#Invincible x ofc | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vinnyvamppp · 4 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 The usual cocky demeanor—full of false-promising smiles, had been replaced by something raw: an expression of strife.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!)

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meghiee · 7 days ago

Text

the heir.

viltrumite!invincible x afab!reader (i will be using she/her pronouns for this story)

warnings: kidnapping/abduction, mentions of sex/breeding but nothing graphic (no smut here soz), pregnancy, forced marriage, angst ofc, reader becomes depressed, TW!! for mentions of starving oneself

summary: you are taken to be a suitable breeding match for viltrumites. your match? mark grayson.

a/n: thinking of making a part 2 to this... idk! :)

UPDATE!!! i made part 2 :D

The day they came, Earth didn't even get the courtesy of a fair warning. The sky cracked open, and Viltrumites descended from the sky like they were gods, and in a way, they technically were. They weren't loud or dramatic, just incredibly efficient. They weren't here to fight. They were here to collect.

They didn't call it that, of course. They called it a "selective preservation and integration protocol." They told you it was an honor. That Earth's population had been deemed too weak, too... soft. Only a handful of humans were to be preserved. You were among them. Not for your strength or your mind. For your "breeding potential". The Viltrumite Empire demanded heirs, and the scan determined you were genetically viable enough to carry one. Specifically, you were genetically-compatible with a high-ranking officer.

Mark Grayson.

Half-Human, but he was practically entirely Viltrumite now. He used to be known as Invincible; a name people used to cheer for. Now, it was only whispered in fear.

When you first saw him, you remembered the boy you'd see on television. His smile. How he'd help those around him, from the poor to rich, young to elderly. He had humanity. That boy was dead, though. What stood before you now was nothing more than a man forged in steel. His gaze lacked compassion, and his voice no longer carried kindness in it's tone.

"This is her?" he inquired coldly. His arms crossed against his chest as he frowned, he almost seemed disappointed. "She looks... fragile." He paused, glancing you up and down as if examining you. It felt uncomfortable, almost as if he could see everything about you; innards and outers. You began chewing on the inside of your cheek as you straightened your posture. You felt so conscious of everything you did now. Why'd he have to look at you like that? "She'll be sufficient." an older Viltrumite gentleman stated. It felt nice to have him defend you till,

"You'll begin the pairing ceremony tomorrow. Her cycle aligns."

You wanted to cry. That was so uncomfortable.

You were taken to a fortress-like world. Metal and marble, polished and perfect. No color. No sound. No life.

This was Mark's home, and now it was yours' too.

You were given a luxurious quarter, but it felt more like a prison. You never had to cook or clean, but you were constantly monitored. Always watched. It wasn't even you they cared about, it was the child they expected you to carry. You were told the process would be swift. You and Mark were to "unite genetically" and begin the process of bearing an heir.

Mark didn't touch you, not at first. He just studied you like you were a puzzle, like he was figuring out what made you tick and what made you crack. He didn't bother to get to know you or your life. He didn't care. He didn't speak to you often either. But, when he did, it was always flat, emotionless.

"The medical team wants a fertility scan today."

"You're not eating enough protein. That can affect gestation."

"We'll begin mating this week."

You hated that word. It made you feel like livestock.

The first time you shared a bed, he barely said a word. There was no love, no soft touches and gentle words. It was mechanical, clinical. Like a transaction for the Empire. You held it together, despite how this whole ordeal was beginning to tear you apart inside. It was a cycle. One day you sat alone, staring out the window as life moved on while you remain dormant. The next day you were prodded and poked by various people and machines. Then you were back to trying again with Mark.

But, you didn't cry until one night after he left. You stood in the too-polish and too-clean bathroom, staring at yourself. You were smaller, thinner. You looked foreign in the silk robes they dressed you in. Your hands grasped the sides of the sink counter as the tears fell down the drain. Your breath was heaving but you bit your tongue, trying to stay quiet. They didn't like weakness here.

Glancing up at yourself in the mirror you began to realize you didn't recognize yourself anymore... This wasn't you. The you that was full of life and joy. The you who established a career for themselves. Maybe that you died on Earth, and you were just the husk that remained. You sat crumpled on the cold tile, knees drawn to your chest. Your sobs slipped out in trembling gasps, each one echoing off the porcelain walls. The floor stole your warmth as if it was punishing you just for breaking down. The chill made your body shiver as tears puddled quietly beneath your chin.

You became pregnant six weeks after the first contact. The medical team confirmed it with quiet nods and clinical approval. You thought that maybe, just maybe, he would soften. That someone would finally speak to you like you mattered. But, nothing changed. Mark said nothing at first. He just stared at he holopad in silence, like he was reading your death sentence.

Later, when you returned to your quarters, Mark appeared in the doorway.

"I'll be taking a reduced deployment schedule," he began. "They don't want to risk..." Mark paused, he gestured to your stomach, "complications." You glanced up from your hands, tangled together as you fidgeted with the tips of your fingers... when did that become a habit? This was the first time you really looked at him in days. He looked hesitant, almost... concerned?

It didn't matter to you. Why did he care now? The anger began to rise in your chest, but it was almost if your body didn't care to feel anymore. "You think I'll die," you said flatly.

Mark was treading over gingerly before he hesitated. Those words stopped him in his tracks. Then, that look on his face disappeared. He was back to Viltrum again. "There's a 27% mortality rate for baseline humans carrying Viltrumite offspring. Even higher in emotionally unstable hosts."

That word, host. It slammed against your chest like a punch. There's that feeling again; like you were just livestock.

The sickness started early. Bone-deep exhaustion, blinding migraines. Your senses were too sharp, and your skin felt wrong.

And no one cared.

You stopped eating. Stopped speaking unless spoken to. The silence in the palace was unbearable, broken only by the humming of strange, alien machinery or the occasional barked order in a language you didn't understand.

At night, you would curl up in the corner of the massive bedroom, to hollow to cry anymore. If you did cry, it was sobbing, painful sobbing. You tried to avoid it. You didn't care if the baby came early, or if you died.

No one asked how you were feeling. The medics just measured your vitals as usual, and the attendants brought you your pills on schedule. Mark would check your stats daily, but he never once asked how you were doing.

Until one night.

You didn't show up for the scheduled scan.

Mark stormed into your chamber, ready to issue a command... until he saw you curled in the corner, shaking. Your body racked with breathless sobs. You were so exhausted. You hadn't eaten in two days, your lips were cracked, your skin was sickly pale, and you were sure you had a fever.

"I can't do this," you whispered, "I don't want this." Your arms hugged your stomach as you croaked.

He froze in the doorway. You swore you could see something flicker in his eyes, like the cog wheels were turning. Mark's fists clenched as he sucked in a long breath through his nose, closing his eyes. Exhaling, he walked towards you, crouched down slowly, and began rubbing your back. His palm was shockingly warm, and his touch felt right for the first time. Your body leaned into him, but your mind felt nothing but anger. You were bitter.

"Are you in pain?" he finally spoke, and for once he sounded... concerned. You didn't answer.

"I need to know if you're in pain." he spoke once more, quieter this time. "I need to know... if something's wrong, please."

You examined him through your wet eyelashes. Truthfully, you were stunned. It wasn't much, but that 'please' was the first thing he'd said that sounded like it came from a human being.

After that night, Mark began to linger.

"I... noticed," he began, awkwardly, "you've lost weight." You were laying in bed when he came in, trying to fall asleep. There was nothing to pass the time, and sleep was the quickest option. Rising from the covers, you peered at him with heavy, exhausted eyes. His eyes, however, looked more gentle today. More... welcoming. Nurturing. Like he was trying. In his hand, he held a small plate, but there lay fruit. This wasn't Viltrum fruit, no, this was human fruit. Human fruit from Earth. That was the first day you began eating again.

It became a routine from that point forward. He brought meals himself now, mostly in hopes that you would atleast try to eat something warm, something that came from a stove instead of being plucked from a tree or bush. He'd sit beside you while you forced down the cut-up fruit. Oranges, berries, and apples. All things he said "were good for you and the infant." He began to strike up conversations, nothing exciting, just mundane things... "Was it sunny on your side of Earth?" or "Do you like music?"

It honestly felt clumsy... like he was trying to remember what people did in moments like this. But, atleast he was trying, finally.

One night, when your back was aching, and you were too nauseous to speak, Mark sat beside the bed, pulled his gloves off, and gently placed his hand over your stomach, rubbing slowly.

"It's growing fast," he murmured, his eyes squinting at your stomach, almost as if he was calculating. "It may already be stronger than most soldiers." He glanced up to you, but... he looked troubled.

You frowned, whispering, "You're afraid."

Mark nodded slowly, rising from his spot. "I don't want to lose you."

It wasn't romantic, hell, it wasn't even tender. But, it was the first honest thing he'd said that wasn't for the Empire's sake.

Your health declined rapidly in your final trimester. The baby's strength began growing faster than your body could realistically handle. Your bones began cracking under the weight of it's kicks. Soon, you began having seizures.

Mark stopped sleeping.

Instead, he would sit by your beside, reading medical data, and scanning your vitals obsessively.

Once, you coded for sixty seconds. Mark nearly killed the attending doctor trying to revive you.

"I will tear this planet apart if she dies," he snarled.

The doctor responded coldly as he worked, "Your heir will survive either way."

Mark punched him through a wall.

That night, when you woke up groggy and half-dead, you faintly saw Mark's bloodied knuckles and pale face through spotted vision.

"You need to live," he begged, hoarsely. "You are not replaceable."

You swore you felt his hand shake in yours.

From that night forward, something severely shifted between you two. Mark stayed home more. He still brought you meals, but now they became more thoughtfully chosen. No longer just meals to boost your vitamins and general health, but meals that you would eat back home. It seemed as if he was listening to your answers of his mundane questions, especially the day he brought home an unopened box of Monopoly. It had been years since you played, but Mark did recall you mentioning the board game when he inquired once about your childhood. You two never did sit down to play, but it was the thought that counted, right?

Your pregnancy began to inch toward it's end, but the dread never faded. Viltrumite births were violent. Bloody. Dangerous.

Mark knew that, and that's what haunted him. You were already so weak now... who knew if you were to survive.

Labor lasted twenty-two hours.

You screamed. Fought. Bled. The baby wasn't just strong, it was tearing you apart from the inside. The medics said you wouldn't survive. Mark paced outside your medical suite for hours. He kept trying to get peaks through the door every time someone would exit the room, but it was too crowded. Every scream he heard from beyond the door felt like a knife carving itself deep into his chest, brutalizing his heart. He grew restless, anxious. "Stay with me," he whispered to himself again and again, hoping that somehow you could hear him. "Stay with me, please..."

When the alarms blared, he nearly tore the door of it's hinges. He couldn't stand outside any longer. You were hemorrhaging and fading, fast.

In the end, you survived.

But barely.

You don't remember the birth itself, only waking later in a clean, silent room. Mark stood beside you with the baby in his arms. His eyes were sunken, and his armor was smeared with blood. Was that yours?

It was a boy; a spitting image of Mark.

"You weren't supposed to make it," he whispered, his hand reaching out to hold yours. You squeezed it, "Sorry to disappoint."

He choked out a laugh; it was the first time you ever heard one from him.

Recovery was slow.

But you lived.

Mark stayed close; often in the same room, sitting with the baby whilst you slept. He learned how to hold him gently and how to soothe him when he cried. It didn't come naturally at all, but he was determined.

He never left you alone at night.

And slowly, your hatred toward him... toward all of this, started to change. Not into love, not yet, but something... similar. Something real.

#invincible #invincible variants #mark grayson #mark grayson x reader #viltrumite invincible x reader #viltrumite invincible #viltrumite mark x reader #viltrumite mark

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brain4stew · 4 months ago

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Sooo, I don’t write much for forsaken x reader, but a silly idea here from me, to other writers (possibly).

A reader that’s either sleepy 24/7 or could sleep 24/7, like a fucking hibernating bear.

• (In my case, it’d be both, so let me write for that rq.), (Only idea related, I guess??)

• If you’re a survivor, then damn, either you’re lucky to be the last one remaining, and the killer leaving you alone to win, due to you either sleeping, or being too sleepy to even stand. Or you could be unlucky as hell, and end up dead first, spotted first or attacked first.

• Other survivors worry about you dying first, or dying in general in rounds. (Especially Elliot, that guy gets some sort of heart attack.)

• Either you’re with a survivor you spawn together with, or you’re just, going to a corner of the map and just, either sitting there and wait the timer out, or you’re sleeping in the said corner.

• God forbid the killer is C00lkidd… He’ll probably go for you first, to “Get your energy back!” As he says it.

• On another note, if it is Mafioso, he’ll just scare and chase you in the dreamscapes… So you’ll basically have a nightmare of that.

• Thankfully, Jason, 1x1x1x1, John Doe, Azure, Noli and the other killers leave you be. (Maybe not 1x4 but… It’s possible they’ll leave you be.)

• If you’re a killer, then you’ll just be an event killer. You’ll spawn with another killer, and you’ll be able to either stand where you spawned, or sleep where you spawned. You’ll also be invincible for around 40 seconds within the start of the round. It could come back, but only if the killer companion of yours is close by you for 5 seconds.

• (It gives your fellow killer companion 20 more stamina, and gives survivors drowsiness 1 for the duration of the rounds you’re in it. Drowsiness means that the survivors visions will be outlined with a bit of black “smoke”, obscuring their visions. Not only that, but occasionally they will “blink” and yawn, which will be a problem for the survivors. If the survivor tends to yawn loudly, then your killer companion will be notified of the survivor.)

• Now, Mafioso paired with you, might be a very hard challenge for the survivors. For if you’re sleeping, or just staying by the killer spawn and probably fall asleep standing, Mafioso can actually get to where you are rather quickly. Thanks to the dreamscapes. (There’s a cooldown ofc, of 60 seconds.)

• Each survivor and killer have different opinions on you, whether you’re a killer or a survivor yourself. It varies on how it is to be around you, how you act and all of that.

• I have a feeling that the survivors do NOT trust you to be asleep, or even remotely close to Two Time, due to their past, and all that. The survivors might have a debate on whether they’ll allow 007n7 to be close to you or not however, due to his past actions.

• The killers all agree that 1x4, Mafioso and C00lkidd should NOT be near you. If you’re sleeping or not. Mainly because, 1x4 literally hates anyone and everything? Mafioso… Due to the dreamscapes and all of that… C00lkidd is pretty self explanatory. Hyper little kid.

• Jason, Azure and I think Guest 666 will be able to be around you, even if you’re asleep or just sleepy in general. Mainly because they won’t be too loud around you, and because they don’t do much, unless they’re in a round. (Jason legit can’t talk.)

• Out of every survivor, I’d assume that Taph, Dusekkar, Elliot, Guest 1337, Builderman and Noob will be the safest around you. Mainly Guest 1337 though, as he’s got quite high senses due to his past, and because he had to be on high alert for any enemies from war.

• Dusekkar would probably just put a noise canceling shield on you, so you’d be able to sleep without too much noise. Taph is naturally quiet, they only speak with emoji’s, so it’d probably be sign language. They’d also hold back on testing their subspace trip mine when you’re nearby.

• Noob would just be grateful that you even trust them enough to be sleepy, or even sleep near them. They feel like they have a “objective” to help you sleep. Elliot is also just glad you trust him enough to be sleepy or sleep around him, it also eases down his own stress levels.

• Builderman would make sure that you’re REALLY protected when you’re sleeping. He’d even build a sleeping dispenser nearby for you, quietly of course, just so you’ll get some ambience and fairly “fresh” air.

#roblox forsaken x reader #forsaken roblox x reader #forsaken x reader #brain4stew/l i n’s texts/chats #brain4stew/l i n’s work‼️

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invincibledc · 4 months ago

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Now that I have ur permission to request, I was wondering if it could be a batfam/invincible x magical boy reader (magical boys are just magical girls but dudes) it can be headcanons or a small drabble, doesn't matter!

(Anyway I'll be waiting in the basement 🕶🦯)

𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐚𝐦/𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐱 𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

A/N: doing both because I love them both!

BATFAMILY—

If reader/you were to say the spells out loud, the family would try to see if you can try to do them some other way for your safety. If it’s not possible, than maybe how about you say the spells softly low

Your own batfamily suit is so cool! It has back up weapon that holds your magic incase your magical weapon snaps and have it regenerate, so it’s a win win that Bruce is considerate

Bruce, the man himself sees you as a son. So of course expect a little bit of bossiness and control about where you go, what you eat, and how your performance is with missons

Although, Bruce is amazed by your abilities, especially your spells. He’ll test how much you know about your spells and analyze what each can do be helpful during serious things.

Lastly, he’s a good guy that makes sure you also have a good “normal” life outside of your magical business.

Jason is the type of guy to ask for you do a magic trick, and it literally the most classic “magic” trick in the world as you make an apple disappear or maybe pull a bunny out of no where.

Course zatanna and you are best friends! You both are different kind of magic users but are still powerful. Zatanna is mostly shocked that you are.. a magical boy.. cause like she never heard of that before so of course she is interested in you (platonic ofc)

And Raven? She’s chill about it! You could be doing something by her as you hum whilst she meditates to keep her powers in control

If you were the kind of magical boy to be like “i honestly wants this shit to be done” with a quick transformation of your outfit and immediately one shooting an enemy.. any one around the radius would be shocked to see that

Dick is literally the same as Jason, “do a magic trick!” He exclaims as he sits on the couch and watches you sighed in an annoyance as you pulled a quarter from his ear out of pity

He fakes shock before clapping his hands as he just kept that stupid grin on his face. But other than that, he at least supports of you if you do wanna be a at a kid’s party to show off your own tricks.

Dick always shows you designs of his own about your magical boy outfit, honestly is your number one supporter

Tim side eyes you everytime you transform cause it’s so dramatic, like bro is holding his staff as he just stares at the glowing light blinding his eyes. But either wise, he would just use that blinding light to “STRIKEE!!” a hoe when the foe is stricken by your glowing body

Tim using you as a glow stick, or maybe your wand as you run up and smack his head as he uses it during a power outage

You and tim are an odd duo that don’t be around each other as much, but always make things work with duo combos

Damian pitys you due to how he sees your whole being as pathetic, that was til you hit killer croc with the hardest beaming blast of his life

Soon he magically clings to you like a black cat that doesn’t like anyone but you, he literally tugs on your clothing to show you some drawings of you in a sparkling aura having your magical weapon

Shows Jon you, and Jon starts to fanboy over you whilst you have two young child just gushing over how cool you are to them now.

It’s a shocker really

INVINCIBLE—

Honestly, you’re in teen team, there’s so many coool people with such cool powers! And then there’s you in your “magical” outfit as Rex makes fun of you. Saying how “girlish” you seem whilst Eve and mark try to comfort you.

Rex was soon turned into a frog, smirking as he croaks in distress.

Rex never doubted you again, but after the whole shot in the head gig happened, he was one of the dudes that just got along with you. “Oh that guy? Yeah he can make you shit sparkles, watch out.”

If you had a magical weapon that helps along with your magical boy persona, you can bet mark is swooping in as you yelled in anger about your broken weapon that will have to regenerate in 24 hours now

Mark and the others, mostly mark, scolds you for relying on some “stupid” staff

Eve being your best girl friend as you both hang out, mark is a great guy. He would always make sure you’re okay, and always see what kinda other spells you can do.

If your magical boy transformation changed your whole appearance like hair, eyes, or just like height, the team will be shocked when you’re out of your appearance and look so… normal.

You’re more of a support than on the team, sure you can fight and handle battles with those deadly or passive attack spells, but you’re on the sideline of things

Debbie wasn’t sure about some magic boy in her house, but seeing how Oliver likes you and mark loves you around. She invites you at any chance for dinner

Meanwhile Cecil has plans for if you turn against him, of course if you went rouge and not just “hey, I quit.” Type of against him ofc

Either way. You and Oliver are such gremlins

“Can you turn mark into a frog?” Is what Oliver asked you the first moment you told him how you turned rex into one.

Chasing mark with Oliver was fun!

Eve finds it so funny when you turn any guy trying to harass her into a horse , just to actually call them a horse face.

Imagine mark watching your transformation and just clapping supportively as you flex off your new “hero” costume

The variants, they stare at you weird. You don’t exist in any of their worlds. You’re an anomaly, something that shouldn’t be alive, something that shouldn’t even breathe when you blast one variant from you with a beam that actually hurts him. And he’s supposed to be… invincible.

THANKS FOR READING!!

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sugardollcurse · 2 months ago

Note

god i love the way you write the boys....your dialogue is always so good and characteristic!!!

could i possibly request one where a reader is also a beatle and is in love with one of the boys & he's in love with her too but it's one of those unspoken things they don't acknowledge cause they don't wanna ruin the band and "if it was gonna happen, it would have already." but now with all the stress of the get back era / post-break up, he sort of realizes its now or never and confesses? george or paul seem the type for that sorta thing but idc which beatle truly....whichever one would be most fun for you to write, i just love a good yearning!! if it interests you ofc if not no worries!

𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕

꒰ pairing ꒱ george harrison x fem!reader

꒰ summary ꒱ george had been in love with you for years. you’d been in love with him too. but it had always been unspoken.

꒰ note ꒱ thank you so much angel!! and thank you for this beautiful little ache of a request.. i love it so much.. yearning forever and ever!!

You were sitting on the rooftop of Apple Corps, legs swinging over the edge like a madwoman, cigarette tucked between your fingers, breath fogging up in the freezing January air. Below you, London roared and shifted, unaware that the most famous band in the world had just cracked apart.

The wind clawed at your coat, pulled at your hair, but you didn’t move. You were staring at the sky… grey, flat, unforgiving. Just like everything else lately.

“Knew I’d find you up here.”

You didn’t turn. You didn’t have to.

George’s voice was quieter now. Less sure of itself. Not the sharp, smug tone he’d used in ‘64 when you’d all been invincible. Now, it was lower, softer. Like something heavy had settled into his bones and never left.

“Didn’t know you were looking.”

He stepped beside you, the soles of his boots scraping on the rooftop gravel.

“Always do.”

You took a slow drag, let the silence stretch. If you spoke too soon, you might say something stupid. Or worse, something true.

George sat next to you, not too close. Not touching. Never touching. That was the thing about you and him, it had always been like this. Almost. Nearly. Not quite.

You both stared out over the city.

Downstairs, the building still echoed with whatever was left of the band. Someone, probably Paul, was arguing with Glyn again. John had disappeared with Yoko an hour ago. Ringo was politely hiding in the loo.

You and George? You always ended up here.

“D’you remember Hamburg?” he asked suddenly, voice a bit hoarse from the cold.

You let out a small sound. “Christ. I try not to.”

He laughed, the first real laugh you’d heard from him in weeks. “You were always knackered. Couldn’t keep up.”

“Yeah, well, it’s hard to keep up when you’re playing till three in the morning and getting screamed at by German drunks on your break.”

He smiled at that. “You were better than all of us, even then.”

You rolled your eyes, flicking ash over the ledge. “You’re a shit liar.”

“’M not lyin’.”

Something in his tone made you glance over at him. He wasn’t looking at you, just at the street, his jaw tight, his profile sharp in the dull sky.

“You were always better,” he said again, softer this time. “Smarter. Sharper. Didn’t talk just to hear yourself. And you always saw through all of us.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you said nothing.

“I used to think…” He trailed off, exhaling hard through his nose. “Ah, forget it.”

You turned to face him fully. “Don’t do that. Say it.”

George met your eyes. And for a second, everything dropped. The sarcasm. The walls. The careful, polite distance.

You saw it there, plain as day.

“I used to think,” he said slowly, “that maybe, if we weren’t the Beatles, maybe you and me could’ve… I dunno.”

He couldn’t finish it. You finished it for him. “Been something.”

His eyes flicked to yours, surprised. “Yeah.”

The silence now was heavier. More loaded.

You swallowed. “I thought about it too.”

George looked down at his hands. He was fiddling with the cuff of his coat, like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“But we were the Beatles,” you said. “And that meant… you couldn’t touch anything without it breaking.”

He nodded. “So we didn’t.”

You bit your lip. “And now look at us.”

George gave a soft, bitter laugh. “Yeah. Funny, innit? Didn’t want to ruin the band, and we ruined it anyway.”

You stared at the skyline, chest tight. “If it was ever gonna happen…”

“It would’ve already,” he finished. His voice was hollow.

You both went quiet again.

But this time, it didn’t stretch comfortably. It ached.

George suddenly stood up, shoving his hands deep in his coat pockets. He looked like he might walk off. Might disappear.

“I don’t want to regret you an’ all,” he said suddenly.

Your head snapped toward him. “George-“

“I mean it.” He was pacing now, just a little. Agitated. That nervous energy he got when he was writing something that mattered and couldn’t get it down right.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about it for ages. Maybe years. I dunno. Could be since Hamburg. Or India. Or even earlier. But it’s always been there, hasn’t it?”

You stood, your breath catching.

George met your eyes. “An’ I kept tellin’ meself it was too risky. That if I said anythin’, I’d mess up everythin’. You’d go. Band’d split. People’d blame me.”

A pause.

“But the band’s splittin’ anyway.”

You couldn’t breathe.

George stepped closer now. “So what’s the bloody point in pretendin’ anymore?”

Your chest ached. “What are you saying?”

He looked at you like it hurt. “I’m sayin’ I love you.”

The words didn’t come out perfect. They weren’t romantic or lyrical. They were raw. Ugly with fear.

“I think I’ve loved you for a long time,” he went on, eyes bright. “And I didn’t say it ‘cause I thought I was protectin’ somethin’. But… I dunno.”

You were still frozen.

George’s voice broke slightly. “Say somethin’.”

You swallowed thickly. “I love you too.”

He blinked.

“I never said anything because-“ You laughed, quietly, bitterly. “Because of all the same reasons. I didn’t want to lose what we had. I didn’t want to be the one who ruined it.”

“But it’s wrecked anyway,” he said. “So maybe… maybe we start from here… yeah?”

You looked at him, really looked.

The George who stood before you wasn’t the little boy from Liverpool anymore. He wasn’t the cheeky lead guitarist. He wasn’t the shadow behind John and Paul.

He was a man. Tired. Brilliant. Terrified. Hopeful.

You reached for his hand. Slowly. Carefully.

And he took it.

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee

#george harrison #george harrison x reader #george harrison oneshot #george harrison fanfic #george harrison imagines #the beatles #the beatles fanfic #the beatles oneshot #the beatles x reader #oneshot #fanfic #fanfiction #beatles x reader #beatles

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selfshipping-madness · 5 months ago

Text

Allen x Human!Fem! Reader

Summary: Just some overall relationship headcanons revolving around the version of Allen from the Invincible show. Idk anything about the comics, lol.

Genre: Fluff

Met you during a visit to Earth to hang out with Invincible.

You were just passing by, and, man, you were the most gorgeous creature he'd ever seen.

He starts coming to Earth more often in hopes of seeing you (not that he'd ever admit that is his motive, lol).

Takes him a few visits to work up the nerve to talk to you. Ik he's not the overly anxious or shy type, he's actually fairly social, but he still gets a little bit nervous at the thought of talking to you.

When he does, he's very blunt yet sincere with how he thinks you're beautiful.

"Um, hi. I'm Allen, an alien if you can't tell, which I'm sure you could. Anyway, I kinda wanted to let you know that you're very pretty. Hope that isn't too forward."

The two of you get to talking after that, which then leads to a nice friendship, which then leads to more visits from Allen.

All this leads up to when he asks you out on a proper date.

"So, we've been hanging out a lot, and I really enjoy your company. I was wondering if you and I could go on a date. I don't know this planet all that well, so you'd probably have to pick the spot. But, yeah. What do you say?"

He's an absolute gentleman on your date together.

He studied human customs just for this.

While he wants to tell you how he feels at the end of your first date, he's worried that might be too fast for you. He heard humans often like to take relationships slow, so he waits for a few more dates before telling.

It's a very simple confession, of course. Allen is the furthest thing from a flashy guy.

"Hey, can I tell you something? I think you're the most beautiful person ever and I love your personality. And, well, I like you. In a "more than friends" kind of way. Just wanted to get that off my chest. I hope you feel the same, but, obviously, you don't have to."

Now, Allen is an amazing boyfriend.

You want cuddles? He's down. Wanna talk? Ofc. Want kisses? You want, you got it.

Isn't overly against very casual pda.

Just the usually holding hands, cute kisses, and stuff like that.

Will gladly princess carry you without a second thought.

All you have to do is mention your feet hurt or that you're tired simply as a passing comment, and the next thing you know, you're in his arms.

Any place, any time.

He's not necessarily even doing it to be romantic. He's just doing it to be considerate and because he cares.

Will definitely take you flying with him if you want to.

He's just overall a very sweet boyfriend.

Is very blunt with telling you how he feels about you /pos.

I will say, he definitely isn't afraid of some playful teasing.

Just a few playful remarks or comebacks.

Also loves to give you teasing kisses/nuzzles. More when the two of you are alone but isn't against doing them in public.

And you'll get to occasionally flirt. Nothing over the top. Just simple stuff.

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aphroditesmoon · 2 years ago

Note

heyy for the clarisse head cannons, maybe a enemies to lovers w clarisse

enemies to lovers hcs with clarisse

clarisse la rue x fem!reader

warnings: fighting, mild violence, kissing.

- I feel like you would probably be in athena cabin or hermes, (or whichever ur prefer)

- clarisse has a lot of people who hate her, but no one brave enough to challenge he, until she met you.

- the two of you match eachother's skills, and it's frustrating for clarisse to admit that you're actually good.

- "you really think you're all that, don't you?"

- "of course not, we both know no ones better than you, clarisse."

- you probably meant it literally, but everyone watching laughs anyway.

- everytime you spar with her, its not because you want to humiliate her but simply because you're intrigued by clarisse.

she was an angry, violent girl, and you wondered deep down if that was the only side of her that existed.

- she doesn't know that ofc.

- she thinks everytime you try to be funny or nice to her, you're just being patronizing.

- for example, when you tell her she's not that bad or try to help her up after you win she's sure that you meant it in a mocking way.

- that was until she got beef with the new kid percy jackson and he broke her spear 💀

- when you found her alone in the ares cabin while everyone's eating dinner, you tried to comfort her. she doesn't appreciate the notion.

- "you shouldn't have went after him, clarisse." you told her.

- "how was I supposed to know he was a son of the big three?" she snapped back, refusing to look anywhere else but atnthe spear.

- the cabin was sileny for a moment before yoi spoke again, "maybe you could give it over to the haphaestus kids, they could fix it."

- "this is a magical spear, not a normal one." she answers back.

- she assumed you came to gloat, to tell her she deserved it, to call her a bully like everyone else did, but she was weirdly comforted by your presence instead. she didn't have to lie or pretend to be strong in front of you, something she learned of after a few months in of sparring with you is that you wouldn't hit someone during their weakest.

- "I remember the first gift my mom/dad gave me when I first got here. a knife, It meant so much to me, but I didn't know that it wasn't invincible, I broke it while trying to pull it out of a tree after I accidentally staked it into."

- clarisse was quiet for a moment before turning to you with a frown and said: "that's so stupid."

- you smiled at her and nodded your head. "yeah it was." she smiled back at you and shook her head. "I can't believe thats the same person who beat my ass last week."

- your eyes widened. "I can't believe you're actually admitting that I've beat your ass." she scoffed at that.

- "how did it end up in the tree anyways?" She asked. you blinked for a few times and reluctantly responded, "I tried to carve my name onto the tree." you could tell clarisse was so baffled by it that she wanted to laugh, but instead she just stared at you with her mouth wide open.

- "thats-" "stupid, yeah, you already said that."

- "carving your name on a tree? really? what, were you 10 years old or something?"

- you were 10. "I was 10 actually." "oh." her face relaxed, all of it finally making sense.

- "anyways, what I mean is, at least your spear went out in a fight. I'm sure your father must be really proud of you."

- clarisse looked away immediately, as if the idea of her father at all, hurted her.

- "you know nothing about my father."

- you shrugged and sat next to her on her bed. "I don't, but I know you. and I'd say you did pretty damn well.".

- you expected her to snap at you again, that was her thing, confronted by kindness or any kind of empathy, fight or flight. but instead she smiled sadly at you. "you think so?"

- you answered yes and inched closer to her. "everyone at camp is either scared of you, or they respect you. that respect didn't come out of nowhere."

- clarisse nodded her head, staring back down at the spear on her lap. "do you really think they can fix it?"

- "it's worth a try." you told her.

- the next time you see her was the following day after she and the other cabin leaders were gathered together for Percy to choose for his quest.

- you noticed she still tries ti act cold with you, but she was less meaner than before.

- "chiron gathered the best of the best to join the quest." she had told you when you asked her where she went.

- "and he asked you to be there?"

- "what, you don't think im good all of the sudden?" she asks, glaring at you.

- you rolled your eyes at her. "I know you're good, but I also know that you tried to kill Percy yesterday, not exactly team spirit is it?"

- she considered it for a moment and shrugged. "who cares, at least that punk will be gone for a while. everything can go back to normal." you follow her as she walked out of the cabin with a normal spear.

- "normal as in?"

- "normal as in, I'm going to kick your ass."

- the two of you sparred for an hour and a half, you wont say that you were holding back today, but you weren't exactly giving her your all. you liked to see the eay she smiled everytime she won, even if it was annoyingly smug.

- that same night, rumors were going around that clarisse was going soft. breaking her infamous spear, befriending her nemesis.

- "we're not friends," she told her cabin siblings. "It's not my fault she's obsessed with me."

- when word got out about what she said, you decided that maybe trying to get to know clarisse was a bad idea. not really being the confrontational kind of person, you just stopped talkiing to her.

- it was a few days later when she went out of her way to find you. all the cabins were in disarray. they were all choosing sides between zeus and poseidon after the news broke that the two powerful gods we're against eachother.

- uncharacteristically, clarisse aided with poseidon. she weighed her choices as cabin leader and daughter of ares and decided it was the best option

- (if you're a daughter of athena) then, you sided with zeus. athena is known to having feud with the god poseidon, and you would side your mother.

- (if you're in the other cabins), then you just use the feud as an excuse to not talk to her, claiming that all kinds of provocative interaction should be kept om a liminal time.

- clarisse found you in the bathroom and tried to get you to listen to her.

- "you're saying that this feud bothers you so much that you've just completely stopped talking to me?"

- "I think, that I'd like to stop being so obsessed with you, considering it was you who said that you wanted me out of your hair."

- she chased after you as you walked out of the bathroom and pulled you to the side.

- " I didn't mean it that way." she was lying and you both knew that.

- "you know what your problem is clarisse? you care so much of what other people think of you, what their perception of you is like. people who wouldn't blink twice if you were in danger. but what about the people who do care about you? the people who want to keep caring about you?"

- your words caught her off guard, she knew it was her fault but she didn't think as far as you had said.

- "I care about you too." she says honestly.

- "you don't hurt people you care about." and she knew that. she knew what it felt like to be scorned and hated by the person you love. and clarisse la rue, will not be like her father.

- "give me one chance to make it up to you, let us start over again." she pleaded.

- you might resent her for what she had done, but that doesn't mean you're immune to her wishes. "one chance."

- "one chance." she agreed.

- the next day, while everyone was out practising, she finda you helping a younger girl in your camp with her stance in fighting and called you to the side.

- "I got something for you." she said.

- the two of you walked a bit further away from other people but she stopped and pull out something from her pocket.

- "the haphaestus kids couldn't fix my spear, but I did get them to work out something new for you."

- it was a knife, similar to your old on2, but the engraved heart shape on the black holder was different. The holder was made if rubbee, easier to grip, and the tip was sharper than anything you've seen.

- "this is for me?" she nodded and placed it into your right palm.

- "it's not magical, but it'll be useful."

- you did not hesitate to pull her by the back of her head to lean down and meet your lips halfway.

- and she did not hesitate to wrap her own arms around your nwck and waist to kiss you back just as strongly.

- "I'm gonna get laughed at for this aren't I?" she muttered against your lips as she pulls away slightly.

- "not something you can't handle." you decided with a small smile on your lips.

- "right, definitely not something I can't handle." she agreed.

#clarisse la rue #clarisse la rue x reader #pjo series #pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #percy jackson #the lightning thief #dior goodjohn #wlw

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big-poppa23 · 12 days ago

Note

OKAY FIRST OF ALL—deep breathes—THANK YOU SM FOR DOING MY REQUEST!!!! *slides into your DMs with tears in my eyes* HELLOOOO. 'Cross My Heart' WAS SO GOOD???? I just finished and wow wow wow, u exceeded all my expectations 🥹 i’m emotionally compromised now in the best way possible 😭❤️‍🩹 the way you wrote Nam-gyu so accurately and emotionally had me in a CHOKEHOLD. i'm saur obsessed. u nailed everything—the angst, fluff, tension, drama, n chemistry was chef’s kiss 💋 thank you sm for taking the time to make it so perfect, i'm gonna reread it 10 times now lol 💘 tysm for blessing us w/ this gem!! OKAY REAL TALK THO—what if you wrote an alt ending where he survives and she doesn't? like Nam-gyu winning but she still loses? 🥺👉👈 i would cry (in the best way) if you ever felt like exploring that. The ANGST. THE PAIN. i would simply ascend. (Only if you’re up for it, obvi!! 🙏🏼🙏🏼) no rush, just… think about it. stares into your soul with hope. Either way, ILYSM and ur fic lives in my mind rent-free now 💔 🫶🏼

Cross My Heart Part Two

synapse: nam-gyu saved y/n’s life multiple times—now in return she saves his

pairing: nam-gyu x reader

contains: blood, angst, death, implications of smut (for a flashback)

a/n: sorry if this is extremely short—I didn’t know how to continue this. Also just me or am I the only one who doesn’t hate Nam-gyu or Min-su cuz it seems like 90% of the fandom hates one or the other but me? I DO hate Myung-gi (Not Yim Siwan ofc) because he killed my wife Hyun-ju but omg he has such pretty privilege because even the creator Hwang Dong-hyuk confirmed he would’ve dropped his own child “he tries to look the other way, prioritizing his own interests, immediate financial gain, and greed. He seeks his own interests even at the expense of the baby.” But half of the fandom: 🧑‍🦯

. . .

Min-su didn’t say another word.

He simply turned.

Nam-gyu’s breath caught as he watched him walk toward the edge of the platform. For a second, he thought he might toss it over — into the pit — and that would be the end of it. But instead, with an effortless flick of his wrist, Min-su threw the cross forward.

It landed in the center of the bridge with a dull, almost mocking thud — right between the first two rope swings, the twisted metal glinting under the harsh lights.

Min-su turned back, pointing. “If you want it, go get it.”

Nam-gyu’s jaw clenched. He took a step forward and grabbed Min-su by the front of his jacket like he meant to snap — to shove him, hurt him, maybe worse.

But Min-su didn’t flinch.

He just slapped Nam-gyu’s hands off him. “What’s the matter?” he hissed, eyes narrow. “You scared? You fucking loser.”

The insult didn’t land.

Nam-gyu just stood there, staring at him — eyes red-rimmed and tired — before turning to look at the necklace again. Then at Y/N.

She was still by the wall, pale and swaying slightly, bloodstained bandage tight around her hand, her ankle swollen beneath her pant leg.

He exhaled a quiet breath.

And then turned and walked back to her. “I’ll be back,” he said softly.

She looked at him, voice low and fraying. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m just gonna grab it,” he said, nodding toward the bridge. “Jump back with it. Take one… then I’m gonna carry you. I’m gonna carry you across that bridge.”

Her eyes widened. “Nam-gyu, please…”

He gave a small, shaky grin. “I’ll feel invincible. Like… like Superman or something. We cross that bridge, and we’re one step away from getting out.”

She let out a breath that was almost a laugh — bitter, hopeless. “Nam-gyu… no offense, but that plan is fucking stupid.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “But I need to do this. For both of us.”

And then — before she could stop him — he leaned down and kissed her.

It was soft.

Gentle.

Real.

His lips lingered just long enough to say everything he never had — and maybe never would again. He’d never kissed her before. Not even during all the bathroom hookups and shadowy stolen moments. Kissing was too vulnerable, too intimate. It meant feeling something.

But now, it was all he had left.

When he pulled away, her eyes were glassy, wide.

That didn’t feel like an “I’ll be right back.”

It felt like a goodbye.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Please don’t do this…”

Nam-gyu looked at her one more time, like he was memorizing her.

Then he turned toward the bridge.

And started walking toward the edge — toward the rope — toward the cross lying still in the middle of death.

Nam-gyu ran a shaky hand through his hair, sweat slicking his fingers, his eyes locked on the massive rope slowly spinning ahead of him. It rose overhead in a wide arc like a swinging guillotine.

Now.

He jumped.

Shoes hit wood with a hollow thud as he landed on all fours. He crouched, panting, watching the rope come down again. Too fast. He threw himself forward, just in time, and landed hard on his knees.

Crawl. Jump. Crawl. Jump.

The pattern became his heartbeat.

On the platform behind him, Y/N flinched every time the rope swept across the bridge. Her chest was tight, her hands trembling as she braced against the wall, eyes never leaving him. Every close call scraped a fresh layer of panic across her ribs.

He was getting closer.

And then — he reached it.

The cross.

It glinted up at him from the wooden plank like some cruel little prize. He grabbed it, fingers fumbling over the tiny clasp as the rope came swinging in again. He jumped without looking, barely clearing it, the edge of his shoe grazing the rope by millimeters.

Then he opened it.

And everything stopped.

Empty.

The inside of the cross gleamed silver — smooth, hollow. Not a single pill.

His chest stopped rising. His breath caught. It felt like the world narrowed to that tiny realization.

Min-su had emptied it.

He looked up, dazed, and turned his head.

Y/N’s eyes were already on him — wide and wet with tears, her lips moving soundlessly at first.

Then her voice broke through the air:

“Jump!”

He didn’t hear her the first time.

“Jump, Nam-gyu!” she screamed again, louder.

He blinked.

And moved.

With a sharp yell, he vaulted over the rope, landing hard but still upright. The cross clenched in his fist like a useless charm. He didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Y/N’s voice kept coming.

“Jump! Now!”

“GO!”

“You’ve got it—just GO!”

It became his rhythm. Her voice. Her faith.

He reached a wide gap — a missing plank stretched too far. If he mistimed it, it was over. He paused, breathing hard, bouncing lightly on his feet as he waited for the rope to pass. Then — he leapt, just barely clearing the gap.

The landing was rough. He stumbled, the cross slipping from his hand and clattering on the wood. It rolled once, then slipped over the edge, falling silently into the black pit below.

He didn’t look.

Didn’t have time.

He pushed himself forward and kept going.

Until finally —

His feet hit solid ground. The far platform. Safety.

Nam-gyu collapsed to his knees, arms shaking. He was alive.

Back on the other side, Y/N let out a heavy breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Her knees threatened to buckle. She pushed her damp hair back, her fingers smudged with blood and sweat.

Her eyes flicked to Min-su.

He stood off to the side, unreadable. She understood why he did it. Revenge. Power. Maybe even fear. But the sight of him sending Nam-gyu into that hell on purpose still twisted in her stomach.

Nam-gyu looked back at her across the bridge. His voice carried, hoarse but proud. “Don’t worry, baby! I’m coming back for you!”

She managed a nod, swallowing the knot in her throat. Slowly, painfully, she stood, one hand braced against the wall.

But before he could return, more players jumped onto the bridge — desperate, scrambling. Their bodies blocked his path. Too many at once.

He couldn’t come back yet.

And now Y/N had to wonder: Would he still be able to… when the moment came?

Player after player crossed.

Some with desperate precision. Some with fear in their eyes. Some who never made it to the other side at all.

The sound of bodies hitting the planks or the absence of them entirely became a metronome of dread. One moment filled with hope. The next, silence.

Y/N stood back against the wall, her hand pressed flat against the cool surface for balance, sweat trickling down her spine as the numbers dwindled. Fewer players remained on her side now. Fewer chances. Fewer voices.

Then she saw her.

Player 222.

The woman who’d once been pregnant. Who’d somehow carried a child through hell.

The baby, Y/N remembered, had been carried across earlier by 456, swaddled tightly, already safe on the far side.

But the mother wasn’t.

Y/N watched as 222 stepped closer to the bridge, limping. Hesitant. Her movements shaky but determined. She bounced lightly on her good foot, tried a small jump—

And nearly fell sideways.

Her ankle twisted under her weight. She gritted her teeth, but the pain was plain in her face. That ankle… Y/N knew that kind of pain.

It was just like hers.

Broken. Damaged. Not built for jumping games.

But the woman didn’t stop. She tried again, eyes on her child across the bridge.

Y/N’s throat burned.

She pushed off the wall.

Willed herself upright.

She hobbled forward, slowly — one step, then another, until she stood beside the wall, facing the bridge, mirroring 222.

And she tried.

Just one jump.

Pain lanced up her leg like a bolt of lightning, hot and sharp. Her knee buckled, and she nearly collapsed back into the wall. A soft gasp slipped from her lips as her injured foot screamed beneath her. Her vision blurred.

But still…she stayed standing.

The pain radiated up her body, her bandaged hand throbbing in time with her heartbeat, but her gaze didn’t leave 222.

Because in that moment, they weren’t competitors.

They were fighters. Women who should’ve been dead ten times over.

And yet they stood.

Barely.

But they stood.

As the last player landed on the far platform, Nam-gyu didn’t hesitate.

He grabbed the man by the collar and yanked him out of the way with a snarl. “Fucking move!”

He turned to the bridge, eyes locked on the far side where she still stood —alone.

He stepped toward it.

But then his eyes flicked to the glowing red timer on the wall.

1 minute, 30 seconds.

That was all the time he had to make it there and back. To save her. To not die.

Y/N saw him.

Saw the panic in his eyes.

Saw his foot inch toward the first plank.

“No!” she screamed. “Stop! Stop! Stop!”

He froze, startled. Eyes wide, breath catching in his chest as he looked up at her.

“Don’t come back here for me,” she called out, her voice cracking. “You won’t have enough time!”

He shook his head furiously. “I said I was gonna come back, and I am!”

“No!” she screamed again, louder this time. Desperate. “You made it. I didn’t. There’s no point. No point in risking your life for me!”

He opened his mouth, ready to argue, but she didn’t give him the chance.

“Because if you come back… and we both die when that timer runs out—” Her voice trembled. She took a limping step closer to the bridge, to him. “Then everything we’ve done to get here… everything we survived… it will mean nothing.” Her eyes locked with his. “You got me this far. Alive. You saved me when I couldn’t save myself. Let me help this time.”

Nam-gyu’s whole body tensed. His fists clenched at his sides, eyes flicking between her and the timer. 0:57.

She limped right to the edge now, right where the first plank began, pain written in every movement. “Save yourself…and let me go.”

His jaw trembled. Tears welled in his eyes, burning. “I—” he breathed, choking on it. “I only made it this far because you were there.” His voice broke. “I can’t do this without you.”

Her voice was softer now, but no less firm. “You did, Nam-gyu. You crossed the bridge without the pills. You didn’t need them. And you don’t need me.”

He stepped forward again—

“Nam-gyu.” Her voice stopped him like a blade. “You didn’t need me before the Games. I know that scared kid. I saw him in you. And I know you can finish this.”

His lip quivered. His hands trembled.

0:40

His eyes drank her in. The blood on her jacket. The bruises. Her ankle. The way she was standing just a little straighter for him.

Y/N gave him one last look—soft, loving, final.

Y/N glanced beside the bridge, her vision blurred at the edges from tears and exhaustion. On the opposite side, near the far wall, she saw Player 222 standing in mirrored stillness.

She was locked in the same impossible moment.

Y/N watched her call something out to 456, her arms shaking, her head low. The baby was already safe, cradled in 456’s arms — a bundle wrapped in a jacket on the far side of safety.

It hit Y/N then.

They were both about to make the same choice.

Y/N turned and limped over to the woman. She didn’t know her name. They had never spoken. Never exchanged anything more than glances across the dorm. But she stood beside her now, side by side, like they’d been allies all along.

She reached out and gently took the woman’s hand.

222 looked at her.

Their eyes locked.

And in that shared look, no words were needed.

Just pain. Just understanding. Just peace.

Twenty seconds left.

Y/N gave her hand a soft squeeze.

No tears. Not anymore. Just calm.

The platform felt steady beneath their feet. For once, the shaking came from within.

They inched forward together, closer to the edge.

0:11

Nam-gyu, still frozen at the far side of the bridge, watched. He didn’t even have the breath to scream anymore. His lips parted. His chest rose once.

Y/N didn’t look at him again.

She and 222 stepped forward.

And with no hesitation—

They both stepped off the edge.

There were no cries. No panic.

Just the sound of wind rushing past.

And then—

A soft, barely audible thud.

No one moved.

And then came the voice.

“Player 222, eliminated. Player 123, eliminated.”

Nam-gyu didn’t move at first.

He didn’t breathe.

He just stood there, at the edge of the bridge, staring at the spot where she’d been only seconds before.

Where her eyes had locked with his for the last time.

Where her voice, strong even when broken, had told him to go. To live.

And now she was gone.

His knees gave out slowly, silently, as if the weight of what had just happened was physically pulling him into the ground. He sank to a crouch, then to his hands, gripping the cold planks of the bridge beneath him. His breath hitched once, then again, but no sound came out. His throat locked shut, too tight to cry, too choked to scream.

He crawled forward until his chest was pressed against the last beam of the bridge, and he looked over the edge.

Far below, where the shadows swallowed everything, he saw her.

Y/N.

Her body crumpled on the concrete floor, her arm splayed awkwardly across her chest, her face turned just slightly to the side like she was only sleeping. Like if he called to her one more time, she’d stir and open her eyes.

But she didn’t.

Her blood pooled slowly beneath her, dark and quiet.

Nam-gyu’s fingers curled into the edge of the bridge until his knuckles cracked.

His lips parted again, but no sound came out.

Just a low, shuddering exhale.

Tears finally welled in his eyes, and one slipped free, trailing down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away. He didn’t move.

She was gone.

The only person who saw him—all of him—and stayed.

The one who had saved him without needing anything in return.

And she died without a scream. Without a whimper. Just stepped off the edge like she’d already made peace with the fall.

Nam-gyu buried his face in his arms, pressing it against the cold metal.

And for the first time since entering the Games—

He cried.

Not angry tears.

Not frustration.

But grief.

The kind that hollowed you out from the inside.

The kind that made survival feel like a punishment.

She was gone.

And he had to keep living without her.

The quiet didn’t last.

Soft footsteps approached from behind— hesitant, uneven.

Nam-gyu didn’t look up, not right away. But he heard them.

And then a shadow stretched beside him.

Min-su.

He stepped carefully to the edge, his breath shaky as he looked down. His eyes scanned the shadows below until they landed on her.

Y/N.

Her body still. Her face pale and lifeless.

He didn’t speak, but his lips trembled. Regret poured off him in waves, visible in the way his shoulders collapsed, the way his knees nearly buckled beneath him. His eyes filled with tears, but he blinked them away like he didn’t deserve to cry for her.

Because deep down, he knew.

This was his fault.

He was the reason she couldn’t jump.

He was the reason she was left behind.

He was the reason she died.

Nam-gyu’s breathing shifted — something darker now.

His head slowly lifted, bloodshot eyes burning through the blur.

He looked up at Min-su.

And then he moved.

Without a word, he lunged.

The scream that left him wasn’t made of pain anymore — it was something animal. He tackled Min-su with full force, both of them crashing onto the cold platform with a violent thud.

“You fucking piece of shit!” Nam-gyu roared, his voice cracked and hoarse. “You did this to her!”

Min-su barely had time to react before Nam-gyu was straddling him.

“I told her I’d save her!” he screamed. “She was supposed to live!”

But before he could throw the first punch—

The guards shoved him back with force, one pressing the barrel of a gun to his chest.

He stopped moving.

Breathing hard.

Chest heaving.

Min-su stood off to the side, not fighting it. Just standing. Hollow.

Nam-gyu’s eyes burned holes through him. “You should’ve jumped,” he hissed. “You should’ve gone over that edge instead of her, you fucking rat. She cared about you and she’s dead.”

No one said anything after that.

Not the guards. Not Min-su. Not even the voice overhead.

Because there was nothing left to say.

Only one game remained.

And they were walking into it with blood on their hands.

. . .

Nam-gyu didn’t remember walking out of the game.

He didn’t remember the weight of the guards’ hands on his shoulders, or the shuffle of broken bodies beside him as they were herded back down those cursed pastel staircases. He didn’t register the swirling walls of blue, yellow, pink — the childlike maze they’d all crawled through like rats for someone’s entertainment.

Everything was noise.

Muffled.

Gone.

He didn’t fully realize where he was until he stepped into the dormitory again — colder now, emptier than ever. Even the piggy bank above seemed quieter, heavier with her absence.

He didn’t look at anyone.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t exist in the same way anymore.

He just walked.

One foot in front of the other, until he found a bed. It wasn’t their bed. There was no such thing anymore. But he sat down anyway, slowly lowering himself like he was made of glass.

Then he lay down.

Faced the wall.

Turned his back to the world.

And imagined that the small space beside him wasn’t empty.

That she was there.

Warm. Breathing. Her fingers gently threading through his hair like she had the night he shivered through withdrawal. Whispering that he was okay. That he was safe. That tomorrow, they’d get through it together.

But there was no warmth.

Just cold cotton and the weight of what he’d lost.

Maybe this was his punishment.

He let the thoughts come now — all of them.

The first day. The moment he leaned over to Thanos and said they didn’t need women in their group.

The moment he looked her up and down and thought she was hot and nothing more.

The first time they snuck away to the bathroom and he yanked her by the hair, refused to kiss her because it felt too intimate. Too close. Too real.

The time he called her just a good fuck — as if that was all she was.

If he’d known—

If he’d known that her voice would become the thing he needed to hear just to move…

If he’d known that one day, she’d be the reason he jumped over death…

If he’d known that he would come back to a bed without her, to a night without her hand in his—

Maybe he would’ve kissed her sooner.

Maybe he would’ve been gentle.

Maybe he would’ve tried to be the kind of man she deserved.

But he hadn’t been.

And now all he had was a memory.

Nam-gyu pulled the thin blanket up over his shoulder and shut his eyes.

And for the first time in the Games…

He didn’t want to wake up.

He tried to think about anything else.

The final game.

The money.

Living.

But all Nam-gyu could see was her.

Her voice, her breath, the way she used to look at him like she wasn’t sure whether to slap him or laugh in his face. And of all the memories clawing through his brain like broken glass, it was that night that came back the strongest.

The first night in the bathroom.

He was leaning against the sink, arms crossed, his foot tapping lightly against the cracked tile floor. The buzz from the pill Thanos had slipped him still thrummed through his system, warm and electric, making his skin feel too tight. He’d been impatient, twitchy, bored — and he’d looked across the dormitory and seen her.

Y/N. Attractive and just as bored.

So he’d told her, casually, like it meant nothing: “Bathroom. If you’re down.”

Didn’t care if she rolled her eyes. Didn’t care if she came.

But he waited.

Took a piss. Washed his hands. Leaned against the sink again.

Waited longer.

Then the door creaked open.

And she walked in.

He grinned, cocky. “Thought you weren’t gonna come.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I had nothing better to do.”

He pushed off the sink slowly, circling closer. “You sure it wasn’t because you actually want me?”

She scoffed. “Please. If I could pick anyone to sleep with, I’d pick Thanos. This is just for fun. I’m barely interested in doing this with someone who’d probably last three seconds.”

He didn’t say a word right away.

He just stopped in front of her. Close.

Close enough to feel the heat of her.

His fingers reached for her zipper, slow and deliberate, pulling it down inch by inch. Her tracksuit parted, revealing the curve of her chest, the outline of her hips under the thin, stretched fabric of her shirt.

She didn’t stop him.

Didn’t flinch.

Just watched.

“You sure about that?” he murmured.

His hand slid up her stomach — slow, teasing — until it reached her chest. His palm cupped one breast gently, thumb brushing the fabric as he leaned in, breath warm against her cheek.

“I’ll last so much longer than you think,” he whispered. “And when I’m done, you’ll come back for more.”

Her lashes fluttered.

Then closed as she inhaled softly, the breath catching ever so slightly. “Prove me wrong,” she said.

And he did.

He pushed her gently back toward the stalls, their bodies tangled before the door even closed.

No kissing.

No tenderness.

Just lust.

Just fire.

Nam-gyu curled tighter into himself, still facing the wall, teeth clenched.

He thought he had control back then. Thought he’d kept it casual. Cold. Distant.

But the truth was—

That night had never left him.

It was where everything started to unravel. Where he’d felt something shift, something dangerous. And he’d ignored it. Pushed it down. Treated her like she didn’t matter so he wouldn’t have to admit that she already did.

He wished he could go back.

And kiss her that night.

Not because it would’ve changed everything…

But because she deserved to be kissed like she mattered.

Like she was everything.

Because she had been.

And now she was gone.

Nam-gyu didn’t move when the metal doors hissed open.

He didn’t flinch when the guards walked in — their boots echoing across the dormitory floor like distant thunder.

He only looked up when he saw the piggy bank light up above them, casting a cold glow over the entire room.

Click.

The familiar sound of the cash chute unlocking.

And then it began.

A thick waterfall of bills came pouring down into the glass chamber above them, spinning and fluttering like it was something to celebrate. Money that had once looked like salvation.

Now it looked like blood.

One of the guards stepped forward, voice cold and clinical beneath the mask.

“Sixteen players eliminated during the fifth game. We now have nine players remaining. The prize money accumulated to this point is 44.6 billion won, and each person’s share is 4.86 billion won.”

An argument broke out among the greedy players. The baby was now a player in place of 222’s number.

Nam-gyu didn’t move. He didn’t care anymore.

His eyes stayed fixed on the piggy bank above.

₩100,000,000.

That was what one life was worth.

That’s all it cost to kill someone.

That’s all she was worth to them.

She, who had risked her life to calm him through his worst nights. Who had stood on a broken ankle and told him to live. Who gave up everything she had left so he could go on.

And in the end…

₩100,000,000.

He stared at the last of the bills as they spiraled down through the glass.

They used to remind him of escape.

Now, they just reminded him of her body on the floor. Her blood soaking the concrete. Her voice telling him go.

Nam-gyu swallowed hard, jaw locking.

They turned her into a number.

A bet.

A prize.

And he’d let them.

The weight of 4.86 billion won hung in the air like a curse.

Because no amount of money could bring her back.

“It’s not your fault,” a soft voice said.

Nam-gyu’s breath caught in his throat.

Slowly, he turned his head to the side — to the empty space on the narrow cot beside him.

Except it wasn’t empty.

She was there.

Y/N.

Lying on her side like she’d been there all along, her head resting on her arm, hair fanned across the pillow. Her face was calm, eyes soft, like none of it had happened — like her body hadn’t shattered on the concrete below, like she hadn’t told him goodbye with a voice full of love and pain and goodbye all at once.

He stared at her.

His lips parted.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t trust himself to. Didn’t trust this to be real.

She smiled faintly, eyes on his. “I made my choice to save you,” she said gently. “And I don’t regret it. Because I know…”

She reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of his hand — not quite touching, just close enough to make him feel the ache of the distance.

“…I know you’ll survive this.”

He blinked. “I—” His voice cracked. “I can’t.”

“You can.” Her voice was barely above a whisper now. “You crossed the bridge without the pills. You saved yourself. You can keep going.”

“I didn’t want to,” he whispered. “Not without you.”

“I know.” She shifted closer — almost touching. “But if I had stayed, if you had come back for me… we’d both be dead now.”

He looked down, blinking rapidly. “I didn’t want to lose you.”

“I didn’t want to lose you either.” Her voice was thick now, sad but full of something warmer. “But I wasn’t supposed to be the one who made it out. You were. That’s why I let go.”

She leaned forward, her forehead barely brushing his although he couldn’t feel her. Couldn’t feel her warmth.

“Don’t waste what I gave you, Nam-gyu.”

His eyes closed, and when he opened them—

She was gone.

The bed beside him was empty again.

Just a cold sheet. A blank space.

But for the first time since she fell…

He didn’t feel alone.

#squid game #fanfic #squid game season 2 #squid game season 3 #nam gyu squid game #nam gyu x reader #nam su #nam gyu #player 124 x female reader #player 124 x reader #player 124 #roh jae won x reader #roh jae won #kdrama #k trauma #alternate ending #jump rope #nam-gyu x reader #nam-gyu

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writteninkat · 15 days ago

Note

this isn’t a request but i wanted to say I haven’t been on Tumblr in maybe ten years? And I just started watching twd and was looking for fanfic so I’m back online ofc. Pleaseeee write some more Daryl fluff smut whateverrr !!! It’s so good.

Shot, Stitched, Smitten | Daryl Dixon x Reader

synopsis: You’re the doctor’s daughter with trembling hands. He’s the bruised bowman who calls you “cute” like it’s fact. After a close call, he’s in your care—and suddenly, so is your heart.

setting: season 2; episode 6 "Secrets"

w/c: 7.7k

warnings: Daryl getting hurt, mentions of death, blood, violence

a/n: tumblr crashes every time i write a fic over than 5k ugh

navigation

The sun beats down on the farm with the same heavy silence it always carries now—too quiet, too still. The kind of quiet that only comes after the world’s ended. You wipe your hands on your apron and squint out toward the tree line, the fields stretching long and golden beneath the noon sky.

Sophia’s still missing. It’s been days. Too many.

You’ve been sorting through supplies in the kitchen, reorganizing bandages and antibiotics while trying to pretend your chest isn’t tight with worry. Everyone’s on edge. You can feel it in the way Maggie hasn’t smiled all morning, in the way Glenn keeps checking the time like it matters anymore. And in the way you keep glancing out the window, waiting for a glimpse of flannel and crossbow.

Daryl went out alone again this morning. You’d heard him leave early, before breakfast, boots crunching on gravel with that familiar determined stomp. He didn’t say anything—he rarely does—but he nodded at you on his way out. That same look in his eyes: wild, stubborn, and burning with the need to fix what’s broken.

He always looks at you like that. Like he sees you, even when he pretends he doesn’t.

You’re still clutching a roll of gauze when the shouting starts.

It’s faint at first. One voice, then two. Something frantic—Rick, you think. Then a louder one—Glenn? You can’t quite make it out over the hammering of your heart. You drop the gauze. You run.

Your boots slam against the porch as you tear outside, heart already in your throat. The others are clustered near the fence line, too far to see clearly from where you are. But then you hear it—someone shouting his name.

“Daryl!”

You don’t think. You don’t breathe. You sprint.

Your legs carry you faster than you thought possible, past the others who’ve frozen mid-conversation, past Maggie who calls after you, her voice faint under the ringing in your ears. The tall grass catches your knees, but you don’t stop.

Then you see him.

He’s collapsed in the dirt, shirt torn, blood darkening the fabric at his shoulder and along his side. Glenn and Rick are crouched beside him. Andrea’s standing off to the side, pale as a ghost, a rifle limp in her arms.

“I didn’t— I thought he was a walker—”

Her words barely register. All you see is him.

“Daryl,” you breathe, dropping to your knees beside him. Your hands hover uselessly for a second before you force yourself into motion. “What—what happened? What the hell happened?”

“He was coming through the trees,” Rick says quickly, glancing at you. “Andrea panicked. Took the shot. Caught him in the side.”

“I didn’t know,” Andrea whispers, and her voice sounds far away.

But you’re already pressing your hands to his torso, to the entry wound. He’s bleeding, but conscious. Barely.

“You alright?” you whisper, voice shaking.

Daryl blinks up at you, his blue eyes hazy and a little unfocused. But the corner of his mouth twitches. “Ain’t my best day.”

You let out a breath that borders on a sob. “You absolute idiot,” you mutter, voice tight. “Runnin’ around out there like you’re invincible—”

“Didn’t know you cared that much, sweetheart,” he rasps, and somehow, even half-conscious, he finds the strength to smirk.

Your hands shake harder.

“Help me get him inside,” you snap, voice breaking as you look to Rick and Glenn. “My dad’s out. I—I’ll have to do it.”

They lift him carefully between them. You hover by his side the whole way back to the house, biting your lip to keep from crying. His blood is soaking into Glenn’s sleeve. You can see more bruises now—his jaw, his ribs. He’s filthy, scraped up from a fall. You wonder what else happened out there, what he was fighting through before he got shot by someone who was supposed to have his back.

He doesn’t say a word on the way back. Just watches you through narrowed eyes like he’s memorizing your face.

The moment you get him inside, everything kicks into motion.

You clear the kitchen table and help them lower him onto it, barking out instructions like your training is the only thing keeping you upright. Glenn brings your kit. Rick fetches clean towels. Maggie lingers for a second, sees the way your hands tremble as you rip open the antiseptic, and quietly steps out.

You’re left alone with him.

Daryl’s breathing harder now. You press a clean cloth to his wound and he flinches, gritting his teeth.

“You’ve really outdone yourself this time,” you whisper, trying to steady your voice. “Could’ve just asked for my attention like a normal person.”

“Didn’t know gettin’ shot was your type.”

You glance up. He’s watching you through half-lidded eyes, but there’s humor behind them, even through the pain.

“Shut up and let me work,” you murmur, cheeks heating.

You clean the wound as carefully as you can, pressing gauze to slow the bleeding. Your fingers brush bare skin and you realize how close you are—your body practically pressed to his, his chest rising and falling beneath your palms.

“Sorry,” you say softly when he winces.

“S’okay,” he mutters. “Your hands’re soft.”

You pause.

He opens one eye, a little grin curling on his lips. “Real soft. Didn’t think they would be. Figured you for the type who’d never done this before.”

You clear your throat. “I haven’t. Not like this.”

There’s silence. You focus on stitching the wound—slow, neat, deliberate.

“Didn’t mean that in a bad way,” he says after a moment. “Just… you look like someone who don’t belong in a place like this. Like your daddy still keeps you under lock and key.”

“Maybe he does.”

Daryl chuckles, a low rasp in his chest. “Then what’re you doin’ patchin’ up a dumbass like me?”

You don’t look up. “Because I care about you. And you scared the hell out of me today.”

He goes quiet again.

When you finally finish and wrap the gauze around his ribs, your fingers are still shaking. He notices. His hand finds yours, rough calloused fingers brushing over the back of it.

“You ain’t gotta be scared,” he murmurs. “I’m alright. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

You meet his gaze. He’s bloodied, bruised, stitched up and worn down—but still smirking at you like the world isn’t ending around you both.

“I know,” you whisper. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to worry.”

Daryl squeezes your hand gently. “Guess I’ll just have to make it up to you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “How?”

“Dunno yet,” he says, a little more breathless now. “But I’ll think of somethin’. Somethin’ real good.”

You try to keep a straight face, but your smile betrays you.

And for the first time that day, your heart stops racing—not from fear, but from the warmth of knowing he’s still here. And he’s looking at you like maybe—just maybe—he wants to stay.

The house is still. Sunlight streams in thin beams through the worn curtains, catching the dust motes floating lazily in the air. Outside, the sounds of the others have faded—Maggie’s footsteps, Rick’s voice, even Glenn’s usual chatter. They’ve left to give you space, and now it’s just you and him.

Daryl’s lying back on the makeshift bed, propped up against a stack of pillows that definitely weren’t there earlier. You may have fussed. Just a little.

He watches you with those blue eyes—soft around the edges but sharp in the center. Always seeing more than he lets on. The wound at his side has stopped bleeding, your stitches neat and holding strong. But there are bruises blooming like shadows across his ribs, small scrapes along his arms, dirt and dried blood still smudged across his chest.

You’ve already rolled your sleeves up. There’s a bowl of warm water on the nightstand, a clean cloth in your hand. You tell yourself this is just care. It’s what you were raised to do. Your dad’s a vet turned doctor, and you’ve patched up more than your fair share of wounded creatures.

But none of them ever looked like this.

“You’re gonna have to take your shirt off,” you say, voice as neutral as you can manage. “What’s left of it, anyway.”

Daryl raises an eyebrow and tugs at the torn fabric, the corner of his mouth quirking. “Didn’t know you were so eager, nurse girl.”

You shoot him a look, but it does nothing to hide how your face warms instantly. “Don’t call me that.”

“What, ‘nurse girl’?” he teases, Southern drawl curling around the words. “Fits, don’t it? All bossy and sweet.”

Your hands are already busy peeling away the bloodied fabric of his shirt, so you don’t trust yourself to look up. He helps you—quietly, carefully. When the fabric’s gone, you suck in a breath. Not because of the blood this time.

Because he’s… him.

Lean muscle, hard-earned. A constellation of scars across his chest and stomach, some small and faded, others angry and recent. His skin is warm, dusted with dirt and sweat, and he smells like forest and smoke and sun—like everything outside this farm, like everything dangerous and alive.

You pretend your hands aren’t shaking as you dip the cloth into the water and wring it out. You focus on his shoulder, wiping away dried blood, the motion slow and steady.

He doesn’t flinch, but he does watch you. Closely. Quietly.

“You ever stare at all your nurses like this?” you ask, trying to sound breezy.

He smirks. “Only the pretty ones.”

Your hand pauses mid-wipe. “You’re impossible.”

“Nah,” he says, voice low. “Just honest.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you keep cleaning, trying to pretend his words don’t buzz beneath your skin like a secret.

You work your way down, brushing over a cut along his ribs. His breath hitches slightly when you press too hard.

“Sorry,” you murmur.

“S’all right. Just didn’t expect you to be so… thorough.”

You glance up. He’s smirking again, but softer now. Less teasing, more… something else. Something that makes your stomach twist in a way that has nothing to do with worry.

“You really should rest,” you say, shifting to clean along his abdomen, careful with your touch. “You’re lucky the bullet went clean through. Another inch and it would’ve hit something serious.”

“Woulda been a hell of a way to go,” he mutters.

You still. Your fingers rest gently on his side.

“Don’t joke about that,” you whisper.

Daryl turns his head toward you, his expression unreadable for a second. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

You shake your head. “You could’ve died out there. Alone. And we wouldn’t have even known where to look.”

There’s a pause. Long and quiet.

“You mad at me?” he asks, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it.

You let out a breath. “No. I just—wish you weren’t so reckless sometimes.”

His lips twitch like he wants to argue, but instead, he says, “I ain’t used to people worryin’ over me.”

“Well,” you murmur, brushing your hand over his side again, slower this time, gentler, “you’re going to have to get used to it.”

He stares at you. Really stares.

You don’t know why you said that. Maybe you do. Maybe it’s been building since the day he first showed up with that stubborn scowl and eyes that looked like they’d seen too much. Maybe you’ve been keeping this thing inside you—this soft, stupid flutter—since the first time he called you “girl” like it meant something.

His voice cuts through your thoughts, quiet and drawling.

“You’re nervous.”

You blink. “I am not.”

He grins, that half-lopsided thing that’s more real than anything else in this world. “You’re holdin’ that cloth like it might bite.”

You glance down. Sure enough, your grip is tight, your knuckles white.

“You’re the worst patient I’ve ever had,” you mutter, dabbing a bruise at the edge of his ribs.

“And yet, here you are. Still fussin’ over me.”

“Only because you’re injured.”

“Mmhm.”

You finish wiping the last of the blood from his chest and grab a clean towel to dry him off. When you lean in, your hip accidentally bumps his thigh.

You freeze. Your breath stutters. The contact was nothing—barely anything—but Daryl goes perfectly still.

His voice is low. Rough. “You keep doin’ that and I’m gonna start thinkin’ you’re tryin’ to make a man lose his mind.”

You straighten up so fast you nearly knock over the water bowl. “Shut up,” you hiss, but your voice comes out breathless.

He laughs. It’s quiet and raspy and it makes your chest ache.

When you look at him, he’s not teasing anymore. Not fully. There’s something gentler in the curve of his mouth, something unspoken in the way his eyes track your every move. He reaches out—not quickly, not presumptuously—and his hand brushes yours where it rests on the edge of the bed.

“Thanks,” he says simply.

You swallow. “For what?”

“For bein’ here. For patchin’ me up. For not lettin’ me bleed out in the dirt like I probably deserved.”

You shake your head. “Don’t say that.”

His thumb grazes your knuckle. You look down at where his fingers curl softly around yours, and your heart flutters.

“You didn’t deserve any of this,” you say. “You were out there risking your life. Trying to bring Sophia home.”

Daryl doesn’t say anything. But his hand doesn’t let go.

You should pull away. You should say something clever, something to break the silence that suddenly feels full of all the things you’re not ready to admit.

Instead, you stay.

You let him hold your hand like it’s something precious. And in the stillness, in the warmth of the sun and the hush of the house, you think maybe this—you and him, here—is the safest place either of you has ever been.

Night settles over the farm like a soft, worn blanket. The crickets have taken up their song outside the window, and the lamps flicker low in the corners of the room. It’s quiet—so quiet that you can hear every breath Daryl takes, uneven and shallow, the rise and fall of his chest hidden beneath the covers.

The others have gone to bed one by one. Hershel checked his vitals before slipping away with a hand on your shoulder and a tired nod of trust. Maggie left a thermos of tea on the nightstand. Even Glenn, after lingering awkwardly at the door like he wanted to say something comforting but couldn’t find the words, eventually disappeared down the hallway.

And now, it’s just you. Just him.

You sit by his bedside, knees tucked to your chest on the little wooden chair that’s too stiff to be comforting, but you don’t care. You’re not planning on sleeping anyway. The fever came on slow—subtle enough to miss at first, until his skin turned clammy and his breaths grew shallow. He’d muttered something unintelligible when you pressed a cool cloth to his forehead earlier, eyes fluttering beneath his lids.

You haven’t left his side since.

His shirt’s still off, the covers pulled only halfway up his torso, exposing the bruises and cuts you spent hours cleaning. His brow is damp with sweat. You dip the cloth into the bowl of cool water and gently press it to his skin again, dabbing along his temple, wiping the moisture away with careful strokes.

You don’t realize you’re whispering until you hear yourself.

“Please don’t get worse,” you murmur, brushing his hair back from his face. “I just got you back in one piece.”

Your voice is barely audible, more breath than sound. A prayer. A wish. A confession to the empty room.

Daryl stirs under your hand.

You freeze, cloth still pressed to his skin. His lashes flutter, and his mouth moves slowly before he manages to form anything more than a groan.

“Hey,” you whisper, leaning forward, your heart leaping. “Daryl? I’m here.”

He blinks sluggishly, like waking is too heavy a task. His gaze is glassy, unfocused—but it finds you. Somehow, even in fevered haze, he finds you.

He squints. “Why’re you always lookin’ so scared around me?”

Your breath catches. The cloth slips from your hand, falling into the bowl with a soft splash.

“W-What?” you stammer, not sure you heard him right.

His voice is raw, slurred with exhaustion but still unmistakably him. “You got this look… every time I talk to you. Like I’m gonna break you or somethin’.”

You try to pull your hand away, but before you can, his fingers wrap around your wrist—gentle, but firm.

His hand is warm, even burning, from the fever. But the touch is so real it sends a shiver down your spine.

“You don’t gotta be scared of me, y’know,” he murmurs, eyes blinking slowly, the weight of the fever pulling at him like gravity.

“I’m not,” you say softly.

He watches you through heavy lids.

You take a breath, your voice barely a whisper. “I’m not scared of you. I’m scared of… how I feel.”

Silence.

For a moment, you think maybe he’s already slipped back into sleep. But then his thumb brushes against the inside of your wrist. A slow, absentminded stroke. Like he’s memorizing the feel of your pulse.

“What d’you mean?” he asks, voice lower now, almost shy beneath the hoarseness.

You look down at your hands. His calloused fingers, rough from years of survival, are still wrapped around yours. You wonder if he can feel how your heart is racing.

“I mean,” you say, carefully, “that every time you call me somethin’ sweet, or look at me like you do… I feel like I can’t breathe.”

Daryl says nothing. But his hand doesn’t let go.

“You show up bloody, bruised, all grumpy and impossible,” you continue, the words tumbling now, your chest tight. “And still, every time I see you, it’s like the rest of the world just—pauses. Like it’s only you.”

You’re not sure what you expected. Maybe silence. Maybe teasing. But definitely not this:

Daryl’s thumb lifts to your palm, resting there like an anchor. And his voice, still raspy and fever-wrecked, is soft in a way that almost breaks you.

“Didn’t think I mattered that much.”

“You do,” you say. “You do more than you know.”

You don’t know how it happens exactly, but at some point, your head ends up resting on the edge of the bed. Maybe it’s the ache in your spine from sitting so long, or maybe it’s the pull of gravity made stronger by the warmth of his hand still cradling yours.

Your temple presses lightly against the mattress, your eyes closed just for a second. The fever’s ebbing slightly—his breathing has evened out, his skin less clammy under your touch. That alone is enough to let the fear in your chest start to ease.

You feel his fingers shift against your scalp. Then—tentatively, like he’s not sure he has the right—his hand brushes through your hair. A soft stroke. Once, then again.

“You’re real pretty,” he murmurs. “Even when you look like you’re two seconds from cryin’.”

Your eyes flutter open. “That’s not fair.”

“What ain’t?”

“Saying things like that when I’m tryin’ to be brave.”

He chuckles—barely—but it’s there. Low and scratchy, and so him it makes you want to cry for a different reason.

“I ain’t never had someone take care of me like this,” he says. “Not once. Not like this.”

You blink against the sting in your eyes. “Then I’ll just have to keep doin’ it. ’Til you get used to it.”

There’s a pause. A weight to it. And then—

“You fallin’ asleep down there?” he mumbles.

“No,” you whisper, though you very much are.

His fingers are still in your hair. Your hand is still in his. And the steady rhythm of his breathing is slowly pulling you under like a lullaby. The world outside the room slips away—the walkers, the danger, the grief, the noise. It’s just this. Just him.

And then, sometime between one heartbeat and the next, sleep takes you.

You wake to warmth and quiet. The morning light slips gently through the curtain, dusting everything in soft gold. For a second, you’re disoriented—your neck aches from where it’s still resting against the mattress, your legs stiff from sleeping curled in that awful chair.

Then you feel it.

A hand brushing softly through your hair.

You lift your head slightly, and Daryl’s already looking at you.

He’s awake. Clear-eyed. The fever’s broken. His thumb is stroking the edge of your hairline, careful, almost reverent.

“Mornin’, nurse girl,” he says, voice a low rasp.

You don’t say anything.

You just smile.

And for once, you don’t feel scared at all.

The sun spills through the cracks in the curtain like a gentle promise. It warms the wooden floor and dances along the edge of the bed where Daryl lies—more alert now, less pale, his breaths stronger. He’s propped up against the pillows you fluffed earlier, arms resting over the blanket, eyes already on you the second you walk in with fresh bandages in hand.

“Feelin’ better?” you ask, your voice still soft with sleep even though you’ve been up for an hour now.

He gives a small shrug, mouth twitching like he’s fighting a grin. “Felt worse.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s fond. Familiar. You set the bowl down beside the bed and sit on the edge of the mattress, knees close to his thigh, and motion for him to sit up just a little. He grumbles but obeys, letting you peel back the blanket and the loose flannel you draped over him earlier.

The wound looks clean. No new bleeding. The skin around it isn’t as angry as yesterday. You exhale through your nose—relief bleeding out of you with every heartbeat.

Your fingers move instinctively, checking the gauze, gently brushing against his ribs. He doesn’t flinch. But he doesn’t stop watching you, either.

You feel the weight of his gaze before you dare meet it.

“What?” you murmur, glancing up.

He just blinks slowly, like he’s trying to decide whether to say something or keep it close to his chest.

And then he says it.

“Never met someone like you before.”

The words are quiet, gruff but certain. And they hit you harder than you expect.

Your hands still, fingers resting just above his bandage. “What do you mean?”

Daryl leans his head back against the pillow, eyes still locked on yours. “I dunno. You’re just… soft. Gentle. Even when you’re scoldin’ me like I’m some kid who scraped his knees.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out breathless. “That’s just basic medical care, Dixon.”

“Nah,” he says, a little firmer. “It’s more than that. You look at me like I’m worth keepin’ alive.”

Your heart skips. Stumbles. Catches fire.

You look away, suddenly fascinated by the edges of the new roll of gauze in your hand. “You are worth keeping alive.”

He hums. You feel the low sound in your chest more than you hear it.

“You always tease me,” you blurt, trying to change the subject, trying to breathe again. “Why do you always do that?”

Daryl shrugs again, one shoulder dipping slightly. “Guess it’s the only way I know how to say I like you.”

The world stills.

The air thickens with something unspeakable. Your fingers go slack, and the gauze tumbles from your grip to the bed.

He said it so simply. Like it wasn’t everything. Like it didn’t just shift the entire axis of your world.

You stare at him, lips parted, heart in your throat.

He doesn’t look away. If anything, he seems a little braver now, like saying it out loud loosened something in him.

“You don’t gotta say it back,” he mutters, scratching at the edge of the blanket with his fingertips. “Just figured… you should know.”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again, throat tightening.

“I’ve never…” you begin, voice thin and quiet. “Done anything. Not with anyone. I wouldn’t even know how.”

His eyes sharpen. Not in judgment—never that—but in focus. In attention.

You wring your hands, eyes fixed on your lap. “Everyone else always seemed to know how to flirt, how to touch, how to say the right thing. I didn’t. I still don’t. I just… I get nervous. And awkward. And then I—panic.”

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

He doesn’t speak right away. He just shifts, slowly, his hand reaching out across the blanket until his fingers brush your wrist.

“Hey.”

You look up, eyes glassy.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that,” he says, low and sure. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with you.”

You breathe in, sharp and shaky. “But I wouldn’t know what to do. If something were to—if we—”

“I’d still want you all the same,” he says, cutting through your stammering. “You think I care about that?”

Your throat burns. “Don’t you?”

He shakes his head. “I care about you sittin’ up all night just to keep a wet cloth on my forehead. I care about you speakin’ so soft, even when you’re mad. I care about you takin’ care of everyone and pretendin’ you don’t get tired, even when I know you do.”

His fingers slide down to your palm, fitting there like he was always meant to.

“I care about you,” he says. “Not what you have or haven’t done.”

The tears come faster than you can blink them away. Not loud, not messy—just full and quiet, like something too long kept tucked away finally cracked open.

He sees. Of course he does. And he sits up just a little more, gritting his teeth at the movement, until he’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s both of you. All you know is that suddenly his lips are on yours—clumsy, dry, tentative, but real.

And God, it’s everything.

It’s not perfect. Your noses bump. You don’t know where to put your hands at first. But then his thumb brushes your jaw, and you lean into him, and the whole world quiets to nothing but the press of his mouth and the warmth curling in your chest.

You kiss him like you’re trying to say all the things you never dared voice before. And he kisses you like he already knows them.

When you finally pull back, your faces are still close. His forehead rests against yours. You’re both breathing harder than the moment probably calls for.

He speaks first. “That your first kiss?”

You nod, cheeks flaming.

He grins, just a little. “Coulda fooled me.”

You swat at him half-heartedly, but your smile gives you away.

“Shut up,” you murmur.

“Make me.”

So you kiss him again. This time, slower. Softer.

And when you finally pull away and sit back, the gauze forgotten on the bed beside you, Daryl just watches you like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

“Y’know,” he says, voice rough with emotion, “I meant it.”

“Meant what?”

“Everything. Especially the part where I like you.”

Your heart thuds. You brush a hand through his hair, already curling with sweat from the rising heat of the day.

“I like you too,” you whisper.

And it’s not just a confession.

It’s a beginning.

It starts slower than you expect.

Not because the fire isn’t there—it is. It’s been simmering under your skin since the moment Daryl leaned in and kissed you like he didn’t know where he ended and you began. But even now, with his mouth only inches from yours, with the confession still echoing in the space between your hearts, it feels fragile. Precious.

Like if you breathe too hard, it might break.

But then he leans in again.

And it’s nothing like the first time.

This time, it’s heat.

This time, it’s want.

His lips find yours with more confidence, more need, like he’s starved and just realized how close the feast is. His hand cradles your jaw, rough thumb brushing the corner of your mouth as he tilts your head and kisses you deeper, slower. The kind of kiss that’s meant to be savored. Meant to undo you.

You’re undone.

He makes a low sound in the back of his throat when your fingers knot in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer, and suddenly you’re not sure who pulled who—but you’re in his lap now, knees bracketing his hips, your hands sliding into his hair like you’ve done it a thousand times in dreams and never once in real life.

God, he’s warm. And solid. All lean muscle under your palms. You can feel the scratch of his stubble when he kisses you, the drag of it across your cheek as he mouths down your jaw, down your neck, hot and open-mouthed and hungry.

“Daryl,” you gasp, and he pulls back just enough to look at you.

His eyes are darker than before—heavy-lidded, hooded, like he’s barely holding himself back. He swallows hard, chest rising under you. “You alright?”

You nod too quickly, too eagerly. “Yes. Yeah. I just—keep going.”

That’s all he needs.

He surges forward again, his mouth catching yours with more urgency this time, his tongue sliding against yours in a kiss that’s messier, wetter, less practiced and far more real. He kisses like he doesn’t know when he’ll get to do it again. Like he’s trying to memorize everything about the way you taste, the way you tremble when he bites down gently on your lower lip and pulls.

Your hands are everywhere—his hair, his shoulders, his jaw. You’re pretty sure you moan when he grazes his hands down your sides, fingers splaying wide over your waist like he wants to hold you together. Like you’re something breakable.

But the truth is you feel anything but breakable right now.

You feel powerful.

You feel alive.

Because he’s looking at you like you’re the most wanted thing he’s ever laid eyes on, and his hands are moving like he doesn’t know how to stop touching.

His mouth leaves yours just long enough to breathe against your skin. “Didn’t think it’d feel like this.”

“Like what?” you ask, breathless, chasing his lips.

“Like I’m losin’ my goddamn mind.”

You don’t have time to respond before he’s on you again, kissing you hard, desperate, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t stay close enough. His hands move lower, gripping your thighs, pulling you closer into his lap. The hard press of him under you makes you gasp, and he groans—low and feral—like he’s been holding that sound back for too long.

“Fuck,” he mutters, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re killin’ me, girl.”

You giggle—actually giggle—and it surprises both of you. But before either of you can say anything, your lips are on his again, softer this time. You kiss him slow. You kiss him like a question. Like an answer.

You rock against him without meaning to. He bites back a curse and buries his face in your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your collarbone.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, voice strained and hoarse.

You shake your head. “I don’t want you to.”

His hands slide under your shirt, not rushing, just being there, palms warm on your skin, fingertips brushing along your spine like he’s still trying to believe he’s allowed to touch you like this.

You pull back just long enough to tug the shirt over your head, and Daryl’s breath catches.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks.

You’re suddenly aware of every inch of your skin. Of how exposed you are. Of how much you’re giving him without needing to say a word.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, like it’s some secret he wasn’t sure he had the right to speak aloud.

You lean forward, kissing him again—harder this time. All that emotion has nowhere to go but through him. And he lets it, lets you pour it into him with every press of your lips, every scrape of your nails against his shoulder blades.

He kisses you back like you’re oxygen. Like he’s been suffocating for years and only just now got to take his first real breath.

Your hands slide under his shirt, up over his chest. You can feel the scars, the tension in his muscles, the way his heart pounds just beneath the surface. You push it up, and he lets you, and then it’s skin against skin, heat meeting heat, and everything burns in the best way.

His hand cups the back of your neck, drawing you in for another kiss, slow and sinfully deep. You sigh into his mouth, dizzy from the taste of him, the weight of him, the way your body fits against his like you were made to be here.

This is more than kissing.

This is devotion. Worship. A thousand unsaid things spoken in the way his thumb strokes your ribs, the way your nose bumps his and neither of you cares, the way he pants against your lips between kisses like he needs you more than air.

“Daryl,” you whisper again, because it’s the only word you know.

He presses his forehead to yours, his voice wrecked. “Tell me what you need, baby.”

“I just… I need you. Here. Like this. For a while.”

His eyes soften.

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

You kiss him again, slow and aching. Like a promise. Like a beginning.

And in the low light of the room, with your bodies tangled, your breaths shared, and his hands still warm on your skin, you finally let yourself believe it:

This man—gruff, scarred, impossible Daryl Dixon—wants you.

And God help you, you want him right back.

The storm rolls in slow.

It begins with a low grumble of thunder that hums beneath the floorboards like a warning, followed by the soft patter of rain against the windowpanes. It’s the kind of night that feels like a secret—quiet, cloaked in shadow, with the house still and hushed in sleep. Everyone’s tucked away behind their own doors, their own dreams.

Except you.

You lie awake in bed, covers pulled up to your chin, heart thudding softly as you listen to the rain. There’s a peace to the sound, but you can’t seem to settle. Not when your chest still aches with everything that passed between you and Daryl earlier. The kisses. The words. The weight of it all settling like warmth deep in your bones.

You hadn’t expected tonight to feel like this.

But then again, nothing about him ever feels expected.

You’re just beginning to drift into that space between thoughts and sleep when a soft knock interrupts the quiet. Three quick taps—light, hesitant. You sit up, heart suddenly awake again.

You don’t have to ask who it is.

You know.

You rise slowly, padding across the room and easing the door open just enough to see him standing there, damp from the rain, hair sticking to his temples, eyes soft in the dim light.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Hey,” you whisper back.

He doesn’t move until you open the door wider. And even then, he hesitates, like he’s not sure he’s allowed. You don’t say anything—you just reach for his hand, fingers curling around his gently.

That’s all it takes.

The door shuts behind him with a quiet click. He shrugs off his damp flannel, leaving him in a thin undershirt that clings to him in places. You hand him a towel without a word, and he mutters a soft thanks, rubbing it through his hair.

Then the silence stretches again—but it’s not uncomfortable.

It’s filled with something else now.

Something weightier.

You sit back on the bed, pulling the blanket aside slightly. He stands there for another second, looking at you like he wants to memorize the shape of your face in this exact light. Then—

“Y’sure?” he asks softly.

That’s all he says. Just that. No pressure, no assumption. Just that quiet, gravelly voice, checking if the door you’ve opened tonight is one he’s allowed to step through.

You nod.

It’s barely even that. Just the smallest tilt of your head, but it’s enough. It’s everything.

He joins you, slow and careful, like you’re a place he’s afraid to ruin. The bed dips under his weight, the space between you both charged and tender. You lie back first, scooting under the blanket, and he follows, settling beside you with a sort of reverence that makes your throat tighten.

Neither of you say anything for a while.

Not when your knees brush under the sheets. Not when your hand finds his beneath the blanket, tentative and unsure. Not even when his fingers curl around yours, rough and warm and steady.

He’s quiet. You can hear his breathing. You can feel it—deep and even, but not relaxed. Not yet.

So you speak first. Voice small, but sure.

“You make me feel brave.”

His head turns toward you. You can’t see much in the dark, but you feel his gaze settle on you like it always does—intense, all-consuming.

“I do?” he asks, as if it’s hard to believe.

You nod again. “When I’m with you… I don’t feel small.”

You turn on your side to face him. Your knees bump his. Your hand is still in his, hidden beneath the sheet, and his thumb starts to trace soft circles against your palm.

“Even when I’m scared,” you whisper, “you make me feel like I can handle it. Like I’m not alone.”

Daryl doesn’t respond right away. But when he does, his voice sounds like it’s been scraped raw with emotion.

“Ain’t never felt clean ‘til you touched me.”

You blink. “Daryl—”

“I mean it,” he cuts in gently. “I ain’t been… looked at the way you look at me. Not ever. Not like I’m someone worth bein’ gentle with.”

“You are.”

He huffs a breath—like he doesn’t believe it but wants to.

You scoot closer, forehead almost touching his, and his free hand finds your waist beneath the covers, resting there, just the weight of his palm. Not asking for anything. Just being there.

You press your lips to his jaw. Light. Soft. Then to his cheek.

“You are,” you say again. “You’re more than anyone’s ever let you believe.”

The rain outside thickens, pattering against the roof in heavy, steady rhythm. Inside, it’s just the two of you. The hush of breath. The shared warmth of your limbs tangled under the covers. His hand spreads slightly on your waist, holding you like he wants to keep you here forever.

And you let him.

There’s no rush. No hunger. Just the slow, sweet ache of closeness—the way his thumb strokes your ribs, the way his breath brushes your neck, the way your noses bump as you both shift closer. He kisses your forehead, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth. Each one slow. Measured. Like a vow.

Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt. You bury your face into his chest, breathing in the scent of rain and earth and him. He kisses the top of your head and pulls you even closer.

He doesn’t need to say anything more.

Because you feel it in the way his arms wrap around you like a shield. In the way your hand stays tucked safely in his. In the way your bodies fit together like puzzle pieces—imperfect but right.

Minutes pass like that. Or maybe hours. The storm rolls on, but inside, it’s calm. It’s safe.

Eventually, your eyes flutter closed, lulled by the rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek, by the scratch of his stubble against your forehead, by the soft way he exhales like he can finally let go.

And just as the pull of sleep begins to take you, you hear him whisper—

“Ain’t ever lettin’ you go now.”

You smile into his chest, your fingers tightening around his shirt.

“You better not.”

And in that tiny room, wrapped in warmth, wrapped in him, you believe it.

The storm has passed by morning.

The sun creeps in slow, casting golden light across the wooden floors of your room and warming the air with that fresh, washed scent only rain can leave behind. The birds are back to singing, distant but steady, and the house stirs softly with the sounds of waking—footsteps on creaky floorboards, the faint clang of mugs in the kitchen.

But none of it wakes you.

What does is the warm pressure against your back, the steady rhythm of Daryl’s breathing just behind your ear, and the calloused hand curled loosely around yours beneath the covers.

You shift slightly, enough to glance over your shoulder.

He’s already awake.

Of course he is.

Eyes half-lidded, hair a tousled mess from sleep, his face pressed into the pillow like he has no plans of getting up anytime soon. His chest rises and falls against your back, bare skin warm against yours, and there’s a softness in his expression you don’t get to see very often—unguarded, quiet, his version of content.

You smile before you can stop it.

“Morning,” you whisper.

He blinks, like he’s only just registering your voice, then hums low in his throat. “‘S nice wakin’ up like this.”

“Mm,” you murmur, nuzzling back against him just enough to feel the rumble of his chest when he lets out a breath. “We should probably get up.”

He makes a sound of protest that’s basically just a grumble and tightens his arm around your waist. “Ain’t no rush.”

You giggle, turning to face him fully, and you press a soft kiss to the scar just beneath his collarbone. He looks down at you like he doesn’t understand how you’re real. Like he’s still afraid you’ll disappear.

“You’re staring,” you say.

“You’re in my bed,” he counters, a small, lopsided grin tugging at his lips. “I’m allowed.”

Technically it’s your bed, but you let it slide.

You stretch under the covers, and Daryl winces slightly as he sits up, rubbing at his shoulder.

“Still hurts?” you ask, instantly alert.

He nods once. “Little. It’ll pass.”

You frown, crawling up to prop yourself against the headboard. “You should rest more. Hershel said the wound needs another day before—”

“I’m fine,” he cuts in, but his voice is softer than usual. Teasing. “You ain’t gotta hover.”

“I’m not hovering,” you huff.

“You’re hoverin’,” he smirks.

You throw the pillow at him. He catches it mid-air, laughing—a real, genuine sound—and your heart just about combusts in your chest.

God, he’s beautiful when he laughs.

You don’t say it out loud. Not yet. But you file the thought away for later.

By the time you both finally leave the room, the house is in full morning mode. The scent of fresh coffee drifts in from the kitchen. Beth’s humming somewhere down the hallway. Maggie’s already outside feeding the chickens.

You walk downstairs side by side, and for a few minutes, it’s almost normal. Like you didn’t just spend the entire night wrapped around each other, sharing whispers and warmth and the quiet promise of something neither of you knows how to name yet.

But then you reach the kitchen.

And Hershel’s there.

He doesn’t say a word when he sees you walk in behind Daryl—hair still messy, shirt rumpled, lips maybe a little too pink—but the look he gives is unmistakable.

The Dad Stare.

The one that could stop a charging walker in its tracks. The one that says I know everything, and I’m just choosing not to bring it up right now.

You freeze.

Daryl clears his throat, awkwardly reaching for a mug.

Hershel just raises a brow, then sips his coffee and looks away.

You’re not sure if that’s better or worse.

Before you can even breathe again, Maggie comes through the back door, swinging it open with one hand and carrying a basket of eggs in the other. She takes one look at the two of you—standing a little too close, trying way too hard not to look like you’re trying—and grins.

“Morning, lovebirds,” she sings.

You nearly choke on your own breath.

Daryl grunts and mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “gonna kill Glenn”, which becomes significantly more ironic when said man walks in not two seconds later and gives Daryl a very smug, very knowing high-five.

“Atta boy,” Glenn says, dead serious.

Daryl turns bright red. You can’t even look at him without laughing.

You try to brush past everyone quickly, but Maggie’s already at your side.

“Didn’t think you had it in you,” she whispers, elbowing you playfully. “About time someone cracked that man open.”

You duck your head, cheeks burning, and mutter, “Shut up, Maggie.”

“Oh, I will,” she says sweetly, “just as soon as you stop looking like you won the lottery.”

Later, once the teasing subsides and breakfast is done, you find yourself sitting outside on the front porch steps. The storm left everything fresh and quiet—the trees sway gently in the breeze, the grass glistens with rain, and the sky stretches wide and blue overhead.

You feel him before you see him.

Daryl sits down beside you without a word, his thigh brushing yours. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.

Because after a moment, his hand finds yours again.

Under the railing, hidden from view, his fingers slip between yours like it’s second nature.

And just like that, your heart does that thing again. The soft flip. The ache of something good and terrifying and real.

You glance at him, eyes still on the field.

“What now?” you whisper.

He shrugs, slow and thoughtful.

“Now? I heal.”

You smile.

“And maybe…” he continues, voice a little quieter, “we go look for that kid. Together.”

Your heart lurches at that word—together.

You squeeze his hand. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

He turns to you then, really looks at you, and there’s something in his eyes you haven’t seen before. Something steadier. Sure of itself.

“You stay close, alright?” he says.

“I will.”

“I mean it.”

You rest your head on his shoulder. “I know.”

You sit like that for a long while—quiet, warm, full of unspoken promises.

And even though there’s still a whole world of danger waiting out there, walkers and losses and fears you haven’t even faced yet, right now—here, with him—you feel ready.

Because this time, you’re not walking into it alone.

You’re walking into it with him.

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