nomi

20s

[ignominiousgirl]

Masterlist since I keep losing my work among the sea of depravity I reblog

Invincible

Mark Grayson x Reader

Business/Casual

Mark begging you not to break up with him

Marks ears working a little too well pt2 pt3

Mark Grayson who…

Using Mark Grayson as a study model

ATLA

Zuko x reader

Passion/pleasure

ATOTSK

Ser duncan x reader

Ser duncan who...

im too lazy to make it look good rn so here we go

[ignominiousgirl]

Synopsis: Making Mark come in his suit then overstimulating him

Pairing: Mark Grayson x Reader

……………….. ……………….. ……………….. ………………..

It might have been… 4 months or so since you last saw Mark. He had shot off into space to defeat yet another world ending threat, and you were left looking into the endless blue of the sky waiting for his return.

He never did when you expected him to.

No, Mark always came back to you in the moments where you weren’t guarded. When you would be humming in the shower, unaware of his presence until he stepped under the warm spray with you.

When you would sit on your porch and listen to music, all quiet and contemplative until one of your earbuds popped out and into his ear.

Or like this time, when you were curled up in bed, not asleep but not awake, and you hear your bedroom window creak open, and padded footsteps approach the foot of your bed.

“Mark?” You ask softly, and feeling the edge of your bed sink as he sat down.

You can see that he was still in his suit when you blink away the darkness.

That meant he came to you first. Before any other reunions, mission briefs or battle plans.

You were his refuge.

You were also his release.

You crawl across the bed to climb onto his lap, eyes scanning for injuries. He doesn’t wince when you sit on him, which is a good enough sign.

There’s something so intimate about the darkness. It acts like a cloak, shielding the two of you in its grip. You have to rely on your other senses to communicate.

His smell.

His sounds.

His touch.

You breathe out when he rocks up into you at first.

“Don’t you wanna rest?” You ask him, but he shakes his head, pressing his forehead into yours.

It’s easy to allow Mark to do what he wants. With your body. Your time. Your heart.

And so you relax above him as he thrusts upwards, every couple of strokes hitting you just right, electricity climbing up your spine.

Sighing, you bring your nails up to scratch the back of his head.

Mark shudders beneath you, hands scrambling to find purchase on your hips. He drags you down now, moving your weight back and forth on his bulge as he thrusts up and down.

The friction has your toes curling, and you find yourself wanting to plead with him but at a loss for words.

Just as desperate as you are, he twists you around, dropping you onto the sheets while he grabs your arms and begins humping you.

Even now, with both of your clothes fully on, you can feel the outline of him, and the strength of his muscles against you.

“H—aaah…” seems to be the only sound he can make.

Then he’s tensing up, holding you down against him while he thrashes slightly beneath you. You move your hips against his to find your release, locking up above him as you come down to kiss his neck.

“Shit,” he sighs, voice raspy. “Think you can go again? Wanna come inside you this time.”

He grins in the boyish way he always does when it’s just you and him and the weight of the world is off his shoulders for once.

You shake your head.

“Was worried sick about you, y'know.” You were more than worried sick, but he didn’t need to know the full extent of your distress. How hard it was to exist in his absence.

You were angry at him for a while. Red hot, it would burn your stomach every time you thought about how he left.

Then came the hopelessness. It was cold and vast and seemingly never ending. This lasted much longer than the heat.

Lastly was a thin veil of acceptance. When the rest of the world went on with business as usual. When no more one but you and Debbie seemed to hurt at the implications of how long he was gone.

And now that he’s here, in front of you, beneath you, with his heat dancing with yours, you find you only miss him.

“No, Mark. Only good boys get to come inside.”

He frowns, brows furrowed as he tried to figure out what he did wrong.

But before he can question it, your hand is back on his cock, this time reaching into the suit to pull it out.

It’s wet, already covered in a layer of his cum, and you resist the urge to lick it off, opting to drag it slowly from base to tip.

He gasps, hips bucking up to chase your touch.

Oh, how you’d missed his reactions.

“Look what a mess you’ve made.” You jeer with mock pity.

His face is tinted a beautiful pink, and you drink up his features once more. His soft lips as he bites at them to suppress his noises. His big eyes as he pleads with you for mercy.

His dark dark eyelashes as he blinks away his tears.

“Aww, Mark, don’t cry,” are the words that leave your mouth, but really you mean cry more, cry harder, sob into my skin.

You never thought yourself cruel until right now. Where his tears only act as fuel to keep going. The salt sinks into you and you smile against his cheek, licking them from his skin.

His broken noises only seem to serve as a catalyst in your unforgiving movements. Perhaps this was a way to punish him. For not being around as much.

For risking his life. For being okay with being gone.

Fuck, you’d missed him.

His legs begin shaking, and you don’t think you’ve taught him a lesson, or that there really was a lesson to be taught.

As fun as it was to tease him, you find yourself also wanting to witness his release. To watch him fall apart. You shift downward, shuffling until the warmth of your mouth is adjacent to his leaking tip.

Breathing for a second, you watch him twitch at the sensation, finally licking him tip to base and back.

“Ngghhh…” he’s murmuring to himself, and you ignore it until the whispered praise finally becomes legible to you.

“S-so, goooooood. So pretty. M-my good girl.” His abs are tensed, and you know he’s close so you pop your mouth off him and command him.

“Eyes on me.” He nods, scrunching his eyes and then lifting his head to watch you take him again.

He groans, and you find yourself moaning around his length from his reactions.

Without warning, just the weight of his hand behind your head, he’s cumming inside your mouth, spend spurting to the back of your throat.

You continue your ministrations, slowly sucking up and down, guiding him through his orgasm.

When he’s spent, you feel him weakly push your head back, whispering a “please…too much…” before passing out on your bed.

Giggling, you clean him up and take him out of the rest of his suit, tucking him in and sleeping next to him as you prepare to hear all about his space escapades.

As for the next time he left you for months without warning, you’d edge him for just as long.

Taglist :

@thatoneraeder @angelnoir222 @blkreaperkaneki @mymoonisgrey @halparkebitch

[seventasia]

MONSTROUS APPETITES, SUKUNA my submission for @lemonswirlss's 3k circus collab!

synopsis. when you decide to join a travelling circus, the last thing you expect is to form a queer bond with the famed ‘two-faced demon’—the four-armed, four-eyed, two-mouthed circus freak sukuna. contains. true form sukuna, p in v, dubious ethics, cannibalism (past), two dick sukuna, a live animal is eaten. wc. 12.3k

I.

The first time you see him, you’re a newly hired aerialist at his motley circus. Fresh from an interaction with the pleasant yet unsettling ringmaster, Kenjaku, who’d effused the merits of his staff and demanded you explore the different attractions, you’d been drawn away from his presence and towards his veiled stage. It had been accompanied by only a mild annoyance; why did you have to explore first, before being able to settle down in your own quarters? To view the stage you’d be performing on, rather than this nameless stranger?

Wheels poke from beneath the stage, and the door at the side is triple-locked shut. It’s what had drawn you to the attraction, that niggling curiosity of why is it still in the caravan when it's meant to be performing? A red curtain covers the front of the caravan, and a showman stands before it, projecting his voice as he soaks in the crowd.

“—more monster than human, with an appetite so ravenous he couldn’t be matched by a dozen lions! He ate his own twin in the womb, killed his mother chewing his way out of her stomach, is a scourge on men and women alike…” the man gesticulates, face lit with manic glee. “It feasts on women and children; is beholden to no God; he is an abomination made real; a bane to all that is just… I introduce to you, the two-faced demon!”

The curtains open. Around you, people gasp. A woman swallows a scream, hands cupping her face; beside her, her husband is sickeningly pale as he holds his wife’s arm in a white-knuckled grasp. A child shrieks, hiding behind his mother’s legs, and the mother ushers him away with a terrified prayer. The two-faced demon lounges lazily, separated from you by thick metal bars within his miniscule cage.

He’s not even that ugly, you think, vaguely mystified by the theatrics of the audience. He’s horrifyingly tall, yes, standing at least a head above you. The two-faced demon’s torso is unfathomably wide and entirely bare, tattoos tracing his well-chiseled abdomen up to the lines of his sculpted face, down beneath his low-slinging pants. Disconcertingly, a mouth sits where his belly button should, wide spread in a grotesque grin as a tongue pokes out from between sharp teeth. You follow his tattoos up to his jaw, and see—

“A monster,” someone murmurs.

—a man.

There’s a strong jaw and a wide face, with cheekbones sitting high on his face. His nose stands tall, slightly ridged and strongly angled. A second pair of eyes, as crimson red as the first, sit half-slitted beneath the main pair. His hair, short and a shocking shade of cherry blossom pink, is deceptively sweet against the rest of his features. Most interestingly, something wooden and mask-like sits on the right side of his face where his features slope at a harsh, asymmetrical diagonal. His mouth is pulled taut against the skin. It must be where the nickname is from, that two-faced dichotomy; his face split between vaguely human familiarity and absolute, monstrous novelty. It’s barely fathomable. Watching him scowl down at your crowd, it’s easy to see glimpses of the inhuman monster that everyone is so terrified of.

You’ve heard of the two-faced demon before. He’s an infamous attraction, even if only for his grotesque appearance. There are rumours about having fought lions before—he has, allegedly, once fought an elephant and won—-and each story is as ludicrous as it is widespread. You just hadn’t expected that, if you squint, he could be considered handsome. Weren’t such monstrous creatures meant to be hideous?

Ignorant to your inner dialogue, the two-faced demon crosses his bottom pair of arms tightly around his chest, muscles bulging with an unspoken threat. How incredible he is, to make such a simple movement seem so domineering. The showman continues. “Despite his fearsome appearance as a rampaging beast, he is incredibly docile!” Docile? “He rarely speaks, is barely capable of following basic instruction, and acts entirely on his own whims—” What part of that is docile? “—but, rest assured, he is uninterested in harming others. His diet consists only of meat—we have a raw cow being brought in at eight, should anyone want to witness his feeding—” he rattles off a price, and the two-faced demon’s scowl only deepens.

What a salesman. You could almost convince yourself this guy is trying to sell you an antique, rather than an exclusive experience to watch a man eat. 

“Adding to his inhumane appearance, the two-faced demon is stronger than an ox, and can tear apart metal like a man does paper—”

“Then why doesn’t he break out?” The words escape you before you can stop them. His captive audience turns, disturbed from their horrified trance; the showman looks somewhat displeased.

“What did you say, dear viewer?”

“You said he can tear apart metal, but he’s in a wooden caravan with metal bars. Why doesn’t he break out, if he’s so strong?”

The man scowls, displeased by your break in immersion. “Didn’t you hear me? He’s uninterested in harming others.”

“But isn’t he a rampaging beast?”

“A rampaging beast can rampage all he likes, if he’s too lazy to think his way out of a wooden box.” Still, the people around you look uneasy. Someone edges away. Even to you the logic is barely nebulous, ridiculously flimsy at best. Why would that matter, if he can tear through metal so simply? It just doesn’t make sense. The two-faced demon, the allegedly unknowing topic of your conversation, lounges backwards, top pair of eyes flitting close. The bottom pair, that blazing inhumanity, peek open; for some unfathomable reason, as the showman faultingly continues his monologue, they remain trained on you.

II.

You don’t see the two-faced demon for another two weeks after joining the troupe. He is, you learn, eternally locked within that small caravan; he eats there, he sleeps there, he pisses in a bucket and has someone else toss out the waste. The curtains are constantly closed—so as to not scare the other circus members, the showman, Haruta, tells you—and the caravan is silent, except for those few sickening minutes each night where he tears into the raw flesh of an animal and its dying squeals echo.

So, when he calls out to you, fresh from a few hours of practice, you find yourself a little surprised.

“You.” 

The sound is raspy from disuse, low and rumbling from deep in the chest. It’s not a voice you’ve ever heard before, for all it immediately sends warmth to your face, so you really can’t be blamed for your response of:

“Me?” You echo dumbly. 

You turn to see the two-faced demon locked in his caravan. For once, the curtains are open. He lounges languidly in his cage, head resting against his palm as he braces his elbow against the wall. In the light of day, his inhumanities are both sharpened and softened; the sun lifts the veil of his sinister appearance, at once lessening the horror and throwing the details into brutal relief. Your eyes linger on his stomach mouth for a moment, before returning to the four eyes glaring sharply down at you.

“Yes, you.” He says, his voice sharp. “I saw you.”

“I imagine you see a lot of people, considering our profession.”

He sneers. “Insolent woman.” Which… okay? You’re not sure what he was expecting, approaching you like that; you’re not sure he even knows how he wanted you to react, based on the way his scowl only deepens. Maybe it’s some leftover aggression for all that lion-killing he used to allegedly perform. “You were there when that foolish peacock was displaying me.”

Foolish peacock—? Ah. Haruta. “I didn’t realise I left such an impression.”

“Hm.” He leans forward, grinning with both mouths. His canines are frighteningly sharp. “Bring me some food.”

You blink. “No. That’s not under my jurisdiction.”

“There is no jurisdiction for who brings me my meals.”

Your brows furrow as you shoot him a disbelieving look. “Yes, there is. Uraume delegates it to someone at the start of every week. I can’t just disrupt someone else’s tasks.”

“That peacock of a showman said it himself, didn’t he? I feast on the weak. Bring me my meal, or I’ll feast my hunger elsewhere.” He leers at you, more ravenous than covetous. It doesn’t feel like desire. For a moment, you feel like nothing more than the sack of meat you must appear as—skin and meat and blood and bone, packaged beneath a pretty face and shielding a beating heart. Nothing more than a single meal to quench an endless thirst. 

“That peacock,” you stress his nickname for Haruta, “also said you barely spoke and were assuredly docile. How am I to know whether or not that’s another exaggeration among many?’

“My existence is no exaggeration.” You hum in demeaning acquiescence. The two-faced demon growls. “What’s your name, woman?”

What a non-sequitor. You look at him, features carefully blank in the face of his inhumanity. His nails are frighteningly sharp, you notice suddenly. Sharper than they have any right to be. Long and razor-thin, more akin to claws than fingernails. You tell him your name, slow and sure. “Do I get to learn your name in return?”

“What makes you think you have any right to it?”

Nothing could stop you from rolling your eyes. “Of course. What was I thinking?” Biting back further grumbling, you make to walk past his enclosure. “I’m sure your meal will be here shortly. Have a good day, demon.”

For all his gallivanting, he doesn’t break out of his cage. He sits there in that imperious sprawl and scowls with all four eyes as he watches you leave. Maybe he really is domesticated; maybe he doesn’t think the effort of catching you is worth the meagre meal. It doesn’t matter—either way, you move on unimpeded, while he stays rotting in that tiny caravan. His threat goes unfulfilled. So much for the privilege of his name.

III.

The two-faced demon doesn’t take up much of your attention after that. You are, for the most part, uninterested in your disfigured colleague. On the few occasions where he is allowed to see the sun (because, for some unfathomable reason, he refuses to either draw the curtains himself or request they be done so), he singles you out. You talk, he calls you an ‘insolent woman’ or ‘foolish performer’ or, on the one occasion you really annoyed him, ‘wayward maggot’. Frustrated with him, you leave. A couple days pass, and the same event reoccurs. 

Over these few encounters you learn a few things, both from him and others: no one knows his name. He speaks to no one, unless it is to demand food. He calls no one by their name, demeaning them as being too below him to know his, and him too above them to refer to them as anything other than insulting descriptors. He really did previously fight animals for show before his kill streak knocked too high, and everyone that witnessed it continues to live in paralysing fear over what he may do to them if he grows too bored. Their dramatics know no bounds.

You are perfectly happy with this routine of vague familiarity until you meet Uraume.

Despite being an aerialist, being a member of a travelling troupe means that everyone is often pitching in for odd jobs. Working as an aerialist doesn’t mean you aren’t helping with booths or applying the kids' show make-up or assisting Toji in feeding the animals. Likewise, Uraume’s role as a performer doesn’t prevent them from also being the best cook in the circus. With your odd jobs and their famed skill, it doesn’t take long until you’re tasked with assisting them in the kitchen.

“Leave that for the two-faced demon.”

You jolt from where you’re leaning over the meat, reaching for a cut of steak. Uraume’s expression, usually placid and slightly derisive, is underlined with an uncharacteristic anger; brows furrowed, lips twisting downwards, shoulders squared as they loom over you. You glance between them and the meat in question. “I thought that guy only ate live animals…?”

“He did.” Their expression smooths out as you step back, grabbing a different cut. “His tastes have changed since his reallocation.”

Reallocation? “I thought he was always there purely for his…” how to word this politely? “...cosmetic value.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’d never degrade himself in such a manner.” Isn’t that exactly what he’s doing now? “He used to work with the animals. Once per location, after the animal tamer performed, he would appear and fight a predator—lions, most often—for show. It was always the most anticipated event of the circus. The animals were, unsurprisingly, no match for the two-faced demon, but the display of his strength was notable all the same.”

Fascinating. Maybe those muscles aren’t all for show. You decide to ignore the concept that he was apparently so strong that lions were unable to beat him—legendary as those stories are, you’d always considered them mere stories. It’s discomforting to know there’s more truth to them than you previously assumed. “Then why’d he stop doing it?”

They level you with a dispassionate look. “They couldn’t keep up with him. He kept killing them. The law decided to prohibit his actions, but their attempts at restraining him led to the previous animal tamer meeting a… sudden end.”

“Is that why everyone is so scared of him?”

“They’re scared of him because they should be.” Uraume clears their throat. “After that debacle, they banned him from fighting in the circus. He’s decided to simply remain a viewing attraction, and abides by their drivel as long as he is sufficiently provided for.”

“Even after killing a worker?”

“Even after eating a worker.”

You blink in muted surprise. You don’t know why you’re shocked, given the nature of his threats and the way people act around him, but eating someone? You can’t fathom it. The two-faced demon, for all his bluster, is notably tame. “He must’ve been an amazing fighter, for the circus to have kept him after that.”

Uraume turns to you, uncharacteristically passionate. Their next words come out slightly breathless. “He was magnificent.”

And, well, that’s that. Uraume says no more on the topic, even as they continue their tasks with a quiet joy. You’ve never seen them as happy as they are now, as if the mere thought of the two-faced demon is enough to brighten their spirit. Huh. You’re beginning to get the feeling that he maybe really is that awe-inspiring, considering the various dramatics of your fellow circus performers.

Maybe that’s why, when Uraume hands you a massive steak so lightly cooked you can imagine its heart is still beating, you don’t deny their request to deliver it to the two-faced demon. Instead, you take the heavy meal—which, seriously? This portion size could feed at least six people—and bring it to that ever shielded caravan.

“Knock on the door before you enter,” Uraume tells you as you leave. “He won’t attack you or try to escape. Pay him the decency he deserves, given his illustrious nature.”

You don’t exactly take it into account. Rather, what you do is call “Dinner’s ready!” as you near the caravan, knocking at the door with one foot as you hold the—frankly massive—plate with both hands. “Open the door.”

“Open it yourself.”

Your eye twitches. Must this man be such a contrarian? “My apologies. What I meant to say is, I am unable to open the door—either open it for me, or continue on without your dinner. It’s no concern to me.”

A growl sounds, then the low creak of movement. He’s awfully quiet for such a large man, but even then, the caravan creaks and sinks with every step of his massive weight. The door opens with a harsh lurch, and you are abruptly the closest you’ve ever been to his monstrous form. This close, a mere half-meter separating you, his eyes are impossibly large, impossibly red; his cherry blossom hair an even softer pink than you initially conceived. Bizarrely, you find yourself almost wanting to touch it. Even the scar you first noticed seems more like a mask this close for how raised and shapely it is; yet his malformed eyes blink lazily at you in a way no puppetry could emulate.

How sickening, you think, fascinated.

“Well?” He says mockingly. “Serve me my dinner.”

He disappears back into his trailer. It’s honestly impressive that he even manages it—the trailer couldn’t be more than 5 meters by half; somehow, he turns it into a chasm. “I’ll leave it with—”

“Serve me.”

How frustrating. “If I must.” You keep your tone perfectly neutral, stepping into the darkness of his abode. It’s as discomfortingly small as you imagined. You don’t know how he manages to lounge so broadly and still look as though he has room to move; a well-practiced artifice, though you don’t know why he tolerates it. The man that could beat a lion in a fair fight, wasting away in a cage even smaller than the predators. You would laugh, if you didn’t think he would eat you for the mockery. 

You lay the plate out on the floor before him. The two-faced demon licks over his teeth with his too-long tongue. “Sit with me.”

“Pardon?”

“Don’t tell me you’re even stupider than you look. Sit.” His voice is a rumbling growl. You sit, stumbling awkwardly until you’re on the floor of the caravan, legs tucked beneath you. Sitting like this, he looms over you as a carnivorous shadow; there’s no illusion of even footing. He watches you for a moment, expression bored and impassive, before leaning his head down and taking a bite of his steak. Blood streams from the bite.

His hunger is voracious. He tears into the beef with abandon, uncaring of his audience and greedy in his hunger. He tears through the meat as if it were butter, cleaving through it with a single grind of his jaw. It’s horrifying. It’s beautiful, in a way, as if for a moment his appetite makes him something both more and less than human. His top pair of eyes shut in something akin to delight, but his bottom pair remain fixed on you. You’re paralysed by his stare; his hunger; the monstrous strength of his jaw; the awful sharpness of his teeth.

“You’re unafraid of me.”

You jolt, eyes tearing from his pinning gaze to land on his mouth, brows furrowed. Your gaze darts further down, and the mouth on his stomach stretches into a leering grin. It’s disconcerting, so out of place; you didn’t realise that mouth was capable of anything more than aesthetic disfigurement. His face-mouth swallows, taking another monstrous bite of meat. “Oh? Is this all it takes to frighten you?”

Your expression briefly drops into a scowl. “Why would I be?”

“Stories of my feats couldn’t have dissipated so quickly,” he scorns. “You have good reason to be scared.”

“Uraume was very flattering,” you concede. “But as far as I’m concerned, you’ve done nothing but sit here, leer, and make the occasional threat for the entire time I’ve been employed. Why should I be scared when you’ve taken no action against me?”

It’s a blatant goad, not that you mean it as one. If the two-faced demon is as thoughtlessly savage as Haruta claims, he would no doubt jump on it; grab you, loom over you, and laugh as your life is balanced in the claws of his mercy. He does not. It speaks to his inaction; he truly must’ve become domesticated.

“Do you take me for a beast?” He asks, his lip curling. “You’ve simply done nothing to anger me yet.”

“If I haven’t angered you, then I have no need to be scared.”

“Hm.” He takes another bite of his food, leaning forward until one arm rests on his knee, propping up his head. It moves him closer to you, impossibly large despite his hunched posture. It’s grotesque, how he manages to swallow down such a sizable slab of raw meat in so few bites. He swallows languidly, bringing the plate to his torso, and has his stomach mouth lick the leftover blood off the ceramic. When he stretches his arm out, glistening plate—seriously, gross—outstretched, you take it as your cue to leave.

Of course, you don’t even get to touch the plate before his other arm snatches yours, dragging you a step closer as his hand creates a bruising shackle around your wrist. His lip curls into a smiling snarl.

“Ow,” you say belatedly. You hadn’t expected it to hurt, for your bones to creak like a rotting frame beneath the pressure. Still—is that it? A man that felled lions, resorting to squeezing your wrist a little? Are you supposed to feel threatened?

He stares at you, expression placid. The two-faced demon is threatening you. But for what? Because you’re not scared of him? How is this supposed to make you any more frightened? You level him with a (very minor, unintentional) challenge, and he responds by giving you a bruised wrist. It doesn’t inspire fear like he expects his man-eating habits to. You stare back at him, unimpressed, and lightly tug your wrist out of his grasp. He doesn’t let go.

Rather, he sneers. “Was that pathetic tug all you could conjure?”

You roll your eyes. “Could you let go of me?” Then, to be polite; “Please? I still have tasks left to complete.”

“Is that all you’re worried about?”

“Yes.” Kenjaku will have your head if you don’t complete everything in time. He really is so frustratingly particular. In fact, now that you think of it, you think you’d prefer death by the two-faced demon before risking Kenjaku’s disappointment—Mahito might get away with being a brat, but you? He doesn’t care half as much about you, nor do you bring in enough money for him to justify anything but extreme consequences to minor offences. Maybe, if the demon holds you here long enough, you should suggest your death to him; surely, he’ll accept a freely offered meal?

The grip on your hand spasms, tightening so quickly a blinding bolt shoots up your arm, and then abruptly lets go. “Hopeless,” he growls. “A pathetic little maggot, unaffected by a predator. Your foolishness will kill you.”

“This is a circus, not the wild.” You say blandly. Doesn’t that prove your point, anyway? Why would a caged lion kill a maggot? It’d sooner save its own skin escaping before it considered eating the prey of its prey. He really is dramatic, jumping to these exaggerated threats.

You scoop the plate off the floor, shaking your wrist like that’ll ease the bone-deep ache. Sending him one last look as you leave—a glance at this thoughtless, self-captive predator, who lets people think he can’t break out through bars when he can easily open the door—you roll your eyes once more. “Have a good night, demon.”

(Sukuna lets your arm go, watching you through abruptly lidded eyes. You don’t retreat. It took him a moment to realise, but he understands now—you’re not frozen out of fear, or resolute in a need to prove yourself unafraid of him. You’re simply not, staring back at him with those heavy, thoughtful eyes. You’re sedate. It strikes him, with a feeling both raging and delighted, that you aren’t unafraid; no, you don’t care. He could tear you apart with a single bite, unhinge his jaw and clamp down on your hand and rend your fingers from your palm, tear your flesh straight from the bone, and you don’t care for the threat.

Your hand flexes idly as if you had stiff joints in need of loosening, unaware of his hunger. Or, maybe, you are aware—you just simply don’t care enough to be scared. It lights a fire in his stomach; for the first time in a long, long time, he wants. He wants ravenously; he wants your blood in his mouth, your eyes pickled in a jar, your heart puncturing between his teeth, your bones a broth to flavour his soup. 

His mouth waters at the thought. You make him so hungry. 

But, more than anything, Sukuna wants to see you scared.)

IV.

“I hear you and the two-faced demon have struck up a friendship.”

Damn this circus and its unending gossip mill. You turn to Yorozu, who has taken the seat at the table beside you and is now grabbing whatever food is within reach. “To categorise it as ‘friendship’ is a generous stretch of the word.”

“If he hasn’t threatened to eat you, you’re practically soulmates.” She pops a bite of food into her mouth, peeking one eye open to look at you. “Has he threatened to eat you?”

“Yes.”

“Damn.” She almost looks jealous. “And you’re not scared?”

“I didn’t think it was worth mentioning.” You’re sure Yorozu has heard a dozen of the same story from a dozen different people; it’s not something you felt the need to contribute to. How is your encounter with him any more poignant than anyone else's? “He only threatened it. It’s not as if he went through with the threat.”

“And you’re… okay with that?”

“It was an empty threat. Why would I be concerned?”

She sends you a queer look. “You’re a weird girl. You know he used to kill lions, right? Once, he tore the leg off of one while it was still fighting. Barely broke a sweat doing it, too. It was beautiful, really. You should’ve seen the way he—”

You stare at her blankly. “Uraume told me.”

“Isn’t he just terrifying?” She swoons as she says it. “You weren’t there for it, but he ate one of the workers once.” Then, as if she’d just commented on the morning weather, Yorozu pops another bite into her mouth. “The guy couldn’t even fight back, it was so quick. That demon, he– he didn’t even laugh. Said the fight was too easy for him to get any pleasure out of it.”

“Uraume also told me that,” you say pleasantly. “Be that as it may, he just lounges around nowadays.”

“He only lounges around ‘cause he doesn’t see any point in killing us. Doesn’t think we’d be worth the effort,” she manages to look somewhat offended as she says it. “Besides, he’s happy as long as he’s given some poor lamb to tear apart every few days. We were all surprised when he became so languid—I mean, he’s such a monster. What kind of freak can kill a lion bare-handed? It feels like Kenjaku is dancing with the devil somedays, keeping him around. Not that I can blame him.”

“He hasn’t hurt anyone since though, has he?”

“What?” She shoots you an incredulous look. “I just said he ate someone.” You roll your eyes. “What’s with that look?”

“I just think you’re blowing things out of proportion. That’s all.”

V.

It's hard to wrap your mind around the entirety of the threat that is the two-faced demon. Sure, you’ve heard plenty about his lion-fighting, man-eating days, but it means nothing in the face of his complacency. A part of you acknowledges that he’s strong—the encounter the other day proves that—but even then, it failed to spark fear in you. He just… was. 

So what if he could eat you if he isn’t going to follow up on it? When it comes down to it, anyone could kill you. He may be horrifically strong and monstrous in appearance, but he seemed more prone to idle threats than violent execution. Even the ring of bruises, once a dark brand on your wrist, has mellowed out to a discomforting yellow.

The lamb between his jaws squeals as he bites down, slicing through bone in a single bite. Upon being told to deliver a live lamb to the two-faced demon, you’d been faced with immediate disgust; he’s all-consuming and ravenous as is, so why must you witness a further indulgence? It’s every bit as grotesque as you imagined. He makes no play of it, tearing it apart while it heaves and dies, trapping it within the chasm of his jaw. What fun could he possibly contrive out of the gruesome act?

“Why did you talk to me?” You ask suddenly. 

After all, didn’t Yorozu say it herself? The only reason the two-faced demon hasn’t broken out of his poorly crafted caravan and eaten another man is because he doesn’t see the point in doing so. What is there for you to fear? He can’t even be bothered to break out of his cage. You’re certainly not worth the effort. 

Still, you think—he doesn’t do anything he doesn’t think worth doing. He clearly sees some value in eating a live animal, unfathomable as it is to you. He sees a point in demanding the best steaks the circus can conjure. You’ve begun to understand that aspect of his character. He does only what he wants, and indulges no further. So, as it stands, why does he bother himself with you?

“I wanted to.” the two-faced demon stares at you dispassionately. “I wanted to, so I did. Do I need any other reason?”

“You don’t want to do anything,” you counter levelly.

“I want plenty of things.” Your mouth twitches at his words, a small glimpse at your inner amusement. His eyes narrow in on your expression. “You presume to know me better than I know myself?”

“Of course not. You just don’t act on any of your wants, do you?”

“I do. How else could I have ended up in the situation I am now?” 

Isn’t it obvious? He was born malformed, and taken in as a circus freak due to a lack of other opportunities; entranced by his beastial nature, they forced him to fight animals until he became too much of a danger; following that, he became little more than an aesthetic attraction, confined to his small cage. Sure, there was a case of cannibalism, and maybe a couple of threats, but most of what’s happened to him has, in fact, happened to him. It’s not as if he needed to do much to ensure the order of events.

“You’re more of a fool than I thought, if you truly think that.”

“You are more of a fool than I imagined, if you think I can’t—and don’t—take what I want.”

Oh, please. “Do you truly believe that? You’ve forgotten how to want. You sit here in this cage, demanding things come to you. You don’t do anything for yourself—you’re so content, having it handed to you. Is there anything you truly want? Anything you’ll ever desire that can’t be handed to you that you’ll still have the grasp to reach for?” 

“I tire of your hypocrisy,” he growls. “You accuse me of idleness, when you subsist solely on ambivalence; there is nothing in this world you want. You’re closer to a monk than a woman.”

“We are not the same in that regard.”

“We’re more similar than you think,” he says, his voice thick with something. “You talk so much nonsense about desire and inaction. Haven’t you ever wanted to be something more than a sack of meat?” He’s awfully entertained by his own words; when the two-faced demon stretches out a hand, a raw chunk of lamb dangling between his fingers, you think you begin to understand. “Come. Feast on the lesser. Or have you not learned to want yourself?”

You swallow. “You think yourself better than everyone else here?”

“I’m the strongest, aren’t I? The weak bend to my will. They conform to my wants. It’s the way of life.”

“That sounds like a very overdressed excuse for a lazy man,” you say as if you’re demurring to him. You can’t tell if he’s delighted or incensed by your tone. “You’re strong, so you do nothing for yourself? They’re weak, so your life is assured? You’re so complacent, so unaware. Your arrogance is astounding.”

“That sounds like an awful lot of drivel to excuse your own inadequacies,” he sneers. “I suppose you are nothing more than a writhing maggot, after—”

You take a bite of the lamb.

More accurately, you lean forward; take hold of his thick wrist; drag the meat between your teeth and force your jaw shut until your teeth, blunt and weak, have no choice but to dig into the warm flesh. Blood pools in your mouth as you work your jaw, forcing a bite from the bone; where the two-faced demon cleaved through it like a hand through water, you’re left with a harsh ache in your jaw. It’s raw and vile, heavy on your tongue as blood gathers thickly in your mouth. In that moment, with a warm carcass partially sitting on your tongue and blood spilling from between your lips, you feel more animal than human—you aren’t an aerialist or a man or a thinking being, but a thing of raw instinct. Your brain insists you chew, and your frustrating humanity impedes your actions. Oh, why can’t your teeth slough through this meat like his? Why must they be so woefully inadequate?

The two-faced demon laughs at your expression. It’s a deep rumble from low in his chest, coming out closer to an animal's growl; his mouth splits open, impossibly wide, and he pulls you into a kiss.

He’s big. His mouth is large enough to eclipse your own two-fold, lips rough and chapped whilst his teeth are frighteningly sharp. His tongue bullies its way into your mouth, wet with blood and stinking of iron. And his eyes—his eyes. His eyes are that of a watchful predator, lazily lidded and staring at you with single-minded intent. All four, lasered in on you. The wet slide of your tongues set your cheeks on fire, so caught in the feeling of his hand moving to twine in your hair, pulling taut until your scalp screams beneath his grip, that you don’t realise what he’s doing until he pulls away.

A low moan escapes you as you’re left suspended there, head pulled back and neck bare for his perusal. His mouth parts on another bloody, gruesome smile, and it's only then that you realise the lamb once between your teeth is now trapped in his, its larger carcass tossed aside. The bite is comically small in his mouth as his tongue curls around it, swallowing it down without a single bite of his own. You stare after it, almost mournful—you practically broke your jaw working your teeth through its flesh, and it was stolen just like that?

Wait, why do you care? You didn’t want to eat it to begin with, did you?

“What a monstrous look you have there,” he sneers, even as satisfaction leaks from every inch of his being.

“I worked hard for that,” you say. “I don’t have your carnivorous teeth, demon.”

His mouth spreads wider. You remain caught, his hand in your hair tight enough to have tears prickling at your lash line. Another hand moves to grab the lamb back up, as if content to leave you trapped by the hair whilst he continues to feast on his meal. That selfish, lazy bastard! He can kiss you, take the food from your mouth, and then continue to eat as if nothing happened? As if you’re not a trapped fish in his hook?

“Allow me to remedy that,” he says, voice pleasant yet sinister from his stomach mouth as his face is occupied with another bite of lamb. He chews once, twice, thrice; then he leans in once more.

You’re startlingly aware of the meat as his tongue crawls into your mouth. He forces his way past your lips, jaw unhinging until you can feel his teeth bite into your cheek. It’s gross. It’s so unsexy. Somehow, with a hand at your head and his mouth eclipsing the bottom half of your face, you’re the hottest you’ve ever been. He forces the lamb past your lips, holding you in place as he deposits it half-chewed on your tongue. His mouth retreats for only just long enough for you to swallow, your throat bobbing around the uncooperative bite, before he leans in once more.

“Don’t talk to me about desire,” he says, the sound of his stomach-mouth a rumbling growl. He bites at your lip, canines digging dangerously, threatening to pierce skin, and an airy sigh escapes you. “You’re too caught up in your humanity to even conceptualise what you truly crave. I, at least, know what I want.”

VI.

You hate to admit it, but his words follow you. Something about it—we’re more similar than you think—clings to you; you think about it while you’re training, while you’re cooking, while you’re delivering his meals and watching him eat. What does he want? you think, watching him tear through a live lamb. What did he mean by that? then, as he pops its head off with a single twist, what do you want?

He doesn’t kiss you again. Somehow, that feels all the more damning. 

Did you not prove yourself to him? Show him what he wanted to see? You ate a raw lamb, for goodness sake, kissed it half-chewed out of his mouth with no regard for how gross it was in the moment. He’d made you– you’d felt– you’d thought–

You purse your lips, turning sharply on your heel. What a ridiculous line of thinking you’d started meandering down; you’d shown him? Proven yourself? You won’t kid yourself—you enjoyed that far more than you logically should. It had sent a perverse thrill down your spine, suffocating on his tongue and indulging in a blood-soaked kiss. He hadn’t forced you to do anything. He’d offered you the slightest encouragement and you’d wanted it all on your own. 

That thought is what draws you back to his caravan, where he’s once more engaging a crowd. People wave at you as you pass, taken in by your costume—and no doubt excited for your show—but you pay them no mind, suddenly caught up in your thoughts.

You’re not sure why such a prideful being is so content being gawked at and paraded around like little more than a show animal, or how he can consider himself so far above others yet be content with a life of ridicule. You suddenly, desperately, want to watch it once more; to see if there’s something there that you missed the first time.

Haruta is caught in his own theatrics as you approach, monologuing loudly to the gathered crowd. "The two-faced demon is a beast more monster than human, with an appetite so ravenous he couldn't be matched by a dozen lions! He ate his own twin in the womb, killed his mother chewing his way out of her stomach, is a scourge on men and women alike! He feasts on women and children; is beholden to no God; he is an abomination made real; a bane to all that is just…"

It's the exact same speech as the last time you watched this, you realise. The same speech recycled for a second audience. Haruta continues, "Look upon him as he feasts! Of course, this mere calf does nothing to sate the appetite of a monster that prefers to glut on man, but witness how he tears into his meal! Watch the disgusting voracity of his appetite!”

The two-faced demon is not eating like a ravenous animal. He’s far calmer with an audience. Rather than that steadfast, all-encompassing hunger as meat is swallowed in mammoth-like mouthfuls between a strong, grasping jaw, he eats with a casual disregard. Polite, slow, uninterested—more like a lounging cat than the predatory creature he fashions himself as.

What a hypocrite. The thought is almost fond. To let himself be carted around like a beast publicly, yet studiously consume a mannered meal as if he isn’t ravenous in private. It’s almost charming to know he lied so boldly to your face.

“He doesn’t seem that aggressive today,” you say conversationally as you approach Haruta. “I thought people had to pay an extra fee to watch him eat, anyway?”

Haruta deflates, turning to you with a bitter whisper. “Kenjaku tossed the idea. Apparently he’s not beastly enough for the extra costs. Can you believe that? As if he’s not disgusting when he eats regularly.”

The demon’s eyes, previously focused on the meal, dart over to meet yours—just the bottom pair, like he’s playing at being coy. He blinks leisurely, savouring the bite in his mouth as he watches you. How cute.

“Maybe he doesn’t see it worthwhile to upkeep manners around us,” you comment, bemused.

“No, he’s doing it to spite me. I know it. Kenjaku said I could take 2% of the sales—” only 2%? “—with the private meal showings, since I came up with the idea, and then overnight that beast developed manners. I don’t know why we haven’t slaughtered the thing already.”

That does sound like him.

“Oh, really?” You say with faux-surprise. “He’s perfectly mannered whenever I’m serving his meals.”

The demon snorts, a loud huff that has a kid sticking his hand through the caravans bars (much to his mother's despair) falling back with a horrified wail. Haruta looks beyond disbelieving. “Really?”

Obviously not. You disregard his comment altogether. “When does the showing end? I’d like to talk to him.”

“Now,” the demon cuts in sharply, placing down his half-eaten calf with a dull thud. “Peacock. Close my curtains.”

Haruta squawks; someone in the audience boos loudly. Seriously? What’s so interesting about watching him eat? You think back on that night a couple weeks ago; the cord of his neck, the monstrous strength of his jaw, his razor sharp teeth, his methodical, unwasting hunger—

—who are you kidding? You probably got twice the perverse enjoyment out of watching him than everyone in the crowd combined.

“You can’t just close your own exhibit,” Haruta protests, a whine edging his voice. “People paid to see this, you can’t just say—”

The two-faced demon bares his teeth in a vague approximation of a smile.

Haruta really is a coward; a single flash of those animalistic teeth, and he’s scurrying like a rat to herd people away. Clearly not thinking he’s going fast enough, the demon reaches for the bars. One ominous creak, the slightest bend of metal, and Haruta yelps like he’s personally being attacked.

It doesn’t take long for Haruta to clear the area of disgruntled viewers.

“Woman,” he says finally, once the both of you are alone.

“So demeaning,” you mutter. “Would it hurt to call me by my name, for once?”

He ignores you. “What is it?”

You, in turn, ignore him—who said you weren’t prone to a little pettiness? “Did you need to go through all of that fanfare? You could’ve just used the door.” He has used the door, in fact, many times—with the monstrous size of his meals, you’ve grown very used to demanding he clear the entrance into his caravan. If he’s going to be a lazy bastard, he might as well be a well-mannered one.

“Using the door wouldn’t have been half as effective. Let them see me as the brute I am. It only benefits me.”

“The brute you are? But you were so polite with your meal.” 

“What?”

“Your dinner,” you repeat softly. “If it truly didn’t bother you, why were you so polite in front of the audience? Clearly, there’s something about being seen as some ravenous monster that displeases you.”

He regards you placidly. “I did not want him to make a mockery of me, so I didn’t allow it.”

You hum in acquiescence. “And here I thought you were perfectly content in your position.”

“I’m certainly more at ease than you are, woman.” It’s uncharacteristically defensive. You find yourself tempted to press. You almost do, until you recall that flash of teeth; the warm, weeping flesh being shoved down your throat and chased by a hot, large tongue. Your cheeks burn, and you say nothing. “Why are you here?”

“Because I wanted to be.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. Why are you here?”

Your lips tug on a smile. It’s cathartic to throw his own words back in his face; “Didn’t I? I’m here because I want to be. There’s nowhere that attracts my attention more, so there’s nowhere else to be.”

He leans backwards. If you had any more of an ego about you, you’d say he looks pleased. “At the circus. Why are you with the circus?”

What a simple question. Isn’t it obvious? You love it here; maybe not the people, bar the infuriating man before you, but certainly everything else. The work, the routine, the performance, the audience—it’s an addictive concoction. For once, you can live as you please and be rewarded for it; you can pursue your own passion, and the only consequence is the roaring applause of an enamoured crowd. It’s perfect.

Hm. Maybe his words have some merit after all. “Because here, I can do what I want to. Isn’t that enough?”

“So you do have something you desire.”

You batter away that wayward memory once more. “No. I already have what I want. I’ll have it for as long as I’m here.” You glance at him sideways, uncharacteristically sly. “Maybe I should be asking you that. This is a bit targeted, don’t you think?”

“I’m simply returning the favour from our previous encounters.” His eyes glimmer with… something. You can’t tell what, from so far away. “There must be some reason you stick around. It was almost beginning to seem like it was me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself too much.” You consider him, and a question calls to you from the back of your mouth. Given your prior presumptuousness, you have no qualms asking it—he’s indulged your curiosity every time before now, and it’s made you a glutton for your own non-sequitors. “Why don’t you ever leave? The circus, I mean.”

“Why would I?” He leans backwards on a stretch, straightening his spine and revealing a glimpse of his monstrous size. His shadow doubles, his eyes flash; for a moment, he looks closer to a monster than he does a human. Even having felt it, having traced it with your tongue, you contemplate the idea of him having fangs hidden in that large mouth; teeth like a lion or a wolf, a further deviance from humanity. “I eat when I want to eat, and I play when I want to play. I’m pampered as I please, and have no need to do anything but exactly what I want to do. If I wished for it, I could waste time this way until the day I die.”

You don’t say but what point is there in living?, because you know that argument holds no interest for him. By now, you have a pretty good grasp on what he’d say—because I want to, maybe, or because I don’t yet desire death, if he’s feeling more verbose. 

You huff a laugh. “Be proactive for once, demon. At the rate you’re going, I imagine I’ll never see you out of that cage. Is there truly nothing worth leaving it?”

VII.

There is no greater thrill than that of performing. You weren’t lying when you told the two-faced demon that you joined the circus simply because you wanted to—you love it. There’s a thrill that comes with being an aerialist, swinging through the air on nothing more than threads of silk and listening to the audience awe over your manoeuvres. It makes the practice worthwhile, makes everything worthwhile; why wouldn’t you have run off to join the circus when you are lauded for your talents here? When you’re surrounded by such curious personalities? You are, for once in your life, encouraged to pursue your talents as an aerialist. Despite the many flaws of the ringmaster, his accepting you into his employ has made it so you can never resent him.

It’s while you’re in the air that you see it, your heart thudding in your chest and breath straining your lungs—-a monstrous, hulking shadow in the back of the crowd.

The two-faced demon?

It's a well-grained routine that prevents you from fumbling. You keep an eye on that monstrous presence, though, and know for certain that it's him. He’s wearing a robe you’ve never seen before, bottom arms veiled by its sweeping sleeves while his top pair are crossed in front of his chest, peeking out from the deep plunge of the neckline. His four eyes seem to glow in the dark, head cocked slightly to the side. No one else seems to have noticed him, but you can’t help but wonder; why is he here? 

His eyes, trained on you, flash with recognition. Mouth pulling into a mocking smile, he bares his teeth at you and slips between the curtain, escaping outside. 

What the hell?

Your heart thuds in your chest for the rest of your performance, the soothing silks you dance through suddenly chafing and restrictive; knowing he was watching, that the two-faced demon has left his cage, leaves your breath caught in your throat. By the time your routine is over and you’re dancing off the stage to make room for the next performer, you feel both hot and cold at once. You can’t help it—why is he doing this? What does he want?

Yorozu calls your name as you’re slipping out of the tent, features twisted in a complicated expression. “The two-faced demon got out,” she says simply, pulling you close to whisper it in your ear. “We don’t know where, but everyone’s freaking out—they think it might be like—” she cuts herself off, glancing around.

Your mind fills in the blanks—like the animal tamer. That unnamed man, made a victim at the mercy of the demon’s mercurial moods.

“I just…” Yorozu sighs, as if in genuine mourning. “Why didn’t he come to me?”

Is she serious? “Do you have any idea where he could be?”

She shakes her head. “Kenjaku wants us to keep an eye out for him. He doesn’t want that demon attacking any visitors. Even if it would be within his rights…”

You ignore her muttered comment. “He hasn’t hurt anyone, has he?” It doesn’t come out like a question; no, it feels certain. Why would he? The two-faced demon is someone ruled by his own desires, comfortable in the precedent he has set forth. He doesn’t desire to eat or attack people when food to play with can simply be given to him. So, what is so important that he’d bother with these theatrics? That he’d actually bother to take action?

“Not that we know of. It’s only a matter of time, of course. Such a magnificent man wouldn’t—hey!”

You brush past her. 

Curse your damned mouth. This is almost certainly your fault. What was the last thing you said to him? At the rate you’re going, I imagine I’ll never see you out of that cage. Is there truly nothing worth leaving it? You’re too goading, too proud, too ignorantly overt. It seems there is, after all, something worth the effort. Bless whoever is made victim to his whims now.

In true theatricism, the metal of his caravan is warped and misshapen as you walk past it. Completely unnecessary, when the man can simply use the door. Somehow, it looks even smaller without him in it; you’d have thought that his leering, monstrous presence would’ve done the opposite. 

You’d also think that the sheer mass of him would make him a little easier to spot. Yet, as you’re nearing the caravan you call home, you’re tugged suddenly and slammed against a wall.

A hand covers your mouth before you can scream.

You glance up at his looming form, frozen for a second in the shadow of his embrace. Two of his arms settle at your waist, unexpectedly tender as he massages his thumbs against your stomach. You are, of course, immediately distracted by the tongue bullying at your lips even as his hand continues to sit over your mouth.

He can do that!?

A muffled yelp escapes you, eyes blown wide. A cat-like satisfaction dawns on his face as he parts your mouth, tongue delving past your teeth and twining with your own. It’s so weird. It’s gross; uncomfortable; so, so disturbing you want to gag around his tongue. You don’t, cheeks burning as your hands grapple against his arms, nails digging into the skin of his biceps.

“There you are,” he murmurs, a smug smile curling at his lips. “I was looking for you.”

Oh, god. His palm pushes uncomfortably closer, and a dull ache begins to bloom as his fingers dig into the flesh of your cheeks. His fourth arm, unimpeded, cups your neck, bracing your head as he leans further into you. You crane at an uncomfortable angle, throat discomfortingly vulnerable as you stretch the full length of your neck.

Your nails leave pink-streaked divots in his skin, one hand fumbling for his palm to tug it away from your mouth. It shouldn’t shock you to realise that he’s letting you; that your individual strength is so incomparable to him, every action you take is a concession he allows. It shouldn’t have heat gathering in your stomach, pooling southward. “Demon—”

“Sukuna,” he rasps. 

Your brows furrow, momentarily thrown. “Pardon?”

“Sukuna,” he repeats slowly. “That’s my name. If I hear a whisper of it from any mouth other than yours, I’ll tear off your head and eat you whole.”

Somehow, you don’t doubt it. You cock your head to the side, evaluating him thoughtfully. Sukuna, with shockingly soft pink hair and hateful red eyes. Sukuna, whose name quite literally means ‘demon’ or ‘calamity’. You wonder how his mother had the time to name him, if he truly ate his way out of her stomach. Did she pick it in advance, knowing what awaited her? Was her death slow, giving her just enough time to depart him with such a curse? Or are his mythic origins another blatant fabrication, the name bestowed upon him by another? “Sukuna, huh? It suits you.”

It’s almost funny to realise that you have, in a way, been calling him by his name all along.

“So I’ve been told.”

You huff. “Sukuna. What are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m taking what I want.”

”Don’t be obtuse.” It doesn’t sound half as chiding as it should, when you’re still recovering from being kissed breathless with his hand mouth, for all that it sounds absolutely ludicrous. “You left your caravan.”

“Haven’t you spent weeks goading me to?” He leans in so close that your noses brush, a colossal shadow hiding you away from the rest of the world. Leaning over you like this, he’s all-encompassing—a being of bestial passion, the likes of which Yorozu whimsically dreams of. “Don’t make such demands of me, if you’re unwilling to shoulder the consequences.” He says it as a growl and a tease at once.

Insufferable. “Don’t put words in my mouth. You just—” you cut yourself off, glancing up at him through your lashes. He is just doing what you’ve been all but begging him to for weeks. Taking what he wants. It at once sets a fire beneath your skin, a need to prove to him that you can do the same; you’re too caught up in your humanity to even conceptualise what you truly crave, he’d told you. Who gave him the right to make such an accusation? 

“Infuriating,” you murmur, hands moving to run faint lines over the skin of his cheeks—one humanly smooth, the other monstrously rough. His lower pair of eyes flicker shut, lashes fluttering against his cheeks. “You love to talk around what you want, don’t you, Sukuna?” His name is a treasure on your tongue; you want to keep it there forever. Sukuna. Who else can claim to know that name? “Tell me. What do you want from me?”

His thumbs rub circles into your waist. Yours streak patterns along his cheekbones, through wisps of cherry blossom pink hair. A grin, monstrously wide, begins to stretch across his large mouth.

“I was born hungry,” Sukuna tells you. “With every passing day, I’ve wanted more than I have. There’s no craving I can’t satisfy, and no satisfaction that truly curbs my craving.” He leans in closer, lips brushing against the edge of your mouth. “Likewise, everything I’ve wanted has been achievable through the use of others. Why fight for what I want, when others are so willing to give it to me?”

“You’re talking around the point,” you chide. The words escape you breathlessly; in that same moment, he  lifts you effortlessly, pressing you further against the caravan and twining your legs around his torso. His breath puffs against your face as he laughs. His head dips as he runs his rough tongue along the hinge where your neck meets your jaw, following it with the weighted press of his mouth.

“Infuriating,” he says, an echo of your own words. “Infer it for yourself, woman. I rarely need to be proactive about anything. I barely need to ask for anything, when it is handed to me without a request. And yet, an insufferable little maggot sits beside me while I eat, incessantly pestering me; what do you want? it asks me. You lazy beast, if you want me so bad, show me it. I’ve proven myself worth the effort, haven’t I?”

You have said no such thing; how he inferred that from your own words, you don’t know. Still, it’s difficult to argue when his mouth follows your neck downward, his lips stretching wide until those terrifyingly sharp teeth lay flush against your skin. An implicit threat lies in the action, in the horrific strength he wields, the unsaid vulnerability of your position.

Your pulse is a hummingbird; you are a hummingbird, paralysed beneath the weight of a predator’s teeth at your throat, his claws at your nape. You’re laid impossibly vulnerable—a single bite, and those teeth can kill you. One careless nick, and you’ll be dead before you can scream. It almost shocks you to realise you’re scared. Oh, God, you don’t want to die.

You flush, shaking beneath the sudden weight of your own need.

“You,” he mouths against your skin, more a breath than a word. “I want you.”

Well. It doesn’t get much more overt than that, does it? You pull him away from your neck by the hair, and he huffs another laugh as he allows the movement. Pulling him towards you, kissing him, does nothing to muffle the cut-off groan that escapes him.

Poor Sukuna, you think, with a vague fascination. Was he really so pent up? Driven mad with want for you?

It seems so. His hands, big enough to eclipse your waist, ride upwards. It chafes against your costume, and his fingers dig deeper, nearly bruising your ribs, as if reprimanding you for it. Truly, what a frustrating man. A breathy sigh escapes you as his thumbs rub at the underside of your breast, sensations dulled by the fabric separating you, and on your next breath you’re pushing your tongue into his mouth.

With the groan he lets out, you’d think he’d come right there. He pushes closer, closer, until there’s no room to breathe. He’s flush against you, a blazing heat against your front. There’s no room to pull away, no leverage against the monster caging you. You’re a pinned bird, laid bare at the mercy of his whims.

A whimper escapes you at the thought. 

One of his hands trace the curve of your thigh. There’s barely room to breathe in the space between you, his fingers digging so deeply into your skin you can already feel the bruise. It’s hard to keep track of what he’s doing—with four arms, he’s effortlessly doing twice the work of a regular man. It leaves your head swimming, your diaphragm contracting beneath his palms as he growls. His nails, sharp as claws, tear through your leotard.

“Sukuna—!” He cuts off your complaint with another kiss. Your clothes are shed thoughtlessly, and the wind is a shock against your skin, even as your front lies flush against Sukuna. Oh God, you’re outside. You’d completely forgotten.

You tear yourself away from his mouth, turning your head to the side as you heave for breath. “You brute,” you say, breathless. “Kenjaku will kill me when he finds out you ripped that.”

“A paltry complaint.” The words come from his stomach-mouth. His real mouth is otherwise occupied, biting at your neck where your heart beats the hardest, sucking it between his teeth until the skin stains purple. “He wouldn’t dare.”

A paltry complaint? You’ll show him a paltry complaint. Honestly, his arrogance! “We also need to—” you cut yourself off on a gasp as his tongue laves over your neck, dipping down between your breasts. “—move inside.”

“I see no reason to move.”

“Anyone could see—”

“They won’t see you. I won’t let them.”

His self-assuredness is as attractive as it is infuriating. “Everyone’s on the look-out for you.”

He smiles against your breast, moving until he lacks flatly over your nipple. The sudden sensation has you jolting. “They won’t find me. Do you think I can’t predict those inane maggots? They’re swarming like ants to keep customers safe and entertained. No one will venture out this far.”

Truly, he is too confident. You’re not given room to argue, however, when he’s sucking your nipple into his mouth, too-sharp teeth grazing the bud whilst your other breast is taken into hand between those frighteningly sharp claws. Your breath hitches on a gasp, body twitching further into his touch, and thin scratches bead against his fingers. 

Not willing to leave everything to him, you move, fingers delicately tracing the edges of his robe. Your hand ventures downwards, inwards, until you’ve gone from the wide frame of his shoulders to the hard skin of his abdomen. You’d never thought yourself to be interested in such brutal masculinity, but something about it has knocked your head loose; he could strangle me so easily, you think, relishing in the way his palm cups your breast and nails threaten to break your skin. He could kill me and it wouldn’t even be a struggle, as you dip your head, pressing a kiss to his scalp and tweaking a nipple between two fingers. He grunts with the motion, jerking as if he hadn’t expected to like it.

You want to hear that sound again. You pinch, but he once again has a mastery over his reactions; he raises his head, and a soft flush lines his cheeks. He groans at your expression, hiking you up with a hand at your waist until his cock is pressing against you. He’s– it’s—

“Why’s it so—?” You cut yourself off with a sharp gasp as your ripped leotard is opened further and his hands make home scratching thin lines down your torso. He rolls his hips once, twice, and you relish in the feeling before regaining your wits. You move, fingers grasping at those soft pink strands and tugging him away from your breast. He allows the movement, peering down at you with those heavy red eyes. “Sukuna? Why does it feel like—”

You don’t finish the sentence. You can’t, because it feels so ludicrous to voice aloud. It’s just… how can he be so…?

“Don’t act so shocked,” he purrs, grinning like a fat cat being served its fourth meal. A hand cups your ass, guiding you to grind against him; he laughs at the soft sigh that escapes you at the feeling. “Over and again, I’ve been called a monster. The two-faced demon, they call me; are you truly surprised the moniker extends elsewhere?”

This man! You flush violently, suddenly so hot you can’t help trying to squirm away from him. He doesn’t let you, guiding you closer, pulling you flush against his two (two!) cocks. What does any man need two of them for?

Yet, you can’t help yourself. What can you say? You’re a glutton for his inhumanities; with every monstrous revelation, you’re drawn closer into his net. You want to see, to feel, to touch. Your mouth waters at the very prospect. Can you be blamed for drawing your hand lower? Dipping below the waist of that robe until the tips of your fingers graze against the base of one of his two (seriously, two!) penises?

A cut-off moan escapes him. “Woman—”

“Call me by my name,” you murmur, tracing the base and following it to his second penis. “You asked me what I want? That’s it. I want you to say my name.”

Your name escapes him on a strangled whimper. “Don’t toy with me.”

You hum, pressing a kiss to his temple. He hurriedly sheds you of what scraps remain of your costume, loosening his robe and freeing his cocks—really, you’re not quite over that detail—before pressing forward. Air escapes you on a keen as Sukuna slides through your slick folds, and he groans appreciatively at the sound. 

“Beautiful,” he mutters, low enough you almost don’t catch it. 

“Oh my god, hurry up,” you hiss between your teeth, voice hitching on a moan as he bumps against your clit. The sudden stimulation is a shock to your core, and you clench fruitlessly around nothing. You want him so bad it hurts.

“So demanding,” he laughs, like he didn’t jolt closer towards you at the sound of your moan. “Don’t worry. I’ll give you what you want.”

He does not, in fact, give you what you want. Instead, Sukuna winds his bottom pair of arms around your thighs, jerking you up the wall until you’re situated face to face. He pulls you into a suspiciously tender kiss, even as his mouth eclipses your own. It should be gross. It should be weird. Somehow, you just find it impossibly attractive. 

Then a tongue is swiping through your folds, and you jerk so abruptly that you accidentally bite down on his tongue. You’d forgotten about the stomach mouth, right up until it's all you can think about—he licks around your entrance, trails the tip of his tongue against your clit, careful not to apply too much pressure. He leaves you squirming, grinning against your lips and opening his mouth-mouth so wide his bottom teeth accidentally clip your chin.

Fuck, he’s so big. It’s unbelievable.

You choke on his name as a hand comes up, grasping you by the throat to hold you still. His fingers flex idly, as if it takes no pressure at all to leave you bruised. He could kill me, you think wildly. He could squeeze right now and crush your windpipe; he could open that stomach mouth a little wider and cleave right through your thighs; one careless move, and you’d be nothing but a heaping sack of meat. He could kill me, and it’d take no effort at all.

Your next moan hinges on a ridiculous whine. It feels like he’s eating your face, drinking up your cunt, toying with your tits while he humps against nothing like a rabid dog. His tongue circles your opening, stimulating sensitive nerves until you’re squirming away. Then he dips in, unimpeded by the way you clench down on his tongue at the feeling.

Thank god, the part of your brain still capable of higher executive function murmurs; there’s no world in which you were going to let him put those nails inside of you. The thought has you huffing a laugh that abruptly hitches into another moan as he massages you from the inside.

You pinch his nipple in revenge. He groans, and his teeth leave a hairline scratch against your cheek. You already know you’re going to look mauled when this is over; the mere thought has heat coursing down your spine. You want to mark him in return—you want to scratch him so deeply it takes weeks to heal, and no one will be able to glimpse at those wide shoulders, that monumental chest, and not immediately know what you did to him. 

Your pussy spasms at the thought. Fuck.

You lose track of time like that, the world narrowing down to the slick slide of his mouth on yours and his tongue spearing you open. It feels like you blink and you’re panting heavily, dangling on a precipice and scratching at his chest. You manage to pull him away for just long enough to mutter, “Dear God, please put your cock in me,” before he’s fumbling like a fool, large hand gripping his own cock and lining himself up against you.

Then he pushes in and, well, your dreams of scratching him up become a reality. Red beads along the path of your nails, weeping under the weight of his moan. You duck your head to bite at his neck, chewing along his jugular like you’re trying to break skin and tear through his heartbeat. His dick twitches within you.

An eon and a moment pass at once as he sinks into you. He’s big, heavy, and the unfamiliar weight has your breath trapping in your chest. His second cock drags through your labia as he bottoms out in you, the underside dragging at your clit and sending sparks shivering through your frame. The pleasure feels inescapable; you’re cored out on his cock and trapped against a wall, unable to do anything but take it.

“You feel so good,” you whisper against his throat, tasting the way his heart thuds violently. “I want you to– Sukuna, please—”

He pulls out before sinking back in one smooth motion. It creates constant pressure on your clit, a long trail of sensation that makes your tongue numb in your mouth. “Yes,” he hisses between his teeth, “whatever you want. Just tell me. Beg me.”

“You insufferable—!” Your teeth clamp down around his skin as he plows into you. It pulls a long, low groan from him, the sound vibrating against your teeth as it travels up his throat. That man! Trying to make you beg for him as if he didn’t leave his caravan for the first time in your memory just to kiss you. Just to prove you’re worth that miniscule effort.

But oh, how you want him; his arm around your throat, his hands crushing your ribs, his teeth digging past your skin and wrenching the flesh straight off your bones. You want to be consumed—you want his teeth to work through your skin, to squeeze at your heart, for him to turn into the violent predator everyone described him as. You want him to bruise you so deeply you can’t breathe without feeling an echo of him. You want—-

“Harder,” you gasp. 

“There we go,” he mutters. “Don’t you feel good, taking what you want?”

If you were taking what you wanted, you’d be riding him. You tell him as much between hiccuping breaths and he chokes on a laugh that curdles into a moan halfway through. 

He chants your name on a low grunt as you near your completion, hands grasping you impossibly tight. Your ribs creak under the pressure, your breath cutting short thanks to his hand at your throat, your hair pulled so tight that tears prick at your eyes. He spasms from the pleasure; you jerk from the same. It’s almost a dance, the both of you sparking like a wildfire as you hurdle towards a mutual end. It builds, builds, builds.

“Sukuna,” you gasp. “Sukuna, Sukuna, Sukuna—”

He comes on a choked whimper, fucking you through his own completion. His other penis coats your stomach and thighs with his come, slicking your vagina further as he bumps against your clit until you physically can’t take it, following him with a strangled gasp of his name.

You heave in the aftermath, twitching with residual pleasure as he softens inside of you. You’re sensitive as a bruise. Sukuna’s hands stroke against your sides, and you can barely handle it from the dual pain-pleasure of his fingers gliding over those scratches. Your mouth is thick with blood—you hadn’t realised it in the moment, but you’d bitten your way through his skin to leave a bloody kiss carved into his collarbone. You can’t help feeling proud of it.

“I want you,” he says wretchedly, muffled against sweat-slick skin. “I want you.”

You press a soft kiss over the bite. Privately, you hope it scars; hope he has to keep this symbol of you forever. “I know, Sukuna. I want you too.”

(Sukuna’s back in his cage the next day, lounging as though he never left. Kenjaku looks at him through misshapen metal bars, a spike of irritation lancing through him at the ruckus the demon caused. He asks, “What was that about, yesterday? Did you have to make such a fuss?”

Sukuna’s mouth twitches into a snarling grin. “I went where I wished to be.”)

POSTED MAY 24, 2026.

[ignominiousgirl]

Holy fucking fuck

[ignominiousgirl]

Pairing— Mark Grayson x F!reader

Synopsis — you have recently relocated to the GDA headquarters, and subsequently, right into Invincible's arms. Will you be able to navigate love, sex and all the rest with a superhero, or will it prove all too much for your human heart?

Warnings/tags— 18+, smut, angstttt, i kinda dogged on cecil this whole fic but he's the man fr, masturbation, p in v sex (use protection!!)

Word count—3k words

Nomi's note— this was supposed to be a pervy coworker! mark x reader but then it spiralled into this beautiful mess. i hope you enjoy, and if you want to be added to my taglist, comment below!

Fucking Cecil wouldn’t leave him alone.

This was the third time this week he’d called Mark in to discuss “erratic behaviour.”

So what if Mark beat that man half to death?! He deserved it!

Not to mention that Mark had been working for this man for nearly 8 years without payment! He saved lives for a living, and this is what he got in return?!

It was getting redundant. Mark was no longer the naive little boy that needed coaching. He was 25, tired, and just trying to get through the day without some old man bitching in his ear.

He huffs, close to flying out of the room (door, not ceiling), when he hears heels clicking up to the door. He’s about to warn Cecil of the intruder when the man looks at him and waves him off.

“Come in.” Cecil says.

The doorknob twists and you walk in. You were in business wear, a pencil skirt, fitted blazer, the whole getup, and Mark can’t help but gulp. He didn't give two shits what Cecil or anyone else in the GDA wore, but he suddenly felt extremely underdressed in his skin tight suit in front of you.

You look at him and smile, then turn to Cecil, handing him some files and running him through the information. Mark tries to listen, really he does, but all he can hear is your heart beating in your chest.

The bum-dum, bum-dum, slowly ticking in his head like you’d set a bomb off and were waiting for it to explode.

Of course, you had no idea of your effect on the man. It was your first day working at the head office of the GDA, having been a supervisor at another division for a couple of years.

Cecil himself had requested your presence following some rebel attacks near headquarters. You had accepted, naturally, because you were smart and were making moves to the top, and knew if there was any way in, this would be it.

He’d requested a thorough report on the perpetrators and then told you to meet him so he could ask you a favour.

You hadn't expected that there would be company.

And you certainly hadn't expected what he would be asking of you.

When you are done briefing him, he nods, then turns to face the man that has been standing there for some time. He’s got his signature blue and yellow suit on, and even with the mask, you know exactly who he is.

“Invincible,” You address him. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Mark's mouth dries at the sound of your voice. Smooth like honey, not a single tremble, nor a hint of uncertainty. It sticks to him, and like a fly, he's trapped.

You step forward and reach your hand out for him to shake. He stumbles for a second, then takes your soft hand in his, shaking it firmly, though it looks like he didn’t mean to.

“This is who you’ll be working with,” Cecil says, and you nod at him, and then look down at where Mark was still fixedly holding your hand.

“O-oh!,” he chuckles, letting it go, hand reaching behind his neck to scratch it bashfully. You shake your head, your warm smile never once fading. What a beautiful shade of red on your lips...

Mark shakes himself back to reality, turning to Cecil accusingly.

“Work with?! What the fuck, Cecil, I don’t need a babysitter!” The sudden change in his demeanour is shocking, but you’ve seen more surprising things. You try not to be offended since you knew what it was like to work under someone like Cecil. Ironfisted and unyielding.

Though not everyone could speak to their boss like that…

"That's all, Mark." Cecil says dismissively.

You feel him leave before you see it, with your hair ruffled, a sharp gust of wind hitting your face and in the blink of an eye, the man in the blue and yellow suit is gone.

Cecil sighs, and with a half-assed encouraging nod in your direction, teleports himself out of the room.

You’re left alone, smoothing out your hair as you try to make out what new path you were headed down.

・・・・・

Working with Mark consisted mostly of surveillance. Making sure he doesn't kill anyone, no matter how deserving he might deem them. His suit had a tracker attached to it, and the GDA's technology allowed you to have eyes on him practically everywhere.

Needless to say, it was not a particularly challenging nor stimulating job, but if it was what was required of you to gain Cecil's favour, then it was what you'd do.

It had been a couple of weeks, and you had seen Mark in person probably a handful of times since your first meeting. Still, in that time, you had noted a few things about him.

Firstly, he was half-alien. You knew that, of course. That he had Viltrumite blood coursing through his veins. But it had never really been something you fully grasped until you were in his close proximity. His strength was unlike any of the other hero's you had worked with. He seemed almost unaware of it.

Also, he was fast. Physically, certainly, but also quick to make a decision. To jump to conclusions. To come storming into the GDA because things didn't go quite to plan in the field.

He was swiftest in his guilt.

Lastly, his poker face was terrible. Mark Grayson couldn't keep a secret to save his life. He was all furrowed brows and rolled eyes, but you could tell he liked you. Maybe it was the dusty pink that would sweep over his face whenever he looked you in the eye.

Or the way he would trip over himself to help you with the smallest thing. Like when you dropped your pen in front of him. He surged forward, ready to deliver it to you, but you shook your head.

He was also very obedient. Perhaps only to you. He had no issue defying the GDA's orders, but the second you told Mark to do something, it got done.

So when you bent down in front of him to retrieve the pen yourself, it was no surprise to see the chub at the front of his suit rise as he tried, and failed, to conceal it.

You try to hide your smirk as you tuck that information away too.

・・・・・

Mark was complaining again. You roll your eyes but listen to him drone on and on about the villain and massive asshole he had to fight today.

"... made me crash into three buildings! three!" he continues, pacing back and forth in front of you.

"He sounds like a real fucker," you say, trying to comfort him.

"Thanks, he was!" He huffs.

"You should go rest," you suggest, seeing the dark circles around his eyes. There was a slump in his shoulders too, and a drag in his stride. 

“We’ll call you if we need you.” He nods, and you decide to turn and occupy yourself with your daily report while he sees himself out. But nothing with Mark was ever simple.

Hearing footsteps approach, you decide to keep shuffling your papers, pretending to be busy. Maybe you were afraid of what you might do if you faced him. Maybe you wanted to help him relieve his stress.

Maybe you could put him to sleep.

Ignoring your thoughts, you continue mindlessly shuffling the papers in front of you. Gosh, you'd have to organise them all over again when he left.

He’s close enough now that his body heat was radiating to you. God, he ran hot. It was 41 degrees Fahrenheit outside, and he was emanating heat like a furnace.

Maybe that was just another component of his Alien physiology. You tuck it in, at the back of your mind, with all the rest of the facts that you've been cataloging about Mark Grayson.

"M'not tired," he drawls. "Can think of better things I'd rather do with my time."

“Careful, Mr Grayson,” You lilt, turning your head back to look at him.

“Mark.” He corrects, eyes unfocused as he stared at your lips.

“Mark,” you amend, licking your lip. “Don’t bite off more than you can chew.”

You brush past him, and with that, he’s left watching the swish swish swishing of your hips as you leave the room.

Shit, he thinks. He wishes he could bite those lips for you.

・・・・・

Mark had tried, he really had, but it was impossible to scrub the image of your backside as you left the room. He was the strongest person in the country, maybe the world, but he never felt weaker than he had the few seconds your body brushed past his.

He thought of you everywhere. When he kicked some amateur villain to the ground. When he took some criminals into custody. In the sky, space, his house. 

He thought of you late at night, when the weight of the day settled into his bones and the idea of you there with him, in his bed, made him feel lighter.

He especially thought of you when he grabbed his half-stiff cock. 

You were driving him mad. He couldn’t remember the last time he was this crazy over anything. 

All-consuming. That was the only way to describe you. Like ivy, you had spread your branches all over his heart. 

・・・・・

Mark looked wrecked.

There had been some misinformation that led to a lot of people getting hurt. The GDA couldn’t have known, and neither could he. 

“It’s not your fault–” you start.

“Yes, yes it is.” His voice cracks, and your heart breaks for him. 

"Mark," you say softly. "You can't carry the weight of the world on your own."

And he was angry. Livid, truly. He used to be so hopeful, so optimistic. Even after his father had betrayed humanity and he had to prove himself to the world all over again.

Maybe time was really all it took. The day by day chipping away of his sanguine outlook on life. A little bit of him died every time he was too late, too slow, too him.

He only ever felt like he was disappointing everyone.

You’ve only known Mark for a few months, but you think you have a better understanding of him than most.

So when he tucks his neck into the crook of yours, you let him. 

When he wraps his arms around your waist, you let him.

But when he moves his head back to look at your lipa from between his lashes, and when his kips brush yours, you turn your head.

“You aren’t in the right headspace.” You say.

He nods but keeps his arms tight around you.

And of course, you let him do that too.

. . . . . .

“Him and a few other heroes… medal awarding ceremony…” Cecil drones on.

"Sir..." you trail off. "Is that a good idea right now?"

It had only been a couple days since the incident at the city square, and Mark still looked like he was spiralling. He’d show up at your place at odd hours of the night, eyes rimmed red and voice all hoarse like he’d cried it away.

He needed time.

"The people need a win." Cecil states with a tone of finality. "Get Mark to that stage. That’s an order.”

A virtually improbable objective.

But you were nothing if not a defier of the odds.

It took some convincing, some batting of your lashes, and even some ‘innocent’ touches on his arms to get him to agree.

However, here you were now, 10 minutes to the ceremony, and Mark was nowhere to be seen. 

Just as you were about to give up, you feel a blast of air as he zooms into the room.

You smooth your hair out, then take him in. You had to give him credit, because he sure could clean up well when he wanted to.

"Mark Grayson!" You exclaim, gasping sarcastically. "Are you wearing a suit?" 

Objective achieved.

He smiles sheepishly, then says, grumbling mostly to himself; "I always wear a suit."

You laugh. "But they're not usually this dashing."

He chuckles, then walks up to you. You keep your eyes on your phone, keeping up with the updates being sent by the crew.

When you look up, he’s still looking at you up and down, and you feel your stomach twist.

You turn around, trying your best to hide your smile. “I’m not like you,” you start. “I don’t get to take liberties with my workplace.”

“What does that mean?” He laughs softly.

“It just means I have rules.” You say teasingly, walking over to the stage curtain.  

“Mm. And what rules would those be?” He follows you to the curtain, crowding you against it. 

“Well, first, don’t do anything stupid.” You turn around, hands coming up to smooth his tie. He inches closer.

“Not to mix work and pleasure.” His fingers graze yours.

“And chiefly, not to fuck my coworkers.” He nods, holding your hands now, but you can see the black in his eyes engulfing the brown. The heave in his breath. His slow blinking as he tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear.

You duck under his arm, smiling at the woozy look on his face. 

“You’re on now.” You state, pushing him through the curtain and onto the stage.

Cheers and screams of “Invincible, invincibile, invincible!” erupt.  

And the heat inside you grows just a little bit more. 

・・・・・

You stood in front of a very agitated Cecil. Mark had done something wrong, but that was not surprising.

"Where's Mark?" He asks.

"He's at home right now, Sir." You respond.

"Well then go to his fucking house if you have to," Cecil raises his voice. "Mark has got to stay in line!" You nod, then march your way out of his office.

You were going to kill Mark Grayson.

"Mr Grayson?" You ask, hesitant. You have met Mark at many places, but never his house. The door had been open, probably because no one could be a threat to Mark, so you had twisted the doorknob and let yourself in.

"What'd I say about calling me that?" You hear his playful voice from behind you.

You turn, whipping your head around to face him.

He blinks at the sting of your hair on his face, having bent down to reach your height while he scrunches his nose to look at you.

"Mark."

"Cecil told me to come and tell you to stop meddling with NYC affairs. It's not your jurisdiction." You cross your arms around your chest, staring at him sternly. Him acting out of turn only made it seem like you couldn't do your job.

"Mmm..." He hums low. He grabs your waist, redirecting you until your back is to the counter, listening as you go on and on about what he had done wrong.

His hands feel large on your waist, and the blush on his face isn't from shyness, like it usually is, but from something...more primal.

He begins trailing his hands up, up, up until they're on the sides of your breasts. Your chest begins rising and falling, and you see his eyes following the movement.

"Everywhere is my jurisdiction," he states, claiming your lips with his own. His lips are soft and warm, just like the rest of him, and suddenly all your complaints feel trivial.

He spins you around, pushing you against the counter and you feel his hands pushing your skirt up.

It’s quiet for a second, and you are about to protest when he rips your tights, guiding his cock to your core and coating your panties with his pre-cum.

You’d fight him about them later, but right now you were too busy moaning at the feeling of his cockhead catching against your clit with every thrust.

Despite having intimate knowledge of his powers, you’re still surprised by how quick he flies you both to his bedroom.

You pause on the bed, and he watches you, searching for any signs of hesitance.

"It's... been a while." You admit. Focused on the career ladder, you haven't given much thought to relationships, other than the casual fling now and then. Even those were few and far between.

"That's fine," he whispers. "Me too."

Mark had never been as glad for his super hearing as he was when he could hear the smallest sounds you let out. God, you even breathed pretty.

You look at him from beneath your lashes when he settles in between your parted legs, and his warmth makes you shiver. 

Mark didn’t fuck like he fought. He was gentle, watching your face when he nudged himself in. He was so attentive. The strongest man on earth, reduced to putty under your touch.

You feel yourself get wetter at the thought.

He was so vocal, too. Endless streams of–

"Been wanting to do this for so long..."

"Need to feel you..."

"Fuck, you're beautiful..."

You clench around him with each groan he lets into your ear. With each sweet whisper that falls from his lips. 

And when you fall off the edge, moaning his name into his mouth, you know that he had you, and you had him.

@thatoneraeder @angelnoir222 @blkreaperkaneki

[ignominiousgirl]

can u tell i always get tired of writing the smut towards the end

[the-darklings]

you said Jason Todd would be an annoying bf, do you have any specific thoughts on why?? im a long and diehard fan of him, I’ve read the fics, the comics, seen the movies, etc. I KNOW he’d be a difficult piece of shit but I wanna know the almighty Kat’s take on it.

NOT ME GETTING LIKE 20 MESSAGES ASKING FOR JASON THOUGHTS GUYS PLS??? I DON'T EVEN GO HERE, BUT FUCK IT, FINE. 18+ for nsfw. mdni.

JASON TODD AS YOUR BOYFRIEND HDCS—

Loving Jason Todd is not easy. It's a lifestyle adjustment at the bare minimum, and the first thing to understand is that he's not some soft golden retriever boyfriend. Never has been, never will be.

He's not Dick (charming, attentive, performative), he's not Tim (anxious, observant, analytical), he's not Damian (devoted to a fault, awkwardly sincere); he's the one who came back wrong and never fully unlearned the rage or the wrongness of that come back.

He doesn't meet people the way normal men do. No Hinge profile, no striking up conversation at a coffee shop unless he's already aware of you as a potential informant.

The way he ends up in your orbit is one of three things: you crossed paths with one of his cases (you witnessed something, you live above the wrong building, you're the cousin of some dead girl, you work at the diner three doors down from the safehouse, and he noticed you because his job is noticing things, and then he kept noticing you, and that part wasn't the job); or you're tangentially Bat-adjacent (you work at WE, you're an old friend of Babs's, you patched him up once at a free clinic and didn't ask questions), which he hates in theory and seeks out in practice; or you're a complete civilian and he's furious about how attracted to you he is, which is the funniest one (for us) and the most dangerous one for him.

For the first dozen interactions he's rude. Not really cruel or anything. Jason has a deeply skewered and fucked up moral spine despite everything but he has it. He's brusque, he's short with you, he gives you the kind of one-syllable answers that make you check whether you've offended him somehow, and you haven't, he just doesn't waste words on people he hasn't decided require air from him.

But here's the thing: he keeps showing up.

You'll see him at the bar three nights in a row, sitting where he can see the door. You'll mention offhandedly that you can't find a decent mechanic one time and a week later your car runs better than it did when you bought it and the guy at the shop says "yeah some big guy paid in cash, told me not to mention it"; you'll say in passing that the back lock on your apartment door sticks and the next time you come home it's been replaced with something that looks like it could survive a small explosion. He'll never bring any of this up, and if you bring it up, he'll go "don't know what you're talking about" with that infuriating half-smirk and change the subject completely .

This is his love language and it's unbearable, because Jason won't ask you out, he won't say anything, really. He's just slowly making your life safer and more functional and waiting to see if you notice, and every time you do notice, he gets a little more annoyed that you're getting under his skin and keep noticing.

When he finally starts engaging with you, his flirting is mean. Affectionate-mean. He'll roast your taste in music, your coffee order, your shoes, the book you're reading, the way you say a particular word. He calls you stupid pet names that are technically insults: sweetheart, princess, trouble, and the one he reserves for when he wants to see you actually flustered, baby, and he watches you very carefully to see how you respond.

If you bite back his entire face changes. He gets delighted, he'll lean in over the table and go "oh, you've got a mouth on you, huh?" and you can see him tucking this information away in real time. If you go shy he'll keep pushing, gently, until you laugh, because he's testing you, he needs to know you can handle him before he lets himself want you any more than he already does.

You will not have a defining-the-relationship conversation. He will not ask you to be his girlfriend in some sappy way. One day you'll just realise he's been at your apartment four nights in a row, there's a toothbrush in your bathroom that isn't yours, he's eating your leftovers like he pays rent, and when his phone buzzes he angles it away from you with a look that says don't ask.

And if you ask what you are to each other he'll say something like "the hell kind of question is that?", not unkindly, just like the question itself is so ridiculous he can't believe you wasted a breath on it; obviously you're his, he thought you knew, he's been acting like it, hasn't he? Keep up!

He hasn't been acting like it in any way a normal person would recognise, but to him the fact that he hasn't killed anyone over you yet is a love sonnet <3

His texting habits are a horror show: he doesn't text first, ever, until suddenly he texts you twelve times in a row at 2 a.m. (u up. u home? answer the phone. fine. ignore me. fuck. txt back when u see this) he leaves you on read constantly (he's not ignoring you, he read it, he doesn't see why a "got it" was needed), his messages are all lowercase and full of typos because he texts with one hand while doing something else (cleaning a gun, driving, running across a roof), he'll send you a single question mark in response to a long vulnerable message and then forty minutes later show up at your door with takeout and not mention it.

He saves your contact under something stupid like Trouble or Headache or Don't pick up.

He works nights, he gets shot some of those nights, and he'll absolutely disappear for 48 hours with no contact and then reappear in your kitchen at 3 a.m. bleeding from somewhere he won't show you. When you panic he'll go "Jesus, breathe, it's not even that bad" (which is the sentence equivalent of holding a grenade) and he'll not apologise for the disappearing, but he will look slightly ashamed when he realises you actually couldn't sleep.

He doesn't know what to do with the fact that you worry about him; it short-circuits him, people don't worry about Jason, Jason worries, or Jason handles it, and the role reversal, the uncomplicated care, is a wound he can't reach to scratch.

Then comes the obnoxious-about-your-attention phase, which is when he gets very annoying and very hot simultaneously, because Jason is territorial in a way that would be a red flag if he weren't so weirdly principled about it.

He'll not tell you who you can talk to, will not check your phone, he will not get jealous in the openly controlling way that signals abuser. He's not that.

But what he will do is loom (when you're at a bar and a guy is talking to you, Jason who was across the room is now somehow magically standing directly behind you with a hand on the small of your back, not saying anything, just radiating, and the guy will leave, and Jason will not comment);

Scoff (anyone shows interest in you within his sightline, he makes a noise: short, derisive, almost a laugh, like the idea is so absurd it's funny anyone is trying);

Ask too-casual questions ("who was that on the phone?" he says, not looking up from the gun he's cleaning on your coffee table (concern.) and you can hear that the casualness is performed, that he's in fact extremely invested in the answer, and he's furious with himself for caring);

Mark you in stupid little ways (steals your hair tie and wears it on his wrist, leaves his jacket at your place "by accident" four times in a row, bites the side of your neck where it'll show above your collar and is unrepentant when you complain about it).

Now: the slap-on-the-ass-then-prickly move, which is the Jason behaviour pattern that will define the first six months of dating him.

He's physically affectionate in a way that's cocky, performative, almost rude (the hand on your ass when he's walking past you in the kitchen, the fingers around the back of your neck when he's leaning over to grab his beer, the bite (he's a biter, I'm afraid, that man cannot keep his teeth to himself) at your shoulder, your jaw, your ear, the teasing physicality of pulling you back into his lap when you try to get up, holding your wrist when you reach for something, hooking his ankle around yours under the table).

All of this is easy for him, it costs him nothing because he's performing the part of "guy who is comfortable touching his girl" because it's the closest he can get to being affectionate without admitting that he wants to be.

But the second you try to flip it, try to initiate genuine closeness, try to climb into his lap when he didn't put you there, or to cup his face and look at him too long. Even say something soft like I missed you in a voice that means it, Jason goes rigid. Not for long, a second, maybe two, but you'll feel it: the full-body lock, and then he'll deflect with a joke. A kiss that's more aggressive than tender, a hand on your waist that turns you around so you're not facing him anymore.

He can't take it when you mean it. He can give and give in the language of teasing physicality, but tenderness received, sincere tenderness, the kind that means I see you and I'm not going anywhere, that's the language of the family that buried him while he was still dying, that's the language his mother used, that's Bruce's voice in the cave and Bruce's silence in the alley after.

He doesn't trust it, he doesn't know how to be on the receiving end of it without flinching, and this will be one of the hardest things about loving him.

You can't push, he's spent his whole afterlife being pushed, and you have to be willing to let him deflect six times before he takes it on the seventh, and it takes months, sometimes longer, before he can let your hand stay on the side of his face for more than a second without turning into it like he's trying to escape his own want.

The way you eventually crack it is sneakier than confrontation. You do it in transit, in passing, when he's distracted: a kiss to his shoulder while he's at the stove, fingers through the hair at the back of his neck while he's mid-sentence about something else, I love you mumbled into the crook of his arm at a moment when neither of you is looking at the other.

It has to be cheap, it has to be easy to ignore, because if you give it weight he can't hold it. Over months, he learns to take it without flinching, then to lean into it, then (eventually, miraculously) to ask for it (never with words, he will never use words for this, but he'll plant himself within reach of your hands and wait, like a stray cat learning where the food bowl lives).

He's also annoying about your safety in ways that are sometimes touching and sometimes infuriating: he has opinions about every person in your life.

He's run background checks on people you went to college with and isn't sorry, he will text you the route home (not ask, tell) take 5th not the alley tonight, he has bought you (without asking) pepper spray (good), a small folding knife (lowkey concerning), a panic button that is wired to him specifically (worrying that this exists, kinda sweet that he thought of it), and a self-defence class he'll not attend with you because "I'll just correct her form and piss her off".

He gets weirdly quiet when you mention being scared of something (not comforting, quiet, you can see him processing: who, where, when, can I get there in under fifteen if she needs me) and you have to actively redirect him before he goes and breaks someone's hands.

He'll never, ever tell you not to do something dangerous, because Jason understands the impulse to walk into things, but he'll follow you in from a respectful distance where you can't see him. Close enough that if anything happens he's the second person who knows, and this is actually one of the most loving things he does.

He doesn't try to keep you small, he just makes sure that if the world tries to swallow you, it has to go through him first.

The intimacy doesn't really start in bed, it starts in his apartment.

The first time you're allowed in there (and you have to be allowed, because Jason has safehouses you'll never see and he has the apartment, and the apartment is the closest thing he has to a self he doesn't have to hold a weapon against) and the thing that will undo you is how much care lives there: there are books everywhere, dog-eared, some stained, there's good coffee, a record player, spices in the kitchen that mean he actually cooks for himself, and the bed is made.

The bed is made. This is the detail that will catch in your throat. Jason Peter Todd, who came back from the dead, who lives with a body that's been to war, makes his bed every morning (some habit from the manor, or from before the manor, or from somewhere he won't tell you about) the corners are tucked, the pillows are arranged, and he'll be sheepish and dismissive if you notice but he'll not stop doing it.

Now, the first time. It doesn't happen in his apartment, you don't get into his apartment for months. The first time happens at yours, and it happens because the tension has been so unbearable for so long that one of you finally has to break it, and it's going to be him, and the way it happens is going to feel (at the time) like an accident, even though it absolutely is not.

He's been at your place too late, he's been finding excuses to be at your place too late, and on this particular night the excuse is your faucet, sweetheart, you said it was leaking, I can fix it, no I'm not gonna pay some guy to do it when I'm right here, and he does fix it, except then he doesn't leave.

You open a beer for him, and the two of you end up on your couch, and there's a moment (a very specific moment) where you've been laughing about something stupid and the laughter trails off and he's looking at you and you're looking at him and the whole apartment is suddenly quiet, and you can hear the fridge humming, and the click of the clock, and the way his breathing has gone shallow.

He'll break it the way he breaks everything: with a joke, with a deflection ("what," he says, low, rough, daring you, half a smirk on his face) and you're going to call his bluff, because by now you know how he works.

You're going to lean in first, and his whole face is going to do something you've never seen it do before (a flicker of oh, fuck) and then he's going to kiss you back like he has been thinking about it for a year, which is because he has been thinking about it for a year, and the kiss is not soft. It's a hungry thing. The kiss of a man who's been holding himself back from this for so long that the moment he stops holding back, there's no halfway; his hand goes to the back of your skull, immediately, fingers in your hair, and he tilts your head where he wants it, and the small noise he makes against your mouth is the first time you've ever heard him sound undone.

Jason pulls back first, and his hand is on your jaw, his thumb on your bottom lip dragging across it. He's looking at you with an expression that's somewhere between starved and pained, and he says (and you'll remember this forever, "you sure?") and the question is not a polite formality, he needs you to look him in the eye and confirm it, and when you do, when you say "yes," clearly, no hesitation, he's on you in a heartbeat.

The first time is fast, not because he doesn't have control (Jason has frightening control), but because he has too much tension in his body and he genuinely can't moderate it on the first pass.

It's also slightly clumsy in places. He knocks over your lamp (oops), he'll laugh about this later, and you'll be on the floor before you make it to the bedroom. Your shirt doesn't survive (rip). He tears the collar of it dragging it off you, mutters fuck, sorry without sounding sorry in the slightest, and goes back to your throat, and it's intense in a way that doesn't feel like sex so much as like finally, like something that's been building between you for months has finally been allowed to happen.

His hands are everywhere and they're huge. You'd noticed the size of his hands in the abstract before. The way they wrap around a coffee cup, the way they look on the steering wheel.

But the first time you feel one of them spread flat across your stomach, fingertips just barely under the waistband of your jeans, you understand the reach of him in a way you didn't before.

The sheer span, the way one of his palms covers ground. He's careful with his strength even when he's gone. In a sense, he's been careful with it his whole life because he's had to be, and the carefulness shows up as a deliberate slowness even when everything else is fast. Fingers on the inside of your thigh that take their time getting where they're going, a thumb on your hipbone that presses just hard enough to be a question

He's going to be louder than you expected, with his mouth, not his volume.

He runs commentary even the first time, which is partly nerves (Jason gets mouthy when he's anxious, you'll learn this) and partly that he genuinely can't help himself. He'll mutter against your throat ("Fuck, you have no idea how long—") and then cut himself off, because he didn't mean to say that out loud, and instead he'll bite, hard, just under your jaw, like he's trying to put the sentence back in his mouth.

He'll say "look at me, look at me, baby," not as a command but as something closer to a request, and you'll realise later that he needs you to see him for this, that he can't do it with you looking at the ceiling, that some part of him needs proof of recognition.

He'll bury his face in your shoulder when he comes and his hands will go tight on your hips; tight enough to leave marks, you'll find them in the morning, four little crescents low on each side, and the surge you feel at seeing them in the bathroom mirror will be embarrassing to think about.

He will be, for one breath, two, completely undone, and you'll feel the shudder run all the way through him.

And then almost immediately, the second it's over, the shutters come back down. Not fully, but you can feel it, the way he reassembles himself, the joke he reaches for to cover the rawness of what just happened ("so, the faucet's fixed," he'll say, voice rough,) and you'll laugh, and that will be his way of saying don't make this a thing or I will lose my nerve.

He doesn't stay over that first night. He kisses your forehead in your doorway (which is somehow more tender than anything that just happened) and he says, "I'll text you," and you know he won't, and he doesn't.

Three days will pass and you will think, oh, that was it, that was the thing, and on the fourth day he'll show up at your door at midnight with takeout and a look on his face that says I tried to stop thinking about you and it didn't work, and the second wave begins.

The early sex (the first month, maybe two) has a specific flavour to it that's worth naming: it's frequent, very intense, and it has an undercurrent of him trying to prove something, though even he doesn't know what.

He fucks you like he's daring himself to keep doing it, like every time he expects you to be different in the morning, colder, distant, regretful (or maybe he's expecting himself to be those things), and every time he's mildly stunned that you aren't, that he isn't, and he punishes himself for the relief of it by being slightly more of an asshole about everything else for a few hours after.

Physically, in this period, he's exhausting in the best way.

His stamina is genuinely a problem (he's in extraordinary physical condition, he can go for an extremely long time, he has the recovery of a man who jumps off buildings for a living), and you will, at some point in the first month, look at him afterwards while you're trying to remember how to breathe and say something like Jesus Christ, Jason, and he'll grin at you, sweaty, smug, infuriating, and say "problem?", and you will hit him with a pillow.

He'll laugh, fully, not the half-laugh he gives most of the time but something that comes from his actual chest, and you will realise, then, you're going to love him for the rest of your life and it's too late to do anything about it.

He's also a tease from the very beginning. Catastrophically so, but in the early days the teasing has a sharper edge to it. Almost competitive, like he's trying to see how far he can push you before you break. Like he needs the proof that he can take you apart in order to believe that this is real.

He'll get you right to the edge and then slow down deliberately, two fingers stilling exactly where you need them to be moving, his mouth lifting off your skin at the worst possible second, and when you complain (when you swear at him, which he loves, which you'll learn fast he loves) he'll laugh (that low, mean, delighted laugh, mouth right against your ear) and say something like "you got somewhere to be, sweetheart? we got all night", and you'll want to kill him.

He loves it when you try, it's free foreplay, and the rule he has invented entirely for his own amusement is that the more you mouth off the longer he draws it out, and he'll absolutely tell you this to your face ("you wanna keep talking? we can keep going. I got nowhere to be") while you're shaking apart underneath him, and the bastard means it, too.

He's very good with his mouth, and he knows it, and he treats it like a settled fact you don't need to discuss.

The first time he goes down on you, he does it with the same focused, watchful attention he brings to everything else. Eyes up, watching your face, two fingers wrapped around your wrist where it's gripping the sheet because he likes feeling the pulse there, and he will not be hurried, will not be talked out of taking his time, and he will absolutely look up at you afterwards with his mouth still wet and say something insufferable like "yeah, I thought so," and you will want to push him off the bed, and he'll laugh every time you try.

The shit-talking is non-negotiable from day one, he can't keep his damn mouth shut.

He runs commentary the entire time, and the commentary breaks down roughly into three modes that he flips between without warning.

The first is mean (observational, smirking, designed to make you squirm) "oh, that's what does it for you, huh?" breathed against your ear when he's noticed exactly which thing is making you fall apart,

"look at you, fuck, you're a mess for me already and I've barely touched you," "yeah? you gonna ask nice?", "that's it, that's it, sweetheart, you can do better than that, c'mon, let me hear it,"

And the meanness is never actually mean, it's delighted, you can hear the smile in it. He's having the time of his fucking life winding you up and he wants you to know it.

The second mode is filthy, full stop. Jason at midnight with his hand between your thighs is saying things like "fuck, you're so wet, you're soaking through my fucking jeans, baby, you been thinking about this all day or what?"

Running narration of what his hands are doing right now ("that's it, just like that, you feel that? right there?"), running narration of what his hands are about to do ("gonna take my time with you tonight, gonna make you beg for it, you know that, right?"), running narration of what he's planning to do once he's recovered ("give me ten minutes, sweetheart, ten minutes and I'm gonna have you on your knees, gonna fuck your mouth till you cry, you want that?"),

and (most catastrophically) running narration of what he was thinking about doing earlier, when you were just standing in his kitchen in his t-shirt making coffee and didn't know he was watching: "you have any idea what you looked like in my kitchen this morning? in my fucking shirt with nothing under it? I had to leave the room, sweetheart, I had to go take a cold shower like a goddamn teenager, I was gonna fuck you on the counter, I was thinking about it the whole time you were talking to me about your friend, you didn't even notice—"

He likes hearing himself called things, sometimes. Likes the specific small power of Jay, please, Jason, fuck, please please please. And he'll work for it, he'll deliberately drag it out of you, "what do you need, baby, you gotta tell me, I can't read your mind," knowing perfectly well he can, in fact, read your mind, knowing exactly what he's doing.

The third mode is the one he doesn't mean to do, and it slips out anyway, usually when he's lost focus and his guard drops for half a second. Almost devastatingly tender things that he covers within two seconds because he didn't mean to say them out loud, "god, you're so fucking pretty like this," and then, immediately, recovering, "yeah, you like that, huh, you like when I say nice things to you?" with a smirk back in place, like the first half of the sentence didn't happen;

Or "shit, sweetheart, look at you, look at—fuck, c'mere" and then he kisses you hard enough to shut himself up;

Or, the worst one, the one he'll pretend for years he never said, said quietly into the curve of your shoulder when he thought you were too far gone to hear him: "I don't know what to do with you, I don't know what to fucking do with you,", and he panics about it the second he hears himself.

Because I don't know what to do with you is dangerously close to a confession he isn't ready to make, and so he bites your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark and follows it up with "you got such a pretty mouth, you gonna put it to use or what?" before the pause can land.

He calls you everything (sweetheart, baby, princess, good girl, brat), and in the early days these are all you get.

He uses your name only when he's serious, when he's looking at you and he means it, and you will learn to clock the difference: the pet names mean I'm having fun, your name means I love you and I'm not going to say it yet, and you will notice (months in, looking back) that for the first stretch of your relationship, he never said your name in bed, not once.

The night he finally does (really says it, low and ragged, looking at you, fuck, followed by ragged exhale of your name breathed against your temple, is the night you'll know something has changed in him that you don't have words for yet.

Jason, almost as a rule, likes when you talk back. He likes it when you mouth off. The single fastest way to get him to lose his composure is to be a smartass while he's trying to wreck you.

He'll go "oh, you've got jokes," and then he'll prove a point, and the dynamic this creates is one of the most addictive things about being with him: you can spar with him, in bed, all the way through, he will not shatter, will not get hurt feelings, he will meet you every time, and the back-and-forth is genuinely funny in a way that almost nothing else in your life is.

Sex with Jason is, weirdly, often fun, in a way you didn't know it could be. You laugh, sometimes, mid-thing, and he laughs too, his forehead dropped against your shoulder, his whole body shaking with it for a second, and it doesn't break the heat, it deepens it, because it's involuntary, it's unguarded, and he gives it to you anyway.

Jason has a body that has been through something. He has scars he doesn't talk about, he has somewhere in him a permanent tension (a vigilance) that doesn't fully go away, ever.

In bed that tension goes somewhere; he fucks like he's trying to outrun something, and there's a quality to it (especially in the early months) of too much, too hard, too fast, like he's trying to drown out a noise in his head with the sound of you. And it's incredibly hot but it's also, sometimes, a flag.

For the first stretch he refuses to be seen during sex, in a particular way that takes you a while to clock: he prefers positions where he's behind you or above you, where you can't easily reach his face, where his expression is something you have to work to read.

He keeps his shirt on more than you'd expect for the first month or two. A faded grey henley, usually, that he won't take off, even in your bed at 2 a.m., even with his hand down your pants, and you'll learn not to push it.

He avoids long eye contact; and if you reach up to cup his jaw mid-fuck he'll catch your wrist and pin it, gently, smoothly, like he's playing, but he's not playing. It's redirecting, and you'll eventually understand that he can't let you look at him like that yet because if you do, he'll feel it, and feeling it is what he came to bed to not do.

Jason's body is a map of the life he's lived, and you'll learn it in pieces. Slowly, over months, because he doesn't sit you down and explain it. You have to find each one and decide whether to ask.

It's worth saying clearly that his scars aren't pretty. They're the body of a man who's been beaten, shot, burned and stitched up by his own hands more times than is reasonable.

There's the long, ropy line down his left forearm from a knife in Hong Kong (he'll tell you that one, eventually, a clean story he can shrug off); there are the round puckered scars of bullet wounds in his shoulder, his thigh, low on his right side where it nearly took a kidney (these are boring to him, he genuinely thinks they're uninteresting, "occupational hazard, sweetheart"); there's a long pale stripe across his ribs from something he won't name, and a smaller jagged one at the corner of his eyebrow you'd noticed before you ever saw the rest of him.

There are the ones that don't have stories he wants to tell. The scars on his back that don't match anything ordinary, a clustered constellation of marks across his shoulder blades and lower spine that you won't ask about and that he will not explain, ever. The pattern of which you will eventually stop being able to unsee, and there is, at the back of his neck, just below the hairline, a thin curved scar he touches absently when he's thinking and will never tell you the origin of.

The crowbar is not a single scar, it's a map. A knot of healed, raised tissue along his ribs where one strike landed wrong, a notch missing from the side of one knee, a hairline kink in the bridge of his nose that you can feel when you kiss him, and a small permanent deviation in the way he holds his left wrist that you'll notice when he's gripping a glass. None of which he names for you, and none of which you ask about, because some part of you already knows, and he can tell that you know, and that knowledge is part of why he can let you near it at all.

The rule, for all of it, is you don't flinch.

The first time he lets you really look at him in full light (really look, not the half-dark of your bedroom but the morning sun coming in over the bed) he's watching you like he's waiting for you to recoil, holding too still, and what you do in that moment will determine what he can be with you for the rest of your life.

And the right move is to look, to actually look, not perform unbotheredness, not avoid; trace something, if he'll let you, with one finger, pick the smallest scar, the one at his eyebrow maybe.

Something he doesn't have feelings about, and start there slowly, and don't say anything stupid, don't say anything at all if you can help it, just look at him after like yeah, and?, because that's what he needs: not for it to be invisible, but for it to be uninteresting as a verdict on whether you want him.

After that morning, eventually, he stops keeping the shirt on.

Eventually he stops flinching when you touch the rougher places mid-sex. Eventually (months later, maybe a year) he'll let you press your mouth to the worst of them, deliberately, while you're on top of him. Your lips against the knot of healed tissue along his ribs, and his breath will catch and his hand will close hard around your wrist but he'll not stop you, and that (that, more than the first I love you, more than any of the words) is the moment you'll understand he has decided to stay.

When he's having a bad night (when something happened on patrol, or someone said the wrong name, or it's an anniversary of something he won't tell you about) he'll want you in a way that is almost desperate.

He won't say it, he'll just show up at your door at midnight with a bruise on his jaw and his hands already on you, your back hitting the door before it's fully closed. His mouth at your throat hot and wordless in a way it usually isn't, and the first time you realise he's doing this (that he's using you, sweetly and gently and not in a bad way, as anchor) you'll have to make a choice: you can either let him have it, no questions asked, every time, and let him use sex to skip past the feeling, or you can occasionally slow him down.

Catch his face in your hands, say his name, make him look at you, make him be present in his own body with you, instead of running through it.

He'll hate this but he'll need it, both, equally, and the very first time you do it (the first time you stop him, hand on his jaw, Jay, hey, look at me) he'll go completely still for a beat too long, like a circuit shorting.

His body braced against yours, his breathing ragged, and you'll see an emotion go through his eyes that you don't have a name for, and then he'll press his forehead to yours and exhale, hard, like he didn't know he was holding it, his nose against yours, his whole frame trembling with the effort of not running.

That exhale is one of the most intimate things he'll ever give you, and if you handle it right (don't say anything, don't make it a moment, just stay, just stay) he will, slowly, come back to his body with you in it, and the sex that follows that pause will be different. Slower, quieter, his hands less grabbing and more holding, his mouth against your shoulder more like a kiss than a bite, and afterwards he'll not joke, just lie on top of you with his face hidden and breathe.

That moment is the hinge of your sexual relationship. Before that night and after that night are different countries. Because once he's done it once, once he's let himself be slowed down, there's now a possibility in the room that wasn't there before. From that point forward the sex begins, very slowly, to deepen: still mouthy, still teasing, still possessive as hell, but with windows in it now, moments where he lets the noise drop out and just lets himself be there with you.

Around the three or four month mark you'll notice him starting to do small things differently: he'll keep the lights on instead of always reaching for the switch; he'll let you push him onto his back instead of always being above you; he'll let you take a turn driving the pace, which in the early days he wouldn't, he had to be running it (because if he was running it then he could control how close you got to him), and the first time he just lies there and lets you set the rhythm and watches you, eyes half-lidded, his hands loose at his sides instead of on you, a little stunned at the quiet of it.

Then his hands do come up, slowly, to settle on your thighs, not gripping, not directing, just resting there, his thumbs stroking idle patterns against your skin. You'll realise, then, that this is a gift, because he's not a man who gives up control easily, and what he's doing is showing you that he doesn't need to be the one with his foot on the gas to feel safe in this room with you anymore.

You'll also notice (and this is the one that hits haard) that he stops looking away: in the early months his eyes were always somewhere else (your throat, your mouth, the line of your collarbone, anywhere but your eyes), and one night, somewhere mid thrust, you look up and he's looking at you. Full-on, unblinking, eyes dark, expression open in a way you've literally never seen on his face before.

Jason doesn't break it, and the quality of the sex changes in the next ten seconds because he isn't running anymore, he's just here, and he stays here, and afterwards he doesn't joke. He just lies on top of you with his face in the curve of your neck and breathes for a long time.

That's the night you understand that he is in this, not just with you but in it, and you don't say anything about it because you know better, but you remember it for the rest of your life.

By six months in, he's started giving you the slow nights, the ones where he fucks you like he's trying to savour you. He'll go slow, keep his forehead against yours, say your name, your real name, in a voice he doesn't use anywhere else.

He'll move like he has nowhere else to be and nothing else to do, and his eyes will be on yours the entire time; on these nights his hands are different too, more reverent, less hungry. One cradling the back of your head, the other splayed flat on your back, holding you against him, and he kisses you between every other thrust he does, constantly, like he can't stop coming back to your mouth.

The rhythm itself is different, deep and unhurried, like he's trying to make it last, and you'll feel (for once) that you have his whole attention, not the part of him that's always halfway watching the door.

These nights are still rare, still precious, still earned, but they exist now, they're in the repertoire, and that's a thing that did not exist in month one.

The kissing on those nights is different too, and over time it becomes the way you can tell what kind of night it is going to be.

Jason normally kisses like the kissing is a fight he intends to win. With teeth, with intent, a hand at the back of your skull holding you exactly where he wants you. Deep, hot and a little punishing.

But on these nights he kisses you like he's apologising for something, slow, full and quiet, mouth soft, tongue languid, slipping deep, his hand on your jaw instead of gripping your hair.

He'll come back to your mouth between everything else like a bookmark, like he's checking you're still there, and the first time he kisses you like that you'll feel a shift in your chest, and after enough of those nights you'll learn to read it from the first kiss of the evening: oh, it's that kind of night, and you'll know, and he'll know that you know. Neither of you will say a word about it.

He has a thing (and you'll notice it over time, a thing that gets more pronounced as he gets deeper into his feelings) about your hands.

Jason likes them in his hair (and his hair, you'll discover, is soft, a fact that always weirdly disarms you given the rest of him, and he has a small tell that he likes having it pulled, just slightly, just at the back, and the first time you do it without thinking you get a sound out of him that he has clearly not meant to make).

On the back of his neck where the muscle is always tight, on his face if you've earned it, and he'll bring your hand to his mouth at strange unguarded moments and press his lips to your knuckles like a reflex, and he'll absolutely not acknowledge that he does this.

If you tease him about it he'll get pink at the back of his neck and tell you to shut up.

He also has a thing about your throat. Not in a violent way, in a possessive way. The flat of his hand resting there, his thumb at your pulse, like he's checking you're right there where he needs you, real and solid,a nd his. And he has, devastatingly, a thing about being held.

Actually held, after, with your arms around his ribs and your face in the curve of his throat, and he'll never, ever ask for this, but if you do it he'll not move for a long time.

And as Jason gets deeper into it, the things he wants change: in the early days he wanted you under him, fast, now; later he starts wanting things he doesn't have a way to ask for. Wanting you to stay over even when nothing is going to happen, wanting to be the little spoon (which he can't request and you have to figure out by trial and error, because one night you'll do it almost as a joke, fitting yourself behind him, and he will go extremely still in a way that you'll learn means yes don't make me say it, and then he will reach back and pull your arm tighter around his ribs without a word).

Wanting your hands on him in non-sexual ways during sex (your fingers in his hair, your palm flat on his chest over his heart, the small of his back, the back of his neck, you lips at his jaw, the corner of his mouth), wanting foreplay that's genuinely about touching him, not just escalation.

Wanting, in short, all the things he couldn't bear to want in month one, because back then wanting them meant admitting that he needed them.

In the early days the sex is frequent because the itch is mutual and unscratchable. He wants you, you want him, the chemistry is loud, and the hunger is mostly physical, mostly now, mostly the kind of want that has a clear destination and a satisfied stillness on the other side of it.

He texts you at midnight because he can't stop thinking about your mouth, you go over because you can't stop thinking about his hands, you fuck because the tension is unbearable and the release is the point. Afterwards he leaves or you doze and the want, briefly, quiets. That's month one. That's month two. The math of it is simple: stimulus, response, relief, reset.

But somewhere around the four or five month mark (somewhere after the hinge night, somewhere after the windows started opening) the math stops working.

He'll have you, fuck you properly, completely, and an hour later he'll still want you, more than he wanted you before, in a way that doesn't make sense by the old rules. He'll be lying with his head on your stomach, fully spent, your hand in his hair, and you'll feel him press his mouth against your skin like he's checking, like he's making sure you're still there, and then he'll roll up onto an elbow and look at you and you'll see it in his face.

Not finished, not in a sex way, in some other way, a way he doesn't have language for. And he'll kiss you again, slow this time, and you'll realise the wanting hasn't gone anywhere, it's just changed shape.

What it becomes (and this is the part he couldn't have explained to you on the night you met him, the part he can barely admit to himself even now) is anchoring.

Sex with you stops being an itch he scratches and starts being a place he goes to feel alive. Jason came back from being dead, and most of his life since has been spent at a slight remove from his own body, vigilant, watchful, half a step outside himself in case he needs to move; with you, in your bed, his face pressed against yours, your hands on his back, your breath on his throat, he is (for the duration) in his body, in the moment, here, and he can feel his heart going, and he can feel yours, and the proof that he's still alive is so loud it drowns out everything else.

That quiet, that presence, is something he can't get anywhere else and has stopped trying to find anywhere else.

So the appetite changes shape. He still wants you fast and rough (that mode never goes away, that's just in him) but a lot of the wanting becomes about closeness, about contact. Feeling you pressed against him in real time.

He wants long unhurried hours where neither of you has anywhere to be. He wants the lights on so he can see you. You on top of him with his hands on your hips so he can feel you moving, breathing, being there. He wants to fall asleep with his face against the back of your neck because the rhythm of your breathing is the only lullaby that ever worked. He wants (and this is the one that costs him the most to want) to be held while it's happening.

Your arms around his ribs, your mouth at his temple, your whole body wrapped around him while he moves inside you, and he will never ask for this, but if you do it, if you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him down against you and hold him tight, his whole frame will settle in a way you've never felt from him before, and the sound he makes will be something between a groan and an exhale and a quiet, broken fuck, and you will know.

You'll catch him, sometimes, in the middle of it (eyes closed, forehead against yours, his rhythm slowed almost to nothing, just staying there inside you, breathing, his hand splayed flat on your sternum over your heart) and he'll not be moving toward an end. He'll not be building toward anything. Just be with you, in his body, breathing in time with you, and you will understand that he isn't trying to come, he's trying to stay, he's trying to make the present moment last because in the present moment he is alive and you're alive and the both of you are warm, breathing and the world has not ended yet.

And the tell (the one that gives him away, the one you'll learn to read) is what Jason says at the end. In the early days, after, when he could still pretend, he'd give you the smirk and the joke: "yeah, that'll do, sweetheart," a kiss to your forehead, a stretch, a deflection.

Later, after the wanting changes, he stops saying anything at all for a long minute, and then what comes out (quiet, half-mumbled, into your hair, like he's not sure he means to let you hear it) is some version of "don't move, just—don't move yet," or "stay there, stay right there," or simply "god, I needed that," and he's not talking about the sex, not really, he's talking about you, about the warmth of you, about the proof of you, about the fact that he's here and you're here and for one more night he gets to stay.

He also gets quieter over time in general, which you will find a little shocking. Jason is mouthy, Jason is a shit-talker, Jason will happily narrate the apocalypse if he could.

But as he gets deeper into his feelings there are stretches in bed when he just goes silent, and the silence isn't absence, it's the opposite. It's him being so present he can't quite manage the words.

The first time it happens you'll wonder if something is wrong, and it's not, it's the most right something has ever been. You'll feel his breath ragged against your shoulder, his hand fisted in the sheet next to your head instead of running its mouth, his rhythm slowed almost to nothing.

The first time he comes quietly (without the muttered curse, without the bitten-off line of dirty talk, just a long shuddering exhale against your throat and your name, once, not loud) you'll know that something has migrated in him, that this is the version of him that didn't exist three months ago, and you will stroke the back of his neck and not say a word about it.

The vulnerable conversations happen at 3 a.m., in the dark, when neither of you is looking at the other, because he can't do them face to face. He needs the cover. He'll tell you things in bed, after sex, in the warm aftermath when his guard is down. About Ethiopia, about Sheila, about waking up in the dirt, about the year he can't really remember.

He'll tell it flatly, quietly, and wait for you to react, and don't react big: don't gasp, don't well up, don't reach for him too fast, he's testing whether you can hold it without dropping it. The way to win is to listen, to ask a quiet question, to not try to fix anything, to let him say the thing and then let it just exist in the air without you needing to clean it up or soften it.

If you do that, he'll tell you more, slowly, over months and months. The story of him will arrive in fragments and you will assemble it like a mosaic, and he'll never once say "thank you for listening", but the way he kisses your forehead before he leaves will mean it. You'll eventually realise that the sum total of what he's told you is more than he's ever told another living person, and you'll understand that this is what he has instead of words for love.

He will also, occasionally, ask about you (quietly, in roundabout ways, in the dark) and the rule there is the inverse: he wants the real answer, not the cleaned-up one, because he can smell a lie at fifty paces and the fastest way to lose his trust is to give him the version of yourself you give to people you don't know yet.

Jason doesn't want to be one of those people, even though he hasn't earned the right to ask not to be, and what he's doing when he asks you a question at 3 a.m. is asking let me in to the room I haven't earned yet, and the answer is supposed to be yes, but the yes has to come in the same coin he's paying in: quiet, unfussy, no big deal, while neither of you is looking at the other.

He doesn't say he loves you for a long time.

The first time will be by accident, muttered into your hair when he thinks you're asleep, and you have to pretend you didn't hear it because if he knows you heard it he'll panic and undo it.

The second time will be in a fight, yelling, angry: "Because I fucking love you, you idiot, that's why!" and then a horrible silence, then him walking out, then him coming back four hours later with takeout and not bringing it up.

By the time he can say it sober, calmly, looking at you, it will have been a year, maybe more. When he does it will undo you, because he will say it like it's been on his tongue the whole time and he's just finally letting it through, and his voice will be a little rough, and he'll not break eye contact, and the way he says your name after will be the kindest sound he has ever made.

And the first time he says it in bed (which is later, much later, because for him these are different rooms) the first time he says it mid-fuck, breathed against your throat, ragged and ungoverned, I love you, fuck, I love you, you'll know that the wall has come down all the way.

That this is the version of him no one has ever gotten to see, and what you do in the next thirty seconds will become the foundation of the rest of your life with him, and what you do is: you don't make it weird, you don't make him repeat it, you don't perform astonishment, you just say it back, simple and sure, and you let him hear it, and you let him have it, and you let him know that the room he just opened a door into is one he is allowed to live in.

Aftercare, which he would rather die than call aftercare but which he does, every time: he gets you water (always water, the man is on a mission), he cleans you up (his hands are surprisingly gentle for someone who breaks ribs for a living, there's a particular thing he does where he runs a warm cloth over your stomach, your thighs, with the same focused patience he uses for cleaning a wound, and you'll never quite get used to how careful his hands can be when he wants them to be).

He'll check casually like it's nothing whether anything hurts, and if it does he'll be quiet about it but he'll be careful with you for the rest of the night; he'll get you food if it's that kind of hour, he'll let you wear his shirt.

He likes you in his shirt, and he doesn't have the language for why, but there's a softness in his face the first time he sees you in one of his too-big henleys that you will think about for years, and if you fall asleep on him Jason will not move. He'll lie there dead-still for hours even if his arm goes numb, because he doesn't want to wake you, and this is the most romantic thing he's capable of and he does it constantly.

The aftercare also evolves: in the early days it was efficient, almost practical (water, check-in, joke, distance), and over time it becomes longer, more lingering.

He stays in the bed instead of getting up, he traces shapes on your back with one finger while you doze, he'll talk to you about nothing, real nothing, the stupid shit. What he ate that day, something a kid said in a bodega, the dog he wants you both to maybe think about getting (a sentence which makes him visibly regret saying it the second it's out of his mouth), and these post-sex small-talk hours become, by month eight or nine, one of the most important parts of your relationship.

Because this is when he's most himself, the least armoured, and also the funniest, and you'll find yourself looking forward to them in a way that has nothing to do with the sex and everything to do with the man underneath the noise.

On the nights when he needs aftercare (and there are nights) he won't ask, but you'll be able to tell: he'll be quieter than usual, his hands will linger longer than usual, he won't joke as fast as he normally does, and the way to handle it is the same way you handle his trauma stories: don't make it a thing, don't ask if he's okay (he'll lie), just stay close, bring him water, run your fingers through his hair while he's lying with his head on your stomach pretending to be asleep.

When he eventually says something (usually a half-sentence, half-mumbled, bad day, or just don't go yet) you say okay and you don't go, and that's how he learns, slowly, that there's somewhere on this earth where he's allowed to need things, and that the somewhere is you.

Jason doesn't sleep well. This is the single most important thing to know about being in his bed.

He doesn't fall asleep easily, and when he does he doesn't stay under, he's a light sleeper because if he wasn't he'd be dead again. He has nightmares all the time (about the warehouse, about the crowbar, about his mother, about the Pit, about Bruce's face, always the face), he wakes up with his hand already moving toward where his gun isn't.

Early on this means he doesn't sleep over: he'll fuck you and leave, or he'll wait until you're under and slip out the window, and he'll feed you a line about "shit to do" and you both know it isn't true.

When he finally starts staying (and it'll take time, and you'll want to mark the date) there are rules nobody told you about that you'll learn by trial and error: he sleeps on the side closest to the door, always, don't argue.

He keeps something within reach (a knife under the mattress, a gun in the drawer), he won't apologise, you'll get used to it or you won't.

Don't wake him by touching him. Say his name first, say it twice, thrice. He has exactly once grabbed your wrist hard enough to bruise it because you reached for him at the wrong moment, and the look on his face when he registered what he'd done was the closest you've ever seen him come to regret. He didn't sleep over again for two weeks after that, and the thing that finally fixed it was you showing up at his apartment with your wrist healed and saying nothing about it, just climbing into his bed like nothing had happened, because he needed to learn that you weren't going to keep score, and you needed him to learn it on his own.

He runs hot (stupid hot) he's a furnace and he steals all the blankets and he doesn't care, and if he stays the whole night you'll wake up tangled around him.

Because he's a clinger when he's actually under, he'd just rather die than admit this, and you can feel his face against the back of your neck and his arm heavy across your waist and his breathing slow and steady, and it's the only time you ever see him truly soft, and it's gone by the time he wakes up.

The morning after the first time he stays the whole night, he'll be weird about it. Quiet, gruff, making coffee with his back to you. You'll think you did something wrong, but you didn't; he's just rattled, because he slept, actually slept, and he didn't wake up swinging, and somewhere in the part of his brain that doesn't talk to the rest of him there's now knowledge that says safe here, and he doesn't know what to do with that, so he is, as always, an asshole about it for a few hours until he settles.

The big picture, the actual truth of dating Jason Todd is this: he will never be easy.

He'll never be the boyfriend who texts back in under ten minutes, who shows up on time, who tells you he loves you in the morning over coffee. He's been broken and reassembled and broken again, and the seams show. He's dangerous and grey in a way that means sometimes you'll not love what he does. He kills people (he has rules about it, but he does), he keeps things from you, he disappears, he's occasionally an asshole.

But he's also the man who, when you're sick, will sit on the edge of your bed for six hours and not check his phone once. He's the man who memorises your coffee order the first time and never gets it wrong.

He's the man who, when you tell him about a thing that happened to you when you were younger (a thing you've never told anyone, a thing that still wakes you up sometimes) will sit with you in the dark and not say anything at all. Because he understands that some things can't be fixed and he won't insult you by pretending they can.

He'll just stay, all night, without moving, and he is, against everything that was done to him, a person who chose to love you, knowing what love costs, knowing what it does when it goes wrong, knowing how it ends sometimes in a warehouse in Ethiopia with a crowbar and no one coming, and he chose anyway, and he keeps choosing, and that is not nothing—that is, for Jason Peter Todd, everything.

He is the worst and you will love him forever, godspeed.

[ignominiousgirl]

um wow?

[ignominiousgirl]

Pairing— Mark Grayson x F!reader

Synopsis — you have recently relocated to the GDA headquarters, and subsequently, right into Invincible's arms. Will you be able to navigate love, sex and all the rest with a superhero, or will it prove all too much for your human heart?

Warnings/tags— 18+, smut, angstttt, i kinda dogged on cecil this whole fic but he's the man fr, masturbation, p in v sex (use protection!!)

Word count—3k words

Nomi's note— this was supposed to be a pervy coworker! mark x reader but then it spiralled into this beautiful mess. i hope you enjoy, and if you want to be added to my taglist, comment below!

Fucking Cecil wouldn’t leave him alone.

This was the third time this week he’d called Mark in to discuss “erratic behaviour.”

So what if Mark beat that man half to death?! He deserved it!

Not to mention that Mark had been working for this man for nearly 8 years without payment! He saved lives for a living, and this is what he got in return?!

It was getting redundant. Mark was no longer the naive little boy that needed coaching. He was 25, tired, and just trying to get through the day without some old man bitching in his ear.

He huffs, close to flying out of the room (door, not ceiling), when he hears heels clicking up to the door. He’s about to warn Cecil of the intruder when the man looks at him and waves him off.

“Come in.” Cecil says.

The doorknob twists and you walk in. You were in business wear, a pencil skirt, fitted blazer, the whole getup, and Mark can’t help but gulp. He didn't give two shits what Cecil or anyone else in the GDA wore, but he suddenly felt extremely underdressed in his skin tight suit in front of you.

You look at him and smile, then turn to Cecil, handing him some files and running him through the information. Mark tries to listen, really he does, but all he can hear is your heart beating in your chest.

The bum-dum, bum-dum, slowly ticking in his head like you’d set a bomb off and were waiting for it to explode.

Of course, you had no idea of your effect on the man. It was your first day working at the head office of the GDA, having been a supervisor at another division for a couple of years.

Cecil himself had requested your presence following some rebel attacks near headquarters. You had accepted, naturally, because you were smart and were making moves to the top, and knew if there was any way in, this would be it.

He’d requested a thorough report on the perpetrators and then told you to meet him so he could ask you a favour.

You hadn't expected that there would be company.

And you certainly hadn't expected what he would be asking of you.

When you are done briefing him, he nods, then turns to face the man that has been standing there for some time. He’s got his signature blue and yellow suit on, and even with the mask, you know exactly who he is.

“Invincible,” You address him. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Mark's mouth dries at the sound of your voice. Smooth like honey, not a single tremble, nor a hint of uncertainty. It sticks to him, and like a fly, he's trapped.

You step forward and reach your hand out for him to shake. He stumbles for a second, then takes your soft hand in his, shaking it firmly, though it looks like he didn’t mean to.

“This is who you’ll be working with,” Cecil says, and you nod at him, and then look down at where Mark was still fixedly holding your hand.

“O-oh!,” he chuckles, letting it go, hand reaching behind his neck to scratch it bashfully. You shake your head, your warm smile never once fading. What a beautiful shade of red on your lips...

Mark shakes himself back to reality, turning to Cecil accusingly.

“Work with?! What the fuck, Cecil, I don’t need a babysitter!” The sudden change in his demeanour is shocking, but you’ve seen more surprising things. You try not to be offended since you knew what it was like to work under someone like Cecil. Ironfisted and unyielding.

Though not everyone could speak to their boss like that…

"That's all, Mark." Cecil says dismissively.

You feel him leave before you see it, with your hair ruffled, a sharp gust of wind hitting your face and in the blink of an eye, the man in the blue and yellow suit is gone.

Cecil sighs, and with a half-assed encouraging nod in your direction, teleports himself out of the room.

You’re left alone, smoothing out your hair as you try to make out what new path you were headed down.

・・・・・

Working with Mark consisted mostly of surveillance. Making sure he doesn't kill anyone, no matter how deserving he might deem them. His suit had a tracker attached to it, and the GDA's technology allowed you to have eyes on him practically everywhere.

Needless to say, it was not a particularly challenging nor stimulating job, but if it was what was required of you to gain Cecil's favour, then it was what you'd do.

It had been a couple of weeks, and you had seen Mark in person probably a handful of times since your first meeting. Still, in that time, you had noted a few things about him.

Firstly, he was half-alien. You knew that, of course. That he had Viltrumite blood coursing through his veins. But it had never really been something you fully grasped until you were in his close proximity. His strength was unlike any of the other hero's you had worked with. He seemed almost unaware of it.

Also, he was fast. Physically, certainly, but also quick to make a decision. To jump to conclusions. To come storming into the GDA because things didn't go quite to plan in the field.

He was swiftest in his guilt.

Lastly, his poker face was terrible. Mark Grayson couldn't keep a secret to save his life. He was all furrowed brows and rolled eyes, but you could tell he liked you. Maybe it was the dusty pink that would sweep over his face whenever he looked you in the eye.

Or the way he would trip over himself to help you with the smallest thing. Like when you dropped your pen in front of him. He surged forward, ready to deliver it to you, but you shook your head.

He was also very obedient. Perhaps only to you. He had no issue defying the GDA's orders, but the second you told Mark to do something, it got done.

So when you bent down in front of him to retrieve the pen yourself, it was no surprise to see the chub at the front of his suit rise as he tried, and failed, to conceal it.

You try to hide your smirk as you tuck that information away too.

・・・・・

Mark was complaining again. You roll your eyes but listen to him drone on and on about the villain and massive asshole he had to fight today.

"... made me crash into three buildings! three!" he continues, pacing back and forth in front of you.

"He sounds like a real fucker," you say, trying to comfort him.

"Thanks, he was!" He huffs.

"You should go rest," you suggest, seeing the dark circles around his eyes. There was a slump in his shoulders too, and a drag in his stride. 

“We’ll call you if we need you.” He nods, and you decide to turn and occupy yourself with your daily report while he sees himself out. But nothing with Mark was ever simple.

Hearing footsteps approach, you decide to keep shuffling your papers, pretending to be busy. Maybe you were afraid of what you might do if you faced him. Maybe you wanted to help him relieve his stress.

Maybe you could put him to sleep.

Ignoring your thoughts, you continue mindlessly shuffling the papers in front of you. Gosh, you'd have to organise them all over again when he left.

He’s close enough now that his body heat was radiating to you. God, he ran hot. It was 41 degrees Fahrenheit outside, and he was emanating heat like a furnace.

Maybe that was just another component of his Alien physiology. You tuck it in, at the back of your mind, with all the rest of the facts that you've been cataloging about Mark Grayson.

"M'not tired," he drawls. "Can think of better things I'd rather do with my time."

“Careful, Mr Grayson,” You lilt, turning your head back to look at him.

“Mark.” He corrects, eyes unfocused as he stared at your lips.

“Mark,” you amend, licking your lip. “Don’t bite off more than you can chew.”

You brush past him, and with that, he’s left watching the swish swish swishing of your hips as you leave the room.

Shit, he thinks. He wishes he could bite those lips for you.

・・・・・

Mark had tried, he really had, but it was impossible to scrub the image of your backside as you left the room. He was the strongest person in the country, maybe the world, but he never felt weaker than he had the few seconds your body brushed past his.

He thought of you everywhere. When he kicked some amateur villain to the ground. When he took some criminals into custody. In the sky, space, his house. 

He thought of you late at night, when the weight of the day settled into his bones and the idea of you there with him, in his bed, made him feel lighter.

He especially thought of you when he grabbed his half-stiff cock. 

You were driving him mad. He couldn’t remember the last time he was this crazy over anything. 

All-consuming. That was the only way to describe you. Like ivy, you had spread your branches all over his heart. 

・・・・・

Mark looked wrecked.

There had been some misinformation that led to a lot of people getting hurt. The GDA couldn’t have known, and neither could he. 

“It’s not your fault–” you start.

“Yes, yes it is.” His voice cracks, and your heart breaks for him. 

"Mark," you say softly. "You can't carry the weight of the world on your own."

And he was angry. Livid, truly. He used to be so hopeful, so optimistic. Even after his father had betrayed humanity and he had to prove himself to the world all over again.

Maybe time was really all it took. The day by day chipping away of his sanguine outlook on life. A little bit of him died every time he was too late, too slow, too him.

He only ever felt like he was disappointing everyone.

You’ve only known Mark for a few months, but you think you have a better understanding of him than most.

So when he tucks his neck into the crook of yours, you let him. 

When he wraps his arms around your waist, you let him.

But when he moves his head back to look at your lipa from between his lashes, and when his kips brush yours, you turn your head.

“You aren’t in the right headspace.” You say.

He nods but keeps his arms tight around you.

And of course, you let him do that too.

. . . . . .

“Him and a few other heroes… medal awarding ceremony…” Cecil drones on.

"Sir..." you trail off. "Is that a good idea right now?"

It had only been a couple days since the incident at the city square, and Mark still looked like he was spiralling. He’d show up at your place at odd hours of the night, eyes rimmed red and voice all hoarse like he’d cried it away.

He needed time.

"The people need a win." Cecil states with a tone of finality. "Get Mark to that stage. That’s an order.”

A virtually improbable objective.

But you were nothing if not a defier of the odds.

It took some convincing, some batting of your lashes, and even some ‘innocent’ touches on his arms to get him to agree.

However, here you were now, 10 minutes to the ceremony, and Mark was nowhere to be seen. 

Just as you were about to give up, you feel a blast of air as he zooms into the room.

You smooth your hair out, then take him in. You had to give him credit, because he sure could clean up well when he wanted to.

"Mark Grayson!" You exclaim, gasping sarcastically. "Are you wearing a suit?" 

Objective achieved.

He smiles sheepishly, then says, grumbling mostly to himself; "I always wear a suit."

You laugh. "But they're not usually this dashing."

He chuckles, then walks up to you. You keep your eyes on your phone, keeping up with the updates being sent by the crew.

When you look up, he’s still looking at you up and down, and you feel your stomach twist.

You turn around, trying your best to hide your smile. “I’m not like you,” you start. “I don’t get to take liberties with my workplace.”

“What does that mean?” He laughs softly.

“It just means I have rules.” You say teasingly, walking over to the stage curtain.  

“Mm. And what rules would those be?” He follows you to the curtain, crowding you against it. 

“Well, first, don’t do anything stupid.” You turn around, hands coming up to smooth his tie. He inches closer.

“Not to mix work and pleasure.” His fingers graze yours.

“And chiefly, not to fuck my coworkers.” He nods, holding your hands now, but you can see the black in his eyes engulfing the brown. The heave in his breath. His slow blinking as he tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear.

You duck under his arm, smiling at the woozy look on his face. 

“You’re on now.” You state, pushing him through the curtain and onto the stage.

Cheers and screams of “Invincible, invincibile, invincible!” erupt.  

And the heat inside you grows just a little bit more. 

・・・・・

You stood in front of a very agitated Cecil. Mark had done something wrong, but that was not surprising.

"Where's Mark?" He asks.

"He's at home right now, Sir." You respond.

"Well then go to his fucking house if you have to," Cecil raises his voice. "Mark has got to stay in line!" You nod, then march your way out of his office.

You were going to kill Mark Grayson.

"Mr Grayson?" You ask, hesitant. You have met Mark at many places, but never his house. The door had been open, probably because no one could be a threat to Mark, so you had twisted the doorknob and let yourself in.

"What'd I say about calling me that?" You hear his playful voice from behind you.

You turn, whipping your head around to face him.

He blinks at the sting of your hair on his face, having bent down to reach your height while he scrunches his nose to look at you.

"Mark."

"Cecil told me to come and tell you to stop meddling with NYC affairs. It's not your jurisdiction." You cross your arms around your chest, staring at him sternly. Him acting out of turn only made it seem like you couldn't do your job.

"Mmm..." He hums low. He grabs your waist, redirecting you until your back is to the counter, listening as you go on and on about what he had done wrong.

His hands feel large on your waist, and the blush on his face isn't from shyness, like it usually is, but from something...more primal.

He begins trailing his hands up, up, up until they're on the sides of your breasts. Your chest begins rising and falling, and you see his eyes following the movement.

"Everywhere is my jurisdiction," he states, claiming your lips with his own. His lips are soft and warm, just like the rest of him, and suddenly all your complaints feel trivial.

He spins you around, pushing you against the counter and you feel his hands pushing your skirt up.

It’s quiet for a second, and you are about to protest when he rips your tights, guiding his cock to your core and coating your panties with his pre-cum.

You’d fight him about them later, but right now you were too busy moaning at the feeling of his cockhead catching against your clit with every thrust.

Despite having intimate knowledge of his powers, you’re still surprised by how quick he flies you both to his bedroom.

You pause on the bed, and he watches you, searching for any signs of hesitance.

"It's... been a while." You admit. Focused on the career ladder, you haven't given much thought to relationships, other than the casual fling now and then. Even those were few and far between.

"That's fine," he whispers. "Me too."

Mark had never been as glad for his super hearing as he was when he could hear the smallest sounds you let out. God, you even breathed pretty.

You look at him from beneath your lashes when he settles in between your parted legs, and his warmth makes you shiver. 

Mark didn’t fuck like he fought. He was gentle, watching your face when he nudged himself in. He was so attentive. The strongest man on earth, reduced to putty under your touch.

You feel yourself get wetter at the thought.

He was so vocal, too. Endless streams of–

"Been wanting to do this for so long..."

"Need to feel you..."

"Fuck, you're beautiful..."

You clench around him with each groan he lets into your ear. With each sweet whisper that falls from his lips. 

And when you fall off the edge, moaning his name into his mouth, you know that he had you, and you had him.

@thatoneraeder @angelnoir222 @blkreaperkaneki

[yenayaps]

Rose Garden Dreams

Pairing: FireLord!Zuko x RoyalAdvisor!Reader

Content: contrary to popular belief, the fire lord can't have everything he wants. however, even he’d admit that what he wanted was troublesome in itself, which is why he forces himself to be okay with having you by his side as his advisor. [tw: MDNI, angst/fluff/smut, apothecary diaries coded, so much yearning and longing, slowburn, porn with plot, there is no power imbalance he’s afraid of your father, zuko’s a little shit, jealous!zuko, we’re already married in his head, found family trope(ish), zuko has daddy issues] wc: 4.7k

m.list | chapter two | chapter three | next chapter

With a gate of its own that requires special permission to enter, the western part of the palace grounds is considered to be one of the most guarded locations in the world. It’s where you can find the Fire Lord’s most precious treasures, his concubines. 

It’s also where you can find the orphanage he had built a few years ago— a decision he needed no advising on, as it was an idea of his own. There was no better place for a child. 

Zuko doesn’t expect everyone to agree with every action he makes. In fact, he encourages everyone to think for themselves. By all means, ask questions, disagree with him, show him a different perspective— allow him to serve his people. 

He is a fair man. 

However, the number of individuals that were against building the orphanage made him question just who exactly was he serving, because at that moment, he was surrounded by a bunch of fucking monsters. 

Apparently, placing children that were of low birth in the western court would’ve sent a ‘bad message’. In other words, it’d bring their value down to that of an abandoned child.

Do you know how morally bankrupt you’d have to be to think that? The entire purpose of closing off the area was to keep women and children safe, it shouldn’t matter if they’re biologically his or not. Even the strategist saw no validity in their concerns, and he’s known for rejecting proposals, for no reason other than finding joy in others' struggles. 

Needless to say, he continued with his plans.

The circumstances of one’s birth and status becomes irrelevant once they become a child of the palace. Zuko made sure of that by making an actual title out of it, all while hoping it’d be enough to appease a few nobles. 

He may have also let Aang take part and have a little fun with the drafting process. It looks ridiculous on paper— the document starts off by declaring them as the cutest members of the court— the failure to recognize them as such will result in the immediate loss of one's honor. 

Jokes aside, the document is as valid as it gets and it has been advised that it be treated as such. It’s one of the very few documents that mentions the death penalty— testing the legitimacy of it is not a game you want to play with him. 

The orphanage takes up a fair amount of space. The home itself is double the size of a high ranked concubine’s, with a decent sized vegetable garden obstructing the view of it. If some of the concubines are anything like their families, the last thing they need is the constant reminder that their chambers could be bigger. They are more than welcome to visit the children, though— many of them actually do, along with the servant girls.

And you, surprisingly.

Aside from all the planning, you never mentioned anything about the orphanage, let alone show interest in the matter. He just assumed you weren’t the maternal type, only to catch you there six months after the palace started taking in children. He then assumed you were just there to make sure everything was running smoothly. 

Wrong. 

He looked closer and the sight had him reconsidering just how much he knew you because you were clearly there to give a chubby, mindless baby a tour of the garden. You gave them a tomato to gnaw on while you pointed out all the different vegetables being grown, too. 

The conversation he had with you shortly after sounded more like an interrogation. 

“What are you doing here?” 

You looked at the child, then back at the lord who just awkwardly stood there like a child lost at the market, before stating the obvious. “Visiting.”

“Yeah, but… why?”

Your brows raised, “Am I not allowed to?”

“I mean— yeah. Of course you are, but—” he paused and gestured at the child, “why did you give the baby a tomato?”

“Because she wanted it,” you said, voice calm despite growing visibly frustrated with the questions. He gave you a puzzled look, because babies can’t fucking talk, and you further elaborated. “She was reaching for it and I let her have it.”

He almost asked if you were worried about the child choking, but you obviously weren’t since they couldn’t even break the skin of it. You seemed quite confident in your ability to keep the little human alive, which also took him by surprise. “Wait— so you come here a lot?”

You let out a sigh. “Yes.”

The questions stopped there. He didn’t want to offend you or discourage you from making future visits.

Zuko still doesn’t know your visiting schedule, you never tell him when you go even after he’s expressed wanting to visit with you. He thought today would be his lucky day since your visits have been longer due to Mira being there, but the gods never seem to grant his wishes no matter how simple they are. 

The next time he would see you is at the training site, speaking with your father. He was somehow able to give you and the soldiers his full attention, because he stopped talking to you for a split second to bark at one of them to fix their posture. 

He took that as his sign to leave. The strategist apparently had eyes on every side of his head and for all he knew, he’d be the next one to catch some odd form of that man’s wrath.

. . . . . .

It’s easy to forget just how big the palace is, but unfortunately for your fathers assistants, they are reminded of that fact whenever he summons you. The task is time consuming, your location changes depending on what you’re working on, and a lot of the time, you are working on multiple things at once. What’s worse is half the time you’re too busy to go see him, making their efforts all for nothing.

Today’s unlucky assistant checked every single location there was to think of before giving the west wing a try. He wasn’t a fan of the guards there, they’ve always treated him as if he were trying to break in and steal one of Lord Zuko’s concubines. 

You would’ve declined to meet your father today had his assistant not been in such rough shape. Not only was he tired, but he was also afraid thanks to the guards.

“How was your trip to Republic City?”

The question made your face momentarily drop— that’s what he wanted to ask? He could’ve written you a letter! 

“It was busy, but good, I guess. Found some volunteers for the Silk District project.” You don’t spare him the details. Ever. He’s the type to nitpick at them in hopes of catching a mistake that could be pinned on the Fire Lord. 

He raises a brow. “You’re not too tired, are you?”

“No,” you assure him. “Not at all.” 

He gives you a suspicious look before continuing. “Good— anyways, I’d like to send a few soldiers with you on your trip to the Silk District. I’ve received word that it’s only grown more violent since the incident with the brothel workers and I wouldn’t be surprised if those beasts tried to target you.”

It’s like he forgot that you tried to kill him once. He also called you a beast that day… and an evil little bitch. 

You smile. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he barks out an insulting laugh. “The Fire Lord may be a ruler, but don’t expect him to play the role of a protector, too. That man has a duty to stay alive and needs to focus on saving himself. You will have soldiers there to keep an eye on you.” 

You let out a laugh of your own, letting it die out into a silence that ends up getting dragged out past the point of comfort. “I understand your concerns. However, that is not necessary and I’m going to have to respectfully decline your offer.”

“It’s not an offer—”

“Father,” you’re calm as you cut him off with a simple warning. 

“No, listen to me—”

“I will break them beyond belief.” You casually threaten him, making it sound as if it were an event you were looking forward to. It makes the strategist quickly drop it— he’d rather not see you go through with that promise. You take a deep breath, pleased at how easy that was to settle, and move on as if you didn’t just threaten his men. “I am fully capable of protecting myself and will be just fine without soldiers. So please, don’t worry about me.” 

You don’t know what kind of nonsense that old man’s head is filled with. He knows you're strong enough to protect yourself, he also knows you would never count on anyone to save you, and yet he still does… that. 

Sending people after you, demanding your presence, making you accept his help.

He was worse when you were a child, there was a point in time where his control reached even the simplest parts of your life. But that wasn’t the part that infuriated you, it was the part where he’d say you had everything. 

You couldn’t even let your mind wander without being interrogated over what thoughts were in your head. 

You spent your entire childhood yearning for the freedom of adulthood, only to have it ripped away while reading an acceptance letter from the most elite subdivision in the military. To be accepted into a program was considered to be the highest honor. Yet, it was just another reminder of all the choices that you never had— it wasn’t even you that applied. 

Your memory of what happened afterwards is vague. You just remember showing your father what an elite soldier looked like and the experience was enough to send him into a full-blown crisis. It left him panicking over just what kind of punishment was awaiting him after death— he was certain he’d have to answer to someone for giving the world nothing but evil children.

Needless to say, he didn’t push you to go to that program. You were going to be the next head of the clan regardless, which shows you’d done enough. 

The thought of you training for another few years was also deeply unsettling. 

Your father has toned down since then, but there’s moments when he reverts back to the man that raised you. He still wants you to join the military, except this time around he wants you to work for him and be his replacement once he retires, just as he was for his father. He never takes no for an answer, either, and will continue to bring it up. You understand the role of an advisor doesn’t last forever, but that doesn’t mean your time as one is coming to an end soon. 

The constant pursuit of control is an exhausting one. It’s become a sad sight over the years, one that makes it hard to stay angry with him. 

It’d be nice to watch him take a break for once. 

Unlike your fathers assistants, you don’t have to mindlessly search for the lord. There are currently no meetings, which means he’s either in his office or his personal courtyard. 

Hopefully he’s in his office, you’re least likely to be met with an unwelcome surprise there. 

The courtyard isn’t that bad— it’s what his courtyard leads to: his chambers. Aside from the times he’s requested your presence, it’s a place you’ve learned to heed with extreme caution. 

It doesn’t get easier with time. The moment you’re met with an empty office, you’re already cursing to yourself and begging the gods that he’s clothed today. Seeing the lord naked once is already far too much and it’s already happened a handful of times throughout the years.

There is a reason why fights break out so often between concubines. It’s the same reason why Zuko laughed when that man assumed he had a small dick, and it has nothing to do with his personality. 

Getting the image out of your head is a task on its own and has driven you nuts at times. It’s as stubborn as the lord himself, lingering around and refusing to fucking leave. 

You soon find yourself at the entrance of his chambers, nervous as you are frustrated that he refuses to get a door. His reasoning for covering the entrance with curtains is because he enjoys the extra airflow. There’s apparently also no need for a door when he already has one at the entrance of his courtyard. Which is idiotic, in your opinion, he never hears when you knock. 

You make your presence known by calling out to him. No answer. You pull the curtain aside ever so slightly and take a peek. No idiotic lord in sight. 

You prepare for the worst. The first step is taken and you call out to him again, this time it’s more of a warning. Your footsteps echo throughout the dim space, and with each second that passes, you find yourself feeling more and more like an intruder. 

This really is the worst job sometimes. 

You call his name, again. Nothing. Your eyes land on the hallway leading to his bedroom and the doors wide open. If he were in there, he would’ve come out by now. 

He’s not here.

The conclusion brings a sigh of relief as you move on with your thoughts. There’s one other place he could be and that’s the western court, which leaves you torn. If he’s with a concubine, then that means you can take the rest of the day off. It’s getting later in the afternoon though and you’d rather not end up with more work tomorrow just because you made that assumption. 

You turn on your heel and begin to walk out, too lost in thought to pay much attention to what’s in front of you. It’s not until you’re just steps away from the entrance when you're startled by a figure blocking it. 

Startled may be an understatement. You let out this quick, blood curdling scream that left your throat raw afterwards. 

You’re dying inside from the embarrassment and Zuko thinks it’s fucking hilarious. 

“What kind of an intruder gets frightened like that?”

Your heart’s still pounding against your chest from the initial fear, making it difficult to answer back, let alone argue. “I was just— I’ve been trying to look for you— god I fucking hate you— you been standing here this whole time and you couldn’t even say anything?” 

"It’s not like I was hiding.” His grin widens. “I expected you to be a little more aware of your surroundings.” 

“Yeah? Well not everyone’s used to living in a cave,” you say bitterly, finally looking back at him again. “Sorry I’m not used to the darkness.”

He dressed down in training pants and a tunic, but clothed nonetheless. He must’ve been getting some training in since his hair’s up, too. 

“I thought you only trained in the mornings?” 

He crosses his arms and leans against the entryway, then shrugs. “The afternoon’s nice sometimes when it's quiet. One of the servants told me you were looking for me on the way there— you alright?”

“I’m wonderful.”  You weren’t sure what kind of an answer he was expecting— he asked as if that wasn’t your job to look for him. “Was there anything that needed to be finished before the day ended?” 

He hums and thinks about it, then shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Are you sure?” you ask, giving him a skeptical look. 

“Positive.” 

“I don’t believe you.” There’s a tinge of defeat in your tone and the little smile he gives tells you he’s in that little mood to fuck with you. “Zuko, I’m serious— I don’t want to have more work for tomorrow.”

Oh, wow. You’re actually saying his name. 

He lets out this warm, airy laugh, further making a mockery of your suffering. “I didn’t even say anything.”

“You didn’t have to!”

“No,” he laughter dies into a low hum. “You’re all done for the day. Promise.” 

You just stare at him for a moment. It’s not that you don’t believe him, you do. He’s just a pest and you can’t believe he’s in charge of millions of people sometimes. 

“You should come train with me— I think it might help with whatever you got bottled up right now,” he casually offers.

“You scared me senseless and then you made me go around in circles trying to get an answer,” you slowly spell it out for him, not realizing it only fills his chest with a sick sense of pride. “This is because of you.”

“And now you can get revenge” he gives the solution easily, making it sound like the opportunity of a lifetime. “You won’t have to hold back on me, either. It’s probably been a while since you got to spar with someone without worrying about killing them.”

A smile manages to break through as you prepare to shut him down, yet words come out surprisingly sincere. “It pains me to say this, but I’m not sparring with someone as important as you.” 

“That’s the sweetest thing you ever said to me, you know that?” he manages to get a little remark in right before you start listing reasons why.

“Aside from Uncle Iroh, you’re pretty all alone. There is no one next in line, not even a child— that you could’ve had by now, by the way.”

“Yes, I could’ve had multiple,” he comments in amusement. 

“You have multiple meetings a week and they’re all with important people, too. Their job is to notice what’s wrong, especially when it comes to you. Any concerns they have, whether it be a scratch or bruise, can be made into a problem.”

“So what you’re saying is you’re afraid to hurt me?” he asks, words dripping from his lips like warm honey.

You’d think he’d be offended or maybe even start to make fun of you for thinking that, and you’re getting neither. He’s more flattered than anything right now. 

“I would love to.” you coldly break it to him, then go on to say a bunch of things that you hope he doesn’t make fun of you for. “But it’s you who puts on the Fire Lord’s crown everyday and people are safe now because of that— they get to live their lives in peace. Even if it were something light, I’m not going to spar with someone who has a title that actually means something. It’s not like I enjoy bending that much, anyway.”

Zuko finds himself completely still as he takes your words in— not tense, nor shocked, just processing them.

He thought you were kidding when you said he was too important. 

It’s not like his title was something you overlooked. He’s never even had to wonder if you approved of having him as the nation’s ruler. You’ve worked with him for years— of course he had your approval, of course you thought he was competent. He just never expected you to hold him in such high regard as the Fire Lord.

Taking responsibility for his family’s crimes has been nothing short of rewarding, but with it comes a certain guilt whenever he sat on that throne— it makes him wonder if it was time to shed some of that weight.

“Thank you.” His words come out tender, eyes golden and filled with awe. He’d like to say more, but something tells him that your words haven’t caught up to you yet, and so he clears his throat and moves on. “So what’s this about never having liked bending?”

“I don’t know, I just don’t really like fighting. All the running and jumping around is tiring” You murmur, just the thought of it makes you look miserable. “I only went to training because I had to.” 

“I’m sorry about that,” he hums, rubbing the back of his neck. He wasn’t around for a good chunk of time, but he’s heard about how brutal that training was— all the fainting and bloody noses due to exhaustion. “Are you happy now, at least?” 

“What do you mean?”

“You’re family was set on turning you into a fucking killing machine,” he huffs out a laugh, still surprised that you hated fighting this entire time. “Are you happy with where you ended up instead?” 

“Mmm— yeah.” You pause and Zuko waits for the complaint. “It’d be nice if you made my job easier though and just answered my questions with a simple yes or no.”

“You know I like messing with you,” he murmurs, poking the tip of your nose and earning himself a little glare. “Makes my day a lot more fun.” 

“I am not your jester.” You try to say it with a straight face, only for you both to end up having to suppress a laugh, then remember what you came here for just shortly after. “I guess I should get going then since there’s no more work for today.” 

“Yeah— easy day.” He wishes you wouldn’t go right now. “…Are you returning to the north wing?”

That’s where your chambers are, on the complete opposite side of the palace grounds.

“Mhm,” you nod, shifting your stance— you can’t actually leave, he’s blocking the door. 

“Your chambers are up to standard, right?” He doesn’t move, he knows exactly what he’s doing. “I remember you complaining about them once.”

“That was two years ago,” you kindly remind him, his ability to remember such a small detail leaving you slightly concerned. You only complained about a creaky cabinet. “But, nope. I’m very cozy there.”  

“Can I see?” 

“No,” you say as politely as possible. “Any other questions?” 

He gives a contemplative hum— the longer it goes on the more concerned you grow. It’s not like you can leave since he hasn’t moved, so you’re forced to stand and wait. 

Now he’s tilting his head and studying your face. 

“Do you plan on ever asking anything?” 

“I was still thinking about it. But since you’re in a rush right now, sure.” The fabric of his shirt stretches over his biceps as he crosses his arms, eyes lazily trail down to your lips. “Let me kiss you again.”

You let out a long sigh as you start to murmur to yourself. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“I’m not,” his brows furrow with the defensive response. “Just one.” 

“Why?”

“I find it unfair that we both share the same experience, yet be in two different states of being— I was drunk.” It’s a pathetic excuse, one he just came up with.

“That’s your fault.” You almost mentioned the fact that he basically jumped on you and you had no idea about, but decided against it out of fear that it’d create an entire argument.  “Besides, I was tipsy, too.”

“I still think you should let me kiss you,” he persists.

“Of course you do.” 

“Can I?” 

“You are a pest,” you murmur to yourself once again. “Would you like me to escort you to one of your concubines?” 

“No, thanks,” he curtly says, before thinking again. “C’mon, I gave you a baby—“

You cut him off, because he did not— Mira is a child of the palace. “Don’t say it like that.” 

“Alright, fine, sorry.” He lazily holds his hands out in defense. “It’s really easy if you close your eyes, by the way.”

“You're full of shit.” 

“I am a man that would like a simple kiss.” 

You look at him, then the entrance he’s blocking, then back at him again. 

Zuko notices and smiles. “One kiss and you shall be released.” 

You were right, he was blocking the door on purpose. Bastard. It takes you a moment to even take his wishes into consideration. It probably won’t be awkward afterward since it’s happened before, but then that opens the door to him asking again. 

You look at him and he’s never looked more smackable with how unapologetic he is about it all. 

“You’ll let me go after?” 

“Mhm.” 

You take more time to respond, clearly struggling with the idea of allowing something like this to happen. A part of you wants to make a run for it, but you also don’t want to find out if he’d actually catch you. 

“Alright, fine,” you quietly say, already growing nervous from the grin that pulls out of him. 

“Don’t look so scared,” he hums as he starts walking closer. 

His words pull a slight frown from you. “It’s hard not to when you say it like that.”

He stops right in front of you and gently lifts your chin to look at him. “Like what?”

“That.” There’s less of a bite in your tone, he’s more intimidating when he’s this close. “Don’t make this any harder for me.” 

He rubs his thumb over your chin, giving you a sympathetic look. “I like it when you’re sweet like this.”

Just moments later, both of hands are cupping your jaw and he’s leaning forward. 

His lips are soft. 

They’re not crashing into you this time and you can’t help but think about how they’re pressed against you so gently. Even with the way he takes his dear time, everything feels so light, it’s easy to breathe. 

Slowly, he pulls away and you’re met with heavy lidded eyes. His hands are still cupped around your jaw, you’re not sure if you want them to pull away just yet. 

His thumbs rub over your cheeks. “Would you be mad about one more?” 

You know you should pull away, the disappointment for not doing so comes out in your voice. “We shouldn’t be doing this.” 

“I know,” he murmurs, nose brushing against yours before pressing another kiss against your lips. “I’ll leave you alone after this.” 

“I don’t believe you.”

His only response was another kiss. It starts off like the first, but becomes more familiar. His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you in and deepening it, until the faint sounds of your lips parting and moving with his could be heard. 

By the time he pulls away, you’re both slightly out of breath, and you’re wondering if this is where the line should be drawn.

Zuko’s thinking the exact opposite. “Still think we shouldn’t be doing this?” 

“We shouldn’t be doing this at all,” you let out a small laugh. 

His hold on you is firm and when you fail to turn your face away, he looks at you in amusement. “Why are you laughing then?” 

“Because I was supposed to leave after the first one.” 

“Sorry about that.” He smiles and presses a kiss against your temple. “You’re allowed to admit that you’re liking this, by the way.”

“I’m not doing that,” you say, words stubborn and final. 

And Zuko laughs because you wouldn’t have the privilege to come up with such an answer if you were in another scenario. You’d be admitting to all kinds of things if he could have his way with you. 

He of course doesn’t say that, being the gentleman that he is. “You’re a very cruel woman, you know that?”

You press your finger into his chest. “And you are a very selfish man.” 

Which probably wasn’t a very good idea, the poking and the name calling. It seems to have put an inappropriate thought in his head given the groan he had to suppress. 

“I am a very selfish man,” he says in a dangerously low tone. 

And then his lips are on yours because for years he’s been deprived of one of the most simple joys in life: touching a woman he likes. 

So he touches you gently. He kisses you deeply. He has been fucking starving, but he savors you completely.

Until there’s metal crashing down on the floor, followed by a yelp that makes you push him away, hard. The servant’s apologizing profusely for dropping the platter that was carrying his tea and for intruding.

Then she scatters away, ashamed and embarrassed. She was under the impression that all of the Fire Lord’s intimate encounters took place in the chambers of his concubines. She was also under the impression that he only had intimate encounters with his concubines.

Which is correct. It’s also why you take off running after her. If the details of what she had just encountered began to spread, you are fucked.

notes: god i need him so fucking bad i just know he'd talk u through it wait im the writer HE DOES talk u through it

‼️ TAG LIST IS CLOSED ‼️

All rights reserved © 2026 yenayaps. Do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform. Do not feed my works into ai and do not turn them into chat bots.

[ignominiousgirl]

this is too gooooood

[ignominiousgirl]

Excerpt

From the new invincible fic I've got cooking up. Lmk if you want to be tagged!

Maybe that was just another component of his Alien physiology. You tuck it in, at the back of your mind, with all the rest of the facts that you've been cataloging about Mark Grayson.

"M'not tired," he drawls. "Can think of better things I'd rather do with my time."

“Careful, Mr Grayson,” You lilt, turning your head back to look at him.

“Mark.” He corrects, staring at your lips.

“Mark,” you amend, biting your lip. “Don’t bite off more than you can chew.”

You brush past him, and with that, he’s left watching the swish swish swishing of your hips as you leave the room.

[secretaccountlol]

Cunnilingus: Success!

Oh wow a part two?! Crazzzyyy!

Part 1 here

Summary: Mark gets his meal aka YOU!.

18+ under the cut’!

Special thanks to my gf, my editor : @omniphilic

Content warning : reader is uh quirky and does accuse mark of spiking her food with horny pills (he didn’t)

Mark could be seen as pushy or stalkerish (I say could because reader *thinks* he is but it’s unconfirmed lol.

Reader gives mark a blowjob while he’s sleeping (reader notes that he’s into somono play.) 

Smalll spoiler about thragg and his gang but nothing major

Author note: idk I might make a part three *shrug*, but that will be slight dubious…(let me know you’d like that?) I’ve been really enjoying giving reader a personality? Usually I write trying to give the reader bare bones personality so you can put yourself in their shoes easier but these are basically writing exercises for me so.. anyways enjoy your snack!!

Pssttt! I read every comment and reblog, if you want more content please consider doing the following :)

—-

The key clicks with satisfaction.

Home at last.

Shoes on the shoe rack that Mark insists on having after seeing how you use throw your shoes on the floor.

Though, you're pretty sure it was just a repurposed gift from Debbie.

“Oh hey, your home!”

Your face grimaced.

“Oh, hey.”

Fuckkkkk!

Ever since that day, Mark has non-stopped following you like a damn puppy dog. You would think with the viltrum empire shit he’d be too busy at home (like you PLANNED when you asked him to move in) but nope.

Apparently, Thragg and his Mötley Crüe have ..gone into hiding. On the bright side, happy to not see him beat to shit, nursing him back to health is never fun, even if his healing factor is crazy good.

“I’m makin’ dinner, luckily I made enough for me and you!” He leans backwards to make eye contact with you as you hear the sizzle of meat.

Luck my ass. Lil shit was definitely stalking to try to learn your schedule.

You round the corner to lean on the island. Mark’s biceps are deliciously out due to his sleeveless choice of shirt.

Bastard is also wearing your kiss the cook apron, rude.

He didn’t even ask!

“ I didnt know you knew how to cook? Last time you tried to cook for me I had to call the fire department..” Your snickering was not amusing to Mark.

“We. Were. Kids. Remember?” His eyes squinted, anger palpable “I asked my mom to teach me how to cook some traditional meals, after that to yknow, be a productive member of society but also because I wanted to redeem myself and cook dinner for you..but uhm, well. We broke up before I could.”

Yuck, holy guilt trip.

“What are you cookin’?”

“Korean short rib, uh some random beef, some thin slice chicken, marinated shrimp and I didn’t cook this but I have gochujang and ssamjang dipping sauce with the lettuce to wrap the meat in. ”

Yeah.. he definitely planned this.

“Wow that—“

“Oh! And my mom made a new batch of kimchi, and I was finally able to find time to go over there to pick it up, so I got some radish kimchi, regular kimchi, mushrooms, bean sprouts, whole garlic cloves, be careful with those they’re spicy when uncooked..I learned the hard way.”

Okay, brain overload.

“Sorry, I rambled. I just haven’t had a good home cooked meal in a while so I got carried away.” Cue his classic puppy dog eyes and neck rub.

“That’s alright, I did ask so. Let me go ahead and take a shower. Food should be done by then, right?”

He pauses then frowns, then nods.

“What’s with the look.”

“What look.”

“You’re pouting.”

“Am— Am not”

Your eyes should have abs with how much you’ve been rolling your eyes at him.

“You are literally sticking out your lower lip right now!”

“FINE! Maybe I am.. just a little.” He mumbles.

“Why.”

“Cus ..” he stomps his feet once which you swear shakes the whole apartment for a split second. “I swear I’m not always this horny but damn I just wanna eat it just— just one time before you showerrr!”

“Mark, are you serious?”

“Yess! And I’m sorrry!”

He’s waving around the meat tongs as you stare at him.

“Mark, I wanna feel clean when you eat your delicious food, and I’m pretty sure I have some random guy's blood on me. I’m pretty sure I reek, like I’m surprised you can stand being in the same room as me because I’m pretty sure that the people in the elevator got off a floor earlier because they couldn’t stand how I smelled.”

He frowns, “I love your Bo..”

“Did you miss the part where I said I have a random guys blood on me?”

“Ugh, fine! That’s why I didn’t wanna tell you! Go shower so we can eat. I'm starving.”

So insufferable!

Maybe on a paperwork day, you’ll let him eat it, as a ..treat.

Your clothes are left on in a pile on the cold bathroom floor as you step into the warm concave of the shower.

Instant relief as the water washes over you, finally quiet just the sound of running water.

“Need someone to reach your back?”

You jump so hard your head hits the ceiling, you spin, having your hands turn into a fist punching the intruder.

“WHAT THE FUCK?”

“Ow, that hurt..”

“Yeah right?! Even if it did actually hurt, you deserve that! Don’t sneak up on people in the shower, that's weird, Mark!! Very weird!”

“To be fair, I didn’t know your survival instincts were THAT bad, because I’ve been here for a bit. At first I just needed to use to restroom then after that I thought I should join you, to conserve water.”

He grins.

“Get. Out.”

“But I’m already wet and naked!”

“Ouuut!”

“Please, I promise not to do anything funny!”

Hmm, showering together does save a little money in the long run. It’s annoying how fast he makes you flip on your word.

“Fine. Only because it does save money..” You pivot on your feet, your back is all he sees now.

His glide against your slick backside, you shiver.

“Hey! You said—“

“Relax, I’m just washing your back for you.” He places a disarming kiss on your cheek before continuing.

You grumble obscenities at him as he chuckles.

Dinner was good. You liked being able to mix and match flavors to your liking and the meat was cooked to perfection, I guess he really did learn how to cook.

Now, you're cozying up in your bed, simple tank and panties.

Clean and full of Mark’s meat.

Ahem, nope just regular meat. Yup.

Definitely not Mark’s meat, not that you're thinking about that. I mean why would you be thinking about that right now? You’re very sleepy and you’re tired from work and you are DEFINITELY not horny for him right now.

Your hands softly drift to your underwear, it's soaked.

…Fucker probably put aphrodisiacs in the food, no way you’re just magically horny on your own!

Not like.. he bathed you in an incredibly gentle manner while whispering sweet nothing in your ear and made sure you had a fulfilling dinner, and packed you a lunch of leftovers for work tomorrow.

That has nothing to do with it! You snatch the covers off yourself before stomping into his room where he lays comic book in hand.

“You poisoned my food.”

“I did.. what?”

“So you admit!” You’re scanning the room for something to throw.

“No?? I’m not admitting to anything?! Why would I poison your food?!”

Bingo, séance dog figure on his nightstand.

Your fingers grip the poor doggie.

“Whoa?! Put em down! That’s a very rare collectible!”

“Admit it!! You put an aphrodisiac drug in my food to make me uncomfortably horny for you and now I’m soaking through my panties and it’s awful!!”

His mouth is agape at your confession.

“Uhm, first. I would never do that to you? Could you.. we’ll just maybe just be horny?”

“Nu-uh! Impossible!” You lift his precious figure in the air.

“Ahh!! Nonono! I mean think about it! We ate from the same plate! Wouldn’t I be popping a HUGE boner right now?”

Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation but he’s starting to make sense.

“Well.. maybe.. maybe your powers— make you not affected?!”

“I promise I’d never do something so fucked up to you, okay?” He’s approaching you as you slowly lower his toy.

“Do you want me to take you to bed and tuck you in, hm?” His voice is syrup.

Your fingers release the dog as he grabs the funny thing, putting it carefully back on the shelf.

“No..” your eyes can’t find his, they trace the floor patterns.

“Okay, what do you want?”

“ I want you to fuck me.”

He kisses his teeth. Damn he so wishes he was a bad person right now.

“You are not in right headspace right now, if you still wanna fuck in the morning come into my room and wake me up,okay?”

“Okay” you sob.

You’re tucked in again, as Mark kisses your forehead.

Before your mouth could say more stupid stuff, you're snoring.

Your curtains don’t block the sun from filling the room with its rays.

Your eyes flutter open as you grab your phone from your nightstand.

9am.

You slept in just a little, good.

Mark is still probably asleep, he’s not a morning person at all, and he can afford to be since his schedule isn’t.. so set, he definitely needs all the sleep he can get.

Why are you thinking about him already? Stupid. It’s too early in the morning to be in your feelings.

You bite your lip, last night was hazy, but.

Should you take him up on the offer? You fingers squish against the wet fabric of your panties.

Yes, you will.

How you stand infront of his bedframe, your head tilts as you examine his sleeping form. He clutches the doggie plush you won for him at that carnival, you giggled as you gave it to him, saying it favored him. Can’t believe he’s kept it for that long.

You feel like a creep, you should stop staring at him..

You grip his forearm, shaking him gently, earning a groan as he grips the plushie dog tighter.

“Mmm, mom go away. I’m still ‘eepy..”

Cute, He still sleep talks.

Your tongue swipes your bottom mouth as you pull the covers down, morning wood.

Devious thoughts swirl. He used to love getting woken by morning head.

Your fingers creep down his sides, he shifts as another groan escapes his throat.

You pull his pants down freeing his cock which bounces up hitting his delicious happy trail.

Still sleeps with no underwear on, yup that’s your man— uh.. ex.

Fuck, that’s been in you?

Beautiful curve with the perfect shade of pink tip.

Your tongue gives a tentative lick to gauge his reaction, his face snuggles deeper into the plush letting out a soft sigh.

Your tongue swirls around his cock head, he stretches you quickly following his movements as you suck harder on his cock earning a whine from your superboy.

Your hands softly caress his balls as your tongue flattens, inching him further down your throat. He bucks into your mouth causing you to gag before you gain control once more.

He mutters your name before he goes slack again, whimpering as grips the sheets.

So he still dreams about you too? Dirty boy.

“Feels.. good..” he slurs, you bop your head up and down the shaft of his cock, your throat burns as you take him.

His moans making you feel.. malicious.

Your hand raises before giving a light smack to his balls, he jumps before crying out.

Payback, fucker.

You suck harder as you smack his balls again and again. Nothing but whines and whimpers feel the room as your movements get more desperate, god how long does it take him to cum?!

Your sucking stops when you feel his touch the top of your head.

“I..I thought I was dreamin’?”

You turn, your eyes low as you pop your mouth off his dick.

“I thought I’d wake you up like old times.”

He grins crushing you into his chest, “Well thank you, enjoy that a lot. Even though I was asleep for most of it.”

“You’re welcome.”

“But now I insist, that I return the favor.”

“Mm, is that SOOO—!”

His hands hook under your arms hoisting you up as he slides under you instinctively reach for his headboard to keep your balance.

A sickening RIP cuts through the air,

“Mark, you’ve gotta stop doing that! I’m not gonna have underwear left!” You ruffle his hair as he kisses your inner thigh.

“Mmm, sorry baby. If it helps, I prefer you not wear underwear. Easier access.”

“Well, I like not going commandoooh—“

You're snatched down onto his face, his hands clasped tightly on your thighs, you can’t help but wiggle with the new sensation of his hot breath on your cunt.

“Jesus! Mark!”

He replies with a muffled “mmmhn” you shiver with pleasure as the vibration rakes over your clit.

Tentative kicks against your clit have your hands splintering the wood of the headboard as you lean over him.

You’re finding out, Mark’s tongue is as strong as his punches. (It’s probably all that shit he talks-)

His lips pucker as they suck on your button, earning a jolt from your body, before Mark pulls you back down, harder against his lips, slapping your ass as a warning.

His fingers slide before probing your hole,

“Ma—hhn Mark, uh— not sure I can handle you fingering— oh!”

Two digits enter your cunt, pumping against your g-spot, curling at just the right angle, the overstimulation is starting early for you, hm?

“Oh fuck oh fuck—“

Your left hand tangles into his squid ink hair, roughly pulling it from his scalp (strong ass hair, doesn’t even budge) only a groan reverbs against your clit as your legs begin to shake.

“Plea— fuck!”

His tongue flats as he begins his assault, his whole head moves to lick your pussy head to toe, special attention to your clit, your barely holding on.

Your body keeps bucking away from him, his right arm locks you in place as his other pistons put his fingers into your vagina, adding 2 more fingers for good measure.

“Can’t!”

You can hear Mark’s stupid muttering of, “Yesyesyes” and “cum, cum on my face” being muffled by, well, your whole ass.

Your back straightens as your hands bury into his hair, pulling his face into your pussy as you shove your clit deeper into his mouth, your legs clench around his head, his ears smush against your thighs, his eyes rolling back as your juices flows down his throat.

You twitch as he cleans you with tongue before slowly lifting you off of him, then using a damp towel to wipe down your body, tucking you back into his bed.

“So.. Do you want breakfast?” His hands are on his hips as he stares at your exhausted body.

How does he still have energy??

You moan as a response.

“Careful. I’ll get horny again.”

“Mmmhn, how do you have any energy after that?”

“I’m a munch, remember? Eating pussy is what I do, it’s what I breaaathe! It gives me energy!” He grins like a damn maniac.

“Uh-huh..yes I’m hungry..”

“Great, I'll make your favorite!” Mark nearly bounces out of the room as he runs to the kitchen.

..Yeah, maybe you could get used to this.

[ignominiousgirl]

maybe all I need to get salivating and wet is for someone to cook for me

[secretaccountlol]

Cunnilingus failure-ness  

Mark x reader (afab)

Part two :

18+ below da cut

Summary : you and your ex boyfriend , Mark are roommates now and .. he’s hungry.

@omniphilic thank you for being my editor(n girlfriend hehehe)

Content warning : talks of eating out, Reader self-depreciating comments, creampies, light impact play (use condoms guys!) teasing. This mark is def older just fyi... oh yeah despite the title there is no pussy eating sorry yall.)

Gentle! Dom mark/switch.

Authors notes :Did you miss me? I missed you guys! Funfact I woke up in the middle of the night, wrote this, jerked off then finished writing this??? (Sorry is that TMI?) enjoy ur snack! I haven’t written in so long so sorry I’m rusty.

(If you are unfamiliar with my page or my writing, ‘snacks’ are what I call my blurbs or ‘short stories’)

Hey!! Pssst!! I love comments n repost! Please drop your thoughts below :) I always read them even if o don’t reply.

“Did you know I can go 2 weeks without breathing.”

“What..?” Your pupils are parked to your phone screen, you shift in your beanbag chair on the floor.

“Viltrumites can hold their breath for 2 weeks.” Mark fingers twirled circles on your duvet.

“Okay…” your eyebrow raises as you swipe meaningless, just like the information presented to you.

“I mean it, i—I can’t for that long yet? Or at least I haven’t tried? It depends on like— when your powers manifest. Like Oliver can’t hold his breath for that long but it’s still like longer than any human—“

“Mark, why are you telling me this..?” Your eyes finally land him, he’s slumped forward on the bed, his feet up swinging side to side like a school girl in the air.

“Because I want ..” he squeaks. “ I want you to sit on my face?”

“Mark..”

“I knoooww we’ve talked about it but but you didn’t know I had powers the last time and like now that we’re back together and.. you live alone.”

“Back together?”

“I— uh you know, like we’re friends again..?”

You frown.

“Plus, you live here so I don’t necessarily live alone.” Your quip earns a stern look from your raven haired ex.

“We both know I’m not here enough to be considered a tenant. Which is why I moved in, in the first place remember cus YOU needed help with rent ? Anyways! we — we aren’t kids anymore so.”

Damn, clocked.

“So?” You set your phone down on the side table,

“So sit on my faaceeee!”

“You realize you're asking your ex-SLASH-roommate to ‘sit on your face’?”

He nods little too much, with a toothy grin.

“Please?”

“You sound like a sex pest, Mark.”

“I— I’m not! I just.. want you to sit on my face.”

“Why don’t you ask literally like any of your other exes, or yknow go on tinder.”

“I dunno it’s — weird! I— you’re just easier..”

“Oh? I’m easy now?” Your arms cross.

“You know that’s not what I mean.” He scoots closer to you as you lean away.

“Please, let me make you feel good.”

Your chin is upturned as you keep staring at the window, suddenly the guy walking his dog is so impressive right now.

You haven’t slept with mark— hell, you haven’t slept with anyone in god knows how long because ultimately he was right, you aren’t a kid anymore. The GDA keeps you too busy to date or fuck.

Your eyes glance back at Mark who is no longer on your bed but at your feet, your eyes narrow.

He’s slow, gentle like he’s trying not to scare off an animal.

His fingers grip your jeans kissing up the fabric before stopping at your waist, waiting.

“Are you sure about this, Mark?”

“Definitely. Why are you so nervous it’s.. not like we haven’t before.”

“ I-..I know we’ve dated before yes.. but becoming friends with benefit...and y’know I still work for the GDA.. I haven’t.. slept with anyone since we broke up so I’m hella rusty—“

He calls your name softly, “We broke up nearly..7 years ago.” His hand is on your cheek now, it makes you freeze.

You scoff, “Yup.. I got.. cobwebs up there.”

He shakes your head at your self depreciating joke.

“Don’t say that. If you don’t want to, it’s okay. I don’t want you to feel like you have to?”

“Mmuh it’s— it’s just I haven’t showered yet, either.. let me wash up first then we can get it on?” Your head tilts as Mark's fingers stay close to your flesh.

“Why wash away the flavor?”

“Oh my god, Mark you freak?!”

“What! I’m a grown ass man?? Lemme eat it clean or dirty I just NEED to eat it dammit. I’m a dog!!”

Your eyes widen at his speech, “okay.”

“I’m sorry that— that was a lot.” Suddenly that confidence in his voice is gone. his hands zip from your waist, to cover his face.

“Mm, I just didn’t realize you were so desperate.” The humor in your voice makes him cringe even more behind his hands.

“I— I told you I just— I need to eat you out. I can’t. I can’t stop thinking about the last time we were together you tasted …fuck.”

His hands drop, his eyes lock on you.

“You tasted so damn good that.. that my stress melted away and I need that now more than ever.”

You bite your lip, “So, I’m your comfort meal?”

He laughs, “Yeah, I guess.”

You stand shimming off your pants, “Fine lover boy, you win.” You whip off your shirt.

“Nooo, don’t say it like that now I actually feel like sex pest.”

“Cus you are.”

“Am nooot stop it!”

He’s by your backside now unclipping your bra letting it drift off you, soft kisses are placed on the indent on your strap . It’s all strangely domestic.

(Btw if you have a red indent or an indent in general of your bra it’s tooo tight and you should loosen it because it’ll cause problems in the futureee! Okay back to fic lmao)

His fingers light up your skin, mini lighting strikes. You can’t help but whimper when his digits ghost your panty line.

“So sensitive..This is new.”

“Don’t—“ Hands push past the line of your panties, a shiver runs through you.

“Don’t analyze me.”

Bite to your sweet spot on your shoulder is your reply, “Still like this spot here, hm?”

Your legs wobble in response, not dignifying him with an answer.

“Mean..” you murmur, barely a sound. His fingers work down to your clit.

“You’ve always loved foreplay, right? At least at first.” He chuckles, when you jump as his fingertips rub against your button “I kinda knew when we were getting to near the end of our relationship when you stopped wanting me to finger you. That and finding out your new job was at the GDA. “

“Sh—shut up god! You, mm— you sound like Rudy..being introspective and shit!”

“Shhh, no work talk while we’re havin’ sex” he slaps your clit making you leap forward with a gasp as you fall on to the bed.

“Man, fuck you! You're the one talkin’ all sweet about our previous relations.” You twist your body to face him, before he pushes your body back onto the bed by the nape of your neck, holding you in doggy.

“ ‘previous relations’ what are you Bill Clinton? ‘I did not have relations with that woman!’” He laughs, ripping your panties clean off your ass.

“Mark!”

“Oh, please you used to love when I did that.” His words are accompanied by a slap on your ass, your breath hitched.

“Cocky asshole, especially considering you were just begging to eat me out.” You wiggle your butt at him, your voice slightly muffled by the covers your face is shoved into.

That earns you another smack before you feel fingers prod your hole, before sliding up and down your lips.

“You’re so wet already.”

“Mark…”

“Damn, I forget how pretty you are down here..”

“Shush.. you’re so embarrassing.”

You can see his stupid clueless face in your mind as he speaks “What?! It’s true!”

Your lips shift to denounce his claims, but his finger slipping in makes moans tumble out instead.

“You suck me right in, she missed me huh?”

“Fuck, Sh—ahh!” Your back arches as a second finger burrows into you.

“Did she? Hm? Tell me.” His body laid covering yours, his mouth held just by your ear.

“Mmm nooo!” Your fingers clutch the sheets.

“Oh? I guess I should stop then.”

“Nooo do— don’t you dare!” Your head shifts to the side to stare at him, a mix of fury and lust.

“So, did you miss me?”

Three fingers entered you now, His face glows as your eyes roll back for a moment as your mouth lets out a moan.

“Fuck, yesyeyyes I, yes I did.. please.”

“Please what?”

“Pleas— fuck I wanna cum. Mark, plea—please don’t make me wait.” Your eyebrows tilt upwards as your lips pout, your ass wiggles against his fingers trying to back against his rhyme, trying to drive him further into your gspot.

“Shh, it’s okay I got you.”

His digits curl, your body jolts as drool trickles down your chin. He can’t help but drink in your reaction, all the sass just.. gone melted away by his fingers.

“Pl..cum— can’t.”

“Go ahead. Do it. Show me, please. I need to see it.”

Your pants go straight to his dick, Mark’s hips move grinding against the bed as you spasm.

You press your head into the covers as you whine, your legs shake and kick as he overworks your cunt. Your ears burn as you hear the sloppiness of your pussy.

You shudder as his fingers pop out of your pussy.

“Can you get on your back for me.” Mark doesn’t let you rest.

Your knees straighten as you flip like a fish, panting still.

Stupid handsome face of his hovers over you, “You did so well.” His thumb strokes your face , kissing your nose. You smack it away.

“Don’t touch me with your pussy hand!”

“I— what! It’s your pussy juice and it wasn’t even that hand! It’s this one!” His ‘pussy juice’ hand gropes your

breast as you try to smack it again.

“Ahhhh gross it’s all wettt stoppp it!”

“Such a baby.” He smacks your clit again.

“Ah! Stop doin’ that!”

“Why? I love seeing you jump. It’s cute.”

“No, it’s no—ah!”

Another slap, “Mark!”

Slap. “Mmm nooo!”

He strokes your clit before another love tap.

“Ah! Mmm” you can’t help but shudder covering your mouth with the back of your hand.

“See? Look at you, just so wet just from little love taps.”

He coos at you.

“Isn’t your mouth suppose to occupied right now?”

You frown.

“Mm, yeah but …” his belt jingles as his pants hit the floor.

“I kinda wanna tap that.” He taps just above your womb.

“Can I?”

You quirk your brow, “Uh. Don— don’t you wanna eat me out..?”

“Yes and?”

“If— you.. uh if you cum inside you’ll be yknow.. eating your cum..”

“Do you really think I care about that?”

“Uh— yes? Well.. I dunno!! “ you throw up your hands.

“Well I don’t, and I was gonna use a condom but since you so kindly brought up a creampie?” He holds his head to side. Asking permission.

You nod. He’s hefty, his cock thumps against the bed as he lines up with your pussy, it makes your mouth water.

“C’mon I need verbal coooonsent.”

“Such a big word for Elmo, yes.. you can cum inside.”

His tip nudges against your hole, before easing in. The stretch is almost unbearable. Your mind reels as you gasp in pain. Suddenly you’re remembering why you use to keep copious amounts of lube in your nightstand and your back pocket when you used to date.

“You okay?”

You nod, unable to move or breathe.

“Fuck..I didn’t know this could happen in real life..!”

You try to look down in your haze, “Hm?”

A fat bulge raises from your womb, where Mark’s cock lays in you. His teeth sinks into his lips as his eyes light up.

His palm slides against it before pushing down on his own cock in your cunt, you writhe in pleasure, his name is strangled from your throat.

“Holy— mm shit you're squeezing me so tight, that feel good, yeah?”

You can’t respond. Your eyes are too busy rolling back.

“Imma start moving okay?”

You whine as his hips move away from you, your legs wrapping around his waist.

“Mmm don’t worry, I’m coming riiiight back” his cock slams into you. Your throat rips a moan that rips through the air.

“Mark—mmm.” Your arms try to grab for anything as his finds his rhyme, which doesn't take long. Your bed creaks as his body bangs into yours. You try to bite your lip to keep your voice down but it fails soon as mark hits that sweet fuckin’ spot like the dick he is. (Like the dick he has)

“Shit— shit no.. fuck no way.”

No way you're about to cum— already?

Now granted you’ve been celibate for 7 damn years but he definitely wasn’t this good before?!

“Shh, thinkin’ too much. Cum for me yeah? I can feel you tightening up.”

“Do—don’t wannna!” You laugh, teasin’ but comes out in broken gasps.

“Oh really?” His arms wrap around your legs locking to gather before he hoists your body up your lower back

off bed, being held up by mark whose using your legs as leverage as he squishes your body damn near in half.

“Oh fuck— Mark wa-wait—!!“ your hands slap against his lap before he thrusts into you, you thrash but it’s no use. He’s much stronger, and you're locked into place as you're drilled into.

“Hey, think I can — mmm, make ma—make you squirt?I mean— fuck, we’re already in the position.”

“D—mm, don’t you fuckin’ dare!”

“Shh don’t worry I’ll do the laundry after we’re done.”

“Mmm! Mark!! “

His dick curves into you, causing your legs to go straight, your breathe stops. Fuck, he’s actually gonna make you squirt.

“Ma-“

“It’s okay, just relax. Let it happen.”

“Tryinnnng!” Your head throws back against your bed as he continues to drill into you,

“Gonn— oh fuck..!!”

Your grip his arms as your eyes open with misty tears,

“Thaat’sss it.”

A burst of whimpers makes you break as the dam breaks wide open.

You can’t catch your breath as you smack Mark's arms twice. It was your old established safety chain since you started being intimate when he first got his powers, and he wasn’t exactly good at controlling his strength.

He drops your legs with a oomph.

“You okay?”

You whine, “mm ye—yes, god you’re so mean for making me squirt!”

He giggles, honest to god giggles.

“ I dunno, it seemed like you liked it?”

“Shut up! Wai— wait did you cum?”

He blinks, “uh no?”

“Oh.. well.. ar…are you? Gonna? Y’know?”

He scratches the back of his head , “I mean if you want me to?”

“I was literally gonna let you come in me? Yes it’s fine! Yknow most guys would jump at the chance to come inside someone.”

“Well I’m not most men. I’m invincible!” (Que title card.) Stupid fucking grin splits his lips as strikes a pose.

Your eyes roll as you lay back, his hands grasp your hips.

“Is it okay if I go.. uh hard?”

“You weren’t before?”

“I mean kinda but .. I mean.. really.. really go hard?”

Shit, you're gonna regret this aren’t ya? But not like you haven’t been to work sore before..

“Yes, go aheahhhh-!”

Your hips are lifted off the bed again, his arms flex as he rams into you, your breath is stolen once again as he continues to piston into you.

You didn’t notice before but through the haze of overstimulation, Mark’s moan cut through. He sounds, so fuckin’ cute.. not even sexy, he whines like he’s bottoming as he fucks the living shit outta you.

Your nails scratch down his arms, another whine rips from him again.

“Yeah-yeahyeah please hurt ..me fuck, please slap me.”

You think you're imagining things.

“Please? Pleaee scratch me again— fuck please slap me.”

You oblige, running your nails against him first to gauge his reaction. His rhyme skips a beat as he groans.

“More.. more more.”

This is new..!

You hand raise weakly before striking his cheek, he whimpers, his hips skip a beat again.

“Oh, fuck.. oh fuck please again— I’m— pleaseplease”

You slap him, again.

“Is—is so good” his words slur together as his rhyme faults, he pumps deep as he begs

Again. He can’t help but cry out your name,

“Plea— shit I’m can— can’t fuck—“

Your leg shake as his cum shoots into you, accompanying your own orgasm. His cock burrows himself deeper and deeper into you.

Your body flops as his hands release you, “j—Jesus. Mark.”

His sweaty body crushes you as he lets his body fall into you, his arms trap your waist snuggling into you.

“Cuddle..” his dreamy sigh makes you squeeze your fist together.

Damn, his sleepy voice is your weakness.

It can’t be helped, not like you can move him off of you, your fingers run through his hair earning a hum of contentment.

“Wanna shower?”

He nods against your chest.

“Tuckered out?”

He rubs his face against you again.

“Mmm, me too. I’ll sit on your face next time, okay?”

You can feel him frowning. “Hmph…okay..”

Such a child.., some things never change.

[ignominiousgirl]

mmmmfffff need that

[yenayaps]

Rose Garden Dreams; Torn At The Seams

Pairing: FireLord!Zuko x RoyalAdvisor!Reader

Content: contrary to popular belief, the fire lord can't have everything he wants. however, even he’d admit that what he wanted was troublesome in itself, which is why he forces himself to be okay with having you by his side as his advisor. [tw: MDNI, angst/fluff/smut, apothecary diaries coded, so much yearning and longing, porn with plot, there is no power imbalance he’s afraid of your father, zuko’s a little shit tho, we’re already married in his head] wc: 4.8k

m.list | chapter one | next chapter

“You want me to do your hair?”

His lips twitch, fighting back a smile. “Yes, precisely.” 

You sigh as you step into the man’s chambers, walking up to the vanity that’s more fitting for a queen, in your opinion. If only people saw this side of the fire lord. Zuko, the pretty boy. He has zero insecurities over the scar his tyrant of a father left on his face, but he’d faint at the sight of seeing too much hair shed on the marble floors of his bathhouse. 

“When you decide to have me summoned like this, do you ever wonder, hm— what would her father think?” you ask as you grudgingly pick up the boar bristle brush and begin to brush his hair. 

“I do,” he dryly responds. “I like the way you do your hair, though, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell on me. You wouldn’t want me getting in trouble, right?” 

Zuko might be the fire lord, but he still has to watch his relationships with the other clans in this nation— especially with a certain hot-headed strategist that just so happens to be your father. You can only imagine his outburst upon learning that his daughter is playing with the lord's hair, rather than playing your role as his advisor. 

Most fathers would be pleased by the information— not yours, he’s a little more… strict. He already doesn’t like him from a joke made over a decade ago, suggesting you’d make a fine concubine, which wasn’t taken lightly. 

Your father threatened to usurp the throne, sending a chill running down a then 21 year old Zuko’s spine.

There was no way in hell he’d hand you off to the imperial palace to become a concubine. You’re the only child of his that inherited firebending. If your father had it his way, you’d be a warrior, for fucks sake. 

Lord Zuko may have a dry sense of humor at times, but you have your doubts about how much of a joke that statement was, especially with how much he likes to bug you throughout the day.

Perhaps another conflict should erupt— the man has too much time on his hands. Maybe then you’d fulfill your fathers wish of finally working in the military— put your talents to use, as he’d say. 

But would Lord Zuko allow the gentle hands running through his hair to commit such violence? Or would that be when he’d draw a hard line with the aggressive strategist? 

As progressive as he is, you sometimes wonder just how much it extends to you. Even as children, he’d go easy on you during trainings. He’s only grown softer with you as the years passed. Despite not being a concubine yourself, you wouldn’t be surprised if he saw you as one of the flowers in his garden— one he’s not allowed to touch. 

You slide the hair stick through his headpiece, securing the top knot he had you redo. It looks the same, but you hold off on making a comment. “Is that better?” 

“Much better.” His eyes meet yours in the mirror, lips curving into a sly smile. “Now— what are we doing today?”

We. You hate how much he likes to emphasize that at times. 

“Well,” you sigh. “Aside from the usual council meeting, nothing much. Perhaps you can visit one of your concubines today… for once.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Are you saying I don’t fuck my concubines enough?” 

“Precisely,” you say almost mockingly. 

It’s all they ever complain about, and honestly, you’re sure you would, too, if you were one of them. Having to wake up and sit around all day, waiting for a man who never comes. And on the rare occasion that he does, he doesn’t stay long. He’ll show up, fuck the shit out of you for a couple rounds, then leave right after. Allegedly. 

“Don’t you want an heir?” you ask. 

“Depends,” he hums. 

With the way he’s looking at you, you can already tell what it depends on, and it has nothing to do with his current concubines. Lucky for you, he never gets the chance to actually say it because he gets interrupted right after, putting a conversation you’d rather not have to a screeching halt.

“The council is waiting for you, my Lord.”

—

The silk district was notoriously known for two things: brothels and bandits. It was the wild, wild west compared to the other districts in the capital due to high crime and the growing wealth gap. The governments always kept a watchful eye on it, which was never enough in your opinion. 

Are you surprised to hear that an entire brothel, including the madame, was discovered to be slain and robbed in the early hours of this morning? Absolutely not. 

“Send more military officers to patrol the area,” the chamberlain says without hesitation. “We’ve been too lenient with them. If they want bloodshed, we’ll give them bloodshed.”

Yikes, he wants to rule the area with an iron fist when they’re already clearly struggling. You can’t help but think of how much of a dictator this guy would be if he were in Zuko’s place. 

You make eye contact with the lord, who’s sitting at the end of the table right next to you. In that brief moment, he notices the concern in your eyes and gives you a subtle nod. 

“Perhaps we can send more public aid?” you suggest. “They’ve been testing out a new rehabilitation program in Republic City as well. I’m sure the Silk District could benefit from—“

“Nonsense,” the chamberlain cuts you off, wondering why you’re even here right now— he thought you only assisted in matters within the court, not outside of it. “I-“

“Careful,” Zuko interrupts the man rather playfully as he continues to read through the scroll. “That’s the military strategist’s daughter you’re speaking to.” 

The comment makes you nearly roll your eyes, knowing the only reason why he said it was because you’re having to constantly remind him yourself when he gets too close. 

The chamberlain, however, straightens up immediately. You have no idea why it took him this long to realize it. He’s been here for nearly over a year, but at least he knows now. The chamberlain can be quite rude at times, you wouldn’t want him to slip up with your father in the room. Not only would that earn him an earful of insults that are as creative as they are hurtful, but it’d also be embarrassing on your part. 

That old man embarrasses you enough when he’s around. Following you around like a lost puppy after meetings, asking if you’ve eaten and if your superiors are treating you right, while side eyeing the fire lord himself. You’d agree so yourself that he has too much power in the court. He enjoys holding it over everyone’s head even more. It’s sickening, really.

You look at the chamberlain, who is now pouting, and offer an apologetic smile. “May I continue?” 

“Yes, of course,” the old man nods, struggling to hide his shame.

Always one for games, Zuko finds himself suppressing a laugh, which in turn makes the chamberlain’s slouch worsen. He’s grown to find more and more amusement in his daily tasks, a trait his father would definitely disapprove of— good thing he’s not here anymore. 

The rest of the meeting went by as smooth as it could be, with the fire lord, of course, praising the chancellor in the end for being so well behaved, pretending to wonder what could’ve changed his usual demeanor. The usual teasings, all while you once again found yourself thinking of how light he’s become. Even after receiving such upsetting news, he stayed calm while finding a solution. 

A humane one.

No longer the grumpy, angsty boy you grew up with. He’s actually quite charming. But you keep that to yourself.

The palace grounds are empty, as they should be during the afternoon. Everyone’s off either eating, napping, or tending to duties such as cooking or cleaning. It’s quiet, surprisingly peaceful. Your footsteps echo throughout the breezeway as Zuko defies the basic etiquette of walking ahead of you as a ruler should. Instead, the bastard walks a little slower than you. If given the opportunity, he’d turn it into a mini competition of who could walk the slowest, up until you both come to a full stop, with him looking at you all smug. 

“Your chambers are this way,” you remind the said bastard as if he’d already forgotten. 

He doesn’t bother to look back as he responds, walking down a gravel path leading directly to the flower garden. “How about we take a detour today, hm?”

You watch him for a moment, waiting to see if he’d stop. He doesn’t, and you shouldn’t be surprised by it. You’re able to catch up with him in just seconds given his slow pace, this time not bothering to walk behind him as he’s clearly in the mood to be extra stubborn today.

You’re all alone and away from the hearing distance of anyone else, yet you still choose to speak quietly as you start to gently tease the man. “What a surprise to see the king taking some time to enjoy his garden.” 

He lets out a soft laugh that fades into a hum. “Only around a select few.”

“Oh, wow,” you pretend to be impressed. “How charitable.” 

“It’s an honor that you think so,” he says, placing a hand over his chest to add to the theatrics, trying not to laugh once again. “Tell me, when was the last time you walked through here?”

You hum as you walk further into the sprawling garden filled with wooden arches covered with green vines and flowers in full bloom. “Can’t say I actually remember when.”

“That’s a shame. I had the gardener plant new rose bushes,” he murmurs. “Wanted to ask what you thought of them.” 

“I think they’re lovely,” you admit, softly pinching a petal, rubbing your thumb over the velvety skin.

He smiles. “I figured.” 

They were your favorite after all. 

Why is he like this? The garden’s already filled with enough flowers. A new section wasn’t needed. 

Again, he’s just bored.

In an attempt to keep the conversation from getting any more personal, you change the subject. “Are you looking forward to your trip to Republic City?” 

At the end of the meeting, it was decided that he’d visit with the purpose of getting more information about the new rehabilitation program the city was rolling out. While the chancellor wanted to take a more aggressive approach, he decided to take a more peaceful route. It’s admirable how hands on he’s chosen to be since taking his father's place. 

“Mhm. It’ll be nice catching up with some old friends while I’m there—“ he cuts himself off and looks at you with slight suspicion, “you’re going, right?”

You never said you would, nor did you want to, honestly. It’d be nice to take a break. “I’m sure you and some of your subordinates can handle it.” 

“Weren’t you the one who came up with the idea, though?” his tone slightly clips as he reminds you. 

“I was,” you respond tentatively, taking back your thoughts from earlier as you look him in the eyes. 

This man looks like he’s about to throw a fit. 

Zuko opens his mouth again, already knowing he shouldn’t be this pushy towards you, of all people, but he is far from perfect. 

So with a forced smile and all the resolve in the world, he murmurs, “you’re going.” 

You smile back despite feeling an annoyed heat creep up your neck, heart starting to pick up. “Alright.” 

—

Imagine being the fire lord, a literal ruler, and getting the cold shoulder from your own advisor. Every answer is so curt and clinical, and it’s going to drive him up the wall. 

Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord. Apologies, my lord.

Give him a fucking break.

As if you weren’t punishing him enough, you went ahead and had two of his concubines “accompany” him on the trip. It’s not like he can say no to that, either, since it’s considered to be one of his duties. Not to mention they both come from high-ranking families that would not be very pleased to hear of their neglect. 

So now he has to deal with two spoiled, pent-up brats hanging on him during the entirety of this flight, all while trying not to glare at the biggest brat of them all— you, as you sit directly across from him, reading probably what’s some pathetic romance novel.

This is fucking ridiculous. You haven’t looked at him once since you first sat down.

You’re no better than him. There was a strike of lightning in the direction you walked off in, and given how it was a perfectly sunny day, he’s pointing his finger at you for the damages done in the east wing, despite keeping his mouth shut on the matter. Complain about being dragged to Republic City all you want, but you still have it better than most. If you really did have it that bad, you would’ve been punished for such an offense. 

Like, seriously? Blowing shit up, like a fucking child— a terrifying one, to be frank, you are absolutely your father’s daughter— just because you had to do your job? Grow up. His grandfather’s statue was shattered in the midst of it all, thanks to you. You’re lucky he never liked the bastard.

In protest, you’re dressed like a noble's daughter rather than a member of the court. Wearing the finest silk and adorned in gold imported from the Earth nation, quietly refusing to represent your actual nation as you claim to be representing your clan— proof that you have enough power on your own to be acting like he’s actively denying you of basic human rights.

As if he even cared about your attire. Be his guest! You look fucking hot. Someone might even mistake you for one of his concubines, and he might just not correct them, since you think you’re more petty than he is.

Zuko gets pulled out of his thoughts when Concubine Aika speaks, still leaning against him and rubbing on his chest. She asked what book you were reading, which is when you finally looked up from it. 

“It’s sort of an adventure novel.” You look at the cover, speaking to her with a certain warmth you’ve been depriving him of. “It’s about a girl escaping an abusive orphanage once she turns 18 and follows her journey for the next 10 years.”

So now you’re fantasizing about leaving him? Good luck with that. 

“You look troubled, my lord,” the woman to his right, Concubine Saiyo, says. She’s leaning against him as well, now tracing her fingers along his jaw. “Are you alright?” 

“M’fine,” he murmurs, trying to fix his face as he takes a sip of sake. “It’s been a long flight.”

“There’s a private cabin you can retreat to, if you’d like,” you suggest, going back to your little book, missing the way you just made the lord’s eye twitch. 

“I know,” he says. 

It’s his airship. 

Without warning, he gets up from his seat. Was it a little rude? Perhaps. But surely the two women beside him could understand what feeling hounded could do to someone. They don’t, they do their jobs and get up as well, which he understands. However, Zuko’s not in the fucking mood right now and waves a dismissive hand. 

“No need,” he curtly says, making his way to the back of the airship. “I just want to close my eyes for a bit.” 

. . . . . .

The trip starts off strong with a banquet being held in honor of the fire lord's arrival. 

Contrary to Zuko’s wishes, nobody’s stupid enough to mistake you for one of his concubines. At least not within the circle of people you’re mingling with tonight, who all recognize your family's crest engraved on your hairpin. 

They were an ambitious bunch that spread all over once Zuko came into power— reaching amongst the highest positions within the military, medicine, and even education. 

Funny enough, your position in the court was nothing special in comparison to some of your relatives’ achievements. Some are even bothered by the fact. Being the first of all your cousins to master the art of firebending, being your grandfather's favorite solely for bending lightning with the same grace as he did in his prime, all while excelling in your studies. 

All of that potential, just wasted on being the lord’s “pet”. 

You don’t have much of an opinion on the disappointment some of them have expressed in the past, though it would’ve been nice if their words had stayed behind closed doors. You didn’t want to hear any of it. If you truly wanted to make use of that said potential, you would’ve worked directly under your father as his subordinate. 

Maybe it was the result of growing up feeling like you were enough. You have nothing to prove, and quite frankly, you’re content with having a role that really only requires you to share your opinions with a ruler that shares the same ideals as you… for the most part. 

If only he’d also agree that you two spend way too much time together. 

Luckily, you’re not required to be by his side tonight since you’re attending the banquet as a representative of your clan— something Zuko had no clue about until the moment you stepped onto the airship, which had him looking like he was about to blow a fucking gasket. He absolutely sucks at masking his frustrations. You’re surprised his concubines still had the courage to cuddle up with him. He looked like he was 2.5 seconds away from throwing you off the ship mid-flight. 

Zuko would never do that, by the way, but you’re sure he was daydreaming about it. 

But even then, with all the distance between you tonight, you can still feel his eyes on you. Just watching and waiting for you to do something he didn’t like. Very masochistic considering how he wouldn’t confront you if you did end up doing something wrong in his eyes. 

You spend the entire night avoiding eye contact, which isn’t too hard given how all you’ve done is catch up with old peers from school and relatives who’ve decided to move here to start new lives. 

The relatives you got along with, that is. 

You were enjoying yourself. Truly. Until Sokka called you over to their table. 

Funny how Zuko wasn’t looking at you then and was instead stuffing his face with spicy dumplings, then downing it with whatever liquor was in his cup. 

You walk over with two thoughts running through your head— please don’t let this man be as drunk as Sokka and Aang, and don’t let this be a conversation about how work was been. Sokka tends to ask those things at the wrong time, despite his heart being in the right place. 

This time around, it’s not Sokka.

“How’s our flaming hot lord treating you?” Aang asks, throwing an arm around a very drunk Zuko, who’s laughing his ass off over the avatar’s words for once. 

Your lips may have twitched a little, as well. Only because Aang gave even less fucks when in an inebriated state. 

“Oh, you know— the usual.” You let out a lighthearted laugh, and only you notice the way Zuko’s face momentarily drops. 

The air around him quickly screams ‘don’t fuck with me’, then settles back into something more suitable for someone who’s already had half their water weight in alcohol. 

“C’mon, you can do better than that,” Zuko forces out a laugh, leaning back in his seat. 

You laugh a little harder. “Can I?”

“Yeah, you can.” 

Sokka lets out this weird, giddy gasp because he loves drama, and cuts in. “Are you two fighting?”

“No.” 

“No.”

You and Zuko look at each other after shutting down Sokka’s question at the same time. The fake smiles you’re wearing are not helping your case at all. 

“Where’s Katara? I’ve been wondering where she’s been this whole time,” you ask in an attempt to keep the energy between you from getting any more awkward than it already is

Aang grows a little pale— the instant karma feels nice. “She’s a little sick tonight.” 

There’s a bit of fear in his voice. She’s totally pregnant. Not that you say that. Instead, you just point in some random direction behind you. “That’s terrible— my cousin actually just mentioned a bug going around. I hope she feels better soon.” 

“Thank you,” the man lets out a sigh of relief, allowing himself to be delusional for just one more night. 

“What about Toph?”

“Home. Asleep.” Sokka rolls his eyes. “She’s like a little old lady now. You’ll see her tomorrow, though, she’s been volunteering at the center.” 

“Volunteering or beating everyone into submission?” Zuko murmurs, and they all erupt in laughter. “She probably runs that place like the military.”

You find yourself starting to zone out as the conversation moves on to a different topic. You’d like to blame some of the wine you’ve been sipping on throughout the night for that. Everything starts to melt together— the live music, the endless chatter in every which direction. The only thing that pulls you out of it is seeing another one of your cousins who had just arrived, waving at you, and you don't shy away from taking that as an opportunity to excuse yourself. 

Aang and Sokka were as kind as usual when you said your goodbyes. Zuko, on the other hand, was harder to read through the pathetic excuse of a smile he gave you. One only meant to save face. 

If only he knew just how much worse he makes things sometimes. Although they’re rare, this isn’t the first fight you two have been in. Perhaps you have been a little petty towards the man, but it’s not you who grows so frustrated at someone’s anger that you begin to hold a grudge yourself. 

You arrive back to your room in the early morning with the regret of not cutting yourself off from the drinks sooner than you did. You wouldn’t say you were drunk, but you were definitely tipsy as you started to shed layers of clothes and jewelry to get in the hot bath that had been prepared prior to your return. 

Aang may be childish at times, but fuck was he a great host. Or maybe it was Katara who had all of these amenities set up for you. Candles and bath salts— you could die a happy woman right now as you settle into the stone tub, taking deep breaths, letting your muscles relax. 

Twenty minutes in, you hear rattling and heavy footsteps that seem to hit the ground with more confusion than the determination an attacker would usually have. It forces you to leave the warmth of your bath, slipping on a robe. Getting hit with annoyance rather than fear may be a little foolish. Overconfident, even. But there’s still alcohol running through your veins, and you aren’t the pride and joy of your clan for no reason— you can absolutely hold your own in a fight. 

When you walk out of the bathroom, you come face to face with exactly who you were thinking of.

“Fuck,” he looks away for a moment, regretting his decision thinking it was okay to just walk in. 

Zuko didn’t think you’d be bathing, for some odd, stupid reason. Judging by the fact that he’s still wearing his usual day clothing and his hairs not up in a bun, it’s safe to assume he went straight here after leaving the banquet. 

You let out a long sigh. “God— what are you doing here?” 

You don’t even sound mad— just disappointed that you have to see him once more before you lay your head to rest, which slightly hurts the man’s ego. Truth be told, he came here to argue with you, but even in his drunken state, he’s finding it quite difficult to do so since he looks like a fucking pervert now. 

“Your comment from earlier— what the hell was that about?” Zuko sounds more wounded than anything right now. 

You cross your arms, leaning against the door frame that connects the room to the bathroom. “What comment?”

“The usual,” he says with air quotes. “Do you not like me anymore or something?”

“You’re seriously asking me that right now?” Your face twists, just dumbfounded at this point. “You ask me that as if I don’t work for you?”

He scoffs. “So what, you’re saying I’m not your friend now?”

“I mean, yeah— you are, but I’m still your subordinate at the end of the day,” you attempt to spell it out for him, trying to get it through his brain that he can’t just act like you two are a pair of besties. 

But he just continues to argue with you. 

“Really? ‘Cause last time I checked, people don’t fight their superiors.” 

No, they do not. You’re not sure why you even tried to make that an argument, the line between you has blurred a long time ago. 

“You know what, just— forget it.”

The thing is, you're not the best at taking accountability. Most of the arguments you’ve had with him have been swept under the rug after a while. Zuko's not having that right now, though.

“Hm— actually, no— I don’t think I will,” he stubbornly says. “You have been punishing me for fucking weeks now and now you just want me to forget it?”

Punishing him?

You roll your eyes, muttering “oh my god” under your breath, not even bothering to look him straight in the eyes anymore as you walk to the nightstand and pick up a small jar of body cream. 

“We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow,” you say dismissively, rubbing the jasmine-scented cream into your hands. “I need to go to sleep, and so should you, honestly.”

It doesn’t matter how well he can handle his alcohol— he reeks of it. 

“I’m trying to talk to you right now so I don’t have to deal with your attitude tomorrow,” he says, as if he hasn’t had an attitude himself the last couple of weeks. 

“Don’t worry, you won’t have to,” you murmur back. 

What feels like minutes pass after your pathetic attempt to settle your issues with him. At first, he just lets out a sigh, trying to keep his composure, but then he laughs under his breath. 

“So that’s it?” he asks in a condescending tone. “We’re all good now?”

“Yes. Goodnight, Zuko,” you hum. 

More silence follows after. You can just feel his eyes on you despite still facing away, now reaching for some hair oil, waiting for him to leave.

He never does. Even after working the product into your hair, you have yet to hear the door to your room close, making you grow wary. 

There are many things telling you not to turn around at the moment— your blurred mind and tensed body. But even you make mistakes, lots of them with Zuko, and so you finally turn around. 

His lips are on yours. 

You don’t know how long he’d been standing directly behind you, you never even heard his footsteps. All you know is his hands are snaked behind your neck and he’s kissing you and you’re letting him.

It takes you a moment to realize you’re kissing him back— too focused on how soft his lips are, how his tongue glides across your lower lip before slipping inside, so commanding yet so gentle. 

Then you sober up— pressing your palm flat against his chest and pushing him back so you two can look at each other, eyes wide and filled with instant regret.

“What the hell was that?” you try to snap at him, but the sharp edge was dulled from the start, already fearing what’ll change between you from this moment forward. 

“I— fuck,” he stutters, taking another step back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

Immediately, you cut him off. “No, you shouldn’t have and you know that.”

“I know.” It sounds like a plea coming from him as his chest tightens. “I’m sorry.”

Even you start to look apologetic, which breaks his heart a little since you did nothing wrong. The one who crossed the line was him, after all. “You should go. You’re drunk.” 

He opened his mouth to respond, but then closed it shortly after. There was nothing to say. 

And so he slowly nods and turns around, still in shock by his own actions as he begins to walk away, leaving you to deal with the aftermath of what the fuck just happened on your own. 

This was going to be the longest work trip of your life. 

notes: i hope u guys enjoyed this first chapter!! this was supposed to be a oneshot but then ideas kept popping up in my head and i thought, why don't i just turn this into a longfic like defiance lol. the plan is to follow these two around throughout a couple arcs, with the first one being them trying to navigate their feelings and attempting to go back to normal while trying to fix the shit show in the silk district.

TAGS ARE CLOSED

All rights reserved © 2026 yenayaps. Do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform. Do not feed my works into ai and do not turn them into chat bots.

[ignominiousgirl]

chapter two…please…writer….

[ignominiousgirl]

༒︎ Passsion/Pleasure ༒︎

Pairing— Zuko x Gender neutral!reader

Synopsis — you are a newly assigned Fire Nation guard. You try your best to work hard and rise among the ranks, but it is especially difficult when the Fire Lord himself goes crazy for you.

Warnings/tags— 18+, g!neutral reader, smut, power dynamics, slight exhibitionism, unprotected intercourse

Note— this has NOT been proofread yall. Hope u enjoy.

TRAINING (1ST East-Day, Water Month)

Fire Lord Zuko was...interesting to serve. You could only describe your interactions with him as peculiarly frustrating. On one hand, he was terrifying. Leader of the Fire Nation, strength and skill unparalleled by anyone except the Avatar.

But on the other... he was quite endearing. He tried his best to be present among his citizens. He would smile when he passed you in the halls, and he was good with names. He endeavoured to be as involved as he could with all the responsibility that he shouldered.

That included training with his guards whenever he had time. You were a new enlist, coming up from the far ends of the Fire Nation to make something of yourself, to become more, and this palace had offered it. The selection process was gruelling, but at last, you had been chosen.

It was sparring day, meaning that guards would go against each other in either hand to hand or weapon combat, and whoever could best the other would win. The Fire Lord stalks his way to the centre of the circle, and you watch, breath baited to see who he may choose.

Rumour was, he only picked the strongest among the ranks, and even those guards were usually bested by him.

"You." He says, pointing directly at you. You spin around, trying to see who else he could possibly be referring to, but to your chagrin, find that all the other guards at your side had scooted over, leaving you undeniably alone in the middle.

Turns out the rumour was wrong.

You gulp, walking up the centre, where the Zuko stood, shirtless and... muscular. He had his hair up in a bun, and you you are almost distracted by how effortlessly beautiful he looks.

You only have one foot in the middle before he tackles you.

Grunting as you hit the ground, you let out an "oof." He's got you pinned, so you just lay there as he addresses the audience.

"Your concentration could be the difference between your life and death. Be vigilant." You almost scoff, but then remember that he was right above you, and would most certainly hear if you did, so you resort to huffing.

Once he's done with his very effective lesson, his grip on you loosens. In a last ditch effort to preserve whatever little honour you had left, you twist, locking your legs around his waist, dropping him to the ground and pin him there.

A sharp collective inhale rises from the crowd. You'd almost forgotten there were other people there.

He chuckles beneath you.

"Good job...?" You tell him your name, panting above him. He repeats it, and you don't think you've ever heard your name purred out in such a manner.

Your cheeks have heated from the physical activity, and perhaps also the precarious situation you have found yourself in. If not for all the armour you were wearing, one might have assumed that you two were in this position for... other reasons.

You're looking down on him, straddling him as your hair falls around you, concealing both of your faces. He is silent for a second, and when you scoot slightly back to keep stable he winces.

"Are- are you in pain?" You ask, shocked because he was clearly made of stronger stuff than you were. You start to stand up but he holds your waist, holding you down on him.

You might have felt his bulge if you weren't wearing so much armour.

"J-just stay. For a bit." He swallows, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling. You nod, resuming your position for what feels like hours. The crowd whispers among themselves but eventually dissipate, moving to spar among themselves.

"Fire Lord--" He clears his throat, his grip on you slacking as you scramble to get off of him.

"You will join my personal guard." He croaks. "There is much for you to learn still."

Then he stands hastily, throat bobbing as he marches out of the training room. You're left panting, sweating, and wishing solemnly that there weren't 20 other guards-in-training in the room watching you.

COUNCIL MEETING (3RD West-Day, Air Month)

It has been many days since then. Your duties now included accompanying Fire Lord Zuko everywhere, with the exception of his chambers. That meant many boring court holdings, where villagers and city dwellers alike held an audience with the Fire Lord to complain about all sorts of mundane things.

You can see it wearing at him. He accepts each one of his subjects with grace, bending himself to their every whim. You only ever see him smile when his friends and the Avatar come to see him, and that is not often at all, as they too all had their own responsibilities to bear.

You only wish you could take some of the burden. But alas, your job is to stand by him, silently, and protect him against threat, which he would more than likely be able to protect himself from.

Perhaps he wishes for the company.

He does get quite talkative, especially at late hours...

But he has not touched you, since that day. You have spent many hours wondering why he would not let you move. Was his pride wounded? It did not seem that way. But his cheeks had taken on this reddish hue, and he refused to look you in the eye.

You are still deep in thought when he addresses you.

"We have a council meeting to attend."

Nodding, you lead the way, holding his door open as he walks out and following him to the council room. Of all your duties, sitting through these was most tedious. They could take hours, and you would often find yourself nodding off due to all the humdrum.

The only blessing was that you were permitted to sit during them. Right there, on the right hand side of the Fire Lord. It was an honour, to be trusted so. All the kingdom's secrets and inner workings made known to you.

After the first few addresses have been completed, the council moves to more informal conduct, including snapping their fingers for wine and mumbling gossip to each other.

At least an end was in sight.

You look to the Fire Lord, who rejects the goblet and continues writing on his scroll. For a moment, you just watch him.

He can feel his eyes on you. When the wine bearer comes to you, you deny, naturally as you were currently working, and look to one of the far portraits hanging on the wall.

You feel a hand on your thigh and startle. You look at the Fire Lord, but there is no indication from him. He continues scribbling on his scroll, acting oblivious to the large hand he has sprawled against your upper thigh. Your armour is padded, but he has snuck his arm beneath it, and is rubbing circles, slowly inching closer to your inner thigh.

He’s getting closer to where you need him most when a greying convoy begins boisterously laughing, and subsequently choking. You stand abruptly, aid him in his relief and then march out of the council room, breath still shallow as you stand guard outside.

ON PATROL (2ND North-Day, Earth Month)

WHERE A GUARD ALMOST CATCHES THEM

You were one of the two guards on patrol of the Fire Lord’s quarters. It was well into the night, and no one would dare attack Zuko, so it really was more of a formality.

Your co-guard had decided he was hungry, and with your permission, set off to go find some late night meal, preferably with a drink to warm him up.

The solitude didn’t disturb you, in fact, it gave you time to think about what the Fire Lord had done at today’s council gathering. You ponder for a good while. How risky. How stupid. How—

He was right in front of you. You jump, wondering how he had been so quiet in his approach. But before you can say anything, he’s capturing your lips, pulling you into him as you gasp.

He pulls back for a second and you see the fire in his eyes.

"Fire Lord--" You start but he interrupts you.

“Thought you could tease me, hmm?” He asks, giving you small licks and bites as he waits for you to respond.

You chuckle, wondering if he forgot how the predicament today began. “It was—mmfph—your fault.” You speak in a whisper, afraid of the return of your co-guard.

“Ssshushhh.” He murmurs into your mouth, and you find yourself melting further into him.

He backs the both of you into an alcove, and when you think he’s moved back to allow you to remain discreet, he spins you around and pushes you against the wall, hands on your waist as he humps against you.

You bite back your moans, hand reaching behind you to pull his hair out of his bun. Turning back around, you grab onto it as you kiss and suck at his neck.

“H-aah,” he groans, thrusting against your front. You are wearing much lighter clothing now than that training day all those months ago, and the bulge is both evident and prominent against your belly.

A hot feeling unfurls itself inside your stomach, and you’re about to reach out and grab him when you hear someone call out your name.

“Fuck!” You whisper-shout.

“Stay quiet,” he says, and you’re sure he’s only holding you out of fear of making more noise until he continues his movements, hot breaths puffing out onto your neck.

You still, ears straining for any sound of your co-guard when he hits the right spot, the friction of your clothing causing you to gasp out into the air, and you hear footsteps getting closer.

Bating your breath, you hold Zuko still against you, distracting him with a kiss. He ceases his movements, melting into it, and only when you hear the footsteps fade do you chuckle lightly and sink to your knees.

ROYAL SUMMONING (1st Center-Day, Fire Month)

It was your day off. You didn’t get many of those. Resting in your chamber, you are halfway through some sweets you bought at the market near the cabbage stand when a guard knocks in your door.

“Who’s there?” You ask.

One of your co-guards walks in.

“Fire Lord Zuko summons you.” He says stoically, standing at attention in your doorway.

“It is my day off.” You say, raising an eyebrow.

“To his chambers.” The man says through gritted teeth. If you squinted, you might see the bead of sweat threatening to trickle down his forehead.

You nod, letting him resume his duties as you leisurely get dressed, opting to wear your casual robes as opposed to your usual armour and uniform. You trudge your way to his chambers, humming a tune to yourself all the while.

The guards let you through, and you stroll in. It was your first time inside.

It is less ostentatious than you assumed it would be. Still regal, mighty, a show of wealth for sure. It was huge, and in the middle, a large bed that could probably fit the entire servants quarter.

And sat on it was Zuko.

Hair down, disrobed with only bottoms on.

You gasp lightly then look up, feeling as though you’d been punched in the gut.

He was so… beautiful.

You hear shuffling as he leaves the bed. Footsteps tapping their way across the chambers to where you stood. A thud as he fell to his knees.

Your eyes remain trained upwards, tears stinging at them. Here he was, offering himself up to you, letting you see him in such a vulnerable state.

“Please, I need you.” He was begging you. The Fire Lord was on his knees, begging you.

“Fire lord—“ you begin, but he breaks you off.

“Don’t call me that. Not when we’re alone.”

He nuzzles his face into your waist, and you’re unsure of whether the room gets hotter or you just can’t stand it, but you begin to sweat.

You nod once, staring down into his glittering eyes. Squealing when he picks you up, you scoot back on the bed when he puts you down, allowing him room to crawl in between your thighs.

He takes his time with you, slowly peeling off the layers, admiring every inch of skin he’s seeing for the first time. Mapping the constellation of spots on you in his mind.

Kissing you slowly, he works his way from bottom to top, stopping right at your center. He eyes you for a second, gasping when you grab his hair and push him down, arching into his tongue.

“Zuko!” You yell.

By the time you reach your peak, he’s rubbed himself raw against the sheets, smiling and kissing you deeply as he lines himself up against you.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer and moan soundlessly when he pushes himself in, taking his mouth back in yours as he thrusts in and out, slow and shallow at first but then deeper, harder, taking his time with you.

Getting closer once more you whisper to him, watching as he increases his pace, groaning on top of you while the candles in his chamber flicker.

Perhaps this was one of the few duties you definitely enjoyed.

And judging by the darkness now in the chamber, he did too.

[ignominiousgirl]

Mark begging you not to break up with him

Tw: smut, sub!mark but also dom?? (switch ig), he’s down bad for you, you go at it from dusk till dawn, he wants you so bad, you can’t resist his puppy dog eyes.

─────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────────

It’s been months. You can’t remember the last time you went on a proper date. And god, you tried. You tried so hard to be understanding, to feel the weight of the world on his shoulders, to try and carry some of it with you.

But you were human.

And maybe humans and viltrumites couldn’t work out.

You wanted to do this over the phone, by text, anything that wouldn’t require you to see his face, but then he’d flown straight into your kitchen, boyish smile on his face, telling you he was off for the night.

Then was a good as time as any, you decide.

─────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────────

“P-please.” He begs, dropping to his knees.

Needless to say the breakup wasn’t going to plan.

He nuzzles his face into your stomach, and you feel it tighten at the look in his eyes.

“I’ll be so good.”

You blink.

You’re not sure how you got into your bed, naked, with Mark above you (you know exactly how—you couldn’t resist the tears in his eyes as he begged for one more chance to make things better)

“H-aaah.” He’s panting in your ear now, thrusting slow and hard, each one punctuating his promises.

“You’re mine.” Thrust.

“Never gonna… hnggg… let you go.” Thrust.

“Shittttt… do you feel how,” Thrust. “Deep I am?”

He pushes his palm against the bulge that forms in your stomach every time he pushes in and you thrash wildly, the pleasure becoming too much to bear.

“Mark!” You shout out, and his palm covers your mouth, thumb pressing down on your tongue. You moan around his digit, swirling your tongue around it like you would his cock and he groans, pulsing hard inside you.

“It’s okayyy… cmon,” his voice is low, and there’s a cadence in it that only comes out when he has you like this, shivering and crying on his cock.

“I got you, babe.” You’re unsure how long you’ve been fucking, how much time has passed, but you’re so close and so you redirect his other hand to your clit. He starts drawing small and fast circles on it, and you see white behind your eyes as you finally come.

When you come back to, he’s already cleaned you up and tucked you in, and he’s back in his suit, standing by the window.

“Mark?” You ask groggily.

“Uhm… it’s sunrise. Gotta get back to work.” He hesitates, seeing how your eyebrows scrunch.

You can see the decision weighing on him. So despite it being the reason you wanted to break up with him, the hurt it had caused you, you give him a small nod.

And in the blink of an eye, he’s gone.

[ignominiousgirl]

Let me know if you'd like to be added to my invincible taglist

[satorusdreamer]

Count rice, bitch!

Sypnosis: After a horrible night of going out, your friend leaves you stranded at the club. Going home, you encounter a certain white-haired man. When he gets too close and grins with those too-sharp teeth, you do the only logical thing your drunken mind can think of: throw a bag of rice at him.

Pairing: Vampire!Gojo x Human!reader

Tags/Content Warnings: MDNI/18+ only, SMUT SMUT SMUT!!! Porn with plot, a bit of fear play (c'mon, Satoru is a vampire, y'all have seen the way he was playing with those curses), compulsion (only to run away), usage of folklore, reader is lowk a dumb bitch (not bimbo like, just drunk), blood-drinking, dub-con (reader consenting to be bitten while drunk), oral (f receiving), unprotected P in V sex, classic 'it doesn't fit' trope, SIZE KINK SIZE KINK SIZE KINK, belly bulging, dacryphilia, permission to cum inside (hehe)

Word Count: 6.7k

A/N: Not proofread since I have a migraine, but I wanted to drop this before going to bed. Special thanks to @cactusvolumes for helping out <3 Dividers by @/pixopix & @/strangergraphic, art by @/somedeimi on x.

You’re stumbling out of the club, absolutely wasted. The world spins around you, pavement dipping to the side, despite it being flat. Your ankle rolls once, making you almost crash into a pole.

A laugh bubbles out of your throat before you can stop it. It vibrates on your tongue, just like the bass vibrated your bones while inside the club.

Why are you laughing again?

You fumble through your purse for your phone, trying to text your friend that' you’re outside. Fingers touching different things in your purse—a lipgloss, a loose tampon, your hairbrush, a bag that crinkles when the pads of your fingers skim over it, and finally your phone, the glass smooth against your fingertips.

Then the thought slams into you, unwelcome and sharp. ‘Naoya and I are dating now,’ your friend had whispered shouted in your ear while you were on the dancefloor with her. Your entire body locking up, hips freezing in place.

Right. That’s why you drank more than you should’ve. Your friend casually admitting she’s dating your piece-of-shit ex-boyfriend.

You lean your forehead against the cold metal of the pole. Another laugh slips out. This time dry and hollow. There’s nothing funny about any of this. The entire situation is fucked up.

She left the club not soon after she admitted to you about dating your ex, not satisfied with your reaction to her ‘news’. What a fucking bitch. You close your eyes, still leaning against the pole, and everything spins, as if you’re laundry in a dryer.

Opening your eyes you push off the pole. Taking three steps, you stumble again. Stupid fucking heels. With an annoyed grunt you crouch down to yank them off, only to promptly fall onto your ass. Huffing through your nose you sit down so you can better access your heels.

Eventually you wrangle the heels off. Standing again you brush down the back of your dress with one hand while the other dangles your shoes from your fingers.

This time you start walking home—still stumbling around, but no longer rolling your ankles with it.

The Tokyo streets glow with sodium lamps and neon signs that are blinking overhead. The streets are mostly empty, aside from a few stragglers and drunks passed out along the sidewalk.

It isn’t until ten minutes into your walk that you feel it—eyes. You glance around, confused. There’s no one you can see, just a small cat on the other side of the street that isn’t even watching you, finding more interest in it’s own paw. Shrugging you keep walking.

Five minutes later you cut into a narrow alley. A shortcut home you normally take after a night out with the girls, granted they are with you—safety in numbers or something. Your drunken mind isn’t really concerned with that right now, though. Your feet are cold, small stones digging into your toes where you’re walking, and you’re lucky you haven’t encountered something sharp yet.

A little bit further into the dark alley you feel it again, that heavy sense of being watched. Whipping your head around you see someone stand at the end of the alleyway. The person’s silhouette completely black, except for the stark white hair that’s illuminated by the streetlight from above. The second thing you note is how tall they are. And the third thing you notice is the eyes—they’re glowing. Piercing blue looking over at you.

He’s just… staring at you. But when he sees you looking at him, he takes a step towards you. Then another. And another. You back up, pointing a finger at him.

“Stay there!” you bark out, finger trembling slightly. “Stay,” you repeat, firmer. The man halts, one pale eyebrow lifting in amusement.

“That’s right. Good boy.” If you were sober, you’d cringe at calling a stranger good boy, but right now all you can think of is that you’re drunk, barefoot, in an alley, and this guy is, what—seven feet tall?

His face becomes clearer now, a bit of moonlight illuminating some of the planes of his face. His skin is porcelain-like, eyes like a kaleidoscope of every blue imaginable, and a smirk is on his face, clearly enjoying this entire interaction.

Right, you’re staring. You clear your throat. “I-I’m going now. You just… stay there.”

He only crosses his arms and leans against the wall, still watching. You slowly nod your head, taking a small step back. Okay, good, he’s staying right where he is. Where you told him to stay. Turning around you nearly scream bloody murder.

He’s right there.

A gasp slips from your lips, mouth dropping open while your eyes bug out of your skull. Did the alcohol in your system fuck you up so bad you somehow turned around slow enough for him to walk in front of you without you noticing it?

You crane your neck up to look at him, stumbling back slightly with the change of your head, before you steady yourself again. He’s smiling down at you, and it’s a nice smile, honestly. It would’ve been charming, if not for the fangs. They’re long, sharp, and very obvious.

Alarm bells blare in your head, muffled slightly by the badum badum badum of your heart in your ears. Impossibly blue eyes, inhuman speed, and now fangs.

“Vampire,” you whisper, voice barely audible.

The stranger’s smile widens. “Ding, ding, ding, sweetheart.”

You swallow hard, of course this would happen to you today out of all days, after being told your friend is fucking your ex and leaving you stranded, alone, in the club.

Your hand slips into your bag, fingers fumbling, digging, trying to search for the bag you had touched earlier that night. But the more you keep fumbling, the harder your heart is starting to beat. Did you make up the fact that you had the bag with you? He notices the motion, of course he does.

“Oh? Gonna pepper spray me? Call a friend?” there’s clear amusement in his voice, “Newsflash, sweetheart, I’m way too fast for that.”

Your fingers keep searching. Come on, come on, come on— There. The pads of your fingers skim over the plastic bag, and it crinkles under the motion. Bingo.

Your heart slams against your ribcage. God, please let that dumb folklore be right. You grab the bag an dump it onto the ground, a soft thud sounds through the alley as thousands of rice grains scatter across the tiles.

The vampire’s head snaps down. He stares for a few seconds, blinks, then crouches. He mutters something under his breath and begins to count, fast—really fucking fast.

You stare at this seven-foot, hulking creature for a few more seconds. Then you take one step back, and another, and another. Then you run, feet pounding against the floor down the alley.

You risk a glance over your shoulder, just hoping he isn’t fast enough to count all of that within seconds. Big mistake. He’s still counting, luckily. But… he looks kind of cute doing it, nevermind the part where he’s a seven-foot vampire.

You slow down, feet coming to a halt, before you turn back and walk up just enough to grab your phone from where it fell onto the ground.

Click.

He doesn’t look up, but the twitch of his fingers tell you he heard it. “Cute.”

Gojo has never seen something like this before. He didn’t expect to be pelted with grains of rice by a cute drunk girl he’d set his sights on the moment she stumbled out of the club. Worse, he has the compelling urge to count them all. He isn’t sure why, all he knows is that he has to count them.

It’s something he’ll look into when he gets home.

It was a smart move on your part, clearly having read some sort of vampire lore before—unless you throw rice at every creep you encounter. However you came back, feet still bare, one of your heels lay abandoned further down the alleyway.

Then you whispered something about how cute he was, as if he isn’t a whole seven feet of vampire.

Now? Now you’re sitting across from him, feet still bare and dirty with grime and small pebbles stuck to your toes—how you haven’t noticed is beyond him—heel danling from your fingers, and your dress is riding up your thighs.

You’re mumbling incoherently about your ex and your friend, not that he’s paying attention to it, all his focus is on the stupid grains of rice.

He isn’t sure why you aren’t running. You know he’s a vampire, having seen his speed, his fangs, his eyes—hell, you even whispered it, vampire. Yet you’re still sitting here, in front of him, as if you’re keeping him company.

He knows you’re drunk, he can smell it on your breath, and if that wasn’t the dead giveaway then the stumbling and walking back to a fucking vampire would be. No one would do that shit when they’re sober.

You’re recounting a story about your ex now, gesturing wildly into the cool night-air. He’s had to restart his count a total of three times already because you keep distracting him. The first time you accidentally kicked the pile when you went to sit down, apologising to him for fucking it up.

The second time you ‘accidentally’ smacked his arm when telling him something. You’d said it was accidental because you were gesturing, but he thinks it’s because he wasn’t paying attention to your story.

He can only hope that the third time just works out for him, because he really wants to sink his fangs into your glistening skin—apart from the sweat you’d certainly built up in the club there’s something else to it, maybe a shimmer you’d applied before leaving for the club earlier today.

He only has a few hundred grains of rice left when your phone rings. And just like anything else tonight, you pick it up without any hesitation.

Gojo can hear a man on the other side of the line, saying something snarky. He isn’t tuned into the conversation, but his ears could hear everything if he wanted to, but he’s still counting, and he’d rather focus on that and finally feed himself than listen to whatever is being said by you or the man.

3124 3125 3126 3127… He’s about to count the last grain of rice when you suddenly flip the phone to him, screen illuminating his skin in a mix of blue and green. 3159 grains of rice, all counted.

He finally looks up and sees a guy filling your screen. Faux blond hair with green roots, brown eyes, and a smirk on his face that quickly morphs into something else. Then you turn your phone back to yourself, slurring out a, “See, ‘m with someone. Now leave m’ alone, asshole.”

Gojo hears the call disconnect, sees the way your screen goes dark. The only light illuminating your skin now is the pale moonlight. Then you take a deep breath and promptly fling yourself backward onto the ground.

“See what I have to deal with?” your eyes find his, a small pout formed on your face while your brows furrow. Gojo doesn’t say anything, just looks at you with those piercing blue eyes. He crosses his arms over his chest and clears his throat. “I’m gonna give you a twenty-second head start, sweetheart. If I were you I’d take it.”

Your brows furrow in confusion this time, nose crinkling slightly. God, you really forgot, didn’t you?

He heaves a sigh and opens his mouth just enough to show his fangs. They glint in the moonlight, showing of just how sharp they are. You squint your eyes a bit, then they open wide again.

“Vampire,” you whisper again, voice fully trembling. But then you groan, it rumbles through your chest a bit, and kick your feet a little. “I don’ wanna runnnn.”

Gojo has to close his eyes for a second and take a deep breath. He likes the chase that comes from when people are afraid of him. Likes it even more when his prey think they can outrun him. They can’t, but he sure does like having them believe they can. Blood always tastes sweeter when there’s a hint of fear involved, after all.

He opens his eyes again and looks straight at you. Then he leans in a little, breath just shy of ghosting the shell of your ear.

“Run,” he whispers, voice sticky sweet as honey. He can see the way your eyes gloss over a bit. Then you’re scrambling upward, and dart out of the alley—your other heel clattering to the ground.

Gojo, true to his word, waits a full twenty seconds. Then he’s in front of you again, making you yelp and dash away again, stumbling over your own feet a little, crashing into the wall, scraping your hand on the rough stones.

The cat and mouse game continues for what he thinks is a full ten minutes. He can hear your heart pounding, blood rushing through your body, and your whispers of ‘Please don’t kill me, I’m way too hot’ and ‘I should’ve stayed home’ and ‘He is kinda cute, though.’

He ignores that last one.

It isn’t until you stumble up the steps of a house where he catches you. His broad chest pressed to your back, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, fingers dipping into your sides,, while the other is planted next to your head on the door.

“Gotcha,” he whispers into your hair. You’re trembling in his grip, knees almost buckling out form under you. You’re pressed flat against the front door of your house.

You were so close, all you had to do was open it and you would’ve been fine.

You can feel the way his pecs are squished against your back. He’s hunched over you, entire frame leaning down so he can nose against your hair. His muscles are bulging out of his shirt, making you press your thighs together.

It’s a weird mixture of fear and arousal that’s shooting through you. You know he’s a vampire, know he can kill you in an instant—and maybe he will drain you of all your blood—but he’s also so tall. His entire hand splayed out over your tummy now.

He chuckles when he notices the way you’re pressing your thighs together. His cold breath fanning over your skin, almost like a night breeze caressing your face. “You gonna let me in, sweets?”

You know you shouldn’t. Know you should try to get out of his cold, undead grip as fast as you can. The door is right there, one step and you’d be free of him. One big step, you’d just have to get out of his grasp. Sure he has bulging muscles and probably inhuman strength, but you can twist your way out of this, can’t you? Just do a little shimmy and free yourself.

The big hand that’s on your stomach can’t possibly keep you right there, pressed against him, can it? Nevermind the fact that he has such thick forearms and biceps and triceps even Greek Gods would be jealous of.

Turning a bit to the left, you try to see if you have any wiggle room, only for him to chuckle once more. His fingers dig into your flesh a bit harder now, indenting the skin where he touches you. Welp, there goes your plan, straight out the window.

“Promise not to kill me?” You don’t dare to look at him, afraid his eyes will put you under a spell yet again. You know you should’ve ran the first time he told you to, but you were too out of your mind to fully grasp the situation. “Mhmm, just want some of your blood.”

That seems… reasonable enough. You fumble with your keys slightly, still trembling in your grip, the keys and keychains clinking against each other. It’s the only sound in the entire street, everyone else already being in bed—which is no surprise, considering you left the club at… three or something like that.

When you finally slot your keys into the hole, you twist it open, pushing the door open to your dark hallway.

You’re about to set a foot into your house when the guy tugs you back against his chest. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Right, he’s a vampire and not just some random hookup you dragged home. A very handsome vampire, though. If you’re going out, at least it’s by a hottie. Oh fuck, he really can just kill you. I mean, he just said he wouldn’t, but he can lie about it. Then again, he could’ve killed you ten times over already.

“What’s your name?” That seems to catch him off-guard. Blinking a few times, those baby blues looking you over in wonder a few times, and you can’t help but melt into him a bit—only for you to stand up straight again when you feel how fucking cold he is.

“Satoru,” is all he mumbles out, fangs poking out slightly. He really is cute for a terrifying creature.

Nodding your head you nudge the door open even further, extending your hand into your house with a flourish. “Come in, Satoru.”

The next second you’re picked up before he all but throws you onto your couch, your body bouncing a bit before he’s on you. A yelp leaves your lips, heart pounding out of your ribs, fingers shaking slightly, breaths heavy.

Right, he is a vampire with inhuman speed and strength. Your pupils dilate a bit, hairs standing on edge when he grins down at you with those too-sharp canines. His eyes almost seem to glow in this moment, face shadowed completely.

You’re frozen in place, reality settling in like someone poured a cold cup of water over your head to sober you up.

You just invited a vampire into your house. To drink your blood. Way to fucking go.

“Ready, sweets?” He murmurs down at you, picking up your hand where it lies limp beside you on the couch, pulse hammering in your ears. He brings your fingers up to his mouth, before wrapping his lips around the bloodied appendages, tongue laving over the wounds there. You’d honestly forgotten you even had them—too busy running away from him to notice just how scratched up your clammy palms were.

His saliva stings your skin, making you pull away, only for him to hold your wrist in place. He licks a broad stripe from your palms up to your fingers, leaving behind a red trail—blood and saliva mixed together.

When you don’t answer he grins a bit wider, lips slightly red by your blood. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

With that he surges forward, one strong arm wrapping around your waist to keep you from squirming while the other quickly brushes away the hairs that are falling over your shoulder. His fangs puncture your skin just above your collarbone, and it feels like your nerves are on fire.

Your mouth opens in a scream, only to have it clamped shut by a big palm. Tears spring to your eyes, fat drops falling down the apples of your cheeks before they drip from your jawline onto the couch below.

You can feel the way your blood is leaving you. Satoru is sucking on the wound hard enough to make your eyes roll to the back of your skull—not in pleasure, but in pain. Pure agony running through your veins now.

From all the vampire lore, you whished the aphrodisiac bite was at least true. But instead of pleasure surging through you, it’s pain. Pure pain. You can feel the way your body jerks from the sensation, but Satoru just tightens his hold onto you, pushing you further into the couch.

The last thing you see before the dark takes ahold of you is the blue glow emitting from his eyes, casting the two of you in a soft, blue glare, making his pale hair stand out against the darkness of the room.

You wake up surrounded by softness. Blinking a few times you register just where you are—your own bed. Your pillow is soft and fluffy under your head, and your blanket is keeping you warm. Your head is absolutely pounding, a dull thud behind your eyes making you groan.

Just how much did you have to drink last night?

Thinking back on the night before, you can remember bits and pieces. You went out with your friend to celebrate… something, only for her to leave you alone at the club later that night.

Why did she leave you alone again?

Racking your brain, you try to fill in the gaps as good as you can. You remember drinking and dancing. Hips moving to the beat—well you tried to, but you probably were off-beat if you’re going to be honest—while your friend was laughing with you.

Then she leaned forward with a smile on her face and murmured something in your ear. What the fuck did she say that she had to leave?

You furrow your brows, closing your eyes once more. Right, right, it’s coming all back to you now. She told you she was dating Naoya out of all people. Even after you’d told her every minute detail about that scumbag, she still chose to be with him, destroying your trust in the process.

Fucking bitch. And then she just up and left you there to get home by yourself.

Okay, now you know why your head is pounding—having drank waayyy too much alcohol to at least have a good night by yourself. But how did you get home?

You pat around your bed to search for your phone, twisting your neck to look to your left side, only for a hiss to leave your lips when you feel just how much your neck hurts. Your hand shoots to the spot, only to find gauze under your fingertips.

Gauze? Why is there gauze on your neck out of all places.

You rub your head with your other hand, only to feel small scabs on your fingertips. Opening your eyes you look at your hand, only to see it being scabbed over at some places.

Right, you scratched your hand on the wall when running away from that cute vampire. …Wait, what??

Sitting up you look around your room, to hopefully see said vampire, but he’s nowhere to be found. A laugh bubbles up in your chest and leaves your lips. A vampire, how stupid is that. Your drunken mind probably made all of that up.

Seeing a weird silhouette in an alleyway sure is scary, so you just began to run back home. Yeah, yeah that must be it. Your drunken mind having conjured up a whole story about a guy that doesn’t exist. Vampires aren’t real; they’re just myths made up to scare children.

So why is there gauze on your collarbone?

Your head is pounding all the same, these silly questions surely can wait until after you had some water, or coffee.

Standing up you’re about to walk downstairs when you hear someone… humming? Your shoulders immediately tense up, feet planting themselves in their place. Why is there someone in your house?

Grabbing the nearest object—a vase with fake flowers, because nowadays it’s too much to ask guys to get you some flowers—you tiptoe down the stairs, careful to not make a sound. It’s one thing if there’s someone in your house, it’s another when they know you’re there.

On the last step you hear someone call out to you. “Oh, you’re awake. That’s good!”

You nearly drop the vase in shock, fingers slipping slightly, before you tighten your grip again. Your heart hammering out of your chest, goosebumps littering your skin, and before you can even do anything, a tall, white-haired man walks into view.

And suddenly everything from last night slams back into you. No, your mind hadn’t simply made up Satoru, it’s real. The gauze on your throat a bitter reminder that there are, in fact, vampires roaming the earth.

“What the fuck are you still doing in my house?” you ask him, setting the vase down onto your kitchen counter before walking up to him. You poke your finger against his arm, testing to see if he really is real, or if you might still be drunk. “You’re real, right?”

Gojo just chuckles at you, his fangs poking through his lips at your question. His fingers wrap themselves around your wrist—ice cold to the touch, making you tremble slightly from just how cold they are—stopping you from poking him any further.

“Duh, you can’t make up a face this pretty.” He gestures to his face with a small pout on his face. Okay, conceited much. You scrunch your nose up at that, looking him dead in the eye—the same eyes that glowed last night while he was feasting on you - is that the correct term? You’re not sure, but you don’t really care, either.

“As for your question, I stayed because I might’ve drained you a bit too much. The alcohol in your system made your blood thinner, so I had a harder time gauging just how much I drank. So I stayed to be certain you wouldn’t pass awa— anyway. Alcohol makes your blood taste bitter, by the way, Certainly didn’t help you weren’t as afraid as I wanted you to be,” he mumbles that last part under his breath.

“Not as afraid as you wanted me to be? I thought my heart was gonna crawl out of my mouth— can you let go of me? You’re cold as fuck,” you try to tug your wrist out of his grasp, only for him to tighten it just slightly, slender fingers enclosing around your wrist.

Grinning he leans down slightly, back hunched just slightly as he looks you in the eye. “Why? You didn’t seem to mind me touching you last night.”

You inhale sharply, the memory of him pressed against your back flooding your mind. His strong chest pressed against your back while his hand was splayed out over your tummy making you all hot and bothered— no, you can’t think like this, fucking stop it.

“Yeah, well, that was just me being drunk,” you mumble out.

He takes a step forward, and another, while you walk backwards, until your back hits the wall. The wall scratching your back slightly, straightening your spine. His hand plants itself next to your head, leaning forward until his nose is almost brushing yours. “You sure that’s all it was? I’m hurt, sweets. You’re saying you don’t find me cute anymore?”

Gulping you press your thighs together, your panties damp under your sleeping shorts, core hot and achy. There’s no denying he’s hot—not quite cute as you called him last night—but should you really do this? He’s a vampire, hot, sure, but still a bloodsucking creature. His grin widens when his eyes flick down to your thighs.

You know you shouldn’t do this. It’s irresponsible, downright stupid, but you can’t deny to yourself that he’s making you horny by just existing.

And suddenly a thought enters your mind, like someone whispered in your ear. Your friend—now ex-friend—is dating your ex. It makes your stomach flip a few times, trying to make sense of the situation you’re in right now.

Fuck it.

Your hands find his pecs that are flexed with the way he’s standing, fabric doing little to hide them. Your finger trails down to his abdomen where you can feel the clearly built muscles. You bat your lashes at him, tilting your head just slightly. “And what if I said I thought you were hot?”

“Then I’d ask to have another taste— a different taste this time,” he murmurs down at you. That’s all you needed, fisting the fabric of his shirt and pulling him down to meet you. Lips crashing against each other in a messy battle of teeth and tongue.

He groans into your mouth, carefully nipping at your lower lip, puncturing it slightly. He sucks on the little droplets of blood before he claims your mouth once more. Copper filling your taste buds, making you moan out slightly.

Then he suddenly picks you up, hands under your thighs while yours find purchase at his broad shoulders, clutching onto them, nails digging into his skin just slightly. He chuckles against your mouth, “I’m not going to drop you.”

And true to his word, he doesn’t drop you, but he does bring you upstairs at speeds you’ve never dreamed of having. He carefully lays you down onto the bed, matrass groaning under both your weight just slightly.

His lips disconnect from yours, and he has to keep himself from groaning out at the sight of your bloodied, kiss-bitten lips. All swollen for him. Gojo peppers featherlight kisses down your throat, until they find the gauze just above your collarbone.

Yelping you look down at him. He’s grinning up at you, blue eyes crinkling slightly while he carefully places another kiss onto the gauze. “That hurts, dickhead.”

“Hmmm, just showing my little blood bag some appreciation,” he purrs before his lips trail further down, all the way until he’s seated onto the floor, cold breath ghosting on your thighs, leaving behind slight goosebumps. “I’m not your personal blood bag.”

He just winks up at you before pressing a kiss to the fat of your thigh. Then one a little higher, another one to the apex of your thigh, and one on your hipbone. You’re squirming out at the feeling of his lips—cold to the touch, but oh so careful.

His fingers hook around your pajama shorts, looking up at you for permission. When you nod he pulls them off you, leaving you in your panties. His pupils dilate when they see the wet spot, “You’re soaked. All this for me?”

Rolling your eyes you look down at him, leaning on your elbows. “How about you touch me instead of being such a conc— oh fuck,” your head lolls back onto your shoulderblades, eyes fluttering shut slightly. His thumb presses onto your clit.

“What was that, sweetheart?” he chuckles when you moan out at the pressure he applies through your panties, thumb circling your twitchy clit. “That’s what I thought.”

He leans down to lick a broad stripe over your panties, moaning out at the taste of you—so sweet, and oh, how he wishes you weren’t drunk last night so he could’ve had a taste of this pussy earlier—lips wrapping around your nub and sucking on it slightly.

“Shit. Fuck— Satoru, right there,” your hand finds his head, fingers threading through his silky locks, pulling on them slightly when he sucks even harder, cheeks hollowing out. Pleasure shoots right through your core, thighs threatening to snap shut. Something that doesn’t go unnoticed by the white-haired man under you, big palms clasping your thighs and keeping them spread riiight open for him. “Just get those panties out of the way already!”

He releases his lips with a pop, making you sigh out. Grinning up at you, one of his fingers comes up to your swollen folds, rubbing them slightly—still with that damn fabric in the way.

“Someone’s eager. You want me to get rid of these cute panties?” He tilts his head slightly before his fingers creep further upwards,, until they hook into them, making you think he’s finally going to get them off you. Instead he pulls the fabric upward, stretching it over your poor twitchy cunt, “But they look so good on you— yeahhh look at that.”

His eyes are zeroed in on where the fabric disappears between your pussy lips slightly, stretching the fabric even further until you’re pushing at his head, whining out.

“Please, please just get them off,” you whine out, tears gathering in your eyes from the way he’s just playing with you, taking his sweet time while your hole is pulsing around nothing. He chuckles once more before letting the fabric snap! against your skin, having you gasp out.

“Guess I should give this pretty pussy what she deserves, huh?” He gives a few taps to your clit, thighs twitching with each pass of his fingers, before he finally hooks a finger around the gusset and pulls it aside, revealing your cunt to the open air.

Without any preamble he dives in, tongue flat against your twitchy clit. Your back immediately arches with the swipe of his tongue—this time without any fabric between the muscle and your aching clit.

One of his slender, cold fingers plunges itself into your soppy hole. Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging on it slightly, moaning out at the intrusion. “Fuck— right there.”

He thrusts his finger in and out of you before adding another one. The cold touch such a stark contrast to your hot, needy core it has you keen out. Your legs are trembling in his hold, one of them still spread open by his other hand, while your own creeps down to hold your other leg open for him.

“Such a good girl,” he mumbles out against your core, pleasure shooting through you. He curls those long digits inside of you, trying to find that one spot inside of you while he very lightly nips on your clit, your walls clamping down on his digits. His fingers keep thrusting and curling inside of you, finding finding findi— you loudly moan into the air, head thrown back. Found it.

“F-fuck, Satoru, keep them there ‘m so close,” you sob out, thighs tensing up slightly while he continuously hits your g-spot with perfect precision. Your orgasm crashes over you, tiny fireworks exploding in your tummy. “Cumming— cumming.”

He stays down there, lapping up the slick that’s gushing out of you. Cold tongue dipping into your hole alongside his fingers, opening you up even further for him.

You go limp in his hold a minute later, and he finally detaches himself from your mound—lips shiny with spit and your arousal. Then he pulls his fingers from your hole, stringy juices webbing between his fingers when he spreads them, looking at them in wonder, before putting them in his mouth and moaning out at the sweet, sweet taste that’s you.

“Think you’re ready for me, baby?” He stands up already unbuckling his belt, and you have to swallow once you see his bulge. Fuck. He’s ginormous. You shouldn’t be surprised, this guy is seven-feet tall, everything about him is enormous compared to you, but still you can’t help the way your eyes are almost bulging out of your skull.

He pulls out his cock—angry, red tip swollen and glistening with pre—and wraps his fist around it, giving it a few tugs.

“That’s not gonna fit inside of me,” you blurt out, eyes transfixed on where his hand is still wrapped around his dick. He smirks at that, of course he does. He’s probably heard it a million times before, but of course you had to say it.

He leans forward, tip nudging your clit, coating himself in your arousal. “Relax, it’s gonna fit.”

Gulping you lay back slightly, opening your legs even further to accommodate him. He smiles at that, one hand clamping around your waist while the other guides his member towards your entrance. Taking a deep breath in, he pushes inside your fluttering walls.

A high-pitched moan leaves your lips, sweat breaking on your skin. The stretch is unbelievable—your walls fluttering uselessly around him, and this was just the tip. He hisses at the feeling of your walls clamping down on him—yes, actually hisses, fangs on full display. “Fuck, loosen up baby.”

His fingers come down to your sensitive clit, rubbing on it to keep you distracted from the intrusion—not that it helps. He pushes another inch inside of you, and tears are starting to spill down from your eyes, disappearing into your hairline.

Gojo looks at you, blue eyes almost completely black now. He can feel the way his dick twitches when he sees your tears. Leaning forward he balances on one forearm, tongue lapping up your tears, groaning at the salty taste of your tears.

“You’re too big,” you squeal, hand uselessly pushing against his abdomen. He merely presses a kiss to your cheek, then to the corner of your mouth, and finally his lips claim yours, tongue tracing the seam of your sealed lips.

He stays still like that for a little while, letting you get used to the way he’s stretching you out. When he feels you loosen up slightly he pulls his hips back until just his tip remains and pushes back in again, a bit further this time.

You moan out into his mouth, legs wrapping themselves around his waist, and your hands entangle themselves in his hair. “That’s it, knew you could do it.”

With a few more thrusts he finally bottoms out, his hips meeting yours. Tears are flowing free down your face and he has to resist the urge to just bite you with how cute you looked. Fuck, what he wouldn’t do to get a taste of you again—your blood surely much sweeter now.

He looks down, only to grin. Would you look at that. “Look down, sweetheart. See how well you’re taking me?” he grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger and angles your head down. Blinking a few times you look down and—oh! The print of his cock fully visible, bulging your tummy where he’s buried.

“You’re so deep,” you mumble out, slight awe in your voice, only for a broken moan to leave your lips seconds later. Gojo pulls out and thrusts back in, tip smooching your cervix. Again. And again. And again.

A creamy ring starting to circle around his base, balls slapping against your ass with each harsh thrust. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, leaving behind crescent shaped marks. You’re sobbing out into his neck, vision blurring slightly.

“Mhmm, I know.” He presses down onto your stomach where he can feel his own cock through your womb, and it has you keen out even more. Moans and groans and the lewd plap plap plap! of his hips fill the room.

Your legs begin to tremble, cock plummeting in and out of your soppy hole, the squelch it makes has your face heat up, a pretty blush forming on your face as you feel yourself near your second orgasm. After a few more thrusts, you come around him, clear liquid gushing out of you, spraying onto his abdomen, thighs and the sheets below you. Your vision whites out completely while your back arches, mouth forming an ‘o’ that you can’t seem to close.

Satoru hisses when he feels your walls clamp down onto his girth, speeding up his thrusts slightly. “Fuck, lemme cum inside, please.”

Your mind doesn’t register his request at first, too busy trembling around him. It’s only when he starts whining that you take note of his request. “Yes, yes ‘toru. ‘S okay.”

“Shit- need you to say it. Say it out loud for me, pretty,” he pleads with you, his own thighs tensing up slightly. “Y-you can cum inside, S’toru.”

That’s all it takes. He thrusts once more before stilling, his fat tip snug against your cervix while he spills inside of you. Ropes of cum keep coming, emptying his balls inside your greedy cunt completely. His forehead dropping down to yours.

The two of you lay there for a few moments, trying to catch your breath—well, it’s just you who has to catch their breath, but Satoru stays there for you—and calm down slightly.

“Soooo, you need permission to cum inside too, huh?” you giggle at the seven-foot vampire. He just groans, eyes fluttering shut. “Shut up.”

Perm tags: @tojiscreampie @etheralpanic @yoonsucks @liliklei

JJK tags: @mousedit @sugurusbadhabit @cactusvolumes @satorusdollie @kcandy-flosz

©CursedKisss do not copy, steal, plagiarize, or feed my works into AI. I will send Mahito after you if you do.

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[ignominiousgirl]

OMFGGGGG ughhhh

[ignominiousgirl]

hey bbg <3

love your writing, esp the last one im dying from the lack of gn/m!reader fics!!

just a question not a req persay, but do you write m!reader at all? or is gn the farthest youll go?

Hiii, you’re actually my first ask lol

Thank you! I can’t say I’m well versed in m!reader but I’d sure as hell give it a try. Send me some prompts and I’ll be happy to put something out <3

[ignominiousgirl]

Mark Grayson who...

NSFW under the cut

─────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────────

Mark Grayson who when you first get into a relationship, is the best boyfriend you could have asked for. He goes the full nine yards, flowers, dates, everything you could ask for and more.

Mark Grayson who changes, a few months into it, becoming more distant, tired-looking, exhausted and irritable.

Mark Grayson who doesn't confide in you, let's you imagine the worst of the worst as he broods alone in his room, coming home at odd hours of the night and leaving before you could say goodbye.

Mark Grayson who, everyone else seems to know what's up with him but you, so when you finally break and tell him to "just tell me what the fuck is going on." he stammers and runs his fingers through his hair, telling you the truth.

Mark Grayson who, all this time was invincible. Who didn't trust you enough to tell you. Or at least that's what you think. The truth is, the truth has only ever hurt those closest to him, and he didn't want it to hurt you.

Mark Grayson who, although still bruised from his last fight, comforts you, holds you close as you cry in his arms, feels his breath hitch when you say "i could've been there for you."

Mark Grayson who kisses you, a thousand promises on his tongue that he knows he won't be able to fulfils. You don't know it, but every cut you suffer is a thousand he bears.

Mark Grayson who whispers apologies on your skin, breathes his every thought onto you, pushing you back into the bed.

Mark Grayson who lets you take your frustrations out on him, knowing he can take it, wishing he were fully human so he could feel it even more.

Mark Grayson who moans when you pull his hair, who let's you take what you want from him without complaint. Who surrenders to your every whim.

Mark Grayson who cries, actually cries when you finally sink down onto him, and realises he's been holding all this tension of trying to protect, of never letting his guard down, and that he would never have to do that with you.

Mark Grayson who cums quickly, shuddering as he holds you down on his cock while you milk him, still shaking even after he's done.

Mark Grayson who holds you still when you try to get off and begs you to stay like that, with him as close to you as you can get, and wraps his arms around you, falling asleep when you agree.

Mark Grayson who didn't ask for such great responsibility, but did ask for you, and would do everything in his power to keep you his.

And he was entirely yours.

[lovee-potions]

JUST RELAX

PAIRING(S) — mark grayson x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS — (req) you help mark relax after a fight

CONTENT — 18+ minors dni | established relationship, whiny!mark, pet names (baby), calls reader beautiful a couple of times, grinding, oral (m! receiving), cum swallowing, fingering (f! receiving), nipple play, size kink, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), multiple orgasms, missionary position, creampie. let me know if i’ve missed anything!

WC — 5.2k

NOTE — who would've thought that having two red bulls at one in the morning makes you horny...

MASTERLIST

You were sprawled across your bed, one knee bent, thumb flicking lazily through your phone as the soft glow of the screen painted your room in dim blue light. Everything was quiet, the kind of peaceful quiet that made the world feel far away for a little while.

Then came a sharp bump against your window. Your head snapped up and for a second, all you could see was the dark outline of the glass, and then movement—a figure shifting awkwardly outside, one hand pressed to the window frame, the other rubbing at his head.

Your eyes widened. “Mark?”

On the other side of the window, he gave you a small, sheepish wave. Even in the low light, you could tell immediately that he was roughed up. There were cuts along his cheek, bruising darkening one side of his jaw, and his suit was torn in more than one place, fabric stretched and scraped. Nothing looked horrible, but enough to make your stomach drop anyway.

You were off the bed in an instant, crossing the room so fast your phone nearly slipped from your hand. “Hold on.”

Your fingers fumbled with the lock for half a second before the window finally gave way. Cold air rushed in, brushing against your bare legs, and only then did it really hit you—you weren’t dressed for company.

Just one of his oversized t-shirts, the fabric hanging loose and soft around you, sleeves slipping past your elbows. It was comfortable, familiar—something you hadn’t thought twice about until now.

Mark ducked inside, landing a little clumsily before straightening up—then freezing. For a split second, his brain completely short-circuited. His eyes flicked up, then very quickly away, like he didn’t know where he was supposed to look. The tips of his ears went red almost instantly, and he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly very aware of everything at once—your room, how close he was, and the fact that you were wearing his shirt.

“Oh—uh—hey,” he said, which was probably the least helpful thing he could have come up with.

You blinked at him. “Hi? You just crashed into my window.”

“Right. Yeah. That—” He gestured vaguely behind him, like that explained anything, before risking another glance at you—and immediately regretting it. “Sorry. I didn’t— I didn’t think—”

“That I’d be wearing clothes?” you shot back, half incredulous, half amused despite the situation.

“No! I mean—yes! No, that’s not—” He stopped, squeezing his eyes shut for a second. “That came out wrong.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, shaking your head as you stepped aside to let him properly in. “You’re unbelievable.”

He exhaled, still a little flustered, but the moment didn’t last long. “Since when did you lock your window?” he asked, like that was the biggest issue right now.

You stared at him. “Since—since always?! Mark, what happened to you?”

He glanced down at himself like he’s only just noticing. “Oh. Uh… it’s nothing. Just a… rough day.”

“‘Nothing’ does not look like that,” you said sharply, folding your arms across your chest. “You’re hurt.”

He opened his mouth, probably to argue, but you were already stepping closer, scanning him with obvious worry. His face was a mess of little scrapes, and there was a smear of dirt across his suit that made it look like he’d been thrown through half the city and back again. He looked more embarrassed than anything, which almost made it worse.

You reached out before you could think better of it, catching his arm gently and checking him over with careful hands. “What happened?”

“Long night,” he said, trying for casual and landing somewhere near pathetic.

You narrowed your eyes. “That is not an answer.”

His shoulders lifted in the smallest shrug. “Got thrown into a building. Twice.”

Your expression sharpened. “Mark.”

“I said I’m okay.”

“You do not get to say ‘I’m okay’ while looking like that.”

That finally pulled a soft laugh from him, brief and breathy, the kind that made it obvious he knew he’d lost this argument before it even started. He braced one hand against your dresser for balance, looking at you with that familiar guilty little tilt to his smile that somehow made it harder to stay annoyed at him.

“Okay,” he admitted. “Fair.”

You shook your head, already turning toward your desk, tugging open the drawer and grabbing your first-aid kit. “Sit down before you fall over.”

He let out a quiet sigh, but he did as he was told, lowering himself onto the edge of your bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, and he rested his forearms on his knees for a second, like even sitting took more effort than usual.

You knelt in front of him, setting the kit beside you and finally getting a proper look. From this close, there was no ignoring it anymore—the small cuts scattered across his face, the bruises already beginning to darken beneath his skin, the faint smear of dried blood near his eyebrow. It made something in your chest tighten in a way you didn’t like.

Mark noticed the way you were looking at him, and one of his brows lifted in that familiar, teasing way.

“Keep it in your pants, tough guy,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as you reached for antiseptic.

You grabbed a cotton pad, dabbing it carefully with antiseptic before leaning closer. “This is gonna sting.”

“I’ve had worse,” he said lightly.

“Yeah?” you murmured, tilting your head slightly. “Try not flinching, then.”

You pressed the pad gently against the cut and he flinched. You stopped, pulling back just enough to look at him, one brow raising in silent judgment.

“…Okay, that one stung,” he admitted, a little sheepish now.

A small, reluctant smile tugged at your lips, but it faded quickly as your fingers brushed against the torn edge of his suit. The fabric was rough under your touch, split enough to reveal unmarked skin beneath—thankfully.

“You need to take this off,” you said, quieter now, more serious as you tugged lightly at the damaged material.

For a second, he didn’t say anything. His gaze dropped to where your hand rested against his suit, then flicked back up to your face, something uncertain passing through his expression.

“I mean—yeah, I was going to, just—” He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at something sore. “You don’t have to—like—I can—”

You huffed a quiet breath, shaking your head as you reached up, fingers finding the edge of the tear near his shoulder. “Just—hold still.”

There was a brief hesitation before he nodded, shoulders relaxing—just a little—as he let his arms drop to his sides. Carefully, you peeled the torn fabric back, trying not to make it worse. The material resisted slightly before giving way, exposing more of his shoulder and upper chest. 

You reached for the antiseptic again and dabbed carefully at the scrape near his cheek, your hand steady even if your heart wasn’t quite as calm as you wanted it to be. He watched you from beneath his lashes, quieter now, and for a second neither of you said anything at all.

Then, very softly, he asked, “Are you mad?”

You glanced up at him. “What?”

The question caught you off guard. You slowed your hands, looking at him properly now instead of just the cuts and bruises.

“Mark,” you said, a little gentler than before, “I’m not mad.”

He studied your face like he was checking for a lie.

You sighed and set the cotton pad down for a moment. “I’m worried. There’s a difference.”

Something in his expression eased at that, just slightly, like he had been braced for something harsher and didn’t quite know what to do with being met with concern instead.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

You picked the pad back up. “Although I may be a little mad that you keep pretending you’re fine when you look like this.”

He gave a tiny, tired smile. “That’s fair.”

And this time, when you dabbed at the next cut, he only winced a little. Mark was quiet for a moment after that, his jaw tightening in a way you recognised immediately. It was the same look he got whenever he was trying to swallow down something he did not want to say out loud. You were still holding the cotton pad in one hand, but he had gone tense beneath your touch, his shoulders pulled tight and his gaze fixed stubbornly somewhere past your shoulder.

Then he exhaled sharply through his nose and muttered, “This fight was so stupid.”

You frowned, lowering the cotton pad. “Mark—”

“No, seriously.” His voice came out rougher now, edged with frustration that hadn’t been there a second ago. He dragged a hand back over his face, careful of the cuts, then dropped it into his lap with a sound of pure irritation. “It was completely preventable. I should have seen it coming. I should have handled it differently. I shouldn’t even have been there that long, and now I show up here looking like this because I messed up.”

His words came faster as he spoke, like once he’d started, he couldn’t quite stop. He looked angry, but not really at you or even at the situation. Mostly, he looked angry at himself.

“I mean, what was I even doing?” he went on, shaking his head once. “I had it. I just— I could’ve stopped it sooner. I could’ve avoided half of that if I’d just been paying more attention.”

You set the antiseptic down before his spiraling got any worse, your chest tightening a little at the sound of his voice. It was that awful kind of frustration he got when he was trying to hold himself responsible for everything, even things no one person could have perfectly controlled.

“Mark,” you said softly.

He gave a short, humorless laugh and looked away. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Your expression softened, but he wasn’t looking at you anymore.

“Don’t do the whole ‘it’s okay, you did your best’ thing.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, then winced and immediately regretted it. “Because it doesn’t matter. It still happened.”

You stared at him for a second, then set everything aside carefully. “Hey.”

He looked up, though he still looked annoyed with himself, like he was expecting you to argue and was already bracing for it. Instead, you reached out and cupped his face in both hands.

Mark froze in an instant. It was almost ridiculous the way all the tension in him seemed to stutter to a halt. His eyes widened slightly, his mouth parting as he stared at you, and for once he looked completely caught off guard.

“Hey,” you repeated, quieter but more insistent. You kept your hands gentle, thumbs brushing lightly over his cheekbones. “You need to stop doing that.”

He blinked, caught off guard, his words cutting off mid-thought. “I can’t just—”

“Yes, you can,” you said. “You’re spiralling.”

His brows pulled together. “I’m not—"

“You are,” you said gently. “And you’re being way harder on yourself than you deserve.”

He shook his head slightly, but your hands kept him there, grounded.

“You didn’t see it,” he argued, softer now but still tense. “You don’t know how easy it would’ve been to just—fix it.”

“Maybe,” you said. “But I do know you.” That made him hesitate. “And I know you don’t let things go wrong on purpose,” you continued, your voice steady. “You try. Probably too much.”

His brows pulled together faintly, but before he could answer, you shifted closer and settled yourself on his lap, moving slowly so you wouldn’t jostle any of the bruises. He made a startled little sound at that, hands lifting halfway as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them, before he finally let them rest hesitantly at your sides.

He swallowed, his throat bobbing once. The irritation in his expression faded by degrees, leaving behind something a lot more vulnerable and a lot less guarded. “I just hate this,” he admitted before letting out a long breath and shutting his eyes for a moment. “I really thought I could’ve prevented it.”

You brushed your thumbs along his cheeks again, gentle and steady. “Maybe you could have. Maybe not. But beating yourself up about it is not helping.”

When he opened his eyes again, he looked a little more like himself, even if he was still tired, bruised and frustrated. “You’re annoyingly good at this,” he said.

A tiny smile tugged at your mouth. “At what?”

“Making me shut up.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Only because you need to.”

His mouth twitched, the smallest hint of a smile appearing despite himself. And then, after a second, he leaned into your hands just enough that you could feel the weight of him easing down, little by little.

You softened, your voice dropping just a little. “Hey… you need to relax, okay?”

A weak exhale left him, his shoulders finally loosening beneath your hands. The tension that had been holding him together all night began to slip away, bit by bit, until he was actually leaning into your touch instead of holding himself rigid against it.

He trusts you, but the vulnerability of being in this position, shirtless in your bedroom, is making his heart beat a little too fast. He’s acutely aware of how close you are now, your touch gentle yet firm, and he’s having a hard time deciding if it's comforting or just making things more difficult. 

Eventually he leans back onto the bed, propped up against your pillows, as you work along his body. His eyes stay glued to your face, watching the concentration in your expression, the way your lips press into a thin line when you come across a particularly painful looking spot. 

“You’re good at this,” he finally murmured, his voice quiet and a little hoarse.

“And you’ve relaxed a little too much,” you teased, glancing down at his crotch. 

“I—that’s not… I—” he stuttered, cheeks heating up with embarrassment. 

Mark followed your gaze and immediately realised what you meant. His relaxed demeanor from seconds ago is gone, replaced by a flustered panic. He tries futilely to adjust his position, but with you on top of him, it only makes the whole situation more obvious. 

“It’s, uh, that’s not—it’s just a physical reaction, okay?” he added desperately. “It’s just the adrenaline, or something.”

“Uh huh, sure it is, tough guy,” you hummed, patting his chest.

Mark groaned, throwing an arm over his face to hide the fact that he was not handling this well.

“Baby,” he pleaded, his voice strained. “Don’t…”

“Or what?” you raised a brow, slowly grinding down against him.

Mark sucked in a sharp breath, arching against you involuntarily. He lets it out slowly through his nose, trying in vain to control the way his heart rate was rapidly increasing, or how his suit now felt uncomfortably tight.

He lifted his arm from his face and looked up at you. He opened his mouth, trying to formulate some smartass retort, but only a strangled sound came out. Mark’s mind was spinning; his exhaustion was fighting with a growing, undeniable desire that was suddenly more overwhelming than anything he’d ever felt before.

“This is so unfair,” he huffed half-heartedly, half-lidded eyes darting down to your lips. 

Your head tilted to the side as you leant down, your lips brushing against his briefly before pulling back. Your lips were soft and warm against his, and Mark found himself chasing after you, his body on auto-pilot.

Then you rock your hips again, and Mark felt a low moan rising up from his chest. He let out an unsteady exhale, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he tried and failed to get himself under control. 

He was having a hard time forming any coherent thoughts, his mind clouded with desire. He knew you were playing with him, teasing him, and it was driving him mad. His hands moved of their own accord, gripping your hips tightly, either to pull you closer or push you away—he wasn’t sure. 

You leaned down once more, trailing your lips down from his mouth and to his jaw. Mark tilted his head back further, exposing more of his neck to you—his thumbs brushing under the hem of your shirt, tracing light circles against your hip.

Mark was helpless against the way you made him feel, his body responding eagerly to your ministrations. As your lips moved to his neck, he couldn’t help the shiver that ran down his spine, his fingers twitching against your skin.

Slowly, you slid off him and knelt on the floor. His breathing quickened, and he subconsciously spread his legs wider to accommodate you. Sitting up onto his elbows, his chest heaved with each laboured breath, the rise and fall of it quick and sharp.

You smiled softly, gliding your hands up his thighs before peeling the rest of his suit off. His body was bare before you now, save for his boxers which were doing very little to hide how affected he was.

Unable to help yourself, you trailed a hand down his abdomen, your fingertips brushing along the faint trial of hair beneath his navel until they met the solid outline of his cock. You palmed him softly through the fabric, feeling him twitch in need under your touch. 

“Please,” he whispered. The plea was so quiet, so shaky it was barely there. “Baby… please…”

Mark’s breath stuttered as you freed him, his cock throbbing against his stomach. His dick was heavy in your hand, flushed and leaking, as precum slid down the underside of his cock and over your thumb in needy dribbles. 

He didn’t look like the same person who was covered in bruises just moments ago—he looked almost undone, reduced to a trembling mess of need. You started slow, his tip slick as you gave him one lazy pump.

Mark’s entire body lurched at your touch, a choked-off moan escaped him as his hips jerked upward into your hand. His fingers dug into the mattress hard enough to tear the fabric, knuckles white with tension.

As your hand worked at his base, you pressed a kiss to his tip. Then another. Before your tongue circled his tip, licking at his sensitive slit. The salty taste of him filled your senses as you swirled your tongue. 

You leaned forward, and Mark watched as the head disappeared past your lips. You took more of him, then a little bit more, until you felt him hit the back of your throat. You hollowed your cheeks to apply a gentle suction as you began to bob your head.

“Oh, yes—” Mark whined.

Mark was losing it. His breathing grew ragged, his chest heaving as he fought to maintain control. The feeling of your lips stretched around him, hot and wet, drove him closer to the edge.

Saliva slid down your chin, your throat fluttering and eyes stinging every time Mark brushed the back of your throat. A desperate whine escaped him as your nails scratched the line of hair that led below his navel. 

A raw cry ripped from his throat, his hands flying down to drip your hair and pull you closer. His body shook with the effort to not just fuck up into your mouth. At some point, you glanced up, and the eye contact made you embarrassinglywet. Mark looked ruined, entirely mesmerised by you. 

Mark’s pupils were nearly dilated beyond the rim. Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes from how overwhelming it felt. He struggled for breath, a flush creeping up his chest as he held himself back. His hips stuttered upward uncontrollably, his eyes wide and wild with disbelief.

“Don’t stop,” he begged in a whisper so broken it sounded more like a prayer than a plea.

He looked like he was on the edge of some kind of cosmic revelation, his face flushed and damp with sweat. This was the closest Mark had ever been to feeling an out-of-body experience. 

His hips jerked upward in tiny aborted thrusts—helpless little movements as if his body was already moving on instinct. It was only a few more seconds before Mark let out a guttural cry, feeling it tear from his throat, before he emptied his load into your mouth. Pulse after pulse of heavy release filled your mouth, and you took it all, letting the salty taste land on your tongue. 

Swallowing the last of his release, you pull back and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. You get to your feet once again and settle onto his lap. His entire body tensed beneath you, trembling as pleasure still coursed through him. 

Mark sits up weakly, his hands moving up to grip your waist automatically. He rested his head on your shoulder, groaning weakly into the crook of your neck. He could feel himself starting to grow hard all over again despite how wrecked he already felt. 

“Jesus, Mark… seriously?” you panted, your lips slick and swollen.

Mark laughed, the sound coming out as a rough, gravelly chuckle. He lifted his head slowly to meet your eyes again, still looking faintly dazed.

“I can’t control it,” he protested weakly, his tone pathetic. 

He slid a hand down your thigh, fingers skimming over the thin fabric of your panties until he found your clothed slit. He let a strangled moan slip past his lips as he found you practically dripping for him—the fabric of your underwear ruined.

He applied a little bit more pressure on your slit, and you could feel your panties desperately trying to soak up your juices. Shakily, you reached for the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head, leaving you bare for him to see.

“You’re so beautiful,” Mark managed to rasp out, his eyes flickering over your body like was suddenly seeing you for the first time. 

“Alright, Casanova,” you rolled your eyes, trying not to show how much his words affected you. 

Mark’s thumb suddenly pressed down on your clit and you immediately jolted forward with a moan. His touch is feather-light, barely there—teasing, almost—as he traces a finger up and down your slit. 

Then, without warning, his fingers tug your panties to the side, sliding them along your slick folds. It's embarrassing how quickly you coat his fingers and Mark can’t help the groan that tumbles from his lips.

You let out a moan as his fingers push inside you, curling in your pulsing cunt. He dipped his head down to your chest, his lips nipping and sucking at whatever skin he could find. Mark groaned against your skin when he slid his fingers deeper, his teeth lightly grazing along your nipple.

His tongue circled the peaked bud, hot and wet until you were throwing your head back in ecstasy. He nibbled lightly on the sensitive skin, enough to draw out another moan from your throat.

Mark wanted more. He wanted to give you everything so you’d never doubt just how much he craved you right this second. He pressed open-mouthed kisses against the swell of your breast, his fingers still moving between your legs. 

Your eyes rolled back as Mark curled his fingers just so, your head lolling forward and resting on his shoulder. One hand threaded through his hair as the other came down to curl around his wrist, keeping him there as your hips began to rut against his hand. 

Your back arched, hips lifting to chase his fingers. Mark’s head moved lower, his kisses becoming more urgent as he worked his way across to your other breast. The ball of his hand pressed against your clit and that, with the sensation of his lips around your nipple, almost became too much.

“Tell me what you want,” Mark muttered against your skin, his voice strained.

“Keep—keep going, Mark, please,” you panted, chasing your impending orgasm.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured. “So, so beautiful. I’ll give you anything you ask… anything you want…”

Your body trembled uncontrollably as you began to feel the heat grow in your lower stomach. Your orgasm tears through you, fast and overwhelming, and you cling to his shoulders, riding out the tremors. Mark’s name falls from your lips in a breathy moan, your vision blurring by the intensity of your release. 

“fuck—Mark!” you cried out, your thighs clamping around his hand.

Mark whined, pulling back from your chest and watching as you came undone. His fingers remained deep inside you, and he curved them to hit that sweet spot one last time, chasing every last shuddering wave of pleasure he could coax from your body. 

You hummed, slowly pulling your head back from his shoulder and looking down at him. He looked wrecked—chest heaving, face flushed, eyes hooded, and hair a dishevelled mess. He blinked up at you, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.

He wanted you—needed you—more than anything right now.

In one smooth motion, he rolled the two of you over, pinning you beneath him. His body shadowed you, his cock resting on your stomach as he leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to your lips.

“Is this okay?” he wondered sheepishly, trying to keep himself from rocking his hips against you.

“Yeah,” you smiled, reaching a hand up and carding it through his hair.

Pre-cum smeared over your stomach, leaking from him as he hovered above you, holding his weight on his forearms. One hand tentatively slid down between you, his fingers gliding through your folds and collecting your slick to lube himself up.

The hand that held him up cradled your jaw, thumb tracing over your cheek tenderly. He paused, brows drawn tight and voice cracking as desperation started to seep into his tone, “Can—can I?”

You gave him a nod, your lips tugging up into a smile as your hands found their way back up to his shoulders, your fingers scratching at the nape of his neck. His hand gently spread you open as he pulled his hips back, dragging the length of his cock through your folds and coating himself in your slick. 

Wrapping your legs around his waist, Mark lined the tip of his cock at your entrance, parting your folds, and slowly pushing in. The stretch was instant, unavoidable, and you threw your head back, letting out a lewd moan.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh—” Mark rasped, squeezing his eyes shut.

Your mouth hung agape, fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders as he fed the rest of himself into you in slow, shallow thrusts. Mark buried his face in your neck as you clenched around him before he bottomed out.

“Thats it,” he managed finally, his voice breaking as he groaned. “That okay? You okay? Oh, fuck—”

Mark had to stop talking when he saw it—he was so deep inside you that your stomach bulged slightly. He couldn't help himself from touching you, one of his hands moved from your hip, shifting to your soft stomach to feel where he was inside of you; how he filled you so perfectly.

Your breath hitched and you couldn’t even think. Before you could even open your mouth to moan, Mark pulled his hips back. His cock dragged out of you until just the tip of him was left within you before he pushed back inside. 

You could feel the vein on the underside of his cock pulsing as he bottomed out once again. He set an easy, comfortable pace, his eyes locked onto your stomach with an almost obsessive focus—watching every slight shift in movement there like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

Your ankles locked at the base of his spine, heels digging into his back and pulling him in deeper. Mark glanced down and watched the way you stretched around him, his hips stuttering at the sight of his cock disappearing inside of you.

He groaned, savouring the way your bodies fit. Your legs tightened around his waist when he angled his hips to hit thatspot inside you. Each time he shifted the angle or tilted your pelvis just so, it stole another moan from you. 

“Oh God, baby…” he croaked.

At the feeling of your walls fluttering around him, Mark’s mouth found yours mid-moan. He kissed you softly, his tongue delving into your mouth as one of his hands slid between you and circled your clit.

His pace was picking up, becoming less controlled and more desperate and you were unable to stop the gasps slipping from your lips as he filled you over and over and over again. Your legs shook around his waist, your heels digging into his lower back in a desperate attempt to keep you grounded.

You could feel him getting close, his thrusts becoming more frantic and less measured. His lips grazed your ear as his breaths grew shallower. Your name escaped him in a breathless moan, mixed with a string of expletives as he struggled to hold on. 

“I’m gonna—” he panted, his words getting cut off with a groan.

You were close, so close and one more thrust was all you needed before your orgasm crashed over you. Mark moaned again as he felt your body tense around him, his thumb still working over your clit.

Your back arched as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. Mark kept up his pace, prolonging your orgasm as much as he could before his own came crashing down. His body tensed, his hips jutting as he emptied himself inside you.

His cock pulsed inside you as he continued to grind down into you in sloppy, barely-there rolls of his hips. He slumped against you, his body heavy on top of yours as he tried to regain his breath.

“H-holy shit,” he breathed, surprised by how intense his orgasm was.

He was still inside you, his head still buried in the crook of your neck as he finally caught his breath. He stayed still for a moment, his body trembling with the aftershocks. As he pulled back, his thumb brushed against your clit, a jolt of pleasure shooting through you. You let out a soft gasp, your hips twitching reflexively.  

Your ears rang as you slowly subsided from the aftershocks of your orgasm. He pressed a chaste kiss to your neck before his head slowly lifted up to look down at you. Mark’s eyes were heavy-lidded with satisfaction, his cheeks flushed, and there’s a pleased kind of smugness in his expression that told you he knew exactly how wrecked he’d made you.

You felt weightless as your legs fell from his waist. Mark ran his hands up and down your thighs before he slowly pulled out of you. Mark let out a low sound as he watched his release spill from you, too much for you to keep inside. It trickled down your thighs, dripping onto the mattress.

“You’re cleaning that up,” you mumbled breathlessly, running a hand through his hair.