the vindication i feel right now is insane i feel like i could run a marathon and fight god
like WE'VE known all of this for so long but to hear it come from nezumi himself?????? he really has grown and reflected during his 2 year sojourn and i'm so proud of him for expressing it to shion so honestly.
he really fucking panicked at the idea of living a life for something other than revenge and destruction, and as he thinks a bit later on in the chapter, shion IS hope and healing in nezumi's eyes. always has been. he wasn't ready to embrace either of those things without the backdrop of his goal of destroying no. 6 to fall back on, so he ran away. how could he want something other than retribution when it's all he's allowed himself to desire for his entire life? how could he stay with this boy who changes and challenges him without even TRYING when remaining emotionally stagnant is the main thing he's clung to for survival? how could he allow himself to discover all the layers of shion when it would mean being discovered in turn? has he already been? is he the one lagging behind? (yes)
it's petty but i do find it hilarious that shion might have been imagining nezumi frolicking through fields and bathing in oases 24/7 when in fact, he had likely spent most of his time alone having SEVERAL mental breakdowns. shion has been physically worn down by the stress of staying (and definitely also mentally worn down but the physical stuff probably seems more obvious), but i think it's clear from nezumi's monologue that he's been mentally worn down by the stress of leaving
oh my god and then THIS PART??????? after nezumi has his whole speech about how scared he was (is) of shion because he has the power to change him so deeply and allow him to heal and isn't he such an asshole for running away like a coward, shion is just like hm yeah idk about all that. you came back. you kept your promise. you're here with me right now, and i can touch you and it's not just a memory, and that's everything. the rest is irrelevant in this moment, the billions of questions and apologies can wait. reunion has come
blessed be (lorscher bienensegen) | telling the bees (wiþ ymbe)
"Bees" [remixed, abridged], Claudia Emerson // "Letter to Someone Living Fifty Years from Now" [remixed, abridged], Matthew Olzmann // "Letter to my Great, Great Grandchild" [remixed, abridged], J.P. Grasser | Len Redkole, Nina Weiss, Brian Babineau, Christian Peterson, Mitchell Leff, Dave Isaac, Megan DeRuchie
︵ ೀ mdni. satoru finds your secret sketchbook full of him and in a haste to explain yourself, he offers to be the nude model for your assignment ( artist!reader x sports!satoru / college au / wc 5.7 k )
︵ ೀ series. part one / part two
satoru finds your sketchbook on the library table, left behind in the rush to make it to class on time. he almost doesn't open it—almost. but his name catches his eye, written in pencil at the corner of a page peeking out, and curiosity wins.
the first few pages are normal. simple shapes, little notes about elbows and shoulders, the kind of boring practice sketches he has seen you do countless times. he almost closes it, kind of bored. but he keeps flipping, and then he stops.
it's him. there's no mistaking it.
his jaw, drawn in a few quick lines. the way his head tilts when he's only half listening to someone talk. his eyes are on the next page, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair the way it sometimes is. you got the little crease at the corner of his eye right, the one that shows up right before he laughs.
he turns the page again. his hands this time. three different versions, like you couldn't decide which one you liked best. then his shoulders. the curve of his neck. a quick sketch of him stretching after practice, his shirt riding up a little at his side.
he keeps flipping. faster now. and then there's a full body drawing. him, shirtless, soft shading along his stomach and chest. his hipbones. the dip of his waist. it's not messy or rushed. it's careful. like you spent real time thinking about where the light would hit him and where the shadows would fall.
satoru sits down on the edge of the table, the sketchbook open in his lap, and stares at it for a second too long. he's not sure what he's feeling. he's used to people looking at him. he's not used to being looked at like this—slow, careful, like every detail actually mattered to the person drawing it.
he's so caught up in it that he doesn't even hear you walking up until you're right next to him, out of breath and a little panicked.
"satoru, have you seen my—"
you stop talking. your eyes drop to his hands, to the sketchbook open on his knees, to the exact page he's on—the shirtless one—and your face goes white for a second before turning bright red.
"oh my god."
he looks up at you, a grin already pulling at his mouth. "you draw me?"
"give it back." you reach for it, but he just lifts it out of your reach, way too entertained by this.
"wait, wait, wait." he flips back a page, holding it up. "are these abs? i don't think i actually have abs like this."
"satoru—"
"i mean, kind of," he says, grinning even wider, "but you really went all in here. there's shading. you gave me a six pack i don't fully have."
you try to grab it again. he holds it just out of reach again, smiling down at you.
"you drew my hands three times. why does a hand need three tries."
"because hands are hard, okay? that's not weird, hands are literally one of the hardest things to draw, ask anyone—"
"never said it was weird." he finally lowers the sketchbook, though he doesn't hand it back yet. he just looks at you for a second—your face completely red, your arms crossed tight like you're trying to disappear. "it's flattering."
you groan and cover your face with both hands. "it's for class. i'm not being weird about it."
"didn't say that either." his smile softens a little, more curious now than teasing. "but seriously. why me?"
you peek at him through your fingers, like maybe if you don't fully participate in this conversation it'll just end on its own. "we started a new unit," you mumble. "figure drawing. like, anatomy, proportions, the whole body. they bring in models for class and it's just—it's so awkward, satoru. you're sitting there for three hours trying to draw a person you've never even talked to."
"so you draw me instead."
"my professor said it's easier when you draw someone you actually know," you say quickly, like talking fast will make this less embarrassing. "like, it helps to already be familiar with the person. and you're a sports major, you're literally built like the examples in our textbook, so i thought... i don't know. it made sense."
"so you thought, 'oh wait. i've got a pretty handsome friend. i'll draw him.'"
"i did not think about it like that."
"you basically did."
but he's not really laughing at you. there's something kind of warm in the way he's looking at you now, the sketchbook still resting on his knee like he's in no rush to give it back. "you know," he says, his voice a little quieter now, "you could've just asked me."
"i didn't want to make it weird."
he raises an eyebrow. "weirder than it already is?"
you groan and bury your face in your hands again. "stop it."
he chuckles, finally closing the sketchbook but still not handing it back, just holding it loosely against his chest like he's claimed it now. "so what's the assignment actually for? like what's due."
you hesitate. this is the part you really didn't want to get into. "it's, um. it's a full figure study. like, a finished piece, not just sketches."
"okay. so like what you already drew?"
"kind of. except—" you stop, feeling your face heat up all over again.
"except what?"
you sigh, giving up on hiding it. "it has to be a nude study. that's the whole point of the unit. like, the body without clothes, the way the muscles and proportions actually work without fabric getting in the way."
his eyebrows go up, surprised, but he doesn't say anything teasing this time, just listens.
"and everyone else in class already has their reference done," you continue, the words spilling out faster now that you've started. "they've all been going to the model sessions for weeks. i missed like three of them and now i'm behind. i don't have anything to actually work from, and it's due monday, and i don't know what i'm gonna do."
he's quiet for a second, turning the sketchbook over in his hands like he's thinking. then he shrugs, easy, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "so draw me."
you blink at him. "what?"
"draw me," he says again, like he's repeating himself for someone a little slow. "for the assignment."
"satoru, i don't think you understand what i just said—"
"i understood it fine." he leans back against the table, arms crossed now, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "you need a body to draw. i have a body. solves your problem."
"that's not— you don't have to do that."
"you didn't ask. i offered."
"satoru."
"what? you already drew me shirtless without even asking," he points out, smirking. "feels like i should at least get a say in it this time."
your mouth opens and then closes again, no actual argument coming to mind.
"so," he says, holding the sketchbook out to you now, finally, "when do you want me."
you stare at him for a long moment, waiting for the joke to land, for him to laugh and say he's kidding. it doesn't come. he just watches you, sketchbook held out between you, patient in a way that's almost worse than if he were still teasing.
"you're serious," you finally say.
"dead serious." he wiggles the sketchbook a little, like he's reminding you it's still there, still yours to take. "i mean, unless you don't want it to be me. i get it if that's weird."
"it's not that i don't want it to be you," you say quickly, before you can think better of it, and then immediately wish you could take the sentence back the second you hear how it sounds out loud.
his grin widens. "oh?"
"shut up. you know what i mean." you finally take the sketchbook from him, hugging it to your chest like it might protect you from the rest of this conversation. "i just don't want you to feel like you have to. it's a big ask."
"could just say thank you, you know." he checks his phone, then looks back up at you. "okay, so. when's good. you said it's due monday?"
your stomach does something complicated at the thought of this actually happening, of him actually meaning it. "i mean—if you're really down, friday night could work. gives me the whole weekend after to finish the piece."
"friday night works. come by my dorm, like, eight?" he says it so casually, like he's inviting you over for a movie and not offering to sit there while you draw every inch of him. "more privacy than the studio anyway. don't gotta worry about randos walking in."
"right." your voice comes out a little higher than you mean it to. "yeah. that makes sense."
"bring your stuff. pencils, whatever you need." he's already turning to go, slinging his bag over one shoulder, looking far too unbothered for someone who just volunteered for this. then he glances back at you, smirk creeping in again ""and hey—make sure you get the good angles. i have a reputation to maintain."
"i make no promises."
he laughs at that, walking backward a few steps before finally turning around fully and heading off down the hall, leaving you standing there with your sketchbook clutched to your chest and friday suddenly feeling very, very far away and not far away at all.
︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵
you knock on his door right at eight, sketchbook tucked under your arm. when the door swings open, you almost forget how to speak entirely.
he's standing there in nothing but a towel slung low around his hips, hair still damp and pushed back messily from the shower, a few stray drops sliding down the side of his neck. he looks completely unbothered by it, leaning one arm against the doorframe like he just answered the door for a pizza delivery and not for you.
"hey," he says, grinning at the way your eyes immediately snap up to his face. "you're early. or i'm late. one of those."
"you said eight," you manage, voice coming out a little strangled.
"yeah, and it's eight." he steps back to let you in, completely at ease, while you do your absolute best not to stare at the water still tracking down his collarbone. "wanted to shower first. figured you'd want clean reference material, not sweaty me."
"right. that's—considerate." your face is heating up fast, and you hate how obvious it probably is.
he notices, of course he notices, smirk pulling wider as he shuts the door behind you. "you're already red and i haven't even dropped the towel yet."
"i'm not red."
"you're very red." he says it gently, almost fond, like he's enjoying this a little too much. "relax. you're gonna see me naked in like, five minutes anyway. no point getting shy now."
"that's—that doesn't make it less weird, satoru, that makes it more—" you cut yourself off, setting your bag down on his desk a little too forcefully, mostly to give your hands something to do that isn't fidgeting.
he just laughs, clearly enjoying every second of your suffering. "you're the one who's been secretly sketching me for who knows how long without even telling me. i'm just catching up to the project at this point."
you need something to say, anything, because the silence stretching between you feels too loud, too charged, like it's just waiting for you to do something stupid like keep staring at him. "so, um." you clear your throat, eyes darting anywhere that isn't directly at the towel. "how was practice?"
he glances at you over his shoulder, clearly clocking the fact that you're filling dead air for the sake of filling it, but he humors you anyway, padding over to the little kitchenette tucked in the corner of his dorm. "long. coach had us running rounds for like two hours straight. my legs are gonna hate me tomorrow."
"sounds rough."
"it was fine." he pulls a shaker bottle down from a shelf, dumping in a scoop of protein powder with one hand while the other holds the towel in place at his hip. "you get used to it after a while. body adjusts."
"right. makes sense." you nod way too many times for someone agreeing with such a simple statement, perching yourself on the edge of his desk chair, flipping your sketchbook open.
he adds water, screws the lid on, and shakes it, the muscles in his forearm shifting in a way you absolutely do not need to notice right now and notice anyway. then he tips his head back and drinks, and you watch—you can't help it, your eyes just go there on their own—the long line of his throat moving as he swallows, a bead of water from his still-damp hair sliding down the side of his neck and disappearing somewhere past his collarbone.
you realize you're staring a full two seconds too late.
"you're staring," he says, lowering the bottle, that slow grin spreading across his face like he's been waiting for an excuse to call it out.
"what?" your voice comes out a little too fast.
"you heard me." he sets the shaker down on the counter, leaning back against it. "staring. at me. just now."
"i wasn't staring," you say, way too quickly, your face heating up all over again as you fumble to look anywhere else—the ceiling, the floor, the stack of textbooks on his desk, anywhere that isn't him.
"you were so staring." he pushes off the counter, walking closer with that unhurried way he moves, like he has all the time in the world and fully intends to use it to torture you. "it's fine. i get it. i'm a lot to take in."
"oh my god."
"i'm just messing with you." he laughs. "relax. you look like you're about to pass out."
"I'm fine."
"uh huh." he doesn't push it further. he turns and heads toward the open space near his window, where the evening light is still soft and golden enough. he glances back at you over his shoulder. "okay. so how do you want me. like, pose-wise."
"oh—right." you fumble for your sketchbook, flipping it open to a blank page, grateful for something to focus on besides the fact that he's still only in a towel. "um. standing's probably easiest to start. maybe just—natural. however you'd normally stand."
"natural how. like this?" he straightens up, shoulders back, doing this exaggerated, stiff superhero pose that's clearly meant to make you laugh.
it works. a small laugh escapes you despite everything. "no, not like that. just—relaxed. like you're not thinking about it."
"hard to not think about it when you're staring at me with a pencil." but he loosens up anyway, settling his weight onto one leg, one hand coming up to rest at the back of his neck. "this work?"
your pencil is already moving before you fully register deciding to start. "yeah. that's—that's good. don't move."
"wasn't planning to." his voice has dropped a little, quieter now, watching you work. "you gonna tell me when the towel needs to come off, or am i supposed to guess."
your pencil stutters against the page. "right. um. whenever you're ready, i guess. it's—it's for the assignment, so."
"so professional," he says, the corner of his mouth twitching like he's fighting back a grin. "okay. you ready?"
"yeah." you swallow, gripping your pencil a little too tight. "ready."
he reaches up and tugs the knot of the towel loose, and it drops to the floor without any of the fanfare your racing heart seems to think the moment deserves. he doesn't flinch, doesn't make a big show of it—just steps back into the same easy stance from before, one hand resting at the back of his neck, weight settled onto one leg, completely at home in his own skin in a way that makes your nerves feel almost silly by comparison.
you keep your eyes on the page for a long moment before you let yourself actually look, telling yourself it's just reference, just anatomy, just the same thing you'd be doing with any model in class.
but it doesn't feel like just anatomy. it feels like every line of him is something you've already know from the sketches you didn't think anyone would see, except now the soft pencil shading has nothing on the real thing—the actual shape of his shoulders, the dip of muscle along his stomach, the lean lines of him standing there like an italian renaissance sculpture.
and god, he's better than you imagined. better than he looked in your head late at night when you couldn't sleep, which—not that you dream about him, obviously, that would be ridiculous, that's not a thing that happens—but if you did, hypothetically, this would still somehow be better than that.
it's almost unfair, really. the way his body looks like it was carved out of stone, like michelangelo himself spent way too long getting the proportions exactly right—shoulders broad and strong, the muscle down his arms, the curve where his waist narrows into his hips.
it's the kind of body you'd expect to see behind glass in a museum somewhere, with a little plaque underneath, except this version breathes and makes dumb jokes.
you let your eyes trace lower, the way you would with any reference, you tell yourself, purely for the sake of the assignment. his cock rests heavy between his thighs, thick and full, and bigger than you thought it would be (not that you'd ever thought about his dick, obviously, that's not a thing you do.)
the head shows a soft flush where it brushes against his leg, and the fair hair trails down from his navel and gathers in pale curls at the base. the sharp v of his hips frames it all in clean lines that make your fingers itch to draw every shadow and curve.
"you still with me?" he says, a little amused, like he's clocked exactly how long you've been staring without actually drawing anything.
"yeah—sorry, yeah." you blink, snapping your eyes back up to his face, pencil finally moving again.
"should i have, like, shaved or something?"
your face goes instantly red all over again. "what? no—it's fine. you're fine. it's not—that's not a thing you need to worry about."
"figured i'd ask." he shrugs. "usually i shave when i've got a girl coming over, but i was running late today, so."
"oh my god." you cover your face with one hand, pencil still somehow managing to keep moving against the page with the other. "i did not need to know that."
"only wanted to clear the air."
you peek at him through your fingers, deciding two can play this game. "so what you're telling me is you haven't had anyone over in a while, huh?"
a short surprised laugh, like he wasn't expecting you to fight back. "wow. okay. didn't think you had it in you. but—i mean, i have someone over now."
"to draw you. that's different."
"you're still seeing my dick or whatever."
"that's not the same thing and you know it."
"feels pretty similar from where i'm standing."
"so, the other girls sit across the room admiring you for twenty minutes with a sketchbook before anything happens? is that what you're telling me?"
"oh, so you're admiring me."
"that's not what i—i meant artistically."
"sure you did."
"i hate you."
"just so you know—they're not usually sitting across the room admiring me for twenty minutes. they're usually under me about thirty seconds after they walk through the door."
"oh my god, satoru."
after another ten minutes or so, your pencil finally slows, then stops altogether, hovering over the last few finishing strokes before you sit back to actually look at what you've got. it's good. better than good—the proportions feel right in a way they never quite did with the strangers from class, like having an actual person in front of you instead of just a body made all the difference.
"okay," you say, clearing your throat. "i think i've got what i need. you can relax."
"oh thank god." he drops the pose immediately, shoulders slumping, rolling his neck out with an exaggerated groan like he's been holding some kind of intense athletic stance this whole time and not just standing there looking effortlessly good. "puhhh. finally. you have no idea how hard it is to stand still that long."
"you literally do athletic training for two hours a day."
"that's different, that's moving. this was just—" he shakes out his arms, grabbing the towel off the floor and wrapping it back around his waist, "—standing there being stared at. way more exhausting than it sounds."
"you're so dramatic."
"i'm a very dedicated model, is what i am." he flops down onto the edge of his bed, finally looking properly relaxed for the first time all evening, then immediately perks back up, craning his neck toward your sketchbook. "okay, lemme see it."
you instinctively pull the book a little closer to your chest. "it's not done done. it's just the reference sketch."
"i don't care, i wanna see." he's already getting up, padding over. "c'mon. i posed for, like, twenty minutes straight. i've earned a peek."
"fine. but you can't make fun of it." you hold the sketchbook out, a little reluctant, watching his face carefully as he leans over to look.
he goes quiet for a second, which is rare enough on its own that you almost want to comment on it. his eyes move slowly over the page, taking in the lines of his own shoulders, the careful shading along his stomach, his easy stance you'd worked so hard to get right.
"huh," he says finally.
"what? is it bad?"
"no, it's—" he tilts his head. "it's really good, actually. like, you made me look good good. not just accurate good."
"that's literally just what you look like."
"i don't know, i feel like you're being generous with the shoulders." but he's smiling now, something a little softer underneath the teasing, still looking at the drawing instead of you. "you're actually talented. like, properly. i wasn't expecting it to be this good."
"you say that like you thought i was bad."
"i didn't know what to expect! you draw secret abs sketches of your friends, forgive me for having questions about your technical skill." but he says it gently, nudging your shoulder with his again, and when he finally looks up at you there's something warm in his expression that wasn't quite there before, something that makes your stomach flip a little. "seriously, though. this is really good. you should be proud of it."
"thanks," you say, feeling a little warm under the actual sincerity of it, fumbling slightly for something to do with your hands besides just standing there basking in gojo satoru's approval like it means something. "i mean, it's still rough. i've gotta clean it up before monday."
"still." he's still looking at it, then glances up at you with a grin starting to spread. "can i take a picture of it?"
"what? why?"
"i don't know, for personal use." he's already reaching for his phone on the nightstand. "this might genuinely be the most insane nude i could ever send to a girl. like, nobody's topping that."
"satoru, oh my god, no." you yank the sketchbook back against your chest, half laughing despite yourself. "you are not sending this to anyone."
"think about it though. any other guy sends a regular picture, basic, boring, zero creativity behind it. i send this and i'm instantly the most romantic man alive." he's grinning, clearly enjoying how flustered you've gotten all over again. "it's basically a love letter. you put thought into this."
"it's an anatomy assignment."
"a very thoughtful anatomy assignment." he reaches for the sketchbook again, more playful than serious about actually taking it. "c'mon, one picture. i won't even send it to anyone. probably."
you let him, mostly because you know arguing further is a losing battle, and he snaps a quick picture before setting his phone back down, looking entirely too pleased with himself about the whole thing.
"okay," he says, dropping back down onto the edge of the bed. "anything else you need from me? more poses, weird angles, you want me to flex my biceps?"
"no, it's fine." you start gathering your things. "i think i stressed you out enough for one night."
"you didn't stress me out." he watches you for a second, head tilted, clearly not buying the way you said that. "spill it."
"what?"
"you've got a face. the 'i want to say something but i'm not gonna' face." he leans back on his hands. "what is it."
you hesitate, fingers tightening slightly around your pencil case. "i mean—maybe we could do one more pose? like, a different angle or something. just so i actually have options when i sit down to finish it properly. i don't wanna hand in the first thing i drew if there's something better i could've gotten."
he blinks, then grins, already pushing himself back up off the bed. "yeah. sure. why not." he rolls his shoulders out, stepping back toward the open space by the window. "you're the artist. tell me where you want me this time."
he settles into the chair this time, leaning back with his head tipped against the top of it, one leg stretched out, the whole thing far more relaxed than the standing pose from before. one hand comes to rest loosely in his lap, fingers resting near his cock without much thought behind it.
"oh, this is way better. way less work than standing there like a statue." he glances down at where his hand landed, a flicker of realization crossing his face, and he laughs a little, shifting like he's about to move it. "oh—sorry, that's just habit. didn't even think about where i put my hand."
"no, it's—" you hesitate, voice catching, face going hot all over again. "it's, um—it's fine. really. genuinely fine. do whatever's, uh—whatever's comfortable for you. i'm not—this isn't a big deal."
he looks at you for a second, like he's checking you actually mean it, then shrugs, settling back into exactly the same position, hand staying right where it was. "okay. if you're sure. i'll stay like this, then."
your pencil is already moving, eyes flicking between him and the page. it takes you a few minutes to notice that he's stopped looking out at nothing and started watching you instead, head tilted slightly against the back of the chair.
"what?"
"nothing." but he doesn't stop watching you. there's something almost soft about the way he's looking at you now, the corner of his mouth pulled into a small smile, like he's caught himself thinking something he wasn't planning on. "you get this face when you're drawing. all scrunched up and serious."
"i do not."
"you so do. little furrow right here." he reaches up, tapping a finger lightly between his own eyebrows to demonstrate, careful not to actually shift out of the pose. "it's kind of cute."
your pencil stutters against the page. "don't move," you mutter, mostly to give yourself something to say that isn't reacting to that.
"i'm not moving."
he settles back again, and keeps watching you. his cock twitches once under his hand where it rests in his lap. he feels the slow thickening start before he can stop it. oh fuck. the words stay stuck in his throat but they echo in his head as he presses his fingers down a little harder. he tries to hold the growing length discreetly against his thigh but it is no use. another twitch makes the head nudge up against his palm.
your pencil pauses on the page. you see it. the subtle flex of his fingers. the unmistakable twitch that makes his cock strain despite the way he tries to keep it down. heat spreads low in your stomach and between your legs so fast it leaves you dizzy.
"sorry about that," he mutters. the flush on his neck deepens and his hand stays pressed over the twitching length like he can will it back down. but it twitches again anyway. slow and heavy and impossible to ignore. "long day, i guess. lot on my mind."
you swallow. "it's fine."
"i don't know, i normally kind of—wind down at night. on my own. you know. guess my body didn't get the memo that tonight's schedule looked a little different."
"oh! uh—i can go," you blurt out, already half reaching for your bag, face burning. "like, seriously, if you need a few minutes or—whatever, i don't want to make this weirder than it already is—"
"no, no, you don't have to go." he sits up a little. "it'll pass. it's fine. i'm fine."
"are you sure? because i really don't mind waiting outside, or coming back tomorrow, or—"
"i'm sure." he gives you a small, almost sheepish smile, the most genuinely embarrassed you think you've ever seen him. "just finish your drawing. i swear i'm not gonna combust."
"okay." you sink back down slowly, still not entirely convinced, sketchbook settling back into your lap. "if you're sure."
"i'm sure." he resettles into the chair, head tipping back again, doing his best to look casual about it even though his ears are still a little red. "c'mon. let's just—finish this. pretend it's a normal tuesday."
"it's friday."
"pretend it's a normal friday, then. work with me here."
you pick your pencil back up, trying to focus on the page instead of the very obvious tension radiating off him from across the room. for a minute or two it almost works, both of you pretending pretty hard that everything's fine.
the quiet stretches between you. you try to keep drawing but your focus slips every time he shifts in the chair. his hand presses down harder in his lap. he is trying to push his cock fully flat against his thigh now. his breathing turns heavy and uneven like he cannot quite catch it. you hear every inhale, every slow exhale. he is getting so worked up just from sitting there while you look at him. his cock under his palm thickens and twitches against his fingers no matter how he tries to hold it still.
then his fingers move slower. deliberate. he touches himself a little. just the barest drag of his thumb along the side like he is checking how hard he is getting. it twitches again under the touch. bigger this time. he presses down quick to try and calm it but it does not help. his breath catches on a low sound he does not quite manage to swallow.
your pencil stops moving. heat floods through you so fast your face burns.
"okay," he says, dragging a hand down his face. "okay, i think i actually need a few minutes this time."
"oh god, yes, okay." you're already on your feet, sketchbook nearly sliding off your lap in your rush. "i'll just—i'll wait outside, or—"
"you can stay." he says it quickly, almost too quickly, like it surprises even him. "i mean—if you want. it won't take long."
"satoru."
"what? i'm just saying, you don't have to leave the building over this."
"i'm not waiting in here while you—"
he does not look away from you as his hand slides back down between his legs. he is already painfully hard. his cock stands thick and flushed in his palm, the head dark and wet at the tip. he wraps his fingers around the length and strokes once slow and tight like he has been holding back for too long.
"i think i like it when you watch," he almost moans.
"i'm gonna—" you don't even finish the sentence, just grab your bag and bolt for the door, nearly tripping over your own backpack strap on the way. "air. i need air. i'll be right back."
"wait! you don't have to run—"
but the door already slams shut behind you, and you stand in the hallway for a solid ten seconds just catching your breath, face burning, heart absolutely pounding, before you let yourself slide down against the wall and bury your face in your hands.
you stay quiet. your breathing slows but your heart does not. then you hear it, muffled through the door. the low rough sound of his voice. a groan, and the wet sound of skin moving on skin. another sound comes through, sharper this time, and a low fuck.
you press your thighs together where you sit on the floor. the noises do not stop. they get a little louder like he has stopped holding back now that you are gone. you can picture it perfectly, his hand moving fast on his thick cock. another groan filters through the door and your body reacts hard, heat flooding between your legs.
you sit there against the wall, staring blankly at the hallway carpet while your brain refuses to move away from his door and not listen to his moans and groans anymore.
how. how are you supposed to look him in the eye after this. how are you supposed to sit across from him in the dining hall next week, or wave at him across campus, or exist in the same general vicinity as gojo satoru ever again without your whole face just instantly catching fire.
you bury your face deeper into your hands, groaning quietly to yourself. it was one thing when it was just sketches. it was even survivable when he found the sketchbook, mortifying as that had been. but this. this is a whole new tier of humiliation you didn't know existed until tonight.
you're going to have to transfer schools. change your name. move to another country, probably. there's no version of monday where you walk into the dining hall and he's there and you don't immediately die on the spot.
somewhere behind the door, things have gone quiet.
you really, really don't want to think about what that means.
next chapter ->
note: please do not ask for updates or comment "next part?" or something like that. if there is an update, i will post it. ppl who continue to demand updates will be blocked.
i appreciate your comments and love hearing your thoughts on the story, but demands for updates make me anxious. have a good day everyone ♡
Now nothing’s the same | Alternate!Mark Grayson x Male!Reader
Summary: You know it isn't your Mark the moment he steps into your room. The blood on his suit isn't his. The way he looks at you isn't right. The things he whispers aren't things your Mark would ever say. Yet, you let him stay. And more.
Pairing: Alternate!Mark Grayson x Male!Reader
Warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, frottage, overstimulation, rimming (R receiving), belly bulging, unprotected sex, spit as lube.
Tags: any Mark variant, Reader is lowkey not okay, and he’s a virgin (so prob unrealistic sex?), Unrequited love (for original Mark), Top!Mark, Bottom!Reader.
w.c: 12.2k | a/n: English isn’t my first language. This is the first time I write smut so it probably sucks, but hey, I wrote 12k? How did that happen? Yikes… Feedback is appreciated—as longs as is respectful. Also, I wrote this with no particular Mark in mind, so feel free to imagine your favorite variant! The only exception is Mohawk Mark, since his unique hairstyle would immediately reveal he's not the mainstream version at the very beginning (unless you prefer to imagine the reader being dense and oblivious to that glaring detail...).I guess it doesn’t really matter. IMAGINE ANY MARK! And enjoy!!!
You're here | Part 2
Ever since the news broke about cities around the world being destroyed by multiple versions of Invincible, you’ve been hiding. It’s the only logical thing to do—for someone powerless like you, there’s nothing else to do. You can only wait for the nightmare to end, for the heroes to rise victorious. For Mark to rise victorious.
So you stay in your home, clutching your phone, waiting for something—anything—to change. A day passes, and Mark still hasn’t answered your messages. He’s busy, you tell yourself, burying your face in your pillow to stifle the ache in your chest. Of course he’s busy. How could he not be? His hands are full with the weight of the world on his shoulders—fighting, saving, surviving. The news keeps reporting on the Invincibles’ rampage, updating the world daily. A stupid text message—of course Mark doesn’t have time to reply.
(You try not to think about how Mark has been pulling away from you, slowly but surely. How, ever since you confessed your feelings and ruined everything, he hasn’t looked at you the same. How you should’ve kept your heart locked tight, your love buried deep, just so you could keep him close. But you didn’t, and now nothing’s the same.)
So you wait, trapped within your four walls, your chest heavy with worry for your friends—your hero friends—who are out there risking their lives. You cling to the news like a lifeline, watching as the Invincibles tear through city after city, leaving thousands dead, all while they smile like it’s a game.
So you wait, and pray. Anxiety coils tight in your chest, pressing against your ribs until it feels like you might burst. But eventually, hunger forces you to move. You drag yourself to the kitchen, hands trembling as you fumble with the bread. You barely register the motion, your mind drifting to every terrible, unlikely scenario where Mark—your Mark—doesn’t make it. The thought alone makes your throat tighten.
It’s not good. You shouldn’t be this negative. But there are so many Invincibles, and if they’re anything like the Mark you know, then even the strongest heroes must be struggling. People will die. People you care about. And you try—God, you try—not to think about who, who, who.
Maybe that’s why you don’t hear him.
Not that there’s any particular sound to warn you. No footsteps, no creak of the floorboards. Just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional rustle of the curtains by the open window.
One second, your eyes are on the bread on the counter, and the next, an unexpected voice brushes against your ear.
“Found you,” he whispers.
Your heart leaps into your throat, and you freeze, the knife slipping from your hand and clattering to the counter. Your breath hitches as you turn your head slowly.
(Vaguely, you think about Mark fussing over you like a mother hen, that familiar crease forming between his brows. “You really shouldn’t leave your window open like that,” he’d chide, voice laced with exasperation. “Anyone could get in.”
But you’d just laugh, brushing off his concern. “It’s a sixth floor, Mark. And you’re the only weirdo who does.”
I’ll always leave my window open for you, you wouldn’t say.
I’ll always be waiting for you to come, you couldn’t say.)
And then, there he is.
“Mark?” you breathe, relief crashing over you in an overwhelming wave. You don’t notice the differences—how his suit is wrong, smeared with fresh blood and viscera that drip onto your clean floor. How his eyes are too wide, too unblinking, something wild lurking behind them. You don’t see any of it. All you see is Mark standing there, safe, alive. “Oh my god, Mark.”
You rush to him without hesitation, arms outstretched, wrapping him up in a desperate embrace. You’ve been so worried, so consumed by the gnawing anxiety of losing him, that just hearing his voice, just seeing him, shatters any rational thought.
For a moment, he stiffens against you. But then, his arms lock around you with a force that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. It’s too tight, too much, an intensity Mark has never held you with before. That should have been your first warning. But as soon as he hides his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your sensitive skin, you forget about everything that seems wrong. You forget about the blood, the wild look in his eyes, the way his grip feels almost possessive. All you can focus on is the way he inhales deeply, as if he’s been starved of this—of you.
You shudder, heart pounding for reasons you can’t quite explain, and then he sighs, low and satisfied, the sound vibrating against your skin.
(“You smell really good,” Mark would murmur, crowding into your space, his nose nearly brushing your neck as he inhaled deeply. “Like, really good.”
You’d shove at his chest, face flaming despite yourself. “Christ, Grayson, you’re not a dog. Back off.”
He’d laugh—that stupid, sunshine-bright laugh that always made your pulse stutter—and lean against the lockers with infuriating ease. “Just being honest… Hey, you could tell me what perfume you use. Maybe then Amber would actually like me on our next date.”
Your chest would tighten, eyebrows knitting together before you could stop them.
“Can’t help you there, pretty boy,” you’d say, slamming your locker shut harder than necessary. When he raised an eyebrow at you, you’d flash a razor-thin smile. “Turns out it’s natural. One hundred percent me.”)
“It’s you…” Mark whispers, his lips brushing against your neck. You hold your breath, trying to suppress the goosebumps rising on your skin, but it’s futile. His voice is low, almost reverent, and it sends a shiver down your spine. He squeezes you tighter, his arms like steel bands around you. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Mark?” you ask hesitantly, confusion laced in your voice. “What is it? Are you hurt?”
You try to push yourself away, hands pressing against his shoulders to create some space—because you can’t do this. You can’t handle him holding you like this, his voice hoarse and low against your neck, his breath hot enough to make you weak. You’re friends. Only friends. He’s made that much clear, and this—this isn’t fair.
But you barely manage to put a few inches between you before he whines, a sound so raw and desperate it catches you off guard. In an instant, he pulls you back in, burying his face deeper into the crook of your neck, his grip unyielding.
“Mark?” you whisper again, voice trembling.
“Not yet,” he replies, his tone pleading. “Let me hold you one more minute.”
And you don’t have the strength to refuse him.
Yet, as the seconds tick by and he keeps clinging to you like a child afraid to let go, you can’t help but notice the things you’ve been ignoring.
Why is Mark here? Why would he suddenly show up at your apartment when he’s supposed to be out there, saving the world? Why would Mark—the same Mark who’s been keeping you in this strange, distant limbo for weeks, who barely speaks to you beyond polite conversation, who’s been looking at you with a mix of discomfort, guilt, and something else you can’t quite place—be holding you so desperately right now?
Then your attention drifts to his clothes. His suit, but not really his suit. The blood—the thick, dark blood that, now that you’re truly paying attention, doesn’t belong to him. And it’s a lot, pooling around your feet, staining your floor, soaking your clothes.
A sickening weight settles in your stomach, curling, twisting, nagging at the back of your mind. Your arms go slightly limp around him, hesitation creeping in where relief had been just moments ago. Your brain, which had felt so light, so grateful just a minute ago at the sight of him safe, suddenly flashes back to the news. The destruction. The Invincibles terrorizing the world.
And you wonder.
Finally, he exhales—a slow, steady breath, like someone bracing themselves. Then, he lets go, his hands lingering on your arms as if he’s reluctant to break contact entirely.
“Y/N…” he whispers, a wide grin stretching across his face. It’s an unusual smile, unnatural, amused when it shouldn’t. “Here’s where you’ve been hiding, huh?”
“Hiding?” you ask, unsure. “Well—I can’t really do anything else, can I?”
Mark smiles spreads. But his eyes—there’s something in them you hadn’t noticed before. Wide, almost frantic, something raw burning behind them. The dark circles under them make him look exhausted. His hair is a mess. And yet, his expression softens as he studies you, gaze tracing over every feature like he’s trying to memorize you. It’s so intense, so intimate, it nearly steals your breath away.
“What—What are you doing here?” you ask, glancing away, flustered. “Is it—is it over? The fight?”
He coos, a gloveless hand reaching for your chin to tilt it back toward him with a grip that’s firm, almost possessive. “Oh, it’s over. There’s nothing to worry about anymore,” he says, voice light, too light, too nonchalant for someone who just came from a battle. Mark doesn’t speak like this after a fight—he’s never so casual, so detached.
(Mark’s hands would dig into his hair, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I’m just—I keep fucking up.”
“You’re not,” you’d tell him, hand pressing warm circles between his shoulder blades. “You save people, Mark. Every single day—”
“Bullshit!” He’d jerk upright so fast you’d recoil, chair screeching against the floor. “More people die than I save!” He’d pace, fingers twisting in his hair. “Stop—just stop telling me I’m not fucking up! Stop trying to—to make me feel better! You don’t understand how I feel!”
Your chest would tighten, fingers curling into empty air where he’d been. “I know I don’t.”
“Then stop!”
“However—” you’d stand up as well, eyes locking onto his as you caught his face in your hands, palms pressing gently against his cheeks. Mark would freeze, his breath hitching, wide eyes locked onto yours. “However, I know the world would be worse without you in it. Just thinking about the possibility of not having Invincible on our side—it scares me. Because you’re the only one strong enough to protect us. The only one who can stand up to the worst threats.”
Your thumb would brush over his cheekbone, touch impossibly gentle.
“And I’m sorry you have to carry that responsibility, Mark. But you’re not failing. Not to me.”
His expression would crumble, his eyes glistening with unshed tears before he’d pull you close, burying his face in your shoulder. His breath would shake, and you’d feel his fingers dig into the fabric of your shirt.
Your cheeks would burn, heart stuttering, but you'd swallow your feelings and offer only the comfort a friend should.
Your cheeks burn as he tugs you closer by the chin, forcing you to look straight at him. Your hand instinctively reaches for his wrist, but you don’t pull away. You should. But you don’t. Yet, you can’t stand the weight of his stare, so intense, so close, it feels like it’s peeling back layers of you, exposing everything you’ve tried to suppress.
“Nothing to worry about?” you force the words out, trying to ignore the heat flooding your face and the fluttering sensation in your stomach. “You sure?”
“I’m sure,” he nods, his voice low and steady. Then, without warning, he leans closer again, his face burying into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply like he just couldn’t get enough. “Oh, shit. How I missed this.”
“Mark?” you ask quietly, voice trembling despite your efforts to steady it. His breath is hot and electric against your skin. The warmth blooming in your face spreads down, coiling through your body. “What are you doing? Jesus—this isn’t like you.”
“Oh, really?” he hums, lips ghosting over your pulse. The brush of them—so soft, so deliberate—makes you shudder. “Not even a little?”
“No…” you exhale, shivering when his arms snake around your waist, squeezing hard enough to make you squirm. “No. Mark. What—what are you doing?”
Your hands reach for the counter behind you, gripping the edge tightly, desperate for something to anchor you. But Mark—his scent, his body pressed so tightly against yours, his breath burning against the most sensitive part of your throat—makes it impossible to focus, impossible to think. It’s like everything around you is spinning, and you can’t make sense of any of it.
“What do you think I’m doing?” he asks, his tone amused and teasing, like this is all some game to him.
And that finally makes you scowl, the heat in your cheeks now burning with a mix of anger and humiliation. You inhale sharply, trying to regain your senses, but an ugly feeling of shame and hurt settles heavily in your chest.
You lift a hand and push him, or at least try to, your strength no match for his. Still, he complies, pulling away with a reluctant sigh, an annoyed expression flickering across his face as he finally tears himself from you.
“This isn’t funny, Mark,” you say, glancing away, unable to bear the intensity of his stare. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?” he complains, his fingers digging into your waist as if he’s reluctant to let you go entirely.
“That,” you snap, gripping his wrists and prying his hands off. “You can’t just—just ignore me for weeks and then suddenly show up and treat me this way. It’s—it messes with my head! It’s not fair, Mark!” your breath comes heavy, your chest rising and falling as you struggle to form the words. Your eyes drop to the floor, and you add quietly, “Just stop.”
He’s silent for a moment, and you can feel his gaze burning into you, searching, analyzing. His head tilts slightly, as if he’s trying to piece something together.
“We’re not… together?” he asks after a beat, his voice incredulous, like the idea is absurd.
The question makes you flinch, and a fresh wave of anger surges through you.
(“I’m sorry,” Mark would mutter, his hand awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes avoiding yours. “I just—don’t see you that way.”
You’d glance away, your lips pressed together in a tight line, trying to hold back the sting of rejection. “I’m sorry too.”
“It’s just—there’s someone else I wanna try it with.”
“I get it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know,” you sigh, wanting Earth to swallow you whole and disappear forever. But this is Mark, and you couldn’t bear living without Mark. “We’re still friends, right? This doesn’t have to change anything.”
He’d smile at you, his eyes creasing at the edges in the way you adored. “Yeah—Friends!”)
“Of course not!” you snap, voice rising. “You made it very clear you—you love someone else!”
You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest as you take a step back, putting some much-needed distance between you and his overwhelming presence. Was he mocking you? Playing some cruel joke?
But then again, as you pace around the kitchen, trying to hold yourself together, your eyes flicker to his odd suit, to the blood clinging to him, to the confused, almost baffled look on his face. And you think again—why is Mark here? Why, really?
Is he even Mark—
“But Y/N—” he whines, trailing after you like a lost puppy, his voice pleading, “—I would never, and I mean never look at anyone else but you!”
You frown, shaking your head. “I can’t even believe you’re saying this to me right now,” you mutter, trying to keep your voice steady. “Did you hit your head too hard fighting those lunatics?”
You don’t notice the way he tilts his head at your words, don’t catch the way his eyes darken, flashing with something unreadable.
“If you don’t have anything better to do, then just leave,” you huff, bitterness lacing your tone. “I don’t wanna—humiliate myself any more than I already have. You had your fun. So go away.”
You turn on your heel, heart pounding as you stride toward your bedroom where your phone is charging. There’s a gut feeling gnawing at you, a sensation you can’t shake, and you need confirmation. You need reassurance.
Is the Mark standing behind you even your Mark at all?
Your gut twists violently, but you can’t shake it. The second you step into your bedroom, your hand fishes for your phone, fingers trembling as you scroll through your contacts and press the button.
But Mark hasn’t left. He follows right after you, moving with an easy, unhurried stride, and when he realizes what you’re doing, a slow, knowing smile spreads across his face.
“O-ho?” he hums, amusement dripping from his voice. “My, my, Y/N, why’re you calling me?”
His hand moves, effortlessly covering yours, fingers warm and firm over your knuckles. The phone rings—once, twice—and Mark leans in, his breath brushing against your ear, voice low, teasing.
“I’m right here, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You don’t need anyone else.”
Your breath hitches. The sound of the third ring barely registers before he plucks the phone from your grasp with unnerving ease. You don’t even resist—your fingers tremble as they slip away from the device. Not that it would have done anything, anyway. The fifth ring echoes into silence, then clicks to Mark’s familiar voicemail. Useless.
The air in the room shifts, heavy and overwhelming. You watch, frozen, as he casually places your phone on your desk, just far enough out of reach.
Then, the moment your eyes meet his, you know.
This isn’t the Mark you know and love.
Mark hums, content, utterly unbothered as he slides back into your arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He sighs, pleased, like he belongs there, like nothing’s wrong.
Maybe you’re in shock. Maybe it’s fear, or disbelief, or survival instincts.
Because you let him.
Your arms fall open, letting him settle more comfortably against you, his weight pressing into you as he nuzzles closer. His warmth, his scent, the way he holds you tight—it’s all too much. And you—weak-kneed, breath unsteady—let him.
“Are you going to kill me?” you can’t help but ask eventually, voice quiet, barely a whisper.
He makes a confused sound in his throat, the vibration brushing against your skin and sending a shiver down your spine. “Hmm—not yet.”
Not yet. You should be terrified. Every nerve in your body should be screaming for you to run, to fight, to do something other than stand there, frozen, pliant in his grip. You know he’s dangerous. You know he could snap your neck without a second thought.
Yet—a curious thing happens in your brain.
You’re not afraid. You can’t be.
Because when your eyes settle on this Mark—and he looks exactly like the Mark you know, the Mark you have feelings for—something just… doesn’t click the way it should. Fear doesn’t come. Disgust doesn’t rise in your throat. Dread doesn’t tighten its grip around your chest.
Because he looks so much like Mark. And duh—he is Mark. But not yours, and that alone should be enough to make you want to bolt. Yet—as he nuzzles into your neck, his hot breath tingling against your skin, his solid body pressing into yours with a firmness that feels both grounding and overwhelming, and the way he called you ‘sweetheart’—it all makes you want to give in to him.
The feelings you’ve buried—the ones you’ve shoved down since the day Mark rejected you, since the day you forced yourself to be okay with just being friends—are clawing their way back to the surface, stronger, faster, more consuming than ever.
“Oh yeah, you don’t have to worry though,” he says, his lips brushing against your pulse in a way that feels deliberate, calculated. “It’d be such a waste to kill you so fast. I came here for you, after all.”
His lips trail along your neck, slow and purposeful, and despite everything—despite knowing this isn’t right—you sigh, shivering at the unfamiliar, intoxicating affection. He moves upward, lips ghosting over your skin until he reaches your ear, nipping at your earlobe.
“Mark…” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut, body melting under his touch.
“Ohh, I know, baby,” he mutters, voice thick with amusement, dripping with smug satisfaction. You can feel the smirk curving against your skin. “I know everything you like. I know every inch of you. Let me show you.”
Your body betrays you.
Your mind knows better—knows that this Mark isn’t yours, that the weight of his body pressing into yours should send alarms blaring through your head. But when his fingers skim your waist, when his breath fans hot against your skin, when he sighs like he belongs here—your body doesn’t fight him.
It welcomes him.
Your hands twitch at your sides, uncertain, but you don’t push him away.
“I can’t believe this universe’s Mark wouldn’t date you,” he muses, fingers wandering, exploring, curling behind your back before cupping your ass and squeezing. A choked sound catches in your throat as heat floods through you, your knees nearly giving out. “I mean—look at you.” His voice dips, teasing, triumphant. “Barely resisting.”
You bite your lip, swallowing a sound you refuse to let escape.
He laughs then—open, mocking, and so, so cocky. “And here I thought I’d have to fight this Mark over you, but—” his grin widens, wicked and pleased. “I don’t think I have any competition, sweetheart.” His lips brush against your jaw, his grip tightening possessively. “You’re all mine.”
He starts to push against you, forcing you to walk backward until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress. You fall onto the bed, breathless, your heart racing as he looms over you, his eyes dark and hungry.
“Just mine, okay?” he growls, his voice low and dripping with possessiveness. “I wouldn’t let anyone else touch you—not even him. Not even this universe’s pathetic version of me.” He scoffs, his hands gripping the hem of your t-shirt and tugging it off with a harsh, almost desperate motion. “Loving someone else? When I have you? He’s a fool. He doesn’t know what he’s missing. Y/N—you have no idea how much I’ve missed you, how much I’ve—”
He groans, biting his lip hard enough to leave a mark, his eyes raking over your exposed skin like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that can satisfy him. You shiver, a deep blush spreading across your face. It’s too much, too fast, and you feel utterly exposed as his gaze devours every inch of you. His expression twists, a mix of desperation and adoration, as if he’s memorizing every detail of your body, committing it to memory so he’ll never forget. His fingers twitch, hovering over your skin but not touching, like he’s savoring the moment, stretching it out just to make you squirm.
It’s too intimate, too intense, and for a fleeting second, you forget that he’s dangerous.
“Stop staring,” you weakly complain, turning your face away.
“Oooh, oh-ho-ho, yeah, baby, you’re just like I remember...” he laughs, his breathing uneven, his voice shaking with a wild, almost manic energy. “Yeah—I’ll never let him have you. Never let anyone else even look at you. You’re just mine—holy shit.”
And then he dives.
His lips crash into yours, claiming rather than kissing, his entire body pressing you down into the mattress, forcing your legs open. It’s desperate, feverish—starving. His tongue pushes past your lips, stealing your breath, and you moan into his mouth, eyes squeezing shut as you struggle to keep up with his messy, frantic rhythm. He kisses you with a ferocity that leaves you dizzy. He groans and growls against your lips as his hands roam your body, gripping and groping every inch of exposed skin. His fingers brush against your nipples, teasing and possessive, and you can only take it, breathless and overwhelmed, your mind spinning as he claims you in every way he can.
“Yeah, baby, keep making those sounds for me,” he murmurs against your lips before diving in again, swallowing every breath, every whimper like it fuels him. “So, so good. Fuck, you have no idea—it keeps me going.”
Your breath stutters as his fingers pinch your nipple, hard enough to make your back arch, a sharp gasp escaping your lips. His free hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat as he grinds his hips down. Your legs part without a second thought, welcoming him, urging him closer until he’s right there, pressing into you, slotting himself between your thighs.
“That’s it, spread wider for me,” he pants, voice dripping with dark approval. “You’re still so good, fuck.”
Your lips burn, swollen and tingling from his kisses, and when you blink up at him through your lashes, you catch the glint in his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, the usual warm brown of his eyes swallowed by something feral. That smirk—all sharp teeth and predatory hunger—should terrify you. Because the Mark you know has never looked like this before. This unhinged and unsteady. It’s a sharp, gut-wrenching reminder—this isn’t your Mark. This isn’t the sweet, awkward Mark who you fell for, the one you trusted. This Mark is wrong, a twisted mirror image, and you should be fighting him, shoving him away, clawing your way out even if it’s futile—
But then he leans down and presses the softest, faintest kiss to the tip of your nose.
And your mind blanks.
Because holy shit—Mark, the man you’ve been pining over for months, years, is kissing you. And it feels so good, so intoxicating, it messes with your head, scrambles your thoughts into something dangerous.
You know it’s wrong. You know this isn’t him. It’s like pouring your feelings into a stranger, a shadow wearing his face. But fuck—this Mark grinds against you, slow and deliberate, and you feel him, the hard press of him against you, thick and aching with want.
You gasp, body tensing, startled by how badly he wants you.
“Ohh, baby,” he whines, voice thick with desperate need, like he’s been starving for this moment for lifetimes. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave bruises, marking you as his. “Let me—” His hips roll again, dragging his thick length against your own, and you choke on air. “Let me make you feel good. Let me make you come, please, baby, please.”
Teeth scrape along your jaw before finding that sweet spot beneath your ear—the one you didn’t even know was sensitive—and you arch off the bed with a broken moan when he sucks harshly at the skin. His lips, his tongue, his teeth—he maps every inch of you like he’s memorized you, like he already knows every single weak spot before you even realize them yourself.
“Please? Please?” he keeps begging, voice so raw, so desperate, so utterly pathetic it makes you dizzy.
And you—you’re still too caught off guard to react properly. Because Mark—your Mark—never looked at you like this. Never even wanted you like this. But this Mark? He’s rutting against you like an animal in heat, his massive cock straining against his suit as he whimpers your name, making your head spin.
It’s wrong. It’s so, so wrong. Because Mark rejected you. Because you told yourself you’d be fine with just being friends. Because this isn’t even him—just the evil, dangerous version of him.
(Mark would slip into your open arms, his body heavy with exhaustion.
“I just—I’m scared,” he’d admit, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Scared of turning into my father. Scared of hurting people. And after everything with Angstrom…” his voice would trail off, fingers twitching against your back like he’s afraid to hold on too tightly.
You’d run a soothing hand along his spine, grounding him. “What do you mean?” you’d ask, gentle, coaxing him to keep talking.
“He—he talked about me like I was a monster,” Mark would whisper, voice tight. “Like there’s a version of me out there who destroyed everything. A version of me who’d kill everyone I love. A version of me who’d… destroy you.”
A slow, quiet exhale would leave your lips. “But you’re this Mark,” you’d remind him. “You’re my best friend. And you’d never do that.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, slowly, Mark would sags against you, burying himself deeper into your warmth.
“Yeah,” he’d murmur, barely more than a breath. “Never.”)
But when you move—when you grind up into him, your body answering before your mind can stop it—he makes a noise, something between a groan and a sob, and it’s so wrecked, so full of relief it makes your stomach twist.
Your arms loop around his neck, dragging him closer, pressing your bodies so tight together you can feel his heartbeat hammering against your own. And when his teeth sink into your throat, sucking so hard you know it’s going to bruise, a sharp, broken sound escapes your lips.
The room burns around you, filled with the obscene sounds of his desperate whines and your shaky gasps, the slick friction of fabric between your joined bodies.
“Yeah—” you gasp, nails raking down his back as pleasure coils tight in your gut. “Fuck, Mark, just—Do it. Do it.”
He groans, deep and guttural, a sound so full of possession it sends a sharp pulse of heat down your spine. Then his teeth sink into your neck again—hard enough that you know he’s breaking skin. And when his tongue licks the wound, sucking the blood like he owns you—you know he’s got you.
Your mind fractures into white-hot static as every rational thought—the blood crusted on his suit, the madness in his eyes, the thousands he’s slaughtered, the fact this isn’t your Mark—dissolves into primal need. Nothing exists but the electric pleasure coiling tighter in your gut with each desperate grind of his hips.
“Mark,” you sob, voice breaking as your body arches against him of its own volition. Your fingers twist in his hair, pulling him closer. “Oh god, Mark. Fuck. Mark.”
A guttural snarl vibrates against your throat as he claims your mouth again, his tongue pushing past your lips in a violent mimicry of what his hips are doing against yours. The growing dampness between your thighs should shame you, but all you can focus on is the delicious friction, the way his teeth scrape your bottom lip when you moan too loud.
But it’s still not enough.
Not with these fucking clothes between you, not with the way you’re both rutting against each other like wild animals, frantic and insatiable. It’s maddening. You need more.
Your nails claw at his back, at his suit, needing to feel his skin the way he’s feeling yours.
“Get it off,” you manage to gasp between feverish kisses. “Please, Mark.”
With a dark chuckle that sends shivers down your spine, he rears back just enough to grip his suit’s collar. The fabric shreds like tissue paper beneath his strength, revealing sweat-slick skin you immediately map with trembling fingers. His pupils blow wider at your touch, chest heaving as he crushes you back into the mattress.
“Oh yeah, Y/N...” he purrs, his voice thick with satisfaction as his fingertips trace the dark marks blooming across your neck like bruises. Proof that you belong to him. “Bet this universe’s Mark never made you feel this way, did he? Never touched you like this?” his grip tightens suddenly, making you gasp. “I’m the first, aren’t I? The only one who’s ever had you like this?”
You whimper, nodding without thinking, legs locking tight around his waist, keeping him close, keeping him there.
His grin stretches, wild and triumphant. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing,” he murmurs, his hand trailing down with agonizing slowness—down your neck, across your heaving chest, brushing over your sensitive nipples, gliding down your stomach... Until, finally, his fingers settle between your legs, pressing against the thick, aching bulge in your sweatpants, squeezing just enough to rip a needy moan from your lips. “Look at you,” he breathes, eyes wild with possessive hunger. “So fucking perfect for me. So ready to be mine. Does your Mark know what a desperate little thing you are? How easily you fall apart under my hands?”
His smile tilts, both awestruck and predatory. Then, he leans in until his lips brush yours, his hand working you through the fabric with rough, perfect strokes that have you trembling.
“So hard just for me,” he murmurs against your mouth. “He could never make you feel like this. Never touch you like I do.” His teeth graze your bottom lip. “He could never compare. I’m better, I’m stronger—”
He peppers kisses along the corner of your mouth, your flushed cheeks, tender and teasing, a sharp contrast to the way his pace quickens—faster, rougher.
“—I could make you feel even better,” he purrs, pressing his lips against your ear, voice so low, so filthy it makes you shudder. “Make you scream my name, so loud and clear, maybe the other Mark could even hear you.”
Your breath stutters, a deep moan slipping from your lips, body twisting under his touch.
“Ohh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” he chuckles, breath warm against your neck, teasing, taunting. “You’d love to let him watch. Love to let him see you break for me. Let him realize what he’s lost—what he’ll never have again.”
His voice dips lower, sinking into something darker, something twisted.
“You’d let me fuck you in front of him, wouldn’t you?”
Your body jolts, heat flashing through you in a violent rush, shame curling in your stomach like a vice.
“N-no—!” you gasp, eyes squeezing shut, face burning with humiliation. “No, I wouldn’t—”
But your body betrays you. Trembling, surrendering, completely giving in—your hips rut desperately against his hand, your pre-cum soaking through the fabric, staining it.
“Liar,” Mark breathes against your swollen lips before crushing them again in a kiss that’s hot, rough, and bruising. “I can feel how much you want it. How much you need it.”
His thumb presses cruelly against the head of your cock, rubbing slow, torturous circles through the fabric, making you see stars. Your whole body jolts, a strangled gasp tearing from your throat.
“Maybe I should drag him here,” he whispers, grinning against your lips. “Make him watch as I fuck you so good, you forget he’s your Mark Grayson. Make him see how perfectly you take me—how you were always meant to be... ours.”
You shake your head frantically, words lost between your ragged gasps. “No—”
But your back arches, cock throbbing obscenely against his palm. The more he whispers these filthy fantasies, the harder you get, hips stuttering, desperate and eager, seeking more, more, more, as his words sink deep into your brain, filling you with something forbidden, something wrong—something you like.
The pressure builds unbearable. His fingers move with ruthless precision, stroking, squeezing, dragging you to the edge, pulling sounds from you that should be humiliating—but you can’t stop.
Then you think about it. About your Mark. The one who’s still out there, fighting, struggling, exhausted and worn down. You think about what would he think. What would he do if he saw you like this. You imagine your Mark’s confused face watching—the horror in his eyes as he sees you come apart under his doppelgänger’s touch, moaning and whimpering like some cheap slut desperate for any version of him.
“Mark,” you sob as waves of shame and pleasure crash over you. “Mark, Mark—”
Mark exhales a breathy chuckle, eyes dark with fascination. “Oh-ho-ho. That’s it, baby. I’m here. I’m right here.”
And then it hits you.
White-hot pleasure blinds you completely as you spill in your sweatpants like some untouched virgin, his name tumbling from your lips in a broken prayer. Your body arches violently, convulsing as your legs clamp around his waist like a vice. Your hands claw at his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him, to this moment, to reality itself.
“Jesus…” he exhales, almost in awe, his grip tightening possessively. “My god… so perfect.”
You’re reduced to a trembling, gasping mess—shaky legs, toes curling, vision whiting out as the aftershocks rip through you. Mark watches it all with a smug, hungry smirk, his eyes locked onto your face, drinking in every twitch, every quiver like he’s trying to memorize it, to brand it into his mind.
“Yeah—let it out, Y/N,” he whispers, voice thick with satisfaction. “I did this to you. I made you feel this good.”
(“Does that feel good?” Mark would mutter into your ear, his hands still working awkwardly at the knots in your back.
You’d groan, face mushed into the pillow. ”Yup. Feels good. Really good.”
“I still can’t believe you’re making me do this,” he’d grumble, brows pinching together.
You’d stifle a laugh, eyes fluttering shut. ”You lost the bet, Grayson. Now keep massaging my back. My muscles are still wrecked from all the damn work you put me through covering you at Uni.”
“William never complains.”
“Because William sucks at covering! The only reason you’re not suspended is because I’m just too good at lying—Oh! Yeah! Right there, don’t stop,” you’d sigh, melting into the mattress. ”Oh my god, yes…”
His hands would freeze, fingers pressing hesitantly into your skin. ”…Can you stop making those sounds?”
“What sounds?” you’d murmur, half-dazed.
Mark would be quiet for a beat, then resume with a sigh. “Never mind. How about this? Does that feel good?”
“Mmmh, holy shit—yes!”)
Finally, you sink into the mattress, chest rising and falling in desperate, uneven breaths as your climax wears off. Your head falls back against the pillows, glazed eyes barely tracking Mark’s movements. His fingers leave the bulge in your sweatpants, moving to your waistband, fumbling briefly before tugging your sweatpants and underwear down, inch by inch.
“Just let me take care of you,” he mumbles, dazed. “Always gonna take care of you.”
The cold air bites at your oversensitive cock as he yanks it free, his pupils blown wide as he stares at what’s his. Before you can even process the exposure, Mark flashes you a wicked grin before his lips wrap around your cock, hot and wet and devastating. Your hips jolt, body convulsing at the sensation. His tongue swirls, savoring, exploring, a deep groan rumbling in his throat as he tastes you. The overstimulation is unbearable, electric. A strangled, pathetic cry rips from your throat as your hands fly to his head, fingers tangling in his hair, trying—failing—to push him away.
“Mark!” you jolt, thighs snapping shut around his head, trembling, squeezing, clutching. “Oh my god. Oh my god—oh my god. No—”
A deep, satisfied groan rumbles through him, vibrating against your cock and making you yelp. His hands pin your thrashing hips down, holding you there, making sure you take it.
“Mark—”
“Mine,” he snarls between filthy, wet sucks. “Gonna taste every fucking drop.”
The overstimulation borders on painful as he works you ruthlessly through your sensitivity, your cries growing increasingly broken. And yet, somewhere beneath the overwhelming pleasure, a traitorous part of you preens at being so desperately wanted.
Wanted. By Mark. Not your Mark, not the one who’d gently rejected you, but a Mark all the same. A version from some twisted reality who’d torn through dimensions just to claim you. And it sickens you—the satisfaction curling in your gut, the twisted pleasure of knowing that somewhere, in some reality, Mark has always wanted you. Craved you. And if he’s here, willing to ruin you, to unravel you with nothing but his mouth, then who are you to stop him?
His tongue works you over with filthy precision, hot and wet and perfect in ways you’d never dared fantasize about. You writhe beneath him, sheets twisting in your fists, as your gaze drops to where he’s sucking you off—Mark Grayson, on his knees for you, eyes close in joy. The sight alone punches a broken noise from your throat.
“F-fuck—!” you arch violently, tears spilling as pleasure crests into near-pain. “Fuck, I can’t—Mark, please, I can’t—!”
Finally, he lets you go with a slick, obscene ‘pop.’ He pants, breath heavy, lips red and wet as he leans over you. You’re gasping too, your chest rising and falling in erratic bursts, your body trembling like you’ve run yourself into the ground.
Mark watches you, gaze trailing over your flushed skin, your wrecked, tear-streaked face. And then he grins.
“I love you like this,” he murmurs, voice rough. His thumb swipes at the wetness on your cheek. “Love it when you cry.”
(“I hate when you cry,” Mark would say, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. ”I hate it even more when it’s me who made you cry.”
You’d slap his hand away, face twisting into a scowl. ”Shut up, Grayson. How dare you—how dare you act upset.” Your voice would shake, anger sharpening every word. ”You can’t even say sorry. Can’t even fake an excuse for why you’ve treated me like this, ignoring me for months… And don’t try to deny it—William noticed too!”
He’d wince, eyes darting away. ”I can’t—I can’t say it.”
“That you’re sorry?” you’d scoff, disbelief dripping from the words.
Mark would bite his lip, shaking his head desperately. ”No! Of course not. It’s—the reason.”
“The reason you’ve been pulling away?” you’d snap, swiping the back of your hand across your wet cheek. Then, it would hit you—heart lurching. ”Is it… because I confessed? I thought we were past that. That we’d still be friends no matter what…”
Your voice would crack, gaze dropping to the floor.
Mark would flinch, shoulders slumping in defeat. ”It’s part of the reason.”
“I don’t understand,” you’d murmur, voice breaking. ”You said it didn’t matter. You promised it wouldn’t change anything.”
“I don’t understand either,” he’d admit, hand scrubbing roughly through his hair. ”Just—just give me time. I need to… figure some things out.”
“You won’t even tell me?”
Mark would press his lips into a tight line, guilt flashing across his face as his gaze caught on your tear-streaked cheeks. ”I can’t.”)
A helpless sob rips from your throat as he surges forward, capturing your bruised lips in a desperate, feverish kiss. He moans into your mouth, deep and needy, and you can taste yourself on his tongue—hot, salty, intoxicating. The realization only makes you burn hotter.
Then, a moan rattles in your chest as his free hand trails lower, fingers teasing where you’re most sensitive. Your gasp is sharp when one presses against your entrance.
“W-wait—” you huff, shaky hands pressing against his broad shoulders. “No… I’ve never—never done this…”
Mark freezes, his expression shifting from surprise to something terrifyingly euphoric. “Oohh, Y/N can you get any more perfect for me? My god—not even in my universe were you a virgin.” He chuckles, low and dark. “Were you saving yourself for him? Hoping he’d finally see you the way I do? He’s such a fool—But I will make you feel good. I’ll make you feel so good.”
As he speaks, his hands roam, gripping your thighs with an iron hold before pushing them up—forcing you open, leaving you vulnerable beneath him. Your face flushes with embarrassment and arousal, your hands instinctively gripping the sheets tightly at the sheer obscenity of the position. He flashes a playful grin, his breath warm against your ass, causing you to gasp and breathe unevenly.
“What— What are you doing?” you stammer weakly, squirming uncomfortably, peering down with shame as Mark leans over your hole, a wide smirk across his face. You realize a second too late was he’s up to. “Wait, wait—Oh my god!”
Your back arches, mouth letting go a deep, throaty groan and your eyes rolling back when Mark inserts his tongue, licking and lapping at the inner walls of your hole, sucking and nibling and kissing. Your head throws back against the pillows, skin burning so hot you swear you’ll melt into the sheets. The sensation is overwhelming—Mark’s hot tongue delves between your cheeks with shameless enthusiasm, licking and probing with obscenely wet sounds that make you squirm uncontrollably. You writhe in delicious contradiction, torn between pulling away and pressing deeper into his merciless mouth.
“Mmh, look at you—” Mark pants between greedy licks, his voice thick with arousal. “That’s it. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”
You’re beyond responding, your hips stuttering and your asshole clenching and unclenching with the unfamiliar, yet intoxicating sensation. The pleasure is so intense you bite your lip raw trying to contain the filthy sounds fighting to escape. It’s useless, though, because Mark keeps eating you out and it only takes a few minutes of this sweet torture until you start whimpering and mewling like a little whore.
“F-fuck—!” the curse tears from your throat as your toes curl and back arches off the bed. Your cock stirs back to full hardness, dripping pathetically against your stomach. “Fuck—Mark, my god! Don’t stop, fuck—Oh my god—”
You’ve never been touched like this before—it never even crossed your mind, not even in your wildest fantasies. But damn, it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Who would have thought that being pleasured like this could feel so incredibly good? You might just climax right then and there with Mark’s warm, skilled tongue working its magic, and you’d die happily. Your erection is unbelievably hard, leaking pre-cum onto your stomach, but you don’t dare touch yourself because you’re too busy gripping the sheets for stability.
But then Mark pulls away, and you moan and whimper with need, trying to tighten around him in an attempt to draw him back.
Mark smirks and chuckles, and you feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment at your own lewdness.
“God, baby, you’re so perfect for me,” Mark rasps, pulling back just enough to loom over you. His lips glisten with your taste, his breath coming in ragged bursts. “Look at you—already falling apart just from my mouth. Think you’re ready to take me, sweetheart? Think that pretty little hole can handle my cock?”
You hadn’t noticed before, too lost in the haze of pleasure—but Mark’s hips have been moving restlessly the whole time, fucking the air with desperate, instinctive thrusts as he devoured you. Now, as he looms over you, you can feel him, hot and throbbing, grinding against your thighs through the thin fabric of his suit. And fuck—he’s massive. Even through the material, you can feel the sheer size of him, the way he twitches with every needy thrust. And yeah—his mouth has left you slick, loose, ready to be filled—but shit. Viltrumites have monster cocks, and it scares you.
And yet—and yet, as Mark moves against you, teasing, testing, making sure you feel the sheer girth of him even through fabric, all you can feel is hunger, a desperate need.
So, huskily, with glazed eyes, you whisper, “Yes, Mark. Yes.”
He doesn’t make you beg twice. One hand tears the remaining suit away like tissue paper, his cock springing free—thick, veiny, and already leaking. The flushed tip bobs against your thigh, leaving a sticky trail as your breath catches.
“Fuck, Y/N—” Mark’s voice breaks as he strokes himself, his wild eyes drinking in every tremble of your body. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this. How many nights I dreamed of this moment. You—here, with me again.” His breath shudders, his grip tightening. “Had to find you. Had to make you mine again. I missed you. I missed you.”
His feverish rambling sends your pulse into overdrive, and for one fleeting moment, you wonder about that other life—what version of you could make a man this desperate, this feral with need? What was their relationship like? How did it end? How did Mark end up here, in your universe, searching for you? But then Mark’s strong hands are spreading your thighs wide, his body settling heavily between them, and all coherent thought evaporates in a rush of dizzying arousal.
Shit, shit—Mark Grayson, the boy you’ve been in love with since eighth grade, is about to fuck you. And shit—that thought alone makes your cock ache, your hole clench with anticipation, even as your mind screams that this isn’t your Mark. Your real Mark is probably fighting for his life somewhere. Maybe even dying. And here you are, letting his evil counterpart have you—willingly.
That makes you a horrible friend. You’re disgusting. A traitor. You’re giving in to every dirty fantasy you’ve ever had, every longing you’ve buried for years, all because this Mark—the wrong Mark—looks at you with the hunger you’ve always dreamed of seeing in your Mark’s eyes.
It’s sick. It’s twisted. You’ll never be able to look your Mark in the eye again. Guilt twists in your gut, heavy and suffocating.
You should stop.
You should have never let it go this far.
But then—
“Shh, baby, I got you,” this Mark whispers, shattering your spiraling thoughts. His voice is soft, almost reverent, as he lines himself up. “I got you. Gonna make you feel so good.”
You shiver, heat flushing your skin as his cock presses against your entrance, thick and hard and real. Instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist, locking behind him, pulling him in.
Mark groans, deep and satisfied, his fingers pressing into your thighs as he grins down at you.
“Fuck, yes,” he hums appreciatively, running possessive hands along your trembling thighs. “You’re so good, Y/N. So good.”
His fingers dig deep enough to leave bruises as he drinks down every gasp, every shudder of your oversensitive body like a man starved. And just when desperation coils in your gut—when the teasing pressure at your entrance becomes unbearable—Mark sheathes himself inside you in one brutal thrust.
“Fuck—!” your cry shatters the air as your body bows taut, back arching off the bed. The stretch burns, his thickness forcing you open in ways that make your vision whiten at the edges. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
He’s massive, painfully so. You can feel every ridge, every vein as your body struggles to accommodate him. It’s too much—you’re certain he’ll split you in two.
And yet... The fullness is intoxicating. It burns. It aches. But it also satisfies something deep within you, a primal need you hadn’t even realized was there. Tears prickle at your eyes as you clench the sheets, overwhelmed by the sheer reality of Mark Grayson buried inside you.
“Fuck...” Mark’s voice is guttural, dripping with satisfaction as he bottoms out. “God, you’re tight.” His hips grind deeper, wringing a broken whimper from your throat. “Taking me so perfect—fuck, you feel incredible. Like you were waiting just for me.”
And then, slowly, oh so fucking slowly, he begins to pull back out, dragging a wrecked moan from your lips. Your fingers clutch at his shoulders, desperate for something solid, something to hold onto as he sets a rhythm, each movement sending heat curling through your veins.
“That’s it,” Mark pants against your neck, his breath scalding as he inhales your scent like an addict. “Just like that… you’re perfect. Nobody else could take me like this.” His teeth graze your pulse point possessively. “Only you. Only mine.”
The next thrust is deeper than the last, stealing the breath from your lungs and making your hips jolt up instinctively, a surprised sound catching in your throat.
“Oh god, Mark,” you whine, nails digging into his back, voice breaking on a breathy moan. “Ah—ngh—fuck—”
The agonizingly slow drag of his cock has your vision swimming, pain and pleasure blurring into one overwhelming sensation. He’s so thick, so long, so heavy inside you. Every time he pushes in, it feels impossibly deeper, stretching you, filling you—until it makes your stomach bulge slightly, a small bump appearing in the flat plane of your abdomen.
Mark groans, eyes going wide, his hand settling at the base of your belly. “God, look at you,” he breathes, awed. His fingers press into the bulge, tracing the outline of himself inside you. “Fuck, I’m buried so deep in you. Right here, Y/N—you feel that? That’s me claiming you. Oh-ho-ho, goddamn, look what I do to you.”
His dark chuckle vibrates against your skin even as awe colors his voice. He punctuates each word with a punishing thrust, fingers digging into the visible outline of himself inside you like he wants to brand the shape of his possession into your flesh. And you can’t look away either—because holy shit, this is the first time you’ve ever felt anything like this, and it’s almost too much. Too intense. Too consuming.
Tears streak down your flushed cheeks as your legs tremble violently. The initial pain has melted into overwhelming pleasure, your body adjusting to his impossible size with desperate, shameful eagerness.
“More,” you rasp between gasps, arching up shamelessly. “Faster. Harder. Please—”
Mark chuckles darkly, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deep. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice thick with hunger. “Gonna make you feel good. Gonna ruin you for anyone else.”
The dark promise in his words should terrify you. Instead, it sends another pulse of white-hot pleasure straight to your aching cock. Then he moves—harder, faster—tearing the air from your lungs, leaving you breathless and reeling. Your body clenches around him, every nerve alight as a broken whimper escapes your lips.
“Mark—Mark—” you mumble his name between gasps, unable to form anything else. “Mark, ah—Mark—mmh—fuck—”
A sharp cry rips from your throat as Mark shifts his angle, hitting a spot inside you that sends a violent shudder through your entire body. Heat surges down your spine, forcing you to arch off the bed, toes curling, every nerve alight with raw, electric pleasure.
“Fuck! There! Mark—ngh—fuck!” you moan, biting down on your lip so hard you taste the faint tang of blood. Mark growls, his movements deep and unrelenting, each thrust pressing you further into the mattress. The bed creaks beneath the force, your skin burning where his grip tightens. “There! Keep going! Fuck, it feels so good—Mark!”
Then—through the haze of heat, through the sinful sounds of skin against skin, of your wrecked moans and his low, animalistic groans—something intrudes. A sharp, buzzing vibration. Your ringtone.
Your eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused, flickering toward your desk—just a few feet away, where Mark tossed your phone. You’re aware the screen glows, the sound ringing in the background, before another brutal thrust wipes all coherent thought away. Let it ring. Nothing matters except the way Mark’s splitting you apart, remaking you as his with every snap of his hips.
The phone rings and rings… then stops. And you don’t even notice when it goes silent, too preoccupied with the drag of Mark’s cock inside you, the way your nails sink into the broad expanse of his back, leaving behind deep, angry marks.
“Perfect,” Mark rasps against your ear, his voice wrecked and reverent, “Taking me so fucking good, Y/N. Made for this. Made for me.”
Your thighs shake violently around him, toes curling as his filthy praise reduces you to nothing but lustful moans and pleading whimpers.
Then—your phone starts ringing again.
This time, Mark notices.
He stills inside you with a low snarl, his body tensing as he straightens slightly, casting an annoyed glance toward the device. But when he reaches for it—his cock still buried deep inside you, making you whimper—his expression darkens with wicked amusement as he reads the caller ID.
“Well, well,” he purrs, looming over you once more, planting one hand beside your head while the other dangles the phone just inches from your flushed, dazed face. “Take a look at this.”
Your stomach drops at the familiar name flashing on screen. It’s Mark—your Mark—calling you.
“Should we answer it, baby?” he muses, tilting his head as his lips curl into a smirk. “Let him hear what you sound like when you’re properly fucked?”
“No—!” you gasp, wrecked and breathless, your heart hammering against your ribs as you reach for the phone, desperate to snatch it from his grasp. “Mark—”
But he’s quicker.
“Ah, ah,” he tuts, lifting a single finger in mock reprimand, effortlessly keeping the phone out of reach. His other hand tightens around your hip, keeping you pinned. “You need to get your shit together first, Y/N. Wouldn’t want him to know what you’re doing, now would you?” His eyes gleam with wicked delight. “With that pornographic little voice of yours—so wrecked, so needy for my cock…” He leans in, his breath fanning over your ear. “I bet he’d figure it out immediately.”
A shudder rips through you.
Your vision blurs—tears welling at the edges, cold fear twisting deep in your gut. But worse—worse—is the way your body betrays you. The way you clench around him involuntarily at the thought. At the sheer humiliation of it.
Of your Mark listening on the other end. Unaware. Oblivious. As his variant fucks and ruins you.
“See? I know you,” he murmurs, his voice syrup-thick with satisfaction as he strokes your cheek with unnerving tenderness. His free hand cups your face, his thumb dragging over your lips. “I know exactly what kind of fucked-up little thing you are.”
His grin widens as he watches your lips tremble, your breath coming in quick, uneven pants.
“I’m glad you’re the same here as you were in my universe, Y/N. I adore you like this.” Then, his tone dips lower, velvet wrapped around something dangerous. “Now—try to keep him distracted while I take my time with you, yeah?”
Before you can react, he thrusts—sharp and sudden—just once, but it’s enough to steal the air from your lungs. A strangled gasp escapes you, body reacting on instinct, pulse hammering as he stills once more.
Mark leans in, his breath hot against your parted lips, his amusement dripping with warning. “Otherwise, he’ll keep calling,” he murmurs. “And I don’t want him interrupting us.”
Your stomach twists in knots of anticipation and dread. The phone is still ringing, still just out of reach—Mark’s name flashing on the screen, a second away from being answered. And all the while, this Mark remains inside you—hot, solid, pressing deeper with each second of silence.
“Okay...” you breathe, forcing air into your lungs. “Okay.”
Mark’s smirk turns predatory as he brushes a featherlight kiss to your nose before tapping the answer button, offering you the phone back—and as soon as you grab it and press it to your ear, he immediately resumes his slow, deliberate thrusts that make your toes curl.
“Y/N? Y/N!” The real Mark’s voice—familiar, concerned, kind—crackles through the speaker. He sounds breathless, frantic. “Are you okay? You called and I couldn’t answer but then—but then I called back and you didn’t pick up, and I’m—I’m worried—”
You squeeze your eyes shut, teeth sinking into your lip, fighting so hard to keep quiet. But the Mark above you doesn’t make it easy, his hips moving with cruel precision, his smirk deepening as he watches you struggle.
“…Y/N?”
“I’m here,” you choke out, voice miraculously steady despite the way your body arches into each thrust. The not-yours-Mark’s eyes glint with dark amusement as he increases his pace. “I’m... okay.”
Your voice wavers. You can’t help it. A shaky sigh escapes when he ducks his head to nip at your throat, his hot breath raising goosebumps across your oversensitive skin.
“Thank God,” your actual Mark exhales, the relief in his voice almost painful to hear. “Listen, Cecil just— he lost track of a variant. Said he was heading your way, Y/N.”
The not-yours-Mark stills inside you, his expression shifting to something dangerously intrigued. “Oh?” he murmurs against your pulse.
“Y-yeah?” you blurt too loudly, praying the real Mark didn’t hear him.
Your fingers dig into the sheets as the not-yours-Mark begins moving again with renewed purpose, each thrust calculated to wring helpless sounds from your throat while you struggle to keep your breathing even.
“Yeah,” your actual Mark replies through the phone, his voice strained. “I’ll—I’ll come your way. Or the GDA will pick you up, but—it’s dangerous to stay in your apartment! Please, just—just leave. Right now.”
You choke back another gasp, barely holding yourself together. No—you can’t let Mark come here. You can’t let the GDA get involved either. The humiliation would be unbearable—agents witnessing you like this, being taken apart by the same monster who probably leveled cities and slaughtered thousands before claiming you in your own bed.
“No!” you blurt out, voice cracking under the weight of too many emotions. “No, nngh, fuck—you can’t!”
You’re losing control. This Mark—the wrong Mark—is hitting your prostate with every brutal thrust, his teeth sinking into that sensitive spot on your neck while his fingers twist your nipples mercilessly. Stars explode behind your eyelids as another lewd groan escapes you. Virgin or not, there’s no way you could stay quiet under this assault. You realize with dawning horror that he doesn’t want you quiet—he wants you loud, to moan, to let your Mark hear you. To let him know.
That yeah—he’s here.
And yeah—he’s fucking you.
For a moment, there’s only silence on the other end of the call.
Then finally, Mark speaks again, slower this time. “This—this isn’t negotiable, Y/N,” he says, though there’s something off—a hesitation, a shift in his tone as your breath stutters audibly. “Are you… okay?”
No. You’re not okay. You’re overwhelmed, wrecked by pleasure more intense than anything you’ve ever known, losing your virginity to a twisted version of the man you love. Hot tears of shame spill down your cheeks as a sob tears from your throat.
“...Y/N?” Mark’s voice sounds distant now. You can barely hear him over the rush of blood in your ears, over the slick sound of skin meeting skin, over the obscene, broken whimpers falling from your lips.
“Mmmh, fuck,” you gasp as the pressure builds unbearably inside you. “Fuck—Mark—”
“That’s it, baby,” not-your-Mark whispers in your ear, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction. “You wanna come, don’t you? Wanna scream my name?”
The dam breaks. “Yes! Fuck, yes, yes!” Your voice shatters with each punishing thrust. Dignity forgotten, you arch desperately against him, meeting every movement as you beg mindlessly. “Mark—I can’t—oh god, please, please...!”
The line goes silent for an agonizing moment, the static crackle carrying more weight than words ever could. You squeeze your eyes shut, shame and guilt and disgust warring with the pleasure coiling tight in your belly—but it’s too late now. Far too late.
“Y/N...?” his voice comes through the receiver—your Mark’s voice—strangled and low, thick with realization.
Your stomach drops. He knows. Oh god, he knows. He fucking knows.
Not-your-Mark lets out a pleased hum against your neck, his fingers lazily plucking the phone from your trembling hand while his hips snap forward, forcing a needy moan from your lips. The wet sound of skin on skin is unmistakable. There’s no way your Mark could mistake what’s happening.
Not-your-Mark’s eyes glint with something wicked as he presses the phone to his ear, smirking.
“Too late, dickhead,” he says, just as breathless as you, his voice dripping with smug victory as he punctuates each word with another brutal thrust. “He’s already mine.”
Mark’s furious roar bursts through the speaker. “You—!” you close your eyes, mortified, tears falling down your cheeks because this is the moment Mark realizes you’re a horrible friend. “I’LL FUCKING KILL YO—”
But the sound is cut off with a sickening crunch as not-your-Mark’s fingers tighten, phone shattering, fragments falling like dust.
“Oops,” he pouts mockingly, tilting his head with feigned innocence before his expression darkens. His hand snakes around your throat, not tight enough to hurt but firm enough to claim. “Now where were we, sweetheart?”
When he slams back into you, you arch off the bed with a broken scream, your legs spreading wider of their own volition. He chuckles darkly, hands sliding under your thighs to fold you nearly in half, opening you up so completely that each thrust punches the air from your lungs.
“Fuck,” he growls, pace turning erratic as his control fractures. “Look at you—taking me so perfect. Tell me. Tell me how much you love this. How much you love taking my cock.”
“I love it,” you gasp without thought, your mind obliterated by pleasure. “Fuck—I love it. I love you.”
A deep, guttural moan tears from his throat, his grip on you tightening as he nods frantically. “Yeah? Love me? Fuck— I love you too, baby. I love you so fucking much.”
And you know he’s not your Mark. You know your real Mark is probably flying at full speed right now, minutes, or even seconds from bursting through your window. But Christ—hearing those words, in Mark’s voice, from his lips, with his face twisted in raw, desperate worship—it makes you dizzy. It makes you happy.
“I love you,” you say again, fingers twisting into his dark hair, dragging him down until your panting mouths brush. “I love you. Always have—fuck—since—since before you even got your powers, Mark!”
“Yeah?”
“Yes! Ah—fuck, yes!” The words dissolve into moans as you kiss the corner of his mouth, your lips sliding messily against his. “When you were such--a nerd! Loved you since we were kids. Love you now. I always will—”
He groans, swallowing your words with a feverish kiss, his hands squeezing your cheeks until your mouth falls open, surrendering completely. Tongues tangle, breath mingles, and he moans right into you—
“I love—” he pants, his movements growing erratic. “I love you, Y/N. Fuck—Gonna take you home with me. Gonna keep you forever. Steal you from that idiot...make him see what he threw away—”
Then—suddenly—his hand wraps around your cock.
It’s been untouched this entire time, leaking wildly against your stomach, and the moment his fingers curl around it, a sharp, broken whimper escapes you. Your hips jerk helplessly, legs trembling as pleasure rips through you.
“Fuuuuck,” you sob, shuddering against him. “Don’t stop—don’t stop. I’m gonna—”
“I got you, baby,” he growls, stroking you faster, fucking into you harder. “Gonna make you feel so fucking good. Gonna take you away. Gonna own you!”
And God help you—his words don’t sound like threats when you’re drowning in white-hot ecstasy. In this moment, you’d let him drag you through dimensions, would beg him to claim you completely—because he wants you. He loves you. He craves you in a way you’ve always ached to be craved. And right now—you’d let him take you. You’d let him do whatever the fuck he wanted.
“Ah—ah, Mark—” Your body locks up, stomach tightening, hole clenching around him as the pressure on your cock becomes unbearable. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come—”
“Yeah, baby, let it out,” he growls against your lips, his hand working your cock in perfect sync with his punishing thrusts. “Come for me. Now.”
You shatter with a strangled scream, body jerking violently as you spill across your stomach in thick, hot stripes. Your vision whites out, every muscle locking and spasming as pleasure tears through.
Mark groans like a man possessed, his thrusts faltering as your hole flutters and clenches around him. “Fuck—fuck—” He slams into you one final time, burying himself deep, and then he’s coming too, hot and thick, filling you to the brim. His grip tightens as he grinds himself deeper, prolonging every last spurt, wringing every aftershock from you until you’re trembling and spent beneath him.
You can’t move. Can’t speak. All you can do is lie there, trembling, as he keeps pumping into you, dragging out your orgasm until you’re sobbing from oversensitivity. His hips grind against yours, forcing every last drop into you like he’s determined to make sure you remember this.
When he finally pulls out, you whimper at the loss, your body limp and wrecked. Sweat and come cling to your skin, your chest heaving as aftershocks wrack through you. Every inch of you is marked—bruises blooming where his fingers, his teeth, his lips claimed you.
You barely register the mattress dipping as he lays beside you, his arms wrapping around your exhausted frame. A soft, lingering kiss presses to your forehead, his voice a soothing murmur against your damp skin.
“Shh, shh, Y/N,” his fingers trace lazy circles against your back. “Go to sleep. I’ll take care of everything.”
Even in your dazed, post-orgasmic haze, you understand what “everything” means.
It means your Mark—your universe’s Mark—is on his way. It means a fight is inevitable. It means blood, destruction, the clash of two forces that look the same but could never be. And when that moment comes, you’ll have to face him—face the shame that will devour you whole.
Because how dare you?
How dare you moan his name for someone else? Whisper desperate I love yous to the wrong version of him? Come undone beneath a man who wears his face but isn’t him?
And after you told him it was fine—that you were fine—staying just friends. After you swallowed every aching, desperate feeling just to keep him close. But in the end, you gave in. You let temptation pull you under. You let yourself have him—or the closest thing to him. And now, there’s no taking it back.
You know you’re wrong.
You know time is running out.
And you know that when he says he’ll take care of everything, this Mark intends to kill your Mark—just as your Mark wants to kill him.
But your body betrays you—mind foggy, muscles lax with satisfaction, the afterglow pulling you under. As consciousness fades, this not-quite-Mark draws you closer, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth. His breathing steadies, his solid frame surrounding you in deceptive safety.
(And vaguely, you think about your Mark. About how he’s been pulling away from you, slowly but surely. How, ever since you confessed your feelings and ruined everything, he hasn’t looked at you the same.
“I promise I’ll tell you,” he’d say, a week ago, his eyes avoiding yours in a way that pains you. “I promise I’ll tell you the truth. All of it. And—”
Then he’d looked up, and something in his gaze pinned you there—fervent, almost feverish.
“I’ll—” he’d stop himself, cheeks coloring faintly, and yet he wouldn’t relent his steady gaze. ”I’ll tell you the reason I’ve been acting like such an asshole to you. And I hope...you can forgive me after.”
“Why not now?” you’d ask, puzzled, fingers curling into your palms. ”Why not when I’m asking you, Mark? Right here, and right now.”
He’d flinch, his eyes closing for a fleeting second before opening them again. ”Just—gimme one more week,” he’d rasped. “One more week and—I promise I’ll tell you everything. I’ll—confess everything.”
And as he’d turn around, his broad back to you as he’d take off—not before glancing at you with troubled eyes, an intensity in his eyes you can’t quite place—you’d only guess he’s gonna say he hates you. That he’s gonna say, now once and for all, he can no longer be your friend.
And how you should’ve kept your heart locked tight, your love buried deep, just so you could keep him close. How you should’ve never, ever opened your big mouth and let your feelings spill out.
But you did, and now nothing’s the same.)
“I’ll take care of it,” Mark murmurs again as you drift away, his voice a dark promise. “Never gonna lose you again. Never.”
The last thing you register before sleep claims you is the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your cheek.
And in the final flicker of consciousness, a single thought drifts through your mind— You wished Mark had told you the reason.
summary > mike has always had a thing for you, and everyone knows it. even you, so when you're too drunk to walk yourself home. you know that you can always count on mike wheeler to play hero. just make sure he doesn't alert your brother!
notes > omg i havent written in so long, so sorry if this is rusty
Mike couldn't even believe he was here. Much less, smoking pot in the Byers' backyard. Joyce had become surprisingly lax once Will hit twenty-one, much to everyone's relief. Even Hopper, who had caught each kid red-handed at least a dozen times. Each exhale had him lifting higher and higher into that sweet haze. Will's folk music fades into the background as Lucas and Dustin argue with each other. Max is trying to help Will in the kitchen, but Mike can tell she's worried. And so is he... where are you?
Yeah, you said you'd stop by someone's birthday party on the way here, but that was forever ago. And, because you aren't technically twenty-one yet, four more months (!), Steve still hounds you about curfew. If you somehow arrived here in the next blink Mike took, you could only hang out for another thirty minutes before he walks you home. (What? College is expensive, so education over smog machines killing the environment.)
Where the hell were you? Are you okay? He should stop, just after this last hit. Yeah, just the one after this will be good.
"Y/N?" someone shouts, muffled from the glass door. Mike turns around and finds it was Max who shouted. He can see you trying to smile, but it comes more as a winced grin. Oh god, you're drunk, aren't you?
His eyes land on your tiny denim skirt, white camisole, Mary Janes, and a deep red cardigan that seems to be falling off your frame. Did you walk here in that? It's nice out, sure, but still cold enough. Plus, he knows you, you get cold fast. You should be freezing, but instead, your cheeks are flushed. Another tell that you're intoxicated. Great. Fantastic, this is just what he needs.
"Where's Mike?" he can hear you say, volume control a distant memory to you, as you practically shout what was supposed to be a decent level for conversation. He opens the sliding glass door and steps inside, turning slightly to shut the door, before barely being able to turn around, when a body launches itself at him. From the quickest of quick glances, he got, Mike, could see your dilated pupils, dull coordination skills, and slurred words, that you were drunk drunk. Still, Mike reveled in the affection he was receiving.
"What happened at that birthday party?" he questions, "Why are you drunk?"
"Oh, is it that noticeable?" you say, twisting on your toes, Mike having to wrap his arms around your waist so you don't tumble to the ground. "Max," you mean to whisper again, but, oh well... "Is it bad?" The redhead just giggles, shushing you and motioning you to turn around. Fuck, it really is that bad, then.
"Please don't tell Steve," you mumble, spinning back into Mike. He looks down to see your puppy dog eyes twinkling up at him. He's a goner. "Please, Mikey." Oh god, you- you are going to kill him if you keep this up.
"How much did you drink? It might not be that bad," he tries, but upon your slight wince, he knows he shouldn't have even asked.
"A few glasses of wine, at first. Because they were trying to be adults, you know. And then someone suggested tequila," you don't pause your words, but Mike still finds time to cut in, "You suggested tequila."
"So we took shots of, hey! Why do you," but Mike halts your words with a single eyebrow raise, "Fine, whatever, I suggested the tequila, so we took shots and then people started asking for mixed drinks, and it was a build your own version, so I built my own..." you trail off.
"I probably should've stopped at that point," you say, carefully watching Mike's face, waiting for his game plan. He always saves your ass, and you have full confidence he'll do it again tonight.
Your head is spinning, so you close your eyes and press your forehead into his chest. Instinctively, his large palms come up to cradle your skull, holding your head in place and supporting your mind. He couldn't wait to get to bed tonight and replay this moment over and over again. His fingers start to knead lightly at the base of your scalp.
"You've got to stop overdoing it, sweetheart, " he whispers, not letting the rest of the party hear his gushy words. He's not irritated. But he probably should be. You've done this more recently than you can fully remember. And at any moment, Mike knows he might snap and spill to Steve.
"Are you gonna tell him?" you whisper again, pulling away from his hold and looking down at your watch, lifting your wrist to him to show him the time. He nods, and the pair of you start saying goodbyes. You are hugging Max extra tight, and Mike is having Will promise to call him to make sure you're both home safe.
You've been on the walk for all of two minutes in unbearable silence before you open your mouth, "I'm glad Robin is back in town."
"Me too. Wish Nancy would come home sooner."
"Yeah, you're sisters like, the coolest ever, Wheeler. I think, if I liked girls like that, I would be in love with Nancy. Can you let me hold your arm?" you derail, attaching yourself to his left arm anyway, hanging onto him like a small bug. Not that he thinks of you as bug-like, oh god what is he even, nevermind. Wind rustles the trees surrounding you, and he feels you cling closer. Fuck, you have next to nothing on. He looks further down, at the skin on your exposed calf. The streetlights illuminate it for a quick second, and he spots goosebumps. He slows to a stop, and you depart from his warmth. He's quick to shrug his denim jacket off, gliding it onto your shoulder, and holding it steady so you can slip your arms through the holes.
You silently obey, stealing his leftover heat and basking in it. And then it's back to silent walking, and he prays and prays for you to attach yourself to his arms again. Then thanks whoever up above when your arms snake around his one.
"You alright, Harrington?" he whispers into the night.
"My brother can't see me like this," you whisper back, words still slurred, as expected. You won't be sober till afternoon. "he'll be so upset, please Mike."
"What? No, of course he won't. At least not a whole bunch. He's chill, remember? King Steve?" Mike tries, but to no avail.
"No, King Steve makes him totally uncool. He thinks because he was an idiot in his youth, that I'll follow in his footsteps. So he's strict. Even more so now that we share the apartment. He doesn't have Mom and Dad's police backup. He just- he wants me to stay little forever. And it's exhausting playing perfectly." You finally take a second to look at Mike, not having meant to spill your guts like that. Honestly, it might have been better to actually have spilled your guts than whatever it was just then.
"Oh god, please, Mike, say something, "you panic, not even giving him time to process your previous word before slamming more demands his way. "Mike!"
"Were here." is all he says, but it helps to snap you back to reality and... where the fuck... oh, you're at his house. Not yours. He was listening. He knew Karen was sure to be asleep, and with Nancy away, that just left Holly, who was supposed to be hosting a friend's night. Oh well, those kids loved both of the older kids. Mike leads you in through the front door.
"Hey, I'm gonna go say goodnight to Holly, so she won't bug us. Just head upstairs, yeah?" He asks, cradling your face in his palms, not a normal practice between you. You nod your head, dumbfounded over the feelings growing roots in your chest over the lanky brunette. His fingers tap twice on your cheekbone before he turns, heading towards the basement.
You make your way upstairs. You almost make it to his bedroom before you're caught. A bedroom door has opened, a gasp following, fuck. Fuck, don't act drunk. You are sober. Sober is your middle name.
You turn around, and thank god, it's Holly, not Karen.
"Y/n?" the blonde asks, "Mike's not home yet, want a cookie?" she asks, holding out a plate of fresh chocolate chip cookies she made for her friends down in the basement.
"Oh god! You are an angel, Holly." You gasp, bending down to snag a cookie or two, shoving half of one in your mouth with no hesitation.
"No problem, hey Mike," the young girl trails off when her brother joins them upstairs.
"Hollly, I was looking for you. Cookies?" he asks, snatching one off the plate before asking.
"Hey! Those aren't for you!" she says, swatting at his arm.
"But why does she get some?" he asks, pointing at you.
"Because shes cool." Holly answers, not letting Mike speak again as he walks downstairs.
"Yeah, Wheeler, baby Wheeler thinks I'm cool," you giggle, as Mike pushes you towards his bedroom.
You guys make it in, and he sits you on his bed, bending down to undo your shoes. Sliding them off your feet andputting them away beside him. When he stands, he sees you curled into the middle of the bed, wrapped around his blanket. He watches you for a few minutes, reveling in the peace of the moment.
Then you shift, snapping him out of his daydream. You move closer to the wall, making room for him. "Please lie down."
He starts to protest, but you shut it down, "We won't touch, just lie down. It's nice to sleep next to a warm body. And I know you're stoned, Wheeler. So you're just as sleepy as I am." Your eyes have fluttered shut, lashes still sticky with mascara and eyeliner.
Mike has no choice but to let you win. Following your orders. A push and pull game you both can't get enough of.
WARNINGS: 18+, piv sex, missionary, prone bone, spooning sex, oral sex (female receiving), clit rubbing, teasing, mocking, dom/sub dynamics, Roman as a kind of soft dom, creampie, orgasm denial, thumb-in-mouth, FLUFF!!, flirting, backstory drop lol, and um... angst. sorry. so sorry.
summary: you finally manage to get your boss out on a date, fulfilling your biggest dream-- but does it stay a dream throughout the evening? as a wise man once said, fuck around and find out.
word count: 17,378 (EEK I'M SO PROUD) (AND SORRY LOL)
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a/n: FINALLY!!! oh my god. fucking finally. after 118k words, it's finally happening. and you best believe I inserted my classical music trauma in here, along w some personal easter eggs, and AHHH I AM SO PROUD OF THIS MONSTER, I worked day and night and had so many fucking versions of the ending, so... MWAH, ENJOY!<333
Sooo... phase four was probably the least planned part of my revenge-scheme. An actual date hadn't been on my schedule at all.
Some part of me hadn't thought I'd have the balls to actually go through with any of the things I had done earlier today, including sucking my boss off under his desk while he was in a meeting, and yet here I was; standing in front of my mirror, very much alive, very much unsued, and very much trying to decide whether I should go for a sultry-but-classy look, or romantic, or just... slut.
My phone was propped up on a chair next to my mirror, tilted just enough so Letha could get a full-body view over FaceTime. She was cross-legged on her bed in a tangle of lavender bedsheets, eating instant noodles straight from the cup, her long blonde hair pushed back with a silk headband like some modern-day Diana who happened to subscribe to Vogue. "Okay, no offence, girl," she said around a mouthful of noodles. "But that dress is not it."
With a gasp, I turned to Letha. "What do you mean? It's sweet!"
"Yeah, but where are your boobs? You can't wear a neckline that high, you're not auditioning for a convent! Push 'em up, girl!"
This was the second nun comment of the day-- I could only groan, shimmying out of the dark-green dress. I let the dress pool around my ankles and kicked it into the pile on the floor, which was starting to look like the aftermath of a very expensive hurricane made of silks, satins, and rogue sequins. "I liked that one," I muttered, stepping over a heel to grab another hanger from the back of my closet. "It had a feeling."
"Yeah... the feeling of a third-grade choir recital," Letha huffed, slurping her noodles. The way she was kicking her legs right now made her look like she was in the middle of watching her favourite episode of trashy reality TV, and she was getting more invested than she should; "You're not going to confess at church! You're going on a date with my crazy cousin, whom I've known since birth, so trust me. I'll know the perfect outfit when I see it."
I rolled my eyes, slipping the next dress off its hanger. It was a soft champagne silk, backless, and entirely unlined. I held it up with both hands and watched Letha's expression change through the phone. Her chewing slowed, and her eyes lit up; this episode of Say Yes to the Dress, date-night edition, seemed to get even better, in her opinion. "There she is!" Letha squealed. "That's the girl I knew in college!"
"... Lee, dear, it's see-through,"
"Exactly!"
"He'd literally see my nipples through this,"
"I repeat... exactly,"
Oh, there was no way in hell.
As I shook my head and started putting the dress away, I heard Letha groaning like I had shut off her TV.
"That dress was a public indecency lawsuit waiting to happen," I muttered, carefully tucking the hanger back in like I hadn't just contemplated going full femme fatale with no bra. "I don't want to look like a slut! This is the one opportunity for him to see me as something other than..." I couldn't say submissive-- not in front of Letha. "Other than a fuck-buddy, or whatever."
Letha sighed, nodding as she slurped her noodles. "Okay, I get your point," she murmured, letting out a content sigh. "But we still have, like, half an hour until he picks you up. Take your time. No need to panic just yet."
I sighed and scanned the racks of dresses crammed inside my closet, my fingers skipping over the different fabrics; too shiny, too juvenile, too wedding guest-- until I reached the far end, and something black caught my eye. It was tucked between a blazer I had worn twice and a crushed leather robe I had forgotten I owned.
I pulled it out slowly.
It had that low square neckline that sat sweetly just above cleavage level (no one would mistake me for a nun, that's for sure), and a fitted waist that flared slightly at the hips, like it wasn't trying to seduce you-- it just did.
Letha leaned forward through the phone, squinting. "Ooh, wait! Wait. Show me the back!"
I turned it around and held it up. The back dipped into a low scoop that almost touched where my waist began, a tiny satin bow at the base of the spine.
Letha gasped like she had seen God. "Yep! Girl, that's the one!"
"It's kinda... romantic," I said, holding it against me. I could already imagine the way the fabric would fall, soft and slinky, but structured, with just enough movement to catch in the air if I turned too fast. "This doesn't scream corporate slut."
"Exactly! Try it on, bitch!"
Huffing, I stepped into it, careful with the delicate fabric as I tugged it up my waist and over my chest. The straps settled against my shoulders, and when I turned to face the mirror, something in me stilled.
Oh.
Now, I remembered why I bought this dress in the first place. I stood there, barefoot in my bedroom, staring at my reflection like I didn't quite recognize the woman I saw in the mirror-- but I liked her.
I turned toward the phone again; Letha was quiet for once, her Godfrey-green eyes soft with approval. For all her theatrical eye-rolls and fashion bitchery, she sure knew how to recognize a moment when it showed up unannounced.
"Yeah... this is it," I breathed, smoothing my hands down my sides.
"Fuck yeah," she replied. "He's gonna like you in this, I'm sure of it."
I smiled, but it didn't quite reach all the way-- the high of finally finding the dress settled too fast. The swoop of excitement in my stomach was already beginning to rot a little at the edges, and I sat down on the edge of the bed, still in the dress, still looking like I had stepped out of a perfume ad, and dropped my chin into my hand. "But... what if it doesn't matter?" I mumbled. "What if I do everything right, like the dress, the makeup, the hair-- what if I try my absolute best, and he still only sees me as... the secretary who crawls under his desk?"
Letha blinked, the smug grin slipping off her face just enough to make room for something real. She sat up straighter, pushing her noodles aside.
"I feel so stupid," I continued, a cloud of gloom appearing above me. "Roman isn't going out with me because he wants to... I basically invited myself out against his will. Now I'm just some idiot playing dress-up, or something taken straight out of a failed version of Pretty Woman."
Letha squinted at me through the screen. She looked as if I had just spoken a foreign language, and she was trying to process it. "Okay, first of all? Bitch, no. You didn't invite yourself out," she said, pointing a chopstick at me like it was a weapon. "You cracked open the door he was too emotionally constipated to even knock on, and he walked through it. I know my cousin, if he didn't want to go out with you, he wouldn't have. He'd have scoffed, or given you the same look he always gives me when I ask him if he wants to spend the day shopping with me."
I tried to say something, but she ironed right over me like I was a wrinkle in her shirt-- classic Letha. "You think Roman Godfrey does things he doesn't want to do? Please," she huffed. "And second, he wouldn't have dared to ask you out himself, no matter how much he liked you. This sort of shit is borderline terrifying for that donkey. Remember when he started gagging when you said you thought about him, or something?"
I looked down at my hands, still smoothing over the fabric like I could rub the anxiety out of my skin. "Oh, don't remind me..."
Letha smiled, but it wasn't her smug, teasing smile-- it was soft, yet also a little sad. "Yeah, maybe you made the first move. So what? You had to. Because if you waited for him to do it, you'd be married to someone else with three kids before he ever got the balls to properly look you in the eye,"
I looked down at my hands in my lap, still curved over the folds of the black dress, as if holding it close would anchor me to something. My throat tightened; "I just..." I hesitated. "I keep thinking that if I look pretty enough, or say the right thing, or wear the right amount of perfume, that he'll finally see me as something more than just his... horny secretary, or whatever."
Letha was quiet for a second. "He already sees you as something more,"
I looked up.
"Trust me. He just doesn't know what to do with it," she said. "That fucking baboon..."
That earned the faintest laugh out of me, and Letha caught it, pouncing like a cat. "There she is," she grinned. "There's my hot mess in couture!"
I rolled my eyes, but my chest felt a little lighter-- wiping under my eyes, I tried not to smudge my liner; "Oh, Letha, how I love you,"
"I know you do," she purred, reaching for her noodles again. "Now, go drench yourself in perfume, put on those strappy murder heels, and go ruin my stupid cousin."
I looked at myself in the mirror one last time-- I didn't feel like a girl playing pretend anymore. "Okay..." I breathed. "Okay."
Now, I just had to put on the garter set again.
Time to strap in.
｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ
I should've known Roman would be the type to show up exactly on time-- honestly, after working for him for a few months, I knew full well he had a peculiar obsession with punctuality. Time, to him, was a currency he never wasted.
Still, when I heard the knock at exactly 20:30, I felt my knees turn to jelly. Tonight, the punctuality felt different-- and with my heart thrumming in my chest, pumping blood to the tingling tips of my fingers, I opened the door.
Oh, Lord, have mercy.
Roman was leaning against my doorframe, one hand in his pocket, the other resting casually against the wood, like he had been there forever, like he belonged there-- the low porch light kissed the sharp line of his jaw and faintly grazed the tops of his cheekbones, catching in his hair where it curled slightly at his temple. The rest of him was cast in shadow, but his eyes (God, his eyes) glinted down at me, that green-gold colour impossible to pin down, impossible to ignore.
He was wearing a black shirt, which was simple in theory, yet devastating in practice. The collar was open, the top two buttons undone, and the sleeves were rolled to his forearms, exposing skin and lean muscle, veins subtly visible where his hands relaxed at his sides.
This was Roman trying to be casual, and failing beautifully-- he looked like someone who had been styled for an expensive cologne ad and gotten annoyed by how well it worked.
I stood frozen in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, suddenly unsure what to do with the rest of my body. My heart was hammering as Roman's gaze dropped, lingered, then flicked back up like a match catching flame.
His mouth curved, just barely-- a slow, secret smile. "Are you trying to kill me?"
I opened my mouth to respond, but it didn't happen. Words? Forgotten. Vocabulary? Gone. "I-- No?" I managed, hating how breathless and stupid I sounded. Why couldn't I have said something else?
Roman chuckled, smirk curling. "I'm saying you look gorgeous," He leaned in just slightly, just enough for me to feel it-- his height, his heat, the weight of him standing there so still and composed, with his scent filling my every atom. "You gonna let me in?" he asked, voice low.
My lips parted. "You're-- We're not staying,"
His smile widened by a fraction. "No, I know," he murmured. "Just teasing 'ya."
Roman straightened, pushing off the doorframe with easy grace, and tilted his head slightly, eyes dragging down the length of me like gravity. A flicker of heat passed behind his expression, but he didn't let it stay-- he blinked it away, mouth twitching like he wasn't quite ready to let me see how affected he actually was. "Shall we?" he asked, motioning to his car with a nod of his head.
I expected the car from yesterday, but no. Parked under the amber glow of the streetlamp like something summoned, there it was-- a vintage red Jaguar. A deep, glossy cherry-colour, long and low, and growling faintly.
Oh, I should've known he owned expensive old cars; he definitely seemed like the type of billionaire to do so.
Roman's eyes trailed mine. "Seemed like a nice night to drive myself," he explained, not even trying to suppress his glee as he stepped aside. His hand gently brushed my lower back to guide me down the stairs, and I followed him like I was under some kind of spell, heart beating too fast, air feeling too thin.
Was this a dream? It sure could be.
"You seem like you're in a good mood," I said, hoping he didn't notice the slight shake in my voice. "I was sort of expecting you to be pissed all night."
Roman glanced over at me as he opened the passenger door. The corner of his mouth lifted-- wry, a little crooked. "I was," he said. "Until I saw you."
And I would've responded, had my heart not detonated in my chest the second I spotted what had been laid out in front of me in the car. There it was-- a massive bouquet of roses, sprawled across the passenger seat like they had been dropped there mid-opera. Deep red, almost black in the shadows, dozens of them; no filler, no bow, just pure, dramatic intent.
My breath caught somewhere in my throat as my brain tried to make sense of it. Roman had left that for me. For me. But the scale of it, the sheer deliberate un-Godfrey-like grandeur, made something uneasy twist in my stomach.
Because... he had said he would get me back. "I'm going to ruin you," were the exact words. Oh God. Was this that?
My pulse spiked. "Wait-- this isn't-- Roman, are these like... are these revenge roses?"
He blinked. "What?"
"I mean-- are you messing with me? Because I know you said you were gonna get me back and this is all so beautiful, it's very beautiful, but also kind of-- terrifying, actually, and I just need to know if this is part of some psychological chess game you're playing with me because honestly that would make a lot of sense for you and I really need to know if I'm supposed to accept them or if I'm about to be arrested for emotional trespassing or--"
"Jesus Christ," Roman muttered, half laughing.
He stepped closer, one hand still on the open door, the other reaching for the bouquet. He swept it up from the passenger seat and held it out to me; the roses looked almost ridiculous in his grip-- too romantic, too sincere for a man who usually spanked me raw.
"Take the flowers," he said, voice low.
I stared up at him, wide-eyed. "But?--"
"They're not revenge roses, whatever the fuck that is," he said, sharper now, the edge of a grin tugging at his mouth. "They're just... roses. Don't people do this shit? If not, then my cousin set me up. She said girls like roses, or whatever."
... Letha?
Oh, Letha was going to get the biggest smooch the next time I saw her. That girl was an absolute angel. I felt myself melt to my spot, my smile cracking brightly across my face as I stared up at Roman, eyes round with affection and awe. "They're lovely," I breathed. "Thank you."
Roman inhaled slowly, like he was trying not to lose face or patience-- then he leaned down, green eyes catching the porch light again, and said, just above a whisper; "If I wanted to punish you, you'd know. And trust me, you'll know when I do,"
All I could manage was a faint noise of acknowledgment, holding onto my smile for dear life. Couldn't let it slip, not now. Still, Roman (damn him) just smiled, lazy and infuriatingly pleased with himself. "Get in the car," he said, still close. "We have a reservation to get to."
Okay, okay.
I sat down, and the door closed behind me with a heavy, expensive thunk, sealing me into the Jaguar's plush leather interior and the thick, dizzying scent of roses. The flowers were a full-body experience-- perfume and drama and colour, pressed against my lap like they knew they were too much and dared me to say so. I smiled down at them, brushing the pad of my index against one of the rose petals, praising myself in my head to the high heavens for somehow stumbling through life on the exact path that had led me here, right now.
Roman slipped into the driver's seat a moment later, his scent curling into the cabin-- spice and something woody, almost cold? It reminded me of the scent he wore during my job interview; did he know that this was a psychological trick? Was he aware that wearing the scent you wore the first time you met someone could evoke stronger feelings? I doubted it. It couldn't have been intentional. Could it? Not unless Letha mentioned that to him in passing, too, that sneaky minx.
Roman didn't speak right away, and adjusted the mirror with one ringed finger and shot me a look out of the corner of his eye. "And you're not as murderous as you were this morning,"
My gaze darted up to meet his in the mirror. "Pardon?"
"You said you thought I'd be pissed," he said with a shrug. "And I thought you'd be out for blood again."
I blinked at him. "I wasn't out for blood,"
"You were a little out for blood," he said, grinning as he reached for the gear shift lever. "I still remember the look in your eyes when you got under my desk. Never seen you like that, that's all. Cutest blowjob ever."
I nearly choked on air. My spine snapped straight against the seat, heat crawling up the back of my neck so fast I was genuinely surprised steam wasn't coming out of my ears. Cute? Was it only that, cute? Not... hot, or whatever? "Roman,"
"What?" he said, all innocence, easing the car away from the curb like he hadn't just casually drop-kicked my dignity into oncoming traffic.
I stared at the dashboard, cheeks blazing, hands folding around the roses like I was at church. "Don't say it like that,"
He flicked on the turn signal, smug as hell. "Would you rather I lie?"
"No-- God, no, I just-- cutest?"
Roman glanced over at me, brows lifting. "It was, though,"
I huffed and stared stubbornly out the window; "You make it sound like I brought you an apple and a love note written in crayon,"
"You kind of did," he said, grinning. "You were all flustered, mean, and mad at me, and then suddenly very... helpful. It was cute."
"Stop saying it was cute! It wasn't cute!"
Roman laughed, an unexpected warm sound-- he was still smiling when I glanced at him, but it wasn't smug this time. "Okay," he murmured, tapping the steering wheel with one ringed finger. "Fine. You want complete honesty?"
I didn't answer-- mostly because I wasn't sure. Did I want honesty from Roman Godfrey? That felt like asking a loaded question with a trapdoor underneath it.
However, he didn't wait for me to respond; "It was hot," he said, quieter now. "Obviously."
The words landed with more weight than I expected. They settled between us, warm and heavy, and I found myself staring at him-- at the curve of his mouth, at the clean line of his jaw, at the way his throat moved when he swallowed. I swallowed too; "Then... why'd you call it cute?"
Roman shrugged, eyes fixed on the road. "Because I didn't expect it. It got to me," He paused, his fingers flexed once on the wheel, then stilled--
"You get to me," he mumbled. "More than I like."
And just like that, I forgot how to breathe. My heart did something strange in my chest-- it skipped a beat and then made up for it all at once. The air inside the car felt warmer, denser, like the windows were fogging up even though I wasn't moving.
Roman didn't look at me, but I could feel the tension in him too, the way his shoulders pulled just a bit tighter, like he knew he had said too much and wasn't sure what to do with it.
Then, he broke the silence I had loved to swim in for the few seconds he had let me.
"Anyway," he said, slipping back into his teasing voice like armour. "I stand by it. Cutest blowjob ever. Five stars. Would receive again."
"Roman," I huffed, scandalized, as I clutched the roses tighter like they might shield me from the sheer audacity of this man.
"What?" Delight bloomed on his face again. "I'm being nice, am I not? I'm really trying, here."
I opened my mouth to snap something back, some cutting, a witty little retort, but nothing came out-- because the truth was, Roman was being nice. In his own weird, maddening, emotionally catastrophic way. And despite how much I wanted to pretend I had the upper hand, I didn't. Not even close. He had it (he'd always had it), and it was getting harder and harder to pretend I didn't notice the way he looked at me like I was something that lived under his skin. He was trying. He was really trying.
So instead, I shifted slightly in my seat, stared ahead for a beat, then mumbled;
"You get to me, too,"
The words hung in the air for a moment, soft and terrifying. I didn't dare look at him-- my hands were suddenly too still over the roses, my fingers twitching like they wanted to pull the words back before he could really hear them.
But he had.
I felt it more than I saw it-- that stillness that passed through him like a ripple in deep water. Roman's large hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel, his veins pulling over his knuckles. However, I knew him well enough by now to recognize that the silence wasn't disinterest. It was the opposite. It was tension. It was held breath. It was something he didn't allow himself to feel or revel in.
Because for him? Emotion was pain. Always was, always would be.
And then, just as I was about to say something silly to lighten the mood, Roman exhaled. Slow and controlled, his voice came back, low and careful; "Let's just hope no one from corporate or HR sees us. That'd be a lot of explaining that I'm not in the mood for,"
Had I spoiled his mood? I had no idea, but I wanted to beat myself up for it till I bled. "I doubt it," I mumbled, staring straight ahead on the road. "If anything, we'll say you're thinking about giving me a raise, and... I had no other available time to discuss it."
Thankfully, after a beat, Roman briefly tilted his head toward me, one brow arched as he huffed a laugh. "Was that your very subtle way of asking for a raise?"
I blinked. "What?"
He gestured loosely with one hand, his smirk sliding back into place like it had just been waiting for an excuse. "Your whole scheme? You getting back at me for stealing your underwear?" He paused, eyes gleaming. "God, you're good. I've figured you out now."
I let out a disbelieving giggle; "It was never about getting a raise, no," Did he really not know it was about him going down on me? And here I thought he had pieced it all together earlier today.
"You sure?" Roman teased. "Because if it was... consider it approved."
Well, that was a nice change of events? Wouldn't say no to that. Could probably go shopping with Letha more often if I had some extra money in my pockets. Win-win! I turned to him, beaming. "Great! I'll have your assistant draft the paperwork,"
His grin deepened; "You are my assistant,"
"Exactly. That's why you should be worried,"
Roman laughed, low and genuine, and the sound washed over me like warm water. Just like that, the tension unraveled. It didn't completely fade, no-- it just tucked neatly beneath the surface again, traded for the rhythm we knew, and the flirtation we could hide inside.
... For now.
｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ
I had dreamed about this restaurant-- quite literally.
It had been in one of those Vogue catalogues that Letha had thrown all around her room back in college, and I had added it to my mental locker; I was definitely hoping to visit this place someday. However, when I had searched up the prices of the food, and searched up who usually attended this place, I very clearly remember sinking deeper into my bed and willing myself gone. Some things were just supposed to be out of reach, right? Or, well, I held onto the hope that I could get Letha really drunk on cosmopolitans one day, and that she'd then take me here and pay for everything-- that would've been my ticket.
But now?
Now, Roman Godfrey had his hand on the small of my back as the hostess led us to our seats. What even was life? He didn't even need a surname check, they didn't even ask his name-- no, his fingers had been dipping into the low back of my dress, drawing a teasing circle into my skin as he walked up to the hostess like he wasn't doing anything of that nature at all, and she had simply nodded. She knew who he was. Of course he didn't need to announce who he was. Fucking hell.
I was also quite sure we had just passed by the mayor of Pennsylvania, who was swirling his drink as he spoke to his very, very stylish deputy mayor-- weren't they accused of having an affair just a few weeks ago? I wasn't sure. I remember skimming past that part of the magazine, and going directly to page six to gawk at pictures of Roman instead. Still, what got to me was that no one batted an eye at any of the people at this restaurant-- of course they didn't. Not at the mayor, and not at Roman, because neither of them was out of place here, in the midst of the elite.
I was the anomaly.
But I certainly didn't look like one.
The hostess led us to a tucked-away table at the edge of the dining room, semi-enclosed by frosted glass and real vines suspended like art. It was private, dimly lit, and humming with warmth. When Roman pulled out my chair for me, I felt my cheeks burn as I gave him a breathy thank you, trying not to show how wide my eyes had gone. Seriously, who was this guy? Where was my boss who had made me hump his shoe?!
God, the menu was heavy. The napkin was embroidered. The glasses were so thin I was afraid to touch mine-- Vogue knew what they were talking about, back in the day.
"Still thinking about the raise?" Roman asked once we were alone, eyes glittering from across the table.
I smirked, slipping into our familiar rhythm like I wasn't floored by this place-- there was no way I'd let him know that I was. "I'm mostly thinking about what I'm going to wear after you give it to me,"
He leaned back, clearly pleased. "Good. Think lace,"
I shot him a look.
"Lace, and easy to get out of," Roman added, grinning. "The stuff you wore today was hot, but impossible."
"Is that right?" Oh, someone's been thinking about that. I shrugged, chin high, like I wasn't about to floor him; "Sadly for you, I'm still wearing it."
Roman let out a quiet, dramatic hiss before slowly, deliberately, sinking a little into his seat, visibly happy about it. One hand rested casually on the table, his fingers brushing the base of his wine glass, not bothering to dim his broad grin. "Cruel," he murmured. "Cruel thing to say to a man trying to behave himself."
My pulse jumped, and I could only smile softly at the menu, dismissing him (mostly for my own good). I'd melt if I didn't, I was sure of it.
Roman tilted his head, studying me like I had become something entirely new in the last few seconds. "You know that you're making this hard for me, don't you?" he went on, lazily dragging his thumb along the rim of his glass. "You sit there looking like that, talking like that, and expect me to what? Order steak and talk about traffic?"
"I expect you to try," I said, sweet as pie, before putting down the menu and folding my hands on the table like I hadn't just wrecked him on purpose.
Roman huffed a short laugh, shaking his head once. "See, this is the problem. You used to get flustered when I so much as looked at you,"
"I did not!"
"You did. You've even confessed to it. And now?" He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the edge of the table, eyes heavy-lidded and burning. "Now you're saying shit like that and sitting here like you're not doing it on purpose."
I arched a brow, matching his tone, bite for bite. "Maybe I am doing it on purpose,"
Roman's grin sharpened--"Then I guess I'll take that raise off the table,"
"Or under the table," I countered. "I distinctly remember you like that."
He blinked, just once, and then let out a low, half-scoff of disbelief. "Jesus Christ,"
Thankfully, the waiter chose that exact moment to appear, asking if we were ready to order.
Roman didn't look at the menu. Didn't need to. He waved a hand, said something in French (of course he spoke French, that little aristocrat), and then nodded to me with a devil-may-care smirk like you're in good hands, trust me.
And just like that, the waiter vanished, and we were alone again.
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was thick, almost luxurious, like the candlelit restaurant had settled in around us, happy to let the tension simmer and stretch. Roman sipped his wine, eyes hooded-- I felt like a goddess every time he looked at me like that. So, with a light blush, I traced a finger along the rim of my glass, pretending to be absorbed in the movement, even though my entire body was still buzzing.
Then, finally, I said; "So..."
Roman's brow raised, amused. "So?"
I shrugged. "I realize I don't actually know anything about you. This is the perfect opportunity," The perfect opportunity I had so perfectly stumbled upon while crafting my revenge.
"You know plenty," Roman said, shrugging back at me with a teasing mimic.
"Sure," I murmured. "I know you're rich, emotionally unregulated, and deeply committed to corrupting your employees."
Roman smiled-- slow and lazy. "All true,"
"But I mean... outside of that. What do you do when you're not emotionally destabilizing me in the workplace?"
He leaned back a little, watching me like he wasn't entirely sure if this was a trap. "You're asking what I do for fun?"
"Yes," I said. "Or at the very least, what you pretend to enjoy in public."
Roman was quiet for a beat, his expression unreadable; "I didn't take you for the type to make dinner feel like an interview,"
"I'm not. I just..." I hesitated, then shrugged again. Was this my go-to nervous tick? "I'm curious, that's all. All I've seen of you is, well-- this. The office. The flirting. The mean days. And, of course, the power plays."
Roman was still for a moment, watching me over the rim of his glass. Then, he set it down gently and said, almost too easily-- "I read,"
"You read?" I repeated. Of course he did.
Roman nodded; "Yes. Books. Pages. Sentences,"
"Funny,"
"I thought so,"
I squinted at him. "Are we talking Wall Street Journal or French poetry levels of reading?"
Roman's grin returned, slower this time. "I'll let you imagine whatever version of me you want,"
"No, don't do that," I leaned a bit closer over the table, crossing my legs (no fishy business, I promise), and dropped my voice a little. "Be real with me, if only just for one night."
Roman stared back at me, a bit confused perhaps, and the stem of his wine glass caught between his fingers as he watched me from across the table. Candlelight flickered softly against the deep angles of his face, his eyes unreadable but alert, like he was weighing something in silence. I knew it was probably a little much to ask him to open up, but I so desperately wanted to know him, just a little bit, and--
"You're gonna laugh," he mumbled.
My brows raised; "I wouldn't,"
"You would,"
"You don't know that. I might find it cool,"
Roman sighed, giving up, giving in. He didn't look at me when he spoke. "I know how to code. I read about that, new softwares, and so on,"
There was a beat of silence as the words hung in the air-- dry, understated, almost absurd in the candlelit glow of one of the city's most expensive restaurants.
I stared. "You... code?" What was so embarrassing about that?
Roman finally looked up, and the expression on his face was equal parts sheepish and annoyed. "Yes," he muttered. "Code. Python, Swift, JavaScript. Y'know... nerd shit."
I couldn't stop the smile spreading across my face. It was ridiculous to me that he seemed so horrified by it. "You code," I repeated, grinning now. "For fun? For work?" Hot, hot, hot.
He groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose; "No, not for fun. I don't sit around hacking into the Pentagon for sport. It's... I don't know, calming sometimes? It's mainly logical, and it makes my brain buzz. Everything's either broken or it works, there's no in-between. There's something satisfying about that,"
My grin softened, and so did my eyes. I steepled my fingers and put my head on top of them, feeling my heart thud with warmth. "Roman Godfrey," I purred. "You're actually kind of cool."
Roman narrowed his eyes at me, but he didn't look away; if anything, something about the way I said his name made him hold my gaze longer than usual. His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a warning; "Don't get carried away," he mumbled.
But I didn't have to-- he was already softening. I could see it in the way his pupils dilated that he was relieved, and maybe even flattered.
Roman leaned back a little, the flickering light catching in his cheekbones and the gold edge of his irises. His fingers traced a coy circle against the base of his wine glass, and he let out a quieter sigh-- less annoyed now, more... reluctant affection. "I used to build little apps back in boarding school. Dumb shit, mostly. But my greatest work was when I made one that could replicate teacher log-ins,"
My jaw dropped. "Roman!" Little cheater!
"Relax," he said, lips curving into something slow and wicked. "It ended up being a good thing, believe it or not. My friends and I used to joke that our history teacher was a pedo, and when I got his passwords... I also got hold of his Google searches. Incriminating stuff, let me tell you."
A cold chill crept across the back of my neck-- that took a turn. "What did you... do with that?"
Roman shrugged like this was the most casual story ever; "I printed the searches, and mailed them anonymously to the headmaster. No note. Just a USB and a folder, and the teacher disappeared from campus a week later. Administration didn't even ask questions. Quiet investigation, quiet settlement. All of it got swept under the rug, but he never came back... So, yeah, I felt like Batman for a good few weeks after that. Good times,"
My chest tightened, not out of fear, but out of some breathless, involuntary awe. Not just because Roman had done that, but because I could tell by the way he told it that no one had ever thanked him-- no one had even known. I stared at him, and for a long moment I forgot where we were; the restaurant, the flickering candle, the impossibly thin wine glasses, all of it.
"You're..." I exhaled, pulse fluttering. "You're not who I thought you were."
Roman gave a one-shouldered shrug, like it didn't matter, like he hadn't just revealed one of the most private, morally complicated things about himself. "No one ever is,"
"Yeah," I breathed. "You're Batman."
Roman blinked at me once, and then let out a low, startled laugh that pulled straight from his chest. It was that rare kind of sound I had only ever heard from him a handful of times; unguarded, full-bodied, and warm. He tipped his head back slightly as it escaped him, as if even he was surprised by it. "Christ," he muttered, smirking as he brought his hand to his mouth. "You're going to dine out on that forever, aren't you?"
"Damn right I am," I said, grinning now, my voice soft with delight. "Roman Godfrey, brooding CEO by day, Gotham vigilante by night."
"You're ruining the brand," he warned, still smiling.
I leaned my chin into my hand and blinked at him, faux-innocent. "I like learning about the real you,"
"Oh, I take it back, now,"
"Nope. Too late. I already like him,"
That made Roman still again-- but this time, the tension was different. Subtler. It was in the flick of his eyes as they searched mine, the slight parting of his lips, the way his fingers stilled against the wine glass like he had forgotten it was there. The candlelight caught the edges of his face, carved them softer now.
Mercifully, just on time, the waiter returned. The plates were set down with delicate precision; our steaks, sides in tiny, glimmering copper bowls, steam curling into the space between us. Roman thanked him with a nod and a quiet ça ira, and then we were alone again.
The air was warmer now from the plates, the pause, and the quiet simmer of my words still hanging in the air-- I wasn't taking them back. No, he'd have to sit with them, and let them sink in. I liked him, and he had better get over that soon enough. With a shaky sigh, I picked up my fork and knife, eager to redirect all this... weight sitting in my chest. I didn't want to break whatever thread had been strung between us, but I didn't quite know how to sit in it either. I sliced into my steak, slow, pretending my fingers weren't trembling just a little.
But then, just as I was about to take the first bite, knife halfway through the cut--
"You have a minor in music, right?"
I looked up, startled. He remembered?
Roman was watching me with a different kind of intensity now-- not flirty, not teasing, but perhaps a bit... curious? "It's in your CV," he said. "We discussed it during your interview. It was for extra credits, right?"
"Yeah," I breathed, feeling my eyes soften. "I play the piano. Or, played is probably the better term. Haven't touched it since I graduated."
Roman didn't say anything at first-- he just watched me with that unreadable look, silently slicing into his steak. His posture was deceptively casual, elbow on the edge of the table, shoulders relaxed, but something in the set of his jaw gave him away; there was a flicker behind his eyes, like a thought that almost surfaced, then didn't. Was it interest?
"Shame," he finally said, voice low. "Why?"
I was surprisingly on guard, more so than he had been when it was his turn. "Um," I mumbled, my shoulder doing that nervous tick thing again. "I never particularly liked it. I was forced to take lessons because everyone in my family plays, and I was also forced to practice on the weekend my whole life, so... it didn't form a particularly healthy bond. I've loathed it my whole life."
Roman wasn't eating the steak. Why wasn't he eating? Why wasn't I? Why were we staring at each other like children lost in a forest, unable to look away?
"But you did it in college?" he asked, not blinking.
"Yeah," I breathed, not blinking either. "For the credits."
"Right... What made it bearable, then?"
Oh, what a question. "It felt cool when I finally finished learning a piece," I mumbled, a bit quieter than intended. Why was I so timid, all of a sudden? "And I like this composer, Rachmaninov. His pieces were too hard for me to play, but it was fun to explore sometimes."
And suddenly, it felt like everything that had frozen started moving again-- because suddenly, Roman let out a loud scoff, half a laugh, as he finally took the first bite of his steak. He chewed, nodding to himself as though processing how to say what he wanted to without being rude. Then, when he was done-- "Rach is a menace,"
My brows drew together, and I let out an incredulous laugh. "Rach?" I echoed; only people that knew music called him that.
"Oh, yeah," Roman said, casual as ever, before nodding to my food. "Eat."
Confused, I finished cutting my steak, taking a rather disoriented bite of the best steak I had ever had. I would have melted and complimented it, thanked him for ordering it, but I couldn't shake the inkling I suddenly got. "What, you don't like Rach?"
At that, Roman chuckled. "You need hands the size of Russia to get through the second page of anything he writes, that's all," he said, matter-of-factly. "It's beautiful music, you will never catch me denying that, but that man made it impossible to play if you don't have massive hands. Menace, I tell you."
My eyes were probably wider than the plate before me. "You play, too?"
It was as though he hadn't heard me for a few seconds-- Roman proceeded eating, humming in delight. "My family is Slavic," he said when he finished chewing. "If you don't play the piano, you're a bastard child with no right to eat. Of course I do."
It was comical, the way he delivered it-- so deadpan, so dry, as though the words hadn't just cracked the entire night open. "You play!" I beamed, my steak momentarily forgotten on my fork. "You play the piano and you've been sitting there this whole time letting me monologue about it like I'm the only tortured soul at this table?"
Roman tilted his head slightly and took another bite, chewing slowly, deliberately. "I was enjoying myself,"
"You're the menace," I breathed, stunned. "Not Rach!"
"Says the woman who just tried to gaslight me into thinking she never got flustered around me," he shot back, then nodded toward my plate again. "Eat. You're embarrassing me."
We stared at each other, utterly ridiculous and beaming. The flickering candlelight made his cheekbones look even sharper, his grin even more boyish in his gorgeous black shirt. I couldn't believe I was sitting here across from Roman Godfrey, of all people, trading war stories about Romantic-era composers like it was casual.
I tilted my head, beaming. "Do you still play?"
Roman hesitated for the first time-- not guarded, not evasive, just... hesitant. "Sometimes," he mumbled. "My mother sometimes pressures me to play when I come over. She always falls asleep when I do, though, so I don't know whether to be flattered or offended."
I snorted, probably a little too loudly for this fancy restaurant-- that earned me an echo of a snort back from Roman, and it rolled out into a short, shared laugh.
"What do you play?" I managed, feeling my cheeks rosy.
"Debussy. Always Debussy,"
"Oh, of course you do," I whispered, and I couldn't stop the warmth that bloomed in my chest. "That makes sense."
Roman didn't respond at first-- he just looked at me. Really looked. Then, slowly, he put down his cutlery and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "You talk like you've done this your whole life,"
"Well," I said, smiling into my wine glass. "It seems you have, too."
"Touché," he murmured, but he was still watching me, eyes darker now, more thoughtful, like... maybe, for a moment, he saw something in me that he didn't quite know what to do with-- then, he turned it into something he knew very, very well. "You know what they say about piano players?"
I knew what was coming. I could see it in the way his green eyes gleamed with mischief. I sighed, unable to suppress my grin; "Hands?"
Roman's lips curled like he had been waiting for the bait. "Mm," he hummed, eyes never leaving mine. "Fast hands. All that repetitive motion..." He dragged the sentence out slowly, almost lazily, as if the words themselves were meant to touch me. "A lot of discipline. Lots of control, they say."
I swallowed around nothing. "Sounds exhausting," I said, trying to keep my voice steady-- still, it came out lower than I meant it to. God, how I wanted his hands on me again. They were surprisingly addictive.
Roman smiled wider, sinking a little further back into his chair like he could feel the air between us change, like he wanted to watch me squirm with a better view. "Depends who you're playing for," he murmured. "But if you tire quickly, you're in luck. I'm always happy to take the lead, and... finish the piece, per se."
There it was, hanging between us, heavy and undeniable.
"We shouldn't be talking like this in public," I teased, barely above a whisper.
"Why not?" Roman murmured, voice dropping. "You're the one who wore that dress."
I let out a small, breathy laugh. I hadn't even remembered what I was wearing until that moment, until his eyes dragged lower like he was picturing how it clung to me when I stood, and how it would feel bunched up. Wrinkled. Peeled off, perhaps.
Roman's fingers ghosted along the rim of his glass again, and he added, quieter now-- "You're doing that thing again,"
"What thing?"
His thumb pressed against the glass, slow. "Making me wonder what you'd do if I stopped behaving,"
I blinked slowly, heat pulsing just under my skin. Oh my God.
Roman leaned forward again, just enough to tip his shadow into mine. His voice was soft, and deadly calm; "I'll find out later,"
My heart thudded so hard I felt it in my throat.
"Eat your steak," he said next, eyes glittering with victory. "You're going to need the energy."
｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ
Phase five, the last phase, was about to be in motion.
But... God, I hadn't been this nervous since I handed in my bachelor's thesis. What was wrong with me? Why did I feel like a virgin all over again?
The night was dark and honey-thick, warm in the way only a summer night could be after the world had already fallen asleep-- the darkness reminded me of how long we had stayed at the restaurant. We wouldn't have stayed there so long had we not had a good time, though, right? My brain was going into overdrive, and I suddenly had a hard time swallowing. Fucking hell. The city had quieted down to a soft hum, and Roman's Jaguar purred low at the curb outside my building, headlights off, heat still curling from the engine like breath.
I hadn't moved to get out yet. Neither had he.
Roman was half turned toward me, one hand lazily ghosting along the steering wheel, and the other draped along the back of my seat, his ring grazing my shoulder without touching it. His collar was still open, and his hair had fallen slightly out of place since dinner. It made him look looser, younger, and impossibly hotter. How was that even possible? There was a low sort of satisfaction in the set of his mouth, like he hadn't planned to enjoy himself tonight but somehow ended up doing just that.
The streetlamps spilled gold across the windshield. I didn't want to leave, not yet.
"I know I made a fuss earlier today, but you don't have to do anything," I blurted out, softening my voice-- not because I meant to, but because I felt unbearably guilty. Suddenly, my whole plan felt ridiculous; so what if he took my underwear? Why should I corner him into going down on me just cause he pissed me off? Not only did I feel childish, but also... embarrassed. This wasn't how proper adults behaved, right?
Roman didn't answer right away-- he let out a short, quiet scoff of a laugh. "Do what?" he murmured.
"Prove a point," I mumbled. "That you go down on women, or whatever. Forget all of that. It all feels really stupid, all of a sudden."
The silence that followed was not quiet-- it was charged. I briefly glanced at the roses in the back seat before my fingers curled in my lap, gripping the hem of my dress to keep from saying something even worse.
Roman shifted, just slightly, and the arm behind me slid lower, grazing the edge of my seat. I felt the weight of his stare before I met it-- his green eyes cut to mine like a slow exhale. "You don't want me to anymore?" he asked, voice low and steady. "I thought we had a good time."
I looked at him, startled, but not because of the words. It was the tone. He sounded... genuinely puzzled. Not offended, like I had expected. There was something grounded and adult about Roman right now that threw me off my impression of everything going on.
"We did. I just... " I dropped my gaze, focusing on my hands and how small they looked in my lap. "I feel like I turned it into a game. It feels a bit wrong, now that you've sort of... become a person to me."
At that, after a breath, Roman leaned back slightly against the leather, the fabric of his shirt stretching across his chest as he shifted. "I get it," he said, glancing away, his fingers grazing the edge of the steering wheel again. "I do. The games make it easier. If it's a game, then it doesn't have to matter. Doesn't have to get close." His voice dropped a little lower. "But it does get close. I think that's secretly been the point all along."
My pulse stuttered-- "Oh?"
Roman turned back to me then, the shadows of the night dancing softly across the sharp line of his jaw, and for a moment, he looked younger again-- like he didn't have the burden of being my boss, or a CEO, just in this minute. "Look," he murmured. "You don't have to apologize for playing along or for creating your own games. That's why this works. That's why it's still working, whatever this is between you and I."
He paused, the corner of his mouth twitching like he could barely keep himself from smiling. "I've never met someone who... truly understood how to play my games before. I've felt like a freak imposing myself on willing girls all my life because of it, too. But you play along, and you get it," Roman's pupils had somehow dilated, and I could almost see the way his pulse beat up along the side of his throat-- "Or... am I wrong here?"
My breath caught.
God, I could feel it, the way he was looking at me-- he wasn't asking for sex, or permission, or even forgiveness, but recognition. For confirmation that he hadn't imagined it, that the electricity between us hadn't been a product of his own private delusion, and that we were both just as sick and twisted as the other.
I was fucking burning now, and there was no way to help dim the fire, not even as I spoke; "You're not wrong," I breathed. "I haven't felt so... free to be me before. With you, I make sense."
... That did it.
Roman let out a breath like he had been holding it for hours. The tension in his jaw eased, and his hand, the one still draped along the back of my seat, finally dropped, brushing softly against the bare skin of my arm.
I watched his lips part, ready to speak, but before he could impose his attachment issues on me and pull away, I spoke before he could, just to catch him to it; "I know it scares you," I blurted out, anxiety rushing through my veins. "I know. And also I know I should keep quiet, but if you could just give this a chance, I could?--"
"Invite me up,"
The words stopped me cold. My breath caught, literally stopped mid-inhale, and I scanned Roman over and over in search of a teasing smile, smirk, anything.
But... I could only find sincerity. Maybe a hint of want. The night had fallen so dark I could barely see him, yet the green in his eyes found mine with unwavering certainty. What he was certain of, I wasn't sure-- but it was convincing as ever.
I swallowed. "You sure?"
"Yes," he said.
"I promise you won't have to--"
"I've been waiting to kiss you all night, and I need to get you alone to do it the way I want to. Invite me up,"
"Okay," I squeaked, unable to suppress the smile that crept up my face.
I didn't need night-vision to know Roman was smirking down at me through this darkness. "Good girl," he murmured, before retreating his hand to kill the engine.
When I got out of the car, the air met me like a wall, humid and summer-sweet. The street was still empty, quieter than ever before, with the moon tucked somewhere high above us.
Roman rounded the front of the car without a word and met me on the sidewalk-- he didn't touch me. Not yet. But the way his eyes moved over me made my pulse stutter, and made my knees feel weak, like his hands were already on me in every place I wanted them most. The night wrapped around us, thick and honeyed, holding its breath the same way I was.
He stopped just close enough that I could feel his heat, the faintest brush of his sleeve against my bare arm as the breeze shifted. His jaw was set, sharp in the glow of the streetlamp, but his mouth... God, his mouth looked so fucking soft.
"This way," I whispered, because anything louder felt like it would shatter the moment. My voice sounded strange to my ears, thin and tight, laced with all the wanting I couldn't hide; I started walking toward the building entrance, fumbling for my keys with hands that wouldn't quite stay steady. Stupid, stupid girl.
Roman followed, silent but not absent-- I could feel him behind me, every step a shadow pressed close to my spine. It was unbearable, knowing he was there and choosing not to touch me yet, like he was dragging out the anticipation on purpose, savouring it, savouring me.
When I reached the door, I paused to unlock it, but my fingers slipped once, twice. Oh, you fucking idiot. My pulse was thrumming too, drowning out everything else.
I felt Roman step closer, just behind my shoulder now, his presence a slow, deliberate pressure. "Relax," he murmured, his breath grazing the curve of my neck, low enough that no one but me could hear. "You're shaking."
"I'm not," I managed, even though the key definitely trembled in my hand. "I'm fine."
Roman's mouth curled, the ghost of a smile I didn't dare look at directly. "Yeah, that's right... Lie to me, sweetheart, go on,"
His voice was dark velvet, sinful in how much it seemed to like my denial-- and before I could even form a reply, before I could process what he had just called me, Roman's lips were on my neck.
They were soft at first, just the faintest brush, a whisper of contact that sent lightning down my spine; but then his mouth opened against my skin, warm and deliberate, teeth grazing just enough to make my breath hitch, sharp and needy, and fucking hell, how my knees wobbled.
"Roman--" I gasped, not even sure what I was asking for, or what I was warning him about.
He hummed low in his throat, like he had been waiting for that sound all night. Then, in one seamless, impossibly smooth motion, his hand came around mine-- his long fingers plucked the trembling key from my grip like it belonged to him, like I belonged to him. A flick of his wrist, a turn of metal, and the door clicked open before my brain caught up.
And then he had me.
Roman's hand found my hip, firm and possessive, guiding me forward with effortless strength. The next thing I knew, I was inside, the cool air of my air conditioner coming toward me like a saviour of a breeze. The door swung shut with a heavy thunk behind us, and before I could even think about flicking on the light, of excusing the small size of my apartment, Roman pressed me back against the door, hard enough to make it rattle softly in the frame.
Roman's body closed in on mine like water filling a glass, deliberate, all-encompassing, leaving no escape as he was pulled me under, drowning me sweetly in his gravity.
His hand slid to my jaw, tilting my face up, and then his mouth was on mine.
It was a passionate, molten press of lips that stole every thought from my head, all heat and inevitability, like he had known exactly how this kiss would feel long before it happened-- this was the kind of kiss you'd give when you've been thinking about someone for hours, for weeks, for longer than you'd ever admit.
I sighed into him, helpless, my hands lifting to his chest, clutching at his shirt just to stay upright. And then, God help me, his tongue brushed mine-- just a tease, a slow, deliberate glide that pulled a sound from me I didn't even recognize, quiet and desperate against his mouth. Roman tasted like wine and salt and something darker, something entirely his; he deepened the kiss then, angling my chin with his fingers, his lips moving with devastating precision, coaxing me open, drawing me closer, until every nerve in my body was crying out for more.
Roman breathed against my mouth between kisses, low and rough, like it cost him something to not have me up against the door right in this moment. "Fuck..." he murmured, lips brushing mine with the word. "Been thinking about this all night..."
My head spun, every nerve lit up and tuned to him, my body melting like it had been waiting for this exact moment, this exact kiss, all my life. "Roman," I whispered, voice shaky and small against his mouth. I kissed him again, because breathing felt impossible if I didn't, and when I pulled back just barely enough to speak, my confession slipped out before I could stop it; "Me too. Think about you-- like this, all the time."
A beat of silence passed between us, heavy and thick, and then, in that low, cocky tone that always managed to undo me, Roman murmured, "I know,"
My pulse stuttered, heat flooding my chest, my stomach, my thighs, because somehow, hearing him say it so certainly, so damn sure of himself and me and us, made something inside me ache in the sweetest, most dangerous way.
Roman kissed me again, slower this time, as if to underline his point, his hand sliding from my jaw down to my neck, my shoulder, skimming over my arm until his fingers laced with mine. He didn't let me think, didn't give me a second to overanalyze the moment-- just pulled me forward, away from the door, his lips brushing mine as he spoke, voice rough with want; "Bedroom?"
I nodded, quick and breathless, my heart hammering like it might break free of my ribs. "Down the hall," I whispered, holding back a girly, delirious giggle. "Last door on the left."
Roman's mouth curved, just barely-- a dark, satisfied shadow of a smile. "Take the lead,"
"That's a first with you," I mumbled, unable to hold back the joke.
Roman's laugh was low as he followed close behind, clutching my hand. "Don't get used to it," he murmured. "I'm only letting you lead because I like watching you walk ahead of me. Your ass is fantastic in that dress."
Heat pooled low in my stomach at that, and I swore my knees almost buckled. My fingers tightened around his, where they were still laced with mine, pulling him with me like he was the only thing keeping me upright. "Pervert," I purred, glancing at him over my shoulder with that playful look I knew he loved. "And here I thought you were being a gentleman."
Roman's grin sharpened, wicked as ever, his eyes glinting in the dim light of the hallway. "Oh, no, I never claimed to be a gentleman," he drawled. "I want to be a little nice to you tonight, that's all."
The words landed low in my heart, molten and heavy-- fucking hell, I wasn't going to survive this night without permanent heart damage, was I?
I pushed the door to my bedroom open, and before I could even breathe, Roman's hand slid from mine to my hip, his mouth dipping to my ear. "Your room's cute," he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of it, the heat of his breath making me shiver.
With the way my cheeks burned, I was sure my face was about to melt off. "At least it's not a red dungeon, like I fear yours is,"
Roman made a low, pleased sound in his throat, pushing the door shut behind us with his foot. "Good guess," he muttered, before turning me toward him, his hand cupping the back of my neck.
He didn't waste another second-- the moment my body turned to his orbit, his mouth was back on mine; urgent, like the kiss earlier had only been a preview and now he couldn't hold back.
Our mouths collided with a need so sharp it felt like real, true hunger-- think cannibalism. I had no idea what came over me when I moaned against him, and Roman seized the moment to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding in to meet mine like he knew exactly what I needed, like he'd been dreaming of this as long as I had.
It was messy, wet, overwhelming-- desperate.
After all this time of not touching each other, of being starved, of depriving ourselves of one another, it had culminated in whatever this moment was. Roman's hands moved with purpose, one at the base of my neck, the other already sliding down the curve of my spine to grip my ass, pulling me into him like he wanted to feel every inch of me. I clung to him, tugging him closer like I'd fall apart if there were even an inch left between us.
Roman groaned against my mouth, low and raw. "Fuck, you're--" His voice broke off like he didn't have the language for it. "This--"
He kissed me again, bruising now, shoving me back a step. Then another. He was walking me backward, and I didn't even care where we were going, bed, floor, wall, whatever-- so long as I could keep kissing him like this.
When the back of my knees hit the bed, I gasped ever-so-slightly, and Roman finally broke the kiss, only to trail his lips down my neck with a hunger that left no room for teasing with open-mouthed, hot kisses at my jaw, my throat, my collarbone. "You don't even know," he murmured, dragging his mouth back up to mine. "How bad I've wanted this. Wanted you. In that dress, which is stupidly short on purpose, like what the fuck, you're--"
"Wrong," I panted, tilting my head back for him as his mouth found that spot just beneath my ear. "Not-- on purpose."
Roman's laugh was breathless, shaky, like he couldn't believe I was real. "Liar," he growled. His hand properly groped my ass now, just firmly enough to make my breath hitch.
"Roman--" I gasped, already off balance.
"Down," he said. "Now."
I thought that had been an order, something for me to obey once again, but that was way before I realized it was a warning.
Because suddenly, we were both a bit off balance, too taken with each other to properly think-- however, somehow, Roman used the momentum to wrap around me, throwing me down to the mattress with one rushed, gentle push.
I landed on the mattress with a shocked squeal, and he followed, his body moving over mine like a tide he could barely hold back. Roman loomed above me as I giggled from the shock, and he straddling me without fully settling his weight, his hands bracing on either side of my head, and I swore the room shifted around him, like the heat between us warped the air-- my giggles died down with the next beat of my heart, feeling it swell with want.
Roman leaned down-- closer, lips ghosting mine, but not kissing me just yet. "Say it," he whispered. "Say you wanted me to snap."
I blinked up at him, dizzy and impossibly turned on. "I--"
"Say it,"
"You know I did," I whispered, barely more than a breath.
And then his lips met mine-- no warning this time, no slow burn; just hunger, full and unrestrained, all tongue and breath and need. Roman's large hand slid down, pushing my dress higher, fingers bunching the fabric at my waist before moving to the clasp of my garters-- that was when he groaned. Frustrated, exasperated, and delightfully wrecked, he broke the kiss, panting slightly against my cheek. "Jesus Christ," Roman muttered, like he was scolding me and himself in one breath. "I forgot about these. Do you know how long this is going to take?"
Fuck. My garters.
I let out a breathless laugh, my eyes fluttering open to catch the wild look in his-- Roman looked like he was barely holding it together. "I thought it would be harder for you to steal anything like this," I managed, voice tight with laughter and lust. "What did you think was holding the stockings up?"
"I didn't think," he bit out, dragging his palm down my thigh like he might rip the whole thing off. "I didn't plan on losing my fucking mind tonight, thank you very much."
"You're doing great, sir," I whispered, grinning, too drunk on the sight of him undone to realize my slip-up.
The word hung there, thick and electric in the space between us, and I realized what I'd said a second too late. It hit me that he was still my boss, still the guy on the cover of Forbes-- fuck, had I hidden that magazine well enough? Where was it?
But... Roman smiled. Slowly. Darkly. Like the word alone had just tipped him over the edge of something he didn't even realize he'd been standing on.
He shifted, hovering lower, before he bent down to kiss right above the garter belt around my waist. Soft and reverent, right below my ribs, lips brushing my bare skin-- his hands found the garter clasp and worked it easier than expected, the earlier frustration melting into something quieter, more focused, like the sound of a man undoing a present he'd been waiting too long to open. He kissed his way down with each snap and release-- my waist, my hipbone, the inside of my thigh, burning a path down my body with his mouth, his breath, his want.
"This," Roman murmured, between kisses. "This is the problem."
I was breathless now, fingers tangling in his hair without thought. "What is?"
"You," he said, teeth grazing the skin just above my stocking. "Thinking that this contraption will keep me from stealing this pair of panties, too."
I would've groaned, had I not been too horny to think. "Don't you dare," I whispered. "What the fuck did-- did you even do with the last pair?"
Roman's mouth curved against my thigh. "Don't think about it,"
"I will,"
"Don't,"
"I'm assuming the worst,"
"... Do,"
With the most wicked smirk known to man, Roman peeled off my underwear, his dark eyes darting up to meet mine with glee. He held it up, almost like a trophy; "That wasn't too hard?" he purred. "Gonna add this to my collection of souvenirs, now. You get the Birkin, and I get the panties."
I let out a shaky, breathless laugh. "Roman, I swear to God!--"
"What? You're going to threaten me while you're lying here half-naked? That's not how it works, sweetheart,"
My pulse was hammering, my fingers curling tighter in his hair. "Then how does it work, sir?"
The word made him groan, low and amused, and he dropped the panties onto the floor with a deliberate flick of his wrist, his smirk deepening as he met my gaze. "It works--" he said slowly, dragging his hands up my thighs, spreading me wider under him. "--like this. I get to make my point, and you remember it the next time you think you can play with me and not pay the price."
"What point?" I asked, voice breaking halfway through the words, my breath catching when his mouth lowered, lips brushing my hipbone. I was sure my cheeks were unrecognizably red.
Roman let out a low hum, as though he was thinking, while guiding my legs over his broad shoulder; "That I eat pussy,"
... Oh my God.
His green eyes locked onto mine, dark and intense, his gaze challenging me to look away-- I couldn't, not when his mouth hovered so devastatingly close to the most sensitive part of me. My heart was pounding wildly, blood rushing to my head, the anticipation making my muscles quiver with each shallow breath. "You really don't have to--" I started, trying to regain some dignity, even as my voice broke embarrassingly high.
"Stop talking," Roman said, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to my inner thigh. "Unless you're begging, of course."
I gasped as his teeth grazed my skin, a teasing, possessive bite that sent sparks racing up my spine. My fingers tightened desperately in his thick, brown hair, a gentle tug earning me another dark chuckle as his mouth traced higher, achingly slow, making my hips twitch impatiently beneath him.
"Oh, God-- Roman," I whimpered.
His grip on my thighs tightened, spreading me even wider, making me feel utterly vulnerable and exposed to him. "Yeah, yeah, I know," he cooed, breath hot against my skin. "Poor girl. I'll be nice, now."
Then, without further warning, he laid his tongue flat against my sex and dragged firmly along my slick folds, from bottom to top, and I arched off the bed with a choked moan. My breath stuttered, eyelids fluttering shut as his mouth settled around me, hot and insistent, his tongue working deliberate, slow circles around my clit, making me writhe helplessly beneath him.
"Fuck," I choked out, grasping blindly at his hair, tugging instinctively.
Roman pressed a teasing kiss to my clit before lifting his head for just a second, voice mocking and wicked; "I've barely done anything yet, y'know?"
Oh, that tease. I forced my eyes open, gazing down at him. The sight nearly broke me apart-- his lips glistened, and the arrogant smirk on his face was pure torture. I let out a breathless, shaky laugh, forcing back my pride. "Maybe. Though one demonstration isn't exactly-- oh, fuck--"
My teasing got cut off into a desperate moan as I felt Roman's smooth skin against my inner thighs again, and he leaned back down to repeat the motion-- tongue flat, dragging even slower up along my aching sex, making my breath stutter into a series of soft moans. Once his tongue reached my clit, he swirled around it in slow, teasing circles, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against me.
And just as I thought I got used to the soft rhythm, to the sweet, gentle motions in which he ate me out, Roman sealed his mouth around me fully, sucking firmly at my swollen clit. My hips bucked instinctively, but his strong hands pushed me down, holding me exactly where he wanted me as he buried his face deeper, humming softly against me as he sucked me with the most devastating, pleasurable rhythm.
"Oh God--" I gasped, fingers tangling desperately in his hair, pulling him closer. The pleasure was almost too intense, the pressure of his mouth overwhelming, each sucking pull of his lips sending electricity racing through my body. My legs tightened around him involuntarily, muscles trembling, as my cries turned breathless and frantic. Was this seriously happening? I felt myself starting to whine, trying to kick him away for no reason at all-- thankfully, Roman was way bigger than me, way stronger than me, and he held me down while he batted my clit with the tip of his tongue, sucking it swollen. I was long gone when I noticed that he moaned, sloppy, wet noises filling my head as I tried not to completely lose it.
And just as I felt myself tipping toward the edge, Roman pulled back abruptly, leaving me gasping, dizzy, and confused by the sudden denial. "What-- Why did you stop?" I breathed, voice trembling, eyes wide and pleading.
Roman looked up at me with a wicked, triumphant grin, licking his lips deliberately slowly as he sat up. Christ, how I shivered at that. "Because we're not done yet," he purred, his voice dark with promise. "Are you on the pill?"
Um? I nodded, barely able to think straight. "Yeah, but why?--"
"Good," His hands swiftly moved to his belt, undoing it in a fluid motion, eyes never leaving mine. "Then we're finishing this my way."
No question-- it was complete and utter control. Roman knew what I wanted. He knew what was best for me. Roman knew me. Honestly, I was too blissed out, too happy, and I nodded again, my hands reaching out for him. Come to me. Come hold me.
It didn't take long before he complied, his wet lips kissing mine with no care for where they had been previously-- not that I cared, either. Roman's large hands moved to my dress, which had been bunched up around my waist, and we had to break the kiss to get it over my head. "You taste nice," he purred, grinning down at me as he impatiently tossed it aside. "It's a shame you're my secretary... 'cause that was some damn fine pussy."
My breath hitched, and I was on the brink of simply just smacking him and his foul mouth. "Roman!" I hissed, watching as he laughed before leaning down to kiss me, probably to shut down the incoming trail of cuss-words threatening to spill from my lips. "Seriously, I-- Roman!--"
"What?"
"You're-- ugh, wearing too much,"
For once, he didn't protest.
I sat up halfway as Roman refused to break the kiss-- I worked my fingers over the buttons of his shirt, and he somehow got out of his pants. His clothes hit the floor moments later, joining mine in a heap, and when he pushed me down to the mattress again, no longer hovering, but putting his weight on me, it truly hit me-- the man who had refused to let me touch him, the man who had built all the walls in the universe around himself, was suddenly naked with me.
There was nothing between us now, not a layer of clothing, no walls of protection; Roman couldn't keep away any longer. He has used his last strengths, run the last mile, and now he wasn't hiding any longer-- neither was I.
My heart soared as it beat against Roman's, and for the first time, I could feel his beating back at mine. My body was practically on fire as my fingers ran along the muscular range of his back, feeling his skin, reminding myself that he was actually here and that this wasn't a figment of my imagination.
In this moment, it was only him and me.
Roman Godfrey, his hard cock poking at my stomach, and me.
"Please tell me you're not a virgin," he murmured roughly against my lips, his hands caressing and claiming every inch of skin he touched, squeezing my tits like he couldn't get enough of me. "I really, really want to fuck you properly."
I couldn't stop the small giggle that was drowned in the following kiss. "I'm not,"
Roman let out a relieved sigh as he guided my legs to crease at his thighs, then looping his arms under me, resting his head in the crook of my neck-- his aching cock was prodding my entrance, wetting the head on my soaked sex with repeated strokes up along my sex. I watched him hold back a hitch of his breath, covering it with an airy laugh; "Good girl... Not a nun after all, then,"
"Roman, you little!-- Oh, a-ah, I--"
My words died out as his thick, hard cock pushed into me, stroking me open with a reverent care I hadn't expected after being told I was about to be fucked. I wrapped my arms around him as well, letting out a stuttering breath at the sensation-- I heard Roman hissing under his breath, cursing, before pushing deeper, like he couldn't get over the feeling of being enveloped by me.
His cock was seated as far as it could be inside of me, and I shuddered, embarrassingly enough-- I hadn't felt anything pulse up against my hilt before, and it was... I couldn't put my finger on it. It made my brain buzz. However, it was all made worth it when I heard Roman let out a... moan? Quiet and braced, like he had to sigh it out. "Tight," was all he said, pressing a kiss to my neck to shut himself up.
"Sorry," I breathed, like the biggest idiot on the planet-- what was I sorry for?
Roman chuckled softly, mockingly tender, his lips brushing lightly against my ear. "Oh, don't be,"
Before I could respond, Roman slowly withdrew his cock from inside of me, deliberately teasing me with the emptiness left behind. I whimpered, unable to stop my hips from rising to chase him, and he let out a silky, wicked laugh; "Aw, poor little thing," he cooed in faux sympathy, his voice dripping with gentle mockery. "You want my cock that badly, sweetheart?" As if to make his point, he wrapped one hand around his shaft, tapping the tip against my clit to make me moan and flinch-- fucker.
"Roman," I whined, trying to sound annoyed, though we both knew I was utterly helpless beneath him. "Just-- fuck me."
He laughed softly, accepting that for now, before easing himself back inside with slow, deep strokes, each thrust dragging against every sensitive spot inside me. My nerves were on fire, my breath was hitching-- how was I this worked up already? "Careful," Roman purred. "Someone might think you're desperate. Me, especially."
"Shut up," I whimpered, clinging to him tighter-- I think some part of me thought it would keep him from pulling out again. Every movement felt unbearably good, slick and silky, his cock pulsing and throbbing within me despite his calm composure.
"No, no," Roman teased sweetly, pulling out again, his voice honeyed and cruelly playful. "That won't do. Ask nicely."
I whined, frustrated, empty-- that bastard. "Roman... please,"
"Please, what?" He leaned in, brushing his lips feather-light against mine, his voice devastatingly gentle, mocking my desperation. "Tell me exactly what you want."
"I--" I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. "Fuck me," I finally breathed out, surrendering to his teasing, heat flooding my cheeks even further.
"Good girl," he cooed, grinning as he pushed his cock into me once more, deliberately grinding his hips to amplify the friction, listening to me sigh. Roman's pace picked up slightly, still careful, still smooth, his cock sliding wetly, perfectly inside me. "See how much better it feels when you behave?"
My body responded instantly, tightening and trembling around him, pleasure coiling tighter, sweeter, overwhelming me. I shook my head, trying to hold onto my pride; "I hate you,"
Roman chuckled, warm and condescending, before pressing gentle kisses along my jawline, each tender touch contrasting his filthy words. "Mhm, sure you do... You're so good at lying to yourself, aren't you?"
I didn't respond, glaring up at him. Excuse you?
Roman's eyes flashed with something dangerously similar to intrigue-- it didn't take long before I realized I had annoyed him with my refusal to answer. He gripped my jaw, firm, forcing me to meet his gaze as he listened to my bitten-back moans. His voice became mockingly sweet, dripping pure, filthy intent; "Oh, don't tell me I hit a nerve, sweetheart? Did I hurt your pretty little feelings?"
"Roman," I muttered, glaring up at him in defiance despite the shiver running down my spine.
His expression hardened into a wicked smile, eyes gleaming mischievously. "Wrong answer,"
In one swift movement, Roman pulled out of me, before he flipped me onto my stomach, pressing me firmly against the mattress as I whimpered and whined. I felt the weight of him on my back before I could properly process what was even happening, and I could only moan as he sank his cock into me from behind, sinking deeper than before, making me gasp at the intrusion. My breath hitched as he leaned close, caging me in with his height, and I shivered against him as his thumb slipped between my lips, muffling any protest.
"Now," he whispered in my ear, his breath warm, voice silky, dripping with cruel amusement; "You're going to lie right there and take it, okay? No more talking back. You don't want to piss me off now, believe me."
Roman's thumb stroked gently over my tongue, his voice thick with mock sympathy. "Poor baby... you thought you had control, didn't you? That's adorable," He sank even deeper into me from behind, his cock smoothly stroking into me, each thrust perfectly angled to steal the breath from my lungs. "You're gonna lie still and take my cock like the good secretary you are, yeah? Yes, you are... Poor baby, poor girl... You hear how wet you are?"
I could only whimper against his thumb, clenching around his cock as he thrust into me, harder now, to really let me hear it too-- with every stroke, I could hear the filthy noise, the sound of me being properly fucked. Something about it made that familiar coiling burn in my stomach intensify, and I tried to push my hips into the sheets beneath me, tried to get the small friction against my clit that'd make me cum, but at that, I heard Roman sigh. With his free hand, he slithered it between the bed and my body, gripping my pussy like no one ever had-- he spread out his hand, placing two fingers on each side of my folds, his thumb digging into my lower abdomen, to stop me from grinding anywhere, before using it to lift me just slightly off the bed and rocking me back to meet his thrusts.
My moans were muffled, helpless beneath Roman's denial, and I felt my eyes well with tears at. I should've know he'd do this.
"No, sweetheart," he cooed softly, voice sickeningly sweet and mocking. "Behave. Are you really that horny, huh? Need to get off immediately? Nuh-uh. I've spoiled you enough."
I whimpered, shaking beneath him, clenching around his cock, but Roman only laughed softly, cruelly tender.
"Patience," he whispered against my ear, sending shivers across my skin. "Gonna fuck you just a bit more, okay? You're so tight and wet around my cock, I need a little more time to enjoy you... You make such pretty noises when you're on the edge, too. Wonder what noises you're gonna make when I tell you I might not let you cum at all."
What? No, no, no! I whimpered louder, trembling beneath Roman, desperately clenching around his cock-- my brain buzzed as I realized I was helplessly melting at the idea that I was here for his pleasure, that I was the only one making him feel this good; when I heard him groan, giving my shoulder a faint kiss as he buried his head in my neck, I felt my cheeks burn. I loved making him feel good. No one else could ever do this for him, no one else could unravel him like I could, and knowing that thrilled me even as frustration and desire blurred my thoughts.
Roman seemed to sense my surrender, gently pulling his thumb from my mouth with a content sigh, only to grasp my chin and tug me back-- I made no form of resistance as he smoothly manoeuvred us until we lay spooned together, his body pressed intimately along my back, his cock never leaving my depths.
I recognized that Roman wasn't mocking or teasing me anymore, and with a blooming blush painting my cheeks, I turned my head just slightly, hoping to meet his green eyes. I didn't expect the teasing bite to my ear that followed when Roman realized I wanted contact, and I could only whimper in shock as he pulled me closer, laughing softly against my cheek. As his cock continued pushing into me, in and out, in and out, his lips slowly brushed mine, softer than expected, more intimately than expected, and I instinctively I kissed him, needy and desperate, claiming whatever tenderness I could steal.
Roman groaned softly against my mouth, and his hand slid down between my thighs to rub slow, torturous circles around my clit. "See? Good girls get rewarded," he teased between kisses, his voice dripping with wicked sweetness. "And you're being such a good girl for me right now, aren't you?"
I nodded frantically, moaning into his mouth, utterly helpless as pleasure began to spiral beyond my control, trembling under his slow, careful strokes and the insistent circles he drew over my clit. Roman pressed his forehead against mine, breathing raggedly as he kept his movements deliberate and firm, knowing exactly how to push me to the edge and keep me there.
And I had no idea what he did, how he did it, but with a tiny shift, my back came arching off him.
"Roman--" I gasped, my voice breaking into a moan when his angle shifted, hitting a spot inside me that made my whole body jolt. "Oh God--"
"That's it, isn't it? Right there?" His hair hung over his forehead, his lips kiss-bruised, his grin dizzy and unsteady; "Feels good here?"
I whimpered, nodding again. "Yes," I choked out, barely breathing. "Right there, Roman, please--"
"That's it baby, take it," His thrusts were precise, deliberate, his forehead resting against mine as he fucked into that spot over and over. "That's my girl," he rasped, lips brushing mine between words. Roman pushed into that perfect spot again and again, the tip of his cock nudging it with every thrust as his fingers worked my clit, rubbing over and over and over--
"Roman-- oh my God-- I'm close, I'm so close--"
His forehead brushed mine, his breath hot on my lips as our gazes locked-- God, those eyes. Those green, green eyes. I whimpered, my smile curling against his, helpless and delirious as I dared to pull an arm around him too, fingers weaving into his hair to weave him closer.
Roman smiled against my mouth-- this was perfect. "Cum for me," he whispered, a filthy sweetness in his voice as his cock filled me over and over. "Show me how good I make you feel."
And with two more thrusts, my world shattered. My cries caught in my throat, and my whole body seized around his cock as the pleasure ripped through me, white-hot and overwhelming. I clung to Roman like he was the only solid thing left, pulling at his hair without meaning to, sobbing out his name as wave after wave dragged me under.
Roman swore, low and guttural, his forehead pressing to mine like he couldn't stand the thought of even a breath of space between us. He kissed me through every shudder and aftershock, groaning softly as my climax triggered his own, spilling deep inside me, marking me as his completely.
The breath punched out of me at the sudden weight of it-- hot, thick, filling every part of me in a way that made my toes curl and my head spin. Roman's body shuddered against mine, his hips pressed flush as if he could keep himself there forever, his groans spilling against my mouth, low and broken, like he'd finally lost a battle he had been fighting all night.
And God, I felt it-- felt him throbbing inside me as he emptied himself, his release painting me full until it was too much to hold, every pulse sending a fresh wave of dizzying heat curling low in my belly. My breath hitched, a high, helpless sound escaping me as I clenched around him, like my body didn't want to let him go, like it wanted to keep every drop where it belonged.
But slowly, inevitably, when Roman finally stilled and softened, I felt it start to slip, hot and slick between my thighs, a reminder of just how wrecked he had left me. I whimpered softly at the sensation, at the overwhelming evidence of him spilling out of me, coating my skin, the mess of us undeniable.
Roman rolled over on his back, landing next to me with a soft groan, similarly to a rough sigh-- his body felt warm, yet lax with exhaustion.
He didn't stay like that for long; after a few shaky breaths, he turned toward me, dragging a heavy arm over my waist, and to my surprise, pulling me in. The sheets tangled around our hips as he shifted closer, until we were nose to nose, his forehead brushing mine, his hair a little damp and messy, his lips still kiss-swollen.
I had no idea what came over me when I shifted, pressing my lips to the tip of Roman's nose, giving it a quaint, shy kiss. Forbes nose. Oh my God. Stunned by my actions, I retreated, swallowing meekly.
To my surprise, Roman didn't protest. He slowly opened his eyes and searched my face in the dim light, his green eyes glassy but focused entirely on me. It wasn't the sharp, teasing look I had grown used to-- it was quieter, stripped bare, like he was trying to read me.
"You okay?" he finally murmured. His thumb brushed over my hip lazily, almost absent-mindedly, but there was tension in his gaze, something cautious that made my chest ache.
I wasn't about to tell him that'd been the best sex of my life. The denial, the dirty-talk, the way he moved me around like I weighed nothing? Holy absolute mother of fuck. Nothing would ever top this. "Yeah," I whispered, small as ever as I curled closer, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against mine. "More than okay."
Roman exhaled slowly, like he hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath. He dipped his head just enough to press his mouth to my temple, not a kiss, but more like a grounding touch before he rested his forehead there. "Good," he murmured, barely audible. "That's... good."
For a few precious seconds, I let myself believe this was our new reality-- that we'd stay here, wrapped up in this stolen quiet, and that it wouldn't have to end. Roman's arm was heavy around me, his breath ghosting warm against my temple, and I felt safe in a way I hadn't... maybe ever? My heart swelled, foolish and fragile, and I curled even closer, memorizing the shape of him in the dark.
Maybe he'll stay. Maybe we'll change.
Roman's green eyes fluttered shut. Had I had more confidence, I'd trail my fingertips over his lashes, just a gentle touch, just a reverent kiss of a touch. They were long, dark, and surprisingly elegant. Was he even aware of how gorgeous he was? Hopefully not.
Something told me he was thinking about something, deciding what to say, because he wasn't saying anything at all. And then, with a heavy sigh, like he had ran out of time to enjoy our moment, he spoke--
"Who'd have known..." Roman mumbled. "I wouldn't have imagined we'd end up here, like this, when I first saw you at your graduation."
... Huh?
For a moment, I thought I had misheard him. We didn't meet at my graduation, what was he talking about? My breath stalled in my lungs, and I blinked into the dark, pulling back just enough to see his face; "... What?"
Roman's eyes stayed closed, lashes brushing his cheeks as though he hadn't just lodged a bomb into the middle of my ribcage, and like he didn't want to see the result of his words on my face. "Your graduation," he said. "Letha's ceremony. You were there, next to her. You kept chewing on the end of your tassel to make her laugh, 'cause she was crying like I've never seen her cry. It was ridiculous, sweet... You looked so happy, I wanted to break you in half."
My stomach flipped rather violently, like the floor had dropped out from under me. "You.. you?--" My voice cracked, my mind racing through the day in a haze. He'd known that I knew Letha all along?! I remembered our graduation, remembered barely paying attention to the speeches, remembered feeling so small in a sea of strangers. Roman had been one of those strangers? Well, that made sense, considering he was a part of Letha's family, but... he had seen me doing that?
"You had that stupid boyfriend at the time, too. The one majoring in computer science," Roman continued. "Your personal information is scattered all over your Facebook, by the way. You're gonna need to put up some walls there. Too easy to hack. Took me five seconds and a sigh."
I went still, every nerve in my body prickling with something I couldn't name. This was... "You hacked me?" My voice came out thin, strangled; what could I say to that? The room suddenly felt too small, and the air felt too thick to breathe in. Is this what he was using his coding skills for?
Roman hummed, dragging his thumb in a slow line along my hipbone like he was trying to somehow soothe me and himself indirectly. "There's also this picture of you in Letha's room... You're showing your nails and pulling a face. French tips. Lilac,"
My chest tightened with a thousand emotions at once. Oh my God.
"I told Letha there was a position opening up at my office. Told her to mention it to her friends, specifically those she could recommend, someone close to her, and the rest..." His lips brushed the corner of my jaw, a whisper of a touch that made my stomach knot. "I just didn't expect you to turn it all around, like the pain, and then ruin me, too."
For a long, dizzy second, I couldn't speak. My thoughts fractured into jagged shards that made no sense, every memory from the last few months cracking under the weight of what he had just confessed. My job. My proximity to him. This whole damn thing-- it hadn't been chance. It hadn't been fate.
It had been him.
He had seen me and wanted to squeeze the life out of me. Sadist. Sadistic asshole.
I tried swallowing over and over, my mind wandering to the feeling of his cum still seeping out of me, leaking down to my thigh. I should've been scared, I should've ran, but instead...
I felt like the world's most special girl.
"That's really romantic," I breathed. "You've... gone to this extent to be with me. Me."
At that, Roman finally opened his eyes, a puzzled look about him. "That's what you got out of this?" he breathed, searching me for traces of fear and lies.
"Well, I know what you're doing," I shifted closer, cupping his face before pressing a kiss to his lips. "You're telling me this to scare me off. You can't," Another kiss. "You won't." Another.
Roman sighed into the kisses, wrapping his arms around me, pulling me flush against him. "Just want you to know--" he murmured against my lips; "--need you to understand that it's not romantic. I'm screwed in the head."
Why were we having this conversation right now? I kissed him again, soft, lingering, trying to quiet the tremor in my chest. "Roman..." My voice was barely there. "You're not screwed. And even if you were, I wouldn't care."
His jaw flexed, his breath leaving him in a sharp exhale against my lips, like he didn't know what to do with that. "You should,"
"I don't,"
"You should,"
"Don't give a fuck. Stay the night, get a cute five-star blowjob again, whatever,"
Roman let out a low, frustrated sound, his hand coming up to cradle the back of my neck-- not rough, but firm, holding me close. "I can't," he breathed. "I'm getting hard again at the thought of that. I should go. I'm trying to tell you what I am, and you're not listening, so I-- I can't."
What? My chest tightened with hurt, heat curling low in my stomach despite the sting of his words. "I hear you just fine," I whispered, my breath mingling with his. "And I know what you are, because I'm just like you. We're one and the same. Don't go." Don't leave me, don't go, please don't go. Let's be sick together. Stop pushing me away.
Never had I ever begged a man for anything, naked at that, but here I was-- pouring myself out to him as he poured out of me. This was fucking humiliating, and not in the way I liked.
I tilted my head up, catching Roman's mouth in another desperate kiss to stop the hurt from blooming in my chest. "I don't care that you hacked me," A kiss. "I don't care," Another. "I'm here, I want you, and nothing will change that," Another, to his right cheek. "Why is that so scary to you, if you've wanted me all along?" Left cheek. "Stay, Roman," Between his brows, reverent and pleading. "Please stay. I'll even make you coffee in the morning, just how you like it. Not too much milk, one cube of brown sugar, and stirred three times."
Roman lashes fluttered, a slight rosy hue appearing in his cheeks from all the kisses, but his expression remained unreadable in the dim light. His grip on my face softened, faltered, and his thumbs brushed once over my skin before he let go completely-- the warmth left with him.
"I'm sorry," he said. "But if we're one and the same... that's not good. That's not romantic. I'm not a good person, I get off on hurting people, can't you see? If we're the same, then you're just as fucked up as I am, and you could hurt me in ways I'd never recover from, and-- I can't do this. I'm sorry."
"What?" Fucked up? My throat tightened, clogged with all the things he had just thrown at me, assumed about me, and accused me of being. "What just happened? I'd never-- Roman, please, this is me?"
He didn't answer-- he was already halfway gone. Roman pulled his shirt over his head, clasped his belt, and shook his head like he could shake off what we had just done. "I'm trying to spare you," he bit out, brittle and frustrated. "I told you I can't do this, and you're not listening."
After... all of that?
Scorned, I grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at him, my anger finally breaking through the devastation clawing at my ribs. It hit his shoulder with a soft thud, hardly satisfying, but it was all I had. "Spare me?" I spat, chest heaving. "You think saying that shit after you've fucked me is noble? That's not sparing me, Roman, that's fucking gutting me! Was this all you wanted, to get laid and leave?!"
Roman froze for a second, his hands hovering over the buttons of his shirt. His jaw flexed once, twice, but he didn't turn to face me. "No," he mumbled.
My throat burned as my words kept spilling out, ragged and furious, fuelled by the hurt sitting like a stone in my chest; "Okay, so-- so you've spent the whole night getting to know me, telling me you wanted me, making me believe you actually saw me-- and now you stand there and call me fucked up? How dare you!"
Roman's shoulders tightened, the fabric of his shirt stretching under the strain, but he didn't turn-- he didn't give me anything to hold onto except his back and the sound of his shallow breath.
"How long have you known me now, Roman? Months! Fucking months of us being involved, of us doing all kinds of filthy things, and you didn't have a problem with us being alike until now!" I cried. "You know me better than anyone ever has, and now you turn around and tell me I'm fucked up? I'm fucked up?! You're killing me!"
My vision blurred, hot tears spilling over before I could stop them. I swiped at my face, furious that he had made me cry, furious that he was standing there acting like this was some kind of mercy instead of what it really was-- cowardice in the face of connection, love, and security, which he had enjoyed just some minutes ago.
"Look at me!" My voice cracked on the words, torn somewhere between a plea and a command. "Roman, look at me!"
Finally, Roman's green, green eyes landed on me clutching the sheets to my chest, trembling with tears I couldn't stop, and for a flicker of a moment, his face wasn't unreadable at all-- it was wrecked. Whatever armour he had thrown up between us was splintering, a mess of guilt and fear and something else I couldn't name.
"I would never hurt you!" I cried, the words falling out like glass, cutting my throat on the way up. "Not ever! You're the one hurting me right now! And you're standing there telling me I'd destroy you? After tonight?" My breath hitched, ragged, choking on its own grief; "How could you even think that about me?!"
Roman's lips parted like he wanted to answer, the ones that had kissed me so tenderly just minutes ago, but nothing came. He just stared, eyes too bright in the dim light, chest rising and falling too fast. For a second, I thought maybe he'd come back, that he'd drop everything he had just said and crawl into my arms where he belonged...
But then he dragged a hand over his mouth, trembling like he hated himself for doing this, and whispered; "Because if you're anything like me... you could,"
Roman's eyes flicked over my face he knew he wasn't being fair, like he wanted me more than anything-- but terror won. With a sharp shake of his head, he turned and left, the door closing softly behind him, leaving me in the dim light with nothing but the echo of what he thought I was.
After all of that... the date, the sex, after giving him everything I could offer...
It still wasn't enough to make him stay.
Fucked up.
While I saw potential for connection, Roman only saw a reflection of his darkness.
The soft click of my apartment door closing sounded louder than any fight we'd ever had-- and I lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the empty space where he had been mere moments ago stretch wider and wider until it swallowed me whole.
I sat up with a low hiss, not caring that Roman's cum was still seeping out of me, and the ache in my thighs burned, reaching my eyes and filling them with tears once more.
Roman had found me, orchestrated the sadistic downfall of my psyche, ruined me for anybody but him, gotten me accustomed to my sick and twisted desires, and now... he was pulling away from me for liking it? I had never met anyone as cruel and as lost. I felt filthy. Used. Discarded. Rejected. How did he dare to make me feel like the monster, like I was crazy for accepting him, for loving all of him, only because he couldn't stand himself? And for what fucking reason?!
Pulling my thighs up to my chest, I hugged my legs as I sobbed, hoping to keep some of the remnants of Roman inside of me for as long as I could. In that sense, he'd stay. Some part of him would.
And as I pushed my legs tighter, hugging myself, clenching to make sure nothing would escape me like he had just done...
I realized this might be an exact demonstration of the sickness in me that he had been referring to all along.
(a/n: AAGHHH I CRUSHED MY OWN HEART W THIS:(( but I promise with all I have that you guys have nothing to worry about!! dw!!! kingkat will deliver, and kingkat will fix!!! call me Bob the fucking builder, cause I placed this brick w PURPOSE💜 anyway omg this was way too long, so thank u to the absolute WARRIORS that got through this!!! thank u so much for all the love and support!!<333)
ಇ.content & warnings:꒰Fluff! & a bit of Crack! ⋮⋮ canon au ⋮⋮ slice of life? ⋮⋮ you both have sanrio plushies (cinnamoroll & my melody) ⋮⋮ oral fem. rec and satoru rec. ⋮⋮ p in v ⋮⋮ c-pied ⋮⋮ kissing꒱
ಇ.author's note: I wrote this for my follower milestone i just hit, i'm so grateful for everyone of you that make up the 4k+ that follow me currently and i hope to keep writing and improving, i just appreciate every interaction i get and i love all my fellow writers/mutuals, trully am honoured sharing this platform with you all!
You’re kicking off your shoes when you hear it — Satoru’s voice calling from the couch with lazy curiosity:
“Hey, sweetheart. That a new keychain?”
You glance down at the little plush bouncing from your bag’s zipper — the round, fluffy face and floppy ears unmistakable. A soft blue bow. That sleepy, smug little smile.
You grin. “Yeah. I picked it up today.”
He leans up just enough to get a proper look, squinting like he’s trying to analyze it. “...Wait a minute.”
You watch the realization dawn on his face.
“That’s me,” he says, pointing like it’s obvious. “That’s literally me.”
You bite back a laugh. “It’s Cinnamoroll.”
“Exactly!” he cries. “White hair, smug smile, floating through life? It’s me in keychain form.”
You raise a brow, walking closer. “So you’re saying you’re small, round, and baby?”
He blinks. “Well, not small. Or round. But I am baby.”
You snort. “You’re something, alright.”
He reaches for your hand, tugging you down into his lap with a dramatic groan. “You bought it because it reminded you of me, didn’t you?”
Your cheeks flush a little, and your lips twitch. “...Maybe.”
“Oh my god.” He cradles his chest. “You missed me while you were out and bought a tiny emotional support version of me to keep you company.”
You bury your face against his shoulder. “It was cute!”
“I’m cute.” He kisses the top of your head. “Admit it.”
You laugh into his shirt. “Fine. You’re my emotionally chaotic sky-dog boyfriend.”
He grins, smug and warm. “Put me on your keys next.”
You’re still curled up in his lap when he lifts the little Cinnamoroll keychain and holds it eye-level with absurd seriousness.
“We have to name him.”
You blink. “Satoru. It already has a name. It’s Cinnamoroll.”
“No,” he says, deadly serious. “That’s its government name. I mean a personal name. For our keychain Satoru.”
“Our keychain Satoru?”
He grins. “Yes. Because he’s emotionally attached to you and slightly smug. It’s canon now.”
You sigh, lips twitching. “Fine. What’s the name?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Tinytoru.”
You snort so hard it turns into a full laugh. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Too late. He’s got a whole backstory now. He’s your guardian charm. You rub his ears for luck.”
“Okay, now you’re projecting.”
He lifts Tinytoru dramatically into the air. “Long live Tinytoru!”
Later that week…
You hear the front door click open and his voice sing out: “I brought us something!”
You turn the corner and freeze when you see what he’s holding.
A giant My Melody plush. Pastel pink ears, huge eyes, a soft little flower tucked on one side.
You blink. “You bought… My Melody?”
He shrugs. “Felt like the right match. Chaos but kind. Slightly gremlin. Deep emotional attachment issues. It’s you.”
You stare.
Then: “So now we both have Sanrio soulmates?”
“We do.” He plops the plush down beside the couch, patting her head. “Meet Tiny You. Her name is—”
“Don’t say it—”
“Melome.”
You drop your face into your hands. “Satoru.”
He’s grinning like a menace. “Now we’re even. Tinytoru and Melome. Partners in crime.”
You shake your head, laughing as he walks over to kiss your cheek. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you love it.”
You’re already tucked into bed when he pads in from the bathroom, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting just enough light to see the two plushies he’s lined up on your nightstand.
Tinytoru stands proud, slightly crooked thanks to the keychain loop. Melome slouches dramatically next to him, her ears flopped like she’s seen too much.
Satoru climbs into bed beside you, sliding an arm around your waist. “Alright,” he says, in a tone far too serious for someone about to speak utter nonsense. “Previously on Melome’s Heartache…”
You snort. “I can’t believe you made it a series.”
He ignores you, shifting to his best narrator voice. “After Tinytoru came home late from Cursed Energy Pilates, Melome was devastated. She waited by the door for three hours.”
You laugh into the pillow. “Pilates?”
“He’s got a tight core,” Satoru says with a wink. “Anyway. He came home and she was like, ‘Where were you?!’ And he was like, ‘I was manifesting stability, babe!’ But she wasn’t having it.”
You’re giggling helplessly now, tears forming at the corners of your eyes.
“And then,” he continues, lowering his voice for dramatic effect, “Melome packed her little plush suitcase and threatened to move to the living room.”
“She’s too dramatic,” you murmur, still laughing.
“She’s you,” he reminds you smugly. “And Tinytoru begged. Got on his tiny little knees. Said, ‘Don’t leave me, Mello. You’re the only one who understands my duality.’”
“His what?”
Satoru kisses your forehead, utterly pleased with himself. “His duality. You know strong but soft. Goofy but profound. Small, yet emotionally overwhelming.”
You bury your face in his chest, breathless with laughter.
“And then,” he finishes, pulling you closer, “they snuggled on their tiny couch and agreed to be weird and codependent together forever. The end.”
You hum, warm and happy. “That’s a good ending.”
He presses a soft kiss to your temple. “I like ours better.”
The laughter fades into soft hums, your head tucked under his chin, your bodies tangled in that perfect way you only find after years of knowing where the other belongs. His fingers stroke slow lines along your arm, down your side, soothing and easy.
You shift slightly, nose brushing against his collarbone and then you bite him. Just a little.
Not hard. Just enough to make him jolt and suck in a breath.
“Hey!” he yelps, clearly not expecting it. “Did you just bite me?”
You smile against his skin, entirely unapologetic. “Maybe.”
He stares down at you, faux betrayed. “You animal. You’re lucky I’m into that.”
“You like when I get feisty.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re lucky I’m already half asleep or this would’ve turned into a full-on revenge arc.”
“Empty threats,” you murmur, snuggling closer.
“Empty arms, more like.” He wraps both arms around you tighter, holding you like you’re the last thing keeping him grounded. “I should file a report. Bitten in my own bed.”
You yawn against him. “File it with Melome. She’ll take your side. She’s soft.”
He huffs a laugh. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
You tilt your face up just enough to kiss his jaw. “You’re lucky I love you.”
His expression softens instantly, and his voice drops, so low it’s barely a whisper:
“I know. I really, really know.”
Then he kisses your forehead, slow and lingering, lovingly like he’s sealing every ounce of the moment right into your skin.
And finally, in the hush that follows, he murmurs:
“Sleep, baby. I’ve got you.”
And you do, in his arms where you've always belonged.
The first light of dawn filters through the curtains, painting the room in soft gold. You stir slowly, nestled in the curve of Satoru’s chest, the steady rise and fall of his breath a quiet lullaby.
Your fingers trace lazy patterns along his collarbone, and he sighs contentedly, tightening his hold without waking fully.
“Morning,” he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep.
You smile against his skin. “Morning.”
He nuzzles your hair, then his eyes flutter open, locking with yours. “You know,” he says, voice playful despite the dawn haze, “Tinytoru tried to sneak out this morning.”
You lift your head, intrigued. “Oh? How?”
“He said he was going to ‘manifest some energy’ to protect you while you slept, but all he did was get tangled in the charger cord and caused a minor blackout.”
You laugh quietly. “Typical.”
“Right? Then Melome staged a rescue mission — armed with a hair tie and a tiny plush first-aid kit.”
You nudge him playfully. “She’s really prepared.”
“Melome’s always prepared. She’s the brains of the operation. Tinytoru’s just... well, emotional chaos wrapped in fluff.”
You close your eyes and sigh happily, feeling perfectly at home. “I like their partnership.”
Satoru kisses your temple softly. “Just like us.”
You curl closer, his arms a fortress around you. “Ready for another adventure today?”
He grins, eyes sparkling. “Always.”
The sun climbs a little higher, warming the room with gentle light. You stay nestled against Satoru, your breath mingling with his, your fingers tracing idle circles on his chest.
He hums softly, a contented sound that vibrates through his body and settles in your bones. You lift your head just enough to catch his eye, and he smiles, a lazy, half-awake smile that feels like home.
“Think we should get up soon?” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep and affection.
You shake your head, settling back into his arms. “Not yet. Let’s just... stay here a little longer.”
He nods, pressing his lips to your forehead. “Best plan I’ve heard all day.”
Minutes stretch, filled with soft touches and quiet breaths. Your legs tangle together, your hands find his, fingers lacing naturally.
In this slow, perfect moment, the world feels distant, and all that matters is the steady warmth of him holding you close.
You stretch slowly against him, the sheets slipping a little lower on your back. Satoru’s hand's resting just above your hip, his grip tightens slightly, thumb stroking absentminded circles against your bare skin.
You murmur, eyes still closed, “We should probably get up.”
He hums, low and lazy. “Probably.”
Neither of you moves.
A beat passes, and he shifts, pulling you a little closer, his nose brushing the side of your neck. “But I’m so comfortable,” he mumbles. “Trapped. By this very soft, very warm, very irresistible person.”
You smile into the pillow. “You’re using me as an excuse.”
“Obviously,” he says, lips ghosting over your skin. “I’m incredibly weak-willed in the morning.”
His hand skims lower, fingers grazing just beneath the sheet now, tracing the dip of your spine. You shiver, barely breathing.
“You’re not playing fair,” you whisper.
He laughs softly. “Never claimed to.”
Then his voice dips, rougher now, right at your ear. “Still sore from yesterday?”
You nod against him, cheeks flushing.
“Good,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your jaw, his hand settling at your waist, just hovering there. “Because I’m about to make that worse.”
You tilt your head back, breath catching, as his lips trail lower slowly, teasing kisses down your throat, his voice a sinful promise against your skin.
“Who needs breakfast,” he murmurs, “when you’re already in my mouth?”
His lips trail lower, warm and deliberate, as the sheets fall away, exposing the softness of your thighs still warm from sleep. Satoru shifts, dragging his mouth along the curve of your hip with reverence, hands anchoring you gently in place.
But then, his movement halts.
“...They’re watching us.”
You blink, breath caught. “What?”
He lifts his head, trying to keep a straight face. “Them.” He tilts his chin toward the nightstand. “Tinytoru and Melome. Tiny plush perverts.”
Sure enough, they sit exactly where they were last night — slouched upright, positioned almost too perfectly. Watching.
You groan, grabbing a pillow and chucking it in their general direction. “Out. No Foursomes in this house unless they contribute to rent.”
Satoru howls with laughter. “Melome’s scandalized. Tinytoru’s taking notes.”
“Throw em' out,” you insist, tugging the covers up again, but not enough to hide your flushed smile.
He scoops them both up dramatically. “Sorry, guys. You’re being evicted from the horny zone.” He tosses them into the hallway like exiled royalty, then shuts the door with a mock bow.
Then his eyes return to you, glinting with a different heat now. “Now, where were we…”
You don’t get a chance to answer.
Because in the next breath, he’s guiding you gently upward, his hands sliding around your thighs, coaxing you to straddle his face, his breath stirs against your folds as he presses a reverent kiss to your inner thigh. “God, you’re perfect like this,” he murmurs, voice rough, hands steady on your hips. “All soft and wet for me already…”
You shiver, bracing yourself against the headboard, heart thudding as his mouth finds you, it's slow and languid, so much worship in the way his tongue traces every inch of you.
He groans against your skin when you grind just slightly, hips twitching forward, and his hands flex, keeping you close.
“Let me take my time,” he breathes. “I want to taste everything.”
And he does.
Satoru settles back against the pillows, eyes gleaming as he gently tugs you upward, guiding your knees to either side of his head. The soft drag of bed-warmed skin against his chest sends a ripple of anticipation through both of you.
“You sure?” you murmur, a little breathless already, you're still laughing from the plushie interruption, still flushed from his teasing.
His hands squeeze your thighs, grounding you. “Always,” he says, voice low, reverent. “Now sit, baby. I want to feel how good you taste.”
And let him.
Your legs tremble slightly as you lower yourself onto him, his mouth is hot and eager beneath you, tongue sliding up to meet your folds with a slow, deliberate lick that makes your whole body jolt. He groans at the first taste like it’s been days, like he’s been starving for this.
“Satoru—” you gasp, hands gripping the headboard as his tongue flicks up again, swirling just around your clit before dipping down to lap at your entrance. His nose nudges against you with each motion, and he keeps you low, pressing you to him like you’re something sacred.
You're wet, still warm from sleep, slick and swollen and aching — and he’s devouring you like he wants to memorize every second.
The drag of his tongue turns firmer, more purposeful, and when he locks his lips around your clit and sucks slowly and deep, your hips jerk forward instinctively.
He groans again, like your reaction feeds him, like he wants you messier and louder and more undone.
You start to move, your hips rolling gently in rhythm with his mouth. He lets you, hands staying on your thighs but loose now, only anchoring you when your rhythm falters. You ride him slow, grinding against his mouth, every pass of his tongue sending a spark racing down your spine.
“Satoru— fuck, you feel so good—”
He pulls back just long enough to whisper, lips swollen, voice husky, “You’re soaked, baby. All for me, huh?”
And then he dives back in, tongue teasing, tasting, exploring like he can’t get enough. The wet sounds between your thighs, the quiet moans he hums into you, the helpless gasps you give — it’s all wrapped in the soft morning light and the scent of clean skin, floral detergent, and the faint sweetness of your lotion.
Your thighs start to tremble, your whole body tightening, and his hands slide up, fingertips digging into your hips to hold you there, keep you close, as his mouth works you harder.
And when you finally break, hips bucking, thighs shaking, breath shattered, he groans like he’s the one unravelling. You ride the aftershocks with your forehead pressed to the headboard, body twitching and flushed, while he keeps kissing you, licking up every drop, slower now, like he’s soothing you.
“Good girl,” he whispers against you, voice hoarse. “You’re so fucking good for me.”
You collapse forward into the pillows, legs still trembling, and he pulls you gently down onto his chest, arms wrapping around your waist. His lips trail up your thigh, then your hip, then to your ribs, murmuring praise between every kiss.
And then—
From the hallway: a soft thump.
You both freeze. Then you groan. “Don’t tell me you didn’t close the door.”
Satoru bites back a grin. “Maybe they rolled back.”
You swat his chest, breathless. “Tinytoru’s relentless.”
He laughs, kissing the top of your head. “He’s just proud.”
You slump onto his chest with a breathless sigh, your thighs still trembling and your skin flushed with heat. The world feels hazy and golden, like you’ve been pulled out of time, suspended in that perfect place between bliss and breath.
Satoru holds you close, one arm looping snugly around your waist, the other lazily brushing fingers up and down your spine. “Still alive?” he murmurs, voice deep and a little smug.
You give a weak, dazed laugh. “Barely.”
He grins, shifting so he can kiss your temple, then the soft space just beneath your jaw. “You’re welcome.”
You hum, not quite able to glare at him with your face pressed into his chest. “So cocky.”
“Confident,” he corrects, tilting your chin up so he can kiss you again — slow and deep, his tongue brushing against yours with lazy affection. You melt into it, your fingers curling into his hair, your body still humming from everything he gave you.
And then, without warning, he shifts downward.
“Satoru—” you protest, squirming as he starts kissing along your stomach, toward your hips. “I’m sensitive.”
“I know,” he says, wicked and fond, mouthing at the crease of your thigh. “That’s why it’s fun.”
You yelp as he kisses the inside of your thigh — too gently, too teasing — lips dragging across skin still throbbing with aftershocks. “You’re such a menace.”
He kisses higher. “But you love it.”
Another kiss, this time paired with a playful bite that makes you squeal and twist in his arms. “Stop!”
He pulls back just enough to grin up at you. “Never. You’re adorable when you’re squirmy.”
And then, another kiss. This one slower. Sweeter. Right where your thigh meets your hip, right over the part of you he just worshipped.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs, lips brushing warm against your skin. “All soft and messy and mine.”
You breathe in shakily, caught between a laugh and a sigh. “You gonna let me recover, or are you trying to kill me?”
“I’m reviving you with affection,” he says solemnly, kissing your thigh again. “It’s a healing technique.”
You giggle helplessly now, dragging a hand over your face as he curls back up beside you, grinning like a smug cat.
“You’re the worst,” you mumble.
He kisses your shoulder. “I’m the best.”
And when he tucks you under the covers again, pressing your back to his chest and wrapping his arms around you like you’re the only thing that matters and he doesn’t need to say it again.
You know.
You stay wrapped in his arms for a while, tucked into the comfort of the bed and his body. His fingers trace soft shapes over your stomach, his breathing steady against the back of your neck.
It’s peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Because soon enough, the ache begins to return — not the soreness, not the afterglow, but that low pull of want. The way your thighs still feel sticky, the way your body still remembers the way he tasted you, the way he looked up at you like you were everything.
You press your thighs together with a subtle shift, but Satoru notices immediately.
“Oh?” he murmurs, voice low and knowing. “What’s this little wiggle?”
You bury your face in the pillow. “Nothing.”
He kisses the back of your shoulder, then again, slower. “You sure?”
You turn your face toward him, cheeks flushed, breath catching. “I… I want you again.”
His hand stills on your stomach.
Then, slowly, he lifts his head to look at you. “Yeah?”
You nod, shy but honest. “I can’t stop thinking about it. The way you made me feel. The way you kissed me. I just—” You exhale, voice small but certain. “I need you again, Satoru.”
His eyes darken, that sleepy smile twisting into something deeper, hungrier. “Fuck.”
You press your palm against his thigh, trailing upward, eyes flicking toward him as your fingers brush along the front of his briefs. “Are you hard?”
He breathes out a laugh, low and ragged. “I am now.”
You bite your lip, shifting to press closer, your thigh brushing against the growing heat between his legs. He groans as your hand curls around him, even through the fabric, already thick and twitching against your palm.
“You’re so easy,” you tease softly, pressing a kiss to his jaw.
His voice drops, rough and reverent. “I’m easy for you.”
And when he rolls you gently onto your back, kissing you deep, hand sliding between your thighs to feel how soaked you already are again and you know exactly what’s coming.
Just as he shifts over you, his weight warm, his mouth already descending toward your neck and you press your palm to his chest.
He pauses instantly, eyes searching your face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” you whisper, voice low and sure. “I just… I want to take care of you this time.”
He blinks, surprised. “Yeah?”
You nod, biting your lip as your fingers slide down his chest, over his stomach, tracing the lines of muscle still faintly damp with heat. “You always do so much. I want to go slow. Make you feel good.”
His expression melts, that playful edge softening into something wide-eyed and aching. “Shit,” he breathes, already halfway gone. “Okay, baby. I’m all yours.”
You guide him back with gentle insistence, pushing him to lean against the pillows. His hair’s a mess, his lips kiss-bitten, and there’s the faintest flush on his cheeks as he watches you crawl down between his legs.
You hook your fingers in the waistband of his briefs and slide them down slow. He lifts his hips to help, already half-hard and thick, twitching at the first brush of air.
“God, you’re pretty,” you murmur, kneeling between his thighs now, hands stroking over them slowly. “I never get tired of looking at you.”
He groans softly and wrecked even before you touch him, head tipping back against the pillow. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You hum, trailing kisses along the inside of his thigh, lips dragging over sensitive skin as your hand wraps around the base of his cock— already hardening fully under your touch. You stroke him slowly, reverently, watching the way he twitches, the way his hips shift just slightly toward your hand.
“So big,” you murmur, eyes locked on him. “So beautiful.”
He swears, low and shaky, as you drag your tongue up the length of him, slow and teasing, just a taste before your lips close around the head. He hisses through his teeth, hand flying to your hair, not to guide — just to hold, like he needs the anchor.
You take your time.
Each stroke of your tongue is deliberate, slow and sensual, curling along the underside, circling the tip, humming when you feel him throb. Your hand moves in tandem with your mouth, wet and steady, and every now and then you look up through your lashes, his expression utterly ruined already, lips parted, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded and dark with hunger.
“Fuck, you’re good,” he pants, hips twitching again. “So fucking good at this.”
You smile, taking him deeper, savoring the way his breath catches, then pulling back just enough to speak, your voice warm and low against his flushed skin.
“I love your cock,” you whisper. “Love the way you taste. Love how hard you get for me.”
He groans loudly, head tipping back again, one arm flung over his face as his other hand tightens in your hair. “You’re gonna ruin me, baby.”
“That’s the plan,” you breathe, before taking him deeper again, slow and full, your lips stretching around him as he groans helplessly beneath you.
He’s gasping now.
Gone is the teasing, cocky Satoru who always has a snarky quip on his lips and what’s left is just him, undone and trembling under your touch, hand still fisted in your hair like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
Your tongue drags in slow circles around the head of his cock, then glides down the thick vein beneath, savoring the heat, the pulse, the way he twitches helplessly against your tongue. You hum around him again, just enough to make his thighs jump.
“F-fuck,” he stammers, his voice wrecked. “You’re— baby— you’re too good.”
You ease off with a wet pop, stroking him slowly with one hand while you kiss along his length. “You like that?”
He makes a desperate sound, somewhere between a groan and a prayer. “I love it. I love you.” His head drops back again, eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving. “You’re gonna make me come if you keep going like that.”
You smile, brushing your lips over the tip, letting your tongue tease at the sensitive slit. “Maybe I want to.”
He shudders and his grip in your hair tightens just a little, but he still doesn’t try to control you. He just watches you, his expression so soft and wrecked, like he can barely believe it’s real.
“I want to come in your mouth,” he breathes, almost reverently. “Please.”
That word 'please' leaves his mouth so quietly, so earnestly, that it shoots straight through you. There’s no demand, no teasing, just need.
“Yeah?” you murmur, looking up at him as you take him into your mouth again, slow and deep.
He gasps, his hand clenching, his back arching just slightly. “Fuck, yes— please. Let me— let me, baby, I’m so close—”
You hum again, suck a little harder, and feel him tremble. He’s holding on by a thread now, his voice falling to broken whispers:
“So warm… so good… you feel so fucking good, baby, I’m gonna— please, let me—”
You don’t stop. You just hold him there, taking every inch he gives you, one hand steady at the base, the other pressed to his thigh as it twitches beneath your palm. And when he comes hard, low and moaning your name like a confession, you take every drop of it, swallowing slowly, never looking away.
He’s panting by the end, flushed and dazed, fingers brushing gently through your hair now.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he murmurs, pulling you up and into his arms like he never wants to let go. “You’re unreal.”
You curl against his chest, smug and soft all at once, and he kisses your forehead like a man in love with everything you are.
You’re curled against him now, his chest still rising and falling a little fast, his fingers lazily stroking your back. He’s smiling like he’s floating, half out of breath, half in love.
And then your gaze drops, just for a second.
There, at the very tip of him, still flushed and twitching faintly, just a small bit left. A silvery sheen he must have missed in the haze.
You press a kiss to his cheek, then sit up slightly, your voice warm and sweet in his ear. “Hang on,” you murmur. “Missed a spot.”
He blinks, already flushed, already trying to recover and then he watches as you ease back down between his legs again.
“Wait, you don’t have t—” he starts, breath catching.
But your mouth is already there, tongue flicking gently over the slit, just the lightest, slowest sweep. His entire body jolts, breath leaving him in a startled groan.
You hum softly, savoring him, and then press a lingering kiss to the very tip.
“Perfect,” you whisper against him, lips warm and tender. “Didn’t want to waste any of you.”
He covers his face with his hands, like he can’t handle it, like he’s already half-hard again just from that. “You’re too much,” he moans, laughing breathlessly. “I’m gonna die.”
You nuzzle his hip, smiling smug and soft. “Worth it?”
He peeks through his fingers, eyes blown and dazed. “Absolutely worth it.”
And when you crawl back up into his arms, he kisses you like he’s still tasting himself on your tongue, slow and sweet, hand cupping your cheek.
“You spoil me,” he murmurs.
You just smile. “Only you.”
He’s still dazed, arms loose around your waist as you settle on top of him again, cheek resting against his shoulder. His heart’s finally started to calm until he tilts his head to look at you and grins that crooked, post-bliss grin.
“You really went back for one last lick?” he teases, voice still hoarse, still wrecked. “You that obsessed with me, huh?”
You hum, fingers idly tracing lines across his chest. “Mm. Maybe.”
He raises a brow. “Maybe? That was dangerously thorough, sweetheart. Starting to think you’re addicted.”
You lift your head and meet his eyes. No smile, no smirk, just soft honesty that knocks the breath right out of him.
“I just… love all of you,” you say quietly.
It silences him.
Just like that, the cocky grin falters, and something deep and real flickers in his expression. His mouth parts slightly, but no words come right away.
You go on, voice tender. “Every part. Even the messy ones. Even the stupid, smug, ridiculous ones.”
His throat works around a swallow. “Shit,” he breathes. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?” you ask, brushing a thumb over his cheek.
“Like you mean it,” he says, almost a whisper. “Like you’re gonna break me in half with kindness.”
You smile now, leaning in until your noses bump. “Better that than the other way around.”
He pulls you closer, burying his face in your neck, voice muffled but warm. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
“You’d die happy.”
He laughs quietly, breathless, full of love. “Yeah. I really would.”
His hands wander restlessly and familiar. One traces along your spine, the other slipping down to your hip as he shifts beneath you with a low groan, starting to lean in again.
“Your turn,” he murmurs, breath warm against your neck. “I’ve got enough in me. Let me make you feel good now.”
But you press your hand gently to his chest, just like earlier, the same soft insistence, same steady eyes.
“Not right now,” you whisper.
He blinks. “What do you mean? You sure?”
You nod. “I just want to be here. With you. For you.”
He’s quiet, watching you.
You push a few strands of silver hair from his face, fingers threading through them with delicate care. “You’re always taking care of me,” you murmur. “Always strong, always focused on everyone else. This morning… I don’t want anything from you. I just want to admire you.”
His brows twitch upward, like the tenderness surprises him, stuns him, maybe. His lips part again, but no clever remark comes out.
“I mean it,” you add softly, brushing your fingertips down the slope of his neck, over the line of his collarbone. “You’re beautiful when you’re soft like this. I want to hold you. Kiss you. Touch your hair and see you breathe. That’s all.”
His heart stutters under your palm.
And then he exhales, like he’s finally letting himself melt. Like something in him gives permission to rest. “You’re not real,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering closed as your fingers stroke through his hair again. “Nobody’s this gentle.”
“You are,” you say, kissing his temple. “And you deserve the same.”
You stay like that, curled together in tangled sheets and golden morning light, your hand in his hair, your lips against his skin. His muscles relax, his breathing slows, and for once, he lets himself be loved without needing to give anything back.
Not yet.
Just this.
His breathing is slow beneath you now, one arm looped loosely around your waist, the other tucked under his head. The light outside has turned honey-warm, casting soft shadows across the sheets, across the edges of his face.
Your fingertips move slowly over his chest, mapping out the faint scars, the curve of muscle, the shape you’ve grown to know as intimately as your own. He stays quiet, just watching you, lips parted, eyes half-lidded like he’s halfway between dozing and dreaming.
You let your fingers wander to a mark near his ribs. “How’d you get this one?” you ask softly.
He glances down without moving. “Cursed spirit. I was fifteen. Didn’t listen to someone wiser than me.”
You smile a little, still tracing. “And now you’re the wiser one?”
“I try,” he murmurs. “Still reckless, though.”
You hum in response, then shift slightly to prop yourself up on your elbow, your hand smoothing over his shoulder, his collarbone. “I used to trace clouds when I couldn’t sleep,” you say, voice quiet and far away. “On my ceiling. I’d pretend they were soft places to land. I think I still do that sometimes.”
He looks at you... really looks, a faint crease between his brows. “I didn’t know that.”
You shrug lightly. “Never came up. But… I think that’s why I like touching you like this. You’re… steady. You feel like somewhere to land.”
His jaw flexes, and for a moment he can’t find any words at all.
You keep talking, not expecting an answer, your fingers moving over his sternum. “I used to think I had to be useful. That if I wasn’t strong, I wasn’t anything. And now you look at me like I’m enough just as I am. I don’t always know what to do with that.”
“You are enough,” he says, firm but quiet. “More than.”
You glance at him, his voice broke just a little at the end there. “I know,” you whisper. “I’m trying to believe it like you do.”
He exhales slowly, then lifts a hand to brush your hair behind your ear, eyes gentle and open. “Then I’ll keep showing you. Every day. Every way I know how.”
You smile softly and press a kiss to the center of his chest, right where his heart beats beneath your mouth.
“And I’ll keep landing here,” you murmur. “If that’s okay.”
His arms tighten around you, breath catching like you’ve undone him all over again.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “Always.”
Your cheek rests against his chest again, one hand still tracing thoughtless patterns along his skin. The silence between you is warm, comfortable, but you feel something shift beneath your fingers. Not tension exactly, just… weight. Thought.
His hand smooths up your back. Then, after a pause:
“I used to fake sleep when I was little,” he says, voice rough and low. “When the elders talked about me. I’d listen through the walls.”
You blink, lifting your head slightly to glance at him. “What did they say?”
He’s staring at the ceiling now, face unreadable. “That I was too much. Too strong. That I was dangerous. A problem they’d have to manage, not a kid they could raise.”
Your heart pulls tight.
“And I was strong,” he says, mouth twisting like he’s trying not to smile bitterly. “But I didn’t know what to do with it. I just wanted to be normal. I wanted to be good.”
You press your fingers to his chest again, grounding him. He looks at you, eyes clearer than you expected, no shields.
“But then I met Suguru,” he continues quietly. “And for a while, I didn’t feel like a freak. I felt like… a person. Someone with purpose.”
Your breath catches.
He swallows hard. “And when that was gone— when he was gone — I just started pretending again. Not like when I was a kid. Not fake-sleeping. Just…” He trails off, brow furrowing. “Faking like I was okay. Like I was confident. Like none of it touched me.”
You shift closer, hand finding his cheek this time. “But it did.”
He nods, barely. “Still does.”
The silence hums again, soft but heavy. You lean in, pressing your forehead to his, your hand brushing back through his hair.
“I see you,” you whisper. “Not the strongest. Not the six eyes. You.”
He closes his eyes, lashes trembling faintly.
“I love you,” you add, voice barely a breath. “Not because you’re powerful. Not in spite of it, either. Just… all of you.”
His arms come around you again, tighter this time. Fierce, but trembling. And when he kisses you, it’s not lust or even comfort. It’s gratitude. It’s reverence.
You kiss him once more, softly, slowly and feel the quiet shift between you. Not a spark catching, but a low ember glowing warmer. His fingers spread along your spine like he’s relearning the shape of you, like he wants to memorize it again just to be sure it’s real.
And when he kisses you this time, it’s deeper. No urgency, just a slow, aching pour of everything he couldn’t say.
You shift over him, thighs bracketing his hips, and his hands come to settle gently at your waist. He looks up at you with something raw in his gaze, like he’s still that boy hearing himself called dangerous through the walls, unsure he’s worthy of love this quiet.
You lean down, pressing your forehead to his again.
“I’ve got you,” you whisper.
His hands slide up, one cradling the back of your head, the other brushing reverently down your back. “I know,” he says, like it’s still a miracle.
You rock your hips forward, the softest brush of connection sparking a shared breath between you. His eyes flutter, his mouth parts, but he doesn’t speak. He just watches you like you’re something holy.
You take your time.
Your hands on his chest, his waist, his cheek. Your lips across his throat, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. You move with care, with purpose. Not worshiping his power just worshiping him. His sighs. His softness. His need.
When you sink down onto him at last, it’s a slow alignment, like slipping into something that was always waiting to be filled. He gasps, fingers tightening on your hips, and you still him with a touch, a kiss to his temple.
“Let me,” you murmur. “Let me take care of you.”
And he does.
He lets you guide the rhythm, slow and rolling. Lets you kiss every sharp breath from his mouth. Lets you murmur little nothings, soft praise and quiet love while you ride him with aching sweetness.
He looks at you like he might break from it. From being seen. From being wanted like this.
And when he cums, it’s with your name on his lips, his hands tangled in yours, his eyes open and shining.
You don’t move right away.
Neither of you does.
You’re still straddling him, tucked close, your cheek resting against his shoulder, your fingers drawing idle circles over the sweat-slick line of his collarbone. His arms stay around you like instinct, like if he lets go, even for a second, you might vanish.
He’s warm beneath you. Still inside you. Still breathing a little unevenly.
You tilt your head slightly, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. “You okay?”
He hums, voice hoarse. “More than.”
You shift to look at him, nudging his hair back from his forehead. “You looked like you were gonna cry for a second.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, just a breath, almost embarrassed. “That obvious?”
You nod, smiling gently. “A little.”
He turns his head, nuzzling into your wrist as it rests against his cheek. “I don’t know what the hell you’re doing to me.”
“Loving you,” you murmur.
He shuts his eyes, lets out a slow breath, and you feel his whole body soften again beneath you.
You trace along his jaw with your thumb, watching him. “Did it feel different?” you ask after a moment.
He nods faintly. “Yeah. You didn’t… just want me. You saw me. The parts I don’t even like.”
You lean in and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I do want you. All of you. Even the messy parts. Especially the messy parts.”
He opens his eyes again, just enough to meet yours. “You’re the first person I’ve ever believed when they said that.”
That makes your chest ache, in the best, most tender way.
You settle in closer, cheek against his chest again. “I’m staying right here,” you whisper. “If you want me.”
“I do,” he says, immediately. “Always.”
You let the quiet take over again for a while its just warmth and breath and lazy fingers drifting across skin. He shifts only to kiss the crown of your head, murmuring something you don’t quite catch. But the way he holds you tighter afterward tells you it doesn’t need to be repeated.
Loosely based on the time me and my husband bleached our pubes matching colours for date night.I hope everyone is well!!If you have any achievements/news to tell please share 💛
Bruce Wayne
You walk up to him, casual as ever:
“Hey, can you help me wax… down there?”
He sets down his coffee slowly.
“You mean your legs, right?”
“No. There.”
He pauses. Breathes. Stares at you like he’s about to interrogate you under a spotlight.
“Do you… trust me with hot wax and your most vulnerable area?”
You smirk.
“You do scalp stitches blindfolded. This should be easy.”
…Ten minutes later, he’s doing it like a mission op: gloves, precise, surgical.
“Tell no one this happened.”
You: “Too late. I’m texting Clark.”
⸻
Dick Grayson
“Wax? Like… you want me to… down there? With real wax?”
You nod. He blinks.
“Is this a trap? Because it feels like a trap.”
You reassure him, and he wants to help, but the second he sees the strip he goes full comedic meltdown:
“What if I pull it wrong and you never forgive me? What if you flinch and I scar you emotionally and physically?”
Eventually does it, trembling like it’s bomb defusal.
“Okay… 3… 2…—NOPE I’M NOT READY—wait wait okay now—AAAAND RIP!”
Both of you scream. He apologizes 47 times, then brings you chocolate.
“This is why I stick to gymnastics and not spa work.”
⸻
Jason Todd
You: “Can you help me wax?”
Jason: “Hell yeah I can. Want me to use my teeth?”
You: “No.”
He’s smirking the whole time—until he realizes this isn’t sexy banter. You actually want help. With hot wax. On sensitive skin.
“Wait… you’re serious?”
You nod.
“Alright…. I can do this.”
He does the first strip. You yell. He yells. The wax strip flies and hits the wall.
“I TAKE IT BACK, I’M NOT BUILT FOR THIS KIND OF VIOLENCE!”
After, he kisses your poor skin and mumbles:
“Next time, we’re just buying a trimmer and calling it a day. Or not I ain’t scared of the bush.”
⸻
Tim Drake
You: “Can you help me wax down there?”
“Wh—wax?? Down—? You want me to… me??”
He stammers through 15 different versions of “are you sure?” before you sit him down and show him how.
“Okay. Okay. I can do this. I’ve performed battlefield triage. This is fine.”
He pulls the strip—and immediately screams louder than you.
“OH GOD I HURT YOU—ARE YOU OKAY??”
You’re fine. He’s dying.
You: “Tim. Baby. It’s hair. Chill.”
Him: “Hair you trusted me with. This was sacred.”
⸻
Damian Wayne
You ask cautiously, expecting an instant “absolutely not.”
Instead:
“You would trust a stranger with this, but not me? Tt.”
He immediately clears a space, grabs gloves, sanitizes everything, and approaches the task like he’s painting a fine portrait.
He’s silent. Focused. Surgical.
You’re tense.
He rips the strip with deadly precision. You gasp. He nods.
“Weakness is temporary. Smoothness is eternal.”
You stare at him.
“Did you just quote a proverb after waxing my crotch?”
He bows his head solemnly. “I am here to serve.”
(And yeah… you kinda ask him to do it again later.)
