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[prettyinpeaches]

Welcome home, Mrs. America

Soldier Boy (Ben) x PR wife!Reader | The Boys

Part 1 -> 2

NOTES: this is definitely going to be a multi part work :) I hope everyone enjoys!! happy Father’s Day to my favorite dilf. The idea behind this was for Vought to try and leash/placate/occupy Soldier Boy while simultaneously rehabilitating his image for their own gain. How do you do that? With a hot wife and kids, of course! Welcome family man soldier boy <3

TW: no smut (yet), stunt marriage but Ben is in it to win it, discussions of having a child (per contract stipulations), reader who is clearly out of her depth, sweet moments with Ben, Vought being Vought

The thick, leather-bound folder sat in front of you on the polished glass table like it weighed a hundred pounds. Gold trim along the spine. Vought branding etched into the leather. At the top of the first page — not in legal typeface but embossed like a wedding invitation — were the words: Public Placement Agreement

You blinked. Smiled like you understood.

You didn’t.

“Well?” said the woman to your right, the one with the pearl cufflinks and the chemically perfected teeth. “This is the big moment.”

You nodded, fingers twitching nervously against the hem of your skirt. You had worn pale blue because they said it photographed well. Soft. Feminine. Approachable.

They’d been saying that word a lot lately.

Another executive spoke up, some silver-haired man in a navy suit you’d only met twice before. “You’ll get final say over styling, of course. We want you to feel like yourself. That’s very important to us—this is a partnership.”

Partnership.

Like you’d both come to the table with equal leverage.

You swallowed. “And… just to make sure I’m understanding correctly—this is fake?”

The room paused.

The woman with the pearl cufflinks laughed. Just once. Sharp and smooth.

“Well,” she said, flipping a page for you. “The marriage is real. Legally. But the nature of the relationship? That’s entirely up to you.”

A pause.

You stared down at the line that said:

Parties entering this agreement acknowledge a public-facing union with Mr. Benjamin Hargrove, otherwise known as Soldier Boy, as of the effective date and commit to full availability for associated media, domestic, and narrative development obligations.

“…Domestic?” you repeated.

“Don’t worry about that,” said Pearl Cufflinks. “You’ll have a team managing your wardrobe, your schedule, your comms. You’ll even have a personal assistant to help with the, um—transition.”

You wanted to ask transition into what?

Instead, you nodded again. You were good at nodding. It was what had gotten you this far. Obedient. Polished. Background actress pretty.

They said he had preferences. Said he liked women who smiled with their teeth. Liked a little curve to the hips. Liked when they had to look up at him. And a whole laundry list of other things that you apparently ticked the boxes for.

You hadn’t known any of that when you sent in your headshots. You hadn’t even known what the role was. Just that it was high-profile, long-term, and required “mature discretion.”

Now there was a ring box beside the contract.

“Soldier Boy is very excited to meet you,” said one of the men.

You flinched slightly. You hadn’t realized he wasn’t already here.

And then—

You felt it. A shift in the air. The subtle crackle of attention. Your eyes lifted toward the doorway. There he was, strutting into the room without a single care in the world. Plopping down in the seat on the other side of the table. And now—

Across from you sat your future.

Soldier Boy in the flesh — sprawled in his chair like he owned the whole damn building. Trademarked uniform and all. He was bigger in person. Broader. Louder, even when he wasn’t speaking.

But he was speaking now.

To you.

“I asked ‘em for a blonde at first,” he said, tipping his chair back. “But they said you had better… chemistry scores.”

You blinked. “Chemistry?”

He grinned. “Fertility panel. Real strong numbers, sweetheart. Real breeder stats.”

The pen in your hand slipped slightly. No one at the table flinched.

“I—excuse me?” you asked, heart thudding.

Pearl Cufflinks—your supposed liaison—cleared her throat like this was completely normal. “Clause 12(b),” she said smoothly, flipping the contract binder toward you. “The child provision.”

Your eyes locked on the text:

In accordance with Image Rehabilitation Strategy Phase III, the couple will agree to attempt conception within the first fifteen months of legal union, with successful pregnancy preferred by Q4 of Year One

Ben gave a low whistle. “That’s corporate for I’m knockin’ you up, doll.”

You stared.

One of the men—some VP of Partnerships or something that sounded equally as made up—leaned forward. “This is a long-term narrative. America loves a family arc. Soldier Boy comes home. Soldier Boy finds love. Soldier Boy becomes a father.”

“Soldier Boy fills you full’a patriotic cum,” Ben added, unbothered. “Put that on a Hallmark card.”

Your mouth opened. Closed.

“Of course,” Pearl continued, “we do understand that fertility journeys can be unpredictable. So in the event natural methods prove unsuccessful, Vought reserves the right to discuss alternatives: IVF, IUI, surrogacy, donor sequencing—”

Ben made a noise — sharp, low, amused. Then he stood.

“Yeah. No,” he said flatly. “We’re not doin’ any of that shit.”

“Soldier Boy,” one of the lawyers began cautiously, “these are standard fallback clauses—”

“I don’t care if it’s fuckin’ scripture,” Ben muttered, already moving around the table. “It’s. Not. Happening.”

He stopped behind you, broad hands resting on the back of your chair.

“You think I’m gonna let some stranger shove a needle into my wife? Pump her full of hormones? Knock her up with a fuckin’ turkey baster?” He laughed, dry. “C’mon now.”

His voice dropped.

“I don’t share. I don’t outsource. And I sure as hell don’t let someone else handle what’s mine.”

He leaned down, eyes locked on the page in front of you.

“No IVF. No clinics. No surrogate. No test tubes. If we’re makin’ a baby, we’re doin’ it the natural way, like God intended. In my bed, on her back”

You swallowed hard.

Pearl tried to keep control. “The clause is conditional, Soldier Boy. Simply there for liability protection.”

Ben grabbed the pen. “Great. Then we won’t need it.”

He dragged a thick, black line straight through the entire paragraph. Then he turned the page.

“While we’re at it…”

He started crossing things out.

“This one? Separate quarters. Like hell. She’s my wife, not a fuckin’ tenant.”

Scratch.

“Privacy provision? Nah. You want alone time, sweetheart?” He glanced at you over his shoulder, eyes sharp. “You can have it when I’m dead.”

Scratch.

“Media stipulation: ‘maintain independent identity as a solo public figure’…” He scoffed. “She’s not a fuckin’ talk show host. She’s Mrs. Soldier Boy. That’s the brand.”

Scratch.

He flipped one more page. Slowed.

“This one says if I get ‘indefinitely incapacitated,’ you’re allowed to request a contract reassignment.” He raised an eyebrow. “That means if I die, they’ll let you remarry to some other asshole.”

He didn’t even bother with the pen. He ripped the page out.

You jumped slightly.

Ben handed you the pen, calm as anything. “There. Much better.”

Pearl blinked. “Soldier Boy—”

He didn’t even look at her. “I’m not negotiating how to be a husband.”

Then, quieter — for you:

“You marry me, you take my name, you have my kid. That’s the job. And I’m not lettin’ some boardroom water it down.”

You stared at the torn page. The dark slashes. The heat of his hand still on your chair.

He looked down at the contract again. His thumb dragged lightly across your upper arm.

“This part’s not for Vought,” he said. “It’s for me.”

Then, softer — but no less final:

“I want the real thing. The wife, the rugrats, the marriage. No labs. No third parties. No chemicals. Just you. Me. The good old-fashioned way.”

The room was holding its breath.

You stared at the signature line. And then—because you didn’t know what else to do, because no one was stopping him, because some twisted part of you wanted to—you signed your name.

Ben let out a low whistle, pleased beyond words. “Damn, sweetheart. I gotta admit, that was sexy as hell.”

The ink on the page was still drying when you looked up and asked, soft but clear:

“So… is that it?”

Pearl Cufflinks glanced up, caught mid-note. “Pardon?”

You gestured vaguely to the table. To the ring box. The silence. “I mean… there’s no ceremony or anything?”

That earned a pause. A little shuffle of papers. A couple of glances.

One of the men — the one with the overly whitened smile and the Vought lapel pin — cleared his throat.

“There’s a civil judge we work with,” he said smoothly. “He’s discreet. He’ll sign off retroactively—just a formality. And next week, we’ve got a full shoot scheduled: custom gown, natural lighting, branded media rollout—”

Ben snorted.

It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t quiet. It cracked across the table like a gunshot.

He hadn’t said a word since you’d signed. Just stood with his arms folded, watching the suits talk about your future like it was a marketing pitch.

Now he straightened up.

“You’re tellin’ me,” he said, voice flat, “you walked this girl in here, made her sign her life and body away to you jackles, and didn’t even plan a fuckin’ ceremony?”

Pearl gave a stiff smile. “It’s all been arranged, of course—”

“No,” he cut in. “It hasn’t.”

He walked toward the table, slow and purposeful. “A photoshoot ain’t a wedding. A judge who’s never met her doesn’t mean shit. This—” He gestured to the folder. “—this is a contract. That’s not the same thing.”

Then he looked at her. “Can I have a minute with my wife?”

Pearl blinked. “We’d be happy to schedule a short—”

“That means get out.” His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It landed like a slammed door.

There was a beat—that quiet, tense little moment Vought people always had when dealing with unstable assets—and then they were moving. Scrambling politely. Gathering files and devices. Disappearing without another word.

The room emptied. The door clicked shut.

And just like that, the whole temperature changed. Ben exhaled, rubbed a hand over his jaw. Then he turned to the ring box.

He picked it up like it mattered. Opened it slow.

You watched as he reached for your hand.

“I picked this myself. Took me two hours to get one of those Vought weasels to bring out something that didn’t look like a damn geology project.”

You didn’t speak. But Ben didn’t need you to.

“My ma wore somethin’ like this,” he said, not looking at your face. Just your hand in his. “She wore it ‘til the day she died. Didn’t matter if they fought. Didn’t matter what she gave up. That ring never came off.”

Your chest tightened a little.

He lifted his eyes and met yours. “I figured if I was gonna do this, I’d might as well do it right.”

His palm was warm, steady. Then, with surprising care, he slipped the ring onto your finger.

Not performative. Not rough.

Just final.

“There,” he murmured. “Now it counts.”

You stared at the ring, at the way his thumb brushed the base of your finger like he was sealing it in.

He didn’t let go.

“You scared?” he asked.

You nodded. Just barely.

He nodded too. “Good,” he said. “Means you have a brain.”

You looked up at him. “Are you?”

Something in his face shifted — not a smile, not exactly. But there was something there. Something real.

“This feels like the first good decision I’ve made in fifty fuckin’ years.” He squeezed your hand, not hard. “So don’t make me regret it.”

It didn’t feel like a vow.

It felt like a warning. And a promise.

And, somehow, that was the closest thing to love you’d heard all day.

The elevator opened directly into the penthouse.

No hallway. No lobby. Just the soft hush of clean floors and city lights and the kind of silence that felt like it had been waiting for you.

Ben stepped in first, tossing his jacket somewhere over the arm of a wide leather chair without a second glance. “Go on,” he said, looking back at you. “You can come in. Place don’t bite.”

You crossed the threshold slowly.

The space wasn’t what you expected. Warm. Lived-in. Expensive, yeah—but not staged. There were boots by the door, a half-unpacked duffel near the couch. A record player in the corner, the needle resting mid-album.

It didn’t feel like a PR setup.

It felt like someone’s home.

“You live here?” you asked, voice catching just a little.

Ben gave a low hum, heading toward the kitchen. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he said, pulling open the fridge. “We do.”

That hit low in your stomach.

You didn’t even notice him pour the drinks until he was walking back with two glasses in one hand — whiskey, no ice.

He handed you one. “To the blushin’ bride,” he drawled, clinking his glass against yours. “Lookin’ like a fuckin’ dream in that little blue dress. Bet half the legal team couldn’t stop starin’.”

You took a sip to hide your nerves.

He watched you over the rim of his glass. “You bring anything lacey? Or did the Vought PR fairies forget to prep you for the wedding night?”

Your cheeks burned. “I didn’t know this was the wedding night.”

Ben grinned. “Sweetheart, you signed the paper. You got the ring. You walked into my home. If it ain’t tonight, it’s soon.”

You said nothing, sucking in a deep breath as your eyes took in the room.

He stepped closer, eyes on you — not pushy, but there.

“Still nervous?”

You nodded. Just barely.

His voice dropped lower. “Good.”

You looked up, startled.

“Means it’s real,” he said. “Y’always feel the nerves before things that matter.”

Then, after a beat — “C’mon.”

You followed him down the hallway, passing soft lighting, shelves of records, walls that felt quiet. Like they held things no one else got to see.

He stopped at a door, pushed it open.

“This is yours,” he said. “If you want it to be.”

The room was clean, simple. Comfortable. Neutral tones. A bed made up with fresh sheets. A lamp turned on low. A robe hanging on a hook. Pajamas folded at the foot of the bed — white and crisp.

You looked at him. “You set this up?”

He crossed his arms with a huffed laugh. “I didn’t pick the fuckin’ duvet or anything. Got someone to make it decent. Didn’t seem right, throwing you into my bed like a stray dog without giving you a choice.”

Your throat went tight at the idea of him thinking about his. Planning it, to some degree.

“I figured you might wanna take a breath,” he added. “Or sleep with the door locked. For a while.”

You glanced back at the bed. “And if I don’t?”

He smiled. “You don’t ever have to sleep in your own room if you don’t want to.”

Your heart jumped. “But if I do?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I won’t cry about it.” Then he paused. Let the quiet stretch. “But I won’t exactly be thrilled either.”

You met his eyes — green, steady, utterly without apology.

Then, softer, just for you: “I want you close. That’s not a secret.”

He nodded toward the door behind him. “But you can take your time. I’ll be in the other room. Shirt off. Lookin’ devastating.”

He winked. “Welcome home, Mrs. America.”

TAGLIST @spxideyver @tendertulip @n-o-p-e-never @suckitands33 @lunaleah @fandomchik @tinas111 @0ccvltism @cupidzbunny @losers-clvb @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @thatg8rl @fratboychrisera @angelically-yours @dina-winchester @maneaterarabella @ralilda @claireyoucandobeddor @ilikw

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[tacticaldiary]

Trigger Happy

PAIRING: Jason Todd x Reader

SYNOPSIS: "Listen." He grabs her chin, tilts her face to meet his eyes. "Listen to me." The three gunshots are cracks of lightening in the enclosed space. make her flinch, eyes widening as her fingers clutch onto his jacket. "You didn't kill him. I did." Jason says, turning her face to the body. ""Your hands are still clean." He steps back in her line of view, eyes serious and fierce.

NOTE: I'm semi happy with this I fear

MASTERLIST

It was an accident. It was an accident. It was an accident!

She didn't mean it, she would never, it's just...just that she was scared, and she acted on instinct, and-and Jason had told her what to do in situations like this, times when she might be in trouble on the off chance that he wasn't around to handle it.

Her knowledge of the human body is limited, but even she can tell that the bloody knife clutched in her right hand nicked something important. The man at her feet should not be bleeding that much, red trickled out in spurts and nightmarish wet gurgles.

Shaky hands fumble with her phone, fingers slick with blood trying to type in the passcode. A sob punches out of her chest as the liquid makes her thumb harder to register. The blurriness from the tears don't do anything to help her vision either.

A groan comes from somewhere to her right, the sound tightening the band across her chest. The alley walls are too close, the air is too thick and she can't breathe.

Crimson smears her cheek when she presses the phone to her ear, hyperventilating.

"Hey, what's up, baby?"

He picks up on the third ring, and she collapses against the grimy brick wall. She latches onto the voice, lets it ground her enough to find her voice.

"Jason." She sobs out. The knife clatters on the alley floor, a punch of noise in the sudden silence. "Jay..."

                                  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

His spine straightens at the noise, hands stilling with the wrench still in hand. Immediately, he's sliding himself out from under the car he's working on and wiping his hands clean, phone pressed to ear instead of on speaker.

"What's wrong? Fuck, are you hurt?" He demands immediately. Icy dread creeps around him when all he gets as a response is something incomprehensible, and quick, small gasps. "Breathe, angel." He says, pulling up her location. Jason's brow furrows when it shows her in some random alley. There's nothing else to think about because the next moment he's grabbing his helmet, swinging a leg over his bike and kicking off.

"I'm coming, all right? Just need you to stay on the line with me." He tries to keep his voice as steady as possible, biting back the fear and the hint of green rage creeping along the edges of his vision. Someone had made her sound like that and he wasn't there. "Are you safe?" He asks, and the silence that follows nearly makes his heart stop.

"I think." A wobbly voice whispers hoarsely. "It's...it's over, Jay. I didn't..." Her voice breaks and he curses out loud, mind racing. Jason pushes his panic down and hones it into that sharp focus he only ever reaches for when he's on patrol, stepping on the accelerator.

'It's over'

The words play in his head like a broken record as he talks to her, coaxing her to breathe, reassuring her the best as possible while possibilities wreck havoc on his judgement. If someone touched her, if they so much as breathed on her, he swears. No kill room be damned, Jason would cut their fucking hands off.

The bike finally swerves into the alley, and he's off of it before it even fully stops, one hand on his holster, eyes scanning the alley with a desperation he's not felt in forever. There's no active threat, none that he can make out.

Jason doesn't give the body on the ground a moment's glance, instead hones into the figure curled up into herself against the wall a few steps to the side.

"I'm here." He says lowly, immediately crouching next to her. Large, warm hands find her shoulders, prying her upright from how she's curled into herself. He cups her cheeks, frantically looking her over. His thumb wipes away the smear of blood on her face, and the caged, thrashing leash of his anger settles down marginally when he sees no wound under the gore.

The wounded noise she makes makes his throat close up, and he hates himself a little as he tightens his grip to keep her in place against the wall when she tries to lurch forward in his arms.

"I've got you, baby. One minute." He assures, taking a few seconds to smooth a hand over the rest of her body, just to be extra sure. When he doesn't find an injury, he exhales and crushes her against him, chest to chest. Fingers tangle in her hair, rubbing soothingly down her spine. "You're okay, I'm here." His voice is fierce.

A few moments pass, but instead of calming down, her breathing seems to quicken again much to his confusion. "Tell me what's wrong." He finally says, firm but gentle. "What happened? Someone attack you?" When she pulls back, he lets her, still keeping her within arms length.

"Jay." Her breath hitches, shaking her head, eyes drifting to the body close by. Her face twists up again and Jason is quick to start connecting the dots.

"Did he do something?" He keeps his eyes on her.

"He tried." She finally says. "But I...you taught me if it happened to- but he wouldn't let me run-" She gasps, and Jason lets her talk, rubs her arms up and down, brow pinched in worry. "I panicked and he had a gun- and I-..." Her eyes flicker off to the side.

Jason follows her gaze to the bloody knife.

Her initials engraved in the hilt.

Jason had scratched them himself before gifting it to her 'just in case', a couple months ago.

"Fuck." He breathes, as everything clicks. "Shit, baby, it's-"

"I killed him." The sob that heaves out of her is gut-wrenching, and Jason's pulling her to his chest immediately. "I killed him!" She gasps wetly. "I didn't mean to, I...I didn't want to!"

He takes a deep breath, tilting his head back to look up at the sky for a second. Taking a life was never easy, it didn't matter whether it was in self defence or not.

Jason still remembers his first. A hungry kid roaming the streets years ago, shivering from the cold and picking through one of the dumpsters behind a run down movie theatre. He remembers the owners coming out and yelling at him, lunging in anger when Jason lashed out. He remembers pushing. He remembers the crack of a skull against the metal lid. He remembers staring transfixed before vomiting what little he'd managed to scrounge that day.

He presses her tighter against him. She wasn't like him, wasn't like any of them. His girl was no killer, not with how soft hearted she was, and Jason would never want this life for her in any world.

Exhaling slowly, he surveys the scene beside them once more...and does a double take. The artery the knife nicked looks fatal, there's no way anybody was getting that man to a hospital before he bled out, but the way his chest moved in small, marginal gasps said there was still some life in him.

There's something about the life he lives that hardens you, takes away your optimism and fragility. It's why Jason is able to make the decision he does so easily.

He stands slowly, pulling her up with him and twisting her to face the gory scene. "You didn't kill him." He says, squeezing her against his side.

"I did." She says, and Jason knows if she doesn't calm down soon she's going to pass out.

"Listen." He grabs her chin, tilts her face to meet his eyes. "Listen to me." In one smooth motion, he pulls out his gun from the holster around his hip and clicks the safety off.

The three gunshots are cracks of lightening in the enclosed space. make her flinch, eyes widening as her fingers clutch onto his jacket. There's a groan, and then it cuts off.

"You didn't kill him. I did." Jason says, turning her face to the body. It's still, no movement, dead eyes staring up at the cloudy sky. He steps back in her line of view, eyes serious and fierce.

"No- that...but I-"

He interrupts. "Your hands are clean. I killed him. Not you." His voice softens as she starts shaking again, burying her face into his chest. "Understand?"

After a few moments, she nods against his chest, still unsteady, but less shaky than before.

Lips press to the crown of her head, firm and grounding. "I've got you. I'll take care of it." He mutters against her hairline, slowly guiding her away from the scene.

When her hands shake, he's there to hold them steady. When she wakes up with a cry during the night, he's there to hold her back to sleep.

And she lets him, leaning on her boyfriend and letting him mutter soothing nonsense, soft and gentle in a way he only ever is with her.

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(1/11/2025)

[whothefuckisshe7]

If someone touched her, if they so much as breathed on her, he swears. No kill room be damned, Jason would cut their fucking hands off.

[klinegirl]

sam’s gotta be huge right? like so big that you feel impossibly full before he’s even in you all the way? he gets you on your hands and knees on the edge of the bed and you’re so stretched and gasping for air, your body subconsciously trying to crawl away so you can catch your breath, and all soulless!sam does is grab your hips and say “where do you think you’re going? you wanted this didn’t you? your cunt sure does. she’s fucking dripping at the thought of taking this all. be a good whore and stay still.”

oh. 100%. but like. there's just something so good and diabolical about soulless!sam winchester being so fucking nasty about fitting all of himself in you..

he's just about half-way in your already aching cunt, large hands gripping tightly onto your waist so you can't try to get away– again. and you have to just shut up and take it, as you know all-too well what happened the last time you tried to protest your complaints. it didn't end well. "need you to stay still for me, baby," he demands, stifling a groan when you whimper, biting down on your bottom lip to stop yourself from crying out. he shoves more of himself into you, stretching you out more. "can't have me hurting her now, can we.."

he's always been so kind and gentle with you, like you're some injured baby bird, but not– never– like this. and when you try to tell him you're tired, that he's already fucked you enough and your poor cunt can't take any more, all he says is, "but she's so wet for me, isn't she? and you– looking at me in the bar like you were going to jump me right then and there, weren't you?" to which, you can only nod, fat tears beginning to drip down your face.

but the tears– and the aching, and the stretching, and the pain– are quickly forgotten, as you find yourself face-down in the sheets, blindly grabbing at the them for stability, moaning loudly as he buries himself balls-deep in your squelching cunt with each thrust. "not going to hurt you– you know that." he says it so carelessly, because, really, he doesn't mean it, but you take no notice of it; just beg him to fuck you faster, deeper, harder. feel him right up in your guts, his cock stuffed so snugly in your tight hole. "so perfect for me, baby– no need for the tears at all.."

[cyber333angel]

ok but frank walking in on arachnid peter fucking you senseless cause he can’t control himself and you’re saying to him it’s too much so frank stops him picks you up and takes you to his room to he eat you out so sweet and gentle cause you’re sensitive - “was he too rough sweetheart? i’ll take care of you” 😫😫😫😫😫🫩🫩🥴🥴🥴🫠🫠🫪🫪🫪😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

YEAHHH

like before frank even walked in the room he could hear whimpers and moans from the door, he wasn’t concerned or anything he was just coming in to check on you guys and as soon as he walked in he just saw peter behind you, his hand tightly gripped on your hip and the other on your back— deepening your arch.. your face smushed into the bed and your ass up😵‍💫

just delivering the harshest thrusts and making sure his cock was reaching deeeep inside you, and all you can do is whine and take it as he makes you cum for the fourth time :( frank kind of just watches for a moment before he steps in, seeing your face all wet and hears all the sounds—your ass slapping against peters stomach, how sloppy your pussy was after creaming so much on him and your whimpers for peter to slow down :(( aghhh just music to franks ears, “sl-slow down peter I can’t.. can’t cum an—anymore!” it makes him so hard.. he would join in and make you cry some more if he didn’t know any better, but he does so he helps you out.

as soon as you hear the older man’s footsteps toward the bed you gripe and reach your hands out for him, “daddy..”, knowing he’s come to help you, almost missing how peters hips come to a slow stop. “alright pete, s’enough now go take a breather.” frank says in such a stern tone that it’s almost enough to pull peter out of it, he’s breathing hard and looking at frank with his cock still deep in your throbbing hole, eyes still consumed with the color black. “snap out of it kid im not gonna tell you again.”, and they have a staring contest for a second or two before peters senses come back, the younger mans eyes widening as he looks around, seeing you all teary eyed and on your hands and knees in front of him :(

he immediately pulls out with a wince and hugs you, feeling so bad for losing control like that.. “oh no im so sorry baby, i-i didn’t hurt you did I?” he says pulling back to look at you, observing your face and feeling relieved when you shake your head, “no! it was just too much..” and he kind of just says he’s sorry a bunch until frank intervenes.

“yeah she’s okay kid, she’s okay. just went too hard on er’. let’s go get you cleaned up sweetheart..”, frank picks you up from the bed and takes you to his room, cooing at you when you flinch at the arousal drooling down your legs.

frank puts you down once you guys get to his room, tells you he’s just gonna start the bath for you to get cleaned up but you just feel a throb in between your legs :/ so when frank comes back you tell him exactly that with a pout, “it feels so achey frankie, need you to make it go away..”

“make it.. make it go away? oh i got ya doll, s’alright daddy’ll take care of you.”, and soon you’re on his bed all sprawled out, still naked from being with peter. you could see the bruises he put on your hips from where he was holding you, your thighs all sticky and your pussy so puffy, frank almost grimaces when he sees how rough peter got with you. “jesus baby..”, frank mutters as he feels through your slippery folds, lips all sore and swollen from the friction peter caused. “peter did a number on you huh sweet girl? got all mean and made a mess of this pretty little pussy..”, you frown and nod so fast that’s it bring a smile to franks face, he chuckles as he rubs your clit a few times and dips his head down.

your hips buck up when franks lips latches on to you, sucking on your sensitive little bud and groaning, you’re so wet. your hole still stuffed from peter and spilling out your cum, feeling so tender everywhere from how much you came and franks slurping up all of it.

it’s almost embarrassing how much you squeal when you feel the older man’s tongue slither around your cunt, licking stripes all over and groaning :/ you hiccup when he comes up from your thighs, his chin covered in slick, “feelin any better princess? that ache go away yet?”

you know you could cum again if frank kept up with his licking, and even if your “ache” did go away. “mm not yet daddy.. need you to do it again, please?” and frank could only smile at you as he bends down again, bringing your legs on top of his shoulders and holding them with his biceps, working to soothe his hurting girls pussy!!

[whothefuckisshe7]

“make it.. make it go away? oh i got ya doll, s’alright daddy’ll take care of you.”, and soon you’re on his bed all sprawled out, still naked from being with peter. you could see the bruises he put on your hips from where he was holding you, your thighs all sticky and your pussy so puffy, frank almost grimaces when he sees how rough peter got with you. “jesus baby..”, frank mutters

[lilacmurdock]

Hedonism - A Sugar, Please Bonus Chapter

series masterlist | main masterlist

artist!reader x sugardaddy!matt

summary: some desires are easier to indulge in than resist. and after a long day of playing knight and princess at the renaissance faire, Matt finally gets you all to himself.

warnings: 18+ mdni, age gap, roleplaying, oral (fem!receiving), edging, piv sex

notes: hi... did you miss them? ~this flashback takes place directly after chapter 17~

word count: 3.5k

the pursuit of pleasure as the highest good; sensual self indulgence

He knew he was supposed to be tired. The faire had been hours of smells and crowds and noises, an attack on his delicate senses. The constant stream of input had left him with a slight ringing in his ears as the two of you finally made your way to his quiet penthouse.

It wasn't all bad. Mostly, he'd just listened to you. The little catch in your breathing whenever he’d touched your waist and pulled you closer while the two of you wandered. The soft jingle of those ridiculous little charms every time you moved. And, unfortunately for whatever remained of his self control, the way you’d continually called him "your knight".

He'd like to say wasn’t sure what had possessed you to start that game in the first place, but he knew. You liked teasing him. You’d discovered pretty quickly that he was remarkably easy to fluster when it came to you. And ever since then, you had apparently decided to make a hobby of it.

You stopped suddenly in his hallway, catching him by the lapels of his coat and pulling him into a kiss. Matt smiled against your mouth, hands settling at your waist. When you finally pulled back, you stayed close enough that he could feel your breath against his lips. “So am I still in trouble?” you whispered.

His smile widened. “Sweetheart, you have no idea.” You giggled and he kissed you once more. Slow and warm and impossibly tender. Then your fingers slipped into his. “Come on, my most loyal and handsome sir Matthew.” Matt laughed under his breath, squeezing your hand. “Yeah,” he murmured, following you toward the bedroom. “I’m coming.”

The bedroom door clicked shut behind you, and his own hands were already moving. He guided you backward with steady pressure until your back met the wall, following close, letting the solid warmth of his body settle against yours.

One palm braced beside your head while the other slid down to rest at your waist, fingers splaying over the boning of the corset. He’d been starving to touch you like this all day. After listening to other people steal even the smallest pieces of your attention, having you here-finally alone-made his chest feel tight.

He dipped his head and breathed you in, nose brushing just behind your ear. The second you lifted your hands to remove the crown, the faint movement in the air caught his attention. He went still, heart kicking against his ribs as you set it aside. The quiet clink of metal on wood.

“Why remove it, princess?” he asked, voice low and already slipping back into that slightly more formal tone you’d been teasing eachother back and forth with at the faire. He could hear the smile in your voice when you spoke. “Because I don’t want to break it… not after what I want my knight to do to me tonight.”

Matt’s breath left him in a slow, shaky exhale. Those words landed low and hot in his stomach. His fingers flexed against your waist as he fought the urge to just grab and take. He was still aiming for gentle, for the softer version of this game, but the long night of wanting you was pushing hard against his patience.

Instead of answering right away, he leaned in and kissed you. His tongue slid in briefly, and then his teeth were catching your lower lip in a playful bite. One hand cradled the back of your head so the wall wouldn’t hurt you, and the other dragged you closer until your hips pressed to his. Your body fit perfectly against him, and it made a low sound rumble in his chest. When he finally pulled back, his breathing was rough.

“Just want to make you feel good,” he murmured against your lips, voice warm but a little strained as he tried to keep the sweetness in it. “To serve my princess in whatever way she desires.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, then let his mouth trail down your throat and lower, to the soft swell of your breasts spilling over the corset. Every slow, open mouthed kiss there pulled another shaky breath from you. He could smell your skin, the lingering sweat, and the faint sweet tang of your arousal already starting to color the air. His heart was pounding now. It was getting harder to stay sweet when all he wanted was to drop to his knees and bury his face between your thighs.

When he lifted his head, his voice came out playful. “May I take you to the bed, my beautiful princess?”

You nodded, cheeks warm, and Matt’s mouth curved into a small smile as he waited for you to speak- a somewhat vulnerable one that he could only ever give you. "Please, Ma- my lord."

“As you wish, princess.”

He slipped one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, lifting you with effortless ease. He carried you across the short distance to the bed and laid you down gently, settling you high in the center of the mattress so your head rested on the pillows.

The second your back met the duvet, Matt’s hands were at your skirts, bunching the heavy fabric upward in slow, deliberate handfuls. Every shift of the material made the tiny gold chains and pendants still fastened at your hips chime softly. He could hear them clearly-each delicate clink, the whisper of soft fabric against skin-and it wound tighter and tighter around the ache between his legs.

He settled on his knees between your thighs, shoulders covered by the coat he still had on. He bent over you, and the position brought him low enough that he could smell you much better, warm and sweet and unmistakably aroused. The scent hit him so hard his cock gave a heavy, insistent pulse against the front of his pants.

Matt exhaled shakily through his nose. One hand slid up the inside of your thigh, thumb stroking the soft skin just below where he really wanted to be. He leaned in closer, close enough that his breath ghosted over the thin barrier of your underwear. “Tell me what you need,” he said, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. He pressed a slow, reverent kiss to the inside of your thigh, then let the next words come out taunting. “And I’ll give it to you.” He was such a fucking liar.

You whimpered, and he could hear your fingers tightening in the duvet. “Please, my knight, your mouth. I need you to- to touch me, properly. I’ve been aching for you all day.”

He groaned and sat back up on his knees enough to shrug the coat from his shoulders, leaving him in only the loose white button up. He lowered himself properly onto his stomach between your thighs, hooking his arms beneath them and dragging you a fraction closer.

Matt pressed his face in, nosing slowly along the damp fabric of your underwear. A low, helpless groan vibrated out of him the moment he breathed you in properly.

“Fuck,” he muttered, the word muffled against you. His voice came out rougher than he intended. “You smell so good, princess. You’ve really have been like this all day, haven’t you?” He felt you shift with a chocked gasp, and a fresh wave of your scent hit him. "M- Mhm," was all you could manage in response. His hips rolled, rutting into the bed while he simply breathed you in.

“You tortured me all day,” he said, lips brushing lightly against the soaked cotton. You released a shaky exhale as he dragged his nose along your covered slit again, deliberately slow. “So I think I’ll make you wait a little longer princess. Wanna play with you first.”

Before you could say anything he opened his mouth and started lapping at you through the fabric. Long, firm strokes of his tongue that pressed the soaked material against your clit. The taste, even muted like this, made him groan again. You moaned, and he could hear the tiny, telltale clench of your cunt around nothing, wet and fluttering, desperate for something inside. It drove him a little insane.

Matt mouthed at you harder, sucking lightly through the fabric while you whined, then pulled back just enough to speak. “Listen to you,” he murmured. “Making all these pretty sounds for your knight. My princess is so wet and she only has herself to blame.”

He licked another slow stripe, hips still rolling lazily into the mattress, chasing the barest bit of relief while he denied you the same. “Tell me how sorry you are, maybe then I’ll give you what you want."

“I'm sorry-please, my lord… pleease stop teasing me.” You started whimpering. Soft, desperate little sounds that slipped out every time he dragged his tongue over the soaked fabric. Your thighs tried to close around his head but were stopped by his shoulders.

He lifted his head just enough to speak, voice low and edged with that mean little thread he hadn’t really allowed himself to show you before. “Look at you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the wet spot he’d made. “Calling me your lord, your knight… while you beg like this. I’m below you in every way that matters, princess. Just your sworn man. And here you are, pleading for me like I’m the one who holds the power.”

Another slow lick through the fabric. He could taste you even more now, the cotton nearly translucent. “Say it again,” he ordered softly.

You did, voice breathy, the title slipping out again. “I want you so badly, please- my lord- I can’t take it anymore.” Matt grunted in response.

“That’s it. Beg for your knight like the spoiled little princess you are.”

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and tugged them down in one smooth motion, peeling the ruined fabric off one leg and leaving it tangled around the other ankle.

Matt didn’t make you wait any longer. He lowered his mouth and licked a long, deliberate stripe up your bare cunt, groaning at the first real taste of you. His tongue was flat, dragging slowly from your entrance all the way to your clit before he sealed his lips around the swollen bud and sucked.

One arm stayed hooked under your left thigh, holding you open. The other hand slid up to slide two fingers against your slick folds, spreading you gently so he could lick deeper, tongue circling your entrance before pushing inside with a slow, deliberate thrust. He moaned at the way you clenched around the wet intrusion, the flutter of your cunt sending a fresh pulse of blood to his already aching cock.

He pulled back just enough to speak, lips shiny, breath hot against you. “Tell me how it feels princess. Am I pleasing you, or do you want more?” You only keened in response and tried to lift your hips. Matt buried his face again, alternating between broad strokes of his tongue and gentle suction. He could stay here for hours.

You were getting louder now. soft, broken cries turning into desperate, breathy moans. You were close. Matt pulled back just enough to speak, lips glistening, voice low and surprisingly steady. “Not yet,” he murmured against your slick skin. “You’re not coming until I’m inside you. Do you understand?”

Your answering whimper and quiet "Please... Matthew..." only made him smirk. He dove back in, sucking your clit with slow, deliberate pressure before licking broad stripes up and down your folds. He kept you spread open with one arm while the other finally slid back between your thighs. Two fingers teased your entrance before he pushed them inside you, curling them into that spongey spot that always made you gush for him while his mouth returned to your clit.

The moment he felt you clamp down hard around his fingers he stilled his movements, breathing hot against you. “Ah-ah, you better not come, princess. I can feel you clenching around my fingers.” He waited a few more seconds while you squirmed, and then started languidly moving his fingers again while his tongue resumed its circles.

Suddenly you were trying to grind against his face again, more insistently now. He released a startled moan at your desperate movements and didn't even try to pin you with his arms. Your ankles crossed over his upper back, caging him in. God, he wanted this. Wanted you to ride his face properly, to use him, to climb over him and take what you needed until your thighs shook. This was the closest you’d ever gotten to that.

For a few moments he forgot everything-forgot the rule he’d set, forgot the teasing. He just let you grind, and licked at you messily with your slick and his borderline drooling everywhere as his tongue chased every movement of your hips. It wasn’t until your moans pitched into something almost frantic that he remembered.

Matt pulled back with a gasp. You were right there-teetering-and the frustrated whine you let out nearly made him cream his pants. He sat up on his knees, hands already moving to the front of his trousers. He shoved them down just far enough to free his cock, wrapping his hand loosely around the base. The relief of his own touch made him exhale shakily.

He just held himself, thumb sweeping over the head absently as he focused every working sense on you. He listened to the rapid beat of your heart, and felt the way your body had risen in temperature. Then he noticed the subtle shift in your breathing.

You were watching. Staring at his hand on his cock. Matt’s grip tightened instinctively. He gave himself a slow stroke from base to tip, then another, working himself a little now that he knew you were looking. The slide of his fist was slick with the mess of precome he’d made, his cock leaking like a faucet. “Watch, princess,” he said, voice still edged with that playful tone. “This is what you do to me, sweetheart."

He wished so badly to see your face, and catalog every reaction while his hand moved in steady, unhurried strokes. He was breathing hard, face still flushed, but the feeling of you watching him like this made him groan low in his throat. He could feel how badly you wanted him inside, you were absolutely throbbing.

“Matt-" you choked out, "My lor- I don’t care what you call yourself right now. Just fuck me stupid ple-ease!”

That was it.

Matt’s restraint snapped like a cut, taut thread. A low, guttural sound tore out of him as he surged forward, hooking your legs over his shoulders in one rough motion. The new angle pressed your thighs back, opening you completely for him. He braced one hand on the headboard above your head, the other gripping the base of his cock as he lined himself up. He pushed in with one long, deliberate thrust.

The stretch was perfect, so fucking tight he had to grit his teeth to keep from coming on the spot. His hips rocked forward until he settled flush against you, and the little jingling charms at your waist sang with the movement, each tiny chime dragging across his senses like gentle fingertips. “Fuck- princess,” he groaned, head dropping back over his shoulders for a second. “You're perfect.”

He didn’t give either of you time to adjust. Matt pulled back and drove in hard, setting a fast, relentless rhythm from the very first thrust. Your legs bounced against his shoulders with every snap of his hips. He fucked you exactly like you’d begged-deep, fast, almost brutal in his need.

“God, sweetie" his voice came out low and a little strained, the last soft thread of the game he honestly was barely clinging to anymore, "a princess shouldn’t- shouldn't be giving herself like this." His lips curved after hearing the moan he punched out of you with his next thrust. "Your knight’s too old for you, but I’m-hah-too selfish to stop.”

His free hand slid down to grip your thigh, pushing it towards your chest to hold you open as he pounded into you. Every thrust punched a breathy whine from your chest, and Matt drank every single one in.

He quickly became lost in the way you took him. Every time he bottomed out he felt the way your cunt squeezed around him, like you were trying to pull him even deeper. The sensation coupled with the beautiful sounds you made was making his head spin.

Your breathing had changed, your moans were quickly turning into something higher and more frantic, and you were gripping him like a vice. Matt’s hand tightened on the headboard until the wood creaked. He groaned, "Fuck, you feel so good I’m-nggh!”

He was barely holding on and a jolt of panic shot through him. Not yet-fuck, not yet. You had to come first. He grit his teeth, forcing himself to keep the punishing pace even as his balls tightened. His voice came out strained and shaky. “Princess- sweetheart, please. I’m-I’m so close.”

You moaned his name loud and desperate, “Matt- baby!" Then your body locked up, and the shrieking moan you let out pushed him straight over the edge right after you. He groaned your name as he came, hips jerking erratically while he buried himself deep and flooded you. Thick pulses of cum spilled inside you, the warm feeling of filling you was so fucking good it made his whole body shudder.

He couldn’t bring himself to stop. Even when the overstimulation started bordering on too much, he kept the deep, rolling thrusts going, using the last of his strength to keep you coming, to make it last. He'd never heard you scream like this and it was intoxicating. “Shit- sweetheart,” he panted, voice hoarse and wrecked. “That’s it, come for me, juuust like that.”

Only when your tremors started to ease did his hips finally slow to a stop. He stayed buried inside you for a moment, chest heaving, legs shaking from the intensity. Matt pulled out with a shaky groan, his cock slipping free from the mess of both of you. He carefully drew your legs off his shoulders and gently set them on the bed. The second he was clear he basically collapsed.

His body was heavy with the exhaustion that came with being fifty two and fucking like he was twenty years younger. He dropped onto the bed beside you with a low groan. For a moment he just lay there, his chest heaving. Then he reached for you, tugging you close until your head was tucked under his chin and your body was pressed along his side. The exposed skin of your chest was warm and damp against his own rumpled clothes, and even though he was still catching his breath, having you in his arms felt like the only thing that mattered.

He was sweaty. You were sweaty. The sheets were a disaster, and he could feel the way his cum was already starting to leak out of you and onto the bed. It was sticky and messy and uncomfortably clingy, but he couldn’t bring himself to move yet. Matt pressed a slow kiss to the top of your head, one hand stroking lazily down your corseted spine.

“God, sweetheart…” he murmured, voice rough with fatigue. You made a soft, tired sound of agreement, and he smiled against your hair. His eyes were half lidded, body already sinking into the mattress like it weighed twice as much as usual.

For a few quiet seconds, neither of you said anything. Matt simply held you, his fingertips moving lazily up and down your back, until you shifted against him with a tiny, exhausted sigh. “You okay?” he murmured. You nodded against his chest. “Mhm.” Then very weakly you mumbled, “You’re completely insane Matt.”

His mouth twitched against your hair. “You’re the one who told me to fuck you stupid.” You scoffed and gave him a tired little shove that accomplished absolutely nothing. He laughed, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles before tucking you back beneath his chin.

He’d honestly be content to just pass out like this, despite the impractical clothing still seperating you both. Sticky. Aching. Completely wrapped around you. But then you mumbled something about a bath and Matt’s head lifted a little, suddenly more awake.

A bath, with you. The two of you hadn’t done that before- never shared one. The idea of you naked and wet in the water, skin slippery under his hands, sent a fresh little spark through him despite how tired he was. He could already imagine it. Your body, your skin the softest thing he'd ever touched, water trailing down your chest, the way you’d lean back against him and let him hold you in the warmth. He wanted that. Badly. Not only because the thought of feeling you like that was enticing as hell, but because he simply wanted to stay close to you for a little longer, wanted the excuse to keep touching you. To be gentle with you after how hard he’d just taken you.

A slow, fond smile curved his mouth. “Yeah,” he said, voice low and a little grated from exhaustion. “A bath sounds good princess.”

Internally he was already sold. The idea of having you curled up against his chest in the tub, both of you clean and warm and sated, felt like the perfect way to spend the next hour. He gave you one more lazy squeeze, pressing another kiss to your temple.

“Lead the way, sweetheart.”

notes: EEEEEEK I MISSED MY BABIES SO MUCH. writing smut in Matty's POV is always fun 🤭 hope you all enjoyed.

i'm not sure how often i'll be posting bonus chapters, but the next one that has my attention to hopefully continue working on is a mega chapter allll about their children. and possibly one of reader's pregnancy?? maybe some baby making smut too but idk... we'll see

also yea i couldn't help the princess bride reference. i mean cmon, black suit Matty is literally Westley

taglist: @rowancp @princess-aurora-varient @quicksilver21 @superherosdystopiafreak @sa1ky @peterftpercy @miriamckle @margaret811 @cheleanortruther @gothy-froggy @mrmeowzalot @that1weirdweebgirl @moth-murdock @iamdarknessiamdeath @arigoldsblog @xjyuto @fallen-nine @muffinbrown @hellskitchenswhore @adelaidehawthorne17 @khonshuswill @sotragedynut @thegirlwiththeeyes1297 @whyareyoulookinguphere @sharksausages @m1sund3rst0od @sleepinginstardustwrites @nerdytrash-panda @addiiove @bigsloppycrush @akahlisworld @omicore @charmolipiiridia @ovryoon @aelladrift @ifyoulovemeletmebinge @ash-tuhn @mixedfandxms @prettyflowerlily @alldayeverytae @snowwythegloww @exhaustedfangirl

banner credit: @cursed-carmine & @diviniyae

[hellskitchenswhore]

THEY HAVE RETURNED IN ALL THEIR GLORY

Idk if I’m going to cry from joy or faint from horny or both!!

[antinousletmehit]

Do I have permission?

Synopsis: you do the “can I have permission to eat” trend infront of their family.

Pairings: Dick, Jason, Tim, AK!Jason, Wally

Warnings: mild suggestive stuff at Tim’s part, Dick wants to flirt with everyone’s girl, ooc, Arkhamverse Jason’s is just a mess.

DICK GRAYSON

- Dick finally had the courage to take you to his family, you took that courage and stomped on it. It was supposed to be a somewhat regular day for him. So why are you framing him infront of his family?

- “Dick, can I eat?” You said innocently when Alfred finished putting down the desserts—your eyelashes batting at him. The entire table went quiet, so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

- “what do you mean? Of course you can!” Dick was internally panicking, he can see Bruce’s disappointed face and his brothers giving each other weird glances. What were you doing to his poor, sensitive heart?

- “really? Thank you! I know I’ve been eating too much dessert lately—“

“Ignore Dick.” Bruce cut you off, pushing another dessert tray your way. “You can eat as much as you want without Dick’s permission.” Bruce said, his voice was calm but you could swear you could hear a twinge of irritation from his voice.

- “Bruce! I wouldn’t do that!” Dick tried to desperately get his family to listen to him. Did Tim know it was a social media prank? Yes. Was he gonna tell the others? No. He likes seeing Dick panic to try and explain himself while his partner is obviously trying to hold in their laughter.

JASON TODD

- “can I have permission to eat, Jason?”

- oh goddamnit what were you doing now, in-front of his family? Seriously? Great, now they’re gonna use this as another way to make fun of him. “What? You don’t need permission!” He yells, shoving 5 different dessert filled trays your way before his family members could react.

- “wowww Jason…starving your girl? I never took you for the cruel type!” Dick teased, punching Jason’s arm before Jason punched Dick’s face. “Ow, what the hell!? You hit her like that too asshole—“ annndd Jason punched his face

- “Dick is right. Why are you making your girlfriend ask you for permission, Jason?” Bruce muttered, his brows furrowed—but everyone knows he’s not really serious. He already deducted it was a prank from your silent giggling, and Dick’s unserious reaction.

- “it’s not—I don’t make her—SHE DOESNT NEED TO ASK!” As funny as it was to see your boyfriend panic and try to explain himself to his family, you also just wanted to hold him and tell him you were just messing with him.

- you couldn’t hold it in anymore and snorted out loud, covering your mouth immediately when you realized what you did—your face going crimson.

- “see! She’s laughing!” He quickly pulled you into a bear hug, not caring about it his family’s prying eyes. “Don’t say stuff like that again..” he whispered, cheeks red.

TIM DRAKE

- “do I have permission to eat?” oh you little shit he knows what you’re doing.

- “what does she mean by that, Tim?” Jason asked, his brows furrowed. You and Jason weren’t the closest people, but if Tim was doing anything to hurt someone he should care about. Then he’d beat the hell out of his brother if he has to.

- “no no, it’s a social media trend. Where they pretend like their significant other makes them ask permission to eat food.” Before anyone in the family could talk, he instantly pulled up a video of it to show his family.

- suddenly the tension in the room was gone—you could see the family visibly calm down, before going back to their dinner, which went well for the rest of dinner. Except for Dick trying to flirt with you

- but you think Tim would let you get away with trying to prank him? Absolutely not. When you got up to say your goodbyes and go back to your apartment. Tim instantly snatched you away to his room, he’ll show you what bossing you around really means.

Arkhamverse!Jason.

- why did you decide to do this to this guy.

- “hey Jason, can I have permission to eat dessert?” You ask nervously. He looked back at you with wide eyes, did he mistreat you without knowing? Has he told you to ask permission and he just forgot? Either way, this is not a good look for him—especially since he was trying to show his family that he’s changed.

- “Yes? I don’t see why you’re asking.” He huffed out, avoiding his family’s judgmental eyes.

- Bruce was contemplating on holding you here, take you away from Jason until you could solve this out. He never took Jason for the type of man to do this, he really is disappointed. “Jason, go get us pink salt from the kitchen, Alfred must’ve forgetten it.” Jason knew Bruce was using this as an opportunity to try and talk to you, he stayed still for a moment before silently getting up and getting this “pink salt”.

- “are you okay?” Dick shot up, holding your shoulders and checking you for any evidence of physical scars. God, you didn’t think his family would be this serious. Maybe this prank was a very bad mistake.

- “yes! I’m fine…just bad habits, Jason didn’t do anything.” You feel so guilty for lying, but I think if you said it was a prank none of them would look at you quite the same—especially Jason. Why do they treat him like a ticking time bomb? Has he had any malicious history?

- eventually the dinner ended and you and Jason had a very awkward ride home. “Why did you say that?” He muttered, “asking me for permission, I mean…are you scared of me?”

- “No! No, Jason id never!” You reassured him, oh god you were feeling more and more guilty by the second. This is the last time you’ll prank any of them like that again, why is this family so edgy? “It’s just bad habits I got from past relationships, it’s nothing against you I swear.”

- Jason had a hard time believing you, but you saw his grip on the steering wheel soften. “I’ll kill them for you, just ask.” A strange thing to say, but I guess guys just get violent quicker.

- “it’s…fine..? Let’s just go home, I wanna feel your body on mine.” You whisper, giving him a kiss on his cheek. He won’t admit it, but you can see how red his cheeks got instantly. “Whatever…”

WALLY

- you were Dick’s sister, you knew that Wally might get his soul reaped the moment those words left your mouth, but that just makes it all the funnier.

- “Why aren’t you eating, (name)? Do you not like the food?” Your brother asked, his mouth full with whatever salad he’s eating right now.

- “oh, I’m waiting for Wally’s permission.” You said calmly, as if this was a normal occurrence for you. Suddenly all eyes landed on Wally, who just choked on a bit of his food.

- “What?! Baby! You don’t need to ask me, I swear—“ but he got cut off by a very irritated Grayson. “Are you forcing my sister to ask you for permission to eat Wallace?” Oh Dick was about to kill him.

- “Nononono! It’s a misunderstanding, here!” He immediately gave his food to you, dumping his entire plate on yours. “I won’t even eat for the rest of the dinner, have all my food! You deserve it more than me.” Please don’t get Batman on me please don’t get Batman on me please don’t get Batman on me—is all his head could think about.

- “that’s what I thought, West.” Dick sat back down. His arms crossed—before he could say another thing, you exploded out in laughter. “It was a prank! Don’t kill Wally!” You shouted out, choking on your own laugh.

- “that wasn’t funny!” Wally whined, turning his full attention to you. “I thought Dick was gonna actually knock me out then take me to the bat cave to get tortured by Batman!”

- “what? I was gonna punch you, but I wasn’t gonna do that!?” Dick exclaimed, holding back his own giggles just hearing Wally’s insane fantasy.

- “it’s not my fault! Batman is like one of the scariest members of the league. There’s a rumor that he defeated a hundred men with only a knife—“

“Really? Have I now?” Bruce chimed in from behind, causing Wally to flinch. “Hi Batman..?”

[whothefuckisshe7]

- “What?! Baby! You don’t need to ask me, I swear—“ but he got cut off by a very irritated Grayson. “Are you forcing my sister to ask you for permission to eat Wallace?” Oh Dick was about to kill him.

[purlyangelical]

Tags !: fem! reader x jason todd, eating out, piv, unprotected, wrap it b4 u tap it!

Jason Todd and the way he touches your thighs while eating you out. He said he wouldn't take long and it's just prep until you find yourself pined by his hands hold onto the back of your knees that are pressed up your boobs.

His tongue sucking, prodding and licking you. Your slick is running down his chin as you just hear the nasty sounds coming from your lower half. Jason's hips keep grinding into the mattress causing it to squeak.

His boxers are getting sticky the bedsheets bellow him starting to form a little wet patch. You felt your pussy start to spasm and a weird sensation. You squirted and came on his face. He pulled away, his face drenched and licking his lips.

"Do that again f'me...? Please baby..." Jason hurried to peel off his boxers bringing you into a kiss purely full of tongue and teeth.

"C'mon baby put your legs up f'me..." Jason's voice was sooo groggy. It was so fucking sexy you just couldn't help but do what he told you.

"That's it..." He started pushing his tip in slowly and bottomed out.

"Oh my gosh... Jay... s' too big...!" You moaned out. He started moving his hips repeatedly slamming into your ass. Your nails running down his back. Jason's face was buried in your shoulder kissing you.

"Fuck you feel too good..." He moaned. His hips moving faster as he brought you into a kiss that was softer than the other.

"Please baby... cum on my cock... please..." You nodded over and over again jaw going slack as you threw your head back. Then he hit that spot and you just started crying out of sheer pleasure, his hips tightened up and gently grabbed your face moaning into the kiss as his tongue entered your mouth.

When he pulled out a white ring was formed around his cock, and the view he was presented was your sweet pussy in full display for him. Just so full of him he almost was about to start another round until he realized you were tired.

He ended up leaving an hour or two after to go patrol you didn't really count as he ran you a bath and washed your hair gently. His hands running through your scalp nicely. You fell asleep in a a hoodie of his.

Later...

Jason decided to take a well earned shower at the end of his patrol at the batcave. Either way he had to go to a debrief after so it was like he had a choice. He ended up coming out in some sweats and a tank only for Tim to gag and Damian give him a side eye. Steph and Duke whispered to each other giggling as Cass smirked at him.

"Damn how busy were you before you came here Jason?" Steph snickered only for Jason to roll his eyes.

Dick patted him on the back, trying to hide his laughter, "Jay, you might wanna check your back, but hey good job buddy!" He said in between wheezes.

"The fuck are you on about dick hea- he looked at his back in the reflection of one of the many monitors of the bat computer.

"You're all immature!" His cheeks were getting redder as the batfam broke into laughter.

A/N: letting the freak out ( ´ཀ` )

[book-place-incorrect-quotes]

Y/N: *gently taps the table*

Frank: *taps the table back*

MJ: What are they doing?

Peter: *used to their shit* Morse code.

Y/N: *aggressively taps table*

Frank: *pushing his chair back and slamming his hands down* YOU TAKE THAT SHIT BACK-

[dirtylittlediary]

overdrive- frank castle

pairing : frank castle x f!reader

summary : when frank comes home late from a mission after being hit by a suspicious powder, he wonders why he can't bring himself to take his hands off of you.

warnings : SMUTTTT !!!!!, minors please dni, somnophilia (oops), size kink, praise kink, needy!frank, desperate!frank, rough!frank (the list goes on honestly), p in v, unprotected sex, overstimulation, some angst. (both characters in this fic are fully consensual)

word count : 16 k (oops ?)

a/n : based off this gem of a rq and not proofread (as always what do yall expect) also yes this is an au where frank alr works with the avengers sue me

The warehouse is quiet.

Too quiet.

Frank knows better than to trust quiet.

He moves through the darkness with practiced efficiency, boots barely making a sound against the cracked concrete floor. His pistol hangs low at his side. Every muscle in his body is loose, ready.

Three men. One on the catwalk. Two below. He counts them automatically. A fourth steps out from behind a stack of shipping crates.

Frank doesn't hesitate. The first shot echoes through the building. Then everything explodes. Gunfire ricochets off steel beams. Someone shouts. Another body hits the ground.

Frank ducks behind a forklift as bullets tear through the rusted metal above his head.

"He's over there!"

"Move!" One comes around the corner too fast. Frank catches his wrist, twists until something snaps, and drives the man into the wall hard enough to leave a crack in the drywall before finishing the fight with brutal efficiency. Another rushes him with a knife. Too slow. A sharp elbow. A disarm. Done. The warehouse falls quiet again. Frank scans the room.

One…

Two…

Three…

Four.

All down.

His breathing is steady as he steps over the bodies toward the office overlooking the floor. Whoever had been running tonight's operation had been smart enough to stay hidden. Until now. The office door bursts open. An older man stumbles out, coughing violently, clutching something metallic in his hand. Not a gun. A canister. Frank raises his pistol.

"Don't." The man smiles. Not afraid. Almost… relieved.

"You should've stayed away." Frank fires. The man jerks backward. But not before his thumb slams the button. The canister hisses. A burst of fine crimson powder erupts into the air. Frank instinctively turns his face away.

Too late.

The cloud engulfs him. It coats his jacket. His neck. His face.

He coughs once. Twice. The powder tastes metallic. Bitter. Like copper and ash.

"What the hell…" The old man collapses before he can answer. Silence settles over the warehouse once more.

Frank waits.

Five seconds.

Ten.

Nothing.

He wipes the red dust from his cheek onto his glove.

"…Weird." He holsters his weapon. Checks the room one final time. Collects the drive he'd come for. Then heads for the exit. Halfway across the parking lot… Something feels wrong. At first it's subtle. His collar suddenly feels too tight. His jacket heavier than usual. He unzips it. The cold November air should help.

It doesn't. By the time he reaches the van, heat is blooming beneath his skin. Not outside. Inside. Like someone lit a match behind his ribs. He frowns.

"Jesus.." He slides into the driver's seat. Starts the engine. The heater is off. The windows are down. Still… He's sweating.

His pulse pounds in his ears. His shirt sticks to his back. The skin along his neck prickles. Burns. The drive home becomes a blur of red lights and clenched teeth. By the time he parks outside the house, he's gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles ache. His vision swims. His breathing comes too fast. Every inch of him feels feverishly hot. Like his blood has been replaced with molten metal. He nearly stumbles climbing the porch steps. The key misses the lock twice before he finally gets the door open. The house is dark. Quiet. Safe. He closes the door behind him and leans against it, breathing hard.

The familiar scent of home hits him immediately. Lavender detergent. Fresh coffee lingering from that morning. And you.

Somewhere upstairs. As if pulled by instinct alone, Frank starts climbing. Each step feels heavier than the last. His skin burns. His heartbeat refuses to slow. His wedding ring feels too hot against his finger. The hallway swims in and out of focus. He reaches your bedroom door. Pushes it open. Moonlight spills through the curtains. There you are. Curled beneath the blankets. Fast asleep. One of his old black T-shirts hangs from your shoulders, slipping enough to reveal one bare shoulder against the pillow. Your hair is spread across the sheets. One hand tucked beneath your cheek.

Completely unaware that your husband is standing in the doorway.

The heat that was solid in his chest spreads down and down to rest between his legs.

You grumble in your sleep, shifting your hips upward. The duvet slips off, revealing the soft curve of your naked thigh, and the soft pink lace of the panties laying beneath the shirt.

The sight of you, so soft and vulnerable in the moonlight, is like a physical blow. The heat that was simmering in his groin explodes into a full-blown inferno. His cock, already half-hard from the fever, thickens and strains against the confines of his jeans, a sudden, urgent ache that steals his breath. He grits his teeth, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

He should go to the bathroom.

Turn on a cold shower.

Stick his head under the water until this… this thing passes. It has to be the powder. A delayed reaction. Some kind of chemical weapon designed to incapacitate.

He knows this, logically. He knows it.

But his body doesn't care about logic.

His feet move of their own accord, carrying him silently across the room. He tells himself he's just checking on you. Making sure you're okay. Making sure the house is secure. It's a lie, and he knows it. He's drawn to you like a moth to a flame, and he's terrified he's about to get burned. He stops at the edge of the bed, his shadow falling over you. You shift again in your sleep, a soft sigh escaping your lips, and the sound goes straight to his cock. It's agony. It's the sweetest sound he's ever heard. He reaches out, his hand trembling, his fingers hovering just above your shoulder. He just wants to touch you. Just a little. Just to feel the warmth of your skin, to ground himself.

His fingertips make contact.

It's a mistake.

A jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure shoots up his arm, so intense it's almost painful. Your skin is so soft, so warm, and the contact sends another wave of heat crashing through him. He can't stop the low groan that rumbles in his chest. He snatches his hand back as if he's been burned, his breathing ragged.

'"Fuck." he rasps, hand going for his jeans, palming himself shamelessly.

He should go.

Go sleep on the couch, wait for this to pass.

But then you shift again, turning your back to him fully, the shirt riding up your waist and god- Frank almost comes in his pants. The heat threatens to consume his whole body, and he falls forward, fingers tangling in the mess of sheets as he tries to reign in his self control.

But the thin thread that usually is his self control is a mere scrap tonight, and it breaks in the span of an instant. Before Frank can even realise what he's doing, he's shedding his outer layer of clothes, leaving him in his boxers, and he slides into the bed with you, his body seeking your warmth.

You shift again, and the scent of your hair, your skin, it hits him like a drug. The need is immediate, primal, and so sharp it drowns out the last of his thoughts. He curls around you from behind, the mattress dipping under his weight, his arm heavy and hot as it wraps around your waist and anchors you to him. You make a soft, sleepy noise—surprised, but not afraid—just as his hand slips beneath the taut hem of the black T-shirt. He palms your stomach, sliding up to cup your breast, and you arch into his touch out of instinct. A silent plea for more. Frank presses his face into your hair, breathing you in, jaw clenching against the urge to rut like an animal right then and there. He wants to be gentle, slow, but the heat inside him is so pure, so urgent, it takes everything just to keep from tearing the panties from your hips and driving himself into you. His cock is hard, hot, and leaking, pinned between you and the sheets. You squirm back against him, a wordless encouragement, and the friction is a mercy and a torment. You groan in your sleep as Frank softly peels the fabric of your panties to the side, a sleepy huff leaving your lips. Frank can’t resist.

He pulls his boxers down and without a second thought, grabs his cock in one hand and pushes it towards your folds. Frank pushes the head of his cock through your folds, dragging it through the slick heat, and the sensation is so overwhelming he almost blacks out. He can feel the precum leaking, painting your skin, and he wants—fuck, he needs—to be inside you. But you’re so soft underneath him, breathing slow and deep, eyelashes trembling against your cheek, that he hesitates at the last second. Your body is so warm, so inviting, and the urge to just take is a living thing in his blood. He lines himself up, gripping the meat of your hip so tight he’ll leave bruises.

The first push steals his breath. You’re so wet, so impossibly tight, the resistance making him groan into your shoulder. Your body wakes in slow motion, hips shifting unconsciously, a low whine leaking from your lips as he pushes in, stretching you inch by impossible inch. He’s big, always has been, but tonight he’s swollen, almost angry in his hardness, and the way you squeeze him is enough to make him see stars.

“God, baby,” he grunts, voice all gravel and hunger. He’s halfway in when you wake, startled, breath catching and body tensing in his arms.

“Frank?” It’s a question, sleepy and confused. He buries his face in your hair, his breath shuddering through your roots.

“Sorry,” he mutters, but there’s nothing sorry in the way he grinds against you, pushing deeper. “Need you so bad. Can’t—can’t fuckin’—” He groans, the sound guttural, primal. You writhe, caught between sleep and the sudden, aching fullness inside you.

“Frank, what—” You cut yourself off with a gasp as he bottoms out, the head of his cock kissing your cervix, the heat of him splitting you open. The stretch is so much, so sudden, your body clamps down, trembling. He holds you tight, one hand splayed over your belly, thumb rubbing circles just below the hem of your shirt.

“Shh, that’s it, you take it so good,” he says, voice low in your ear. He starts to move, shallow thrusts at first, testing your give, your grip. Every time he pulls back, your walls try to drag him in, greedy for more. Your hand scrabbles for the sheets, hips arching back helplessly, and Frank loses whatever fragile grip he has on self-control. He thrusts hard, burying himself inside you over and over, each slide slicker, hotter, more desperate.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so tight—squeezing me so fuckin’ good—look at you, taking every inch. My girl.” The praise slips out like a confession, rough and needy. You shudder, the words hitting you somewhere deep.

“Frank—oh, god, Frank, it’s—” He finds your hand and laces his fingers through yours, anchoring you as his pace picks up. His cock fills you, stretches you, and every thrust knocks the air from your lungs. Frank feels his heart hammering inside his chest, a booming drum against your spine. The grip he has on your hip is vice-like, holding you in place while he fucks into you with a pace that would shame him in the morning, but right now he’s too far gone to care. There’s only the velvet clutch of your heat, the way your body yields and draws him in, and the choked, breathless sounds you make every time he bottoms out. You’re whimpering now, the little noises you usually try to swallow down coming out bright and desperate. The sound of it is like gasoline on fire. He feels every inch of you, every pulse, every tremor, and he can’t—not for the life of him—slow down. His cock is thick, splitting you open, and you clamp around him so tight his vision goes white at the edges. He can’t tell if he’s drooling or if it’s sweat slicking his lips, but he’s got his mouth buried in your neck and he grinds his teeth together, trying not to lose it in the first minute.

“Jesus Christ—fuck, baby, you’re so fuckin’ perfect—” He bites the words into your hair, his lungs on fire. “Can’t stop, need to fill you up, need—” You just moan and buck back against him, your body greedy for every inch he gives you. Frank can feel you trembling, the way your thighs strain and your ass rocks against his hip, seeking out every thrust. He keeps telling himself to be gentle, to ease up, but every drag of your heat over his cock is ecstasy. He hammers into you, chasing the buzz building at the base of his spine, rolling his hips so deep you whine his name into the mattress.Frank can’t get enough. The words burned into the meat of his brain, pulsing there with the same desperate, animal rhythm he’s using to fuck you. He’s not even thinking about the mission anymore, about the canister, about the city he probably just infected with whatever the hell this is. He’s thinking about you, the shape your body makes under him, how you cling to him like you know exactly how close he is to breaking.

He’s close. So close it hurts. Every time your pussy milks him he wants to howl, wants to make you scream his name so loud the neighbors call the cops, wants to rut so deep into you it fucks the fever right out of his bloodstream.

You’re gasping now, not even trying to muffle it. The sound is everything. It’s everything. He grinds his cock into you, one hand tangled in your hair, the other clamped over your hip, using you to chase his own high. You’re so wet he can hear it, obscene and messy, every slam of his hips into yours punctuated by the filthy slap of skin on skin. He can feel you getting close, your muscles spasming around him, and he wants to drag it out, wants to make you come so hard you see stars, but he’s losing it. He’s never felt this out of control, like something in that powder rewired every nerve in his body, lit up every one of his instincts. He’s not just thinking with his cock—he is his cock, every fiber of him tuned to your body and the way you fuckin’ tremble underneath him.There’s no way you’re going to last. Not at this pace. Not with the way his cock fills you, the way his words break over your skin and pool in your belly, thick and sweet and filthy. You’re awake now, fully awake, and every inch of you is burning. The heat radiates off Frank like a fever, a wet, hungry furnace clamped to your back, and you never want it to end. He doesn’t slow down, not even when you’re keening his name into the pillow, not even when your body jerks and tightens and you come so hard you see black behind your eyelids. Frank just holds you tighter, shushing you, telling you how fucking good you are, how perfect, how you’re made for him, and the words turn your bones to water.

He doesn’t stop.

He’s not going to stop.

You can feel it—he’s close, he’s shaking, and the hand he has on your hip digs in hard enough to bruise. His thrusts grow ragged, desperate, and you know he’s about to— He curses, voice thick and hot in your ear.

“Fuck, fuck—sweetheart, can’t—can’t stop—” The heat in your belly doesn’t fade. If anything, it intensifies. You’re high on it, delirious, and still you want more. Frank doesn’t let up. He pulls you tighter, shifts your hips up just so, and starts to move again, slower this time, but just as deep. You whine, nails digging into the sheets, but he just pets your thigh, soothing and rough all at once.

“That’s it, baby. Take it. Take all of me.” He sounds ruined, but there’s a pride in it—a marvel at how much he can give you, how much you can take. You can barely think, every inch of your skin stretched taut with need. He sets a rhythm, brutal and sweet, and his fingers find your clit, rubbing circles that make you shake. You lose track of time. There’s nothing but Frank and the feel of him inside you, the sound of your bodies and his breath and the words he can’t keep to himself:

“so fucking tight—so good—my girl—my perfect girl—” and it never ends. He loses it first.

He’s never come this fast, not even as a dumb teenager, but tonight it’s like every nerve in his body is wired straight to his cock. He slams in, buried to the hilt, and lets out a groan that’s half agony, half worship. The first spurt of cum is so intense he shudders, vision blurring. His body stills, and his breath is so heavy on your neck. Your whole body is shaking and you whine as you pull yourself off him and turn to face him.

His whole body is covered in sweat, and his brows are pinched in pain.

The joke you were going to make about him missing you too much dies in your throat as concern spikes up through your chest.

“Frankie ?” You ask, trying to reach out to touch him. The second your hand touches his bare bicep, his hips rut towards you and a loud unabashed moan leaves his lips. His large hand comes down and wraps around his cock, his fist pumping around his length as he pants.

“Frank, what-”

“Shit, shit, baby- I think - I think- I think somethin’s wrong with me.” He writhes on the bed, clearly uncomfortable. “I thought- maybe if i- i thought it’d go away-” He moans, his eyes flying open to stare at you.

Yeah. It’s defintely not gone away.

The tension in his jaw is visible, the way his hand moves over himself so desperate, so unlike the usual Frank. Not controlled, not careful—just raw and frantic. You’ve seen him after missions, shaking with adrenaline, but never like this. His cock is flushed, almost angry, the head slicked and red, and he’s rutting into his fist with a single-mindedness that makes your mouth go dry.

You try to reach for him again.

“Sweetheart—don’t. I can’t—” His voice is all gravel, unsteady. He looks at your hand like it’s fire. “If you touch me, I swear to god—” He shakes his head, but it’s a threat with no teeth, because the next second he grabs your wrist, the grip almost bruising, and yanks you into his lap. The world goes sideways, your thighs splayed over his, the shirt riding up to your hips. His mouth is on you, not soft or sweet but open and desperate, biting at your collarbone, dragging his teeth down the slope of your shoulder. You giggle, delirious.

“Is this a new kink I don’t know about?”

“Fuck.” He’s red in the face, hair stuck to his forehead, pupils dilated so wide it swallows the blue. “I shouldn’t touch you. I’m— I’m fucked up. I should go.” But he doesn’t go. He’s already got you pinned a, his cock rutting against the crease of your thigh, leaving smears of precum all over your skin. He’s shaking so hard it vibrates through the bed. You try to wriggle out of his grip, but it’s like moving under a sandbag.

“Babe, maybe we should—” Frank just grunts, He pants into your skin like he’s drowning and you’re the only air.

“Need you,” he mumbles, the words slurred and low. “Need to fuck you, please, I—” He cuts off with another moan, huge hands hauling you up so the head of his cock slips between your folds. You’re already aching, slick from the first round, but now you feel an answering heat, an insistent, hungry want that’s not entirely your own. He doesn’t guide himself inside—he lifts you and drops you down, and the stretch is so sudden you yelp.

“Oh my god- Frank-” He buries his face in your neck, breath ragged.

“God, baby, so fucking tight,” he breathes, hips bucking up, driving you down to the hilt. It’s a lot, more than usual, and you have to cling to his shoulders just to keep from being fucked straight off him. Frank sets a brutal rhythm, all upward thrusts, his thighs flexing beneath you. He mutters into your skin, endless filthy praise—

“so good, so fucking good for me, made to take me, you’re perfect, fuck, my perfect girl”—and your body can’t help but respond, the words turning to liquid heat in your belly. You ride him, helpless to do anything but take and take, the pleasure almost overwhelming. He’s relentless, fucking up into you so hard you see white at the edges of your vision.

“Can’t stop,” he grits out, voice nearly gone. “Can’t—fuck—can’t stop unless you want me to—” He makes it a question, somehow, but you just dig your nails into his back and rock into him, letting him know you want more, need it as bad as he does. You’re so full you can barely breathe, every inch of your insides stretched around him. It’s more than you can remember, somehow, thicker, longer, and when you look down you see the way he’s split you open, the obscene bulge where his cock seats itself deep inside. The sight of it thrills you, makes you want to be ruined. Makes you want to take all of it, every frantic thrust.

You start to break — the way you always do when he gets like this, when the praise pours out like it’s the truth of him, when the thick hot weight of him pounds you open and the world narrows to the sound of your bodies slapping together and the hunger in his voice. You dig harder into his shoulders, nails scoring lines down his back, and his grip on your hips is bruising, anchoring you in place, and all you can do is hang on. The whole bed rocks under the violence of it, and your breath shatters, every exhale coming out as a broken whimper or a plea. Frank’s head tips back, his neck corded and slick with sweat, face gone slack with animal need, and you see the wildness burning bright behind his eyes. It’s too much, and it’s not enough, and you can feel the orgasm rising, savage and relentless, the friction of him inside so hot it verges on pain. You can’t think, can barely remember your own name, and Frank’s hand stays splayed flat on your back, fingers digging in, holding you down as his hips jackhammer up, merciless and perfect. You lose track of how many times you come, the edge blurred into a single long frantic wave, your staring eyes and raw throat and overheating skin all proof that you’re still alive, still tethered to this earth by the iron will of the man fucking you apart.

You collapse against his chest and he doesn’t slow, not even when you start to cry, the tears hot on your cheeks, the sobs punched out by each new thrust. He fucks you through it, each new climax wringing your insides tighter, until you’re trembling, clinging, babbling his name over and over. And he matches you, each time you squeeze down his cock he shudders, the veins in his neck standing out. Frank drags you higher on his lap and fucks up into you, hard enough you see stars. You sob, nails digging bloody half-moons into his shoulders, but the pain is good, it’s grounding, it’s proof that this is real and happening and not some fever dream. He’s soaked in sweat, skin slick and burning hot, and you feel him pulsing inside, the head of his cock battering places you didn’t know you had. He won’t stop. He can’t. His hands grip your waist and throttle you down, using you as leverage, rutting in single desperate slams that make your vision flicker white. You think you’re going to pass out. You want to. But he fucks you alive.

“M’sorry-” He rasps, his chest tense. “M’so sorry, mama-” He rasps, mouth grazing over your collarbones. His hips piston up, his cock splitting you on every thrust, and you’re so oversensitive it’s a miracle you don’t faint. Frank’s got you held up like a rag doll, hands locked around your waist, flexor tendons standing out in relief under his skin, and he’s making these animal noises deep in his chest, almost a whine, like even the shame can’t touch the need that’s got him by the throat. You try to say his name but it comes out as a wail, your body wrung dry, so full of him it feels like he’s rearranged your ribs. He thrusts up again, hard, and you see black behind your eyelids, a hot flash of white that rips through the mush of your brain and leaves you blank except for the feeling of him, the heat of him, the words he pours into your ear in a frantic, hungry spill.

“So good, baby, so—fuck—never felt you like this, you’re fucking perfect, so perfect, fuck, mama, look at you, taking all of me.” You do. You force your eyes open, and the sight of where your bodies meet should be obscene, but it’s gorgeous, it’s art, the way he disappears into you, the way you clamp down on him, shuddering and limp at the same time.

He can’t stop. It’s not just that he doesn’t want to — his body won’t let him. You see the panic in his face, the way he tries to slow, but every time he bottoms out, every time your heat milks him, it’s like he’s possessed.

He comes again, the heat of it flooding you, and you yelp, the sensation so much you spasm around him, another little aftershock wringing through your pelvis. Frank doesn’t even have enough air to groan — he just shivers, teeth grit and eyes squeezed shut, and then he slumps, just barely, his grip loosening a little. Your whole body slumps forward, and you grip onto his hair, whimpering at the soreness between your thighs. Frank groans, shaking his head. You gulp, looking up at him.

“Are you- Are you okay ?” You ask. You’re limp on his chest, so full you’re leaking down his balls, but even that spills more want into his bloodstream. He lifts you, and your cunt makes a wet, lewd pop as his cock drags out, thick and purple and smeared with both your releases. Frank is still hard. Still leaking. Still burning under every inch of skin. He tries to slow his breath, the drag of air through his lungs, but it’s like trying to wrangle a livewire with his bare hands. The need doesn’t fade. It only coils tighter, meaner, sharper against the base of his spine. He’d always prided himself on self-control, on discipline, but whatever was in that powder, it’s bending him backwards over his own rules, turning every nerve ending into a live fuse. You’re sprawled across his chest, boneless and slick, but the scent of you is gasoline in the furnace. He looks down, watches the way his cock stands, angry and thick and still twitching above the mess he’s made of you. He thinks: he could die this way. He’d be fine with it. You nuzzle your face into his neck and laugh, lightheaded.

“Are you seriously still—” He grunts.

“Don’t—don’t look at it.” You do. Both of you. Your hand drags down his chest, tracing the ridges of his body—slick with sweat, shuddering in the aftershocks, so alive it’s almost painful. You move to touch his cock and he flinches, a sharp inhalation, but he doesn’t stop you.

“Frank, you’re—oh my god.” You squeeze your hand around the shaft, thumb swiping over the slit, and Frank’s whole body seizes. He nearly throws you off in the spasm, but you’re still locked around his hips, and the movement only grinds you down over his lap, cock slipping between your folds in a slick, obscene slide.

“Fuck—” He’s biting down on his own knuckles to keep from making noise, but it’s helpless. You’re laughing, delirious with the power of it, and the sound is a hook in his ribs. He wants to be embarrassed, but it’s gone, burned out of him by the liquid hunger that soaks every thought. He needs to be inside you again. He needs it like air. All you want is to collapse, to melt into the mattress. Frank doesn’t give you the chance. Not even a full breath later, he’s up on his knees, cock still rock-hard and glistening. He drags you by the hips until you’re on your back, knees crooked open, and spears himself in one brutal thrust, splitting you apart again.

“Fuck- I’m sorry-” He rasps. The sensation is so sharp you see stars, a shriek punched out of your chest when he bottoms out, rutting into you like he’s never going to stop.The pressure is so much, all at once, Frank’s vision tunnels. He can’t even hear above the roar of blood in his ears. The bed rattles. The whole goddamn planet could rattle apart and he wouldn’t stop. He’s fucking you through the mattress, through the next dimension. He can’t catch a full breath. He gasps for air and tastes your sweat, your scent, the ozone tang of the fever now churning through him like black fire. You’re screaming. The raw, high sound of it rips the last discipline out of him. Some part of him tries to be gentle, tries to hold back, but his body goes on autopilot, rutting harder, faster, every thrust shoving his cock deeper into you, until it feels like he’s turned you inside out. You go limp, then rigid, then limp again. The only thing holding you together is his hands. He braces his forearm across the small of your back and folds you in half, his weight crushing you into the ruined tangle of sheets. He’s got you locked in, locked down, and the only thing you can do is take it, over and over, every stroke. Your sobs go silent, lungs emptied, and you’re reduced to shuddering and twitching, a gooseflesh wreck. It should scare him, and somewhere, deep behind the thick fog of want, it does. But your body milks him, clings to him, wants him just as much.

You’re still trying to crawl up his cock, even as it’s too much, even as you whimper “please—please—Frank—” and he loses the thread of what you’re even asking for. You come again, your pussy clamping so tight he almost blacks out. The bedframe slams against the wall, a steady drumbeat to the obscene, wet slap of your bodies. Frank’s not sure there’s anything left to give, but his balls ache and his cock throbs and he’s still not done, not even close. He’s barely human, all muscle and bone and nerve endings, and he’s so deep in the need it’s like swimming blind. The pulsing heat should fade, but it doesn’t. His cock stays hard, the ridge of it throbbing against your walls, and you can taste the panic in the way he looks at you, eyes wild, brow shiny with sweat. You’re so full it feels like you’ll split, like he’s pounding straight through your core. He fucks you with a single-minded desperation, every thrust a promise he can’t break, and you ride each wave with him, helpless to do anything but take and take until your mind blanks out and your body remembers nothing but the shape of him inside you.

Frank’s world is the inside of your cunt. He’s got no purchase outside it. Every time he tries to slow, just breathe, it’s like the fever burns hotter, pushes him right back to rutting into you like he’ll die if he stops. You’re not even crying anymore; the sound you make is a dull, broken gasp at every shove into your center, and still you’re so fucking good for him, you take it, you take him, you always do. He’s never been rough with you like this, never let himself, but there’s no pulling back, nothing but the thick slap of skin and the way your body folds around him, greedier than anything Frank’s ever known. Sweat pours off him, mouth gone dry, every muscle in his arms and gut straining to keep you locked onto his cock.

You shudder your way through three orgasms. Four. He loses count, can only track the relentless pulse at the base of his cock, the way every new wave of your desperation clenches him tighter, tries to milk him dry. He wants to say he’s sorry, wants to fucking stop, but if he stops he’ll die right here, naked and empty with nothing but want. He crushes you to his chest, presses his brow to yours, and his voice shreds in his throat.

“Honey—fuck—don’t know what’s wrong—can’t—” He can’t finish. He reaches down, grabs your thighs, and pushes them up, your knees by your ears, so he can watch his cock disappearing into your ruined cunt. The sight turns his brain to static. He fucks you through his own softening, the rawness of it sending his balls tight, a pulsing ache so deep it’s like punishment. You blink up at him, eyes wide and glassy, lips parted in a soundless plea. Frank heaves in ragged breaths. He wipes the sweat out of his eyes with the back of his hand, but it’s useless, just keeps coming. You try to touch his face, but your hand falls limply to the pillow.

“Can’t—” you try, voice so hoarse it’s a rasp, “Frank, too much—”

“I know, baby, I know,” he chokes, but he doesn’t stop, can’t stop, the rhythm just slows, each push in and out a new kind of agony. You’re so full you’re leaking, the pale mess of him painting your thighs, every thrust making a fresh drip down to the sheets. He can’t get enough of it. He can’t get enough of you. He thinks—maybe, if he comes again, this will break. Maybe it’s just a matter of getting it all out of his system. Frank’s hips keep going, chasing something neither of you can name, deeper and harder, until even the friction starts to blur into a numb, syrupy ache. You’re not sure your body can take another orgasm, but Frank’s cock doesn’t slow, doesn’t even twitch toward softening inside you. He’s still diamond-hard, still rutting in mindless, ragged thrusts, the tip of his dick punching against your cervix so sharp you nearly sob. You want to stop, want to tap out, but you can’t say the words, not with the way his body cages yours, his forearm braced above your head. Every time you so much as gasp for air, he hushes you, whispers more praise into your skin.

“Good girl, fuck, you’re such a good girl, baby—so tight, squeezing me, you wanna make me come again? Huh? Want me to fill you all the way up?” His voice cracks, goes thin and desperate, and you almost come just from the sound. The praise is a wire wrapped around your spine, drawing you tighter, tighter, until the next orgasm hits like a rubber bullet and rips a wail out of your chest. Frank’s cock doesn’t give you a break to even register the aftershocks before he’s already pounding you through another. Your thighs shake, your calves spasm, even your toes curl up tight. You’re crying again, you think, but it’s not from pain, not really. It’s because your body’s hit max capacity and refused to let go, and Frank’s not slowing down, not even to catch his breath. The bed frame is a lost cause, the cheap wood splintering against each slam of Frank’s hips. You grip the pillow, face buried in the wet cotton, and try to ride it out.

You want to tell him to stop, to check if he’s okay, but every time you try, you just get another mouthful of “Frank, fuck, Frank—”

He’s panting so loud his breath sounds like a threat. His hand finds the back of your neck, palm warm and damp with sweat, and holds you down, grinding his cock so deep you shiver. The sound that comes out of him isn’t human: a full-body groan, like coming is the only relief left in the world. His cock throbs, thick and pulsing, and you feel the heat spill inside you, a flood that has you clenching, wringing every drop out of him. He collapses on top of you, and you shudder in pain, your body begging for a break. Frank groans, his shoulders shaking. He peels himself away from you, shaking his head, his chest heaving.

He’s in pain. You can tell.

He faces the wall as he tries his hardest to settle his breathing, and you can see his cock, pressed against his stomach- still red and hard and bulging. Your insides churn with ache, and you whine.

“Frankie-”

“N-No, baby, i gotta- I gotta stop.” He rasps, shaking his head. But his body disagrees. Frank’s hand finds the headboard and he grinds the heel of his palm into his brow, eyes clenched, like that might squeeze the need out of his skull by force. He tries to turn away, but your hand is there, cupping his jaw, so gentle he almost sobs from it.

“It’s okay.” Your voice is thin, spent, but there’s not a trace of fear in it. Only worry. Only the same devotion he’s always known, the kind that makes his chest ache on a normal day, and now it’s a knife. You look up at him, lashes stuck together with tears and sweat, and he sees it—what he’s done to you. The red handprints on your thighs, the way your lips are bruised from your own teeth. He’s never hated himself more. He tries to say your name but his throat seizes, a dry, animal noise spilling out, and it takes everything not to punch a hole through the fucking drywall just to have something to break. You crawl into his lap, soft and warm and so goddamn patient, and rest your head on his shoulder. The touch is an IV drip straight to what’s left of his self-control. He wraps his arms around you, desperate to keep you safe, but the second your cunt grazes his cock he’s hard again—no pause, no mercy. Your body folds around him, open and wrecked and beautiful, and the urge to fuck you into the floorboards is so strong it’s all he can do not to bite your shoulder until it bruises. He’d always thought himself a man of limits. Rules. But this is new country. This is past the boundary of pain and into the realm of need that’s got no words. He wants to stop, but his cock is already rutting against your heat, and you’re slick, still so wet he can feel the mess soaking his thighs. You ease back, the weight of you on his lap, and thread your hand through his hair.

“Frankie, you’re burning up,” you whisper. Your palm settles on his chest, like you could press the fever out of him with enough pressure. But it’s not just fever. It’s a bomb—ticking. He can’t remember the last time he felt this powerless.

“God, it’s that fuckin’ red powder- I don’t- I don’t know what was in it-”

“It’s okay, Frankie.” You huff.

“No, it’s not fucking okay !” He yells, whining as his hips rut up, chasing the feel of your pussy clamped on him. His eyes fly open, and he takes you in. “Baby, look what i’ve fuckin’ done to ya.” He rasps, shaking his head.

“Frankie-”

“Please- get- get off me, mama, please- I don’t wanna hurt you anymore, i-” You see Frank’s resolve start to buckle. The panic in his eyes crashes up against the tidal wave of need that’s got him rutting into you even as he begs for distance, for mercy, for anything to keep you safe from his own treacherous body. You shift in his lap and he moans, the sound so raw and petulant it threatens to break your heart. You bury your face into his neck, lips pressed to the salt and heat there, and you try to anchor him with your words.

“I’m not afraid of you, Frankie. You’re not gonna hurt me. I want to help—” You’re cut off by a shudder as his cock twitches, fat and fever-hot, pressing up against your drenched folds. Even through the haze of soreness, you can’t help but want him, the way he fills you, the way he worships every inch of you with his eyes and hands and words. He tries to scoot back, but you wrap your arms around his shoulders, locking him in place.

“Frank. Look at me.” He tries to obey, but the shame is a physical force, tethering his chin to his chest. You take his face in both hands and lift it, so he’s forced to see you—your ruined makeup, your puffy lips, the tears still drying in sticky trails down your face. He trembles, and the glassy, pleading look in his eyes is almost more than you can bear. You force yourself to smile. “It’s not you, Frankie. It’s whatever they hit you with. You’re not going to break me. I know you.” You guide his hand so it cups your hip, thumb stroking over the place where his fingerprints are already bruising your skin. “Let me help you. Please.” A sob racks his chest, but you don’t let go. You shift your hips, the soreness blooming into a fierce ache, but the sharp stretch of him splitting you open is its own kind of mercy, a reminder that you’re real, that he’s real, that everything that has you gasping and groaning and crying is because the man you love can’t stop loving you back, even when it shreds him to the bone. He mutters something—could be your name, could be some broken apology—but you cut him off by grinding down, forcing the thick head of his cock inside again. You both moan, the sound a harmonized exhale of pain and relief and want. You ride him slow, savoring the way his hands grip your ass, the way his mouth stutters against the hollow of your neck.

“Baby—fuck—don’t wanna—don’t wanna ruin you—” he whimpers. You’ve never seen him lose it like this. The red powder’s got him raw, desperate, every boundary burned away by the chemical fire in his veins. His face shines with sweat and tears, and his voice is so cracked and pleading it makes you want to cry for him. You whine as you overstimulated clit bumps against his pubic bone and you shake your head.

"Just- ah shit, wanna help-" You manage, your face drawn up in pain.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck-" Before you can understand what's going on, you're ripped off of him, and your cheek meets the pillow as your ass is propped up. Frank’s got you on your stomach, ass in the air, and the whole world narrows to pressure, his hands locked around your hips so hard you can taste the bruise forming. He’s inside you before your brain catches up—a single mean thrust, bottoming out, and your mouth opens but nothing comes out except a stuttered gasp. He doesn’t move at first, just holds you there, cock throbbing so deep you can feel it behind your navel.

His voice is a raw scrape: “Sorry, sorry—can’t—” and then he fucks down, fucks through you, every stroke hard enough to punch the air from your lungs. You try to brace your hands but your shoulder gives out, leaving you cheek-down on the pillow, drool pooling in the crook of your mouth. You think you might cry, but it turns to a wail instead, a high desperate sound muffled by the bed. Frank’s not slow, not at all—he’s relentless, hips snapping, spine bowed over your back, the heat of him rolling off in waves. He mutters your name into your hair, worship and apology in every syllable, but he doesn’t stop, not even when your thighs seize up and your body starts to shake.

It’s like he’s in a race to fuck the poison out of himself, a self-punishment as much as a need. He doesn’t just pound, he grinds, the fat ridge of his cock scraping every hypersensitive spot and making you see colors behind your eyelids. He gets a rhythm going, a brutal, unyielding cadence that’s all force and no mercy, the wet slap of skin so loud it drowns out your own whimpers. He’s saying something—maybe a prayer, maybe a curse—but your ears ring too loud to tell. Frank’s rhythm shudders, then redoubles, each thrust a new promise he can’t keep—he’s sorry, he’s trying, but his body won’t even let him lie. All you can do is take it. Your hips knock forward with every impact, your knees gone numb, your hands scrabbling at the sheets. He’s a furnace at your back, sweat dripping from his jaw onto the nape of your neck. Your cunt is raw, fluttering, so full of him you feel like his cock is splitting your spine in half, pulse after pulse hammering your insides. The praise keeps coming, wrecked and hoarse, every word scraping the meat of your brain:

“That’s it, mama, god, you’re so good for me, fucking perfect, fuck, fuck, look at how you take it—” His hands bracket your waist, thumbs pressing so hard you’re sure you’ll wear his fingerprints for days. The bed gives a death rattle under the both of you, and for a second you’re sure you might break through the floor. It’s not just the pain, it’s the stretch, the impossible misshape of him inside you, the friction grinding against nerves you didn’t know you had. Each time he bottoms out, your whole body spasms, jaw slack, and your eyes roll up until all you see is white. You want to say it’s too much, you need to say it’s too much, but your throat can’t find the air. All you can manage is a strangled sob and a whimper, the sound burrowing straight into Frank’s brain. He’s so loud you barely hear yourself. He can’t stop moaning, every inhale a curse, every exhale a plea for you to hold on, to keep going, to save him from this. His cock throbs inside you, thick as a goddamn fist, and you feel every vein, every twitch.

You can’t even squeeze him now; you’re so open, so obliterated, but he uses you anyway, cocking his hips to make sure he grinds against every raw inch of your walls. It’s a mercy when you come again—your pussy fluttering, a helpless, shivery clamp that wrings a keening noise out of both of you. He feels it, all of it, the heat and the pulse and the way your body tries to milk him dry, and it snaps something vital in him.

He shoves forward, so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach, and he grunts a broken “fuck—” as he spills inside you again, so much it leaks out the second he starts to move. He doesn’t soften. Not even a little. He leans over, body caging you in, his huge hand coming to cradle your head, gentle and sweet and so at fucking odds with the way he rails you from behind, over and over and over. You think you might faint. You hope you do, but Frank won’t give you the out. He drags you up onto your knees, keeping you impaled, your ass flush against his hips. His chest is a solid wall at your back, every breath a ragged hurricane. You lean into him, and the only thing keeping you from sliding forward is the white-knuckle grip he’s got on your hip. Every muscle in his arm is bunched and trembling, and you can’t see his face, but you can hear him, every breath a broken, bruised whimper. The pressure inside you is so intense it feels like he’s going to split you, and the wet mess leaking out onto your thighs is obscene, but you can’t stop clenching, can’t stop reaching for every last inch he gives, even when it knocks a raw scream out of you.

He’s not talking anymore; he’s just animal, all want and motion, the drag of his cock so deep it makes your vision rattle. He’s fucking through every stop sign his brain tries to throw up. It’s not anger—he’s not rough, not really, not even when the thrusts get mean. He’s wounded, desperate, every snap of his hips a white flag of surrender to whatever’s in his blood. There’s a low, guttural moan in the back of his throat that never quite makes it out—just a vibration that crackles down his spine and into yours.

The only words he manages are yours: your name, and then sorry, then your name again, and then “please, please, please,” like there’s a finish line he can barely see.

You try to push up, to arch back into him, and he groans like he’s in pain. The new angle gives him enough to work with that he slams in even deeper, punching the air out of your lungs. The slap of your bodies is filthy, echoing off the drywall. You’re not sure you can take it, but every time you think you’ll fall apart, he tightens his fingers and pulls you closer and you break in a new way, shattered and made again in the space of a heartbeat. His cock is so hard it feels like a weapon, the head swelling every time your pussy convulses around it. You’re so full it’s like he’s rearranging your guts, and the ache is a raw, sweet line from your cervix to your clit, every stroke against that spot another quicksilver jolt.

He keeps muttering—“fuck, fuck, fuck, baby, good, that’s it, take it, take it, please”—each phrase more frantic than the last. His balls slap your clit with every thrust, a wet, brutal rhythm that leaves you shaking. You can’t move, not really, just grip the sheets and let him fuck you through the next dimension. Your body responds with a will of its own, cunt fluttering, greedy, and he all but howls, the pitch of his voice climbing as you milk him. He wraps a hand over your mouth, not to silence you, but to keep himself from biting into your shoulder. Your vision blurs at the edges, black stars exploding behind your eyes with every brutal slap of Frank’s hips. You don’t remember the last time you took a breath that wasn’t torn from your lungs; you don’t remember the last time you wanted anything as bad as you want him to finish—just finish—so you can collapse and glue your bones back together.

He holds you locked against his chest, your knees straining and your hands scrabbling for the headboard, but your arms are noodles, your muscles shaking with nothing left to give. He fucks you like he’s trying to get through to the other side, like if he just goes hard enough, deep enough, the chemicals will burn themselves out and he’ll stop being an animal. The sounds coming out of him are wild, nothing you’ve ever heard in your own bed—raw, grunting, half-sobbed apologies and broken praise.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, please, baby, need you to take it, need—can’t—” Frank’s voice is a rasp, a snapped wire, and you can feel his cock twitching, so hard you think he could split you in half with it. Each time he bottoms out, it punches a fresh scream out of you, but you clamp your jaw down, try to muffle the madness of it. He’s never rough with you, not like this, never so greedy, but you get it. Something is wrong, and you want to help—want to be the answer, the antidote, the safe place for him to burn out and come back to himself. He holds your waist so tight you can feel each ridge of his fingerprints, bruising you into memory. You want to say it hurts, but the words won’t come. Your pussy is on fire—raw, stretched, so abused it’s gone numb and then come back to life even sharper. The mess is everywhere: leaking out around him, slicking your thighs, running down to stain the sheets. All you can do is ride the waves and hope you don’t drown.

The only noise in the room is the animal rhythm of bodies and Frank’s voice, disbelieving and desperate: “So fucking tight, fuck, mama, so good, can’t stop, can’t—please don’t make me stop—” He thrusts so hard your hips jar forward, your face mashed into the bed. You start to sob, not from pain, not really, but because it’s too much, because you’ve never seen him like this, never heard him cry out with so little control. You want to help, that’s what matters—help him, take all of it, prove you’re strong enough. You push back into him, arching your ass higher, and the noise he makes is so grateful it breaks your heart.

“Good girl,” he says, voice shredded and hoarse. “Perfect, you’re perfect, fuck, sweetheart, doing so good, just gotta—” He loses the thread, ruts into you so deep your vision whites out. His cock pulses, and you feel a new rush of heat inside, and that does it. You clench down, body wracked by the kind of orgasm that hurts, hurts so good you see stars.

He lets you drop back down against the mattress, and you struggle to keep yourself upright. You scream yourself hoarse, your pussy clamped down vice-tight. You feel everything, every pulse and stretch and starburst, and Frank howls against your shoulder. The noise doesn’t even sound like him—it’s wounded and messy, his breath burning loud in your ear. You can’t move, can’t breathe, can only let him use you, rail you, like he’ll die if he doesn’t get it all out. The aftershocks won’t stop, not for you, not for him. He stutters through another frantic thrust, and you feel his cock jerk, another hot wave of come flooding you, and you go limp in his hands, deadweight against his chest. He keeps moving, barely half a second between one orgasm and the next, and you’re sobbing into the pillow, your senses so blown you can’t tell if you’re still coming or if the world just feels that sharp now. You want to beg for mercy, but Frank doesn’t have any to give. His grip shakes. His whole body shakes. He clings to you like he’ll fall apart if he lets go, every inch of him slick and hot, pressing you into the mattress until you’re shaped to it. You can hear the edge-of-panic in his voice, the way he repeats your name and sorry and “baby, I can’t—can’t stop, can’t stop.” He’s terrified of himself. You know it, and it makes you want him more, want to fix it, take the ache out of him even if it means breaking yourself in the process.

He lifts you higher, knees scrabbling to keep you upright, and then he’s fucking up into you again, as frantic as the first time. It’s a miracle you’re still wet, still open, but the heat between your legs is unreal—slippery, raw, your clit throbbing with every slap of his body. You don’t think you’re meant to come this many times; it’s like your nerves are fried, but every time his cock grinds against that spot inside you, you jolt and seize and scream. The room smells like sex, thick and musky and everywhere. You’re distantly aware of how filthy it is, how you both sound like animals, how you must look wrecked beyond repair—but Frank won’t even let you hide your face. He grabs your jaw, turns your head so you’re looking at him, his eyes wild and glassy and pleading.

“Need you,” he says, and it sounds like a confession. “Can’t—please, baby, don’t let go—” You nod, tears streaming down your cheeks, because you can’t talk, and the way he looks at you—like you’re the last thing tethering him to the planet—makes you want to endure a thousand more hours of this, if it’ll help. You squeeze around him, even though you’re not sure you can take any more; you brace your arms against his, let him rut into you until you both lose track of time. Frank’s hand slides up the back of your neck, fingers in your hair, not pulling, just holding. Like if he lets go, he’ll float away. You feel his lips at your skin, a blur of kisses and apologies, but it’s not enough to gentle the pace. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t soften, just fucks you through every last bit of resistance. You can’t even squeeze him, but he doesn’t need it—he’s so big you’re stretched taut, every vein and ridge inside you, scraping against a spot that makes your eyes roll up. He leans over, flush against your back, and you feel the tremble in his chest—like he’s sobbing, too. His whole body shakes, and you realize with a lurch that he’s crying.

You turn your head, try to see him, but all you get is the hot rush of his breath in your hair, the way he chokes on another “sorry, sorry, baby, fuck—” before slamming in so deep you swear he’s fucking your soul out of your body. He doesn’t stop. Not even when you start to tremble, then seize up, body clamped so tight around him you think it might snap him in two. He keeps moving, relentless, grinding you to dust on the inside and the outside, and the sounds coming out of his mouth break open something raw in your chest—a wet, hiccupping sob choked down between every thrust. He feels everything too much, all at once, and it hurts, you can see it in the way his hands shake against your skin, the way he buries his face in your neck like he’s trying to hide from himself.

You want to tell him it’s okay, that you want it, that you want him, but your tongue is heavy, glued to the roof of your mouth. All you can do is take it, take him, every brutal inch, and hope it helps. The room is a blur: lamp tipped on its side, blood pounding in your ears, the hot animal stink of sweat and sex and desperate, chemical need. You’re so full it hurts, but you keep clenching, greedy for more, even as your muscles threaten to give out.

He pins your wrists to the mattress, fingers threaded through yours, so tight it burns. You twist under him, searching for leverage, but he flattens you, cages you, and there’s no air left in your lungs. His cock pistons in, then out, a punishing, friction-sharp rhythm that makes you see strobing white. You feel it all: the stretch, the obscene wet slap, the pulse of blood behind your clit, the way your body tries to force him out but can’t. For a second, you wonder if it’s permanent, if you’ll ever be able to close again without the imprint of him inside you. He keeps his hand on your throat, not squeezing, just holding, grounding himself with your pulse as he chases that feeling through you. The pressure behind your eyes is unbearable; you can’t tell if you’re lightheaded from the lack of air, or from the way he pounds you, relentless even as your body goes limp.

“Ah shit, ah shit- baby- He rasps. You can feel his body burning so unbelievably hot that it burns your skin.

“Shit, baby, i think i’m gonna come-” He rasps, and his hips pick up speed. You’re not sure if you’re even conscious when it happens; your body is numb but your brain is a live wire, the noise in your skull too loud to parse. He moves again, humping at you in little, frantic jerks, already hard, never soft. He sounds panicked, desperate, like he’s drowning and needs you to save him.

“Please, baby, fuck, please,” he gasps, and you push back into him, let him set the new rhythm, not even thinking. You’re beyond pain, beyond thought; just animal, just wet and open and clenching down because you have nothing else to give. You feel every inch, every vein, every frantic stutter of his cock, and it’s like you were made for this, for him, for the way he fills you up and burns you clean from the inside out. Frank’s cock jerks inside you and the heat floods out in a wave, so much come you can feel it forcing its way out past the seal of you both, drooling down your thighs and pooling under your knees. He collapses against your back, and the world goes silent except for the crash of his heartbeat and the rasp of his breathing. He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t move at all, not even to loosen the grip he’s got on your wrists. For a second, you think he’s passed out. Then you hear it—a soft, broken noise in the hollow of your shoulder, the kind of sound that only comes out when the body runs out of things to burn. He shudders, the shift of his body smearing sweat and spit and tears down your back. You’re both shaking, but his is an aftershock, yours is still the quake. He buries his nose in your hair, inhaling like it might save him. A minute passes. Then another. He’s still inside you, and you can feel every twitch, every minute pulse, like your walls are mapped to his heartbeat.

“Baby,” he croaks, and his voice is so small you almost don’t hear it. “Jesus. Fuck. Are you—” He can’t finish. He’s breathing like he’s been sprinting for miles. You can’t breathe right. Every inch of skin feels flayed, body spasming around the thickness of him still buried in you. Frank is nothing but heat and bone and the low, sick whimper echoing in your ear. You don’t know if you’re crying, but your face is wet and your teeth ache from clenching. You’re glad you didn’t say no—glad you could take it, for him, whatever this is. You’re glad to be the thing he needs, even if you don’t understand the why of it. He doesn’t move. Not one millimeter. You try to flex around him, a weak squeeze, and he makes a soft, torn sound. There’s shame in it. You don’t have to see his face—you can feel it in the way he goes slack against your back, the way his arms drop away from you like he’s afraid of his own hands. He pulls out so slow you want to scream, cock dragging against your swollen, battered walls, and the afterrush of everything floods out between your thighs. You collapse onto the wet, ruined sheets, legs so dead you couldn’t move if you tried.

“Shit, shit !” He rasps, gently reaching for you and flipping you over to your back. The haze that filled his eyes is gone now, and he looks at your body in pure horror.

Bruises.

Bite marks.

The indentation of his fingers.

You blink into the light. You’re vibrating apart, every nerve raw and humming. Frank’s hands hover, then drop. He’s kneeling above you, shaking, looking down like he’s a monster who’s just drawn a bloodline in the sand and crossed it. Frank stares at the marks on your hips in horror, mouth open but no words coming out, breath rattling. He drags a hand over his face and looks at you, really looks, and his eyes go wide and dark like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“Jesus, baby, I—fuck, I’m—” He can’t even say it. His hands flutter, wanting to reach, not daring. You’re splayed open, cold now that he’s not filling you, the wet between your legs turning sticky against your skin. It’s obscene, the way your body wants him even now, the ache in your cunt still a live wire, pulsing. You press your legs together but he’s left you so stretched there’s nothing to squeeze. Frank scrambles off the bed and almost falls, legs shaking, cock slapping wet against his thigh. He’s pale and sweating, haunted, retreating from you like you’re radioactive. In the bathroom you hear him gag, then the faucet running, then another low, choked noise that’s all guilt and fear.

You lie in the mess and wait. The ceiling is just a white blur, your blood humming in your ears.

You could sleep forever.

Or die.

Either would be a mercy. You roll to your side, wince at the wet slap between your thighs, the way your body won’t hold you together. Your hand comes away sticky, smeared with both of you. You wipe it on the sheets, a halfhearted gesture, and laugh—quiet, ugly, edged with hysteria.

Frank comes back in, eyes rimmed red. He’s holding a towel and a bottle of water, both with the same careful gentleness that he used to carry your favorite takeout after a long shift. He doesn’t look at you while he presses the towel between your legs, mopping up the worst of the mess. His hands are shaking so bad he can’t get it right, so you grab the towel, dig it in yourself. The rough scrape hurts and you do it anyway.

He sits on the edge of the bed, as far from you as he can get without falling off, and stares at the wall.

“I don’t know what the fuck—” he starts, but his voice cracks. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. I’m so fucking sorry.” Frank's voice cracks on the last word, the sound swallowed by the thick, oppressive silence of the room. He can't look at you. His gaze is fixed on the wall, but he's not seeing the paint or the framed photo of your wedding day. He's seeing the imprint of his hands on your skin, the way your body went limp under his, the sounds you made that were half pleasure, half pain. He's seeing a monster wearing his face.

"Frankie," you start, your own voice a raspy whisper. You push yourself up, ignoring the screaming protest of every muscle. The sheet sticks to you, damp and cold. "Frankie, look at me." He flinches like you've struck him. He doesn't turn.

"Don't. Don't… don't be nice to me right now. I don't deserve it."

"Deserve's got nothing to do with it," you manage, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. The world tilts, and you brace a hand on the nightstand. "What happened? The powder. You said something about red powder." His shoulders hunch. He runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair, the gesture sharp and agitated.

"It was during my stupid mission. In the warehouse. Some old bastard… thought he was carrying a piece but he wasn't. Had a canister. I shot him, but he… he popped it. Red dust. Got all over me." He finally turns his head, and the devastation in his eyes makes your chest ache. "It was nothing at first. Just… weird. Then driving home… it was like a fire got lit inside me. A fever. And then… and then I saw you."He says it like a confession. Like seeing you, safe and asleep in your bed, was the catalyst that turned a chemical reaction into an act of violence. To him, it was.

"Okay," you say slowly, trying to piece it together through the fog of exhaustion and lingering arousal. "So it was a drug. Something that made you… like this."

"I didn't want to hurt you," he says, the words rushing out, thick with unshed tears. "I swear to god, I tried to stop. I tried to leave the room. I tried to… fuck, I don't know what I tried. Every second I was fighting it, but my body… it wasn't mine anymore. It was just… need. And you were there." You reach for his hand, and he lets you take it, his fingers cold and limp in yours.

"We need to figure out what it was. What it's doing to you." Your mind races, sifting through the limited options. The fever, the relentless… need. It's beyond anything you understand. "Frank… we should call Bruce. He knows this stuff. Chemicals, weird science, biological reactions. He could help." The reaction is instantaneous and violent. Frank snatches his hand back as if you've offered him poison. He's on his feet, pacing the small space at the end of the bed like a caged animal. The movement is jerky, still fueled by a residual tremor in his limbs.

"No. No fucking way."

"Frank, be reasonable," you plead, trying to stand, but your legs give out and you sink back onto the mattress. "You were burning up for almost three hours. We don't know if this is… if it's actually over, or if it's going to cause damage to you long term. He's the smartest guy we know. He could probably identify it over the phone."

"I said no!" he snaps, the voice of the Punisher cutting through the raw, wounded man from a moment ago. He stops pacing and glares at you, but the anger is all directed inward. "You think I'm gonna call that green freak and tell him I lost control? That I drugged myself and used my wife like a goddamn fleshlight until she passed out? You think I want him to know what I did to you?" The words are ugly, brutal, and they hang in the air between you. But you hear the fear underneath. The shame.

"Frank, it wasn't you," you insist, your voice gaining a little strength. "It was whatever was in that canister. Bruce would understand that."

"I don't care !" he shouts, running both hands through his hair in frustration. "I'm not telling him! I'm not telling anybody! The last thing I need is… is a lab coat poking at me while I explain how I couldn't keep my dick in my pants!" He stops, his chest heaving. He looks at the mess on the bed, at the marks on your skin visible even in the dim light, and the anger drains out of him, replaced by a crushing wave of self-loathing. He sinks to his knees at the foot of the bed, far enough away that he can't touch you, close enough that he can see the damage.

"Forget fucking Banner right now," he says, his voice quiet now, broken. "Forget everybody. Just… just let me take care of you. Please. We can call whoever the hell you want in the morning, sweetheart, i just-" He looks up at you, his eyes pleading. He rests his forehead against the mattress, his whole body trembling with the force of his regret. "I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so sorry." You run your fingers through his hair.

"It's okay, Frank." He shakes his head so hard it almost looks painful.

"No." His voice is barely audible. "No, don't…" Another shake. "Don't say that." You frown.

"Frank—"

"I hurt you." The words come out flat. Certain. Like a verdict that's already been handed down. "I've spent years making damn sure I never did." He laughs once. It's a horrible sound. Empty.

"You know…" His eyes stay fixed on the floor. "I've broken bones with these hands." He holds them out in front of him. They won't stop trembling. "I've killed with these hands." His fingers curl into fists. "But every time I came home…" His voice cracks. "…I left all that outside." He looks up at you then, eyes red and swollen. "I never wanted you to be scared of me."

"I'm not."

"You should be."

"I'm not."

"I left bruises on you." You instinctively glance down. Finger-shaped marks are already darkening across your wrists and hips. Frank follows your gaze. Whatever composure he'd managed to hold together shatters.

"Oh, God…" He covers his face. "I did that."

"You were drugged."

"I did that."

"It wasn't your choice."

"It was my hands." His breathing starts to hitch. Not panicked. Not angry. Just… broken.

"I've spent every day since we got married trying to be gentle with you." He laughs bitterly through tears. "Remember the first time I helped you out of the shower after you sprained your ankle?" You nod. "You kept telling me I was holding you like you were made of glass."

"You were."

"'Cause I was scared I'd hurt you." Another tear slips down his face. "I've always been scared I'd hurt you." His shoulders begin to shake. "I know what I am."

"No."

"I do."

"Frank."

"I know what I've done." He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. "I can live with what I've done to people who deserved it." His voice drops to almost nothing. "I don't know how to live with doing it to you." You slide carefully off the bed. Every muscle protests. Your legs are unsteady. Frank notices immediately. His head snaps up.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm coming here."

"No." He backs away on instinct. "Don't."

"Frank."

"I'm filthy."

"No."

"I don't deserve—" You ignore him. You kneel in front of him anyway. It hurts. He notices that too. His face crumples.

"Baby…" You take his face in your hands. He tries to pull away. You don't let him.

"You have never once hurt me on purpose." He closes his eyes.

"That doesn't make this disappear."

"No. It doesn't." You rest your forehead against his. "But neither does you punishing yourself." His breath catches. "I married a man who checks the water temperature before I get into the shower." A tiny smile threatens at the corner of your mouth. "The man who apologizes if he bumps into me in the kitchen." He lets out a watery laugh."The man who still asks before touching me if he thinks I've had a bad day." Another tear rolls down his cheek. "That's my husband." You squeeze his hand. "Not whatever you think that powder turned you into." For a long time he doesn't answer.

Then, finally.... He leans forward. Just enough to rest his forehead against your shoulder. His entire body starts shaking.

Years of discipline. Years of control. Years of refusing himself the luxury of falling apart.

Gone.

He cries. Quietly. Like he's ashamed to even make noise. You hold him. Running slow circles across his back. Neither of you knows how long you stay like that. Eventually, his breathing evens out.

"I'm so tired," he whispers.

"I know."

"I'm scared to sleep." You pull back enough to look at him.

"Why?"

"What if it isn't over?" The fear in his eyes is raw. "What if I wake up like that again?"

"You won't."

"You don't know that."

"No." You brush damp hair back from his forehead. "I don't." A beat. "But if something's wrong…" You lace your fingers through his. "…we'll face it together." He nods once. Reluctantly.

You convince him into a hot shower—not together, just enough to wash the chemical residue and sweat away. He insists on checking the water temperature for you before you step in, a habit so familiar it almost makes you cry. Afterwards he helps you into one of his old T-shirts and fresh pajamas with painstaking care, asking every few seconds if you're hurting, if you're dizzy, if he's moving too fast. When you finally crawl back into bed, he doesn't touch you. He lies on his back, rigid, leaving almost a foot of space between you. As though he's afraid his own skin might betray him again.

You reach across the mattress. Find his hand. He startles.

"It's okay," you whisper.

He hesitates before turning his hand over and intertwining your fingers. Neither of you says anything else. Exhaustion eventually wins.

-------

Morning arrives gray and quiet. You wake first. Frank is wrapped around you so tightly you fear he might actually suffocate you.

One arm is around your waist.

The other is tucked protectively beneath your neck.

One leg is hooked over yours.

You're fairly certain if someone tried to kidnap you, they'd have to take Frank with you. You blink up at the ceiling.

"…Frank." A sleepy grunt. "You are crushing me." Another grunt.

"No, I'm not."

"You absolutely are."

"I'm protecting you."

"From oxygen?" His eyes stay closed.

"…Maybe." You smile despite yourself.

"Frankie."

"Hm?"

"I need circulation."

"You've got circulation."

"My left arm is completely numb." He cracks one eye open.

"That's because you're dramatic."

"Oh, I'm dramatic?"

"Very." You wiggle experimentally. Every muscle below your waist immediately protests. You hiss through your teeth. Frank is fully awake before the sound has even finished leaving your mouth. His entire body goes rigid.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What hurts?" You sigh.

"My everything." His face falls. Immediately.

"Oh…" He sits up so fast the mattress bounces. "I'm sorry."

"Frank."

"I'm so—"

"Frank."

"I shouldn't have—" You reach over and flick him lightly on the forehead.

"Ow."

"Good." He rubs the spot with exaggerated offense.

"You flicked me."

"You were spiraling."

"I wasn't."

"You apologized three times in six seconds."

"I could've hit seven." You can't help laughing. The sound makes his shoulders loosen just a fraction. "There's my girl."

He reaches toward you automatically. Then hesitates halfway. His hand hangs awkwardly in the air. You notice. Without saying anything, you take it yourself. His fingers close around yours immediately.

"I'm sore," you admit.

"I know."

"But I'm okay."

"I know."

"You look like you're about to throw up."

"I might." You roll your eyes.

"If you pass out before breakfast, I'm divorcing you." That earns the tiniest smile.

"You'd miss me."

"I would."

"You love me."

"Unfortunately."

"Hm." He nods once. "Still marrying me again."

"Maybe."

"Definitely."

"Depends."

"On?"

"Whether you make coffee." Without another word, Frank stands.

"I'll make coffee."

"And pancakes."

"I'll make pancakes."

"And bacon."

"I'll make bacon."

"And you're doing dishes." He points at you.

"Now you're pushing it." You grin.

"There he is."

"Who?"

"My grumpy husband."

"I was always here."

"You disappeared for a bit." His smile fades.

"I know." The room grows quiet again. You squeeze his hand.

"We're still here." He nods.

"We're still here." An hour later, the kitchen smells like coffee and burnt toast. Frank glares at the toaster.

"It betrayed me."

"You forgot to push it down."

"I was distracted."

"By?" He glances at you.

"You walked funny." You freeze halfway to your chair.

"…Excuse me?"

"You winced."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

"I tripped."

"You tripped while standing still."

"I was thinking."

"You were limping."

"I was not limping." Frank raises one eyebrow. You sigh dramatically.

"I was… walking thoughtfully." He snorts into his coffee.

"Thoughtfully."

"Exactly."

"You've got a hitch in your step."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"No." You smile into your mug. "I really don't." His expression softens again.

"I'm sorry." You point your fork at him.

"That's apology number… honestly, I've lost count."

"I'm serious."

"So am I." You reach across the table.

"I know you are." He looks at your joined hands. Then down at his plate.

"I've never…" His voice trails off.

"I know."

"I've always worried…" He swallows. "…about bringing that part of my life home."

"You never did."

"I almost did."

"You came home because you trusted me."

"I came home because I didn't know where else to go."

"And that's okay." He nods slowly.

"Still hate that you're hurting."

"I'll survive."

"I know."

"I've survived your cooking."

"The toast wasn't that bad."

"It achieved a level of carbon previously unknown to science."

"It was artisanal."

"It was charcoal." He chuckles quietly. The sound feels like sunlight. After breakfast, Frank disappears into the laundry room. A minute later you hear,

"…Sweetheart?"

"What?"

"Where're the freezer bags?" You blink.

"The… freezer bags?"

"Yeah." You find him standing over yesterday's discarded clothes with a pair of barbecue tongs.

"…Frank."

"What?"

"Why are you holding my kitchen tongs?"

"I'm not touching that stuff."

"You literally fought an entire warehouse."

"Bullets don't usually come covered in mystery chemicals." Fair point. You hand him a box of large zip-top storage bags. He carefully picks up his shirt with the tongs.

"You know," you say, leaning against the doorway, "Bruce is never going to let you live this down." Frank stuffs the shirt into the bag.

"He says one word—"

"He'll say at least twelve."

"I'll leave."

"You can't."

"I absolutely can."

"You need him."

"I know." He seals the bag with excessive force. "I'm just not happy about it." You laugh.

"I'm putting money on Tony finding out within the hour." Frank looks horrified.

"…Don't even joke."

"I'm serious."

"He'll make a PowerPoint."

"He'll make merch."

"He'll name the chemical after me."

"'Castle Syndrome.'"

"'Frank's Bad Decision Dust.'"

"'Horny Powder.'" You burst out laughing. Frank pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I hate all of you."

"You haven't even left the house yet."

"I'm getting a headache in advance." You tuck the sealed evidence bag into another airtight container.

"There." You smile up at him. "Ready?" Frank takes a long breath. His eyes drift briefly to you, checking—again—that you're steady on your feet.

"You sure you're okay to go?"

"I'm sure."

"You'll tell me if you're hurting?"

"I will."

"You promise?"

"I promise." He studies you for another second before nodding. Then he picks up the container with the contaminated clothes as though it contains a live grenade.

"Let's go." You slip your hand into his free one.

"And maybe," you add, "let's not open the conversation with 'Hi, Bruce, I accidentally got dusted by horny cocaine.'" Frank groans.

"…I'm driving."

"You say that like it solves the problem."

"It solves my problem."

The drive to the Avengers Compound is unusually quiet. Normally, Tony would have received at least three sarcastic voice messages by now. Today, Frank's hands stay locked around the steering wheel. Every few minutes, he glances sideways.

"You okay?" You nod.

"I'm okay." Five minutes later—

"You sure?" You smile faintly.

"I'm still okay." Another red light.

"You dizzy?"

"No."

"You nauseous?"

"A little." His grip tightens.

"Frank."

"What?"

"You've asked me twenty-three questions."

"I have not."

"You absolutely have."

"…Twenty-two." You snort. He doesn't. He's serious. Painfully serious. You reach across the center console and squeeze his forearm.

"I'm fine." His eyes remain on the road.

"I know."

"No." You shake your head. "You don't." He finally looks at you for half a second.

"I don't know anything right now." Bruce is already waiting when the two of you arrive. He takes one look at Frank's expression and immediately frowns.

"…Frank."

"Banner." Bruce's eyes move to you.

"You alright?" You answer before Frank can.

"I'm sore." Frank visibly winces. Bruce notices.

"So… why don't we start from the beginning?" Frank sets the airtight container on the lab bench like it's an unexploded bomb.

"I brought the clothes." Bruce blinks.

"…Good?"

"I wasn't touching 'em."

"You carried them with barbecue tongs," you add. Bruce looks between the two of you.

"…You carried contaminated evidence with kitchen utensils?" Frank crosses his arms.

"They're stainless steel." Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I'm… not sure that's the issue." Frank shrugs.

"They were clean."

"They're definitely not anymore."

"They're in the dishwasher." Bruce sighs.

"I'm suddenly very concerned about your dishwasher." Despite everything, you laugh. Frank looks relieved just to hear it. Bruce pulls on gloves and carefully removes Frank's shirt from the bag. The fabric still carries faint reddish stains near the collar.

"Hm." He transfers tiny samples into a glass dish. The lab falls quiet except for the hum of machines. Frank paces. You sit on one of the stools, trying very hard not to shift your weight. Every muscle in your hips protests. You ignore it. Frank notices anyway.

"You alright?"

"Yep."

"You just made a face."

"I was… thinking." Bruce looks over his shoulder.

"Thoughtfully?" You glare.

"He's infected everyone." Frank almost smiles. Almost. Bruce spends another several minutes scanning the residue, and taking a blood sample from Frank. Then he pauses.

"…Well." Neither of you likes that tone.

"What?" Frank asks immediately. Bruce adjusts the image on the monitor.

"It's… not exactly what I expected."

"What is it?" Bruce folds his arms.

"The compound appears to be an engineered biochemical aerosol." Frank stares.

"In English." Bruce sighs.

"It hijacks several neurochemical pathways simultaneously."

"…English."

"It artificially stimulates areas of the brain associated with sexual arousal, reward, impulse suppression, and temperature regulation." You blink.

"So…" Bruce clears his throat.

"It's… essentially a weaponized aphrodisiac." Frank looks horrified. Bruce continues, almost apologetically. "An extremely aggressive one."

"…You're telling me I got hit with sex pollen?" Bruce hesitates.

"…Scientifically speaking…Yes. Your sex drive went into overdrive."

Silence.

Frank rubs both hands over his face.

"Fuck's sake. I got taken out by horny fairy dust." The lab doors slide open.

"Please tell me somebody said 'horny fairy dust.'"

Tony.

Of course.

He strolls in carrying a coffee the size of a flower vase.

"I leave for one meeting…" His eyes land on Frank. "…and somehow Castle has managed to invent a brand-new category of workplace incident." Frank groans.

"I knew it." Tony points dramatically.

"I called it!"

"You weren't here."

"I psychically called it." Bruce mutters,

"I absolutely did not tell him."

"I have ears."

"You have surveillance software."

"I have excellent surveillance software." Tony finally notices you.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine." He nods. Then his eyes catch something near your shoulder where your oversized T-shirt has slipped. A dark bite mark. He winces.

"…Wow." Frank immediately turns.

"What?" You instinctively pull the collar up.

"Nothing." Frank's face drains of color. He'd seen the bruises. He hadn't seen that. Tony opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

"I'm gonna make exactly one joke." Bruce sighs.

"Tony."

"I'm exercising tremendous restraint."

Bruce looks back toward the monitor.

"Based on your blood sample, i'd say the toxin has been cleared from your system." He says. He looks back up at Frank. "Do you have any idea how ?" Frank freezes beside you. His ears go bright red.

"Uh.. Well.." he starts, his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor tiles. "There was… a lot of… liquid intake." Tony’s coffee freezes halfway to his lips. His eyes widen in dawning, gleeful comprehension. Bruce, bless him, just looks confused.

"Liquid intake?" Bruce asks, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Hydration is good, but I'm not sure how that would metabolize a complex neurotoxin this quickly. We're talking about a half-life of—"

"He doesn't mean he drank a lot of water, Bruce," Tony cuts in, his voice dripping with suppressed laughter. "He means Mrs Castle here had a lot of liquid intake." He makes a vague gesture towards Frank's groin. Frank’s entire face is now the color of a stop sign.

"Stark, I swear to God—"

"What ? You gonna hit me because you came in your wife ?"

"Tony !" You hiss, stepping between them before Frank can actually make good on the promise in his eyes. "He's not the only one who came, you know. It was a team effort." Tony blinks. Frank, who had been coiled to strike, freezes so completely you can hear the blood rushing in your ears. He slowly lowers his fists, turning his head to look at you with an expression of pure, unadulterated shock. Tony, however, recovers instantly. His grin becomes a thing of legend.

"A team effort," he repeats, savoring the words. "I like that. Collaborative problem-solving. Very Avengers of you. So, just to be clear for my notes, was this a… simultaneous deployment, or a series of controlled bursts?" Bruce finally catches on, and a horrified blush creeps up his neck.

"Tony, for the love of God, stop."

"No, no, this is a legitimate scientific inquiry!" Tony insists, pointing a finger at Frank. "Because, and I'm just spitballing here, you didn't know this would work, did you, Castle? You just went for it. You looked at a situation involving a weaponized aphrodisiac and your solution was… what? More sex? Rougher sex? Did you have a hypothesis? 'If I just rail her into next week, maybe the chemical bonds will break from sheer force of will?'" Frank's jaw works, but the rage is being replaced by a deep, soul-crushing mortification. He looks at Tony, then at you, then at the floor.

"It… seemed like a good idea at the time, I couldn't exactly control it." he mumbles, the words barely audible.

"It seemed like a good idea," Tony crows, delighted. "The man's entire tactical genius boils down to 'it seemed like a good idea at the time'! I'm putting that on your tombstone. 'Frank Castle: He Had A Good Idea Once.'" You can't help it. A small, helpless laugh escapes you. Frank shoots you a wounded look, but you just pat his arm.

"He's not wrong," you whisper. 'You did come home quite charged and didn't really think." Bruce, desperate to regain control of his lab, clears his throat loudly.

"Okay. Fascinating as this… post-op analysis is, we should discuss the aftereffects." He looks at you, his expression professional but tinged with concern. "The chemical was designed to lower inhibitions and increase physical endurance. The… physical activity… would have been intense. You should be checked over. Just to make sure there are no… internal injuries." Frank's head snaps up, his face a mask of renewed horror. He looks at you, his eyes wide with a fresh wave of guilt.

"Jesus," he breathes. You feel your own cheeks heat up. You wave a dismissive hand, trying for nonchalance and probably failing.

"Oh, I'm… I'm fine. Really. Just… a little tender."

"Tender?" Tony jumps on the word. "Tender is for steak! Jesus, sweetheart, you have a bite mark on your shoulder ! I frankly don't even want to see what you're hidin' under them clothes."

"Tony, I swear to God—" Frank starts, but you cut him off.

"I'm fine. I swear." you manage, your throat dry.

"Listen, i know this is awkward but-"

"Seriously, Bruce. I'm fine." You say. Bruce pushes his glasses up his nose, his expression shifting from concerned to deeply uncomfortable.

"I know you are, but I need to be sure. We don't have enough data on the transmission vector of this compound. Frank's blood is clear, but we only tested his. The toxin was primarily absorbed through his respiratory system and skin. However, the… fluid transfer… creates a new variable." You frown.

"What variable?" Bruce sighs, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else on earth.

"We don't know if the compound can be passed between hosts like a sexually transmitted disease. Frank's system may have flushed it out, but if there's any residual trace in his semen, and if it's still viable… it could reinfect you. Or worse, it could mutate. We have no precedent for this." The lab goes dead silent. Tony, who had been smirking with self-satisfaction, slowly lowers his coffee mug. The humor drains from his face, replaced by a dawning, clinical curiosity that's somehow even more unnerving.

"Whoa," he says softly. "Reinfection. Mutation. So, what you're saying is, Castle's… cure… might actually be the carrier for round two?" Frank looks like he's been physically struck. He stares at Bruce, his face a mask of horror, all the blood having drained from it. He glances at you, his eyes wide with a fresh, sickening wave of guilt. It's one thing to have lost control in the heat of the moment; it's another thing entirely to have potentially poisoned you with it.

"So… what?" Frank asks, his voice a hoarse rasp. "What does that mean?"

"It means," Bruce says, choosing his words with extreme care, "that until I can run more simulations and analyze the data, you should… abstain. From any and all sexual intercourse. Just to be safe. We need a clean baseline to make sure she's not carrying it either."

"Abstain," Frank repeats, the word sounding foreign and wrong in his mouth. Tony, ever the helpful one, chimes in.

"Yeah, you know. No more 'collaborative problem-solving.' No more 'controlled bursts.' You're on a mandatory dry run, Castle. For science." You can't help it. A small, hysterical bubble of laughter escapes your lips. It's either that or cry. Frank looks at you like you've grown a second head.

"Sorry," you choke out, waving a hand. "It's just… the timing." Frank just stares at you, then at Bruce, then at the floor. He looks utterly defeated. He came here for answers, for a clean slate, and instead, he's been handed a life sentence. He nods, a short, sharp, jerky motion.

"Right. No… that. Right." He turns to you, his expression a mixture of apology and profound misery. "Let's… let's go." He doesn't wait for a reply. He just turns and walks out of the lab, his shoulders hunched, his steps heavy. You shoot a helpless look at Bruce, who just gives you a sympathetic shrug, and then at Tony, who has the decency to look at least a little bit ashamed. You hurry after Frank, catching up to him just as he reaches the elevator. The doors slide shut, enclosing you in the small, silent space. He doesn't look at you. He just stares at the numbers counting down, his jaw clenched so tight you're surprised his teeth don't crack.

"Frank," you say softly. He doesn't respond. "Frank, it's okay."

"It's not okay," he says, his voice low and rough. "I… I hurt you. And now… now I can't even… touch you."

"You can touch me," you say, reaching out and placing a hand on his arm. "Just not… that." He lets out a short, bitter laugh.

"Might as well be the same thing." The elevator doors open, and he walks out into the garage, heading straight for the car. He's quiet on the drive home, staring out the window, his jaw working. You can almost hear the gears turning in his head, replaying every humiliating moment. When you get back to the apartment, he heads straight for the kitchen, pulling a beer from the fridge. He twists the cap off and takes a long swallow, leaning against the counter.

"He's never gonna let it live it down, is he?" Frank asks, his voice low and rough.

"No," you say gently, moving to stand in front of him. You take the beer from his hand and set it aside, then wrap your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his chest. "He's going to have PowerPoint presentations. There might be merch. He's probably already designing a logo for 'Frank's Bad Decision Dust.'" Frank's arms come around you, holding you tight. You feel him let out a long, shuddering breath.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice muffled in your hair. "For all of it. For… last night. For this morning. For… all of it." You pull back just enough to look up at him.

"Hey. Look at me." He meets your gaze, his eyes filled with a familiar, weary self-loathing. "We're okay. You hear me? We're okay."

"I hurt you."

"And I'm sore," you admit. "But I'm not broken. And you didn't mean to. It wasn't you."

"It felt like me," he says quietly.

"It wasn't," you say, your voice firm. "It was the… fairy dust." You can't help but smile a little. "The horny fairy dust." A tiny smile touches his lips, so faint you almost miss it.

"Horny fairy dust," he repeats, shaking his head. "Jesus."

taglist !

@overdrive1975 , @alialuvsreid, @nanni197, @goawayplease95 , @yesshewrites1, @carolinaxvz , @sofianotvergara , @bearisbored , @jbrownta , @cafieeee, @hardnightmarekitten, @kikibear33, @sweetbabygirlsworld, @rainyapricotcreatorparty , @gingin3-blog , @pinkypiezzz, @mayawainfleet, @tiredstressedanddepressed2, @timelessskyautomaton, @yakydrah

[whothefuckisshe7]

"I'm fine. I swear." you manage, your throat dry.

[highof75rk]

Frank when Matt takes a bullet: oh my fcking god, you takin’ bullets for these sonsabtchs now? It’s not good enough to just not kill them, you gotta jump in front of other people giving them what they deserve?! *shoots someone in the head to make a point*

Frank when Peter takes a bullet: I’ve seen a lot of bravery, but this was something special. You’re a nice kid. *cries a little*

[1nsignia]

requested 18+ mdni, bruce wayne

—————————————————————————

yesterday, you and bruce had an argument. nothing major, just a slight one. and today he was apologizing to you— in his own way

“bruce! slow— fuuuuck, slow down!”

you’ll be damned if he slowed down. your mind was dizzy from bruce’s mouth practically leeched on your cunt, his tongue lapping your clit at a pace that made breathless gasps of his name leave your gaped lips, almost seeing stars in your vision. 

his large arms were hooked under your legs and pulled you closer, making sure you didn’t move an inch and that your legs were still spread while he got to work

“im so sorry for the other day” bruce murmured, his tongue not stopping for a second and way too focused on how good you tasted. “wasn’t in my right mind, mm”

he moaned a low sound of pleasure from how good you tasted, burying his face in between your legs more and applying more pressure with both his tongue and the tip of his nose. that sent a buzz through your body, a moan immediately leaving your lips before you could control yourself

bruce’s blabbers didn’t stop and in fact, only grew with each second of suffocating his face in your pussy, apologizing while talking about how good you tasted at the same time. 

and all your efforts of trying to at least be stubborn all went down the drain the moment your orgasm washed into his mouth, so intense it had you arching your back more to his mouth.

even as you soaked his chin and mouth, bruce didn't stop for a second and licked every drop of your mess with a victory smirk hiding between your legs

damn you, bruce wayne

—————————————————————————

and now back to your daily programmmm (ill admit my brain blanked when i was writing this)

main taglist: @sweetpeasosweet @lcvgty-4929 @fratbrochrisgf @wrldbloom @arabellas-barbarella-swimsuit12 @vianawaits @edawgz @hottubnda @onlyfeng @lucky-clover13 @tragicfiend @nyx-of-night @missmontiopath @bloomfaery @booksrcool @jaydennicole @gglouise23 @sicklyhana @klauvy @pocket-fish0 @romancedawn333 @sashadonat @uxavity @batslilwhore @oh-sheetcake @boo-123456 @ydivine @the-star-rover @slutfordpr @advline @arfemiz @freakkay09 @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @hernersworld @starrydustedwinter @inejskywalker @seeker2028 @ksiazkowaxx-blog @kh4dij7 @vanillakirstein @lillie1320 @scissorhvnds @branchesofmagic @devilslittlehelper @starr-jazz @nightwingblvd @yukimaniac @freddiweasly @devorator666 @dadump @ftkats @starl1ghtgr4yson @st4rstuddedreblogs @em12021 @heleneae

@darkxwolfsstuff @imintoomanyfandoms14 @littlelightbearer @th3d1nOr3ad3r @psychopompsblog @wwolfsca @kaiiii1009 @century-eggg @tvhore @chickenchickenpie @fanofthebatfam @sillygayfreak @tskdeion @potatoheartsyou @faepoetry @theall-seeingone @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @goobfeels @jtoddsbaby @lovee-potions @milforyou @aaliyahhh-12 (tags are open)

©1nsignia— please do not steal, repost or reuse my work

[whothefuckisshe7]

“bruce! slow— fuuuuck, slow down!”

[trowneyy]

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐍

• bruce wayne

{summary}You come home with new clothes and decide to give Bruce a private fashion show. He’s tired—at first.

{content}bruce wayne x reader, established relationship, fluff, soft intimacy, domestic moment

Wayne Manor is quiet in that heavy, late-night way that settles after everything is done.

Bruce looks like he barely made it through the door before collapsing onto the couch.

Tie gone. Sleeves rolled. Shirt open just enough to show the line of his chest. One arm draped over the backrest, the other covering his eyes like he’s trying to shut the entire world out.

You stand in the doorway with a shopping bag hooked around your wrist, watching him for a second, already smiling.

“Don’t fall asleep,” you say.

“Not sleeping,” he murmurs. “Power conservation.”

“Great,” you hum. “Because I just got back from shopping.”

A pause.

Then his arm slides down just enough for one eye to peek at you.

“…You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

Now he fully looks at you, interest cutting straight through the exhaustion. “And you went alone?”

“I wanted honest feedback.”

A slow smirk pulls at his mouth. “That sounds like a mistake.”

You shrug. “We’ll see.”

He shifts, sitting up a little more, dragging a hand through his hair. “Alright,” he says, voice low, waking up. “Come on then. Impress me.”

You grin. “Oh, I will.”

The first outfit is a dress—and not a shy one.

It fits like it was made to be noticed, hugging your shape, catching the light as you walk in without saying a word.

Bruce straightens.

Actually straightens.

His arm drops from the couch, posture sharpening as his eyes track you in, slow and deliberate like he’s already recalculating something.

You stop in front of him, then—without breaking eye contact—do a slow turn.

“Thoughts?”

He leans forward immediately, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely like he’s trying to behave.

“That’s…” he exhales, dragging his gaze back up to your face, “…not casual shopping.”

You smile, tilting your head. “You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then say what you mean.”

His eyes flick down again—this time not subtle, not rushed—then back up, sharper now.

“I think,” he says slowly, “you walked in here knowing exactly what that dress does.”

You take a step closer. “And what does it do?”

He leans back just slightly, like he’s forcing space between you. “Makes me reconsider letting you out of the house alone.”

You laugh. “Possessive already?”

“Observant,” he corrects.

The second outfit hits harder.

A fitted top—soft but cut just low enough—and a skirt that moves with every step, brushing your thighs like it’s part of the act.

This time, you don’t stop far away.

You walk right up to him, then pivot, letting the skirt flare slightly before settling.

Bruce lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

“Oh, that’s not fair,” he mutters.

You glance at him. “What?”

“That one moves.”

“It’s a skirt, Bruce.”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

You grin and do another turn, slower, exaggerating it just enough.

He leans back, dragging a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to hide the reaction—and failing.

“Careful,” he says, voice dropping. “You’re starting to test my patience.”

You step closer, stopping between his knees now. “You said you wanted to be honest.”

“I did.”

“Then be honest.”

His hands come up—not touching you yet, just hovering at your hips like he’s deciding.

Then, lightly, he taps the fabric of the skirt.

“This one’s trouble.”

“Why?”

His gaze lifts, dark and steady. “Because you know I’d follow you anywhere in it.”

That lands.

By the third outfit, the game has changed.

You walk in like you own the room—jeans fitted perfectly, top just cropped enough to show a hint of skin when you move.

Bruce doesn’t even pretend to relax this time.

He’s watching you before you fully step into the light.

You stop in the middle of the room.

Wait.

“…Well?” you prompt.

He studies you for a second, then gestures lazily with two fingers.

“Come here.”

You raise a brow—but you do it, slow steps, deliberate.

You stop just in front of him.

His gaze drags over you again, slower this time, heavier.

Then—

“Turn around.”

There’s no hesitation in his tone.

You smile a little, but you obey—turning slowly, knowing he’s watching every second of it.

The jeans fit perfectly.

And this time, he doesn’t hide it at all.

“Yeah,” he says, low, almost to himself.

You glance over your shoulder. “Yeah?”

His hand comes up, not grabbing—just resting briefly at your hip, grounding you there as his eyes stay exactly where they are.

“That’s my favorite,” he says.

You turn back, crossing your arms. “You’ve said that twice now.”

“I mean it this time.”

“Oh, so the others didn’t count?”

“They did,” he says, standing now—finally closing the distance, “but this one—”

His hand brushes lightly along your side as he steps past you, close enough that you feel it.

“—this one you wore for me.”

Your breath catches slightly, but you recover fast. “You’re very confident.”

“I’m usually right.”

ou disappear again, and this time it’s quiet for just a little too long.

Bruce doesn’t sit.

He tried—briefly—but that lasted all of ten seconds before he pushed up from the couch, pacing once, then stopping, then dragging a hand down his face like he’s trying to get a grip.

“You’re taking your time,” he calls out.

“Good things take time,” you call back.

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It is.”

He huffs a quiet laugh—but there’s no real patience left in it now.

By the time you come back, he’s already halfway across the room.

You don’t walk in right away.

You lean against the doorway, one shoulder pressed to the frame, the shopping bag dangling from your fingers like it weighs nothing.

But your expression?

That gives you away.

Bruce slows.

His eyes flick to the bag—then back to your face—and whatever he was about to say dies instantly.

“…What is that look?” he asks.

You shrug lightly, pushing off the frame and stepping toward him. “Final piece.”

“Another outfit?”

“Oh, it’s an outfit,” you say, voice softer now, just a little more deliberate.

That’s enough to shift something in him.

He stops a step in front of you, close enough that the air feels different.

“You’re not wearing it,” he points out.

“Not yet.”

Your fingers hook into the edge of the bag, opening it just slightly—but not enough for him to fully see.

Just enough.

Just a hint.

His gaze drops—and catches.

That’s all it takes.

His breath stills.

“…You’re serious,” he says.

You bite back a smile. “I usually am.”

He looks at you again, slower this time, like he’s recalibrating.

“You walked in here,” he says quietly, “and decided to do all of that first.”

You nod once. “Build-up matters.”

A short, disbelieving laugh escapes him. “You’ve been setting me up?”

“Mm. Pretty much.”

There’s a pause.

Then he reaches for the bag.

You pull it back just slightly.

“Ah,” you say. “Careful.”

His eyes narrow—not annoyed, just… focused now.

“You’re really going to make me work for it?”

You tilt your head. “You’ve been enjoying the show.”

“I have,” he admits. “But I think I’m done watching.”

You take a slow step back.

“Shame,” you murmur. “The best part’s next.”

That’s when you finally let him take it.

He doesn’t even fully pull it out—just enough to confirm what he already knows.

And the shift is instant.

Whatever restraint he had left? Gone.

His grip tightens around the fabric still half-hidden in the bag, jaw setting as his eyes lift back to you—darker now, locked in.

“…You planned this,” he says.

You smile, backing up another step. “Of course I did.”

“For tonight.”

“For you.”

That lands harder than anything else.

You turn before he can answer.

Not fast.

Not rushed.

Just confident.

“I can go try it on,” you say over your shoulder, voice light again—but there’s something underneath it now. “If you want a better look.”

You hear the shift behind you before you even reach the hallway.

The quick step.

The change in his breathing.

You make it exactly two steps past the doorway before his hand closes around your wrist—not rough, but firm enough to stop you.

“You don’t get to walk away after that,” he says.

You glance back, feigning innocence. “After what?”

“That.”

You smile slowly. “You seemed interested.”

His other hand comes to your waist, pulling you back just enough to erase the space you created.

“Interested?” he repeats, low. “That’s one way to put it.”

You lean back just slightly into his hold. “Then what would you call it?”

A pause.

Then, closer—“Done waiting.”

Your breath catches—but your smile doesn’t fade.

“Bedroom’s still that way,” you remind him softly.

“Yeah,” he says.

And this time he doesn’t hesitate.

The bag is still in his hand, but it’s barely relevant now as he turns you with him, guiding—no, steering—you down the hallway with steady intent.

Your laugh slips out, quieter now, cut short as the bedroom door opens—

and shuts firmly behind you.

[whothefuckisshe7]

Whatever restraint he had left? Gone.

[yearsarewatchingyou]

Embarrassed - Frank Castle

MDNI - suggestive, ends with fluff, talk of consent, no intercourse, mentions of menstruation, blood, mention of other bodily fluids.

"Are you blushing, Dafodill?"

Frank teased you as he spread your legs wide to reveal the bloody mess betweed them. Your pussy was stained a dark red and your clit was swollen. Your thighs tried to clench together but he held them open, eager to enjoy the sight of your sensitive little hole clenching around nothing. He leaned forward to pry your hand away from your embarrassed face.

"Blood don't bother me sweetheart. Trust me" Frank admited with a crass chuckle.

You knew that, logically. Even with an inkling of what he told you about his Punisher life, the most pg.13 that he could spare, you knew that violence and carnage was an every day thing in Frank Castle's life. He's came to you covered in it. You wondered if it's his or someone else's, but you didn't ask.

Still, your period blood felt like the most disgusting thing. You felt gross. Why couldn't he understand that?

"I'm on my period, Frank. I don't know...it's not the blood. It's—" you whine as you scoot against the pillows.

"I'm not blind. I can tell you feeling a bit under the wheather. It's okay," he massaged your thighs slowly, "I'll be real gentle with you, sweetheart, y'know that"

"I know.."

"What's the matter?" He asked.

He pressed his lips against the apex of your stomach up to your neck. You squirm underneath his heavy, wide frame. He murmurs in your ear prying for an answer, his voice gruff and gravely. Finally you give in.

"I'm embarrassed," your voice was small, "and I am scared you're going to think that I'm disgusting. I mean, it's not very...feminine to be bleeding all over you"

Frank cocks his head to the side as he looks over your body, then back up your face, "Sweetheart, babygirl. Let me tell you something. You're a woman, and that's as feminine as it fucking gets"

"I-"

"You could shit and throw up on me and I'll still think you're the hottest thing around. Sweetheart, you shouldn't be embarrassed. It's normal"

"That's nasty, Frank" you laugh.

He smiled, "Look, all I'm saying there ain't nothing to be embarrassed about, sweetheart. But if you don't want to do anything tonight, that's fine. You want me to make you some chilli?"

"...you're not mad?" You questioned as you pulled a cover over yourself.

"Course not, you think I'm new to this?" He scoffed as he got from the bed and threw a pair of gray sweatpants on, "don't worry 'bout it"

He pinched your cheek before he caressed your hair with a calloused hand, his touch gentle. You could tell that he was still hard in his sweats, but it didn't matter.

"You want beans or no beans?"

"I'm fine...but beans"

"That's my girl," he pressed a kiss to the top of your head before heading off to the kitchen.

You fell asleep before he could bring you a bowl.

◇

Kinda short but I might continue with actual period sex. Hope you enjoyed reading.

[hellskitchenswhore]

[whothefuckisshe7]

Frank cocks his head to the side as he looks over your body, then back up your face, "Sweetheart, babygirl. Let me tell you something. You're a woman, and that's as feminine as it fucking gets"

[trowneyy]

𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐧 𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦

⤷ bruce wayne

• {content} bruce loves using your butt as a pillow

It's past two in the morning when you hear the shower shut off in the bathroom just off the bedroom, which means patrol ran long again, which means you already know how the next ten minutes are going to go.

You don't move from where you're sprawled on your stomach across the bed, book propped open in front of you, one leg kicked up lazily behind you. You're three chapters deep into something you should've finished last week, and you have exactly zero intention of losing your page.

The bathroom door opens on a puff of steam. You don't look up.

"You're still awake," Bruce says, voice rough with the particular tiredness that comes after a bad night — not injured-tired, just done-tired, bone-deep.

"Mm. Waiting for my husband to come home from his little nighttime hobby."

"It's not a hobby." He pads across the room in nothing but sweatpants slung low on his hips, hair still damp, and you know without looking that he's got that faint crease between his brows he gets when a night's been long but not disastrous. You've learned to read him in increments like that.

"Vigilante crime-fighting is absolutely a hobby, Bruce. You don't get paid."

"I get paid in—" he pauses, clearly searching for something "—civic pride."

"Devastatingly funny. Truly, Gotham's got jokes."

He huffs something that's almost a laugh, and then the mattress dips beside you, and you already know what's coming a full two seconds before it happens.

"Don't you dare—"

Too late. His hand lands square on your backside with an easy, familiar smack, and you yelp into your book.

"Bruce!"

"What." He says it like the most reasonable man alive, already sliding a hand over the spot he just smacked, squeezing once, unbothered, like he's checking the mail. "It's right there."

"It's attached to me, that's not an invitation—"

"It's always an invitation." He says this with the calm, insufferable confidence of a man who has never once been told no and meant it. Which, fine. He hasn't.

You swat weakly behind you, more out of principle than actual objection, and he catches your wrist, presses a kiss to your knuckles like an apology he doesn't mean even a little, and then — inevitably, gravitationally, like this is just where the night was always headed — he folds himself down and drops his head right onto your butt like it's a goose-down pillow he paid four figures for.

"Oh my god."

"Comfortable," he mumbles, already sounding half a step from unconscious. His arm slings loosely over the back of your thighs, anchoring himself there.

"You have an entire pillow. Several, actually. I've counted."

"None of them are this good."

"You're insane. You are a grown man. You run a multi-billion dollar company and dress up as a bat and you are currently using my ass as a headrest."

"Priorities," he says, muffled, eyes clearly already shut.

You sigh the sigh of a woman who married this exact behavior with her eyes wide open, and go back to your book, one hand idly dropping to card through his damp hair because — fine. Fine. It's not like you're going anywhere.

"How was patrol," you ask, mostly just to feel him talk, the low rumble of his voice vibrating faintly against you.

"Quiet. Couple of break-ins. Jason wouldn't stop narrating everything over comms."

"That tracks."

"Alfred left a plate for me. I didn't eat it."

"You're eating it tomorrow before you leave this bed, I don't care whose butt you'd rather be using as furniture."

"Deal," he says, already three-quarters asleep, thumb tracing a slow, absent line against the back of your thigh. "Love you."

"Love you too, you enormous menace." You turn a page one-handed, careful not to jostle him. "Squeeze my butt again and I'm telling Alfred."

"He already knows."

"Bruce."

He just smiles against you, eyes still closed, and doesn't move an inch.

[sweeten3rz]

Frank and his boat.

Frank Castle Brand New Day x Female Reader

you show up at Franks boat where he has unexpected guests

warnings: smut MDNI!

The marina air smells like diesel and low tide. The dock creaks under your boots as you approach Frank’s boat—a trawler that’s seen better decades, its paint chipped in the places where bullet holes were patched over.

You don’t knock. You never do anymore. The habit formed somewhere between the third night you stayed over and the fifth morning he made you coffee without asking if you wanted any.

You duck through the cabin doorway, a six-pack sweating against your fingers, and—

There’s a man in red and blue spandex sitting at Frank’s kitchen table.

He’s hunched over a mug like it’s the most normal thing in the world. The mask is half-rolled up, exposing a jawline that belongs on a college brochure. A half-eaten sandwich sits on a paper plate near his elbow.

Your brain stutters.

“Frank, there’s a—” Your voice catches, climbs. “Spider-Man? At your desk?”

The kid—because he is a kid, Jesus, he’s got to be nineteen—jerks upright. His wrist flicks on instinct. A thick white strand shoots across the cabin, and your body reacts before your mind catches up.

You pivot, shoulder dropping, and the web splats against the bulkhead where your head was half a second ago.

The six-pack hits the floor. Cans roll.

“Oh God—sorry—I’m so sorry—” Peter’s hands fly up, palms out, web-shooter still clicking. “You moved really fast, I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey.”

Frank’s voice cuts through like a blade through rope. He fills the doorway to the back cabin, one hand braced on the frame, the other hanging loose at his side.

His eyes track from the web on the wall to your face to Peter, and something in his jaw tightens.

“Knock it off. I know her.”

Peter’s arms drop. “You know her? You didn’t say anyone was coming—”

“Didn’t know she was coming.”

Frank’s gaze lands on you. Holds. There’s a question tucked behind the irritation—a narrow-eyed what the hell are you doing here that he doesn’t need to voice because you can read it in the set of his shoulders.

“The hell are you doing here?” he says anyway.

You gesture at the web-slinger still half-sprawled across Frank’s chair.

“I was going to surprise you. Clearly that was a mistake.”

“Yeah. Clearly.”

“You could’ve texted.”

“You don’t answer texts.”

“I answer texts.”

“You answered one text in three weeks, Frank. One. It said ‘ok.’”

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. “It was a good text.”

“It was a word.”

Peter’s head swivels between you like he’s watching a tennis match. “I’m sorry, who—who is this? Is this your—are you two—?”

“Shut up,” Frank and you say in unison

“No, I’m serious, because MJ’s in the back and I don’t know if this is a security thing or a—”

MJ emerges from the rear cabin right on cue. She’s got a book tucked under her arm and an expression that suggests she’s already catalogued every exit on the boat.

Her eyes land on you, flick to Frank, then back to you.

The boat suddenly feels very small.

Your stomach drops. It’s not jealousy—not exactly. It’s that specific, sharp-edged confusion that comes from walking into a situation you had no framework for.

Frank doesn’t have guests.

Frank doesn’t do guests.

And now there are two of them, one of whom is a woman with a sharp gaze and a knowing tilt to her mouth, and Frank hadn’t mentioned any of it.

“Who’s this?” you ask, and your voice comes out flatter than you intended.

Frank exhales through his nose. “Kid’s girlfriend.”

Peter makes a sound like a strangled cat. “She’s not—we’re not—I mean, we’re friends, we’re just friends, she’s not my—”

“Sure,” MJ says, deadpan. “Just friends who hide on boats together.”

“MJ.”

You fold your arms. “So you’ve got a woman in your boat. A woman you didn’t mention.”

Frank rubs the back of his neck. The gesture is tired, not guilty. “The kid needed somewhere to hide the girl. I’m the solution, apparently.” His hand drops. “I don’t know her.”

“Frank doesn’t know me,” MJ confirms, like she’s entering testimony into a court record. “We met approximately forty minutes ago. He offered me a bottle of water and then told Peter his situational awareness was garbage. It was very touching.”

Peter points at you. “Okay but—who’s she? Frank, who is she? Because she dodged my web like it was nothing, and normal people don’t do that, and if she’s like, a secret agent or something I feel like I should know before I eat more of your tuna—”

“Shut up,” Frank says, louder this time.

The cabin goes quiet. The boat rocks gently against its moorings. A seagull screams somewhere in the distance.

Frank looks at you. Something shifts in his face—not softening, exactly, but settling. The tension in his brow doesn’t disappear, but it reorients, like a rifle finding its target.

The dock has stopped creaking.

Somewhere across the water, a tugboat sounds its horn—low and mournful, the kind of sound that makes you understand why sailors used to believe in ghosts.

Peter’s sitting on the edge of the dock, legs dangling over the water.

He’s been quiet for almost three minutes, which seems like a personal record.

You lean against a piling, arms crossed against the night chill.

The city glitters across the bay—Manhattan’s skyline a mouthful of bright teeth.

“So,” Peter says. Doesn't finish the sentence.

“So.”

“That thing you did earlier. With the web.” He turns his head, and even through the mask you can see he’s been chewing on this. “You dodged it.”

“I did.”

“People don’t do that.”

You shrug. “Maybe your aim’s getting worse.”

“My aim is—my aim is phenomenal, actually. I have, like, proportional reflexes. It’s a whole thing.” He’s gesturing now, hands mapping invisible diagrams in the air. “I’ve tagged guys mid-backflip. Guys with guns. One time I webbed a grenade out of the air and I wasn’t even looking.”

“Impressive.”

“So how’d you do it?”

The water licks at the pilings below. A ferry blinks in the distance, slow and indifferent. You let the silence stretch just long enough to watch him lean forward, weight shifting, shoulders tightening.

“Trade secret,” you say.

“That’s not—you can’t just say ‘trade secret’ and—”

“I can.”

“Are you enhanced…? Is that it? Because Frank knows a lot of people, and some of them are definitely the enhanced type, and if you’ve got some kind of—”

“Spiderman.”

He stops.

You smile. It’s not a mean smile. Just the smile of someone who knows they’re not going to answer and is enjoying the show. “You’re not going to figure it out tonight.”

His head drops. The mask crinkles at the temples. “This is going to drive me insane.”

“Probably.”

“Like, I’m going to be swinging around tomorrow going how did she do that, and I’m going to miss a building.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

He laughs—surprised, a little helpless. It’s a good sound. The kind you don’t expect from someone who spends his nights getting shot at. “You’re kind of terrifying. You know that? You and Frank. You’re both terrifying.”

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“I’m taking it as one.”

Peter shakes his head, but he’s still smiling. The mask can’t hide everything. “Okay. Fine. Keep your secrets. But I’m going to ask again. Eventually. When you least expect it.”

“I’ll be ready.”

“I’m sure you will.”

Quiet settles again. Comfortable this time. The kind that doesn’t need filling. Frank’s boat rocks against its moorings twenty feet away, a single lamp burning in the cabin window, and you think about the first time you saw it—how ugly it was, how practical, how completely Frank.

“Can I ask you something?” His voice has shifted. Softer. Less Spider-Man, more nineteen-year-old-kid.

“You just did.”

“Har har.” He picks at a splinter on the dock, flicks it into the water. “You and Frank. How does that—I mean, how did that even happen? Because no offense, but that guy is about as approachable as a brick wall covered in barbed wire.”

You think about it. The answer isn’t simple. It’s late nights and earlier mornings. It’s the way he checks the locks twice before he sleeps. It’s a cup of coffee made without asking. It’s his hand on your back for two seconds, gone before you can lean into it.

“We just… fit,” you say finally. “He doesn’t make things easy. I don’t expect him to. He shows up. That’s what matters.”

Peter nods slowly. “That’s weirdly romantic.”

“Don’t tell him I said it.”

“Oh, absolutely not. He’d kill me. And I don’t think I could dodge that.”

“No,” you agree. “You couldn’t.”

He snorts. “You’re really not going to tell me anything, are you? About the web thing. About you. About anything.”

You gesture at his face. “You’re wearing a mask.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“It’s for—safety. Anonymity. Protecting the people I care about. Not because I’m being intentionally mysterious to drive someone crazy.”

“So you never take it off?”

Peter hesitates. You can see it in the way his shoulders set, the slight tilt of his head. An internal debate playing out in micro-gestures.

“Sometimes,” he says.

“What about right now?”

“Right now?”

“We’re outside. It’s dark. Frank’s inside.” You spread your hands. “I’m just saying. I’ve never seen Spider-Man’s face. Might be nice to know who I was almost webbed by.”

“You dodged the web.”

“Details.”

He looks at the boat. Then at the water. Then at you. His fingers come up—slow, deliberate—and catch the edge of the mask where it’s bunched at his throat. He pulls it higher. Just a little. Just past his chin.

The jaw. That’s all you get. But it’s enough.

The kid’s got a jawline that could cut glass. Sharp, clean, the kind of bone structure that makes photographers weep.

There’s the beginning of a mouth above it—lips pressed together in something between a grimace and a grin.

“Well,” you say.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just—” You tilt your head, appraising.

“That’s a very symmetrical jaw.”

The mask drops back into place. Peter’s hand flies to the back of his neck. “Symmetrical? That’s—what does that even mean?”

“It means symmetrical. It’s a compliment. Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“I’m not a jaw expert. I’m just saying it’s a good jaw. You should be proud of it.”

“I’m not—I don’t—this is so weird.” He’s half-laughing again, and half-something-else.

Embarrassment, maybe. Or the particular discomfort of being perceived. “You can’t just tell someone they have a symmetrical jaw and then not explain what that means.”

“Can’t I?”

“Frank,” Peter says, with the air of a man who has just discovered something profound, “is a very patient person. I don’t know how he does it.”

The voice comes from the boat—low, rough, edged with the particular irritation of a man who has been waiting longer than he wants to. “Can you two come inside before someone sees you?”

Frank’s silhouette fills the cabin doorway. Arms crossed. Shoulders a straight line against the lamplight behind him. You can’t see his face from here, but you don’t need to. The posture says everything.

Peter scrambles to his feet. “We were just—we were talking. About—nothing. Symmetrical things. It doesn’t matter.”

Frank doesn’t respond. He just waits, a darker shape in the dark, until you’re both moving back toward the boat.

The cabin feels smaller now. MJ’s claimed the corner seat, her book open but her eyes tracking Peter as he ducks through the doorway. There’s a flicker of something on her face—relief, quickly buried—before she returns to the page she wasn’t reading.

“Well,” she says, not looking up. “This has been an incredibly normal evening.”

“The spare room,” Frank says. It’s not a suggestion.

“Spare room,” Peter repeats. “Right. Which is—” He glances at the narrow doorway behind Frank. “Oh. That one. Cool. Great. MJ, we’re—that’s us. That room.”

MJ closes her book with deliberate slowness. “The one with the single bed.”

The silence that follows could be bottled and sold as a sedative.

“It’s—I mean—I can take the floor,” Peter says, already backing toward the door.

“Yes you will” MJ says

“The floor is fine. I’ve slept on lots of floors. I’m kind of a flor expert”

She stands, tucking the book under her arm, and crosses the cabin with the calm of someone who has decided not to make this easy for anyone.

“Goodnight, Frank. Goodnight, mysterious woman.”

“Goodnight,” you say.

The door closes behind them. Something thumps against it—an elbow, probably. A muffled “sorry, sorry, that was my—okay, you take the blanket” filters through the wood.

Frank’s hand finds the small of your back. It’s brief—two seconds of pressure, warm through your shirt—then it’s gone, but the message lands. Come on. Let’s go. He’s already moving toward the rear cabin, not looking back to see if you’re following because he knows you will.

He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t move to the bed. Just stands with his back to you, one hand rubbing the back of his neck the way he does when something’s lodged under his skin.

“Frank?”

“Were you just flirting with Spider-Man?”

The question lands flat. No heat behind it. Just the weight.

“What?”

He turns. His face is unreadable—that familiar mask of muscle and bone that makes people cross the street to avoid him. But you’ve been looking at it long enough to see the cracks. The set of his jaw is different. Tighter.

“Looked like you were flirting with him.”

“I was talking to him. About his mask.”

“His jaw.”

“He showed me his jaw. It was very symmetrical. That’s not flirting, Frank, that’s—mild observational commentary.”

Frank says nothing. Which is, for Frank, a lot.

You watch him for a moment. The way he’s planted himself between you and the door, arms still crossed, like he’s guarding an exit that doesn’t need guarding.

The furrow in his brow that’s one degree deeper than usual.

“Oh my God.” The realization hits like a wave.

“You’re jealous.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” You step closer, and he doesn’t move, and that’s how you know you’re right—because if you were wrong he’d have found somewhere else to be. “Frank Castle. Jealous. Of a nineteen-year-old in spandex.”

“I’m not jealous.” His voice drops, gravel scraping gravel. “I’m just asking a question.”

“Sure. A question. About my intentions toward a child.”

“He’s not a child.”

“He’s basically a child. He said ‘floor expert,’ Frank. He has a symmetrical jaw and he’s afraid of girls.”

Frank’s mouth twitches. It’s not a smile. It’s the suggestion of one—a possibility, quickly suppressed.

“You noticed his jaw.”

“I was making fun of him.”

“Looked friendly.”

“It was—” You stop. Shake your head. The laugh comes out before you can catch it. “You’re actually jealous. You’re standing here, in your boat, looking at me like I just told you I’m running away with the circus, and all because I talked to a superhero about his bone structure.”

Frank’s eyes narrow. “You done?”

“Not even close.”

“Good.” He moves. One step, then another, closing the distance until you can smell the salt on his skin and the coffee on his breath. His hand finds your hip—not gentle, but not rough. Just there. Grounding.

“Because I’ve got some things to say.”

“About my flirting?”

His thumb presses into the hollow of your hip bone.

“About what happens when you show up

unannounced.”

“You said I could come over anytime.”

“I did.”

“And now we’re here.”

“We are.”

“And you’re still jealous.”

His jaw tightens. “I’m not.”

His mouth doesn't meet yours. Not yet.

Frank pulls back—half an inch, maybe less—and the absence of contact lands like a physical thing.

His hand stays on your hip. Thumb still pressing that same hollow, slow circles now, like he's tracing a map only he can read.

"You show up," he says. Voice low. "Don't call. Don't text. Just walk in."

"I wanted to surprise you."

"Mission accomplished."

The corner of his mouth twitches. There it is—that almost-smile, gone before it fully arrives. His fingers tighten on your waist, and he turns you, steering you backward until your calves hit the mattress frame.

The lamp flickers.

The boat rocks.

From the spare room, muffled: "—no, you take the pillow, I'm fine with the—" and then MJ's voice, cutting through: "Dude. Shut up and go to sleep."

Frank doesn't acknowledge it. His focus is entirely on you—the way his eyes track from your mouth to your throat to the collar of your shirt, cataloging, assessing.

The same look he'd give a weapon he was considering using.

"Sit," he says.

You sit.

The mattress gives under you, thin and ungenerous, the way everything on this boat is thin and ungenerous except for him.

He stays standing.

Looks down at you with an expression that's equal parts hunger and calculation.

"Quiet," he says. Not a question.

"Quiet?"

"They're twenty feet away. Walls are thin." His hand comes up, thumb grazing your jawline, tilting your face toward his. "You can do quiet?"

"I can do quiet."

"Good."

He bends. Kisses you.

It's not gentle. Frank doesn't do gentle—not the way other people mean it. His mouth is firm, demanding, the scrape of stubble against your upper lip a familiar burn.

His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, gripping just enough to hold you in place.

You make a sound. Small. Involuntary.

He pulls back. "What'd I say?"

"Quiet."

"Yeah." His thumb strokes the tendon at the side of your throat. "So be quiet."

The order lands somewhere low in your stomach.

Heat blooms, radiates outward. You reach for the hem of his shirt, but he catches your wrist.

"Slow," he says.

"Frank—"

"Slow." His grip loosens. He brings your hand to his chest instead, pressing your palm flat against the worn cotton.

Underneath: the steady thud of his heart, slower than yours, more controlled. "You came here. You interrupted my evening. You flirted with a teenager."

"I did not flirt with—"

"You did." The words rumble through his chest, through your palm, through every nerve ending you possess. "So now we do this my way."

Your throat tightens. "And what way is that?"

He doesn't answer with words.

He answers by pushing you back onto the mattress, one hand planted beside your head, the other working the button of your jeans.

His knuckles brush the skin below your navel. You inhale sharply—too sharply—and his palm covers your mouth.

Pressure. Warm. Callused.

"Quiet."

You nod against his hand.

He removes it slowly, dragging his fingers across your lips as he pulls away. Then both hands are on your jeans, peeling them down, taking your underwear with them in one efficient motion.

The air hits your bare thighs and you shiver—not from cold.

Frank's eyes move over you. "Look at you."

He strips his own shirt over his head. The lamp carves shadows into the landscape of his torso—the scars, the bruise on his ribs that wasn't there last week, the thick muscle of his shoulders.

He doesn't bother with the rest of his clothes. Just unzips, pushes fabric aside, and then he's climbing onto the mattress, settling against the headboard.

"Come here."

You straddle him.

The position is awkward for half a second—knees finding comfortable on the thin mattress, hands bracing on his shoulders—and then he adjusts, shifts his hips, and everything aligns.

He's hard. Thick. The head of him presses against you, not entering, just resting there, and the anticipation is a live wire humming under your skin.

"Frank." It comes out breathy. Too loud.

His hand finds the back of your neck again. Pulls you close until your forehead almost touches his.

"What'd I tell you?"

"Quiet. I know. I'm—"

"Then show me."

You sink down.

The stretch is—God. It's always like this. Always too much and not enough at the same time, the way he fills you, the way your body has to adjust around him.

Your mouth opens on a gasp and you bite it back, teeth sinking into your lower lip hard enough to hurt.

Frank's head drops against the headboard. His eyes close. His hands find your hips, not guiding, just gripping—fingers digging into the flesh there with the kind of pressure that will leave marks tomorrow.

"There," he breathes. "Right there."

You move.

Slow at first. Experimental. Rolling your hips in a rhythm that makes his jaw clench and his fingers spasm against your skin.

The lamp light wavers with the rocking of the boat, shadows swaying across the ceiling.

The need to be quiet makes everything sharper. Every sensation magnified. The slide of him inside you.

The rough denim of his jeans against your inner thighs. The sweat gathering at the small of your back.

You brace your hands on his chest—that broad, scarred landscape—and ride him.

"God," he grits out. Not loud. The word is pressed through clenched teeth, barely a whisper.

His head comes forward, mouth finding your collarbone, teeth scraping the ridge of bone.

Your rhythm stutters.

"Don't stop." His voice vibrates against your skin. "Don't you stop."

You don't.

You find a pace that makes his breathing go ragged—short, sharp inhales that match the rocking of the boat.

His hands move from your hips to your ass, grip tightening, helping you rise and fall.

The obscene sound of skin meeting skin is muffled by the jeans still bunched at his thighs, by the blanket tangled beneath you.

But it's there. Underneath everything else. A wet, rhythmic counterpoint to the slap of water against the hull.

"Look at me," Frank says.

You do.

His face is—it's not soft. Frank Castle's face will never be soft. But there's something unguarded in his eyes right now, something that only shows up in these moments, when everything else is stripped away.

When it's just the two of you and the dark and the movement.

"Good," he says. Rough. Almost surprised. "That's—"

His hips buck up into you. Once. Hard.

You clap a hand over your own mouth.

The moan that tears out of you is muffled, but it's not silent, and somewhere in the spare room Peter's voice goes conspicuously quiet.

Frank's laugh is a vibration in his chest, silent and short-lived. His focus snaps back to you. "Told you. Thin walls."

"I hate you," you whisper.

"No you don't."

He thrusts up again, and this time it's his hand that covers your mouth—his palm rough and warm and smelling faintly of gun oil and coffee.

His eyes hold yours. A question. A demand.

You nod.

His hand drops. He plants both palms on your ass, spreads his knees wider for leverage, and takes over.

The rhythm changes. Faster now. Deeper. He's driving up into you with the kind of controlled intensity he brings to everything—never wasted motion, never unnecessary force, just the exact amount of power required to make your vision blur at the edges.

Your nails rake down his chest. He hisses through his teeth.

"Again," he says.

You do it again. Harder this time, leaving faint red lines on the scar tissue over his ribs.

His growl is barely human. It's the sound of something being held back by force of will, and it's the hottest thing you've ever heard.

He pulls you down onto him, grinding, holding you there, and the pressure on your clit is suddenly perfect—that exact angle, that exact friction—and your thighs start to shake.

"Frank—"

"I know." His lips brush your ear. "I know, sweetheart. Let go."

The endearment undoes you.

It always does. Not because he says things like that often—he doesn't, he never has—but because when he does, it means something. It means he's not thinking. It means he's past the point of guarding his words.

Your body clenches around him, muscles contracting in rhythmic spasms that make him groan low in his throat.

His hand is back over your mouth. You don't remember him moving it. But it's there, catching the cry you can't stop, muffling the broken syllables of his name.

Everything fades except Frank. The way he's still moving inside you, chasing his own release now, his rhythm finally breaking.

His face buries itself in the curve of your neck. His breath is hot and damp against your skin. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, and then he's pulling you down one final time, grinding deep, and the sound he makes is—

It's your name.

Just your name. Ragged. Quiet. Bitten off at the end like he caught himself too late.

He pulses inside you. Warmth spreads. His whole body tenses, holds, releases.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. The boat rocks. The lamp flickers.

Frank's forehead drops against yours.

"Okay," he says.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

You huff a laugh. "That's all you've got?"

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are clearer now.

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that seems impossible from hands that have done the things his have done.

"Give me a minute," he says. "I'll think of something better."

Frank exhales through his nose. Long. Suffering. His hands are still on your hips, thumb stroking absently over the marks he left there.

"Next time," he says, "you text first."

"Next time," you tell him, "you answer."

[heavenlybarnesss]

Kind of Spider-Man BND spoilers? But not really because it shows them interacting in the trailer - but I’ll leave the note just in case. MDNI, 18+

────────── ୨୧ ───────────

Okay but picture Frank and Peter hanging out, maybe doing some kind of surveillance together or something. You call Frank just like you normally do when you’re feeling especially needy and miss your buff, brooding boyfriend. He picks up, and puts you on speaker completely unaware of what’s about to come out of your mouth. Before he can let you know Peter’s there with him, you blurt out some sexual shit meant for only Frank’s ears.

“Frankieee, when are you coming home baby? My pussy’s aching for you,” you whine. Peter’s spidey eyes widen, quickly turning to face the window of Frank’s van. Even wearing his spider suit, Frank can tell Peter’s blushing like a motherfucker underneath it.

“Shit, shit! Sweetheart, sweetheart hold on-“ he’s yelling as he fumbles with the phone, trying to take you off speaker. You’re still going on about what you want when he gets home.

“And then, wanna suck your big, fat cock-“ you babble, lying on your belly, legs kicking in your shared bed in nothing but your black lace undies and one of Frank’s old Marine tees. You’re twirling your hair in your fingers, completely and blissfully unaware of who can hear you on the other line.

“No! No, goddamnit,” Frank grunts, accidentally ending the call. He runs his palm down his face, knowing how hurt you’ll be that he just hung up on you like that. But it was for the best, and you’d understand once he explains later. It’s silent for a moment before Peter finally speaks

“Wow, Frank. I’m so glad to see you have such an active sex life at your age,” Peter quips.

“At my age??? The fuck does that mean?” he asks, face slightly offended and dark brows pulled tight.

“It means…you know. I wasn’t sure if you still had your libido,” Peter answers earnestly, hands up in defense.

“Alright, alright. That’s enough out of you, kid. Sheesh. Actin’ like I’m gettin’ the early bird discount at fuckin’ Denny’s,” he scoffs, cheeks flush. He pauses, debating whether he wants to share a little tidbit of his life with his newfound friend. He decides a good woman like you is worth bragging about. “She’s a very generous woman. Definitely makes me feel younger,” he smiles.

“I can tell, especially when she went into detail about that thing where she does a handstand and-“

“Oh fuck off, bug boy.”

────────── ୨୧ ───────────

[whothefuckisshe7]

“At my age??? The fuck does that mean?” he asks, face slightly offended and dark brows pulled tight.

[starl1ghtgr4yson]

⠀⠀⠀ ⋮ ⌗ the ten inch bet

⊹ ࣪ ˖ in which you and Jason place a bet to see who can go the longest without touching the other person. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ warnings: reader plays dirty, roy is kinda ooc, this is all Roy’s fault don’t look at me, jason goes insane,

The apartment was quiet for once, saved from the usual chaos of the vigilante lifestyle. Morning light streamed through the blinds of the kitchen, casting warm, golden bars across the worn wooden table. You were leaning against the counter, a mug of coffee warm between your hands, fully enjoying the rare, tranquil quiet.

Then, heavy boots thumped softly down the hallway, and Jason stepped into the kitchen.

He was wearing a faded gray henley, his dark hair a messy bedhead spike, and his eyes still soft with sleep. The moment his gaze found you, that signature lazy, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He didn't say a word. He just strolled over, closing the distance between you, and dropped his hands onto the counter on either side of your hips, trapping you gently in his orbit.

He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.

You let out a quiet sigh against his mouth, setting your mug down to wrap your fingers around his wrists. He pulled back just an inch, his dark eyes sparkling, before dipping down to press another short kiss to your cheek, then your chin, and back to your lips. It was sweet and lazy, and sickeningly affectionate.

"Morning, sweetheart," he murmured, his breath warm against your skin.

"Morning, Jay," you hummed, smiling against another quick press of his lips.

"Will you two please get a room? Or at least put a biohazard warning on the kitchen door?"

The familiarly obnoxious, loud and dramatic voice shattered the moment. Roy was leaning against the doorframe, a half-empty juice box in his hand, looking at the two of you with profound, theatrical disgust.

Roy Harper had a habit of inviting himself into your home and then acting like you were a guest.

"Seriously," Roy groaned, taking a loud sip through his straw. "It’s eight in the morning. You two physically cannot keep your hands off each other for five minutes. It’s sickening. I come down for apple juice and I’m subjected to a puke-fest"

You immediately pulled back from Jason, flushing slightly, though you pointed a defensive finger straight at your boyfriend. "Hey! Don't look at me! I'm not the clingy one, it’s Jason!"

"Me?!" Jason scoffed, dropping his hands from the counter and standing up straight, taking a step back with his arms crossed over his broad chest. "Are you serious right now? I'm clingy? Sweetheart, you were literally gripping my wrists like a drowning person ten seconds ago."

"Because you came over here and invaded my personal space!" you shot back, stepping forward and poking him sharply in the chest. "You're the one who can't go two seconds without touching me, hugging me, or stealing a kiss! You're like a giant, heavily armed koala!"

"A koala?" Jason repeated, raising a single, sharp brow. "Me? No. Im a lethal vigilante. And for the record, you are the one who whines if I don't cuddle you while we watch movies."

"I do not whine!"

"You literally snuggled into my side so hard yesterday you almost knocked me off the couch," Jason countered.

“i was scared!”

“We were literally watching my little pony!”

“King Sombra is terrifying?”

"Face it. You’re attached to my hip. You'd lose your mind if I didn't touch you for an hour."

"Oh, is that a challenge, Todd?" you snapped, your eyes narrowing as a sudden, brilliant idea sparked in your mind.

For months, you had been trying to pay for dinner. One dinner. Just a single pizza, or a nice sit-down meal, or even takeout. But Jason was infuriatingly, pathologically stubborn about money.

The man would literally fight a waiter, hack a card reader, or threaten a host before he let you pull out your wallet. He claimed it was his ‘right’ and by paying, you were being oppressive and stealing his rights. It drove you absolutely insane.

And right now, standing in the kitchen with Roy watching like it was a soap opera, your golden opportunity had just presented itself.

"You know what?" you said, folding your arms and looking up at him with supreme confidence. "Let's put your money where your big mouth is. A bet."

Jason raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "A bet?"

"Yes. A test to see who is actually the clingy one," you declared. "The rules are simple: we have to stay at least 10 inches away from each other at all times. No touching. No kissing. No holding hands. No leaning on each other. Nothing. The first person who caves and breaks the distance loses."

Jason hummed, rolling his shoulders. "And what are the stakes?"

You smirked, leaning in just a fraction before remembering the rule and stepping back. "Whoever loses has to let the winner pay for dinner. For the next three months."

Roy let out a low whistle from the doorway. "Damn. High stakes. Todd, your fragile masculinity is on the line."

Jason ignored Roy entirely, his dark eyes locking onto yours. The amusement in his expression shifted into a razor-sharp, ridiculously competitive glare. The idea of letting you pay for his food for three whole months was clearly appalling to his deeply ingrained, stubborn street-dog pride.

"Three months?" Jason murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "You're dreaming, sweetheart. There is no way in hell you are ever paying for anything. I'm going to crush you."

"We'll see about that, Todd," you chimed, checking your watch. "Starting... now. 10 inches."

Jason took a deliberate, dramatic step back, maintaining a wide gap between the two of you. "Prepare to lose, clingy."

The first few hours weren't terrible. In fact, they were almost funny.

You sat on opposite ends of the couch, watching TV, both of you hyper-aware of the space between you. Every time Jason absentmindedly reached out to rest his arm behind your shoulders, he would freeze, remember the bet, see your smug grin, and quickly snatch his hand back, glaring at you.

By evening, however, the reality of the bet began to set in.

Normally, when you cooked dinner, Jason would stand right behind you, his arms wrapped loosely around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder while you stirred the pot. Tonight, he stood exactly ten inches away, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, staring at the back of your head like a man dying of thirst while watching someone pour water on the ground.

"You know," you said casually, stirring the pasta sauce, "you can help."

"I am helping," Jason grunted, not moving an inch. "I'm supervising. From a safe, non-losing distance."

"You look like a statue, Jay."

"I am a fortress of willpower," he replied stiffly.

The real nightmare, however, began when it was time to go to sleep.

Sharing a king-sized bed sounded easy enough in theory, but in practice, it was pure torture. You were used to sleeping pressed against Jason’s chest, feeling the steady, warm rise and fall of his breathing, anchored by his heavy arm wrapped tightly around your waist. Jason was used to sleeping with you tucked securely under his chin, his protective instincts lulled to sleep by your proximity.

Now? You were lying on your side, staring at the wall, while Jason lay rigid on his back on his side of the mattress.

The gap of ten inches between you felt like a glowing, electric canyon.

Every time you shifted, the mattress moved, and you could hear Jason’s breath hitch in the dark.

"You asleep?" you whispered into the darkness.

"No," Jason’s voice rasped out. It was strained. "I am holding the line."

"You can just give in, you know," you coaxed softly, turning your head to look at him. "All you have to do is say I win, and you get to hold me."

"Nice try," Jason ground out through grit teeth. You heard his jaw clench. "Not happening. My credit card is ready for tomorrow's dinner. Go to sleep."

You sighed, turning back around.

It was a long, sleepless night. Every time you drifted off, you instinctively reached out, only to catch yourself at the last second and yank your hand back. And every time you did, you could hear Jason rustling frantically, physically fighting the urge to pull you into his arms.

When morning finally arrived, light crept slowly through the bedroom curtains. You stretched, letting out a soft yawn, and sat up on the bed.

"Jason?" you murmured softly, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

Sitting on the very edge of his side of the mattress was Jason.

He hadn't changed out of his clothes. He hadn't pulled the blanket over himself. He was just sitting there, staring blankly at the far wall, looking like a man who had survived a war zone. His hair was wild and sticking up in every direction, deep dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes, and he looked visually exhausted.

Jason slowly, mechanically turned his head toward you. His neck let out a loud, alarming CRACK.

"Sleep is for the weak," Jason rasped. His voice sounded like he had spent the night swallowing glass. His left eye twitched again, hard.

"Jay, oh my god," you said, reaching out instinctively toward him—

"DONT!" Jason practically shrieked, flinching violently backward and throwing his entire upper body off the side of the bed, landing on the floor with a loud THUD.

He scrambled backward on his elbows until his back hit the wall, keeping a full six feet between you. He was panting, his chest heaving, his dark eyes wide and unhinged as he stared at your outstretched hand.

"Do not touch me!" Jason panted, holding up a warning finger, his hand visibly shaking. "I saw that! You tried to tag me while I was down! Disqualification! Foul!"

"I wasn't trying to tag you, you psycho, I was checking if you were having a stroke!" you yelled, sitting back on your heels on the mattress. "Look at you! Your eye is literally twitching! You didn't sleep a single minute, did you?!"

"I slept great," Jason lied defensively, his left eye twitching twice in rapid succession. He pushed himself up against the wall, standing on shaky legs. "I feel fantastic. I have never been more alert in my life. The distance is easy. Painless."

"You look like a caffeinated sleep-deprived zombie, Jason," you scoffed, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. "Just give up. Let me pay."

"Over my dead body," Jason snapped, straightening his posture, though his eyes darted hungrily to your lips before he forcibly tore his gaze away. "Ten inches, sweetheart. Remember the rules."

By afternoon, the lack of touch and sleep had completely broken Jason’s brain, and you decided it was time to deploy heavy tactical warfare.

You knew Jason Todd better than anyone. You knew he was a tough, ruthless crime lord on the outside, but on the inside—especially when it came to you—he was a deeply protective, fiercely devoted sap who couldn't bear the thought of you feeling hurt, sad, or insecure.

If playing nice wasn't going to break him, psychological manipulation was.

You sat down on the couch in the main living room, intentionally slumping your shoulders. You let out a quiet, heavy, miserable sigh, dropping your head into your hands.

Jason was standing near the bookshelf, pretending to read a novel, but his eyes were darting toward you every three seconds. The moment he heard your mournful sigh, his body went rigid.

"Something wrong?" he asked, trying to sound casual, though his voice was laced with immediate, low-level anxiety.

You didn't look up. You pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around your legs, making yourself look as small and vulnerable as humanly possible.

"I feel sad, Jay," you murmured, your voice small, flat, and hollow.

Jason’s hands tightened on the book so hard the leather spine creaked. "Sad? Why? Did something happen? Who do I need to shoot?"

"No one," you sniffled quietly, letting out another shuddering breath. "I just... I just feel like I wanna be understood."

Jason’s left eye twitched. He took two step toward the couch, stopping dead at the ten-inch boundary. His breath was coming in short, shallow puffs. You could practically hear his internal organs screaming. He wanted to throw the book across the room, drop to his knees, pull you into his lap, and kiss your forehead until you felt better.

"Understood?" he echoed, his voice strained to the absolute breaking point. "Sweetheart, I understand you. I get you. Talk to me."

"No, you don't," you whispered, turning your head away, dropping your chin to your knees so your eyes looked glossy and sad. "I just... I feel so unloved today."

THUD.

Jason dropped the book onto the floor.

His eyes were completely blown out, filled with a sudden, overwhelming, visceral panic. "Unloved?! What the hell are you talking about?! I love you! I literally love you more than life itself, you know that!"

He took a frantic step closer, his hands hovering in mid-air just inches from your shoulders.

"I don't know..." you whimpered softly, pulling out the absolute big guns, your voice trailing off into a pitiful murmur. "I don't feel pretty today, Jay. Am I ugly? Is that why no one loves me?"

Jason looked like he had just been stabbed through the heart

"Ugly?!" he roared quietly, his voice cracking with pure horror. "Are you insane?! You're the most beautiful person on the entire planet! Who put that garbage in your head?! I'll kill them! I promise i will. I’ll even torture them if you want. I will literally track them down and murder them!"

"I just feel so gross," you whimpered, looking up at him with wide, watery eyes, doing your absolute best to pout. "Like... I mean, look at me..."

He slowly began to sink to his knees in front of you, his face twisted in deep, genuine concern.

"Baby, please," Jason pleaded softly, his voice trembling as he reached his hands out, hovering barely half an inch from your face. "Don't say that. Look at me. Please look at me. You're stunning. You're perfect. I'm right here. I'm right here, baby, just..."

You let out a tiny, shuddering breath, a single tear spilling over your cheek—

And then, just as Jason was about to lose it completely, throw his arms around you, and cave...

He caught it.

A tiny, microscopic, triumphant little smirk peeked through the corner of your trembling lips.

Jason froze.

His brain processed the smirk in half a second. The realization hit him like a lightning bolt.

The concern drained from his face, replaced instantly by an expression of pure, unbridled, disbelief.

"You..." Jason whispered, his voice dropping into a deadly rumble. "You little—”

You immediately dropped the sad act, breaking into a bright, wicked laugh as you leaned back onto the couch. "Damn it! I almost had you!"

"You were faking?!" Jason practically yelled, standing up so fast his chair wobbled. He pointed a shaking finger at you, his eye twitching furiously once more. "You used psychological warfare on me! You pretended to feel ugly! You knew that would hit my weak spot! You almost gave me a heart attack!"

"All's fair in love and war, Todd!" you laughed, crossing your arms smugly. "You almost caved!"

"Almost doesn't count!" Jason shouted, pacing back and forth across the rug, keeping his ten-inch distance while glaring at you like you were a criminal mastermind. "That was evil! That was pure evil! You are a terrible person! And I am never letting you pay for dinner now! Never!"

If jason was bad one day one, it was nothing compared to day two.

The combination of zero sleep, the agonizing lack of physical contact, and the sheer mental exhaustion of resisting your psychological traps had pushed him over the edge.

He was an absolute, terrifying asshole to literally everyone who dared exist in his vicinity.

When Damian walked past the living room and made a snide remark about Jason looking like a defeated stray dog, Jason didn't even argue—he just pulled a batarang out of his pocket and threw it so close to Damian's head it embedded itself two inches deep into the doorframe right next to his ear.

When Roy tried to ask him a normal question about a case, Jason threatened to break all ten of his fingers and feed them to the sewer rats.

The only exception to his rage was you.

Toward you, Jason was agonizingly gentle, absurdly attentive, and sickeningly polite—which somehow made the whole situation ten times scarier.

"Do you need more tea, sweetheart?" Jason would ask softly, standing exactly ten inches away, his voice dripping with pure tenderness, his eyes soft and loving.

"I'm good, Jay, thank you," you'd reply.

"Okay, beautiful. Let me know if you need anything. Anything at all," he’d murmur sweetly.

Then, the second Steph walked into the room, breathing, Jason’s head would snap around, his face morphing into a terrifying mask of rage. "If you make one more noise in this room, Brown, I will throw you off the roof of Gotham General."

It was absolute madness.

You were sitting on the edge of the kitchen island, kicking your legs softly, watching Jason aggressively aggressively sanitize the counter five feet away from you. He looked like he was one minor inconvenience away from starting a riot.

Suddenly, your phone buzzed in your pocket.

You pulled it out and unlocked the screen. It was a text string from Dick.

Dick: PLEASE. Dick: I am begging you, on my hands and knees, cave. Dick: please please please Dick: He threatened to burn down the Batcave. Dick: He is losing his absolute mind. End the bet. Dick: WE ARE DYING OUT HERE. HE IS GOING TO KILL US ALL.

You bit your lip, holding back a laugh, and looked up from your screen.

Jason was standing near the sink, gripping the edge of the marble counter so hard his knuckles were snow-white. He was staring at you. His dark eyes were filled with a desperate, starved, exhausted hunger. He looked like a man dying in the desert staring at an glass of water, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, looking completely defeated, miserable, and utterly desperate.

He looked so pitiful, so thoroughly broken by his own stubborn pride, that your heart melted a little.

You let out a soft, defeated huff of laughter, tossing your phone onto the counter behind you.

"Alright, Jay," you sighed, taking a deliberate step forward and opening your arms wide. "I cave. You win."

You didn't even get to finish the last word.

The moment the words 'I cave' left your mouth, Jason's reaction time was terrifying.

He crossed the distance between you in a blur of movement, practically tackling you backwards onto the kitchen island.

His heavy, broad arms wrapped around you with a suffocating, desperate tightness, pulling you so close there wasn't a single millimeter of air left between your bodies. He buried his face directly into the crook of your neck, letting out a long, deep, shuddering groan of relief.

"Thank God," he gasped against your skin, his hands gripping your waist so tightly it bordering on bruising, anchoring himself to you as if he was afraid you'd vanish if he let go. "Jesus fucking Christ. Never doing that again. Ever."

You laughed, wrapping your arms around his massive shoulders, burying your hands in his soft, messy dark hair and massaging his scalp softly. "You were going insane, Todd."

"I was dying," he corrected aggressively, his voice muffled in your shoulder. "I was literally dying. My brain was melting."

He pulled back just enough to look down at you. His eyes were still tired, his eye still had a tiny lingering twitch, but the murderous rage was completely gone, replaced by a warm, smitten, completely victorious smirk.

"Damn right I win," Jason murmured, his thumb coming up to trace your lower lip gently. "You fought dirty with that sad act, sweetheart, but my willpower is legendary."

"You looked like you were going to cry when I said I felt ugly," you pointed out playfully.

"Shut up," Jason grunted, though a dark flush crept up his neck. "I was worried about you."

"Now," Jason growled softly, a triumphant grin spreading across his face as he kissed the tip of your nose. "Get your shoes on, sweetheart."

"Where are we going?" you asked, smiling up at him.

"Out," Jason smirked, wrapping his hand firmly around yours and tugging you toward the front door, making sure to squeeze your fingers extra tight just because he finally could. "To the most expensive steakhouse in Gotham. And I am paying."

a/n i keep raising my own standards and then wondering why im single…

Taglist: @leovaldez0924 @newangelle @pxrcyjcksons @rani1028 @maradcrs @purelypersistentribe @cecillia-stuff @sarahskywalker-amidala @starrydustedwinter @brucewayneisavirgin @idkwhattosaynowsorry @sexy-sadie-6505 @steadyclarityparadox @fireriyu @jaydennicole

[hauntedhouseofhorrors]

I LOVE THIS UGH 🥹

[whothefuckisshe7]

"Seriously," Roy groaned, taking a loud sip through his straw. "It’s eight in the morning. You two physically cannot keep your hands off each other for five minutes. It’s sickening. I come down for apple juice and I’m subjected to a puke-fest"