sinner

[desiresin]

in  the  devil’s  arms. 

look at you, needing me.     |    ⋆˚࿔  charlie

— pfp | peter parker’s boyfriend.  ✮  rules && masterlist  ୨ৎ  my faves! — he they.  nineteen.  requests open. male reader pref. —— mdni side blog! — main: @pottersbf 

───────────────── ©DESIRESIN, 2025

[goooner679]

The Sight of You

Peter Parker/Male Reader, Peter Parker/First Person Reader

You and Peter see each other across the bar. Suppressed feelings from years ago come out as you sloppily make out. He confesses his feelings for you, saying he messed up by pushing you away. You struggle for moment, remembering the good and bad.

CW: Explicit, Semi Drunk Sex, Blowjobs, Frotting, Gentle and Rough Kissing, Anal Sex, Porn with Feelings

Word Count ~ 4k

Ao3

My hand was yanked and I felt my body get dragged off the rickety bar stool. Of course, he still had that superhuman strength. I was led through the crowd, my body almost numb from the alcohol but still present enough to feel the vast array of clothing textures brush against my skin. Soft cottons, smooth polyesters, a fluffy shawl despite the warm weather outside and body heat induced warmth inside, all made the briefest pass on my exposed arms. The dim lights combined with my unfocused vision and made it difficult to discern anything about anyone I was pulled to shove past.

Finally, we made it through a doorway. I hoped to feel the cool evening breeze against my skin, but instead I inhaled the stale smell of piss and rust. Hazy yellow lights gave the bathroom slightly more visibility than the main bar area. The man who confidently dragged me across the bar finally released my wrist. It felt cold. I wanted his touch back. I wanted his touch everywhere.

As soon as he turned to face me, I gazed deep into his eyes for a moment. There was so much lust and want in his face. The look in his eyes was one I imagined a hungry lion would show a gazelle right before it struck. I missed those eyes, that look.

But instead of immediately pouncing on me, a soft hand grazed my cheek as he whispered, “beautiful.”

His gentle voice was so intoxicating, but my hurt was stronger. I stepped back, away from the touch. With my back flush with the hard wooden door, I muttered, “Why now?”

I could see his teeth begin to nibble his bottom lip, still the same nervous tick as years ago. Was the answer so hard to say or did it just not exist?

“I-I don't-”

“Still?” The shout burst out of me as my anger at his lack of explanation and pathetic stuttering boiled over. “Do you know what it's like? To see everyone uphold someone who always saves the day but can't give one damn explanation.”

My eyes were drawn to his adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he gulped, the only motion aside from his shoulders going up and down with each deep breath. A small patch of stubble stuck out to my eye, where the busy Peter Parker clearly missed while hastily shaving. The fun loving hero that was always equipped with a one liner was stunned into a statue-esq silence.

After a minute, or was it five, he broke the silence. “I'm sorry.” It was barely audible, my ears straining to hear.

That was it. That was all he had? Two damn years and all he came up with was I'm sorry. I spent two years thinking of ways to curse him out for using either of his busy life’s as an excuse, but I never imagined this is all he would give me.

It was so stupid. This whole situation, seeing each other after all this time like this was so stupid. I relaxed my body against the door, an exasperated chuckle leaving my lips. It released all of my tension. We were both too drunk to actually have this conversation. Peter looked at me confused at my reaction, almost on edge as if I would yell or strike him. I wanted to find it in me to do either action, but I stopped thinking with my brain.

“Kiss me.” It was a demand that came from the raging boner I had straining my tight pants. I would regret it in the morning, I knew it, but I, it, needed relief.

There was a pause of hesitation, but he couldn't resist me either. It was the entire reason I got dragged into this dingy bathroom once we locked eyes across the bar. The two years had changed our clothing and haircuts, but neither of us could forget the other's face.

A warm hand returned to my cheek, as he carefully grabbed my face as if I was made of glass or an illusion that would shatter. But his lips smashed against mine in a way that was anything but gentle. I returned the passion, slipping my tongue in and desperately fishing around to taste him again. I almost forgot how sweet he was. Almost.

My tongue felt its way through his mouth, remapping it into my memory. The way each tooth was arranged, the roof of his mouth, and of course, the way his tongue wrestled with mine. In the past, it was done slowly, sensually, with intent. Now, with both of us aware how quickly everything could fall apart, it was a manic fight in his mouth.

It didn’t take long for our need to be as close as possible to spread throughout our bodies. Seeking pressure, I pressed my groin against him. A groan slipped between our mouths, and I felt his equally hard bulge putting pressure on mine. Utilizing his strong hips, I felt my back hit the door again, with a lot more force. Just the knowledge that he could've slammed me through it made my horny brain light up even more. He used the tent in my pants as the perfect surface to grind his massive, concealed cock.

Fuck.

I needed more.

I needed it now.

Peter whined at my exit from his mouth, but I had to use it on other places. His cotton shirt was soft on my fingers as I lightly shoved him back. The muscular body that I knew was wrapped under the white band t-shirt stood firm against my weak push, but he knew what I meant and stepped back. Ignoring the permeating smell that signaled the cleanliness, or lack thereof, of the room, I dropped to my knees the moment I had the space. The ground collided with them, hard, but I was too drunk, too horny, to even pay it any mind.

While maintaining eye contact, I used my hands to feel up and undo his pants. As I worked up, I felt his cock pushing hard to get free from its restraints. I let my touch linger for a moment, watching up at the wide eyes staring me down.

“Pl-please.” The whimper came from Peter. The wall shook behind me as he slammed his hands against it and rolled his hips, almost as if it was involuntary, into my hands.

I kept my hands moving up. I fumbled with the aged leather belt holding his pants in place before I finally got the buckle undone. In one motion, I yanked his pants and underwear down simultaneously. Once it was free, Peter's hung cock perked up to attention and slapped me in the face. Flecks of precum flew off and spattered onto my face.

I grabbed it by the base, using both hands since one wasn't enough to fully wrap around. I started with my tongue, lapping up the salty sweet pre from the head of the cock.

I missed this taste. It coated my tongue, and I wanted more. The real thing. That's what I was chasing. My lips wrapped around the thick cock and I forced my jaw to go slack. I bobbed my head, working my way lower and lower with each motion. But it wasn't fast enough for Peter. A strong hand found its place on the back of my head, thin finger interlacing with my hair.

My head got pushed forward, forcing the cock deep into my mouth. It slammed against the entrance of my throat, and yet my mouth still hadn't connected with my hands at the base of the cock yet. My vision blurred and I fought back my gag reflex. I had tried to find other partners in the two years since, but none had girth comparable to Peter. My throat was unprepared. I used my nose to take a breath, that was more shallow than I wished it would've been.

My hair got pulled, taking my head back with it. I used the chance to attempt to relax my throat before it got forced back down. This time, I was more ready, and the thick cock filled me. I could feel my lips finally reach my hands, as the entire length rested in my mouth and throat. It twitched slightly. I knew what that meant, but I wanted to do more before he came.

Soft relaxed muscle filled my hands as I grabbed his ass. It tensed a bit under my grasp and I heard Peter above me shiver. The pressure on my head loosened, but his fingers still remained twirled in my hair. He still knew exactly what I was going to do. I tightened my grip on him, and used it as a way to pull out just up his tip on the edge of my mouth, before slamming my head back down.

A groan echoed off the walls and filled the cramped room. “So g-ood.”

His praise encouraged me to pick up speed. Through the tears in my eyes, I watched as his pale skin got closer and further, closer and further. The block in my throat removed for mere moments just to reappear. My body urged itself to cough, to get it out, but I kept going. The dick in my throat kept throbbing and twitching while the unholy sounds from my mouth combined with the whispered moans from Peter.

At last, the hands on my head reapplied its pressure and forced his dick all the way down my throat. His groan crescendo'd to a volume that if I was in the right state of mind, I would've worried about the workers hearing. Thick warm liquid shot down my throat. One spurt. Two spurts. Three. After four, he seemed to be empty at last, and removed his increasingly flaccid dick. On the way out, I slurped it clean of all its salty goodness, the sticky warmth coating my tongue.

“Fuck, I-” The gentle voice cracked. It seemed to be caught on emotion rather than horniness.

I glanced up to check his face. It seemed he noticed me looking, since he removed the hand from my hair and placed it to cover his face from my view. But he wasn't quick enough. I saw the glossy look in his eyes. The complete pivot from moaning during climax to choking up on tears confused me. Was it an instant post nut clarity? Was he crying because I did a bad job?

I picked myself up off the ground, my knees yelling at me in pain but I ignored it. My hands found the soft cotton of his shirt again and wrapped around his waist. A force of weight fell onto me and he collapsed into my arms. His arms loosely found my upper back and his tear soaked face buried into my shoulder.

“Y-you're so,” His voice was muffled in my shirt, and I felt him hiccup from either the alcohol or the tears spasming his diaphragm, or both. “so fucking nice.”

Another wave of confusion rolled through me. I still didn't understand why he was crying. “Hey, you're amazing too.”

But instead of comforting him, my words just made him sob harder. Unsure of what to do, I just rubbed his back until he could find his voice again. We stood in the dingy bathroom wordlessly, just two exes comforting each other.

After a while, the crying slowed, and he stood from my grasp. My arms had almost gone numb from holding the deceivingly heavy man up. The red tear stained eyes met mine, as he cleared his throat. “I'm sorry.” Despite his attempt to clear it, his voice was a bit scratchy. “For being scared back then. I was so worried about someone finding out about us that I forgot how much I needed you.”

A sad grin found its way on my face. After all this time, I finally got what I wanted; The reason why he left me after things were going so well. But the answer stirred confusing emotions in me. There was relief that it wasn't my fault, but also hurt that I wasn't enough to deter his care about public perception. I felt the same way, that I needed him, but also it was hard to look into his eyes and not think of our last conversation.

“Can we try again?”

His question shocked me. Try again? I thought of the hurt he caused me. The breakup over text, no final goodbye in person. The abandoned dates as Spiderman was called to duty and the six month anniversary spent in a hospital room. The rational part of my brain told me to say no. It was just a freshman fling and to leave it in the past.

But the good parts fought their way to the front of my thoughts. The gentle way he held me and how he knew just the right spots to place his hands. Cheap handmade gifts that had so much labor put into them that the worth was more than the ingredients used. How he seemed to read my mind, and knew what I needed and when I was upset.

I stopped gazing off and pulled my attention back into his eyes. Those eyes that read my soul and held such a pitiful expression as he stood and waited for my reply. He would understand if I rejected him. It was clear he wasn't ready to be with a man.

“Yes.” My mouth betrayed my brain. But watching his face light up, feeling his hands return on my back and get pulled into a tight embrace, I knew I made the right choice.

We pulled away from the hug, but still kept close. His warm hands still resting on my upper back and mine on his muscular lower back. We were close enough that I could see the small specks of green in his ocean eyes. They disappeared as he shut them, leaning back in to kiss me. I met his lips with mine. This time, he was gentle, not trying to devour me like earlier but reassure me with his mouth. It was okay. He cared.

Bang. The door behind me shook violently and we jumped apart at the noise.

“Get out! I havta shit!” A gruff voice demanded.

I glanced at Peter, worried, but he just giggled at the situation as he pulled his pants back up. “Let's go to my apartment.”

I was confused. “But, people are going to see-”

“Who cares.” That threw me off guard. Two years ago, he would never say something like that. Seeing my reaction, Peter continued, “I have bigger secrets than my sexuality to hide.”

The second the door to his apartment clicked shut, I carefully watched Peter, who had that hungry look in his eyes again. Our lips were like magnets that couldn't stay apart any longer. I felt him devour me. My back slammed against the smooth wall with enough force to knock a nearby painting loose from the nail that hung it. But I didn't care. My body didn't care. Peter didn't care. There was only one section of our brains active, the same one causing the pressure in my pants. The same one causing his huge bulge to press against mine.

Our tongues still interlocked, I fumbled with the belt and pants that were keeping Peter's cock away. Cold air smacked my ass, then the rest of my lower body as Peter beat me in the task of removing the other's pants. I was close behind and yanked his pants and underwear down and allowed them to drop to his ankles.

With both our hard cocks exposed to the air, Peter thrust me against the wall again, frotting our cocks together. I stopped making out with him as a sharp moan escaped my mouth, something he didn't seem to mind as he did the same. His deep moan harmonized with mine. I wrapped my hands around our thick cocks, and while mine wasn’t quite the level of the superhero's, I was still proud of how close we were in size. Warm strong hands assisted me as we both worked on jerking the two cocks together.

The precum from both of our tips made our hands glide. The pressure of four hands combined with the motions of Peter solid cock rubbing up and down against the front of mine was already making my cock twitch. I felt the familiar pull, the urge to cum. But it was too soon. I wanted, needed, him in me first.

“Ngh, w-wait,” My request was breathy, as I fought back the intense pleasure for just long enough to speak.

Instantly, the rough hands stopped working and one of his hands gently caressed my cheek. A look of concern was on Peter's face as he looked into my eyes. “Is everything okay?”

“So good. I want more. Inside me.” My mumbling was incoherent, I was basically drunk off of the feeling of being back here with him. Of him still knowing exactly how to work me.

Those words were all he needed to hear. The concern transformed into a sultry smile. The gentle hold left my cheek and roughly grabbed my hips. I felt my body get flipped around with little effort, facing the crappy wall of his cheap apartment. My body got pushed forward, forcing me to catch myself on the wall, as he easily pushed two fingers in.

“Already so loose,” the vibrations of his low whisper tickled my ear. “What a naughty boy prepping before the bar.”

Before I could even argue back, a wave of intense pleasure ran through my body as his finger grazed my prostate. The only sound that left my lips was my pathetic groan. My ass felt empty for a moment as his fingers left, but that was quickly replaced by his hard cock pushing against my asshole. I felt the tip ram in, my tight ass squeezing around it. It stretched me so good. With a grunt, I felt his huge cock slam into me as he used his strong hips to thrust into me. I could barely stop myself from slamming against the wall. My average musculature was hardly comparable to the strength of Peter.

It seemed Peter realized it too, as he grabbed a tighter hold on my hips and kept in place as he rammed back into me. This time, his cock made its way fully in. I felt so full. His balls slapped against mine and the sensation was enough to almost make me cum.

“So good,” Peter groaned behind me.

That was it. I couldn't hold on any longer. The orgasm I'd been biting back since the bar bathroom finally shot through me. I lost sight as my eyes rolled back. My body tightened and relaxed in all the right places. I laid back against the muscular Peter to prevent falling face first into the wall, his grip on my hips the only reason I was still standing. Then I felt the rush of warmth as Peter came right after, moaning loudly alongside me.

Soft kisses planted onto the side of my neck. “I missed this so much.”

I couldn't articulate how damn much I agreed, so I just hummed in agreement.

He pulled his cock out, leaving my ass empty aside from the bits of cum spilling out. I felt my body get spun around again before he kept working his mouth on my neck. The way he sucked at my sensitive neck, nipping it slightly, I knew it would leave a mark. But based on the noises I was making, he knew I didn't care in the moment.

The cold air hit the wet spot on my neck, contrasting his warm mouth, once he pulled away. I finally opened my eyes, meeting his soft gaze. It was somehow so tender, despite the obvious glint of lust.

“How about we properly strip and get to the bedroom?” Peter asked, his eyes obviously glancing at the pants around our ankles, our shoes still on as we never made it past the doorway.

A chuckle escaped my mouth. God we were worse than bunnies when we were together. After we removed our shoes and clothes from our lower bodies, all that remained were our shirts. Before he could even grab the bottom hem, I reached forward and beat him. I pulled up, and he understood, raising his arms and allowing me to pull his shirt off.

His body was even hotter than it was a few years ago. The shallow six pack had deep ridges and a beautiful v line that pointed right at his, currently soft, dick. His waist looked almost pinched in, although that effect was created by his flared lats, giving his upper body a dorito shape. His raised arms showed off his huge triceps and hinted at his massive biceps. While he still, somewhat, maintained his lean look, it was evident that he'd been doing a lot of exercising outside of saving the city.

Like a copycat, once I managed to get his shirt off, he took advantage of my distractedness from ogling at his defined physique and pulled my shirt up. I allowed it to happen, if only so he could see the shape I got into since he left me. Now it was his turn to stare.

But I wanted to do more than stare. I grabbed his hand and dragged him to his bedroom. In the years, somehow nothing in the dingy apartment changed. The bedroom looked exactly how it did the last time I was in it, except a lot messier. The unmade bed and litterings of physics paper I couldn't begin to comprehend and photographs for the Daily Bugle were scattered everywhere. It was clear he wasn't expecting company tonight.

I playfully pushed him onto the bed, and he fell back with more force than I exerted. I jumped on top of him. My lips collided with his for a moment before I made my way down. His neck, his pecs, his nipples which drew out a sharp gasp, his abs. Each fell victim to my mouth. Knowing his line of work, I spared his neck from marks. But under his collar… well that would get covered by his shirt. Especially once I made it to his sensitive thighs. I purposely got close to his dick, allowing my hair to tickle his already hardening cock, but not my mouth.

The anticipation was clearly killing him, at least it was making him groan like crazy. Finally, he muttered, “Pl-Please.”

I rewarded him for asking. His cock was almost fully hard again, despite just cumming. My tongue ran up, starting at his balls and ending on his tip, where I planted a soft kiss. That made him fully hard and ready for my next plan.

Even though I was still too sensitive to go again, I fought through it and stood over him. I locked eyes with him as I lowered my asshole over his cock. It was still loose enough to take it fully with one motion. My soft cock slapped against his belly as I slammed my body down. The shocked look of pleasure on Peter's face was so hot. I leaned down to kiss him, our mouth feverishly smacking together, too horny to apply any skill. I used my hips to slowly ride his cock, up and down.

Those strong hands found their way around my hips again and assisted me in moving faster. Fuck. His huge cock was rubbing in just the right way against my prostate, I couldn't think. I was so overstimulated. A spurt of warmth flooded my ass.

A soft scent of vanilla hit my nose. I felt the strong arms I was enveloped in, one hand absentmindedly playing with my hair. I snuggled deeper into the warm embrace.

“Someone's finally awake,” the gentle coo of Peter's voice flooded the memories back into my head. I had blacked out for the first time from an orgasm.

I was never going to let him get away again.

[4nicolas]

yuji itadori x male reader

!MDNI! 18+

-yuji itadori loves dick, it’s who he is!

wrd count - 2100+

cw - making out, blowjobs, handjobs, slight edging, aged up yuji (bro is NOT a minor in this), amab reader, cum swallowing.

—————————————————————————————

yuji itadori loved dick, that much he knew. he never really thought too hard about it, it was simply a fact about him. obviously he didn’t go around announcing that he loved dick, but it always lingered in the back of his mind.

yuji itadori also loved you, that was something he was certain of and thought hard about. he loved being around you, and your dick was like a bonus. he especially loved when you two would cuddle leaving occasional kisses, followed by a make out session, which then turned into his favorite part, getting to touch you.

he felt your hand move up the side of his cheek, pulling him in closer to you, smashing your lips together. your lips soft against his as you kissed him so passionately, yuji felt himself falling in love with you all over again. everything you did to him was intoxicating. your love was intoxicating.

he kissed you back, returning that same passion while moving his arms to wrap around your neck. your thumb moved in a circle, rubbing his cheek and yuji couldn’t help but lean into the touch.

you hummed, he could feel your smile against the kiss at his reaction, it made his head feel fuzzy. the two of you were sitting on yujis bed, him straddling your thighs as your free hand rested on his hip.

you ran your tongue across yujis bottom lip as one of his hands slid up into your hair, his fingers scratching gently at your scalp before he opened his mouth for you.

you acted instantly, shoving your tongue in his mouth, exploring every part of him. he groaned into the kiss, his hand digging further into your hair.

he didn’t bother fighting back, simply letting you take control and do your thing. he would kiss you all day if you’d let him, which you probably would if not for school and missions.

after a moment, yuji started running out of breath and he knew you were too but he didn’t want you to pull back, he wanted even more of you.

reluctantly you had to pull back, feeling as if you couldn’t breath, separating from yuji, you take a quick breath and look at him, his eyes clouded over completely with hunger. you smile, shaking your head, yuji blinked, not speaking as you look into each others eyes.

yuji was breathing heavily, his lips were puffy and red from your kissing, yet he still leaned back in, pulling you closer, your lips on his once again. you two both returned to the same motions as before, his hands in your hair as your tongue moved around in his mouth.

the passion from earlier was replaced by a desperate need, the both of you growing needier, movements were getting sloppier, and rougher as the make out session progressed.

you were sure yuji could feel how hard you were against him, his ass practically pressed on your growing erection. his own dick was pushing against your stomach, the crotch of his pants stretched around his buldge.

yuji moved his hips down on your dick, eliciting a low groan from you into his mouth, as soon as he heard you make those sounds he could feel the blood moving from his head and he knew exactly where it was going.

yuji wasn’t sure how much longer he could wait, he wanted his mouth on your dick, or his hands, just, he needs one of the options. all he wanted was to feel you, in any way, preferrably one where he gets to suck you dry.

moving his hands to your chest, yuji pushed back, staring into your eyes before glancing down, licking his lips at the sight of, well, you. you smiled, sensing his urge to please you. you hummed in acknowledgment, scooting back and spreading your legs slightly for him.

yuji grinned, mumbling something before tugging at your shirt. raising your arms, yuji was on you fast, pulling your shirt off and throwing it somewhere on the floor of his bedroom.

as fast as your shirt came off his lips were on your neck, he trailed kisses down your neck, sucking and biting along the way. you let out occasional groans and grunts as yujis teeth met your neck.

pain shot through your body for a moment, you glanced down seeing the male in front of you still attached to your neck. that was definitely gonna leave a mark, knowing yuji that was exactly what he wanted.

yujis kisses and bites littered your neck, marking up your neck, eventually he found a place that caused you to whimper. that sound was music to his ears, in a flash he started to attack that area, forcing you to let out more noises, and frankly you were embarrassed he got this much of a reaction out of you.

deciding he made enough marks on your neck, he traveled down your collarbones, leaving kisses and bites there as well before doing the same to your chest. his lips found one of your nipples and yuji couldn’t help but suck on it. the sensation made you gasp, moving you hand up to grab yujis shoulder.

he moved to your other nipple, doing the same, smiling against your bare chest at the small whines you make before his lips were on the move again. he moved down you stomach, kissing around your belly button before reaching right. wrote your v line. his lips lingered above your pants for a moment, he was thinking about something, and you had a clue what it was.

yuji pulled back ever so slightly, looking up at you, asking for permission. you felt your dick twitch at his expression. his honey brown eyes wide with anticipation, his lip quivering slightly.

you smirk, a mischievous gling in your eyes as you speak, “wouldn’t it be so funny if I said no..?” upon hearing this yujis eyes widened more, quickly returning to normal as his brows furrowed.

“…you wouldn’t.” his voice spoke, it being the first words he said in awhile. you purse your lips, pretending to think as yuji stared at you, not knowing what to say.

you let the moment last a minute longer before chuckling, “I kid, go ahead, ‘m all yours.” your voice was low, the lighthearted teasing tone gone.

yuji swallowed, a smile quickly following as his hands found your waistband, tugging your pants down he also threw them somewhere, following your shirt.

your legs shook at the cool air before yujis mouth met yours, shaking all thoughts from your mind. the kiss was sickeningly sweet but before you could make a move a hand wrapped around you through your boxers.

moaning into the kiss, yuji pulled away, stroking you through your underwear a few times. you bucked your hips up, pressing further into yujis hand. yujis grin widened at this, tightening his grip, making you groan.

you could feel the precum seeping through your boxers, it had to be all over yujis hand, that thought made you breathless. staring at yuji, you were met with a pink head of hair looking down, his attention was solely on your dick.

your stomach felt queasy as yuji concentrated on you lower half, it felt exhilarating to know he put your needs before his.

your whole body tensed, feeling the familiar warmth in your stomach as your dick twitched. “yuji- i’m gonna..” you mumbled, yuji turned up, looking at you before moving his hand off your clothed dick.

he smiled at you innocently as if he wasn’t toying with you right now, you frowned, yujis hand moving to your thigh in the process. his hand gently rubbed at your thigh, massaging the skin there before moving down.

his hand stayed resting on your thigh for a moment before you felt the familiar grip around you again. the feeling of something cradling your dick was strange, but it was nice, especially knowing it was yuji.

as much as you loved what was happening currently, you wanted more than anything to feel yujis skin, to feel his bare hand against your cock. yuji palmed at your crotch awhile longer for moving to the top of your boxers.

finally. you felt yujis fingers slip under the waistband of your boxers, slowly pulling them until your dick was free. the air felt cooler than before against your most sensitive area causing you to shiver.

yujis head moved down further, his warm breath traveling over your dick. your hands moved to the sheets, gripping them as you tried to be patient for what you’ve been wanting all night.

yuji took his sweet time admiring you, he loved your body so much, he loved you, and he loved your dick too, though that much was obvious. he thought everything about you was perfect, he truly couldn’t believe he gets this all to himself.

licking his lips, he lowered his head, taking your tip into his mouth. you let out a gasp at the warmth enveloping you as his tongue licked around your slit, practically savoring your precum. yuji loved the way you tasted, hell he could go on about the things he loved about you.

you threw your head back, groaning as yujis mouth treated you like you were a five star dinner. his mouth was so warm, it felt amazing. one of his hands gripped your hip as the other massaged your thigh, all you could do was accept what he was giving you.

yuji loved your reactions, the noises you made only motivating him, he wanted to give you everything you wanted. taking his mouth off you he licked a strip from the base of your cock to the tip.

he looked up at you, seeing your adams apple bob and your chest rise and fall. he grinned, loving to make you act like this, his mouth was back on your dick, slowly taking you in fully as you let out a moan.

his mouth moved up and down, his tongue lapping up any precum dripping down. he continued to slide up and down your dick with ease, his saliva completely coating you.

every second yuji spent on your dick you felt yourself coming undone, his mouth did wonders. the feeling of his tongue sliding around you made your mouth dry, you wanted so badly to kiss him, but he took his duties on pleasuring you very seriously and he wouldn’t stop until you came.

yujis sucking pace was unruly, you were barely able to react before he did something else that rocked your world. if he kept this up you weren’t gonna last another minute. your breathing was heavy and labored as yujis eyes looked up at you.

his eyes were watering, clearly struggling to fit you in his mouth even though he’s done it so many times before. his mouth moved up and down in such a way that made your breath hitch, his drool was dripping down your dick in between your thighs, but you didn’t care, he was incredible.

his face alone could make you cum. in fact, it was, before you could speak the warmth appeared in your stomach, you couldn’t breath, it was too much. shakily raising your hand you came, yujis eyes widened for a second, returning to a more serious look before his mouth tightened around you.

he stayed on your dick as your cum shot down his throat. a wave of pleasure ripped through your body as yuji pressed his face further against you, burying his face into your crotch.

you laid back, closing your eyes as you rode out your high. yujis grip on your thigh and hip lessened before moving to your stomach, he used his hands to push up, slowly taking his mouth off your dick.

he looked up at you, a proud look on his face before he went back down to make sure he got all your cum. he licked up and down, cleaning your dick off before moving up to rest his head on your chest.

catching your breath, you finally open your eyes, seeing yuji content as ever after swallowing your literal dna. he simply smiled, all giddy about what he did.

you shook your head, smiling softly at the boy. he was a mess, but you loved him for it.

…

…

…

then it hit you, “wait yuji, did you ever-?” you were cut off by a pair of lips on yours. the kiss was short but relaxing. yuji sighed, “don’t worry about it, this was plenty of enjoyment for me.” turning, he laid his head on your chest, completely relaxing as his entire body weight fell on you.

all you did was shake your head, wrapping your arms around the boys waist. it was enough for now.

—————————————————————————————

oh yeahh, I got into another writing mood at 4am, if theres mistakes too bad so sad!! sorry for any female followers I have, I have no clue how to write for anything but men so….🗣️🙏🏼

I also have a thing for pink haired men!

[stillwatervoid]

Now nothing’s the same PT. 2 | Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

Summary: It’s been two weeks, and you still can’t face Mark. Can’t hear his voice, can’t stand his face, can’t bear his touch—because everything about him reminds you of the things you’ll never have again. Of the lines you weren’t supposed to cross. Of all the things that will never be the same.

Pairing: Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

Warnings: 18+, very brief mention of SA (but it’s a misunderstanding), dry humping/frottage, oral (Mark receiving), anal sex, anal fingering, belly bulge.

Tags: There’s more plot than porn but there IS porn (eventually), so—Porn with Plot, Reader is highkey not okay, self-hatred, extreme guilt and shame, misunderstandings, light angst, fluff, getting together, morning sex, Top!Mark, Bottom!Reader.

w.c: 22.2k  |  a/n: English isn’t my first language, so sometimes the tenses might be a little inconsistent in the flashbacks! I got kind of lost in my own narrative style (why did I do this to myself? lol). Anyway, it’s finally here. 20k+, baby. I’m honestly a little nervous because a lot of people were waiting for this one, and I really hope it lives up to what you were expecting. Also, thank you for the comments, the likes, the reblogs—I see every single one and they mean the world to me. Enjoy!!!

Part 1 | You're here

By the time your phone’s ringtone cuts out for the tenth time this night, you’re left staring at the screen with a hollow numbness.

The notifications glare back at you—missed calls in angry red, all bearing the same name, each one a fresh stab of guilt. Below them, a flood of unread messages piles up. You won’t open them. Can’t open them.

Because you’ve done the worst thing imaginable.

You betrayed Mark.

Mark, your best friend since fifth grade. The one who, along with William, had pulled you into their duo like you’d always belonged there. The person who laughed with you, stood by you, trusted you.

And you betrayed him.

Now, the mere thought of Mark makes your stomach churn with nausea. The shame is suffocating, a filth you can’t wash away, sinking into your skin like a brand. You feel disgusting. A monster. Because that night with his variant—the one who was all darkness and hunger and twisted devotion—exposed the worst parts of you. The pathetic, desperate parts. You’d poured every unrequited longing into a warped imitation of the boy you loved, because you were starved for it. For the way he looked at you. For the way he wanted you.

And that’s what sickens you most. How easily you gave in. How badly you wanted it. How, for just a fleeting moment, you let yourself believe that Mark could ever lov—

Your fingers dig into your hair, breath hitching.

No. You can’t face him. Can’t even answer a simple phone call—to what end? To hear the disgust in his voice? To confirm just how much he hates you now? To witness the exact moment your friendship shatters beyond repair?

(Vaguely, you remember the shattered window, the jagged shards of glass dispersed across your floor, dust swirling thick in the air.

And then you, thinking, oh he’s going to die.

But in that moment—still half-dazed, aching, your body heavy with the lingering aftermath of sex—you don’t know if you meant him. Mark. Your Mark. Your best friend, the one who has always been nothing but good to you. Or him. The other Mark. The one who took you apart with a smirk, the one who claimed you as if you were already his.

You knew the fight was inevitable. Knew one of them would kill the other. Knew it would be like watching an immovable object meet an unstoppable force.

And when the dust cleared from Mark’s thunderous landing, when you saw his murderous expression mirroring the alternate’s, when their identical hatred burned through the tension—

For one terrifying heartbeat, you couldn’t tell which was which.)

You throw yourself onto the bed, yanking the covers over your head like they could smother the memories—or the shame.

But no amount of hiding could erase the evidence still etched into your skin. The bruises that just wouldn’t fade even after two weeks. Deep purple and stubborn, they mapped every place he had touched, bitten, kissed. There wasn’t a single inch he’d left untouched. Of course not—he’d been thorough, murmuring your name in desperate whispers, sucking marks into your neck like he wanted to devour you whole.

You flinch, shaking your head to dispel the thoughts. The replay. But you did this often—remembered the rasp of not-your-Mark’s voice, the way his hands had gripped you with possessive desperation.

Because you’d liked it.

God, you’d loved it.

It had been a fantasy ripped straight from your most secret thoughts, and the proof still lingered on your body, both exhilarating and humiliating. Worse still was how your skin prickled at the memory. How even now, just thinking about that night makes heat coil deep in your gut, no matter how much you want to suppress it.

(Cecil Stedman would stand over you, his expression unreadable, hands clasped behind his back.

“Are you hurt?” he’d ask, eyes flicking over you, assessing.

You’d freeze, blood draining from your face as you realized—your fingers were fumbling with the collar of your hoodie, tugging it up, up, up, instinctively trying to hide the bite marks beneath.

They wouldn’t know. They couldn’t know.

The GDA agents had swept into your apartment just minutes after Mark had thrown his variant through your shattered wall with a punch that shook the building. By then, you’d already be fully dressed, face burning with shame and self-loathing, hating the way your legs still trembled from the lingering aftershocks of pleasure.

There was no way Cecil could know what had happened. No way Mark would have told him on his way here.

And yet—still, you’d shrink into yourself, pulling at your collar, crossing your arms tightly over your chest, yanking your hoodie’s hood low over your face. You’d eye everyone with barely restrained panic, thoughts spiraling—they’ll know, they’ll see, they’ll realize— 

“Don’t worry,” Cecil would say, sensing your unease. “Despite our differences, I know Mark always gives his all to protect the people he loves.” 

You’d flinch. Close your eyes. Shrink even further inward.

“…I know,” you’d murmur, voice hoarse and raw.

Cecil would interpret your withdrawn attitude as a trauma response or shock. He wouldn’t know the truth—you wouldn’t tell him. And the others in his team could only guess, while you tugged at your collar again, desperately trying to conceal the bruises blooming on your neck, the tremor in your legs, the ache in your body—the stickiness still drying on your thighs.

“Mark will take care of it,” Cecil would assure you. “No one can hurt you anymore.”

Yet, guilt would seize you by the throat.

Because the truth would weigh heavy on your tongue—how you had arched into those cruel hands, how you had begged him to take you, how the tremble in your body wasn’t from fear, but from the awful, shameful wanting still thrumming under your skin.)

Your throat bobbed as your fingers drifted to the darkest bruise on your neck, pressing down just to feel the ache. The pain was sharp, immediate—a reminder that it had been real. That he had been real.

And that you’d let him.

And fuck—if it doesn’t make your body tingle, heat up, and freeze all at once. If it doesn’t make you a horrible friend all over again. That’s why you’ve been ignoring Mark’s calls. Why, as your phone buzzes in the silence of your room, you refuse to pick up. Refuse to hear his voice. Refuse to stand before him.

Because now you know.

You know the way Mark’s kisses taste like. Know the shape of his body, the flex of his muscles as he moves over you. Know the sounds he makes when overcome with desire—the quiet gasps, the low groans, the desperate moans. Know the way his cock feels, hot and heavy, buried deep inside you, making you see stars and stealing every last bit of air from your lungs. You know the way his hands grip your hips, how perfectly your bodies slot together, the pressure building and building, the obscene slap of skin on skin as he fucks you into the mattress—

Jesus.

Your fingers twist in the sheets, body shuddering as the memories surged back—vivid, hungry. This is why you can’t face him. Because he knows what you did. You both do. How the hell can you ever look at Mark in the eye again? Knowing that now—now—you can never suppress your feelings again, never shove them back into the corner of your heart where they belonged. How do you face him when every glance sends your pulse racing? When your body remembers what it’s like to be loved by him—even if it wasn’t really him?

Just thinking about it makes you lose your grip, heart hammering, body shivering. Because it remembers.

And there’s no way in hell you’ll ever be able to forget.

That’s why you grab your phone, Mark’s name flashing for the nth time, and finally power it off.

The silence that follows is deafening. But the noise in your head doesn’t stop—the endless, pounding thoughts reminding you that you don’t deserve Mark. Not his kindness. Not his forgiveness. Hell, maybe not even his anger. Not the sharp edge of his accusations, not the fury in his screams.

You deserve nothing from him.

(“Nothing,” you’d answer, avoiding his piercing gaze as he studies your body. “It’s really nothing, Mark.”

You’d try to ignore the way his breath comes in sharp pants, the blood staining his suit, how his eyes seem wild with something you can’t place.

Right then, he would remind you too much of the other Mark—who walked into your apartment with that razor-sharp smirk, who ruined you after. Ironic, how now your Mark looks just the same. Only this time, the blood belongs to that version.

The fight’s over.

Your Mark stands victorious.

And deep down, you knew this was always how it would end. You knew he’d be the one left standing.

Still, somewhere beneath it all, you’d try not to think about his variant, who had whispered your name like a prayer just hours ago, gripping you like he couldn’t bear to let go.

“Nothing?” Mark would repeat, voice raw and cracked from exhaustion and the tension hanging between you two. “Y/N, you’re—you’re hurt. You need to get checked out—”

He’d step forward, arms reaching for you. But you’d flinch, stepping back, desperate need to put distance between you, because you feel filthy, disgusting, and you can’t let him touch you like this.

He’d freeze, hands hovering awkwardly in the air, his expression faltering between hurt and disbelief. Then his eyes would flicker to the exposed skin on your neck, to the wound where not-your-Mark had bitten you hard enough to draw blood, then to your lips, swollen and tender from his kisses, and finally to your eyes—red-rimmed, glistening with unshed tears.

Mark’s expression would twist. Just the slightest. Just enough to reveal the anger beneath the exhaustion.

“I wasn’t hurt,” you’d whisper, voice quiet, weak, barely holding together. But the shame would force the words out anyway—force you to confess, to lay yourself bare, to make him hate you. And with your face burning, throat tight, you’d add, so, so quietly— “And you know it.”

Mark would go silent, his shoulders sagging, face falling as if the weight of everything had drained the life out of him. And you—God, you’d want him to hate you. To finally look at you with the disgust you’ve earned. Punch me, you’d think as the silence stretches. Yell at me. Scream at me. Hate me.

But after what feels like an eternity, all he’d say is, “...I don’t—I don’t understand. Why—”

“Kid,” Cecil would interrupt from down the hall, voice clipped and irritated. “The fight’s not over. We’ve still got at least ten Invincibles around the world. Stop the chitchat and get back to work.”

But Mark wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t budge. Even when you couldn’t meet his eyes, he’d stay rooted there, mouth forming words that won’t come—

“Kid,” Cecil would repeat, louder.

And this time, Mark would turn, his broad back facing you, his expression hidden from view.

It’d be his voice—deliberately measured, controlled—that’d betray just how much he was holding himself together, like he was speaking through clenched teeth. “We’ll talk, Y/N. Alright? We’ll talk… later.”

And then he’d be gone, launching into the sky, leaving you behind with the suffocating need to be hated.

Because if he hated you, if he was furious, if he despised you—then it’d be so much easier to just walk away.)

“Fuck…” you whisper, the familiar sting settling deep in your chest, a raw, aching pain that makes you sink further into your mattress, wanting to disappear. “I screwed everything up, didn’t I? Fuck…”

Now, with your phone dead, no calls ringing through, no texts demanding your attention, you’re left alone with nothing but the desperation of your own thoughts, drowning in self-loathing and shame. You can’t stop thinking about everything you wish you could change. All the things that will never be the same.

William has been trying to reach you, too, these past few days. You’ve seen his messages pile up—confused at first, then worried, then frustrated when you vanished completely. And you know it’s not fair to him, disappearing without a word, without an explanation. But you can’t face any of it—not the mistakes, not the consequences, not even your friends.

Not Mark.

Because the embarrassment is unbearable. Because the guilt is eating you alive.

Even here, tucked away in this borrowed apartment with its unfamiliar walls and cold silence, you can’t escape it. After that night—after Mark tore through the walls, shattered your window, with the only mission to kill the variant who dared touch like that—you had no choice but to move somewhere new. Somewhere Mark didn’t know. It’s the only reason he hasn’t shown up yet—hasn’t hovered in front of your window demanding that long-overdue conversation.

With a heavy sigh, you bury your face in the pillow. If you can’t escape your thoughts awake, maybe sleep will silence them. That’s the lie you tell yourself, when loneliness settles into your chest like a second skin, its weight overshadowed only by the remorse festering in your mind.

And as consciousness slips away, you wish—not for the first time—that you’d never fallen in love with Mark Grayson in the first place.

When you wake up hours later, sweat clinging to your brow from dreams you can’t recall, it’s not the sun that rouses you.

It’s the sound.

A soft, rhythmic tapping—knuckles against glass. Insistent. Steady.

Your heart skips a beat as you jolt upright, body tense, sheets tangling around your legs as drowsiness evaporates. You scan the room, blinking hard, trying to convince yourself you imagined it— 

But there it is again.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Your muscles go rigid. Because this is the twentieth floor. No one should be knocking through the window.

You glance at the clock on your nightstand. Nearly six in the morning. The sky outside is still draped in gray. Just who in the world—

And then it hits you, the realization sinking in like cold ice.

Who else could it be?

Who else but the one person in the world you’ve been trying so damn hard to avoid—who could casually knock on your outside window like this, despite the fact you’re hundreds of feet above the ground?

Mark.

It must be him. It’s always him. Right outside your window grinning like an idiot and ready to tell you all about his day like it was the most important thing in the world.

But that was before.

Now you doubt he’s here to talk about his day.

You sit frozen, breath shallow, heart pounding like it’s trying to escape your chest. How the hell did he even find you?

Cecil swore—

(“Please,” you’d beg, hands clenched into tight fists. “Don’t tell Mark.”

It would be the third day since the Invincibles’ invasion and destruction, and Mark would still be out there—fighting, barely holding on, while you cowered in GDA safehouses. You’d already demanded a new home, a new phone—now you just needed Cecil’s silence.

“I can’t. He’s threatened me more times than I can count this month alone,” Cecil would grumble, rubbing his temples. “You think I can hide his best friend without a way to trace you? He’s gonna lose his shit.”

You’d hug yourself tighter. “I know… but he’ll understand it’s me who doesn’t want to—” see the disgust in his eyes or hear the betrayal in his voice “—talk.”

“The answer’s still no, kid,” Cecil’s tone would brook no argument. “From the way he reacted when I told him about the rogue Invincible heading your way? I wouldn’t want to know what he’d be capable of doing if I kept this from him.”

Your heart would stutter then freeze—shame and longing and self-loathing and love crashing over you in nauseating waves.

“Then...” you’d swallow around the lump in your throat. You dreaded the moment the fighting stopped, the moment Mark came looking for you, demanding answers. “Then… give him my number. That should be enough, right? If he’s worried, I’ll answer. But don’t tell him where I’m living now.”

Cecil would study you for a beat too long. Just as panic starts creeping up your spine—

“Fine.”

You’d blink. “Really? You swear?”

He’d sigh, long and insufferable, like he was so done with all this. “I swear. Now get out. I still have important shit to do—like saving the world.”

You wouldn’t waste a second, already turning on your heel, heart racing now that you knew you could walk away from Mark without having to deal with the shitty thing you’d done. Without explaining. You could pretend it never happened. Let him hate you for it—that’d be easier.

“But—” Cecil’s voice would stop you cold. When you glanced back, his gaze was piercing as steel. “The second he thinks you’re in danger and wants anything to do with it… the deal’s off.”

You’d process the warning for a moment—but then, you’d think… there’s no way Mark wouldn’t hate you now. There’s no way Mark would want anything to do with you now.

So you’d nod, knowing you’d be safe.

Because after the Invincibles came Conquest, and the aftermath of their fight, and the countless deaths... and you’d know that Mark had enough shit to worry about to even spare you a single thought.)

Fucking Cecil—he sold you out. It’s barely been two weeks. How could you possibly be in danger?

And yet, the tapping continues—more urgent now, almost frantic. You don’t need to look to know it’s Mark. You feel it. The way your skin prickles, the way your pulse stutters, your body shuddering as if it remembers.

He came for you. And maybe… maybe you always knew he would, no matter how many times you convinced yourself he’d hate you enough to never look back.

Still, your body locks up, sitting bolt upright in bed, torn between throwing the window open or sitting there, pretending you’re not home, praying he gets bored and leaves.

But the moment your feet slide to the floor, the second you stand, legs carrying you forward—your body already knows the answer. Because if Cecil gave him your address, that means Mark’s worried. That means he won’t leave. And more than that—You want to see him. Despite everything. Despite the shame, the guilt, the dread curling in your stomach like a cold fist.

Because god, you missed him. You miss him.

Your palms start to sweat, knees unsteady beneath you. But you take a breath—a deep, uneven breath—and decide to just do it. Hear him out. Let him yell. Let him cut you off. Just… rip off the fucking band-aid and move on.

With a trembling hand, you draw the curtain aside— 

And with your breath caught in your throat, you finally see him.

Mark’s reaction is immediate. One moment, his fist is raised, his expression twisted in anxious concentration, frozen mid-motion to knock again at your window. But then—his eyes widen, brows lift in surprise as his mouth falls slightly open.

“Y/N—” his voice comes muffled through the glass, both palms pressing flat against it like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. “Y/N, oh my god. It’s really you. I’ve—” a ragged gasp cuts him off, breath fogging the window between you. “Are you—fuck, are you okay? I’ve been—God, we’ve all been—William and Eve and—and everyone. You just stopped answering your phone and William couldn’t—and the texts wouldn’t get through—I thought maybe you were—”

His rambling cuts off abruptly when you flip the window lock and slide it open.

The sudden lack of barrier leaves Mark statue-still, his eyes darting across your face with alarming intensity. You notice the slight sheen in his eyes, the way his lips tremble as they part and close, his shoulder raising and falling, fast and shallow.

“I’m okay,” you mumble, staring at your feet. The concern in his voice feels like a knife twist. After everything, he shouldn’t still care this much. “I’m sorry.”

The words seem to shatter whatever trance Mark was in, because the next thing you know, he’s crossing the gap between you in the blink of an eye. You’re forced to step back, a huff escaping your lips as his arms wrap around you in a desperate, tight embrace.

“Oh my god...” he mumbles, voice barely above a whisper as he buries his face into the curve of your shoulder. “I’m glad—so glad you’re okay.”

Despite his words, no matter how relieved he sounds, your body tenses against him. Your arms stay stiff by your sides, refusing to return the hug. Mark notices immediately—of course he does. You can feel him stiffen, too—his breath catching when he notices how your body freezes up, the way you seem to pull away from him without moving an inch. In a flash, he’s pulling back, hands flying up in surrender like he’s been burned.

“F-fuck—sorry! I know I shouldn’t—after what... after him—” he winces, eyes snapping shut in frustration, like he can’t stand himself. “I—I just... needed to see you were safe.”

He glances away now, his shoulders sagging, the tension in his posture dissolving into something sad and small. His lips twist downward into a pitiful frown, and when he speaks again, it’s quieter.

“I’ll go. I get it. You don’t wanna see me anymore.”

Shit.

This isn’t how it was supposed to go.

Where’s the anger? The betrayal? The screaming match you’d braced yourself for?

You’d imagined this moment a hundred times—Mark bursting in, furious, disgusted, finally giving you the hatred you deserve. Not this... this crumbled version of him, respecting boundaries you never knew were there, looking at you like he’s the one who did something wrong.

It’s not fair.

You were ready for anger. You could’ve handled anger.

But not this.

Not Mark, sad.

Your hand moves on instinct—snapping out, grasping his wrist before he can float off again, knuckles white from how tightly you hold on.

“Don’t—” you choke, the word catching on a breath you didn’t mean to let go. “Don’t go.”

His breath catches audibly when you stop him. You feel the shift in his posture as he turns back toward you, his pulse jumping under your fingertips. When you dare a glance up, his gaze burns into yours with an intensity that steals your breath.

And fuck—no, you can’t do this. Can’t look at him, can’t face him. You were right to keep your distance. So, without thinking, you quickly avert your gaze, feeling the heat rush to your face—shame, embarrassment, self-loathing… you don’t know what it is anymore, but it’s making you burn, your cheeks flushed in a way you wish you could stop.

“We need to talk, right?” you force the words out, voice dry, cracking a little. “Then let’s talk.”

Even though you really, really don’t want to. But you owe him this. You’ve been avoiding this conversation long enough, running from it like a coward.

“Right,” he whispers softly, voice barely audible. “Let’s… talk.”

Yet neither of you say anything. The silence stretches between you, awkward and thick and heavy. That’s when you realize—your hand is still on his wrist. You let go like it burns, flustered and flinching back as if caught doing something you shouldn’t.

That’s when you really look at him.

He’s not wearing his  suit, nor his goggles. Just Mark Grayson, in a sweater and jeans, standing in your tiny room like a regular boy. He didn’t come here as a hero, just as your best friend. And judging by the way his hair’s a mess and his eyes are rimmed with exhaustion, he probably rushed. Probably didn’t think twice before threatening Cecil into giving up your location. Probably didn’t even try to hide who he was, flying all the way to the outskirts of the city at dawn, with nothing shielding his identity.

Anyone could’ve seen him. Anyone could’ve guessed who he was. But still, he came. All of that… just to be here with you. To find you. To make sure you were okay.

The silence shatters when you blurt out, “Are you okay? I wasn’t there when—with Conquest—” your voice cracks. “God, I’m sorry.” Another reminder of what a shitty friend you are. “I’m so sorry.”

Mark rubs at his neck, a familiar nervous gesture. “Don’t worry about it. Honestly? I’m glad you weren’t there. You shouldn’t have to see me... like that.”

You hum in response, eyes darting everywhere but him—walls, floor, the curtain still fluttering from when you opened the window. God, the awkwardness is suffocating. Why can’t you cut through it?

Then, quietly, Mark continues. “About… whatever happened. That day.” His voice is tentative, like he’s afraid even saying it might make you crumble. “You don’t have to talk about it. I get it. You’re probably—” he swallows thickly “—traumatized.”

Traumatized?

Your eyes flick up at him, blinking in confusion. “What?”

His eyes stay fixed on the floor. “I’ll give you all the time you need. And if you can’t ever—” a shaky breath. “If seeing me is too hard, I get that too.”

“Mark,” you shake your head, confusion tightening your chest. “What do you mean?” And then, dread begins to settle deep in your bones, a cold fist wrapping around your heart. “What… what do you think happened?”

He recoils like you’ve struck him, nearly stumbling back through the window frame. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again—

“Don’t make me say it.”

You freeze.

Brows draw together, thoughts racing, flipping through every possible thing he could mean—until you see it. The guilt carved into his face. The way he’s carefully keeping his distance, like he’s afraid to spook you. His eyes flick, just for a second, to your neck—where faint marks still linger, bites and kisses pressed into skin that’s long since stopped feeling warm. His expression darkens.

And then it hits you.

(You’d read his messages after the battle was settled—after the smoke cleared and the city stopped screaming.

One after the other, each one hit like a blow to the chest. Guilt. Remorse. Regret soaked into every word.

Mark (2:03 AM): I’m sorry I wasnt there

Mark (2:04 AM): I’m sorry I let it happen

Mark (2:06 AM): I should’ve been faster

Should’ve gotten u somewhere safe the moment we knew

(Missed Call - Mark - 2:07 AM)

Mark (2:18 AM): im sorry

can u pick up the phone?

Mark (2:22 AM): y/n

Mark (2:25 AM): ples

Mark (2:25 AM): please

(Missed Call - Mark - 2:33 AM)

Mark (3:37 AM): I’m sorry. Im sorry. Cecil said u didnt want to talk

Mark (3:39 AM): I get it...

Mark (3:45 AM): im sorry

shouldve never let this happen to u

Mark (3:47 AM): im sorry)

Suddenly, horribly, you understand.

“Oh my god, Mark,” you exhale, dragging both hands over your face as the heat floods in—burning shame, disbelief, something sick and sour twisting in your gut. “God… I don’t—I wasn’t—whatever you think happened to me, you’re wrong.”

Mark frowns. His lips press into a thin line, his jaw tightening. “What do you mean I’m wrong?” he says, voice low, tight with frustration. “Y/N—you don’t have to… I mean, if you’re trying to comfort me, or spare me, or whatever—”

“I wanted it!” the words spill out before you can stop them—louder, sharper than you intended.

But you need to say it. Need him to see you for what you really are—a disgusting, traitorous, filthy human being who took advantage of the situation. Who let himself melt at the first touch of hands that weren’t Mark’s but carried his face, his voice, his warmth. A hypocrite who’d spent years pretending your feelings were platonic, only to come undone the second some twisted reflection of Mark offered you everything you’d ever craved.

God, so this is why there’s no yelling, no accusations thrown at you. Because Mark—your Mark—still sees you as someone worth trusting. Someone worth protecting. Someone who, in his mind, must have been tricked, coerced, hurt. Even after listening whatever happened that night—the sounds of skin meeting skin, the desperate need in your voice as you begged the other Mark to make you come, to unravel you in his touch—he still thinks you’re the victim.

Shit. Shit.

Your arms fall limp at your sides, exposing the damning evidence purpling your throat. “That’s what you’re not getting,” you whisper, tears blurring your vision as you stare at the floor between you. “He didn’t force me. I let him. I—” your voice cracks “—I begged.”

Mark doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

And you can’t stop.

“You should hate me,” you choke out, and god, your voice sounds wrecked. “The person you think I am? That’s not real. I mean, look at me—” A wet, shuddering breath. “God, look at me. After everything I said about still being friends? Pathetic. I’m not your friend. I’m can’t be your friend,” your shoulders shake. You wrap your arms around yourself. “Just—just hate me already.”

You still won’t look at him. Can’t bring yourself to. The silence stretches, broken only by the wind whistling through the open window, raising goosebumps on your skin. And that silence—it feels worse than yelling would’ve.

Hot, heavy tears slide down your cheeks, burning against your skin. Because maybe now he sees it—what you are, what you did, and what you, even now, can’t fully regret. Because fuck, it felt good. So good.

And because you can’t even lie to yourself and say you wish it hadn’t happened, is exactly why Mark should walk away.

Why he should look at you with disgust.

Why he should despise you.

That’s why—

A warm hand cups your cheek.

Mark’s touch is featherlight, his thumb brushing just beneath your eye, catching a tear as it falls. The softness of it, the quiet gentleness of him touching you like you haven’t just shattered everything between you—it steals the breath right out of your lungs.

When you look up, confusion clear on your face, he simply says, “You know I hate when you cry.”

Your lip trembles, and a weak sob escapes before you can stop it. Of course. Even now, after everything, he offers kindness you haven’t earned.

Then he’s moving—stepping into your room. Into your space. Into you. Without hesitation, he pulls you into his arms, slow but sure, like he’s done a hundred times before. He tucks your head against his shoulder, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other rubs slow circles between your shoulder blades.

You melt into him almost instinctively, breath hitching in ragged gasps—like you’ve been drowning, and only now are you finally breaking the surface. But then doubt creeps in—hesitation lingers because you’re not sure you should be this close to Mark, should allow yourself this comfort. But despite everything, you slowly bring your arms around him, unsure but needing him more than you’ve needed anything in the past two long, empty two weeks since you ruined everything.

Because fuck—Mark is everything you’ve been craving. Because this is the Mark you know and love. The Mark you fell for. Gentle, kind, steady. Warm in a way that feels like safety.

And when you bury your face in the crook of his neck, his scent hits you—familiar and grounding—and it makes your head spin. His body, solid and real, holds you like you’re still someone worth holding onto.

“Y/N,” Mark says, voice low and rough, vibrating against your ear. “I could never hate you.”

You shudder as tears well up again—hot and blinding—spilling over as you squeeze your eyes shut. He’s too good. Too gentle. And it hurts.

His embrace is everything the other Mark’s wasn’t—steady instead of desperate, grounding instead of possessive. He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll break, like he sees you, and it’s unbearable.

“I know,” you whisper, voice muffled against his shoulder. “But you should.”

He pulls you closer at that, impossibly close, until there’s no space left between you. And you try—God, you try—not to notice. Not the heat of his hands tracing soft circles on your back. Not the way his breath ghosts along your ear and neck. Not the matching rhythm of your breathing, your heartbeats thudding in sync, chest to chest. You try to ignore it all. Because it’s too intimate. Too soon. Too much to handle when your body still remembers the weight of his—his—naked body against yours. The slide of sweat-slick skin, the hitch of breath against your ear, all breathy moans and hushed gasps.

“No,” Mark blurts suddenly, voice tight, shaking with regret. His fingers fist into the back of your shirt like he’s terrified you’ll pull away. “You should hate me. I was a total asshole to you, Y/N. For weeks. Months, even. And you were right. I wasn’t being fair to you. I ignored you, pushed you away, treated you like crap, and I didn’t even have the guts to tell you why.”

He swallows hard, his next words coming quieter, more broken.

“And then, when it really mattered, I couldn’t protect you. I failed you. You should hate me,” he exhales, his arms tightening around you ever so slightly. Then, in a single, intimate whisper right against your ear, Mark adds, “I’m sorry.”

The words lodge in your chest, unexpected and disarming. That tight knot of guilt loosens just enough to let you breathe.

I’m sorry. The words come so suddenly, so softly, that you almost miss them. You were supposed to be the one asking for forgiveness, the one weighed down by guilt and regret—not Mark.

What Mark did—keep you in this strange, distant limbo for weeks, barely speaking to you beyond polite conversation, and looking at you with a mix of discomfort, guilt, and something else you can’t quite place ever since the day you confessed your feelings—was never something you could truly blame him for.

You were the one who couldn’t keep it in. The one who let your feelings spill out and ruin everything. The one who wanted to still be his friend, desperate to keep him in your life, clinging to any scrap of him you could get.

You were the one who promised yourself you’d move on, who told Mark as much.

And then you ruined everything again.

Because the moment someone with Mark’s voice, Mark’s smile, Mark’s face reached for you, you didn’t stop him. You let yourself fall into him like he was this Mark—as if that made it okay. You let him touch you, claim you, own you in ways this Mark never did, never agreed to—while all you could do was gasp and beg for more.

God. And Mark’s the one saying sorry?

“I forgive you,” you say, the words slipping out faster than you can stop them—too eager, too willing to let months of confusion and pain be wiped away with a single breath.

But as you speak, you feel the wrongness of this moment. You can still feel the heat in your cheeks, the way your skin tingles where it touches his, the dizzying familiarity of his scent flooding your senses. Your body remembers. It remembers. Every place he touched you, every mark he left, every kiss still lingering like a brand. And even if it wasn’t him—wasn’t your Mark—it doesn’t matter.

Because your body doesn’t know the difference.

And you know, with sudden clarity, that this has to end.

“I forgive you, Mark,” you repeat, quieter this time. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s in the past.”

Maybe he hears it—that slight shift in your tone. The edge of something final curling around your words. Because then his arms tighten around you—not restraining, just holding. Just keeping you close a little longer.

“That means we’re still friends, right?” the question comes out muffled against your shoulder. You don’t need to see his face to picture the crease between his brows, the hesitant frown you’ve known since fifth grade. “Y/N?” His voice cracks. “Because I forgive you too. Whatever happened that night—” his breath hitches “—it’s in the past for me too, alright?”

You open your eyes. The morning sun is rising outside your open window, spilling pale light through the fluttering curtains. A breeze slips through and brushes against your skin, drying the last of your tears. There’s an odd calm in your chest now, the quiet certainty of a decision made.

For one lingering moment, you let yourself stay—letting the warmth of his body soak into yours, letting yourself pretend—just for a heartbeat—that things could be simple. That they are simple.

Then, gently, you pull away, slipping from his arms with predictable ease. Because of course he lets you go. Of course his hands fall open the instant you retreat, always respecting your boundaries, even now.

Mark stands still as you step back, gaze dropping to the floor, unwilling to meet his eyes.

Mark shifts uneasily. “Y/N...?”

“No.” The word comes out steadier than you feel. “We can’t be friends.”

Mark doesn’t respond right away. You can feel the weight of his confusion, the way he’s trying to process your words, replaying them in his mind as if he might’ve misheard.

“What?” he breathes, voice small and cracked.

You swallow hard, nails digging into your palms. “I can’t do it. I can’t pretend everything’s fine. I can’t go back to what we were because—” you suck in a breath and let the truth crash out of you, unfiltered. “Because I can’t trust myself around you, Mark.”

Mark goes utterly still.

“Because when you hold me like that, I start remembering... things that weren’t real. Things I shouldn’t want.”

A beat.

Mark’s hands twitch—like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t dare. His mouth opens slightly, like he’s about to speak, but nothing comes out.

You don’t stop. You can’t stop. You have to tear through the illusion before it starts to wrap around you again—before you slip, before the memories seduce you back into longing.

“I know it wasn’t you,” you continue, forcing the words through the lump in your throat. “I know you don’t see me that way. And I know it’s not really your fault.”

You glance away, arms folding tight around your chest like a shield—an instinct born from shame and desperation, as if you could protect your body from betraying you all over again. Of remembering it.

(The way not-your-Mark would hold you, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise.

The unbearable pleasure coiling tighter and tighter.

The way he’d groan and growl against your lips as his hands roamed your body, gripping and groping every inch of exposed skin.

The way his lips would brush against yours, both of you panting, gasping for air, and still leaning in—still trying to kiss, to steal whatever breath the other had left.

The way his hips would move, his body joined with yours, each thrust hitting just right, so deep inside you.

“I love—” he’d pant, his rhythm faltering. “I love you, Y/N.”

And how do you recover from that?

How do you erase it?

How do you look Mark in the eye when your body still aches with memory?

You don’t.

You can’t.)

A traitorous shiver runs through you, heat blooming under your skin like fire.

“But I can’t unfeel it,” you rasp, voice hoarse and cracking. Your cheeks burn with the triple weight of shame, guilt, and something far more damning—arousal, thick and undeniable. “I can’t unknow what it felt like to be—” you hesitate, then force the word out “touched like that—by you.”

You take a step back. Then another. And another, putting precious distance between you.

“And I can’t go back to being just your friend like none of it ever happened, Mark,” you continue, breath hitching. “I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry. There, it’s your turn.

The words hang in the air, cold and final. This is the moment the fragile thing between you fractures beyond repair.

You can’t be his friend. Not when just looking at him sends your mind reeling with flashes of skin and heat, of whispered promises and breathless moans and the ache of being wanted. It plays behind your eyes in obscene, impossible detail every time you blink. And it’s not fair—not to Mark, who trusted you. Who never asked for this. Who deserves better than your traitorous body and its wretched, persistent wanting.

Let him hate you now. Let him recoil from the truth of how badly you’d craved it—how part of you still do. His hands. His mouth. His moans. The way he’d murmur I love yous like a prayer against your skin—

“What—what are you saying?” he asks, voice rough with disbelief. He takes a step forward, closing the distance you so carefully created. “That this is—it? Just goodbye? Don’t… Y/N, just—look at me.”

When you don’t, his fingers brush your chin, tilting your face up with a gentleness that undoes you. The tears on his lashes glint in the sunlight.

“You think I can just walk away?” he says, voice raw and aching. “Pretend like you’re not my friend anymore? Like I can forget you? Like—like I can hate you? When I—”

He breaks off, his brows drawing tight, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as frustration flickers across his face. For a heartbeat, he closes his eyes, as if bracing himself, before reopening them, locking onto yours with an intensity that nearly breaks you.

Then, softer, more vulnerable than before, he asks, “You remember I needed to tell you something? Before everything went to shit, before asshole versions of me started crashing through our world?”

Your eyes flicker over his face, confusion and turmoil knotting inside you. Still, you take a deep breath, slowly nodding. “You wanted to tell me the reason you’ve been pulling away,” you murmur, voice quiet. “You said it was because of my confession…” The words taste like ash. You exhale sharply, the ache in your chest blooming fresh as you take another step back. “God, Mark—just forget it. It doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t need an explanation. I know why you pulled away,” you swallow hard. “I ruined it. That’s on me.”

“No, no, Y/N,” he says urgently, voice desperate as he steps forward, closing the gap between you with stubborn, desperate steps. He’s now deep into your room—into your life, the way he always does. And you know, without him saying it, that he’s not leaving. “Just—just listen to me. Please.”

And then, as if he can’t bear to let you go, he does something that completely catches you off guard. His hands reach for your face, warm and steady as they cup your cheeks, rough fingers pressing against your skin. You freeze instinctively, breath catching in your throat.

He tilts your head gently, making sure your eyes meet his. And there it is. His gaze—warm, brown, familiar—pierces through the wall you’ve tried to build, melting the icy grip around your heart. There’s something there in his eyes, something that’s been there for months now, something you recognize but still don’t understand.

For some reason, your heart picks up its pace.

“The reason I’ve been pulling away is because I—I was confused,” Mark says, his voice cracking, thumbs tracing shaky circles on your cheeks. “Because I didn’t want to hurt you—or say the wrong thing. And I thought—I thought maybe if I kept my distance, if I just gave it time, it’d all go away. That you’d move on. That I’d be okay with it.” He lets out a shaky breath, jaw tightening. “But I’m not okay with it. I’m not okay with losing you—not now, not ever. Because every damn day since you told me, Y/N… I’ve been—”

He chokes on the rest, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly, calloused fingers trembling against your cheeks.

“Every day since you confessed, I’ve been wanting to—” a frustrated growl rumbles in his chest as the words get stuck in his throat as if they were physically painful to admit. “Fuck. I’ve wanted—”

The sentence dies on his lips again, but the way his gaze drops to your mouth says everything he can’t.

And suddenly, the air feels too thick, too tight. You can’t breathe. Not anymore.

You feel the heat of his stare, the way it burns through your skin, and the space between you grows impossibly smaller. It makes your chest tighten, heart hammering. Every inch of you is aware of how close he is, of how much he invades you. His touch, his presence, his warmth—all of it settles into you, tingling against your skin.

You want to step back. You want to create some distance, to breathe, to think—but his hand stays firm on your face, thumb gently brushing away the tear you didn’t even know had fallen. And God, it’s just like that other version of him, that hunger in his eyes—the need that burns too brightly for you to ignore.

“…Mark?” you ask, low and uncertain. “I don’t—I don’t understand.”

His eyes darken as they trace over your face, dipping to your lips in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. His breath hitches, just slightly, when you unconsciously lick your lips, an instinct you can’t control under his intense gaze.

“God, don’t make me say it,” he murmurs, voice rough. His forehead presses against yours, the heat of his breath mingling with yours, soft and shaky. “Y/N, I want—I need to—”

Whatever he’s about to say, he doesn’t. The words get caught again, but he doesn’t need to say anything more. Not when he answers in the only way you’ll believe him.

Mark leans in, closes the last bit of space between you, and kisses you.

Your eyes flutter shut unconsciously, a startled gasp catching in your throat as his lips meet yours.

The sensation—Mark’s lips, warm and firm and real against yours—obliterates all coherent thought, leaving you lightheaded and trembling. And then, one final thought cuts through the haze like lightning.

Mark Grayson—your Mark Grayson, the one you’ve known since fifth grade, the one you’ve been secretly in love with since eighth, the kind and good Mark—is kissing you.

The thought alone makes your knees buckle, your pulse roar in your ears, your breath come in shallow pants against his mouth.

“Mark…” you breathe, managing to pull back just enough to speak, your cheeks blazing. “What—”

But he doesn’t let you finish. He’s kissing you again, harder this time. Both hands cradle your face, pulling you in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

Your breath stutters, lost between his lips and your own racing heart. You don’t even realize he’s maneuvering you until your back meets the wall, his body pressing you there, surrounding you completely in his warmth, his scent, his safety.

When he finally breaks the kiss, it’s with a soft exhale that ghosts across your tingling lips. The sound is equal parts contentment and barely restrained hunger, as if he’s both savoring this and already aching for more. He rests his forehead against yours, breathing ragged. When his eyes open—dark and blown wide—they shine with something fragile and new and raw.

“Y/N…”  he whispers, voice hoarse and trembling. “Shit. I’ve wanted to tell you for so long, but I’ve been too much of a coward to say it. But, Y/N, I—” He pauses, his expression softening, brows furrowing in that way that always makes you ache, the slight pout of his mouth tugging at your heart. He inches closer, his breath warm against your lips, and in that breath, he whispers, “I’m in love with you.”

Your lips part, expression faltering as tears threaten to fall again, blurring your vision. The weight of his words, of his confession, pulls something tight in your chest, unraveling the last of your restraint.

Mark’s thumb gently brushes under your eyes, catching the tears falling, his gaze filled with a quiet regret. “I’ve loved you for so long. And I’m sorry it took me this long to figure it out. I guess—I guess I was so used to having you in my life that I didn’t even realize what I was feeling. And when I finally started to get it, I freaked out. I pushed you away because I was scared. Scared of—of what it could mean.”

A shaky inhale, both yours, his, it doesn’t matter.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he whispers again, leaning in closer, his breath mingling with yours, so close now you can feel the heat of him. “I love you. I love you. I love—”

You silence him with a kiss—partly because your racing heart can’t take another declaration, partly because you’ve dreamed of this moment for what feels like forever.

The heat of his mouth against yours sends fire through your veins, and suddenly you’re clinging to him, fingers twisting in his shirt as you melt into the embrace.

Mark groans against your mouth, his body pinning you to the wall with a delicious pressure that makes your head spin. But you don’t care—can’t care. Not when every inch of you is burning, not when all you can think about is the soft, urgent way his lips move against yours, like he’s been starving for this.

When you part your lips to deepen the kiss—greedy, desperate, aching to be closer—his tongue slides against yours in a slow, exploratory caress that draws a whimper from your throat. The sound seems to unravel him—his hands drop from your face to your waist, gripping hard as he pulls you flush against him. You can feel the wild hammering of his heart through his chest, its rhythm perfectly synced with yours.

“Shit—” he breathes against your swollen lips, his cheeks flushed deep pink. “I can’t get enough of you, Y/N. I can’t—”

You tangle your fingers in his hair, yanking him closer until your breaths are mingling, quick and desperate. “I get it,” you whisper, voice thick. “Mark—just—don’t stop. Keep kissing me.”

Mark does just that.

His arms tighten around you, and the small, needy noise he makes in the back of his throat sends a rush of heat through you. The solid warmth of him holds you steady when your knees threaten to give out, his presence completely consuming, anchoring you in the overwhelming feeling of being wanted, of being wanted by him. And when he nips at your lower lip, the sharp burst of pleasure-pain makes you arch into him with a broken moan.

Shit—shit.

Your body remembers too much, too vividly, and it doesn’t take more than Mark’s feverish kisses—all teeth and tongue and desperate, gasping breaths—for your skin to start buzzing with heat, for arousal to stir sharp and sudden in your pajama pants.

His hands roam with a nervous, almost clumsy urgency, shaking slightly as they slide along your body. You can feel his inexperience in the way he hesitates between touches, in the hitched breaths against your lips—and god help you, it only makes you harder, heat flooding your veins until you’re certain your blush stretches from your cheeks to your chest.

“Mark,” you murmur breathlessly between kisses, “Mmh—Mark…”

You try to say something—warn him, maybe—to tell him that maybe you should slow down, take a breath, but he kisses the words right out of your mouth. And damn, it’s embarrassing how quickly your body betrays you—how just the feel of him, warm and solid and real, reduces you to this trembling mess. He’s only kissing you, for Christ’s sake, yet it feels like he’s branding himself into your very bones.

Still, a coil of anxiety twists low in your stomach. You’re afraid he’ll notice. Afraid he’ll freeze and freak out. Because as far as you know, Mark’s never been with a man—never even kissed one. His alternate version, sure, seemed experienced, confident, knew exactly how to touch you and make you moan. But this—this is your Mark. And the way he kisses you—eager, almost awed, his breath catching like he’s afraid this might all be some kind of dream—it feels different. And if his confession earlier was true—if he’s spent months wrestling with his feelings—then Christ, this might be his first time doing any of this with another guy.

And shit—maybe this is going too fast. You’re getting so fucking turned on and don’t want to scare him off, but—

“Oh, fuck, Mark—” the whimper tears from your throat as he pulls you closer, almost desperately, like he wants to melt into you completely. And when his hips press against yours, the friction makes you jolt, breath catching in your throat.

Your dick is rock hard. You don’t need to look down to know this. And judging by the way Mark suddenly stops kissing you, breath heaving as he pulls back just enough to look at you, flushed and wide-eyed, you know he can feel it too.

The sight of him—messy hair, lips swollen, breath ragged—is so fucking hot you feel your cheeks burn even hotter, shame and desire twisting together in your gut.

“I’m—” you start, ready to pull away, to gather yourself, to put an end to this heated moment before you completely lose it. “I’m sorr—”

But Mark doesn’t let you finish. His hips snap against yours in a sharp, deliberate thrust, erasing every inch of space between you. A broken noise escapes you as you finally feel it—the hard, undeniable length of him straining against his jeans, big, just like you remember.

Mark whines, his breath hitching as he rolls his hips again, slow and experimental this time. The sound he makes is downright filthy, a shuddering sigh against your lips.

“Oh my god,” he gasps, forehead dropping to yours. He does it again, and this time you both moan, the vibration mingling between your mouths. His voice is wrecked, shaky with want. “Y/N—fuck—can I…? Please, can I…?”

You don’t even know what he’s asking, but it doesn’t matter. Not when he’s this hard, this needy, rutting against you like he’ll die if he stops. Not when every ragged breath, every desperate thrust, tells you he wants this just as badly as you do.

“Yes,” you choke out, hands fisting in his shirt to pull him closer. “God, yes—”

Suddenly, your feet lift off the ground. The world tilts as Mark lifts you with that effortless superhuman strength, his hands firm beneath your thighs, until your back meets the wall with a soft thud. Your legs lock around his waist instinctively, pulling him flush against you until every inch of your bodies align—chest to chest, hip to hip, the hard length of him grinding against yours in a way that makes your vision blur.

“Mark—”

His name spills from your lips in a breathless moan as you roll your hips, unable to stop the desperate friction.

It still doesn’t feel real—that after all these years of pining, of biting your tongue through every casual touch and forced smile, of convincing yourself it’s okay to be just friends, of him telling you he didn’t see you that way—he’s here, kissing you with the same frantic need burning through your veins.

So the words escape in a whisper, raw and shy with years of pent-up longing, “I love you.”

Mark’s groan vibrates through your chest, his grip tightening on your ass with barely restrained need. “Yes, yes—” his voice cracks, eyes blown wide with vulnerable sincerity when they meet yours. “I love you too. God, I love you.”

Something in you cracks at that, and you yank him forward, lips meeting in a messy clash of teeth and tongue. There’s no finesse—just frantic, open-mouthed kisses as your hips move in a desperate rhythm. Every roll of his hips sends electric shocks down your spine, pulling ragged gasps from your throat. You can feel everything—the thick drag of his cock against yours, the tremors in his fingertips where they dig into your skin, the wild hammering of his heart where your chests press together. The growing dampness between you only fuels the fire, fabric sticking uncomfortably as precum soaks through layers of clothing.

It’s overwhelming.

He’s overwhelming.

Mark nips at your lower lip with a broken whimper, and for one dizzying moment, you want more—more of his warmth, of his weight pressing you into the wall, of his hands gripping your skin hard enough to leave fingerprints, of his strength pinning you in place like he never wants to let you go. You want him to consume you, to claim you, just like—

Like—

Like his variant. The one you let touch you exactly like this just two weeks ago. The one who kissed you, ruined you, took everything you had to give simply because he looked like your Mark. Sounded like him. Moved like him. You let him in, let him leave his marks on your body—because you were desperate. Because you missed this Mark so damn much it hurt.

All at once, the heat evaporates and the fog of arousal clears. You’re acutely aware of the growing shame, the sudden weight of your guilt pressing down on you.

How dare you? How can you stand here, grinding against your Mark, kissing him as if you didn’t just betray him in the worst way? As if you didn’t let some twisted reflection of him fuck you senseless. As if you didn’t moan I love you to a monster wearing his face. As if the bruises have faded when they’re right there, purpling under your shirt where Mark’s fingers rest now.

Mark freezes the second your body goes rigid against his. His eyes flutter open—hazel gone dark with want, now clouded with confusion.

“Y/N...?” his voice is rough and uneven. “What’s—did I hurt you? Did I—fuck, was that too much?”

He slowly puts you down, feet safely back to the floor, although his hands hover over your waist, trembling—still touching, but not squeezing anymore. Like he’s afraid he crossed a line. Like he’s the one who should be ashamed.

And god, that just makes it worse.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you say, voice small and barely convincing. “I just—”

Your hand lifts before you can stop it, fingers brushing along the tender skin of your neck—right over the bruises and bites the other version of Mark left behind. Still there. Still vivid. Still haunting.

Even after your Mark killed him, that other Mark lingers. Clinging to your skin like a curse you can’t scrub away.

Mark’s gaze snaps to the movement, his eyes tracking your fingers with a focus that makes your pulse stutter. You see the exact moment his gaze changes. His pupils narrow, his jaw clenches. That barely-contained storm behind his eyes. You’ve seen it before, that look, and now recognized it for what it is. Jealousy, raw and unguarded, before he wrestles it back under control.

You look down quickly, heart sinking under the weight of shame. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, because what else can you say?

(You wished they had disappeared along with the alternate Mark.

Every time you’d look in the mirror, you’d wish those marks could vanish—make it easier to forget, to pretend it hadn’t really happened.

But no matter how many times you’d wash, how hard you’d scrub until your skin turned red and raw, they’d still be there.

Eventually, you’d give up, sinking into the hot stream like you could melt into it—like you could drown the guilt, the shame, and the hunger that still throbbed beneath your skin, embedded in every lingering kiss.

Then you’d shut your eyes, mistaking the heat for his touch, the steam for his breath. You’d press your fingers into the bruises he left, hard, like you could still feel him there.

And the heat—God, the heat—wouldn’t come from the water anymore. It’d rise from deep inside you, from the places he had touched, heat coiling low in your belly every time you touched them.)

“I’m sorry,” you say again, softer this time.

You feel like you’ve messed it up—again. Like any second now, Mark’s going to snap out of it, take one good look at you and regret all of it—regret the kissing, the grinding, the confession.

“Why are you sorry?” Mark asks instead, head tilting, that painfully familiar puppy-like confusion softening his features. Then his gaze drops back to your neck, to the bruises purpling your skin, and his expression twists—something between a pout and a grimace. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but it’s difficult for him to even ask. “Do you…” he hesitates, swallowing hard. “Do you want him more?”

“No!” you answer immediately, the idea so absurd it’s nearly offensive. “Of course not.”

Because it’s always been Mark. Always.

You’ve spent these last few days pretending it was him, after all. Imagining it was your Mark’s hands that touched you, his voice that whispered those filthy, obsessive promises against your skin. Dreaming it was your Mark who kissed and claimed you, fucking you so deep into the mattress you’d never forget it was him. Every time you closed your eyes, it was him. Even when you woke up shaking, sweaty, needy—it was always him.

Still, your fingers linger on your neck, shame and guilt twisting in your chest like a knife. The bruises feel like damning evidence of your betrayal—like they’re proof of something ugly, something that might disgust him.

You can’t help the question that slips out, barely above a whisper. “Do you want me less?”

Mark doesn’t hesitate.

“No,” he says, like it’s the simplest truth in the world.

And you just stare at him, torn between disbelief and overwhelming relief. It doesn’t make sense—none of this makes sense. Because—because why? Why would he forgive you? Why would he still want to want you?

Mark sees the doubt in your eyes before you even speak. His hand lifts slowly, hovering just for a moment—until it settles against your cheek, warm and gentle.

“I don’t want you less,” he says, firmer now, his gaze locked onto yours. “I just—” his thumb strokes your cheekbone, his voice dropping to a rough whisper “—hate that it wasn’t me.”

Your heart stutters.

“I hate that he touched you like that—that I wasn’t there to stop it. Or—” he falters, jaw tightening as if he’s choking on his own thoughts. His cheeks flush, matching the heat on yours. “Or—fuck—that it wasn’t me. The first to do it.”

Your breath catches, lips parting in a silent gasp. His thumb strokes your cheek absentmindedly, and you lean into it instinctively, like your body knows what your brain hasn’t caught up to yet. His breathing grows shaky, his gaze darting from your eyes to your lips to the marks on your neck—lingering there, his tongue swiping unconsciously over his lips while something hungry blooms in his gaze.

“I should’ve said something sooner,” Mark murmurs, almost to himself. “I should’ve been brave enough to tell you I loved you. That I wanted you. That—”

He cuts himself off, closing the distance between you in one decisive movement. His eyes darken, glassy with want as they flick between your lips and the bruises on your neck.

Then—slowly, so slowly—his hand trails from your cheek to your throat, his fingers skimming the marks with featherlight touch.

“Can I…?” Mark breathes, eyes flicking between your neck and your eyes, trembling at the edge of control. “Please?”

You shiver beneath his touch, voice catching in your throat. All you can manage is a small, trembling nod.

It’s all he needs.

Mark presses you back against the wall, his arms locking around your waist with a possessiveness that sends your pulse skittering. His face buries into the crook of your neck, breath coming in ragged, uneven bursts that raise goosebumps across your skin. His lips hover—barely touching, achingly tentative—and you can’t tell if he’s teasing or just being careful.

Either way, the anticipation is torture. It’s too intimate. Too much. Too not enough. You need more, more, more.

“Mark…” you breathe, voice impatient, eyes slipping shut as your fingers tremble behind his back, clinging to the fabric of his sweater like it’s the only thing anchoring you.

Finally—finally—Mark kisses you.

His soft, warm mouth finds a bruise. He lingers for a heartbeat, then deepens it, tongue sweeping over the purpled skin in slow, deliberate strokes. A sigh escapes you, your head tipping back to give him better access as your body goes pliant against his. Mark groans, low and full of approval, the vibration traveling straight to your dick. His tongue works harder now, sucking over every bruise like he’s trying to erase them, replace them. Like he’s marking you all over again but this time with his. Like he’s trying to say mine.

“Shit, Mark…” you groan, pressing closer, chasing the friction you both left behind just a minute ago, desperate to build the heat until it swallows you whole. “Mark…”

He answers your unspoken need without hesitation. His hips snap forward, meeting yours with a roughness that punches a groan from his lips and a moan from your throat. The sound seems to unravel him—his hands tighten on your waist, pinning you flush against the wall as he sets a relentless pace. You can’t move, can’t think, can only roll your hips in time with his, each thrust drawing out another broken sound.

And all the while, his mouth never leaves your neck—sucking, licking over the bruises like he’s determined to replace every one of them with his own. Bigger. Darker. His tongue branding you with every slow, hungry drag, possessive suck.

“Fuck—mmh, Mark…” you gasp, voice wrecked and breathless, your body trembling from how much you feel him—his cock pressed thick and heavy through your clothes, his tongue hot and wet against your neck, his fingers digging into your skin with a needy kind of desperation.

It’s all too much.

Your head’s spinning, floating, untethered. You’re not even sure this is real.

“Mark,” you whisper, hoarse and pleading, “kiss me. Please. Kiss me.”

Mark pulls back from your throat with a ragged gasp, lips flushed and slick, eyes dark and dazed. And then he’s on you again—hand twisting into your hair, dragging your mouth to his in a brutal, breathless kiss. It’s all teeth and tongue and heat, the kind of kiss that’s more collision than contact.

You moan into him, a fractured sound that melts right into his mouth. He swallows it greedily, groaning back with a breathy, needy sound of his own. Neither of you can breathe—it’s evident in the way your chests heave between frantic kisses, in the dizzying exchange of panting breaths, yet neither of you dares pull away. Neither of you even think about slowing down.

And it’s that—the burn in your lungs, the ache in your chest, the way your head spins from oxygen deprivation—that tells you this is real. God, it’s so real it hurts.

Mark Grayson is kissing you.

Not the maniac from another dimension. Not the twisted version of Invincible who destroyed cities and killed thousands before paying you a visit.

This is your Mark—your best friend who laughs too loud, who geeks out over comics. The boy who’s just as inexperienced as you are, yet kisses you with a determination that makes your knees weak.

This is the boy who’s a hero, not a monster.

It’s everything at once—the crushing weight of Mark pressed against you, the rough drag of his thick cock against yours through layers of fabric, the obscene wetness soaking both your pants as his hips roll in desperate, uneven thrusts— that does it. That coils the tension in your gut tighter until your legs shake violently under the weight of it. His moans vibrate against your lips, ragged and desperate, and when his hips stutter—once, twice—you break.

Your vision whites out, mouth falling open in a silent cry as you spill into your boxers, your entire body seizing around him. But Mark doesn’t stop—his thrusts grow faster, lost in the haze of pleasure, and the overstimulation wrings a choked sob from your throat—toes curling, thighs trembling as your oversensitive cock twitches helplessly. In a daze, you bite his lower lip hard enough to draw a startled whimper from him.

Then your head falls back against the wall with a wet gasp, a silver strand of spit still connecting your swollen lips.

“Ah— fuck, Mark…” you wheeze, vision swimming, the world tilting dangerously. “Fuck, fuck… I can’t—I’m gonna—”

Mark’s gaze sharpens, the lust clearing just enough for him to look—to take in the way your legs tremble around his hips, the obscene wet patch blooming across your thin pajama pants, the way your knees keep buckling from the aftershocks still rolling through you.

“Shit—” his voice cracks, hands flying to steady you. “Y/N—fuck, are you—? Did you just—?”

The raw awe in Mark’s voice makes your flush deepen unbearably. “Shut up, Grayson,” you mutter, eyes darting away.

“Oh,” he breathes, voice raspier now, fingers digging into your hips like he’s trying to ground himself. “Oh, that’s so hot.”

You groan, pressing your hands to his shoulders, squeezing hard as you squeeze your eyes shut, mortified. God. You just came from grinding against him, both of you still fully dressed, like some desperate teenager. The humiliation burns worse than the pleasure.

“Should we—” Mark starts, voice unsure, cracking a little as he swallows hard. “Should we stop?”

You blink slowly, catching your breath, heartbeat still loud in your ears. The high is fading enough for you to register how hard he still is—his jeans pulled tight around the obvious strain in them, and he looks like he’s suffering. You shift awkwardly, skin burning, but the answer is easy. No, you don’t want to stop. Not even close.

“I could,” you whisper, “suck you off.”

The second it leaves your mouth, your face goes up in flames. You want to bury yourself under a rock—but you don’t take it back. Not when Mark’s breath catches in his throat, when his grip on your waist tightens, and he stares at you like you just offered him the goddamn world.

“Huh?” he blurts, like his brain just short-circuited. “You mean—you don’t have to. I can—shit, I can just—”

You yank him down by his collar, cutting off his rambling with a firm kiss.

“Mark,” you murmur against his lips, “I want to. If... if you do.”

A bead of sweat trails down his temple as he nods, rapid and jerky. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, sure. Absolutely. Please.”

The eager, clumsy response pulls a laugh from you—soft and fond. God, this is your Mark. Awkward and earnest and perfect. And you love him exactly like this.

Then, you’re sinking to your knees—right there against the wall, with Mark still caging you in. Your pulse roars in your ears as you look up through your lashes, watching his reaction unfold in real time. His lips part on a silent gasp, eyes wide like he can’t quite believe what’s happening. Your heart races. His, too—you can see it in the rise and fall of his chest, the way he’s already breathing unevenly, fingers twitching at his sides before he braces them against the wall for balance.

You’re nervous—your hands tremble a little—but you mask it with a veil of confidence, your gaze steady as you reach for the waistband of his jeans. You’ve never done this before, not for anyone. But you’ve thought about it. Over and over. You’ve fantasized about this exact moment—him, always him—Mark in your mouth, groaning your name, falling apart for you.

And the thought alone has your mouth watering.

Your fingers fumble with the zipper, heat blooming in your cheeks as your mind races with possibilities. You picture him thick and heavy on your tongue, imagine the weight of him, the taste of him deep in your throat. Your lips part instinctively, anticipation pooling low in your stomach.

You glance up one last time.

Mark’s already leaning into the wall, palms flat against it like he’s afraid his knees might give out. His cheeks are flushed, pupils blown wide, chest heaving—and you haven’t even started yet.

A thrill licks up your spine, tugging a small smile to your lips as you watch him squirm.

Finally, you tug at the waistband of his jeans, peeling it down along with his boxers in one slow, deliberate motion. His cock springs free, already fully hard and trapped for so long that it curves upward eagerly, the dark flushed tip glistening with precum. You hear Mark’s breath hitch sharply, his abdomen flexing as his whole body tenses.

And damn... he’s big. Just as big as you remember from his variant. Thick, veiny, heavy—pure Viltrumite genes. But this time, the size doesn’t intimidate you. Not even a little. This time, you bite your bottom lip, pulse quickening with excitement. Then you wrap your fingers around the base of him, feeling the heat and weight in your hand. He groans, breath hitching, hips giving the tiniest, desperate jerk toward you like he didn’t mean to move but couldn’t stop himself.

You lean in slowly, breath warm against his sensitive cock, watching how it jumps under your touch. There’s a bead of precum glistening at the tip, catching the light, and your tongue flicks out—just a little closer, just a little more.

“Oh my god…” he breathes, voice cracking like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “You’re actually—you’re really gonna… oh my god—”

His words dissolve into a choked moan when you finally take him into your mouth, the taste flooding your senses—salty and musky and something uniquely Mark. You take him into your mouth slowly, tentatively, clumsy as you try to adjust to the stretch of him. Your lips drag awkwardly over his length, your jaw already aching, but you hum, determined, and take a little more, and feel his whole body jerk in response.

“S-shit! Shit, Y/N, that’s—” his hips stutter forward before he catches himself when you nearly choke, hands turning into fists against the wall. “S-sorry, I didn’t mean to—oh fuck, your mouth—”

One of his trembling hands finally finds your hair, fingers tangling gently at first before tightening unconsciously when you suck harder. The broken noise he makes goes straight to your own groin. Jesus. You’ll let him grab you however he wants if he keeps making those sounds.

“F-Fuck,” he whimpers. “Oh god, that feels—shit, it feels so good—oh my god—”

Every choked-off groan, every aborted thrust of Mark’s hips sends fresh heat coiling low in your belly. He’s falling apart just from this, just from you, and the power of it leaves you lightheaded. God, it’s better than you’d fantasized. The weight of him on your tongue, the way your lips strain around his girth, the salt-bitter taste of precum flooding your mouth—it’s overwhelming in the best way.

It’s messy, awkward even. Your jaw aches a little already, and your rhythm is more trial and error than skill—mouth bobbing up and down, hand working the base in shaky sync. You know it’s obvious you’ve never done this before. Maybe you’re not even doing it right. But from the way Mark reacts—thighs trembling, the punched-out whimpers spilling from his lips, the white-knuckled grip he has on the wall for balance—it’s clear you’re doing something right.

So you don’t stop.

You can’t stop.

You want this. You want him. Just like this.

Then, when you swirl your tongue along a thick vein on his cock, hollowing your cheeks with a deep suck, Mark shatters. His moan cracks through the room, raw and unfiltered, as his hips jerk forward on instinct. The sudden push sends him deeper than before, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat with a jolt that makes you gag. Your eyes water, throat clenching around him, lips stretched painfully wide. It hurts, it burns—but strangely, the stretch feels so good that heat flares, sharp and intense, straight to your own cock.

And then Mark’s yanking back, his cock slipping free with a wet sound. “Shit—sorry, fuck, I’m sorry,” he blurts out, voice cracking as he stares down at you in horror. His face is flushed and guilt-stricken, lips parted like he’s still catching his breath. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t mean to do that—God, are you okay?”

You catch your breath, lips parted as you pant unsteadily, chest rising and falling with effort. Your throat still burns, your eyes sting faintly, and your jaw aches—but none of it bothers you.

You lift one trembling thumb to the corner of your mouth, wiping away the mess of spit slicking your lips. When you glance up at Mark again, he looks wrecked, still flushed, still trembling with arousal—but his hands hover awkwardly, like he’s afraid to touch you now.

God, that hurt. The stretch in your throat was raw, intense, almost too much.

But it also felt so good.

“I’m okay,” you rasp, voice hoarse but sure. Your cheeks burn hot with your confession, but you don’t look away. “I—I don’t mind if you… lose control a little.”

Mark blinks, still breathing hard. “Huh?” he asks dumbly, his voice dazed. “No, that’s—I don’t—” His jaw tightens. “I don’t want to hurt you, Y/N…”

Despite his words, his hips betray him, twitching forward ever so slightly, like he’s already imagining it again.

You lick your lips, greedy and insatiable, the taste of him still lingering there. All you want is to feel that weight again—the ache, the stretch, the sting at the back of your throat. The way he made you feel full, like you couldn’t take another inch and still wanted to try.

“I don’t mind,” you whisper again, lashes fluttering as embarrassment bubbles up—but not enough to stop you. How do you even say this? How do you explain needing him like this? “I really…” a shaky breath, “want you to fuck my mouth. Please?”

Mark’s eyes go wide. His mouth parts in a soundless gasp, his whole face flushing deep crimson, like the words physically hit him. “Are you—” he stammers, swallowing thickly, “are you sure?”

You nod, resting one hand gently on his hip. With the other, you drag your thumb across the flushed tip of his cock, smearing the bead of precum there. He groans, low and broken, his eyes fluttering shut at the sensation.

“I’m sure,” you breathe, leaning in to press an open-mouthed kiss to the flushed head, tasting the salt and bitterness of him. “I’m so sure, Mark.”

Mark’s hips jerk violently when you take him back into your mouth—a little deeper this time, a little more confident—his cock twitching against your tongue.

“Fuck—” his voice cracks. “Y/N, I—”

But still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t let himself fall into the temptation, not fully. He holds himself back with a trembling restraint, biting his lip so hard it turns pale, brows drawn tight, sweat glistening on his forehead. A moan catches in his throat as you work him over—slow licks, teasing sucks, your tongue gliding along every ridge and vein, doing everything in your power to break him.

“Oh god—” he chokes out, eyes squeezing shut as his hips twitch forward, just slightly, sliding deeper into your mouth.

Even then, you feel the hesitation, the way Mark is fighting himself—desperate to lose control, to give in, but terrified of hurting you.

“You’re so—fuck—it’s too good—,” he sobs, voice high and tight with pleasure. “You’re so—my god—hot.”

The praise coils heat low in your belly.

You pull back until just the head rests on your tongue, savoring his choked whimper. Then—with a steadying breath—you sink down, lips stretching obscenely as you take him deeper than before. You don’t stop when it hurts. Not when the pressure burns. Not when your throat tightens and your gag reflex threatens to kick in the moment his cock hits the back of your throat.

You hum, the vibrations swallowed by the stretch in your throat, and your own arousal spikes sharply at the overwhelming fullness, the stinging pressure, the weight of him.

And Mark—Mark completely shatters.

He throws his head back with a strangled, guttural cry, the sound ripped straight from his chest. His grip on control slips. Hips twitch forward on instinct, not violently, but fast enough to force a gag out of you, your nose brushing against the base of him.

Mark gasps, eyes snapping open in panic the moment he realizes what he’s done. “Fuck, I’m sorry—”

But before he can pull away again, before his worry ruins the high building between you, you dig your fingers into his sweat-slick hips and drag him closer, taking him to the hilt, until you can feel him pulsing somewhere behind your tongue. The pressure is so deep it knocks the breath out of you and settles low in your core. Your eyes sting, tears welling, but you don’t let go. Not yet.

Mark chokes on a moan.

“Fuck! My god, fuck, mmh, Y/N—” he whines, voice cracking beautifully. His chest rises and falls in frantic, shallow bursts, his fists clenched so tightly on the wall that his knuckles turn bone white. “Y/N, ah, I can’t—that feels—oh, you feel—”

He can’t finish the sentence.

He just moans, dissolving into low, breathless curses and half-formed words. Nothing coherent. Just helpless sounds of pleasure as you swallow around him, hollow your cheeks, hum at the sheer power of making him fall apart like this.

Then, when he finally can’t resist anymore, his hands fall from the wall with a trembling lack of grace, letting his forehead drop against it with a dull thud. A second later, his fingers slide into your hair, rough and sure, gripping tight at the roots as his palm cups the back of your head. When he looks down at you, his eyes are glazed over—wild and unfocused—lips red and swollen from how hard he’s been biting them.

The sight alone sends electricity crackling down your spine, goosebumps breaking across your skin. You’re completely, helplessly caged now—trapped between Mark’s thick cock filling your mouth and the wall at your back, with his hands in your hair, keeping you there. And all you can do is look up at him through teary lashes, his cock still nestled on your tongue, and wait.

“Okay,” Mark whispers, voice thick with arousal, low and rough like it scrapes the inside of his throat. “Okay… If you want it that bad—then have it.”

You don’t even get a chance to savor the victory.

Mark’s hips snap forward without hesitation, sheathing himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Your throat convulses around him, tears springing to your eyes as he bottoms out—but the choked noise you make only seems to undo him further.

“Ah fuck…” he whimpers, head knocking back against the wall, his fingers fisting in your hair, dragging you in deeper as he rolls his hips. “Fuck—Y/N—Just like that. Just like—”

The words dissolve into a groan as he starts to move in earnest, his hips driving forward while his hands guide you deeper. Each thrust hits the back of your throat with perfect precision—that sweet spot where pain and pleasure blur into something heady and intoxicating.

You force your throat to relax around him, swallowing reflexively even as spit spills from your stretched lips in glistening strands. The burn is exquisite—the ache in your jaw, the stretch of your mouth, the tears pricking at your lashes— every sensation confirming how completely he’s using you.

“Fuck!” Mark’s groans above you, his thighs trembling. “God, you take me so well—” His thrusts turn erratic, the slick sounds of your mouth working him filling the room. “So fucking perfect like this—”

When you blink up at him—watery-eyed, lips swollen, chin glistening—Mark completely loses it.

His fingers tighten in your hair, pulling just enough to sting as his hips stutter. You feel the moment he tips over the edge—the way his cock swells, his breath coming in ragged bursts, his entire body tensing tighter and tighter.

“Oh fuck,” Mark chokes out, eyes squeezed shut, his hands shaking in your hair as his hips rhythm’s falter. “Y/N, I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You barely have time to brace yourself—your heart slamming against your ribs—before he falls apart.

With a shattered cry, Mark thrusts one final time, hard and deep and primal, burying himself so far in your throat that your nose brushes into the sweat-damp curls at his groin. His fingers tangle in your hair, gripping tight, pulling you flush against him until you’re choking.

Then you feel it.

There’s no warning, no chance to prepare, no space to breathe. His cock throbs, pulsing hard against your tongue as he comes, hot and thick, spilling straight down your throat in heavy spurts. You stifle a cough, eyes squeezing shut as tears well and spill, the pressure nearly too much, your throat clenching and flexing against the merciless intrusion.

“Fuck—fuck—!”

Mark groans, high and broken, giving one last desperate grind of his hips like he can’t help himself. The head of his cock nudges impossibly deeper with each twitch, his balls pressing against your chin as he rides out his orgasm. You gag around him but don’t pull away—can’t pull away—not with the way his hands are tangled tight in your hair, holding you there, not with how far he’s buried himself inside you. All you can do is swallow around the heavy spurts of cum, each twitch of his cock coating your tongue and sliding down your throat, leaving your eyes stinging and your lungs burning.

But it’s okay.

It’s perfect.

This is the sting you’d been chasing.

On your knees, mouth full, Mark’s musky scent thick in the air, the taste of his cum coating your tongue, sliding down your throat in slow, hot pulses. The ache in your jaw. The tears drying on your cheeks. The need to please him—and only him. The right Mark. The one who’s kind. The one who’s good.

When he finally pulls back, his cock slips free from your lips with a lewd, wet pop, leaving you dazed and panting. You let your head fall against one of his trembling thighs, lightheaded and dizzy as you catch your breath. Your throat aches in the best way, the burn sharp and satisfying as you swallow down the last of him with slow, heavy gulps.

“Oh my god—” Mark exhales, voice rough and breathless. “Y/N, I’m—god—I’m sorry…”

His hands are gentle as they haul you up, steadying you when your legs threaten to buckle. The guilt in his tone is almost comical—as if he could ever hurt you, as if this isn’t exactly what you wanted.

“Shit—I didn’t hurt you?” he asks, brows furrowed, eyes scanning your face like he’s afraid to find pain there. “You okay? I’m sorry—I should’ve—should’ve stopped before—”

You silence him with a kiss—deep and consuming, filled with heat and reassurance. Mark groans into it, tasting himself on your tongue, his hands sliding to your waist to grip you tightly like its reflex.

“You didn’t,” you murmur when you break apart, voice hoarse but sure. “I love you.”

Mark exhales shakily, eyes glassy and dazed, dark with something fragile.

“I love you too,” he breathes. “God—that was... so good. I—I love you so much, Y/N. Jesus… Are you sure you’re okay?”

To make his point, he gently wipes the corners of your eyes where tears still linger, his thumb soft against your skin, his expression faltering with concern.

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips as your hands settle on his shoulders. “I’m okay... Are you okay?” Your gaze drifts downward pointedly.

“Huh?” Mark blinks, still dazed, before following your line of sight. His cock, which had started to soften, now perks up once more, half-hard and rising again with a visible twitch. He flushes deep red, mortified. “Oh—shit. I’m sorry, I—I don’t know what’s—I mean—You were amazing and I already came, so I don’t know why—”

You laugh quietly, fondly, cutting him off with a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry, Mark,” you murmur, voice low and close to his ear. “We’re not done yet.”

He barely has time to register what you’ve said before you’re pressing on his shoulders, guiding him backwards. He stumbles with a startled yelp, his jeans and boxers still tangled around his knees, making him waddle back awkwardly like a penguin. And then—with a final push—he drops onto your bed, landing on his back with a bounce, eyes wide and stunned as he looks up at you from the mattress.

The sun’s just started to rise outside your window, casting long streaks of gold across the room. It catches the curve of his cheek, the red of his lips. And it catches yours too—the light spilling over the softness in your eyes, the affection so fierce it makes your chest ache.

Mark props himself up on his elbows, staring at you with flushed cheeks, red ears, and a sheen of sweat on his forehead. The sight is so endearingly vulnerable it coaxes a soft smile from you before you can stop it.

Then, wordlessly, you reach for the hem of your t-shirt. You pull it over your head in one fluid motion, revealing your bare chest to the growing warmth of the morning light. Before hesitation can creep in, you hook your thumbs under the waistband of your pajama pants and underwear, pushing them down, one knee after the other, until there’s nothing covering you.

Mark’s breath catches audibly as he takes you in. His pupils dilate, eyes raking over you, wide and reverent. He sees everything—all of you—and his gaze doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. If anything, it sharpens.

There are marks on your skin. Faint purple bruises. Bite imprints. The shadow of fingerprints where his variant had held you too tightly. Mark’s gaze darkens as he takes them all in. He follows every trace like he’s deciding where he’s going to start replacing them—where he’ll press his own fingerprints over those old ones, where he’ll bite to make new ones.

Your pulse thrums wildly at the thought, heat pooling low in your belly.

Still, the question slips out, quiet and uncertain. “Do you… still want me?”

Mark doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.” His voice cracks as his eyes drop lower, where your cock stands hard and aching. “God, yes. Yes. Always.”

The raw certainty in his voice sends your heart fluttering. You step forward until your knees bump the mattress, then climb toward him with deliberate slowness. Mark watches, transfixed, his breathing growing erratic—sharp inhales followed by shaky exhales, as if he’s forgotten how lungs work.

You can’t help the soft chuckle that slips from your lips as you straddle him, your knees settling on either side of his hips. Your fingers reach for the hem of his sweater, tugging gently, and Mark lifts his arms obediently, swallowing hard as you peel the fabric off him. As you do, he kicks the rest of his jeans off in an awkward scramble that makes you bite back another smile.

When Mark is finally bare beneath you, his chest rising and falling like he’s already worn out, he locks eyes with you. There’s nothing guarded in his gaze now—just raw, honest adoration.

You lean in and kiss him.

One hand trails across his chest, feeling the hard flex of muscle, the way his abs clench and shiver under your palm. Mark sighs against your mouth, melting into it.

His hands slide up your thighs, fingers squeezing, greedy, like he needs to memorize the shape of you. He groans low in his throat as they climb higher—until they curl around the swell of your ass, pulling you flush against him.

You gasp, startled and electric, just as his teeth graze your bottom lip in a teasing bite.

“Y/N…” Mark breathes, dazed and needy, his hips lifting instinctively, desperately, trying to grind against you—trying to chase just a little more friction between your cocks. “Please… come on, please…”

You swallow his plea with another kiss, languidly tangling your tongue with his before breaking apart. Beneath you, Mark looks utterly wrecked—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, panting in the heavy quiet. The room is thick with heat and want, the air nearly humming with it. But even with your own cock leaking against his, aching just as bad, you press a steady hand to his chest and push him back until his head meets the pillows in a soft bounce.

“Y/N?” he asks, brows knitting, a pout forming—but he doesn’t resist. He just looks at you, confused, a little breathless, waiting.

You pause for a moment, just taking him in.

That night with his variant, everything had been cloaked in shadows—his body, his face, his expression. And sure, it’s not like you didn’t know it was him—Mark, hero and all. But damn, your Mark is built like something out of a dream—broad shoulders, narrow waist, muscles shifting under your hands, chest rising fast with every breath. And now, in the soft glow of morning, Mark’s features aren’t shadowed, aren’t dark, aren’t animalistic.

Just sunlight slipping through your open window, catching in his hair, warm across his skin. His head sinks into your pillow, hair tousled, cheeks flushed, eyes locked on you like you’re something holy—eyes full of something close to worship. And fuck, he looks perfect.

You bite your bottom lip, anticipation thrumming through your veins, before reaching toward your bedside drawer. Your fingers wrap around the familiar shapes—lube and a condom—and when you pull them out, Mark’s eyes go wide.

His gaze darts from your face to your hands and back again, his chest rising quicker, excitement blooming across every inch of his skin.

“Oh my god, are we—” he swallows, eyes wide, voice barely above a whisper. “I mean, are you—are you sure?”

Your cheeks flush with heat, but you don’t look away. “I’m sure,” you murmur, voice quiet but steady. “Are you?”

“Yeah. Yes,” he breathes, voice thin and shaky, his fingers trembling right where they rest on your hips.

“Yeah?” you repeat, a little breathless yourself, as you flick open the lube cap with a quiet pop.

Mark nods, eyes fixed on you with laser focus, like he’s drinking in the sight of you—every movement, every breath. His lips part slightly, tongue flicking out unconsciously, and it makes your heart flip, your body hot all over.

The lube is cold when it hits your fingers, slick and slippery. You brace yourself, resting your free hand against Mark’s chest where his heart thunders beneath your palm, and lift yourself slightly on your knees. You try to block out the way his gaze clings to you, the way it makes your stomach twist with nerves and desire at once, and you slide your fingers lower, toward your entrance.

You swallow, breath catching, and with a soft gasp—one you don’t know whether it’s yours or his—you press a finger inside.

Mark jerks beneath you, his cock twitching, hips lifting off the bed slightly like his body is trying to follow yours. His grip on your waist tightens—not hurting, but holding, trembling, like he’s trying so hard not to lose control. You know you must look obscene like this, fucking yourself open on top of him, and it clearly does something to him. His fingers dig in, a low, choked noise leaving his throat.

But then—suddenly—he lets out a breath that sounds nearly pained, one hand snapping up to grab your wrist and still you.

You freeze, eyes flying open, confusion and a flicker of panic flooding through you.

“Mark?” your voice comes out small. “What’s wrong?”

But his eyes aren’t on yours. They’re locked on your leaking cock, on the way your body moves, his gaze so full of hunger it nearly knocks the air out of you.

His voice is shaky when he speaks. “Can I—” he breathes. “Can I do it?”

A shudder runs through you as you register his question, then you nod, dazed.

That’s all the permission Mark needs.

He reaches for the lube, coating his fingers with shaky hands, then lifts your hips with a care that makes your heart skip. You brace your arms behind you, palms resting against his knees, back arched in anticipation.

“Like—like this?” he asks, voice uncertain but eager, his slick fingers trailing toward your entrance, brushing lightly in a way that steals your breath.

“Yes,” you exhale, eyes half-lidded. “It’s okay… just push—”

He pushes in before you finish speaking, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips, body jerking at the intrusion. His fingers are thicker than your own, the stretch immediately noticeable.

“That’s fine?” he asks, already breathless.

“Fuck—yes,” you mutter, thighs trembling.

Mark watches, fascinated, as your hips twitch, silently begging for more. He complies eagerly, sinking deeper. “Oh shit,” he murmurs. “You—you feel so tight, so warm.”

You bite your lip as he begins moving experimentally, feeling your body gradually relax and accept him. Then he slides in a second finger.

Your head tilts back, a pant escaping your lips.

“Shit—” you groan, the tip of your cock leaking messily against your stomach, throbbing with the weight of your arousal. “Deeper, fuck, deeper, Mark. It’s fine. I can—ah—handle it.”

Mark’s breath hitches. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He pushes in a third finger.

It makes you jolt—your toes curl, your vision whitens, and a broken moan slips past your lips before you can even try to hold it back.

It’s different.

You never felt this way when you did it yourself.

You’d tried. Again and again, chasing the same fucking high from that first time—but it never came close.

(You’d jerk awake in the darkness of your new apartment from yet another haunting dream—sheets clinging to sweat-slick skin, body trembling.

You’d feel disgusting, guilty, and ashamed—because it was another dream of Mark doing things to you he’d never done before. Not your Mark, anyway.

In the darkness of your room, alone and overwhelmed by shame, you’d vividly remember the touch of not-your-Mark’s hands on you, his shuddering breaths against your ear, his possessive grip, his kisses down your throat, his groans and growls, the sheer size of him, buried so deep inside you that it jolted your entire body.

And when you’d finally come to, breath caught and sheets damp, you’d realize it wasn’t really the variant you were dreaming of. Because in the haze, his face would shift—when the sneering cruelty melted into your Mark’s tender expression, his touch gentling even as he fucked you deeper.

Your cock would throb against your pajamas, traitorous, and aching with a need that refused to be ignored.

You’d buy lube the next day like some shameful criminal, hoping to drown the thirst you couldn’t shake.

But deep into another restless night, jerking awake from a dream that left your body aching, Mark’s face seared into your mind like it had been burned into your eyelids—fingers buried knuckle-deep inside yourself—you’d realize something awful.

You can’t.

You can’t satisfy it. The need. The wanting. The hunger.

Mark’s variant had whispered it, during that heated moment, a filthy promise in your ear: Gonna ruin you for anyone else.

And he’d been right.)

But with Mark—

With Mark—

Fuck, it feels good. It feels right.

So good it melts your inhibitions, strips away your shame. You let every sound fall from your lips—gasps, moans, breathless cries—because he’s reaching places inside you that’ve ached ever since the day you learned what it felt like to be touched—to be wanted—by him.

“Fuck, Mark—fuck!” you cry out, biting your lip hard in a half-hearted attempt to stifle the filth spilling out. “Oh fuck, that’s it—that’s so good—”

Mark responds by pushing deeper, fingers curling just right. Your hips stutter, body trembling.

His mouth is parted, breathing shaky, eyes dark and full of reverent lust as he watches you unravel. He takes in every twitch, every sob, every buck of your hips, like he’s burning it into his memory—learning exactly what makes you gasp, what makes you writhe, what makes you lose control.

Then he twists his fingers just right, and your mouth falls open in a soundless moan.

Your toes curl, your arms nearly give out. “There—” you gasp, voice wrecked, “there, yeah, that’s—god—”

Mark can’t hold back any longer.

With a low, guttural growl, he props himself up—one arm curling tight around your waist, the other still working you open. You gasp, startled by the sudden movement, but your breath is stolen the moment his lips crash against yours. It’s fierce, bruising—desperate. You wrap your arms around his neck without thinking, pulling him closer. He moans into your mouth, swallowing every shaky breath, every whine, every broken sound that slips from you.

“Fuck—Y/N,” he pants between kisses, voice wrecked and trembling. “Let me—mmh—let me, please. Please.”

You know exactly what he’s asking.

You don’t need to ask.

You don’t need him to say it.

It’s written all over him—in the way his hips buck into the air, his cock flushed dark red and leaking steadily, twitching with need. In the way his muscles tense and flex with restraint he’s barely hanging onto. In the way his fingers keep fucking into you, wet and slick, the obscene sounds echoing in the quiet, sunlit room.

And god—you want it too.

You’ve wanted this. You’ve dreamed of this.

Over and over, the memory of that first time replayed in your head like a sweet nightmare, haunting you with something you never thought you’d feel again. Not with your Mark. Not after everything. Not if he hated you.

But shit. You were wrong.

He doesn’t hate you.

Mark wants you.

Despite everything. Despite what you did. Despite the marks someone else left on your skin. Despite the betrayal.

He still wants you.

And fuck, he wants you bad.

So you kiss him, tongue sliding against his, messy and desperate. You let him suck and lick into your mouth however he wants, because god, he seems starving for it. Like he’s been holding back for years. Then, you press a hand to his solid chest. He lets you, even though your strength is nothing compared to his—but Mark lets you guide him anyway. Lets you push him down, pull away from the kiss, lips swollen and glistening, a soft pout on his face and heat in his eyes, waiting eagerly.

His fingers slip out of you with an obscene, wet sound, and despite everything, a needy gasp escapes your lips at the sudden emptiness. But the thought of what’s coming—something thicker, fuller—makes your skin tingle with anticipation.

Mark’s head falls back onto your pillows, messy hair damp with sweat leaving faint prints in the fabric. There’s a giddy thrill in knowing that, even after this day, your sheets will carry the raw, distinct scent of Mark Grayson in them.

He watches you intently, eyes burning with anticipation, breathing shallow.

“It’s okay,” you murmur, grabbing the condom and tearing it open. Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “I’ll take care of you, Mark.”

Because today, you wanted to be the one to give him everything he craved—to make him feel good, to pleasure him. It was your weakest, most pathetic way of making up for letting another version of him touch you first. But it was all you had to offer.

You settle on his thighs, fingers curling around his thick, heavy cock, rolling the condom down his length with painstaking care. Mark’s eyes flutter shut, his head falling back into your pillow with a soft moan, sweat-damp hair clinging to his forehead.

“Y/N…” he breathes out, voice cracking around your name. “God—Y/N…”

You don’t stop, making sure the condom fits just right. Then you reach for the lube, slicking your fingers generously before wrapping them around his cock again. He jerks in your hand, hips twitching helplessly as you spread it evenly, coating him until he’s glistening and ready.

“Please—fuck—please…” Mark gasps, barely holding it together. His voice is raw, thick with need, and every broken sound he makes sends a fresh coil of heat twisting in your gut.

You swallow hard, the fire in your belly almost unbearable. “It’s okay,” you repeat, softer this time,  though you’re no longer sure who you’re reassuring—him or yourself.

Finally satisfied, you lift your hips—guiding his cock with a shaky breath toward your entrance. The swollen tip brushes against your rim, thick and fat, and it makes you flinch with anticipation. Mark’s head snaps up instantly, his eyes flying open, dazed and dilated, lips parting like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

“Oh my god—” he whispers, almost in awe.

You sink down slowly, just enough to take in the tip, and a gasp tears from your lips. Mark lets out a low groan, biting into his bottom lip as his brows knit tight with restraint. His fingers claw at the sheets beside him, knuckles white, trying so hard not to thrust up into you.

You look at him then.

Flushed, eyes half-lidded, his chest rising and falling in sharp, unsteady bursts. The sunlight filters across his face, casting him in a warm, golden glow, making him look like something unreal. Like something angelic and ethereal.

He’s nothing like the other version of himself.

This Mark isn’t looming over you with control. He’s underneath you, undone, baring his vulnerability like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

This isn’t the Mark who took; this is the Mark who gives, who lets you take the lead without hesitation.

And when he looks at you, it’s not with obsession or possessiveness. It’s with reverence.

Your Mark—all sunlight, warmth, kindness, the one you fell for, the one you never stopped aching for.

Your Mark, who meets your gaze with pouty lips, flushed cheeks, and aching despair when you don’t move.

You grin—soft and disbelieving. Your heart swells with something too big to name, affection blooming so wildly it nearly chokes you. You can’t believe this is real. That it’s not some dream clawing at your chest in the middle of the night, reminding you of what you could never have. Because it’s not.

You have it now.

You have him.

Your Mark.

Mark’s hips stutter upward with a whimper, his cock sliding just that fraction deeper inside you. When your eyes meet again, you make sure he sees it—knows it.

“I love you,” you say.

He freezes, then his eyes soften, wide with something so raw and tender it punches the air from your lungs. A shy, breathless smile tugs at his lips, and he murmurs. “I love you too.”

It’s enough to make you start rolling your hips—once, twice, three times—in slow, teasing circles over his tip. Your body heats under the friction, under the weight of his gaze. And when Mark exhales, a soft sigh slipping from his parted lips, that’s when you move.

You drop onto him in one smooth, determined motion, sheathing his cock fully inside you with a single thrust, helped by the slick glide of lube.

Mark’s reaction is immediate—head snapping back, mouth falling open as a guttural moan rips out of him, eyes fluttering shut, spine arching hard against the mattress. His hands shoot to your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise—bruises that, for sure, you’ll trace later with a breathless kind of  joy  instead of regret.

“Oh, fuck! Fuck!” he chokes out, hips jerking up instinctively, driving in deeper. “Fuck—Y/N, you’re—you’re so—” his voice splinters, breaking into a wrecked, almost-whimper, “—tight.”

You pant, head tipping back with a broken cry, your body twitching as Mark stretches you open. “Oh my god, Mark—”

His cock throbs inside you—thick, full, massive—just like you remembered. He’s forcing you open in a way you never thought you’d feel again. In a way it aches, burns, and hurts.

It’s too much—you know it is. You should’ve taken your time, let yourself adjust, eased into it. But god—god—you liked it. The overwhelming stretch, the raw, sudden fullness. The steady throb of Mark’s cock buried inside you.

You realized it that night—when Mark’s variant had pushed in without gentleness, without patience or shame—that you fucking loved being used like that.

He should’ve known, of course. Just like he knew everything else about you. That the fullness drove you mad. That the ache didn’t repel you, it fed something inside you—something primal, greedy, and starved. That no one could ever satisfy it but him.

Gonna ruin you for anyone else.

A shudder runs through you.

Yeah. Yeah.

No one but Mark.

No one.

“F-Fuck,” Mark stammers, his voice thick with heat, his expression crumpling in bliss. “Mmh—fuck—it’s so hot, it’s—god, it’s like I’m gonna melt.”

His hips roll deeper into you without thought, dragging a sharp, broken whimper from your lips. Your muscles tighten around him, a visceral reaction, and Mark chokes on a moan—half sound, half sob—as his fingers clamp harder into your skin.

“Mark—” you gasp, hands flying to his chest to steady yourself, nails digging into solid muscle as you tremble. “Nngh—how—how does it feel?”

“So good,” he chokes out, chest heaving. “God—it’s so good. You’re—fuck—you’re perfect. Just—”

His words dissolve into incoherence, his body trembling under yours. His chest is rising too fast, too shallow, his face flushed red and wrecked, lips parted in stunned, shivering gasps. He’s coming undone right beneath you, completely losing it, and you haven’t even started yet.

You watch, equal parts awed and concerned—because you need him here. Not spiraling. Not fading.

“Mark,” you whisper, cupping his flushed cheek, your thumb gently brushing over his heated skin. “I’m right here. Breathe.”

He sucks in a sharp breath, like your voice alone gave him permission to come back to earth.

“That’s it,” you soothe, grounding him, voice soft but firm. “That’s it, baby. Just breathe.”

Little by little, through shaky, shallow inhales, Mark’s eyes flutter open. You smile at him, tender and full of adoration, and reach up to wipe the tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. When his gaze finally lands on you—dazed and wide—his pupils are so blown they nearly swallow the brown of his eyes whole.

“My god—” he exhales, forehead slick with sweat, chest rising and falling slower now. “Oh my god, Y/N. Are you—are you okay? I’m not hurting you, am I?”

The question’s ridiculous, really—he was the one on the edge of passing out from forgetting to breathe.

You let out a soft chuckle. “I’m okay,” you reassure, stroking his cheek, then squeezing his cock with a deliberate clench. He gasps beneath you, twitching inside. “Are you, Mark?”

“Mhm,” he hums, nodding frantically as he swallows thickly, hips giving the smallest, involuntary jerk. “Peachy. Great. Never been better. Just—just a little… overwhelmed.”

“We can wait—”

“No. No!” he interrupts, voice pitched and desperate. His hands grab at your hips, dragging you down, sinking himself even deeper inside you. You gasp at the sharp, pulsing stretch—at the feel of every ridge, every thick inch of him. “Shit—sorry—fuck, I can’t wait,” he groans, breath hitching again. “I need you.”

Your cheeks burn, heart stuttering, desire coursing through your veins like wildfire—lighting you up from the inside out. Mark needs you. Holy shit. The words echo through your mind on an endless loop—sharp, breathless, haunting. Words you’ve longed to hear—to feel.

Your voice is barely a whisper, foggy with disbelief and affection. “Okay.”

Your hand drifts from his cheek to his chest, palm gliding over the warm, sweat-slicked skin, tracing the dips and ridges of his toned torso. Mark shivers beneath your touch, breath hitching, like your fingers alone are short-circuiting him. Then, slowly, you trail your hands down his arms, catching his wrists and guiding them lower—down, down—until his palms rest against the flat of your stomach.

Mark’s eyes widen instantly, a sharp breath tearing from his lips as his gaze snaps downward.

“You feel that?” you whisper, rolling your hips in the smallest motion, just enough to press his hand deeper into your abdomen. “That’s you.”

You already knew it’d be there—just like the first time. That small, firm bump rising from the flat plane of your stomach—where Mark’s cock is buried so deep, so thick and long and overwhelming, it carves a visible imprint against your abdomen.

Mark chokes on a sound that’s half-groan, half-growl. “Ah, shit…”

His eyes are blown wide, locked on the bulge beneath his hand, thumb slowly pressing into it like he can’t believe it’s real.

His voice comes out hoarse, wrecked with awe and arousal. “Shit—look at that. Look how deep I am. Fuck, Y/N…”

Mark thrusts up experimentally, a sudden jolt of his hips that punches a yelp from your throat. But your body responds before your mind can catch up—thighs trembling, you lift yourself just enough to drop back down, and the sharp rush of pleasure that crashes through you both is instant.

His eyes flutter, unfocused, locked on where your bodies meet—the slow shift of his cock inside you, how far he sinks in, how deep you let him go. Rearranging you. Filling you so completely he looks like he might lose his mind.

“Aw fuck—” Mark groans, voice cracking around the edges, head lolling back before snapping forward again, trying to keep watching. “Fuck—I’m inside—I’m so fucking deep—”

He proves it in the next moment—hips snapping upward at the exact moment you slam down. The impact draws twin cries from you both, his hands still pressing into your belly like he needs the tactile proof of just how deep he’s buried. You rock into him again, and again, the rhythm building into something messy, urgent, addictive.

“Yeah, Mark—” you pant, voice shaky, trembling with every word, “—yeah, nh—it’s you.”

“Fuck—” he breathes, brows knotting together in that beautifully wrecked way, lips parted, breath stuttering. “Mmh—fuck, it’s so hot. You’re so—shit—so fucking hot—”

His voice dissolves into broken sounds—soft whimpering breaths, helpless noises you never imagined you’d hear from him. And god, the way he’s falling apart under you makes something burn in your chest.

You reach for him again, hands finding his wrists, guiding his palms away from your belly, intertwining your fingers with his. You start moving in earnest—hips rolling, grinding, riding him with purpose now. You use his hands as leverage, keeping them pinned against your waist, making him hold you steady as you fuck yourself down onto his cock like you were made for it.

“Y/N—ah—Y/N—” Mark groans, his voice ragged, hips jerking up to meet you halfway. He’s trying, trying so hard to match your rhythm, to give you everything. “Fuck—ngh—Y/N—”

“Oh god, oh god—!” you cry out, head falling back as one especially deep thrust slams into that spot, sending white-hot sparks ripping up your spine. “Mark—fuck—there—oh my god, there—”

You slam down at the same moment Mark snaps his hips up, and his cock slams straight into your prostate so hard it sends a white-hot jolt through your body—your vision blurs, eyes nearly rolling back into your skull.

“Holy fuck—! Fuck, fuck, fuck—!” you gasp, your whole body arching into the pleasure. “Fuck, Mark—Mark—”

Your nails dig into his arms, clenching around him, pulsing and tight and desperate. You ride him with everything you have—up and down, again and again—chasing that perfect heat, that delicious pressure deep inside you, stretched full around the thick length of him. Your own cock leaks helplessly, slapping against the firmness of his stomach with every bounce, every thrust, adding sparks of stimulation that make your whole body twitch.

“Shit—Y/N—fuck, like this?” Mark pants, meeting your hips with frantic thrusts. His eyes are wide and dark with arousal but still so painfully earnest—always checking, always making sure. “Here? Feels good?”

“Yes!” you cry out, spine curving as you push down harder, grinding into him, pressing in deep, chasing more even when you’re already full to the brim. “Yes, yes—yes!”

Every nerve in your body lights up—your fingertips, your thighs, your cock, all buzzing with raw, electric heat. And when you angle your hips just a little lower, just right, Mark’s thick cock crashes into your prostate again—and again—and again, pounding that spot in a rough, perfect rhythm that steals the air from your lungs.

“Fuuuuck—” you gasp, voice catching in your throat as your eyes squeeze shut, pleasure burning hot and blinding. “Oh god—it feels so good—so fucking good—”

“Yeah?” Mark pants beneath you, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips, gripping you like he can’t get enough. He drives up into you, deeper, harder, and the greedy way he squeezes you makes your head spin. “Jesus—you feel amazing,” he groans, breath shaky. “You’re so fucking tight, I’m—I swear you’re gonna kill me—fuck—”

Your thighs are burning now, trembling from the strain. Your stomach coils, muscles seizing with effort.

“Ah—ngh—Mark—I can’t—” you whimper, voice breaking as you cling to him, nails dragging across his shoulders as your strength slips. You’re shaking all over, legs giving out, rhythm falling apart.

You can’t keep going. Even though your body wants to. Even though you’d give anything to ride him into oblivion. But your legs shake violently, threatening to give out entirely. The only thing keeping you moving is Mark—his strong hands lifting your hips, guiding you up and down on his cock.

“I can’t—Mark,” you sob, eyes brimming with overwhelmed tears. “Please—fuck me. Just fuck me—”

Mark growls—deep and guttural—and you barely have time to breathe before he shifts, rolling you to the side. The world tilts, everything spinning—and then you’re on your back, blinking up at him, caged beneath the weight of his arms on either side of your face.

And then he kisses you like he’s starving, swallowing your gasps as he devours your mouth with desperation. You cling to him, barely coherent, mind already melting as his body aligns with yours again, cock pulsing hot and heavy where it presses against your entrance.

Instinctively, your legs lock tight around his waist, arms looping around his neck. Mark thrusts back in with one smooth, deep stroke—your body taking him effortlessly, like it’s made to welcome him. Your toes curl at the stretch, at the sheer fullness of him, stars bursting behind your eyes as another desperate, broken moan rips from your throat—one that Mark swallows greedily between kisses, mouths moving feverishly against each other.

“Mmph—Mark,” you pant into his mouth, barely able to breathe, “I love—mmh—I love you.”

Mark pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes shining with unshed tears of pleasure that mirror your own. “Fuck, Y/N—” His voice cracks, hips stuttering. “I love you. So much. So much.”

You nod, dazed and floating. “Don’t stop. Please—keep going.”

And he does.

He fucks into you hard, desperate, the sound of skin meeting skin raw and constant. He now knows you can take it—knows you want it—and Christ, he wants it so bad too. Wants to lose himself inside you, feel every inch of you wrapped around him as his self-control frays and snaps, tension coiled so tight in his gut it’s barely manageable. You’re squeezing him perfectly, body clenching down like you need him, and every sound you make pulls another raw groan from his throat.

He wants to stay here forever. He wants to be inside you, part of you, one with you—if that were possible, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

“You like it?” he pants, voice cracking with another deep, sharp snap of his hips. “Y/N—fuck—you like it?”

“Fuck! Yes!” you arch off the bed, toes curling. “I love it—I love it—I love it—”

His teeth sink into his bottom lip, head spinning as your incoherent moans fill the room, every sound soaking into his skin like heat. You melt into him with every thrust, open and pliant and so fucking willing it nearly undoes him. God—and he’d run from this. From you. Too scared of what he felt. Too scared to face it, to own it.

Mark could’ve had this months ago. Could’ve heard these sounds, seen this look on your face, felt you tremble like this under him—if he hadn’t been such a goddamn coward.

“Good,” Mark growls, thrusting harder, more desperate now. “Good—because I’m not letting go.”

He presses a featherlight kiss to the tip of your nose before trailing lower, breath hot as it ghosts across your neck. Your breath stutters—your entire body tightens—when he lingers over the bruises. Fading now, but still there. The ones his variant left behind to claim you, to make sure you don’t forget him. To make sure your Mark didn’t either.

Mark’s jaw clenches.

Then he bites down.

A choked gasp rips from your throat, pulse pounding as his teeth sink into the bruised skin, right where it still aches.

“Oh god—” your eyes fluttering shut, voice breaking into a high whine. “Mark—”

He doesn’t stop—sucking dark new marks over the old ones, sweeping his tongue over each one like he’s rewriting them. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave their own bruises, his thrusts never losing their punishing pace. It’s overwhelming, the way he consumes you.

“Fuck, Mark—” you groan, head tilting back to give him more room. “Fuck, yes—”

A broken moan tears from your throat as Mark picks up pace, his hips slamming into you with a force that should hurt but only sends lightning up your spine. Each thrust punches deeper than you thought possible, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur at the edges. His breath scalds your neck—panting, uneven—and you feel the goosebumps erupt across your skin.

Then his hand wraps around your leaking cock, using your own precum to slick the way as he starts jerking you off with frantic, uncoordinated strokes.

You nearly black out.

“Fuck! Mark—!” your back arches off the mattress, nails biting into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. “Mark—Mark!”

It’s overwhelming—too much at once. His cock nailing your prostate with terrifying accuracy. His mouth hot and wet on your neck, teeth scraping just shy of breaking skin. His hand working your length with a roughness that borders on painful.

Mark’s everywhere. Around you, inside you, all over you. And you don’t stop him. You can’t. You love him. And love every second of it.

“Yes, yes, yes—” you babble, face scrunching in overwhelming pleasure, eyes rolling back. “Fuck, yes. Mark—ah—don’t stop, don’t stop—I’m gonna—”

Tears blur your vision, trailing down your cheeks as the sensations overwhelm you. Every thrust, every bite, every breathless groan Mark lets out sends you spiraling. You’re burning from the inside out, aching, and full and right at the edge.

“Mark—” you pant, voice wrecked, hips jerking to meet the strokes of his hand. You’re trying to warn him, trying to form words that make sense. “Mark—I’m gonna come—oh fuck, I’m so close—”

But then—just when it’s all building to an uncontrollable high—the frantic pace stutters.

Mark slows, pulling away from your neck. His forehead drops gently against yours, nose brushing nose, both of you panting, your breath mingling in the space between.

Everything slows down.

You stare at Mark through glassy, dazed eyes.

The sunlight hits just right, turning the brown in his eyes molten gold, his lashes casting soft shadows on his cheeks. His hair is damp and messy, clinging to his forehead, his face flushed and burning, lips swollen and parted with every heavy breath. His expression—open, yearning, achingly soft—melts straight through you.

Mark looks beautiful.

Mark looks yours.

And Mark whispers, “I got you.” Then softer, “I love you.”

And you believe him.

God, you believe him.

The kiss that follows steals what little breath you have left. Your body locks up—a lightning strike of pleasure that makes your thighs tremble violently around his hips. You come with a strangled sob, shaking apart in his arms. Your body clenches around him, cock twitching in his hand, hot release spilling across your stomach, over his fingers. Every jolt wracks through you like a wave, and Mark holds you through all of it—grunting softly into your mouth, matching the kiss with gentle rolls of his hips and firm strokes that push you through it.

He drinks in every gasp, every broken sound you make, kissing you slow and deep, teasing your lips between his, coaxing out every last drop like he wants to milk you dry.

“Mark,” you rasp, voice rough and awed. “Mark.”

“I’m here,” he breathes, voice just as wrecked, thumb brushing your cheekbone, wiping away tears you didn’t realize had fallen. “I’m right here.”

Tears spill over—not from the oversensitivity, not from the aftershocks still wracking your body—but because this is Mark. Your Mark. Not a dream. Not a cruel echo from another world. Not something twisted in the dark.

“I love you,” you sob into his mouth, clenching around him hard, desperate to hold onto him. “I love you so much, Mark.”

Mark makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat, his hips stuttering but still driving into you with that same relentless intensity that has you squirming beneath him from the overstimulation—but you take it.

“Love you too,” he breathes, voice cracking.

And then—Mark comes.

You feel it in the way he bottoms out with one final, shuddering thrust, so deep you can see the outline of him through your stomach. In the way his cock pulses inside you, spilling heat into the condom until it swells, pressing insistently against your tender walls. In the way his entire body locks up, then collapses against you with a broken whimper, his mouth desperately seeking yours even in the haze of it all.

You part your lips for him. Let him lick, let him breathe you in.

Then he finally slips his cock out, making you whimper into his kiss at the sudden emptiness. Your legs twitch, shaky, your body clenching instinctively around the absence. But Mark kisses you again—gentle, grounding, soft—and then collapses back onto you, chest to chest, skin to skin.

And finally—everything stills.

The only sounds left are your ragged, breathless gasps as the two of you try to come down, lungs working overtime to catch up. Mark buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, pressing soft, distracted kisses along your throat. You shudder, cheeks burning with flustered heat at the intimate display of affection—even after everything, even after just having sex with Mark, it makes you shy.

Jesus—you just had sex with Mark.

And there’s no guilt clawing at your chest. No remorse creeping up your throat. No shame curling in your gut like it wants to make you sick.

You had sex with Mark Grayson—and this time, it’s perfect.

You hum, low and content, arms sliding around his back, your nails lazily dragging over his skin in faint, aimless patterns. Mark shivers against you, arching slightly in reflex, his weight shifting more into you—pressing you deeper into the mattress, and into him.

“That tickles…” he mumbles against your ear, voice low and hoarse, rough in a way that makes your heart jump.

You chuckle softly. “Baby.”

He grumbles something incoherent, then nips playfully at your neck, just below your ear—exactly where he knows it’ll make you squirm. You flinch, breath catching, a sharp little jolt running through you.

“That tickles,” you echo, trying for mock annoyance, but the smile is already pulling across your lips.

Mark doesn’t need to see it—he hears it, the smile on your tone. He smiles back, the hint of mischief in his grin evident as his teeth graze your neck, sending another shiver through you.

Then he pulls back just enough to look at you, bracing his elbows on either side of your head. His eyes—soft and full of love—search yours with an intensity that makes your chest tighten.

“Hey,” Mark says shyly, cheeks tinged pink.

“Hey,” you whisper back, just as flustered.

“That was…” Mark exhales, his chest still heaving slightly. “That was amazing.”

Your cheeks burn, body still buzzing—soft and sore and tingling in all the right places. “Yeah,” you say, voice hoarse. “So good.”

He swallows hard, eyes flicking over your face like he still can’t believe you’re real, and here, and his. Then, like he can’t say it enough, Mark exhales. “I love you.” He buries his face in the crook of your neck, arms pulling you close as if he’s afraid to ever let go. “I love you. God, I love you. I’m never—never letting you go now. No one—” his voice drops to a low, dangerous whisper “—will take you away from me.”

You chuckle, warm and light, and wrap your arms around him in turn, holding him just as tightly. “Good. I love you too.”

It’s a promise.

It’s that simple.

In the quiet aftermath, Mark’s nose stays buried in the crook of your neck, breathing you in like he’s addicted to your scent, you feel something pressing insistently against your thigh.

You blink, stunned. “...Are you hard again?”

Mark whines—a high, embarrassed sound muffled against your skin—as he shakes his head violently. But his hips betray him with shallow, involuntary thrusts against your leg.

“My god,” you murmur, voice low and amused, affection lacing every word. You feel his hips twitch, his cock nudging insistently against your thigh. “Is this… is this a Viltrumite thing? Did I just condemn myself to your ridiculous alien stamina?”

He groans against your skin, lips brushing sensitive flesh as he mumbles, “…Maybe.” Then, quieter, with a smile curling into your collarbone, “Or maybe I just really fucking like you.”

Your cheeks heat, breath catching, your own body already stirring in response. Your cock—sticky and still sensitive—starts to throb faintly between you. “I guess... we're lucky the day just started.”

Mark lifts his head at that, and the sight alone knocks the air from your lungs—his grin wide and a little bashful, brown eyes gleaming gold in the sun, hair a mess, lips kiss-swollen, skin glowing with sweat and love.

The rays catch on the sweat still glistening between your bodies, on the marks you’ve left on each other—fading bruises, fresh bites, the ghost of fingertips pressed too hard. Little traces of everything that’s changed. Of all the things that will never be the same.

A/N: Okay, I’m honestly a little embarrassed by the ending, haha—I swear I wrote like three different versions and scrapped them all 😭 it gave me such a hard time... Anyway! I really hope you enjoyed it! this is the end of it!

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[archtifex]

Alex Trevelin — Feb, 2026

[dreamersworldduh]

FIFTEEN MINUTES

• CLARK KENT x MALE!READER

SUMMARY —You promised yourself you were done with impossible men—especially the kind already promised to someone else. Especially when that someone else was your sister.

Metropolis makes a habit of testing promises. The night you meet Clark Kent—black hair tamed into obedience, blue eyes that see too much, shoulders filling a navy suit like it was built around him—you feel the rulebook in your chest loosen a stitch.

WARNING! 18+MDNI. Suggestive Langauge. Sexual Themes.

WORDS! 13.1k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! here we are with another Clarkie fic, this idea was stuck in my head and I had to get it out. The excitement of Clark sneaking around with his brother in law was something I couldn’t imagine anyone not wanting to see.✨🥹

NEXT! — HOURS & HOURS

YOU HIT the revolving door at a jog, breath fogging the glass as you shoulder through into the old Metropolis steakhouse your father loves—dark wood, brass lamps, and the low murmur of a hundred important conversations. The maître d' recognizes the family name and tips his head toward the back. You're late, and you can already hear your father's voice in your head: punctuality is respect.

They're at a corner booth beneath a framed Daily Planet front page. Lois spots you first and lifts a hand, relief and annoyance sharing the same look. Lucy grins over a half-empty champagne flute. Your father checks his watch with the slow, theatrical disapproval he's perfected over decades.

"Nice of you to join us," he says as you slide in, smoothing the front of your spring-break sweater like it's armor. "Punctuality—"

"—is respect," you finish, dropping a kiss on Lois's cheek and tapping Lucy's glass with a knuckle. "Which is why I respectfully fought downtown traffic."

Lois elbows your father under the table. "He's here, Dad. That's what matters."

And then you see him.

Black hair, neatly combed but with a stubborn wave that refuses to obey. Blue eyes behind simple, square frames. He's big—built like a Greek statue in a navy suit that fits like it was tailored yesterday and somehow still looks modest on him. There's a softness to the mouth, a steadiness to the jaw, and something careful in the way he sits—like he's learned to take up less space than his body wants to claim.

He stands as you approach, napkin folded in one hand, the other extended. "Clark Kent," he says, voice warm as the lamplight. Kansas with a polish—farm dirt washed off but never forgotten.

Your palm meets his, and something snaps—a tiny, private current that runs from your hand to your elbow, sparks along your shoulder, and settles somewhere beneath your ribs. His grip is firm without proving anything, but he feels... immovable. Like if you leaned, he would hold.

"Finally," Lois says, bright, almost proud. Her engagement ring winks when she rests her hand on his sleeve. "This is my fiancé, Clark."

"Fiancé," Lucy sings, waggling her brows. "Say it again, I like the sound."

"Fiancé," Lois repeats, laughing as if she can't help it, as if the word tugs a smile out of her every time.

You pull free of Clark's hand slower than you should, your heartbeat a touch out of rhythm. "Good to meet you," you tell him, and your voice is steadier than you feel. "I've heard... a lot."

"All lies, I hope," he says, and the corner of his mouth lifts. He looks at you for a beat too long, not intrusive, just attentive, as if he's cataloging you the way reporters do—facts first, judgement later.

Dinner starts with the clink of glasses. Your father orders for the table without asking—old habit—and resumes his natural habitat: interrogations disguised as conversation. "Metropolis U treating you well?" he asks, carving the question like a command.

"It is," you say. "Midterms survived, somehow."

"Don't 'somehow' through midterms," he replies. "The only boy in this family ought to—"

"—be better?" you finish again, because it's easier to defuse a mine you've stepped on a hundred times. "Working on it."

Clark's eyes flick from your father to you and back, measuring the air pressure. "Midterms are brutal," he says gently, like he's tossing you a rope. "I almost flunked out of a journalism ethics seminar because I couldn't stop rewriting my final. Perfection's a habit you have to break on deadline."

Lois beams. "See? He's human. Mostly."

"Questionable," Lucy murmurs into her glass, and you smother a smile.

The waiter arrives with bread and butter and blessed interruption. Under the table, you flex the hand that shook his, trying to dispel the phantom charge. Across from you, Clark sits like a man who knows exactly how strong he is and refuses to prove it—quiet, patient, listening. When he laughs, it's genuine; when he speaks, he turns his shoulders to whoever he's addressing, as if that person is, for that moment, the center of the room.

"So, Metropolis U," he says, tilting toward you once the plates are down. "What's your focus?"

"Criminal psychology," you say, trying not to notice the way his eyes sharpen—interested, not interrogating. "And a minor in mythology, because I like stories where monsters aren't always what they seem."

"Those are the best ones," he says, and you could swear the light catches a hint of something in his expression—recognition, maybe. "Besides, most heroes don't know they are until someone asks them to be."

Your father clears his throat, hauling the conversation back to his end of the table. "Clark, Lois says you're a reporter. That a real job now, or just tweets and selfies?"

Clark smiles, unbothered. "I still use a notepad, sir."

"Good answer," your father says, and for him, that's almost affection.

Lois nudges Clark's knee with hers, and he glances down at her hand, at the ring, and then up at you. It should be nothing. It isn't. There's a frequency you both seem to hear, a low, private hum under the restaurant noise. You take a breath and look away first, focusing on your water glass.

Lucy catches you doing it and arches one perfectly judgmental brow. Later, she'll tease you. Right now she just smirks like she's stolen the last page of a book you haven't finished.

The food arrives. Your father tells a story from a posting years ago. Lois corrects the details in ways only she can. Lucy breaks the tension with a joke that makes two tables glance over. You contribute when pulled, deflect when pressed, and try not to steal glances at the man across from you.

You fail.

Halfway through your steak, Clark asks, "You get any time to yourself over break?"

"A little," you say. "Lois said tonight wasn't optional."

"She's persuasive," he agrees, the smile doing dangerous things to the corners of his eyes.

"Stop flirting with my fiancé," Lois says lightly, squeezing his arm.

"I'm not—" you begin.

"He's not—" Clark says at the same time, and Lucy outright cackles.

Your father sighs, long-suffering, but he's watching you again, measuring you against the invisible mark he set the day you were born. You straighten without meaning to. Clark notices. Of course he does.

By dessert, your pulse has learned the rhythm of that hum and accepted it: this is complicated. Not because he's charming (he is) or handsome (he really, really is), but because something in you recognizes something in him—an anchor you didn't know you needed.

After coffee, coats go on. Outside, Metropolis is crisp and busy and too bright. Lois laces her fingers with Clark's and rises on her toes to kiss his cheek. "You're coming to Sunday dinner," she tells you, which is not a question.

"Wouldn't miss it," you say, even though part of you very much would.

Clark offers his hand again when you say goodnight, and you take it because refusing would be louder. The spark is softer this time, less lightning, more a promise of weather. His thumb presses once, barely there, like a punctuation mark.

"Good to meet you," he says again.

"You too," you reply, and the words feel thin compared to everything unsaid between them.

Lois tugs him toward the curb, Lucy loops her arm through yours, and your father is already checking his calendar aloud. You stand at the edge of the city's noise with the taste of steak and secrets in your mouth and know, with the certainty of a headline, that tonight is not an ending. It's the lede. And you've just met the complication you'll be writing around for a long, long time.

YOU WEREN'T going to do this to yourself. Not again. Not for a man who belonged to your sister, and definitely not for a man who—by every available data point—was straight.

So you made a plan.

The morning after the dinner, you woke early and treated the feeling like an exam you refused to fail. Coffee. Shower. Shoes. Out the door before your brain could argue. Metropolis in spring smelled like wet concrete and newspaper ink, the kind of clean that only comes after a night of rain. You ran the river path until your lungs burned and your legs went static, until the hum under your ribs quieted to something manageable.

Back home, you set up on the tiny kitchen table with a highlighter army and your Criminal Psych notes. You built a fortress out of case studies and flash cards. When the impulse to replay Clark's smile crept in, you filed it like evidence and moved on.

You even wrote it down, because putting ink on it made it smaller:

CASE FILE: KENT, CLARK.

Conflict: Unwanted attraction to sister's fiancé.

Hypotheses: 1) Proximity + novelty + dim lighting = brain soup. 2) You're tired. 3) He's objectively attractive and kind; you're not a robot.

Action Plan:

• Limit exposure (especially the kind with soft lamplight).

• Keep hands busy at Sunday dinner (bring dessert, volunteer for dishes).

• Boundaries: No lingering eye contact, no "you're so interesting" follow-up questions, no kitchen tête-à-têtes.

• Remember: Lois comes first. Always.

You pinned the page to the fridge with a crooked magnet shaped like the Daily Planet globe and pretended that made you bulletproof.

Lucy FaceTimed just before noon, because of course she did. She angled the camera up under her chin to be as annoying as possible. "Morning, tragic hero."

"Afternoon," you corrected, clicking a pen like it was a detonator. "And I'm not tragic."

"You're late for brunch gossip," she said, then narrowed her eyes. "You went running. Gross. So, did you sleep at all or did you lie awake composing sonnets to Clark's jawline?"

"Lucy."

"Relax, I'm not the morality police. That's Dad." She softened. "You okay, though?"

You shrugged. Honesty won by a nose. "I'm... managing it."

"Good. Manage it far away from his mouth," she said, then added, quieter, "You know I've got you, right? If Sunday dinner is too much, I can fake food poisoning. Big dramatic exit. Maybe faint into the clam dip."

"Absolutely not," you said, surprised by the immediate warmth her offer sparked anyway. "I'll be fine."

She blew you a kiss and hung up with a threat to text you outfit options you would ignore.

You hit the university library next, where myth was safer than men. You pulled a stack of books on heroes who didn't want to be heroes and monsters who weren't monsters at all. You took notes that had nothing to do with blue eyes or steady hands. You let your brain gnaw on something older than your problems.

Lois texted around three: Cake tasting was a triumph. Clark says hi. Sunday 6 p.m.—don't you dare be late.

You stared at the words Clark says hi longer than necessary, then responded with a thumbs-up to the group chat and muted the conversation before your phone could become a live wire.

In the late afternoon, you detoured to a bakery two neighborhoods over—the kind with glass cases like jewelry boxes and a line of people willing to pay rent for a lemon tart. You sampled nothing, because you didn't trust your judgement, and ordered a box of miniature desserts that looked like they'd been crafted with tweezers. If you were going to keep your hands busy, you might as well arm yourself with sugar.

Back at your place, you ironed a shirt you didn't hate and practiced your boundaries like they were flash cards. No lingering, no listening too hard when he talks, no cataloging the way his laugh fits into a room. You were not going to be the person who complicated your sister's joy. You'd been that person once in a different story, and it had taken months to scrape the guilt off.

As the sun slid down behind the skyline, Metropolis turned gold at the edges. You packed your notes, slid the dessert box into a tote like contraband, and stood in the doorway for a heartbeat. You found your reflection in the hall mirror—eyes clearer than this morning, jaw set like a decision.

"Lois first," you told yourself. "Always."

Then you locked up and headed out, grateful for the few remaining hours between you and Sunday dinner, grateful for the city noise that drowned out the last of the hum, and grateful—most of all—that you had a plan.

YOU SHOW up early—on purpose—and the house greets you with that particular Sunday hush: blinds half-open, afternoon light in long stripes across the dining room, the distant tick of the grandfather clock. The kitchen smells like onions sweating in butter and the kind of optimism you only get before company arrives.

Your father has left a list the way generals leave battle plans, underlined twice: roast at 180°, potatoes parboiled, green beans blanch-and-shock, salad last. Beside it, a sticky note you'll pretend isn't an olive branch: Good. Early is respect.

You exhale, roll up your sleeves, and put your plan into motion. Desserts—your tiny jewel-box pastries—go straight into the fridge so you can "busy hands, busy mind" later. You queue up the most innocuous playlist you own, tie on an apron, and set to work. Knife, board, rhythm. Chop, sweep, sizzle. The pan answers with a friendly hiss. You taste the pan sauce, decide it needs brightness, grate in lemon zest. You are absolutely not thinking about blue eyes or broad shoulders or—

The back door opens. Voices. Lois's laugh, bright and familiar. Another voice—low, warm—slips under it like harmony.

You keep chopping, because you didn't hear anything, you're very busy, and if you just keep moving—

"Need a hand?"

You look up and he's there, framed in the doorway in a soft gray button-down with the sleeves rolled past his forearms, tie loosened to a suggestion. Clark. He's already shrugged out of his jacket, already reading the room, already making himself smaller in a way that somehow makes him feel even larger.

Rule #1: No lingering eye contact.

"Sure," you say to the cutting board. "You can—uh—drain the potatoes? Colander's in the lower cabinet."

He moves with careful confidence, like this isn't a foreign kitchen at all. The cabinet opens, colander up, steam blooms when he pours. He doesn't flinch at the heat. Of course he doesn't.

Rule #2: Keep hands busy.

"You want them roughed up for roasting?" he asks, shaking the pot just enough to give the edges texture.

"Yeah," you say, impressed against your will. "Nice. How do you—"

"Kansas," he says, smiling without looking up. "I've peeled more potatoes than I've written articles."

"That's... a lot of potatoes."

"Whole fields' worth." He sets the pot gently beside you and reaches for the pepper mill at the exact same moment you do. Knuckles meet, both of you freeze, and the pepper mill clatters once before you snag it.

"Sorry," you say too quickly, stepping back.

"My fault," he says, stepping back the same direction, which results in both of you stepping forward again at once. You both half-laugh, abort, and reset like two polite robots trying not to collide.

Rule #3: No kitchen tête-à-têtes. This is a hallway, not a tête-à-tête. You're fine.

Lois breezes in, hair up, lipstick perfect, a bottle of red in hand. She kisses Clark's cheek in passing, steals a green bean from the ice bath with the sleight of hand of a woman who's been stealing kitchen snacks since childhood, and drops a kiss on your forehead too. "Look at my favorite overachiever being on time," she sings, then to Clark, "See? Miracles."

"Miracles," he agrees, eyes kind. "What can I do next?"

"Salad," you say, because it's safe and far away. "Spin it dry. Dressing's there." You point to a jar you prepped to avoid improvisation near him.

He nods, washes his hands, and gets to work at the opposite counter. He spins the salad like a man who respects centrifugal force, then reaches for the jar. "Homemade?"

"Lemon, Dijon, honey," you say before you can stop yourself. "And—okay, two anchovies, but don't tell Lucy."

"My lips are sealed," he says, deadpan solemn, and you accidentally meet his eyes for a second. They're bluer in this light, and softer, and focused entirely on you.

Rule #1, you remind yourself, and pivot to the stove like it just called your name.

You build a rhythm. He plates. You seasons. He tastes, defers. You hand him a tasting spoon; he takes it like it's protocol, brushes your fingers once, and then makes a point not to again. When you haul the roasting pan to the oven, he's there without asking, taking the heavier end so you don't have to. Heat rolls out when you open the door—rosemary, garlic, meat—and the whole house smells like Sunday.

"That smells incredible," he says.

"Don't jinx it," you say, which makes him grin.

Lois floats by again, tucks herself under his arm for a heartbeat like it's her natural orbit, and checks your timer. "Dad just texted: 'On my way. Traffic is not respect.' He's mellowing in his old age."

"Miracle two," Clark murmurs, and Lois elbows him with affection.

While she's gone, Clark rinses the salad spinner and sets it to drip in the rack. He glances at your list on the counter, takes it in the way a journalist reads a source—quiet, thorough, respectful of the margins. "Want me to set the table?"

"Drawer by your knee for linens, top cabinet left for plates," you say, grateful to be assigned tasks that put him in another room, even if it's only ten feet away.

He moves through the dining room with that same careful economy, laying out plates, aligning forks with the kind of precision your father will pretend not to notice and appreciate anyway. You follow with glasses, and the two of you pass in the doorway like ships, polite, efficient, absolutely normal.

"Timer?" he asks, nodding toward the stove when you return to the kitchen.

"Six minutes," you say. "Then rest for ten."

"Got it." He leans a hip against the counter, not quite facing you, making sure the angle is open, nonthreatening—giving you space while still... here. "Any new class updates?"

You stir the pan sauce like it holds all the answers. "Criminal psych is a bloodbath."

He huffs a laugh. "Sounds right."

"Journalism ethics treat you better this time?" you ask before you can stop yourself.

"Treated me fine once I learned to let go of perfect." He pauses, searching your face—not in a way that pins you, in a way that invites you to set the distance. "You don't have to make small talk with me, by the way. I can be the silent cabbage-chopper."

"I don't do small talk," you say, and it comes out softer than you intended. "I'm... not avoiding you."

One brow ticks up behind his frames. "Noted."

You cough, completely normal. "Okay, yes, maybe a little. But I'm not—"

"—going to make this weird," he finishes gently. "Me neither."

You nod, grateful, and something in your shoulders loosens.

Front door: opening. Your father's footsteps—measured, authoritative. "Smells like a kitchen that knows the value of a clock," he declares, appearing in the doorway. He clocks Clark laying the last napkin and you at the stove, and for once his approval is simple. "Good job."

"Miracle number three," Lois stage-whispers from the hall, making Lucy snort as she arrives behind him with a gust of perfume and a bottle of sparkling water.

The room fills—voices, coats, the bustle of family—and the small, suspended charged moment dissolves into the harmless static of a house at dinnertime. You pull the roast to rest; Clark takes the carving knife without assumption and waits for your nod. You give it. He carves with steady hands and zero theater. You plate the greens; he passes them like a relay baton. It's a machine, and you're two gears, meshed cleanly.

Rule #4 (you just made it up): Teamwork is not intimacy.

You believe it. Mostly.

As you slide the miniature desserts into the far corner of the fridge, you steal one last look at the table you've both set—the symmetry, the effort, the care. Lois presses a grateful kiss to your cheek as she whirls past. Clark catches your eye across the room and gives you the smallest, most ordinary nod.

You then carried the platter in to your family and take your seat, the clatter and comfort of Sunday dinner rising around you like a tide.

DINNER HUMS along—good stories, easy laughter, the wine Lois brought doing its job on everyone but your father, who swirls his glass, grimaces like a disappointed judge, and taps the stem with two fingers.

“Basement,” he declares. “Top shelf, back wall. The rye. Not the one your uncle ruined with cinnamon sticks.”

Lois wags a corkscrew. “Clark, go help him before Dad sends a search party.”

“I’ve got it,” you say, already pushing back your chair.

“I’ll still help,” Clark answers, easy—already half standing, already reading your father’s face for the brand name behind the request.

You tell yourself it’s logistics, not longing, as the two of you cut through the hall and down the creaking steps to the basement. The air changes—cooler, quieter, smelling of wood polish, old paper, and the faint sweetness of cork. Your father’s bar sits under a string of warm bulbs, amber bottles lined like a stained-glass choir.

“Rye,” you announce, scanning labels. “No cinnamon crimes.”

Clark laughs under his breath and steps to the other side of the shelves, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, a domestic kind of handsome that makes your rules flutter like loose Post-its.

He finds a bottle of bourbon and sets it aside. You pass over a rye you know your father hates. Your hands move efficiently, your throat tight.

Clark breaks the quiet first, not unkind. “Why are you avoiding me?”

You grip a bottle a little too hard. There’s no point in lying; you’ve been practicing honesty with yourself all day. “Because this is… complicated. And because I love my sister.”

“I love her too,” he says, steady, like that truth belongs in the room with all the others. “And I’m not trying to make anything harder.”

“But you notice it,” you say, eyes on the labels. “The… whatever-it-is, between us.”

There’s a brief pause, soft as a breath. “I do.”

Silence, except for the tick of the basement pipes. You slide another bottle out, set it down, line it up with the others like a defense line. “We should keep it polite. Plates and napkins. Carving and salad.”

His mouth tilts. “I’m very good at polite.”

“And yet,” you say, glancing up before you can stop yourself.

“And yet,” he echoes, eyes meeting yours—blue, open, maddeningly gentle. He doesn’t step closer. He doesn’t touch you. He just looks at you like you’re a question he’s been trying not to answer.

“Found it,” you say too loudly, plucking the correct rye from the top shelf. The victory clangs hollow. You hold the bottle between you like a truce flag. He takes it—fingers brushing yours for a half-second, a harmless spark that doesn’t feel harmless at all.

“This is a terrible idea,” you say.

“The worst,” he agrees, voice low and honest.

You kiss him anyway.

It starts like a mistake and lands like gravity. He tastes like the wine you both pretended not to need, like mint and something warm, and you think—just once—before you pull away. You do pull away. “We can’t.”

“No,” he says, breath unsteady. “We can’t.”

You kiss him again.

It’s not careful this time. He sets the bottle down like it’s suddenly made of crystal, hands bracing the counter on either side of your hips without touching you. You hook your fingers in his shirt and he steps in, heat and breadth and restraint coiled tight. When you break for air, you hear your own laugh, wrecked and disbelieving.

“We shouldn’t,” you whisper.

“We shouldn’t,” he returns—and then his hands slide to your waist, asking, not taking, and you nod before you realize you’ve nodded. He lifts you onto the bar, the world tilting a fraction; your knees part to make room for him like a reflex you didn’t know you had. He fits there like he was always meant to, his forehead resting against yours for a beat that feels like mercy.

“Tell me to stop,” he says.

You open your mouth to say it and something truer comes out. “I don’t want to.”

His answer is a sound more than a word, and then his mouth is on yours again—slow, then not, your hands in his hair, his thumbs pressing lightly at your hips, everything edged with the bright wire of wrong and the impossible relief of right. The string lights hum. Dust motes turn in the warm glow like snow that forgot how to fall.

“Hey!” Lois’s voice, distant but unmistakable, sails down the stairwell. “You two eloped with the whiskey or what?”

You both freeze, foreheads still touching, chests rising in the same rhythm. The call slices through the spell, but it doesn’t extinguish it; it just lays the heat bare.

CLARK, you think, say it out loud without meaning to, “We—”

“We’re going,” he says, already stepping back, hands leaving you with exquisite care. He swallows, collects the rye with a steadiness you envy, and offers you his palm to help you down. You take it. The contact is brief, grounding, electric.

You straighten your shirt. He smooths his tie. You both breathe like you just outran something and haven’t decided if you won.

Lois calls again, laugh tucked into your name this time. “Hurry up! Dad’s giving a lecture on Prohibition!”

“Coming!” you shout, voice almost normal.

Clark looks at you one last time—no promises, no plans, just the truth of what just passed between you. The fire doesn’t fade; it banks. You can feel it, glowing under your ribs, patient and dangerous.

“Lois first,” you whisper, because you need to hear it out loud.

He nods once. “Always.”

Then you climb the stairs side by side, carrying a bottle and the kindling of a problem you can’t drink away.

You don't plan the way your mouth remembers him.

It just happens—in the lull between toasts and the clink of cutlery—your brain flashes back to the basement: the warm hum of the string lights, the rye bottle sweating on the counter, Clark's breath hitching against your lips, the careful way his hands found your waist like you were something he didn't want to bruise. You swallow hard and spear a green bean. It tastes like nothing.

Across the table, Clark is doing an Oscar-worthy impression of a man listening to your father's anecdote about Prohibition raids. He nods in the right places, smiles at the punchline, but his thumb worries the seam of his napkin, a silent tell you can't unsee. When his gaze flickers up—just once—it catches on yours like a coat on a nail, and both of you look away so fast Lucy nearly laughs into her wine.

Guilt rolls in first—cold, clean, undeniable. It sits in your chest next to something hotter, lazier, impossible to tamp down now that you know the shape of his mouth. Desire comes with its entourage: curiosity, ache, that warm, heavy hunger that makes dinner drag like a lecture you didn't sign up for. You fixate on the clock over the hutch and measure time in crimes: three minutes since the last eye contact; five more until you can stand without making a scene; maybe twenty until you can get out into the air and walk this off.

Lois saves the table from your father's second pour by clapping once and announcing, "Emergency. The bakery messed up our order and I refuse to end this glorious dinner on store-bought cookies. Lucy, come with me. The little place on Third still has the lemon chiffon if we hurry."

Lucy is already halfway out of her chair, dramatic as ever. "I've trained for this."

You're on your feet too before you've decided to be—keys in hand, jacket over your arm, the promise of cold night air like a lifeline. "I'll drive," you offer, too eager.

Lois points a manicured finger at you without missing a beat. "Absolutely not. You"—she tosses her wallet to Lucy and kisses Clark's cheek in a practiced glide—"are staying here and keeping my fiancé company so Dad doesn't put him through the 'So You Want To Marry My Daughter' gauntlet while I'm gone."

Your mouth opens. A thousand reasonable objections sprint for the exit and crash into each other. "I can keep Dad busy," you try. "He loves when I—"

"—agree with him?" Lucy supplies sweetly, already shrugging into her coat. "Tempting, but no. Clark needs a buffer. Be a dear. We'll be twenty minutes."

You glance at your father, who is polishing his glass and clearing his throat like a firing squad. You picture Clark trapped in that cross-examination—résumé, finances, intentions—while you skulk off to chase sugar. The image feels like shoving him back into a burning building and closing the door.

"Fine," you tell Lois, because you do love her and because, apparently, you hate yourself. "We'll... hang out."

Lois squeezes your shoulder, quick and grateful. "Knew I could count on you." To Clark, she adds, "Back soon. Don't let Dad draft you into the Prohibition Bureau."

"Scout's honor," Clark says, smile easy but eyes—when they flick to you and back—anything but.

The door snaps shut behind the sisters, and the house exhales. Your father rises with his glass and his sermon and, mercifully, announces, "I'll be in the study. Ten minutes," as if the room is his to subpoena. He disappears down the hall, leaving the comfortable clutter of dinner debris and the two of you marooned in the soft aftermath of a meal you barely tasted.

Silence blooms. Not awkward, exactly. Charged. The kind of quiet that remembers things.

You gather plates because hands need jobs. Clark stacks them without being asked, sleeves still rolled, tie a little looser than before. The kitchen light is warmer than the dining room's, and it draws the edge off both of you, turns you into people instead of problems.

"I wasn't avoiding you," you say, which is technically true in this exact moment and wildly untrue for the last thirty minutes. "I was avoiding my father's third toast."

Clark huffs, grateful for the joke. "It was a strong one. Might've knocked me out."

"You did just survive a basement," you say before you can stop yourself, and there it is—no euphemism, no strategic silence. The word hangs, bare and bright.

He looks at you then. Really looks. Not cornered, not pleading—just honest, the way he was when he asked if you were avoiding him and you said yes. "I've been thinking about it," he admits, voice low so it doesn't rattle the glassware. "About... that. About you."

Heat climbs your neck. "Me too."

Another breath. Another second marked on the clock. The fridge hums. Somewhere down the hall, your father shuffles papers in the study, a metronome for good behavior.

"This is a terrible idea," you say, because one of you should say it and you're not sure you can stop if he does.

"The worst," he agrees softly, with that small, rueful smile that started everything. "But I couldn't stop replaying it. And I don't know what to do with that except tell the truth."

You set the plates down like they're suddenly too precious to risk. "The truth is I can't stop replaying it either. And I hate that. And I don't."

His laugh is a quiet, helpless thing. "Exactly."

The distance between you is not much—three floor tiles, the length of a secret. You don't close it. He doesn't either. Instead you both lean into the same safe fiction: chores. He reaches for the faucet; you hand him the sponge. Your knuckles brush. The contact is nothing. It is also everything.

From the foyer, a gust of night air sneaks in under the door as a car passes outside. You catch the scent of Lois's perfume lingering on Clark's collar and—under it—something clean and cool and him. Your pulse goes out of step. You step back. He doesn't follow. It feels like both of you are holding a line with both hands.

"Lois did asked me to keep you company," you say, half to remind yourself which story you're in.

"She trusts you," he says, and there's no accusation in it, only the weight of what that trust means.

"I trust me," you answer. It's not entirely true, not tonight, but you want it to be. "And I'm not going to torture you by leaving you alone with my father."

Clark's mouth tilts. "That is a kindness I won't forget."

"Don't thank me yet," you say, flicking water at his wrist, tinny and ridiculous, and he glances at the droplet like it's a lifeline. "He'll call you into the study any minute."

"I can handle it," he says, and you know he can—interviews and press scrums and city disasters—he's built for weight. But the way he says it makes you want to take some of it anyway.

YOU STEER Clark away from the dining room on the pretense of a tour, letting the low thrum of your father's monologue fade behind you. The house is quieter down the hall—family photos in mismatched frames, the runner soft underfoot, that clean lemon polish smell your father insists on. You point things out because it gives your mouth something to do besides confess: the nick on the banister from when Lucy tried to surf it on a pillowcase; the narrow coat closet that still sticks in the winter; the tiny half bath where Lois once cut her own bangs and swore you to secrecy.

Clark listens like a reporter—attentive, smiling at the right beats, asking small questions that feel bigger than they are. You keep a respectful measure of space between you, professional, like you're the docent of a small museum and he's the only visitor.

"And this," you say, nudging a door with your shoulder, "is where I hid from everyone for four years."

Your old bedroom opens on a sigh of air, cooler than the hall. The posters are gone, the shelves half-full of textbooks you never reclaimed, but the shape of the room is the same: bed under the window, desk scarred by a hundred late nights, a lamp with a shade that throws warm ellipses on the wall. It smells faintly of clean cotton and old paper—the ghost of a life you outgrew but never quite escaped.

Clark stays at the threshold a heartbeat, then steps in, slow, careful, as if the floor might remember the truth better than either of you. He turns once, taking it in, and when his eyes come back to you they're softer, like the light in here dulled the edges.

"You had a good view," he says, nodding at the window. "City without the noise."

"Best place to think," you say, and immediately regret the invitation of the word.

The house creaks. Distantly, a cabinet door closes, a reminder that civilization is only two rooms away. You should walk him back. You should point at the desk and make some harmless joke about bad poetry and worse haircut choices. You should—

He kisses you.

Not the wrecked, electrified tumble of the basement. This is slower, deliberate. He leaves you room to refuse, and you use it for a second—hands braced to his chest, breath caught, the rulebook flapping open in your head. Then something unclenches. You tip forward into him like you've stepped into the exact shape of your want.

His mouth is warm and patient, the kind that coaxes rather than takes. The kiss unfurls—one, two, three beats—and the room tilts toward it. Your fingers catch the line of his jaw; his palm finds the back of your neck, steady heat and a promise he's not allowed to make.

"We shouldn't," you manage against his lips.

"I know," he whispers, and kisses you again.

It goes from careful to hungry like a tide change. You stumble backward a step and the backs of your knees meet the mattress. He breaks only long enough to search your face—asking—before you nod, a small, helpless consent, and sit. He follows, and in the awkward choreography of elbows and breath you end up where gravity wants you: straddling his lap, knees sinking into the familiar give of your old comforter, his hands braced at your hips like he's afraid of both holding on and letting go.

The lamp throws its quiet gold across his cheekbones. Up this close, the frames of his glasses are too much barrier; he slides them off and sets them blindly on the nightstand without looking away from you. You feel the impulse to memorize the moment the way you used to memorize exam answers—focus, clarity, a desire to keep.

You kiss him deeper, and the restraint in him frays. He exhales a sound you feel in your bones and tips his head, finding the line of your jaw with his mouth. You tilt instinctively, granting access before your conscience catches up. His lips find that place just below your ear and then lower, to the hinge of your jaw, the column of your throat. Each touch is slow, reverent, a mapping he'll pretend he never drew.

Your hands clutch at his shoulders. He is heat and steadiness beneath you, every breath a steadying hand on your spine. When his mouth settles at the base of your neck, your whole body answers—back arching, a soft sound pulled out of a part of you that doesn't care about rules. He hums against your skin, the vibration spilling through you like a secret.

You shift, trying to get closer to a man you're already wrapped around, and that's when you feel him—hard, undeniable, pressed against the inside of your thigh through the polite barrier of fabric. The knowledge lands like a match in dry grass. Your hands tighten where they're splayed across his chest; his fingers flex at your hips, not pulling you closer, not pushing you away, just anchoring, as if he knows either choice would undo the little control you both have left.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs into your skin, voice rougher now, the question honest and heavy.

You hover in the space between sense and heat, the house and its noises reminding you that your life is ten steps away and this is a fault line running straight under it. You draw a breath that shakes. You taste guilt and want and something terrifyingly like relief.

"I can't," you whisper, because for once you can't make your mouth lie for you.

His arms tighten—not possessive, just present—and he returns to your mouth like a man choosing a storm. You meet him there, every rule you wrote this afternoon scattering like paper in a fan. The bed creaks its small objection and you both laugh quietly against each other's lips, breathless, reckless, aware and uncaring.

Down the hall, a door clicks. The house reminds you you're not alone. The reminder doesn't cool the fire so much as bank it, focusing it into something hotter and more concentrated. You rest your forehead to his, both of you catching the same breath, suspended.

"This is impossible," you say, but your hands don't leave him.

"I know," he says, and his thumbs sweep once over your hips, apology and confession, before he lifts his head to kiss you again, slow enough to pretend this is a choice you've thought through, deep enough to admit you haven't.

Your father’s voice cut down the hall like a gavel. “You two—kitchen.”

You and Clark stepped out of your old room composed to the point of parody—hair smoothed, shirts straight, your pulse doing its best impression of calm. Your dad stood by the dining table with his keys in one hand and his phone in the other, reading off a text.

“Your sisters caught a flat on Riverside. I’m going to meet them, swap the tire, and convoy them back. One man job, not three.” He pinned you both with a look when you opened your mouths. “I said one.”

“We can—” you and Clark started in the same breath.

“No.” He jerked his chin toward the sink. “Dishes. And make to-go trays for Lois and Lucy. Dessert too. I’ll text when we’re on the way.”

The front door swung wide; cool night air slid across the floor. A moment later the engine turned over, gravel rattled under the tires, and the house swallowed the sound as your father backed down the drive. The porch light clicked off, and quiet rushed in.

You and Clark stood in the kitchen doorway a beat longer than necessary, the stillness between you loud as a drum roll. Somewhere at the edge of your hearing, a neighbor’s dog barked. The clock over the stove ticked.

“How far is Riverside from here?” Clark asked, voice low, not trusting the room.

“Ten minutes there, five to swap if he’s feeling heroic.” Your eyes flicked to the clock. “Fifteen.”

He looked at you like a man who’d been holding a breath since the basement and finally found air. “Fifteen.”

You crossed the kitchen at the same time, meeting at the lip of the counter. The first kiss wasn’t cautious. It was the kind you fall into—like stepping off a curb you thought was there and finding only air. His hand came up to your jaw, steady, reverent; yours hooked in his loosened tie and drew him down. The faucet squeaked as you bumped it; a thin ribbon of water ran, a plausible soundtrack for two people who were supposed to be doing dishes.

You broke just long enough to hit your phone’s timer and slide it facedown on the counter. “Five-minute warning,” you breathed.

He smiled against your mouth, wrecked and grateful. “Smart.”

The kitchen lights were softer than usual, a warm hush that painted the edges of everything in honey. You felt him smile melt into a sound when your fingers slipped the top button of his shirt; he answered by sliding his palm over your lower back, drawing you in until your hips met the line of his. Heat rolled through you with dizzying clarity. The counter shifted under your hands; he lifted you up easily, like he’d been built for this specific lift, this specific kitchen, this precise gravity.

You settled on the counter, knees parting to bracket his hips without conscious choice. He fit there as if the space had been waiting for him. His mouth found the slope of your throat, mapping slower than your pulse could stand, pressing kisses that felt like the simple, impossible luxury of being chosen. You tipped your head back and let the ceiling blur. The low, helpless sound that left you made his fingers tighten at your waist.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, a rough echo of your old restraint, though neither of you moved away.

You answered with your hands—one at the base of his neck, the other sliding under cotton to warm skin, dragging a shiver out of him that you felt everywhere. “I don’t want to.”

He exhaled like confession and came back to your mouth. The world narrowed to heat and breath and the rhythm of the clock. His thumbs swept slow circles through your shirt; you answered with the same motion over his pulse, memorizing the beat. When you shifted, you felt him—undeniable, insistent—through the polite barrier of fabric, and the knowledge landed like a struck match. He groaned into the kiss; you swallowed the sound and gave him one of your own.

Dishes clinked faintly as your heel nudged a stack; the faucet’s trickle covered the noise. You laughed, breathless, and he did too, forehead dropping to yours in a moment of mercy before hunger pulled you both under again. Buttons gave way under impatient fingers; the neat knot of his tie loosened to a question mark. His hands skimmed your sides like he was learning a language he already knew.

You had meant to be good. Kissing had been the line you’d sworn to redraw. But fifteen minutes is not a lot of time, and the ache that had been coiled under your ribs all evening unfurled with a mind of its own. You didn’t stop at kissing. You couldn’t.

You leaned into him, your knees hooked on either side of his hips from your perch on the counter, pulling him closer until there was no space left to steal. His kiss was deeper now, a slow burn that tasted of wine and restraint fraying apart.

Your hands roamed up his chest, feeling the solid plane of muscle under his shirt, the steady pound of his heart against your palm. He shivered when your fingers found the base of his neck, thumbs tracing the tendons there. The sound he made—a low, muffled groan into your mouth—only spurred you on.

One of your hands drifted lower, skimming over his belt, the flat of his stomach tightening beneath your touch. You felt the faint tremor in him when you let your fingers slip down, undoing the button of his slacks in one slow, deliberate motion. The zipper came next, the faint rasp impossibly loud in the hush of the kitchen.

He broke the kiss just enough to glance at you, his breath rough and uneven, as if to ask if you knew exactly what you were doing. The way your hand slid past the waistband was answer enough. You traced the hard outline of him through the heat of the fabric, slow at first, just letting your palm explore the shape, the weight, the sheer size of him.

Clark’s jaw tightened; his hands gripped the counter on either side of your thighs as though grounding himself. You could feel him pulse under your hand, his body betraying exactly how much he wanted this despite every rule you’d both recited in your heads.

You teased him deliberately, letting your fingertips trace along his dick before curling your hand around him properly, the friction making his breath hitch sharply. The moment you began to stroke, measured and lazy, his head dropped forward until his forehead pressed to your shoulder. His lips brushed the side of your neck, not kissing, just breathing you in, as though he needed the scent of you to stay anchored.

“God…” he murmured, barely audible, the word carried on a breath that trembled against your skin.

You smiled faintly, emboldened, letting your hand explore him more fully, your thumb brushing over the ridge at his tip through the thin barrier of fabric. The way his hips flexed forward into your touch told you exactly how close he already was to losing whatever control he still had.

You both knew—down to the exact minute—that there wasn't enough time for everything you wanted.

Fifteen minutes wasn't nearly enough for the kind of hunger simmering between you since the basement. But knowing that didn't make you stop. It only made every touch sharper, every kiss more urgent, like two people cramming a lifetime of want into whatever time you could steal.

Clark's mouth was still warm on yours when his hands found your waist and turned you, guiding you toward the counter. The edge met your hips as his body pressed in behind you, his chest firm against your back, his breath hot against the curve of your neck. You braced yourself with both palms flat on the cool countertop, the polished wood biting into your skin just enough to make you aware of how exposed you were becoming.

One of his hands slid forward, splaying across your stomach, holding you against him while the other found the waistband of your pants. The contact was both deliberate and unhurried—his fingers curling just inside the band, tugging at the button, testing your restraint. Your breathing hitched when the metal popped open, the faint sound swallowed by the low hum he gave in your ear.

The zipper came next, its slow descent impossibly loud in the stillness of the kitchen. His knuckles brushed the top of your hips, sending heat straight down your spine. You could feel him, hard and ready against you, even through the layers still between you, the solid press of him leaving no doubt about exactly how badly he wanted this.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured against your ear, though his fingers were already working at the fabric, easing it lower over your hips. The question sounded more like a test than a request.

You didn't answer—not with words. Instead, you shifted just enough to give him room to keep going. The movement earned you a soft, unsteady laugh against your shoulder, as if he knew you were both standing at the edge of something dangerous and you'd just stepped closer.

He hooked his thumbs under your waistband and tugged, just enough for cool air to kiss the curve of you—skin bared in the soft spill of the kitchen light. The quiet hum of the refrigerator seemed suddenly loud; the clock ticked like a metronome for your breathing. Behind you, Clark's breath grew rougher, the careful man from dinner slipping out of his own restraint with every second you let pass.

You heard the soft rasp of a zipper and felt the shift of his body as he freed himself—no theater, just urgency. One hand settled at your hip, the other hovered for a heartbeat in indecision before he gave in to something uncharacteristically reckless. He wet his palm—quick, instinctive—and slicked himself with a single, deliberate stroke, a move so improvised it surprised even him. He wasn't the type to be careless, but whatever lived between you had rewritten his rules in the span of a breath.

Clark then positioned himself carefully, one steady hand at your hip, the other guiding himself with deliberate control. The first press of him made your breath catch—not from surprise, but from the sheer stretch of it, the slow push that had your fingers gripping the counter until your knuckles whitened.

A low moan broke free from your throat before you could hold it back, the sound muffled against the hum of the kitchen around you. Clark froze for a beat at the noise, his own breathing uneven, then eased forward again in measured increments. There was no rush in the way he moved—just enough to sink deeper, to let you feel every inch without overwhelming you.

You tilted your head, eyes shut, taking in the deliberate pace, the way his body felt like it was fitting into a space carved just for him. He held still once he was fully seated inside you, giving you time to adjust, his fingers tracing idle circles against your hip like he was checking in without words.

Somewhere in the back of your mind—blurry from the heat—you couldn't help the silent, fleeting thought: Lois must never complain. Because with the way he filled you now, the firm weight and length of him—easily nine, maybe ten inches—you understood just how much control he had to keep from driving in harder.

When your breath steadied and you rolled your hips back in subtle invitation, his low, throaty sound of approval washed warm against your neck. Then, with care and that same maddening precision, he began to move.

The clock over the stove ticked like a dare, and both of you answered it.

What began as careful, measured movement shifted—first to a steadier cadence, then to something urgent and unguarded. Clark's hands tightened at your hips, guiding you, finding a rhythm that matched the drag of your breath and the stuttering beat of your pulse. The edge of the counter bit pleasantly into your palms; each soft knock of your thigh against the cabinet reminded you how little time you had and how recklessly you meant to spend it.

He started controlled—every motion deliberate, every breath checked—then you felt the change when restraint slipped. A low sound rolled out of his chest, close to your ear, and he pressed in harder, deeper, the tempo climbing from patient to needy. Your name broke from him like a secret, half-whispered against your shoulder; you answered with a quiet gasp that made him shudder and chase it again.

Heat built fast—coil tightening, breath shortening, the two of you moving as if the room had narrowed to just this line of contact, just this rhythm. He adjusted the angle with a careful shift of his hips and the world snapped into sharper focus; you rocked back to meet him, wordless encouragement in the way your body yielded and asked for more. His mouth found your neck, teeth barely grazing, a kiss that landed more like a promise, and the next drive of his body turned the promise into a plea.

"Don't stop," you breathed, and felt him give in to the request like surrender.

The faucet's thin ribbon of water masked the soft, frantic sounds you couldn't quite swallow.

Time, traitorous and finite, kept marching. But for those rushing, breathless moments, it felt like you'd stepped outside of it together—nothing left but heat, the drum of your joined movement, and the rough-edged worship in the way he moved against you, as if he meant to memorize you before the world came back.

Clark then crowded in closer, one arm banded around your waist to keep you tight to him as the other slid up, fingers curling under your jaw to tilt your face. You met him halfway, lips catching his in a heat-drunk kiss that stole what little breath you'd been rationing. He didn't slow—hips driving in a steady, hungry rhythm—so the kiss broke and reformed in shards: teeth grazing, mouths parting, the soft, helpless sounds you made swallowed against his tongue.

He kept talking between kisses, each thrust punctuating a word, praise roughened into a growl. "That's it... look at me... good—God, you feel—so perfect." The cadence of it went straight through you. You answered with a ragged, "Don't stop," and his laugh came low and wrecked against your mouth, followed by a deeper roll of his hips that had your fingers clawing at the countertop for purchase.

He chased your lips like a man starved, then trailed to your cheek, the hinge of your jaw, back to your mouth—every return a reward for the way you yielded to him. "You take me so well," he murmured, voice frayed silk, "been thinking about this—about you—since the second I tasted you." You gasped; he caught it with another kiss and fed you more: "So sweet... mine for these minutes... say my name." When you did, it unraveled him; his pace hit a deeper, truer rhythm, the kind that said he'd found exactly how to undo you and had no intention of stopping.

Your replies slipped into the heat with his—please and yes and more—threaded with shameless little praises of your own that made his breath hitch: how strong he felt, how deep he was, how good he was making you feel. He answered every admission with a new kind of worship: a thumb circling your hipbone, a kiss pressed hard to the corner of your mouth, a whispered, "That's my good boy," that sent your knees threatening to give.

The kitchen was thick with heat, the air carrying that charged, heady mix of sweat, breath, and something deeper—need sharpened to a fine point. Each movement sent the unmistakable sound of skin meeting skin ricocheting off the walls, sharp and rhythmic, a pulse you could feel as much as hear.

The counter under your palms was cool in contrast to the fever of your skin, every push from Clark driving you forward just enough to make the wood creak beneath your grip. The sound of your bodies colliding filled the space, quickening with the urgency in him, in you, a raw soundtrack that drowned out the soft hiss of the faucet and the quiet tick of the clock.

Your breath came in uneven bursts, mingling with his—low groans from him, helpless gasps from you—layering over that relentless rhythm. The slap of skin was hypnotic, a metronome for the way you moved together, chasing something you both knew time would cut short but neither could stop reaching for.

Clark's pace stayed hungry, almost primal now, the sound of each thrust a physical reminder of how completely you'd both abandoned restraint. Every sharp connection of your bodies echoed in the small room, filling it with a sound that was all heat, all want, all the proof of just how lost you both were in the pleasure flooding every nerve.

You could feel the tension coiling in Clark—his hips driving forward with that sharpened precision that came only when the end was near. His fingers dug into your hips like he needed the anchor just as much as you did.

You were right there with him, your body tightening, clenching around him with each movement, dragging a low, guttural sound from his chest. The kitchen seemed smaller, quieter, like the rest of the world had faded out to just this rhythm, this heat, this chase toward release.

Then, his voice broke through the haze, deep and strained, each word riding the edge of a groan.

"You want me—" a thrust punctuated it, "—to finish inside? Keep things from... getting messy?"

The question was almost a plea, thick with lust and the barest thread of control he had left. His pace stuttered for half a beat, like he was holding himself back for your answer, his body ready to give in but waiting for your word. You could feel every bit of his need in the way he trembled against you, the urgency in his voice matching the fever in your own pulse.

You managed to nod, breathless, even as another deep thrust made your knees threaten to give. "Yeah," you rasped, your voice almost lost under the sharp slap of skin and the ragged sound of your breathing. You knew exactly what he meant—things could get messy fast if you didn't control it—but you also trusted that he'd thought it through.

Clark's hands slid lower on your hips, his grip firm, almost possessive now that he had your answer. You could feel the strain in him, the tension rippling through his body as he held himself right on the edge. Every push into you was hotter, deeper, more deliberate, like he was carving himself into your memory before time ripped you apart again.

You still had to think about yourself—about keeping your own release in check, making sure it didn't spill everywhere and give away what the two of you had just done in this kitchen. That thought flickered across your mind, but it was drowned out by the intensity of him behind you, by the heat of him driving into you like this was the only moment either of you had.

Clark's voice came low and uneven in your ear, his chest pressed to your back as he rocked into you. "Don't worry," he murmured, the words tight, like it took effort to get them out. "I've got a way to handle that too... but first—" His hips snapped forward, making you gasp, "—I need to finish inside you."

The promise in his tone sent a shiver straight down your spine. You could feel him chasing that final peak, every movement a little more desperate, a little less controlled, as if the only thing keeping him from completely unraveling was the thought of you letting him go exactly how he wanted.

Clark's rhythm faltered, his breath breaking into a low, guttural sound that rumbled against your back. His grip on your hips tightened as he buried himself deep one final time, holding you there as the heat of his release spilled into you. The sensation pulled a sharp moan from your lips, the sudden fullness making your muscles tense and flutter around him.

For a few seconds, neither of you moved—just the sound of your uneven breathing filling the kitchen, your hearts pounding like they were trying to sync. You felt him press his forehead briefly to your shoulder, his chest rising and falling against your back as he steadied himself.

Then, without pulling fully away, his hand slid forward, fingers wrapping around your dick with a confidence that left no room for hesitation. The first stroke was slow, deliberate, his palm warm and slick enough to make your hips jerk forward into his touch.

"You've been holding back," he murmured, his voice low and rough, still catching on the aftershocks of his own climax. His lips found the side of your neck, brushing soft, almost teasing kisses there before trailing up toward your jaw. The contrast between the intimacy of his mouth and the firm, purposeful rhythm of his hand had you trembling.

Each tug was perfectly timed, his thumb dragging over your most sensitive spot until the tension in your core began to coil dangerously tight. Clark kept kissing you—at first on your jaw, then finally turning your head just enough for his mouth to meet yours. The kiss was deep and messy, filled with heat and possession, his tongue sweeping against yours in perfect sync with the motions of his hand.

The combination was too much. You broke the kiss with a ragged moan, your release hitting hard, spilling into his grip as your body shuddered through it. He kept stroking you through the pulses, swallowing your sounds with more slow, lingering kisses until you had nothing left but the feel of his mouth and the faint hum of pleasure still dancing in your muscles.

When it was over, his hand loosened but didn't let go right away, as if savoring the moment before the reality of the ticking clock returned. He pressed one last kiss to your lips, breathing you in like he didn't want to forget the taste.

Clark finally let go of you, his hand still slick and warm from what he'd just worked out of you. You were still catching your breath, leaning into the counter for support, when you saw him glance down at the mess coating his fingers and palm.

Instead of reaching for a towel, he brought his hand up slowly, deliberately, his eyes locking on yours like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. His tongue swept out, dragging over the heel of his palm first, gathering the taste of you with a low hum that sounded almost approving. Then he took his time with his fingers, lips closing around each one in turn, sucking them clean in slow, unhurried pulls.

The sight punched the air right out of you. His mouth glistened faintly in the kitchen light, every movement calculated but unpretentious, like this wasn't some show—like he genuinely wanted every drop. By the time he reached his thumb, your pulse was hammering so hard you could feel it in your teeth.

He finished with one last slow lick along the side of his finger, eyes never leaving yours, and then smirked just enough to let you know he'd caught every ounce of your reaction. Jesus, you thought, your whole body buzzing. Clark Kent—buttoned-up, composed, maddeningly self-controlled Clark—had somehow just become the hottest man you'd ever seen, and you weren't sure how you were going to survive the rest of the night knowing it.

For a long, suspended beat, neither of you moved. You stayed folded over the counter with Clark warm against your back, both of you breathing hard, hearts trying to find the same rhythm again. The kitchen light felt softer somehow, turning the sheen on your skin to gold; the only sounds were the thin hiss of the faucet you'd left barely open and the faint tick of the stove clock counting you back toward reality.

Your phone buzzed against the wood—once, insistent. Five-minute warning.

Clark pressed his forehead to your shoulder and exhaled, a low, reluctant sound that vibrated through you. Then he eased out of you with careful patience, one hand steadying your hip as if to apologize for the loss. You felt the sudden cool of air and the ghost of where he'd been, then the practical rustle of clothes: his zipper's quick rasp, the soft snap of a button, the slide of fabric as he tucked himself away and smoothed his shirt. You tugged your own boxers and pants back into place, fingers a little clumsy, belt tongue finding the buckle on the second try.

You turned at the same time. For a breath, you just looked—his hair a little mussed, tie loosened into a lazy knot, his mouth flushed; your reflection of that same ruin in his eyes. The pull between you sparked all over again. He cupped your jaw with a thumb that still trembled faintly, and you leaned in. The kiss you shared was slower than any you'd managed all night—no rush, just gratitude and heat, a seal on something neither of you knew how to name.

The timer in your head clicked over another minute. You both stepped back like you'd rehearsed it. Armor on.

"Okay," you said, voice huskier than you meant. "Trays."

"Trays," he echoed, already rolling his sleeves back to his forearms like a promise to be useful.

You killed the faucet and set the sink to fill with suds. Clark stacked plates into neat towers and ferried them over; you scrubbed, rinsed, and handed off to the rack with the efficiency of two people covering a secret with motion. He portioned leftovers into containers—roast, potatoes, green beans—labeling lids with a wax pencil he found in the drawer. You slid the jewel-box desserts into smaller clamshells, tucked napkins and forks alongside, and wiped down the counter where your hips had kissed the edge, the cloth making a clean, unremarkable path through the faint heat of memory.

By the time headlights feathered across the dining room wall and tires whispered back up the drive, the kitchen looked exactly as your father had left it in your charge—dishes stacked to dry, to-go bags lined by the back door, everything in its place.

The front door swung open on a gust of cool air and familiar voices. Your father stepped in first, coat half buttoned, the set of his shoulders loosening when his eyes swept the kitchen.

"Good," he said, approval plain as he took in the stacked drying rack, the gleaming counters, and the neat line of to-go boxes by the back door. "Efficient."

Lois breezed in behind him, cheeks pink from the night air, hand still looped through Lucy's elbow. "You're a lifesaver," she said, brushing a kiss against your cheek as she passed. To Clark, another kiss, a squeeze of his arm. "And thank you for keeping him company."

"Anytime," Clark answered, easy as a Sunday smile. His tie was straight again, sleeves rolled just so—every inch the composed fiancé. Only you could see the faint rose left at the edge of his mouth.

Lucy, triumphant, hoisted a white bakery box to shoulder height. "Stand back, mortals. The lemon chiffon has landed." She thunked it onto the table, flicked the twine loose, and lifted the lid with a magician's flourish. A halo of sugar rose when she peeled back the paper, lemon glaze shining under the pendant light.

Plates appeared. Knives flashed. The first slice sighed as it left the round. You served your father, then Lois; Clark slid your plate across without looking at you, the corner of his mouth quirking like he knew exactly what your hands felt like a few minutes ago and wasn't going to think about it. You weren't either. Not with cake this pretty.

For a while, it was simple: forks tapping porcelain, low commentary about crumb and balance and which bakery deserved a handwritten thank-you note. Your father declared the icing "the only proper way to end a meal." Lucy stole a bite from Lois's plate with the shameless precision of a jewel thief. Clark hummed his approval at the first taste, eyes closing for a blink longer than necessary, a sound you felt lower than was reasonable.

"So," Lois said, refilling your father's coffee and settling back with a cat-curious glint. "While we were rescuing dessert, did my brother tell any embarrassing stories about me to scare you off? Because if he brought up the seventh-grade bangs, I will sue."

Clark didn't miss a beat. He leaned back, draped an elbow on the chair, and put on his best earnest-reporter face. "Not a one. He gave me the grand tour, spoke highly of you, and"—he lifted his fork in salute—"made sure the kitchen was squared away like a pro."

"Suspiciously wholesome," Lucy muttered, squinting between the two of you like a detective who knows there's a clue she hasn't spotted yet.

"Some of us can manage wholesomeness," you said, studiously focused on cutting a perfect bite. The lemon glaze pooled at the edge of your slice; a strand of icing clung to your fork, then to your lip when you tasted it. You swept it away with the tip of your tongue on instinct.

You didn't look at him. You didn't have to. Clark saw—of course he did—and the reaction was immediate and subtle: a sharp inhale he hid behind a sip of water, the barest tilt of his head, and then, under the table, the gentle nudge of his shoe against your ankle. Behave.

Heat flickered up your neck. You shifted your foot back, the ghost of his touch lingering like a secret handshake. Across the table, he'd already gone back to nodding at something your father was saying about tire irons and proper torque, picture of composure.

Lois, satisfied—for now—launched into a rapid-fire recap of the bakery's closing-time drama. Lucy embellished shamelessly, claiming she performed "emergency pastry diplomacy." Your father declared that an art form the city should subsidize. Laughter spilled easy and warm; plates emptied; crumbs collected on thumbs.

When the last fork scraped the last ribbon of lemon from porcelain, you stood to pack the to-go boxes you'd prepared earlier. Clark rose at the same time, moving in sync with you without discussion: lids snapped on, napkins tucked, names scrawled across tops in quick, neat letters. Your fingers brushed once—brief, harmless, everything—and then fell away.

"Successful rescue," Lois pronounced, snapping the bakery box closed. She leaned into Clark's shoulder, content. Your father clapped a hand to your back, approval heavy and warm. Lucy winked like she knew all your tells and was keeping them for later leverage.

You smiled, mouth sweet with lemon, heart steadying into the ordinary music of family around a table—while under it, the soft memory of a nudge on your ankle thrummed like a private chord only the two of you could hear.

YOU VOLUNTEERED to walk Clark out, grabbing your coat from the hook as he balanced two neatly labeled clamshells—Lois and Clark—stacked in his arms. The night air had that clean, late-evening bite; your breath lifted white in the porch light as the door clicked shut behind you. Gravel whispered under your shoes. Out by the curb, Lois’s car sat beneath the streetlamp, flecked with a fine dusting of road salt that turned the paint a shade paler.

Behind you, the front hall was a tangle of familiar noise—your sisters scolding your father as only daughters can: “Text when you’re home.” “You promise you’ll make the cardiology appointment, right?” “Dad, it’s winter—wear the good coat.” He harrumphed and agreed in that way of his that meant he’d do most of it and pretend it was his idea.

Out on the walk, you angled closer so your shoulder could help with the weight of the door while Clark freed a hand to fish for keys. “Thanks,” he said quietly, that warm Kansas note in his voice turning the word into something softer.

“You did most of the heavy lifting,” you murmured, nodding at the containers. “I just provided moral support and, uh, cutlery.”

He smiled at that—small, tired, devastating. The porch light trimmed his profile in gold; the loosened knot of his tie made him look a little undone in a way only you would notice. “You kept me from the gauntlet,” he said. “I owe you.”

“You owe me exactly nothing,” you said, and the truth of it trembled in the space between you.

At the car, he opened the back door and set the boxes carefully on the seat like they were more fragile than pastry. When he straightened, the two of you fell into that gravity again—close enough to count the flecks in his eyes, far enough to call it coincidence if anyone looked out the window. The neighborhood was quiet: the soft electric buzz of the streetlight, a radio murmuring from somewhere down the block, a taxi rolling past with its heater whistling.

“Tonight was…” He searched for the word and didn’t find it. “A lot.”

You huffed a breath that ghosted between you. “Understatement of the year. And it’s only—” You checked your phone as a distraction. “—still the same day.”

Silence settled, not awkward, just full. You tucked your hands into your coat pockets so you wouldn’t do something stupid like touch his lapel just to see if it was as soft as it looked.

“We can’t do it again,” you said finally, because someone had to pick the line back up. Your voice was quiet but sure. “Whatever that was. We can’t.”

His agreement came immediately, like a reflex he’d already rehearsed. “We can’t.” A beat. He swallowed. “Lois first.”

“Always,” you said, and meant it. The words landed between you like a posted sign.

And still—neither of you moved. Your eyes held and held, the kind of looking that catalogues, not to memorize for later, but because you couldn’t not. All the things you weren’t saying threaded through those seconds: I felt you everywhere, I’m already missing a moment we’re still standing in, I don’t know how to be in the same room as you and pretend it didn’t happen.

You forced a crooked smile. “So… next time I keep you company, we actually… keep company.”

He answered with one of his own, exhausted and warm. “I’ll bring cards. Something very wholesome.”

“Gin rummy,” you said, deadpan.

“Dangerous,” he murmured, and it shouldn’t have made your pulse jump, but it did.

From the porch, Lucy’s laugh rang out, followed by Lois’s voice telling your dad she’d bring soup later in the week. You both flinched back into the world.

“Drive safe,” you said, stepping aside so he could close the door. It clicked with a mild, final sound that felt anything but.

His hand found your sleeve—just the cuff, just a graze—and then, before either of you could talk yourselves out of it, you leaned in at the same time. The kiss was fast and quiet and precise, the kind of thing you could deny if you had to, except you wouldn’t, not to yourselves. He tasted like lemon and coffee and the last five minutes you’d stolen in a kitchen that already looked innocent again.

You parted on a shared breath. His forehead hovered a fraction from yours, then he stepped back like it cost him something.

“Goodnight,” he said, eyes still on your mouth for one treacherous second before he dragged them up where they belonged.

“Goodnight,” you echoed, softer than you meant to.

He circled to the driver’s side just as the front door opened and your sisters spilled onto the porch, coats on, your father framed behind them with his arms crossed in satisfied inspection. Lois waved at you both like she’d choreographed the goodbye. Lucy clutched her cake with the reverence of a relic.

“Text us when you’re home,” Lucy called.

“We will,” Clark answered, voice steady, that easy fiancé smile on, the picture of a man ending a normal Sunday night.

He climbed in. You shut the back door and rapped your knuckles twice on the roof—habit from a hundred family departures. The engine turned over; warm air fogged the inside of the windshield for a second before the defroster battled it clear. He glanced at you once more through the glass. The look was quick, gone as soon as it came, but you felt it like a hand closing around a promise.

As the car pulled away, you stood in the streetlight glow with a bakery box under your arm and the taste of him brief and bright on your lips. You told yourself you’d just closed the door on a mistake.

But as the taillights stitched red down the block and your phone buzzed with the group chat lighting up—cake secured; dad scolded; mission accomplished—you knew better. Whatever lived between you hadn’t burned out. It had learned to live in the margins—glances, almost-touches, borrowed minutes—and it wasn’t done with either of you.

Not even close.

[desiresin]

holy fuck this is so good

[stillwatervoid]

Now nothing’s the same | Alternate!Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

Summary: You know it isn't your Mark the moment he steps into your room. The blood on his suit isn't his. The way he looks at you isn't right. The things he whispers aren't things your Mark would ever say. Yet, you let him stay. And more.

Pairing: Alternate!Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

Warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, frottage, overstimulation, rimming (R receiving), belly bulging, unprotected sex, spit as lube.

Tags: any Mark variant, Reader is lowkey not okay, and he’s a virgin (so prob unrealistic sex?), Unrequited love (for original Mark), Top!Mark, Bottom!Reader.

w.c: 12.2k  |  a/n: English isn’t my first language. This is the first time I write smut so it probably sucks, but hey, I wrote 12k? How did that happen? Yikes… Feedback is appreciated—as longs as is respectful. Also, I wrote this with no particular Mark in mind, so feel free to imagine your favorite variant! The only exception is Mohawk Mark, since his unique hairstyle would immediately reveal he's not the mainstream version at the very beginning (unless you prefer to imagine the reader being dense and oblivious to that glaring detail...).I guess it doesn’t really matter. IMAGINE ANY MARK! And enjoy!!!

You're here | Part 2

Ever since the news broke about cities around the world being destroyed by multiple versions of Invincible, you’ve been hiding. It’s the only logical thing to do—for someone powerless like you, there’s nothing else to do. You can only wait for the nightmare to end, for the heroes to rise victorious. For Mark to rise victorious.

So you stay in your home, clutching your phone, waiting for something—anything—to change. A day passes, and Mark still hasn’t answered your messages. He’s busy, you tell yourself, burying your face in your pillow to stifle the ache in your chest. Of course he’s busy. How could he not be? His hands are full with the weight of the world on his shoulders—fighting, saving, surviving. The news keeps reporting on the Invincibles’ rampage, updating the world daily. A stupid text message—of course Mark doesn’t have time to reply.

(You try not to think about how Mark has been pulling away from you, slowly but surely. How, ever since you confessed your feelings and ruined everything, he hasn’t looked at you the same. How you should’ve kept your heart locked tight, your love buried deep, just so you could keep him close. But you didn’t, and now nothing’s the same.)

So you wait, trapped within your four walls, your chest heavy with worry for your friends—your hero friends—who are out there risking their lives. You cling to the news like a lifeline, watching as the Invincibles tear through city after city, leaving thousands dead, all while they smile like it’s a game.

So you wait, and pray. Anxiety coils tight in your chest, pressing against your ribs until it feels like you might burst. But eventually, hunger forces you to move. You drag yourself to the kitchen, hands trembling as you fumble with the bread. You barely register the motion, your mind drifting to every terrible, unlikely scenario where Mark—your Mark—doesn’t make it. The thought alone makes your throat tighten.

It’s not good. You shouldn’t be this negative. But there are so many Invincibles, and if they’re anything like the Mark you know, then even the strongest heroes must be struggling. People will die. People you care about. And you try—God, you try—not to think about who, who, who.

Maybe that’s why you don’t hear him.

Not that there’s any particular sound to warn you. No footsteps, no creak of the floorboards. Just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional rustle of the curtains by the open window.

One second, your eyes are on the bread on the counter, and the next, an unexpected voice brushes against your ear.

“Found you,” he whispers.

Your heart leaps into your throat, and you freeze, the knife slipping from your hand and clattering to the counter. Your breath hitches as you turn your head slowly.

(Vaguely, you think about Mark fussing over you like a mother hen, that familiar crease forming between his brows. “You really shouldn’t leave your window open like that,” he’d chide, voice laced with exasperation. “Anyone could get in.”

But you’d just laugh, brushing off his concern. “It’s a sixth floor, Mark. And you’re the only weirdo who does.”

I’ll always leave my window open for you, you wouldn’t say.

I’ll always be waiting for you to come, you couldn’t say.)

And then, there he is.

“Mark?” you breathe, relief crashing over you in an overwhelming wave. You don’t notice the differences—how his suit is wrong, smeared with fresh blood and viscera that drip onto your clean floor. How his eyes are too wide, too unblinking, something wild lurking behind them. You don’t see any of it. All you see is Mark standing there, safe, alive. “Oh my god, Mark.”

You rush to him without hesitation, arms outstretched, wrapping him up in a desperate embrace. You’ve been so worried, so consumed by the gnawing anxiety of losing him, that just hearing his voice, just seeing him, shatters any rational thought.

For a moment, he stiffens against you. But then, his arms lock around you with a force that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. It’s too tight, too much, an intensity Mark has never held you with before. That should have been your first warning. But as soon as he hides his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your sensitive skin, you forget about everything that seems wrong. You forget about the blood, the wild look in his eyes, the way his grip feels almost possessive. All you can focus on is the way he inhales deeply, as if he’s been starved of this—of you.

You shudder, heart pounding for reasons you can’t quite explain, and then he sighs, low and satisfied, the sound vibrating against your skin.

(“You smell really good,” Mark would murmur, crowding into your space, his nose nearly brushing your neck as he inhaled deeply. “Like, really good.”

You’d shove at his chest, face flaming despite yourself. “Christ, Grayson, you’re not a dog. Back off.”

He’d laugh—that stupid, sunshine-bright laugh that always made your pulse stutter—and lean against the lockers with infuriating ease. “Just being honest… Hey, you could tell me what perfume you use. Maybe then Amber would actually like me on our next date.”

Your chest would tighten, eyebrows knitting together before you could stop them.

“Can’t help you there, pretty boy,” you’d say, slamming your locker shut harder than necessary. When he raised an eyebrow at you, you’d flash a razor-thin smile. “Turns out it’s natural. One hundred percent me.”) 

“It’s you…” Mark whispers, his lips brushing against your neck. You hold your breath, trying to suppress the goosebumps rising on your skin, but it’s futile. His voice is low, almost reverent, and it sends a shiver down your spine. He squeezes you tighter, his arms like steel bands around you. “Oh, it’s you.” 

“Mark?” you ask hesitantly, confusion laced in your voice. “What is it? Are you hurt?” 

You try to push yourself away, hands pressing against his shoulders to create some space—because you can’t do this. You can’t handle him holding you like this, his voice hoarse and low against your neck, his breath hot enough to make you weak. You’re friends. Only friends. He’s made that much clear, and this—this isn’t fair.

But you barely manage to put a few inches between you before he whines, a sound so raw and desperate it catches you off guard. In an instant, he pulls you back in, burying his face deeper into the crook of your neck, his grip unyielding.

“Mark?” you whisper again, voice trembling.

“Not yet,” he replies, his tone pleading. “Let me hold you one more minute.” 

And you don’t have the strength to refuse him.

Yet, as the seconds tick by and he keeps clinging to you like a child afraid to let go, you can’t help but notice the things you’ve been ignoring.

Why is Mark here? Why would he suddenly show up at your apartment when he’s supposed to be out there, saving the world? Why would Mark—the same Mark who’s been keeping you in this strange, distant limbo for weeks, who barely speaks to you beyond polite conversation, who’s been looking at you with a mix of discomfort, guilt, and something else you can’t quite place—be holding you so desperately right now?

Then your attention drifts to his clothes. His suit, but not really his suit. The blood—the thick, dark blood that, now that you’re truly paying attention, doesn’t belong to him. And it’s a lot, pooling around your feet, staining your floor, soaking your clothes.

A sickening weight settles in your stomach, curling, twisting, nagging at the back of your mind. Your arms go slightly limp around him, hesitation creeping in where relief had been just moments ago. Your brain, which had felt so light, so grateful just a minute ago at the sight of him safe, suddenly flashes back to the news. The destruction. The Invincibles terrorizing the world.

And you wonder.

Finally, he exhales—a slow, steady breath, like someone bracing themselves. Then, he lets go, his hands lingering on your arms as if he’s reluctant to break contact entirely.

“Y/N…” he whispers, a wide grin stretching across his face. It’s an unusual smile, unnatural, amused when it shouldn’t. “Here’s where you’ve been hiding, huh?”

“Hiding?” you ask, unsure. “Well—I can’t really do anything else, can I?”

Mark smiles spreads. But his eyes—there’s something in them you hadn’t noticed before. Wide, almost frantic, something raw burning behind them. The dark circles under them make him look exhausted. His hair is a mess. And yet, his expression softens as he studies you, gaze tracing over every feature like he’s trying to memorize you. It’s so intense, so intimate, it nearly steals your breath away.

“What—What are you doing here?” you ask, glancing away, flustered. “Is it—is it over? The fight?”

He coos, a gloveless hand reaching for your chin to tilt it back toward him with a grip that’s firm, almost possessive. “Oh, it’s over. There’s nothing to worry about anymore,” he says, voice light, too light, too nonchalant for someone who just came from a battle. Mark doesn’t speak like this after a fight—he’s never so casual, so detached.

(Mark’s hands would dig into his hair, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I’m just—I keep fucking up.”

“You’re not,” you’d tell him, hand pressing warm circles between his shoulder blades. “You save people, Mark. Every single day—”

“Bullshit!” He’d jerk upright so fast you’d recoil, chair screeching against the floor. “More people die than I save!” He’d pace, fingers twisting in his hair. “Stop—just stop telling me I’m not fucking up! Stop trying to—to make me feel better! You don’t understand how I feel!”

Your chest would tighten, fingers curling into empty air where he’d been. “I know I don’t.”

“Then stop!”

“However—” you’d stand up as well, eyes locking onto his as you caught his face in your hands, palms pressing gently against his cheeks. Mark would freeze, his breath hitching, wide eyes locked onto yours. “However, I know the world would be worse without you in it. Just thinking about the possibility of not having Invincible on our side—it scares me. Because you’re the only one strong enough to protect us. The only one who can stand up to the worst threats.”

Your thumb would brush over his cheekbone, touch impossibly gentle.

“And I’m sorry you have to carry that responsibility, Mark. But you’re not failing. Not to me.”

His expression would crumble, his eyes glistening with unshed tears before he’d pull you close, burying his face in your shoulder. His breath would shake, and you’d feel his fingers dig into the fabric of your shirt.

Your cheeks would burn, heart stuttering, but you'd swallow your feelings and offer only the comfort a friend should.

“I’m sorry,” he’d murmur, voice thick. “I’m sorry.”

You’d breathe in, closing your eyes. “Don’t be.”)

Your cheeks burn as he tugs you closer by the chin, forcing you to look straight at him. Your hand instinctively reaches for his wrist, but you don’t pull away. You should. But you don’t. Yet, you can’t stand the weight of his stare, so intense, so close, it feels like it’s peeling back layers of you, exposing everything you’ve tried to suppress.

“Nothing to worry about?” you force the words out, trying to ignore the heat flooding your face and the fluttering sensation in your stomach. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” he nods, his voice low and steady. Then, without warning, he leans closer again, his face burying into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply like he just couldn’t get enough. “Oh, shit. How I missed this.”

“Mark?” you ask quietly, voice trembling despite your efforts to steady it. His breath is hot and electric against your skin. The warmth blooming in your face spreads down, coiling through your body. “What are you doing? Jesus—this isn’t like you.”

“Oh, really?” he hums, lips ghosting over your pulse. The brush of them—so soft, so deliberate—makes you shudder. “Not even a little?”

“No…” you exhale, shivering when his arms snake around your waist, squeezing hard enough to make you squirm. “No. Mark. What—what are you doing?”

Your hands reach for the counter behind you, gripping the edge tightly, desperate for something to anchor you. But Mark—his scent, his body pressed so tightly against yours, his breath burning against the most sensitive part of your throat—makes it impossible to focus, impossible to think. It’s like everything around you is spinning, and you can’t make sense of any of it.

“What do you think I’m doing?” he asks, his tone amused and teasing, like this is all some game to him.

And that finally makes you scowl, the heat in your cheeks now burning with a mix of anger and humiliation. You inhale sharply, trying to regain your senses, but an ugly feeling of shame and hurt settles heavily in your chest.

You lift a hand and push him, or at least try to, your strength no match for his. Still, he complies, pulling away with a reluctant sigh, an annoyed expression flickering across his face as he finally tears himself from you.

“This isn’t funny, Mark,” you say, glancing away, unable to bear the intensity of his stare. “Stop it.” 

“Stop what?” he complains, his fingers digging into your waist as if he’s reluctant to let you go entirely.

“That,” you snap, gripping his wrists and prying his hands off. “You can’t just—just ignore me for weeks and then suddenly show up and treat me this way. It’s—it messes with my head! It’s not fair, Mark!” your breath comes heavy, your chest rising and falling as you struggle to form the words. Your eyes drop to the floor, and you add quietly, “Just stop.” 

He’s silent for a moment, and you can feel his gaze burning into you, searching, analyzing. His head tilts slightly, as if he’s trying to piece something together.

“We’re not… together?” he asks after a beat, his voice incredulous, like the idea is absurd.

The question makes you flinch, and a fresh wave of anger surges through you.

(“I’m sorry,” Mark would mutter, his hand awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes avoiding yours. “I just—don’t see you that way.”

You’d glance away, your lips pressed together in a tight line, trying to hold back the sting of rejection. “I’m sorry too.”

“It’s just—there’s someone else I wanna try it with.”

“I get it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know,” you sigh, wanting Earth to swallow you whole and disappear forever. But this is Mark, and you couldn’t bear living without Mark. “We’re still friends, right? This doesn’t have to change anything.”

He’d smile at you, his eyes creasing at the edges in the way you adored. “Yeah—Friends!”)

“Of course not!” you snap, voice rising. “You made it very clear you—you love someone else!”

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest as you take a step back, putting some much-needed distance between you and his overwhelming presence. Was he mocking you? Playing some cruel joke?

But then again, as you pace around the kitchen, trying to hold yourself together, your eyes flicker to his odd suit, to the blood clinging to him, to the confused, almost baffled look on his face. And you think again—why is Mark here? Why, really?

Is he even Mark—

“But Y/N—” he whines, trailing after you like a lost puppy, his voice pleading, “—I would never, and I mean never look at anyone else but you!”

You frown, shaking your head. “I can’t even believe you’re saying this to me right now,” you mutter, trying to keep your voice steady. “Did you hit your head too hard fighting those lunatics?”

You don’t notice the way he tilts his head at your words, don’t catch the way his eyes darken, flashing with something unreadable.

“If you don’t have anything better to do, then just leave,” you huff, bitterness lacing your tone. “I don’t wanna—humiliate myself any more than I already have. You had your fun. So go away.”

You turn on your heel, heart pounding as you stride toward your bedroom where your phone is charging. There’s a gut feeling gnawing at you, a sensation you can’t shake, and you need confirmation. You need reassurance.

Is the Mark standing behind you even your Mark at all?

Your gut twists violently, but you can’t shake it. The second you step into your bedroom, your hand fishes for your phone, fingers trembling as you scroll through your contacts and press the button.

But Mark hasn’t left. He follows right after you, moving with an easy, unhurried stride, and when he realizes what you’re doing, a slow, knowing smile spreads across his face.

“O-ho?” he hums, amusement dripping from his voice. “My, my, Y/N, why’re you calling me?” 

His hand moves, effortlessly covering yours, fingers warm and firm over your knuckles. The phone rings—once, twice—and Mark leans in, his breath brushing against your ear, voice low, teasing.

“I’m right here, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You don’t need anyone else.” 

Your breath hitches. The sound of the third ring barely registers before he plucks the phone from your grasp with unnerving ease. You don’t even resist—your fingers tremble as they slip away from the device. Not that it would have done anything, anyway. The fifth ring echoes into silence, then clicks to Mark’s familiar voicemail. Useless.

The air in the room shifts, heavy and overwhelming. You watch, frozen, as he casually places your phone on your desk, just far enough out of reach.

Then, the moment your eyes meet his, you know.

This isn’t the Mark you know and love.

Mark hums, content, utterly unbothered as he slides back into your arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He sighs, pleased, like he belongs there, like nothing’s wrong.

Maybe you’re in shock. Maybe it’s fear, or disbelief, or survival instincts.

Because you let him.

Your arms fall open, letting him settle more comfortably against you, his weight pressing into you as he nuzzles closer. His warmth, his scent, the way he holds you tight—it’s all too much. And you—weak-kneed, breath unsteady—let him.

“Are you going to kill me?” you can’t help but ask eventually, voice quiet, barely a whisper.

He makes a confused sound in his throat, the vibration brushing against your skin and sending a shiver down your spine. “Hmm—not yet.”

Not yet. You should be terrified. Every nerve in your body should be screaming for you to run, to fight, to do something other than stand there, frozen, pliant in his grip. You know he’s dangerous. You know he could snap your neck without a second thought.

Yet—a curious thing happens in your brain.

You’re not afraid. You can’t be.

Because when your eyes settle on this Mark—and he looks exactly like the Mark you know, the Mark you have feelings for—something just… doesn’t click the way it should. Fear doesn’t come. Disgust doesn’t rise in your throat. Dread doesn’t tighten its grip around your chest.

Because he looks so much like Mark. And duh—he is Mark. But not yours, and that alone should be enough to make you want to bolt. Yet—as he nuzzles into your neck, his hot breath tingling against your skin, his solid body pressing into yours with a firmness that feels both grounding and overwhelming, and the way he called you ‘sweetheart’—it all makes you want to give in to him.

The feelings you’ve buried—the ones you’ve shoved down since the day Mark rejected you, since the day you forced yourself to be okay with just being friends—are clawing their way back to the surface, stronger, faster, more consuming than ever.

“Oh yeah, you don’t have to worry though,” he says, his lips brushing against your pulse in a way that feels deliberate, calculated. “It’d be such a waste to kill you so fast. I came here for you, after all.”

His lips trail along your neck, slow and purposeful, and despite everything—despite knowing this isn’t right—you sigh, shivering at the unfamiliar, intoxicating affection. He moves upward, lips ghosting over your skin until he reaches your ear, nipping at your earlobe.

“Mark…” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut, body melting under his touch.

“Ohh, I know, baby,” he mutters, voice thick with amusement, dripping with smug satisfaction. You can feel the smirk curving against your skin. “I know everything you like. I know every inch of you. Let me show you.”

Your body betrays you.

Your mind knows better—knows that this Mark isn’t yours, that the weight of his body pressing into yours should send alarms blaring through your head. But when his fingers skim your waist, when his breath fans hot against your skin, when he sighs like he belongs here—your body doesn’t fight him.

It welcomes him.

Your hands twitch at your sides, uncertain, but you don’t push him away.

“I can’t believe this universe’s Mark wouldn’t date you,” he muses, fingers wandering, exploring, curling behind your back before cupping your ass and squeezing. A choked sound catches in your throat as heat floods through you, your knees nearly giving out. “I mean—look at you.” His voice dips, teasing, triumphant. “Barely resisting.”

You bite your lip, swallowing a sound you refuse to let escape.

He laughs then—open, mocking, and so, so cocky. “And here I thought I’d have to fight this Mark over you, but—” his grin widens, wicked and pleased. “I don’t think I have any competition, sweetheart.” His lips brush against your jaw, his grip tightening possessively. “You’re all mine.”

He starts to push against you, forcing you to walk backward until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress. You fall onto the bed, breathless, your heart racing as he looms over you, his eyes dark and hungry.

“Just mine, okay?” he growls, his voice low and dripping with possessiveness. “I wouldn’t let anyone else touch you—not even him. Not even this universe’s pathetic version of me.” He scoffs, his hands gripping the hem of your t-shirt and tugging it off with a harsh, almost desperate motion. “Loving someone else? When I have you? He’s a fool. He doesn’t know what he’s missing. Y/N—you have no idea how much I’ve missed you, how much I’ve—” 

He groans, biting his lip hard enough to leave a mark, his eyes raking over your exposed skin like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that can satisfy him. You shiver, a deep blush spreading across your face. It’s too much, too fast, and you feel utterly exposed as his gaze devours every inch of you. His expression twists, a mix of desperation and adoration, as if he’s memorizing every detail of your body, committing it to memory so he’ll never forget. His fingers twitch, hovering over your skin but not touching, like he’s savoring the moment, stretching it out just to make you squirm.

It’s too intimate, too intense, and for a fleeting second, you forget that he’s dangerous.

“Stop staring,” you weakly complain, turning your face away.

“Oooh, oh-ho-ho, yeah, baby, you’re just like I remember...” he laughs, his breathing uneven, his voice shaking with a wild, almost manic energy. “Yeah—I’ll never let him have you. Never let anyone else even look at you. You’re just mine—holy shit.” 

And then he dives.

His lips crash into yours, claiming rather than kissing, his entire body pressing you down into the mattress, forcing your legs open. It’s desperate, feverish—starving. His tongue pushes past your lips, stealing your breath, and you moan into his mouth, eyes squeezing shut as you struggle to keep up with his messy, frantic rhythm. He kisses you with a ferocity that leaves you dizzy. He groans and growls against your lips as his hands roam your body, gripping and groping every inch of exposed skin. His fingers brush against your nipples, teasing and possessive, and you can only take it, breathless and overwhelmed, your mind spinning as he claims you in every way he can.

“Yeah, baby, keep making those sounds for me,” he murmurs against your lips before diving in again, swallowing every breath, every whimper like it fuels him. “So, so good. Fuck, you have no idea—it keeps me going.”

Your breath stutters as his fingers pinch your nipple, hard enough to make your back arch, a sharp gasp escaping your lips. His free hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat as he grinds his hips down. Your legs part without a second thought, welcoming him, urging him closer until he’s right there, pressing into you, slotting himself between your thighs.

“That’s it, spread wider for me,” he pants, voice dripping with dark approval. “You’re still so good, fuck.”

Your lips burn, swollen and tingling from his kisses, and when you blink up at him through your lashes, you catch the glint in his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, the usual warm brown of his eyes swallowed by something feral. That smirk—all sharp teeth and predatory hunger—should terrify you. Because the Mark you know has never looked like this before. This unhinged and unsteady. It’s a sharp, gut-wrenching reminder—this isn’t your Mark. This isn’t the sweet, awkward Mark who you fell for, the one you trusted. This Mark is wrong, a twisted mirror image, and you should be fighting him, shoving him away, clawing your way out even if it’s futile—

But then he leans down and presses the softest, faintest kiss to the tip of your nose.

And your mind blanks.

Because holy shit—Mark, the man you’ve been pining over for months, years, is kissing you. And it feels so good, so intoxicating, it messes with your head, scrambles your thoughts into something dangerous.

You know it’s wrong. You know this isn’t him. It’s like pouring your feelings into a stranger, a shadow wearing his face. But fuck—this Mark grinds against you, slow and deliberate, and you feel him, the hard press of him against you, thick and aching with want.

You gasp, body tensing, startled by how badly he wants you.

“Ohh, baby,” he whines, voice thick with desperate need, like he’s been starving for this moment for lifetimes. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave bruises, marking you as his. “Let me—” His hips roll again, dragging his thick length against your own, and you choke on air. “Let me make you feel good. Let me make you come, please, baby, please.”

Teeth scrape along your jaw before finding that sweet spot beneath your ear—the one you didn’t even know was sensitive—and you arch off the bed with a broken moan when he sucks harshly at the skin. His lips, his tongue, his teeth—he maps every inch of you like he’s memorized you, like he already knows every single weak spot before you even realize them yourself.

“Please? Please?” he keeps begging, voice so raw, so desperate, so utterly pathetic it makes you dizzy.

And you—you’re still too caught off guard to react properly. Because Mark—your Mark—never looked at you like this. Never even wanted you like this. But this Mark? He’s rutting against you like an animal in heat, his massive cock straining against his suit as he whimpers your name, making your head spin.

It’s wrong. It’s so, so wrong. Because Mark rejected you. Because you told yourself you’d be fine with just being friends. Because this isn’t even him—just the evil, dangerous version of him.

(Mark would slip into your open arms, his body heavy with exhaustion.

“I just—I’m scared,” he’d admit, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Scared of turning into my father. Scared of hurting people. And after everything with Angstrom…” his voice would trail off, fingers twitching against your back like he’s afraid to hold on too tightly.

You’d run a soothing hand along his spine, grounding him. “What do you mean?” you’d ask, gentle, coaxing him to keep talking.

“He—he talked about me like I was a monster,” Mark would whisper, voice tight. “Like there’s a version of me out there who destroyed everything. A version of me who’d kill everyone I love. A version of me who’d… destroy you.”

A slow, quiet exhale would leave your lips. “But you’re this Mark,” you’d remind him. “You’re my best friend. And you’d never do that.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, slowly, Mark would sags against you, burying himself deeper into your warmth.

“Yeah,” he’d murmur, barely more than a breath. “Never.”)

But when you move—when you grind up into him, your body answering before your mind can stop it—he makes a noise, something between a groan and a sob, and it’s so wrecked, so full of relief it makes your stomach twist.

Your arms loop around his neck, dragging him closer, pressing your bodies so tight together you can feel his heartbeat hammering against your own. And when his teeth sink into your throat, sucking so hard you know it’s going to bruise, a sharp, broken sound escapes your lips.

The room burns around you, filled with the obscene sounds of his desperate whines and your shaky gasps, the slick friction of fabric between your joined bodies.

“Yeah—” you gasp, nails raking down his back as pleasure coils tight in your gut. “Fuck, Mark, just—Do it. Do it.”

He groans, deep and guttural, a sound so full of possession it sends a sharp pulse of heat down your spine. Then his teeth sink into your neck again—hard enough that you know he’s breaking skin. And when his tongue licks the wound, sucking the blood like he owns you—you know he’s got you.

Your mind fractures into white-hot static as every rational thought—the blood crusted on his suit, the madness in his eyes, the thousands he’s slaughtered, the fact this isn’t your Mark—dissolves into primal need. Nothing exists but the electric pleasure coiling tighter in your gut with each desperate grind of his hips.

“Mark,” you sob, voice breaking as your body arches against him of its own volition. Your fingers twist in his hair, pulling him closer. “Oh god, Mark. Fuck. Mark.”

A guttural snarl vibrates against your throat as he claims your mouth again, his tongue pushing past your lips in a violent mimicry of what his hips are doing against yours. The growing dampness between your thighs should shame you, but all you can focus on is the delicious friction, the way his teeth scrape your bottom lip when you moan too loud.

But it’s still not enough.

Not with these fucking clothes between you, not with the way you’re both rutting against each other like wild animals, frantic and insatiable. It’s maddening. You need more.

Your nails claw at his back, at his suit, needing to feel his skin the way he’s feeling yours.

“Get it off,” you manage to gasp between feverish kisses. “Please, Mark.”

With a dark chuckle that sends shivers down your spine, he rears back just enough to grip his suit’s collar. The fabric shreds like tissue paper beneath his strength, revealing sweat-slick skin you immediately map with trembling fingers. His pupils blow wider at your touch, chest heaving as he crushes you back into the mattress.

“Oh yeah, Y/N...” he purrs, his voice thick with satisfaction as his fingertips trace the dark marks blooming across your neck like bruises. Proof that you belong to him. “Bet this universe’s Mark never made you feel this way, did he? Never touched you like this?” his grip tightens suddenly, making you gasp. “I’m the first, aren’t I? The only one who’s ever had you like this?”

You whimper, nodding without thinking, legs locking tight around his waist, keeping him close, keeping him there.

His grin stretches, wild and triumphant. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing,” he murmurs, his hand trailing down with agonizing slowness—down your neck, across your heaving chest, brushing over your sensitive nipples, gliding down your stomach... Until, finally, his fingers settle between your legs, pressing against the thick, aching bulge in your sweatpants, squeezing just enough to rip a needy moan from your lips. “Look at you,” he breathes, eyes wild with possessive hunger. “So fucking perfect for me. So ready to be mine. Does your Mark know what a desperate little thing you are? How easily you fall apart under my hands?”

His smile tilts, both awestruck and predatory. Then, he leans in until his lips brush yours, his hand working you through the fabric with rough, perfect strokes that have you trembling.

“So hard just for me,” he murmurs against your mouth. “He could never make you feel like this. Never touch you like I do.” His teeth graze your bottom lip. “He could never compare. I’m better, I’m stronger—”

He peppers kisses along the corner of your mouth, your flushed cheeks, tender and teasing, a sharp contrast to the way his pace quickens—faster, rougher.

“—I could make you feel even better,” he purrs, pressing his lips against your ear, voice so low, so filthy it makes you shudder. “Make you scream my name, so loud and clear, maybe the other Mark could even hear you.”

Your breath stutters, a deep moan slipping from your lips, body twisting under his touch.

“Ohh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” he chuckles, breath warm against your neck, teasing, taunting. “You’d love to let him watch. Love to let him see you break for me. Let him realize what he’s lost—what he’ll never have again.”

His voice dips lower, sinking into something darker, something twisted.

“You’d let me fuck you in front of him, wouldn’t you?”

Your body jolts, heat flashing through you in a violent rush, shame curling in your stomach like a vice.

“N-no—!” you gasp, eyes squeezing shut, face burning with humiliation. “No, I wouldn’t—”

But your body betrays you. Trembling, surrendering, completely giving in—your hips rut desperately against his hand, your pre-cum soaking through the fabric, staining it.

“Liar,” Mark breathes against your swollen lips before crushing them again in a kiss that’s hot, rough, and bruising. “I can feel how much you want it. How much you need it.”

His thumb presses cruelly against the head of your cock, rubbing slow, torturous circles through the fabric, making you see stars. Your whole body jolts, a strangled gasp tearing from your throat.

“Maybe I should drag him here,” he whispers, grinning against your lips. “Make him watch as I fuck you so good, you forget he’s your Mark Grayson. Make him see how perfectly you take me—how you were always meant to be... ours.”

You shake your head frantically, words lost between your ragged gasps. “No—”

But your back arches, cock throbbing obscenely against his palm. The more he whispers these filthy fantasies, the harder you get, hips stuttering, desperate and eager, seeking more, more, more, as his words sink deep into your brain, filling you with something forbidden, something wrong—something you like.

The pressure builds unbearable. His fingers move with ruthless precision, stroking, squeezing, dragging you to the edge, pulling sounds from you that should be humiliating—but you can’t stop.

Then you think about it. About your Mark. The one who’s still out there, fighting, struggling, exhausted and worn down. You think about what would he think. What would he do if he saw you like this. You imagine your Mark’s confused face watching—the horror in his eyes as he sees you come apart under his doppelgänger’s touch, moaning and whimpering like some cheap slut desperate for any version of him.

“Mark,” you sob as waves of shame and pleasure crash over you. “Mark, Mark—”

Mark exhales a breathy chuckle, eyes dark with fascination. “Oh-ho-ho. That’s it, baby. I’m here. I’m right here.”

And then it hits you.

White-hot pleasure blinds you completely as you spill in your sweatpants like some untouched virgin, his name tumbling from your lips in a broken prayer. Your body arches violently, convulsing as your legs clamp around his waist like a vice. Your hands claw at his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him, to this moment, to reality itself.

“Jesus…” he exhales, almost in awe, his grip tightening possessively. “My god… so perfect.”

You’re reduced to a trembling, gasping mess—shaky legs, toes curling, vision whiting out as the aftershocks rip through you. Mark watches it all with a smug, hungry smirk, his eyes locked onto your face, drinking in every twitch, every quiver like he’s trying to memorize it, to brand it into his mind.

“Yeah—let it out, Y/N,” he whispers, voice thick with satisfaction. “I did this to you. I made you feel this good.”

(“Does that feel good?” Mark would mutter into your ear, his hands still working awkwardly at the knots in your back.

You’d groan, face mushed into the pillow. ”Yup. Feels good. Really good.”

“I still can’t believe you’re making me do this,” he’d grumble, brows pinching together.

You’d stifle a laugh, eyes fluttering shut. ”You lost the bet, Grayson. Now keep massaging my back. My muscles are still wrecked from all the damn work you put me through covering you at Uni.”

“William never complains.”

“Because William sucks at covering! The only reason you’re not suspended is because I’m just too good at lying—Oh! Yeah! Right there, don’t stop,” you’d sigh, melting into the mattress. ”Oh my god, yes…”

His hands would freeze, fingers pressing hesitantly into your skin. ”…Can you stop making those sounds?”

“What sounds?” you’d murmur, half-dazed.

Mark would be quiet for a beat, then resume with a sigh. “Never mind. How about this? Does that feel good?”

“Mmmh, holy shit—yes!”)

Finally, you sink into the mattress, chest rising and falling in desperate, uneven breaths as your climax wears off. Your head falls back against the pillows, glazed eyes barely tracking Mark’s movements. His fingers leave the bulge in your sweatpants, moving to your waistband, fumbling briefly before tugging your sweatpants and underwear down, inch by inch.

“Just let me take care of you,” he mumbles, dazed. “Always gonna take care of you.”

The cold air bites at your oversensitive cock as he yanks it free, his pupils blown wide as he stares at what’s his. Before you can even process the exposure, Mark flashes you a wicked grin before his lips wrap around your cock, hot and wet and devastating. Your hips jolt, body convulsing at the sensation. His tongue swirls, savoring, exploring, a deep groan rumbling in his throat as he tastes you. The overstimulation is unbearable, electric. A strangled, pathetic cry rips from your throat as your hands fly to his head, fingers tangling in his hair, trying—failing—to push him away.

“Mark!” you jolt, thighs snapping shut around his head, trembling, squeezing, clutching. “Oh my god. Oh my god—oh my god. No—”

A deep, satisfied groan rumbles through him, vibrating against your cock and making you yelp. His hands pin your thrashing hips down, holding you there, making sure you take it.

“Mark—”

“Mine,” he snarls between filthy, wet sucks. “Gonna taste every fucking drop.”

The overstimulation borders on painful as he works you ruthlessly through your sensitivity, your cries growing increasingly broken. And yet, somewhere beneath the overwhelming pleasure, a traitorous part of you preens at being so desperately wanted.

Wanted. By Mark. Not your Mark, not the one who’d gently rejected you, but a Mark all the same. A version from some twisted reality who’d torn through dimensions just to claim you. And it sickens you—the satisfaction curling in your gut, the twisted pleasure of knowing that somewhere, in some reality, Mark has always wanted you. Craved you. And if he’s here, willing to ruin you, to unravel you with nothing but his mouth, then who are you to stop him?

His tongue works you over with filthy precision, hot and wet and perfect in ways you’d never dared fantasize about. You writhe beneath him, sheets twisting in your fists, as your gaze drops to where he’s sucking you off—Mark Grayson, on his knees for you, eyes close in joy. The sight alone punches a broken noise from your throat.

“F-fuck—!” you arch violently, tears spilling as pleasure crests into near-pain. “Fuck, I can’t—Mark, please, I can’t—!”

Finally, he lets you go with a slick, obscene ‘pop.’ He pants, breath heavy, lips red and wet as he leans over you. You’re gasping too, your chest rising and falling in erratic bursts, your body trembling like you’ve run yourself into the ground.

Mark watches you, gaze trailing over your flushed skin, your wrecked, tear-streaked face. And then he grins.

“I love you like this,” he murmurs, voice rough. His thumb swipes at the wetness on your cheek. “Love it when you cry.”

(“I hate when you cry,” Mark would say, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. ”I hate it even more when it’s me who made you cry.”

You’d slap his hand away, face twisting into a scowl. ”Shut up, Grayson. How dare you—how dare you act upset.” Your voice would shake, anger sharpening every word. ”You can’t even say sorry. Can’t even fake an excuse for why you’ve treated me like this, ignoring me for months… And don’t try to deny it—William noticed too!”

He’d wince, eyes darting away. ”I can’t—I can’t say it.”

“That you’re sorry?” you’d scoff, disbelief dripping from the words.

Mark would bite his lip, shaking his head desperately. ”No! Of course not. It’s—the reason.”

“The reason you’ve been pulling away?” you’d snap, swiping the back of your hand across your wet cheek. Then, it would hit you—heart lurching. ”Is it… because I confessed? I thought we were past that. That we’d still be friends no matter what…”

Your voice would crack, gaze dropping to the floor.

Mark would flinch, shoulders slumping in defeat. ”It’s part of the reason.”

“I don’t understand,” you’d murmur, voice breaking. ”You said it didn’t matter. You promised it wouldn’t change anything.”

“I don’t understand either,” he’d admit, hand scrubbing roughly through his hair. ”Just—just give me time. I need to… figure some things out.”

“You won’t even tell me?”

Mark would press his lips into a tight line, guilt flashing across his face as his gaze caught on your tear-streaked cheeks. ”I can’t.”)

A helpless sob rips from your throat as he surges forward, capturing your bruised lips in a desperate, feverish kiss. He moans into your mouth, deep and needy, and you can taste yourself on his tongue—hot, salty, intoxicating. The realization only makes you burn hotter.

Then, a moan rattles in your chest as his free hand trails lower, fingers teasing where you’re most sensitive. Your gasp is sharp when one presses against your entrance.

“W-wait—” you huff, shaky hands pressing against his broad shoulders. “No… I’ve never—never done this…”

Mark freezes, his expression shifting from surprise to something terrifyingly euphoric. “Oohh, Y/N can you get any more perfect for me? My god—not even in my universe were you a virgin.” He chuckles, low and dark. “Were you saving yourself for him? Hoping he’d finally see you the way I do? He’s such a fool—But I will make you feel good. I’ll make you feel so good.”

As he speaks, his hands roam, gripping your thighs with an iron hold before pushing them up—forcing you open, leaving you vulnerable beneath him. Your face flushes with embarrassment and arousal, your hands instinctively gripping the sheets tightly at the sheer obscenity of the position. He flashes a playful grin, his breath warm against your ass, causing you to gasp and breathe unevenly.

“What— What are you doing?” you stammer weakly, squirming uncomfortably, peering down with shame as Mark leans over your hole, a wide smirk across his face. You realize a second too late was he’s up to. “Wait, wait—Oh my god!”

Your back arches, mouth letting go a deep, throaty groan and your eyes rolling back when Mark inserts his tongue, licking and lapping at the inner walls of your hole, sucking and nibling and kissing. Your head throws back against the pillows, skin burning so hot you swear you’ll melt into the sheets. The sensation is overwhelming—Mark’s hot tongue delves between your cheeks with shameless enthusiasm, licking and probing with obscenely wet sounds that make you squirm uncontrollably. You writhe in delicious contradiction, torn between pulling away and pressing deeper into his merciless mouth.

“Mmh, look at you—” Mark pants between greedy licks, his voice thick with arousal. “That’s it. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”

You’re beyond responding, your hips stuttering and your asshole clenching and unclenching with the unfamiliar, yet intoxicating sensation. The pleasure is so intense you bite your lip raw trying to contain the filthy sounds fighting to escape. It’s useless, though, because Mark keeps eating you out and it only takes a few minutes of this sweet torture until you start whimpering and mewling like a little whore.

“F-fuck—!” the curse tears from your throat as your toes curl and back arches off the bed. Your cock stirs back to full hardness, dripping pathetically against your stomach. “Fuck—Mark, my god! Don’t stop, fuck—Oh my god—”

You’ve never been touched like this before—it never even crossed your mind, not even in your wildest fantasies. But damn, it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Who would have thought that being pleasured like this could feel so incredibly good? You might just climax right then and there with Mark’s warm, skilled tongue working its magic, and you’d die happily. Your erection is unbelievably hard, leaking pre-cum onto your stomach, but you don’t dare touch yourself because you’re too busy gripping the sheets for stability.

But then Mark pulls away, and you moan and whimper with need, trying to tighten around him in an attempt to draw him back.

Mark smirks and chuckles, and you feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment at your own lewdness.

“God, baby, you’re so perfect for me,” Mark rasps, pulling back just enough to loom over you. His lips glisten with your taste, his breath coming in ragged bursts. “Look at you—already falling apart just from my mouth. Think you’re ready to take me, sweetheart? Think that pretty little hole can handle my cock?”

You hadn’t noticed before, too lost in the haze of pleasure—but Mark’s hips have been moving restlessly the whole time, fucking the air with desperate, instinctive thrusts as he devoured you. Now, as he looms over you, you can feel him, hot and throbbing, grinding against your thighs through the thin fabric of his suit. And fuck—he’s massive. Even through the material, you can feel the sheer size of him, the way he twitches with every needy thrust. And yeah—his mouth has left you slick, loose, ready to be filled—but shit. Viltrumites have monster cocks, and it scares you.

And yet—and yet, as Mark moves against you, teasing, testing, making sure you feel the sheer girth of him even through fabric, all you can feel is hunger, a desperate need.

So, huskily, with glazed eyes, you whisper, “Yes, Mark. Yes.”

He doesn’t make you beg twice. One hand tears the remaining suit away like tissue paper, his cock springing free—thick, veiny, and already leaking. The flushed tip bobs against your thigh, leaving a sticky trail as your breath catches.

“Fuck, Y/N—” Mark’s voice breaks as he strokes himself, his wild eyes drinking in every tremble of your body. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this. How many nights I dreamed of this moment. You—here, with me again.” His breath shudders, his grip tightening. “Had to find you. Had to make you mine again. I missed you. I missed you.”

His feverish rambling sends your pulse into overdrive, and for one fleeting moment, you wonder about that other life—what version of you could make a man this desperate, this feral with need? What was their relationship like? How did it end? How did Mark end up here, in your universe, searching for you? But then Mark’s strong hands are spreading your thighs wide, his body settling heavily between them, and all coherent thought evaporates in a rush of dizzying arousal.

Shit, shit—Mark Grayson, the boy you’ve been in love with since eighth grade, is about to fuck you. And shit—that thought alone makes your cock ache, your hole clench with anticipation, even as your mind screams that this isn’t your Mark. Your real Mark is probably fighting for his life somewhere. Maybe even dying. And here you are, letting his evil counterpart have you—willingly.

That makes you a horrible friend. You’re disgusting. A traitor. You’re giving in to every dirty fantasy you’ve ever had, every longing you’ve buried for years, all because this Mark—the wrong Mark—looks at you with the hunger you’ve always dreamed of seeing in your Mark’s eyes.

It’s sick. It’s twisted. You’ll never be able to look your Mark in the eye again. Guilt twists in your gut, heavy and suffocating.

You should stop.

You should have never let it go this far.

But then—

“Shh, baby, I got you,” this Mark whispers, shattering your spiraling thoughts. His voice is soft, almost reverent, as he lines himself up. “I got you. Gonna make you feel so good.”

You shiver, heat flushing your skin as his cock presses against your entrance, thick and hard and real. Instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist, locking behind him, pulling him in.

Mark groans, deep and satisfied, his fingers pressing into your thighs as he grins down at you.

“Fuck, yes,” he hums appreciatively, running possessive hands along your trembling thighs. “You’re so good, Y/N. So good.”

His fingers dig deep enough to leave bruises as he drinks down every gasp, every shudder of your oversensitive body like a man starved. And just when desperation coils in your gut—when the teasing pressure at your entrance becomes unbearable—Mark sheathes himself inside you in one brutal thrust.

“Fuck—!” your cry shatters the air as your body bows taut, back arching off the bed. The stretch burns, his thickness forcing you open in ways that make your vision whiten at the edges. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

He’s massive, painfully so. You can feel every ridge, every vein as your body struggles to accommodate him. It’s too much—you’re certain he’ll split you in two.

And yet... The fullness is intoxicating. It burns. It aches. But it also satisfies something deep within you, a primal need you hadn’t even realized was there. Tears prickle at your eyes as you clench the sheets, overwhelmed by the sheer reality of Mark Grayson buried inside you.

“Fuck...” Mark’s voice is guttural, dripping with satisfaction as he bottoms out. “God, you’re tight.” His hips grind deeper, wringing a broken whimper from your throat. “Taking me so perfect—fuck, you feel incredible. Like you were waiting just for me.”

And then, slowly, oh so fucking slowly, he begins to pull back out, dragging a wrecked moan from your lips. Your fingers clutch at his shoulders, desperate for something solid, something to hold onto as he sets a rhythm, each movement sending heat curling through your veins.

“That’s it,” Mark pants against your neck, his breath scalding as he inhales your scent like an addict. “Just like that… you’re perfect. Nobody else could take me like this.” His teeth graze your pulse point possessively. “Only you. Only mine.”

The next thrust is deeper than the last, stealing the breath from your lungs and making your hips jolt up instinctively, a surprised sound catching in your throat.

“Oh god, Mark,” you whine, nails digging into his back, voice breaking on a breathy moan. “Ah—ngh—fuck—”

The agonizingly slow drag of his cock has your vision swimming, pain and pleasure blurring into one overwhelming sensation. He’s so thick, so long, so heavy inside you. Every time he pushes in, it feels impossibly deeper, stretching you, filling you—until it makes your stomach bulge slightly, a small bump appearing in the flat plane of your abdomen.

Mark groans, eyes going wide, his hand settling at the base of your belly. “God, look at you,” he breathes, awed. His fingers press into the bulge, tracing the outline of himself inside you. “Fuck, I’m buried so deep in you. Right here, Y/N—you feel that? That’s me claiming you. Oh-ho-ho, goddamn, look what I do to you.”

His dark chuckle vibrates against your skin even as awe colors his voice. He punctuates each word with a punishing thrust, fingers digging into the visible outline of himself inside you like he wants to brand the shape of his possession into your flesh. And you can’t look away either—because holy shit, this is the first time you’ve ever felt anything like this, and it’s almost too much. Too intense. Too consuming.

Tears streak down your flushed cheeks as your legs tremble violently. The initial pain has melted into overwhelming pleasure, your body adjusting to his impossible size with desperate, shameful eagerness.

“More,” you rasp between gasps, arching up shamelessly. “Faster. Harder. Please—”

Mark chuckles darkly, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deep. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice thick with hunger. “Gonna make you feel good. Gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

The dark promise in his words should terrify you. Instead, it sends another pulse of white-hot pleasure straight to your aching cock. Then he moves—harder, faster—tearing the air from your lungs, leaving you breathless and reeling. Your body clenches around him, every nerve alight as a broken whimper escapes your lips.

“Mark—Mark—” you mumble his name between gasps, unable to form anything else. “Mark, ah—Mark—mmh—fuck—”

A sharp cry rips from your throat as Mark shifts his angle, hitting a spot inside you that sends a violent shudder through your entire body. Heat surges down your spine, forcing you to arch off the bed, toes curling, every nerve alight with raw, electric pleasure.

“Fuck! There! Mark—ngh—fuck!” you moan, biting down on your lip so hard you taste the faint tang of blood. Mark growls, his movements deep and unrelenting, each thrust pressing you further into the mattress. The bed creaks beneath the force, your skin burning where his grip tightens. “There! Keep going! Fuck, it feels so good—Mark!”

Then—through the haze of heat, through the sinful sounds of skin against skin, of your wrecked moans and his low, animalistic groans—something intrudes. A sharp, buzzing vibration. Your ringtone.

Your eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused, flickering toward your desk—just a few feet away, where Mark tossed your phone. You’re aware the screen glows, the sound ringing in the background, before another brutal thrust wipes all coherent thought away. Let it ring. Nothing matters except the way Mark’s splitting you apart, remaking you as his with every snap of his hips.

The phone rings and rings… then stops. And you don’t even notice when it goes silent, too preoccupied with the drag of Mark’s cock inside you, the way your nails sink into the broad expanse of his back, leaving behind deep, angry marks.

“Perfect,” Mark rasps against your ear, his voice wrecked and reverent, “Taking me so fucking good, Y/N. Made for this. Made for me.”

Your thighs shake violently around him, toes curling as his filthy praise reduces you to nothing but lustful moans and pleading whimpers.

Then—your phone starts ringing again.

This time, Mark notices.

He stills inside you with a low snarl, his body tensing as he straightens slightly, casting an annoyed glance toward the device. But when he reaches for it—his cock still buried deep inside you, making you whimper—his expression darkens with wicked amusement as he reads the caller ID.

“Well, well,” he purrs, looming over you once more, planting one hand beside your head while the other dangles the phone just inches from your flushed, dazed face. “Take a look at this.”

Your stomach drops at the familiar name flashing on screen. It’s Mark—your Mark—calling you.

“Should we answer it, baby?” he muses, tilting his head as his lips curl into a smirk. “Let him hear what you sound like when you’re properly fucked?”

“No—!” you gasp, wrecked and breathless, your heart hammering against your ribs as you reach for the phone, desperate to snatch it from his grasp. “Mark—”

But he’s quicker.

“Ah, ah,” he tuts, lifting a single finger in mock reprimand, effortlessly keeping the phone out of reach. His other hand tightens around your hip, keeping you pinned. “You need to get your shit together first, Y/N. Wouldn’t want him to know what you’re doing, now would you?” His eyes gleam with wicked delight. “With that pornographic little voice of yours—so wrecked, so needy for my cock…” He leans in, his breath fanning over your ear. “I bet he’d figure it out immediately.”

A shudder rips through you.

Your vision blurs—tears welling at the edges, cold fear twisting deep in your gut. But worse—worse—is the way your body betrays you. The way you clench around him involuntarily at the thought. At the sheer humiliation of it.

Of your Mark listening on the other end. Unaware. Oblivious. As his variant fucks and ruins you.

“See? I know you,” he murmurs, his voice syrup-thick with satisfaction as he strokes your cheek with unnerving tenderness. His free hand cups your face, his thumb dragging over your lips. “I know exactly what kind of fucked-up little thing you are.”

His grin widens as he watches your lips tremble, your breath coming in quick, uneven pants.

“I’m glad you’re the same here as you were in my universe, Y/N. I adore you like this.” Then, his tone dips lower, velvet wrapped around something dangerous. “Now—try to keep him distracted while I take my time with you, yeah?”

Before you can react, he thrusts—sharp and sudden—just once, but it’s enough to steal the air from your lungs. A strangled gasp escapes you, body reacting on instinct, pulse hammering as he stills once more.

Mark leans in, his breath hot against your parted lips, his amusement dripping with warning. “Otherwise, he’ll keep calling,” he murmurs. “And I don’t want him interrupting us.”

Your stomach twists in knots of anticipation and dread. The phone is still ringing, still just out of reach—Mark’s name flashing on the screen, a second away from being answered. And all the while, this Mark remains inside you—hot, solid, pressing deeper with each second of silence.

“Okay...” you breathe, forcing air into your lungs. “Okay.”

Mark’s smirk turns predatory as he brushes a featherlight kiss to your nose before tapping the answer button, offering you the phone back—and as soon as you grab it and press it to your ear, he immediately resumes his slow, deliberate thrusts that make your toes curl.

“Y/N? Y/N!” The real Mark’s voice—familiar, concerned, kind—crackles through the speaker. He sounds breathless, frantic. “Are you okay? You called and I couldn’t answer but then—but then I called back and you didn’t pick up, and I’m—I’m worried—”

You squeeze your eyes shut, teeth sinking into your lip, fighting so hard to keep quiet. But the Mark above you doesn’t make it easy, his hips moving with cruel precision, his smirk deepening as he watches you struggle.

“…Y/N?”

“I’m here,” you choke out, voice miraculously steady despite the way your body arches into each thrust. The not-yours-Mark’s eyes glint with dark amusement as he increases his pace. “I’m... okay.”

Your voice wavers. You can’t help it. A shaky sigh escapes when he ducks his head to nip at your throat, his hot breath raising goosebumps across your oversensitive skin.

“Thank God,” your actual Mark exhales, the relief in his voice almost painful to hear. “Listen, Cecil just— he lost track of a variant. Said he was heading your way, Y/N.”

The not-yours-Mark stills inside you, his expression shifting to something dangerously intrigued. “Oh?” he murmurs against your pulse.

“Y-yeah?” you blurt too loudly, praying the real Mark didn’t hear him.

Your fingers dig into the sheets as the not-yours-Mark begins moving again with renewed purpose, each thrust calculated to wring helpless sounds from your throat while you struggle to keep your breathing even.

“Yeah,” your actual Mark replies through the phone, his voice strained. “I’ll—I’ll come your way. Or the GDA will pick you up, but—it’s dangerous to stay in your apartment! Please, just—just leave. Right now.”

You choke back another gasp, barely holding yourself together. No—you can’t let Mark come here. You can’t let the GDA get involved either. The humiliation would be unbearable—agents witnessing you like this, being taken apart by the same monster who probably leveled cities and slaughtered thousands before claiming you in your own bed.

“No!” you blurt out, voice cracking under the weight of too many emotions. “No, nngh, fuck—you can’t!”

You’re losing control. This Mark—the wrong Mark—is hitting your prostate with every brutal thrust, his teeth sinking into that sensitive spot on your neck while his fingers twist your nipples mercilessly. Stars explode behind your eyelids as another lewd groan escapes you. Virgin or not, there’s no way you could stay quiet under this assault. You realize with dawning horror that he doesn’t want you quiet—he wants you loud, to moan, to let your Mark hear you. To let him know.

That yeah—he’s here.

And yeah—he’s fucking you.

For a moment, there’s only silence on the other end of the call.

Then finally, Mark speaks again, slower this time. “This—this isn’t negotiable, Y/N,” he says, though there’s something off—a hesitation, a shift in his tone as your breath stutters audibly. “Are you… okay?”

No. You’re not okay. You’re overwhelmed, wrecked by pleasure more intense than anything you’ve ever known, losing your virginity to a twisted version of the man you love. Hot tears of shame spill down your cheeks as a sob tears from your throat.

“...Y/N?” Mark’s voice sounds distant now. You can barely hear him over the rush of blood in your ears, over the slick sound of skin meeting skin, over the obscene, broken whimpers falling from your lips.

“Mmmh, fuck,” you gasp as the pressure builds unbearably inside you. “Fuck—Mark—”

“That’s it, baby,” not-your-Mark whispers in your ear, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction. “You wanna come, don’t you? Wanna scream my name?”

The dam breaks. “Yes! Fuck, yes, yes!” Your voice shatters with each punishing thrust. Dignity forgotten, you arch desperately against him, meeting every movement as you beg mindlessly. “Mark—I can’t—oh god, please, please...!”

The line goes silent for an agonizing moment, the static crackle carrying more weight than words ever could. You squeeze your eyes shut, shame and guilt and disgust warring with the pleasure coiling tight in your belly—but it’s too late now. Far too late.

“Y/N...?” his voice comes through the receiver—your Mark’s voice—strangled and low, thick with realization.

Your stomach drops. He knows. Oh god, he knows. He fucking knows.

Not-your-Mark lets out a pleased hum against your neck, his fingers lazily plucking the phone from your trembling hand while his hips snap forward, forcing a needy moan from your lips. The wet sound of skin on skin is unmistakable. There’s no way your Mark could mistake what’s happening.

Not-your-Mark’s eyes glint with something wicked as he presses the phone to his ear, smirking.

“Too late, dickhead,” he says, just as breathless as you, his voice dripping with smug victory as he punctuates each word with another brutal thrust. “He’s already mine.”

Mark’s furious roar bursts through the speaker. “You—!” you close your eyes, mortified, tears falling down your cheeks because this is the moment Mark realizes you’re a horrible friend. “I’LL FUCKING KILL YO—”

But the sound is cut off with a sickening crunch as not-your-Mark’s fingers tighten, phone shattering, fragments falling like dust.

“Oops,” he pouts mockingly, tilting his head with feigned innocence before his expression darkens. His hand snakes around your throat, not tight enough to hurt but firm enough to claim. “Now where were we, sweetheart?”

When he slams back into you, you arch off the bed with a broken scream, your legs spreading wider of their own volition. He chuckles darkly, hands sliding under your thighs to fold you nearly in half, opening you up so completely that each thrust punches the air from your lungs.

“Fuck,” he growls, pace turning erratic as his control fractures. “Look at you—taking me so perfect. Tell me. Tell me how much you love this. How much you love taking my cock.”

“I love it,” you gasp without thought, your mind obliterated by pleasure. “Fuck—I love it. I love you.”

A deep, guttural moan tears from his throat, his grip on you tightening as he nods frantically. “Yeah? Love me? Fuck— I love you too, baby. I love you so fucking much.”

And you know he’s not your Mark. You know your real Mark is probably flying at full speed right now, minutes, or even seconds from bursting through your window. But Christ—hearing those words, in Mark’s voice, from his lips, with his face twisted in raw, desperate worship—it makes you dizzy. It makes you happy.

“I love you,” you say again, fingers twisting into his dark hair, dragging him down until your panting mouths brush. “I love you. Always have—fuck—since—since before you even got your powers, Mark!”

“Yeah?”

“Yes! Ah—fuck, yes!” The words dissolve into moans as you kiss the corner of his mouth, your lips sliding messily against his. “When you were such--a nerd! Loved you since we were kids. Love you now. I always will—”

He groans, swallowing your words with a feverish kiss, his hands squeezing your cheeks until your mouth falls open, surrendering completely. Tongues tangle, breath mingles, and he moans right into you—

“I love—” he pants, his movements growing erratic. “I love you, Y/N. Fuck—Gonna take you home with me. Gonna keep you forever. Steal you from that idiot...make him see what he threw away—”

Then—suddenly—his hand wraps around your cock.

It’s been untouched this entire time, leaking wildly against your stomach, and the moment his fingers curl around it, a sharp, broken whimper escapes you. Your hips jerk helplessly, legs trembling as pleasure rips through you.

“Fuuuuck,” you sob, shuddering against him. “Don’t stop—don’t stop. I’m gonna—”

“I got you, baby,” he growls, stroking you faster, fucking into you harder. “Gonna make you feel so fucking good. Gonna take you away. Gonna own you!”

And God help you—his words don’t sound like threats when you’re drowning in white-hot ecstasy. In this moment, you’d let him drag you through dimensions, would beg him to claim you completely—because he wants you. He loves you. He craves you in a way you’ve always ached to be craved. And right now—you’d let him take you. You’d let him do whatever the fuck he wanted.

“Ah—ah, Mark—” Your body locks up, stomach tightening, hole clenching around him as the pressure on your cock becomes unbearable. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come—”

“Yeah, baby, let it out,” he growls against your lips, his hand working your cock in perfect sync with his punishing thrusts. “Come for me. Now.”

You shatter with a strangled scream, body jerking violently as you spill across your stomach in thick, hot stripes. Your vision whites out, every muscle locking and spasming as pleasure tears through.

Mark groans like a man possessed, his thrusts faltering as your hole flutters and clenches around him. “Fuck—fuck—” He slams into you one final time, burying himself deep, and then he’s coming too, hot and thick, filling you to the brim. His grip tightens as he grinds himself deeper, prolonging every last spurt, wringing every aftershock from you until you’re trembling and spent beneath him.

You can’t move. Can’t speak. All you can do is lie there, trembling, as he keeps pumping into you, dragging out your orgasm until you’re sobbing from oversensitivity. His hips grind against yours, forcing every last drop into you like he’s determined to make sure you remember this.

When he finally pulls out, you whimper at the loss, your body limp and wrecked. Sweat and come cling to your skin, your chest heaving as aftershocks wrack through you. Every inch of you is marked—bruises blooming where his fingers, his teeth, his lips claimed you.

You barely register the mattress dipping as he lays beside you, his arms wrapping around your exhausted frame. A soft, lingering kiss presses to your forehead, his voice a soothing murmur against your damp skin.

“Shh, shh, Y/N,” his fingers trace lazy circles against your back. “Go to sleep. I’ll take care of everything.”

Even in your dazed, post-orgasmic haze, you understand what “everything” means.

It means your Mark—your universe’s Mark—is on his way. It means a fight is inevitable. It means blood, destruction, the clash of two forces that look the same but could never be. And when that moment comes, you’ll have to face him—face the shame that will devour you whole.

Because how dare you?

How dare you moan his name for someone else? Whisper desperate I love yous to the wrong version of him? Come undone beneath a man who wears his face but isn’t him?

And after you told him it was fine—that you were fine—staying just friends. After you swallowed every aching, desperate feeling just to keep him close. But in the end, you gave in. You let temptation pull you under. You let yourself have him—or the closest thing to him. And now, there’s no taking it back.

You know you’re wrong.

You know time is running out.

And you know that when he says he’ll take care of everything, this Mark intends to kill your Mark—just as your Mark wants to kill him.

But your body betrays you—mind foggy, muscles lax with satisfaction, the afterglow pulling you under. As consciousness fades, this not-quite-Mark draws you closer, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth. His breathing steadies, his solid frame surrounding you in deceptive safety.

(And vaguely, you think about your Mark. About how he’s been pulling away from you, slowly but surely. How, ever since you confessed your feelings and ruined everything, he hasn’t looked at you the same.

“I promise I’ll tell you,” he’d say, a week ago, his eyes avoiding yours in a way that pains you. “I promise I’ll tell you the truth. All of it. And—”

Then he’d looked up, and something in his gaze pinned you there—fervent, almost feverish.

“I’ll—” he’d stop himself, cheeks coloring faintly, and yet he wouldn’t relent his steady gaze. ”I’ll tell you the reason I’ve been acting like such an asshole to you. And I hope...you can forgive me after.”

“Why not now?” you’d ask, puzzled, fingers curling into your palms. ”Why not when I’m asking you, Mark? Right here, and right now.”

He’d flinch, his eyes closing for a fleeting second before opening them again. ”Just—gimme one more week,” he’d rasped. “One more week and—I promise I’ll tell you everything. I’ll—confess everything.”

And as he’d turn around, his broad back to you as he’d take off—not before glancing at you with troubled eyes, an intensity in his eyes you can’t quite place—you’d only guess he’s gonna say he hates you. That he’s gonna say, now once and for all, he can no longer be your friend.

And how you should’ve kept your heart locked tight, your love buried deep, just so you could keep him close. How you should’ve never, ever opened your big mouth and let your feelings spill out.

But you did, and now nothing’s the same.)

“I’ll take care of it,” Mark murmurs again as you drift away, his voice a dark promise. “Never gonna lose you again. Never.”

The last thing you register before sleep claims you is the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your cheek.

And in the final flicker of consciousness, a single thought drifts through your mind— You wished Mark had told you the reason.

Now, he never might.

[cloudyzeusy]

The Biggest Loser

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synopsis: gojo's bet pairing: frat! gojo X top male reader note: any comments or reblogs are appreciated, my own contribution to frat gojo lol warning: first time, virgin, overstimulation, dumbification, college AU

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"Gojo, you have to admit, you always go after the same type," Geto teased, taking a sip of his beer.

"It's not my fault i have a type" Gojo shrugged, leaning back against the couch not wanting to entertain this conversation. As president he had a reputation to uphold and simply fucking nobodies wasn't the way.

"No, I just think your scared of bad dick" Shoko chimed in. At that his friends began laughing hard. Gojo only went after the more 'experienced' people on the campus like the typical sorority girls and guys who were know to sleep around. 

The whole group burst out laughing. Gojo's usual conquests were the experienced ones- sorority girls and guys who knew exactly how to handle him. He never risked anything less than a guaranteed good time.

"I'm not scared, okay? I'm just delicate around who i let fuck me" `Gojo defended himself, flashing that signature blinding grin.

Mhm. Sure," Geto and Shoko said in perfect unison, exchanging skeptical looks. The rest of the circle didn't even try to hide their disbelief. Everyone knew Gojo was a shameless manwhore he didn't know the meaning of picky.

"Fine." Gojo snatched his beer and chugged the rest in one go, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The alcohol burned just enough to fuel his ego. "I'll let the biggest-looking loser here tonight fuck me. Right here, right now. That'll shut you all up."

His friends' eyes widened, but the challenge hung in the air like a dare no one expected him to actually follow through on.

Gojo pushed off the couch and prowled into the crowded party, head held high, white hair practically glowing under the shitty colored lights. For once, he wasn't scanning for the usual hot bodies grinding on the dance floor. He was looking for someone pathetic enough to make the story hilarious later but not so ugly he'd regret it.

The music grew quieter as he reached the far corner of the house, where a smaller group had claimed a beat-up couch for some lame card game. There you were.

Tall. Broad-shouldered under that oversized hoodie. Handsome in that quiet, unaware way with sharp jaw, messy hair, and those cute glasses slipping down your nose while you focused on your cards. Your nerdy friends looked just as shocked when Gojo strode straight up and wrapped long fingers around your arm.

"C'mon," he said, already tugging you away without asking your name. Your friends' mouths fell open in confusion, but Gojo didn't care.

He pulled you down the hallway, away from the noise, until the bass was just a dull thump behind closed doors. Only then did he stop, turning to face you with a lazy, predatory smirk. His bright blue eyes raked over you slowly taking in your height, the way your glasses framed your face, the surprised flush already creeping up your neck.

"Not bad," He murmured, almost to himself. "I thought I'd have to scrape the bottom of the barrel, but you... you're actually kinda hot for a nerd. Shame I never noticed you before."

Gojo stepped closer, backing you gently against the wall, his voice dropping into that smooth, teasing drawl he knew made people weak.

"Here's the deal. My friends think I can't handle 'bad dick.' So tonight, I'm letting you fuck me. No strings attached, no repeats unless you're decent, I guess." He tilted his head, lips curling. "But let's be real. I bet you'll be done in under five minutes. Try not to embarrass yourself too badly, okay? I still have a reputation to uphold."

He leaned in until his breath brushed your ear, voice low and mocking.

"Name's Gojo Satoru. Now... take me upstairs and show me what that cock can do." At that, you lifted Gojo effortlessly. His long legs instinctively wrapped around your waist, and a surprised little laugh escaped him as he felt just how strong you were. You carried him all the way down the hall and into the spare bedroom, pausing only once you’d crossed the threshold. 

Of course you knew what was about to happen. This was going to be your first time. But the second you had Gojo in your arms, every single thing you thought you’d learned from porn vanished from your head. You froze in the middle of the room, heart hammering.

Gojo noticed immediately. He scoffed, muttering under his breath just loud enough for you to hear. “Please tell me his dick is big at least…”

He pulled back slightly, eyes locked on yours with that signature cocky smirk. Without breaking eye contact, he reached down and tugged his shirt off in one smooth motion, revealing the lean, toned body underneath. You couldn’t look away. Every inch of him was unfairly perfect.

Then came the trousers. He pushed them down along with his boxers in one go, stepping out of them with casual grace. The moment he was fully bare in front of you, your mouth went dry then immediately started watering. You’d never imagined just watching a man undress could be this erotic, but Gojo had a way of making everything feel like foreplay.

He stepped closer, closing the distance until his bare chest brushed against your clothed one. His fingers made quick work of your jeans, popping the button and dragging the zipper down. He shoved both your jeans and underwear down your thighs in one go.

The second your cock sprang free, thick and heavy, Gojo’s eyes widened in genuine surprise. For a split second that arrogant mask slipped, replaced by raw, hungry shock. He let out a low, impressed whistle.

“Well… fuck,” he breathed, a slow grin spreading across his face as he quickly recovered. “You’ve been hiding that this whole time?”

Before you could even respond, he sank gracefully to his knees, eyes never leaving yours. He leaned forward, warm breath ghosting over your length as he lowered his mouth toward you. Gojo’s lips hovered just above your cock, hot breath teasing the sensitive head. He glanced up with that signature cocky smirk, eyes glittering with amusement.

He gave the thick shaft a slow, deliberate lick from base to tip. “Guess the quiet ones really do hide the biggest surprises."

He finally opened his mouth and swallowed you down smoothly, taking you surprisingly deep. The wet heat made your breath hitch and your hands tremble at your sides. Gojo hummed smugly, clearly enjoying how overwhelmed you looked as he started bobbing his head with practiced confidence.

For the first few moments you just stood there, frozen, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your ears. This was really happening. Your first time. And Gojo Satoru - the campus playboy - was on his knees for you. The sensation was almost too much; you had to bite your lip to keep from moaning too loudly too soon.

But after a minute, the initial shock started to fade. The fantasies and hours you’d spent imagining exactly this kind of scenario… it all began flooding into your head. Your hand slowly moved to his hair, not gripping hard yet, just resting there. Gojo pulled off with a wet pop, smirking up at you.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue? Or are you about to blow already?”

You swallowed hard, voice shaky. “I… I need lube. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Gojo blinked, then let out a surprised laugh. “Holy shit, you’re actually polite. Top drawer, nightstand. Hurry up.” You quickly retrieved the bottle, hands still a little clumsy as you slicked yourself up generously, then poured more onto your fingers. Gojo watched with raised eyebrows, clearly entertained by how careful you were being.

You climbed onto the bed and gently pushed him onto his back. He spread his legs with that same arrogant grace, but there was a flicker of genuine surprise when you leaned down and pressed one slick finger against his entrance.

“Easy… just relax,” You muttered, more to yourself than to him, echoing advice you’d read a hundred times.

Gojo scoffed. “I’m not the virgin here- ah!.” His voice hitched as you carefully pushed the first finger inside. You moved slowly, watching his face for any sign of discomfort, curling and scissoring while your other hand stroked his cock to keep him relaxed.

By the time you added a second finger, then a third, Gojo’s smug comments had quieted into low breaths and occasional bitten-off groans. He was tight, hotter than you’d imagined, and the way he clenched around your fingers made your cock throb painfully.

When you finally lined yourself up, the fat head of your cock pressing against his slick hole, you paused again, breathing hard. “Gojo… tell me if it’s too much.”

He rolled his eyes, though his cheeks were already faintly pink. “Just fuck me already, nerd-”

You pushed in then cutting off any annoying back chat.

The first inch made both of you gasp. He was impossibly tight, even with all the lube and prep. Gojo’s head fell back against the pillow, mouth open in a silent “oh”. You froze, fighting every instinct to thrust forward, giving him time to adjust while your hands gripped his hips hard enough to leave marks.

“F-fuck… you’re actually huge,” He hissed through gritted teeth, the usual bravado cracking just a little. “Slow- go slow, shit…”

You nodded, voice strained. “Okay… okay.” You rocked forward inch by inch, watching his face the entire time, until you were finally buried to the hilt, balls-deep inside him. The heat, the pressure, the way his walls fluttered around every thick inch was overwhelming. For a long moment you stayed completely still, panting, trying not to cum on the spot from how good it felt.

Then you started moving.

At first your thrusts were careful, shallow, testing the rhythm. Gojo let out a shaky breath, still trying to keep his smirk. “That all you got? Come on, make it quick. I’ve got class tomor-”

You snapped your hips a little harder, finally finding the angle that made his breath stutter. The nervousness slowly melted away and your pace got faster till every thrust punched right against his prostate.

Gojo’s eyes widened. “Wait- ah, fuck- right there-”

You didn’t stop. You kept that building rhythm, one hand pressing his thigh higher, opening him up more, while the other wrapped around his leaking cock, stroking him firmly but never fast enough to let him cum.

“Ten minutes?” You murmured, voice gaining confidence with every thrust. “You’re gonna need way more than that, Satoru.”

His bratty replies started dissolving. The cocky frat president who had dragged you upstairs expecting an easy win was slowly turning into a moaning, trembling mess beneath you.

“Shit.. slow down- it’s too big, ahh, fuck!”

But you didn’t slow down instead you had more long, powerful strokes that dragged against his walls and nailed his prostate on every pass. Gojo’s hands fisted the sheets, his usual sharp tongue reduced to broken gasps and whimpers.

You leaned down, glasses still perched on your nose, and growled against his ear: “Look at you. The big bad Gojo Satoru, falling apart on a virgin’s cock. Bet none of those other guys ever stretched you this deep.”

Gojo let out a wrecked moan, legs shaking as you kept pounding into him, pace relentless now that you’d found your confidence. His cock twitched hard in your hand, leaking nonstop, but you kept edging him, bringing him right to the edge only to ease off just enough to keep him desperate.

By the time you flipped him onto his stomach- ass up, face buried in the pillows-  he was barely coherent, drooling onto the sheets, legs trembling uncontrollably as you railed him from behind.

“P-please- fuck, I can’t- too much.. right there don’t stop- ah, shit, I’m gonna cum again-!” But you didn’t give him a second to recover nor to catch his breath. You gripped his narrow hips and slammed back inside in one smooth, deep thrust. The new angle let you bury even more of your thick cock into him.

Gojo’s muffled scream was immediate. His hands clawed at the sheets, body jolting forward from the force.“F-fuck ! Slow down, you fucking nerd!”

But you were past listening to his bratty demands now. The rhythm you’d found felt too good, too right. Your hips snapped forward again and again. The wet sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, mixed with the obscene squelch of lube and Gojo’s increasingly broken moans was absolutely pornographic.

You leaned over his back, one hand fisting his white hair to pull his head up just enough so you could growl into his ear: “Slow down? You were the one bragging you’d turn me into a mess in ten minutes. Look at you now, Satoru. Ass up like a desperate slut, creaming all over the sheets. ”

Gojo tried to spit out a reply, but it came out as a garbled whimper when you angled your thrusts to nail his prostate dead-on. His cock hung heavy and untouched between his legs, swinging with every brutal snap of your hips, leaking a steady stream of precum onto the bed.

You reached underneath him and wrapped your fingers around his length, stroking him in time with your thrusts again. Gojo’s whole body shuddered violently.

His hole clenched like a vice around your thick cock as he came hard. Thick ropes of cum splattered the sheets beneath him. But you didn’t stop. You fucked him straight through it, hips never faltering, drawing out every pulse of his orgasm until he was sobbing into the pillow.

“Too much- too much, please- I can’t-!”

“You can,” You said hoarsely, the glasses you still wore fogged slightly from how hard you were breathing. “You’re going to take every inch until I’m done with you. This is what you wanted, right? The biggest virgin on campus fucking you senseless?”

You pulled almost all the way out, admiring how his hole gaped and fluttered around nothing for a split second, before slamming back in to the hilt. Gojo’s legs gave out completely. He collapsed flat onto his stomach, but you just followed him down, covering his body with yours and grinding deep, rolling your hips in dirty circles that kept constant pressure on his abused prostate.

You finally let yourself chase your own release. Your thrusts grew erratic, deeper, harder, until you buried yourself as far as you could go and came with a low groan, flooding his clenching hole with pulse after pulse of hot cum. Gojo let out a wrecked cry as he felt it, his own cock twitching weakly and dribbling one last pathetic spurt onto the soaked sheets.

Even after you finished, you stayed buried inside him, gently rocking your hips to ride out the aftershocks while Gojo trembled beneath you, completely spent. You had fucked him through orgasm after orgasm, turning the campus playboy into a sobbing, creaming, dumbed-out wreck who could only babble and beg for more.

You pressed a surprisingly soft kiss to the back of his neck, murmuring against his sweat-damp skin: “…Still think you’ll be able to walk to class tomorrow?”

Gojo could only whimper in response, too fucked-out to form words.

The next morning, the frat house was unusually quiet when Gojo finally limped downstairs around noon. Every step made him wince. His neck and chest were covered in dark hickeys and bite marks, and he moved like someone who’d been thoroughly wrecked.

His frat brothers were gathered in the kitchen, smirking the second they saw him. One of them whistled low. “Damn, Gojo. You look like you got hit by a truck. How’d it go with the library nerd? Did you turn him into a mess like you promised?”

Gojo froze at the bottom of the stairs, face flushing bright red. He tried to play it cool, running a hand through his messy white hair, but the way he carefully lowered himself onto a chair  and then immediately hissed in pain gave everything away.

He buried his burning face in his arms on the table and muttered hoarsely, voice still raspy from all the moaning and screaming the night before:

“…Shut the fuck up.”

The entire kitchen erupted in laughter.

[desiresin]

genuinely so obsessed with this good lord

[willowsslove]

So I just discovered your blog and omfg... YOU WRITE FOR MALE READERS??? Actually in tears rn and atp I've already read all of your m!reader fics in just one sitting, you're so talented and you're also so efficient when writing, your recent caleb fic had my toes curling 😭😭 now I'm here to request something since you're open for it.

Can I request Jock Gojo x Nerd M!reader?? Gojo is not the brightest in academics, and he's also a womanizer but didn't really get down on them. So Gojo is failing one of his classes and the teacher asked him to get a tutor if not he's going to lose his varsity title, and that tutor is the m!reader, it's like a trope where the reader fell first but Gojo fell harder at the end. As for the smut part.. in the library maybe and some cockwarming bcs we freaky 👀

(Stay safe and hydrated btw!! 💗)

—🍀 (Can I be the four-leaf clover anon?)

Tomorrow (Gojo Satoru x Male Reader)

Genre: Smut.

Warnings. 18+, male reader, College AU, Tutor/Student, Student Gojo Satoru, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Pining, Flirting, Teasing, Possessive Gojo Satoru, Soft Gojo Satoru, Himbo Gojo Satoru, Semi-Public Sex, Library Sex, Blow Jobs, Cock Warming, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Creampie, Multiple Orgasms, Aftercare, Cuddling, Confessions MDNI!

Word Count: 10,986

Synopsis -

I'm so sorry to the sweetheart who requested this. I wrote it, and when I was proofing it...I HATED IT! SO MUCH! The writing was trash! 🤮. I couldn't post it! So I rewrote the lot!

I hope this one lives up to your expectations though! Please still be my four-leaf clover anon! 🥺

(P.s. I'll be posting the female version asap)

Masterlist

The scent of old books lingered in the air, mingling with the faint scent of the coffee you’d let cool beside you. The heating system murmured steadily, a low vibration that seemed to settle into your bones the longer you sat still.

You had arrived twenty minutes early, the way you always did, arranging your materials with meticulous care, the syllabus at the center, highlighters fanned out in chromatic order, notebook open to a fresh page already marked with the date and section title in your very precise handwriting.

Order helped. Order kept the small, traitorous flutter in your chest from spreading when you thought too long about who was coming. 

The double doors at the far end of the room swung open with the careless momentum of someone who had never once worried about being seen. And there he was.

Satoru Gojo.

His snow white hair had been shoved back beneath a backwards facing baseball hat, strands already escaping to curl against his temples, his varsity jacket hung open over broad shoulders, and beneath it, a plain white shirt clung to the lean planes of his chest.

He spotted you almost immediately, blue eyes flicking over the rows of tables until they landed on the one corner you had claimed.

 A grin curved his mouth, the same one that had once stopped your breath in a crowded hallway freshman year when he’d shouldered past you, murmured a quick ‘sorry, cutie’, and kept walking without a second glance. 

You had hated how that single word, that single smile, had lodged itself somewhere in your chest and refused to leave.

Now he crossed the distance in long, unhurried strides, backpack swinging from his hand. When he reached the table he let the bag drop with a heavy thud that caused a ripple of turned heads and stifled sighs through the nearby carrels. 

Several students shot him looks, some of irritation, some of awe, before reluctantly returning to their work.

You forced yourself not to look up.

“You’re late” you said, voice level, eyes fixed on the syllabus page you had already read three times.

“Traffic” he answered without missing a beat, the lie so smooth it almost sounded true. The chair opposite you scraped back, he dropped into it with the loose-limbed sprawl of someone who has never needed to make himself small.

Long legs stretched out beneath the table, knees falling wide, the inseam of his jeans giving you a view you had absolutely no intention of acknowledging. Heat crawled up the back of your neck anyway. 

You shifted your gaze to the margin of the page, thumb brushing absently along the edge of the paper as though the texture might distract you

A beat passed. Then another.

Only when the silence began to feel pointed did you finally lift your head.

Those eyes were still impossibly bright, too vivid, too piercing, like you were staring into the heart of the summer sky and finding it staring right back.

They held yours without hesitation, without fear, amusement curling at the corners as though he already knew exactly what kind of internal arithmetic you were performing. 

You wondered how many weeks you had spent watching him from the periphery of lecture halls, how carefully you had schooled your expression into one of disinterest every time his laughter rolled across the quad.

How you had told yourself, repeatedly, insistently, that the campus’s most notorious flirt would never notice someone like you except as a very temporary inconvenience.

He leaned back, arms crossing over his chest, jacket sliding slightly down one shoulder.

“Alright, nerd” he sighed, the word soft around the edges. “Teach.”

The nickname made your eye twitch. You felt a ripple move through you, irritation first, then something quieter, a flicker of want that had no business being there at all. 

You pressed your lips together, schooled your expression into one of exasperation and slid the first worksheet across the table without comment, pushing your glasses higher on the bridge of your nose with a finger.

Your pulse was steady, mostly. You had spent two semesters learning how to keep it that way in his presence, how to hide even a flicker of interest.

But as he leaned forward to pull the paper closer, the sleeve of his jacket brushed the back of your hand, just the slightest graze of fabric against your skin, and for a moment you struggled to control your reaction to that accidental contact. 

Your breath caught, something you hid behind a cough, eyes skirting off him, off the way his lashes dipped when he actually bothered to read the first problem.

You exhaled slowly through your nose, trying to steady yourself.

This, you thought, with something close to resignation, was going to be difficult.

Not because he was incapable, you knew he wasn’t, you had seen him solve problems in his head faster than most people could write them down… when he cared to try. 

No, the difficulty would lay in the slow, inevitable erosion of your own defences, every careless brush of contact, every lazy grin he may toss your way, as though testing how long you could pretend indifference, every time those too-blue eyes lingered a half-second longer than necessary.

You had spent so long convincing yourself the crush was harmless, contained, private baggage you could carry around without consequence.

Sitting across from him now, watching the faint crease form between his brows as he frowned down at the worksheet, you understood, unequivocally, that your baggage would, soon, no longer be private.

---

The first few sessions were a practise in low-grade frustration. 

Gojo arrived each time with the same carelessness, white hair tousled beneath the ever-present cap, the faint scent of cedar and citrus that trailed after him. 

He doodled in the margins of every worksheet you handed him, lanky stick figures mid-dunk, occasionally a tiny version of himself wearing sunglasses and giving a thumbs-up. 

When you tried to redirect his attention he would glance up, blue eyes lazy and amused, and ask you to repeat yourself, sometimes up to three times, before finally admitting with a sheepish half-grin that he hadn’t been listening at all.

You told yourself it was bearable because it was temporary. A finite number of hours, a very clear endpoint, just enough hours to scrape a passing grade so he can keep his spot on the steam, and enough time for Professor Yaga to sign off on the extra credit you greatly needed. 

You kept your voice even, your explanations simply, your gaze fixed on the page between you rather than on the way his fingers toyed with the cap of a highlighter or the way his mouth curled down on one side when didn’t understand something.

But even for you, concentration was a fragile thing. 

Every time he leaned forward to peer at a problem, the collar of his shirt shifted and you caught the clean line of his throat, the dip of his collarbone.

Every time he huffed in genuine confusion and raked a hand through his hair, pushing the cap back, you felt the pull to look longer, to let your eyes linger on the way his lashes cast shadows against his cheeks when he frowned. 

You hated how your very body betrayed you, heartbeat steady one moment, in turmoil the next, while he remained blissfully unaware of the effects he had on you. 

Then something shifted.

It happened on an ordinary Tuesday evening when your patience was already worn thin. The library was quieter than usual, the usual clusters of students thinned by impending midterms, leaving only the soft rustle of pages and the distant clack of someone typing. 

You had arrived early again, worksheets laid out, the clock on your phone ticking past the agreed start time by fifteen minutes, then twenty. 

You were halfway through gathering your things, notebook snapped shut, a half scribbled note telling him not to bother turning up anymore, when the doors parted and he walked in.

Not the usual swagger. No easy grin thrown over his shoulder at whoever had held the door for him.

His shoulders were rounded, steps almost dragging. The bright blue of his eyes looked muted beneath heavier shadows than you had ever seen there, lids low, the usual spark dimmed. 

He moved like someone carrying more weight than his frame could carry.

You froze halfway out of your chair, palms braced on the tabletop, breath catching at the sight of him. Worry gnawed in your stomach, unwelcome and unasked for. You sat back down without conscious decision, the chair creaking faintly under you.

He dropped into the seat beside you rather than across, closer than he had ever chosen to sit before, and said nothing. Just looked at you with those tired eyes, head tilted slightly in silent request for you to begin.

Your hands flexed against the wood, gaze darting between his face and the neat stack of problems you had prepared.

“Um… do you like tea?”

The question came out small, shy. You squeezed your thumb tightly in your fist, hoping the brief pain would steady the sudden thrum beneath your ribs.

He blinked slowly, confusion creasing the space between his brows. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” You nodded once, and stood before the impulse could second-guess itself. Your wallet was already in your hand, fingers closing around it in your backpack. “Wait here. Don't move.”

You were moving before he could respond, slipping between the tables, breaking into a jog the moment the heavy library doors closed behind you. 

The night air outside was cooler than you expected, sharp against your cheeks. You knew the coffee cart tucked into the alcove near the science building, the one that stayed open later than the rest, the barista who recognised your face and your usual order. 

You spotted the warm glow of its fairy lights from a distance and felt a small, ridiculous rush of relief.

The barista was already wiping down the small counter when you reached him, breathless.

“Is it possible to get a coffee real quick?”

He glanced up, smiled the smile of someone who had seen you in every kind of hurry, and was already reaching for the large cup you always took.

“A cappuccino” you added, “and a chamomile tea. Please.”

He nodded, turned to the machine. Steam hissed, milk frothed, the small sounds oddly comforting in the empty quad.

You kept glancing back toward the library doors, half expecting to see Gojo slipping out, disappearing into the night, the whole errand rendered pointless. But the path remained empty.

You rushed back carefully, balancing the paper carrier, the warmth of the cups seeping through the cardboard. 

At the entrance you paused, drawing several slow breaths until your heartbeat steadied, until the flush on your face could be blamed on the cold. 

Only then did you push inside.

The library had dimmed further, more tables empty, overhead lights switched off in entire sections so that pools of warm desk-lamp light felt oddly private.

Gojo was exactly where you had left him. Though now he was hunched forward, cheek pressed to the tabletop, cap half off, white lashes resting against the high curve of his cheekbones. 

In the soft glow he looked younger, more fragile than the campus god ever allowed himself to appear.

You stopped beside him, the carrier bending slightly in your grip, taking a moment to stare at him with impunity.

The faint crease still between his brows even in sleep, the slow rise and fall of his shoulders, the way his fingers had curled loosely near his face.

“Hey” you force yourself to whisper after a long moment.

Your hand hovered above his shoulder, uncertain. Touching him felt invasive, crossing a line you had spent weeks fortifying. You hesitated, breath held, then gave the lightest tap with two fingertips. 

The contact sparked through you, sharp and bright, a quick throb of adrenaline that made your heart stutter.

“Gojo.”

You hissed his name, glancing around, a few remaining students lifted their heads, and you offered small, apologetic smiles before lowering yourself into the chair beside him.

You tapped again, softer this time. He stirred, a low groan slipping out as those impossible eyes fluttered open.

The cap slipped fully off. He caught it mid-fall, long fingers raking through his hair before tugging it back into place with practiced ease.

You nudged the chamomile toward him. “Tea.” 

He blinked at the cup, slow to process, then wrapped one large hand around the plastic lid. “Chamomile” you added unnecessarily.

“Oh. Thanks.” His voice was rough, softened by exhaustion. He flicked the lid open, took a careful sip, and hummed, a small, involuntary sound that made you feel more than you should.

You watched the way his lids drooped with each blink, longer each time.

“You should go home” you said quietly after a minute. “You look tired. You won’t retain anything anyway.”

“But—”

“Seriously. You look five minutes away from a coma.” You took a swig of your own coffee, the bitterness soothing, and began gathering your things, worksheets sliding into your bag, pens dropped into their case. “Go home. Get some sleep, okay? We can catch up another day”

He watched you for a long beat, eyes flicking across your face.

“Thanks, dude” he murmured, and the sincerity in it, the absence of teasing, made something in your chest flutter.

Then his gaze drifted higher, settling on your forehead. Pale fingers lifted, reached out. You flinched instinctively, a small backward tilt of your head.

He didn’t falter, only continued the motion more slowly, brushing a single bead of sweat from your brow with the pad of his thumb. He rubbed it between his fingers, studying it with faint amusement.

“You shouldn’t have rushed” he said, voice low, the corner of his mouth curving.

“I didn’t.” The denial came too fast, too sharp. His smirk widened.

You looked away, back to your cup, fingers tightening around the paper. “Go home, Gojo.”

He didn’t move right away. Just sat there, tea cradled between his palms, watching you with an expression you didn’t feel like reading too much into.

Then he shifted.

The movement was small, a slight lean to one side so he could fish his phone from the pocket of his jacket. The device looked almost comical in his hand, dwarfed by the span of his fingers as he woke the screen with a thumb. 

Light flared briefly across his face, sharpening the tired angles of it, and you felt the instinctive urge to look away again before he caught you staring.

He didn’t speak, just held the phone out across the narrow space between you, screen already open to the contacts page, cursor blinking patiently in the name field. 

When you hesitated, he just murmured a quick “Number”.

It was a quiet demand, but it somehow carried more weight because it lacked everything you had come to expect from him.

You blinked anyway. “Why?”

“Because.” He tilted his head down so that the brim of his cap shadowed the worst of the exhaustion in his eyes, but not enough to hide the faint, stubborn glimmer that remained, blue on blue, bright even when everything else about him had dimmed.

You reached out before you could talk yourself out of it, taking care not to brush his fingers.

The device was still warm from his pocket, the metal edge carrying the faint trace of his body heat, and you hated how aware you were of that small fact. 

You typed quickly, name first, then the digits you knew by heart, then slid the phone back across the table rather than risk handing it to him directly.

He lifted it with two fingers, and brought it close to glance at the screen. A small sound escaped him, not quite a laugh, more of a satisfied huff. Then the phone disappeared into his pocket again.

You busied yourself again, zipping your bag, stacking the empty coffee carrier on top of it, anything to keep from looking at him for too long. But you could feel the shift in the air between you, subtle as a change in barometric pressure.

He exhaled through his nose, a slow, deliberate sound, and finally pushed himself upright. The chair creaked faintly under the movement.

“Text you tomorrow” he murmured, voice so low it barely carried, then he smiled again. “If I’m not dead.”

You huffed a small, involuntary laugh despite yourself. “Don’t die. Yaga would kill me for letting his star player flunk.”

Then he stood, jacket sliding into place over his shoulders. He paused beside your chair long enough that you could smell the chamomile on his breath when he spoke.

“Thanks. For the tea. For… this.” His hand gestured vaguely, toward the table, the empty library, you.

You nodded once, unsure what to say.

He lingered another second, as though waiting for something, then turned and walked toward the doors. His steps were slow but steadier than when he’d arrived, the slump in his shoulders less pronounced.

You watched him go, watched the way the dim corridor light swallowed him whole, until the heavy doors closed behind him with a soft, final thud.

Only then did you let out the breath you had been holding.

But when you finally stood to leave, the chair he had pulled close still bore the faint warmth of his body, and you found yourself hesitating before pushing it back into place, some small, private reluctance to erase the evidence that he had been there, that close, that real.

You told yourself it was nothing.

You were getting no better at lying to yourself.

…

After that night, something in the rhythm between you changed. Quietly, without announcement, the way seasons turn when you’re not looking directly at the trees.

He began arriving on time.

Not early, never that. Gojo Satoru would never surrender the small theatre of making an entrance. 

But the clock hands no longer crept past the hour while you sat alone with your open books. He would appear through the library doors at the appointed minute or within a breath of it, white hair catching the overhead light, blue eyes glittering.

He always dropped his bag beside the chair he now preferred, the one beside yours rather than across.

He stopped scrolling on his phone during sessions. The device stayed face-down on the table, screen dark, and even when his fingers itched toward it out of old habit, he would catch himself, flex his fingers once, and return them to the worksheet instead. 

You noticed this because you noticed everything about him, the way his knee no longer bounced restlessly beneath the table, the way he angled his body toward you when you spoke, the faint crease that appeared between his brows when he was actually trying to follow something rather than letting it all slide past him.

Then came the moment that changed you a little more than you were prepared to admit.

You were walking him through a concept he had failed to grasp for weeks, something about implicit differentiation, and you watched the precise instant understanding clicked behind his eyes. 

Those impossible blues widened fractionally, pupils flaring as the pieces clicked together. He leaned forward without thinking, elbows on the table, close enough that you could see the individual streaks of colour in his eyes.

“Damn” he said, voice pitched low. “You’re actually good at this.”

The praise landed as designed, stripped of bravado. Not the cocky smirk he flashed, not the lazy drawl he used to deflect. This was something genuine, a flicker of delight that made his mouth curve in a way you had never had directed at you before.

Heat crawled up your neck and into your cheeks. You schooled your expression into the familiar deadpan mask, the one that had carried you safely through two semesters.

“That’s… literally my job” you answered, voice flatter than you felt.

He laughed, a sound that seemed to settle into the space between your bodies. “Nah. You’re patient. Most people would’ve told me to fuck off by now.”

You let the corner of your mouth twitch, just barely. “I thought about it” you mused.

His laughter deepened, and the sound tugged at something low in your chest. You dipped your head to hide the flush that refused to retreat, pretending to study the next problem while your pulse betrayed you.

“Maybe you should have” he said, and the words came out like a purr, a velvety tease. He leaned in as he spoke, closing the already narrow distance until the air between you filled with the scent of him, sugar from the candy he’d been sucking on when he arrived, the clean warmth that always seemed to radiate from him.

Too close. Far too close.

Your eyes lifted before you could stop them. His face filled your vision, the high curve of his cheekbones, the faint shadow beneath his eyes, the slow part of his lips as he watched you watch him.

Your gaze snagged on his mouth, so pink and soft-looking, and your breath caught, loud enough in the quiet that you were sure he heard it.

Panic flared, alarm bells ringing in your head. You lurched backward, chair legs screeching against the carpet in protest.

“Move back” you barked, the words snapping out harder than you’d intended. Embarrassment and frustration knotted together in your throat. “You’re too close.”

He laughed again, delighted at your reaction, and the sound only made the heat in your face burn hotter. 

He enjoyed this, you realised with a sinking clarity. He enjoyed the way he could pluck at the right strings and watch the reaction ripple across your carefully constructed composure. You hated how easily he did it. And you hated even more that part of you didn’t entirely hate it.

“Oh, come on, cutie.”

Your entire body stiffened, heart slamming against your ribs so hard you felt it in your fingertips.

You didn’t know what to do with your face, your hands, the sudden roaring in your ears. His foot nudged yours beneath the table, just once.

When you didn’t pull away he did it again, firmer this time, then leaned down until his face dipped into your line of sight, blue eyes bright and mercilessly amused.

He studied your face for a moment before he whispered “Cute”.

You shot out of the chair so fast your shoulder nearly clipped his chin. He jerked back, eyes widening, but the delight in them only grew. You felt exposed, like every careful layer you had built had been peeled back in a single careless moment.

“Need a book” you managed, voice strained, almost squeaking at the edges.

He waved a hand in lazy, theatrical sweep, that cocky grin sliding back into place like it had never left. “Go on then.”

So you fled.

The stacks swallowed you gratefully, tall shelves folding around you like a shield. You pressed your back to the cool metal of a bookcase, breath coming in shallow bursts, palms flat against the spines as though they could save you. 

Your hands trembled.

But worse, far worse, was your cock, traitorously hard beneath the fabric of your jeans, aching in a way that made your stomach twist with shame and desire in equal measure.

You closed your eyes and willed it away. Forced slow breaths through your nose, held them for four, released them for six. Tried to summon the familiar armour of detachment, the calm logic that had always carried you through exams, through late nights, through every careful year of your life.

It didn’t work.

Images kept rising unbidden, the curve of his mouth, the warmth of his breath, the way his foot had nudged yours. You could still smell the candy on him, taste the ghost of sugar in the air he’d left behind.

Your mind conjured worse things, his hands on your hips, that same teasing whisper against your ear, the low sound he might make if you ever let yourself imagine him wanting you back.

You pressed the palm of your hand against your mouth, willing the images to stop, willing your body to behave, willing the frantic thump of your heart to quiet.

It didn’t.

You stayed hidden among the books until your breathing steadied, until the hardness eased enough that walking back wouldn’t be a ritual of humiliation, until you could force your expression into something resembling calm neutrality.

---

After five long weeks the evenings had begun to blur into one another, late hours spent hunched over textbooks under the same tired amber glow of desk lamps, the library emptying around you until the only sounds left were the soft turn of pages, the low hum of the ventilation, and the occasional creak of a chair when one of you shifted. 

You had spent every one of those sessions trying to keep your feelings locked behind the same mask of professionalism, voice steady when you corrected his work, eyes fixed on the equations rather than the line of his jaw, the way his fingers sometimes lingered on the edge of a page as though reluctant to let go. 

He had spent those same weeks testing the edges of that mask, brushing too close when he pointed at a problem, letting his knee rest against yours for a second longer than necessary, dropping casual nicknames that made your thoughts blank for a moment.

Tonight the textbook lay open between you, pages creased from overuse. You were both leaning in to trace the same line of work when he spoke.

“Why do you always look at me like that?”

The question was soft, almost casual, but it felt like a knife finding the gap between your armour plating. You froze. The words on the page swam, ink bleeding into meaningless shapes. You forced yourself to breathe, to keep your voice level when you answered.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to figure out if I’m gonna bite or not.”

Your heart slammed against the inside of your ribs, hard enough that you were sure he could feel the tremor through the table.

Your breath turned shallow, unsteady, your eyes darted around the dim reading room, empty seats, a single student far at the opposite end with headphones on, the security desk unmanned for the last hour. No witnesses. No escape.

“I don’t—”

“You do.” He leaned closer, elbows planted on the tabletop, voice dropping to something low and intimate. “You’ve been looking at me like that since day one.”

You wanted the conversation to end there, wanted the neat, safe boundaries you had drawn around yourself to hold firm, wanted the perfect, impenetrable act of indifference to remain intact. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Liar.” His grin unfurled slowly, dangerous in its patience. “Do you like me?”

Your mouth went dry. The question hung between you, so simple, yet too enormous to manage.

You couldn’t find the breath to answer. He was staring at you the way he sometimes stared at a problem he had finally cracked, focused, certain, and quietly triumphant. His knee knocked against yours beneath the table.

“Go on” he murmured. “Tell me.”

You couldn’t.

Instead you seized the only deflection left. “You know you’re failing because you don’t focus” you whispered. “You’re just trying to distract me.”

He laughed under his breath, a soft, knowing sound. “Maybe. Or maybe I just needed the right kind of motivation.”

Then his hand moved, long fingers reaching across the narrow space between you, closing gently around your wrist. He tugged, not hard, but steadily drawing you forward until your body folded towards his, pen clattering to the wood. 

His scent rushed in, and rational thought scattered like papers in the wind.

“Gojo—”

“Satoru” he corrected, voice smooth. His thumb brushed over the frantic pulse at your wrist, as though he were reading your heartbeat instead of waiting for the right words. “Say it.”

You swallowed, throat tight, the syllable almost painful. “Satoru.”

His eyes darkened, pupils swallowing the bright blue like night does the sky. A smirk, one you’d never seen before, curved at his mouth. “Good boy.”

Everything inside you fractured at once, want, panic, shame, need, all rushing to the surface so fast you couldn’t separate them.

Your body jolted, instinctive flight response firing, like your soul were clawing for distance even as your feet stayed rooted. He held you still, pressing your wrist down against the tabletop, palm warm and unyielding.

“Trying to run again?” His head cocked, breath brushing your temple, stirring the short strands of hair there. “That’s not something a good boy does.”

“Stop” you whispered, voice ragged. You glanced around again, acutely aware of the public space, of how close you were, how if you turned your head even a fraction your lips would graze his. “Stop this.”

“You really want me to stop?”

You hesitated. Just a heartbeat. Long enough to glance up through your lashes, lips trembling, long enough for him to see the truth you couldn’t bury. “I don’t want to be part of your game.”

His grip slackened.

You seized the opening and wrenched your hand free, the sudden absence of his touch almost as jarring as its presence had been. 

You needed space, before you folded entirely, before you became nothing more than another ego boost for the campus’s golden boy. 

You slipped from the chair, shoulder brushing his as you moved past him toward the stacks, desperate for the familiar shelter of your hiding place among the older journals, where the air smelled of dust and forgotten stories more beautiful than anything you could ever have.

You managed two steps.

Then his hand closed around your wrist again, firmer this time, long fingers encircling with quiet authority. 

He didn’t speak, he simply pulled you with him, deeper into the library, past the last of the occupied tables, past the reach of the security cameras, into the back stacks where the oldest bound volumes sat untouched, spines faded and silent.

The moment the shadows swallowed you both he turned, pressing you back against the bookshelf with the same controlled force he used on the court.

His frame caged you in, broad shoulders blocking the faint light from the distant lamps, leaving you haloed only by the dim glow that filtered between shelves. 

Your hands flew up instinctively, palms flattening against his chest to push, to create even a sliver of distance, but the heat of him bled through the thin fabric of his hoodie.

Your head tipped back against the books, spines digging into your scalp. Breath came in heavy, uneven pulls. Your mind raced, searching for equations, for logic, for any sequence of steps that might solve this, might let you slip away clean. 

Nothing came. This wasn’t calculus. This wasn’t theory. This was flesh and blood and the glowing enigma of the man in front of you, close enough that you could feel the rise and fall of his chest against your own.

He didn’t speak at first. Just watched you, eyes dark, searching, patient in a way that felt almost cruel. One hand stayed braced beside your head against the shelf, the other lifted slowly, fingertips brushing the side of your jaw, tilting your face up so you had nowhere left to hide.

“You keep…running” he murmured, voice low enough that it vibrated through your chest. “But you never actually leave.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

His thumb traced the edge of your lower lip, pressing into the gap below the plush. “So tell me again” he said, leaning in until his mouth hovered a breath from yours. “You really want me to stop?”

The question hung there, and in the silence that followed you felt the last of your defences crack wide open, not with a dramatic shatter, but with the slow, inevitable give of something that had been strained too long.

You didn’t answer.

Instead you closed the distance yourself, small, trembling and terrified, and pressed your mouth to his.

It was barely a kiss at first. Just a hesitant, uncertain, brush of your lips, more question than declaration. 

But he answered instantly, hand sliding to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, pulling you deeper into him with a low sound that vibrated against your lips. 

Your world narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the press of his body pinning you to the shelves, the way he kissed like he had been waiting weeks for permission and now intended to claim every second of it.

It turned messy, fast.

Teeth grazed, tongues met in a hungry, uncoordinated rush. You tried to mirror him, tried to give back some fraction of the fire he was pouring into you, but everything you did felt clumsy and inadequate.

Your hands fisted in the front of his hoodie, knuckles brushing the hard plane of his chest, and still you were certain you couldn’t possibly be affecting him the way he was affecting you. 

Your pulse roared in your ears, knees threatening to give, every nerve lit up and singing.

He drew back, breath tangled in the narrow space between you. You chased the taste of him instinctively, already addicted, already past caring whether the wanting might ruin you.

“You’ve been killing me” he muttered against your mouth, voice frayed at the edges. You blinked through the haze, struggling to focus on his words. “Sitting there all smart and pretty, acting like you don’t want me to bend you over the table.”

The sentence was like a mirror held up to your darkest, most shameful thoughts. Heat flooded your face.

You couldn’t deny it, couldn’t even pretend. So you did what you always did when cornered, deflect. Your fingers tightened in the fabric of his hoodie. “You’re the one who—mmph—”

He swallowed the rest with another kiss, deeper, more insistent. His hips rolled forward in the same motion, letting you feel the hard length of him pressed against your thigh. 

He caught your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging gently, sucking the plush skin into his mouth before releasing it with a soft, wet pop.

“Been thinking about this for weeks” he admitted, the confession ragged. “Every time you looked at me with those eyes… fuck.”

He eased back just far enough to see you properly. Flushed, lips swollen and glistening, breathing hard enough that your chest rose and fell against his. You were already wrecked, and he knew it.

“Sit” he said, nodding toward the narrow strip of carpet between his feet and the bookshelf.

You obeyed without thought, folding yourself down until your knees met the floor, back braced against the lower shelves, completely caged by the long lines of his body and the silent rack of books.

The position left you looking up at him like someone staring into the heart of something holy and terrifying all at once.

His hands moved to his jeans, button popping free, zipper rasping down in the quiet. You held your breath as the dark fabric of his boxers came into view, the slow reveal feeling almost ceremonial, like curtains parting on a stage you’d only ever watched from the shadows.

He peeled them back with the same teasing patience, freeing himself inch by inch.

Thick, flushed a deep red, the tip already glistening with a heavy bead of pre-cum that slid slowly down the length of him. Your mouth went dry at the sight, pulse throbbing between your legs.

You had done this before, once…badly. 

A fumbling encounter where the other guy had thrust into your mouth suddenly, too deep, leaving you choking and almost puking on him. 

But you remembered enough to try to summon technique from the fragments of porn you’d watched in secret.

No teeth, don’t choke, hollow your cheeks, use your tongue.

“You’re staring at it like a science project” he said, voice strained with a mix of amusement and desire. A large hand cupped your chin, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. 

“I just… don’t want to mess up” you whispered, looking up at him with a raw honesty. Your whole body was trembling now, feeling so small and helpless under the weight of his gaze.

“As long as it’s you” he murmured, “there’s no way to mess it up.”

He extended his hand. “Give me your hand”

You slipped your palm into his without hesitation. He guided it slowly to his cock, letting your fingers close around the hot, heavy length.

The skin was soft but rigid, hot and pulsating. The moment your grip settled on him he let out a low, strained groan, face tipping back toward the ceiling, throat working.

“Just…stroke me for a bit” he said, voice breathy, fraying. “Yeah… just like that.”

You moved once, slow and experimental, watching, transfixed, as his jaw clenched around a swallowed moan. 

Colour rose high on his cheeks, eyes screwed shut. You stroked again, bolder now, letting your thumb drag deliberately over the slick slit the way you knew felt good on yourself. His hips jerked forward, a shudder running through him.

Emboldened, you leaned in, gathering saliva in your mouth and letting it fall in a slow, deliberate string onto the flushed head. 

He nearly yelped at the sudden wet heat, head snapping down to watch your lips hover mere inches away.

You spread the slickness with your hand, gliding up and down his length until the sound of it, wet and obscene, filled the narrow space between you.

“Shit” he gasped, hips rocking into your fist as you quickened the pace.

You couldn’t wait any longer. Hand still working him, you leaned forward and sealed your lips around the tip.

He bit down on the back of his own hand to muffle the sound that tried to tear out of him. You glanced up through your lashes and hummed in quiet delight at the sight, the usually unflappable Satoru Gojo coming undone from something as simple as your mouth on him.

You took him deeper, slow bobs of your head, tongue swirling around the head, dipping into the slit, then flattening along the underside. Your own cock throbbed painfully in your pants, you shifted your hips, trying to ease the ache, but it only sharpened the need. 

Your free hand worked the base, stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach, lips and tongue worshipping the rest in careful, dragging strokes.

A warm palm settled on the crown of your head, fingers sliding into your hair, as if grounding himself. His hips stuttered forward, the tip nudged the back of your throat.

You fought the instinct to gag, swallowing hard around him, blinking rapidly to clear the reflexive tears. Air came in short, desperate pulls through your nose.

“Shit—shitshit—” His voice was wrecked, fingers flexing and releasing in your hair like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you closer or hold you still. “I’m gonna cum.”

You hummed around him in answer, eyes lifting to meet his. The moment your gaze locked, a shocked, almost disbelieving smirk curved his mouth.

“You want it?” he breathed.

You nodded as best you could with him filling your mouth, eager and shameless.

That small assent seemed to break something in him. He groaned, hips rocking forward in shallow, helpless thrusts, not rough, not cruel, just desperate, like he couldn’t stop himself anymore. “Fuck—I’m gonna—”

The first pulse hit your tongue, hot and thick. You swallowed instinctively, taking him deeper so the rest slid down your throat. 

You fought the urge to choke, swallowing again and again as the salty flood continued. His hand clamped over the back of your head, holding you there, so even if you’d wanted to pull away, you couldn’t.

You kept your tongue moving, stroking gently along the underside until the last tremor faded and the pulsing eased.

When he finally let you go, you pulled off with a wet, rasping gasp, bracing your hands on your knees, staring blindly down at the carpet while you tried to drag air into lungs that felt too small.

Your lips tingled, jaw ached, throat burned faintly, but beneath it all was a strange satisfaction.

Satoru was still breathing hard above you, one hand braced against the shelf for balance, the other carding through his own hair as though trying bring himself back to reality. When you finally looked up, his eyes were soft, wide and stunned and impossibly tender.

He tucked himself away and crouched slowly, bringing himself down to your level again, thumb brushing the corner of your swollen lips.

“You…” He exhaled, half-laugh, half-disbelief. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You laughed, a soft, breathless sound that cracked in the middle, dragging the back of your hand across your mouth to wipe away the glistening mix of spit and come that still clung to your lips and chin.

The taste of him lingered, coating your tongue even as you tried to swallow it down. Satoru stayed crouched in front of you for a long moment, his hand resting lightly at the curve where your neck met your shoulder.

His thumb traced a slow, absent arc over your pulse point, feeling the frantic flutter there, and then his gaze drifted lower.

To the obvious, straining tent in your pants.

Heat rushed to your face. You moved instinctively to cover yourself, one hand dropping to your lap as though you could hide the evidence of how badly you wanted him, but he caught your wrist before you could make contact. His fingers closed around it gently, a single brow arching in quiet amusement.

“I have an idea” he whispered.

He glanced over his shoulder toward the small study table you’d claimed earlier. “I’ll be a second.”

He stood in one fluid motion, leaving you kneeling there on the carpet, legs weak and heart hammering. You rose slowly after him, smoothing your shirt down with shaking hands, tugging the hem of your hoodie lower in a futile attempt to look less like someone who had just dropped to his knees for the campus golden boy in the back stacks of the library.

The thought sent a giddy, reckless thrill curling through your stomach, equal parts terror and delight.

He returned quickly, arms full of your neatly stacked books, your bag slung over one shoulder, his own backpack dangling from the other hand.

You helped him arrange everything on the table the way it had been before, textbooks aligned, notebook open to the last worked problem, highlighters fanned out in their usual chromatic order, your fingers moving on autopilot while his eyes kept flicking to you, watching the careful precision with which you restored order to the chaos he had so easily brought.

“Right” he said once everything was in place.

He stepped up behind you, close enough that the warmth of his chest pressed against your back and sent a full-body shudder racing down your spine.

You felt his breath against the nape of your neck, then his hands slid around your waist from behind, until his fingers found the button of your pants. A soft pop, and the zipper followed, rasping down in the near-silent library.

“Easy, cutie" he hummed against your ear when you startled, voice low and coaxing.

His head settled on your shoulder, chin resting there so he could look down the length of your body as his fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your boxers.

The touch was warm and sure. You bit down hard on your lip to stifle the whine that wanted to escape, anticipation twisting sharp and bright in your gut.

Finally his hand closed around you, long fingers wrapping firm and hot, and gave one lazy, dragging stroke inside the confines of your boxers. Your knees nearly buckled. Your back peeled away from his chest as you hunched forward slightly, eyes squeezing shut against the sudden rush of sensation.

“I still need to pass” he whispered, sinful hand stroking you again. A pathetic whimper slipped past your lips before you could catch it. He turned his head, lips brushing the sensitive skin beneath your ear. “And I think I’d focus better… inside you, hmm.”

Your head whipped around so fast you nearly cracked your neck. Eyes wide, breath caught, you stared at him, searching for the joke, the tease, the moment he’d laugh and take it back.

But his expression was almost innocent, head tilted, blue eyes steady and dark with want.

The hand not currently driving you to the edge gently pushed your boxers and pants lower, past the crease of your ass, leaving your cock exposed and throbbing in the open air. He leaned in again, chin digging into your shoulder so he could see properly.

“Cute” he whispered.

You wanted to sink through the floor. Instead you stayed trapped, caught in the slow-spinning web he had woven around you without you ever noticing the threads.

“Come on.”

He stepped back, dropping into the chair at the small table with a casual grace that belied everything that had just happened.

He patted his thighs once, smiling, open and inviting, utterly unafraid. You glanced around wildly, fear of discovery clawing at the edges of your mind, but the library was a ghost town at this hour. No footsteps. No voices.

Desire won.

You hobbled over, legs unsteady, hesitating only a heartbeat before lowering yourself carefully into his lap.

Your palms braced on the tabletop as you settled, weight distributing slowly until you were seated fully against him. The moment you did, his arms slid around your waist, broad palms settling on your hips and kneading softly.

“Breathe, cutie” he teased, words ghosting across your ear, nose nudging the sensitive spot just behind it.

“I’m nervous” you hissed, glancing pointedly toward the shadowed aisles.

He laughed, the vibration rolled from his chest into yours, making your cock twitch against the fabric still bunched around your thighs.

His palms began to wander, sliding beneath the hem of your shirt, smoothing over the bare skin of your stomach, then higher. One index finger flicked across your nipple once, deliberate and light.

“It’s fine” he murmured, leaning closer. “I’ve never seen anyone come back here.” His voice dropped even lower. “I’ve heard it’s haunted.”

“Shut up” you groaned, half-laugh, half-desperation.

You were aching, painfully hard, exposed and vulnerable, and every teasing word only wound the tension tighter. You wanted him to hurry, to stop talking and just do whatever he had planned before you lost your mind entirely.

“Hey.” Two fingers appeared in front of your lips. “Suck these. I know how good you are with your mouth.”

You had the sudden, overwhelming urge to bite him, but instead you parted your lips and let him slide the digits inside.

You sucked gently at first, then harder, tongue swirling around them, coating them in spit until they glistened.

He moved them slowly in your mouth, shallow thrusts that made heat pool low in your belly.

You could feel his eyes on you, watching the way his fingers disappeared between your lips, watching the hollow of your cheeks, and behind you he was hardening again, thick and insistent against your ass.

He spread his thighs a little wider, forcing your legs to part further, then gave your waist a soft, encouraging tap.

You let his fingers slip free with a small, wet gasp.

He held them up between you, splitting them apart to watch the way your spit strung between the digits, thin and glistening. Satisfied, he lowered his hand behind you, dragging the slick fingertips across the sensitive skin of your ass until they notched against your rim.

He paused there, applying only the lightest pressure, just waiting.

You swallowed, the sound loud in the silence. But you didn’t pull away. Didn’t stand. Didn’t run.

His fingers began to press in, slow and careful, one knuckle at a time.

The stretch was strange. Intimate, unfamiliar, not quite pleasure yet but not pain either. You sucked in a sharp breath.

His other hand settled on your stomach, steadying you, grounding you, while his head rested against your shoulder.

Small, helpless noises slipped out of you as he worked deeper, drawing his fingers out only to push them further on the next stroke.

By the time they were fully inside you were trembling, pre-cum leaking steadily from your cock in embarrassing beads that dripped onto your pants.

You shifted once, instinctively, and his fingertips brushed something inside you that made your stomach clench, sparks flare behind your eyes, and a strained moan rip from your lips.

“Ah—ah” he chided softly, the hand on your stomach sliding up to cover your mouth, muffling any further sound. “Do you want to be caught?”

You shook your head frantically, breath shuddering through your nose.

“Then stay quiet” he whispered, easing his palm away.

He began moving his fingers again, slow deliberate slides in and out, letting you feel every ridge, every inch. You pressed your own hand over your mouth, eyelids fluttering as the warm coil in your belly tightened and spread.

You leaned forward onto the table, back arching slightly, head dropping as you tried to focus.

For a moment the library itself dissolved, the risk, the exposure, the books, all gone, until there was only the slow drag of his fingers and the building heat.

“Faster” you whispered, hips trying to roll in small, helpless circles.

A breathy laugh answered you. His free hand clamped onto your waist, holding you still.

“No” he rasped. “I want something else.”

There was a rustle of fabric behind you, the soft sound of his zipper again. A warm palm smoothed down the length of your spine, pressing you a little further forward against the table until your chest brushed the open textbook. Then another hand slipped beneath your face, hovering just below your mouth.

“Spit, cutie.”

You blinked at the open palm hovering beneath your mouth, confusion flickering through the haze for half a second before the insistent little wiggle of his fingers made the request unmistakable. 

Heat crawled up your neck again, sharper this time, more embarrassed than before, but you gathered saliva on your tongue anyway and let it fall in a careful, quiet drop onto his waiting skin.

Full-on spitting felt too crude, even here in the shadowed back corner where no one would see. 

He gave a low, amused chuckle that vibrated against your back, the sound soft enough to stay between the two of you.

His fingers slipped free from your body with a slow drag that made you clench around nothing, a small, involuntary whimper catching in your throat. 

Then his hand withdrew entirely, and the next sound was unmistakable.

The wet, slick glide of your spit being smeared along his length. The obscene noise filled the narrow space between your bodies, making your stomach tighten and your cock twitch against the open air.

You felt him shift behind you, urging your hips up with one steadying hand while the other guided himself.

“Are you ready?” he rasped against your ear.

You nodded once, quick, jerky, because you were sure your voice had abandoned you entirely.

You bit down hard on your lower lip, eyes fixed on the looming ranks of books in front of you. 

The blunt, warm head of him pressed against your rim, steady pressure that made your thighs begin to tremble almost immediately. You tried to hold yourself aloft, muscles straining, but the effort only made the anticipation sharper.

“Let me, baby” he murmured, both hands settling on your hips now, firm, grounding. He took your weight easily, lowering you inch by careful inch, pausing whenever your breath hitched too sharply or your body clenched too tight around the intrusion. 

Every pause came with a soft exhale against your neck, every resumed descent accompanied by a low, strained sound from deep in his throat. 

By the time he was seated fully inside you, deep enough that you could feel the heat of him pressed flush against your ass, the coil in your belly had wound so tight it hurt.

Your body spasmed around him involuntarily, walls fluttering and squeezing, and he groaned into the fabric of your hoodie, the sound muffled but raw. 

His grip on your hips turned bruising, fingers digging in as though he needed the purchase to keep himself from moving too soon. His breaths came in heavy, uneven pants against the side of your neck, stirring the fine hairs there.

You waited for the snap of his hips, for the rhythm you had imagined, fast, desperate, overwhelming. 

Instead he stilled completely. His arms slid from your hips to wrap around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest until there was no space left between you. 

His chin settled on your shoulder, cheek pressed to yours, and you could have sworn you felt the low, contented rumble in his throat, almost a purr. His cock throbbed inside you, slow, insistent pulses that made your own length leak steadily onto the front of your pants, darkening the fabric in small, milky patches.

“What are you doing?” you hissed, turning your head just enough to glare at him from the corner of your eye.

“Fuck” he breathed against your neck, voice wrecked. “You feel… so good, shit”

“Then move!”

“Not yet.” You clenched around him without meaning to, a pure reflex, and he cursed under his breath, hips twitching upward in a tiny, helpless jerk that nudged the head of his cock against that spot inside you again. Stars burst behind your eyelids. “I just wanna stay like this for a moment.”

You were dumbfounded. You didn’t have much experience, but you were reasonably certain sex involved motion, friction, rhythm, something.

None of the videos you had watched had featured this, just sitting, stuffed full, trembling, while the person inside you simply… existed.

The pressure was immense. Your body kept trying to push him out even as it moulded itself around him, walls pulsing and fluttering in helpless little waves. He felt enormous, thick enough to force you open, long enough to press against places you hadn’t known could feel like this. 

The thought alone made you clench again, another bead of pre-cum slipping free.

You whimpered, the sound small and broken. “Satoru—”

“I know, baby.” He pressed a soft kiss to the corner of your jaw. “I know. Just wanna feel you for a minute. Been thinking about this for… some time.”

His hands slid beneath your shirt, warm palms smoothing over your sides, fingers brushing along your ribs as though he were counting them. 

Minutes dragged by in agonising slowness, him buried to the hilt, both of you shaking with the effort of holding still. Every tiny shift of weight made you both gasp, every involuntary flutter of your walls drew a ragged breath from him. 

Eventually the stillness became unbearable. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, frustration and need twisting together until you couldn’t tell them apart.

“Toru—” His name tore out of you, raw and pleading. “Please. I need you—please, it hurts—move—”

He exhaled shakily against your neck, then began to rock, just the smallest movement, barely an inch in and out. Enough to tease the sensitive rim, enough to graze that spot inside you over and over without ever giving you the depth you craved. It was torture.

“You’re so tight” he whispered, voice fraying. “So perfect. Knew you’d take me so well.”

You bit your lip harder, trying to trap the moans that wanted to spill out.

He noticed. “Don’t hold back. No one’s coming back here.”

The permission shattered what little restraint you had left. A broken, needy sound escaped you, and he rewarded it by grinding deeper, slow, deliberate circles that pressed him right against that spot until your vision whited out for a second.

“Gonna fill you up” he promised, the words rough and wrecked. “Gonna make sure you know who you belong to.”

His hands returned to your hips, lifting you just enough that he could thrust upward, steady, controlled rolls that drove him deep each time. 

You braced your palms on the table, fingers splaying across the open textbook, fighting to stay quiet even as the pleasure built to something blinding. His rhythm quickened, shallow at first, then harder, faster, until the chair creaked faintly beneath you both.

One of his hands wrapped around your cock, stroking in perfect time with his hips, thumb dragging over the slick head on every upstroke. 

The dual sensation snapped that burning coil inside you. 

A startled yelp tore from your throat as you came, shaking, clenching hard around him, pleasure crashing through you in white-hot waves. Cum splashed across his knuckles as he continued to stroke you through it, dripping down his fingers and onto your pants.

Your brain blanked, body going lax and trembling in his lap, but you could still feel him, still feel the desperate snap of his hips, the way he chased his own release inside your spasming heat.

He followed moments later.

His arms locked around your waist, pulling you down flush against him as he ground up hard, burying himself as deep as he could go. A low, broken groan vibrated against your neck, muffled into your skin as he spilled inside you, hot, pulsing, filling you until you could feel every throb. 

His hips stuttered, then stilled, holding you there while the aftershocks rolled through both of you.

For a long minute neither of you moved.

His breathing gradually slowed against your shoulder. His hands gentled, stroking up and down your sides in soothing passes. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, rasping.

“You okay?”

You managed a small, shaky nod, too overwhelmed to form words just yet.

He pressed a kiss to the side of your neck, lingering there. “Good boy.”

You whined involuntarily at the praise, the sound slipping out before you could catch it, even as the sharp edges of reality began to seep back in. 

The library’s quiet hum returned, the drone of the HVAC, the faint rustle of pages from some distant corner, the knowledge that you had just cum in the back stacks with the campus’s most untouchable golden boy buried inside you. 

Your thighs trembled as he helped you lift your hips, his softening cock slipping free with a slow, slick drag that pulled matching gasps from both of you. The sudden emptiness ached in a way that felt almost obscene.

Before you could step away, before you could even think about standing on legs that still felt like jello, his arms wrapped around you again, drawing you back down onto his lap. 

Your back settled against his chest, his heartbeat thudding against your spine. His arms encircled your waist, one hand splaying wide across your stomach, the other resting just beneath your ribs, holding you close enough that you could feel every rise and fall of his breathing.

“Hey” he whispered suddenly.

The teasing lilt was gone. His voice had dropped into something quieter, more serious, almost careful. His nose pressed to the side of your neck, lips brushing the skin there as he spoke.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen like this.”

Your breath stilled. Your heart seemed to slump, sinking to the bottom of your chest. “What do you mean?”

“Fuck.” He buried his face deeper against your neck, words muffled into the crook where shoulder met throat. “I wanted to take you out on a date first.”

The confession landed soft, almost sheepish. Your heart lurched, soured for half a second with the fear that he regretted it, then soaring again in the next heartbeat. The whiplash of emotion was so sudden, so dizzying, that a helpless giggle bubbled up in your throat.

“A date?” you teased, turning your head just enough that your cheek brushed his forehead. He nodded against you, a small, pathetic whine escaping him.

“I’m such a himbo.”

You laughed, the sound cracking open in the quiet. Nerves, post-coital euphoria and sheer disbelief swirled together until you felt almost giddy, lightheaded. “Himbo?”

“I really wanted to take things slow” he mumbled, voice muffled and childish. “But then you kissed me and…” Another whine, softer this time. You could almost picture him kicking his feet beneath the table if he weren’t holding you so tightly.

Your laughter came again, quieter now, and you brought a hand up to cover your mouth as though the sound might carry too far. 

“Maybe you’re the himbo” he whispered accusatorially against your skin, and the words coaxed another giggle out of you, bright and helpless.

Your head was swimming, disbelief threading through a warm, steady affection, excitement flickering beneath it all like sparks. 

“Satoru” you said, still smiling despite yourself, “you’re rambling.”

“I’m nervous.”

“That’s new.”

He laughed then, a little self-conscious, and let more of his weight rest against your back, his chin settling more firmly on your shoulder. “I’m being serious. I wanted you to take me seriously.”

You let the words settle between you, let the quiet stretch while you actually considered them. 

You pictured what it might be like, seeing him outside the library, outside the role of failing student and reluctant tutor. Coffee somewhere off-campus, his hand brushing yours without the excuse of a worksheet. Walking together across the quad, his arm slung around your shoulders. Late nights that didn’t end with him leaving. 

The thought didn’t make you anxious. It didn’t feel uncomfortable or impossible. It felt… right. Like something you had wanted without ever letting yourself imagine it.

“I do take you seriously” you said, keeping your voice steady, serious. “I mean it. I—I like you, Toru. I have for some time. I—”

“Me too!” The words burst out of him, almost too loud for the library’s hush. His arms tightened around you, squeezing the air from your lungs in a rush. “I’ve liked you for a while. You’re the only reason I even bothered coming to these sessions. I looked forward to every moment I was here.”

You felt the confession settle into your bones. His grip loosened just enough that you could breathe again, but he didn’t let go. 

One hand slid up to cradle your cheek, turning you gently so he could see your expression. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, tracing the shape of it, as though memorising the way you looked right then. Flushed, lips still swollen, eyes wide and soft.

“I’m not good at this” he admitted quietly. “The slow part. The… not jumping in headfirst part. But I…want to try. With you. If you’ll let me.”

You searched his face, those impossible nebula blue eyes, unguarded for once, the faint flush still lingering high on his cheekbones, and found nothing but sincerity beneath the usual bravado.

“Okay” you whispered, nodding your head just slightly.

His brows lifted fractionally. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” A small, shaky smile curved your lips. “Let’s… try.”

Relief washed across his features, he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple, then another to the corner of your eye, then finally to your mouth. A slow, lingering, achingly tender press of his lips. When he pulled back, his forehead pressed against yours.

“I’m taking you out tomorrow” he said, voice low and certain. “Proper date. Dinner. Movie. Whatever you want. No library tables. No rushing. Just… us.”

You laughed softly, the sound muffled against his lips. “Tomorrow sounds good.”

He kissed you again, briefer this time, but no less earnest, then helped you stand on unsteady legs. 

Your pants were still half-down, he fixed them with careful hands, tucking you back in, zipping and buttoning with the same gentleness he had used moments earlier. He took his jacket and wrapped it round your waist, hiding some of the more…questionable stains. 

You did the same for him, fingers lingering on the waistband of his jeans, and when you were both presentable again, clothes straightened, hair finger-combed into place, he took your hand.

“Come on” he murmured, lacing your fingers together. “Let’s get out of here before the night staff starts doing rounds.”

You gathered your things in silence, slinging bags over shoulders, books tucked under arms. He never let go of your hand, not when you turned off the desk lamp, not when you walked together through the dim aisles, not when you stepped out into the cool night air.

The quad was empty, streetlights casting long shadows across the grass. He squeezed your hand once, then lifted it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“Tomorrow” he said again, softer this time.

You nodded, heart still racing, but steady now in a way it hadn’t been before.

“Tomorrow.”

I really hope whoever requested this enjoyed, sorry it took so long!

Please don't steal, reproduce, feed into AI, or repost without my consent.

As always, asks/requests always open.

[thespaceloft]

breathe one two three

more here | wanna join the taglist?

summary: peter is exposed to something he doesn't know and his spidey senses lead him to some things. warning: 18+ male masturbation , gender neutral reader , s3x pollen , a very pervy peter pairing: peter parker x gender neutral reader

edit: part two, take all of me

Peter fiddled with the window latch until it broke off. That’ll cost him more money to fix, money he currently doesn’t have. The swing back to his apartment was dreadful. He was tired, his body sore, he’s sure he broke a rib. The lock dropped and rolled on the floor breaking the silence. He cursed under his breath, scared that he might have woken you. 

For the past six months, Peter felt like he’s been walking eggshells around his shared apartment. He needed to conceal his secret and make sure he wasn’t being a nuisance. He would apologize for some nights his old sewing machine would drown the flat with its clanging. 

He slowly closed the window, his grip on the old frames leaving cracks. He felt hot and nauseous. He wanted to rip the suit plastered on his skin and get in a cold shower. The heat crawled from his toes right up to his cheeks like a deep fever he can’t sweat out. 

The suit was covered in cuts, dirt, blood, and a wet spot in between his crotch. He kept cursing, pulling off the suit caused more friction to his hardness making him feel weak in the knees. It could be so many things, the smoke bombs, the poison, a spell? He wasn’t sure rational thinking was in question anymore. 

He hid in the laundry room to get cleaned up. The suit cycled while he changed into a hoodie, leaving his lower half with boxers still leaking from the tip. He slammed the side of his fist on the machine. “Fuck!” 

He saw your hamper next to his, and in a strange act of perversion his senses narrowed to the pair of underwear. Fuck—it smells like, he thought. The mix of your fabric detergent and your arousal. He didn’t peg you for a pervert like him. You always seemed to be engrossed with school and work. I really do miss a lot when I’m gone huh. 

Lewd images flashed in Peter’s mind. You on your bed, legs spread, moaning while you pleasured yourself. Maybe it's a fighter's rush, this euphoric trance that’s egging him to jerk off to his roommate’s underwear. 

He took the garment in his left, his right palming the hardness in between his legs. It smelled good, like a stroke of pleasure soothing the heat in his body. Biting his lip, he slowly pulled his boxers down. The tip of his cock a flushed pink from the arousal, leaking so much precome. He didn’t even need lotion or lube, the wetness was enough for him to stroke. 

Peter felt so dirty, how can he call himself a good roommate or even a friend if he’s preoccupied with stroking his big cock while inhaling your scent. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” He thought of all the times he would be at the same parties as you. Your arms wrapped around another man, their lips and tongue all over yours teasing you. He wanted to be that so badly. 

Not that it mattered now, but he knew he could be better than all those guys. With his eyes closed, his tongue darted the fabric, inching for a taste. He would have used the same tongue to lick your neck, down to your nipples, to the softness of your abdomen, and to your aching sex. 

His mind was a fog, his moans were stifled by the garment, his legs quivered from how strong the pleasure was, his wet palms stroking his cock from base to the tip. He’d swirl his hand around the tip eliciting more curses. “I need you right now,” he muttered.

His cock leaked more and more, the wetness was leaking down his thighs, his hand slapping against the base of skin in wet slops. He changed positions so he was facing the washing machine, hunched over with his hand for support. He took your wet garment and covered his cock with it, using it to stroke. 

He could smell both of your arousals in the air, a high he has never reached with the cheap weed he had tried. He fucked his hand with so much vigor his biceps started to ache. The washing machine bent in the shape of his grip. His hoodie was drenched in sweat now, but it didn’t bother him a bit. He thought of all the times he has seen your body. The multiple times you’d come out of the shower in just a towel. Or that one time he caught you and his lab partner in organic chemistry fucking on the sofa.

Your ass, he fucking wanted to own your ass. Wanted to feel your tight heatness on his cock, hold onto your waist and use you for pleasure. His thoughts went directly there but if given the chance he would worship you, kiss your soft lips and cover you in marks, treat your body like a holy shrine. 

 He tried to hold it in, the strokes were so good he wanted to make every bit of this last. His whole body was burning up. His knees softened, his mouth was agape and a string of saliva was leaking at the corner of his mouth. He knew that if you caught him right now you’d think he was some pathetic dog.

Your underwear was soaked, it was slightly rough under the head of his cock—a pleasurable sting. Peter’s eyes rolled back, a gasp leaving his mouth as he shot his load through your underwear and all over the side of the washing machine. He dropped to his knees, his wrist painful and the fever still present. 

“Pete?” you said in a low hum, a state of half wakefulness. He dropped to the side, unconscious, his face flushed and his hair drenched in sweat. You hurried to his side, he was painfully hot, his hand still grasping onto your underwear. The wash cycle stopped, the spider man mask looking at you. "What the fu—"

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THERES A PART TWO FOLKS PLS READ HIHI

[cece693]

DAMN, THAT ASS

Nightwing x Male Reader

synopsis: Being a hero is hard enough without having to constantly pretend you aren’t ogling your partner’s perfect ass every time he moves. Unfortunately, X-ray vision doesn’t come with an off switch and Nightwing doesn’t come with bad angles.

WARNING: 18+ SMUT

You’d been around the block with your fair share of awkward powers, but x-ray vision was the crown jewel in the “oh no” category, especially when it came to him.

Nightwing.

Dick Grayson.

The man was sculpted like some divine joke, and your traitorous eyes didn’t miss anything. It was bad enough that you could see every twitch of muscle under that skintight suit, but his ass? His perfect, crime-fighting, gravity-defying ass? It should’ve been illegal. You’d lost count of how many rooftop patrols had turned into silent, suffering thirst traps in your own head.

So you made a plan: avoid him. Act cool. Keep your eyes on literally anything else. Because if you didn’t, you were either going to combust or blurt something out that would make things very, very awkward.

The problem? Dick wasn’t stupid.

At first, he thought you were shy, then he thought maybe you were just distracted. But as the weeks passed and your banter went from warm and easy to clipped and professional, the gears in his head started turning. He’d been working himself up to ask you out, hell, he thought you’d been flirting back. Now? You barely looked at him.

So, naturally, he cornered you.

It was after a mission, both of you in the locker room. You were busy pretending to sort through your gear, avoiding eye contact like it was life or death. Dick, still in half his suit, walked right up and planted himself in your space. “Did I do something?”

You swallowed, keeping your gaze firmly on the wall. “Nope.”

“That’s a lie,” he said, stepping closer. The scent of sweat and clean soap clung to him, his bare chest still glistening from exertion. “You’ve been dodging me for weeks.”

Your jaw flexed. “I’ve just been busy.”

“Bullshit.” He tilted his head, eyes sharp. “You’re avoiding me, and I want to know why. If I screwed up, tell me. Don’t just give me a cold shoulder and pretend I don't notice.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “It’s not that you screwed up, Grayson. It’s that my powers make it really hard to be around you without—” You cut yourself off, realizing you were about to confess that you’d seen everything.

Without missing a beat, he smirked. “Without what?”

Your pulse spiked. “Without getting distracted.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise, then slow, predatory amusement. He stepped until his chest brushed yours, the heat of his body making your brain short-circuit. “Distracted by what exactly?”

You clenched your fists, eyes darting anywhere but him. “You know what.”

“Oh,” he said, grin widening. “I think I do.” His hand slid to your hip, pulling you closer. “You’ve got x-ray vision, right? So you’ve seen it.”

Your breath hitched. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” His voice was a low purr now. “You’ve been giving me the cold shoulder because you can’t stop thinking about me naked?”

That was all it took to break weeks of pent up frustration. The moment your lips crashed against his, Dick’s breath hitched in surprise, then melted into a deep, hungry groan. You didn’t give him room to breathe, one hand tangled in the short dark hair at the back of his head, the other gripping his bare hip and yanking him closer until he was straddling your lap completely.

You could feel him through the thin material of his suit bottoms, hard and pressing insistently against you. Every flex of his thighs sent your self-control spiraling.

“Fuck—” he gasped between kisses, pulling back just enough to smirk. “So this is what you’ve been avoiding?”

You didn’t answer. You just hooked your fingers into the waistband of his suit and yanked it down, revealing exactly what you’d been torturing yourself over for weeks. He was thick, flushed, and already dripping.

Your smirk made him flush harder.

“Goddamn, Grayson,” you muttered, wrapping your hand around him and stroking slow just to watch him squirm. “You really have no idea what you’ve been doing to me.”

He bit his lip, hips bucking into your grip. “Then stop talking and—”

You shoved him back against the lockers mid-sentence, standing to tower over him. He didn’t even have time to protest before you were kissing him again, hard enough to make his head thunk against the metal. Your other hand slid down to cup the perfect curve of his ass—yes, the one you’d been obsessing over—and grabbed a fistful of it as if staking a claim.

Dick groaned, his hands flying up to your shoulders, nails dragging down your back. You manhandled him onto the bench, pushing him to sit while you knelt between his spread knees.

The first slow drag of your tongue from base to tip had him throwing his head back, a strangled noise ripping from his throat. You wrapped your lips around him and sucked deep, bobbing your head until you could feel him throbbing against your tongue.

“Shit—fuck—” His fingers threaded into your hair, pulling tight, but you grabbed his wrists and pinned them to his sides. You set the pace, taking him in until your nose brushed his skin, pulling back just to watch his face twist with desperation.

When you finally pulled off, he was flushed, panting, and staring at you like he wanted to devour you. “Get up.” you ordered, voice rough.

He obeyed instantly. You shoved him forward, bending him over the bench. His bare ass was right there in front of you, perfect and infuriatingly tempting. You palmed it roughly, kneading, spreading him open until he shivered.

“Always knew it was perfect.” you muttered, and then you were spitting into your hand, slicking yourself up before pressing the tip against him. He looked over his shoulder, eyes blown wide, mouth parted in a needy gasp.

“Do it.”

You pushed in slow, savoring the way his body stretched to take you, every inch sinking deeper until your hips were flush against him. He moaned, clutching the bench so hard his knuckles went white.

Once you were buried to the hilt, you didn’t hold back. Your hips snapped forward, hard and fast, each thrust making the bench creak under the force. Dick’s voice was a mess of gasps, moans, and broken curses, echoing off the tiled walls.

You leaned over him, one hand gripping his jaw and forcing his head back so you could kiss him while you fucked into him. “This what you wanted, Grayson? Weeks of teasing me for this?”

“Yes—fuck—harder.” he panted, pushing back against you.

You gave him exactly what he asked for, driving into him until your thighs burned. Every thrust hit deep, making him cry out. Your hand slid down to wrap around his cock, stroking in time with your hips until he was shaking under you.

“Gonna—fuck—I’m—”

“Do it.” you growled against his ear, pounding him through it. He came hard in your fist, spilling over your knuckles, body trembling. You didn’t stop, fucking him through his orgasm until you followed, spilling deep inside him with a groan.

You stayed there for a moment, both of you catching your breath, sweat-slick and shaking. Finally, you pulled out, watching your cum drip down his thighs before you smacked his ass, making him jolt.

“Next time,” you said, smirking as you grabbed his chin and kissed him again, “stop making me work so hard for it.”

He laughed breathlessly, still bent over. “Where’s the fun in that?”

[dqrkhold]

𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐓𝐨 𝐆𝐞𝐭 𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐲

𝐏𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐌!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 : You’ve known Peter’s secret for months now—patching him up, keeping him grounded, loving him through thick and thin. But sometimes… he doesn’t want stitches or rest. | Word Count : 1.2k

𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈 + 𝐅𝐃𝐍𝐈 mature content below.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : Smut, Dom!Peter, Fluff, Sub!M!Reader, Moaning, Praising, Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Riding, M!Reader (giving), Swearing, Explicit Content, Cum, Creampie, Dirty Talk, Blood mention

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭

You'd been dating Peter for months now, long enough to know his secrets—including the whole Spider-Man gig, which you'd pieced together one brutal night when he'd stumbled in half-dead and you'd stitched him back together. You'd just stepped out of the bathroom, steam still curling around your bare shoulders, a white towel slung low around your hips. A thud from the window pulled your attention. Peter swung in awkwardly, landing with a pained grunt, as Peter Parker hauled himself inside. He moved like every step was a battle, his Spider-Man suit clinging to his battered frame, smeared with grime and what looked like fresh bloodstains.“Evening, handsome,” you called out, as you moved toward the living room. Peter's place was a perpetual disaster zone of web fluid vials, crumpled notes on quantum physics, and laundry piles that could bury a man. The place was spotless—your doing, of course; Peter's chaos of gadgets and half-eaten pizzas didn't stand a chance against your cleaning spree.

You glanced over your shoulder and saw him leaning against the wall, mask still on, barely shifting his weight. He tried to play it cool, forcing a weak wave, but his body betrayed him—shoulders hunched, one hand pressed to his ribs. "Hey... yeah, just... getting home. Long night." You paused, towel shifting slightly as you eyed him. He wasn't moving, rooted in place like the pain had glued his feet to the floor. A soft laugh escaped you as you crossed your arms. "You gonna get outta that thing?" Peter's masked head tilted, and you could imagine the sheepish grin underneath. "...Yeah, just taking in the room," he muttered, his voice strained. It was a lame dodge; the place looked better than it had in weeks thanks to your efforts. You stepped closer, concern mixing with amusement. "Do you need help out of your suit, Peter?" you asked bluntly, already reaching for the edge of his mask. "Yes please," he admitted, wincing as he tried to straighten up. A sharp hiss escaped him, and he froze again.

Your fingers hooked under the mask's seal, peeling it off slowly. Peter's face emerged—sweaty brown curls plastered to his forehead, a split lip, and bruises blooming purple along his jawline. His hazel eyes met yours, tired but warm, that spark of affection cutting through the exhaustion. You set the mask aside on the cluttered nightstand and moved behind him, finding the hidden zipper at the nape of his neck. "Easy now," you murmured, tugging it down inch by inch. The suit parted like a second skin, revealing the lean muscles of his back, marred by fresh welts and darkening contusions. As you peeled the fabric away from his shoulders, Peter let out a low moan, his body twitching involuntarily."Shit... that hurts," he groaned, his voice rough, but there was a hint of relief in it too. You worked the suit lower, sliding it over his shoulder blades, careful around a nasty scrape near his spine. He shifted slightly, another groan rumbling from his chest as the tight material dragged against inflamed skin. "Fuck," he breathed, fists clenching at his sides.

By the time you circled back in front of him, the suit hung loose around his waist, exposing his toned chest—rippling abs interrupted by finger-shaped bruises from some villain's grip, ribs shadowed with swelling. Peter's gaze raked over you, lingering on the towel barely containing your hips, the water-slicked trail of hair leading downward. That familiar hunger flickered in his eyes, dark and insistent despite the pain etching lines around his mouth."You're all bruised up," you said, your voice softening as you traced a gentle finger along a welt on his collarbone. You knew that look—he wanted you, needed the distraction, the connection to ground him after whatever hellish patrol he'd endured. He shook his head, a stubborn glint in his eye. "I don't care." Before you could protest, his hands—strong even now—gripped your waist, lifting you effortlessly despite his grimace. You yelped in surprise as he carried you the few steps to the bed, the towel slipping precariously."Peter—wait, you're hurt—"

"Shh, I need this. Need you," he cut in, voice husky, lowering you onto the rumpled sheets. He kicked off the rest of the suit, shoving it aside, his cock already half-hard and twitching against his thigh as he climbed over you. The bruises on his torso stood out starkly under the bedside lamp, but he ignored them, leaning down to capture your mouth in a fierce kiss. His lips were split and tasting faintly of blood, but you kissed back hungrily, hands roaming his back—careful of the tender spots. Peter's tongue slid against yours, a low moan vibrating into your mouth as he ground his hips down, his erection pressing hot and insistent against your thigh through the towel. "God, you look so fucking good," he whispered against your lips, nipping at your jaw. His hands yanked the towel free, exposing your hardening cock, and he wrapped a palm around it, stroking slowly. You arched into his touch, a gasp escaping as his thumb circled the head, smearing the bead of pre-cum.

"Pete... let me take care of you first," you panted, but he was already shifting, guiding you to straddle his hips. His cock stood fully erect now, thick and veined, curving slightly toward his abs. You positioned yourself above him, gripping the base as you sank down slowly, the stretch burning deliciously as his girth filled your ass. Peter's head fell back against the pillow, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. "Fuck... yeah, just like that." His hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging in—not too hard, mindful of his own bruises—as you bottomed out, your balls resting against his. The fullness made you shudder, walls clenching around him. You started to move, rolling your hips in a steady rhythm, riding him with deliberate thrusts. Peter's eyes locked on where your bodies joined, watching his cock disappear into you with each downward slide. "So tight... feels amazing," he rasped, one hand sliding up to tweak your nipple, rolling it between his fingers until you moaned.

The bed creaked under you, your hands braced on his chest—avoiding the worst bruises—as you picked up pace, bouncing harder. Sweat beaded on Peter's forehead, mixing with the remnants of patrol grime, but his face was alight with pleasure, pain forgotten in the heat of it. "Harder—fuck, ride me harder," he urged, bucking up to meet you, the slap of skin echoing in the small room. You obliged, grinding down deep, your own cock leaking pre-cum onto his stomach. Dialogue spilled between gasps: "You feel so good inside me, Pete... so thick." He laughed breathlessly, one hand stroking your cock in time with your movements. “Gonna make you feel it all night. Shit—keep going.” The room filled with the sounds of flesh meeting flesh, your moans blending with his grunts. Peter's control frayed, thrusts growing erratic. “Can't hold... fuck, cumming.“ You ground down hard, and he shattered, cock pulsing as ropes of cum shot into you, warm and flooding. “Take it— all of me,” he gasped, body arching. Panting, you eased off, his seed dripping down your thighs. Peter looked wrecked, eyelids drooping. “Hang on, I'll get the ice,” you said, kissing his temple before slipping away to the freezer. You returned with packs wrapped in a shirt, pressing them to his swollen knuckles and thigh. He mumbled a thanks, already fading, arm pulling you close as sleep claimed him. You nestled in, content in the quiet aftermath.

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ~@magicstarbits @capsicleforever @loverclear @gayaristocrat @godjustkys @sluttyhusband @carnalcrows @amor-xoxo @loverboyisaac @gayaristocrat @manlover0729 @cronasluvr @celestiallightking @spnfanboy777 @elreystories @billyloveworld88

© 𝐃𝐪𝐫𝐤𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔

[bstwstr]

personal space heater

pairing: johnny storm x male reader summary: when the winter gets too cold for you, johnny comes to your rescue tags: fluff, smut (mdni), oral, anal, bottom reader, top johnny wordcount: 2k

winter was always unbearable for name, blankets and warm cups of hot cocoa weren’t enough to soothe the sting that the cold always brought. it was the annual routine whenever the latter months of the year came by. shivering under the woolen mess and sipping the contents of the warm ceramic fantastic four-branded mug. the room was illuminated by a fireplace. the ember danced around the burning tinder, while the shining moonlight spilled in, being accented by the hundred twinkling stars and city lights.

name’s thoughts drift to one person, his lovely boyfriend, johnny storm, but he’d been too busy saving the world from another earth-eating alien to spend time with him. name was fine with the blond’s absence. it was a part of the deal when they started dating, but that doesn’t mean that he didn’t miss him sometimes. the way that johnny would kiss him, hug him, hold him, fuck him—

a knock at the window interrupts his thoughts. another source of orange light floods the room. it was johnny, fully ablazed. “johnny?” he asks as he fiddles with the window lock to let the burning blond in. when name finally manages to undo the lock johnny flies inside the apartment with his usual swagger. his flames extinguish but the cold in the room dies down at his mere existence. his warmth radiates through out the room. “hey, missed ya.” he grips name’s waist as he pulls him into a tight embrace. the other man’s shoulders relax at johnny’s body heat. the blankets that were draped on him like a cape fall down onto the carpeted floor. name was about to pull away but johnny’s arms kept him stuck. “what are you doing here?” name asks as he sets down the blue and white mug on a nearby wooden table. “well, you know, just wanted to see you.” he replied as he picks up the same mug and takes a sip, “mm, good cocoa,”. name laughs at his remark. “you can have that one. i’ve already had enough.” name smiles.

johnny continues savoring the liquid goodness, “i hate knowing you’re cold and alone like this,” he murmured as his eyes now linger on his boyfriend’s frame, softer this time. “so i thought why not pay you a visit and warm you up.” his lips twist into his trademark smirk, but his hands holds name’s icy ones in his, “god you’re freezing, never make me leave you frozen like this.” the shivering man’s heart flutters at his concern before he lets out a breathless chuckle.

johnny didn’t give name any time to reply before tugging him in further in his arms, folding him in chest. his body radiated heat like a large furnace, thawing the chill that stubbornly clung onto name’s skin. “missed you,” johnny mutters as his head drifts into the crook of name’s neck. his breath ran hot against the cold of his lover’s skin. his usual swagger seems to have dissipated. replaced by something raw, almost aching.

he lingered in the embrace before pulling away to face name. his warmth still wrapped around name but his gaze was sharp, the firelight dancing in his irises. his mouth begins to tilt into that oh so familiar smirk, “you know, you don’t need all these blankets. i’m better than all of them. personal space heater, right here.” the teasing lilt in his voice makes name huff a laugh, but his pulse betrays him, hammering under his boyfriend’s touch. johnny catches it, of course he did. his smirk deepens as he lifts his hand from his waist to your jaw, “see? already working.” he muttered before pulling you in for a kiss. his lips were warm and softer than he remembered. it tasted like cocoa and smoke. his heat now seeps throughout your entire body making the chill under your skin nothing but a memory. the kiss wasn’t rushed or hungry, not yet, it lingered, coaxing, the kind that made name’s chest tingle and body burn. name pulls away for a second, “you’re impossible.” he throws johnny a laugh before curling his fingers into the blond’s shirt pulling him closer into the kiss. johnny’s mouth opened under name’s, eager, teeth grazing his lower lip as his hand slid back down to anchor the other man. name felt himself getting lost in the sensation.

between both of their breaths, name pulls back enough to murmur, “tell me you warned the others this time, hm?” his voice glossed in a teasing tone. johnny chuckles, “relax, baby. i’m not letting reed walk in on us again,” “good…i want you all for myself this time.” name’s hands frisks around johnny’s torso. his fingers drop before stopping at the hem of the shirt before pulling it up. “you’ve got me,” johnny’s smirk becomes replaced by something softer. affection mixed with a sort of hunger. the heat rolling off from the blond’s body intensifies as name pulls the fabric upward, his knuckles graze over tough muscle. johnny raises his hands up with no protest, letting him strip it away. the shirt hits the floor in a forgotten heap with the blankets. “better,” name whispers, his palms splaying over johnny’s bare chest. the warmth bleeding into his chilled fingers. the blond leans in, “careful, you’re gonna get addicted.” he murmurs against his lips. “maybe, i already am…” johnny’s eyes flash at name’s words. his mouth curls into another smirk, but this time darker, hungrier, like a spark catching.

the blond’s hands shift downwards, fingers deft as they undo the button of his lover’s pants. the sound of the zipper peeling down filled the quiet between their ragged breaths. “already needy, huh?” he teased, his lips brushing the corner of name’s mouth as his hand slipped beneath the fabric. johnny’s knuckles grazed name through his briefs, slow, deliberate, making him shiver. his voice caught in his throat, but name managed, “shut up… just touch me.” he grinned, eyes glinting as he pressed his palm firmer against name, feeling the heat straining there. “bossy.” his thumb rubbed teasing circles, enough to make his boyfriend’s hips jerk upward into his hand. “i like it.” in one smooth motion, he shoved his pants and briefs down together, freeing him to the cool air before wrapping his hand around him. the sudden heat of his grip made name groan, head falling back against the pillows. “fuck, you’re so hard for me already,” he murmured, stroking slow from base to tip, his pace maddening. “all because i touched you, huh?” name gasped, clutching at his shoulders as the other man’s body arched. “because it’s you,” he shot back, name’s voice breaking into a moan as he tightened his hold. his smirk softened for just a heartbeat, replaced by something darker. “good answer.” he leaned down, his tongue flicking across name’s collarbone before dragging down his chest, every stroke of his hand in sync with the trail of his mouth. by the time he reached name’s stomach, his pace had quickened, his thumb smearing slick along name's tip. he was already trembling beneath him, but he didn’t let up, instead, he glanced up at him, lips hovering over the other man's cock with a wicked grin. “think you can handle more?”

johnny didn’t wait for an answer. his smirk was already curling against the flushed skin beneath him as he dragged his tongue in one slow, deliberate line from the base to the tip. his boyfriend’s sharp inhale filled the room, body jerking at the sudden wet heat. “god—” the other man choked, fingers threading desperately into the blond’s hair. that only spurred him on. he wrapped his lips around the swollen head, tongue circling lazily before taking him deeper, inch by inch, until the steady pulse throbbed hot against his throat. the stretch made his jaw ache, but he reveled in the way name’s thighs trembled on either side of him. “fuck, that—” the words broke into a moan as the blond hollowed his cheeks, sliding down further until his nose brushed against coarse hair. the sound of wet suction filled the room, obscene and perfect, matched by the frantic little gasps spilling from the man above him. he pulled back with a wet pop, stroking him with his hand slick from spit. “already shaking,” he teased, glancing up with eyes gleaming in the firelight. “you’re so fucking easy for me.”, “shut up,” came the strained reply, though the way his hips lifted to chase that sinful mouth told a different story. johnny chuckled low, the vibration humming against flushed skin as he swallowed him down again. this time he set a rhythm, slow pulls, quick plunges, drawing out every broken moan and curse. his free hand pressed firmly into name’s hip to hold him down, forcing him to take each wave of pleasure until his chest was heaving and sweat beaded at his temple despite the chill of winter outside. when he finally let go, saliva glistened along the shaft, and he licked his lips like he hadn’t just wrecked him.

name’s chest heaved, his body already trembling from the onslaught of johnny’s mouth. his head rolled back against the pillow, lips parted, a thin sheen of sweat catching the firelight. he lets out a ‘need you,’ his breath stuttered, a needy sound tearing free before he could stop it. the blond grinned, feral and satisfied, pulling back just enough to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. “yeah? that’s what you want?” he coaxed, stroking him once more, slow and cruel. “want me to fuck you open and keep you warm from the inside?”, “please,” came the ragged reply, hoarse with need. that was all it took. johnny’s lips crashed against his again, fiery and demanding, as his hands shoved the rest of his clothes away. he pressed down, their bare bodies colliding, heat radiating from him like a furnace. the other man gasped into the kiss at the sheer burn of it, every nerve sparking under his touch. he reached between them, slicking his cock with the mess of spit and precum he’d left behind. “relax for me,” he murmured against his lover’s jaw, though his voice trembled with his own restraint. with one steady push, he pressed forward, breaching tight resistance until the head slipped in. name arched with a sharp cry, nails digging into johnny’s shoulders. the stretch burned, overwhelming, but the heat… the heat was intoxicating. “breathe,” the blond whispered, pausing to kiss him deeply, swallowing the whimper that escaped. inch by inch, he sank in further, stretching him open, filling him until there was no space left between them.

“fuck—you’re so tight,” he hissed through gritted teeth, forehead dropping to his lover’s shoulder. “feels like you were made for me.” a moan tore from the man beneath him, equal parts pain and desperate pleasure, his body clenching around the thick intrusion. “move,” he begged, hips shifting helplessly. “johnny—please, move.” johnny didn’t make him ask twice. he drew back slowly, almost to the tip, before snapping his hips forward in a deep, brutal thrust that punched a cry out of his boyfriend’s throat. again, and again, the rhythm built, each stroke sharper, hungrier, until the room filled with the wet slap of skin and the ragged chorus of moans and curses. pinned beneath him, name could only clutch at him, legs wrapped tight around his waist as if to keep him there, to keep him in. every thrust drove heat deeper, every brush of his cock against that spot inside sent white hot sparks tearing through his body. “you feel—fuck—you feel so good,” johnny groaned, his pace unrelenting now, chasing both their releases. he caught name’s lips in another searing kiss, muffling his cries as he fucked him harder, heat radiating off him like a second sun. when the hand between their bodies wrapped around his cock again, stroking in time with each thrust, it was too much. the coil inside him snapped, pleasure detonating through every nerve as he cried out, body spasming around the blond. the tight squeeze wrenched a guttural moan from his lover, who slammed deep one final time before spilling inside, heat flooding him until he felt branded from the inside out. for a long moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing, the crackle of the fire, and the faint hiss of cooling skin. the blond stayed pressed close, still buried inside, lips brushing lazily over name’s damp temple.

“told you,” johnny murmured with a grin, voice hoarse. “better than any blanket.”

[bstwstr]

i just wanna wake up on ya thigh, on a yacht

pairing: dick grayson x male reader summary: after a stressful night in gotham, you and dick just want to get away for awhile, maybe even forever. tags: fluff, smut(mdni), yachts, breakfast, teasing, manhandling, oral, rimming, standing 69, dom dick grayson, sub male reader wordcount: 3.9k author's note: belated happy holidays and happy new year! i tried to get this fic out during last year but got busy with celebrations haha, anyways here's to more fics in 2026, cheers.

the smell of the sea and its salt air envelops you. you take it all in with a deep breath, the engine buzzing beneath you. dick had taken you on a private yacht on a random tuesday. “i was missing you,” he justified as you were still in shock at the news, but you seemed to welcome it anyways. your clothes were already packed the minute he was finished telling you about the yacht. your morning musings were interrupted as dick hugs you from behind. “morning, baby. liking the view?” he rests his head on the nook of your shoulder, still tired it seems. “good morning to you too, babe.”

dick nuzzles closer, his breath warm against your neck as the yacht gently rocked beneath you. the sun was just beginning to rise, painting the sky in hues of gold and pink, reflecting off the water like scattered diamonds. he could feel your steady breathing, the way your body relaxed in the embrace, it made something in his chest tighten with affection. “mmm, you’re warm,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep, arms tightening a little more around your waist. he pressed a soft kiss to the spot just below your ear, grinning when dick felt you shiver slightly. “i kept thinking about how lucky i am to have you here, like this. just us, the ocean, and no gotham drama for once.”

you giggled, especially with how yesterday transpired. it had been a rough night, gotham hadn’t taken nightwing’s presence kindly. various gashes and bruises littered dick’s skin. it was beautiful in a weird way, the clashing colors of violet bruises and bloodied wounds created a mosaic on your boyfriend’s body. a work of art that only you would ever see. “shit!” he hisses as the antiseptic makes contact with his skin, staining it a rust color. “sorry! i promise it won’t sting any longer, okay?” you utter a half lie, enough truth to try to calm dick down atleast. “hold still, okay. the pain will only get worse if you keep squirming like that.” dick just groans in response too exhausted to talk.

“by the way, how’s your scars? are they healing well?” dick just exhaled sharply as the dried antiseptic bit into another cut, his fingers flexing against the edge of the railing where he was perched. he shot you a look that was half-playful and half-pained. his bright blue eyes crinkled at the corners despite the sting. “yeah, yeah, they’re alright.” you muttered “good.” as a response. “you know, i’m the one who’s supposed to be taking care of you, not the other way around,” he grumbled, though there was no real heat in it. his voice was rough, tired, but warm. he reached back without looking, fingers brushing against your hip in a silent thank you.

“then who’s going to patch you up when you get beat down? i’d rather have you whining about antiseptic than lying dead, grayson.” your tone is firm yet somehow gentle. dick’s usual playful smirk faltering for a heartbeat. the ocean breeze ruffled his hair, but all he could focus on was the weight of your words, the way they settled in his chest like a promise and a warning all at once. “fair point.” he muttered, but his voice softer now, the edge of his usual bravado worn thin. he shifted to fully face you, leaning back against the railing. his hands found your wrists, pulling you closer until both of your bodies were pressed together, foreheads nearly touching.

you feel his thumbs trace slow circles over your pulse points, his eyes searching—always searching—like he was memorizing the lines on your face. “w-what, do i have something on my face?” you ask, suddenly becoming aware of dick’s stare. he let out a soft, breathy laugh, his thumbs stilling for just a second before resuming their slow, grounding circles. his head tilted slightly, a fond smirk tugging at his lips, though his eyes never left your face. “nah,” he murmured warmly, “just reminding myself you’re real.” his fingers flexed gently against your wrists, as if testing your solidity. “sometimes i still can’t believe i get to have you. like this. all to myself.” a beat. his grin turned sheepish, just a little. “you sound like you’re going to start reciting bad poetry at me.” you chuckle at your own joke as dick follows suit. dick exhaled, warm and quiet, before tugging you even closer—close enough to let you feel the steady beat pf his heart. “c’mon. let’s go make pancakes. i’ll even let you burn them this time.”

the cooked batter squelched as you freed it from the pan. the smell of freshly cooked pancakes filled the yacht’s galley. “breakfast is served.” you say as you plop the pancakes onto both of your plates. you move towards the small fridge to take the pack of strawberries, cutting them into little heart shapes to adorn on top of the sweet, fluffy cakes. dick watched you with a look of utter fondness, his elbows propped on the counter as his chin rested on his palms. he was practically drooling by the time you sprayed whipped cream on top before precisely putting the cut strawberries in the perfect spot. dick grabbed his plate, leaning in to press a quick, sugar-dusted kiss towards your temple before pulling back just enough to bump their shoulders together. “c’mon, chef. let’s eat before i decide to skip breakfast entirely and just kiss you instead.” his free hand found yours, fingers intertwining as he tugged him toward the small table by the window, where the morning light spilled in like liquid gold.

dick takes the first bite, fork overwhelmed with cake and cream. he takes it in his mouth, your gaze glued onto him awaiting his reaction. “so…? how is it?” his eyes fluttered shut for a second as he chewed, savoring the taste—then immediately broke into a grin so wide it was almost concerning. he swallowed, pointing his fork at you like it was the most serious moment of his life. “these are stupid good. what the hell did you put into them?” he took another bite, groaning dramatically. you laugh at his reaction. “they’re just regular pancakes, babe.” he set his fork down before pulling you into a quick, syrup-sweet kiss. “i’m keeping you, forever.” he grins as he stole a strawberry of your plate. “no takebacks.” you blush at his statement, “just eat, grayson.” you focus on your own plate, making a mental note to pat yourself on the back at how delicious the pancakes you made were.

once you both finished, leaving the dishes forgotten by the sink, you stood back out at the deck admiring the view once more. the sky was fully blue now, the city seemed farther away, and islands come closer to view. dick stepped behind you, arms sliding around your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world. he breathed in the salt-tinged air as the wind played with his hair. dick turned his head just enough to press a slow, lingering kiss to the side of your neck, breath warm against your skin. “we should do this more often. just disappear for a while.” his arms tightened around you, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you against him. “i’d love that.” your head rested on dick’s. your body shifted as you turned around, now facing him. your hand tucks a lock of his windswept hair behind his ear as your lips come closer to his, making contact. he melted into the kiss like the sun melting into the horizon, slow, warm, and inevitable. his hands slid up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as if you were something precious, something fragile. the wind wrapped around the both of you, carrying the scent of salt, syrup, and him. dick exhaled against your lips, a quiet sound of contentment.

“you’re dangerous, y’know that?” his voice full of affection, his fingers busying themselves in your hair. he pressed another kiss to your lips, softer this time, lingering. “i know you like it,” you smile. you feel dick’s hands drop down to your waist pulling you flush against him before it drops further down. dick had a fistful of your ass, fondling you through the robe you haphazardly wore to combat the wind. dick let out a low, breathy laugh against your lips, his grip tightening just enough to earn a quiet, satisfied hum from deep in his chest. the wind tugged at his hair, at the fabric of your robe, but all he could focus one was the heat of your body pressing against his, the way his fingers dug in—possessive, teasing, his.

“guilty as charged,” he murmured, voice rough with amusement and something far warmer. his thumb traced slow circles over the fabric, his grin turning wicked when your breath hitched. “but…” he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as his hands continued their slow, deliberate exploration. “you know you love it when i’m like this. all hands, no self-control.” he pulls back just enough to catch your gaze, his eyes dark with mischief. you breathed sharply, your body arched into his touch, a little whine escaped from your lips. “fuck, babe…” you managed to utter as dick continues to touch you. his lips crashed back into yours with a hungry edge. his hands mapping every dip and curve like he was memorizing him all over again. the wind continued to whip around them, but all dick could feel was the heat of your body, the way he melted into every touch.

“fuck, yes,” he growled against your lips, voice rough. one hand slid up to tangle in your hair, tilting your head back just enough to deepen the kiss, while the other stayed right where it was, squeezing, teasing, and owning. “you’re perfect,” he murmured, his lips trailing down towards your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. each sector of your skin marked by him.

dick pulls back just enough to catch your gaze, your eyes needy with want and his dark with desire. both of your chests run breathless, rising and falling in rhythm with each sharp breath. “tell me want you want.” he demanded, his voice a low purr. “i want you,” you take a deep inhale as dick’s ministrations continue on your body. “please.”

dick’s entire body reacted to that please—a shiver down his spine, a tightening in his chest, a rush of heat that pooled low in his stomach. his grip on your hair loosened just enough to let his fingers card through the strands, his other hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you into another searing kiss. this one was slower, deeper, like he was trying to pour every ounce of need, of devotion, into it. his teeth grazed your bottom lip, just enough to make you gasp, before soothing the sting with his tongue. “fuck,” his forehead pressing against yours as he tried to catch his breath. his voice was rough and strained, like he was holding onto control by a thread. “do you even know what you do t’me?” he didn’t wait for a response. instead, he looped his thick arms around your thighs making you jump into his embrace, your bodies flush together. his hands grip your ass as yours hang onto the nape of his neck. both of your hands roamed each other’s bodies—possessive, desperate, and worshipping. dick’s lips found your jaw again, then your throat, then your collarbone, each kiss punctuated with a quiet, reverent murmur of ‘mine.’

the wind continued to whip around you as dick’s hands slid under the fabric of your robe, mapping the warm skin beneath, his touch firm but tender. he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze again, his bright blue eyes dark with hunger, with promise. your breath came in sharp, ragged gasps at the feeling of dick’s fingertips, the way they roamed, tracing patterns into your skin. the yacht swayed gently beneath them, but all that mattered was the way dick’s body continued to press against his. your nails dug into dick’s own skin, your hands mapping the lean muscles of his back. an admiration of the scars scattered on his back. “yeah—fuck,” you managed to speak, your thighs tightening around dick’s waist as he lifted you effortlessly. “i know what i do to you—” your words cut off by a sharp inhale as his teeth grazed your earlobe, your hips responded by rolling instinctively against him. “same damn thing you do to me.”

you didn't bother with more words. instead, you crashed your lips against his again, hungry and desperate, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper. the taste of syrup, salt, and dick filled your senses, and for once, the world outside this moment didn’t exist. there was only the heat between them, the way dick’s hands gripped him like he was something precious, something his. when you finally pulled back, your lips were swollen, your voice a rough murmur. “so stop fucking asking and take me already.” your hips rolled again, deliberate this time, you felt his breath hitch.

dick’s control snapped. a growl tore from his throat as he spun you, pressing your back against the nearest wall of the yacht’s cabin with a quiet thud. your clothes already askew on your body and dick didn’t hesitate. his hands slid beneath the fabric, palms hot and demanding as they touched every inch of skin, like he was trying to brand himself into you. his lips crashed back to yours, teeth nipping at your lower lip before soothing the sting with a stripe of his tongue, swallowing the sharp gasp you let out. “fuck,” he groaned against the boundary of your mouth. one hand gripped on your plush thigh, hitching it higher around his waist, while the other tangled in your hair, tilting your head back just enough to expose the line of your throat. dick didn’t waste a second, his lips attacked your jaw again, each kiss punctuated with a quiet and possessive ‘mine.’

his hips rolled forward, pinning you against the wall as he ground down, the friction making them both shudder. “you want me?” he murmured, breath hot against your ear. “then you’ve got me.” dick had raised you higher so that his face would be level with your crotch, his arms carrying you by the thighs as your hands try to grip the wall of support. “d-dick!” your voice raises in concern as dick manhandled you so effortlessly. dick just chuckled, his warm breath ghosting over the sensitive skin as he adjusted his grip, both arms banded securely around your thighs. he pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, then another one closer towards your crotch. his blue eyes glued at yours with a smirk that was all sin. “relax,” his voice tinged with amusement. “i’ve got you.” his fingers flexed possessively against your skin, his grip unyielding but careful. he shifted just enough to press another kiss to the fabric of your shorts, his breath hot through the thin material, making your erection twitch even more. he could feel your pulse racing beneath his lips, hear the way your breath stuttered when his teeth grazed the waistband before tugging it down with his free hand. your fingers finally abandoned the wall to tangle desperately in dick’s hair. your mouth started making noises you didn’t even know it could when dick’s tongue traced a slow, deliberate line just above the waistband of your underwear.

you could barely count how many times you almost hit your head on the cabin wall from tilting your head back from pleasure, the way dick worked your cock in his mouth was euphoric. “f-fuck.” your fingers curled themselves into his hair as he took you to the base. dick’s throat hummed around you, a low, satisfied sound that vibrated straight through your body. his hands tightened further on your thighs, fingers digging in just enough to leave marks—good, he wanted to leave marks. as he took you deeper, his breath stuttering only when he pulled back just enough to tease the tip with his tongue. his eyes, watering but still burning, flicked up to meet your gaze, smirk muffled but nonetheless wicked.

he pulled off with a wet, obscene sound, his lips swollen and glistening as he pressed a quick filthy kiss to the inside of your thigh. “look at you,” he groaned, his thumb tracing your slick and flushed length. “all mine, aren’t you?” his grip secured while his other hand slid towards your chest, pressing against your racing heartbeat, feeling the way it stuttered under his palm. dick’s mouth was back on you in an instant, hot, wet, and relentless. his tongue swirling around the tip before taking you deep again. his hand slid down to your waist, pinning it against the wall above his head as he hollowed his cheeks, his throat working around him. the world was reduced to the slick sounds of dick’s mouth and the way your breath came in sharp, broken gasps, the way your fingers clawed at dick’s hair like he was the only thing keeping him grounded.

he pulled back just enough to murmur against the damp skin of your hip, “c’mon, babe. let go. give it t’me.” and then his mouth was back, his lips sealing around the base, his eyes never leaving you. your moans and whines became louder as you felt your release come nearer. “dick!” you screamed as your thighs clamped onto his head, tight like a vise. your cock, warmed by his mouth, twitched and writhed as it shot ropes of the hot white liquid deep in his throat. dick didn’t pull away, not even for a second. he took every pulse and shudder, his throat working around you as he swallowed with a low, satisfied hum. his grip tightened, grounding him as your body trembled. the sounds you made—broken, desperate, and his—sent a jolt of heat straight through dick’s veins, his own body aching with need.

when you finally slumped back against the wall, breathless and boneless, dick pulled off with a slow, deliberate pop of his lips, his tongue swiping over the corner of his mouth to catch what escaped. his eyes were dark, his lips were shiny with spit and cum, his chest heaving as he pressed a filthy, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another, and another, like he was worshipping the very skin beneath his lips. you bite the back of your hand to suppress any more noises as dick continued to devour you whole. “fuck, yes,” he groaned, his forehead pressing against your stomach as he caught his breath. “that’s it.” his hands slid up to cradle your waist, his thumbs tracing slow, soothing circles over his hipbones as he felt your heartbeat slowly steady beneath his touch. he tilted his head to meet your dazed and flushed gaze, his smirk slow and satisfied.

“wait, what are you doin—” you were suddenly flipped and hoisted upside down, dick’s arms carrying you effortlessly by your waist. “babe?” you asked, voice mixed with concern as you were now face to face with dick’s trapped erection, his hardening length aching to be set free from its polyester prison. “trust me, you’ll love it.” he says while admiring how your entrance winked at nothing, “damn, your hole is cute.” you could hear his grin, all teeth and mischief. he adjusted his grip, his biceps flexing around your waist. the position left you breathless and flushed, you were close enough to feel the radiating heat of his cock, close enough to see the way his thighs trembled as you breathed on it.

your body shifted in his hands as the yacht rocked in the water, dick loved the way it made you gasp, grinning at the sight of your hole twitching, begging for his attention. “fuck…” you blurted out at the compromising position. you feel his thumb brush over your entrance, a slow deliberate tease. “stop teasing, c’mon…” you retorted but before you could argue any further dick was already digging into you like a starved man. your moans grew uncontrollable as he continued to eat you out. your entire body quivered when dick hummed into your hole. his noises became louder when your mouth latched towards the wet spot forming on his shorts, the stimulation of your mouth on his cock blocked by the damp fabric made him shudder, a broken groan tearing from his throat as his hips jerked forward instinctively. the wet heat of your breath, the teasing drag of your lips was madness to dick.

his tongue never stopped its relentless work, lapping at your hole with long, messy strokes. your hands eventually found the waistband of his shorts, making quick work by slipping the pesky fabric onto the yacht floor. your mouth instinctively latched onto the fat, mushroom head of dick’s cock, his precum and your spit staining your lips. you took him just like he took you, you awkwardly bobbed your head trying to fit more of dick in your mouth but the position hindering you from taking more. meanwhile, dick was enjoying himself in your entrance, his lips and chin glistening obscenely with spit. his thumb pressing just inside your hole, enough to make you clench, he could feel your hard cock jerk on his chest.

dick doubled down, his tongue swirling, thumb crooking just so, hips stuttering as your moans of pleasure grew louder and needier, sending vibrations all throughout his body. his entire body coiled tight, his abs clenching, muscles trembling with the effort of devouring you. “fuck,” his voice muffled by your ass as his own release came nearer and nearer, the wet heat of your throat acting as a catalyst to his impending orgasm. a guttural groan tore from his throat as your tongue swirled around the head of his cock, his hips jerking forward helplessly. his biceps burning with the effort of holding you up, keeping you right there, impaled on his tongue. he buried his face deeper, his tongue pressing inside now, fucking you with deliberate strokes.

“c’mon—cum for me, now.” his words were a filthy, broken command. dick felt your body shuddering, you were cumming just from his tongue, your cock painted dick’s chest in hot, thick stripes, your moans vibrating straight his bones. the sight, the sound, the way your hole fluttered around his tongue—it sent dick over the edge with a choked, desperate groan, his release hitting the back of your throat in pulses as you tried to swallow it, his entire body trembling with the force of it. he didn’t let go, dick kept you right there as he continued lapping at you gently, soothingly, his cock still twitching between your swollen lips.

he had finally maneuvered you upright, your legs locked on his waist this time as he carried you towards a nearby couch. “you were amazing, baby.” he rasped, his tone was raw and wrecked, both of your body sticky and slick with sweat and spent release. “you were amazing too, babe.” your arms hang loosely around his neck. you rested your head on his stained chest, hearing his heartbeat hammering. dick lowered his head to meet your temple, pressing a slow and lingering kiss, his hands traced soothing circles over your back. both of your bodies press together like they were merging into one. dick’s hands slid down to grip your waist once more, fingers brushing over the marks he’d left earlier, proof of how good you both were together. he couldn’t help but smirk a little, his lips ghosting over your shoulder.

“we’re never leaving this yacht.”

[dqrkhold]

Baby Boy This Is Serious

pairing: Anthony Bridgeton x M!Reader

summary: Anthony pulls you away from the crowd into a secluded area not being able to make it to the bedroom

a/n: request are open!

wc:1k

notes: MDNI, FDNI, oral sex (r!receiving), praising, thigh kink.

The evening was alive with an air of excitement, music weaving through the opulent hall of the Bridgerton estate. Laughter and chatter filled the air, but amid the grand celebration, Anthony found his focus trained on you. Your smile, radiant and captivating, drew him in like a moth to a flame.

"Come with me," he whispered, his voice low and rich with promise. You barely had time to nod before he took your hand, leading you through a side door, away from the prying eyes of the guests.

In the secluded corner of the estate, Anthony pressed you against the wall, the coolness of the stone contrasting sharply with the warmth of his body. His eyes burned with desire, dark and intense, and you felt a shiver run down your spine.

He pressed against you, his breath warm and tantalizing against your skin as he leaned in to kiss your neck, the gentle touch of his lips sending shivers down your spine. Each kiss felt like a promise, stirring a need within you that was impossible to ignore. 

"You’re so beautiful," he breathed, his voice a low rumble that made your heart race anew.

He took his time, relishing the soft warmth of your skin, exploring every inch with his mouth, leaving soft, lingering kisses that made your heart race.

As his hands found their way into your pants, there was a heady mix of urgency and tenderness in his touch. 

"Anthony," you gasped again, lost between pleasure and the need for more.

His fingers brushed against your skin, igniting sparks that coursed through you, and the thrill of his boldness sent a rush of excitement coursing through your veins.

You could feel his breath, warm and slightly uneven, ghosting over your face, heightening every sensation. Anthony’s hands slid down your sides, fingers deftly undoing your pants with a sense of urgency mixed with careful intent. As he sank to his knees, his gaze never leaving yours

His lips trailed along your thighs, each kiss a tantalizing promise. He sucked gently, occasionally biting just hard enough to elicit a gasp, mixing pleasure with a hint of pain that left you wanting more. 

He kept one hand on your stomach, fingers pressing lightly, anchoring you in place, while the other caressed your thigh, gripping it with a firm possessiveness that sent heat coursing through you.

“Please,” you gasped, your breath hitching as you urged him on. “Take me to the bedroom. I need you.” The words spilled from your lips, filled with longing and desire that seemed to wrap around both of you.

He paused, brushing his nose lightly against your cock, the contact sending shockwaves of pleasure through you. Your body ached with need, and your chest heaved as you craved more of him—more of his attention, more of his touch.

“Is that what you want?” he asked, his voice a sultry whisper, laced with both playfulness and authority. He looked up at you, his intense gaze piercing through the haze of arousal, sending butterflies flitting wildly in your stomach.

“Yes, take me to the bedroom,” you repeated, firmer this time, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling him closer as though you were grounding him to you. 

A slow, wicked smile spread across his face as he rose to his feet with a fluid grace that was utterly captivating. “As you wish,” he replied, his tone playful but his eyes filled with hunger.

Taglist ~ @boypied @davrosfan23 @cronasluvr @reveryfics @supercap2319 @magicstarbits @capsicleforever @loverclear @gayaristocrat @ghostking4m @m4r13ll @sluttyhusband

[shinylipglosss]

One Of Your Girls

Jonathan Bailey x M!Reader

╰ ➤ bttm!jonathan, top!reader, dom!jonathan, sub!reader, penetration, smut, mlm, oral, cum eating, body worship, sensual, steamy sex

His hands rolled like welcome waves along the soft curves of your skin. It took everything and more in you to not melt into his touch. The aching length between your legs called out to him when he got too close.

“What’s this?” He questioned, a sly smile on his lips. His voice was dark and as rough as gravel. You knew his question wasn’t rhetorical but you couldn’t help just staring at his lips, the kiss-swollen pillars beckoning you to just feel them on yours once more. He growled—and gave you what you wanted—when he noticed where your attention had gone. You slightly understood that people would begin to wonder where the both of you were. But, even tasting his tongue had your thoughts dulled in that instant.

“You understand what you do to me?” He asked and pulled back from the fight of your tongue on his. You were on your back and he was sitting above you, thighs spread. When you didn’t answer him again he grabbed his prominent bulge and stroked himself. “Hm?” The commanding masculinity of his voice had you scrambling to undo the zip of your clothing.

In the race to who could remove their clothes the quickest, you watched him closely, eyeing the way his bicep muscles tensed around his tight shirt. You held back your moan at seeing him not held back by clothes, because that’s what clothes did to him. Held him back. His body was chiselled out of—what anyone would assume—pure muscle; the thick chest hair only adding to your addiction.

You leaned back on the couch, letting him lower himself on your throbbing length. A sigh of relief forcefully left you when you penetrated his entrance—the tight entrance making you painfully aware of how good you felt. He started longingly into your eyes as if you were his first. Though you knew someone of his beauty couldn’t have his first time so late.

He did everything for you: from moving his hips rhythmically to doing his best to make sure you felt as much pleasure as possible. You moved your hand to his large cock, sliding it up and down to the slam of his ass on your hips. His veins reacted to your touch and pulsed in anticipation. His hands were heavy on your chest, caressing the faint muscles. You leaned into his ass. Trying, desperately, to get even more friction.

The room began to grow a thick condensation from the sweaty sex. Your mouth was permanently ajar from the pleasure and his, was, well, perfect. He seldom released a soft moan that contrasted his rough personality. But when he did you adored him that much more.

You couldn’t help but trail your hands across the rocky terrain that was his abs. He trembled at your cold touch, but slowly—ever so slowly—he began to take pleasure in your touch. His breath became shaky as you pulled him closer and licked his body. He couldn’t keep up with his previous pace, leaving you inside him without any movement. But you didn’t care. You just wanted him.

Your tongue left a slick trail wherever you could get to: his nipples; his neck, his cock. With your mouth enveloping him entirely, you thrusted deep into him. With him seemingly having gotten used to the feeling of your large length inside, he gasped in surprise at the feeling of you hitting his special spot. Thick, hot liquid traded from his aching penis to your pleading mouth. You revelled in the sticky consistency of his semen.

He pulled you out of him, a pop sound sounding out in the small space. He went straight to your cock; looked to your eyes, and said, “You ready?”

ʸᵒᵘʳˢ ᵗʳᵘˡʸ, ˡⁱᵖᵍˡᵒˢˢ 𝜗ৎ

[storiesbyshadow]

Colorful

Fandom: Jurassic World: Rebirth

Pairing: Dr. Henry Loomis x Male!Reader

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Tags: Slight Angst, Fluff, Smut, Pride Event, Shy Henry, Nervous Henry, Face Painting, Drag Show, Fireworks, Kissing In The Rain, Jerking Off, Anal Sex, Gentle Sex, Cuddling, Waking Up Together, Implied Love Confession, Maybe A Curse Word Or Two

Word Count: Around 2200

Written For: @fandombingo @fandom-free-bingo @julybreakbingo @smutceptember2025

Squares/Prompts Filled: G3 - Henry Loomis for Fandom Bingo | Card B: N3 - Pride for Fandom Free Bingo: Virtues and Vices Edition | Card B: Kissing In The Rain for Post July Break Bingo 2025 | Day 10 - MxM for Smutceptember 2025

Dividers By: @/saradika-graphics

Requested By: @foxisscared from this ask.

A/N: Hi! This is my first Male!Reader fic, so I hope it's okay. Also, the GIF is from Fellow Travelers, so just pretend it's Henry 😅❤️ Thank you everyone for reading!

The museum had become a second home to Henry. Fossils and casts surrounded him like old friends, their stories etched in stone while he muttered measurements into a recorder and shuffled papers into neat piles.

That’s where he was now, hunched over a hadrosaur femur, oblivious to the way the afternoon sun poured through the skylight.

You leaned against the railing, grinning. “You know what day it is, right?”

Henry glanced up, glasses sliding down his nose. “Uh...Thursday?”

You laughed. “Try again, Doc. It’s Pride weekend, and you’re coming with me.”

The look on his face was priceless. His brow furrowed, lips parting in confusion. “I don’t...Pride?” He tugged at his bow tie like it was suddenly strangling him. “I don’t know if I… belong in that sort of crowd.”

You stepped closer, resting a hand over his clipboard until he set it down. “You do belong there. Trust me. You’ve spent enough time digging up bones. Time to let yourself live a little.”

Later, in your apartment, Henry stood stiff as a mannequin while you held up clothes against his chest. He muttered the whole time, cheeks pink.

“Are you sure about this? These…shorts are very short.”

“They’re perfect,” you said, tugging the rainbow suspenders into place over his button-up. “It’s Pride, Henry. You’re supposed to have fun with it.”

His reflection stared back at him, awkward and uncertain, but when your hand brushed his wrist, grounding him, he let out a slow breath. “Fun,” he repeated, like the word was foreign.

The festival was a kaleidoscope of colors, and Henry drank it in with wide-eyed curiosity, his usual clipped pace slowing to something more cautious, like he was afraid to miss a detail.

“First stop,” you said, tugging him toward a tent strung with rainbow flags, “face painting.”

Henry balked. “Face…paint?”

“Yes, Doc. Don’t worry, they won’t paint you into a dinosaur unless you ask.”

That earned a quiet, nervous chuckle from him, but he sat stiffly in the chair while an artist dusted a soft rainbow streak along his cheekbone. When he caught sight of himself in the mirror afterward, something shifted. The splash of color softened him, like a wall had cracked, and you caught his reflection smiling just faintly.

From there you dragged him to the main stage, where the drag show was in full swing. Sequins glittered under the spotlights, voices boomed, the queens strutting with a power that shook the ground. Henry froze at first, glasses catching the strobe lights, until one of the queens twirled, winked, and blew him a kiss.

His ears went scarlet. “They...she-” He fumbled for words, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“She saw you looking,” you teased, clapping along to the beat. “Don’t be shy, Henry. This is all about joy.”

He didn’t clap right away, but by the third act, he was tapping his foot, head tilted, watching with a sort of softness that made your chest ache.

Later, the two of you wove through rows of food stalls, the air thick with the smell of spices, sugar, and fried everything. Vendors had rainbow-themed skewers, snow cones that dripped like melted sunsets, and even rainbow grilled cheese sandwiches.

Henry stood at a stall, peering at the gaudy colors like they might leap off the plate. “This can’t be safe for human consumption,” he muttered, though his lips quirked when you shoved a bite of rainbow churro into his mouth.

“Well?”

He chewed slowly, thoughtfully. “...Unnecessarily sweet. But not…unpleasant.”

“See? That’s the spirit.”

When he reached for another bite a moment later, you didn’t comment, only grinned.

By nightfall, the crowd had gathered for the fireworks show. The air buzzed with anticipation, the sky deepening into indigo. You and Henry stood shoulder to shoulder, his hand brushing yours as the first crack of light burst overhead.

Colors bloomed against the dark, lighting up the rainbows strung across every street corner. Henry’s face tilted up, lit by the glow, eyes wide with wonder. For once, his constant muttering stopped, replaced by awe-struck silence.

That was when the drizzle began, soft at first, then steadier, beading in his hair, streaking down his glasses. He pushed them up with a huff, but didn’t complain.

You smiled and took his hand just as the fireworks began bursting more frequently.

The finale thundered overhead, the night sky bursting into blossoms of crimson and violet. Each crack of light illuminated Henry’s face, the way his lips parted slightly, the rainbow streak painted across his cheek glistening with raindrops. He looked spellbound.

You edged closer, close enough that your shoulders brushed, close enough to hear his breath catch. His hand twitched at his side as though he wanted to reach for you but didn’t quite dare.

“Henry,” you said softly, though the fireworks nearly swallowed your voice. He turned, and for the first time, he didn’t look past you, didn’t glance down at his shoes or adjust his glasses to stall. He looked into your eyes.

Your heart hammered, but you leaned in anyway, tilting your face until the tip of your nose brushed his. He froze, lips parted, breath warm and shaky against your mouth. For a heartbeat, he was still Henry, cautious, uncertain, the man who hid behind fossils and lab reports.

And then, as the sky erupted in a golden cascade, you pressed your lips to his.

It was tentative at first, the lightest brush, like testing the waters. His body went rigid, fingers curling into his damp suspenders. But then something gave way, a shiver passed through him, and his lips softened beneath yours. He let out a quiet, startled sound, almost a gasp, as though the kiss itself stole the breath from him.

Rain slid down your temples, dripping into the kiss, cool against the heat building between you. You felt him lean in at last, tilting his head, the hand at his side rising shakily until it hovered at your waist. He hesitated there, trembling, before finally resting it against you, gripping as though anchoring himself.

You deepened the kiss just slightly, tasting the sweetness of the rainbow churro still lingering on his lips. His answering sigh was shaky but real, and when he finally kissed you back properly, with intention, it was like something inside him broke open.

The crowd roared at the finale’s crescendo, but to you, the world had gone quiet. It was only the rain, the fireworks, and Henry’s lips moving against yours with growing certainty.

When you parted, just enough to breathe, he stayed close, his forehead resting against yours. His glasses were fogged, rain-streaked, sliding crooked down his nose, but his eyes were luminous, wide with something fragile and new.

“I…” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. “I’ve never...never felt-”

You silenced him with a gentle press of your lips again, shorter this time, tender. “You don’t have to explain, Henry. Just feel it.”

He exhaled, shaky, his smile breaking through at last, soft, boyish, utterly beautiful. “Then I think I never want this night to end.”

By the time you got him back to your apartment, both of you were soaked through. Henry’s suspenders clung to him, his shirt plastered to his chest, hair dripping water onto the floor..

You tugged his glasses gently from his face, setting them aside. “You’ll catch a cold if you stay in those clothes.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I…suppose you’re right.”

You led him into your room, tossing him a dry t-shirt and sweats while you changed out of your own wet things. When you returned, he was sitting stiffly on the edge of your bed, shirt half-pulled over his head, hair mussed from the fabric. He looked up at you through damp lashes, uncertain, vulnerable in a way you’d never seen.

You crossed the room, taking his hands to help him tug the shirt down properly. “Better,” you murmured, your thumbs brushing over his knuckles. “You okay?”

Henry’s lips parted, but no words came at first. Finally, he whispered, “I can still taste the rain…and you.”

Something in your chest clenched. You leaned down, capturing his mouth again, this time slower, deeper. He let out a quiet noise, half sigh, half moan, as his hands fluttered uselessly before finding your waist. You straddled his lap, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of him.

His body stiffened beneath you, not from resistance but from shock. You stroked your fingers through his damp hair. “Relax, Henry. Just let me take care of you.”

The tension eased out of him, his hands tentative as they settled on your hips. When you kissed him again, he responded, clumsy at first, then with more hunger, lips parting to let you in. His tongue brushed yours, and he gasped, breaking away to press his forehead against your shoulder.

“I…don’t know what I’m doing. I've never...been with another man,” he admitted, voice thick with embarrassment.

You cupped his face, tilting it back toward you. “That’s okay. I'll show you. Just follow me.”

You kissed him slowly, showing him how to move with you, how to match your rhythm. His hands grew bolder, sliding up your sides, trembling as he explored the shape of you through your shirt. When you ground against him gently, he moaned into your mouth, a desperate, unguarded sound that made your blood run hot.

He was hard beneath you, straining against the sweats, and when you pressed down again, his breath hitched, eyes fluttering shut. “God-” he whispered, clutching at you. “That feels...oh, that feels…”

You hushed him with another kiss, guiding his hands beneath your shirt, letting him feel your skin. He touched you like you were something precious, every brush of his fingers worshipful.

Clothes were shed slowly, carefully, until he was bare beneath you, flushed and trembling, his chest rising and falling rapidly. You kissed every inch of him you could reach, his throat, his collarbones, the sharp line of his jaw, until he was gasping, clutching at the sheets like he might fall apart just from this.

When you finally took his cock in your hand, stroking him gently, his head fell back with a broken groan. “Oh, please, I-” His hips bucked helplessly, body overwhelmed by the intensity.

“Shh,” you soothed, brushing your lips over his temple. “Let me make you feel good.”

You guided him slowly, letting him find his rhythm with you, until he was trembling, begging in that breathless, stammering way that made your chest ache with tenderness. His orgasm came hard and fast, ripped from him with a cry that left him shuddering beneath you, clutching your back like he couldn’t bear to let go.

Afterward, he lay dazed, chest heaving, hair damp against the pillow. You curled beside him, pulling the blanket over both of you, kissing the corner of his mouth softly.

Henry’s arm wrapped around you with surprising strength, pulling you close. His voice was hushed, raw. “I never…imagined it could be like this. So gentle. So...safe.”

You kissed him again, slow and sweet. “That’s what it’s supposed to be.”

And with the rain still pattering softly against the window, he fell asleep in your arms, the rainbow pin you’d given him earlier still glinting faintly on the nightstand.

The next morning, sunlight streamed faintly through your curtains, painting the room in a soft golden glow. You stirred slowly, half-asleep, until the warmth of a gaze made you blink awake.

Henry was already watching you.

He sat propped against the pillows, hair wild from sleep, glasses abandoned on the nightstand. His eyes, though, those sharp, analytical eyes, were softened now, drinking you in with a mixture of awe and disbelief, like he couldn’t quite fathom you were real.

The moment he realized you’d caught him, color rose high on his cheeks. He reached up, awkwardly brushing his hair back, clearing his throat. “I...uh...good morning.”

You smiled drowsily. “Morning.”

He hesitated, fingers twitching against the blanket before he dared to reach out, brushing the back of his hand along your temple with trembling care. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t…stare. It’s just...I’ve never…” His throat worked, searching for words. “I’ve never woken up beside someone before. Not like this.”

Your chest tightened at the raw honesty in his voice. You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. He melted instantly, sighing into the touch, his hand cupping your cheek with that same hesitant tenderness.

When you pulled back, he was breathless, eyes glassy. “Last night,” he whispered, “you gave me more than I ever imagined I could have. You touched me like I wasn’t some awkward fool who spends too much time buried in fossils. You made me feel…wanted.”

“Because you are wanted,” you murmured.

His lips parted, shaky. “Then I want-” He stopped himself, eyes flicking away, before gathering the courage to meet your gaze again. “I want to make you feel the same. Please.”

You searched his face for doubt, but there was only sincerity there, fragile and trembling but real. You kissed him again, softer this time. “Okay, baby. I’ll guide you.”

Soon you were straddling his lap again, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. Henry’s hands hovered at your thighs, not daring to grip too tight, his eyes wide with wonder as he looked up at you.

“God,” he murmured, voice reverent, “you’re stunning like this.”

You took his hand, pressing it firmly against your skin until he got the message. His grip tightened, and a shiver ran through him.

You began gently stroking his cock until he was hard again, moaning against your parted lips.

You shifted slowly, guiding him inside you, and the moment you sank down, he gasped, a sharp, desperate sound. His head fell back against the pillow, lips parted in awe.

“Oh...oh fuck-” His hands clutched at your thighs now, grounding himself. His chest rose and fell rapidly, as though he could barely process the flood of sensation.

“Breathe, Henry,” you coaxed, brushing your fingers through his messy hair.

He obeyed, shaky breaths filling his lungs as his wide eyes found yours again. You began to move, rolling your hips slowly, and his lips parted in a helpless moan, his body arching beneath you.

“Please...don’t stop...God, don’t stop,” he begged, his voice breaking.

As you rode him, you guided his trembling hand to your cock. His fingers curled hesitantly around you, stroking too softly at first, but you groaned encouragement, your hips bucking. He stared, fascinated, adjusting his grip and rhythm as if studying how your body responded.

“Oh, fuck...Henry...,” you gasped, your voice low, raw. “Just like that.”

Henry’s face lit up with something between pride and wonder. “I can feel you clenching around me, oh God, feels so good, I-” He groaned, tightening his grip on you, desperate to give you more.

You rocked against him, every movement drawing shaky moans from his throat. His strokes grew surer, more confident, matching the rhythm of your hips until you were trembling with the intensity of it.

The sound of your pleasure seemed to undo him. His brow furrowed, eyes wide, and he whispered, almost pleading, “Cum for me.”

Your orgasm built intensely, the combination of his cock inside you and his hand stroking you overwhelming. You cried out, cum shooting across his chest and stomach, his name torn from your lips.

The sight of you undone, the heat of you around him, was too much for Henry. He let out a strangled groan, his body arching as his release tore through him. His hands clutched desperately at your waist as he shuddered beneath you, moaning your name loudly.

You collapsed forward against his chest, both of you slick with sweat and breathless. Henry wrapped his arms around you immediately, holding you so tightly you could feel the rapid beat of his heart against your cheek.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. Only the sound of his ragged breaths and the faint patter of rain outside filled the room. Then he pressed clumsy, tender kisses into your hair, his lips trembling as they brushed your temple.

“Did I…?” His voice was raw, uncertain. “Was I...okay?”

You looked up, pressing a long, lingering kiss to his mouth. “You were perfect, Henry.”

His eyes went glassy again, blinking quickly against the emotion welling up. “Then I think I could spend the rest of my life learning how to love you properly.”

And when he pulled you back against his chest, burying his face in your hair, you knew he meant every word.

Henry Tag List: @a-quick-request @swimmingnightcolor @sunalsolove @thorins-queen-of-erebor @demiromance @my-queen-rhaenyra-targaryen @i-do-not-care-bear