to breathe, only choked out moans slipping through your lips.
"fuuuck, siiii.... ahhh—"
"fuckin pussy was made for me." he groans in your ear, "made for me to fuck. all mine. forever."
his strong hips slam into you, heavy balls slapping your ass repeatedly as your wet pussy squelches to accommodate his hefty size. the obscene sound echoing through the room.
"gonna breed this pretty pussy, love." he hisses, "so fuckin tight f’me. so, so lovely. "
your hands run across his muscular back and biceps, nails raking over his skin as you lose your mind entirely in an overwhelming state of bliss.
you're a fucked out mess, your hair splayed all over the pillows, skin dampened with beads of sweat, eyes squeezed shut in pleasure and mouth falling agape with broken moans as your husband ruins you.
"fuckin look at you, love." he says, " you're so fuckin beautiful."
"siii, please— ahh..."
"i know, baby. i know. let it out. let me hear you."
of course you obey, letting him hear your desperate moans as you beg him to fill you up.
"you think i'd ever get tired of this?" he says, delivering a particularly sharp thrust that knocks the air out of your lungs, "think again, sweetheart."
he reaches over, large hand wrapping around your throat, not squeezing, just holding in a secure grip. his eyes are fixated on yours, darkened with lust, yet filled with an unspoken sincerity.
"tell me what you want, love. want me to breed you? huh?"
"yes— yesss plsss sii ahh— fill me up... breed me"
a familiar sensation starts approaching, a tightness coiling inside your belly, your moans and whimpers turning higher, walls growing tighter around him, signaling him that you're close.
"let go for me, baby. cum on my cock."
he's fucking you so vigorously your head spins wildly, fat tip reaching far deep inside you and slapping against your spongy cervix over and over again.
in less than a moment, you're flooded with an all-consuming sense of pure ecstasy, screaming his name as your muscles convulse and shake beneath him, your soaked cunt clamping down on him and creaming around his shaft.
"that's it, love. give it to me. good girl." he groans, "so fuckin tight, baby... ahh— gonna milk me dry."
his thrusts turn faster and shallow as he reaches his peak. he holds your trembling body tighter and fucks you through your high as his own orgasm approaches. a deep growl escapes his throat as he empties his balls inside you. it's filthy how much he cums. loads and loads of thick white cum painting your womb, his seed filling you up to the brim, plugged up by his cock still seated inside you. and he hopes that it will finally take this time.
okay, so maybe jason likes fucking you at a nice angle. and maybe, for all intents and purposes, that angle ends up being reverse cowgirl — especially when he's in one of those moods. don't get him wrong, jason loves a good doggy or missionary, but you in reverse cowgirl? while he's trying his hardest not to cum inside?
his bicep rests over his eyes, free hand set lazily on your hip for the sake of saying he held onto something the entire time.
"yeah, that's it," he groans, sinking into the mattress. his cockhead presses against that particular spot inside that makes you see stars, each bounce drawing out an embarrassing moan from your lips. "that's my pretty," he praises, breathing hard enough for your to hear. the tremble in his voice lets you know more than enough: he's been holding in the urge to cum for less than a minute, sweating to keep the edge off his voice. fingers barely digging into your skin, he holds your hips down with both hands, stopping your movements. a whine nearly erupts from you.
jason's struggling. he's one good thrust away from cumming inside, your name at his lips in weak pants. "jay?" "just a second, sweetheart." you turn your head to nab a quick glimpse, finding the sweetest closed-eyed and bitten lip expression. his eyebrows are knitted together so perfectly, a mess of sweat at his forehead. he’s trying his hardest for you.
“jason, baby,” you start, chest heaving as you catch your breath, “it’s okay if you cum.” it isn’t like he doesn’t know that, but reassurance gives the man a sense of peace. he squeezes your side and brings you into a slower pace, shuddering with every soft bounce, head thrown back. your thighs are shaking, most likely due to the sudden stop brought back into movement, but jason’s twice - if not thrice - as wrecked beneath you.
his breathing turns erratic, cock jumping at any stimulation when your folds flutter around him. red in the face with an utterly pathetic moan, his hips jolt upwards, mind going blank. you feel it seep between your legs, warm and thick, and he quite literally writhes. the view from behind is delectable, a beautifully arched back whilst he paints your insides, all on display for his eyes.
“People should pass a test before being allowed to have kids.” “Isn’t it scary how white people have this inborn capacity for evil?” “I’ll never pass because males and females have different skull shapes.” “Autistic people have a stronger sense of justice than anyone else.” “I don’t want AMABs in my space because they’re dangerous.” “You shouldn’t have access to hormones if you dress like THAT.” “Anyone who does something that awful isn’t human.” “Some people really shouldn’t be allowed to vote.”
This is eugenics. This is phrenology. THIS IS NAZI SHIT, YOU ARE A LEFTIST BUYING INTO NAZI SHIT. YOU ARE NOT IMMUNE TO NAZI SHIT.
heeeeelllo! this is my first time requesting anything but i love your writing style so much. can you write a little frank blurb about reader not being too confident about her.. rather small chest? i mean she’s got everything else going on it’s just that little thing that brings her down when they get intimate.
thank you so much enjoy your day/night 🫶🏼
ᴛʜᴇ ɢɪʀʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ɢɪʀʟꜱ
⋆.𐙚 ̊ Frank notices something's wrong, and won't stop until he's made sure his girl feels good.
words: 1.9k
cw: smut, +18, fem!reader, established relationship, body image insecurities, fluff, veeeeery brief angst (?), pet names, oral (reader receiving), super soft Frank
a/n: first of all, thank you so much for trusting me with your very first request 🥹 i hope i did it justice! also i've said it before and i'll say it again... frank castle is a boobs guy, and he loves his girl's tits no matter what. but as a member of the itty bitty titty committee myself, this one was lowkey emotional to write, ngl. as much as i love filthy dirty smut, these soft, intimate moments are lovely to write. hope you enjoy it, and thank you again for requesting <333
Frank’s apartment was quiet except for the turn of pages and the hum of the radiator. You were curled up against the headboard, wearing one of Frank's old henleys with the sleeves rolled past your wrists, the hem falling to your thighs, completely absorbed in your book.
You didn't hear him come in until the bedroom door creaked. You looked up and saw Frank standing there, shoulders heavy with the kind of exhaustion that lived in his bones some nights, and just looked at you like you were the only thing that could help him relax — which both of you knew you were.
"Hey," you said softly, setting the book on your chest. "Long one?"
He didn't answer. Just crossed the room, tugged his boots off, and climbed onto the bed — over you, not beside you — pressing his weight down, his face hiding on the crook of your neck and his big arms wrapping around you. You laughed softly and rested both hands on his head, fingers dragging through his hair.
"Missed you," he mumbled into your neck, breath warm against your skin.
"That bad, huh?" you murmured, tilting your head to give him more space, feeling the tension in his shoulders start to ease under your hands.
"Just a long day." He exhaled slow, like he was setting something down. "Don't wanna talk about it."
"Okay." You kept working your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp the way you knew he liked, and felt him melt into you a little more.
For a while he just stayed like that, face tucked into your neck, one hand splayed flat against your ribs, warm and heavy. You could feel his heartbeat slowing against your chest, the day draining out of him breath by breath. It was one of your favorite things — this version of him, the one nobody else got to see. Not the Punisher; not even really Frank Castle, vigilante with a death list a mile long. Just your man, who wanted to come home to be held by his woman.
His mouth found the spot below your ear that always made your breath hitch, pressing a slow kiss there, then another lower, along your jaw. You hummed, tipping your head back to give him access, the book you were reading forgotten somewhere on the bed besides you. His hand slid up from your ribs, slow, thumb tracing the curve of your waist.
"Frankie," you laughed softly, "you're supposed to be resting."
"‘Restin'," he murmured against your throat, not stopping, lips curving into a smile against your skin. "This is restin'. Best kind there is."
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too, fingers still curled in his hair as his hand slipped beneath the hem of the henley, palm flat and warm against your stomach. He drew slow circles there with his thumb, unhurried.
"Mm. Okay, Castle," you teased, "if this is resting I'd hate to see you working."
He huffed a laugh against your neck, the first real one you'd gotten out of him all night, and pressed a kiss just beneath your ear as reward. His hand kept drifting upward, slow and easy, following the same path it always did — like muscle memory, like something he didn't even have to think about.
His palm settled over your boob, fingers curving to cup you, and you felt his breath go a little unsteady against your throat, the way it always did, the way that used to make you feel so, so wanted. He squeezed gently, thumb moving in a slow drag over the nipple, and you tried to focus on that, on the warmth of his mouth against your skin.
But your mind kept snagging on the shape of his hand instead. How big it felt. He's barely even holding anything, you thought, and hated yourself a little for thinking it, because Frank hadn't said a word, had never complained about the size of your chest. In fact, you knew he made it his mission to let you know how much he loved every single part of your body — but you couldn't stop the thought from circling back, louder each time: you thought about the girls in the magazines he probably wasn't even looking at, the exes you knew nothing about, all of them fitting perfectly on his big hands the way you apparently didn't.
You must have gone stiffer than you realized, because Frank's mouth slowed against your neck. Then stopped. And when he finally lifted his head to look at you, his brow was furrowed, some quiet realization working itself out behind his eyes.
"Hey." His voice had dropped, careful now. "Where'd you go?"
"Nothing," you said, too quickly, and tried for a smile that didn't quite land. "I'm right here."
Frank didn't buy it for a second, of course. He knew you well enough. He propped himself up on his forearm, enough to actually look at you properly, his other hand still resting where it had gone still against your chest. "Don't do that," he said quietly.
"Do what?"
"Say you're fine when your whole body just went somewhere else." His hand moved and his thumb brushed once, gently, over your collarbone, like he was reminding you to breathe. "Talk to me."
You looked away, at the ceiling, at anything that wasn't the concern written all over his face, and felt your cheeks heat up. "It's stupid."
"Ain't stupid if it's got you lookin' like that." Frank's voice was low, and it only made the tension in your chest feel tighter.
You chewed the inside of your cheek, stalling, but he just waited, patient in a way that somehow made it harder to keep dodging. Finally you sighed, pulling the sleeve of his henley down over your hand like it could hide you a little.
"It's just... your hands are so big, Frank. And I'm not exactly—" You huffed a humorless laugh, gesturing vaguely at yourself. "There's not a lot there. Here. You know?"
Frank went quiet, and for one terrible second you thought maybe you shouldn't have said anything at all.
“What- What do you mean, there’s not a lot in there?”
You felt your whole face go hot, twice as embarrassed now that you actually had to spell it out.
"I mean my chest, Frank. My tits. They’re small. Like, really small. And your hands are just— " You gestured helplessly. "Huge. So it just feels like there's nothing for you to actually, you know. Hold. I've thought about it before, I just never said anything because it felt dumb to bring up, but tonight it just kind of… I don’t know. It’s so stupid."
Frank stared at you for a second like you'd told him something in a different language, something he needed a beat to translate.
Then he huffed, half a laugh, half disbelief, shaking his head slowly.
"That's what this is about? All that," he nodded toward where his hand had gone still, "over somethin' like that?"
"It's not nothing to me," you mumbled, feeling smaller by the second, tugging at the hem of the shirt again.
"M’ sorry. Didn't say it was nothin'." His voice softened right away, catching the hurt in yours. "I just mean- sweetheart, you think I've got some checklist? Some size I'm measurin' you against?" He shifted, propping himself up properly now so he could look at you dead on, his hand coming back to squeeze your breast, making your breath falter.
"Frank—"
"Shh. Just feel this for a second." His thumb dragged slowly over your nipple, and despite the conversation, despite the embarrassment still sitting hot in your chest, your eyes rolled back and your back arched slightly into his palm, betraying you completely. He watched your face the whole time, entranced by your reactions. "That right there," he murmured, voice rough, "that's what I'm worried about. Not how much I can fit in my hand or any bullshit like that.”
“That’s not-”
"I'm worried I don't tell you enough. That you're layin' here at night thinkin' you're not enough for me, when the truth is you're more than I ever thought I'd get to have." He leaned down, wrapping his lips against your nipple over your — his — shirt, this time making you groan and pull his hair.
"Frank—" His name came out broken, barely a word at all.
"Mm." He didn't stop, tongue tracing slow circles through the thin cotton, one hand coming up to hold your hip steady while you squirmed beneath him. When he finally pulled back, the fabric was damp, clinging to your skin, and he looked entirely too pleased with himself. "See what I mean?" His voice was rough, low. "Don't need more than this. Don't want more than this. Just you, reactin' like that, fallin' apart over my mouth on you."
You raised a hand to cover the wet patch on the shirt, not sure if you should feel embarrassed at the scene or extremely turned on.
Your body seemed to be deciding for you, very clearly leaning towards the second option.
"Take it off." Frank’s voice had dropped even lower, leaving no room for argument in it.
Your heart was hammering, the old instinct to cover up, to shrink, flaring bright for just a second — but the way he was looking at you, patient and steady, waiting, made it easier than you expected to reach for the hem and pull it over your head, tossing it somewhere off the bed.
Frank went quiet for a moment, just looking, and you felt the urge to fold your arms over yourself, but his hand came up first, warm against your sternum, holding you still.
"Atta girl," he murmured, like he'd been waiting all night to see you like this. He dipped his head, mouth finding bare skin this time, no fabric between you, and the first slow drag of his tongue against your skin, just below your nipple, pulled a gasp straight out of your chest.
"Frank—" His name came out broken, barely a word at all.
"Yeah, sweetheart, that’s my name, don’t wear it out." He didn't stop, one hand splayed against your ribs, the other coming up to cup one of your boobs properly, thumb circling slow and deliberate while his mouth worked the other one, unhurried, thorough, like he had all night and intended to use it.
Your fingers tightened in his hair, any last shred of self-consciousness slipping further away with every slow drag of his mouth.
"Okay," you breathed. "Okay, you've made your point."
"Not even close." Frank lifted his head just enough to look at you, dark eyes glinting with something warm and a little wicked, mouth still curved against your skin. "Gonna need a lot more time to make sure it sticks."
"Oh my God, you’re ridiculous."
"Ridiculously in love with you, yes." He kissed a slow line up to your collarbone, then your throat, then finally your mouth, swallowing whatever protest you'd been about to make.
When he pulled back, his forehead dropped to rest against yours, both of you breathing a little unsteady. "Gonna spend all night showin' you," he murmured, "till there's not a doubt left in that pretty head of yours. Deal?"
"Deal."
"Atta girl." He grinned against your mouth, already easing back down your body. "Now hold still — got some very important business to attend to with my girls here."
"Frank!" You swatted his shoulder, cackling despite yourself, mortification and delight tangled up together. "That is so stupid, oh my God—"
"What?" He blinked up at you, the picture of wounded innocence. "I'm bein' respectful. Introducin' myself properly and everything."
"You're fucking unbelievable."
"So you keep tellin' me." He pressed a kiss right between your ribs, grinning the whole time. "Don't worry, ladies," he murmured against your skin, entirely too pleased with himself, "I’m real sorry for keepin' you waitin', makin’ you feel like you weren't appreciated. Won't happen again."
Synopsis: After patching Frank up and making some intimate realizations with each other, Frank returns to finish what he started.
Content Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, oral r!recieving, p in v, fingering, he talks you through it, girl idk i just need him so bad.
AN: rare post of smut because y'all have been on my case about a part 2 since February!! part one originally requested by @cultvenuss part two was requested by a bunch of people tagged below <3
Frank showed up at your door two days later. It was longer than you expected him to be, but when you heard the knock you ran as fast as you could to the door. You only remembered your rule to check the peephole for safety after opening the door with haste, so you were more than lucky that it was just Frank standing on your doormat.
"Hey."
"Hey, sweetheart." he presents you with the softest smile, hands clasped politely in front of him. If it weren't for the bruises littering his face he might have looked like a respectable gentleman.
You open the door a little wider for him to step inside, and he does so, watching you close as you close it behind him. When you turn back around to face him, his eyes are questioning, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
"So," he grumbles, his split lip healing over nicely.
You move forward and hug him, your arms over his shoulders as you tug him into you. And seconds later you feel his arms snake around you, holding you close. He is warm, and he smells good. Freshly showered, the scent of him fills your nose.
"i like it when you show up alive." you mumble against the crook of his neck, feeling the vibrations of his chuckle against your chest. Your feet are off the ground as he holds you to him, the tips of your socked feet occasionally brushing the ground.
"I haven't shown up dead yet." Frank gives you a squeeze, and you attempt the same with your arms around his neck.
"You show up half dead all the time though." you add, slipping back to the floor as you pull back and Frank releases you. His hands stay on your hips, thumbs tracing up and down in the way you've grown to like.
"Not this time." he tilts his head, almost playful despite the topic and his usual gruffness.
You can't stop the smile that fights it's way to your lips. "Try and make a habit of it then." you place a hand on his chest, feeling the beat of his heart. He's alive. He's okay.
"Still owe you for patching me up." Frank mumbles, and you know what he's implying.
"You never paid me back for the fifty other times I put you back together either." You tease, and Frank frowns.
"I'll make it up to you." his hands squeeze at your hips and a shiver runs through you. You step closer to him, wanting to breathe in his scent once more.
"I'm waiting."
Frank doesn't need much more than that. He pulls you in closer, head ducking to bring his lips to yours. The kiss feels better than the first one you had days before. The anticipation of having it taken from you the first time just made you want it more, and now that you have him, you can't get enough. Frank seems to feel the same, hands gripping tighter as your mouth opens to him. You feel him shudder as his tongue explores yours, fighting for dominance.
You pull back, breathless, and take a step back from him, testing the waters. He looks slightly confused, dazed from the feeling of you, until you take more steps back, toward the bedroom. Frank follows wordlessly.
He's a dog at your beck and call, and he's well aware of the weakness you are to him as he steps foot in the bedroom behind you, hands reaching out desperately. You step into them, pushing up on your toes to kiss him again.
His fingers run through your hair, bunching it up in his fists and releasing it as you laugh against his lips. He's so infatuated with you it's almost embarrassing. At least it would be if his brain wasn't entirely blurred by the thought of you.
He leads you back toward the bed, allowing your fingers to grasp the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head. He's got new banadages for all the wounds you patched up, and he watches your eyes scan over them with approvel.
"You don't even need me, you clean yourself up just fine." your fingers run gently over a set of stitches as Frank shakes his head. His hands run up and down your arms, teasing the straps of your tank top.
"Always need ya." he mumbles, and it's not entirely for you to hear, though you pick up the words anyway.
Your fingers brush lightly against his skin, tracing pointless patterns until Frank leans down to kiss you again. His lips are chapped, but gentle as he plays with the bottom of your shirt, asking silently.
You lift your arms in answer and he tugs the fabric over your head just as you did to him. Frank hums, eyes flicking over you quickly before pulling you close to him. The skin of your torso against his, his lips on the skin of your neck. He trails lower, leaving a path of heat along your shoulder, your collarbone. He reaches the swell of your breasts and looks up, eyelashes fluttering with lust. It makes your stomach roar with a whole zoo worth of emotions and your hands grip his hair, unsure what to do.
"You okay pretty girl?" the nickname and the soothing deepness of his voice sends a shiver racing down your spine. But you nod, breathing hard.
"I'm great." you manage, knowing Frank would scold you for a lack of verbal confirmation. He continues his path of kisses, and you reach your hands behind your back, letting go of him in favor of undoing your bra. It releases easily for once, and you think it might know just how important this moment is to you.
Frank pauses, making his way back up. He kisses each of your breasts before bringing his lips back to yours. He kisses you once before pulling back to examine your face.
He walks you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed. You grin, wide and excited, a feeling that must transfer to Frank as his own lips upturn. You feel his hands slide down you, over your shoulders, your breasts, your sides. Then he lifts you up, and throws you back onto the bed. A startled laugh leaves you, your fingers reaching toward the button of your jeans.
Frank's hand comes to rest over yours as he leans over you. "Let me do it. Please."
You move your hand out from under his, and allow him to undo the button, and slide down the zip. He does so slowly, chuckling at the way you squeeze your thighs together. You groan in protest when he pulls your jeans off slowly, trying to shimmy out of them faster.
"Patience doll, we'll get there."
But he picks up the pace a bit for you, pulling your jeans off the rest of the way, your socks going with them. It's at this point in any intimacy where you usually feel uncomfortable, insecure. Every other time you've done this, you've felt the awkward urge to cover up. But not now. Frank's eyes scan over you from above, appreciating every part of you, from the boring black cotton panties and bra, to the miles of skin on display for him. You reach out for him and he obliges, hands on either side of your head as he holds himself above you. Your hands pull him down further, forcing some of his weight onto you despite the fact he seemed to be attempting to prevent such a thing. You kiss his neck, breathing in everything you can, surprised when he lets out a groan.
"You okay?" you ask, pausing your kisses in favor of scanning your eyes over his face.
Frank nods, eyes closing. "Yeah, you're just doin' things t'me."
Sure enough, one glance downward reveals the tent in his pants. Feeling more emboldened than ever before, you grab his wrist and lean it down between your legs. His fingers lightly brushing the fabric of your panties has you wanting to arch your back, but you hold the feeling in as best you can, dragging his hand lower to the damp patch that grows on your panties. "You're doing things to me too." you say, his eyes opening, pupils more dilated than than before. You let go of his wrist, but he keeps his hand where it is, two fingers dragging harshly from your slit to your clit over your panties.
A moan escapes you, and you involuntarily buck down toward his hand.
Frank brings his mouth down to your ear, repeating the motion with his fingers and making you release a similar sound from before. "Atta girl." he mumbles, before sliding his hand under the fabric of your underwear. The direct contact of his fingers where you need him most has you wanting to scream, but you hold back, letting out a rather shameful muffled sound.
"I'm liking those sounds, sweetheart." he says as the large pads of his calloused fingers rub circles over your clit.
You wish you had something witty to say back, but you've got nothing but a quiet sigh as Frank increases the pressure of his fingers against you.
Before you can get too comfortable with the sensation, Frank removes his hand from between your legs. Your eyes snap open to see him looking down at you, "I got something else in mind, sorry doll."
"Remember what you owe me, Castle." you groan as Franks hands come down to the edge of your panties, tugging lightly.
"I haven't forgotten." Frank says in answer. You lift your hips to give permission and Frank pulls your panties down your legs, holding them in a fist once he's got them off of you in a grip so tight it could kill.
His gaze falls to the space between your legs, the entirety of you now laid bare for him, and he lets your underwear fall from his grip and onto the floor somewhere. His lips part, want clear in his eyes as he kicks his shoes off and reaches out for your legs. He pushes your knees apart, large hands in complete control of you. You are putty in his hands as he kneels, tugging you toward the end of the bed.
"You don't have to," you say suddenly, reminders of past boyfriends disinterest in the act taking over your thoughts. "if you don't want to, I don't mind."
Frank widens your legs, frowning up at you as you lean back on your elbows. "Never wanted something more in my life."
His words arouse you more than anything ever has, but before you can answer, a sudden 'Oh.' falls out of you.
Franks mouth is on you, a man wasting no time. It's warm and harsh, the assault of his tongue. His lips find your clit and suck hard, causing you to see stars before his tongue runs soothing circles over it.
"Frank," you reach down to grab his hair, your moan of his name only spurring him on. He moves harder, faster, nose bumping rough against your clit as his tongue prods at your entrance. He pushes it inside, tasting, groaning into you and sending a gorgeous buzzing sensation right to your brain.
You writhe, unable to stop the movement as he devours you, and Franks arms wrap hard around your thighs to keep you steady as he pushes his tongue in again. His nose moves so deliciously against you that you begin to see black spots in your vision, and when he moves back up to suck hard on your clit again you grip his hair so tight he grunts into you.
"Frank, I'm...I can't..."
He pauses for only a moment to release almost animalistic groan, "C'mon baby, let me really taste ya."
You oblige. You don't have a choice. You cum hard, for the first time on a man's mouth and Frank takes everything you have to give him with nothing but greed. His hands squeeze your thighs appreciatively.
"Doing okay, sweetheart?" he asks, fingers daringly teasing your entrance. You reach out, wanting him closer, and he listens crawling up you with lingering touches, until his lips meet yours once more. His body presses against yours, one of his hands supporting himself so that he doesn't fully crush you, though you wouldn't mind if he did.
You feel the fabric of his jeans brushing your legs, "If you don't get those damn pants off I swear to god.” You say against his lips, your hands dipping between you to undo the button of his jeans. Frank allows it, breathing a sigh, "yes ma'am."
He shuffles away from you to take off his pants and socks, and finally his boxers. When he leans back over you now, you feel a new anticipation building. His hands roam over you as you kiss him again, wanting nothing more but to consume him entirely. Frank's hand slowly trails lower, until it's between your legs again. "You still okay?" he asks, lips brushing your ear before pulling back to look in your eyes.
"Better than okay." you reassure, hands grasping at his shoulders. You try to avoid any of the injuries he has, not wanting to delay the healing, but that thought goes out the window as soon as two of Frank's fingers slip inside you. You gasp, gripping him tighter.
"How ‘bout now ?" he whispers, voice shaky as his fingers sink deeper into you.
"mhmm." is all you can muster, as he begins to move his fingers in and out hard and fast, opening you up to him. He kisses you once, twice, on the corner of your mouth, before bringing his focus to just looking at you as his fingers curl inside. You can tell he enjoys the way your expression changes with each knuckle deep thrust, his mouth agape in wonder. Each press of his fingers to that spot deep within you has you arching and groaning helplessly and Frank revels in every sound. "There you go, you got it baby. Know you do." his fingers curl again, making quick work of you as you reach your second orgasm. You cry out, clutching his arms, clawing at him as he helps you ride out your high with love bites and soft encouragement. “Doing good f’me pretty girl.” Frank hums into your cheek, your eyes rolling back with his praise.
You feel the hard length of him pressing against your leg, but he gives you a moment, bringing his fingers to his lips and sucking them clean. He watches your chest rise and fall with a few shaky breaths, eyes raking over your overstimulated frame with hunger. Then, he nudges your legs a little further apart, grabbing one of your legs by the thigh and lifting it up to his hip. "You wanna go for three? Or are ya gonna tap out on me?"
"Don't go easy on me now, Frankie." you pant, and you can see the nickname has an effect of him. A strong one by the sound he makes at your words. You take a deep breath as Frank lines himself up, pushing inside at long last. His breathing falters from above you as he sinks in to the hilt, before pulling back out again. You dig your fingers into the skin of his back when he pushes back in, establishing a rhythm of pure bliss for the both of you. You’re more overstimulated than you’ve ever been, but you work through it quickly, his grunts matching your moans. Your legs come to wrap around him, allowing him in deeper, and the groan he lets out is the filthiest thing you've ever heard.
"Harder," you manage to whimper against him, "Harder, please."
Franks shudders at your words, a hand cupping your face. "That's my girl." he practically purrs, before giving you exactly what you asked for. He slams into you, the passion of his thrusts vibrating through you as you dig your heels into him hopelessly.
His hand comes down between you, pressing onto your clit and rubbing harsh, fast circles as he continues to rut into you. "Need you with me," he utters, dragging himself in and out of you.
"I'm with you." you sob against his shoulder, teeth scraping against him, every part of you in need of something to latch onto you. "I'm so close." you whine, fingers digging deeper into his skin.
"Doin’ so good, Honey. C'mon."
You cry out as he somehow thrusts deeper, rubbing with steady pace against your clit until you’re on the edge again, allowing the waves of pleasure to take you over the side. You're pulled into the current of it, clinging to him as he keeps pumping into you, letting you ride him through your high before he reaches his own. He pulls out, spilling onto the sheets between you.
You gasp for air as his hot breath brushes your collarbone, his body collapsing beside you. But Frank is only apart from you for a second, before his arms gather you up and pull you into him, tight against his chest. You listen to the strong beat of his heart, throwing a weak leg over his hip as you bring your gaze to his.
"Stay the night?" your question is quiet, and you can't help but wonder if this means the same for him as it does for you.
Frank's eyes caress every part of you, and there's a softness to them, an affection, that spreads warmth in your chest. No one has ever looked at you like that before.
"No place I'd rather be." he mutters, pressing a kiss to your hair. His fingers trace patterns on the skin of your arm, and you should both get up and shower, but staying here a little longer doesn't feel so bad.
Your heartbeat begins to slow down at long last, no longer trying to break though your chest. The warmth of Frank's chest soothes you, and you feel safer than you ever have before. You pull away, despite your body protesting, and free yourself from Frank's gentle grip. He grunts, trying to pull you back.
"I'm going to have a shower." you laugh, as you push off the bed, walking toward the bathroom. You glance over your shoulder as you reach the door, smiling back at the man in your bed.
"You can come if you want."
Frank hums, sitting up. "Don't mind if I do."
tagging everyone that asked for part two: @darken-sunshine @ubematchalatte @w1ld-card @strayedsouls @appledog007 @lovekk2plus @wnterflcon @missbrock12345
GENERAL TAGLIST: @candywh0r3 @caplanreadss @hiya-itsamber @s00buwu
batboys x afab!reader / 18+, proceed w/ caution, all charas are of age + don’t like, don’t read
୨ৎ bruce wayne
- missionary / butterfly. he wants to see your face when he’s inside you, wants to know how good he’s making you feel or possibly if he’s hurting you. also, he’s studied your reactions— you moan the loudest in these positions.
- doggy. his favorite when he’s feeling jealous. you’re usually put in this position after a donor at the charity gala flirted a little too hard with you. he sinks right in and fucks you at a brutal pace.
- against the wall. might be your favorite based on your reactions. whether it’s the way his cock hits that spongy spot inside you or the fact that he can lift you with such ease, either way he’s taken notice. and he likes satisfying you a lot.
୨ৎ dick grayson
- cowgirl. he loves having you on top, holding your hips while you ride him. plus he has perfect access to your neck and tits and every time he sucks on or bites you, you squeeze him so tight. that usually makes him finish fast.
- sitting on his face / 69. he loves pleasing you. your pleasure gets him off. feeling your thighs shake around his head, fingers tugging at his hair, it gets him rock fucking hard. he’ll usually have you turn around so you can suck him off.
- lotus. again, love having you on his lap but this time with a little bit more control. loves being face-to-face and also have the upper hand at fucking you from underneath.
୨ৎ jason todd
- doggy. easiest access to spanking your ass, loves watching it jiggle, and also loves to bend you over basically any surface. he will bruise your hips in this position. and you will be walking funny tomorrow.
- mating press. he’s holding your thighs open, knees to your ears, and fucking you at a brutal pace. he loves the noises you make in this position. he’s accidentally cum in you a few times in this position too.
- him between your legs. eating you out. preferably with your thighs held open by him. he’s able to lick deeper from this angle and you squirm so much in this position. he’ll spend forever just eating you out. sometimes he doesn’t even get to stick his cock in you.
୨ৎ tim drake
- mating press. he loves watching his cock disappear inside you from this angle. and it’s usually the one to get him hard again watching his cum dribble out of you. if he’s feeling extra horny, he’ll lick it out of you.
- spooning. when he’s severely sleep deprived but wants to fuck you or when you’re begging him to fuck you. he’ll slip in behind you in bed, not even bothering to take off all his clothes, he’ll just tug his sweats down enough to sink inside you. you’ll get good whimpers from him in this position.
- doggy. he’s a secret FREAK what can i say. usually reserved for when you’re pestering him or he wants to put a baby in you. he fucks surprisingly hard from this angle. you’ll be sore the next day and he’s typing up on his laptop like he didn’t just rearrange your insides last night.
୨ৎ aged up! damian wayne
- prone bone. he can reach deep from this angle. plus it’s the position that feels best for himself and you. he’ll usually keep one hand around your throat the entire time he fucks you. he secretly loves cumming in you from this angle.
- missionary. because he loves watching you fall apart. deep eye contact. and seeing his bulge in your belly. expect him to nudge at your chin when you look away, he wants your eyes on his when he watches you cum.
- riding him. this one’s purely self indulgent + watching you ride him makes him feel absurdly powerful. it’s a power imbalance kink that he’d rather not admit aloud. he’s extra mean in this position— he’ll smack, bite, and choke. he usually cums hardest in this position.
୨ৎ duke thomas
- lotus. like dick, he loves being face-to-face, likes easy access to your mouth and neck. he’ll grope and grab any patch of skin he can reach especially when he’s close to cumming. he’ll either bite your shoulder or kiss when he finishes.
- spooning. his favorite for morning sex. rolling over in bed and sliding right inside you when you’re both still groggy. he’ll leave lazy kisses on your neck, a little sloppy, and then sinks all the way to the hilt and dumps his load in you. he’s convinced it’s good motivation for patrolling.
- modified missionary with a pillow. because he wants you to feel the absolute best! he’ll tuck a pillow under your hips after prepping you and then fuck you slow. this position is usually reserved for slower nights when you two don’t have to rush.
"but you're a garden fairy!" "ironic isn't it?" @legolaspinkbow - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
