Meadow/Doe/Rosie 🐞 she/her 🐞 20-something year old lover girl 🐞 minors and ageless blogs DNI 🐞 old blog is rosie-posy 🐞 www.ko-fi.com/rosieposy 🐞 pfp by scarecrowmax and edited by me, dividers from strangergraphics
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Frank, with little convincing required, takes you in after night of bar crawling takes its toll. Fighting a battle of resolve versus craving, he struggles to handle a version of you that doesn’t keep her distance.
notes; honey im home!!! we’re done with the hiatus and In the home stretch of this series it’s getting serious ppl, thank you all for so much support and kindness about my little passion project that I didn’t expect so many people to gaf about! anyway this one includes a Frank pov, mentions of alcohol / r is drunk, Frank does not like himself whatsoever ig
part 7 of just across the hall
word count; 4k
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You would think a man would get sick of the same view after an hour. But he’s more disciplined than most. A stone faced soldier. In any case, he’s got plenty in his own head to keep himself entertained.
Yeah. The ceiling is fine entertainment for Frank. Or, distraction, more like.
It gives him a physical reaction, every minute recollection of a few nights ago. He has to rub a calloused palm over his bearded jaw, almond eyes screwing up as if trying to block out the brute shame of it.
He felt like a real asshole. He was a real asshole. Hardly any news.
The cold in New York is slowly passing through. Frost is biting at his window panes, the frames outfitted with three different locks. His joints are aching from the weather, but he can’t bring himself to throw on some layers just to walk around the apartment. He does fine with a pair of sweatpants and some old blanket draped over the back of his couch.
Standing in the kitchenette makes him feel.. some vicious breed of awkward. There isn’t a strong reason to be. He’s alone, nobody bugging him and nobody watching. But even having his socks on the same tile, the specifics come back to him and he feels god awful all over again. He was never great at forgetting. Especially nothing pertaining to you.
That thought brings fresh disgust to the surface of his skin, and Frank shoves it back down with a rough drag of his hand down his face. Not the image of you, per se, though your expression hangs perpetually over him like a rosary over a cot. The question of why he couldn’t just leave you in peace.
He guesses that he’ll never come to an answer if he keeps ignoring it like he is. He only has a vague interest in the colors moving across his TV screen, as he shifts for the first time in about half an hour to look down from his ceiling. It’s beat up, some garage sale junk made in 2013. Cable wasn’t great. But he had no idea how to get anything else on there, and Curt could never figure it out either.
So, Frank Castle, ex-marine, Kandahar-vet, partly-retired-vigilante, is reduced to watching the food network on a Friday night. And he hates to admit that it’s pretty entertaining.
He’s deep in a feature about ratatouille when the shoddy intercom by the door buzzes. And in an instant, Frank is transformed— from a man truly showing his age, considering whether the recipe on TV is worth scratching down on a notepad he keeps on the coffee table— to a man who has earned his paranoia from a laundry list of shameful deeds.
Before he knows he is doing it, he’s checking off security measures. Windows, locked. The door is locked too, twice over. Alarms are set. Or did he forget? Maybe he should’ve checked another time, before his particularly rough shift at the job site caught up to him like it now had. Frank isn’t a jittery man; the only clear difference in his gait as he traipses to the buzzer is the new hardness of his shoulders, and the movement of his eyes landing on the kitchen cabinet he designated for his SIG Sauer.
He presses the calloused tip of an index onto the button. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to; a woman’s voice bursts over the intercom system, static-fuzzed. “—llo? Helloo! You up there? Frrr-aaa-nnnk.”
Frank’s shoulders fall, a weighted breath collapsing from his nostrils. Christ. It sounded like you had been talking to the intercom box long before the static emanated from the speaker, like he had caught onto the tail end of your ramble. “Yeah.” He says, too quickly. “Yeah, I’m here. What’d’you need? You okay?”
He hates the relief that floods his system. Even worse is the readiness he speaks with; as though he had been waiting for you to ask anything of him. But, he doesn’t think of this instantly. At the moment, he is just a man in pajama pants, relieved that his neighbor is willing to speak to him at all, brushing his knuckles across his bearded jaw. Your reply dampens the relief. “I think I forgot my keys, can you, like, let me up? I reeeeally would really appreciate it, y’know. It’s cold. Pretty cold for spring.”
You don’t sound distressed, per se. More talkative than normal if that was possible, a certain drag hanging the syllables of your words. Drunk. Very, drunk. “M’ comin’ down. Stay put.”
He can’t let himself just buzz you in, let you hike up all those stairs to your floor. The decision doesn’t take much thinking. Any thinking, really. “Oh, thaaankk you, Frank! So, so much!”
He throws on the first shirt he can find (which happens to be a navy graphic-token from boot camp, more than well-worn) and is at the ground level within minutes. Frank finds you, leaning against the brick wall beside the outdoor intercom, looking out across the street as cars pass. Your face is turned away, but you’re easy for him to make out. It’s well past 11 PM, the night saturated with lamplight, red brake lights and neon signs suffusing color into the breeze. It’s only as he opens the lobby door that your attention turns to him, and he truly sees you.
The fluorescent light shining down from the concrete awning washes over your features in a way that would be unflattering for any other woman. But you aren’t any other woman, he knows. What might’ve been shimmer on your eyelids a few hours ago is now smudged around your eyes. Your hair looked a bit like it had been in an updo, and ripped free at a whim. He doesn’t smile, but some kind of lightness fills his chest.
“Awh, Frank.” You say, and he sighs through his nostrils, dips his chin imperceptibly. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Don’t know about that.” He holds the door open as you walk— only stumbling once— into the lobby. It takes discipline not to watch you walk, not to look at the dress you wear; backless, black, short. He keeps his eyes up.
Elevators finally fixed, and so he bumps a knuckle into the button and watches the way you lean against the metal door jamb like your legs are decoration. “.. Had a good night?” Frank brings himself to ask.
The doors slide open, and he decides that a strong hand on your shoulder is a good fall-deterrent. “Oh, yeah. So fun. So, so.. uh, no. Actually. Not that fun.” Your line of reasoning crumbles before it was laid down. “Really cheap liquor. And I, like, couldn’t find any of my friends towards the end, so I just left, y’know?”
“Left?” The elevator hauls upward.
“It’s like, four blocks away.”
Something in Frank’s stomach churns, like a hard sock to the gut. He’s fairly good at concealing the feeling through a rough grunt, “You walked here?”
“Yeah!” The lightness of your reply elicits a half-groan, half-sigh. His roughened fingers come up to pinch the bridge of his nose, then to drag down his face, to his beard.
He wants to be angry with you; he can’t be. “Christ.” When he opens his eyes, you’re watching him with this sweet little furrow to your brow. Shaking his head and averting his look to the upward tick of floor levels, he grumbles, “Don’t do that again. You need t’get home, y’call me. From anywhere.”
The elevator dings, and the doors peel open. You nod slowly, eyes squinting as if you were thinking hard. “.. Thanks, Frank,” you murmur after a moment. He shrugs. It’s nothing. When will you get that it’s nothing, not since it’s you?
The quiet hangs as you step into the hall, one that’s comfortable considering the smell of alcohol lingering on you and the duty of caretaking wafting off Frank. You go the wrong way, first, he uses a guiding hand on your back to turn you. You laugh. He shakes his head.
Upon reaching his door, Frank watches you rifle through a purse that couldn’t possibly fit more than your phone and theoretically, keys. But, what did he know. He lets you dig around for a bit, amused, until you make a frustrated sound.
He interjects, “You lost your keys.” Saying it himself makes him nervous all over again. The kind of nervous that Frank tends to encounter often; not effectively worried, or paralyzed, but the kind that shakes him into running down a bullet pointed list. He guesses that it’s the marines that turned him into a man that converts threat into fuel. Already, he knows that he’ll have to check that club for your keys, change your locks, get you a new one. He grabs his own keys from a pocket. “.. This isn’t your door, anyway.”
“Oh, right. Fuck.” A smile crosses his features at your expression, he shakes his head. As if you had a thing to worry about.
With a jut of Frank’s chin— “C’mon.”
—
By the time he’s done setting the extra locks back into place, you’ve kicked off your heels haphazardly. Looking over his shoulder, he watches you stumble-to and slump-down-on the couch less like you were attempting to sit and more like your feet gave out.
Springing into action, Frank finds it easier to focus on the tangible task at hand than the prospect of you, drunk on his couch. He grabs a bottle of cold water, not without checking your state over his shoulder.
You aren’t black out drunk. He shouldn’t be so focused on propping you up. He shouldn’t think he’s propping you up, in any capacity. You’re not his to take care of.
The reminder is a whip to beat back the part of him that relishes in your smile, when he hands you the bottle and says with the intention of a command but the tone of a too-gentle murmur, “Drink.”
A mild sip delves into a chug. Haphazardly, you lean over to the coffee table and set down what two or three ounces is left of the bottle. Frank raises his brows at you. Okay? You nod back. Okay.
He watches you lay back and sort of sprawl over the couch, arms wayward. Your legs leave just enough room for Frank to sit on the edge of the couch. Absent-mindedly, he tugs down the bottom hem of your dress for your own sake.
“Your apartment is so bare,” your eyes are moving, tracing the walls. He shrugs. He never expected this place to be permanent. Or, atleast, to last long enough under his name (Pete’s name, he amends) to justify buying more furniture than was necessary. You smile, a little more open, a little more honest than your sober face would break open to reveal. “You need like, a painting.”
“I’m not a painting guy.” Frank squints, averts his eye. He hates how awkward he feels, seeing you again. Some vulnerability settles twixt his third and fourth rib. Some kind of fear, fear of mishandling something delicate that he’d already dropped once, and he didn’t at all expect to be handed glue to mend it. You seem none the wiser.
“There’s too many paintings for you not to like atleast one. Like, atleast a hundred thousand.”
“Yeah?”
“Because, think of it, like, people have been painting since, what, the year 500. So imagine how many there are.”
“You’re right.”
That satisfies you. Atleast, you smile and settle more into the couch cushions. “I’ll get you one for your birthday,” you chirp.
He huffs through the nostrils, lip twisting with humor. “You’re not gettin’ me anything, sweetheart.” He wishes he regretted the pet name. “If I really want a painting I can buy a painting.”
“So you really don’t want a painting?”
“Enough with the damn painting.” Frank grunts. You laugh. Loud, unabashed. Not forced to last longer to make someone feel better about a lame joke. He doesn’t think he’s a funny man, hasn’t been for a few years. He thinks he could be, if he tried.
Maybe he wants to start trying. Or maybe he’s already started, months ago.
You’re smiling at him. And he doesn’t have a clue why, can’t explain the mild upward curl to his own lips. Then you’re reaching out. To him.
“What?” Frank mutters, hating the sweetness to his tone. You’re just smiling. A little lopsidedly, and though the overhead light is off, the dim floor lamp beside the couch illuminates your features in warm yellow. Just enough that he can see the faint smudge of your eyeshadow. And, against his better judgement, he leans to you. Gives up, just in that one foot of space bridged.
It’s close enough for you to curl your fingers into his beard, not tugging, but feeling. The backs of your fingers brushing his jaw. He feels sick. “Did you trim?”
“..What?” Frank repeats. Idiocy keeps his eyes glued to yours, squinted, his voice just above a whisper, and his brow faintly drawn. He can smell your perfume, under the liquor. From here, a little mark that might’ve once been a scabbed scar from youth is visible on your chin.
“You trimmed your beard.” You say it so casually. He trimmed his beard. It’s purely observation. If anything, it’s funny to you. This isn’t difficult for you. The firm gentleness of your fingers is nauseating. Frank closes his eyes.
“Yeah.” A lame response. He barely took half an inch off, just enough to distance himself from a fictional hobo.
Where’s his resolve? He rips his eyes open, and through pure discipline, moves away. Your expression is unchanged as you drop your hand. He can’t explain the craving for distance and closeness, culminating in the same breath, in the same man, and he almost wishes he didn’t let you in, didn’t let you crash onto his couch, didn’t let you remind him.
It was hardly your fault, he reminds himself. You were drunk; he was taking you too serious. You break the silence, as if you are oblivious to the weight pressing on all sides into Frank. “Has anyone told you that you could be a good Hagrid?”
He doesn’t have to think about the chuckle that comes out from his chest. It’s something like relief from the unintentional torture you don’t realize you’re inflicting. “Christ, no. I, uh, haven’t gotten that one yet.” It feels good to smile with teeth bared, as he is now. Unplaceably good. “That’s, what, Lord of the Rings?”
“What? What’s wrong with you?” You laugh, again, features breaking into mirth. It’s easy for you, he knows. “It’s Harry Potter.”
Frank bows his head, grinning still like a boy. “Uh. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know.” His eyes flick up to you, through his lashes. “Y’know, my boy loved those movies.”
“Yeah?” You rub a knuckle into your eye, further smudging your makeup.
Frank screws his face up, lifting his shoulders and nodding in emphasis. “Oh yeah. Got him the box set one year for his birthday. Back when we had the DVD player.” He’s not sure when the words to describe his son came so easily to him. Maybe he just needs him to be known to you. Maybe he just needs to say the memory aloud, for his own sanity.
You don’t seem perturbed by it. He tries not to examine the smile playing on your features too closely. You mumble under your breath, brows raising, “Harry Potter.” Conclusive.
A quiet passes. He, with a grunt, rises to his feet. As if pulled by string you lift your head up, beginning to push yourself onto your shoulders. “Are you—“ you begin, but he waves his hand. The worry on your face is not too sweet for him to immediately want to shoo away.
“Not leavin’.” A soft sound of recognition leaves your lips. Frank can feel your eyes burn into him as he moves to the kitchenette. It wasn’t like he kept makeup remover around. Maybe he should start— just in case. He finds a chance to rebuild some resolve, in the simple routine; in wetting a clean wash rag from the kitchen cabinet, wringing out the warm water over the sink.
“I haven’t seen you in forever. Soo long.” He can hear rustling over his shoulder. A quick glance finds you kicking a old throw pillow at your feet onto the floor; stretching your legs out fully. Getting comfortable, he guesses. “Where’ve you been, Frank?”
He chuckles, a brief, easy sound. “Here.” He turns, bearing the wet rag in one hand. His shoulders raise to his ears, curling his lip with humor. “It’s been, what, a week?”
“A week?” You repeat. He watches you comb your tresses with painted fingernails, a faint grimace playing at your lips. An affirmative grunt from him, followed by his weight dipping the couch cushion beside your leg. You sit up, hands in your lap. “So, so weird.”
Frank doesn’t say anything, only since he doesn’t think he should. Doesn’t trust himself to say anything right. He offers the rag to you, with lips pressed and eyes squinting.
“What’s that for?” You sit up.
He waves the rag in a small circle, the movement more of a result from the shrug of his shoulder than anything. He grumbles, near awkward, “.. Y’know. Your makeup.”
Understanding washes over your face in nearly the same moment as giggles open it up. Frank doesn’t mean to stare. Truly, doesn’t. But does it count, when your own eyes screw shut with laughter for the sake of nothing but laughter? Can’t he steep his mind in the warm water of your presence a little, as long as you never notice, and never cast him away?
“Okay. Okay, alright.” Frank mutters, half to himself. He lets exasperation color his tone, but in truth he doesn’t mind. Doesn’t mind leaning forward, raising the rag to your face all too gently. Your cheek pulls up in a smile under his hand, sputters of giggles leaving you. “That hurt at all?”
You hum, “No.” Carefully, he brings the cloth up to the skin under your eye, lifting some smudged shadow. “Thank you. So much.”
Frank huffs through the nostrils, dabbing too gently at your eyelid to be at all efficient in removing the makeup. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s really not nothing.”
Onto the other eye, with the same care. Some part of him is anxious to break you. He tries, really does try, to find some good way to wave you off. “come on. Don’t be like that.” You peek open the clean eye at him. He huffs again, and can’t resist the upward tick of his lips. “You know I’m here.”
Here. Where was here, exactly?
He doesn’t finish the thought. Does what is right by you, and nothing more.
Frank’s focus is concentrated on the rag and the thin skin of your eyelid, and it isn’t until he’s satisfied with the lack of shadow that he moves away, tosses the rag over the back of the couch. Isn’t until then, either, that he realizes how much silence has passed, and that your expression has turned some kind of melancholy.
“I’m sorry we haven’t talked.”
So am I.
Frank stays silent. You go on.
“And i’m more sorry about the other night. Really.”
Frank doesn’t mean to fail at holding your eye. He means, really, to take this conversation like a man. But his churning stomach betrays him, and his eye dart between the notepad on coffee table, the barren wall, you. You, frowning with guilt. Why should you be guilty? He moves to amend it, almost on instinct.
“Don’t say sorry.” He mutters, quieter than he means to. He pats a rough palm against your bare shin, the curve of your warm calf on his fingers. Despite his better judgement.
The rise of your protest is nearly tangible, alcohol having washed away any trace of a poker face. “Seriously, sweetheart.” There it is again. He squints briefly as if flinching from the craving thing inside of him.
“But I was wrong. So, so wrong.” Frank shakes his head at you. He leans over, grabbing the near empty water bottle, handing it to you with what he hopes is a firm, expectant expression.
“You gotta sober up.” He grunts. It’s an easy way out from under the wing of your pity. He can’t stand it— can’t stand the look on your face, like you owe him a fucking thing. Especially not some lame words for his sake. You take the water, delicately.
“I wish I didn’t.”
“.. Didn’t, what?”
“Didn’t leave, that night.”
He reminds himself to close his parted lips, to squeeze the hell out of his jaw, teeth-crushingly tight, in order to keep from saying anything from the chest. You frown at him, quiet, stone still until your head lolls to the side drowsily, ear finding the top of the couch back.
Frank turns his cheek with a weighty sigh through the nose. Hands splayed atop his thighs, and in a nervous tick, he curls his lip, looking to the far wall like it might give him a line. What else can he do? Warily, he glances at you in his peripheral. Sipping the water bottle until it's only hollow plastic. Like you’ve already forgotten this conversation, who last spoke, and said what.
There’s nothing to do. That’s the only right answer. Leave you be. Don’t search for meaning in words from a drunk woman. Even if that woman is you, and he wants to, worse than he’s wanted to find meaning in anything for fucking years.
“..S’my fault. I shouldn’t have assumed, y’know?” No response. He makes a lame, hesitating noise like his throat is a step ahead of his head, creating sound before his lips form words.
“Maybe you were right. I could’ve, uh, drunk too much.” A lie. He winces as the words pass his lips. “I don’t remember. I don’t know what man roundin’ on fifty gets, fuckin’— wine drunk.” Frank chuckles at himself, then, though it’s more of a grunt laced with weak humor.
Silence.
“..I just don’t you t’.. I don’t know. Think I’m some asshole.” He swipes his thumb against the crooked bridge of his nose, and can’t help the flit of his eyes from wall to wall. Another kind of humorless huff through the nostrils. “Maybe that ship has sailed. I just.. it’s good to have company. Y’know? I don’t want t’be the one that ruins that.”
He lets the quiet breathe a few seconds, until he gives himself the humility to look over his shoulder, see if he’s said something wrong. Instead, Frank hums a short, low note, in something close to amusement.
You’re all but knocked out cold. Maybe that’s for the better. He has a feeling your neck will hurt like hell tomorrow, craned like that. In his mind it’s hardly a decision; he’ll take the couch.
If you’re at all roused by Frank’s arms shifting under your knees and against your back to lift you, then you give him the kindness of not letting him know it.
He’s not a good man, he knows that; but if he’s anything, he’s dutiful. He doesn’t allow himself to appreciate your weight in his arms, as he moves to put his bedroom door open with his broad back; slow enough to not rock you. Neither does he give himself any credit, nor kindness to himself for pulling the comforter over you, closing the blinds so that you can sleep into the daylight.
Frank does, however, allowed himself to linger in the doorway. Callouses on the cool door handle, chest full and heavy with something familiar and suffocating. He does not try to name it. Does not try to recall the lifetime ago when this feeling was constant, surrounding him, woven into the fibers of his muscle and tendon.
He wants to be grateful to have been given another chance to feel it. But Frank is a man who puts a ravine between what is craving and what is deserved. And he does not deserve this.
He pulls the door closed against the jamb with a click.
Bakugo is halfway off of the couch, ass in the air as he tries to reach for his pants. He had dropped them in the middle of your living room, legs turned inside out and socks jammed inside. He manages to nab them by rolling over your leg, so you sigh again. "Ugh."
"Fuck off."
"Just get up!"
"I'm fucking tired. Someone needed to get dicked down three times-"
A hard shove nearly topples him off of the couch all together. "You liked it."
Katsuki's eyes flicker to your tits, then your eyes, then your tits again and it nearly, nearly, nearly makes you want to climb on him once again. Though, you're afraid if you move, you'll end up staining your couch-
"Don't you work in design? Why does your place look like dogshit?" Katsuki reads your mind. This the third time he's been to your place and it feels more embarrassing each time. His own place is nice, with a feminine touch that makes you feel sour.
"Tell your mom to pay me more."
"Oh, yeah," he rolls his eyes. "Hey, Mitsuki, I'm sick of looking at your interns ugly ass, lumpy couch, when I should be looking at her tits. Can you give her a raise? Also, she does this thing with her tongue that's worth a bonus-"
"Fuck off!"
The toothy smile he gives you is shortlived.
"Listen, we can't tell her. Or anybody. none of my friends can keep a secret." He leans back. "Things are... weird with my ex still."
You sit up, hand flying to cover yourself.
"Did you just cheat on her with me?"
"Fuck no, that's over. It's dead, but the old lady doesn't want it to be dead. She's still friends with her and everything. It's just... Some of my friends feel the same way, I think. It's just weird."
This feels a bit too personal for what you and Katsuki have. Neither of you have ever mentioned your personal lives before, other than your dire love for creampies.
"I'm sorry," you say, because you can think of nothing else. "Wanna see my pussy again? Would that make you feel better?"
I know you JUST posted more to that birthday drabble but I am aching for more omfgg
Your intentions were pure, honest.
...Well, maybe not entirely pure, but you certainly weren't planning on letting your boss' son fuck you.
"Fuck," Katsuki's voice is frayed and loose, tone wavering as he fucks up into you. You're in his lap back pressed against his chest and head thrown back over his shoulder. His forehead is buried into the back of your neck, breath hot against your sweat slicked skin. "You gotta get off, I'm--"
"It's okay," you whisper. His fingers dig into the fat of your breasts greedily. Every inch of your skin buzzes with want and need, that fire in your core boiling through your blood. Tension builds in every muscle and you know you just need a little more before you completely unravel.
The suspension on the car groans as you two move more forcefully, slamming back against his back seat. Steam coats every window, but anyone passing would know what's happening behind the screen.
"I don't have a fucking condom on-" he grits, almost angry.
"Fucking-" you huff, hands flying to the celing to steady yourself. "Cum inside me, idiot. Cum inside me right now-"
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The fabric swatches in your hand -an array of sunset colors- goes ignored. Instead, your boss' attention is locked entirely on you. Her eyes are narrowed, but her lips are pressing thin with a smile.
"Mitsuri," you sigh, still good humored. "Are you trying to set me up with your son?"
"Oh god, no. You're too good for him." Her heel taps against the linoleum as she leans back into her chair. There's a litany of overdue projects strewn about her desk, with an organizational system only the two of you could ever understand, but her work had been at an standstill all day. "But he's got friends and some of them are-"
She pauses, nose wrinkling even harder. "I can't say hot because they are my son's age, but-"
"I get it." You try to push the samples into her hand again, but Mitsuri shakes her head. Her son Katsuki is a frequent topic of conversation and she says equally positive and negative things about the man: he bought a car (she's so proud, but what a waste of money), he's successful in his career (but he could be more successful if he could fix his atttitude) and he's even bought his own apartment (but ever since his divorce, he's been alone in that damn apartment-)
"They're sweet guys," she continues. "One of 'ems this darling lil' teacher, tiny little dimples you just wanna bite-"
"Oh my god-" You throw your fabric over your face. Your single-ness has apparently become infamous. While you and Mitsuri are closer than boss and intern should be, this conversation is making your cheeks go hot.
"Or there's this red head who has biceps that are as big-"
"Mitsuri!"
"Or this beautiful boy with -"
"You're just peddling me to your son's friends!
"I'm peddling them to you! They are nice boys and you need a nice boy!" The last guy you were with was nothing of the sort. "Besides, if they ever do misbehave, I'll tell their mothers!"
With another awkward laugh you give up, just throwing you hand into the air in defeat. Truthfully, it has been... kind of hopeless lately. Dating apps certainly aren't giving you the next great romance you need in your life-
"I'll think about it."
"Think quick, because I'm having a party tonight and you're coming."
You figure out very, very quickly that Mitsuri is wrong. These boys are way too good for you.
Izuku -freckle boy- locks you into a conversation relatively quickly and you realize he's truly the button Mitsuri promised. Every topic he blabs about is dripping with passion and knowledge. On his side is a princely looking guy, who seems very content to simply listen and nod along.
The red head talks to you for a while and seems very, very normal. When your glass is empty, he brings you a refill without being asked. The party is a gaggle of people, just enough that when another person comes in, you can dip away to grab your shoes-
"Sneaking out?"
A voice catches you as you're closing the front door behind you. Mitsuri's house is in a quiet neighborhood, the soft glow of streetlights already kicking on as the sun settles into the horizon. April still has a chill on the breeze, so you pull your jacket close; Bakugo Katsuki wears only a tee shirt.
"Don't tell your mom."
Katsuki barks out a laugh, one a bit too loud. He's pressed against the brick wall that serves as a fence, one leg propped back for balance.
"Fuck, I wish I was leaving," he says, kicking gravel with the toe of his boot. A thin vape is tucked into his palm and you nearly cringe at the sight, but you decide to let him keep that a secret for now. "But it's supposed to be my party, so-"
"That's right. Happy birthday." It doesn't actually seem to be a party focused around him, despite his friends being most of the guests, but you wonder if he prefers it that way. His mother can be... intense. Having her full focus is a heavy weight to bear.
"Thanks."
There's a couple flecks of grey at his temple, accenting the blonde. It's charming, you decide. Ages him in a very attractive way. When his eyes dart to yours, you realize you're been staring at him for a long while.
"So," you clear your throat. "Your mom has no idea Midoriya is gay, huh?"
"Oh, fuck, no idea." He gives you a cock-eyed grin. "Not that she would have a problem with it, the gay thing, they just-- once it's out, it's out."
"She thought he was my 'perfect match,'" you laugh.
"Yeah, if you had a cock and your name was Shouto, you'd be his match." His smile slides a bit. "Listen, sorry the old lady made you come."
"It's okay. She just wants me to get laid."
You're joking, but he doesn't laugh. "Yeah, she bitches about that a lot."
You scoff. "No, she does not."
"Yeah, she does." Katsuki's eyes flicker to your lips. A glimmer of something bubbles in your chest, something that no one else at this party sparked. "'That girl's so smart, but she only sleeps with losers-'"
"No!" Your giggle is so high and girlish that you have to cover your face after it escapes you. "She did not say that."
"I bet she says worse about me."
Oh, yes, she does.
"She loves you a lot," you say instead. "She wants you to get a girlfriend."
"She wants me to fuck my ex."
The word 'fuck' leaves his lips and something thickens in your chest. His eyes flick back to your lips, then to the ground.
"I should get back in there before they notice I'm gone-"
"Or we can leave before they notice."
Katsuki blinks, eyebrows cocked, and you think you've miscalculated.
"You serious?"
"I mean, I-- yeah? If you want-"
"Yeah, duh, yeah." Bewilderment is the only expression he can make. "I'm not looking a gift horse in the mouth, fuck."
Thinking of your roommate buying cameras so he can check on his cat while he's at work. He tells you about them, but maybe he should've been more clear about it since he checks the cameras at work one day and sees you masturbating on the living room couch
He doesn't mention it; he doesn't want to embarrass you at all. He just nonchalantly mentions the cameras again the next time you see each other, talking about how he's been missing his cat so much lately and has been checking the cameras more often.
But it keeps happening, more frequently. He wonders if you're just naive and don't know the camera is right there, even though it's clear as day, but a part of him wonders if you're doing it to tempt him. He'll admit, he's attracted to you, but you're a great roommate and he doesn't want to ruin what yall have.
So he keeps his mouth shut. He still checks his cameras, going to the restroom when he sees you masturbating and jerking off in the stall. He even brings his headphones so he can hear the little moans and whimpers you let out as you furiously thrust your dildo inside you.
One day, he almost drops his phone in the toilet because he hears you whine his name, begging for more.
Thinking of your roommate buying cameras so he can check on his cat while he's at work. He tells you about them, but maybe he should've been more clear about it since he checks the cameras at work one day and sees you masturbating on the living room couch
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I think he likes to come up to you and cup your face like he’s gonna kiss you, only for him to lean in and either bite your lips or lick the side of your mouth and then walk away like nothing happened. Refuses to admit anything if you yell at him about it and only says “if you wanted to kiss me that badly, you could’ve just asked” SIGH
on the other hand, speaking of Tobio
I think he comes up to you with the most intense look on his face, taking his time to brush your hair away and get one of his hands on the back of your neck, and you think you’re about to have the most intense make-out of your entire life only for him to give you the sweetest, softest kiss ever
meeting someone on fetlife/a kink club and developing this intense master/sub bdsm relationship--
only for you two to suddenly have to start interacting in the "real world" and trying to awkwardly avoid telling people you know each other because he spanked you until you couldn't sit down last night-
Virgin bkg who’s so painfully stupid but acts so arrogant. And when it’s getting heated and you’re making out and want to see his dick… he gets all shy and embarrassed because he doesn’t know if it looks normal or as good as the other ones you’ve seen. When you ask what’s wrong he tells you it’s curved and you think it’s like BENT then he lets you see and it’s the prettiest most orgasm inducing upward curve you’ve ever seen on a dick.
bakugou katsuki knows why he is a virgin. it’s pretty simple really despite the fact he is surrounded by beautiful women often. socialites, the new buzzing influencers, actors and pro heroes like.
it’s because he’s obsessed with his job. always has been. since he was a child who was dreaming of becoming a hero, to his teenage years fighting wars to now in his twenties, working towards becoming number one.
women and mostly importantly, getting his dick wet, has never been number one on his list of priorities. sure when he’d go to film premiers for that hero franchise he loves, occasionally a gorgeous woman would talk to him.
but the thing about growing up uninterested in sex and the only women around him being his friends that share the same heroic goals… well bakugou has never been very good at flirting. which again, was mostly okay since he would just walk away when a woman was about to talk to him.
until he met you that is. the first woman to make him dream of more, that made him unable to get through a shower without tugging one out to the thought of you. that during patrols, he’d think about texting you. what are you up to? where are you? when the hell can he kiss you next?
anyone is experienced compared to bakugou. he’s kissed a girl once in his third year of ua. he’s made out with two in his early twenties.
but now at twenty six this is first time having a woman in his apartment, on his bed, on his lap. he feels like a rabid animal. unsure where to put his hands with the desperate need to touch everywhere so he leaves them on the globes of your ass, squeezing every few seconds when all the feelings inside of him gets intense.
he knows he’s flushed red. he knows his dick is hard and you can feel it through your leggings. but you’re so perfect, leading the moment, letting him react however the hell he wants.
bakugou releases a loud moan when you stick your tongue down his throat, breasts pressed against his chest like you want to live in his skin. he’s never felt a woman like this before, he feels as if the word virgin is in capital letters printed onto his forehead.
he hasn’t told you directly he is but he thinks you know.
“you’re so… fuck. this is so fucked up,” he breathes into your mouth and your fingers rake up into the hair on his nape.
your grin makes his heart skip a beat, falter slightly and he swears he gets winded.
you’re out of breath, chest heaving and your pussy is a centimetre away from sitting on his cock.
“why’s it fucked up? you okay?” you brush your nose against his softly, smoothing out his eyebrow with your thumb. “you look hot, do you want to take your top off?”
you’re being so sweet to him and he appreciates it, he does. but as soon as he knows what he’s doing he’s gonna treat you right. properly.
for now, he’s just worried he doesn’t have what it takes.
“oh, err, fuck. sorry, yeah i will,” he mumbles to you, yanking off his white tee from the neckline.
bakugou enjoys how your eyes glow, scanning his half naked body like it’s something you can eat. your hands immediately flatten against his chest. down his toned abdomen. up to his fat squishy pectorals. he’s never had someone touch him like this. he couldn’t be harder.
“you don’t have to apologise, you know. this is new for us both.”
“you’re not the fuckin’ virgin here.” he bites, “i’ve never even had a woman in my room.”
he can tell you like that idea. you inch closer to him on his lap, your hands are back on his shoulders. you brush your lips over his.
“i don’t know how. look at you.”
and you’re back to making out with him. slower this time. tasting all the flavour from his tongue.
you softly bite down on his bottom lip and like a ring of the doorbell, bakugou opens up to let you in. it’s wet peck after wet peck, tilting your head to taste more of him. he’s eager, too eager ducking closer to you, as to not waste any time with your lips off his. you can only think that if he kisses with this much passion, you’re dying to know how he’d fuck.
bakugou tightly grips your ass and without meaning to, he shoves you directly onto his cock.
you mewl like a cat, hips grinding down onto him like you can’t help it. “you feel so good, ‘tsuki.”
you feel good because of him. him.
your tongue sneaks into his mouth, twirls and brushes against his. he learns quickly, you’ll give him that. his tongue dances against yours, licking up everything you offer. you feel his body vibrate, his dick twitch. you begin sucking on his tongue and that’s when he releases a harsh grunt. you’re soaked.
“let me see it.” you palm his cock through his shorts, “let me see.”
bakugou opens his eyes, pulls away from your mouth for a moment.
“i… fuck.” he’s back to mumbling. then stupidly, he looks down at the lump in his fabric.
“you… you don’t have to?” you offer, unsure about his wide eyes, “we can keep kissing?”
“it’s just that… it’s just….,” bakugou looks up to the ceiling.
he’d love for you to touch him, do anything to him but nobodies seen his dick before. sure he’s seen some porn videos but he’s never seen a dick like his in them. he’s googled and nothing said there’s anything particularly wrong about his.
but what if you find it weird, what if it puts you off him completely?
“talk to me, baby,” you push, laying a kiss on his jaw. then making a line down his neck. “wanna make you feel good.”
he’d like that.
“listen. seriously.”
you pull off him at that, sitting up on his lap, your hands at his waist. he is stupidly gorgeous. puffy pink lips because of you. his long straight eyelashes. his beautiful cheekbones and that eyebrow slit.
“i’m listening. tell me anything.” you soften your tone, trying to get the horny out your eyes. your tits are basically spilling out your vest top and you don’t miss bakugou’s pupils darting to and from them every few seconds.
“i think…. i…”
you don’t speak.
katsuki takes a deep breath. he almost shouts without meaning to. “nobody has seen my dick before but me. right?”
you nod with a frown, unsure where this is going. “okay. nothing’s wrong with that.”
bakugou winces. he isn’t built for this. he’s always been attractive physically. his body works better than the average. can run at speed, stealthy, built for hero work. his quirk is best of the best and is only getting stronger by the day. but using his body for sex? that’s something he has no clue about.
“it might not be normal lookin’? like it works fine, i’ve never had any problems with it? but it might be odd for you.”
you’re immediately imagining the worst. it’s not small. you felt it a second ago between your legs. heck, you’ve seen it when he walks around in those stupid grey joggers. oddly coloured, oddly shaped? is it too big?
“what’s wrong?” you tilt your head.
his whole face is flushed. a beautiful pink to the apples of his cheeks. you would kiss them if he wasn’t so serious right now.
he closes his eyes, leans his head back on his headboard. his hands stay on your thighs. you tap his chest.
“c’mon tell me.”
he exhales sharply.
“my dick is fuckin’ curved. to the left. i don’t know why.” he blurts, embarrassment written all over him, “it’s always been like that.”
for him to be this stressed about it, it must be abnormal. is it like a hook? you’ve seen one like that on one of those medical reality shows. would it be able to go inside if you? you so badly want him inside of you.
you shrug. you can’t imagine anything about this man being less than perfect. “it can’t be that bad, baby.”
you rub his chest soothingly but his face doesn’t soothe you one bit.
“i’m fuckin’ sorry. i brought you here and we’re goin’ so well and—,”
“let me see. let me see your dick, c’mon,” you smile softly.
you sink your hand to touch his crotch again.
“you sure? i don’t want you to be put off me like i’m a freak—,”
“katsuki. come on.”
it’s in slow motion. your mouth immediately start salivating, his hands grip the elastic waistband of his shorts. he pulls it down in one go with his underwear.
“oh katsuki. baby…. honey.”
this man has nothing to worry about. bakugou katsuki has on him a cock that can rival your favourite dildos. it curves to the left, a smooth pleasing curve that you already know will hit your softest spots. you swallow your spit, your hands inching up his thighs. it’s darker at the base, twitching under your attention with two round balls (one a little larger than the other) at the bottom.
he is hefty. heavy. thick like a tree trunk with veins darting up the sides. you imagine the weight of it in your mouth. the deep pinkish purplish head on your tongue. most of all, you imagine it curved inside, pushing a sweet orgasm out of you.
of course, this big idiot didn’t know what he had on him. part of you wants to lie, never let him know how good he has it so he doesn’t go around sharing his goods. but you need to, it’s written all over your face.
“you must be joking, katsuki,” you hum, delighted. you run your finger down his shaft.
his hips jolt, eyes lazing slightly from your attention. he’s so hard it’s getting painful.
“what? what? spit it out.”
“you need to fuck me. doesn’t have to be now but someday. you have to.” you whine, “you don’t get it at all.”
“what? it’s not a problem? this okay with you?” he stutters, unable to keep a steady head as you sink down the bed to rest your chest on his legs. now you’ve got your face right in front of his dick, as if you’re measuring the curve by degrees.
you want to lick him.
“you’ve got a pornstar dick. a dick they base dildos off,” you breathe. the look in your eye is wild, untamed. “you’d feel amazing. even if you don’t know how to use it. you need let me bounce on it.”
bakugou blinks down at you. he doesn’t quite believe what he’s hearing, fuck, he doesn’t know what to do about you. not one bit did he think you’d even have this reaction.
“w-what… i know how to use my own dick.” is all he can manage but you shake your head.
you flick your eyes up to him, “we’re gonna learn together, okay? can i… can i…” you flatten your tongue against his shaft and give him one lick up.
bakugou’s sure he’s about to come any second now.
“y-yes but be fuckin’ careful. i don’t wanna nut on your face.”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Virgin bkg who’s so painfully stupid but acts so arrogant. And when it’s getting heated and you’re making out and want to see his dick… he gets all shy and embarrassed because he doesn’t know if it looks normal or as good as the other ones you’ve seen. When you ask what’s wrong he tells you it’s curved and you think it’s like BENT then he lets you see and it’s the prettiest most orgasm inducing upward curve you’ve ever seen on a dick.
bakugou katsuki knows why he is a virgin. it’s pretty simple really despite the fact he is surrounded by beautiful women often. socialites, the new buzzing influencers, actors and pro heroes like.
it’s because he’s obsessed with his job. always has been. since he was a child who was dreaming of becoming a hero, to his teenage years fighting wars to now in his twenties, working towards becoming number one.
women and mostly importantly, getting his dick wet, has never been number one on his list of priorities. sure when he’d go to film premiers for that hero franchise he loves, occasionally a gorgeous woman would talk to him.
but the thing about growing up uninterested in sex and the only women around him being his friends that share the same heroic goals… well bakugou has never been very good at flirting. which again, was mostly okay since he would just walk away when a woman was about to talk to him.
until he met you that is. the first woman to make him dream of more, that made him unable to get through a shower without tugging one out to the thought of you. that during patrols, he’d think about texting you. what are you up to? where are you? when the hell can he kiss you next?
anyone is experienced compared to bakugou. he’s kissed a girl once in his third year of ua. he’s made out with two in his early twenties.
but now at twenty six this is first time having a woman in his apartment, on his bed, on his lap. he feels like a rabid animal. unsure where to put his hands with the desperate need to touch everywhere so he leaves them on the globes of your ass, squeezing every few seconds when all the feelings inside of him gets intense.
he knows he’s flushed red. he knows his dick is hard and you can feel it through your leggings. but you’re so perfect, leading the moment, letting him react however the hell he wants.
bakugou releases a loud moan when you stick your tongue down his throat, breasts pressed against his chest like you want to live in his skin. he’s never felt a woman like this before, he feels as if the word virgin is in capital letters printed onto his forehead.
he hasn’t told you directly he is but he thinks you know.
“you’re so… fuck. this is so fucked up,” he breathes into your mouth and your fingers rake up into the hair on his nape.
your grin makes his heart skip a beat, falter slightly and he swears he gets winded.
you’re out of breath, chest heaving and your pussy is a centimetre away from sitting on his cock.
“why’s it fucked up? you okay?” you brush your nose against his softly, smoothing out his eyebrow with your thumb. “you look hot, do you want to take your top off?”
you’re being so sweet to him and he appreciates it, he does. but as soon as he knows what he’s doing he’s gonna treat you right. properly.
for now, he’s just worried he doesn’t have what it takes.
“oh, err, fuck. sorry, yeah i will,” he mumbles to you, yanking off his white tee from the neckline.
bakugou enjoys how your eyes glow, scanning his half naked body like it’s something you can eat. your hands immediately flatten against his chest. down his toned abdomen. up to his fat squishy pectorals. he’s never had someone touch him like this. he couldn’t be harder.
“you don’t have to apologise, you know. this is new for us both.”
“you’re not the fuckin’ virgin here.” he bites, “i’ve never even had a woman in my room.”
he can tell you like that idea. you inch closer to him on his lap, your hands are back on his shoulders. you brush your lips over his.
“i don’t know how. look at you.”
and you’re back to making out with him. slower this time. tasting all the flavour from his tongue.
you softly bite down on his bottom lip and like a ring of the doorbell, bakugou opens up to let you in. it’s wet peck after wet peck, tilting your head to taste more of him. he’s eager, too eager ducking closer to you, as to not waste any time with your lips off his. you can only think that if he kisses with this much passion, you’re dying to know how he’d fuck.
bakugou tightly grips your ass and without meaning to, he shoves you directly onto his cock.
you mewl like a cat, hips grinding down onto him like you can’t help it. “you feel so good, ‘tsuki.”
you feel good because of him. him.
your tongue sneaks into his mouth, twirls and brushes against his. he learns quickly, you’ll give him that. his tongue dances against yours, licking up everything you offer. you feel his body vibrate, his dick twitch. you begin sucking on his tongue and that’s when he releases a harsh grunt. you’re soaked.
“let me see it.” you palm his cock through his shorts, “let me see.”
bakugou opens his eyes, pulls away from your mouth for a moment.
“i… fuck.” he’s back to mumbling. then stupidly, he looks down at the lump in his fabric.
“you… you don’t have to?” you offer, unsure about his wide eyes, “we can keep kissing?”
“it’s just that… it’s just….,” bakugou looks up to the ceiling.
he’d love for you to touch him, do anything to him but nobodies seen his dick before. sure he’s seen some porn videos but he’s never seen a dick like his in them. he’s googled and nothing said there’s anything particularly wrong about his.
but what if you find it weird, what if it puts you off him completely?
“talk to me, baby,” you push, laying a kiss on his jaw. then making a line down his neck. “wanna make you feel good.”
he’d like that.
“listen. seriously.”
you pull off him at that, sitting up on his lap, your hands at his waist. he is stupidly gorgeous. puffy pink lips because of you. his long straight eyelashes. his beautiful cheekbones and that eyebrow slit.
“i’m listening. tell me anything.” you soften your tone, trying to get the horny out your eyes. your tits are basically spilling out your vest top and you don’t miss bakugou’s pupils darting to and from them every few seconds.
“i think…. i…”
you don’t speak.
katsuki takes a deep breath. he almost shouts without meaning to. “nobody has seen my dick before but me. right?”
you nod with a frown, unsure where this is going. “okay. nothing’s wrong with that.”
bakugou winces. he isn’t built for this. he’s always been attractive physically. his body works better than the average. can run at speed, stealthy, built for hero work. his quirk is best of the best and is only getting stronger by the day. but using his body for sex? that’s something he has no clue about.
“it might not be normal lookin’? like it works fine, i’ve never had any problems with it? but it might be odd for you.”
you’re immediately imagining the worst. it’s not small. you felt it a second ago between your legs. heck, you’ve seen it when he walks around in those stupid grey joggers. oddly coloured, oddly shaped? is it too big?
“what’s wrong?” you tilt your head.
his whole face is flushed. a beautiful pink to the apples of his cheeks. you would kiss them if he wasn’t so serious right now.
he closes his eyes, leans his head back on his headboard. his hands stay on your thighs. you tap his chest.
“c’mon tell me.”
he exhales sharply.
“my dick is fuckin’ curved. to the left. i don’t know why.” he blurts, embarrassment written all over him, “it’s always been like that.”
for him to be this stressed about it, it must be abnormal. is it like a hook? you’ve seen one like that on one of those medical reality shows. would it be able to go inside if you? you so badly want him inside of you.
you shrug. you can’t imagine anything about this man being less than perfect. “it can’t be that bad, baby.”
you rub his chest soothingly but his face doesn’t soothe you one bit.
“i’m fuckin’ sorry. i brought you here and we’re goin’ so well and—,”
“let me see. let me see your dick, c’mon,” you smile softly.
you sink your hand to touch his crotch again.
“you sure? i don’t want you to be put off me like i’m a freak—,”
“katsuki. come on.”
it’s in slow motion. your mouth immediately start salivating, his hands grip the elastic waistband of his shorts. he pulls it down in one go with his underwear.
“oh katsuki. baby…. honey.”
this man has nothing to worry about. bakugou katsuki has on him a cock that can rival your favourite dildos. it curves to the left, a smooth pleasing curve that you already know will hit your softest spots. you swallow your spit, your hands inching up his thighs. it’s darker at the base, twitching under your attention with two round balls (one a little larger than the other) at the bottom.
he is hefty. heavy. thick like a tree trunk with veins darting up the sides. you imagine the weight of it in your mouth. the deep pinkish purplish head on your tongue. most of all, you imagine it curved inside, pushing a sweet orgasm out of you.
of course, this big idiot didn’t know what he had on him. part of you wants to lie, never let him know how good he has it so he doesn’t go around sharing his goods. but you need to, it’s written all over your face.
“you must be joking, katsuki,” you hum, delighted. you run your finger down his shaft.
his hips jolt, eyes lazing slightly from your attention. he’s so hard it’s getting painful.
“what? what? spit it out.”
“you need to fuck me. doesn’t have to be now but someday. you have to.” you whine, “you don’t get it at all.”
“what? it’s not a problem? this okay with you?” he stutters, unable to keep a steady head as you sink down the bed to rest your chest on his legs. now you’ve got your face right in front of his dick, as if you’re measuring the curve by degrees.
you want to lick him.
“you’ve got a pornstar dick. a dick they base dildos off,” you breathe. the look in your eye is wild, untamed. “you’d feel amazing. even if you don’t know how to use it. you need let me bounce on it.”
bakugou blinks down at you. he doesn’t quite believe what he’s hearing, fuck, he doesn’t know what to do about you. not one bit did he think you’d even have this reaction.
“w-what… i know how to use my own dick.” is all he can manage but you shake your head.
you flick your eyes up to him, “we’re gonna learn together, okay? can i… can i…” you flatten your tongue against his shaft and give him one lick up.
bakugou’s sure he’s about to come any second now.
“y-yes but be fuckin’ careful. i don’t wanna nut on your face.”
He's a top ten streamer who plays video games for a living. He's buff and handsome, but he's humble and nice, making him a hit with men and women alike. He's a decent gamer too, his streams funny and entertaining. He could have anyone he wants, there are plenty of people who want to be with him.
But he's already got a crush, and it's on you, chubby fem streamer who is new to Twitch.
He found your profile randomly one day, clicking on your stream right when it started.
"Okie dokie," you say with a smile. "I've got my favorite chips—" You hold up a bag of chips and shake them. "—and a little drink—" You hold up a large cup. "—and I'm ready to play some Meccha Chameleon for the first time!"
You're cute, and sweet, and ridiculously funny with your commentary. You play the game for about an hour before calling it a night.
"Thank you for joining me! I hope you had fun watching. Have a good day!"
He subscribes to your channel on his nonpublic account and turns on notifications.
He watches every stream he can, which is fairly easy since you two have different streaming schedules. He soon becomes infatuated with you, the way you talk and your jokes and your cute face and mannerisms. He thinks you'd be the perfect girlfriend, starts imagining the two of you being a streaming couple, having your respective streams and then coming together at the end of the day, enjoying each others' company.
His thoughts don't stay pure. He imagines what you'd feel like, he's seen you in your casual clothes, has seen the curves you have. He wants to touch you, hold you against him and feel how your body molds to his. He wants to feel the weight of your breasts in his big hands and squeeze them until you beg for his touch elsewhere, and he'll give it to you, everything you want and more, his sweet special woman...
Then one day, while he's streaming, he gets a notification that you've started a stream, and he gives a vague excuse to end his stream just to go over to yours. He rushes to exit his stream and goes to yours, giddy and excited to see you outside your normal streaming time. His notifications keep blowing up, so he silences them, focusing on you instead.
When he checks his notifications later, he sees that they're all from twitter. His name is trending, people complaining and speculating why he would've ended his stream so early. Oh, if only they knew...
I know hes giving in one day and acts all coy with the full intention of raiding your stream after he ends his to boost your visibility, and just to hear you gasp in shock that HE raided your stream, laughing in delight and thanking HIM
Bro is playing the clip of you gasping his name on repeat FOREVER
A small part of him hates that your platform is growing larger because you get more attention and you no longer feel like his precious little hidden gem that belongs just to him, but a bigger part of him loves to see your big smiling face in higher definition as you start being able to afford better equipment and being able to tip you when you get partnered (anonymously, with little messages like "get yourself a sweet treat" or "for the new game coming out next week" so he can pretend in his head like he's your boyfriend paying for your stuff). It also means you get to quit your day job to stream full-time, meaning he gets to see your pretty face and fall asleep to your voice more often. He's down so bad it would make him look silly if anyone found out
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