#Human is predator bitCh | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vinnyvamppp · 3 months ago

Note

Lord almighty save me, my brain has been spiraling ever since I read Viltrumite Mark going into heat. 🩷🩷🩷 Now I’m picturing all the variants having a heat cycle (separately with reader ofc [unless— 👀 reader would break, I fear in the best way though]). Any chance I can request other versions of it, like with No Goggles, MoHawk, Sinister, Omni-Mark or Shiesty? 👀👀👀

𝐁𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐌𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐓𝐨𝐨

A/N: Every main, side, and popular variant is in this bitch.

Warnings: Smut, Knotting, Overstimulation, Breeding Kink, Pheromone Play, Power Dynamics, Sub/Dom Dynamics, Heat Cycles, Rough Sex, Penetrative Sex, Cum-Eating, Anal Sex, and etc.

Synopsis: Each version of Mark Grayson— bratty kings, calculating monsters, broken gods— crave the same thing: your body, your loyalty, your soul. You’re a cure and a weakness they crave to keep. Consume him.

⭐: Lensless, Sinister, Variant #17, Shiesty/Hooded, Mohawk, Masked, Main Mark, Omni-Mark (Teasers): Gangbang, Thragg, Nolan, Atom Eve, Rex, and Rae. (Viltrum Marks Ver: Here.)

Viltrumite Heat Cycles x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 17.1k

Sinister Mark

Sinister Mark didn’t fall apart. He broke others physically, mentally, and existentially. The idea of something breaking him was absurd. The usual cocky demeanor—full of false-promising smiles, had been replaced by something raw: an expression of strife.

So when the heat started... he ignored it. He thought he could power through it like a broken rib. Pain meant nothing to him. Weakness didn’t exist in his vocabulary. This couldn’t be happening to him. The Invincible, utterly devoid of humanity, felt his knees weaken.

Then he smelled you, and suddenly, he was falling.

It hit him right in the middle of a mission, screams drowned beneath the crackle of fire, blood coating his knuckles, a ruined building collapsing behind him as survivors scrambled to hide. He should have flown home. Instead—he flew to you.

Now you stood in front of him in your apartment, lips parted, wearing that thin tank top he had imagined ripping off in more than one intrusive fantasy.

"Mark?" you asked cautiously, eyes scanning his tense body. "You look... flushed." He didn’t respond at first. He just stepped inside, his eyes devouring every inch of you like a predator locking onto its prey after weeks of hunting.

"I told myself I wouldn’t do this," he muttered, the door clicking shut behind him. "That I could outlast it."

The red haze burning behind his eyes had only intensified. His pupils were blown wide, his chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths. His jaw clenched, muscles flexing as he fought against the last threads of restraint. He couldn't explain what was happening, only how it felt—the kind of arousal that outpaced even the blood pumping through his veins.

"But then I thought about you," he said slowly. "About how you'd feel under me. How you'd sound." His smile was humorless. "That's all it took to lose control."

He crossed the room in a blink. One hand slammed into the wall beside your head; the other gripped your waist hard enough to bruise. He inhaled deeply, his nose brushing your neck. You drove him insane in ways other women could only dream of.

"You smell unreal," he rasped—like temptation, like trouble, like a nuisance he wanted to carry.

"Mark, what is thi—" you started, but he cut you off with his mouth.

His lips crashed into yours with brutal desperation. There was no hesitation, just raw hunger and the urge to conquer. His tongue forced its way between your lips, teeth clashing clumsily against yours as he fought to taste every part of you. His hands roamed up your sides and under your shirt, gripping you tight, possessive, like you were the only thing anchoring him to reality.

He expected you to melt. To plead. Maybe to behave sweetly, submissively, the way you sometimes did. But no—you twisted your fingers into his hair and yanked, just enough to make him groan. The ichor from his bloodstained hands smeared across your waist.

"You already know how this ends," he growled, pulling back just long enough to rip the tank top from your body. "I'm not gentle. And right now? I’m not asking."

His mouth latched onto your throat, your collarbone, devouring the skin there with a feverish fervor. Your fingers tangled again in his hair as he groaned into your neck, grinding his hips against yours, caging you completely against the wall.

"This heat—it’s made me insane for you," he hissed. "I see you in my dreams. I wake up hard and furious that you’re not next to me." You shivered. "Then make it real."

He lifted you effortlessly, his lips claiming yours again, carrying you toward the bedroom like a man possessed. You could feel the heat radiating from him, burning into your skin, muscles twitching beneath the strained spandex of his suit.

Mark wasn’t the type to surrender to anything. But tonight, he surrendered to you.

He kissed you like an afterthought—like you were the inevitable conclusion to every version of his day. It was slow at first, almost mocking, daring you to push him away. But you didn’t and you wouldn't because you enjoyed the attention. The kiss deepened with a low growl caught in his throat—teeth grazing your bottom lip just enough to sting. His hand curled possessively around your jaw, guiding you, as if he already owned every inch of you.

His breath ghosted over your face, and then you were dropped onto the mattress. He dove in after you, like he was starving and you were the only thing that could keep him alive.

It was slow, but not sweet. He peeled your clothes off like he was unwrapping a weapon. His hands slid beneath your shirt, brushing your ribs—his eyes flickering with dark amusement even as his touch trembled with lust. His fingers traced every curve that had haunted his dreams.

Your palms pressed against the mattress, knees spread just wide enough to hold your balance but not wide enough for him. You felt the bed dip behind you as he settled in—looming, warm, suffocating. His fingers dug into your flesh, leaving marks that would bloom into bruises.

His breath seared your neck—hot, hungry, trembling with restraint. His chest pressed flush against your back, his body vibrating with need. You shivered, not from cold, but from the way he gripped you, as if he needed to devour you to survive.

"You’re so wet I could drown in you," he growled into your ear, his voice curling around you like smoke. "Maybe I should."

His hand traced a deliberate path down your spine, dragging heat and chills alike until he reached your hips. His thumbs hooked into the waistband of your pants, tugging them down just past your hips before letting them fall. He paused there, worshipful, possessive. One finger slipped beneath your panties, teasing—and with a hard tug, he tore them apart.

He left your underwear for last, dragging his thumbs over the soaked fabric before sliding it off, letting his eyes drink you in. "So worth the wait," he muttered. He didn’t break eye contact with your reflection in the mirror across the room. His nose twitched as he inhaled sharply. "You love this," he said, voice low. "Don’t lie to me. I can smell you."

Before you could even scoff, his teeth sank into your shoulder—a deep, burning mark that drew a startled cry from your throat. The pain melted fast into pleasure, flaring hot and low in your belly. His hips ground against your ass, cock pressed thick and heavy between your thighs. His whole body trembled, every shred of his usual composure slipping.

"You love this," he growled again. "Don’t lie. I can feel your body begging me to ruin it." You pushed back against him—grinding slow, deliberate, a smile tugging at your lips. "Go ahead," you whispered. "Show me how weak you really are." His groan was feral. "Still so mouthy," he hissed, voice ragged. "Fine."

There was no warning, no teasing. Just one brutal thrust—stretching you open, hot and unrelenting. A gasp tore from your throat, your hands scrabbling for the bed frame as your back arched into him. He held you there—chest pressed to your back—his whole body shaking from the effort not to lose control.

"Fuck, you feel perfect," he muttered, his voice splintering. "You always do."

You bit down on his shoulder until he hissed, dragging your nails down his side until his hips bucked into you, the bed shuddering beneath the force. He didn’t stop. His body was on autopilot now, pounding into you until your vision blurred and your body clamped around him like a vise.

The heat didn’t just fuel him—it destroyed him. It turned his pleasure into something darker, something he had no hope of resisting. He didn’t want to fuck you. He wanted to etch himself into your nervous system. "Fuck," he rasped, forehead pressed to the back of your neck. "You’re so tight, so warm... I could die inside you."

His voice cracked halfway through the sentence, the words so hoarse and broken they barely sounded like him anymore. He rolled his hips, grinding slow and deep, making you feel every desperate second he was buried inside you. His fingers slipped down between your thighs—stroking the swollen, soaked mess he had made of you. Your body shuddered at his touch, and a cry escaped your lips, only spurring him on.

"You’re dripping," he groaned. "All for me. Only for me."

He wanted every gasp to come from him. Every soft whimper to bear his name. He would fuck you slow and cruel just to see how long it would take before you started begging. And afterward—when you were wrecked and mindless—he would kiss you sweetly, because that was the worst part: how completely you unraveled him and how much he lived for it.

It was a craving so deep it rewired his instincts. Pain felt good. Pleasure felt like war. His eyes rolled into his skull at the sight of your ass bouncing back against him, the sheer force rocking you into his pelvis over and over. "Look at you—pathetic," he panted, the words filthy but breathless. "So easy once I start fucking you right."

The heat was overwhelming. His strangled whimpers filled the air around you, cracked and broken, raw with desperation. "Just squirming for me... so much for that sharp mouth."

There was no real bite behind the words now. Only the heaving rasp of a man on the edge of combustion. His body shuddered against yours, his hips stuttering. For a moment, you could feel his cock softening—but every dragging pull of your body around him yanked him back in like a magnet.

He pounded into you, hips moving erratically, his breaths ragged, sweat dripping down his temple. The orgasm building inside him sent violent twitches down his spine, his thrusts matching the rattling pace of his racing heart. He drove into you hard and deep, the swollen tip of his cock catching against your cervix each time, sending you reeling.

His hands were everywhere—greedy, rough, almost clumsy with need. You felt him rut against you like a man lost, desperate to get closer, closer still. The wet, obscene sounds of your bodies meeting filled the room, slick and loud, as your head dipped into the mattress from sheer sensory overload.

He made you wait for it. His tongue trailed your nape first, teasing along the curve of your neck, slow and lazy, like he was memorizing you. And when he finally bit, it wasn’t playful but rather purposeful and ragged. A deep—anchoring pressure that made you jolt under him. You felt the throb of it shoot down your whole body.

He wanted you marked, bruised, maybe even bleeding. He wanted proof that you belonged to him, proof that no matter what happened tomorrow, tonight you were his. You weren’t a weakness. You were a religion, and this was his new form of prayer.

He moved faster, harder, his hand clutching your hip so tight it was almost painful. You knew it wouldn’t take much more—the way you clenched around him, the way your body opened for him, made his mind blank.

When you came, screaming his name, your body convulsing so hard you thought you might shatter, he sobbed. Not loud—just a soft, wrecked sound against your ear, so broken it barely made it out of his throat.

Because you had won again. He was truly weak during these ruts—and though he'd never admit it—he secretly wanted it that way. The night was far from over. His balls were heavy with another load already, the ache undeniable, and you noticed. You always noticed.

As you turned, straddling him for another round, he stared up at you, eyes wild and almost feverish. His voice broke when he murmured, "Please. Please ride me. I’ll shut up. I’ll be so quiet."

The scent of scorched cedar clung to the air, thick and heady. It wrapped around you, seeped into your skin, and filled your lungs until it made your head spin. You breathed it in and felt hunted—and weirdly, wanted.

When you sank onto him again, it was a slow, brutal stretch. His cock filled you completely, locking into place as he groaned through gritted teeth, his hands trembling where they gripped your hips. His forehead dropped to your neck, his fingers curling under your jaw to guide you down harder onto him when the knot started swelling.

He didn’t panic, nor did he hesitate. He had planned this. And when you tried to move, he growled low in your throat and pinned you down harder, hips grinding deep to milk every ounce of sensation from both your bodies.

"I don’t want fast," he whispered roughly. "I want slow torture. Let me feel every single inch... again." You could only gasp as he rutted up into you, deep and slow, grinding your bodies together until it was impossible to tell where you ended and he began.

Omni Mark

He hadn’t planned to see you tonight. Omni-Mark had half the galaxy kneeling at his feet, another third begging for mercy, and the rest daring to defy him. That should’ve occupied his attention. But the heat came early.

It was unforgiving. He fought it at first, of course he did. Viltrumites were above their biology—or so they thought—but this wasn’t a subtle ache or dull need. This was a burning, a low snarl in his blood that turned every thought into you. Whether it was your voice, your body, or your scent.

Now, here he stood in your doorway, fists clenched so hard his gloves tore, sweat beading on his forehead despite the icy chill in the air. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he warned, his voice low, reverberating like thunder in a canyon. You raised an eyebrow, only half-dressed in a sleep shirt. “I never asked for anything. I want you to let go, Mark.”

That made something snap in him.

In an instant, he was on you, hands gripping your waist, slamming the door shut with the other. His mouth crashed into yours in a passionate, suctioning kiss that pulled the air from your lungs. His lips were soft, molding against yours as his tongue gently caressed yours. You barely registered the way your feet left the ground—his grip tightening possessively. He pulled away just long enough to nuzzle into the crook of your neck.

“You’re soft… too soft,” he breathed, eyelids fluttering like he was trying to snap himself out of the trance you had pulled him into. “You think I haven’t dreamed about this?” he growled against your ear. “You think I haven’t imagined burying myself in you while the universe burns around us?”

You clawed at the armor along his arms, gasping when he bit down on your neck—hard enough to leave a mark but not break skin. You felt the growl building in his chest, the way his whole body vibrated with restraint. “You’re my weakness,” he confessed between fevered kisses. “I should’ve destroyed you when I realized what you meant to me.”

“But you didn’t,” you whispered.

“I couldn’t,” he admitted.

He dropped you onto the bed like the princess you were. His costume peeled away in pieces, every inch of exposed skin rippling with tension—the kind of power that could level continents, yet somehow was gentle with you. You reached for him, but he caught your wrists and pinned them above your head.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice trembling. “If you touch me right now, I won’t be able to stop.”

“Maybe I want to be ruined,” you whispered, your words like honey blessing his ears.

He crashed down onto you, desperate, kissing you with reverence and fury at once. His mouth mapped every inch of your body like a man on borrowed time. His lips trembled slightly against your skin, and an unfamiliar greed lingered in his touch. His hands explored and gripped every valley and curve he could reach, leaving your skin warm with the imprint of his palms.

“You’re mine,” he murmured against your mouth, over and over like a mantra. “You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.” His voice cracked, that calm, collected demeanor unraveling to reveal the boy he once was.

Omni-Mark didn’t believe in surrender. But with you beneath him, gasping his name, begging for more, he didn’t need to.

He kissed like an emotion given shape—like someone who was never taught softness, only possession, but craved it so. When his mouth met yours—it wasn’t tentative. There was no gentle testing of the waters. It was hunger and desperation, devouring you like he was terrified he’d never taste you again. His hands cupped your jaw, a little too tight, while his body caged you in with muscle and need, heat radiating off him in heavy, sweltering waves.

He watched the way your knees buckled when he finally pulled back, panting, red-eyed, drunk on the taste of you. “You call that a kiss?” he rasped, lips already slick with yours, pupils blown wide. “Try again. Put your back into it.”

You felt the shift instantly. His hand curled around the back of your neck, firm but not rough, holding you there as his tongue pushed deeper into your mouth. The kiss grew sloppy—fast, breathless, and messy—his breath catching every time your hips brushed. He walked you backward without breaking the connection, steps deliberate until your thighs met the edge of the bed frame. His hand dragged down your side—palming the curve of your ass like he was checking to make sure you were real.

When your fingernails scraped gently up the back of his neck, he moaned into your mouth—quiet, raw, almost ashamed of how much it affected him. His cock was already hard, pressing against the fabric of his pants, grinding into your hip like a need he couldn’t reason with anymore.

He unwrapped you like you were a relic unearthed in some war-ravaged city. Like something precious and divine that was buried beneath fabric. His fingers curled around the hem of your shirt, but he didn’t yank. He peeled it away, inch by slow inch, eyes locked onto you as your breath shuddered with every inch of exposed skin.

When he got to your underwear, his hand lingered—not out of hesitation, but because he was reeling. His thumb brushed over the fabric, memorizing you, before he diligently undressed you. His eyes glazed over like a man about to feast.

You were already seated in his lap when the snap beneath his skin finally broke open and all that restraint crumbled into dust. His scent grew sharp and sticky, like the smell of rain on dry earth. His arms came around you from behind—forearms like iron bars across your stomach as you rocked against him. You could feel every inch of him beneath you: his cock—heavy and flushed—already pressed between your slick folds. His head bowed low, lips dragging from your shoulder to the shell of your ear.

“You’re shaking,” he muttered darkly, his voice frayed with strain. “Is it the heat... or me?” You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you pressed your hips back deliberately, grinding into him slowly, cruelly. He shuddered, biting back a moan like it betrayed him.

He wasn’t ready to slide into you yet. He wanted you to feel it first. Wanted you gasping from the pressure of him nudging against your entrance. His teeth sank into your nape like he was starving, tongue dragging after to soothe the sting only to suck the skin back into his mouth.

“This isn’t about power—it’s about you letting me have it all,” he whispered against your neck, his voice wet and sick with hunger. He wanted to ruin you so gently you’d fall even deeper in love. “Tell me to stop. Just say it. Please.” His final warning, his final plea. He was never the most talkative, but he whispered murmurs against your skin like it was his coping mechanism.

Heeding his warning, you ignored him. Instead, you ground down harder, once, twice, teasing your entrance just enough to let him slip inside. It was over.

He groaned, the sound uncharacteristically high, and thrust up in one gripping, seamless motion. Your body gave with a lurch, your eyes fluttering shut as the air punched from your lungs. He bottomed out instantly—nudging every ridge, heavy, and throbbing deep inside you, but didn’t move.

“No?” he whispered. “Then take it. Take all of it.”

“I warned you.” He gritted his teeth, biting back broken whines. His forehead pressed against your neck, lips brushing over your skin as if to muffle his own groans.

“I’ll be gentle—then I’ll break you. And you’ll thank me." Your body pressed flush against his, the cool air in the room doing nothing to temper the heat radiating off his skin. Omni-Mark’s breath was steady at first—controlled, just like everything else he did. Even now, with you seated in his lap, his cock buried deep inside you, he held himself like a soldier at war. His palms smoothed over your waist, thumbs stroking reverently at the dip of your hips, almost as if he was trying to memorize how you felt beneath his hands.

"You don’t know what you do to me," he murmured against your shoulder. "You were supposed to make me stronger. Not... this."

His thrusts were slow, intentional, and deep. Every movement pressed you forward just enough for his pelvis to grind against your clit, the friction exquisite in its cruelty. He wasn’t rutting—he was studying you. Each drag of his cock was a question: Will this make you break first? But you didn’t.

Instead, you sank your hips back harder, rolling your spine as you moaned, letting him feel just how much you needed him. You caught his gaze over your shoulder, lips curling into a smile that wasn’t soft—it was sharp, daring. His fingers flexed hard enough around your hips to leave bruises, the illusion of his control slipping.

"Quiet?" you teased through heavy breaths, tilting your head back against his shoulder. "Is that focus... or fear?" He said nothing, almost smiling to himself as you mocked him. He just growled low in his throat, his hands clenching tighter as he jerked you back onto him, forcing you to take him even deeper. His breathing hitched violently.

His hand slipped between your thighs, two fingers pressing firmly against your clit, stroking tight, slow circles that made your whole body jerk. Your hands clutched at his knees for balance, pleasure spiking through you like electricity.

"You speak so boldly," he rasped against your ear, his voice almost tender despite the way his fingers worked you. "But I can feel it. How badly you need me."

His free hand moved to your breast, kneading and squeezing, thumbs flicking over your nipples until they hardened under his touch. His whole body was trembling now, his thighs shuddering beneath you as he thrust upward with brutal need. His hips stuttered. His breath caught ragged in his throat. The moan that escaped him was broken and rough, like it hurt to keep it inside.

He clamped his hands around your thighs, grinding you down onto him with force, pelvis slapping hard against your ass. The rhythm grew messy, erratic. You gasped as he spread your legs wider, one hand bracing you open, the other never relenting from your clit. You were shaking, spasming around him, nerves lighting up and snapping under the overwhelming pleasure.

He felt it—felt the way you clenched around him—and his groan turned desperate. That’s when it happened.

His breath hitched against your skin, hot and heavy, and he sank his teeth into the junction of your neck and shoulder—not sharp, but crushing. A deep, anchoring bite that made your knees buckle. There was no teasing graze. No playful nip. It was brutal and real, the final claim.

Your blood hummed beneath his tongue. His growl ripped through his chest like something primal and unhinged, all of his restraint gone in an instant. When he pulled back, your neck throbbed with the mark he left—a vow burned into flesh.

He stilled for a second, trembling, forehead pressed to your temple, arms wrapped tight around your waist like he could fuse you to him if he only squeezed hard enough.

And then he came. It wasn’t silent—it tore from him in a broken, gasping sound, raw and utterly human. His hips bucked forward once, twice, grinding himself as deep as he could go. You could feel the heat of him spilling inside you, thick and hot, flooding your cunt until it leaked out around the base of him.

The knot swelled suddenly, locking you both together with a sharp stretch that made you both gasp aloud. He stayed buried to the hilt, unmoving for a moment except for the erratic trembling in his thighs. His fingers curled around your jaw, forcing you to tilt your head back so he could kiss you—soft, almost reverent, as if he couldn't believe you were real.

He didn’t slow. He didn’t stop. "We’re not done," he murmured hoarsely against your lips. His voice was frayed and trembling, nothing like the god he was to everyone else. It was raw and human and yours.

"I've made you cum before," he panted. "Again. And again. Tonight’s no different."

You could already feel him swelling again, already twitching inside you, the knot keeping you right where he wanted. It was thick, full, and practically immovable as he rested his forehead against your cheek. His hips began to move again, slow and grinding, sending aftershocks of pleasure straight through your gut.

Omni-Mark wasn’t the type to give up. Not when it came to you. Especially not now. Not when he had all night and all of you.

Full Masked Mark

He didn’t knock. You found him in your room, standing in the dark—half-shadowed beneath the blue light leaking in from the city. He hadn’t removed the mask, just hovered there, tense, and breathing too hard.

“Mark?”

He didn’t respond. You took a step forward, and he flinched—his hand tightening into a fist so hard his knuckles cracked beneath the glove. “I shouldn’t be here,” he said finally, his voice hoarse, cracking like old porcelain. “I—I can’t trust myself.” You stopped moving. “It’s happening, isn’t it?”

He nodded once. “The heat. I felt it coming for days. Thought I could outrun it.” His head tilted, his voice almost breaking. “I ran here.” You didn’t question it. Not the fact that he trusted you with this—something he clearly didn’t understand, something that made him feel wrong. You stepped close enough for him to see the softness in your eyes.

“You’re not going to hurt me, Mark.” His brows furrowed, his body suddenly becoming tense. But the way his body ached for you, the way his strength spasmed as he imagined fucking you raw with the memory of countless nights fucking his fist in your bed… he couldn’t tell.

His breath hitched audibly behind the mask. “You don’t know that. I’m not like the others. I—I think about you too much. I dream about you. And in those dreams, I—” His voice cut off with a choked gasp.

“I miss her,” he whispered. “She’d know what to do.”

Your heart broke. He was burning up inside, trembling with unspent want, haunted by grief and biology and years of holding himself together with cracked pieces of identity. You stepped closer. “Let me help you,” you whispered, hands gently brushing the hem of his mask. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

He didn’t move as you slid it off. Underneath, his face was flushed, wet with tears he hadn’t realized he was crying. His jaw was clenched like he was fighting himself from the inside out. And then you touched his face—just a thumb across his cheek—and the dam burst.

He surged forward, mouth on yours in a desperate, needy kiss. There was no dominance, no force—just raw emotion and trembling urgency. His hands gripped your waist like you were the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely.

“I’ve wanted this,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours. “Wanted you. But it never felt fair.”

“It’s not about fair, Mark,” you whispered, unzipping his suit slowly. “It’s about what we want.”

His lips found your throat, reverent and shaky, like he was worshipping every inch of you he touched. His fingers trembled against your skin as he helped you undress, his breath stuttering every time you made a sound. When he finally lowered you onto the bed, it was with a gentleness that felt sacred. He was utterly devoted, his lips parting as unabashed whines and whimpers in your name spouted from his lips.

“You’re so warm,” he whispered, nuzzling your chest, arms wrapped tightly around your waist. “You feel like home.” You pulled him in, let him bury himself in your arms and your body, and let him feel safe while the storm inside him raged and broke.

“Don’t let go,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder. “Even if I fall apart.”

You kissed him back, holding him through the fire. “I won’t.”

And he didn’t fall apart. He broke open, in the best possible way.

And then he kissed you like it's the only thing keeping him from falling apart. It’s wet and trembling, like he’s trying not to let his body take over too fast. His hands shake where they touch you, fingers curling into your shirt as if you might disappear if he lets go. “M-missed you,” he stammers into your mouth, kissing again before you can reply. He chases your lips, nose bumping clumsily against yours, and sighs when your hands pull him closer. “Let me stay... just a little longer.”

Like being wrapped in something wet and hot and too much. His scent is thick with desperation. It pulses with each pant from his lips. The longer he holds back and the heavier it becomes—need turned physical. A pheromone so raw it drips off him like sweat. It smells of molten amber and pine sap. The type that fogs up mirrors, clings to your sheets, and fills your mouth. It says, He’s not fucking for pleasure—he’s fucking to survive. And only you can keep him sane. His bones ache, every cell in his body screaming to break his restraints, but he can’t help but treat you gently.

You could tell his usual gentleness and restraint were bursting at the seams. Almost like he was still deciding if he should even be touching you at all. But then you made a sound—soft, breathy, inviting—and it destroyed whatever hesitation he had left.

The scent of you had soaked between your thighs—a dizzying blend of heat and arousal that made his chest rise with ragged restraint. His jaw clenched. His eyes devoured you, shoulders heaving, hands trembling with the effort of not lunging. The suit remained half on—his skin flushed and damp beneath the edges of his armor. But even while he stayed dressed, he made sure you weren’t.

Because in heat, Mark didn’t want just access to your body—he wanted your vulnerability. All of it. And before you knew it, your back was against the mattress.

His cock is thick, not monstrous, but unmistakable and it fits him perfectly. Hard, flushed, curved slightly upward, the tip already slick with need. It twitches when you look at it, eager, the kind of erection that speaks more of obsession than pride. And when he finally presses himself against you, it’s not just hunger—it’s worship in motion.

His body trembled as he positioned himself between your legs, jaw clenched so tight it ached. His skin burned under the mask, damp with sweat, heart pounding out of rhythm like it was trying to crawl from his chest. The heat coiled in his gut like a second heartbeat—violent, possessive, undeniable. His cock throbbed with every shallow breath he took, already leaking against your thigh, twitching with the need to bury itself deep.

He entered you slowly, almost reverently, but it was clear from the start: this wasn’t about control anymore. Not that he had any. Your folds are slick, swollen, already glistening with arousal; he's too far gone to pretend not to notice. His wildest instincts flared against his reddened skin. His breath hitched the moment you tightened around him, the heat inside him flaring like a wildfire fanned by gasoline.

“I didn’t know it could feel like this. I didn’t know you would feel like this,” he said, through a lump of saliva stuck in his throat. You two have had sex before, but this was a transcendence of normal sensations. Like an aphrodisiac had poisoned his every being—only craving to have you. Every inch he gave you sent a tremor through his spine. His hands gripped your thighs too hard, fingers digging into the plush of your skin as if anchoring himself to reality—to you. Choked gasps echoed from you as pain mingled with pleasure.

His hips rocked with shallow, fluid thrusts, but his body betrayed him. Sweat dripped down his temples. His thighs flexed beneath you. The very fat of his lips felt suffocating now, his groans catching behind it, as if he were trying to bite down every sound—but the whines slipped through. Small, needy, devastated.

When his mouth found your neck, it wasn’t a kiss. It was a branding. His teeth grazed your skin, his tongue darting out to soothe the sting—only to repeat the ritual again and again. You felt the tremor in his chest every time he breathed you in. With every nip, your body jolted against him, clamping down as you curled into him. He was trying to restrain himself, to stay present. To worship you. Your skin curved upward as shaky gasps left your fingers clawing at his shoulder blades before you barely grazed his shoulder with your fangs, and he gasps—a full-body jolt that ends with him moaning your name. “Ah—wha—fuck, do it again—please, I—I like that, I really like that—” His hips buck into yours without rhythm, lost in the sensation.

But his body pulsed with hunger, and your scent had soaked into his bones like poison. He was hard—too hard—the kind of painful pressure that fogged his brain and turned every thought into a raw, burning need to come. He didn’t last long before instinct buckled his knees.

Suddenly, he surged forward, hips snapping into yours with more force, more desperation. “Can you feel how deep I am? I need to be deeper.” His body moved on its own—sharp, ragged thrusts as if chasing relief he already knew wouldn’t come easy. He whimpered against your collarbone, low and broken, like it hurt to need you this much. Like, if he came, it wouldn’t be enough. He tried to slow down again, pulling his hips back to regain control, but the second your body clenched around him in reply—he lost it.

He flipped you onto him without thinking, your chest sliding against his sweat-slicked torso. His hands ghosted over your back like you were made of glass, but his eyes? Glazed. Wild. You sank down on him again, and he cried out—not loud, but breathless. Helpless. “It’s okay, Mark… I’ll take it from here.”

You started to ride him, each movement smooth and sensual, and it shattered what little composure he had left. Gooseflesh peppered across your skin as your vision blurred, moving absentmindedly through groans. His hands clawed at your hips—desperate for something to hold. His thighs trembled beneath you, every muscle pulled taut like a man bracing for impact. You were moving too good, too slow, too deep—and the look on your face drove him mad.

“Mark… oh, f—fuck, Mark.” His name on your lips was like a spell. “Say my name again… please, I need to hear it when you touch me, m—mommy.” His groan was so broke it borderlined slutty. You leaned down and nipped at his chest, your tongue tracing the contours of his body, and he arched into you so sharply it bordered on pain. The groan that left him was guttural and shameful—his cock twitching so hard inside you it made your stomach flip. He was trying to last. You could see it in how hard his jaw clenched, how his fingers trembled where they held you, and how his entire body was one breath away from breaking.

You rolled your hips faster, and his head fell back against the pillows, mouth parted in a gasp that never fully came. His release hit like a landslide, thighs spasming, chest heaving beneath you. He spilled inside you with a full-body jolt, his fingers digging into your skin like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. His hips kept moving—just barely—like his body hadn’t realized it was over. Like it didn’t want it to be.

His hips roughly buck upwards, the dominance within battling with his personality. He swells, his pelvis pressing into you as it forces every obsessive emotion out of him. And even as he lay there, breathless, unraveling beneath you, he didn’t let go. One hand slid up your back. The other held your hip still, his cock still twitching inside you. His body was still burning.

Because it wasn’t over. Not even close.

It wasn’t his choice; he tried to fight it. He wants to hold back. But when he finally gives in and marks you, the bite is sloppy—messy with saliva and a low, broken whine in your ear. He bites twice, just to feel it again. His knot slowly forms as he clings to you, speech slurring as he becomes barely coherent. You feel his whole body tense as his teeth graze, then dig in. The second bite is deeper, so sudden you yelp. His grip tightens. “I—I’m sorry, I just—I needed you to know you’re mine.”

Main Mark Grayson

You didn’t expect him to show up at your place at two in the morning—especially not looking like that. Hair wild, eyes glowing faintly gold, his shirt drenched in sweat and clinging to his chest. His hands were shaking and his voice was frantic.

“Hey—hi—uh, this might be crazy, but I think I’m, like… dying?”

You blinked. “Mark… what?”

He paced your living room, tugging at his clothes, cheeks flushed. “Yeah, so, um—my dad kind of warned me this might happen one day? Something about Viltrumite biology and… a heat cycle?” Your heart stuttered. Oh. Oh. Suddenly, you were very intrigued.

He froze mid-ramble, turning to you, eyes wide and full of panic. “I smelled you, okay? On the way home. I was flying, and then boom—your scent hit me like a truck, and now I’m like—" He gestured down to his very obvious, very painful erection. “THIS.”

You bit your lip, trying to stay calm while your thighs absolutely clenched. “Mark, sit.”

He obeyed immediately, flopping onto your couch like a broken marionette, head falling into his hands. “I swear I’m not a creep. I just—God, you smell so good—”

You crossed the room slowly and sat next to him. He tensed like a live wire.

You touched his knee, and he whimpered. The poor boy almost looked embarrassed before his jaw clenched to bite back another sound. It was subtle, but his head tilted as his nose flexed—inhaling your scent like the sweetest dessert as heat broke his skin into a red flush.

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “It hurts. It aches, and all I can think about is you. How soft your skin is. How you taste when I kiss you—God, I’ve imagined it so many times—” You took his face gently in your hands, turning him to look at you. “Mark,” you said softly. “Do you want this? With me?”

He nodded so fast it almost looked painful. “Yes. Yes, I do. I’ve wanted this—but not like this. I didn’t want to scare you. But now I’m losing it, and I need you. Please.”

You kissed him before he could spiral further. He gasped, then melted into it, grabbing your hips like they were the last stable thing in his universe. His mouth was hot, desperate, already starting to shake as the heat flared stronger.

You slid your hands under his shirt, feeling the sweat-slick heat of his skin. He shivered, grinding up against you with a needy groan. “I feel like I’m going to explode,” he whispered against your neck. “Like I could fly through the moon just from touching you.”

You tugged the cloth off, eyes roaming his flushed, muscular form. Within seconds, a familiar musk perspired from his pores. It was warm. An after-battle scent that's adrenaline-laced with sweat-slicked sandalwood and a subtle sweetness of red apple skin. The smell of his cologne clashed as if he had tried grounding himself before arriving. The kind of scent that clings to your sheets and drives you crazy when he’s gone. Suddenly, you felt vertiginous with a mixture of lust and reason clashing within your veins. It was so easy to relinquish control to whatever temptation awaited.

“…Are you mad? Or are you gonna kiss me before I combust?” He said nervously, brows furrowing upwards.

You blinked, surprised—then realized he’d mistaken your stunned silence, the way your breath caught, and your hands hesitated for doubt. Not awe. You straddled his lap, gently guiding his trembling hands to your hips, grounding him now.

“Mark,” you said softly, pulling his mouth back to yours, “I’m not scared. I want this. I want you.”

He groaned into your kiss—relieved, wrecked, like the words unraveled something in him. And when he kissed you back? It was like he was learning it all for the first time, like you’re teaching him with every sigh. But the moment his hips shift against yours, instinct takes over. He groans into your mouth, the kiss going from nervous to needy in seconds. His fingers curl into your thighs, pulling you closer with soft pants between kisses. Again and again—faster, deeper—like he's afraid of what happens if he pulls away. “You make it worse. Being this close—I just—please… let me have this.” And when you nod, he kisses you like it’s a thank you and a promise in one.

He didn’t hold anything back. His hands found your waist, your thighs, your chest, everywhere at once, guided by instinct and passion. His breath caught as you guided his hands, his hips, and his rhythm.

Mark Grayson didn’t know what he was doing, but he learned fast.

You barely got your shirt off before his mouth was on your throat again. Not kissing. Breathing, tasting even. He was fumbling at your clothes like he couldn’t figure out if he wanted to take them off or just fuck you through them. He doesn’t mean to be messy—but his heat is driving him crazy.

Inhaling your scent like it soothed the ache in his chest. His hands trembled at your waist, thumbs brushing bare skin like he was trying to remember how to be gentle, how to be Mark—but the heat was too much.

He's been aching for hours. His cock started reacting before he even knew why—just the sound of your laugh, or the memory of how your hand felt the night before, was enough to make him twitch. Like a magnetic force building pressure in his chest and groin that no amount of willpower can settle. His heart beats faster when you’re close, but not because he’s nervous. But from burying his face in your skin and rutting like an animal.

The instinctive, all-consuming need to bury himself deep and never leave—to feel your cunt pulse around him until he doesn’t know where you end and he begins. He wants to merge with you in every way imaginable. Every inch of skin feels like it's starving to the point where sex might not be enough. His nervous system feels alight, all senses searching for yours, like that's their purpose.

His calloused fingers slid your panties down your thighs, soaked through, his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might snap. His hips lifted, hand palmed at his soiled erection before yanking down the fabric. Veins ran the length of his cock—the usual pink tip was an irritated red—and it was heavy as it smacked against his abdomen. He jumped, bucking into the air as cold precum bubbled from his tip.

Too impatient to fully undress, he let you take the reins, legs wrapping around his waist. His breath hitched like you’d struck him. You settled into his cross-legged lap, chests pressed together, skin to skin, cockslick hot between your folds—and he froze.

Not from hesitation. But because his entire body short-circuited.

He entered you slowly, like he was trying to feel every second of it. Your walls stretched around him, wet and pulsing, and he moaned—deep, wrecked, like he hadn’t even meant to. You clutched around him, and his head dropped to your shoulder, arms wrapping tight around your back as your bodies fully sealed together. Every bulging vein was caressed, arousal threatening to erupt.

He rocked his hips, slow and intense. Grinding into you like it was the only thing keeping him conscious. Then came the whisper. Low. Ragged. Right against your throat. “Mine…” His hips rolled with it. You gasped. “Mine,” again, softer, needier, as his cock dragged in slow circles inside you, the pressure growing unbearable.

He buried his face in your neck like it would keep him grounded, hips moving with desperate rhythm—not pounding, but grinding, searching for friction, pleasure, and closeness. Like your body was his whole world. He shook. A full-body tremor that told you he was losing it. Your legs tightened around him, head tilted towards the ceiling as strobe lights clouded your vision from his thrusting.

Through hitching breaths, you stammered, “That’s it. Just like that. You feel it too, don’t you?” You gulped, his lips tracing over your bobbing throat. “I can’t think, I can’t—God, you feel so good.” He heaved, tongue running over your clavicle as he sought every drop of sweat. “You’re squeezing me so hard—are you trying to kill me?” His tongue tickling you sent shivers down your spine, causing his arms to wrap tighter, feeding off every vibration.

And then he fell forward. Not collapsing—just pressing you back onto the mattress, hips never leaving yours. Still buried inside you, still grinding as he held you like his anchor. His mouth found yours, kissing you hard, hand at your lower back dragging your hips forward—trying to keep you pressed to his cock even as his muscles gave out. “Harder. Please. I can take it,” you gasped, fingers clawing at the couch material. “God, you make me lose control. I can’t stop—not when you sound like that.” A whimper and deep groan rumbled in his chest as he nearly doubled over, his hips pushing forward as your head collided with the armrest.

When he finally came—deep, groaning, clinging—his thrusts didn’t stop. He just rode through it, fucked through it, face against your chest, body shaking. And when the wave passed? He shifted you both gently, his body still connected to yours, curling behind you like a second skin. You stared wide-eyed; his eyes were glazed over, and he whispered uncharacteristically in your ear. “I’m gonna keep going until your legs won’t close without me between them.” He’s not cruel. He’s possessed. He wants to wreck you because he loves you—and it terrifies him how much he needs it. “I just need you so bad,” he pants. “God, you’re beautiful.”

Your knees bent as he nudged closer, cock sliding back inside you from behind—spooning now, softer, deeper, but no less desperate.

He kissed your shoulder. His hand found your thigh and pulled it up. His cock dragged in slow, aching thrusts that felt like a secret. But the moment your hips shifted—even the slightest grind back against him—he whimpered. His hips rolled forward on reflex, just enough for you to feel how he was still thick, still twitching inside you, still needing.

He started moving. Small thrusts. Like he was trying to be good, to hold back. But every slow drag of his cock inside you made his breath catch, made his arm around your waist tighten. Your body was still so wet, so warm, so welcoming. It pulled the heat right back to the surface—he pummeled into you now, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder, hips snapping forward in slow, aching rolls that never left you empty. Every inch of him throbbed with restraint. His body buzzed with heat and urgency, but you could feel the emotion under it.

He was fucking you like he meant it. Like your body answered a question he hadn’t realized he was asking. His hand slid over your thigh—palm dragging up your slick skin until he reached your chest. He gripped it, not hard, just possessively. Like if he held you tight enough, he could force the ache in his stomach to ease. Like the way your breath hitched made it bearable.

Your ass rocked back against him now, unconsciously meeting every rut of his hips, and he gasped quietly, but cracked open with it. His pace faltered, and then, he grinded.

A long, deep press of his cock, slow enough for you to feel every vein, every throb as he pulsed inside you. He whimpered again as you clenched, mouth open against your nape like he couldn’t breathe without you. “Oh, fuck, Mark.” Your voice cut through his thoughts like a knife; a deep groan vibrated in your throat as an impending orgasm washed over you.

He’s trying to be gentle—he swears he is. But the second you cry out his name, the dam breaks. He groans low in his throat, body trembling as he leans over you, breath hot against your skin. “Fuck—I need to…” He presses his lips to the base of your neck first, shaky and reverent—then you feel the slow pressure of his teeth. He bites down harder than he intended, and your back arches. His heat-maddened body needs you claimed. Mark shudders, lips wet as he pulls back just enough to whisper, “You’re mine. Sorry—I couldn’t—I couldn’t stop.” His hand flies over your mouth to quiet the pain and pleasured grunts. He couldn't handle it. Until you bit into the web between his thumb and pointer finger.

He yelps—then moans, breathless, like you just knocked all the air out of him. His face flushes red all the way to his ears, his hips stuttering against you. “D-don’t stop doing that,” he begs, voice cracking. You feel him start to swell, and he panics—eyes wide, voice stuttering, body tense. He tries to stop moving, but it only makes the pressure worse—and suddenly he’s knotting inside you with a choked groan.

“Can we do this again? And again? And—fuck, I’m not done.”

And he wasn’t pulling out. Not until you whispered that he was yours. And not even then.

Mohawk Mark

You didn’t move. He was already in your apartment when you walked in—standing dead center in the living room, like he owned the place.

Shoulders squared, jaw tight, fists flexing at his sides like he was trying to decide if he wanted to grab something or break it in half. His nostrils flared as he exhaled slowly through his nose, teeth catching his bottom lip. Not angry. Not quite.

Something worse. Something hungry.

“Fuck,” he muttered, running his tongue over his teeth like he could taste you in the air. “You always leave the door unlocked like that? Or just for me?” He almost sounded flattered. You cocked a brow. “You broke my window last time. I figured this was safer.” That almost made him grin. Almost.

Instead, he tilted his head and stared at you like he was trying to figure out how loud you'd scream if he pinned you to the wall right now. “You smell that?” He muttered, eyes narrowing. “That’s me. Going fucking crazy.”

“This what you wanted?” he asked, voice low and sharp. “Parading around like that, all soft and smug? You get off on teasing me while I’m like this?” You glanced down at yourself—shorts, tank top, nothing special—but his eyes were molten.

“Are you teased, Mark?”

He let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Shit, you’re—mm…” He grimaced to himself.

His hands twitched again, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to cross his arms or slam them on either side of your head. You stepped closer. He didn’t flinch—just watched, jaw ticking, eyes following your every move like a predator holding himself back by a thread.

“I expected more restraint,” you murmured. “Didn’t think you'd lose control this fast.” He’s mentioned these heats before, almost braggadocious in an excessive way. He was a sexual deviant, skilled within his own right, and you knew that very well… but you don't recall him seeming so… lewd during these ruts.

He scoffed. “Restraint’s for people who aren’t boiling inside their own goddamn skin. You ever felt that? Like your bones are gonna split open if you don’t fuck something?” You inhaled slowly, thighs clenching. “Sounds intense.”

“It is.” His eyes flicked to your mouth. “You drive me fucking insane.”

“You sure you don’t like it?”

He finally moved—just a step, but it was heavy, purposeful, his chest rising and falling like he was trying to hold back a war. His voice dropped into a growl. “I like watching you squirm when you pretend you’re not dying for it too.” You smirked. “I’m not pretending.”

His pupils blew, and he heaved as if sick. He took another step. “You should’ve stayed away tonight,” he said. “You don’t know what I’ll do to you if you let me.” You closed the space, lifting your chin. “Then show me.” The moment cracked like lightning.

He grabbed your waist hard enough to bruise, spinning you, pressing you against the nearest table with his hips grinding into yours. One hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back, the other sliding under your shirt with zero patience. You gasped, nails digging into his arms. “I’ll be gentle when you stop making it fun,” he hissed in your ear. “You want it rough?” His eyes peered into yours with an intensity that made your heart thrum. He could hear it.

“Good,” he growled. “Let me ruin that attitude while you still remember your name.”

He doesn’t ask for a kiss. He leans in like he’s about to win something—eyes sharp, mouth already curled in that half-smirk that makes you want to slap it off or bite it. There’s heat in his stare, but it’s not desperate. It’s deliberate. Like he’s letting you know what’s about to happen without saying a word. And when he finally does kiss you? It’s firm, demanding, but not cruel. The kind of kiss that says, “I see you. I respect you. Now shut up and let me in.”

His hand’s usually on your jaw, thumb under your chin, tilting your face just how he likes it. He likes a little resistance—loves when you kiss back with a bite, when your teeth graze his lip just enough to make him growl. Your hands wrap around the width of his shoulders, feet shuffling beneath you as his teeth attack your lips. You're barely able to reciprocate the usual energy.

He laughs into your mouth. A low, cocky rumble, like he’s already planning his next move. He kisses like a dare—like he wants to know how much you can take before you start pulling his hair and grinding back. But there’s tenderness under the heat. A kind of quiet reverence in the way he pulls back just slightly to breathe against your lips before diving in again, slower this time, almost careful. Like he doesn’t say the soft stuff out loud—but he lets you taste it. He’s panting, flushed, pupils blown wide. Smirking like he didn’t just almost lose his mind. His tongue flicks over his lips, the cold metal ball of his piercing just teasing you of what could be.

His teeth now bite at your bra strap just enough to make it snap. Your pants come off mid-makeout, fingers fumbling until he just rips them at the seams. “Oops,” he grins, not sorry at all. He doesn’t slow down, his hands linger on your thighs, his mouth hot against your neck. “Shit, you should see how wet you are for me. You feel that?”

He makes a mental note to “kidnap you.” It's about time you lived with him; having to travel so far ticks his gears. You’d assimilate perfectly, having been adorned with a matching mohawk. His thoughts are interrupted the second your nails scratched up his chest—just hard enough to leave a faint trail over the curve of his pecs. He stopped smiling. His jaw flexed. His hands slid down your waist. Then lower.

You hopped back onto the edge of the bed like you’d done it before and you had. With him. Because with Mark, it was always the same deal: you push, he pushes back harder. You spit fire; he kisses it into your throat.

Your legs were already bending when he grabbed them, hauling your thighs up until your ass slid into his lap and your weight tilted. You dropped forward to the floor, hands planting flat against it as your body stretched into that long, open line. It wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t supposed to be. You didn’t need to be told what he wanted. He didn’t need to say it.

His cock slid against your ass—thick, hot, already leaking—and your mouth curled into a smirk. You arched purposefully. A little taunt, a little “you can take it, right?” attitude radiating off you, even as your thighs trembled from the stretch. He grunted, lips quirking in response. And then he pressed into the sweet nectar that dripped from your cunt. It was dizzying each time, but today especially. The sight of it alone causes him to pant. His scent is overwhelming. Makes the air taste heavy. It forces submission from the inside out as you feel your stomach twisting. The smell sticks to your sweat, resembling charred sugarcane and gasoline.

You felt the give, the pressure blooming in your gut as his cock breached you, thick and unforgiving. He guided your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft skin just above your knees, using your legs to tilt your body into the angle he liked best—deep. He didn’t thrust. He carved. Mark grunted—low, restrained, shocked by how tight you were. You squeezed him hard, involuntarily, and he twitched so violently his hips nearly stuttered out of rhythm.

His hips pummeled forward, nearly knocking you off balance, your fingertips digging into wooden floors. The rocking presses him against every ridge inside of you. “Fuck, you’re tighter than I thought… knew you’d be trouble.” He was thick, his cock pulsing with heat and slick from his own need, and the sensation of being filled that way had your vision going white around the edges. Every thrust after that was short, deep, grinding. You were being taken. And he was barely holding himself together at the seams.

Your pelvic muscles tightened every time he reared back, his fingers gripping you with such vigor that his hands went numb. His gaze purely focused on your ass, the sight alone nearly busting his balls as he gritted. Peering over your shoulder, you watch as he whispers to himself—hand nudging himself deeper with every stroke. Planting your feet against the sheets, you began to bounce back against him; loud pops echo in the room in tandem with your moans.

“You’re gonna ride me like I’m nothing, huh? Fucking do it.” You almost make it look easy, his toes spreading from the pleasure, being your encouragement. “I'm gonna fill you til' it leaks out of your nose, babe. You ready for that kind of damage?” His hand against the small of your back, head lolling backwards as unfiltered groans left him. His voice cracking occasionally, fingers ripping at the sheets, the hairs of his mohawk becoming slick to his scalp.

One hand against his chest, the other gripping his jaw as his whole body convulsed under you, chest arching, hips jerking up in desperate, erratic thrusts even after he spilled inside you. And even when it was over, when he’d emptied himself with a full-body tremble and a cracked moan, he didn’t stop moving.

His hands slid weakly down your back, nails dragging across sweat-slick skin like he didn’t know how to stop touching. His breath came in short, broken gasps—mouth open, throat dry, eyes glassy with disbelief. “Still hard—how the fuck am I still hard?” His spine curved forward as he continued to bounce you against his cock, his jaw slack. “You feel so good, I’ll die here, I don’t care.”

His body twitched under yours, overwhelmed but addicted—his cock still twitching inside you, trying to stay hard even as overstimulation set in. He whined when you clenched. Actually whined. His thighs trembled, head turned to the side, face flushed and lips parted in a half-smile, half-wrecked expression that made it impossible to take him seriously—except he was so serious.

He slipped out of your pussy with a wet, audible drag, the sudden emptiness making you gasp. He was breathing heavily, shakily, even as he pulled you up like you weighed nothing. His hands framed your thighs, one arm cradling your back as he stood with you wrapped around him.

Your cunt was already dripping from being stretched—slick enough that when he used the arousal to lube your ass, it was an immediate, obscene slide. The angle—chest to chest, your back hitting the wall—meant he could slam up into you, balls smacking your ass with every thrust. The shift from vaginal to anal only made it more intense—your walls fluttered around him from sheer overstimulation, gripping his cock like your body didn’t want to let him go again.

It was instinct and control, primal and practiced, each movement slamming forward with just enough mercy to keep it beautiful. The sound of your skin meeting his hips echoed in the room—wet, filthy, rhythmic.

He reached down and grabbed the back of your neck, not to choke, just to feel your pulse as you took it. You barely had time to turn before he lifted you. One arm behind your back, the other under your thigh. His mouth slammed into yours again—sloppy, hot, teeth and spit and praise held between clenched teeth. He licks into your mouth like he’s chasing something—dominance, control, maybe a bit of sanity he left behind two cities ago.

You clawed at his shoulders. Bit his bottom lip. His cock was slick, messy from the first round, pressing against your slick folds as he walked you toward the wall like a man on a mission.

You clung to him, legs wrapping around his waist, and he fucked you standing—hard, deep, devastating. But still precise. Still so goddamn good it made your knees shake even while they were off the ground. He whispered something against your cheek, nothing coherent, just the sound of someone wrecked and reverent.

The stretch? Piercing and intense. His knot leaves you gasping, trying to squirm, but he holds you down, ramming his knot deeper with each thrust until it pops inside and locks you together. You can feel it throbbing, almost bruising, and he loves the way you twitch around him. He grinds through the swelling, making it worse for both of you—and better. “Too much? That’s the point.” There’s no warning. Just a cocky snarl, his hand locking in your hair and shoving your head to the side. “You ready, sweetheart?” You don’t get the chance to respond—he sinks in hard. Deep enough to bruise. You scream, and he laughs, moaning into the skin. “God, that’s hot. Fuck, keep squirming.”

Annoyance floods your veins as you crane your neck. You sink your teeth into his collarbone, and he shouts, hips snapping. “FUCK—oh, that’s what you’re on? You wanna bite now?” He’s panting, pale, flushed, eyes wild. “Bite harder. C’mon, make me bleed, I dare you.”

You clench around him, “Yeah, make me your little toy. I’m built for it.”

Lensless Invinicble

He hasn’t said a word for over an hour— which, for No Goggles Mark— is basically a war crime. He’s sprawled out on the couch like he’s been shot, one arm flung over his face, the other dangerously close to palming himself through his sweats, and you know he’s doing it on purpose. That self-sabotaging little shit. He’s so obviously in heat it’s comical. Sweat slicks his collarbone, his jaw is clenched tight, his shirt is lifted over his abs like a mating call, and a flush rises from his chest to the tips of his ears. And still, nothing, not a single word.

So you break first. “You good?”

His fingers twitch. His mouth moves like he might respond. Then, silence again. Of course.

You walk over, stand above him, arms crossed. “Mark.”

He groans, dragging his arm off his face to reveal bloodshot eyes and a crooked grin. “Dude,” he breathes, voice hoarse. “I was wondering how long it’d take you to cave.”

“Cave?” you echo, raising a brow.

He smirks, shifting slightly, letting his hips roll just enough for you to see the outline of him pressing hard against his pants. “Yeah, cave. I mean, I’ve been lying here like a Victorian heroine in heat, and you didn’t even check my temperature. Rude.”

“You’re actually insane.”

“Little bit,” he chirps, breath catching as his thighs tense. “Dude, like, on a scale from 1 to melting down in your lap? I’m somewhere around… please slap me, choke me, tell me to shut the fuck up, and I’ll still get hard.”

Your face twitches, and that’s when he knows he’s got you.

“You like this, huh?” He taunts, grinning through a low, shaky breath. “Me all pathetic and wrecked. Just lying here, trying so hard not to hump the fucking couch. You gonna be a hero and save me, or… just watch me lose my mind?”

You kneel beside him, now he twitches.

“God, I love when you do that,” he mutters. “All serious and controlled while I’m three seconds away from grinding myself into a puddle.” You glance down at his flushed neck, already marked up from earlier in the week. Old hickeys, faint bruises—like trophies. Your trophies.

“You are so lucky I have bad taste in men.” You sigh, feigning annoyance as you two share knowing glances. “If I touch you, will you stop talking… or just moan louder?”

“Okay, rude again, but also… accurate. Now come here. Get on me,” he says, voice deepening on the last word. His breath hitches again, and for a moment, he shudders—hands fisting in the cushion, thighs shaking.

You lean close, your lips brushing his ear. “You could’ve said something.”

“No fun in that,” he pants, finally reaching for you. “Wanted to see how long I could suffer. I always ruin the fun too fast. Mark me. Scratch me. I’ll wear it like a fucking badge, babe.”

He rolls over, yanking you into his lap, lips ghosting along your jaw. “C’mon. Don’t make me beg.”

“You already are.”

“…Shit. That’s hot.”

His heat ruins him. He’s unhinged, usually pacing the walls of your shared home like a caged animal, trying not to wake you, but failing. His brain short-circuits with the memory of your mouth, your voice, and your bite. It's self-inflicted torture—he delays touching you just to feel the high of suffering. And when he finally breaks? It’s like watching a dam explode. You’re not just his girl—you’re his goddess, his favorite kind of punishment. And this need? It’s sacred, in the dirtiest way possible. For a loose cannon with unparalleled brutality, you’ve got him on a leash.

His hands hovered at the hem of your shirt, fingers twitching like he was trying not to break apart mid-touch. “Dude, I can’t—I need—fuck, just lemme, please—”

You didn’t even answer. Just raised your arms, and that was all it took. He yanked the shirt over your head, tearing it in the process, and shifted you beneath him with a groan, mouth already dragging over your stomach like he didn’t know where to start. Your bra went next—half-bitten, half-torn—and when your chest spilled free, he just stared. Wide-eyed. That smirk curled at the corner of his mouth, slow and sinful, but his eyes were already glassy—like he was drunk off the tension and starving for your skin. It was a smile like he knew a secret and you were the punchline. All teeth and dark promise.

His tongue found your sternum, teeth grazing as he mouthed down one side, up the other, breath shaking against your skin. “I’m gonna say the worst shit if you let me keep going. Like, really bad. I’m so fucking gone for you.”

Ten minutes passed, and he still hadn’t made it past your ribs—just kissing, licking, groaning, hands dragging up your thighs like a prayer with no end. You knew he was struggling, his sweat pebbling against your thighs. It was sudden, your fingers curling just below his jaw and yanking him upward. The sound he let out was between a groan and a chortle.

He looked at you like you were the final scene in a movie he’d watched a thousand times—obsessed, twitchy, reverent… and just a little off. It was unhealthy. He was in love. His smile didn’t match the heat in his eyes; it was crooked, teasing, like he was holding in something far worse than words. His fingers ghosted along your thigh, warm and slow, but there was nothing calm about the way they twitched—like he was barely holding back from sinking them in.

It was dangerous. Like if you stopped now, he wouldn’t ask you to stay. He’d make you. And still, you didn’t move. You didn’t flinch. You let him worship you like the pretty little problem you are.

And so, with shaking fingers, he shoved his slacks down like they offended him, groaning when his cock sprang free—already flushed, already wet at the tip. The air hit him, and he trembled, panting through his teeth as if just being exposed was enough to short-circuit his control.

Your hand snapped up to his throat—tight, deliberate—and the moan that tore from him was instant, filthy, a cracked whimper that vibrated against your palm. You pressed him back into the cushions, straddling him with one thigh slotted between his twitching legs. His hands found your hips, but they were too unsteady to hold you down—more like he was asking permission with every touch.

You kissed him mid-moan—sloppy, messy, mouths colliding with teeth and spit and breath you didn’t care to control. His lips chased yours like he needed them to stay grounded, like losing contact for even a second would break him. His tongue was desperate. Uncoordinated. He whimpered every time your hips rolled. You reached down between your bodies, guided him to your entrance, and sank down.

He groaned. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a pathetic little sound trapped in the back of his throat as your warmth surrounded him—tight, slick, all-consuming. His head hit the back of the couch, and his mouth hung open in disbelief, fingers digging into your thighs before thrusting upward. A thick, wet sound of arousal coated flesh echoed between walls, his lip caught between his teeth. As you set the pace, his hand clasped the width of your ass as he forced you to swallow him whole.

That’s all it took for your fingers to tremble, for your grasp to slip. “You hear that? That slick sound when I push in? That’s what I do to you. That’s mine now. Say it.” Words refused to form, only a disgruntled sigh escaping in their place. “Shaking already? C’mon, baby, you like when I talk like this. Look at you—gripping me like you want me meaner.”

Finally, your gaze shifted towards him as your hand cracked across his face once more. Your body leaned forward as you pressed weight against his windpipe. Head bowing to catch him off guard, biting his shoulder, the muscle jumping beneath your teeth, as a stinging pain filled his side. He stops moving, his breath catching. He gasped for air, rasping beneath your palm. “Dude. Holy shit—okay, okay, that was—fuck.” He’s grinning like he’s about to explode. He was a whore. Your whore, and he loved every second of it.

Each roll of your hips dragged a strangled noise from his throat. His hands flew to your waist but didn’t guide—just held. Clung. Like you were the only thing tethering him to earth. His cock twitched inside you every time your walls clenched, and his abdomen jumped with every bounce of your hips. “Oh my god, that’s not fair. That’s—you’re cheating; this isn’t normal. No one’s supposed to feel this good.” His toes curled into the couch foam, unable to tell if he was cumming or unprecedented amounts of precum were coating his cock.

You leaned down, lips ghosting his cheek, your chest brushing his as your breath fanned across his ear. And while staring him in the eyes, while he was mid-moan, you spit into his mouth before delivering a final slap.

And that was it. His grip faltered. His hips jerked. He started to move—just a little—shallow, instinctive thrusts as he gasped beneath you. His eyes widened between delight and surprise. You could feel the sweat pooling at his lower back, the way his thighs flexed beneath you with every slow grind of your core against his pelvis.

Then you pulled off—just to tease, but not before you were flipped around and impaled once more; your ass nuzzled against his pelvis.

He made a noise like he’d been stabbed, both hands flying to your hips as you sank back down onto him in reverse cowgirl. Shivers crawled down your skin as heat from an impending orgasm made your vision blotch. You took all of him at once, and his reaction was feral. His head rolled back, a curse strangled in his throat, and his legs shook like he was trying not to thrust up blindly.

Your ass smacked against his abdomen as you rode him—harder now, rougher—and you reached between his legs to cup his balls. They were already tight, already twitching, the heat and overstimulation building to an unbearable edge. You rolled them in your palm, gentle but precise, and he nearly screamed through his teeth, hips jerking up so hard it lifted you both. His hips unrelenting as he fucked up into you. “You ride me like that again and I’m gonna black out. I’m gonna fucking die. Keep going.”

“Shut the fuck up, Mark. Just take it. I don’t want soft.” And with that he just lunges, no warning, no restraint, sinking his teeth into the nape of your neck like it’s all that’s keeping him tethered to reality. He moans like biting you is better than cumming. He didn’t speak for a brief pause, and that's when it became sickly.

His scent is of bruised plum and metal. It's strongest when he’s holding it in—when he won’t speak, won’t beg, won’t stop. When his heartbeats migrated to his dick. Then he keeps biting. Little ones. Bruising ones. Like he’s chasing the high of your yelps. “Dude, it hurts so good. I don’t even know if I’m still hard or if I’m just that fucked up. Keep going. Keep going.” Your fingertips curl into his calf muscle.

His entire body convulsed beneath you. One hand fisted in the couch cushion. The other grabbed your ass like he was trying to ground himself—but failed. You felt his cock pulse inside you, hot and overwhelming, as he came hard, breath leaving him in broken, unbelieving bursts. He twitched beneath you, thighs quivering uncontrollably, soft curses tumbling between panting moans. He’s rutting even though he knows it makes it worse. He’s overstimulated and absolutely getting off on it. You reach back to touch him, and he moans, full-body shaking, begging you to keep going until he breaks again.

So, you don’t stop. Neither does he, because he’s having too much fun. “C’mon let's go again. Don’t start whining now—you’re the one who started this.”

His knot swells too fast, too hard, and he’s already trembling before it locks in. Hips stuttering as he tries to pull out and realizes—he can’t. And the look on his face? “Oh my god—dude—I’m stuck. I’m literally stuck in you. This is—holy shit—this is the best day of my life.”

Shiesty/Hooded Mark

You found him leaning against the counter in the kitchen— acting as if nothing was wrong, like he wasn’t in the middle of a full-blown heat spiral. He was shirtless, his hair matted with blood, and a bandage hung off one shoulder as if he had forgotten it existed. His hair was pushed back, and his veil hung low around his neck, revealing a face that was too calm for someone whose chest was visibly heaving.

“Stop staring,” he muttered without looking up, a crooked smirk playing at his lips. “Unless you’re planning to help.”

“You look like shit,” you deadpanned. He rolled his neck slowly, his eyes finally meeting yours. They glowed with that sick, golden hue, and he was sweaty and raw. “I look like someone who just took down three versions of himself and came home hard as fuck. Same thing.”

You squinted. “You’re such an asshole.”

“And you love that about me,” he replied, pushing off the counter and stalking toward you. His hands flexed at his sides as if he wasn’t sure if he wanted to pin you or put them through a wall. “You know what this is, don’t you? I can smell your damn skin, and it’s driving me crazy.”

You crossed your arms. “So suffer.”

“Oh, I am,” he breathed. “But not for long.”

He backed you against the fridge, slow and heavy, his heat radiating off him like a furnace. His mouth hovered at your neck, not kissing, just breathing in deeply as if he could swallow you through scent alone.

You shoved him, but it was pointless, really, more instinctual than anything else.

He grinned. “Still so fucking defiant,” he muttered, grabbing your wrists and slamming them up against the cold metal behind you. “God, I missed this mouth. Say something cruel.”

You stared him down. “You whine more than a virgin.”

“Fuck yes,” he groaned, his eyes fluttering as if you’d praised him. “Do that again. Be mean to me.”

“You’re a freak,” you said flatly.

“And yet you’re the one who’s been riding me for months,” he replied through a tight grin. “Guess that makes you my freak.” His voice came out in a rasp. He loved how cold you could be; it made it all the more fun to ruin you, to watch you fuck yourself on his cock until you went limp. Usually by now you’d be bent over before finishing your sentence—yet he couldn't bear to. Not with his body practically vibrating, completely feral for you.

You gritted your teeth. “You’re bleeding on me.”

“Guess you shouldn’t have waited so long to come home,” he said, burying his nose against your pulse. “Didn’t wanna admit I was in heat. You’d gloat.”

“Am gloating,” you replied with a smirk.

He growled low in his throat, his hips rutting into yours with zero finesse. “Yeah? Let’s see how smug you are when I’ve got you shaking.” You narrowed your eyes. “Is that a promise or another Mark-level bluff?”

He licked the corner of your jaw—slow and deliberate. “I’m starving and you’re wet. Bite me, babe.”

So you did. Your teeth sank into his throat, and he groaned, his head tipping back. “Oh, fuck yes, there’s my girl.” He was panting now, grinning. “Shit. You like hurting me, don’t you?” He grabbed your hips hard, pulling you closer. “Do it again. I want bruises.”

His adam’s apple bobbed. Usually, he wasn’t a masochist; if anything, he was overly dominant in bed, but his inhibitions were loosened. Breaking even, as his eyes held a different reality than his words. It was only to taunt, as when your tongue flicked over your lips, preparing for another taste.

His lips crashed into yours as if he had just lost a fight and this was his prize. His mouth dragged against yours with a growl in his chest—blood still on his tongue, and the weight of battle clinging to his skin. He was cocky even here—biting at your lips between each kiss as if testing how far he could push before you snapped. When your nails dug into his biceps—he laughed against your mouth.

You rolled your eyes as he smirked against your lips, already dragging his teeth across your bottom one just to be annoying. “Careful,” you murmured, gripping the front of his suit. “Do it,” he muttered, his voice low and gleeful. Oh, how he loved when you pretended to be in control.

His hand grabbed your thigh, lifting and pinning you to the wall without warning—your lips barely parted before he was back on you, kissing you like he had something to prove. You broke the kiss just long enough to breathe, panting against his mouth. “You really think this is working?”

“Oh, it’s working. You’re already grinding on my thigh,” he replied, his voice thick with desire.

“Because you put me there,” you shot back.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, slower, as if he wanted to make you forget what you were about to say. His tongue flicked against yours in a rhythm that was just a little too practiced. You pulled back, your eyes narrowed.

“You kiss all your enemies like this?” you asked.

“Only the hot ones,” he responded with a smirk.

He did it mid-banter, almost annoyed by your clothes. One second you were snarking back, the next—rip. The seam of your shirt tore in his hands. He chuckled when you glared at him, his lips grazing your ear. “Buy you another one,” he breathed before kissing down your spine. Pants? Gone in a blur. Underwear? Teased off with one finger and a smirk. “You always taste better when you’re pissed at me.”

He sat back on the bed with that infuriating grin still tugging at his lips, watching you crawl toward him with that glint in your eye—the one that said you were going to cause problems on purpose.

You slid to his right instead, your shoulder brushing his thigh, your eyes locked on his cock as it twitched between his legs. You placed one hand on his knee, your lips parted, and then slowly bent forward until your head rested just above his lap. His breath hitched.

And then your mouth wrapped around him.

He groaned, his head tipping back, but he didn’t get to stay passive for long. You shifted slightly, lifting your hips—giving him just enough of a view to see how wet you already were. Your legs bent at the knee as your back arched, your ass high and ready to be touched—and he got the message.

His hand slid down the curve of your spine, lingering just above your ass like a threat, before diving between your thighs. His fingers met slick heat, and his cock twitched inside your mouth.

Two fingers pushed in slowly—testing—before curling as if he already knew exactly what spot made you twitch. You gasped around him, and he moaned in reply, his free hand tangling in your hair as your hips rocked into his touch.

Every time he thrust his fingers deeper, you sucked harder, like a trade-off. Every time you moaned, he pressed deeper into you, his fingers soaked, knuckles dripping as your body clenched around him like it was begging.

Your thighs quivered against his ribs. Your spit dripped onto his lap. His abs tensed every time you swallowed. You were both losing it. His fingers caressed every ridge—pads searching for that gummy spot that made you keen. The strokes were long, ending at the tip of his fingers before plunging in once more—your own arousal coating your insides as it glued his fingers together. It took everything in him to not bring his digits to his tongue and swirl your arousal across it. His taste buds ached as his mouth swelled with saliva. He could imagine it now—the faint tang of sweat, sweet like molasses and burnt herbal.

Your mouth worked over him like you were daring him to come too fast—your lips swollen, your throat taking him deeper each time you sank down, your tongue dragging slow and purposeful. His cock twitched between your lips, and you felt it—every pulse, every subtle tremble of restraint breaking. “Fuck… that’s it,” he whispered, his head spinning.

And he felt you, too. The way your body clenched around his fingers, soaked and twitching as his hand pumped between your thighs with growing intensity. Your hips rocked against his wrist, your heels kicking air each time his fingertips curled just right.

You choked just slightly, his cock hitting the back of your throat as your body jerked—but he didn’t stop. His palm slapped wetly against your ass, the obscene sound of his fingers fucking into you barely audible over the slurp of your mouth and the low, guttural whimpers pouring from his chest.

His voice was tight, right on the edge. But your pussy was shaking, your thighs trying to close, your back arching in that telltale way—and he felt it coming. You moaned around his cock, a deep, muffled sound vibrating against his length, his legs jerking in response.

His fingers slammed deep, curling sharp. You gasped, mouth full, throat convulsing, and then everything snapped. You squirted all over his hand with a cry you couldn’t hold back, your legs shaking, your ass twitching in the air. Your arousal spilled down his fingers, soaked his wrist, dripped onto the sheets.

And the second you spasmed like that around him, his hips stuttered, his breath hitched, and a low, fucked-out growl rumbled in his chest as his cock throbbed inside your mouth. You felt the first warm spurt hit the back of your throat, followed by another—and another—as he came hard, one hand yanking your head down to bury himself deep, the other still stuffed inside you, his fingers riding out the pulses of your orgasm.

His thighs flexed. His stomach clenched. His voice cracked with a half-moan, half-laugh that sounded just a little too close to worship. You swallowed it all, deliberately.

Then let him slip from your lips with a slick pop, your breath ragged, sweat cooling on your back as his hand finally slid from between your thighs, his fingers shiny and trembling. He looked down at you like you were divine punishment, still twitching from overstimulation, breathing like he’d fought a war—but grinning like he’d die to do it again.

His chest heaved like he couldn’t get enough air, his jaw slack, lips parted around a breathless whine. You could still see the way his muscles jumped—little tremors of pleasure his brain had no control over.

Temptation overtook him as his hand shot up—twitchy and instinctual. He couldn’t speak. He just leaned forward, his lips brushing your fingertips, and licked your arousal clean. Each drag was shaky, his mouth hot and eager, licking the mess he'd made like it was sacred. His lashes fluttered as his tongue circled your knuckle, the sound of his breath catching every time your taste hit his tongue. He whimpered—soft, broken—like it hurt to keep going, but he couldn't stop.

Every noise he made was involuntary. Every twitch in his hips, every stutter in his breath, every faint jerk of his cock against his thigh—it was pure overstimulation. His body was wrung out, undone, and still begging. And when he pulled your fingers from his mouth, licking the corners of his lips like a man starved, you knew he wasn’t done.

To him, heat felt like madness dressed in power. Everything was louder—your heartbeat, your scent, the memory of your lips. He was a god in a cage, and you were the only key. You were the one thing he didn’t need to conquer—he wanted you willingly, but if you fought, he ached harder. Every roll of your hips, every defiant glare, only sharpened his focus. He would fuck you like he was trying to outrun the heat clawing at his brain—but the truth? He didn't want it to end. Mating with you wasn’t about reproduction. It was absolution.

“It’s consuming me,” he spit out, breathless. “I can feel it in every goddamn nerve.” You touched his shoulder. He grabbed your wrist instead, shoving it to his chest. It hit like tension in a dim room—quiet, deliberate, intoxicating. The kind of scent that makes your breath catch before your thoughts do. There’s intimacy in it. One that thickens as your taste is savored on his tongue. The smell was of black tea and a faint rosewood, perhaps ink-stained leather. He grabbed your chin—dragged his tongue along your neck, then bit down slowly. It was deep, controlled, like he was branding you. His chest rumbled, almost pridefully.

He didn’t need to speak—you felt it in the way his hands gripped your hips, steady and possessive. You pushed up onto your hands, your spine arched, your thighs trembling as your knees left the bed. The tension in your core burned as he slid his hands beneath your pelvis and lifted. Your body tipped forward, your thighs locking tight around his waist, your ankles crossed at his back as his cock pressed flush against your slick folds—heavy, aching, ready.

He adjusted his grip, one hand under each thigh, supporting the weight of your lower half as your toes dangled uselessly in the air, your legs trembling from the position. The angle was unnatural—perfect—your arms still grounded you, your pussy tilted toward him like an open mouth begging to be filled. Your thighs tightened with every breath he took, every twitch of his cock as he positioned himself. And he pushed in all at once. “I can feel your heartbeat around my cock,” he said, his voice a gritted rasp.

Your mouth dropped open in a soundless gasp, your head tilting back, your arms shaking beneath you as your cunt clenched around him from the sudden fullness. You could feel every inch of him—every throb, every twitch—so deep it felt like he’d never leave your body again.

Your legs locked tighter. Your arms strained to keep balance while your body pulsed around him, helpless to anything but the slow, punishing drag of his hips. And he moved. Just a steady, ruthless rhythm, rocking you forward with every thrust—forcing your body to take him in angles that made your stomach tremble. “Don’t pass out yet—I’m not done proving I’m stronger than you.”

“Oh, fuck off. You’re disgusting,” you replied, your voice laced with sarcasm.

His heart nearly swelled. Fuck off? He’s influenced you. “Call me disgusting again. Go on. I’ll moan your name while I keep ruining you,” he said, his voice thick with desire. It was sudden; the knot started swelling so fast it pulled a ragged sound out of him—a half-moan, half-growl, his teeth clenched like it hurt to feel this good. He was trembling—addicted— and pulsing around the knot that wouldn't let go. He was fighting for his life. You clenched down at his words, your heels nudging him deeper as his knee nearly buckled.

“You’re mine, mouth and all. So shut the fuck up, or I’ll make it worse. Just tell me I’m your bitch. I’ll wear it like a crown. I can take more. Sit on my face again, like last time—I’ll breathe later. Tie me down and fuck me dumb; make me useless. That’s what you want, right?” It all spilled out in broken fragments like a truth serum.

“We’ll see,” you responded.

Variant #17 (I wouldn't even keep you as a slave in my Empire!)

You come home to silence, which is odd. Because Variant 17 is never quiet. He likes to remind you he’s there—pacing, hovering, teasing, demanding attention even when he doesn’t need it, especially when he doesn’t need it. The apartment looks fine. There are no signs of a fight. But something buzzes under your skin the second you shut the door behind you. That strange, oppressive heat in the air… You round the corner to the bedroom and stop short.

He’s already there, sitting on the edge of the bed in just his boxers, elbows on his knees—breathing like he just ran a marathon. His skin is flushed, and his pupils are blown. The second he sees you, he grins.

“Finally,” he says, his voice low and gravelly with strain. “I was wondering how long you’d make me wait.” Your eyes flick to his throat, bitten and bruised from the last time he threw you against the wall. The marks still haven’t faded, just like yours. “Oh no,” you mutter. “Again?”

His smile sharpens. “You say that like I planned this.”

He stands slowly, almost lazily, despite the twitch in his jaw, and stalks toward you. His suit is on the floor, and his knuckles are bruised. He smells like sweat, ozone, and you. You backpedal, but he doesn’t chase. He just says, “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You scoff. “Because you’ve been humping the couch like a damn dog in heat—”

“Because I am,” he snaps. “And you left me here suffering.”

You try to shove him, but he grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head. “Still so stubborn,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your pulse point. “Fine. I’ll fuck the resistance out of you.”

He doesn’t kiss your mouth—not yet. Just watches you. That cool, calculated expression is gone now, burned out by the haze of his heat. He’s not just attempting to be dominant—he’s deranged with it, shaking slightly as he presses himself harder into you.

“You’re lucky,” he mutters, his voice strained. “Before you, I had an ex that resisted too. You know what I did?” His eyes narrow. “I fucked her until she cried and then begged me to make her a queen.”

“You’re disgusting,” you say flatly.

He just smirks. “You say that now.”

He knows you don’t mean it, and if you did, you're now stained by his very presence, defiled by his wants. The desperation takes over. His hips rut against yours shamelessly—his teeth dragging across your jaw—fingers digging into your thighs as he hoists you higher. You gasp, grabbing his shoulders for balance, but it only makes him hungrier.

“I was gonna be patient. I was gonna convince you,” he growls. “But this—this is your fault. You made me wait. You let me suffer. And now you think I’m gonna stop before you’re begging me to stay?”

The slick from his precum smears against your bottoms. He is feral, utterly consumed by his desires. He doesn’t give you the opportunity to chide him. “How many orgasms does it take to turn a little rebel into a queen?” His authority is being questioned with every action. He walks like he owns you, talks like he’s already won. His words are sharp, cocky, laced with superiority and amusement, like he’s just entertaining you until you break. But his body tells the truth.

He kisses you like every second your lips aren't on his is a personal insult. The moment your mouths meet —his hands slide into your hair, tilting your head back with a quiet, commanding drawl. It's slow at first, but controlling. But when your hands fist in his shirt—tugging—he loses it. He bites your lip and moans into the kiss. His hips rock into you, and he groans like he hates how good you feel. He pants, licking into your mouth again like he's ready to devour the last of your resistance.

His fingers twitch at his sides when you don’t move fast enough toward the bed. The way he breathes through his nose to keep it even—calm, cold—while his pupils are already blown wide from scenting your skin. The clench in his jaw when you lean in close, and he doesn’t flinch, but he stops blinking. He says he’s in control. He says he’s patient. But his hands shake when they finally touch you.

Every article of clothing is gone. There’s no grace anymore, just hunger. He strips you like you’re the only cure, moaning when your thighs press together. You’re left as his equal, in lust and in the nude, as his damp cock presses against you within the confines of his boxers.

The second the fabric left your skin, he changed. What started as cocky hands pulling your underwear aside—slow, smug, practiced—now turned frantic. The moment your bodies were bare, he hesitated, just for a second. Like the sight of you finally being exposed knocked the breath clean out of his chest.

His cock twitched, and his jaw clenched. He groaned—low, guttural, like his body betrayed him by reacting before he had the chance to mock you for it. He didn't speak. Otherwise, the words would've come out shaken, and his pride couldn’t handle that.

Instead, he flipped you onto your back, hooked his arms under your knees, and folded you in half—knees tucked high to your chest, back arched off the mattress. Your hands instinctively gripped behind your thighs, holding them there, perfectly presented.

Then he moved over you. His toes dug into the sheets, his body hovering just enough to control the angle—forty degrees of domination, cock aligned with brutal precision as he pressed forward with an unsteady breath. The slide-in was deep. His composure crumbled almost immediately as he realized you held the very power he attempted to steal. Completely open and vulnerable to him, and yet his nerves felt alight.

You watched his expression twist, his eyebrows pinched, mouth parted, pupils dilated—as the sensation rocked through him. He moved hard from the first thrust, his hips slamming into yours with rhythmic force, his abs tightening with every movement. But for all his aggression, it wasn’t anger—it was panic masquerading as power. He was unraveling too fast. Your walls fluttered around him, and he twitched, his thrusts faltering.

He tried to hold it together. Tried to go faster, deeper, rougher—tried to dominate. But his face gave him away. “You’re not as untouchable as you pretend to be, Mark,” you mused, although through choked sobs. The air leaving your lungs came in short bursts, unable to breathe as he pummeled into you, your body curling into itself. You open your mouth to taunt, only for his face to close in, his breath fanning your face. “Say it. Say you’re not mine. I dare you.”

His brows knitted tighter. His mouth hung open. A trembling gasp escaped when your body clenched just right. His hands, once firm on your thighs, now gripped like he was afraid of being pushed out. And when your legs shook in his hands, when your slick dripped down to his balls with every brutal thrust? He lost it. “I’m supposed to be building an empire, and instead I’m here—drenched in you, shaking, because my body thinks I’ll die if I don’t fuck you.”

You felt him stutter—his hips stalling, jaw slack, and his body shaking from the effort to keep control. His cock throbbed deep inside you, his breath turned ragged, and still, he fucked into you like you were the only anchor he had left. Then suddenly… he remembered who the fuck he was. Sure, he could be a brat, even doing this for the sake of vengeance. He persevered regardless.

He pulled out in one slow, wet slide, watching the way your body clenched and twitched at the loss. His back arched inwards, and he looked down at you—ruined, smug, triumphant—and for a moment? He just stared. His hands were everywhere now—pushing your legs apart wider, guiding your hips into the perfect angle, dragging your ass back into place. You tried to shift. He didn’t let you. His grip was unyielding, fingers sinking into your flesh with possessive finality.

It was different, one fluid jerk. Buried to the hilt, grinding slowly, deliberately—just to feel your walls flutter. His body rolled against yours like a machine built for precision destruction. Each thrust carried weight and rhythm like a punishment laced with adoration. He felt it. Felt your legs twitch, your walls tighten, and your breath catch. Instead of slowing, he pistoned forward, chasing your peak like it was his right to feel you come around him again and again, until your moans weren't pretty anymore.

“You live with me. You sleep in my bed. And you still act like you’re not mine?” He was falling apart. And you never said a word. He could throw a fit if he wanted to, but your defiance is what drove him mad. Because this was his undoing—not the position, not the pleasure, but you. The way you let him think he was in charge… until he wasn't. And when your body clenched around him, slow and deliberate? He moaned, not cocky, not cruel, just ruined. His knee momentarily bent into the plush mattress as his thighs shook. It was like you’d stolen something from him. And he was grateful.

His hips continued to piston as if to punish you. But every word was backed by panic. Just this involuntary drive to make you stay, to make you need him back. Because underneath all that power, he was terrified that if he lets up—just once—you’ll walk away. And that thought derails him. So he fucks you like he’s proving something. And every time you moan his name, every time you whimper, or beg, or tease him? His heart races. He’s more addicted to you than he’ll ever admit. And that’s why he dominates. Because if he doesn’t stay on top, he’ll fall apart.

“You’re lucky I even let you touch me like this. You’d be a wreck if I left right now,” you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm. Your cunt squeezes, causing him to slam deeper, earning a yelp to crawl from your throat. His ego and god complex nearly shattered upon hearing it. His dick was twitching, muscles jumping beneath his skin as he grimaced in pleasure.

Burned sugar, sandalwood, scorched velvet, and ash. That’s his scent. It’s infuriatingly addictive. Sweet in a toxic way, like cotton candy laced with smoke. It doesn’t feel like comfort—it feels like compulsion. You hate how much you like it. It clings to the back of your tongue, gets stuck in your hair, and when he’s inside you? It’s everywhere. He leans down, nose nuzzling into your scalp as he inhales it like a drug fix. He reeks of dominance slipping into madness.

Dipping his head slightly, he bites into your clavicle with no mercy. A sound between a snarl and a moan leaps from his throat. The unrelenting pounding of his hips caused his teeth to grind slightly. If he doesn't claim you now, he’d lose himself. Not like you two had a choice, as he came without warning—a strangled groan being the only indication as your insides spasmed around him. He murmured into your collarbone, “Tell me I’m yours. Say it. Even if you don’t mean it, lie to me.” You obliged, the words barely coherent but enough to make his ears ring. A pained and pleasured whine left you; no amount of tensing his abdomen withheld the flood he released, his dick bulging inside you as the knot formed. Your insides practically latched onto him.

With bated breath, he leaned back, staring proudly at his work before he sighed, frustrated. “I was winning, and then you made that noise—fuck.” A quiet whine echoed in his voice. “All that attitude and you still came first. Typical.” Your eyes finally focused, narrowing on his gaze.

“Don’t… don’t fucking look at me like that. I meant to last longer,” he says, his voice ragged. “I was supposed to be building an empire, and instead I’m here—drenched in you, shaking, because my body thinks I’ll die if I don’t fuck you.” His eyes scanned over the marking, almost like his name was carved into it. Suddenly leaning up, you clamp down on his chest with your teeth, and he freezes mid-thrust, then growls. “Ohhh, so that’s how you want it?” His breath is ragged now. “You little fucking traitor. You think biting me’s gonna save you?” But his hips rut harder. “Do it again. Prove you’re mine too. You’re coming into my empire anyway.” Truthfully, you didn’t mind. But he had finally earned you. TEASERSSSS (Part 3, if requested. Congratulations, reader!!)

@ploiigee

(Photo stitching made by me!)

1K notes · View notes

redstonedust · 1 year ago

Text

i think vampires that drink from animals should be considered more unethical than ones that drink from humans. "ohhh its vegan" bitch no it isnt. youre gonna drain that poor wild deer and leave it woozy and weak to other predators? you're two steps left of a poacher. just go to your local gay bar and you can find 100s of people that would willingly sign up to being bitten if you dont mind them being a little freaky about it.

#this sounds like im getting into discourse with the vampires themselves. theres a lot of vampireposting on my dash today ok

4K notes · View notes

zo2mess · 28 days ago

Text

Bliss In Vegas

Summary: The team landed a mission in Las Vegas, because what could possibly go wrong in the world’s most innocent city, right? Fast forward through a whirlwind of chaos, and somehow no one got hurt… but you woke up in bed with Adrian, nearly naked, and two ring pops on your fingers.

Warnings: 18+ Brief smut, hand stuff, spit stuff, alcohol consumption, crude language, I guess that’s it? (Morning breath! I’m so fucking sorry, it was all I could think about when I was writing this. Just ignore it exists for a while O_o)

Word count: 4.4k

Masterlist of my works

Note: Adrian in tighty whities with beer all over him made me incredibly feral and ready to finish this little thing I started few months ago. Eh, it is something I guess? I just wanted to get over it.

And listen, I have never written about 11th Street Kids before, except for Adrian; apologies if any of them feel weird.

You know the saying? What happens in Vegas…

“Don’t stay in Vegas,” Harcourt sternly noted at the end of her little briefing of the next so-called mission. The fact that they still needed to take care of some stray swarms of butterflies even after terminating the cow was inconvenient, said mildly. “We do our job and go back, no random stops in any of the facilities.”

Those butterfly survivors would eventually die of starvation, but ARGUS was suspicious of large groupings of them in certain areas. They could be spending their last days together as a species, or maybe, just maybe, they’re trying to find a way to stay alive and find a new source of food, which was a dangerous idea.

One of those groups was flying free between casinos and strip clubs in Vegas, Nevada. Really troublesome area to be sending this team. It was practically screaming disaster.

“Why are they sending us? I thought we were done!” Leota protested, exchanging a questioning look with John who was in the same shock as her. Vegas was way out of hand and the last thing she wanted was to spend time away from her wife and furbabies.

“The official reason is that we are now experts on butterflies when it comes to terminating them-“

“The real reason is that we are seriously underpaid and we’re a cheap workforce” Economos interrupted Harcourt in a matter of seconds, saying the real reason for the little trip awaiting you.

Chris with Adrian, on the other hand, were doing their best not to let anyone know how excited they were. You could feel Adrian vibrating out of his skin next to you. No doubt he was already thinking how he and Peacemaker will stop crime, get wasted, and cruise some bitches. The real question was how they would break free from Harcourt's gaze and go astray. “Wait, you guys are getting paid?”

One way or another, this outing in Vegas was bound to be legendary.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

The whole mission felt like a dream, after shooting up butterflies it was already too late to be driving back home, so Harcourt allowed crashing at a hotel until morning. You would think everyone felt like you, exhausted after the long trip and crashing little alien bugs, but no.

Chris and Adrian were pretty much excited to be hitting the town, and a person would think Adrian would at least clean his boots that still had alien goo all over them after he cheerily stomped on butterflies all day.

It wasn’t just the casinos, bars, and strip clubs waiting to strip lost souls of all their money. On the lit-up alleys, lined up were hustlers with classic shell games, women imitating peacocks adorned with faux gold and feathers, shady watch sellers, and more or less inconspicuous pickpockets. And just like tigers in a zoo, it was best to simply watch them pacing impatiently in circles—but anyone who sticks their hand into the enclosure quickly loses it.

All these predators, performing various tricks to catch their prey, prove once and for all that human creativity and the desire for money know no bounds.

In the end, you could not just lie in your hotel bed when Las Vegas was right on the other side of your window, teasing and luring with colorful blinding lights and loud music playing from every corner, the better side of Vegas. Plus the second Adrian put on his puppy eyes and whiny begging tone you were a goner.

How could you say no?

And that was the beginning of the most memorable night you did not remember.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

When you stirred awake you felt too hot and cold at the same time, head pounding and the ringing in your ears didn’t make it easier to open your eyes. The strongest hangover you ever had was making itself known, though hangovers usually don’t make you feel you are being pushed into the mattress and making your hand sweaty?

No, no, that wasn’t sweat, was it?

The morning sun shining into the hotel room immediately blinded you when you tried to open your eyes, but you managed to at least get a look at what was causing at least half of your discomfort.

Adrian.

Nearly naked Adrian lying on top of you.

Adrian that was drooling all over your fingers as he sucked on the ring pop on your finger from his sleep.

What?

His frame completely enveloped your body, transferring his body heat to you and making you feel breathless. Adrian lounged in just his boxers and once you looked around your room you found piles of clothes all over the small cheap hotel room.

His jeans on the ground, glasses on the bedside table, His holey socks hanging from the edge of the bed with… your top and jeans? Then whose shirt were you wearing?

Adrian’s room was right next to you, why was he sleeping in your bed?

Too many questions, too little answers.

You tried to gently ease Adrian from your body and roll him to the side, but goddamn, was he heavy. You could try again and again and he just wouldn’t budge.

He groaned from his sleep because of your constant nagging but he didn’t move an inch, at least he stopped sucking on the lollipop, “Stop wiggling, I’m gonna get a boner”. Gods, how could his voice sound so raspy and whiny at the same time?

“Adrian! What are you doing here?” you slapped his shoulder in an attempt to wake him up, which finally worked, he lifted his head while he just barely opened his eyes, blinking away the blurriness of his vision. Those half-lidded green eyes and tousled hair did something for you, it was hard to admit it though.

“I would be sleeping if you weren’t slapping me and making my cock hard” He mumbled nonchalantly and settled back on your chest, nuzzling to your boobs like it was the most normal thing to do. “Your tits are amazing pillow, you know that?”

Another slap. Another yelp from Adrian.

Under different circumstances, you would have enjoyed cuddling with Adrian, it’s not like you were completely resistant to his charm, or whatever that illuminates him, which makes him so enamoring.

But not right now, not when you had no idea how you got to bed, how he got in your bed, why you were almost naked, when your head was pounding, and also…

Why did you both have ring pops on your fingers?

You didn’t notice it at first, but once you did, it made gears in your head turn really hard to put one and one together. You took his hand in yours, studying his blue raspberry ring pop and comparing it to your strawberry one, but other than the fact yours was way smaller and wet from Adrian’s constant sucking, nothing stood out.

And Adrian didn’t even notice something was on his finger until you lifted his hand. Unbothered king. He was getting on the rest of your nerves that remained after the wild night.

“Oh my god! Twinsies!” How was he so cheery in the morning? He must have drunk a similar amount of alcohol as you did, but it seems his body doesn’t believe in hangovers.

When you started pushing him from your body again, he finally rolled off onto his back with a loud huff. What a way to wake up, hangover in a Vegas hotel. The only thing missing was an Elvis impersonator singing under the balcony. ‘Thank you, thank you’ he would mumble with that deep voice as you would throw a few cents at him.

Adrian laid still extremely close to you, shoulders touching and all, and stared at the ceiling with a dumb smile on his face while you were panicking next to him. How did this happen?

“Do you remember anything?”

“Nope.”

“Aren’t you concerned?”

“Nope.”

“Do you think we fucked?”

“Nah, you would have felt it.”

“You mean with that thimble of yours?”

He just snorted, tilting his head to the side to laugh right in your face. You didn't even have the energy to question what was so amusing about his thimble dick. But for that moment of Adrian laughing at you for no apparent reason, it felt like a normal day. Like you were back at HQ, relaxing on one of the worn-out couches with Adrian in his armor beside you, chatting about something ridiculous while polishing his knives and rolling his head to look at you, trying not to smile.

However, it all vanished away when Adrian lifted and knelt on the bed and a bunch of casino chips started falling from his boxers. Chip after chip pooling around his thick thighs. And it looked like he was surprised in the same way you were.

The right question would probably be why he stored his wins in underwear, second, why he went to sleep with them, and the third one…

“How did you win so much?”

“My brother taught me how to count cards, it’s really easy once you get the hang of it. But that doesn’t matter right now, what matters is that I need to exchange these crotch doubloons for real money,” He collected his chips and started admiring them in the morning light shining directly at him. “I am gonna be so rich, dude.”

Those little coins with fluorescent details flooded the room with colorful reflections. Spots of blue, green, red and pink decorated the furniture as well as your skin. If your skin wasn’t already buzzing from Adrian’s touch, you would be able to imagine the light tickling you.

“Come on, we’re going to get even more drunk to celebrate me being a fucking millionaire,” Adrian’s face lit up, what a fucking sunshine, you wanted to punch him in the face when he grabbed the blanket shielding your lower body from his greedy eyes. The cold air in the room was relentless, enveloping your body and leaving goosebumps in its wake. You could not get a break with the dumbass.

“Goddamn, do you wear this pathetic excuse for panties under your suit?” Adrian let out a wolf whistle and stared right between your legs without any shame. “You should have told me that sooner!”

Your panties? What was wrong with them?

One blurry look down and you know exactly what was wrong. “Those are not my panties.”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t have white lace panties.”

“Wait, wait,” Adrian leaned extremely close to your crotch, examining the red embroidery that decorated the hem of mystery underwear. “Here it says… Congratulations to the happy couple from Bliss wedding chapel.”

“Say what?” Your eyes nearly bulged out of their eye sockets. The embroidery was a sign of something horribly dooming. White panties from the wedding chapel really weren’t a good thing for someone who did not intend to get married. And oh, the horror of wearing something gifted from a drive-through wedding chapel.

“What,” Adrian replied to your shocked words with a confused look. It seemed like he did not realize what it meant. Either that or he didn’t care at all about being married to his colleague.

“Ade, are you even registering what that means?” It was like your heart dropped down to your stomach. Did it mean what you thought it did? Were you fucking married? In Vegas? And without remembering anything?

“Oh my god, are you my wife?” He lifted from between your legs, which was fucking painful thing to do when the thing he wanted the most was to be buried between them. His face weirdly lit up, unclear if with shock or happiness, “Am I your husband?”

“No, that must be some misunderstanding, right?” You jolted up, scrambling out of bed with a bunch of uncoordinated jerks of limbs. It was a miracle you hadn’t fallen right on your face. Damn those sweet juicy drinks that weaken your brain!

“We need to talk with others, they must know something, right?” You were more or less talking to yourself, babbling how it is impossible you got married with freaking Adrian Chase without remembering anything.

Adrian was still too absorbed in those chips on the bed and the ring pop on your fingers. One of his focuses meant he won money, the other that he was married, and the third, pretty, pretty thing in front of him was his wife. He completely ignored your panic, it was whatever.

He never was the kind to believe in fate, but goddamn, he must have done something really good to get all of this in one night.

“Ade, are you listening to me?” You almost touched those chips, fingers mere inches away, before you realized that Adrian had these shiny knick-knacks stashed away in his boxers the whole night. Your hand hovered above them, eyebrows furrowed.

“Oh, I see how it is,” Adrian watched you with a dumb smile, “Are you afraid of my crotch doubloons?”

“I don’t want to touch something that was near your dick” As simple as that, did he think it was normal?

“So you’re afraid of my dick” His smile widened with every word, he had that stupid expression on his face you still couldn’t look through. You had wondered several times what was going through his mind at those moments when his face twisted maliciously.

“I’m not afraid of your dick, Adrian.”

“Then touch it.”

“Why would I be touching your dick?”

“To prove you’re not a coward.” That stupid face was literally asking to be punched, but would that help your case? He looked abnormally good when he was hurt. “Plus, if we are married, we should consummate the marriage, right?”

“We’re not in the Middle Ages, Ade, we’re not married and I’m too hungover anyways”

Adrian noted in his mind that you didn’t say no because you didn’t like him outright, you said you had a hangover. This could mean two things; That you didn’t like him and hid it behind a lame excuse of drinking too much yesterday, or that you were actually hangover but did like him.

That must be the case. At least he hoped.

All this time, he was hoping you might get the hint that he liked you. He tried to be discreet, sending small signs like he saw in movies and read on Wikihow.

Make eye contact, look down, hold, slowly look back, look away, soft smile, scratch your neck, lick your lips, make eye contact again, wink…

And all this time you thought he was cursing you across the room when he tried this in team debriefings.

Being discreet was so unlike him, but he hoped it might seem normal, not like his usual attempts at flirting. And that was the problem. Adrian Chase, a guy desperate to share his every thought, sending subtle signs? Who could have caught that? Not you, that’s for certain.

“I mean… What is a hangover anyway? It’s when alcohol levels in your body drop to zero after heavy drinking. And one way to remedy that is drinking more,” He knew way too much for his own good, though after multiple horrible hangovers, he needed to know what was happening to him.

“Maybe if you finally got laid you wouldn’t be so cranky all the time, it's like a hangover” He finished his speech with a look that screamed anything but innocent.

Your blood suddenly grew hot, how dare he say you don’t have any game? Your hand shot up between his legs, touching him just like he dared you.

You fell right into a trap.

Say what you want about Adrian, he was stupid but not dumb. He hunts down criminals, he must know a thing or two how to trap his victim, how to get what he wants. Right now, he got you right he wanted. On a hotel bed, dressed just in his shirt and wedding panties and your hand on his dick.

Lucky bastard.

And you… You were a lucky bastard in a way too.

You could fondle his cock any way you wanted. This image haunted your dreams more than once. And what fool would you be if you didn’t take that chance.

Though the surprised look on your face was not something you imagined, when you got a good feel of Adrian ‘Thimble’ Chase. He was already semi-hard, and it made you wonder what caused it. Was it when you were nudging him in his sleep? Or when his nose caught a whiff of you while reading your underwear testament?

Maybe you would have to spread the word that your now husband was Mr. Definitely not Thimble.

You began running your hand up and down over him, slowly but surely making him even harder than he was. Adrian managed to keep his wide and confident smile just for few seconds. One gentle squeeze on his base, one swipe of your thumb over his covered tip, and he was a goner. His sparkling eyes fluttered closed, and this time, when he licked his lips, it didn’t look like he was licking away sauce from pasta at Fennel Fields.

While his hips gently rutted further into your touch, his hands shot to your hips. Strangely, he was slick with his touches, before you even knew it, his fingers were running under the sides of your white lace panties, just oh so desperate to feel your soft skin without anything else in the way.

“Is my tongue still red?” Adrian asked before sticking his tongue out, baring the surface of his tongue colored in deep red. What a weird question to be asking when you’re getting your dick fondled, though at this point you shouldn’t be surprised.

“Still very much red, why are you asking now?”

Adrian just grinned and eyed you up like a predator. Something was stirring in his mind.

Before you could ask him for the meaning of his question again, he lifted his hand with the big ring pop on his finger and pushed it into your mouth.

The second flavor of blue raspberry burst on your tongue you couldn’t blame him for sucking on your ring pop all night and drooling on your fingers.

While you enjoyed the artificial taste coating your taste buds, Adrian stared at you with a slack jaw and soft whimpers falling from his mouth. “Fuck, I wish you were sucking me like that”

Suddenly, he pulled away his hand, making you whine at the loss of your lolly. It didn’t take long before you had something else to focus on with your mouth though.

He practically lunged at you with his lips, pressing them against yours and setting a pace too fast for your sluggish mind. Adrian’s tongue demanded entrance in your mouth and before you could even register what he wanted, he was pulling at your chin, opening up your mouth for his wandering tongue.

You desperately wanted to match his frenzied pace, it was all too much and yet so good.

Adrian didn’t lick around your mouth like you would have expected, no, quite the opposite. He flattened his tongue over yours, making sure surfaces painted in red and blue brushed against each other.

Oh, so that’s what he was doing…

He wanted to combine them. Red and blue create purple. It would be a beautiful symbol for your new, and very very strange, marriage. Purple can, among other things, symbolize mystery, exactly that clouded over last night. It was still a mystery how you two ended up together. Did it matter anyway?

In the end, he was licking into your mouth like a dog. Panting like one, too.

When he pulled away from the kiss, a string of spit connected your swollen lips. Stretching, stretching, and stretching until it broke and landed on both of your chins. As you were reaching to wipe it off Adrian latched his lips onto your chin with unseen eagerness. The main idea was to help you with the excessive saliva, though he only made it worse.

He trailed open-mouthed kisses from your chin, across jaw, over cheeks, and ended by your ear, “Should I prove I’m not afraid of your pussy?” He whispered before licking the shell of your ear. One of his hands trailed the ring pop over your arm, leaving a sticky trail, while the other began prying between your legs.

“Wow, look at that,” He dared to chuckle after he slipped his fingers under the crotch of your panties, feeling your heat for the first time. You believed Adrian would comment on how wet you were for him, for Vigilante. But no, of course not.

“Your pussy doesn’t have teeth like I thought it would!”

And at that moment you promised yourself you will kill him right after he makes you cum. Not sooner nor later. As a simple warning, you tightened your grip you had on him over the boxers that were, much to your surprise, already stained with precum.

Let’s see how happy Adrian will be when he realizes his wife is a praying mantis in disguise.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

You didn’t bite Adrian’s head off after all, he looked too cute after you made him finish in his underwear. That boyish grin, puffy lips wet with your cum after he licked his fingers off with proud bravado, lively eyes that shined almost the same way as his casino chips…

No, you might just keep him a bit longer.

At least he stopped with his nagging while you took a shower together and dressed in clean clothes. All this time, Adrian watched you like a lost puppy, begging for affection. Each time you gave him a chaste kiss, he stopped whining for a mere second.

While Adrian was hungry for more kisses, and undoubtedly something more, you were actually hungry for some food and coffee or green tea to get you going for the day. So you made your way to the hotel’s small dining room.

Adrian threw all his casino chips on the table between breakfast plates and mugs, they clinked against the ceramics almost too loudly for your poor pounding head.

Everyone’s eyes fell on shiny colorful chips, Leota put down her butter bread so she could reach for them, thankfully you grabbed her wrist right before she could get her fingers on the chip lying next to her plate “Don’t touch that.”

She shot you a questioning look but trusted your judgment. No need to tell her where these chips were, especially if they were in the middle of the table and too close to food.

“Did I get married to Adrian yesterday?” You asked without any humor in your voice, eyes flickering between every single one of those guilty faces of your colleagues. Adrian, though, did not care at all about this little investigation. He was too blissful with married life to even question it.

“It was one of the weirdest ceremonies I have ever seen,” Leota cracked first, “You didn’t even want me as your bridesmaid! You chose John!”

Your eyes landed on Economos, sipping his coffee to hide from you, “I did my duty well” was all he added.

Then you took a good look at others, Harcourt kept staring forward, digging her fork in some scrambled eggs. Chris, on the other hand, was already showing Adrian photos on his phone and Adrian was smiling widely, pointing out small details from your wedding and muttering how beautiful you looked, wearing cheap-looking veil you rented and holding a bottle of vodka instead of a wedding bouquet.

You joined him, and all that anger and confusion blurred for a brief moment. You looked happy in those photos. Laughing, chatting, eyes sparkling like they haven’t for a while. Every single photo was suddenly so precious.

Those were your lost memories.

And the way you were holding onto Adrian, so tightly and lovingly… All those small details didn’t escape either of you. Adrian nudged you with his elbow “We look good together”.

And you did. You really did.

Flushed, drunk, happy.

With the promise of the team explaining on the way home, you dropped your investigation of last night and settled to finally have some breakfast. Both you and Adrian get the leftovers in the form of yogurt. “Snoozers losers,” Chris added.

It was like you and Adrian had already synchronized, peeling the lid off, and licking some leftover yogurt at the same time. And in the meantime, everyone around the table could get a pretty good look at your purple tongues.

“See?! See that?” Chris called out way too loudly while pointing at you, “Did you stick your dick in her?”

You nearly choked on your own saliva at that question. Who even asks that? Especially during hotel breakfast? Some people from other tables turned around when they heard it, eager to know what the hell was going on.

But Adrian smiled, lifted his hand and wiggled his digits “Just my fingers.”

A symphony of disgusted noises came from your team, suddenly your yoghurt didn’t look as appealing as it should. But hey, maybe there will be a time when you won’t be able to eat yoghurt without thinking of Adrian and his-

“I made sure the guy marrying you didn’t have a license for it to be legitimate,” Harcourt finally spoke up, much to the dismay of the rest of the team.

“Which was a fucking mistake! You know how hilarious it would be if these two goons were married for real?” Chris chimed in with a booming laugh just from the idea of the night of the outing ending in one happy couple, drunk out of their minds.

Weight dropped from your shoulders upon hearing you weren’t married for real to Vigilante over there. It was like the air finally cleared, and you could take a deep breath of that crisp morning air. You caught Adrian doing the same, sighing in relief.

But if you were for real, it also stung a little. Somehow, while you made your way to breakfast earlier, you already started planning what to do next. Who will move to whom, when you should go and change your name on your ID to Chase, if you should get rid of your coffee machine so Adrian wouldn’t have too much disposal of caffeine…

While you were lost in your head, thinking whenever you were actually happy or sad the dumbass next to you wasn't your partner for real, Adrian simply leaned closer to you and whispered with that dopey smile, “It’s fine. Next time I’ll be marrying you, I want to remember it.”

#adrian chase #vigilante #adrian chase x reader #vigilante x reader #adrian chase smut #vigilante smut #peacemaker #adrian chase imagine #vigilante imagine

528 notes · View notes

my-world-my-stories · 10 months ago

Text

Sam'wa: Holy fucking Paya, that little Ooman-di has you wrapped around her little fingers with a vice stonger than a Ty'ak snake.

Wy'ld: Oh shut up! My personal life with Cat is none of your- *Gets a message from Cat. A text with a very 'enticing' pic attached to it* ..... I gotta gay- I mean go to my nest! It's urgent!

Sam'wa: Suuuuuuuuure.... At least this time remember to close the doors.

#Sam'wa does like Cat #but man is it hilarious to her to see Miss Grumpy Pants Wy'ld be so enamored for someone #These bitches gay fr #good for them #yautja #yautjaverse #yautja oc #predator franchise #predator series #alien vs predator #the predator #predator #yautja x human #random thoughts #my ocs #oc related

24 notes · View notes

b1mbodoll · 9 months ago

Text

pairings: sim jaeyun x f! reader

warnings: werewolf! jake + knotting + biting + blood + dub / noncon + creampies + breeding + slight mention of impreg + dacryphilia

💌: haiiiii.. enjoy. BEWARE DUB / NONCON!!!!!!!!!! i love kinktober, unfortunately dont think i could ever participate but it’s october and i love wolves and jake and knotting

werewolf jake that tries so hard to keep his lycan side a secret from you. you’re so sweet, so fucking innocent and it drives him crazy; makes it harder to keep from fucking his knot into you as he pounds your tight cunt, harder to keep from sinking his teeth into your soft neck and claiming you.

but god, does he want to.

he constantly thinks about how you’d react if he exposed himself to you. would you be afraid of him? scream and cry as his thick knot swells inside of your tiny pussy? push him away when you see those long, dangerous canines inching closer to your vulnerable throat?

or would you pull him closer, wrap your legs around him as he rams your cervix with each thrust? maybe even tilt your head to the side and slide your hands into his hair, pressing his face into your neck so he can easily nip at you.

jake doesn’t know what he’d do if you began to fear him.. if you scrambled to run away before he had the chance to plug you with his knot. he doesn’t know if he’d be able to bring himself to stop fucking you.

it’s wrong and sick and he knows it, but he doesn’t seem to care when his instincts take over as he’s fucking you one night, his claws and canines itching to grow the closer he gets to cumming. there’s absolutely no way he can part from your tight hole that’s gripping him so tight he can barely pull out, so he doesn’t.

he all but growls when you clench around him, lost in pleasure and moaning when a particularly hard thrust has you squeezing your eyes shut and coating his cock in a ring of cream. it’s enough to send your boyfriend over the edge, his cock thickening up at the base before his mouth finds your tit and his teeth draw blood.

the pain brings you back to your senses and horror fills your mind when you see the furry ears on his head and the rivulets of blood staining his chin. you’d heard stories of werewolves but you’d never imagined jake, your sweet and kind jake was one.

you struggle and writhe beneath him but it’s no use; how can a human overpower an apex predator? it only works to anger him, a guttural growl making your eyes well up with tears and shake your head no, lost for words.

but he doesn’t seem to register your rejection.. or maybe he simply doesn’t care because he continues to abuse your sensitive cunt, using you for his pleasure, pinning you down with a single hand, and wiping your tears with a clawed finger.

he doesn’t stop, can’t stop, until youre properly bred: full of his thick, sticky cum and his knot keeps it deep inside, ensuring you’d carry his pups.

jake’s no longer in control of himself and it shows in the way he’s fucking you. each thrust is harder than the last and you swear his cock is going to split you in half, it hurts but a part of you likes it; you like being manhandled and used like his breeding bitch, the feeling of his tongue licking your sore chest and especially, the way his cock throbs and twitches inside of you.

all you can do is lie there and take what he chooses to give, cumming again when ropes of his warm cum paint your inner walls and the tip of his dick slides past your cervix, completely flooding your womb.

you’re so fucking full, his length deeper than ever and his knot stretches your hole, keeping jake from pulling out.

but it’s not enough for the wolfboy, his tail is.. wagging? as he humps into you, the push and pull of his hips making you whine.

you weren’t meant to take such a large cock but it doesn’t matter, he made it fit and he’ll continue to push your limits until he’s content.

1K notes · View notes

all-purpose-dish-soap · 2 months ago

Note

Hear me out illegal mer hunters get remora reader

76 / 1k / shark!141 and remora mer!reader encountering shifty humans

...

Boats. The undersides of two little human yacht-boats overhead. That's strange. They're not allowed on the reef.

Your curious nature takes you close enough to brush the metal hull with your fingers. So smooth and it thrums.

"Oi—!" Gaz’s voice cuts through the water like a whip. He barrels into you and yanks you back hard enough to jostle your bones. His arm, looped around your midsection, is iron. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

He drags you away from the surface so abruptly it makes you dizzy. You kick your tail in protest, but don't really fight his grip. You're used to being manhandled. "What? Why?"

"Those aren't fishing boats. Look at the nets." He jerks his chin upward, where the dark shapes of weighted, reinforced nets trail beneath the hulls.

Below him, Ghost’s shadow peels away from the reef shelf like a wraith. "Poachers." Illegal ones at that, given the posted sanctuary markers around their territory.

You shift in Gaz's grip, trying to keep the boats in your line of sight. "What does that mean?"

"It means if they spot you drifting up to gawk like some gull, you’ll wake up in a tank."

You sense it's not a good time to ask what a tank is.

Soap circles the boats with predatory interest. "Bet I could tip one. They're just humans once they hit the water.”

"Humans with spearguns," Gaz mutters, finally loosening his grip. "And tranqs."

You wriggle free and push yourself over Gaz's bicep. But, sensing the trepidation roiling through the waves, you keep your distance from the hull. You don't understand why they’re treating these humans like predators instead of just leaving them alone.

Above, the boats shift. Something hits the surface with a quiet plink--shark bait. The cloud of chum unfurls in the water like a huge jellyfish. You look past it and try to peer up at the humans. "What do they want?"

"Trophies,” Ghost growls.

Price returns from patrol to see the four of you assessing the boats.

"The nets are electric. Standard issue for mer dealers now. Contact hurts like a bitch." His sharp gaze lands on you. "Worse for small fish."

One of the poachers peers over the side, scanning the water.

Soap bares his teeth. "I say we scare ‘em off."

You wring your hands. "But don’t they have spears? They'll hurt you!"

"So we hurt them first," Soap says, rolling his shoulders forward as he prowls toward the boats.

Gaz grabs his fin and yanks him back mid-stroke. "Like hell. You keen on getting gutted?"

Price watches the boats with narrowed eyes. "They'll tire of waiting."

Ghost cracks his knuckles. "Hate waiting."

You dart in front of them, trying to break up the growing tension with what feels like good, diplomatic sense. "Let's just wait for them to go away," you tell them. "Attacking will just bring more humans swimming. Aren’t you always saying that?" Your hands land on Price's chest in what you hope is a soothing gesture.

Price exhales a stream of bubbles through his nose, but doesn’t push you off. "Maybe so. But we ought not let threats linger. Let's make sure they know they're not welcome."

Soap grins. "I’ll be subtle."

Gaz snorts. "You’ve never been subtle a day in your life."

Price moves your hand to his shoulder. "Stay close."

You take the hint and latch your palm suckers onto Price's broad back. You huddle close as he rises toward the hull. You don't know what he plans to do, but it won't be as nice as you’d hoped.

Price slams his palm against the bottom of the seacraft hard enough to rattle it. He digs his fingers into the metal until it divots, then drags his claws down the hull. It creates an ugly, tearing squeal.

From the deck: "Holy shit--that's a big one."

Soap’s tail lashes the water near the second boat hard enough to send spray over the gunwale. Someone shouts.

"Jesus, there's more!"

Ghost prowls beneath. One of the poachers leans too far over the edge. Then Gaz smashes his tail into the other side of the boat and sends it careening into a wild tilt. The poacher reels and falls, breaking the surface.

He doesn't go far. The fall is hardly deep enough to wet his hair--until Ghost yanks him under.

The man flails. Bubbles erupt from his mouth as Ghost drags him deeper. The other humans panic and shout. In the chaos, one fires a speargun down into the water. The bolt misses Price's shoulder--and yours--by inches.

You cling tighter as Price peels away. The others follow. Behind you, Ghost releases the sputtering human to let him flounder back to the surface. You pause, letting go of Price for a breathless second. You watch until the poacher breaks the surface once more. You relax and let out a breath.

Soap grabs you easily as he passes, pulling you away before you can scrutinize the gasping poacher any longer. "Nae time to stare, wee fish.”

Gaz keeps pace at your other side. His eyes scan for lingering threats.

Ghost lingers behind you all, watching the boats retreat with palpable irritation. "Should've kept one."

Once the four of them finally come to a stop, you try to shake yourself free from Soap's grasp. No luck. "Will they stay away?"

Price watches the boats flee toward the horizon. "If they're smart." His calloused palm lands on top of your head--more warning than comfort.

Soap squeezes your waist. "You'd best stay close from now on. Unless ye want one of the bastards to stuff you."

"You stuff me all the time. It's not so bad."

"Aye, but I don’t sell ye to collectors after."

Ghost’s voice is dry. "Could."

Price pinches the bridge of his nose. "Enough."

You huff. There's relief in it, though. You're glad the humans are gone. And Price is right--who would be stupid enough to come back to a shark reef when they're not wanted there?

Soap flicks your earfin. "Next time, don’t go pokin’ at strange boats like an overcurious guppy."

Gaz smirks. "Or do. Gives us an excuse to bite someone."

Price exhales, long-suffering, and swims off to patrol the perimeter again.

...

more mer au / masterlist

655 notes · View notes

yanderenightmare · 1 year ago

Text

TW: nsfw, dubcon, hybrid au, size difference

fem reader

Thinking up so many tasty tidbits about hybrid au…

Being a normal human girl mating a beast and constantly needing to plant your hands at your hips and give him a firm “no” as though speaking down to an actual dog – and how fucking odd it is to him that you express free will as though you shouldn’t naturally submit to him like a normal female would when approached by a male – bearing your wet pussy for him and just begging him to breed you full...

It’s only natural for your beast boyfriend to mount you without asking – like you’re only two animals mating out in the wild. So you can imagine the dumbfounded look slapped on his face when you refuse – saying you’re busy with your hand placed on his chest, giving him a push that doesn't make him budge but manages to make his tail droop until it’s sweeping the floor.

It’s so unnatural to him. You’re a female, and he’s a bull. You should be bending over the second you see him, not ignore him – and definitely not reject him.

Like... he expects you to roll over and let him make you his bitch, but instead, you’re walking circles around him while laying down something you call “ground rules.” Telling him he has to stop biting your neck unless he wants to wear a muscle – that he has to shower at least once every other day or else you won’t touch him – and that he has to stop scenting you with that heady musk that smells of sweaty ballsack and dickcheese oryou’re not letting him touch you at all.

It all makes him pout with a gruff – almost growling at you, thinking a weakling like you should have no say over an alpha like him. And yet he’s on his knees for a taste of your pussy at the end of every day despite it – acting as though he cannot rest without it, as though he would starve to death.

In the end, he does everything you ask – just like a tamed pet. It’s cute.

He was so, so very skeptical when you’d convinced him to allow you to be on top for once. He was so rigid, lying there, belly-up – watching your every move with a predator’s glare as though he planned to pounce on you at any given moment – looking a mix of confused and aroused when you rolled your hips and rode him – hissing and grumbling beneath his breath as though he didn’t exactly know what to do with himself except lie there and take it.

But although you’re able to convince him of most things, there are still those instincts you’ll never win against…

The way he just huffs and ignores you when you tell him to pull out instead of flooding your womb with cum – kneading his cock into your deepest parts while pinning you flat in a mating press that has your feet going behind your head.

Not to mention that time you tried making him wear a condom – to which he only snorted as if it were some bad joke he didn’t find funny – rearing your cunt with his raw cock leaking pre, telling you to stop fooling around and start begging to be bred full of his pups like a good bitch.

BNHA – Bakugou, Kirishima, Hawks

JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Gojo, Toji,

DS – Sanemi, Akaza, Inosuke, Genya

#yandere x reader #yandere #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere smut #yancore #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujustu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen #yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere jjk #jjk smut #bnha smut #yandere bnha #mha smut #my hero smut

4K notes · View notes

elysiality · 2 months ago

Text

-⋆˚꩜｡ synopsis — your little foraging trip with your girlfriend and the dictator of your village quickly goes south when said dictator pulls a knife on you. lucky for you, you've dabbled in the art of self-defense before. (requested !)

WOLF IN THE HEADLIGHTS —

★ natalie scatorccio and shauna shipman.

"How can a girl who couldn't even keep her title as queen keep a girlfriend?"

fuck this. onto rule five then.

rule 5— use violence to subdue the predator.

─────────── ౨ৎ ───────────

PT 2 — ★

-⋆˚꩜｡ cw !! — fem! reader, spoilers for yellowjackets S3, yellowjackets typical antics, knife to throat bullshittery, flirting, mentions of blood, mild descriptions of cannibalism, shauna shipman, is it really infidelity if you're homoerotically pinning a girl to the floor of the canadian wilderness with a butcher knife in front of your girlfriend?

══════════════════════════

oh, for the love of the wilderness.

you're considering foraging for some of the poisonous mushrooms that you were warned to avoid and shoving them in your ears for earplugs.

the dreaded, painful sound of Shauna snarling an insult at Nat reaches your ears for the sixth time in an hour. they can't lay off of each other for ten minutes.

maybe you'd be a little bit more sympathetic towards Shauna in other situations. she's not taking her baby's death very well, as expected.

and yes, she would warrant empathy for that in usual situations, as expected.

that is, if she wouldn't go back to the village after this little trip of your trio was done and dusted and then order around everyone like some sort of fucked up, wilderness stalin. power really does get to one's head.

you feel some ounce of humanity surface in you when you think of the poor scientists. one dead, the other two trapped in the animal pen next to the carefully bred ducks and rabbits as well as their shit hole. and possibly remnants of coach's dead body.

but then it sinks back under the surface, along with the rest of your unimportant emotions. throughout this whole over-extended, impromptu camping trip with your soccer team, you've gained a reputation as the 'aloof' one. which, in wilderness terms, means being assigned hunting duty along with Nat.

you didn't have the same penchant for shooting with a hundred mile radius accuracy like she did, so your job was setting snares along paths where she found the most prey.

that was how you started talking. like— really talking.

pre-crash, your relationship was cordial and friendly— a wave in the hallway, informing each other on Jackie's constant practice time changes and then bitching about it for a little, sharing notes, making assists during games, etc etc, but it never went any further than that.

it was only during these hunting trips that you really started connecting. you were quiet and easy to talk to— a perfect listener to lend your ears to Nat's agitated rants. you told each other about your interests back home— you'd never have a chance to do them again, but it was nice to talk about them nonetheless.

one thing led to another, as it so often does, and you started up a secret relationship before you knew it was happening.

the reason for the secrecy wasn't for fear of homophobia— you were on an all-girls soccer team, for fucks sake, but more so because you started dating when Nat took on the leader role for the team.

building the huts, gathering animals to breed, all these different activities meant that a public relationship would cause quite the scandal, given that your 'community' was small enough to be surveyed from atop of a large rock.

so you kept it under wraps for the time being. the thrill only contributed to your excitement of being in this relationship— secret kisses on hunting trips, moving in with her on pretense of her needing moral support (which isn't even a lie), holding hands under the makeshift table during feasts.

things were about as great as they could be in the middle of nowhere— until they found Coach Scott. until Nat executed him via mercy killing and Shauna blew up on her.

your relationship with Shauna pre-crash was...strained, to say the least. you were friendly enough to each other— but the only reason for that was that Jackie was the bridge between you two.

you were close to her so by extension you were close to Shauna. she was like a second body attached to Jackie, immobile and rendered useless without her. your relationship was strained because it was hard to seperate her from Jackie— Shauna just did whatever Jackie wanted most of the time. you didn't know what her true colours were. you couldn't even imagine her without her other half.

it was only after Jackie's death and the posthumous cannibalisation of her body that Shauna truly started growing into her own person— and that person was not someone you liked at all.

to you, she was lukewarm— an extraordinary achievement, given her feeling blue all the damn time, but you were kind and sweet enough. helping her move around when she started showing, giving her some of your food to help with the unborn baby's growth, defusing the tension between her and Lottie when she started spouting weird shit about the baby— oh sorry, her baby.

you knew she appreciated it, given that she didn't lose her shit with you if you dared to breathe too loudly, so you were as genial to each other as you could muster.

it started to manifest post stillbirth when you realised that your portions of stew were increasing, that Shauna silently contributed to arguments between you and anyone else by glaring menacingly at the offending party, that she willingly helped you with your chores even though you pushed through it in complete silence.

these were jovial enough gestures and you were grateful to her. the only problem you had with her was her attitude towards everyone else— and more specifically, your girlfriend.

for whatever reason, she had it out for Nat, even before her crowning. she hated her with fervid intensity, which heightened your dislike for her.

then came the frog scientists. the poor things stumbled into your village just a few hours too late. they could've dealt with Nat, who would've been merciful. instead, they had to deal with Shauna 'the Butcher' Shipman who'd recently discovered that she liked the taste of blood. oh and of course, Lottie, the wilderness' divine prophet or whatever the fuck, who had kindly given Coach Ben a friend in heaven via axe-to-the-head.

you realised pretty quickly that these scientists could be useful to you. they knew the way back to civilization. they could help you get home. you dared to let yourself think about that word again. home. your friends. your family. school. a normal life.

but of course, life has a way of ripping your happiness out of your hands and landing a solid kick to the groin instead. Lottie chose to stay back. then Shauna. then Tai. Shauna hijacked the gun and took charge of the village, locking up your path to civilization in the animal pen (again). There goes all hopes and dreams of leading a boring, adventure-free life again.

even so, the world kept spinning. which meant another day of scavenging for food out in the wilderness— especially with winter so close by. you feel like quite the worker ant as you push through overgrown shrubs and bushes, two more pairs of footsteps behind you.

everyone felt a bit queasy at the thought of eating meat so soon after the whole Coach Scott fiasco, so you and Nat were told to go out and forage instead. you were more than happy to do this, since it meant you would have time together and you'd be able to pry Nat's thoughts open like a nutshell and let her rant to you.

she seemed to have the same idea, getting skittish and jittery as you got ready, exchanging agonised looks with you while grabbing the grass-woven baskets.

however, on brand with your shitty luck streak, your plans were rudely interrupted by Shauna, who clearly thought that maybe you'd attempt to poison her or something— a very likely possibility, given the Misty incident at the start of your stint in hell and how irritable she was becoming these days. she firmly declared that she was joining you— and of course you couldn't reject your queen. (heavy air quotes on that).

so now you have to go hunting for mushrooms and what not with a very antsy Nat and Shauna, who's always been a ticking time bomb. luckily, you'd remembered that you had strung up some nets around a couple of berry patches deep in the woods, which is where you're on route to right now.

the trip had been relatively peaceful so far, save for the occasional woodland creature sprinting across your path and the sound of dry leaves crunching under your feet— but of course that couldn't last.

you round on the two of them, halting in your tracks. they're arguing about the rescue thing again. good god.

"I've told you hundreds of times before— we can't leave yet because I say so." Shauna reiterates firmly, her grip on her knife tightening till her knuckles turn white.

Nat huffs, dropping her gun on the dirt, locking her eyes onto Shauna. "Then you're clearly a fucking psychopath. D'you think these people are just gonna be our fucking escape route whenever we want? Their fear is gonna dwindle soon and then they're gonna see us for what we really are— a bunch of scared, pathetic teenage girls who eat their friends to survive."

Shauna crosses her arms quietly, advancing on Nat with quiet footsteps. Nat steps back, just slightly, but a twig snaps under her heavy boots and it's enough to catch Shauna's attention. her lips curve upward into a canine-showing grin. like a wolf.

you, however reluctantly, take a step forward, ready to break up any potential fights. it reminds you of the basic rules you've set for yourself when going hunting with Nat— the rules on how to deal with another predator who has their eyes locked on your kill.

rule 1— be ready to intervene.

"No.", Shauna says softly, her intense gaze burning into Nat, "they won't. Because that's not who we are. We're so much more than that."

"Yeah?", Nat challenges, taking a shaky step forward. They're inches away now. "Then enlighten me. Who are we, if we're not the high school seniors who crashed into the middle of nowhere and have had to do horrible, fucked up things to survive?"

Shauna examines her for a moment, her eyes scanning Nat's gaunt, scar-streaked face. "We're predators.", she drawls out. she sounds each syllable out slowly, like she's explaining addition to a pre-schooler. "Yellowjackets, if you will." She grins like a shark.

"We kill to survive. We hunt, because we have to and because we want to. Our village is our nest— colony, pack, whatever you want to call it. We aren't just teenage girls and you know it." she pokes her finger into Nat's chest, rolling her eyes. "You're just too much of a wimp to admit it."

Nat gulps, that heavy, guilt filled gulp you've seen her do so many times— after devouring Jackie, when she found out that Lottie nearly froze to death during the hunting competition, after Javi died. you sigh internally. it's time to step up.

rule 2— create distance between the predator and the prey. DO NOT USE YOUR OWN BODY IF YOU DON'T FANCY BEING EATEN ALIVE.

okay, so you're only following half the rule. so what? you step in front of Nat, effectively shielding her from Shauna's gaze. the only problem? Shauna's attention is on you now.

two blazing brown eyes lock onto yours and you calmly hold her gaze, resisting the urge to drop it and run away squealing like a frightened rabbit.

her eyes are void of any emotion but morbid curiosity. like she's wondering what colour your blood would be. or perhaps how you would taste if she took a bite out of you. you wonder if this is what people mean when they say 'coming face-to-face with death'.

her mental deterioration was one of the most obvious, second to only Lottie's. when Jackie was alive, she was still somewhat tethered to the husk of her old self. the soft-talking, quiet smart girl who preferred to stay in her best friend's shadow. that persona froze to death with Jackie in the snow.

Shauna calls your name in a low voice. a taunting, almost playful tone— an echo of all the times she'd used it while reprimanding you during practice. "Move.", she almost croons, one hand tracing the sheath of her knife.

you stay rooted, raising your hands placatingly.

rule 3— attempt to calm the predator. diverge their attention. use bait if necessary. DO NOT USE YOUR OWN BODY.

"Listen. We have a job to do. I don't care what bullshit you two wanna argue about— don't do it now." you say, readjusting your basket over your shoulder for full mobility. "I get it. You're pissed that no one wants to turn our community into a dictatorship, she's pissed that you don't want us to be rescued and taken home." her eyes narrow dangerously— a sign that you should stop talking. you don't.

"But winter is coming. We need to stock up on food because what happened last time cannot happen again." her eyes flash with just the slightest hint of guilt before it melts into that corroded look that sits on her face all the time.

it haunts you, all of you. the first time you'd tasted human flesh. the hunger. the ravenous feasting. how you had learnt that day that human flesh tasted disturbingly like pork when cooked. how easy it was for civility and morality to leave when hope was lost.

"Come on." You plead with her, your voice dripping with honey. you can feel Nat's heavy breathing on your neck. she's torn between terror and rage. her hand finds yours and she squeezes, an action that does not go unnoticed by Shauna's trained eyes. "Let's go back to foraging. We survived a fucking plane crash. We'll get through this. Together."

oh. you wish you could've taken that last line back. you may have talked her down from the cliff if not for that last line.

something in Shauna's eyes splinters— like a mirror shattering into little shards of glass. her eyes flicker to Nat's neck, where Jackie's necklace sits on her collarbones, glinting gold in the sun.

Jackie. sweet, sweet Jackie, who always pointed out when your shoelaces were untied and redid them for you, who held your hair back when you threw up after a rough night out, who made sure everyone had snacks during halftime, who always let Nat stay over when things got rough at home even if they weren't all that close.

Jackie, who had died so easily, like she was born to die there, nestled under layers of snow shrouding her dead body after an argument with the girl she loved so much.

Jackie, who above all, wanted the group to stay together. who wanted to get through it together.

you tense up. you know what's coming. you can sense the storm brewing in Shauna, you can see it in her eyes. you've finally struck a chord.

"Yeah?", Shauna asks quietly, taking another step forward towards you. you're now mere inches away from each other. her breath is cold against your face.

"And where's she gonna go, even if I do agree to this stupid rescue plan?" it's Nat's turn to tense up. her family has always been a touchy subject for her and for good reason. you place your hand on hers, stepping closer to her body.

"Back home to her shitty trailer? With her alcoholic mom who waits for daddy dearest to come back from beyond the grave?" she's sneering at you. sneering.

you can't remember step four. your fists are clenching and unclenching desperately as you try to resist the urge to beat her into a pulp.

"But of course you'd defend her right?" Shauna taunts further. step four, step four— what was step four?

"You and your pathetic little girlfriend. What a perfect pair. I'm surprised you'd even want her, though."

Shauna directs her attention to Nat now, who's quivering behind you. a lesser woman than your girlfriend would've quailed under that gaze.

"How can a girl who couldn't even keep her title as queen keep a girlfriend?"

fuck this. onto rule five then.

rule 5— use violence to subdue the predator.

in one smooth motion, you vault over to Shauna, closing the gap between you two, tackling her to the ground. your nails, rough and jagged, dig into her wrists, knocking the knife right out of her hands as she hisses in pain.

your fingers close around the handle of the falling knife, already guiding it to her neck. just before you can cut her throat open into a pretty red smile, her hand comes up, gripping onto your wrist, shaking against the force you're using. just barely preventing her own death.

you lock eyes with her. those brown eyes, dark as the earth, once bright as stars, stare back at you. she's shaking under you, and panting, trying to regain her breath. the impact must've knocked the wind right out of her.

your legs are splayed out on either side of her waist, keeping her pinned down. one of your hands, the free one, is keeping her wrist pinned down. the other is holding the knife to her throat, where her other hand desperately struggles against it.

"Do you really think you're that important?", you ask her in a low voice. her eyebrows raise as you press the blade in your hand closer to her throat and she pushes back harder. she makes no move to get you off her even though she probably could— and easily, that too.

you're vaguely aware of Nat's laboured breaths behind you.

"Anyone can do what you do. You aren't our leader— you're just the butcher.", you spit out venomously. "Do you really think anyone would protest if I ended your shit right now?"

she tilts her head at you impassively, but her body trembles under you. you smirk. you know what she's actually feeling.

"You're shaking...", you sing-song gleefully, trailing the knife down her collarbone. she stiffens up as the cold metal scrapes against her bare skin, trailing along the fabric of her cloth.

"Yeah, people tend to do that when they're being threatened with a fucking knife." she grits out. you tut and tighten your grip on her other hand, pinning it forcefully to the ground.

"Come on now. Don't be a smartass..", you roll your eyes, dropping your voice to a low husk that imitates hers. "You look so much better when you shut your mouth."

it's her turn to smirk now. her gaze drops to your lips and she raises her head just enough to press her nose to yours, but you pull away just slightly. you still have a girlfriend, after all.

she snorts, her eyes pulling away from your plush lips to focus on the blade that's now resting against her throat. "I knew you weren't boring."

you raise an eyebrow, digging into her skin just a little— not enough to draw blood, but enough to elicit a delicious gasp out of her. "Was that supposed to be a compliment?"

Shauna shrugs, grinning. her body language betrays that she's loosening up now. her previously strained shoulders have now dropped, and her fingers are indolently intertwined with yours.

perfect.

you stare at each other in a quiet few seconds of silence. then, you brusquely press the knife into her throat, drawing a thin line of blood. the red drips out of the wound, vibrant on her pallid skin.

she chokes in surprise, a whimper of pain finding it's way out of her throat, her eyes widening. the element of surprise. always works.

you lean in a little closer so that your breath mingles with hers. your hair tickles her face, blocking you two from Nat's view.

"Listen to me.", you say genially, holding back a maniacal grin. "You need to drop this whole terrorist act of yours. It's not cute on you." your thoughts wander to Nat and you add, "— and stop targeting Nat to be your stress relief. It's not her fault that we were actually willing to let her lead us. That she was actually capable of doing it too."

Shauna's eyes flicker with a hint of something— admiration, maybe. Nobody has stood up to her like this since— well, since Jackie.

her breathing grows ragged— not in trepidation, but in anticipation. the sicko is enjoying this. she chews her bottom lip, almost agitated, squirming a bit under you. you remain firm as a statue on top of her.

"What if I don't want to?" the statement is almost petulant in nature, but you know what she wants. and if it'll get her to put a halt on her plans for wilderness domination then...

you carve another pretty line across her throat, just below the first one. Shauna groans, her eyes hooding in hunger.

"Then I'll give you want. Do you want to see Jackie again? I know you do. I'll help you. And I'll do it while you're wearing her necklace, so that you can give it back to her."

You tangle your fingers in dark, sunkissed hair, yanking it back so that more of her throat is exposed to you. her Adam's apple bobs tantalizingly, practically begging for you to draw a pretty pattern into it.

you don't. yet.

"Will you be good?" you ask her quietly. her eyes are completely clouded now, scanning your face as though she's seeing you for the first time.

they're still glistening with just the slightest hint of shock. like a deer in the headlights.

your eyes trail to the empty dagger sheath still hanging off her belt, the callouses on her hands from all the time she's spent gutting animals with that beloved knife of hers.

no.

a wolf in the headlights.

"Hey." you prod her throat again with the tip of the knife, glaring. "I asked you a question." you let go of her wrist to move your hand to her chin.

she immediately takes the opportunity to rest her now free hand on your waist where your shirt has ridden up, no doubt leaving dirty streak marks that you're too lazy to clean behind.

you tilt her chin up, forcing her eyes off your lips and back into charged eye contact. she scans your face, as though evaluating you and weighing her choices— before she cedes with a small, almost imperceptible nod.

you smile. "Good dog.", you coo in the most condescending tone you can muster. she bares her teeth at you before snapping her jaw shut, realising that she's only proving your point.

you stay on top of her for one beat— then two—

you roll off of her, dropping her knife to the ground. she immediately straightens up, leaning back on her arms and cracking her neck.

you rub at the crick in your own neck as you smile sweetly at a dumbfounded Nat, who had evidently been watching the whole thing with a wide open jaw.

you strut up to her, your gait eased and relaxed now that you can breathe freely and push her lips closed with a single finger.

"I'm gonna go see if that mushroom thatch we set up last week is still intact." you tell her. she stares at you like you just told her that you wanted to join Lottie's weird prayer circle cult.

you giggle, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips before skipping off. god knows you needed that little stint of open violence. saying that you wanted another hunt would be too crude— but you doubt that anyone would've protested against harming Shauna. except maybe for that little pet of hers, Mel.

Shauna, who had been preoccupied with twirling her knife over in her hands and wiping her own blood off of it, comes to stand next to Nat. she stares off at the spot where you vanished out of sight and into the bushes, her face identical to Nat's. the sight is almost comical.

then finally, after a long, extended pause—

"Hey. You up to sharing?"

Nat whips her head around to glare at Shauna so fast, she thinks she might have whiplash.

"Not a chance in hell, you little bitch."

══════════════════════════

a/n: holy moly this took foreverrr— I might go back and proof read this, idk. this also had a lot more shauna x reader than the anon who requested this prob had in mind. sorry anon !

anyways, reminder that requests are open for thoughts, drabbles, etc etc for all the Yellowjackets girls— dead or alive !

#yellowjackets #yellowjackets x reader #shauna shipman x reader #natalie scatorccio x you #natalie scatorccio x reader #shauna shipman x you #shaunanat #shaunanat x reader #shauna shipman #nat scatorccio x reader #nat Scatorccio #yj s3 spoilers #yj season 3 #yellowjackets spoilers #yj season 3 spoilers #(๑>◡<๑) works !

517 notes · View notes

sightseertrespasser · 3 months ago

Text

Too Deep, Too Shallow Part 3

Body Pillow meet Weighted Blanket.

Apocalyptic Ponyo was created by @keferon!

CW Near drowning experience.

———————————————————————

“I AM SO FUCKING SORRY.”

Screaming was not helping. Why was screaming not helping? Instincts demanded volume in response to stressful situations and instincts should see a fucking life coach.

“I THOUGHT-“ Blurr hovered, Orange convulsed and puked up more seawater. Clawing in chocking, staggered breaths. Blurr shook with adrenaline and the lack of immediate outlet.

“I SWEAR ON MY LIFE I FORGOT YOU CAN’T BREATH WATER.”

Blurr went to school. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew humans were air breathers. He passed health class too. He learned, in theory, the correct steps to helping a drowning mammalian mer.

Step 1. Ensure the victim is in a safe location.

The straps burned and cut into his shoulders. Blurr had to swim in an almost Jackknifed position to compensate for the drag at his back. His only focus on not ending up in prison.

Blurr’s heart hurt. His head pounded. The drag at his back vanished and Blurr nearly careened into a wall.

How? Why?

Behind him, loosed from the bag straps Orange drifted, limp and sinking.

Forcing water through his gills fast enough for stray grit to cut, Blurr gripped Orange and dragged him to the surface.

Step 2. Call for help.

Bitch call who??

He didn’t have his Fone. Even if he did, Blurr was miles away from anyone he’d think would be able to come help.

Fuck his reputation. Fuck his freedom. If either of those Orca knew how to perform CPR on a human Blurr was about to turn around and find them.

Step 3. Oh Thank Fuck.

Once his head was above water, Orange half threw up, half gasped and took in air on his own. In tiny, painful sounding sips.

Blurr dragged the human inside a flooded nest. Pulling them halfway up a set of stairs.

Thanking whatever gods or other fuckery at play he didn’t have to do actual CPR. Because all rational thought evaporated on contact and Blurr had been three seconds away from trying to flip the human upside down and physically shaking the water out of him.

Step 4. Apologize profusely.

“I- I am so, so fucking sorry. I will buy you literally whatever you want forever .” The mer continued to hover over the human.

“I just- I didn’t want to get arrested!” Blurr grimaced, speaking through grit teeth. “And I forgot. About the lung situation.”.

He awkwardly pat Orange on the back.

The human was coughing violently and had turned completely bright red in the face. Every now and then at the end of a fit, he’d lock up completely, unable to compel his lungs to function, before brute forcing a sucking gulp of air in to fuel another round of coughing. Blurr cringed.

He didn’t know if the patting was helping, but it made him feel slightly less useless.

If they got through this, Blurr was going to spoil the fuck out of this human. “What do you like? These floral camouflage pelt things? You keep breathing and I’ll get you like fifty.”

Where do they even get these things? Blurr assumed it was like a hermit crab situation. Big humans leave their pelts around for smaller humans to grow into. Do snails make them? Is there some kind of giant soft shelled land snail that makes these colorful pelts?

Blurr resolved to watch more nature documentaries in the future.

The future.

Fuck me.

As the peak of terror induced adrenaline began to pass, tremors started up his arms and across his back. Blurr breathlessly laughed, post survival high kicking in.

“Ha ha hiiii am so fucked.” If he closed his eyes, Blurr could pretend the human was laughing along. And not just coughing up his mistake.

Resting his temple on the stair step, Blurr realized he couldn’t open his eyes. The high dropped off. The only moments he could accomplish were the involuntary twitches of over extended muscle tissue.

Blurr could hear water swishing and felt it lapping at his shoulders. Like a stalking predator, the ocean had crawled a foot higher in the short time they’d been laying there.

His eyelids felt gritty trying to pull them back. He managed it on the second attempt and focused his fuzzy vision on his human.

“Orng.” He was breathing semi normally again. Occasionally catching another coughing fit but otherwise pulling in complete lungful’s of air.

“Orange.” The human slowly responded to his name, turning his head to face the mer. He did a little hand flap.

“Yeah, hi.” Blurr returned the gesture, though lifting his hand felt like it was made from pure lead. “You gotta get up. You gotta get up higher. I’m- I’m tapped out.”

Orange made a noise that sounded like “Blooh.”

Blurr slid his arms under himself, fighting gravity to look at the other properly. “Orange, I’m done. I can’t. The tides coming back and I can’t carry you anymore.”

Orange sat up, brow furrowed. The human looked from the clicking mer to the sloshing water behind them.

The mer sagged in relief when the human finally stood and turned to face the stairs.

And immediately “Hurkked” when Orange grabbed the bag and started dragging him along.

The mer verbally protested being treated like an overstuffed suitcase, but physically? Yeah this may as well be happening. At least he could make a decent argument that it was the humans idea if the orcas caught them now.

Their ascent was painfully slow, frequently interrupted by trembling breaks and reedy breathers. By the end, Orange could only pull them up a couple steps at a time before needing to sit.

Blurr zoned out, trying to ignore the bruises forming across his shoulders and where his tail was being garroted by the bag.

He distracted himself how he usually did, with chit chat. “You didn’t have to bring me you know. I appreciate it. The whole dragging me around like a drug bag thing. I have no idea why you’re keeping me safe but hey, actions speak louder than words.”

Previously, whenever Blurr spoke to Orange, he’d get some nonsense burbling in response. The human was uncharacteristically silent.

Blurr side eyed the “technically a predator” human. “You’re uh, not carrying me off to eat me right?”

Orange had stopped on another landing, digging through one of the side pockets and chugging a pod? A comb? A weird clear bottle looking thing of water.

Orange, still catching his breath, took notice of Blurr’s waiting silence. He raised a hand, “Hih Blooh.”

Blurr snorted. “Oh yeah. Apex predator right here. Gonna save me for a late lunch. Maybe eat my heart for dessert.”

Eventually, Orange managed to pull them onto a floor that was mostly untouched by water damage. The spongy texture of the floor squelched wherever weight was applied, manifesting shallow puddles in their wake. Blurr was getting uncomfortably acquainted with the textures involved.

For the first time, he was pulled into an actual human nest chamber. Blurr looked up and blinked rapidly, mouth slightly agape and brow furrowed.

“Okay. Why does this look like an apartment and more importantly, why does it look nicer than mine?!”

All the proportions were completely wack and every appliance was far too square, but that was sure as shit a kitchen they just passed. It was all just alien enough that Blurr couldn’t tell for certain What exactly was supposed to be What. However, Blurr knew what luxury looked like and this place reeked of it.

Polished stone countertops, glittering wall ornaments and some of the most uncomfortable looking furniture he’s ever seen in his life. The place even had an open floor plan, turning the space into one continuous room. Most striking of all was the far wall completely composed of glass, overlooking the flooded apocalypse.

Blurr could honestly picture this whole thing as some kind of modern art piece in a gallery. A Commentary on Mer Civilizations Corruption of Nature’s Purity. A Nest Made Hollow by Pompous McFuckface.

Orange didn’t seem bothered by the sound of Blurr’s brain breaking and dropped the mer on the carpet, bee-lining for a weirdly rectangular bed.

“Um, excuse me? Concierge I appear to be on the floor.” Blurr rolled onto his elbows. He watched Orange flop face first onto the bed, starfish style. He showed no signs of moving.

“Yeah I’m not sleeping on the floor.” Blurr felt like gravity had increased a hundred fold, but screw that. His arms shook with exhaustion as he peeled out of the wretched traveling cocoon. The only thing fueling his last vestiges of strength was the promise of sleeping in an almost actual bed.

“Scooch.” Blurr grunted.

“Hmg.” Orange also grunted.

He dug his claws into the soft lining, heaving himself on top of the covers. Not stopping until he was fully in the center, instantly deflating upon success.

Eyes shut, and the passage of time dropped out from under him like a trick floor.

——————

Blurr startled awake. His arm hurt. Actually, everything hurt. But at the moment his right arm hurt like the joint had locked into position and was cutting off blood flow.

Something warm and heavy was weighing down the right side of his body. Breathing softly against his pinned shoulder.

Blurr clicked dully, squinting in the daylight. Orange was halfway on top of him, completely out cold. Blurr wedged his numb and tingling arm to under the space of the humans neck, restoring blood flow to the appendage.

Blearily looking around, the sun had moved a couple feet across the sky. It was maybe just before noonish?

Blurr threw his free arm over his eyes.

He’d only managed to sleep a couple hours and still felt so tired he wanted to cry. Blurr wasn’t an insomniac per say, but getting his brain to slow down once it started running was a Sisyphean task. If he was home, Blurr could doom scroll for a couple hours until he physically couldn’t stay awake any longer. Or put on a random movie to the same effect.

Blurr resigned himself to being bored, miserable and too tired to sleep. Waves crashed somewhere below in a rhythmic pattern. Absentmindedly, he started tracing the seams of Orange’s outer pelt. The texture was both bumpy and straight, faintly warm from.. fr…

One eyelid half fluttered open, the other remained at rest. Blurr closed his dry mouth, tasting his own breath. The last 24 hours dripped back into his consciousness and the mer groaned.

Orange had rolled around in their sleep again and was laying fully perpendicularly across his chest. If the weight didn’t feel like it was pressing his soul back into his body, Blurr might have considered removing the human. As it stood, the mer was content to let the moment of safety linger.

Since he was awake again, ish, he could at least take the time to compose some kind of public response for when he finally returned to civilization.

Hello everyone! You all like those heartstring pulling stories where celebrities save a poor helpless animal from certain doom? Well have I got a tale for you!

Blurr crossed his arms over his new 2 in 1 heated and weighted blanket. He fiddled with the reddish fur at the back of the humans head. The texture was totally unlike a seal or sea lions fur, a little stiff and crinkly from dried on seawater.

We’ve got tender moments of trust, heart pumping action, wilderness survival and even a close call with the authorities!

He lightly kneaded the fur, the hairs softening as he worked clumped patches through his fingers. Orange flattened out like melting snow.

A good conditioner could take care of that. Maybe some specialty shampoo.

Blurr closed his eyes.

And it ends in heartbreak.

“I can’t keep you.” He mumbled.

“I forgot you couldn’t breath underwater for fucks sake. Even if it wasn’t insanely illegal, I wouldn’t be able to actually take care of you.” Blurr kept his voice down, though he was starting to be pretty sure Orange could sleep through choir practice for a pod of whales.

He looked up humans once after he first started visiting the shore. The information was sparse to put it mildly. Plenty of pages on what to expect if you cut open a dead one, but almost nothing about their natural behavior. Tons of urban legends and a not so surprising number of fanfics, which he now had the first hand experience to definitively say were 90% carp crap.

Humans don’t even purr. They hum when they’re happy.

He found lots of government warnings about how dangerous they were in numbers. But any actual scientific papers were all about hunting habits. Shit, Blurr even read one doctors firsthand account of how he was attacked and barely survived getting four freaking limbs ripped off.

None of it lined up with what Blurr had seen for himself.

Blurr smoothed out the last of Oranges fur.

“What are you?” He whistled quietly. Staring at the bizarro recreation of a pent house around them, Blurr felt something uncomfortable and niggling at the back of his mind. The cold squirming worm of a paradigm shift that wanted to burrow in and raise every fin on his body.

He suppressed a shudder and pushed the worm away. Letting the undertow of sleep wash the thought away.

Maybe if I sleep for long enough, I’ll wake up and everything will actually be normal.

He slipped under, drifting away once more.

Orange rolled directly on top of Blurr’s head.

Through a combination of muffled shrieking and panicked slapping, the human jolted awake and nearly kicked them both off the bed.

Which bobbed.

Free of the human straight jacket, Blurr sat upright and finally got a good look around.

High tide had arrived. Their bed drifted slowly through the foot or so of water that filled the apartment. By the look of the sun, another couple hours had passed while he’d been conked out.

Blurr scratched at the scales around his gills, feeling like a piece of jerky, and quickly slipped into the water, relishing in the cool relief it brought to his body. Stretching his arms and back, listening to a few joints pop in release.

Feeling much more alive now, he playfully flicked a little water at the human still on the bed. Orange pulled up a blanket to shield himself and dipped a hand in to send a spray back to Blurr.

“You dare challenge me? And here I was thinking you were clever sweetheart!” Blurr grinned devilishly, coiling his body tight and fanning out his tail.

The smile dropped off Oranges face.

The water war ended then and there as Blurr swam victory laps around the apartment. Orange preemptively soaked for the day ahead. Finding where the bag had gone, Blurr fetched it so they could both get some.. breakfast? Lunch?

Eh, whatever.

“I have no idea what this stuff is but it’s amazing. Seriously, if I didn’t think it’d end up triggering horrible ecological exploitation I’d try to sell this to everyone.” Blurr dug into the salty cube of protein, having figured out how to open the human storage combs from watching Orange.

He licked the remaining fat from his fingers, decorum be damned. “Right, if we’re going to get back to civilization, this window of time is going to be our best chance.”

Blurr’s face wrinkled at the horrible bag. “I could maaaybe make a mad dash for the exit in one go. But with all the freaky stuff swimming around, I think having an emergency vertical escape route is a little too useful.”

The mer looked out over the flooded city. Most of the taller buildings stuck out well above of the water line. Various debris littered the surface, further cluttering the way. He could pretty much tell which way the ocean was, though it wasn’t a clean shot and would take a fair bit of weaving to get through.

“I mean, assuming you’ll let me carry you again. You’ve got a pretty nice set up here and I think we’re more than even now. I’mkeepingthemeatblocksthough.” He started arranging the bag to pull it back on.

Blurr hissed as the edges of the straps dug into the tender bruising grooves across his shoulders. Orange, who’d be eating and babbling along to Blurr’s monologue paused and scooted closer.

The human inspected the straps, slipping his fingers underneath and running the edge along his thumb. Orange made a couple nonsense noises before hopping off the bed to splash further into the apartment, disappearing around the corner.

The only thing that stopped Blurr from taking that as his queue to leave was a burning curiosity to know what the human was doing back there.

The sound of doors opening and closing, a few bumps and thuds of object’s falling over and a triumphant human noise kept Blurr on the edge of his seat.

Orange returned carrying some squares of cloth and a cylinder of glossy gray material, wearing the latter like a wrist ornament.

Curiously, Blurr watched as Orange wrapped the cloth around the straps, padding them out, and securing it in place with strips of sticky leather pulled off the wrist cylinder.

The mers face was carefully blank. “Orange.. How smart are you?”

The human chittered to himself happily, making small adjustments to the improvised padding.

“Okay you’re freaking me out a little. That wasn’t normal. What you just did isn’t normal.” Blurr consciously kept his fins from flaring, not wanting to cause the human to panic again after the incident with the cops. The human continued to be oblivious.

“Orange,” Blurr placed his hands on the human, causing them to stop talking and look him directly in the eyes. Blurr slowly and deliberately enunciated each click. “Can you understand me?”

The humans eyes were blank and devoid of comprehension. Orange was quickly turning red and Blurr could feel him wanting to pull away.

“Just- Give me one sign I’m not going crazy here. Like, I don’t know. Wave with both hands if you understand what I’m saying. Clap twice. Literally anything.” Blurr let Orange go, who suddenly seemed extremely interested in anything other than the mer. “Please sweetheart?”

Nothing.

Blurr sighed, rubbing the heels of his palms over his eyes. “Yeah okay. I’m just loosing it.”

The mer considered the “penthouse” one last time before putting it out of his mind. Blurr finished getting strapped in and Orange quickly followed suit.

The duo ventured into waters not yet known.

————————

“Okay, so the other delivery guy is totally panicking now right? Swindles got a bloody axe, the health inspector is still screaming from inside the floorboards, and there’s FIFTEEN GODDAMN SEAGULLS LOOSE inside the liquor cabinet.”

Blurr turned a random corner, not really minding his surroundings.

“And all of this is happening right in front of the freaking Senator.” Blurr can’t help but snickering at that point.

Orange rattled off some random human noises, Blurr waited patiently for his turn to talk again.“The Senator was a doll honestly. Very sympathetic to the whole situation. He was the one who got me through the door into professional racing actually.”

Blurr dropped the tenor of his voice dramatically. “He said: Blurr, you’re a young mer with incredible talent and unparalleled drive. But if you ever take another delivery job you’re going to end up in jail.”

Orange made an enthusiastic sound, kicking his feet slightly.

“Anyways, that’s how Swindle and I met at some kids birthday party.” Blurr rolled his eyes with a smile. Swindle was never going to believe this.

Taking a break from telling stories, Blurr stuck his head underwater to refresh his face, careful to keep the human top side.

They were swimming a few stories above the ground here. Sand pulled inward by the rip tides had settled across former streets, numerous species of sea life flit by exploring the flooded structures that were absolutely tangled in seaweed. A wild mer hunted some smaller fish through the interiors of a nearby building.

Glassy eyes flicked up to Blurr. Webbed hands paddling slowly to creep closer.

Blurr barred his teeth, locking eyes with the wild mer and sending out a few warning clicks. Low and echoing.

The possible predator got the message and turned tail.

Blurr puffed out his chest, radiating smugness. After the mutant leviathan from yesterday, it was going to take significantly more than some casual uncanny valley to rattle him now. Blurr was a hardened survivalist now.

The wild mer swept down close to the sand, keeping one eye trained upwards at Blurr in distrust.

The sand exploded and the mer vanished with a flash of massive ivory mandibles.

Blurr watched blood drift out of the newly revealed manhole like reddish smoke.

He popped his head back above water. “Hey did I every tell you about how much I hate the outdoors?”

Blurr hoped Orange couldn’t feel his rocketing heart rate through the bag. “I hate it! Loathe even! And oh wow my tail is sooo tired, I could really use a break from swimming so whatcha say we switch off for a while m’kay?”

Blurr kept a death grip on his nerves, refusing to bolt again. Instead he swam between a cluster of buildings with several shorter ones in between just beneath the waterline.

Maybe a just a little briskly.

Blurr was just about to signal Orange they where going to flip when a shrill metallic whistle cracked through the air.

The thin layer of sand beneath them exploded and for a single second Blurr choked on his own heart.

Gravity smashed into him as Orange instantly doubled in weight, crushing Blurr face first against a lattice of ropes.

Orange was shouting, frantically trying to push against the net and Blurr wasn’t behaving much better. He at least managed through sheer panic to twist them around enough that his spine wasn’t going to break from the weight.

Blurr and Orange swayed several feet above the water, hopelessly tangled and completely upside down.

The mer picked up the sound of many humans hollering. Jubilant and excited. The collective pitch was in a higher register than what Orange sounded like.

“Are you actually shitting me right now?” Blurr pressed his face to the netting. He watched as a ragtag pack of mini humans clambered from their hiding spots, armed with pointed sticks and blunt metal instruments.

“Of all the psychotic ways to die in this place are we seriously gonna get poked to death by a bunch of kids?!” He whistled irately, tail thrashing within his limited movement.

Orange was still being loud and noisy, but instead of continuing to just scream, he’d started chattering away at the juveniles surrounding them at a frantic speed.

Shockingly, a couple of the larger ones responded. Kicking off an honest to god dialogue. Albeit, one that clearly wasn’t weighted in Oranges favor.

While Orange barked at his back, Blurr noticed one of the smallest humans approach him specifically.

The wide eyed and gap toothed human opened its mouth and, “Ello there govna’!”

“What?” Blurr blinked. “What the fuck?”

The tiny human had a contemplative look on his face, frowning slightly before whistling back, “Ello what the fueck?!”

“The FUCK?” This wasn’t real. All of the blood in his body was rushing to his head and Blurr was having a stroke or something.

“Oooh, the fuck!” The tiny human annunciated, pretty closely mimicking Blurr’s speech.

The tiny human waved at the others, yelling some human nonsense that gathered their attention.

Interspersed, Blurr could hear them saying “Fuck” repeatedly.

Soon, all the other baby humans began repeating the “whistle-click” of the cuss word.

A chorus rung out.

“Fuck?”

“Fuck!”

“Fuck fuck.”

“Fuck fuck fuck?”

“Fuck fuck!”

“Ah, hokay.”

Somewhere in the distance, a deep bellowing mer voice called out. A classic two note song for recalling wandering children. The baby humans all stopped. Swiftly, they retreated back the way they came. Orange desperately called after them, where the largest responded with a clipped series of human barks.

Just before the littlest one left, he turned back to Blurr with a tiny hand waving goodbye, “Thank ya’ for the word-gift Mister Fuck-Fish! Fare thee well an’ safe travels!”

The moment after they disappeared, the rope was cut and the two of them crashed back into the water.

Disentangling themselves. Orange and Blurr both sat in the shallow water, each staring at nothing, slightly slack jawed.

The baby humans showed no signs of returning. For good or for evil.

Blurr broke the silence first. “We.. will never speak of this. And if we must. There was twenty of them. And they were fairies.”

Orange nodded, thousand yard stare unbroken.

A muggy wind began to pick up, rolling in from the east.

Orange, eventually, stood. And continued their journey on foot across the apocalyptic jungle gym.

As the hours of alternating travel between land and sea slipped by, a grey cast began to overtake the sky. Fat drops of dark rain spotted dry concrete. The water nipped a little louder at the edges of their pathways.

Orange began to shiver.

And as the first distant flashes of lightning flickered across the reflective buildings, Blurr felt his heart cinch.

All he saw was a still image. Quickly gone. Of leopard seal spots, and a blood bright visor.

Hunting.

———————————————————————

Aight. The Lethal Grandma joke will come soon but not now, because pacing is a thing.

Blurr and Swerve are cursed to have the worst possible encounters with every other survivor in the Apocalypse. Because it’s funny.

-SSTP

#apocalyptic ponyo #writing #ye

465 notes · View notes