If only if only the woodpecker sighs the bark on the tree was as soft as the sky why the wolf waits below hungry and lonely he cries to the moon if only if only
You had been married to Kisuke for two years now, and as blissful as it was, you could see that there was something that had begun to bother him. You could see it with the way his gaze would linger on families for a little too long every time the two of you ran errands together or went out on dates. The man never said anything, and you knew why, but it was so easy to tell what the little issue was. He longed for pups of his own. The topic of children wasn’t a touchy one to talk about, but you figured that he’d at least want to wait and enjoy married life before kids.
“Hon, are you feeling well?” You asked, only to frown when your alpha didn’t respond. Instead, his eyes remained fixated on a couple with a set of twins. The little ones were waiting for their father to hand them their ice cream, practically bouncing up and down in excitement before being given their frozen treat. You glanced back at your husband, still frowning. “Kisuke, do you want to have a baby?”
Your question certainly got his attention, because his eyes quickly tore away from the family and stared at you. “What? No,” he shook his head, “I was just—.”
“Don’t lie to me,” you said, interrupting him, “because I know that you do. Every time we go out, you’re always looking at children the same way a parent would. You want pups of your own.” When he didn’t respond, you knew you were right. “I think it would be nice to have a kid. We’re at a good place in life, financially, and I think we’re ready.”
Your words made him perk up, his eyes lighting up in response. “Really?” He grinned, and you knew his wolf was wagging its tail on the inside. However, he frowned and looked down. “You’re not in heat.”
“I will be in a few days,” you replied. You always kept up with your cycles for his sake. That and he had an annoying knack for forcing your heats sometimes. “We can try then.”
You had no way of knowing how excited he was about this. How much he longed to try for a pup with you—his sweet husband. Honestly, you thought he would have forgotten about this discussion when a week passed, but the second your heat hit, he was on you like a moth to a flame. His lips peppered the side of your neck as he trailed the kisses down to your collarbone, soon stopping to nip at the skin. It pulled a small whine from your throat, and he hummed in delight. “Do it again,” he said, nipping the same spot to garner that exact sound from you once more.
“Kisuke,” you whined, face flushed and your body feeling hot and needy for him. You disregarded the entire ‘making a baby’ discussion a week ago as your sole focus seemed to be him and his touch. Your body ached for him. It always did with each cycle. “I want you. I need you.”
He hummed in response and licked a thick stripe from your collarbone up to your ear, his teeth barely grazing the lobe. Your husband loved how needy you were every time your heats hit. It drove him wild, but not as much as the fact that this was the start of trying for a child. “I know, baby,” he whispered, his hot breath tickling your ear, “tell me again.”
His teeth sank into the flesh of your neck as he bit into you, drawing out a delicious moan from your lips. “Fuck,” you groaned, his bucking up against his in response, “Kisuke, please.”
The blond let out a groan of his own when he felt your hips against his. “You want me that badly, huh?” He asked, pulling his head away from your neck to look you in the eyes. You gave an eager nod, causing him to chuckle before he took your lips in a passionate kiss. His body pressed against yours even more, pinning you to the mattress as his tongue explored your mouth. He loved the way you tasted—the sweet scent of honey and citrus you always had. Kisuke could get lost in the taste and smell of you forever if you let him.
His hands slid down your body, his fingertips gliding along your soft skin with ease before his hands cupped underneath your thighs. You moaned against his lips when feeling his thumbs dig into the flesh of your thighs before gently and slowly easing your legs back, putting you into a mating press. It was the perfect position for this. Kisuke broke the kiss to nip at your neck, causing you to whine out from the sudden pinch of his teeth against your skin. “Fuckin’ perfect,” he breathed out, his tongue lapping at the spot he bit.
His body moved against yours a little more, causing your legs to be pushed back just a little further. Your husband wasted no time in lining his cock up with your hole, and he barely gave you enough time to get ready before he shoved himself inside. Your head leaned back against the pillow as your lower back felt the need to arch with the way he filled your tight hole. “Wait a minute—.”
Kisuke didn’t wait. His hips jerked forward, slamming into you as his dick stretched you out for him. No matter how many times he fucked you, you were always so tight for him. He fucking loved it. His face buried itself into your neck as he inhaled your scent. An animalistic groan let his lips as he pushed himself deeper, causing you to moan. “M’gonna fuck a pup into you,” he whispered. Your arms had wrapped themselves around his neck, holding onto him as he pounded into you. “M’gonna breed you, my pretty boy. You take me so well.”
Your body rocked in sync with his thrusts, his groaning soon all that you were able to hear as he then gyrated his hips, allowing his cock to inch deeper with each circular motion. It felt sublime. Your husband fucked you like an animal, and he wanted nothing more to bury himself as far inside of you as possible. His thrusts kept a continuous motion shortly after he stopped the gyration, and he continued groaning in your ear as his body pressed you even further against the mattress. His weight was crushing, but you didn’t care, because the absolute pleasure from him fucking you was far too great to be concerned over the little bit of pain.
Your nails dug into his back, clawing vibrant crescent-shaped marks into his skin as he rearranged your insides. “Kisuke,” you whined his name, “faster, fuck, harder.” Normally, you didn’t feel the need to cum this badly, but this time was different. This time he was fucking you with a purpose. Your words got through to him, and his pace quickened as his hips slammed harshly against yours.
“M’gonna cum,” he groaned, “gonna fill you up.” You felt the slight twitch from him inside of you, indicating his incoming release, and you couldn’t deny that it was starting to bring you over the edge as well. “I can’t wait to see you pregnant with my pup.”
The thought alone had your body clenching up, which caused your husband to groan in response. He felt it. The way your body tightened, putting pressure on his cock—it was fantastic. You couldn’t take it anymore and whined out. “Gonna cum,” you moaned.
That notion was enough to make him spill into you, coating your insides with his white, hot seed, but that wasn’t all. With a final groan, his hips pushed further into you, and he let himself knot inside as you milked his cock. His body trembled above yours as his fingers dug into your thighs even more. Kisuke wasn’t about to waste a single drop. He wanted you to be bred and full of him and to carry his pup, and he was going to get it.
His body soon stilled as you felt his dick stop pulsating inside of you, indicating he was finished, yet he remained inside of you. The blond breathed heavily as he shifted you both around to where he laid on the mattress back first and you rested on top of him. Not once did he ever slip out of you. Honestly, he wasn’t going to. His knot made sure of that. “I love you,” he whispered, his lips kissing your sweat-stained forehead. You whined softly at the contact and nuzzled your face against his chest. You were spent, and all you could do was lie there and cuddle with your husband until his cock slid out of you—which would be a few hours. “I can’t wait to see you pregnant.”
“Do you think it took on the first try?” You asked, your voice low and tired.
Your husband hummed thoughtfully before he chuckled. “Nope,” he replied, and you could already see the grin on his lips, “but we have all day to get you bred. You take me so well that I have no doubt you'll be knocked up quickly.”
All day. All night. It honestly didn’t matter how long it would take. Kisuke was more than happy to keep filling you up until you were nice and full of his seed.
⚣🟢⚪️ A/N → Welp, you guys wanted more Green Lantern content (and lowkey, I did to), so Merry Christmas! Honestly, I'm quite shocked at how much came out of this. But then again, Hal just has a way of getting to me...🫦welp...enjoy!
⚣🟢⚪️ Word Count → 12K
REBLOGS and replies are greatly appreciated, please! 💛
⚣ ENJOY 🟢⚪️
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
– Hal Jordan may swagger into the bedroom with the confidence of a man who’s saved the universe countless times, but his aftercare is where the duality of his character shines. Post-climax, he’s all about keeping the mood light, tossing out cocky remarks like, “Admit it, that was the best you’ve ever had, right? I mean, I did just blow your mind.” The grin on his face says he’s half-joking, but the glint in his eye says he’s fishing for confirmation. His ego loves knowing you’re thoroughly wrecked—and let’s face it, he probably did live up to the hype.
– But under the smug exterior lies a man who takes aftercare just as seriously as the main event. Hal knows how intense he can get during the act, with his relentless stamina and the sheer physicality he brings to every round. He doesn’t just leave you sprawled and dazed; he makes sure to check in, his large hands trailing softly over your skin as he murmurs, “Too sore? Need me to grab anything?” He’ll tease, of course—“Didn’t think you’d be able to keep up with me, but you did good.”—but it’s all part of his way of putting you at ease.
– Hal’s attentiveness extends to cleaning up the evidence of your activities, a task he approaches with the same confidence as everything else. Whether it’s a towel to wipe down your body or an exaggerated groan as he gets out of bed to find a spare blanket, Hal doesn’t let you lift a finger. He’ll even run a hand down your thigh as he tucks the covers around you, his lips quirking into a smirk as he whispers something entirely inappropriate, like, “Bet you’re still feeling me there, huh?” His playful arrogance is almost endearing—almost.
– The vulnerability he hides so well emerges in quieter moments. If you’re spent and too blissed out to move, Hal will gather you against his chest, still warm and slick from your shared efforts, and stroke your hair absentmindedly. He’s careful not to make a big deal of it—he doesn’t want you realizing how soft he can be—but his touch is deliberate, grounding you as you come back to earth from whatever peak he just sent you to. He might even whisper, voice husky, “You looked so good back there, you know. Couldn’t keep my eyes off you.”
– But if you call him out for being sweet or overly attentive, the cocky mask slips back on in record time. “What? I’m just making sure my partner’s in one piece,” he’ll quip, though the pink dusting his cheeks betrays him. Still, it’s clear he relishes these moments just as much as the action itself, even if he hides it behind his usual bravado.
– Hal’s aftercare is as intense and satisfying as the main event: a perfect blend of teasing, tenderness, and the kind of care that only comes from someone who pays attention to every detail—even if he’d never admit it outright.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
– When it comes to Hal Jordan, there’s no denying that his favorite body part is... well, all of him. And honestly, can you blame him? Hal’s Green Lantern suit—skin-tight and sculpted perfectly to his frame—shows off every inch of his physique in painstaking detail, from the broad expanse of his chest to the sharp definition of his thighs. The suit is formed by his willpower, after all, and Hal has no intention of leaving anything to the imagination. He’s fully aware of how good he looks in it and takes every opportunity to remind others, whether it’s through a smirk or a playful, “Can’t help it if the uniform does all the work.”
– If pressed to choose, though, Hal would probably say his favorite parts are the ones people notice first: his arms, chest, and back. His arms are undeniably impressive—thick and corded with muscle, the result of years spent as a test pilot and Green Lantern. He loves how they look when he’s lifting or holding you, the subtle flex of his biceps drawing attention without even trying. “Bet you can’t keep your eyes off these, huh?” he might tease, flexing just enough to make you roll your eyes (and blush).
– His chest—a feature that somehow manages to look both approachable and commanding. It’s broad enough to provide comfort when you lean into him, yet strong enough to carry the weight of his responsibilities. And let’s be real: Hal definitely notices when your eyes linger there, even if he pretends not to. He’s the type to smirk and say something ridiculous, like, “Careful, I’m starting to think you’re just here for the view.”
– His back, though, is what really sets him apart. It’s not about sheer size but the way every movement highlights the smooth, lean strength he carries. Whether he’s flying, creating a construct with his ring, or throwing a playful glance over his shoulder, his back tells its own story. It’s graceful and functional, a reflection of the precision and control that define both his role as a Green Lantern and his daredevil tendencies. He relishes the way your hands linger there too and is especially smug about the fact that his back is just as enticing when it’s bare, a fact you’ve undoubtedly confirmed more than once.
– And while Hal would never openly talk about it, his manhood absolutely makes the list. Of course, he’s proud of that too—he’s Hal Jordan, after all—but he’d rather let his partner be the one to sing its praises (and trust him, he loves hearing those praises). Still, when it comes to the parts of him that draw attention first, it’s the show-stopping combination of arms, chest, and back that take the spotlight. After all, what’s the point of saving the universe if you can’t look damn good doing it?
– Now, as far as you and Hal’s favorite part(s) on you, it’s all about your hands. As a man who thrives on touch and connection, he’s completely enamored by the way your hands look on him. There’s something intoxicating about how they feel clasped in his during a quiet, intimate moment, or the way they roam over his arms, chest, or back when things heat up. He lives for that tactile worship, his ego swelling every time your fingers linger on his muscles, tracing the contours of his body like you’re mapping out uncharted territory. – And when he’s carrying you—whether it’s out of danger or into the bedroom—he’ll revel in how your hands instinctively cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders or trailing down his back.
– But here’s the thing: Hal isn’t just a sucker for your hands—he’s an unapologetic ass man through and through. It’s practically written into his DNA. That skin-tight Green Lantern suit of his? It’s not just for show. Every inch of him is pressed flush against you when he’s feeling bold, and he loves nothing more than sidling up behind you, his front teasingly snug against your back. His gloved hands will inevitably slide down to cup you, pulling you closer as he murmurs something utterly shameless into your ear, like, “This is my favorite view. Don’t you think the suit was made for moments like this?”
– Hal doesn’t just stop at appreciating the visual—oh no, he’s tactile to the core. He’s constantly finding excuses to touch, grab, and admire every curve. Whether it’s a teasing slap as you walk by or his hands firmly gripping your hips while he’s pressing you into a wall, Hal’s all about staking his claim. And let’s not forget the sheer amusement he gets when he’s grinding against you, letting you feel exactly how worked up he’s gotten just from the sway of your hips or the way your body fits against his. He’ll chuckle low in your ear, his breath warm against your skin as he says, “You know, it’s really not fair how good you look in that. What are you trying to do to me?”
– But it’s not just a physical thing for Hal—it’s the reactions he draws out of you that really get him going. He loves watching your body respond to his touch, the way your muscles tense or relax under his hands. And when you let out a breathy moan or arch into him? That’s game over. He’ll double down, his lips trailing across your neck as his hands roam freely, all while whispering praises and downright filthy promises of what’s to come.
– For Hal, your body is a playground, and he’s intent on exploring every inch of it. But there’s something about the way you fit so perfectly in his arms—how your body molds to his—that makes him wonder if his ring knew exactly what it was doing when it chose him. And if that thought doesn’t make you blush, well, his hands slipping lower as he asks, “Mind if I take another look?” certainly will.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
– When it comes to Hal Jordan, let’s just say he’s a shooter—and an impressive one at that. Hal’s release is intense, a reflection of the passion and energy he pours into everything he does. You’ll know exactly when he reaches his peak because it’s overwhelming, almost explosive. The first few shots hit with purpose, leaving no doubt that Hal’s body is working overtime to ensure you’re thoroughly marked. He’s not just a Green Lantern; he’s practically a human firework in bed, and trust him, he’s proud of it.
– As for volume? Oh, Hal’s got you covered—literally. One load from him is enough to leave you a sticky, heaving mess, dripping with evidence of just how thoroughly he’s claimed you. It’s not a small amount either; Hal’s stamina translates directly into how much he can produce, and let’s just say his reserves are far from empty. You might even tease him about how much there is, only for him to smirk and fire back, “What can I say? I’m thorough.”
– The potency of his seed is no joke either. Hal’s the kind of guy who doesn’t half-ass anything, and that includes what his body produces. It’s thick, warm, and unmistakably him—a perfect mix of his raw masculinity and the relentless willpower that fuels him. He’ll revel in the sight of you completely covered, running his fingers through the mess he’s made and murmuring something utterly filthy, like, “You wear me so well, you know that? Might have to keep you like this for a while.”
– If you prefer things a little cleaner, though, Hal’s just as happy taking things inside. He loves the idea of filling you to the brim, of leaving you so full that you feel him even after the moment’s passed. And when you shift or move afterward, feeling the evidence of him still lingering inside you? That’s enough to send him into another round. He’ll press a hand to your stomach, grinning devilishly as he whispers, “Still feel me, don’t you? Don’t worry—I’ve got more where that came from.”
– With Hal, it’s never just about the act itself—it’s about the aftermath too. He loves seeing the aftermath of his passion, whether it’s the mess he’s left on your skin or the way your body trembles in the afterglow. And if he has his way, he’ll make sure you’re carrying the memory of him long after the moment’s over, in every possible sense of the word.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
– Hal Jordan’s dirty little secret? He gets off on the thrill of being caught. As fearless as he is in the field, there’s something about pushing the boundaries of propriety in his personal life that really gets his heart racing—and other parts of him too. The idea of sneaking away with you during a high-stakes mission or ducking into a secluded corner of the Watchtower for a quick, forbidden rendezvous? That’s his personal kryptonite.
– What makes it scandalous is just how close he’s come to being discovered. Hal has a habit of taking risks, from pulling you onto his lap in the pilot’s seat of his fighter jet to whispering filthy promises into your ear when you’re supposed to be focused on a meeting. And while he’d never let anyone else catch a glimpse of what’s his, there’s something about the risk of Superman walking in mid-act or Batman figuring out what’s really going on in the supply closet that sends a jolt of adrenaline straight to his core. He’d laugh it off if anyone accused him—“Me? Do something like that? Nah, you’ve got the wrong guy.”—but the flushed ears and cocky grin would give him away.
– The most shocking part of all? Hal keeps a personal collection of mementos from his riskier encounters: a photo snapped in secret during an especially steamy moment in the cockpit, or a pair of boxers he swiped from you after one of your more passionate nights. – – – Tucked away in his locker or hidden in his apartment, these little trophies remind him of just how good it feels to have something no one else knows about—something only he and his partner share. If the League ever found out, Hal would play it cool, but deep down, the thought of being confronted about it would absolutely mortify him... in the most thrilling way possible.
– For Hal, it’s not just about breaking the rules—it’s about bending them just enough to keep things interesting. And if that means taking a few risks to satisfy his insatiable desire for you? Well, that’s just part of the fun.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
– Hal Jordan might be a cocky flirt, but don’t let the snarky remarks from his teammates fool you—when it comes to experience, he’s far from lacking. Sure, he might have heard a jab or two about his supposed performance (thanks, Diana), but Hal’s not the type to let those comments get to him. In fact, he thrives on proving people wrong. Beneath his overconfident exterior is a man who knows exactly what he’s doing—and takes great pride in leaving his partner breathless, satisfied, and craving more.
– Hal’s history of flings and encounters isn’t just about notches on the bedpost; it’s been a training ground for him to perfect his craft. He knows how to read your body like it’s a flight manual, mapping out every sensitive spot and memorizing exactly how to bring you to your knees. His touch is electric, like the constructs he wields, and he’s not afraid to get creative—pinning your wrists above your head with one hand while his other works its magic, his mouth leaving a trail of heat down your neck. Hal is a man who studies his partner, and by the time he’s done with you, he’ll have your every moan, gasp, and shiver committed to memory.
– And let’s be real—Hal is absolutely the type to let his mouth run before the action even starts. He’ll tease you relentlessly, his voice dropping to a low, seductive drawl as he leans in close, murmuring things like, “You sure you’re ready for this? I don’t do anything halfway, sweetheart.” It’s not just a promise; it’s a warning. Because once Hal gets started, there’s no stopping him until you’re trembling, spent, and begging him for mercy.
– His rhythm is as smooth as his piloting skills—precise, confident, and utterly relentless. Hal knows how to pace himself, starting slow to build anticipation before ramping up into a rhythm that leaves you seeing stars. And when he hears you lose control? That’s the moment he turns it up even more, using his strength and stamina to push you further than you thought possible. Hal doesn’t just take you to the edge—he shoves you over it, holding you steady as your body writhes beneath him.
– But the real kicker? Hal gets off on the aftermath just as much as the main event. He loves seeing you absolutely wrecked, skin flushed, legs shaking, and lips swollen from his kisses. He’ll grin down at you, smug and satisfied, as he brushes his thumb across your jaw and murmurs, “Told you I was good. Don’t worry—I’ve got plenty more where that came from.” And he means it. Hal’s stamina isn’t just impressive—it’s almost unfair. One round is never enough for him; he’s determined to make sure you’re as thoroughly claimed as possible, inside and out.
– For Hal Jordan, sex is an art form, and he’s a master of his craft. He doesn’t just want to satisfy you—he wants to ruin you for anyone else. And judging by the way you’ll still feel him long after he’s done, there’s no doubt he succeeds every time.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
– For Hal Jordan, sex isn’t just about intimacy—it’s a performance, a chance to show off exactly what he can do, and trust him, he’s got the moves to back up his bravado. Hal thrives in positions where he’s in control, his strength and endurance on full display, and where he can quite literally see the effect he’s having on you. Here are his absolute favorites:
1) Standing Carry: Hal loves nothing more than showing off his strength by picking you up and taking you wherever he pleases. Wrapping your legs around his waist, he holds you effortlessly, one hand supporting your back while the other grips your ass firmly, pulling you flush against him. He loves how you gasp when he moves with purpose, his hips slamming into yours as he presses you against a wall—or, if you’re really lucky, carries you straight to the bed without ever breaking rhythm. His smug grin is practically glued to his face as he growls, “See? Told you I’d take care of you. You just sit back and let me handle everything.”
2) Plank Position: Hal has an almost stubborn need to prove his stamina, and this position is all about endurance. With you lying beneath him, your legs wrapped around his hips, Hal supports himself on his forearms or hands, driving into you with a controlled, steady rhythm. He loves the full view of your face, watching every reaction as he angles himself just right to pull moans and gasps from your lips. Bonus points? The way his body flexes above you, his arms and chest on full display as he leans down to murmur dirty praises in your ear, “You feel that? Only I can make you like this.”
3) Missionary (With Legs Over His Shoulders): Hal’s favorite twist on the classic. With your legs draped over his broad shoulders, he gets deeper than ever, watching with smug satisfaction as you arch and cry out beneath him. He thrives on the intimacy of it, how close he can get to your face to see the full effect of his thrusts. And if you grip his biceps or claw at his back? That’s just icing on the cake. He’s not shy about reminding you how good he’s making you feel, whispering things like, “No one else can fuck you like this, can they?” as he picks up the pace to leave you breathless.
4) Standing From Behind: Hal is all about leverage and control, and this position lets him put both on display. With you bent over in front of him—whether it’s against a table, a bed, or even the nearest wall—Hal takes full advantage of the angle to hit all the right spots. His hands grip your hips firmly, pulling you back against him with every thrust, while he murmurs filthy things like, “You feel that, don’t you? Tell me how good it feels, baby.” He’s absolutely the type to catch sight of himself in a mirror mid-act and smirk at the view—because let’s face it, the sight of him owning you so thoroughly is just too good to resist.
5) Seated Position: This is Hal’s go-to when he’s in the mood for something slower but no less intense. Sitting back in a chair—or more likely, the cockpit of a jet—he pulls you into his lap, letting you ride him while his hands roam freely across your body. He loves the control this position gives you while he leans back to enjoy the view, guiding your movements with firm hands on your waist or thighs. And if you falter, he’s quick to take over, thrusting up into you with a wicked grin as he mutters, “Come on, sweetheart. I know you’ve got more in you than that.”
– For Hal, it’s not just about the position itself—it’s about how much effort he can pour into it, how much he can make you feel. Whether it’s holding you up with ease, driving into you with relentless precision, or leaving you utterly wrecked in the aftermath, Hal’s favorite position is always the one that lets him prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that no one else can even come close.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
– Hal Jordan is the king of cracking a joke at the most inappropriate moments, and the bedroom is no exception. He thrives on keeping things lighthearted and fun, even in the filthiest of moments. Expect a cheeky comment like, “Careful, don’t get addicted,” when he’s going down on you, or a smirk and a playful, “That all you’ve got?” when you’re clawing at him for more.
– If something unexpected happens—like an awkward slip or an overly enthusiastic move—Hal doesn’t just roll with it; he makes it part of the fun. He’ll laugh, kiss you breathless, and say something ridiculous like, “Guess we’re trying out the blooper reel tonight.” But don’t let his humor fool you—Hal’s still relentless in his focus on making you come undone. He just thinks it’s more fun when you’re laughing and moaning at the same time.
– And if you ever try to match his banter mid-act? Oh, he’s all in. Hal loves a partner who can keep up with his sharp tongue, turning your playful remarks into fuel for his dirty, teasing retorts. But don’t be surprised when he shuts you up the fastest way he knows how—with his lips, his hands, or a deep, calculated thrust that leaves you too wrecked to respond. “That’s better,” he’ll say with a grin, “Guess I’m the funny one after all.”
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
– Hal Jordan is the type of guy who keeps things just well-groomed enough to look effortlessly sexy without seeming like he’s trying too hard. His hair on top? Always a little tousled, like he just stepped out of a fighter jet or rolled out of bed (and let’s be honest, half the time it’s probably both). Thick, dark brown, and naturally wavy, it’s the kind of hair you want to run your fingers through—whether you’re pulling him closer during a heated kiss or grabbing a fistful while he’s buried between your legs.
– Now, when it comes to body hair, Hal keeps it natural but tidy. His chest and stomach are dusted with just the right amount of dark hair, enough to highlight his rugged masculinity without going full-on lumberjack. He doesn’t wax or shave it entirely, but he trims enough to keep things neat—because he knows you love running your hands over the ridges of his abs and feeling the soft, fine hair beneath your fingertips. And trust him, he loves it too, especially when your nails scrape over his skin just enough to leave marks.
– As for below the belt? Oh, Hal’s definitely a “clean it up but keep it real” kind of guy. The carpet absolutely matches the drapes—a deep brown that’s just as rich and inviting as the rest of him. He trims it down regularly, ensuring there’s no jungle to navigate, because Hal’s all about making things as inviting as possible. He’s the type to smirk and say something cheeky like, “You like what you see? Took me a whole five minutes to get it just right.” But the truth is, he puts in just enough effort to make sure you’re as comfortable and distracted as possible when you’re exploring down there.
– And while he might not admit it out loud, Hal secretly loves it when you pay attention to his hair—whether it’s tugging on the strands during an intense moment, raking your fingers down his chest, or pressing your lips to the soft trail leading below his waist. It’s those little touches that make him feel completely irresistible—and trust him, with Hal Jordan, that’s exactly how he wants you to feel.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
– Hal Jordan may come across as cocky and overconfident most of the time, but when it comes to intimacy, there’s a side of him that’s deeper, softer, and entirely devoted to making you feel like the only person in the universe. Sure, he starts things off with his trademark smirks and filthy teasing—murmuring things like, “You ready for me to blow your mind?”—but the moment things get serious, Hal pours every ounce of his focus into you. For him, intimacy is about connection, and he’s determined to make sure you feel every bit of his passion.
– Hal’s not afraid of getting close—really close. He’s the type to hold your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones as he kisses you deeply, making you forget the world outside. His eyes stay locked on yours whenever possible, dark with lust and affection as he whispers against your lips, “You’re so perfect like this, you know that?” And while his words are hot enough to melt you, his actions speak even louder. Every touch, every movement is deliberate, designed to pull you deeper into his orbit and remind you that in this moment, it’s just the two of you.
– He’s surprisingly patient too, despite his usual impulsive nature. Hal takes his time exploring every inch of you, memorizing the way your body responds to his touch. He’ll kiss a slow, tantalizing path down your neck, across your chest, and lower still, pausing to murmur against your skin, “I could spend all night right here, you know.” And if you shiver or moan in response? That’s all the encouragement he needs to keep going, to push you higher and higher until you’re completely undone.
– But Hal’s intimacy doesn’t stop at the physical. He’s just as intent on making you feel seen—like you’re the center of his world. He’ll whisper things that make your heart skip a beat, like how stunning you look beneath him or how he’s never felt this way with anyone else. And while he might throw in a cheeky comment here or there to keep things light, his softer side shines through in the way he holds you close, his hands roaming your body like he never wants to let go.
– When you’re completely spent, trembling and dazed from his relentless attention, Hal will wrap you up in his arms and press kisses to your forehead, your nose, your lips. He’ll murmur something cocky but sweet, like, “Told you I’d take care of you, didn’t I? And I’m not done yet.” Because for Hal, intimacy isn’t just about the act—it’s about leaving you so overwhelmed with pleasure and love that you never question how much you mean to him.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
– Hal Jordan may radiate cocky, overconfident energy, but even he has his moments of pure, primal need—when there’s no one around to satisfy him, and his hand becomes his only option. And trust this: Hal doesn’t half-ass anything, not even when he’s jerking off. It’s a performance for one, and he makes sure it’s just as intense and satisfying as if you were there to help him out.
– When Hal gets in the mood, it’s usually quick and unplanned—a flash of a memory from a heated moment with you, the way your body felt against his, or the sound of your breathless moans replaying in his mind. He’ll grip himself firmly, his strokes starting slow as he leans back against whatever surface is closest—a couch, his bed, hell, even the cockpit of his jet if it’s been that kind of day. His teeth catch on his bottom lip as he imagines your touch instead of his own, and it doesn’t take long for him to get lost in the fantasy.
– Hal’s not quiet, either. He groans low and deep, his breath hitching every time his hand squeezes just right or his thumb grazes the sensitive head. He’s filthy, too, muttering your name under his breath along with fragments of the dirty things he wants to do to you. “Fuck, baby, you’d look so good on your knees for me… God, I can’t stop thinking about how you’d take me, begging for more—just like that.” His free hand trails down his abs or grips his thigh, needing something to hold onto as his pace picks up, faster and harder with every stroke.
– Hal’s fantasies are vivid, too, and they only fuel the intensity of his release. He imagines your mouth on him, your hands gripping his hips, or the way your body trembles beneath him as he takes you apart piece by piece. When he comes, it’s explosive—hot ropes of cum spilling over his fist and onto his stomach, his head tipping back as a guttural groan escapes his lips. He doesn’t stop immediately, either, riding out every wave of pleasure with slow, teasing strokes until he’s spent and panting.
– And afterward? Hal’s the type to chuckle to himself, wiping his hand on the nearest towel or his discarded shirt before muttering something cocky like, “Damn, you’ve got me wrecked, and you’re not even here.” But deep down, it only makes him crave the real thing more—because as satisfying as it is to take care of himself, nothing compares to having you there to help him finish the job.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
– Hal Jordan isn’t just adventurous in the skies—his tastes in the bedroom are just as daring and varied. He’s got a few kinks that keep things interesting, and he’s more than happy to indulge them with the same cocky, confident energy that makes him irresistible. Here are five of his favorites:
1) Dominance and Power Play: Hal lives to be in control, and nothing gets him off more than seeing you submit completely to him. He loves the way you melt under his touch, letting him take the reins as he orders you exactly how to move, what to do, and when to let go. His commands are firm but laced with filthy praise, like, “That’s it, baby. Keep those legs spread just like that for me—don’t move unless I tell you to.” And when you follow his lead perfectly? Oh, he rewards you in the best ways possible, leaving you shaking and begging for more.
2) Worship and Praise Kink: Hal’s ego is as big as the universe, and he loves it when you make him feel like a god. Whether it’s kissing and licking your way down his chest, whispering how amazing he feels inside you, or simply moaning his name like a prayer, he thrives on being the center of your attention. His favorite? When you’re on your knees, eyes full of need as you take him into your mouth, only to hear him groan, “Fuck, you look so good like that. I could watch you worship me all night.”
3) Exhibitionism and Risky Encounters: Hal gets off on the thrill of being caught, and he’s not shy about suggesting public or semi-public escapades. Whether it’s pulling you into a closet on the Watchtower, sneaking a quickie in the cockpit of his jet, or taking you against the nearest wall at a party, he craves the adrenaline rush that comes with pushing boundaries. He’ll chuckle wickedly in your ear and say things like, “Think anyone can hear us? Let’s give them a show they won’t forget.” And the more you squirm, the harder it is for him to hold back.
4) Overstimulation and Edging: Hal loves to draw things out, teasing you until you’re a writhing mess beneath him. He takes his time, pushing you to the brink over and over again, only to pull back just before you fall apart. His hands, mouth, and even his Green Lantern ring become tools in his arsenal, all designed to make you beg for release. He’ll smirk down at you and say, “Come on, baby, you can take more. Let me see how far I can push you.” And when he finally lets you come? It’s so intense you’ll feel like you’re floating in zero gravity.
5) Marking and Claiming: Hal’s possessive streak comes out in the bedroom, and he loves leaving his mark on you—bruises from his grip on your hips, bite marks on your neck, or the feeling of him dripping out of you long after he’s finished. He’ll revel in the sight of you wearing his marks, leaning down to kiss them tenderly before growling, “Now everyone will know exactly who you belong to.” And when he’s filling you to the brim, his hands pressing against your stomach to feel just how deep he is? That’s when he’s completely in his element, making sure there’s no doubt in your mind—or anyone else’s—that you’re his.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
– For Hal Jordan, location isn’t just about where—it’s about how risky and how hot the situation can get. As a man who thrives on danger and excitement, he’s not content with keeping things confined to the bedroom. Hal’s favorite locations are as bold and daring as he is, each one chosen to satisfy his craving for adventure while pushing your limits in the most delicious ways.
1) The Cockpit: As a test pilot and Green Lantern, the cockpit is practically Hal’s second home—and he loves nothing more than breaking the rules in the very place that defines him. Whether it’s in a grounded jet during a late-night hangar visit or mid-air with the autopilot engaged, Hal gets a thrill out of having you straddle him in the pilot’s seat. His hands grip your hips as he whispers, “Bet you’ve never joined the mile-high club like this before.” And the thought of anyone catching you in the act only spurs him on, his thrusts matching the intensity of the adrenaline rushing through his veins.
2) The Watchtower (Semi-Public): There’s something undeniably thrilling about sneaking away with you aboard the Justice League’s headquarters, finding a secluded room or corner where you almost won’t be discovered. Hal loves pinning you against a wall, his body shielding yours as he murmurs into your ear, “Think Batman’s got cameras in here? Let’s give him something to watch.” The sheer audacity of it drives him wild, and he makes it a point to leave you trembling and breathless before you both return to the team meeting like nothing happened.
3) Against the Wall (Anywhere): Hal is a firm believer that walls were made for pushing you up against, and he doesn’t care where it happens—as long as he can have you. Whether it’s in a dark alley, the side of a building, or even a shower stall, Hal takes full advantage of the position. His hands grip your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he presses you against the cool surface, his lips capturing yours in a heated kiss. And if someone’s nearby? Even better. The risk of getting caught only makes him move harder, faster, whispering filthy things like, “Let them hear how good I’m making you feel.”
4) The Lantern Construct: Has no one ever even considered the perks of being a Green Lantern? Unlimited creativity with your constructs! Hal loves creating a glowing green bed, chair, or platform in the middle of nowhere—a floating masterpiece designed just for you. Whether it’s high above the city skyline or deep in a secluded forest, Hal revels in the freedom of taking you wherever and however he wants. His cocky grin says it all as he murmurs, “Only I could pull off something this good, right?” And when the glowing green light illuminates your body beneath him? That’s a memory Hal will never forget.
5) The Beach (Under the Stars): Hal may love risk, but he’s not against a little romance either. Late at night on a secluded beach, he’ll lay you down in the sand, the sound of waves crashing in the background as he makes love to you under the stars. His cocky attitude takes a backseat to his more tender side, though he still can’t resist murmuring things like, “Bet you’ve never had someone fuck you under the Milky Way before.” The mix of intimacy and raw passion is enough to leave you breathless, completely captivated by him.
– For Hal, location is all about adding excitement and variety to the experience. Whether it’s somewhere bold and risky or a place steeped in intimacy, he makes every moment unforgettable—just the way he likes it.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
– Hal Jordan isn’t a hard man to arouse—his cocky confidence and thrill-seeking nature mean that just about any situation has the potential to set him off. But there are a few things in particular that really get him going, driving him to the brink of control as he works to take you apart piece by piece.
1) Challenge: For Hal Jordan, there’s nothing more arousing than a challenge—whether it’s your confidence daring him to step up, or his own insecurities lighting a fire under him to prove he’s the best. Hal thrives on the thrill of competition, and when he feels the need to silence his inner doubts, that sharp edge of desire takes over. He pours every ounce of his energy into you, determined to leave you utterly wrecked, your body trembling and your voice hoarse from screaming his name. It’s about staking his claim, making sure you know, without a doubt, that he’s unmatched. For Hal, the challenge isn’t just about winning—it’s about proving, again and again, that he’s the only one who could ever leave you begging for more.
2) Jealousy and Possessiveness: Piggybacking off that, naturally, this is something that also riles up the Green Lantern just as much. Hal is competitive by nature, and nothing stokes his fire quite like the thought of someone else eyeing what’s his. A passing comment, a lingering glance, or even a harmless laugh shared with someone else is enough to set his possessive streak ablaze. You’ll know he’s jealous when his touches become rougher, his kisses more demanding, and his voice drops to a growl as he pulls you closer, whispering things like, “You’re mine. Don’t forget it.” He won’t stop until you’re screaming his name, every moan and shiver a reminder of exactly who you belong to. Pinning you down, his voice will drop to a low growl as he thrusts into you relentlessly, whispering filthy promises like, “No one else could ever fuck you like this. Say it. Tell me I’m the only one who can make you feel this good.” He doesn’t just want to hear it—he needs to, each word soothing the flicker of insecurity hidden beneath his cocky exterior. But it’s not just about jealousy—it’s about staking his claim, proving to you and himself that, without a doubt, he’s unmatched.
3) Clothing (or the Lack Thereof): Hal has a thing for how you wear—or don’t wear—your clothes, especially when your frame contrasts with his. Catch him off guard lounging in nothing but his Green Lantern shirt, the hem barely covering your hips, and he’ll be on you in seconds, his hands sliding beneath it as he growls, “You trying to kill me? This looks better on you than it ever did on me.” Or tease him with a snug outfit like a tailored suit or a good crop top paired with some short gym trousers that hugs all the right places, and he’ll spend the night failing to keep his hands to himself, his touch lingering on your back, waist, or hips as he mutters, “You know I can’t focus when you look like that.” But the real killer? Watching you undress, piece by piece, until he can’t take it anymore. He’ll pull you into his lap, his big hands gripping your hips possessively as he murmurs against your ear, “Keep going—I want to see everything. And don’t think for a second you’re getting away with teasing me like that.”
4) The Thrill of the Moment: Hal thrives on adrenaline, and it’s no different in the bedroom. The idea of sneaking away during a party, finding a secluded corner at the Watchtower, or even stealing a moment during a mission sets his blood on fire. He’ll push you up against the nearest surface, his lips on your neck as he growls, “We shouldn’t be doing this here... but damn, I can’t stop myself.” The rush of being somewhere you shouldn’t be, coupled with the risk of getting caught, makes everything ten times hotter for him.
5) Your Reactions: At the end of the day, Hal lives for your responses. The way your body arches into his touch, the sounds you make when he hits the right spot, or the way you moan his name when you can’t hold back anymore—those are the things that drive him wild. He’ll do anything to pull more reactions from you, murmuring things like, “That’s it, baby. Let me hear you—don’t hold back.” The louder and more desperate you get, the harder Hal goes, fueled by the knowledge that no one else can make you feel the way he does.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)
– Hal Jordan might be open-minded and adventurous, but there are some hard limits he won’t cross. Anything involving cruelty or humiliation is a firm no for him—he’s here to build you up, not tear you down. He also draws the line at anything that takes away your ability to give enthusiastic consent; the thought of you not being fully into it kills the mood instantly—unless we’re talking a Yandere situation or even something like the scenario from “Love’s Punishment." And while he thrives on teasing and pushing boundaries, anything that genuinely hurts or scares you is off the table. “I want you to feel good, not afraid,” he’ll say, his voice soft but firm. At the end of the day, Hal’s all about mutual pleasure, trust, and making sure you’re as satisfied as he is.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
– Hal Jordan? Oh, he’s all in when it comes to oral—both giving and receiving. His cocky confidence extends to the bedroom (or wherever you’re lucky enough to find yourselves), and oral play is no exception. Hal knows exactly how good he looks when your lips are wrapped around him, and he’s not shy about telling you. His hands thread through your hair, his grip firm but never forceful, guiding you with murmured praise like, “That’s it, baby—fuck, you’re so good at this.” And the way his hips occasionally buck into your mouth? Pure reflex, a testament to how much you’ve got him unraveling.
– Hal lives for the visual: the sight of you on your knees, your smaller frame between his thighs, taking him inch by inch while his head tips back and a groan escapes his lips. The stretch of your mouth around him alone is enough to push him close to the edge, but he prides himself on his willpower. He’ll hold himself back as long as possible, savoring every flick of your tongue and the way your hands work in tandem, his breaths coming out in shallow gasps. But don’t mistake his stamina for disinterest—if you keep going long enough, the sight of you combined with the pressure building inside him will eventually win out. And when he comes? It’s hard and fast, his grip tightening as he spills into your mouth, his voice rough as he groans, “Fuck, just like that. Don’t stop—take all of it.”
– As much as Hal loves being on the receiving end, giving head—pole or hole but hole may be his preference—is where his competitive streak and ego really shine. He loves the idea of reducing you to a trembling mess, completely at his mercy as he takes his time exploring every sensitive spot. He starts slow, his tongue swirling and teasing, pulling you to the brink before backing off just to hear you beg. And when he finally decides to let loose? Hal is relentless, his lips, tongue, and fingers working in perfect sync to drag you over the edge. He thrives on the sound of your moans, the way your hands clutch at his hair, and the sight of your thighs trembling beneath him. “That’s it,” he growls, his voice muffled against your skin, “Give it to me. Let me hear how good I’m making you feel.”
– Hal’s ego ensures he’s very skilled—he’s fully capable of bringing you to a mind-blowing orgasm with just his mouth, and he takes immense pride in doing so. It’s not just about the end result for him; it’s about the journey, the control, and the satisfaction of knowing he’s the one who left you completely undone. Whether he’s giving or receiving, Hal makes oral play an unforgettable experience, one that leaves both of you gasping for more.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
– Hal Jordan’s pace depends entirely on his mood—and yours—but no matter the tempo, he’s all in. When he’s in the mood for something slow and sensual, Hal turns the experience into an art form. His movements are deliberate, calculated, and unbearably teasing, designed to make you feel every inch of him as he drags out your pleasure. He’ll keep his hips rolling in a steady rhythm, his body pressed flush against yours as he whispers, “You feel that? Every single stroke? Yeah, I’m not stopping until you’re begging for it.” He thrives on the way your body arches into him, his hands gripping your waist to keep you right where he wants you.
– But when passion overtakes him—or if you’ve been teasing him all day—Hal shifts into a much rougher, more relentless gear. His thrusts are deep, hard, and fast, each one landing with enough force to leave you gasping, your nails digging into his back or shoulders for support. He loves hearing you cry out his name, the sound driving him to push even harder as he growls, “Come on, baby. Take it. I know you can handle it.” Hal’s stamina means he can keep this up for as long as it takes to have you completely undone, leaving you trembling and breathless beneath him.
– What makes Hal so intoxicating is how easily he switches between the two. He’ll start slow, teasing you until you’re clawing at him to go faster, only to smirk and say, “Patience, sweetheart. We’ve got all night.” And then, just when you think you can’t take another second of the teasing, he picks up the pace, his body driving into yours with enough intensity to leave you seeing stars. Whether it’s slow and torturous or fast and punishing, Hal’s pace is always designed with one goal in mind: leaving you completely wrecked by the time he’s finished.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
– Hal Jordan lives for quickies. The thrill of sneaking in a fast, filthy session when you’re both supposed to be somewhere else? It’s practically tailor-made for him. Whether it’s dragging you into an empty room at the Watchtower, pinning you against a wall in a dimly lit alley, or pulling you into the cockpit of his jet for a little “pre-flight stress relief,” Hal knows how to make every second count.
– There’s no buildup with him during a quickie—he’s on you the moment the door closes, his hands everywhere as he growls, “We don’t have much time, so spread those legs for me. Now.” His pace is relentless, his thrusts hard and fast as he works to get both of you off before you’re caught. He’s not shy about talking dirty, either. “You’re so tight—fuck, I’m not going to last long with you clenching around me like that,” he groans, his breath hot against your neck as his hips slam into you.
– Hal loves the risk, the danger of being caught. It’s not uncommon for him to smirk and whisper, “Think anyone can hear us?” as he covers your mouth with his hand to stifle your moans—or maybe he doesn’t cover it at all, daring you to try and stay quiet as he fucks you so hard your legs give out. His cocky streak shines through even in these rushed moments, and he’ll make sure you know exactly how good he’s making you feel, muttering things like, “Damn, look at all that pre-cum, baby. Stop trying to pretend you don’t love this as much as I do.”
– And if you can’t finish in time? Oh, that only makes Hal more determined. He’ll adjust his grip, angle, and pace until he feels you trembling around him, pulling you over the edge just in time for him to finish inside you with a low, guttural groan. When it’s over, Hal is already straightening his uniform or pants, smirking as he watches you try to catch your breath. “What? Don’t look at me like that,” he teases, running a hand through his hair. “You’re the one who couldn’t keep your hands to yourself.”
– For Hal, quickies aren’t just about release—they’re about the rush, the adrenaline, and the satisfaction of leaving you wrecked and barely able to walk while he’s already back to business like nothing happened.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
– Hal Jordan isn’t just comfortable with risk—he thrives on it. Whether it’s in the air or in the bedroom (or somewhere far less private), the thrill of danger lights him up like nothing else. He loves the idea of pushing boundaries, crossing lines, and taking you to places you’ve never dared to go. And when the stakes are high—when there’s a chance someone might walk in or overhear? That’s when Hal gets truly reckless, and his need for you becomes uncontrollable.
– His favorite risks are the ones that make you squirm with both nerves and arousal. Pulling you into an empty meeting room on the Watchtower, pinning you against the door as he growls, “Think Batman’s gonna hear this? Good. Let him know who makes you scream.” Or finding a quiet spot on a rooftop during a mission, bending you over the edge while his lips press against your ear, murmuring, “Don’t look down. Focus on me, baby.” The added element of danger, the risk of being caught or seen, only makes him harder, his thrusts more desperate as he chases the high of knowing he’s taking you right where he shouldn’t.
– And Hal doesn’t just stop at the usual locations. If there’s a way to push things further, he’s the first to suggest it. Creating a glowing green construct in the middle of the sky, high above the city, where anyone looking up could spot the faint light and realize what’s happening? That’s exactly the kind of risk Hal craves. He thrives on the way your smaller body trembles beneath him, your moans carried on the wind as he smirks and mutters, “You’re so fucking loud. Think they know what we’re doing? Good.”
– It’s not just about location, either—it’s about power and control. Hal loves when you trust him enough to let him take charge in situations that feel downright dangerous, like fucking you on a moving jet or in the back of a parked car in broad daylight. His confidence is contagious, his hands steady as he grips your hips and whispers, “I’ve got you. You’re safe with me. Now hold still and let me ruin you.” And if you hesitate or shy away from the risk? Oh, that only makes him more determined to convince you, his voice dripping with lust as he adds, “Don’t be scared, baby. I’ll make it worth it.”
– For Hal, risk isn’t just about breaking rules—it’s about making you feel alive, your heart racing as much from fear as from the way he’s fucking you senseless. Every gasp, every whimper, every desperate moan you let out only fuels his need to push further, harder, leaving you completely undone and breathless from both the pleasure and the adrenaline rush.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
– Hal Jordan’s stamina is, quite simply, superhuman. Whether it’s his time as a test pilot, his duties as a Green Lantern, or the sheer force of willpower that drives him, Hal has the energy and determination to keep going long after most would’ve given up. And in the bedroom? That same relentless spirit shines through, making him the kind of lover who doesn’t just satisfy you—he completely wrecks you.
– One round with Hal is never enough. He’s insatiable, his body still humming with adrenaline even after you’re left trembling and breathless beneath him. He’ll grin down at you, brushing the hair from your face as he murmurs, “Tired already? Come on, baby, I know you’ve got another in you. Let me see it.” And before you can protest, he’s moving again, his hands gripping your hips as he drives into you with the same intensity as before, determined to pull even more moans and cries from your lips.
– Hal doesn’t just rely on physical stamina, though—it’s his mental focus that makes him unstoppable. He thrives on the challenge of seeing how far he can push you, how many orgasms he can pull from your trembling body before you’re a shaking, incoherent mess. His cocky smirk only grows wider every time you beg him to stop, to give you just a moment to catch your breath, and he leans down to whisper, “Not until I’m done with you. And I’m nowhere near done.”
– Even after he’s come hard and fast, Hal’s recovery time is impressive. He barely needs a moment to regroup before he’s ready to go again, his hands already roaming your body as he growls, “I can’t get enough of you. You’re too good for me to stop now.” It’s that endless drive, that need to keep proving himself, that makes Hal unstoppable. He doesn’t just want to satisfy you—he wants to leave you so thoroughly used and spent that you’ll still feel him the next day.
– And even after the physical part is over, Hal’s stamina carries into the aftercare. He’ll hold you close, his hands tracing lazy circles over your skin as he murmurs sweet, filthy praises in your ear, already planning how he’s going to take you again the moment you’re ready. For Hal Jordan, stamina isn’t just about lasting long—it’s about making sure you’re left completely and utterly satisfied, no matter how many rounds it takes.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
– Hal Jordan isn’t the kind of guy to keep a drawer full of toys—why would he, when he’s so confident in his ability to satisfy you all on his own? His ego practically demands it. “You don’t need anything extra when you’ve got me,” he’ll say with a smirk, his hand sliding down your body to emphasize his point. But despite his pride, Hal’s no prude when it comes to spicing things up, and if the opportunity to use a toy arises, he’s more than willing to give it a try—especially if it’s going to make you moan louder or come harder.
– The kicker? Hal’s cocky streak means he’d absolutely get a silicone toy molded after himself. Whether it’s a gag gift or something he genuinely thinks you’d enjoy, the thought of you using him even when he’s not there is enough to make his blood run hot. He’d hand it to you with that signature smirk and say something like, “I figured you might need this for the nights I’m saving the galaxy. Just make sure to tell me which one feels better—me or the toy.” And if you tease him about it later? Oh, that’s only going to push him to prove there’s no comparison.
– When it comes to using toys on you, Hal’s enthusiasm is unmatched. The moment he sees how much they turn you on, he’s hooked. His favorite? Vibrating toys that he can use to tease you mercilessly, watching as you squirm and gasp under his control. He’ll press it against your most sensitive spots, holding it there until your body arches off the bed, only to pull it away at the last second with a low chuckle. “What’s wrong, baby? You can’t handle it? Guess I’ll have to take over myself.” Hal’s skillful hands and mouth might leave the toy feeling like second-best, but the combination of the two? That’s a recipe for complete and utter destruction.
– And if you ever decide to surprise him by bringing a toy into the mix yourself? Hal won’t be able to hide how much it turns him on. He loves the thought of you taking control for a moment, guiding his hands or showing him exactly how you want to be touched. But don’t think for a second he’ll let you have the upper hand for long. Hal’s all about reclaiming control, using the toy to push you even further until you’re gasping his name and gripping his arms, completely at his mercy.
– At the end of the day, Hal doesn’t rely on toys—but he’s more than happy to use them if it means making you fall apart in ways you never thought possible. And let’s be honest: the smug satisfaction he gets from watching you come undone, whether it’s his hands or his molded toy, is more than enough to keep him experimenting.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
– Hal Jordan is the definition of unfair in the bedroom. Teasing you until you’re a whimpering, desperate mess is practically a sport to him, and trust him, he’s a champion. He thrives on making you beg, dragging things out until you’re trembling beneath him, clutching at his arms or shoulders and gasping, “Hal, please.” And even then? He doesn’t let up. Instead, he smirks down at you, his fingers trailing maddeningly close to where you need him most as he murmurs, “What’s that? I didn’t hear you. Say it louder, sweetheart.”
– Hal’s favorite game is edging—pushing you right to the brink before pulling back, over and over again, until you’re practically crying with frustration. His hands, his mouth, his Green Lantern ring—everything about him is designed to drive you insane. He’ll kiss and lick his way down your body, his lips brushing over sensitive spots but never quite giving you the pressure you need. “You’re so sensitive here,” he’ll muse, his voice low and smug as his fingers ghost over your thighs. “I bet I could make you come just from this. But I think I’ll wait. You look too good like this—needy and desperate for me.”
– He’s not just unfair with his teasing—his stamina and control make him downright cruel at times. Hal can hold himself back for what feels like an eternity, watching you squirm and arch beneath him as he keeps his thrusts slow and deliberate, just enough to make you moan but not enough to push you over the edge. “You’re close, aren’t you?” he’ll whisper, his lips brushing your ear. “Not yet, baby. I want to see you beg for it first.” And when you finally do? That’s when he snaps, pounding into you with all the intensity he’s been holding back, leaving you breathless and trembling as he grins and mutters, “See? Wasn’t that worth the wait?”
– And let’s not forget his playful side—Hal’s smug remarks only make the teasing worse. If you try to take control or rush him, he’ll pin your wrists above your head, his grin infuriatingly wide as he murmurs, “Oh, you thought you were in charge tonight? Cute. Let me remind you how this works.” He doesn’t just tease; he turns it into a performance, loving every second of your frustration and the way you eventually melt under his touch.
– For Hal, being unfair isn’t just about the power trip—it’s about making sure you fall apart completely, begging for release until he’s ready to give it to you. And when he finally does? You’ll be too wrecked to care how long it took—you’ll just know it was worth every second.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
– Hal Jordan is not the type to keep quiet during sex. Subtlety? That’s for someone else. Hal’s the kind of lover who wants you to know exactly how good you’re making him feel, and he’s not shy about letting it show. From the low, guttural groans that rumble deep in his chest to the sharp gasps and growls that escape when you squeeze around him just right, Hal’s sounds are as intense and raw as the way he takes you.
– When you’re going down on him, he’s especially vocal, his head tipping back as a strained, “Fuck, baby, just like that,” falls from his lips. If you hit a particularly sensitive spot, he won’t hold back a loud, desperate moan, his hand tightening in your hair as his hips buck uncontrollably. He’s not afraid to be loud, and honestly? He gets off on the idea that someone might hear him losing control because of you.
– But Hal’s not just about his own sounds—he lives for yours too. The louder you get, the more it fuels him, driving him to go harder, deeper, until your cries and moans fill the room. He’ll mutter filthy things in your ear, his voice low and gravelly as he growls, “Come on, sweetheart, let me hear you. I know you’ve got more in you.” And if you try to stifle your sounds? Hal will take it as a challenge, doing everything in his power to pull those desperate, uninhibited noises from you. “Don’t hold back,” he’ll command, his grin wicked as he thrusts into you harder. “I want the whole damn building to know who’s making you scream.”
– When Hal finally comes, it’s loud, unrestrained, and raw. His groans morph into a broken cry, his voice rough and hoarse as he gasps your name like a prayer. Even in the aftermath, his breaths are heavy and labored, interspersed with occasional murmurs of “You’re too fucking good, you know that?” as he pulls you close.
– For Hal, volume isn’t just an afterthought—it’s part of the experience, an auditory testament to the pleasure he’s giving and receiving. And trust him, whether it’s your sounds or his, he’s making damn sure you both leave the room with hoarse voices and no doubt in your mind about how good it was.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
– Wouldn’t it be funny if Hal had a secret kink for doing it in zero gravity. Like, the man’s job–outside his actual job, that is–literally involves him being in space majority of the time. Like…take him off-planet, and the man is in his element, turning the vastness of space into his personal playground. He discovered it the first time he created a floating green construct bed with his ring, pulling you into his arms and realizing how much fun it was to move without gravity’s constraints. Now, it’s one of his favorite things to do during his time away from Earth and if you’re able to come along with him.
– The lack of gravity only amplifies the intimacy—and the filth. With no weight to hold you down, Hal takes full advantage of being able to flip and reposition you however he pleases, all while murmuring dirty praises like, “Look at you, floating here like you were made for me. Bet no one else could fuck you like this.” His hands and body keep you perfectly balanced, one arm pulling you tight against him as he thrusts into you in deep, deliberate strokes that leave you breathless. And the way your smaller frame moves so effortlessly in his grasp? Oh, that’s just another power trip for him, and he loves every second of it.
– The best part for Hal, though, is how gravity—or the lack thereof—makes everything feel more intense. Every touch, every thrust sends you spiraling, your moans echoing in the silence of space as his cocky grin grows wider. “Don’t hold back, sweetheart,” he’ll growl, “No one’s around to hear you but me.” And when you finally come undone, your body trembling and weightless in his arms, he’ll hold you close, his lips brushing against your temple as he murmurs, “Told you space sex was the best. Ready for round two?”
– For Hal, the thrill of zero-gravity sex isn’t just about the novelty—it’s about taking something ordinary and turning it into something unforgettable, just like everything else he does. And trust him, once you’ve experienced it, you’ll never look at Earth sex the same way again.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
– When it comes to Hal Jordan’s cock, let’s just say it lives up to his cocky personality—impressive, commanding, and damn near unforgettable. Hal is absolutely a grower, though, which feels almost like an ego flex in itself. He might look average when soft, but the second things heat up? He’s packing more than enough to make your breath hitch. By the time he’s fully hard, he’s sitting at 7.5 to 8 inches in length, thick enough to leave you gasping as he stretches you wide with every thrust.
– His girth is substantial but not overwhelming, perfectly balanced to hit that sweet spot between pleasure and a delicious burn. He’s slightly thicker at the base, tapering just enough to make the first few inches feel like a challenge before he slides the rest of the way in, the stretch leaving you clawing at him and gasping, “Fuck, Hal, you’re so big.” And trust him, he lives for those words—there’s no greater turn-on for him than watching you struggle to take all of him, your body trembling as he pushes you to your limits.
– Hal’s cock has a very slight upward curve, enough to hit all the right spots with devastating precision. He knows how to angle his hips just right, making sure that every stroke leaves you moaning his name. The head is prominent and slightly flared, giving you an extra stretch as he slides in and out, the sensation almost too much to handle. He’s circumcised, the skin smooth and warm under your touch, and you’ll notice the faint veins running along the shaft, adding just enough texture to make every thrust feel even better. And trust him, he knows exactly how to use it. Every thrust is calculated, designed to leave you trembling and clinging to him for more. “You like how deep I’m hitting you?” he’ll growl, his cocky smirk widening as he drives deeper. “Told you I’d ruin you.”
– He’s circumcised, with a flared head that’s perfectly shaped for dragging along your most sensitive spots, leaving you shuddering with every stroke. The veins running along his shaft aren’t overly pronounced but enough to add texture that sends sparks through your body when he slides into you. The skin is smooth, warm, and a natural, slightly darker shade than the rest of his body, adding to the raw, rugged appeal of him.
– Hal takes pride in how clean and well-kept he is, always making sure he’s trimmed and ready for action. His scent is faintly musky but not overpowering—just enough to drive you wild when he’s got you pressed close, your legs wrapped around his waist, his cock sliding in and out of you with an almost unbearable rhythm. And when he’s fully hard, the weight and heat of him in your hands or against your body is enough to make your mouth water.
– For Hal, his cock isn’t just a part of him—it’s a weapon, and he wields it with the same confidence and skill as he does his constructs. He knows exactly what he’s packing, and he’s damn proud of it, using it to make sure you’re screaming his name long before he’s finished with you. And trust him—once you’ve had Hal, nothing else will ever compare.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
– Hal Jordan’s yearning is nothing short of all-consuming. When he wants you, he doesn’t just feel it—he’s overtaken by it, his every thought consumed by the need to have you, touch you, and claim you as his. It starts with a slow burn, a lingering glance that turns into an unrelenting hunger. Once that fire is lit, Hal doesn’t hold back, his need for you dripping from every word, every touch, and every shameless groan as he pulls you closer.
– Hal is the type to obsess over every detail of you when he’s caught in his longing. The way your body feels pressed against his, the sound of your breath hitching as his lips trail down your neck, the way your smaller frame fits perfectly beneath his. The sight of you—clothed, half-dressed, or completely bare—is enough to send his mind spiraling, his cock already straining against his pants as he mutters, “You have no idea what you do to me.”
– His yearning can be subtle at first—lingering touches, his thumb brushing over your wrist, or the way his hands grip your hips just a little too firmly. But when it boils over, Hal becomes utterly insatiable. He’ll pin you against the nearest surface, his lips crashing into yours as his voice drops to a desperate growl: “I need you. Right now.” His hands roam your body like he’s memorizing it, his grip firm yet reverent, as though touching you is both a privilege and a necessity.
– Hal’s yearning isn’t just physical—it’s deeply emotional. Beneath the cocky smirks and teasing words lies a man who craves connection, who wants to feel you shatter under his touch and know that he’s the reason. He lives for the way you cry out his name, for the way your body responds to him so perfectly, as though you were made just for him. And when you whisper his name in that breathless, needy tone? It drives him to the brink, making his yearning shift into something primal and raw. “Say it again,” he’ll growl, his lips brushing your ear as he grinds into you. “Tell me you need me as much as I need you.”
– For Hal, yearning is more than just desire—it’s a burning ache that only you can quench. And when he finally has you? He pours every ounce of that longing into the way he touches you, moves inside you, and whispers filthy praises into your ear. Because for Hal Jordan, nothing is more satisfying than turning his yearning into your undoing.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
– After an intense session, Hal Jordan is the type to pull you close, his broad chest pressed against your back as his arm drapes possessively around your waist. He’s not the quickest to fall asleep—his mind tends to wander, replaying every sound and reaction he pulled from you like a highlight reel. But once exhaustion catches up with him, he’s out cold, his breathing steady and his grip on you firm, as if even in sleep, he refuses to let you go. And if you’re still awake, don’t be surprised if he murmurs something smug in a half-asleep haze, like, “Told you I’d wear you out,” before pulling you even closer and drifting off completely.
MISSION FILE [SYNC_002]ㅤHEAT FINDS WHAT STAYS STILL!
pilot link designation: geto suguru & gojo satoru x bottom male reader
memory fragment: the operation begins quietly—pilot satoru initiates contact: low murmurs, fingers tracing new territory. pilot suguru holds position, resisting deployment… until your vocal response disrupts his restraint. from that moment forward, neither one adheres to protocol.
lcl-embedded data: alternate universe where geto isn’t evil and still a sorcerer, exhibitionism, voyeurism, manhandling, nipple play, handjob, praise, degradation, cum eating, edging, slight overstimulation, spit as lube, unprotected sex, deepthroating, anal fingering (reader receiving), anal penetration (reader receiving), implied double penetration in the future, spitroasting, power imbalance, 7.6k words. they’re best friends, your honor!
pilot data no. 00: mb gang, forgot to turn on the option of letting people submit messages and posts LMFAOOO. if u have any requests, u can actually submit them now !!! this is my fav work so far i actually need them so bad im foaming at the mouth
it was rare—too rare—for the three of you to be complete like this. no cursed energy buzzing through the air, no half-dried blood under your nails, no first-years demanding your attention from opposite ends of a battlefield. just silence. quiet. the low drone of satoru’s tv from the living room, tuned to some cooking competition he probably forgot was even on.
“i’m just saying,” suguru’s voice carried through the wall, low and even in that way he always sounded when he was definitely not at ease, “the intelligence report said special grade, but the cursed energy readings were inconsistent. it could be masking itself, waiting. you send kids into that, they don’t come back the same.”
“they’re not kids,” came satoru’s voice—easy, careless, every syllable stretched out like he had all the time in the world. “they’re jujutsu sorcerers. and i scouted it. it’s clean.”
a beat.
“…you’re still too confident,” suguru said. “megumi hasn’t stabilized his domain. nobara’s still reckless when she’s pissed. yuuji’s—”
“—too stubborn to die,” satoru cut in, sharp but not unkind. “i know them, suguru. and i trust them.”
you stared at your reflection in the mirror above satoru’s sink.
his bathroom was always a little too clean, like no one ever used it, like it was part of some show model instead of a home. the air still clung to the last of the steam from your shower. your hair stuck to your temples. your pulse was slowing for the first time in days.
you hadn’t worn your own clothes—hadn’t felt like it. instead, you’d grabbed one of satoru’s old shirts off the clean pile he left folded on the dresser. too soft. too worn-in. it settled over your shoulders like it didn’t belong there, like it remembered the shape of someone taller, someone with a different kind of weight.
but it still fit.
not snug—never snug. satoru’s clothes always made you look small, even though you weren’t. the hem hung halfway down your thighs, sleeves swallowing your forearms. and underneath—boxers, also his, sitting loose and low on your hips. you hadn’t asked. you never did.
you stepped out of the bathroom still drying your hair, rubbing the towel over your head with one hand, the other holding the corner loosely draped around your shoulders. everything about the way you were dressed screamed comfort, but comfort wasn’t exactly what was churning under your skin.
“i’m glad you trust the kids that much,” you said, letting the towel fall around your shoulders. “but if they come back hurt, i’ll kill you.”
satoru didn’t even look sheepish. he was already lounging against the couch arm, one leg swung wide, sunglasses hanging from his fingers like he’d forgotten what they were for.
“it’s normal to come back hurt from a mission,” he whined, like you were being unreasonable. “that’s, like, half the job.”
“yeah?” you muttered, walking past him. “then you won’t mind if i rough you up first.”
he grinned—wide, bright, and entirely too pleased with himself.
“actually,” he said, grabbing your wrist and pulling, “i’m so glad you’re finally being honest about what you want.”
he then pulled you into his lap without ceremony. you stumbled, half-falling, but didn’t bother resisting. your weight settled across his thighs, shirt riding a little higher as you leaned back into him with a resigned sigh.
his arms wrapped around you instantly, firm and casual, like he always touched you like this. like it was nothing new, which it wasn’t. one hand curved around your stomach, the other already sneaking up under the hem of the shirt, not to grope—just to feel. skin to skin. like grounding himself in the fact that you were here, solid, warm.
“you’re ridiculous,” you muttered, rolling your eyes.
“you’re soft,” satoru said into your neck, voice muffled.
you felt his nose press against the side of your throat, inhaling deep, completely unbothered by how quiet it made you go for half a second. his fingers splayed wide across your abdomen, thumb dragging slow over the edge of your ribs.
you didn’t say anything at first—just let your head tilt slightly to the side, the damp edge of the towel grazing his jaw. his nose stayed pressed against your neck like he was trying to memorize the scent of his shampoo, or maybe just you. not that he needed to. you knew damn well this wasn’t the first time he’d buried his face there. it probably wouldn’t be the last.
“this is literally what you smell like,” you muttered, the words low, offhanded—more observation than complaint.
satoru’s reply was instant. smug. muffled into your skin.
“exactly.”
your mouth twitched—just a bit, like you couldn’t help the amusement that pulled at the corner of your lip even if you wanted to. he was so full of himself. and warm. and impossible to ignore.
“you’re unbelievable.”
“you’re irresistible,” he countered, not missing a beat. his voice dropped a little—lazy and pleased with himself.
“please shut up,” came suguru’s voice from the other end of the couch. calm, clipped, just this side of exasperated. “children are probably dying outside and you’re getting worked up over a shirt.”
you turned just enough to glance his way, leaning your head back slightly against satoru’s shoulder. suguru was sitting there with one leg crossed over the other, phone forgotten on the armrest beside him, his gaze fixed somewhere over your heads like he was praying for divine patience. not that it ever helped.
“you’re one to talk,” satoru shot back, lifting his chin from your shoulder long enough to give suguru a pointed look. “you act the exact same way whenever he’s wearing something of yours. don’t even deny it.”
that made suguru go still for a second. not obviously—just a faint pause, the kind you might miss if you weren’t looking. then he looked down at his hands like something very fascinating was happening to his own fingers.
you snorted. couldn’t help it. the sound came out half-laugh, half-breath, and it made satoru grin harder against your neck.
“wow,” you said, tone flat. “who would’ve thought.”
“stop talking,” suguru muttered without lifting his head.
“still love me though,” you replied, glancing at him from under your lashes.
he didn’t answer right away. just exhaled, slow and steady, like you’d asked him something too big for a simple reply.
“yeah,” he said finally. “unfortunately.”
you smiled—not wide, not loud. just a small, sharp pull at the corner of your mouth, one hand resting casually over satoru’s on your stomach, thumb brushing over his knuckles.
the tv kept playing in the background. no one was watching. the noise just filled the space like it belonged there.
you stayed where you were, pressed into satoru’s chest with his arms looped around your waist like it was second nature. he had removed the towel around your neck, leaving it hanging on the arm rest of the couch. suguru didn’t move either—just kept watching you both out of the corner of his eye, mouth neutral, eyes anything but.
you didn’t talk about it. none of you ever did. it was easier this way—wrapped up in each other, toes skimming the edge of something deeper without stepping off the ledge. friends. teammates. lovers on some days, if no one brought it up.
it would’ve been peaceful—if not for the sudden, warm sting of teeth against the nape of your neck.
“nh—!” your breath caught, spine twitching into a curve as your grip on satoru’s wrist reflexively tightened, his mouth working a sharp, wet bruise just above the dip of your shoulder. his lips were hot, tongue dragging slow over the spot as your skin shuddered beneath him. he licked again, sloppier this time, a hum vibrating against your neck when you melted further back into his chest.
“this is just ridiculous,” suguru said flatly, not even looking at either of you.
satoru didn’t lift his face. only chuckled against your skin, low and pleased, licking lazily over the fresh mark he’d left before glancing sideways toward suguru with a smirk already tugging at his mouth. “you’re always welcome to join,” he offered, the glint in his eyes unmistakable—mischievous, goading, just short of smug.
suguru’s expression didn’t twitch, but his fingers had stilled where they were draped over his knee. “you really expect me to get involved while you’re doing… that,” he said, voice carefully neutral, “in the middle of a conversation about sending teenagers to a possible death trap?”
“you don’t have to do anything,” satoru replied breezily, leaning back against the couch arm. “you can sit there and be the responsible one if you want. totally fine. i’ll just be here,” he squeezed your waist with a pointed flex of his fingers, “entertaining our favorite coworker.”
his hand—warm, a little too big, stupidly confident— fingers skating along your stomach with no urgency, just idle curiosity. he always touched like he knew your body better than his own. no hesitation, no questions. thumb grazing the line of your ribs, palm settling over the middle of your upper torso before drifting upward.
your breath hitched.
he didn’t hesitate—never did—just smoothed his hand up until his fingers curled over one of your pecs, squeezing gently, watching the subtle arch of your back in response. his thumb rolled over your nipple, once, twice, then pinched, firm.
“ah—fuck—” you gasped, hips jerking slightly in his lap.
satoru groaned against your neck, biting back a sound of his own. “mm—still so sensitive here,” he murmured, voice husky, all humor folding into heat. he pinched again, sharper this time, and the way your breath came out in a shaky moan made his cock twitch hard beneath you.
he was half-hard already—no, more than half. you could feel it, firm and thick against the curve of your ass, trapped beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants. he started to rock into you absentmindedly, small movements, letting the friction build slow. every grind of his hips dragged the ridge of his cock right up against the swell of you, making your head tip back, lips parting on another gasp.
“satoru—”
his name slipped out before you could stop it. sharp. breathless. aching around the edges.
he groaned like he was being rewarded, rutting up against you just a little harder. “fuck,” he murmured, voice deepening. “you always sound so pretty when you say my name.”
“you can’t be serious,” suguru muttered from the end of the couch, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed and fixed on a spot somewhere above your heads.
but he was still watching.
his posture had grown tight, too tight. hands locked over his knee, knuckles gone pale. he hadn’t moved from his seat but his gaze was darker, heavier, the way it always got when he was trying not to give in. his tongue darted out to wet his lower lip—an involuntary motion, one he didn’t seem to notice.
the sounds coming from your mouth—soft, ragged, rising with every twist of satoru’s fingers—weren’t helping. neither was the rhythm of satoru’s hips, the quiet weight of the couch creaking beneath the push-pull of his need. it was too slow to be anything but deliberate.
you whimpered again, not meaning to, when satoru mouthed over your shoulder, teeth scraping lightly along your skin. he rolled your nipple between his fingers at the same time, thumb flicking it until it stiffened, and you gasped, full-body shiver rippling through you.
suguru’s nostrils flared.
“you’re really gonna fuck him in the living room,” he said, finally breaking the silence, “with the front door unlocked and a mission briefing open on my phone.”
satoru huffed a laugh, exhaling against your throat. “if you’re so concerned about the door,” he said lightly, “you can always just get up and lock it.”
“you’re insufferable.”
you were panting now, soft moans slipping through your teeth as satoru’s hips ground up into you, slow and steady, cock pressed flush against the curve of your ass. the fabric between you did nothing to hide the shape of him—thick, heavy, hot even through the layers—and every time he pushed up, you couldn’t help the way your hips started rolling down to meet him.
his hand abandoned your chest to grip your waist, guiding your grind into something more rhythmic. more deliberate.
you gasped. “‘toru...”
he chuckled, low and dangerous. “so pretty, aren’t you, baby? grinding down like you need it, putting on a good show for suguru.”
his cock twitched again beneath you. you could feel how hard he was, feel the growing wet spot of precum soaking through the cotton where your ass dragged over him.
suguru shifted on the couch.
“you’re making a mess,” he said, voice too calm to be convincing.
“so come clean it up,” satoru grinned.
suguru clicked his tongue but he didn’t look away. not from your flushed face, or the way your thighs were tensing, or how the oversized shirt you wore was beginning to ride up, exposing more of your skin with every slow grind of your hips.
his gaze lingered on your stomach—on the way it flexed when satoru rutted up into you—and then trailed down between your thighs where your erection was visibly straining the borrowed boxers, the tip already damp and leaking.
satoru’s fingers crept down, slipping beneath the waistband of your boxers to palm your cock directly. hot skin against hot skin. his fingers wrapped around you easily, thumb brushing over the slick head before stroking down in one smooth, teasing pull.
“hngh, shit—!”
your whole body jerked, knees tensing, breath stuttering in your lungs.
“god, i missed this,” satoru murmured, voice hoarse. “you’re always so responsive, it’s so hot.”
he started pumping you slow, dragging his hand up and down your length while still grinding up with his cock, the rhythm perfect. the kind of friction that made your eyes roll back.
“look at him,” satoru said, louder now, for suguru’s benefit. “you really gonna sit there and pretend this doesn’t do anything to you?”
suguru didn’t answer.
his eyes moved from the sight of satoru’s hand stroking you to your parted lips, to the flushed skin of your chest where bruises were beginning to bloom from earlier touches. he looked hungry.
satoru’s hand moved faster. so did your hips.
“fuck—ah—satoru—!” you gasped, voice breaking.
the tension in suguru’s shoulders finally snapped. he stood in one fluid motion, expression blank—but his steps toward the couch were unmistakably deliberate.
satoru grinned. didn’t even try to hide it. “i knew you’d come around.”
“shut up.”
suguru was already reaching for you.
in the blink of an eye, he was in front of you—close, crouched between your knees like he owned the space, the moment, the body squirming between him and satoru. one hand cupped your cheek, fingers firm against your jaw, and the other was already sliding under the hem of your shirt.
then he kissed you—heat and spit and tongue shoved into your mouth like he meant to fuck you with it.
“mmn—nhh—!” your whimper caught between his lips, messy and desperate as he licked into you. it was filthy—wet clicks echoing in your skull, your mouth opening wider just to breathe around him. his tongue dragged along yours, slow, like he liked the taste of your need. like he wanted to hear every little breath get swallowed up in his throat.
and then behind you—“fuck—” satoru groaned, voice cracking around a ragged exhale, “holy shit—keep going, ‘guru, that’s so fuckin’ hot—”
you whined into suguru’s mouth when satoru’s hips bucked up harder beneath you, cock thick and twitching where it pressed against your ass through the soaked front of his sweats. he was grinding—sloppy, insistent, barely controlled—and every push dragged your hips forward, right into suguru’s kiss like he was feeding you into it.
“hah—f-fuck—” your moan came out shaky, voice breaking as satoru’s hand continued twisting one of your nipples, rolling it between his fingers just the way he knew made you twitch.
you jerked at the stimulation—suguru’s hand joining his, sliding up the opposite side, palm rough as it smoothed over your chest, thumb circling the untouched nipple until both of them were stiff, swollen, aching.
you yelped into his mouth, back arching into satoru’s chest behind you and suguru’s broad hand in front, caught between two bodies that knew you too well.
when suguru finally pulled back, your spit clung to his lips—thick, shiny, obscene. he licked his lower lip slow, like he meant to tease, and muttered against your mouth, voice dark and half-laughing, “so loud already.”
you could barely answer—mouth red, slick, chest heaving—but your moan when satoru’s cock ground up against your ass again said enough.
“nghh—fuck, suguru—” satoru whined from behind, nose buried in your hair, voice muffled and fucked-out. “lemme taste ‘im too.”
suguru scoffed, but he was already leaning in.
the kiss that followed was all teeth. heat. sloppier than before, spit-slick lips locking together, tongues curling deep. and their hands never stopped moving—satoru stroking your cock slow and firm, suguru still pinching and tugging at your nipples until your body started shaking.
you took the chance to press your face into suguru’s neck—moaning helplessly against his skin, licking at the sweat-damp line of his throat before closing your mouth around it and sucking hard. you needed to muffle yourself somehow. needed something hot in your mouth. something to keep the noise from spilling out while your cock throbbed in satoru’s fist and your hips kept rutting back into the thick bulge pressed between your cheeks.
“f-fuck,” satoru groaned against suguru’s mouth. “he’s leaking all over my hand, ‘guru—he’s fucking dripping.”
“he always does when he’s desperate,” suguru muttered, voice low, and then you felt his hand snake down, joining satoru’s around your cock.
“ah—! fuck—”
two hands jerking your cock together, wet strokes pumping you in tandem. one slick with your precum, the other dragging the head through your mess with each pull. their pace wasn’t gentle. it wasn’t slow. it was practiced—and it made your thighs tremble.
satoru whispered against your ear, breath hot and ragged, “all fucked out and we haven’t even bent you over yet.”
“he’s gonna cum,” suguru said flatly, dragging his thumb over the slit, smearing more mess down your length. “you hear how he’s breathing?”
you sobbed into his neck, sucking a new bruise onto his skin like it might save you.
“mmnh—s-satoru—suguru—please—”
their groans were practically in sync, low and wrecked and hungry, and their hands didn’t stop once. they just worked your cock harder, faster, greedier—like they were trying to make you spill, like they wanted to feel you fall apart between them.
the pressure broke all at once.
“nnh—! aaah—f-fuck—!” your whole body snapped taut, thighs quivering against satoru’s legs as your back bowed into suguru’s chest. your cock pulsed hard between their fists—thick, wet spurts spilling over their fingers, painting both their hands in heat as your head lolled back against satoru’s shoulder, mouth falling open around the wrecked cry you couldn’t even bite down.
hot.
suguru felt it first, the warmth of your cum streaking over his knuckles, slicking down the veins of your shaft and pooling in his palm—and the twitch it sent through him was instant, involuntary. his cock jerked in his pants, tight and unforgiving, already aching from how long he’d been holding back. he bit his lip, barely suppressing a groan, brows furrowing as he stared down at the mess you’d made.
“shit…” he exhaled, quiet but rough.
behind you, satoru made a strangled noise—half gasp, half whimper—like he’d just barely stopped himself from crossing the edge with you.
he had to force his hand between your damp, sweat-slicked body and his own, yanking the waistband of his sweats down just enough to shove his hand inside and wrap around the base of his cock. he gripped tight, breathing hard, trying to ground himself before the wet drag of your ass and the broken sounds you were making made him shoot untouched.
“ngh—fuckfuckfuck—had to, baby,” he muttered against your shoulder, voice frantic, pupils blown wide. “you were clenching—fuck, you were grinding on me like that and—shit—had to hold it or i’d’ve made a fucking mess—”
meanwhile, their hands didn’t stop.
they stroked you through it—milking every drop, every twitch, every overstimmed pulse of your cock. suguru’s fingers were more precise now, tightening just beneath the head, dragging the slick over your shaft like he wanted to see you squirm. satoru was messier, palm gliding up and down your length, smearing your cum with every pump, loving the way you whimpered—“hah—s’too much—mmn—!”
“shhh,” suguru murmured, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “you’re doing so good.”
satoru panted, laughing breathlessly as he pulled his hand free of your cock and brought it up to your lips, fingers glistening with your cum. “made such a mess—open up for me, c’mon—lemme see that pretty mouth.”
your lips parted obediently, still shaking, still dazed—and satoru slid two fingers past your tongue without hesitation. you moaned, soft and broken, as your mouth closed around them. he fed them deeper, slow, until your lips were wrapped around the base and your tongue was lapping instinctively at your own taste.
suguru brought his own hand to his mouth, smearing your release over two fingers before sucking them in, groaning low as he tasted you—rich and warm, still fresh. his eyes fluttered half-shut as he pulled off with a soft pop. “tastes better than last time,” he muttered, smirking faintly. “you been drinking more water?”
you made a muffled sound around satoru’s fingers, and he laughed.
“always talkative even with something in his mouth,” satoru teased, slowly sliding his fingers out. strands of spit clung between them and your lips, and he didn’t let it go to waste—he grabbed suguru by the front of his shirt and pulled him down.
their mouths crashed again—wet, open, tongue-first.
you slumped forward, breath catching against suguru’s collarbone, head resting on his shoulder while the sounds of their kissing filled the room. loud. messy. so fucking wet.
you didn’t need to see it—you could feel the tension between them, the flick of suguru’s tongue against satoru’s teeth, the quiet grunt satoru made as he tilted his head to deepen it. they kissed like they were starving, tasting your cum on each other’s tongues, swallowing the mess down.
and then, just as you were starting to come down—heart still hammering, body twitching with aftershocks—suguru’s hand slid back to your hips.
he tugged at the waistband of the boxers you wore, slow and deliberate, dragging them down over your thighs, your knees, until they were off and discarded somewhere on the living room floor. the cool air hit your skin and made you shiver.
“you ready for more, baby?” suguru asked without even looking at you. his voice was low, steady, patient—but there was a weight to it, like he already knew the answer. like he knew exactly what your body was already begging for.
satoru didn’t wait. he wrapped his arms under your knees, palms hooking beneath the bend of your legs as he shifted your body easily—lifting, adjusting, until you were tilted back into his chest, legs spread wide and feet up in the air, hole exposed between your thighs like an offering.
“there,” he grinned, holding you open for suguru, breathing against your ear. “he’s all yours.”
suguru didn’t say a word. he just held out his hand, palm up, fingers curled slightly—expectant.
satoru grinned and leaned forward, eyes half-lidded and devilish. “say please.”
suguru didn’t even blink.
“mm. fine, be like that.” satoru tilted his head and spat.
thick, clear spit landed right in the center of suguru’s waiting fingers, webbing between them. suguru rubbed his fingers together, coating them slow, deliberate, until they glistened. then his gaze lowered—fixed right where your body was laid out so perfectly open, your hole twitching with every breath.
“deep breath,” he said, quiet.
your breath hitched the second his fingers touched you—middle finger circling the rim, slow and steady. the slick dragged with it, cooling in the air. you twitched, instinctively trying to close your legs, but satoru just cooed and held your knees wider.
you turned your face into his neck—hot, flushed, hiding—but he laughed softly, cheek nuzzling into your hair.
“shy now?” he whispered, tone saccharine. “but you were begging to cum five minutes ago. c’mon, baby, let him in.”
and you did.
suguru’s finger slipped inside with too much ease—your body opening up around him like muscle memory. like it knew who he was. like it was welcoming him home. and he went right for it—no teasing, no slow buildup—his fingertip angled just right and pressed down into your prostate like a switch.
your whole body jerked.
“nhgh—fuck—!” you choked, voice cracking into a moan as your back arched into satoru’s chest. your hands gripped at his forearms, fingernails pressing into skin, desperate for something to hold onto.
“there it is,” suguru murmured, low and calm like your moans weren’t wrecking him. he pulled out partway, then sank back in, again and again—his rhythm steady, each thrust dragging over that same sensitive spot until your thighs trembled where satoru held them.
“feel good?” satoru whispered, hot against your ear. “fuckin’ sounds like it—listen to yourself.”
you whimpered again as suguru added his ring finger.
the stretch was obscene.
his fingers were thick, slow as they pushed in together—wet, unforgiving. the stretch made your breath come out in stutters, your hole fluttering around the intrusion even though you’d taken him a hundred times before. it never got easier, not with suguru.
his fingers worked in tandem, scissoring open, filling you, curving up to brush your prostate again until your thighs flexed uselessly in the air.
“f-fuck—suguru—” you whined, barely able to speak.
his other hand curled around your ankle, thumb stroking the bone idly, steadying you like he was trying to keep you grounded while he ruined you. his expression hadn’t changed—still calm, steady—but his eyes were half-lidded now, jaw tight.
“tight as ever,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone.
satoru laughed, loud and gleeful behind you.
“tight?” he echoed, voice teasing and ragged at the same time. “babe, it’s his special talent. tight no matter how many times we fuck him. he could take both of us every night and he’d still squeeze like a virgin.”
you gasped.
the idea hit you like a bolt—visceral, deep—and the noise you let out was barely a sound at all, more a shuddering, high keen from the back of your throat. suguru’s fingers didn’t even slow.
suguru chuckled, slow and breathy, pressing a kiss to your shin as his fingers curled again. “sweetheart,” he said, dry, “you didn’t even try to hide how much you liked that.”
you were trembling, face still buried in satoru’s neck, teeth clenched around a whine. his cock was flush against your lower back—bare now, slick, twitching where it lay pressed against the waistband of your shirt. he was rutting into you shallowly without realizing it, every little sound from you sending another pulse through his shaft.
“we’ll entertain that next time,” suguru murmured, voice low and dark, “but don’t think we’re not thinking about it now.”
satoru exhaled hard—sharp and shaky.
his cock jerked against your back, a smear of precum wetting the fabric between you.
“fuck,” he hissed, wrapping an arm tighter under your thighs. “fuck, ‘guru, i’m so hard it hurts.”
“that’s not my fault.”
“it is when your fingers are knuckle-deep in him.”
suguru’s lips twitched. but he didn’t stop.
his fingers curled again, stretching you wider, pressing deep and slow, every stroke of his knuckles brushing your prostate. your hole fluttered around him, spit-slick and squeezing tight, and you were panting—mouth open, eyes unfocused, body pliant as satoru held you open and suguru worked you loose.
“you’re dripping again,” satoru murmured, glancing down. “you’re gonna make another mess before we even get inside you.”
“he likes the idea,” suguru murmured, and his fingers scissored wider, stretching you open until you were shaking. “he wants us at the same time.”
your moan said everything you couldn’t.
satoru was the one to break first—voice breathy, stretched thin with need, his cock twitching where it pressed slick and flushed against the small of your back.
“can’t we just do it now?” he whined, grinding up subtly beneath you as if his hips had a mind of their own. “come on, ‘guru, you know how bad i’ve wanted to try double for like—forever. please?”
he drew the word out like a brat, lips grazing your ear as he dragged it into a pout that was audible. his voice dipped sweet and petulant all at once, pitchy and fucked-over from arousal.
“we don’t have lube, satoru. whose fault is that again?” suguru said flatly, eyes still locked on the way your hole squeezed around his fingers.
“not mine,” came satoru’s immediate reply, tone too quick, too practiced. which meant—yes. obviously his fault.
suguru didn’t even blink.
“you said that last time.”
“last time, it wasn’t important!”
“you said that last time, too.”
“fuck,” satoru groaned, forehead dropping against your temple with a dramatic thump. “you’re actually so cruel. do you even hear yourself?”
“yes,” suguru replied, calm as ever. “i’d love to fuck him right here on this couch at the same time, but unless you want him bleeding out on the towel rack, it’s not happening tonight.”
satoru whined. loudly.
his pout was almost comical if you weren’t already boneless and sweating in his lap, jaw slack and trembling around every breath.
“…fine,” he grumbled eventually, kissing your hair like he was apologizing to you directly. “next time. but we’re buying lube in bulk.”
“you say that every time.”
“this time i’ll write it on the fucking board.”
“you mean the board you’ve never once looked at in your life?”
satoru huffed, muttering something into your shoulder about how his memory was still better than suguru’s stupid clipboard. but then suguru’s hand flexed—just the subtlest shift—and a third finger slid in.
your moan cracked straight out of your chest. loud. shivery.
“nnh—ah, shit—”
your thighs jerked in satoru’s arms, whole body twitching as that third finger dragged inside alongside the other two—thick stretch forcing your hole wide around the intrusion. suguru moved slow, careful, rotating his wrist with practiced precision, letting the pads of his fingers nudge and press into your prostate again and again.
it was too much. it wasn’t enough. you couldn’t decide if you wanted to run or beg for more.
your hips tried to squirm back—reflex, your body seeking escape from the constant pressure—but satoru just laughed and adjusted his grip.
“mm-mm,” he cooed, squeezing behind your knees with both arms locked under them, holding you wide open. “where d’you think you’re going, baby? not gettin’ away that easily.”
you whimpered as your hole fluttered helplessly around suguru’s fingers. he had you pinned—completely—and worse, he was taking his time. curling, dragging, stretching you with measured control while his other hand remained wrapped firm around your ankle, thumb brushing idly along your skin like he wasn’t actively fingering you open to the edge of sanity.
“you’re gripping,” suguru muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “like you want to pull me in.”
you were clenching around him like his fingers belonged there—slick, tight muscle squeezing. every stroke made your thighs jump, every shift in angle had your head tilting back against satoru’s shoulder, gasping. drooling.
“shit,” suguru exhaled, voice a notch lower. “you’re milking me like it’s my cock.”
satoru groaned, hips bucking involuntarily. his cock was thick and flushed, dark red at the tip and leaking against your back, smearing precum in messy little arcs every time he shifted.
“fuck, suguru,” satoru mumbled, breath stuttering. “you’re gonna make me bust with all that talking before we even fuck him.”
suguru’s gaze never lifted.
he was transfixed—eyes locked on your hole, the way it stretched obscenely around his fingers, the way you twitched with every press, the slow, greedy suck of your body trying to keep him there.
his fingers curled again. you cried out.
and both of them watched you fall apart. they knew it wouldn’t take long.
your thighs were already twitching in satoru’s grip, your breaths coming in fast, whimpering pants, and suguru could feel the telltale flutter around his fingers—the way your hole clenched down, tight and desperate, trying to milk him deeper. if he so much as curled his fingers one more time—
you’d cum again. too fast. too easy.
and although they loved nothing more than watching you fall apart over and over, not yet this time.
suguru sighed, almost reluctant as he slowly pulled his fingers free. your body clung to them like it didn’t want to let go, and the moment they slipped out, you let out a wrecked, broken cry—high and desperate, hips twitching, clenching down around nothing.
he grinned. couldn’t help it.
you looked at him with glassy eyes, lips parted, face flushed down to your throat. suguru leaned forward, brushing your hair back with his clean hand, then pressed a slow kiss to your lips—tasting your breath, licking into your mouth just to make you whimper again.
“don’t pout,” he murmured between kisses. “we’re gonna fill you up with something bigger.”
you barely managed a sound, somewhere between a whimper and a thank you.
suguru nodded once at satoru, and satoru lit up like someone handed him a winning ticket.
“yes!” he cheered, loud and shameless, the grip under your knees tightening as he lifted you effortlessly. “fuck, finally—been waiting all day.”
he adjusted his hips fast, the head of his cock dragging across your hole, already sticky and flushed from rutting against your skin. suguru moved too—reaching down, curling his fingers around satoru’s shaft, steadying him.
satoru moaned loud and sharp at the contact, hips twitching as suguru’s thumb dragged briefly over the sensitive underside of the head.
“steady,” suguru said coolly, even though the corners of his mouth were twitching up. “you’ll get your treat.”
and then satoru dropped you onto his cock like gravity was a gift from god.
“—f-fuck!” you cried, head snapping back, entire body going taut as you sank down all at once.
satoru’s eyes rolled clean into the back of his skull, mouth falling open, a helpless, wrecked moan dragging from the bottom of his lungs. “holyshit—hah, fuck, fuck—” he panted, hands clenching under your knees to keep from shaking. “so fucking tight—he’s squeezing—shit—”
your hole throbbed around him, stretched and stuffed full so suddenly that your mouth hung open on a silent gasp. your thighs twitched in the air where satoru held them, legs spread shamelessly, completely open for them to see everything—how your body swallowed satoru’s cock down to the hilt in one slow, brutal slide.
suguru licked his lips, eyes dragging down from the mess of your face to the slick stretch between your cheeks.
“so fuckin’ pretty,” he muttered under his breath, hand already at his jeans. he made quick work of the button, dragging the zipper down as he tugged his cock free. he was hard as a rock—thick and flushed, already leaking. his other hand came up to stroke the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone as he looked down at you. “think you got anything left in that pretty mouth for me?”
your nod was immediate. frantic. you’d never agreed to anything faster in your life.
“thought so,” suguru murmured, voice warm and tight with restraint. “satoru—hold it for a second.”
suguru guided you forward with that same steady hand on your cheek, gently coaxing your head down until your face hovered over the fat head of his cock. he sucked in a sharp breath the second your breath hit him, hips twitching forward on instinct.
“open up.”
you did, lips parting wide, tongue flat and ready.
he pushed in slow—at first—letting your lips slide over the head, letting your mouth close around him like muscle memory. you moaned, soft and low, your mouth already slick and obedient.
then satoru snapped his hips up.
“fuck!” you choked, the force of his thrust driving you forward on suguru’s cock, burying more of him in your mouth. your throat adjusted automatically, and suguru let out a sharp groan, hand fisting in your hair.
your lips were already stretched around him, spit slick and shiny. he was only halfway in, and his tip was already hitting the back of your throat—except there was no gag, no recoil. they’d trained you too well. your throat just opened, compliant and hot, swallowing around him.
“holy shit,” satoru gasped, starting to thrust up into you again, pace increasing. “he’s sucking you off while I’m inside him—‘guru, holy fuck—”
he’s seen the sight so many times but it never fails to turn him on.
you moaned around suguru, vibrations shooting up his cock as your throat clenched around the tip.
his grip in your hair tightened as he started to move—hips thrusting forward, slow and controlled, easing back before pushing all the way in again. every time satoru thrust up into your hole, suguru’s cock filled your throat a second later, their pace gradually syncing until both ends of you were being fucked in tandem.
“shit—” suguru curses, voice hoarse. “taking it like you were fucking made for it.”
“he is,” satoru panted, face buried in your neck now. “he’s perfect—tightest fucking thing, mouth and ass—fuck—”
your moans were all muffled, throat stretched around suguru’s cock, body bouncing in satoru’s lap as he fucked into you faster, deeper. spit and precum smeared your lips, your thighs shook in satoru’s arms, and both of them looked at you like you were their favorite meal.
and they were starving.
satoru’s pace picked up first.
“fuck—fuck, listen to that,” he groaned, hips slapping up into you, skin meeting skin with slick, wet sounds. “hear how wet you are? makin’ a mess on my dick—fuckin’ filthy.”
his grip on your thighs tightened, pulling your knees higher as he drove into you from below, fucking up so deep the tip of his cock slammed into your prostate with every thrust. your body twitched from the constant pressure—overworked, overstretched, overstimulated—and satoru ate it up like candy, laughing breathlessly when you choked around suguru’s cock again.
“c’mon, baby, don’t go all dumb on us now—use that throat,” he huffed, sweat dripping down his temple. “he’s not even halfway done with you.”
suguru grunted lowly as your mouth clenched around his cock. he now had both hands on your head, one tangled in your hair, the other guiding your jaw as he fucked your face in long, steady thrusts.
“throat’s so tight,” he muttered, staring down at you with hooded eyes. “sucking me in like you want to swallow my balls too.”
you moaned around him, and the noise made him twitch inside you, cock pulsing where it slid down your throat.
“god,” suguru growled, pace stuttering just slightly, hips rocking forward harder. the sound you made—half choked, half desperate—had satoru bucking up even harder beneath you.
he gasped, hips slamming up. “baby—fuck—you’re clenching so fuckin’ tight—you’re gonna make me cum—”
“not yet,” suguru said, voice sharp despite how fucked he sounded. “wait for me.”
“then go faster.”
suguru grinned. “don’t tell me what to do.”
still—his hips snapped forward harder, dragging your mouth down the full length of his cock until your nose was buried in his pubes, your throat bulging with the stretch. his balls smacked your chin, heavy, and your eyes watered even though there wasn’t a single hint of resistance—your body just taking it like it was second nature.
the rhythm they set was brutal—satoru spearing up into your ass, suguru shoving forward into your throat, one right after the other, filling you from both ends in perfect sync.
every thrust from one drove you deeper into the other.
you weren’t just taking it—you were used. bouncing in satoru’s lap, cock neglected, drool spilling from your lips and dripping down onto your chest, body quivering from the stretch and slap of skin on skin. their hands were everywhere—satoru's gripping your thighs like a vice, suguru’s tangled in your hair, both of them panting, fucking, moaning above you like animals.
“you’re gonna make me cum,” satoru panted. “you’re—fuck—gonna make me blow all the way up in you, baby—fuckin’—hah, so deep—”
“mmn—you’re drooling,” suguru said darkly, watching a long line of spit fall from your lower lip as he pulled back just enough to see your mouth swollen and ruined. “gonna cum down that throat and you’re gonna swallow every fucking drop.”
satoru lost it first.
with one sharp cry—“ahh, fuck, fuck!”—his hips jerked up hard, slamming into you one final time as his cock pulsed deep inside you, thick ropes of cum spilling into your guts. he moaned right into your ear, long and drawn out, hips twitching through it, cock buried to the hilt. the warmth flooded your insides, thick and hot, and your hole clenched down around him like it didn’t want to let go.
“nghh—so full,” he gasped, breath catching. “fuck—you’re squeezing me out—”
that’s what pushed suguru over.
his grip in your hair tightened, yanking your mouth flush to his base one last time. his cock throbbed deep in your throat, and you felt the first spurt shoot straight down before he even moaned. the sound was wrecked—low, drawn-out, deep in his chest—and his hips rocked forward, spilling everything he had down your throat.
you swallowed automatically.
“shit—good boy,” suguru breathed, hips twitching forward once more. “don’t waste a drop.”
satoru was still panting behind you, sweat sticking his bangs to his forehead, mouth open and dazed as his hands stroked gently along your calves.
suguru pulled out of your mouth with a wet pop, watching your lips stay parted, tongue lolling out as you blinked up at him with teary, fucked-out eyes. he leaned down and kissed your temple, thumb brushing your wet cheekbone.
“you did so good, sweetheart,” he murmured. “so, so good for us.”
you were trembling. empty. used. and more than satisfied.
satoru slowly laid you back against his chest, arms wrapping around you in a protective, bone-deep hold, murmuring little nonsense against your ear.
“so proud’a you, baby,” he said, peppering kisses into your hair, cheek, jaw. “took it all—took both of us.”
your legs were still twitching occasionally, brain catching up with your body. suguru pulled his shirt off and used it to wipe the drool and spit from your chin and chest, careful and quiet.
he didn’t speak until your breathing evened out. then he pressed a kiss to your collarbone, dragging it up to your throat. “next time,” he whispered. “next time, we do it for real.”
and satoru—lazy and glowing, cock still softening inside you—just hummed in agreement. “mmm. gonna wreck you, sweetheart. promise.”
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. when unexpected changes test them, clark and you find new strength in each other.
𝐅𝐋𝐔𝐅𝐅 & 𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓. one-shot [6.8k].
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. male reader 〳 corenswet!clark 〳 established relationship 〳top!clark 〳 bottom!reader 〳 m!preg (reader) 〳 morning sickness 〳 pregnancy symptoms 〳 rough sex 〳 size kink 〳 breeding 〳 cumplay 〳 rimming (r!receiving) 〳 blowjob (r!giving and r!receiving) 〳 gagging 〳 spit 〳 body worshiping 〳 body marking 〳 impregnation
The tension in Clark’s broad shoulders hadn’t fully left, the residue of a long day spent balancing deadlines and world-saving lingering beneath his skin. But now, as he stood close to you in the dim light of your bedroom, the weight shifted, replaced by a raw, urgent need that pulsed through every muscle.
His chest was a perfect landscape of muscle; hard ridges beneath his shirt, the steady rise and fall with each breath like the ebb of some mighty tide. Thick arms wrapped around you, the power in his grip undeniable but tempered by tenderness. When his hands closed around your wrists and pinned them above your head, it was a command whispered in silk and steel; you felt the immense strength holding you effortlessly, the sheer force he could wield without breaking you.
You barely moved beneath him, a mixture of desire and awe flooding you as his steady gaze locked onto yours. His clothed cock pressed heavily against your thigh, rock hard and thick, aching from the long day without release. Just the thought of finally having you beneath him, your body open and vulnerable, made his pulse race faster.
He traced his fingertips along your jawline, eyes darkening with want and something softer,something like worship. “God, you look so good for me,” Clark growled quietly, voice rough with need. His tongue flicked out, wet and warm, licking the shell of your ear as his hands slid under your shirt, palms flattening against your back.
Your breath hitched when his mouth found the sensitive hollow of your neck, teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you shiver. The scent of your skin—your sweat, your natural musk—flooded his senses, fueling the fire growing between his legs. His bulge twitched insistently, aching to be buried deep inside you, to feel your tight heat clenching around him.
He kissed down your collarbone, lips lingering over the delicate skin, before lowering himself until his mouth hovered just above your chest. His tongue circled a nipple, sucking it hard, the sharp sting mixing with the pleasure like electricity racing through your veins. Your hips lifted without thought, grinding up against his mouth as he teased you mercilessly.
“Clark…” you gasped, fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer.
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, full of dark promise and a deep, unwavering love. “Not yet,” he whispered, voice rough but patient. “I want to taste every inch of you.”
His hands roamed lower, sliding beneath your pants and underwear, palms warm and sure as they wrapped around your cock after he stripped the undergarments off. His thumb circled the sensitive head, slick with precum, sending jolts of pleasure through your body. Clark’s mouth descended slowly, lips parting to take you in, the heat of his breath making you moan deep in your chest.
His tongue worked expertly along your shaft, flicking over the frenulum with teasing flicks, then taking more of you in, his throat flexing as he swallowed your length. His hands squeezed your hips, anchoring you as he bobbed his head, the wet, hollow sounds of his mouth working you filling the quiet room.
Your body trembled, heat pooling deep in your belly, your fingers clutching the sheets as pleasure built to a desperate crescendo. Clark pulled back with a gasp, lips swollen and glistening. “You’re so beautiful,” he growled, voice thick with lust.
He stripped off his own shirt, revealing his broad, chiseled chest slick with sweat. His skin gleamed under the low light, muscles rippling as he shifted his weight in continuing to undress himself from top to bottom.
Clark’s mouth lingered against your skin a moment longer before he slowly pulled away, leaving your entrance slick and burning with need. You shifted, breath ragged, eyes dark with hunger, reaching eagerly for the thick length already standing proud and heavy against his lower abdomen.
Clark knelt on the bed, his muscular thighs spread just enough to balance the heavy weight pressing between them. His cock was impossibly large, long and thick, veins pulsing like rivers of raw electricity beneath the taut skin. The swollen, glistening head oozed with precum, slick and shining in the soft light. It wasn’t just the size that demanded attention; there was a primal urgency in its heavy swell, a heat that radiated off his skin in waves.
Beneath it, his balls hung low and full, swollen with need and thick with the promise of release. The skin was taut but velvety, the weight pulling slightly at his thighs as they shifted with every breath he took. You watched as the heavy sacks swung slowly, brushing against the smooth planes of his legs, the slightest movement sending them teasingly bouncing—so full they looked like they could burst.
Each subtle motion made his cock sway, a pendulum of desire that your eyes couldn’t leave. When he shifted forward, you could see the thick length stretching, pressing insistently toward you, begging for your mouth. The warmth from his skin was intoxicating, mixing with the faint scent of sweat and musk that clung to him after a long day.
Your own breath caught as you reached out, fingers trembling, the anticipation knotting in your stomach. Your mouth watered as you leaned closer, lips parting slowly like a soft invitation, your tongue already aching to taste that immense hardness. The weight of him pressed into your senses, too much, and yet not nearly enough.
Around you, the quiet of the room seemed to shrink, the only sounds were your quickening breath and the subtle slick noises of his arousal. The bed creaked faintly beneath him, the shifting of muscles taut with desire drawing you in deeper.
You could feel the heat of his body before your lips even touched him, that heavy weight of his cock and balls swinging just enough to brush teasingly against your chin. It was a promise; the promise of all the fire and strength and tenderness that Clark held inside, and the unspoken invitation to take it all.
At first, you managed only the head, your lips stretched impossibly wide around the thick crown, tongue swirling at the sensitive ridge beneath the rim. The heat radiating from him was fierce, almost overwhelming, and you could taste the salty musk, the rawness of him that made your heart pound.
You tried to slide farther down, to take more of him, but his girth was relentless, so thick it stretched your jaw beyond comfort. Drool pooled at the corners of your mouth, escaping and trailing wet streaks down your chin. Your jaw ached fiercely from the stretch, muscles tight and trembling, but you refused to stop.
Clark groaned, his hands threading through your hair, holding your head steady and encouraging you wordlessly. His cock throbbed against your tongue, the length so heavy it brushed the back of your throat when you tried to take him deeper. Gagging softly, you pulled back a fraction, breath hitching, but your lips never lost contact.
You swallowed hard, working your mouth with slow, deliberate strokes; lips sliding down, tongue flicking over the swollen veins, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just enough to send shivers through both of you. Every inch of him filled your senses, the overwhelming size a delicious challenge you were determined to meet.
Clark’s hips jerked lightly with need, his breath ragged as he moaned low in your ear. “Fuck, you’re so good at this,” he gasped, fingers tightening in your hair.
You pushed through the ache in your jaw, eyes locked on his face, watching the raw desire flicker in his gaze. You wanted to show him how much you needed him, how much you worshiped every inch.
Your jaw stretched, aching deliciously as you tried to take more, but the sheer girth was relentless, too thick to fit comfortably, yet you didn’t want to stop. Drool pooled at the corners of your mouth, slick and warm, dripping down your chin in slow rivulets. You swallowed hard, your tongue working tirelessly, tracing the swollen veins that throbbed beneath the sensitive skin.
Your hands wrapped around the base, stroking slow and sure as your mouth continued its relentless worship. Clark’s cock throbbed and twitched in your mouth, each pulse sending jolts through your lips and tongue.
Clark groaned low and deep, hips pressing forward, cock throbbing against your tongue. “Driving me crazy,” he murmured, voice thick with need. His hands tightened in your hair, anchoring you close even as his body trembled with effort. He had been at work all day, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, but now—here, in this moment—he was yours entirely.
You gave him a teasing smile, a low hum to send vibrations to his cock, pulling back just enough to catch your breath before diving back in, lips stretched impossibly wide around his cock, swallowing every inch you could manage, utterly lost in the sweet, overwhelming sensation of taking him in.
You pulled back just enough to gasp for breath, lips swollen and slick, eyes locked on his face where raw desire flickered. The sight of his flushed cheeks, the slight sheen of sweat on his brow, the dark glint in his eyes; it all made your pulse race.
“You’re killing me,” Clark groaned, voice rough. “Nearly came right then and there...”
“Wouldn’t be the first time, y’know.” You laughed, wiping some drool off with the back of your hand.
Before you could say another word, Clark’s hands slid up your sides, steadying you as he pulled you closer. His lips brushed over yours, then dipped down to your chin, his tongue flicking out to lick the stray drool from your skin with a slow, teasing lick.
The warmth of his mouth followed, soft and hungry, as he captured your lips in a deep, possessive kiss. His breath mingled with yours, rough and sweet, as he held your bare body tightly, an unspoken promise that this night was only just beginning.
Clark broke the kiss reluctantly, his eyes dark and molten with need as he cupped your jaw, slowly easing you down onto your stomach. His hands slid to your hips, pressing firmly to lift your ass, angling it up just right. Your back arched instinctively, pressing your chest into the mattress as you spread yourself open for him.
The soft curve of your spine, the smooth swell of your ass elevated and exposed; it was a perfect invitation. Clark’s cock throbbed heavily against your thigh, veins pulsing with urgent heat as his breath ghosted over your slick entrance.
Then, with slow reverence, he lowered his mouth to your entrance. His tongue flicked out tentatively at first, teasing the rim with gentle, deliberate strokes; each movement setting your nerves ablaze and pulling a soft moan from your lips.
The wet heat of his mouth pressed against your sensitive walls made you gasp, hips twitching as his tongue traced deep inside your tight hole, exploring with careful insistence.
“Fuck, you taste so good,” Clark murmured against your skin, voice thick and husky with need. Licking again, flattening his tongue, slower with deliberate tease, over your crack. “So good…”
You shivered beneath him, fingers digging into the sheets as his tongue traced slow circles over the crown, inching deeper with exquisite patience. “God, Clark…” you breathed, the sound barely more than a whisper, desperate and raw.
Your muscles clenched and released, responding to the thick, curling pressure of his fingers slipping inside alongside his tongue. The combination of wet heat and firm touch sent waves of sharp pleasure shooting through you. Your body arched higher, pressing into his touch as your breath hitched with each slick, pulsing stroke.
“You feel so good like this,” Clark whispered against your skin, lips brushing over the curve of your ass, “all open for me.”
Your fingers clenched the sheets beneath you, body trembling with every slow curl of his three thick fingers digging deep, stretching you gently while his tongue danced in delicious, maddening patterns. The slick friction mixed with the steady push of his fingers made your vision blur with heat.
“I want to taste all of you,” he murmured, voice thick with hunger. “I want to feel you shudder around me.”
Your hips gave a desperate, involuntary push against him, needing more, craving that relentless worship. Clark’s cock twitched hard, pressing heavier against your thigh as the slick warmth of your body wrapped him, and his breath grew ragged with the mounting ache.
“You’re mine,” he breathed, voice rough as he swallowed the low moan you let slip. “Every inch.”
Catching your breath, you muffled into the pillow as you felt Clark pull his fingers out of you, “Stole my line, asshole.”
You both chuckled as Clark’s hands slid from your hips to the curve of your waist, fingers curling gently but possessively. With a slow, deliberate motion, he shifted his weight and pressed into the bed beside you, the heat of his muscular body warming your skin. He carefully flipped you over, easing you back until your spine met the mattress and your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer.
The sudden shift sent a delicious flush of vulnerability and excitement coursing through you. Your raised thighs framed him perfectly, hips tilting up as your breath caught at the sight of him: his broad chest rising and falling, muscles taut from the day’s stress now softened in the quiet intimacy between you.
Clark’s eyes darkened as he looked down at you, admiration and hunger burning in their depths. He brushed a damp lock of hair from your forehead, his touch tender despite the fire building inside him.
He paused a moment, savoring the connection, the slick heat pooling between your bodies. His cock twitched, heavy and aching, the thick length pressed against your wet entrance. Clark let out a low groan, the sound vibrating deep in his chest.
His hands settled firmly on your hips, anchoring you, steadying both of you as he traced slow, teasing circles with the tip of his cock over your tight, slick rim. You arched your back, pressing into him, silently begging.
Clark’s breath hitched, and he looked down at you with a softness that made your heart ache. “You know,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, “no matter how long my day is… coming home to you like this… it makes everything better.”
You smiled, breathless. “I’ve been waiting for this all day too.”
He leaned down, capturing your lips in a slow, deep kiss. His mouth was warm and gentle, full of promise and reassurance, grounding you amidst the heat and longing.
When he pulled back just enough to whisper against your skin, his voice was thick with affection and need: “I want you to feel safe with me. Always.”
You nodded, your voice a soft whisper. “I do. With you, I’m home.”
Clark’s eyes held yours, shimmering with something deeper than desire; a fierce, unwavering love. He pressed one last lingering kiss to your forehead before lowering himself again, ready to join you fully.
“Ready for me?” His voice was low and thick, laced with longing and care.
You nodded, breath hitching, legs tightening around his waist as you lifted your hips to meet him.
Clark’s cock pressed heavy against your slick entrance, the swollen head teasing the delicate rim with agonizing patience. The tight heat of your muscles contracted around him, a delicious, fiery grip that made every nerve scream. Your body quivered, hips instinctively pressing up to meet him, welcoming the impossible stretch.
The slickness coated him like silk, but the tension of your tight, unyielding flesh was a slow-burning fire. Clark’s hands dug into your hips, steady and sure, as he fought the urge to slam in hard and fast. Instead, he pushed forward with slow, excruciating care—his cockhead pressing past your tight ring, stretching you wide, inch by agonizing inch.
The room was thick with heat, the scent of sweat and sex hanging heavy in the air. Clark’s muscles flexed visibly beneath his skin, veins pulsing along his thick arms and broad shoulders as he anchored himself above you. The primal power of his body coiled like a spring, every movement deliberate, restrained, fueled by pure need.
Your breath hitched with the exquisite burn of being filled so completely, your back arching as the stretch deepened, cock buried to the hilt inside you. The overwhelming fullness was at once breathtaking and overwhelming. Every inch a delicious ache that left you trembling, skin slick and flushed.
Clark’s chest rose and fell in ragged breaths, his strong jaw clenched tight as he slowly sank deeper, the thick length of him filling you with a punishing, agonizing stretch. The hot friction of your tight walls clenching around his shaft sent shivers of raw, unfiltered pleasure straight to his cock, making it pulse and throb with urgent need.
“You’re so fucking tight,” Clark growled, voice low and ragged, a dark hunger flickering in his eyes. “Damn, you take me so well. You’re perfect.”
Your fingers dug into the sheets, nails scraping the fabric as you surrendered to the overwhelming sensation. Your hole stretched impossibly wide, every muscle trembling around his cock like a vice. The heat pooling between your bodies was unbearable, sweat slicking your skin, mixing with the taste of each other.
Clark’s hands gripped your hips harder, flexing his powerful arms as he slowly began to move, the slow, steady push of his cock sliding in and out of your tight, burning heat creating a relentless rhythm that stole your breath and stole your mind.
“Fuck,” he hissed, voice thick with desperation and awe, veins pulsing beneath the surface as his thrusts gained strength. “You feel so good. So fucking good.”
You gasped, voice breaking under the pressure and pleasure. “Clark—oh, fuck—don’t stop. It hurts so fucking—fuck!”
The wet slap of skin meeting skin filled the room as he set a brutal, punishing pace, muscles pumping, cock throbbing, the stretch still aching but melting into searing, overwhelming bliss.
Every inch of you was alive, every nerve firing, every breath stolen by the relentless pounding of his thick cock driving deep inside you. You clung to him, breathless and shaking, utterly consumed by the raw, carnal heat between you.
Clark’s cock drove deeper with every brutal thrust. Thick, swollen, hot; stretching your hole beyond its limits, past the line between pain and pleasure until they were indistinguishable. Your rim clung to him desperately, spit-slick and flushed raw, the edges fluttering helplessly as his girth dragged through your tender channel, ruining you. Every withdrawal left your hole gaping open around air for a split second, flushed and twitching, before his cock forced it wide again with a slick, wet pop of resistance giving way.
“Christ,” Clark groaned, one hand sliding from your hip to your bare chest, pressing you deeper into the mattress as he adjusted the angle. “You’re gripping me like you don’t wanna let go.”
His voice was hoarse, dripping with reverence and restraint, but his body was anything but. His cock was a steel-thick monster inside you, heat-flushed and veined, every inch slick with your wetness and the precum he kept spilling into you. You could feel it pulse, twitch, throb with need inside your stretched heat like it was alive. His heavy balls slammed against your taint with each thrust, the wet smack echoing through the thick, humid air, overlaid with your own ragged cries and the low, guttural sounds he made as he fucked you deeper.
Clark’s body radiated heat. Not just from the exertion of moving that massive frame, but because he willed it hotter. His sweat poured in rivulets down the ridges of his chest, beading between his pecs, running down the sharp cut of his abs. His skin burned where it pressed against yours—feverish, slick—and the air around you shimmered with it, suffocating and intimate. It clung to you like a second skin.
Your fingers scrambled blindly for purchase, first clawing at the sheets, then sliding helplessly over his sweat-slicked back. When you found his skin—his wide, muscular shoulders, the tight flex of his lat as he rocked into you—you clung. Digging your nails into him like a man drowning, dragging red lines across the bulging muscles that carved his back and arms like sculpted marble.
“Fuck, baby—harder,” you gasped, voice cracking. Your thighs trembled, calves kicking uselessly against the mattress as you were driven down onto his cock again and again. “Don’t stop, don’t you dare fucking stop—”
“I’m not gonna,” he growled, voice gravel and smoke. “You’re gonna take it. All of me. Gonna keep taking this cock until I make you forget your own name.”
He punctuated it with a thrust so deep it punched a cry from your lungs, your whole body seizing beneath him. Your mouth dropped open, no sound coming out for a moment except the choked hitch of breath and the obscene gluck-gluck of his cock pistoning into your soaked hole.
Clark withdrew all at once, your hole clenching around emptiness, fluttering, desperate. Before you could beg, he was already manhandling you into a new position; hands strong, but never cruel. He flipped you onto your stomach in one smooth motion, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades as his hands gripped your hips and lifted your ass. You barely had time to brace yourself. Cheek pressed to the damp sheets, arms trembling; before he lined himself back up and fed his cock into you again, slow and brutal, like he wanted you to feel every inch of it burrow back inside. The new angle drove him deeper, thicker, his cockhead now punching right into the soft bundle of nerves inside you with surgical precision.
He reached up, palmed the back of your neck, pushing your face into the mattress as he angled his hips again, thrusting with a brutal precision, tip grinding up against your prostate with every pass.
You were sobbing now, not from pain but from being so full, so utterly destroyed. Your rim burned, stretched around him wide and red, swollen and shiny from the unrelenting assault. You felt him everywhere: inside your guts, in your stomach, in your chest. It was like he’d moved your organs just to make space for his cock.
“Look at you,” Clark panted, bending over you now, chest dragging over your slick back. His voice came hot against your ear, laced with something wicked. “Look how pretty you stretch around me. You love this, don’t you?”
You could barely nod. Your hands came up again, reaching back and straining your back and shoulders muscles to slide over his sweat-drenched chest this time—touching the thick, solid wall of his pecs, then scratching down as you moaned through clenched teeth.
His body tensed as you clawed. “Shit—keep doing that. Fuck—mark me, baby.”
And you did. Scratches bloomed down the curves of his chest, over the bulge of his biceps as he bore down harder. His thrusts turned ragged, pace violent, wet slaps echoing as his balls smacked your taint again and again, your ass clapping back against his hips with each bounce.
The slick mess between your thighs grew worse. Your cock leaking untouched against the sheets, Clark’s precum pouring into you, squelching with every plunge.
The room was drenched in noise. Moaning, panting, slapping, the squelch of ruined slick, the guttural growl of a man on the edge.
Then:
“Mine,” Clark said, voice thick and trembling. “Every inch of this sweet hole—mine.”
Your hole spasmed around him in reply.
You didn’t know how long he kept you like that: face pressed into the mattress, arms sprawled and limp, ass in the air like an offering. Time warped under the weight of him, his cock sawing in and out with a relentless, punishing rhythm that left your hole raw and weeping around him. The squelch of it, the obscene slap of his hips against your ass, the slick drag of your walls failing to close around his girth—it all melted into one deafening symphony of filth.
Clark’s body trembled above you now. You could feel it—his breath faltering, rhythm stuttering, muscles twitching like he was holding back a goddamn earthquake. He was drenched in sweat, drops falling from his brow onto your back, his grip on your hips bruising.
“Fuck,” he growled, voice unraveling. “You’re so—tight, baby. Taking all of me—gonna fill you up, I’m gonna—shit, I’m gonna cum.”
You cried out, voice wrecked. “Please. Do it. Give it to me. Fill me up, Clark—please, please—”
That broke him.
With a final, punishing thrust that drove his cockhead flush against the deepest part of you, Clark buried himself to the hilt and held. His whole body locked up—thighs flexed, ass clenched, chest rising in a trembling gasp—before he let out a guttural, almost wounded moan.
“Damn—”
Then you felt it.
His cock twitched violently inside you as the first rope of cum shot deep into your guts—hot, thick, and seemingly endless. It hit you like a brand, flooding your already ruined hole, filling you so fast it pushed a wave of his seed back out around the seal of your rim. He didn’t pull out. He couldn’t. He just stayed there, cock throbbing inside you, releasing in heavy, wet spurts that made your stomach cramp from how full you were getting.
You were moaning incoherently, clenching down on him with every pulse, your own cock untouched and leaking against the sheets. Your body was shaking now, pushed over the edge just from the pressure and the sheer, brutal warmth of being used like that. You didn’t need to be touched.
You came without warning. Your whole body lurching forward, ass still high, cock spurting messily beneath you in helpless spurts. You moaned his name into the mattress, eyes rolling back as your hole squeezed around him, milking the last of his orgasm right out of his still-hard cock. It was too much. You felt overstuffed, the creamy slick of both your cum and his pouring down your thighs, pooling beneath you.
Clark collapsed over your back, chest heaving, still twitching inside you. He didn’t pull out. Not yet. His arms wrapped around your waist like a lifeline, mouth pressed to your spine.
“I got you,” he whispered hoarsely. “You did so good for me. So fucking perfect.”
You could only whimper in reply, your body limp, hole leaking, still stretched wide and stuffed full of him. You didn’t want him to move. You wanted to stay plugged, branded, marked.
And Clark—he stayed.
Clark’s breath was ragged as he stayed buried inside you, hips still twitching with soft aftershocks of his release. His heavy cock, still thick and slick, pulsed deep in your wrecked hole, hot seed dripping freely inside you, pooling in the depths where only he could reach.
He rolled onto his side, but didn’t pull out; deliberately keeping you full, his swollen cockhead coated in his own warmth, nestled in your tight, stretched channel. Every slight move sent waves of his cum splashing deeper into you, a heavy, slick flood that made your guts clench and pulse in response.
I’m so full. So fucking full of him, your mind spun, hazy with pleasure and exhaustion. Like I could burst, but I don’t want to. I want this—want all of him buried inside me, filling me completely.
“You’re mine like this,” Clark whispered against the back of your neck, voice low and possessive, fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns down your spine. “I’m breeding you, filling you up—making sure every drop stays where it belongs.”
You shivered, heat blooming beneath his touch, breath catching. “I… I don’t wanna lose it,” you admitted, voice cracked and small, fingertips curling into the sheets. “I want it all. I want to feel it inside me.”
Clark’s lips curved against your skin, his chest warm and heavy over your back. “Then you’ll have it,” he promised, voice rough with want and satisfaction. His hips nudged imperceptibly, spreading his hot seed in deep, glutinous waves inside you. “Every last drop. Nobody else gets this. Nobody else touches you like I do.”
Your body trembled, overwhelmed by the sensation of being so utterly taken, so thoroughly marked by him. His cum was a heavy, delicious weight inside you; proof of possession, intimacy too raw and fierce for words. Your cock twitched helplessly, slick and leaking, but Clark’s presence grounded you, steady and relentless.
“I’m yours,” you whispered back, breath hitching, “all of me. Always.”
Clark groaned softly, fingers digging lightly into your skin, marking you like the prize you were. The air hung thick with sweat and heat and the scent of your mingled arousal—a heady, suffocating mix.
You couldn’t do anything but let your breath catch and fall with his, tangled together in the quiet aftermath, filled to the brim with him.
The first time you felt it, a faint flutter of nausea, you shrugged it off. Maybe it was something you ate, or just exhaustion from the long days filled with too much to do and too little rest. You told yourself it was nothing—just a passing thing that would fade away with a good night’s sleep.
But the mornings came harder than expected, the sour twist in your stomach growing sharper, more persistent. Coffee, once a comfort, now turned bitter and burned your throat. You found yourself clutching the bathroom sink, trying to ward away the wave of dizziness that made your knees weak.
Clark noticed. Always attentive, but cautious not to push too hard. He brushed your hair back one morning as you sat pale and quiet on the edge of the bed.
“You look off,” he said softly. “Maybe you’re just worn down.”
You nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Probably just stress.”
But stress didn’t explain the way your muscles ached without cause, or how fatigue seeped into your bones no matter how much you rested. Some nights you woke drenched in sweat, your heart pounding like it was trying to break free from your chest. You’d lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to pin down the strange heaviness pressing low in your belly.
Clark had his own theories, quiet and tentative. “Maybe some weird reaction to that alien virus I fought last month,” he offered one evening, watching you pick at your dinner without appetite. “It’s been raining a lot too…maybe allergies?”
You appreciated his effort to find answers, even if they didn’t feel quite right. The idea of your body betraying you like this unsettled you more than you wanted to admit.
Days stretched into weeks, and the symptoms deepened. The nausea became a fixture in your mornings, sneaking into afternoons and sometimes evenings. Your clothes started to fit tighter around your waist, and the occasional sharp pang left you gasping for breath. You found yourself hesitating before movement, afraid of what might come next.
Clark’s watchfulness never wavered, but the questions remained unspoken. You both seemed to dance around the truth neither wanted to voice—not yet. Instead, you talked in fragments, theories swirling but never landing on the impossible.
“Maybe it’s something we haven’t seen before,” Clark mused quietly one night, the weight of the unknown pressing between you. “Something new, something… strange.”
You swallowed hard, not trusting your voice. “Yeah. Strange.”
In the quiet spaces between, your mind wrestled with the mounting evidence your body couldn’t hide. You knew something was happening. Something beyond sickness or stress, but the answer was still out of reach.
Mornings grew heavier, the nausea settling in like an uninvited guest who refused to leave. You caught yourself laughing quietly at your own grimace while stirring the coffee you barely drank. You skimped out on the half-and-half today; no bueno.
“I swear, if this is some cosmic joke, I’m sending a strongly worded letter,” you joked, though your voice lacked its usual spark.
Clark watched you from the doorway, concern etched in his features. “You really don’t look well,” he said, voice low. “Maybe you should take it easy today. Call off work?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” you said, waving him off with a weak grin. “Just auditioning for a new role: ‘The Human Barf Machine.’ Think I’ll nail it. But—I’ll be fine. Took a pill.”
He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to brush your temple with the gentlest touch, then flattened the back of his hand over your forehead, testing your body temperature. “This isn’t like you. You’re not fine.”
You shrugged, trying to keep the mood light even as your stomach twisted again. “Maybe I’m turning into a toddler. You know, like a baby with tantrums. Just missing the diapers.”
Clark’s brow furrowed deeper, and he hesitated before speaking. “You’re not tired like this because you’re just ‘turning into a toddler.’ Something’s wrong. Have you been keeping track? The nausea, the dizziness, the sweating…”
You sighed, the humor fading for a moment. “Yeah, I’ve noticed. You’re the expert on alien physiology, right? Got any theories?”
He shook his head, voice careful. “Nothing that fits. It’s like your body’s fighting something, but I can’t tell what.”
That night, you both sat on the couch, the air heavy with things unsaid. You toyed with the hem of your shirt, trying to find distraction in the fabric. “Maybe I’m just allergic to adulting,” you quipped, but your smile didn’t reach your eyes.
Clark reached out, fingers curling around yours. “I want to help, but I don’t know how. Just tell me if it gets worse, okay?”
You nodded, biting back the growing worry that was slowly replacing the humor. “I’ll try.”
The days that followed brought sharper waves of exhaustion, your body moving slower despite your best efforts. You caught Clark’s glance more often; that mixture of helplessness and determination to find answers.
One afternoon, after you nearly toppled trying to stand, Clark was quick to steady you. “Okay, that’s new,” he said, voice firm but worried. “You’re not just tired. We need to figure this out.”
You forced a laugh, leaning into him for support. “At least I’m consistent,” you murmured.
He shook his head, the joke falling flat. “This isn’t just fatigue. Something’s happening. I’m going to do some tests, run some scans.”
You hesitated, not wanting to admit how scared you were. “Fine. But only if you promise not to tell me I’m dying every five minutes.”
Clark smiled faintly, squeezing your hand. “Deal. But seriously, we’ll figure this out. Together.”
The days blurred, each morning greeting you with a fresh wave of nausea that tightened your throat and made your limbs feel leaden. You caught yourself rubbing your belly absently, a strange weight pressing there—not just physical, but something intangible that set your nerves on edge. You hated how little control you had over your own body lately.
Clark noticed every change, even the ones you tried to hide. One evening, after you had sunk onto the couch, drained and pale, he knelt before you, his eyes searching for clues.
“You’re barely eating,” he said softly, brushing a stray hair from your forehead. “You’re losing weight. This isn’t just stress…or-or a flu!”
You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “I don’t know what it is. None of it makes sense.” The words tasted bitter. “Maybe… maybe it’s something to do with your biology. I mean, you’re Kryptonian! Maybe I’m… affected by that somehow?”
Clark gave you a small, tired smile. “That’s the best guess I have too. But nothing I’ve seen before explains this.” His hand lingered on your shoulder, firm and grounding.
Nights were the hardest. Your body betrayed you with sudden chills and sweats, and the heaviness in your belly pulsed like a silent drumbeat. You avoided mirrors; your reflection showed tired eyes shadowed with worry, a body subtly changing in ways you couldn’t name.
You’d try to joke about it sometimes, masking your fear. “Maybe I’m turning into one of those aliens you always fight,” you said once, voice cracking. “You know, with weird powers and random health problems.”
Clark laughed softly but didn’t press. “If that were true, I’d have figured it out by now.”
As the weeks wore on, you found yourself avoiding physical activity altogether, drained after even the smallest exertion. The occasional sharp pain caught you off guard, stealing your breath. Clark’s concern grew more visible, the usual confident protector replaced by a quiet worry.
One afternoon, you were halfway through a light workout when your legs buckled. Clark caught you easily but the alarm in his eyes was unmistakable.
“This can’t keep happening,” he said, voice low but firm. “We need answers. I’ll run more scans tomorrow.”
You nodded, too tired to argue. “Thanks,” you whispered.
Clark’s support was steady, but you could tell he was holding back his own fears. Neither of you spoke of pregnancy. It felt impossible, a fantasy that didn’t belong in your reality. Yet the symptoms kept mounting, pressing on your sanity, forcing both of you to question what you thought you knew.
The dull ache in your belly had deepened into something more insistent, a pressure you could no longer ignore. The nausea wasn’t just morning’s visitor anymore; it lingered, a constant hum beneath your skin. Your clothes strained against a slowly rounding waistline, and you caught yourself tracing the curve with trembling fingers, unsure what to make of it.
Clark noticed first. One evening, as you sat quietly, absentmindedly rubbing your stomach, he cleared his throat, eyes searching yours for permission to say the thing neither of you wanted to say.
“This is going to sound crazy,” he began, voice low, “but… have you thought about the possibility that you might be… pregnant?”
You blinked, the words hitting like a thunderclap. Your mind scrambled—no, that couldn’t be. It had to be something else. “Clark,” you said slowly, “I don’t have a uterus—that’s… no. I mean… and you’re a man! Kryptonian man, sure, but also—again, I’m a man… with no uterus! How would that even be possible?! AGAIN, you’re a man! I’m—”
He shrugged, looking both embarrassed and serious, but took your hand in his to ground you back to reality. “I don’t know. I’m just saying… maybe your body is doing something we’ve never seen before. Something biological, something… beyond what we understand.”
The silence between you stretched, heavy and full of questions neither could answer.
You swallowed hard, the reality settling in with a strange mixture of fear and awe. “If that’s true,” you whispered, “then what… what happens next?”
Clark reached for your hand, squeezing it firmly. “Then we face it. Together. Whatever comes, we’ll figure it out. Like always.”
Your breath caught as tears pricked your eyes. Not just from fear, but from the weight of sharing this impossible secret. The weeks of sickness, the exhaustion, the pain; it all made sense now, tangled up in this surreal truth.
And despite it all, a fierce, stubborn hope blossomed inside you. Maybe this unexpected journey wasn’t just something to survive. Maybe it was something to cherish.
The days after that conversation carried a new kind of weight—not just the physical heaviness pressing against your body, but the gravity of the truth you now shared. You and Clark moved carefully through the world, an unspoken pact woven between you.
Clark’s presence was a steady comfort, his hand warm around yours as you navigated doctor visits and late-night talks filled with questions neither of you could fully answer. His strength, once so clearly physical, now revealed itself in patience and gentle reassurance.
You leaned against Clark’s chest, the quiet hum of the evening wrapping around you like a soft blanket. The fear and confusion still lingered, but beneath it all was something steadier—a shared resolve, a partnership forged in the unexpected.
“I’m scared,” you whispered, voice barely more than a breath.
Clark’s fingers threaded through your hair, his touch gentle and sure. “Me too. But whatever comes, we face it together.”
You lifted your head to meet his eyes, finding in them that unwavering calm you’d always depended on. “You think we should start thinking about names?”
He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Already? We haven’t even figured out how this is possible, and you want to name it?”
You grinned, playful despite yourself. “Hey, you said ‘whatever comes,’ so I’m holding you to it.”
Clark gave a small, reluctant smile. “Okay, but let’s keep the names simple. No family names, and definitely nothing too… out there.”
You smirked. “No promises. I’m sure Jimmy would be jumping for joy if we named a boy after him.”
He shook his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I’m guessing he’d also want dibs on picking the middle name.”
You rested your forehead against his, the weight of everything between you feeling a little lighter. For the first time in weeks, the future didn’t seem so uncertain.
You grinned. “You know, if we’re really doing this whole ‘parent’ thing, maybe you should think about making it official. You know… marriage and all that.”
Clark’s brow lifted, a slow smile spreading. “Jumping ahead a little, aren’t we?”
“Hey,” you said with mock seriousness, “it’s the logical next step.”
nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!
Summary: Mark Grayson dies of jealousy every time his flirty, easygoing, and perpetually exhausted best friend—who he may or may not have a huge crush on—makes out with random guys behind the school. Until the day you confess you’re a half-breed, like him. But not quite like him. Because while he’s half-Viltrumite, you are... half-incubus? Whatever that means… Mark’s more than willing to find out.
w.c: 19.7k | a/n: Heeey, it’s been forever!!! DID YOU MISS ME? Because I definitely missed you! I’m really sorry for being so inactive lately. I've been so busy between a nasty case of writer’s block, college stress, and work chaos... yeah, life sucks. Anyway! Here’s a little big treat I managed to squeeze out between bursts of inspiration and writer’s block. As always, English isn’t my first language, so please forgive any mistakes here and there. Hope you enjoy it!
You have a reputation.
You know it. Mark knows it. Hell, probably half the school knows it.
It clings to you like a second skin—whispers in the hallways, smirks in locker rooms, giggles that trail behind you in class. You’re a flirt, and not the harmless kind either.
The kind who’s always leaning just a little too close in crowded hallways, disappearing behind buildings with someone breathless and flushed, only to reappear like they’ve won the lottery. But then a week or two passes, and you’re gone. Slipping out of their lives like it never mattered. Like they never mattered. One minute, you’re all sultry glances and lingering touches. The next, you’re onto the next curious set of eyes across the room.
People talk. Some resent you. And yet, no matter how many times you walk away, there’s always someone new, eager and willing, thinking maybe they’ll be the exception.
And today, Mark sees it happen all over again.
He watches from across the cafeteria as you chat up some guy in line. You’re leaning in close—closer than necessary. Your shoulder brushes his, and your head tilts slightly when you laugh. That slow, lazy grin slides across your lips like it’s effortless. The guy blushes. Of course he does. He leans in without realizing it, like he’s being pulled by a string.
Mark doesn’t even taste the food in his mouth anymore.
He stabs his fork into his tray, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the casual way your hand lingers near the guy’s arm, the light in your expression that no one else ever gets to keep. His stomach knots.
You’re just playing. Again. He knows it. But that doesn’t stop the heat from rising in his chest. Doesn’t stop the slow burn of something he doesn’t want to name.
Then you laugh at something.
The guy laughs back, awkward and eager.
Mark’s knuckles go white around his fork.
“Uh, Mark to Earth?” William says, waving a hand in front of him. “I’ve been talking to you for, like, five minutes.”
Mark blinks, forcing his jaw to unclench. “Huh? Sorry. What?”
William raises an eyebrow, following Mark’s gaze to where you’re now smirking at something the guy said.
“Oh. Y/N again,” William mutters, deadpan. “Shocking.”
Mark’s ears are already burning. He glances down at his tray. “What about him?”
William sighs like he’s had this conversation in his head a hundred times already. “Dude. At least pretend to be subtle. Jealousy isn’t a good look.”
“I’m not—” Mark starts, a little too fast. He swallows hard, tries again with forced calm. “Whatever. It’s just—I’m worried, okay?”
“Oooh, worried. Right. Sure,” William drawls, nodding slowly like he’s humoring a toddler. “Totally not jealous that Y/N’s out there reeling in his next victim while you sit here pouting and crying about it.”
Mark nearly chokes. “What are you even—oh crap, he’s coming back. Shut up.”
He watches, frozen, as you murmur something to the guy before breaking away, walking straight toward them.
Mark jerks his eyes down to his tray, only now noticing the fork in his hand bent clean in half from how tightly he’d been gripping it. He swears under his breath, quickly ducking his hands beneath the table to fix it. He’s midway through smoothing it back into shape when you slide into the seat beside him, smooth as ever.
You sigh, lazy and soft. “Hey, nerds. Sorry I’m late. What’re you gossiping about without me?”
Your head props in your hand, elbow on the table, eyes flicking between them with something like curiosity—but dulled, like even that costs energy.
It’s always a bit of whiplash when you’re around them. The version of you the school knows—the smooth-talking, flirtatious heartbreaker—melts away almost instantly. With them, you’re just you—that quieter, wearier version only your close friends ever get to see. Your posture slouches. The sharp smirk fades into something hazy. Your eyes, once bright and teasing, grow distant.
It’s like watching a performance end the second the curtains close.
Mark watches, fascinated and frustrated in equal measure. He hadn’t been lying earlier—he is worried. Because behind the easy voice and sleepy grin, he sees it—that edge of exhaustion you try so hard to hide. That distracted look in your eyes, like your mind’s always somewhere else.
“Oh, we were just talking about Mark being jeal—ow!” William yelps, his leg jerking under the table.
Mark glares daggers at him, foot still pressed against William’s shin. His look says shut up so loud it might as well be spoken.
You raise a brow at the exchange, unimpressed. Even that tiny expression looks like it takes effort. Still, your gaze stays on William, waiting. “…About Mark being what?”
Mark straightens too fast. “Oh! Uh. Just—just excited! Y’know. About the tour. The Upstate U thing. It’s gonna be… fun.”
William grumbles into his food, refusing to look up. “Super fun.”
Your eyes light up just slightly—just enough to make Mark breathe easier. “Oh yeah! Right. Thanks again, William, for letting us crash your date with that hot pre-med guy.”
“Oh, well, since Mark insisted, how could I possibly say no? I love having my two best friends third- and fourth-wheeling all the time. Makes it so romantic.”
You snort, your posture loosening as you lean back and wink. “Don’t worry, Will. I’ll make sure to drag Mark away the second we get there. I’m not about to cockblock my friends.”
William’s smile turns razor-sharp. “Good. Make sure you keep Mark busy all day. And by all day, I mean all night too. You two are sharing a room—trust me, you don’t wanna know what I’ll be doing in mine.”
“Done,” you reply breezily, nudging your knee against Mark’s under the table without thinking.
Mark jerks like he’s been shocked, spine going stiff as his leg instinctively shifts away. He pointedly ignores the smug look William throws his way.
But of course, William isn’t done.
“So,” he drawls, “what were you talking about with that guy in line? You seemed real into it.”
Mark stiffens, lips pressing into a thin line as he shoots William a warning glare, one William very obviously avoids.
You blink, like the question catches you off guard—like you’d already forgotten about that guy entirely. Then realization sets in, and you wince a little. “Oh—that. I was just… hungry,” you mumble, eyes darting away. “Wanted to cut the line. Said something dumb to distract him, but standing around that long kinda sucked. I got tired.”
“Hungry?” Mark echoes, the irritation draining from his face as concern rushes in to take its place. “You’ve already had, like, four trays. You still hungry?”
You glance at him, giving a half-hearted shrug. “I have a big appetite?” you offer, lips tugging into a weak sort-of-smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
Mark catches it—the pout in your mouth, the barely-there glance toward his tray of food, the subtle tremble in your tone.
He doesn’t hesitate. Quietly, he slides his tray across the table toward you, nudging it close enough to make the offer clear.
Your eyes widen just a bit.
“You can have mine,” Mark says, trying to play it off with a shrug. “I’ve had enough.”
Your face lights up instantly, all exhaustion momentarily eclipsed by a bright smile “Seriously? Dude, thank you! God, I’m starving.”
Without another word, you pick up the fork—Mark’s fork—and dive into the food like you haven’t eaten in days.
Mark tries very hard not to think about how you’re eating off the same fork he used. That it’s kind of like—well, not a kiss. Not really. But also kind of not not one. He’s not five. He knows that. He tells his face that too, willing the heat in his cheeks to die down.
William snorts around a mouthful of his own food. “Jesus, you eat like you never did before. Got a black hole in there or what?”
You snort too, pausing just long enough to swallow. “Feels like it.”
Mark watches you. Watches the way your cheeks puff as you chew, the smooth motion of your throat as you eat, the quick swipe of your tongue across your lips between bites.
He swallows, too.
“Almost like you’re… insatiable,” he murmurs, without thinking.
You pause. Not for long—but enough. Your rhythm falters as you glance back at him, something unreadable in your expression. Like he just struck a chord you weren’t ready for.
It vanishes quickly. You laugh, not quite as bright as before. “Yeah,” you say, chuckling, “feels like it.”
But something’s changed. The words feel heavy now. Like a joke that isn’t really a joke. Like there’s something you want to say, but won’t.
Mark notices. Of course he does.
But, as always, he doesn’t say anything.
Mark never seems to know what to say around you.
So he sits there.
Watching you.
And in his own quiet way, maybe he’s insatiable too.
By the time you all arrive at Upstate U and meet Rick, you make good on your promise to keep Mark out of William’s hair. You wave William off with a cheeky salute and a wink, then drag Mark into your own version of a tour: one that includes skipping the official info sessions, sampling from half the food trucks on campus, and wandering through hidden places neither of you expected to find.
Mark doesn’t complain. In fact, he’s having a good time—a great time, actually.
He’s laughing too much. Smiling too easily. He tries not to notice the way his body jolts when his shoulder always ends up pressed against yours whenever you walk side by side. He tries not to focus on the way his chest swells a little too much every time you laugh at something he says. He really tries to ignore the way his heart picks up every time your eyes catch his and hold, just for a beat too long.
But what Mark can’t ignore—no matter how hard he tries—is the way your breath hitches after walking for too long. The way your pace slows, like your legs are dragging. The way your body leans into him like you don’t even notice you’re doing it—like gravity’s pulled you sideways and he’s the only thing holding you up. The way you keep rubbing your eyes, like you were trying to scrub the exhaustion out of them.
Eventually, Mark can’t pretend anymore.
“Hey,” he says gently, his hand brushing your shoulder to guide you toward the nearest bench. “Let’s sit for a bit.”
You blink, but let him. The second you sit down, your body sinks into the bench like it’s doing half the work your legs can’t anymore.
“How’re you feeling?”
“Peachy,” you mutter, voice low and strained. “Why?”
Mark watches you carefully, his brows pulling together. You’re sweating slightly, and your skin has that drained, almost translucent look to it.
“You’re pale,” he says quietly. “And kind of… out of it. Are you sure you’re okay? We can go back to the dorms. You don’t have to push yourself.”
You don’t answer right away, eyes darting to the ground, breathing shallowly like you’re barely holding it together.
And what Mark doesn’t get—what drives him a little crazy—is why you keep pretending you’re fine.
Especially with him.
“I’m just—” you start, then stop yourself, jaw tightening as you press your lips together in visible frustration “—hungry.”
Your eyes drift past him, unfocused, flicking over the stream of students walking by. You look like you’re scanning them. Assessing.
“I should eat,” you mutter, dazed. “I should… eat something…”
Mark straightens in his seat, alarm rising in his chest. “I can get you something,” he offers quickly, ignoring the fact you’ve already eaten enough for three people today. He just wants to help. “Something sweet. Maybe your blood sugar’s low?”
You look up at him then, and something in your expression knocks the wind out of him. Your brows pinch, eyes cloudy, lips parted like you’re about to cry.
“That’s not enough,” you whisper.
Mark blinks. “What do you mean?”
Then, without hesitation, without shame, you whisper, “I wanna kiss someone.”
Mark freezes.
“What?”
“I need someone,” you repeat, more firmly this time, bracing your hands against the bench like you’re about to stand. “I’ll find someone. Just—stay here, okay? It won’t take more than fifteen minutes.” You push yourself up, but stumble as you take a step forward.
Mark doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares at you like he doesn’t recognize you for a second.
Kiss someone? Now? You were clearly unwell—too pale, too drained, barely standing—but even now, even like this, you were going to throw yourself at some stranger? After spending the entire day together, after laughing and joking and walking shoulder-to-shoulder like you actually wanted to be around him?
His throat tightens. A bitter coil wraps around his heart, hot and suffocating and impossible to shake. Something ugly rears its head in his chest. A sick twist of frustration and hurt and—
God.
William was right.
Jealousy.
Mark presses his lips together. He doesn’t want to be the kind of guy who gets angry about this.
He’s not entitled to you. He never was.
But that doesn’t stop his hands from curling into fists in his lap, knuckles white.
Because you’re clearly hurting. And you won’t tell him why.
Because you’re pushing yourself toward strangers, toward danger, when he’s right here.
Because, for once, he wants you to pick him.
And you don’t.
Before you can take another shaky step, Mark stands up and grabs your wrist.
“No.”
The word comes out sharper than he means it to—clipped, almost angry.
You stop, turning to him with startled, uneasy eyes. “I’ll be right back, Mark. I swear.”
“No,” he says again, firmer this time, his brow knitting. “You’re about to collapse, Y/N. I’m not letting you go to—what, kiss some random guy just because you’re feeling off?”
You blink, taken aback by his tone. “Look, I get you’re worried, but—”
“No, Y/N,” he cuts in, voice rising, frustration breaking through. “I’ve never judged you for the crap people say about you, alright? Never cared what they whispered in the halls. But this? This is insane. You’re sick, and your solution is to hook up with a stranger? We’ve been here less than a day!”
The next words slip out before he can stop them.
“Can you not act like some hormone-crazed idiot for five minutes and just take care of yourself?”
The second the words leave his mouth, he wants to take them back. But it’s too late.
You go completely still, eyes going wide.
Then, slowly, your expression hardens.
“Hormone-crazed idiot?” you echo, voice low and cutting, disbelief flickering in your eyes. “Is that what you think I am?”
“Wait—Y/N, I didn’t mean—”
You tear your hand from his grip, expression stony. It’s like a dam breaks beneath your exhaustion, a spark of rage reigniting the strength that had been fading from you all day.
“What am I then, huh? Just some horny screw-up who can’t go a day without climbing someone? You think this is fun for me? That I like being like this?”
Mark shakes his head, panicked, but not quite understanding the meaning of your words. “No—God, no, that’s not what I meant, it’s just—”
“Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone else thinks I’m just some—some fucking slut who can’t keep it in his pants. But you—” Your voice breaks. “I thought you knew me better than that, Mark.”
Mark’s stomach drops. “I do! I swear I—”
Before he can finish, William’s voice cuts through the charged air, calling over the crowd, his arm linked with Rick’s.
“Hey, idiots! Having fun with—oh…” William’s voice trails off, sensing the thick tension between you two. He awkwardly lowers his raised arm. “Hey… is everything okay…?”
Mark barely holds back a groan, cursing himself for the words that slipped out so stupidly. He wants to apologize, to pull you aside, to fix it—
But then a sudden explosion shakes the ground beneath them, a cyborg-looking-monster crawling out of a hole.
What happens next is a blur of instinct and adrenaline. One second he’s Mark Grayson, desperate to take back his words—the next, he’s Invincible, saving his best friends from death.
And when it’s over, when he drags himself back, bruised and breathless, to where William and you are huddled in safety—
William stares at him, whispering under his breath, “Mark…?”
And you—you’re not surprised. Not even angry. You just frown, gaze deliberately avoiding his, eyes unreadable and distant.
It’s in that moment Mark knows he’s screwed up big time.
You don’t speak to him again until later, when the nightmare finally ends—Sinclair in GDA custody, William shaken but safe, and Rick badly wounded but alive.
“Can’t believe Sinclair nearly turned you into one of those things,” William mutters, arms wrapped tightly around Rick.
Mark stands off to the side, awkward and out of place in the fluorescent-lit room. You’ve long since excused yourself, mumbling something about sleeping this fucking day away. The words had been dressed up as a joke, but Mark saw through it—the way your hands trembled as you gripped the doorframe, the deep shadows under your eyes, the sheen of sweat clinging to your pale face.
He remembered the way you leaned on him earlier, how your steps had faltered, how you kept pretending you were okay.
You weren’t.
And now, after everything that’s happened, Mark’s worried sick.
“I’ll…” he starts, voice flat, drained. “I’ll go to bed too. You guys, um… get some rest.”
Rick nods. William does too, but his eyes linger—sharp, knowing, and meaningful. A silent get your shit together.
Mark tries.
The room is dim when he slips in, cold moonlight pooling faintly through the curtains. You’re already curled up on one of the beds, facing the wall. For a moment, he feels crushed because you’re still mad at him.
Moving quietly, he strips out of his clothes with mechanical, resigned motions, slipping into his pajamas—until your voice cuts through the silence.
“Mark?”
He freezes—mid-motion, halfway through tugging his jeans off—heart leaping to his throat.
He turns quickly to face you, finding you sitting up groggily in bed, hair tousled, eyes heavy with exhaustion.
“Y/N,” he breathes, almost stumbling over your name. He’s so relieved to hear you talk to him again, but the guilt crashes in just as fast. “Are you—did I wake you? Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
You shake your head slowly, blinking away the haze. “No. I wasn’t really sleeping anyway.”
Mark hesitates by the edge of his bed, torn between giving you space and wanting to inch closer. “Do you… need something?” he asks softly. “Water? Food? Anything?”
You’re quiet for a beat, looking at him in a way that makes his heart clench—like you’re still tired, still hurt, but no longer angry. Just… worn down.
“Nah,” you murmur, voice low. “I’m fine.”
Silence stretches between you.
Mark sits there, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on him. He hates it—the tension, the awkwardness, the distance, especially when you were having such a good time today. The kind of fun that only happens when you’re with someone you really like.
And Mark likes you.
Probably a lot more than he wanted to admit.
Probably enough to get on his knees and beg if that’s what it would take to fix this. He’s already forming the words in his head, some clumsy apology laced with sincerity, when you speak first.
“So… Invincible, huh?” you mutter, the faintest edge of amusement cutting through your exhaustion.
Mark latches onto the sound of your voice—that tone—like a lifeline.
“Yeah,” he chuckles awkwardly, rubbing his neck. “That’s, uh. That’s me.”
You hum, noncommittal, gaze drifting toward the window. “Were you ever going to tell us?”
Mark’s breath catches. His smile falters. It would be easy to lie. To say yeah, eventually, of course.
But all that comes out is a quiet, “...I don’t know.”
You don’t say anything right away. You just rub at your eyes again, the way you always do when you’re trying to rub away sleep. It sets Mark on edge. His fingers twitch with the urge to reach out—check your temperature, get you water, make you take something, do something.
But he stays put.
Eventually, you exhale a long, slow breath. “It’s fine. I’m not mad about that.”
That.
Mark winces, the word cutting a little deeper than it should.
And then, finally, it spills out—earnest and clumsy and too fast.
“About—about what I said earlier…” he begins, voice low. “I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t care what you do—or don’t do—with other people. I swear. I was just… I was just really worried about you. You looked like you were about to pass out, and then hearing you say you wanted to kiss someone—God, I didn’t know what was happening. And I panicked. And I said something shitty. I’m sorry.”
Your expression doesn’t change at first. And Mark waits, his stomach a mess of nerves, the silence dragging sharp between you.
Then you sigh—long and heavy—and finally meet his eyes.
“I know,” you murmur. “God, I know. You don’t understand—can’t understand what—who I am. I shouldn’t have gotten mad at you for not knowing. That’s not fair.”
Mark frowns. He doesn’t feel any better—if anything, worse—because it sounds like you’re taking the blame for what he said. And that doesn’t sit right with him.
“What do you mean?” he asks, voice quiet. “I was the one who basically called you a hormonal mess to your face. That’s on me.”
You press your lips together and shake your head. “Yeah, well… I was the one who said I needed to kiss someone right there. Without context, that sounds…” You trail off, flinching, dragging a hand down your face. “I was out of it. I shouldn’t have said it like that, but I was desperate. Still am.”
Mark’s frown deepens, confusion flickering across his face. He opens his mouth, then closes it, unsure of what he even wants to ask. But the question lingers in his chest, heavy and jealous and aching.
Desperate? Still?
“You still…” he starts, then hesitates. “Still want to kiss someone?”
You blink at him, startled—but not like he’s wrong. More like you didn’t expect him to say it out loud.
Mark clears his throat, awkward, trying to shove the twist of jealousy in his chest down, his imagination running wild with images of you seeking out someone else’s lips in the dark.
“I… I think I’m gonna need a little more explanation than that,” he says carefully. “Because if this is still about kissing someone, I’m—uh—I’m not following.”
You go quiet for a moment, just looking at him—eyes uncertain, troubled, teeth pressing into your lower lip like you’re holding something in.
And that’s when Mark really sees it.
It’s serious. Whatever this is, it’s eating at you. And suddenly, he’s crossing the room without thinking, settling gently at the edge of your bed like he’s afraid to startle you.
“Hey,” he says softly. “You can tell me anything. You know that, right?”
You look at him, eyes wide and tired, like you haven’t slept in days. And then, with a dry, humorless smile, you shake your head.
“Well,” you whisper, “now that I know you’re Invincible... guess I owe you some truth too.”
Mark’s pulse jumps. “Truth?”
“Call it… an exchange of secrets,” you say, voice quiet, almost shy in a way that makes Mark’s stomach flip.
He leans in without thinking, drawn like gravity. “A secret?” The word comes out breathless. He’d thought he knew everything about you.
You hesitate. Nervousness is written all over you—tense shoulders, twitching fingers, the way you can’t quite sit still. But even so, you meet his eyes, refusing to look away.
“Promise you won’t look at me differently,” you whisper, so quiet he has to lean even closer to hear. “Promise this won’t change anything between us.”
Mark doesn’t hesitate. “I promise.”
Because really—how bad could it be?
You lick your lips, glance down at your hands, still fidgeting in your lap.
“Mark,” you begin slowly, “my family has... a curse. It’s been in our blood for generations. And—” Your hands fist in the sheets. “There’s nothing I can do to stop it. I need you to understand that. This isn’t—it’s not a choice, okay?”
Mark’s brows knit together, already twitching with worry as his mind jumps to every worst-case scenario. He’s heard of curses. He’s seen what they can do. Amanda—Monster Girl—was proof enough that they were never just quirky inconveniences. People suffered under curses. People died because of them.
And the way you’re speaking now—so serious, so insistent, practically pleading—hits something raw inside him and twists.
He nods, quickly, urgently. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. I believe you.”
You swallow hard, hands tangled tightly in the bedsheets.
“I’m…” You close your eyes for a moment, like it physically hurts to say it. “I’m not—I’m not fully human, Mark.”
The silence that follows is thick.
Mark’s eyes widen, those words bouncing around his skull, impossible to ignore.
“Part of my bloodline—on my mother’s side—is something else,” you continue, carefully, assessing his reaction with anxious eyes. “We call it a curse, but it’s more like a... condition we inherit.”
Mark listens intently, piecing together the implications, nodding slowly along.
Finally, you exhale shakily, gaze steady but vulnerable.
“I’m part incubus.”
The words hang heavy in the air.
“That’s why I needed to kiss someone earlier,” you admit, fingers twisting in the sheets. Your cheeks burn even in the dim light. “Normal food... it’s not enough. I can eat it, but it doesn’t sustain me. I need—” A shaky exhale. “Arousal. Desire. Intimacy. The energy that comes with it.”
Mark watches as you shrink into yourself, the confession leaving you vulnerable in a way he’s never seen.
“And when I don’t...” You hesitate, then force yourself to go on. “When I go too long without it, my body starts to shut down. You saw it earlier today. That’s what it looks like when I’m starving. I was trying to hide it because I didn’t want—I didn’t want you to know this part of me.”
Mark just stares, stunned—not with disgust or fear, but with a dawning realization. His mind scrambles, trying to make sense of everything. Okay.You’re part incubus. He’s not totally sure what that entails, not really, but he can piece it together. You feed off arousal—off desire. And without it, you get sick. Really sick. Okay. That much he gets.
Then finally, softly, “You’re sick because you’re starving.”
You grimace at that, the words clearly stinging, and glance away. Still, you nod—just barely. A small, exhausted gesture.
“You kiss people to… eat?” he asks slowly. “So back at school—when you were with people—you were feeding?”
You don’t nod this time. You wince instead, tilting your head with an awkward expression.
“Not exactly,” you murmur. “I don’t feed from kisses. That’s not enough. I just…” Your voice dips, suddenly shy. “I just mess around long enough to make people feel... something. Get their arousal going. When things start to, y’know, heat up.”
The second that last phrase escapes your lips, you let out a groan and bury your face in your hands.
“God, I hate saying it out loud. I hate how it sounds. But it’s not like I can turn it off, okay? If I could, I would. Believe me.”
Your voice is muffled behind your palms, frustration and shame coloring every word.
“Hey, hey,” Mark says gently, reaching out to take your hands in his. He pulls them away from your face with soft insistence, making sure you see the sincerity written all over his expression. “I don’t care, okay? This isn’t something you chose. It’s not—it’s not your fault.”
Mark swallows hard, glancing at you again—really looking. You’re still pale. Still swaying a bit where you sit. There are dark, bruised shadows beneath your eyes, and you look one bad night away from collapsing.
“I mean… if you didn’t feed,” Mark says slowly, working through it aloud, “you’d be like this all the time, right? That sounds like it’d really suck. I mean, look at you now. You’re still…”
He trails off, his gaze drifting over you with a worried crease in his brow.
A short, dry huff escapes you. You blink at him, tired and a little amused. “Yeah. It sucks. I could even die.”
You say it so lightly, like it’s no big deal—like you’re joking—and it knocks the breath right out of him.
Mark stares, stunned for a beat, the weight of that sentence finally settling in.
Then he leans forward, closing the space between you, close enough that his breath brushes yours. His hands slide up to your shoulders, firm and grounding as he pulls you gently toward him.
“You could die?” Mark hisses, panic tightening his voice. His fingers dig into your shoulders, eyes wide with fear. “How—how much time do you have left? Why didn’t you tell me? Shit—we should find someone immediately. God, I was the one who stopped you earlier—I’m such an idiot. Oh my god, are you dying?”
“Mark, Mark, breathe,” you say, raising both hands in a placating gesture, a genuine—if tired—smile tugging at your lips. “That only happens in really extreme cases, alright? I’m nowhere near that point. I swear.”
Mark lets out a shaky breath, but his grip on you doesn’t ease.
“Then why not—” He swallows hard, hating the question even as it leaves his lips. “Why not stay with one person? Wouldn’t that be easier than constantly finding new people?”
What he really wants to ask is, Why aren’t you ever serious with anyone? Why not choose someone, stay safe, be safe?
But your eyes drop, the smile fades, and something heavy settles over your expression. You look sad.
Mark hates it instantly.
“Mark…” you murmur, hesitant. “You understand I feed off these people, right? What do you think that means?”
You don’t wait for his answer.
“There’s only so much I can take before they start breaking down,” you say, voice low. “At first it’s subtle—just a little fatigue. But after a week or two, it’s worse. They lose sleep. They get distracted. Their appetite drops. Their energy drains. And I’m not even feeding properly. Just kisses, Mark. Barely enough to keep myself upright, and it already wears them out.”
Mark’s brows knit together, the weight of your words hitting hard, sinking deep.
“And that’s me holding back,” you say, shoulders tense. “That’s me playing it safe. And it’s still not enough.”
You glance at him then, eyes glinting with something close to fear.
“What happens if I stop holding back? What if I lose control? What if I finally taste the real thing—and I can’t stop? I’m scared, Mark. I’m scared I’ll hurt someone. Kill someone.”
The raw honesty in your voice does something to Mark’s pulse. He should be shocked. Maybe even disturbed. But all he feels is an overwhelming pull—an urge to make you feel safe, to ease that pain etched into every word.
“The real thing?” he echoes, voice rough despite already knowing the answer.
You give a dry smile, raising a brow. “Sex, Mark.” Then your gaze drops, and color creeps into your cheeks as you mumble, embarrassed, “I think it’s the only thing that can truly sustain me. Maybe for months, if I’m lucky. But humans are—” You pause, frustration coloring your voice. “Humans are just so... fragile.”
Mark swallows hard, throat dry. He’s still holding onto your shoulders, the heat of your skin seeping through the soft fabric of your t-shirt. He can feel the tremor in your muscles, subtle but undeniable. The shallow rise and fall of your chest. Even now, even after spilling everything—you’re still trying to hold it together.
And he hates it.
Hates that you’re suffering.
Hates that he can’t fix it. Not unless you found someone to—
Found someone—
Someone.
Mark’s breath hitches. His eyes flicker from your face to his hands on you… then back up. The idea hits him like lightning—sudden, bright, impossibly simple and obvious.
His mouth moves before he can stop it.
“Can I help?”
Your head snaps up, eyes widening. “What?”
Mark doesn’t back down. His grip tightens slightly as he leans in, voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re starving. And I’m... here.” A beat. “Let me help.”
The offer hangs between you, trembling in the charged silence.
Mark can feel the heat rising to his face, nerves unraveling beneath his skin. He’s suddenly hyperaware of how close you are—close enough to see the way your pupils swallow the color of your eyes, close enough to feel your breath hitch.
“Mark,” you breathe, stunned. Then you shake your head quickly, like you’re trying to shake the thought loose. “No. That’s—did you not hear what I just said? I don’t wanna hurt you. You could end up dying—”
“I’m not human!” he blurts out, voice rising a little in panic, desperate for you to understand. “I mean—I’m not entirely human, like you. I’m half Viltrumite—that’s why I have these powers. An alien race on my dad’s side and—” He stops, shaking his head hard. That’s not the point. “Anyway! I’m strong. Durable. I heal fast and have insane stamina. I won’t—won’t get hurt if you…”
He trails off, drowning in his own embarrassment. God, he hopes he doesn’t sound desperate—just a friend trying to help. Nothing weird about it. Even if—shit—even if it means kissing you.
Mark nearly chokes on his own spit.
Yeah. Right. Kissing. That’s what he’s offering.
No—it’s more than that.
He feels it land in his stomach, heavy, hot, terrifying.
“If we have... sex,” he finishes, cheeks flaming. But the moment he says it, he feels stupid and awkward, his eyes darting everywhere but yours. “I—I mean, we can try. You feel awful all the time, right? And I’m strong. I can take it—I know I can. Because, you know…” He lets out a nervous, breathless laugh, too fast, too forced. “I’m, uh… I’m Invincible. That’s—ha—that’s me.”
The laugh dies a quiet death in his throat.
He bites his lip, eyes dropping to the floor. Silence settles between you again, thick and suffocating. Mark can hear the pounding of his heart, wild and humiliating, slamming against his ribs like it’s trying to escape. God—he sounds so stupid. You probably think he’s being weird. Or desperate. Or both.
Offering to—God. He can’t even say it in his own head without his face going up in flames. But he’s thinking it.
Worse—he’s been thinking it for a while now.
He starts remembering all those times you snuck off after school, slipping behind the gates with someone new, someone who wasn’t him. All those nights Mark lay in bed wondering what you were doing, what it would feel like if you picked him instead.
He remembers how you smiled at him in the middle of crowded hallways—just for a second—and how his heart would stutter in his chest like it forgot how to work. Only for that smile to shift to someone else a moment later, while Mark just stood there, swallowing disappointment like it was a habit.
He remembers how you flop onto his bed whenever you visited, casually thumbing through his comics and calling them lame with a crooked grin, even though you keep reading them anyway just because he likes them.
Your body stretched out in his sheets, your scent lingering in his pillows long after you’ve left. The way your lips tug into a smirk when Seance Dog does something stupid, or how you bite your lower lip when you’re focused, brow twitching every time a plot point annoys you. The way your smile sneaks in, helpless and honest, when you stifle a laugh just to mess with him.
Mark’s thought about kissing you before. Right there, in the quiet of his room, while you were sprawled across his bed, completely at ease. But he never dared.
And now, sitting here in the stillness of this dorm, you only inches away, the thought slips back in.
Mark thinks of kissing you again. Now. But he’s still too shy to try.
Then, soft and amused, you chuckle quietly, breaking the silence.
Mark’s head snaps up, lips already pulling into a nervous pout, bracing for your usual teasing.
But you’re not teasing.
You’re looking at him with something else in your eyes—soft wonder, a kind of startled tenderness, like you’re seeing him clearly for the first time. Your smile is crooked, small. “Invincible, huh.”
Mark swallows thickly and nods. “Invincible.”
A beat.
Then your fingers reach for his collar, curling into the fabric with a tremble he can feel, and Mark’s heart just stops.
“Mark Grayson,” you whisper, half awe, half fear, “do you have any idea what you’re signing up for?”
Mark’s never been more certain about anything.
“I do.”
You smile at him—soft, fond—and for the first time in what feels like forever, the exhaustion in your eyes eases, just a little. Just enough to make Mark’s chest tighten.
Then you tug him closer by the collar of his shirt, and Mark’s breath stutters. Your breath mingles with his—warm, steady, grounding—while his comes out shallow and trembling, lips parted, eyes half-lidded, skin flushed with want.
You’re so close. So unbelievably close. The heat of your lips brushes his, barely there, and Mark leans in without realizing, drawn to you like a magnet.
You inhale deeply, and then let out a soft, pleased hum, one that shudders down his spine.
“You really want it,” you whisper, almost to yourself, voice tinged with wonder. “I can smell it on you.”
Mark doesn’t get the chance to ask what that means—how you can know. Because then your mouth crashes into his, and you groan into the kiss like it’s a relief, like it’s something you’ve needed just as badly.
Mark’s eyes flutter shut, and melts.
It starts slow—tentative. Testing. But Mark sinks into the kiss like he was made for it, hands finding your waist and gripping tight. You sigh into his mouth, lips parting, and Mark doesn’t even think—he just deepens the kiss, tongue brushing yours, hungry and desperate and real.
And the noise you make—
God.
Mark’s never heard anything better.
He presses into you, completely lost in the moment—lost in the feel of your mouth against his. Slowly, your back meets the mattress with a soft thud, and Mark follows, bracing himself on his elbows and palms above you. But neither of you pulls away—not even for a second. The kiss deepens, tongues greedily tangling, hungry for more.
Heat coils low in Mark’s gut. His mind spins, thoughts breaking apart like static. It’s overwhelming—in the best possible way. Your mouth is warm, wet, desperate, kissing him like you want to devour him.
And maybe… maybe you do.
When he finally pulls back, gasping, the sight of you steals what little breath he has left. Color has returned to your cheeks, your eyes bright and focused now, dark with want. The transformation is startling—like watching a wilting flower spring back to life after rain.
Mark swallows thickly. “Better?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
You inhale, lips slick and a little swollen. “Better,” you murmur. Then you raise a hand, fingers brushing tenderly along his cheek. “You?”
Mark pauses. He thinks about the warmth simmering in his chest, the way his skin tingles under your touch, how every nerve feels alive. If you’re better, that means it’s working—that you’re feeding off his arousal. Off him. But he doesn’t feel drained. Not really. Just the heady buzz of desire, the thrill of finally having you beneath him. If this is what feeding you feels like, he’d gladly offer himself up again and again.
“Still good,” he murmurs, smiling crookedly. “Really good.”
Your smile lights up the dim space between you as you pull him back down. Mark groans into the kiss, body sinking against yours when your hand slips behind his back and pulls him in. Chest to chest. Hips to hips. The contact burns through his clothes, sending sparks dancing along his nerves.
This is for you, he thinks wildly as his hips jerk forward of their own accord. To make you strong again.
The moan you let out against his lips is downright sinful. Your legs part instinctively, guiding him to slot perfectly between them. “Mark—” you gasp, fingers tightening in his hair, “are you sure—”
His answer comes in another sharp roll of his hips, drawing a punched-out sound from your throat that goes straight to his cock.
Yes. God, yes.
No words could possibly capture the certainty thrumming through his veins. You seem to understand anyway, arching up to meet his next thrust with a filthy grind that has you both moaning into each other’s mouths.
The heat between you is unbearable now—the drag of fabric against oversensitive skin, the way your hardening lengths press together with each desperate movement. Mark’s never been this hard in his life, every nerve ending alight with the need to give you more, more, more.
“So good,” you slur against his lips, voice thick with pleasure. “Fuck, Mark, so good—”
The words go straight to his core, and Mark’s eyes flutter shut, hips moving faster, chasing that sound, chasing that praise. He wants to hear it again. He wants to earn it. Relishing the way your body trembles beneath him—not from exhaustion now, but from the pleasure he’s giving you.
He can feel it happening; the strength returning to your limbs even as his own energy wanes. It’s not unpleasant—just a deep, satisfying fatigue, like after an intense flight. More than worth it to see color flooding back into your face, to feel your grip on him growing steadier by the second.
So he keeps going, harder, faster, grinding against you like some hopelessly horny teenager.
Turns out the hormone-crazed idiot had been him all along.
“F-Fuck—” Mark chokes out, his voice raw with need, skin flushed and hypersensitive. “Y/N... god, Y/N...”
You moan in response, fingers twisting in his shirt as you drag him closer. The kiss turns messy—all biting lips and clashing teeth, the kind of desperate intensity that leaves you both breathless. Your hands slip beneath his shirt, palms scorching trails across the sweat-slick planes of his back. Mark shudders violently, muscles jumping under your touch.
“Mark—” you gasp, arching up against him, pleasure painting your features. “Mmh, Mark—”
And it hits him.
You’re in the dorms.
William and Rick are probably still very much awake. It’s the middle of the night. And both of you are getting way too loud.
Mark’s face flames with embarrassment.
And when you open your mouth to moan again, he panics—just a little—and presses a hand gently over your mouth to muffle the sound.
Your eyes fly open, dazed and confused, locking with his. And shit—the sight of you like that nearly makes him lose it right then and there.
“Shh,” Mark whispers, breath ragged, forehead pressing against yours. “They’ll hear us.”
You go still for a beat, eyes flicking to the door like you’ve only just remembered where you are. Then you nod slowly, locking eyes with him again.
Mark gives a shallow thrust, still holding his palm over your mouth, just in case. This time, with your lips no longer fused together, his eyes remain open—watching every microexpression of pleasure that crosses your face. The way your pupils blow wider with each thrust. The tension building in your jaw. Most striking of all—the life flooding back into your exhausted features as you meet him halfway.
The silent exchange is somehow more intense than the noises you’d been making before. Mark reads every hitched breath in the flutter of your lashes, every spike of pleasure in the way your fingers dig into his back.
The room is filled with nothing but the sound of heavy breathing, the faint creak of the old bed, and the rustle of tangled sheets. Your gazes lock, dark and searching and hungry. And god, god, Mark has never felt anything like this.
There’s a thrill buzzing down his spine, a flutter in his chest that’s got nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with you. His heart pounds wildly, not just from exhaustion, but from pure, surging adrenaline—pumping heat into every vein, every muscle.
His muscles twitch and flex instinctively from the sheer pleasure wracking his body. His breath catches and his cock aches, hard and leaking into his boxers, needier than it’s ever been.
Mark wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.
The heat coils inside him, slow and molten, building pressure with every thrust and grind of your hips against his. Your eyes never leave him, and it wrecks him. That look—like he’s the only thing in the world that matters. The way you’re giving yourself to him, trusting him, wanting him.
Wanting him.
You want him.
The realization hits like lightning, and Mark’s whole body reacts—hips grinding harder, cock pulsing desperately, breath coming fast and uneven as the world narrows to nothing but you. His brain short-circuits, every rational thought evaporating under the weight of that need.
Then your hand slips down.
Past his waistband.
Fingers wrap around his cock, warm and sure and so willing.
Mark chokes on a breath, buries his face in the crook of your neck just as you stroke him—once, twice.
And that’s all it takes.
His whole body shudders violently as he comes, hard, gasping into your skin, cock pulsing in your hand, spilling over your fingers with a soundless cry. His hips jerk helplessly as you milk every last drop from him, until he collapses against you, sensitive and spent.
His breath comes in shallow, uneven gasps, thighs twitching, mind blissfully blank. The exhaustion hits him like a wave—a deep, satisfying lethargy that weighs down his limbs, his eyelids fluttering as he fights to stay awake.
“You okay?” you murmur, voice rough, fingers still lazily stroking his oversensitive flesh. Mark shudders, biting back a whimper, and instead sinks his teeth into your shoulder—not hard, just enough to ground himself. “Mark?”
“I’m fine…” he slurs, voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. “God, I’m so fucking fine.”
You chuckle, low and warm, but your grip tightens again, just for a second—just enough to have him whining, squirming, his spent cock twitching pathetically in your hold before you finally relent.
Mark forces himself up on shaking arms, giving you space to breathe. But in that exact moment, as your hand slips free of his boxers—fingers glistening with his release—he sees something that nearly undoes him all over again.
With zero hesitation, you bring those cum-slick fingers to your mouth—and lick them clean.
Mark’s brain short-circuits.
His mouth goes dry as he watches your tongue flick out, slow and deliberate, catching every drop like it’s something precious, your eyes locked on his the entire time—daring him to look away.
“Shit—” Mark chokes, his spent body throbbing weakly at the sight. “Y/N—”
You hum, eyes fluttering shut as if savoring the taste, lips curling into a sinful little smirk.
Mark swears under his breath, his energy draining further, vision blurring at the edges—but even now, even exhausted, he can’t tear his gaze away.
And all Mark can think is he did that.
He made you feel alright.
He gave you strength again.
Because you’re glowing—god, you’re glowing.
“Y/N…” he breathes, voice trembling. “Are you—are you feeling okay now?”
You hum contentedly, licking the last traces of cum from your fingers with a satisfied sigh. “Never been better.”
Mark’s answering smile is drowsy but genuine. “Good. That’s... good.” His eyelids flutter despite his best efforts to keep them open.
“Mark?” you ask gently, sensing the shift in his body—how it droops, how his muscles go slack.
He blinks at you, slow and owlish, trying to hum an answer. He’s fighting it—desperately trying to stay awake, to prove to you that he’s okay. That you don’t have to worry. That he’s strong enough to do it again, whenever you need it.
But he can’t.
It’s like trying to fight anesthesia—his consciousness slipping despite his will, soft and slow and inevitable.
To his surprise, you don’t panic. Instead, a tender smirk curves your lips as you guide his swaying body off of you, helping him roll onto his side so he lands beside you instead of collapsing on top. You tug the sheets over both of you with a quiet, satisfied sigh, then curl around him, limbs tangling comfortably with his.
Mark still has just enough strength to pull you closer, wrapping his arms around you in return.
The very last thing he feels is the soft brush of your lips at the corner of his mouth.
And then, everything fades.
Since that night, nothing’s happened between you again.
The very next morning, you thanked him with a soft kiss to his cheek, all warm affection and casual ease. You seemed energized, almost thriving, while Mark woke up feeling sluggish and tired—though nothing serious enough to make either of you worry.
You even laughed when you noticed how drained he was. “If I tried that with a regular human,” you said thoughtfully, “they’d probably drop into a small coma, I think.”
So… yeah. Mark had to admit, his Viltrumite heritage did come with some perks beyond just strength.
And for a while, you were fine. More than fine.
Mark watched you through the days, then weeks—half expecting you to suddenly corner a random classmate and start making out with them just to feed again. But you didn’t. Not once.
Which probably had something to do with the fact that you’d… well. Eaten his cum. You mentioned it offhandedly once, saying it gave you an “energetic bonus,” like it was a protein shake or something. And Mark—Mark thought about that for hours. Days, maybe.
He’d let you do it again in a heartbeat. Every day, if you asked. At any time. Anywhere.
And that’s the problem.
You haven’t asked.
Apparently, whatever you got out of him that night was enough to keep you going for weeks. Which is honestly impressive, considering the two of you didn’t even have full-on sex. You just… grinded against each other and you gave the world’s shortest handjob—and he still passed out immediately after like some overwhelmed virgin.
Because, well, he was overwhelmed.
Mark tells himself he needs to work on his stamina. He can’t let that happen again—not if he wants to actually get to the next phase with you. Not if he wants to please you, the way you made him feel that night.
But it’s also true—you were starving back then. Maybe you pulled more from him than you usually would. Maybe the lust, the arousal, the craving he felt for you gave you a bigger energy hit than either of you realized.
Whatever the reason, ever since he tasted your lips, Mark’s been a mess.
The memory of your mouth on his, your body moving against his—it’s been looping in his head, like some kind of self-inflicted torture. Every brush of your shoulder in the hallway sends sparks racing down his spine. Every laugh, every look, every accidental touch leaves him dizzy and desperate.
But no matter how much he’s burning for it, you haven’t brought it up again.
And it’s driving him insane.
Until today.
Today, everything crashes in on him at once—final exams before graduation, the pressure of saving the world, the delicate balancing act of being both Mark Grayson and Invincible. And on top of it all, the world is still feeling the aftermath of his dad’s betrayal—cities still recovering and people still mourning.
Nobody’s surprised that he’s been... off lately. Tense. Angry all the time.
And today, today, he needs to forget. He needs to focus, needs to scrape his mind back together and make it through these tests. Needs to at least try to get into that stupid university where, in some far-off dream, he’d get to kiss you for the first time all over again.
So it happens that morning.
You’re standing by your open locker, flipping through your notes with a nervous sort of energy—brows furrowed, lips pressed together, eyes flicking over the pages like you’re trying to memorize your way out of a breakdown.
Mark drags himself to the locker beside yours, slow and heavy, his limbs weighed down by too many thoughts—things he doesn’t want to forget and things he wishes he couldn’t remember.
Then, his gaze flickers—unconsciously, inevitably—toward you.
Mark sees the pinch in your brows, the way your eyes dart over your notes, how your foot taps restlessly against the tile floor. You’re clearly stressed, just like him. But that’s not what gets him.
What always gets him—every damn day, at every damn hour—is your mouth. The shape of your lips. The way your tongue sneaks out to wet them. The soft pink-red shade. The memory of how they felt, how warm they were, how much he wants to kiss them again.
And again.
And again.
“Mark?” you ask suddenly, voice cutting through his spiraling thoughts.
He flinches, eyes snapping up from your lips to your eyes.
“Y-yeah?” he stammers, cheeks flaring with heat.
You stare at him for a beat too long—head tilted slightly, brow raised, eyes scanning his face with something unreadable. Then, your nose flares subtly, like you just smelled something... good.
But instead of saying anything, you just shrug and turn back to your locker.
“Man, these exams got me super stressed out,” you say, casually, as if you hadn’t just caught him staring like a lovesick fool. “I just want school to be over already.”
Mark exhales, trying to ground himself, shoving thoughts of your lips out of his head. Focus. Focus on the tests. On anything else.
He forces a grin. “Tell me about it. I’ve been studying and dreaming about studying. Like—actual nightmares about textbooks chasing me. It’s the worst.”
You huff, amused, tossing the last of your things into your locker before checking the time on your phone.
“We still have time,” you say simply.
Mark grabs a single book and looks at you, hopeful. “Wanna keep studying?”
But you snatch the book from his hand and shove it back into his locker, slamming the door shut. Mark blinks, wide-eyed, and barely has time to react before you step in—closer than close—close enough for your breath to ghost against his ear.
Mark goes completely still.
“Don’t you wanna do something else?” you whisper, voice a low, teasing purr that sends a sharp shiver down his spine. “Like… come with me behind the school. Just us. I can help you unwind. And, y’know…”
Your fingers trail down his chest slowly, making Mark swallow hard, until your hand finds his wrist and wraps around it, firm and sure.
“…I’m feeling kind of hungry.”
You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, eyes gleaming with mischief, a small smirk tugging at your lips like you already know the answer.
And you do.
Mark, predictably, nods dumbly, heart hammering against his ribs.
Your smirk deepens, and without missing a beat, you spin around and tug him along by the wrist. Mark follows—half dazed, half panicked—as you lead him somewhere behind the buildings, wherever it is you always take people when you’re like this.
His face burns, pulse racing—not just from anticipation, but from the very public nature of this. People glance your way, eyes trailing from your linked hands to Mark’s flushed face, some raising their brows knowingly.
Because you have a reputation.
And when you disappear behind buildings with someone flushed and breathless, it only ever means one thing.
And Mark’s flushed and breathless, alright—practically being dragged to that one secluded spot you always claim for yourself.
Is this... is this what it is? What he is? Just your new hookup to mess around with?
No—no. Because unlike the others before him, Mark’s your best friend.
You wouldn’t just discard him. Right?
Besides, Mark’s stronger. Better. He can handle you feeding on him, handle the drain, handle you. He’s not like the rest. He offered. He wanted this.
You chose him.
That’s what he tells himself when you shove him gently against the cold concrete wall behind the school, shadows swallowing you both whole.
You smile at him—soft, sweet—before leaning in and kissing him.
And god, that’s exactly what he’s been craving since the first time.
Mark melts, instantly, like wax under your touch, his arms sliding around your waist to pull you closer. You fit against him like you’re made for it. Your mouth, your kiss, your tongue—everything syncs with his like it’s something you’ve done a thousand times before. Like it’s natural.
Yet, a treacherous part of Mark’s mind—still conscious, still worried—whispers that maybe all the others you’ve kissed against these very same walls thought the exact same thing. That they were special. That they could handle you.
Only for you to leave them two weeks later when they couldn’t keep up.
And now Mark’s heart pounds, not with lust—but fear.
He has to hold it together. Has to prove himself.
He doesn’t want to be another body you use and then forget. Doesn’t want to be weak—doesn’t want to collapse every time you touch him.
He wants to be the one you keep coming back to.
And then—
Then your hands move down, fingers fumbling with the buckle of his jeans.
And Mark completely loses it.
He tears away from your mouth with a breathy gasp, eyes wide, voice ragged. “Y/N?”
You pause, blinking at him, fingers still lightly tugging at his belt. Your expression softens—almost embarrassed.
“Is this okay?” you ask, voice quiet. “I wanted to… suck you off. But I don’t know if—”
You stop yourself, shaking your head like you’re mad for even thinking it. Your fingers begin to retreat, pulling away from his jeans.
“Forget it,” you mutter, avoiding his gaze. “We have exams. You’re already tired. I don’t want to make you worse if I—ugh. Stupid of me. Kisses are fine.”
You lean in again, lips parted, ready to claim his mouth like before—but this time, Mark stops you.
Because the moment the words suck you off left your lips, he stopped hearing anything else.
“You can,” Mark rasps, voice thick. “I want you to. I can take it.”
You pause—eyes searching his face, unsure for just a second. But then your nose flares again, catching his scent, and you close your eyes like it’s the best thing you’ve ever breathed in.
“Fine,” you murmur, voice thick and hazy. “Tell me to stop if it’s too much.”
Mark nods—more a reflex than a conscious answer—because he couldn’t form real words even if he tried.
And then, with aching slowness, you sink to your knees in front of him. Your hands move to the waistband of his jeans, careful and deliberate as you tug them down, freeing his straining cock from his underwear.
Mark’s hands instinctively fly back, palms splayed flat against the wall as his knees buckle slightly. He needs the support, because if he doesn’t hold himself up, he’s sure he’ll collapse the moment your mouth touches him.
Your eyes flick up at him, half-lidded and glassy with heat. Then you reach forward and wrap your hot fingers around his cock.
Mark yelps, his whole body jolting, cheeks burning red from the base of his throat to the tips of his ears.
“Y/N—” his voice cracks embarrassingly as his cock twitches in your grip. This can’t be real. This can’t actually be happening.
You hum approvingly, pumping him slowly once, twice, watching with rapt fascination as a bead of precum wells up at his tip.
“Already so hard for me,” you muse, thumb swiping through the moisture.
The casual observation makes Mark’s head thud back against the wall, a quiet, mortified groan leaving him.
But whatever embarrassment he feels is drowned out by the overwhelming flood of arousal, lust, and whatever else it is you feed on coursing through him.
You probably enjoy it—how easily he falls apart for you, how effortlessly his body responds, like you don’t even have to work for it.
You probably love it. Because then you lean in, face close to his cock, eyes fluttering shut as you inhale deeply—drawing in the raw scent of his arousal straight from the source, your warm breath ghosting over the flushed, sensitive tip.
“Fuck,” you whisper, pupils blown wide. “You smell perfect.”
Mark doesn’t have the brain to process what that even means, not when the question gets stuck in his throat and dissolves the second your tongue flicks over the tip of his cock.
A choked groan tears from his chest as you start to lick, slow and deliberate, savoring the precum with deep, focused sucks. His knees buckle slightly, and he squeezes his eyes shut in a desperate attempt to ground himself, to focus on anything other than the maddening heat of your mouth.
But it’s impossible.
You’re shameless—licking and sucking him like this is just natural for you, like it’s not embarrassing at all the way it’s mortifying for him. Your tongue moves up and down his shaft in wet, lazy strokes, then circles the head with practiced ease before you suck again, harder this time.
You groan, low and satisfied, and the vibration shoots straight through him.
Mark shudders, his hips jerking slightly, and helpless little sounds tumble out of his mouth before he can even think to swallow them down. And then—shit—then your mouth opens wider, lips stretching, tongue curling, and you take more of him in. Inch by inch, hot and wet, deeper and deeper.
Mark nearly loses it right there.
His back slams harder into the wall, his fists curling uselessly at his sides as he fights the urge to completely fall apart. But it’s not because you’re draining him—not yet, at least—it’s because it’s you.
Y/N. His best friend. The guy he’s been crushing on for way too long. On your knees behind the school, mouth full of him like it’s nothing, like it’s something you want.
It’s insane. He’s insane.
Shit—shit.
Mark dares to glance down, eyes wide and glassy with stunned pleasure, needing to see it to believe it.
And the sight nearly breaks him.
You, between his legs, hands steady on his hips, eyes half-lidded with hunger and focus. Your lips, stretched wide and glistening, moving up and down his cock with obscene wet sounds. His shaft gleams with spit and precum, slick and throbbing, disappearing and reappearing between your lips.
He moans again, soft and wrecked, unable to look away.
Meanwhile, you’re letting out soft, muffled sounds around the thick length stuffed in your mouth—like you really like it. Like you’re losing yourself in the sensation of having Mark buried so deep, your mouth full of him, nose flaring with every push of his hips. The wet, obscene noises echo in the tight space, and your brows furrow—not from discomfort, but something heady, something near-blissful.
It’s like pleasure for you. Something Mark can’t fully grasp, not when you feed off this—feed off him—like this is more than just sex, like it’s sustenance.
Then, on a particularly sharp thrust—Mark can’t help it, his hips moving on instinct—his tip hits the back of your throat.
You gag softly, breath hitching, teary eyes snapping open, glassy and dazed.
Mark curses under his breath, panicked, already pulling back, the apology forming fast on his lips—
But then you moan.
Loudly. Lewdly. Fingers digging into his hips, dragging him back in.
Mark nearly collapses.
“Oh—oh god—” he chokes out, his grip on the wall slipping as his thighs tense.
You don’t stop—don’t even slow down. You just suck harder, deeper, hungrier. Mark can feel the heat of your mouth wrapped around every inch of him, and it’s too much—it’s so much.
“Y/N,” he gasps, “God—I’m gonna—”
But you don’t let go. If anything, your pace quickens, mouth working him with precision and purpose. Mark’s knees shake, buckling slightly, and he nearly traps your head between his trembling thighs without meaning to.
“Y/N—fuck, I’m so—so close!”
You hum again, low and satisfied, like that’s exactly what you wanted to hear. Like his desperate moans and breathless whines are feeding you, pouring that raw energy straight into your core. And you take it, eyes fluttered shut in bliss, like this is your version of heaven.
“Y/N—” Mark gasps, a final, desperate warning.
But you don’t stop. Fierce and hungry, you take him in again—once.
Twice.
And that’s all it takes.
Mark comes with a deep, guttural groan, his head thrown back against the wall, hips jerking forward to bury himself to the hilt in the wet heat of your mouth. Hot, bitter release spills from him in thick pulses, straight down your throat—and you gulp it down without hesitation, moaning like it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted.
The sounds you make—hungry, pleased, possessive—echo in the tight space, and Mark’s entire body trembles under the weight of it all.
His thighs shake violently, straining from the effort to stay standing. His vision flickers at the edges, a burst of white noise flashing across his mind. He’s faintly aware of the wall at his back, of the air that won’t quite fill his lungs, and the overwhelming, foggy pleasure that steals every coherent thought.
He’s fine. He tells himself that. He has to be.
Because he wants to prove he’s stronger than the others. That he can take it. That he can give and keep giving if that’s what you need.
Even as the lightness threatens to pull him under.
But just as his cock begins to soften, your mouth stays—closes tight around the tip, fingers curling around the base where your lips can’t reach. You start stroking again, firm and insistent, while your tongue circles his oversensitive head.
You’re milking him. Ruthlessly. Determined to get every last drop.
Mark jerks with a sharp cry, the overstimulation sending electricity through his nerves. His hands claw at the wall, legs quaking uncontrollably.
“Y/N—” he breathes, voice high and wrecked, “Jesus Christ, that’s—! I—I can’t—!”
And finally, finally, you stop.
You pull off him with a soft gasp, your breath hot and ragged. His cock slips free, flushed and twitching, coated in your spit and what’s left of his release.
You lick your lips lazily, and smile. That same satisfied, gleaming smile that tells Mark you got exactly what you wanted.
Slowly, you rise to your feet, flushed and glowing—energized in a way that almost radiates off your skin—while Mark’s left trembling, still caught in the aftershocks of his high.
“My god, Mark,” you huff a breathless laugh, eyes sparkling. “That was—I’ve never felt anything so—” You cut yourself off when you finally take in his state—the sweat beading at his temples, the way his chest heaves. Concern flickers across your face. “You good?”
Mark immediately shakes his head, trying to clear the static clouding his thoughts. “M’fine... I’m just—overwhelmed,” he admits, voice hoarse but honest.
You pause, frown flickering briefly across your lips as you glance him over more carefully. He’s pale. Wobbly. Still fighting to steady his breath. A pang of guilt twists in your chest—maybe you took too much. Maybe he wasn’t ready. Maybe he’s going to drop right here and hit the damn pavement.
But Mark, breathless and clearly drained but stubbornly determined to prove a point, straightens off the wall on shaky legs.
“I’m fine,” he says again, firmer this time. “Really. That was—” he exhales deeply, a dazed smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “that was so good.”
Your face lights up again, the concern replaced by a beaming grin. “Damn right it was! Mark, you taste amazing. I’ve never tasted so much—fuck, I didn’t think I’d ever get to have that much cum,” you ramble, fast and thrilled, practically buzzing with glee. “It energizes me so much, like—Jesus, I could live off you... Do you need help with that?”
You gesture toward his pants, still hanging open. Mark blinks, dazed and stunned by your casually filthy words, but still gives a small nod.
You hum, pleased, as you crouch slightly to tug his jeans back up, fingers moving with practiced care. You even take your sweet time buckling his belt again, still grinning to yourself like this is the best thing that’s happened all week.
Meanwhile, Mark struggles to steady his breathing, eyes half-lidded as he watches your every movement. He savors the careful way you straighten his clothes, tugging his shirt down gently before reaching up to brush a strand of hair from his damp forehead.
His breath catches when your palm lingers against his cheek.
“You okay?” you ask again, softly, trying to sound serious—but the buzz of energy beneath your skin, the high of feeding, makes your voice a little too bright.
Mark smiles, slow and fond. “Amazing.”
“You’re not, like… out of it, are you?” you press, brows furrowed. “Still with me?”
He lifts his hand to cover yours, holding it against his cheek as he leans into your touch like he never wants you to let go.
“I’m fine,” he murmurs. “Better than fine. I actually feel…” He trails off, searching for the right words. There’s some drowsiness, sure, but it’s the good kind. “Relaxed. Like—really relaxed. Not anxious anymore.”
Your smirk is immediate, the faintest blush touching your cheeks. You look so alive—flushed and glowing, like the fatigue Mark had always assumed was your default had never really belonged to you. For months, he thought you were just… exhausted all the time. Turns out, you were starving.
“Good,” you say, lacing your fingers through his. The contact sends a fresh spark along Mark’s nerves. “Come on—we’ve still got time to meet up with William, Eve, and Amber. We can cram together before the test.”
Mark stumbles after you, legs still shaky, cheeks still burning, head still in a haze—but for entirely new reasons. The memory of your mouth on him lingers like a brand, and the knowledge that he alone can sustain you without breaking sends a possessive thrill through his veins.
He’ll be ready whenever you need him again.
When you need him again, Mark’s in the middle of arranging his things at the Upstate U dorms.
He’s been trying not to sulk about the dorm assignments. Really. It’s fine that you’re rooming with some random guy instead of him. Totally fine. And hey, it’s not all bad. He’s rooming with William, and you’re only three doors down.
However, when he’s strolling back with his Seance Dog action figure on hand, he spots it—the damn sock on the doorknob. The one William had declared as their “do not disturb” signal. Mark freezes, then groans loudly enough that a passing freshman gives him a weirded out stare.
Rolling his eyes, Mark turns on his heel and makes a beeline for your door instead. No knock. No warning. He just pushes it open like it’s a completely normal thing to do.
You’re in the middle of unpacking, back to the door, bent slightly as you shove clothes into your half of the closet.
“William’s having sex,” Mark grumbles as his greeting, shutting the door behind him.
You let out a startled laugh, glancing over your shoulder. “Already? It’s literally the first day of college.”
“Right?!” Mark perks up, pointing at you like he’s just been seen. “I was thinking the exact same thing! Who even has sex on the first day of college? I haven’t even finished unpacking.”
You snort again, amused, and turn back to your stuff. “Sucks for you,” you say with a teasing smirk. “But since you’re here, wanna help me put my stuff away?”
Mark’s shoulders sag dramatically as his eyes sweep over the room—half-open boxes everywhere, clothes spilling out, chaos even worse than his own side of the dorm. “Aw, man.”
“You chose to come here, Mark,” you say with a grin, reaching out and grabbing his wrist, pulling him toward the mountain of chaos you call your stuff. “Now suffer the consequences.”
Mark lets out a dramatic sigh as he lets you tug him along, but his protests are half-hearted at best. He grumbles the entire time—loudly and performatively—but never actually stops helping. He jokes through it, snickers when he finds weird stuff in your boxes, and keeps rearranging things the way he thinks they should go, just to mess with you.
He doesn’t really mind. In fact, Mark loves it—being near you, touching your things, asking dumb questions just to hear you talk. Every little trinket you pull out is a new excuse to stay a little longer.
By the time the bed is made, your desk is mostly arranged, and the floor is walkable again, Mark flops down face-first onto your mattress with a dramatic sigh. He rolls over onto his back, one arm slung lazily across his chest, and watches you fiddle with the last few decorations on your desk.
“What’s up with that thing?” he asks, nodding at a pretty trinket you’re setting in the corner. “Looks ancient.”
You glance over your shoulder, then shrug. “Oh, this? Just a stupid family relic. Supposed to bring me good luck or something.”
Mark pushes himself up on one elbow. “Family relic?”
“Yeah!” you nod brightly—then pause, eyes flicking to him with a slightly sheepish look. “Y’know. That side of the family, if you get me.”
That perks Mark right up. You rarely mention your incubus lineage, let alone the mysterious relatives who share it.
“Does it actually work?” he asks, genuinely intrigued. “The luck thing, I mean.”
You chuckle, fingers brushing over the trinket. “Sure it works.”
Mark straightens completely, eyes wide and full of wonder. “Really? How?”
You turn to him slowly, expression softening into something warm and deeply fond. Then you rise from the chair, walk over, and drop down beside him, the mattress dipping under your weight. You don’t say anything at first, just smile as your hand reaches up, tenderly cradling his cheek.
Mark’s breath catches.
“Well,” you murmur, thumb brushing lightly over his skin, “I met you, didn’t I.”
And Mark’s heart just—melts. There’s no other word for it. It swells in his chest and bursts behind his ribs like a supernova, a rush of feelings he doesn’t bother to hide.
Then he leans into your touch without thinking, eyes fluttering for half a second. “It must work both ways, then,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.
You laugh gently—and god, he loves that sound. It lights up your whole face. There’s something about it, that laugh, that smile, like it always bubbles out of you before you can stop it. Like you can’t help but be happy in his presence.
Mark watches you, eyes soft, his heart thudding like it’s trying to tell him something—like this is the moment. His hand is a little clammy against the blanket. He’s thinking about kissing you. Really kissing you.
But he doesn’t.
Because the truth is, aside from those two times you fed off him, you never actually kissed. Not once. And not because you didn’t want to—but because if you weren’t hungry, if there was no need to satiate that part of you, neither of you ever crossed that line.
Still, you liked touching him. You liked brushing shoulders when you walked together. Liked laying your head on his shoulder during long movies. When you visited his house, you liked sneaking into his bed just to nap together—curled into him like you belonged there.
Mark misses your lips. But if you weren’t hungry—if you didn’t have to feed—then both of you stayed in your safe little bubble.
Would it be weird if Mark kissed you right now?
Would you think he’s being a weird friend?
Mark doesn’t know where the two of you stand. Yeah—you’ve grinded against each other, you’ve sucked him off behind the school. But what did it mean? Just a way for you to feed yourself? Or did it mean more?
Did he mean more?
Mark can’t tell. Isn’t sure.
But when you look at him like this—all soft eyes, quiet smiles, that unshakable tenderness lighting up your whole face—Mark lets himself wonder. Can he believe for even a second that you feel the same way he does?
Can he kiss you?
“You can,” you whisper, soft as a secret.
Mark freezes.
Eyes widen just a little in surprise. For a moment, he thinks maybe you read his mind—but then he realizes…
He said that out loud.
And you said yes.
“…Really?” he asks, heart in his throat.
You laugh, soft and fond, thumb brushing along his jaw. With the same hand still cradling his face, you guide him closer, slowly, until your lips almost touch. “Really.”
Mark closes the distance.
He kisses you.
Not like before. Not the frantic, life-sustaining kisses you’d taken from him. This is something softer. Something given.
His heart races, hand rising to cup the curve of your cheek, thumb brushing your skin as he closes his eyes, savoring the softness, the warmth, trying to burn the sensation into his memory, into his very flesh.
You sigh softly, lips parting slowly as you deepen the kiss. Mark holds back a groan, turning it into a breathy gasp instead, his tongue meeting yours with a shy hesitation. He tastes the faint hint of chocolate from the snack you’d eaten earlier while taking a break from unpacking. Unable to resist, he gently sucks on your tongue, and you shudder against him, a soft moan slipping free.
God, Mark loved it. Loves it. Couldn’t get enough. Wanted this—wanted you—forever.
He tilts his head, deepening the kiss further, teeth catching on your bottom lip in a playful bite. One hand sneaks around your lower back, pulling you closer—
Then someone knocks on the door.
You freeze against each other, lips still brushing as you pull apart just enough to share a wide-eyed look. Your cheeks are flushed, your breathing uneven—beautiful, Mark thinks, already mourning the loss.
“Probably my roommate,” you murmur, catching your breath as the knocking comes again. “I’ll check.”
Mark pouts, reluctant to let go, but quickly squares his jaw and puts on his best tough-guy face. If this is your roommate, then he’s definitely marking his territory. No one’s stealing his best friend.
You give him a faint, sheepish smile when he slides a protective arm around your waist, and then you reach for the door handle.
But the second it swings open, you both freeze again.
Right there, in the hallway, is fucking Seance Dog in the flesh.
Mark reacts immediately, stepping between you and the bizarre cloaked figure before him, grabbing its body. “Who the hell are you—?”
The creature—Seance Dog—launches into a rambling explanation, but Mark barely registers it. His attention is locked on the hallway beyond the open door, where students pass by, oblivious.
You spin on your heel, eyes wide, rushing to the window. “Go! I’ll find backup!”
Turns out “backup” is William, who stumbles after you through the wooded edge of campus, half out of breath and half-convinced this is some elaborate prank, while you yell, “Yes, the Seance Dog! No, I don’t mean cosplay!”
When you both catch up, Mark is standing in a clearing, arms crossed, face tight with frustration. Mark turns when he hears your voice and immediately starts explaining—Thraxa, billions of people in danger, yada, yada. It’s all so sudden, and he watches you both closely as the explanation sinks in.
William nods along, immediately agreeing. “Dude, you have to go. We’re talking, what, forty-two billion lives?”
Mark flinches, glancing toward you, searching your expression. You haven’t said anything yet. Arms crossed, eyes narrowed.
You finally speak. “For—for how long again?”
Mark hesitates, his heart thumping. “Just—just a few weeks. Give or take.” He turns to the bug alien. “Right? A few galaxies away?”
The bug alien nods solemnly.
Mark looks at you again, eyes quietly pleading. He wants you to say no. He hasn’t even had his first class yet. You kissed, for real, for the first time not even an hour ago, and now he’s supposed to just…leave?
If you said no, he wouldn’t go. Not for anything.
You fold your arms, brow furrowed in deep thought. “I mean… if we’re talking about that many people… and he came from so far just for you, then…”
You trail off.
Mark’s heart sinks. He wants to help, really—but he also wants to stay. Wants to start this new chapter with you, complain about professors together, compare how bad the cafeteria food is, sit next to you in class and whisper jokes under his breath just to make you snort.
And—and he hadn’t even fed you properly. Not really. Not the way you needed. Not the way he wanted to.
But then your eyes meet his again, steady and sure despite the tightness in your jaw, and you nod. “…Then I guess you should go.”
And that’s it.
He suits up. The blue and yellow slide over his body like second skin, and Nuolzot is already gesturing toward the sky, to the ship hovering in low orbit.
But Mark pauses. He turns back to you. In two steps, he’s standing in front of you again, gloved hands rising to cradle your face.
“A month,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “A month tops. I swear I’ll be back before you even notice.”
You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Alright, Invincible,” you say, trying for playful. “Go save that planet. Come back before you flunk out before classes even start.”
That makes him laugh, breathless—and then his eyes drop to your lips.
And he kisses you before he can second-guess himself again.
Your mouth meets his instantly, warm and sure, like you’re afraid this will be the last time you get to feel him like this.
When you part, breathless and close, Mark wants to say it. The words burn on his tongue.
I love you.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he chuckles awkwardly, as if laughter might hide the way the words nearly slipped out.
“Alright,” he murmurs. “See you soon.”
And then, without waiting another second, he shoots up into the sky, trailing after Nuolzot and leaving the ground—and you—behind.
William’s voice echoes upward. “Wait, wait, wait—since when are you two together!? I need details!”
Mark doesn’t look back.
If he had, he might have seen the way your smile faltered the moment he turned away.
Mark returns to Earth two months later—twice the time he promised you. And somehow, that’s the part he can’t stop thinking about.
He should be happy to be home. Should be focused on the fact that he’s safe, alive. And still, a small part of him is terrified. Terrified that you’ve moved on. That in the time he was off-planet, you got bored of waiting, maybe met someone new—someone who actually stuck around like they said they would.
So he doesn’t go to you. Not right away. Not even when every fiber in his body aches to.
First, he goes home. He sees his mom—because of course he does. She needs to know he’s alive. That he’s okay. That he’s now the older brother to a half-bug alien baby. He spends time there, takes his time, and tells her everything.
And then, finally, he makes his way to Upstate U.
Now he has to see you—has to face whatever version of you he left behind. The one who might hate him, or worse… be totally fine without him.
He stops by his dorm first, quickly changing out of his suit and into something more casual. The more he thinks about you, the tighter his stomach clenches with anxiety.
When William remarks, “You were gone a long time, like forever in college years,” it feels like salt in the wound.
Mark winces, tugging his shirt over his head. “Yeah. I know.”
Surely you’re upset.
If not upset, then… indifferent.
And Mark honestly can’t decide which would hurt more.
Still, there’s something bubbling in his chest—nerves, maybe. But also that warm, fluttery anticipation he always gets when he’s about to see you. God, he missed you so damn much. Thought about you more times than he can count while everything around him fell apart in space.
So he throws on clean clothes, rakes a hand through his hair, and takes a deep breath to ease his nerves.
“Wait, where are you going?” William asks as Mark heads for the door.
“Y/N’s room?” Mark says it like it’s obvious. Because it is. You’re three doors down. Three doors he’s been counting since he landed.
William’s expression shifts. “Oh. Uh. Y/N’s not here.”
Mark freezes. “What?”
“Went home two weeks ago. Medical leave.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. “Medical leave?” Mark’s voice cracks. “What happened?”
William shrugs helplessly. “No clue. He’s been sick for weeks though. Like, really sick.”
Mark’s mouth goes dry. His pulse spikes.
Sick?
Sick?
His thoughts spiral—there are only a few things he can think of that would make you sick. And none of them make sense. None of them feel random. Not for you. Not with what you are.
“What—what kind of sick?” Mark demands, already striding back into his dorm room, his voice tight, too fast. “Like a cold? Stress?”
But he already knows.
God, he doesn’t want to, but the truth is already clawing up the back of his throat. Gnawing at his brain like it wants him to panic.
William frowns, thrown by the sudden shift. “I don’t know the full details, man. He just said he was feeling weak… too tired to even make it to class. He even passed out once—that’s why he asked for the medical leave.” William’s tone is a mix of concern and confusion. “Something about malnutrition or whatever, which is weird, right? I mean, he usually eats enough for twenty—hey. Hey, where the hell are you going?”
Mark is already halfway out the window.
“Where do you think?” he snaps, voice cracking with the edge of panic. “I’m going to see him!”
And then he’s gone.
The wind tears through the dorm behind him as he rockets into the sky, leaving William shouting something he doesn’t hear.
Mark doesn’t care. He can’t. Not now. Not when all he can think about is getting to you.
So he pushes himself faster—faster than he’s flown in weeks. His hands clench and unclench in the air, sweat slicking his palms, speeding toward your home.
He arrives within minutes, and in those minutes, his brain spins through every worst-case scenario imaginable. Why are you even sick? Why’d you stop feeding? You need it to survive. That’s what you told him. So why? Why would you stop? It makes no sense.
Why the hell would you let yourself waste away?
Mark doesn’t bother with the front door. Not when your bedroom window is right there—always open. Always left unlocked. For him.
Mark flies up to it without thinking, presses against the glass, peering inside. It’s dim and quiet. Then his eyes dart to your bed—rumpled sheets, blanket kicked off, and you curled up there, too still, too pale. His chest seizes.
“Y/N?” he calls, voice uncertain—like he’s afraid to startle you.
You don’t answer.
Mark climbs through the window on shaky feet, moving to your side with heart pounding. His hand hovers before gently settling on your shoulder.
“Y/N,” he says, lower now. “Hey. It’s me. I came back.”
No answer.
His eyes scan you closer—the dullness in your skin, the dark shadows beneath your eyes, the faint sheen of sweat on your forehead, your cracked lips, the sunken look in your face.
Mark’s heart drops. His grip tightens on your shoulder, and he gives you a soft shake, panic bleeding into every movement.
“Y/N, please.”
Then—finally—you stir.
A soft, low hum escapes your throat. Your face scrunches weakly, like even blinking takes effort, and you crack one eye open, confused and half-dazed.
Mark lets out a shuddering breath, part relief, part fear, and drops to his knees beside the bed.
“Oh thank god,” he breathes out, his voice cracking, reaching up to cup your cheek gently. “Hey. I’m here. I’m here, okay?
“…Mark…?” you slur, voice cracked and barely a whisper.
Mark leans in immediately, heart racing, face just inches from yours. “Yeah, yeah—it’s me! Are you okay? Y/N, what’s going on?”
You blink slowly, trying to will your eyes to stay open. Then, with some effort, you shift on the bed, uncurling from yourself like a bear out of hibernation—sluggish and disoriented. You squint at him, dazed. “Mark, hey.” A weak cough follows, your throat dry and raw. “How’re you doing? It’s been so long.”
The casual way you say it—like you’re not on the edge of passing out on your own bed—shatters Mark all over again.
“Y/N…” Mark says, voice thick with disbelief, worry pulling hard at his face. “Forget about me—what happened to you? You look…”
He trails off, unable to say it, but his expression says enough. His eyes, wide and glassy, trace every hollowed detail in your face.
“Oh,” you exhale, trying to play it down. “It’s fine. I’ve just been… a little weak, is all.”
“A little weak?” Mark repeats, voice rising in disbelief. “You’re not a little weak, Y/N. You’re—God, William said you’ve been like this for weeks.”
You grimace, trying to smile through it, to keep him from worrying. But Mark sees right through the act. He watches, helpless, as you try to sit up, bracing yourself on trembling elbows—only for your arms to give out, your head dropping back to the pillow with a soft thud.
Mark stands and shifts to sit on the edge of your mattress, hands settling gently on your shoulders like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go.
“Hey—hey, don’t push yourself,” he says, voice low but firm. “Just—just stay still, okay?”
You don’t resist. Couldn’t even if you wanted to. You simply lie there, head sunk into your pillow, eyes barely open. You’re too tired to argue, too tired to even pretend you’re okay. Your breathing stays shallow, lips cracked, face drained of color.
Mark’s chest tightens. He watches you for a second that feels like forever before finally breaking the silence. “What happened, Y/N?” he asks, even though deep down, he already knows. He just needs to hear you say it. “What is it?”
You make a face, like there’s a million things you could say—but none of them are enough. Still, you force your lips to part.
“It’s just—” your voice wavers, then you let out a breath, helpless. “I haven’t fed off… you know…”
Mark’s brows draw together, his lips pressing into a tight, thin line.
You don’t look at him when you admit it—voice barely above a whisper. “Not since you left.”
There’s silence. A thick, awful silence.
Mark flinches like the words hit him in the chest. His heart starts pounding again, harder this time. “Why didn’t you go to someone else, Y/N?” he blurts—too sharp, too panicked. It comes out like an accusation, and he instantly regrets it.
You flinch too, like the words cut deeper than he meant. You look away, your features tight, skin grayed with exhaustion, eyes watery and dull. “…Should I have?” you ask, small and fragile.
And the answer is obvious. So obvious it makes Mark feel like a damn idiot for even saying anything.
No.
No.
Mark exhales shakily, one hand moving to cradle your cheek as he leans down, his forehead pressing gently to yours.
“No,” he whispers, voice thick. “Of course not.”
Only him. You’d only ever wanted him.
And god—god—isn’t that selfish of him, when your life was literally on the line?
But you smile. It’s small and tired—drained, really—but it’s a smile all the same. Like those words were exactly what you needed to hear. Like there was no one else you wanted to feed from anymore but Mark.
You tilt your head up, lips brushing his in a soft exhale. “Then… kiss me.”
Mark doesn’t hesitate. He bridges the last inch between you the second the words leave your mouth, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that’s soft, careful—desperate in all the ways he won’t admit out loud. Your sigh against him is so content, so relieved, it almost brings tears to his eyes.
He kisses you like he’s trying to make up for every lonely day he was gone.
His hand slides to your jaw, tilting it gently, thumb stroking your cheek as he deepens the kiss. His heart stutters at the way your body slowly starts to respond—weak, yes, but responding. When his lips part yours and your tongues meet, Mark groans softly into your mouth, heat coiling low in his gut.
He doesn’t rush, but the rhythm quickens just a beat. Enough to let himself feel your breath grow steadier against him, the slight tremble in your limbs easing, pulse pushing just a little stronger beneath your skin.
Then—God, your hands. They reach for him, still shaking, but purposeful. Fingers gliding up his chest, slow and searching, until they hook around his neck and pull him closer.
Mark obliges without hesitation, his other arm sliding beneath you to lift you gently against him. He feels your grip strengthen with each passing second, your kisses growing more urgent. And when you finally arch into him with a reawakened hunger, Mark knows he’ll give you everything.
Again and again and again.
The kiss breaks with a soft, wet sound, your shared breaths mingling in the thin space between you.
“Oh, Mark,” you whisper, voice rough and shaky, “I missed you.”
You look better already—cheeks touched with color, eyes less glassy. But it’s still not enough. Not even close.
There’s still tension in your brow, a strain in the way you lie beneath him, like it hurts to be hungry and still not full. Veins faintly shadow your temple. The dark bruises beneath your eyes haven’t faded. And the way your tongue drags across your lips—it’s need, raw and unfiltered.
“Missed you too,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’m so sorry.”
He knows one kiss won’t fix this. He knows better than to think you’d recover after just a moment of closeness. It’s been two months. Two months without feeding. Without touching. Without even knowing if he was coming back.
You needed more. Needed more than friction, more than mouth and tongue. You probably needed more than just getting him off like the last times—where you fed and then let him go, always asking for nothing in return.
You probably needed the real thing.
Mark’s throat tightens.
“I’m gonna—” he starts, breathless, almost shy, “—gonna make you feel good, okay?”
His hand trails lower, until it cups the heat between your legs, the bulge already thick and straining through your sweatpants. He squeezes, just enough to make you gasp, and the soft whine you let out snaps something in him.
Because for the first time, Mark thinks about it.
You’ve made him come—twice now. And afterward, he’d always been so wrapped up in his own high, in the rush of it, the haze, the way you looked so content with just tasting him... he never stopped to reciprocate the favor.
God, he’s been so selfish.
Mark’s throat bobs as his hand strokes you again, this time with more purpose—his thumb grazing the sensitive head through the fabric of your sweatpants. You keep making those greedy little sounds, soft and needy, and right then Mark decides—he’s going to make you fall apart under him. He’s going to make you shiver and whimper his name as you come undone.
“Mark,” you sigh, arching against his hand. “Oh, Mark.”
He picks up the pace, leaning in to capture every gasp and whimper straight from your mouth. Your tongues meet again—hungry and messy—as Mark begins grinding against you, his own arousal building, knowing you can feel it, feed off it, and revel in it.
It doesn’t take long for the pressure in his jeans to become unbearable—his cock straining hard against the fabric, pulsing with every beat of his heart. He can’t take it anymore. Can’t wait. And besides, this—this—is the fastest way to get you back on your feet, glowing with strength.
He pulls away from your lips just enough to murmur, “Let me,” breathless, fingers already hooking into your waistband. “Let me take care of you.”
Your soft, desperate moan is all the permission he needs.
With trembling hands, Mark peels down your sweatpants and underwear in one fluid motion, careful as he slides them past your legs. You shudder at the exposure, but you don’t hide—you open your legs willingly, inviting him in. Your face is flushed, the color blooming down your neck and ears. It’s the first time you’ve ever been this vulnerable with someone. And from the look in your eyes, you’re glad it’s Mark.
He drinks in the sight of you, chest heaving. Then, in one smooth motion, he strips off his shirt and tosses it aside, eyes never leaving you.
“Shit…” You bite your lip, but there’s a glint in your eyes—a flash of mischief under all that exhaustion. “You’re so sexy, Mark.”
Mark flushes, his skin warming as your hands roam his chest, greedy and sure, fingers tracing over muscles that flex and shudder under your touch. It’s too much—almost overwhelming—and he has to brace himself, hands planted on either side of your head to keep from collapsing on top of you.
“Fuck—” His hips jerk involuntarily when your hand travels lower, undoing his belt, pulling the zipper down. “Y/N…”
You breathe out a needy sound when his cock springs free, hand wrapping around him without hesitation.
“Jesus,” you murmur hoarsely, licking your lips. “I’m so—so hungry, Mark. I can’t wait.”
Mark moans at the sight of you, the desperation in your voice making his head spin. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You stroke him with trembling fingers, and Mark’s hips move in time with your touch, his breath growing ragged. “Yeah. Fuck. I’ve been—starving for you.”
Mark groans, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, undone by the way your fingers work him—confident, greedy, like you need him. And yeah, you do. He knows what his pleasure does to you. Knows how his arousal, his moans, even the steady pulse of precum leaking from his tip—slicking your fingers—is what makes you stronger. What feeds you.
But it’s not enough.
He wants to see you come for once. Wants to hear you gasp and writhe because he’s making you feel good.
“Can I…?” he breathes, eyes locked on yours, his voice tight with restraint. “Can I fuck you?”
Your hand slows, eyes going wide, startled by the question—but then you smile, soft and full of something like fondness.
“Yes,” you whisper after a moment. “Of course.”
Mark exhales like he’s been holding his breath for months, pressing his forehead against yours. When his lips find yours again, the kiss turns desperate—all teeth and tongue and months of pent-up longing. You meet him with equal fervor, legs parting instinctively as his hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against him.
“Should I—” Mark gasps between kisses, his voice thick with both desire and hesitation. “Should I prep you or—”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than intended, your fingers digging into his shoulders. “I’m not some fragile human who needs coddling. Just fuck me, Mark.”
There’s something feral in your voice now—primal and wild in a way he’s never heard from you. The more energy floods your system, a spark of life returning to your features, the more your instincts take over.
“Okay,” he rasps, more to himself than you. “Okay, just—”
Mark swallows hard, his gaze trailing down your body with a mix of awe and nervous hunger. His breath catches at the sight of your cock straining between you, at the way your hole flutters impatiently.
His eyes drop—slowly, hungrily—trailing down your body, pausing at the sight of your flushed cock, your spread legs, your willing entrance. He swallows thickly, breath catching in his throat.
“It’s fine,” you whisper, voice softening just enough as your hand continues to stroke him, thumb grazing the sensitive head, coaxing more precum from his tip. “I’ll guide you.”
And guide him you do.
You pump him a few more times, slicking him up while he groans, every sigh vibrating against your lips. Then you part your legs even further, just enough for his hips to fit between them snugly. One hand steadies his cock, the other resting on his hip as you line him up, brushing the tip against your entrance.
“Just like that,” you sigh, arching beneath him. “Push, Mark. Please.”
Mark’s hips stutter, his cock sliding between your cheeks with desperate, jerky movements. He’s achingly hard, every nerve alight with need.
“Is this—” His voice cracks as the head of his cock catches at your entrance. “God, Y/N—is this okay?”
Your answer comes with a whimper, head tipping back against the pillows. “Yes. Fuck me. I want you.”
Mark’s hips stutter, and then your legs hook around his waist, pulling him in—forcing him deeper.
“Fuck—” he chokes out, voice tight.
The head of his cock sinks into you, your body welcoming him in a slick, hot pull that makes both of you moan, trembling against each other.
“Yes—” you gasp, fingers curling against his back. “Push, Mark. I don’t care. Just do it.”
Mark bites down on his lip, squeezes his eyes shut, and pushes.
The glide is smooth, easy—thanks to the slick layer of precum and your guiding hands. He shudders all the way in, your body stretching to take him, tight and perfect around him. You groan, hands digging into his back as if to hold him there forever.
“Yes, yes,” you moan, eyes fluttering shut. “Fuck, Mark, yes.”
For a suspended moment, when he’s fully buried inside you, all Mark can do is feel—the way you pulse around him, the desperate clutch of your hands on his back, the dizzying realization that this is happening.
He barely remembers how to breathe, barely manages to stay upright with how shaky his arms feel braced on either side of your head. His whole body is trembling—and maybe it’s not just the exhaustion from space. Maybe it’s not just the days without sleep, or the long journey back.
Maybe it’s you. Draining him with every moan, every squeeze, every drop of arousal he gives you.
And still—still—he doesn’t want to stop.
“Move,” you order, voice low and hushed.
Then you move beneath him first—hips grinding upward, taking him in deeper—and all of Mark’s coherent thought shatters.
“Harder,” you gasp, nails scoring down his back. “Please—”
Mark obeys with a broken moan, thrusting out and back in, out and in again. The pace he sets is clumsy and frantic, but it doesn’t matter—because you love it. You moan louder with every stroke, squirming beneath him, nails digging into his back, dragging down hard.
“So good,” you sigh, head tipping back as pleasure ripples through you. “God, Mark—so good.”
The room fills with the slap of skin on skin, the choked-off noises Mark makes when you clench around him, the way your shared breaths grow ragged and uneven.
Mark buries his face in the curve of your neck, teeth scraping against your pulse point as his muscles tremble with exertion. There’s a familiar tug at his consciousness, a slow drain of energy that should terrify him but instead sends a thrill down his spine.
Because when you moan in his ear like that, when you shiver around him, when you praise him in that wrecked voice—
“Like that.” Unsteady but sure. “Just like that.”
Mark couldn’t stop if he tried.
The renewed vigor in your movements—the way your fingers clutch at him with renewed strength—tells him it’s working. You’re coming back to life beneath him, flush with stolen energy, even as his own vision starts to blur at the edges.
“Don’t stop,” you beg, voice wrecked.
Mark doesn’t. Not when you feel this good around him—hot and tight and his.
So he fucks you through it, chasing your pleasure even as his body screams for respite, determined to give you every last drop until you’re sated.
Until you’re whole again.
Then Mark’s thrusts begin to falter—his rhythm stuttering, teeth sinking into your shoulder— and he gasps, voice wrecked and shaking, “I’m gonna—I’m gonna come—!”
You groan, biting your lower lip hard enough to sting.
“Come inside me,” you moan—half-whimper, half-command. “I’m so fucking close. I want you inside.”
Mark whimpers at your words, hips jerking wildly now, erratic and desperate. The thought of finishing inside you scrambles whatever’s left of his composure.
“Y/N—” he chokes out, barely audible. “I’m—I’m coming—”
And then he does.
His entire body goes taut, trembling, his hips giving one final, deep thrust that buries him to the hilt. His orgasm hits like a wave, a raw, broken cry torn from his throat as he spills into you, thick and hot. You arch beneath him, eyes fluttering shut, a moan clawing out of you as you feel it—every pulse, every drop filling you.
It’s that—the heat of his cum flooding you, the sheer intensity of his release—that finally pushes you over the edge.
You come untouched, back arching off the bed, spilling hot across your stomach as you cry out his name.
“Fuck, fuck,” you babble, shuddering. “Fuck, Mark—”
He’s still moving, just barely—his hips twitching in helpless, involuntary thrusts as he rides out every last wave of his orgasm, cum leaking from the edges of your hole. It’s messy. It’s perfect. It’s so good it makes you smile through the aftershocks, warmth blooming in your chest with every stolen breath.
“Fuck,” Mark sobs, forehead dropping against your shoulder, gasping like he can’t breathe. “My god…”
His muscles spasm—thighs trembling, arms shaky and weak—and finally give out. With a groan, Mark collapses on top of you. You huff out a breath, wrapping your arms around him, a soft, breathless laugh escaping your lips.
“Mark,” you whisper, voice soaked in satisfaction. “You good?”
He doesn’t answer. His face is still buried in your neck, breath warm and erratic against your oversensitive skin. He wants to answer, to lift his head and kiss you—because God, you felt so good, because you made him feel incredible, and for once, he knows he made you feel good, too.
But he can’t.
His limbs feel like they’ve turned to stone. Not just his head, not just his arms—everything. The weight of exhaustion hits him all at once like gravity’s been waiting for its moment to strike. The fatigue he’s been running from all this time finally catches up, drained utterly by you. He blinks, trying to fight it off, but it’s useless.
“Mark?” There’s concern edging your voice now, even as your fingers continue their soothing motions along his spine. “Mark.”
You’re warm, energized—glowing with renewed strength—and that, at least, feels like a win. He tries to respond, but the only sound that escapes is a slurred, “Hnng?”
Sleep is pulling him under fast. Even your voice—the one thing he wants to hear—is fading, like it’s coming from another room, another world.
You shake him once. Then again. But he’s already slipping, the darkness too heavy, too deep.
The last thing he’s aware of is the way his cock still twitches inside you, the way your thighs tighten reflexively around his hips, and the way you keep whispering his name—like a lullaby echoing in his ears.
If this is how he goes out, Mark thinks dimly as darkness claims him, it’s one hell of a way to go.
When Mark wakes up, he’s curled around a pillow that smells like you, drooling on it like a damn baby.
He blinks, sluggish and unfocused, head heavy, limbs like lead. His whole body aches—not in a bad way, just in that spent, used-up kind of way. He feels wrung out and dazed. Did he not die?
Groaning, Mark pushes himself up onto his elbows, muscles trembling under his own weight. He glances around, eyes squinting as the pieces slowly fall into place: the decorations on the walls, clothes scattered on the floor, sheets half-draped over his bare body. He recognizes all of it.
And when he hears your faint humming from somewhere beyond the door, it all crashes back.
Oh. He had sex with you. Like—real sex. And somehow, he lived to tell the tale.
His eyes widen as reality slams into him. He jolts upright on your bed—your bed—heart pounding. Shit, did he pass out? How long has it been? What day is it? What year is it? He feels like he’s been out for decades, and yet somehow still not enough to shake the heavy fog pressing on his consciousness.
Then your humming gets louder. He snaps his head toward the door just in time to see it swing open—and there you are.
You spot him, freeze mid-step, and for a split second, the whole room holds its breath.
Mark’s dry lips part. “Y/N—”
“Mark!” you gasp, face lighting up with a wide grin. “You’re awake! Oh, thank god!”
You cross the room in three eager strides, arms open, all warmth and affection. You throw yourself into him without hesitation.
Mark lets out a soft oof as he catches you, the momentum knocking him flat on his back again. The room spins briefly, but the second he registers the weight of you on his chest, the warmth of your skin, the sound of your voice—he relaxes. He smiles, soft and dopey, and buries his face into your shoulder, breathing you in like he’s never been more grateful to be alive.
“Hey,” Mark greets, voice hoarse but tinged with amusement. “How long was I out?”
You don’t answer right away. Instead, you press your face into his chest and hold him tight—like if you let go, he might vanish. Then, after a long moment, you pull back. But instead of replying, you cup his cheeks with both hands and kiss him.
Mark melts into it without hesitation, hands sliding to your waist, holding you close. He sighs against your lips, groaning softly as he kisses you back like it’s the only thing keeping him awake.
When you break apart, your smile lingers, bright and full of affection. “I was worried you wouldn’t wake up for at least a week,” you murmur, thumb brushing gently over his cheekbone. “Most humans wouldn’t. But you—it’s only been, like, sixteen hours.”
Mark jerks upright so fast he nearly headbutts you. “Sixteen hours?!”
You wince, guilt flashing across your face. “Y-Yeah. But—I called your mom! I didn’t exactly explain, but she knows you’re here. She told me to make sure you call her as soon as you’re up.”
Mark exhales, half in disbelief, half in relief. “Jesus. I didn’t think I’d be out that long.”
“…I’m sorry,” you whisper, glancing away. “I shouldn’t have pushed you like that. I didn’t think—I shouldn’t have risked your life just to feed. Just to—be close to you like that.”
“No.” Mark cuts in, his hands sliding up to your shoulders, squeezing gently. “Don’t say that.”
His eyes are steady when you meet them.
“It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says, firm but soft. “No matter the consequences. Me. With you. Like... that.”
He blushes, and you blush, and suddenly neither of you can hold eye contact.
“The best thing?” you murmur, fingers fumbling with the sheets. “Really?”
Mark swallows hard, his embarrassment obvious, but the truth is already bubbling too close to the surface to hold back. Everything he’s felt for you, everything he’s been trying to keep buried, is rising—unstoppable now.
“Yes,” he says softly, voice a little shaky. “Having sex with the person who matters most to me... because you needed me. Because I—”
The pause stretches, fragile.
“Because I love you.”
Your eyes widen at that, the guarded concern melting into something raw and vulnerable.
“Really?” you ask again, a little breathless.
“Of course,” Mark says, a little more sure this time. “I love you, Y/N. And I’d do it all again in a heartbeat if it meant seeing you like this—your real, bright, happy self—again.”
Your lips part in surprise, then you smile—wide and brilliant and so full of love it practically blinds him. Before his tired brain can catch up, you throw yourself at him again, arms around his neck, kissing him open-mouthed and deep.
“I love you too, Mark,” you whisper against his lips, soft and sure.
Mark kisses you back, slow and full of affection, even though his body still feels like it’s made of lead. His chest aches, but in the best possible way—because it’s full of you.
“I’m sorry I was gone so long,” he murmurs between kisses. “If I hadn’t been in space, you wouldn’t have been starving. That’s on me.”
“Don’t say that,” you roll your eyes, but the affection in your voice makes it feel more like a caress. “It’s my nature, okay? Not something you can control. And I waited for you—because I knew you’d come back.”
You lean in and peck the pout off his lips, soft and loving, and then both of you just… look at each other. Breathing the same air. Sharing the same space. The silence stretches, but it’s not awkward—it’s warm.
God—he loves you. Loves everything about you. And loves even more that you feel the same.
“So… does this mean…” Mark hesitates, cheeks pink, “we’re a thing now? Because I want us to be. I really do. I don’t ever want you kissing assholes behind the school anymore—or, well, now at college—because… you have me.”
You giggle, flustered, cheeks glowing. “Yeah—I have you.” You kiss him again, square on the mouth like you couldn’t possibly get enough of him. “And you have me.”
Mark grins, red-faced and beaming, before he pulls you tight against his chest and kisses you again—deep and slow and full of all the words he’s still too overwhelmed to say.
Like I love you.
Like I don’t ever want to let go.
Like don’t ever let me go either.
Then you say, casual as anything, “By the way, my parents want you to have breakfast with us.”
“What?!” Mark pulls back instantly, blushing so hard it reaches his ears. “They—they were here the whole time?!”
“What? No!” you say quickly, just as flustered. “But when they got home from work and saw me fine—you know, they kinda figured out what must’ve happened for me to be this fine. And, ugh—” you roll your eyes, groaning into his shoulder, “they wanna thank the boy who saved their ‘stubborn son’s life,’ or whatever.”
Mark exhales, still pink but processing. “Oh. Then… sure. I mean—do you think they’ll be okay with us? You and me?”
You smile, full of quiet certainty. “Mark, they’ve always liked you. Remember the cake my mom made you for your sixteenth birthday?”
“She decorated it with Seance Dog comic panels,” Mark mumbles, still flushed.
“Exactly,” you laugh. “I’ve been telling them about my crush on you since forever, Mark.”
And Mark flushes all over again, helpless to do anything but smile and pull you back in for another kiss.
A/N: thank you for readingggg, kisses and hugs and more kisses for dealing with me (●'◡'●)
𝄢 scentaddicted!satoru who can’t stop digging his face into the crook of your neck during missionary.
“god… baby you smell like heaven…” he groaned out, an audible inhale as he bit the lobe of your ear and you could feel the twitch of his shaft inside of you.
you giggle, angling your head to the side to allow him more access, a flush running up your neck from the sudden compliment. “i got a new perfume,” you squealed out, wrapping your legs around his waist and running your fingers through his milky locks.
“i’ll buy you,” inhale, “twenty more,” inhale, “if you keep teasing me with your smell like this.”
practically tearing his dipped head from your neck, you lock eyes with him, nearly melting at the sight of your lovesick boyfriend. “really?”
he nods feverishly, licking his lower lip as he eyes your collarbone.
“i’ve got a surprise for you then,” you claim, tone sultry and thick with desire. his head cocks to the side in wonder and you push his shoulders down, a knowing glint passing from your eyes to his.
he shimmys down your form, stopping above your dripping sex. keeping his eyes on you, he leans over the plush of your thigh and licks a long languid stripe that makes your back curve upwards.
“you fucking tease,” he exhales out, then sniffs the bare skin of your inner thigh. “here too?”
running a finger through his hair, you nodded with a timid smile. you’d applied your pheromone perfume to all of your scent glands, making sure not to miss your inner thighs that satoru craved to adorn with love bites any time he had you beneath him.
“where else did you put it?” he grunted out, doing everything possible not to rut his member against the mattress.
you pointed out all of the areas you’d rubbed the perfume on with oil and a mischievous gleam colored satoru’s face, his ravenous smirk making your stomach do about fifteen backflips and pooling enough arousal between your thighs that it was damn near fragrant.
“you’re not leaving,” he sighed out, kissing your thigh with a nibble of his canines that earned a yelp from your parted lips.
Jason doesn’t know what to do with his jealousy. He was trained to lead, to protect, to stay composed. So when he feels that sharp, ugly twist in his gut because someone else touched you, looked at you, laughed too long at your joke? He just… shuts down. Goes quiet. Withdraws.
He’s not loud about it—he’s intense. His shoulders tense. His jaw tightens. He watches you with that controlled Roman stillness, eyes like a brewing storm. When you ask what’s wrong? He lies. “Nothing.” But his hands are clenched into fists and he keeps checking where you are in the room.
It festers. And later, alone with you, it snaps. His fingers wrap around your waist harder than usual. His kisses are hungrier, rougher—uncharacteristically so. His voice is low when he says “Mine, okay? You’re… you’re mine.” And he hates how desperate he sounds.
He’s not used to feeling this out of control. So when he finally pushes you against the wall, panting, rutting against you like he’s trying to claim every inch—you realize: he’s embarrassed by how much he wants you. By how easily you make him fall apart.
He’s still Jason, though. He still asks. Even when he’s jealous, even when he’s already inside you—he pauses. Whispers, breathless, “Tell me you want this.” Because he has to hear it. He needs to know you’re choosing him. Not just because he’s strong or golden or “praetor.” But because he’s Jason.
You notice he gets more vocal in bed when he’s jealous. Not dirty talk—reassurance. He calls you “baby,” “sweetheart,” “mine.” He moans your name like a mantra, like he's trying to bury it in your skin with every thrust. His forehead presses to yours, lightning humming under his skin, and he begs: “Stay with me. Please.”
He holds you tighter. Kisses you deeper. After he comes—usually deep inside you, as close as he can get—he doesn’t move. He stays on top of you, arms wrapped around you like he’s scared you’ll slip away the second he lets go. His heart thunders against your chest.
And later, in the dark? He admits it. Not easily. Not without guilt. But you hear him whisper, raw and ashamed: “I got jealous. I know it’s stupid. I trust you. I just—” His voice breaks. “I want you so much it hurts.”
It’s not dominance with Jason—it’s devotion. He doesn’t fuck you because he’s possessive. He fucks you because he loves you too much and doesn’t know how else to cope. You make him feel—and that terrifies him. But gods, he wants more.
He kisses like he’s drowning. When the jealousy’s fresh in his chest, when he’s still shaken from the idea of losing you, Jason doesn’t ease into the moment—he dives. Mouth hot and open against yours, tongue sliding in with a soft groan, like he needs to prove something. His fingers thread into your hair. His chest is heaving. He doesn’t come up for air until he’s breathless and dazed.
His hands roam like he’s mapping your body. Every dip, every scar, every place you gasp when he touches it. He presses kisses to your sternum, trails them down your stomach. He pauses at your hips—just holding them for a second like he’s grounding himself—before pulling your underwear down slow, reverent, like he’s unwrapping something sacred.
Jason eats you out like it’s redemption. Face buried between your thighs, arms wrapped under your legs to keep you close. He licks slow at first, savoring every moan you make like it’s permission. But when you tug his hair or roll your hips against his face? He groans low, tongue stroking deeper, more desperate. You come with your thighs trembling around his ears, and he doesn’t stop. He keeps going like he wants to prove you belong to him—through pleasure.
He gets painfully hard from giving. When he’s focused on you—kissing you open, feeling you writhe under his mouth—his cock aches untouched against the bed, leaking into his boxers. He ruts into the sheets a little, barely aware he’s doing it, because the sound of you falling apart is enough to push him right to the edge.
He makes the softest, filthiest sounds when he’s inside you. Not cocky. Not performative. Just breathy, vulnerable little gasps every time you tighten around him. His voice cracks when he moans. His fingers shake where they’re tangled with yours. When you whisper his name, he chokes on a curse and thrusts deeper, like his whole body is pleading—don’t let go.
Jason fucks like he’s making love even when he’s jealous. Especially when he’s jealous. He’s not trying to prove he’s better than anyone. He’s trying to show you that no one else would care this much. His thrusts are slow but hard, grinding deep with every movement, foreheads pressed together, lips brushing, hands clinging like he can’t stand an inch of space between you.
He loves when you touch his chest while he’s inside you. Fingertips brushing his collarbone, nails dragging lightly down his stomach. You call him beautiful, and he blushes so hard it hits his ears, hips stuttering while he presses deeper into you, like he needs to feel all of you in return.
He falls apart when you squeeze around him. You clench, whisper how good he feels, and Jason breaks. He groans into your neck, thrusts turning messy, his whole body trembling with the effort of not coming. “I-I can’t—” he gasps, voice wrecked, burying himself deep one last time as he spills, pulsing inside you with a strangled cry.
He loves to stay inside you after. He softens slowly, but he doesn’t pull out. Not right away. He kisses your cheeks, your jaw, your chest. Whispers how much he loves you. You feel him twitch every time you clench around him again—sensitive, overstimulated, but so content to be as close as possible.
He wants to mark you—but gently. He won’t leave bruises unless you ask. But he’ll suck kisses into your inner thighs. He’ll bite lightly at your shoulder while you ride him. His fingers will linger on the curve of your hips where he gripped you during the worst of his jealousy, eyes locked on the faint red marks with a possessive sort of awe.
Jason gets the most intense afterglow when he’s worked up. He’s floaty. Warm. Smiling in that dazed, lovesick way while he pulls you to his chest. He’ll stroke your hair, kiss your temples, whisper “Thank you” over and over because he’s not used to being allowed to need this much. To be jealous. To feel everything.
He gets a little shy about how desperate he was. Once he’s calmed down, he buries his face in your neck and groans. “I don’t know what got into me.” You tell him you liked it, and he flushes all over again—grinning, but a little overwhelmed that you want him like this. Still.
He’ll go down on you again if he’s still feeling insecure. You tease him, say he doesn’t have to. But he insists, kissing his way between your legs, eyes soft and burning with love. “I just want to take care of you.” And he does. Slowly, with tongue and fingers, until you’re begging, shaking, pulling him up for a kiss as you fall apart.
Jason is feral for praise in the moment. Not dominance—praise. Tell him he’s making you feel good. That no one else could ever touch you like this. That you love how deep he is, how gentle, how intense. His eyes flutter shut, his pace falters, and he whispers something like “I love you so much” just as he starts to come again—hard, full-body spasms, head thrown back, moaning into your name like it’s grace.
He doesn’t want to be your only—he wants to be your favorite. That’s where the jealousy lives. Not in control, but in fear. And when you let him love you through it? When you show him that he is enough, with your hands and your moans and your body trembling under his? That’s when he truly, finally believes it.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ ꪆ ✦ 𑊁 ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
— ୨ৎㅤ˳ SFW ㅤ
He tries to be the "good guy" about it. Jason’s first instinct when he’s jealous is to keep it together, to act like it doesn’t bother him. He’s used to being the leader, the protector—the one who’s supposed to have his emotions in check. But if someone else gets too close to you, it eats at him. He might stay quiet, but you can tell he’s a little more tense, a little more rigid.
Internal conflict: He wants to trust, but it’s hard. Jason is a natural protector, and his jealousy often comes from a place of wanting to make sure you're safe and cared for. He doesn’t want to doubt you, but when someone else makes a move, it stirs up that feeling of not being enough. He can’t help but wonder, What if they’re better for you? This internal battle is what causes the most strain on him. He wants to be the hero, but he doesn’t always feel like he’s your hero.
Subtle actions to “claim” you. When Jason’s jealous, he might not say much, but he becomes possessive in small ways. He’ll wrap his arm around your waist when someone else is getting too close, or his hand will rest on the small of your back—almost like he’s trying to anchor you to him without saying a word. His touch is subtle, but the meaning behind it is clear: You’re mine.
He becomes quieter. When jealousy strikes, Jason tends to withdraw a little. He might not snap at the person who’s making him uncomfortable, but he’ll give short answers or focus on something else, like the task at hand. His mind is racing, and he’s trying to push those thoughts down, but they always come bubbling up. You’ll notice the sudden shift in his demeanor: the way he zones out or his quick, clipped responses.
He’s hard on himself. Jason’s jealousy triggers feelings of inadequacy. He’s constantly questioning himself: Am I enough for you? Do I measure up to the other heroes around you? This self-doubt can cause him to retreat into himself, especially if he feels like someone else is offering something he can’t. He won’t admit it easily, but it’s there—the constant battle in his mind.
Protective, but not overbearing. Jason’s protective nature comes out more intensely when he’s jealous. If someone flirts with you or makes a comment about how great you are, he might find an excuse to put himself between you two. He won’t start a fight, but his presence becomes like a shield. His stance will shift—more rigid, more authoritative—making it clear that he’s the one who gets to be close to you.
He tries to hide it, but the little things give him away. Jason’s not one to show his jealousy outwardly, but you can tell by his body language. He might look at you a little too long when someone else is talking to you, or his gaze will flicker to the other person before returning to you, almost like he’s making sure he has your attention. He might fidget with his sword or tap his fingers against his thigh, a sign that his mind is racing.
He needs reassurance, but he won’t ask for it directly. After a jealous moment, Jason will likely withdraw, not wanting to admit his feelings. But he’ll need you to remind him that he’s your choice. He won’t say it outright, but you’ll notice him seeking small moments of closeness—lingering touches, quiet words, a soft look that says more than he’s willing to say aloud. He needs to hear that you chose him.
He’ll confront it, but only when it’s overwhelming. If his jealousy goes unchecked for too long, Jason’s emotions might come to a boiling point. He won’t get angry or yell, but he’ll pull you aside and quietly tell you that he’s feeling a little insecure, not knowing if he’s measuring up to what you need. It’s not a confrontation; it’s a vulnerable confession. He’s asking for reassurance without demanding it, and he’s trusting you to help him work through it.
His jealousy isn’t about control—it’s about fear of loss. Unlike like Leo, whose jealousy often comes from his own insecurities and need for validation, Jason’s jealousy is more about the fear of losing you. He doesn’t want to control you, but the thought of someone else stealing your attention, making you feel seen in ways he can't, hurts him deeply. He doesn’t want to be possessive, but sometimes the fear of losing you overrides his rational thoughts.
Content: sucking off the strongest sorcerer just because~
♧Warnings: oral, cum swallowing♧
~1,3k words~ MDNI | JJK Masterlist
You had hopes for this sorcerer's assembly. Maybe good news regarding the severe understaffing, perhaps the higher-ups had finally changed their God-forsaken minds about modern Jujutsu, or the mysteriously increasing curse sightings being addressed. But hoping for the kind of situation you found yourself in after everyone had left, even you weren't delusional enough for. And yet, here you are. Between Saturo Gojo's spread legs.
His tall frame lounges on one of the sofas in the meeting room, only you two left after everyone had departed. His grin is persistent, taunting you still. You glare up at him, hiding the giddiness his crotch in front of your face provokes well. "If you keep grinning like that, I'll stop right now," you grumble while sliding our hands from his knees slowly toward the junction of his hips. The material of his uniform feels smooth under your palms.
"Can't help it," Satroru chuckles, his knees parting further, "I didn't think I'd end up with you between my legs today." His grin somehow widens, clearly confident. His arms are on the backrest of the couch, as spread as his legs. The blindfold thankfully hides the intensity of his blue eyes, otherwise, you know you wouldn't be able to hold yourself back.
"Don't make it sound like this is surprising to you," you mumble, attention on the growing bulge underneath his pants. It was no secret you were into him after all. Or that anyone was into him. Having Satoru indulge your advance, however, was not expected. Your right hand finally slides over his groin, the base of your palm pressing teasingly.
He bites his lip as a small groan rumbles through his throat, his full attention on you, and you can sense the intrigued look he gives you despite the cloth covering his eyes. You shift slightly, feeling very aroused yourself, a desperately hot fire building between your legs while you press your hand upwards, pushing until you've reached the zipper of his pants.
"It is surprising," Gojo insists, leg twitching as you pull his zipper down painfully slow, "you don't seem the type for this sort of thing..."
You look at his face briefly, a brow raised questioningly. You decide to leave the remark uncommented, focused again on his revealed dark blue boxershorts, an obvious boner beneath them. Your eyes find his blindfold, big and enticing as you lean down and press your tongue against the fabric of his underwear, wetting it with your spit. He shivers, one of his hands moving downwards to pull the shorts down himself, clearly impatient.
You pull back, watching him free his hard cock for you, a satisfied smile on your face. He's big. Not as big as people make him out to be, but it's a remarkable size for sure. And very prettily shaped. Most importantly, though, it's hard and willing only for you now. You can't suppress a small victorious smile.
"Like what you see?" Satoru grins, his fingertips teasingly trailing along the length of his shaft before his hand reaches out to grab you by the chin, pulling you towards himself, "don't get shy now~"
You squint at him, shortly considering to slap his hand away, but you allow him the control for now. Your lips wrap around the head of his dick, Satoru's hold moving to your hair, encouraging you to take more, still that unbearable smile on his face. The taste of his skin fills your mouth as you lick across his slit and allow him to enter you deeper.
The sorcerer groans shamelessly, head throwing back as he sinks deeper into the sofa, his legs relaxing around you. You're watching him closely, taking as much as you feel comfortable before pulling away again and sliding him back into your throat. Your hand joins to assist you, squeezing and stroking the base your mouth can't reach.
"Ah~" he moans so prettily, Satoru's hand that wasn't supportively on the back of your head moving to his hair, carding through the thick white strands. In one fluid motion, his fingers slip under his mask, smoothly pulling the black fabric downwards, revealing his nearly glowing blue eyes.
Your heart jumps as he looks directly into your unsuspecting pupils, your grip on him slightly tightening. You pull off, only your lips applying slight suction on his head. You have to avert your eyes, not handling the intensity of his gaze well, and as expected, the action is followed by a small chuckle from Satoru.
You furrow your brows as you take him back into your mouth, eyes focused on the dark material of his uniform, twitching along when his muscles do. You can't help the added salivation when thinking about his toned body beneath the cloth. Your eyes find the courage to look into his, seeking approval for your actions and finding it in the way his brows furrow, lips slightly parted but still stretched in a smile. He looks undone with his hair falling into his face, and it's unbearably hot.
You press your tongue against him, taking him deeper and sliding off again. It's enticing to see him visibly fill with pleasure, his moans turning more and more into desperate gasps, his composure slipping whenever the head of his cock touches the back of your throat. Your free hand eventually has to come up and hold his hips in place, their relentless twitching disturbing your pace.
He's clearly needy for it, his head thrown back again, shamelessly releasing breathy moans into the room, body convulsing, and hand desperately grabbing at the back of your head. "Fuck," he gasps, a string of suppressed moans following and you sense the sinful taste of precum reach into your throat.
You watch him intensely, deciding to let him struggle for a few strokes more. It's far too enjoyable to let the strongest sorcerer exert for your mouth, and you know Satrou knows you feel this way, and yet, he lets you control his orgasm completely.
Another choaked moan makes you decide it's finally enough, your mouth applying stronger suction as you pull off of him, his tip on your tongue as your other hand increases its strokes. Satoru's attention snaps to you, his bright eyes lidded, lips parted to allow his pleasured sounds to flow freely.
He looks way too smug when he realizes you're letting him come into your mouth and you almost consider changing your mind when his orgasm hits. His face looks unfairly ethereal, Addam's apple bobbing erotically along with the choked moans that coat his tongue. His cum shoots onto your tongue, painting your gums with sin. Even his semen tastes perfect.
You swallow gladly, watching Satoru shudder through pleasure remnants as your tongue searches every inch of your teeth for any lingering seed. "Holy-" he gasps, chest rising and falling noticeably, and his expression blissed out. You enjoy the view from between his legs for another moment, slightly grinning yourself.
You lift yourself, arms crossed, looking down at Satoru so undone, feeling very accomplished and.... slightly awkward... what now?
Satoru takes that question from you by pulling you next to him and messily connecting your lips, his tongue an instant intruder. You're started but into it, so much, you chase his taste as he pulls away. "You could've saved some for me," he complains and your brows furrow at him when you realize he's talking about his cum.
"My God, you're more of a perv than I thought," you complain as if his statement didn't make your lower stomach tear with desire. You decide to get up before he has a chance to notice just what exactly he's doing to you.
"Hey, shouldn't I return the favor?" he calls as you casually walk away, feeling his eyes on your back. You grin to yourself, battling the urge to turn around and have him make good on his promise. He should. And he will. But seeing Satoru struggle so prettily is more fun than getting your fill so soon. And besides, you need something to look forward to for the next assembly.
"I'll keep it in mind," you respond smugly just before closing the door to the room behind you, leaving the other with a knowingly intrigued grin on his lips.
Pairing: Dev Patel characters (Kid Monkey Man, Sir Gawain, Joshua, Neal, David Copperfield) x GN reader
Word count: 1.9K
Warnings: Nothing really, reader is sick, nothing specific is mentioned but I guess it's more generic cold/bug kinda sick vibes? A lot of fluff! Reader has no physical descriptions. Not proofread!
A/N: This is my first time writing and posting for Dev characters outside of Monkey Man (I've had a few but I just haven't finished them oops)! This is a Sickcember fic and I have more Monkey Man fics here. Let me know what you think, I hope you all enjoy this! Comments and reblogs are appreciated! @royalsunshinehotel has also done Dev characters x sprained ankle reader HCs you should read too!🫶
Kid (Monkey Man)
Kid will stay with you at your side the whole time you’re feeling unwell, both when it feels like you’re in the storm of sickness and adoringly so even when you tell him it’s only a little sniffle or yawn and that he no longer needs to. Kid stays with you whether you’re sleeping or awake, he’s extremely attentive and takes watching over his lover extremely seriously. He needs to have an eye on you 24/7 and barely sleeps when you’re feeling unwell.
Kid isn’t deterred at all from you being sick, he still wants to be close to you and provide as much comfort as he can while you’re under the weather. He’ll still sleep next to you and if you tell him to go and sleep somewhere else he’ll roll his eyes and just wrap his arms around you in response. He’s a constant big spoon, he’ll curl his body around yours to however you’re laying. If you’re needing some extra heat therapy on a sore muscle or joint he’ll have his warm hand there for wherever you need him.
If you whisper that you have a headache or your neck feels stiff because of the awkward position you slept in last night (it was the only one that felt comfortable for your weak body) he’ll gently massage your temple or neck.
He’ll spend the day making and pouring cup after cup of chai for you, insisting you drink each one and keep up with your fluids. Each time you finish a cup he’ll press a kiss to your forehead, it starts to create a sort of Pavlov’s conditioning but you’re not complaining, it’s a reward you both adore and it’s the best motivator you could imagine to keep you drinking.
Even after you’re finally feeling better, he’ll still give you a forehead kiss each time you finish a cup of chai. Only you know just how sweet he is.
Sir Gawain (The Green Knight)
When you’re feeling unwell Gawain dotes on you, with the support of the court’s servants of course. He’ll crawl into bed with you while you’re feeling unwell and sprawl his lean body out like a blanket over you. When you’re awake and feeling unwell and don’t want to move, Gawain nibbles on your ear and shoulder insisting you to take a hot bath to warm yourself up. He has a herbal remedy from his mother, an earthy tonic with smells your sick nose can’t decipher or appreciate, that she prepared and instructed him to use for you.
A maid will prepare the bath and then he’ll carry you into the warm water. Gawain will quietly but immediately slip in with you, he’s a man always in need of a wash after all. He’ll sit in the warm tub with his chest to your back and wrap his arms around you, gently washing your aching body and your hair. He’ll also hum and watch you, letting you drift off to sleep against his chest in the blanket of the warm, medicinal water, he’ll caress your arm gently and silently take in every fine line, blemish, mole, scar that he can see on your body and commit every beautifully unique mark to memory.
Just before the water cools, Gawain will quietly wake you up and help you dry yourself and then carry you to bed and lounge with you the whole time. He has little in the way of responsibilities so it’s more than convenient to get to keep you in his bed. He’ll try to feed you hot soups and when you can’t stomach another spoonful he’ll quietly finish it off for you.
Gawain will continue this new routine of spending almost every hour of the day in bed with you for as long as you’re feeling unwell, even if it is a bout of illness that lasts more than a few weeks. He’ll continue taking a hot bath with you everyday, your illness makes him bathe more than he ever has in his life. Gawain will also quietly sit with you when you’re feeling up for sitting and will oil your hair before the days he washes it for you in the bath. You’ve never been quite so pampered. Whenever your appetite comes back or you get a craving, he has the kitchen immediately prepare it and he also has you drinking teas his gorgeous mother has concocted just for you.
When you start to feel better, Gawain will nuzzle into your shoulder and say that the two of you should just continue to spend the rest of your lives in bed.
Josh Madika (Modern Love)
Joshua will check his phone during the day to see you’ve messaged saying that you’ve gone home early because you’re feeling unwell. He’ll then leave work early as well and before you have the chance to even send another text of sick-brain typos he’s left work as well to go to the pharmacy and buy everything. Everything.
He doesn’t know what’s wrong, it could be a cold, stomach bug, headache, maybe even a sprain. But he’s making sure that when he gets home, he’s more than prepared. He carries a basket around, adding an electric heat pad, a wheat bag, just so that you have options for heat therapy. He doesn’t add in a hot water bottle, his mother has made sure it’s not something he’d ever consider fortunately for you. Tiger balm, electrolytes, ginger chews, two boxes of different over the counter anti-inflammatories, cough syrup, a topical cream for sore muscles (even though he knows there’s a tub of something similar and better that his mother has given him that’s at home). He adds some vaporub, lozenges, and paracetamol.
When Joshua comes home he bashfully reveals the contents of his large shopping bag filled with the goods. You can’t help but chuckle at the thoughtfulness and how shy he looks as he waits for your reaction, realising in the moment that this might be what’s considered going overboard. You happily accept some of the medications and he practically tucks you into bed and then goes into the kitchen to get you some water and ginger tea. He orders in soup and hands you the tea and water. Joshua then sits down on the bed next to you, one hand rubbing your leg while the other sets an alarm for several hours when you can have more medicine.
When the soup arrives, he dishes it up and then sits in bed with you. He lets you choose a film to watch while you both eat dinner, and he tries to bribe you with kisses to eat more soup and sip more water and tea. It mostly works.
Neal Sampat (The Newsroom)
Neal wants to call in sick to work when you wake up feeling unwell, but you insist you’ll be fine at home and that you’ll just spend the day in bed resting. He feels completely guilty though, he feels guilty as he gets ready, as he leaves and commutes to the office and spends every minute at his desk feeling guilty.
Within less than half an hour, everyone on the floor knows that you, Neal’s beloved partner, is sick.
Within three hours, he can’t take it anymore. The guilt is eating him, he’s been sending you lots of check in messages and he needs to go home. He loudly and unconvincingly coughs and says that he thinks he needs to leave and has caught whatever you have. Maggie rolls her eyes but doesn’t say anything, Mac obviously sees through it but waves him off to go home. When he goes back to work next he’ll “crack” on his little lie and make some heartfelt apology to Mac and Will as if he committed a sin.
You can’t help but laugh when Neal comes back home, he immediately hugs you and curls his body around yours. He tells you that he missed you and felt terrible more times than you count. Neal smiles as he cuddles you and whispers in your ear all the random passive aggressive flirting and updates on Jim and Maggie he saw in the office and a breakthrough on a story before you take a nap.
While you nap Neal researches which medications and brands are best, which ones have more ethical origins, are involved with lawsuits etc. He’ll also find random remedy recipes on the internet that you’ve never heard of and will try to convince you that research is on your side to try them. He gets fully engrossed in several rabbit holes while next to you, so it’s nothing new really.
Neal makes you a cup of tea, gets you all of the softest blankets and pillows for you to be bundled up in and when you’re comfortable in bed he’ll put his laptop on his lap and pull up his Bigfoot presentation. He’ll excitedly whisper his points to you, being mindful of any potential ear aches or headaches you might have. He’s completely animated as he whispers to you and then shows you clips of shaky handheld footage of blurs and interviews in forests.
You blink tiredly and nod along, indulging him, his eyes twinkle when he’s so excited and that’s what you’ll remember when this is over and you’re feeling better. Not any of the conspiracy theories, because of your fatigue, brain fog and drowsiness courtesy of modern medicine’s side effects. But that twinkle instead.
David Copperfield (The Personal History of David Copperfield)
David insists on you being on bedrest, he’ll even have a doctor come for a house visit and confirm that. He doesn’t like it when others are ill or uncomfortable, his good and kind nature is a significant part of who he is, so he of course feels more protective and worried about you even if it is something more minor. When the doctor confirms you need rest, David will smile and nod while flashing you a cheeky look that has a faint but visible (to you) ‘I told you so!’
While you’re sick, David will stay at your bedside for every single minute that he can and will happily wait on you hand and foot. There’s a constant stream of tea, snacks (even if you’re nauseous or have no appetite), cold compresses for your forehead, anything you could need (that’s not modern medicine obviously) he’s making that happen for you.
He has his journal and several scraps of paper with him. Sometimes David will hold your hand while writing next to you, especially when you’re sleeping, it helps him feel close to you. But when you’re awake he’ll read his new quotes to you, constructing new potential stories as you listen with a drowsy brain. Whenever a quote makes you smile or laugh, David completely lights up and will jot something down, delighted with himself to have brought a little bit of joy to you while you feel unwell.
But it’s a double edged sword, of course. Nobody has a perfect brain and especially not when they’re sick, so almost everything you say while feeling under the weather or while half asleep is quickly written down. Some of it is bound to haunt and confuse you when you’re feeling better and your mind is a bit sharper, of course. But that’s something David will gladly show and remind you of as soon as you’ve recovered.
