calico-cheriies

[calico-cheriies]

💌 kisses for every question you get right! detective comics. ────── tutor!tim drake x reader. cw: very suggestive. making out. mentions of a boner.

tim, frankly, has no idea how this happened.

he was a registered tutor, busy five days a week on top of patrol and post-secondary prep, helping middle school kids with basic linear equations and fractions. so when you, bubbly cheerleader who by rule of society do not talk to kids like him, approached him holding your failed calculus test with wide eyes and a shaking voice, he thought he was a bit out of his target age bracket.

"i, um, i saw your flier," you'd said as you stood at the side of his desk as kids filed out to next period, the front of your test pressed to your chest to hide the angry red '43%' scrawled on the front.

tim looked up from sliding his laptop into his bag, his palms starting to sweat. he wiped them on his jeans, trying to ignore the blood rushing to his pale cheeks. "um, hey, yeah," he mumbled, brushing his bangs out of his eyes. "do you have a younger sibling? i usually do up to eighth grade."

he heard you sniffle and looked back up, only to see your eyes glossy and your fingers pressed into your test so hard the paper creased. "um, i know this is weird because you don't know me—"

tim swallowed, because he did, in fact, know you. he'd had a crush on you since the seventh grade when you braided his laces together after he tripped for the umpteenth time and glared at anyone who dared to laugh.

"— but it's the beginning of the semester and i'm already failing and i need to pass this class." you said. "i, um, i know you usually help younger kids but your rate is really good, and you have a ninety-four in this class so..."

tim's busy schedule evaporated in his mind as he mumbled out agreements in time with your glossy lips moving.

tuesdays and thursdays at 4:30 you'd show up at his door with a plush keychain hanging from your purse and an earnest gaze on him as you clutched a packet of calculus questions. a sweet smile on your glossed lips as you followed him upstairs.

these sessions felt more like a hangout between friends than a formal tutoring lesson. as nervous as you made him, there was meaningful conversation made between the two of you as you scribbled out the answers in your pink pen, among doodles of flowers and kittens. tim learned you liked to draw but weren't very good, to which he jokingly offered to tutor you in that.

you'd giggled and poked his chest in response to that, followed by a giggly, "you're so sweet, timmy" that made his heart jackhammer against his ribs.

which is how he got here.

"mm, you excited?" you murmur as your hand cradles his jaw, leaving a dainty kiss on the side of his mouth. you can feel a slight pressure on the inside of your thigh as you settle on tim's lap, a little love tap poking you as you adjust yourself.

the back of tim's office chair reclines slightly under the pressure of his back, your knees press against his thighs. the plush of your ass balances on his lap, resting in one of his palms as the other held your hip. tim’s eyes are blown wide as your lipstick stains every inch of his pale skin.

"w-what?" he blinks rapidly, as your thumb gently rubs the red outline that's starting to swell up around his slightly chapped lips.

you giggle, leaving a small kiss on his cheek. there are butterflies flitting about in your tummy, cheeks flushed as pink as your lip gloss as you take in the sight of your tutor's face covered in stains of said gloss.

he makes a sound caught between a whine and a gasp as he realizes, to which you smile. "i— oh, god, i'm so sorry." he stammers, "that, um, i did not p-plan for that or anything. we can— we can, um, we can stop if you wa—"

"you're so cute," you interrupt him with a sigh, your faces so close together that he can feel your warm breath fan over his mouth. tim tilts his head back as you press another kiss to his lips.

your skirt rides up your thighs and tim tries so hard not to look... pretty much anywhere. he can see your eyes half-lidded as you pull away slightly to adjust your position on his lap, your irises so clear under thick lashes. you're pretty, so pretty. if you had told middle-school tim that this would be an event that occurred in his future someday, he would've had a nosebleed just from the very thought.

tim's glasses slip down nose in time with his kiss-swollen lips falling open as you shift forward and press your pelvis into his clothed crotch. "oh, god," he breathes as his eyes tilt upwards, the pads of his fingers lightly rubbing your hip. "stop being mean."

your watch tim's eyes fall closed, his dark lashes standing out among the pink kiss marks littering his pale face. you reach out, pink nails tipping your finger as you push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

"cutie," you coo under your breath, tilting your head to press another small kiss to his lips. the little smack sound made his blood rush to his cheeks, his lips chasing yours once you pulled away.

you take his cheek in your palm and thumb off a little lipstick by the corner of his mouth with a little him. "there," you say softly, taking in your work. a flushed boy with your sticky lip gloss prints all over his face and staining his collar. you smile. "thirty kisses for thirty right answers."

"i, um, i think—" tim purses his lips, pressing his legs together in a desperate attempt to calm himself down, "i think you should be r-ready—" he practically chokes as you sink down further into his lap, "—christ— ready for your test."

you squeal, making the point to bounce a little with excitement, clapping your hands together. tim groans, his fingers tightening in your hips reflexively and you squeal a little. "oh, goody," you cheer, patting his cheek. "you're too sweet, timmy."

"y-yeah," he mumbles, "you're going to taste— ace, ace this."

duclet-aurora © 2025. do not plagiarize my writing. ✶ i fucking love pathetic men.

[calico-cheriies]

TIM DRAKE who can't help but film you: bringing his obnoxiously large camera wherever the pair of you go, SD cards dangling off of a keyring, replacing the keys that should be there instead. Whether it be candid shots or perfectly orchestrated photos, the background of a family photo or a little snapshot of just the two of you, he keeps you immortalised within his long strips of film. He keeps every shot of you, even if it turns out to be a blurry snap that distorts your feature into the dodgy lighting of the street-lamp, or a photo worthy of blackmail - he says that it'd be sinful to get rid of anything you've left your mark on.

༊*·˚ i'm mildly whipped </3

[calico-cheriies]

❆ THEIR EYES

PAIRING : tim drake x gn!reader

ONESHOT : thru everyone else eyes, as they slowly realize that tim cares for you more than he'd care to admit.

A/N : theehee

masterlist

     WHEN Dick agreed to go out for ice cream with you and Tim, he was expecting to pay. However, he wasn’t expecting you to wander off on your own. He wasn’t sure how he lost the two of you. He seemingly looked away for a second and was left with nothing but silence when he called your names.

     He groaned as he ate his ice cream and began to search for the two of you. The streets were dark and quiet, you weren’t in Gotham, in a small town on the outskirts that Tim claimed had the best ice cream ever. Which was proven true with each lick Dick took.

     And as he went to rest on a lonely bench behind the ice cream store, he heard your voice. 

     “Please, Tim, mine is so terrible,”  you whined through a laugh, words laced with playful frustration.

     “I told you you wouldn’t like it. You hate everything involved with that flavor, and you still got it,” Tim’s voice was all so familiar, too annoyed to budge it seemed. Bringing a light smile to Dick’s face as Tim hadn’t changed from the months they spent apart. 

     As dick took a few, slow calculated steps forward, planning to scare the two of you, is when he heard something that he expected less.

     “Fine. We can trade, only if you stop whining like a dog,” Tim gave in to your eyes. Something Dick wouldn’t imagine. 

     “Thank you Timothy,” your voice was like chores as he watched you switch your ice creams.

     “Yeah, yeah,” his response was short and seemingly aggravated. 

     Yet as Dick looked forward he could see something different. A twitch of Tim’s lip as he looked down at you. Not his normal dead, tired stare. No, it was a stare that Dick was unfamiliar with when it came to his younger brother. 

     It was something more, something of admiration and care. A softer look that one could even mistake for love. That’s when Dick decided to leave you too alone, as some things didn’t need a witness— just time.

    DAMIAN hated Tim. Well, hate might be too strong of a word, much to Damians dismay. He pretended he wanted Tim dead, never hiding the illusion that he wouldn’t know what to do if the boy truly did leave his life. 

    So when the two ended up sparing together in the cave, Damian did not hold his punches. He never did when it came to Tim. Yet maybe the third time Tim fell to the ground without much effort Damian began to realise something was different about him.

   “You’ve somehow managed to get worse,” he scoffed, circling

    “Wow, thanks,” Tim grumbled as he moved to get up. “Can we take a break for a minute? I need to check on something.”

    “Breaks are for the weak. But if you’re that desperate, I’ll allow it.”

     What caught Damian off guard wasn’t the break—it was the speed with which Tim snatched up his phone. Or maybe it had been the way he let out a breath as he checked his notifications. Or the way his shoulders seemed to untense when he typed.

     It only caused Damian to question his softened stare more. Curious to who was whittling down Tim to an actual person than an asshole who ran on nothing but annoyance, caffeine, and spite. A flicker of something else behind the usual apathy. Even Tim’s silence seemed less guarded.

     “I have to go,” Tim muttered, grabbing his things, already halfway out.

    “Skipping training?” Damian quirked a brow. “That’s a new low. What might it be this time? Fathers company failing under your guidance?” No response. “A new case you might be able to solve?” Not even a blink. “Your best friend need help with something?” A short pause. That was it. You. You needed him.

     Damian was quick to put it together as Tim muttered an annoyed goodbye and left to go see you. Yet his attitude wasn’t as damp as it typically was. 

     Something had changed. And the cause had your name written all over it.. One he wasn’t sure he could welcome just yet.

    TIM WASN’T responding to Barabra’s messages. 

    Intel was coming in from every corner of the city. Red Robin was needed. Chaos had taken root. But Tim had stopped moving—feet planted just outside an apartment building Barbara didn’t recognize.

    “I’m okay,” was all his message said.

    Then radio silence.

    She tried not to worry. She tried harder not to be angry. But when she tapped into the lenses in his cowl—tech meant for worst-case scenarios—her anger fell to confusion.

    She saw you.

   Tears in your eyes. Hands trembling slightly. And Tim—he wasn’t moving. He was just… waiting. Steady. Still.

   Whatever you said, whatever passed between you, Barbara never fully saw. Only a burner phone exchanged, and then Tim was gone again. Back into the shadows.

   She didn’t know what it meant. She didn’t understand what could be more important than a mission.

   But she felt it. Knew it.

   Whatever it was between you and Tim—it was real. More real than she expected.

     JASON didn’t know what he expected when you showed up at the manor that night. The whole family was torn to shreds after a particularly rough patrol. Blood. Bruises. Too many near-misses. 

     But you? You just walked in, barely saying a word, patch kit in hand. Straight to Tim.

     Maybe it was the way you leaned onto him, close enough to feel his breath, yet not close enough to be overbearing. Maybe it was the way your fingers gripped his face as he began to fight your help, yet not moving an inch away from you as you showed as lack of response. Maybe it was the way you apologized everytime he winced too hard. 

     Or maybe it was the way Tim looked at you. 

     His voice tells you the opposite of his eyes. As they searched your face up and down. Not like a soldier. Not like a vigilante. But like a man drowning in every ounce of peace you gave him. Like he’d been walking through fire and you were the first drop of rain in years. A sense of happiness. As if you were the sun that rose in the morning. A sense of hope. As if you were the boat that came to save him from the sea. 

     He looked at you like you gave him the will to live. And you in return patched his wounds so he could keep living. 

     Jason wasn’t sure what episode of the show he was on, but he knew that it was a shitty rom-com that he would watch to relearn what it was like to love. 

    YELLING crowded Tim’s room before he heard the slam of the front door. Bruce never left his room to see you leave, instead he left to watch the aftermath. He just watched the silence that followed swallow Tim whole. No anger. No fight. Just… silence.

     Tim was a ghost after that. Tasks unfinished. Coffee cold. Eyes flicking toward his vibrating phone every time it buzzed. Waiting. Hoping.

     Bruce didn’t understand it until hours later—when he passed Tim’s room and saw the laptop screen. A photo of the two of you. A photo where you were smiling. so brightly it hurt to look at. Tim, beside you. But Tim wasn’t looking at the camera.

     His eyes were on you.

     There was something there. Something Bruce hadn’t seen in him in years. Tim Drake was in love. Hopelessly. Maybe that’s why Bruce said nothing. Why he just nudged his son away from the screen. Sat him down. Distracted him with reports, intel, chess. Anything. Because maybe—just maybe—if Bruce kept him busy long enough… Tim would figure out what he needed.

     And he’d go find you again.

[calico-cheriies]

FOCAL POINT

...YANDERE TIM DRAKE

SYNOPSIS : Tim doesn’t need chains to keep you—Not when he has control, patience—and that camera accompanied by the terrifying kind of love that never lets go.

WARNINGS : Yandere, Obsessive Behaviour, Captivity, Non-consensual Dynamics, Stalking Behaviour (implied), Camera / Photography Kink (non-explicit), Objectification of Reader, Stockholm Syndrome Undertones (implied), Possessive Behaviour

A/N : tims my favourite i cant physically resist writing about him so heres this small drabble,, any ideas for batboys that you guys wanna see me write are welcomed in my ask box as always INTERACTIONS AND REBLOGS ENCOURAGED!

The way in which Tim insists on photographing you like this makes your stomach twist.

His bed is too big. Too cold. Drenched in shadows even when the curtains are drawn wide. And there you are — posed like some fragile, delicate thing on silk sheets that smell like him. You sit just as he arranged you, perched on the edge of silk sheets that glisten under dim light, your body wrapped in layers of delicate lace and tulle, ribbons tied into bows at your collarbones, at your wrists, in your hair. Soft pink, soft white—colours he chose, not you. You’ve become something ornamental. A curated fantasy of his. 

You look like innocence incarnate. He made sure of it.

His bed cradles you—layers of dark silk against your delicate pastels, the contrast deliberately done by him. And Tim, standing before you with that camera in his hands and hunger in his eyes, looks like sin carved into the shape of a man.

There’s too much of him—height and shadow and silence. 

He doesn’t need to raise his voice or move quickly. His stillness is more terrifying than anything else. He doesn’t just stand near you. He looms. He’s dressed the way he always is—like he knows what he’s doing. His sweatpants ride low on his hips, exposing a trail of dark curls running from beneath the band to his navel, soft in a way that makes your thoughts go quiet with shame. He wears a fitted tank top, clinging to his torso like second skin—drenched in heat, sweat, and tension. Every breath he takes causes the fabric to stretch and settle, drawing your attention to the ripple of muscle beneath.

And his eyes—God help you, his eyes.

There’s no warmth in them, only calculation. A slow, simmering hunger always rising. They track you with the sharpness of a predator watching its prey. Cold and exact, like he’s always measuring how much more of you he can claim before you break.

Hanging heavy from his neck is that goddamn camera.

Professional. Expensive, probably. Matte body, thick lens, cold as his gaze. It clicks and flashes, capturing you in rapid-fire bursts. It’s not just a tool to him. It’s part of him—an extension of the way he consumes you. He raises it slowly, reverently, and behind the lens, his eyes sharpen. The shutter clicks.

Each snap cracks through the air like a gunshot, and you flinch every time, shoulders jerking, hands reflexively curling tightly. Each flash sears across your vision like lightning, leaving you blinking, stunned, shrinking in on yourself as if you could vanish into his silk sheets. You hate that he laughs.

He loves when you flinch—when you jolt and squirm and grip the edges of his sheets with trembling hands, silk bunched in your fists like a lifeline. You hate the way your knees knock together, shiny black shoes clicking like porcelain as they swing just above the ground. You look like a doll—posed, dressed, trembling—and he looks at you like a collector admiring his prize.

"Perfect," He murmurs, voice thick with a reverence that makes your skin crawl. The camera clicks again.

You shiver at the sound.

It’s not that he touches you—not yet. That’s what makes it worse. He doesn't have to. Not when every look cages you tighter than chains ever could. Not when he keeps you like this—pretty, pliant, and trembling beneath the weight of his gaze.

a/n : i said it'd be spicy but im very lazy and the weather has me feeling like a hotdog,, may perhaps do p2 of intermezzo since people have been asking idk

[calico-cheriies]

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞・tim drake (featuring ceo!tim drake and secretary!reader)

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ wherein you’re tim’s work wife, but he wants you be something more. a wayne gala gives him the best opportunity to swoop in and finally turn it real.

word count: 2.8k

warnings: attempt at sexual assault, lots of pining (from tim’s end)

note: guys you don’t know how happy i am to have this trope be featured in my first tim fic ever because. well. i am a SUCKER for this trope and i hope i did it justice. and like, who isn’t in love with the idea of ceo!tim??? who isn’t even canon???? (sobbing) anyways please enjoy!

You’re Tim’s work wife.

Everyone knows it. That’s what everyone calls you in the office. Suddenly, Tim is no longer that one guy that exemplifies nepotism, now, he’s just known as your work husband. 

He doesn’t notice at first, the way your relationship deepened to something like that. He remembers the day of your first day—12th April, and you had walked into the office at eight-forty three A.M. for a nine A.M. start—but he doesn’t remember. Tim’s naturally observant, so he knows what you were wearing, down to the height of your heels in inches, but he doesn’t really remember any of your interactions. You were just…nondescript. You just happened to apply, and Tam approved. So you came in.

Then, the two of you’d end up pulling in at the same time. Tim would park his car, lock it, and then turn around to see you waiting patiently at the elevator, pressing the open button.

Things just evolved from there. Tim would bypass his usual drive-by coffee order, because you’d have a red eye ready for him, piping hot and perfect to his taste. Tim would fall into the habit of sitting on your desk first thing instead of his, and the two of you would chat before work actually began.

You were, in every sense possible, his work wife. Except for maybe the point in which Tim is supposed to just have platonic…feelings.

Tim’s even googled it. Wikipedia defines it as a “special, platonic friendship with a work colleague characterised by a close emotional bond, high levels of disclosure and support, mutual trust, honesty, loyalty and respect”. 

Tim respects you. He’s pretty sure that if anything were to happen to you, he’d hunt the fucker down and then commit murder suicide because he can’t function without you.

He physically deflates when you’re not in the office. Tam’s even mocked Tim about it, mirroring his slouched shoulders like she’s some bully from high school, only to laugh when Tim flips her his middle finger. 

Not to mention, when you found out he was Red Robin because he had broken into your apartment—and he had only broken in because he knew you had purchased a well-stocked med-kit from tracking your financial records like a freak, as Jason would say—you had just shrieked, spent a minute clutching at your chest, before going to find the first aid kit for him. You’re literally perfect. There’s no one other than you. 

Not that you know that. Tim’s been suffering through your recounts of recent blind dates that your friends and family have been setting you up with, and every time, Tim suddenly turns into not-Tim and all his snark disappears and all he can say is ‘oh no way’ and ‘dang’ and ‘that sounds awful’. 

What happened to Red Robin Tim? What happened to Robin Tim?

Well. Robin Tim is right here, at this Wayne gala, and he’s about to fucking tear this guy’s throat out of he keeps looking at you like that.

“Tim,” Bruce says airily, as if he doesn’t notice Tim glaring daggers into the back of one of his business partners, “Come here, come meet Marcus. Marcus, this is one of my sons, Tim, who is one of the rare ones who has some interest in the family business.”

Tim forces a laugh with the other two men, shooting a look at Bruce to say I know what you’re doing. Bruce replies with a wink that seems like he’s just being playful, but instead says, Stop thinking of ways to dispose of Keith Briggs.

Tim makes sure he conveys I have twenty-seven methods already very clearly. Bruce’s smile turns strained.

“Oh, Timothy!” Marcus Ho of Starview Industries reaches over and shakes Tim’s hand firmly, brightening. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Tim says, going for a smile. “For what it’s worth, I believe what you’re doing with that new Dove Initiative is extremely admirable.” In the corner of his eye, he sees Keith Briggs reach you, a hand ghosting around your waist, and it makes Tim’s muscles tense. 

You dodge out of the way, manoeuvring out of the way smoothly, and you give a defusing laugh when Briggs frowns at the evasion. You’ve got Tam by your side, thank God, and you’ve also got Cass, who eyes the new arrival warily. 

You’ll be fine. You’re not alone.

“Tim,” Bruce says, very pointedly, because it’s probably obvious that Tim’s not paying attention, “I was just thinking that the dove initiative is quite similar to the new Martha Wayne Foundation project you were thinking of developing. Perhaps Marcus could give you some pointers.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” Marcus shakes his head, taking a step back, “I’m still quite new at all this—being the director, and all, I mean, I think Timothy here has even more experience than I do, and he’s at least ten years younger than me!”

“Well, experience doesn’t necessarily equate to wisdom,” Tim points out absent-mindedly, because that was something you once said to him. “If—I’m so sorry, but please excuse me, there’s just something—”

Marcus frowns, seeing how agitated Tim is. “Is there something wrong? Is there something I could do to help?”

“Uh—” Tim meets Brucie Wayne’s glazed glare with an anxiety of his own. “—it’s nothing, it’s just—my wife—yeah, my wife, she’s calling me over.”

Marcus blinks. “Your…wife?”

“Your wife,” Bruce repeats, and Tim knows he’s fucked up. It’s the least of his worries right now, though.

“Yeah—uhm, look, I’ll be right, back, just going to check up on her. Marcus, I’d love to hear all about the Dove Initiative; rebuilding affordable homes in affordable suburbs—amazing work, sir.”

“No, no,” Marcus waves, “Please, go, go, family is very important. God knows that if my wife were here I probably would check up on her every ten minutes.”

As if psychically tuned to Tim’s rising stress, you turn, and your eyes meet. You blink, probably not expecting him to be looking at you, but you give him a tentative wave when you make eye-contact.

Fucking angel. You’ve just given him everything you need.

“I’ll be right back,” Tim promises, beelining for you. Bruce would probably sigh, if he were actually Bruce, but instead, he just makes a random joke that Tim is out of earshot to hear, but the ringing laughter of Brucie Wayne and Marcus trail behind him.

Tim’s focus is elsewhere. Briggs is making another move, this time to touch your ass, and even though Cass is closer, she stays still as Tim slides into place, effectively stopping what would’ve been a serious case of sexual harassment.

Briggs stumbles back as Tim threads his arm around your waist, slotting himself between you and him. Your eyebrows raise at the contact, but you don’t pull away, and things only get better when your frown intensifies in that way when you see something dissatisfactory.

“Hold this,” you command, and Tim blinks as he holds your champagne. With deft fingers, you tug at his bow tie, aligning it properly, before giving him a little pat. “That’s much better. Okay, now give it back.”

Tim obediently gives you your champagne back. Briggs recovers, eyes darting back and forth between the two of you, eyes wide. “Hold on,” he says loudly and dumbly, “I didn’t know that you and—and Wayne were a thing—”

“Oh they’re husband and wife,” Tam pipes, smiling innocently. Tim needs to give her a raise.

“Love each other,” Cass agrees, and Tim hopes you don’t read too much into that one. It would be one terribly indirect way to confess.

Briggs eyes widen so much Tim’s starting to get concerned them popping out. “But—you’re not wearing a ring!”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do all couples need to wear a ring to signify that they’re in a committed relationship?”

Tim turns his head away into your neck to hide a smile. It doesn’t really do much except fill Tim’s nose with your intoxicating scent, and he has to pivot to get a breath of fresh air before he loses it. Tam meets his eye behind your shoulder, and she wriggles her eyebrows knowingly.

Fuck you, Tim mouthes, but only after he’s made sure no one is looking or filming. He gives himself about two more minutes before someone gets the smart idea of catching Timothy Drake-Wayne hugging a woman by the waist. And not just any woman either, his executive assistant—his secretary.

Scandalous. Honestly, though, Bruce and Wayne Enterprises’ PR department might be the only ones who’ll care about the fallout. 

“You could’ve said something about being the wife of the CEO of Wayne Enterprises,” Briggs hisses. He takes a massive step back when Tim snaps around to level him with the trademarked Drake Stare of Condescension, and Tim makes sure to add some Red Robin fire behind it so he doesn’t get any smart ideas. 

Briggs clears his throat, changing his tone. “I mean, I wouldn’t want this misunderstanding to have blown out of proportion.”

“What misunderstanding?” you ask, and then, very deliberately, you reach out to fix Tim’s collar. Tim swears his ears must be burning, but he manages a smile when your eyes meet.

“I—” Briggs cuts himself when Tim turns to stare at him again, and he takes another step back. “No, no, there’s no misunderstanding here—uhm, have a good rest of your night, Mrs. Wayne, Mr. Wayne.”

“It’s Drake-Wayne,” you snap after him, irritation furrowing your brows. 

Briggs runs away too fast to hear, but Tim finds it hilarious, and he lets out a laugh as you turn back to look at him. “What?” you ask, dropping your hand, and sipping from your champagne flute.

“Nothing,” Tim shrugs, pulling you a little closer, “just you and your weird priorities.”

“What weird priorities?”

Tim steals your flute to take his own sip. “Just that you didn’t get mad when he was trying to feel you up, but you did when he said the wrong name.”

“i see no problem with my priorities,” you correct, “because it’s my job to ensure the correct information about you is spreading around.”

“Information like you and I are married?”

You freeze. Technically, the two of you have just gone through a situation where both of you had insinuated that you had done your vows and said your ‘I do’s. “Aren’t you?” Cass asks, innocently curious.

“Cass!” you protest, whirling around to her, your champagne forgotten in Tim’s hand, “No no, we’re work spouses, remember? That’s—that’s totally different—it’s platonic and everything—”

“Did you google that?” Tam asks, grinning from behind her own glass. “Wikipedia, perhaps?”

“Why do you know that?” you demand, flustered.

“Well, because Tim asked me the other day if—”

“That’s enough,” Tim cuts in, because he’s also panicking, “is there no one you should be networking with, Tam? Cass, I think Bruce wants to chat with you.”

Both of them make disgusted faces at the suggestions. But a tacit understanding passes through them and they turn to one another, giggle, before hurrying away. Neither go to do what Tim’s told them to do, instead heading for food, but at least they’ve left the two of you alone.

The problem is, then, they’ve left the two of you alone. With no one else here, Tim’s hold on your waist is suddenly very noticeable, and he very carefully detaches himself from you. When he does, a chill settles in from where you had been pressed against him, and Tim swallows down a complain. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, glancing down, and smoothing down your silk dress, “knew you’d come.”

Tim can’t help but preen underneath your faith. “Well,” he says, like an idiot, “I am an imbecile who trapezes around nighttime doing things like this.”

You don’t seem to find him quoting you very funny though. “Yeah, that’s right,” you say, glancing to your side, “that’s true. You do this kind of thing all the time.” You stare off, aimlessly. 

Tim’s said something wrong. He needs to fix this. “No, wait, that’s not what I meant. I—I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

“Like he was a sexual predator?” you ask, dryly. You reach for your champagne, but Tim doesn’t give it back just yet. He holds onto it, probably with enough strength to crack the glass, and he steels himself to say the right thing.

“Yes, but also because it was you.” Tim ignores the thumping in his throat, swallowing past it. “I don’t—I honestly might’ve resorted to violence if Bruce didn’t let me go and he had actually touched you.”

Confusion clouds your face. “Tim, you’ve got morals, big deal—”

“I’m saying that I’m in love with you,” Tim blurts out, “and that it’s completely okay if you’re not, because we’re just work spouses, but I’ve probably fantasised way too many times of being actual spouses that it should probably be illegal and you should probably know. So. Yeah.”

“Tim,” you start, but he can see the expression on your face, and he needs to retreat, right now.

“Here,” he says, shoving the champagne back at you, hoping that it’ll distract you, “uhm, if you want me to quit or something, just let me know by Monday so I can get Bruce to come in instead—yeah—”

“Tim.” 

He shuts up. 

Your face transforms into something absolutely stunning, and it takes a while for Tim to realise that it’s a blinding smile. “Shouldn’t the secretary quit in a situation like this?” You laugh, and you reach for his arm. “Not the CEO?”

Tim feels your touch through his sleeve. “I’d never make you quit,” he says, with absolutely no filter because his brain isn’t working right now, “unless you hate your job. And then I’d force you to quit so you can find something that you like. But I don’t think you hate being an executive assistant. Shit. Do you hate being an executive assistant?”

“I don’t love it,” you admit, and Tim’s stomach drops, “but I do love my job. It’s because I love working with you.”

Tim blinks. “Uhm.”

“And I love working with you,” you continue, stepping closer, hand drifting up from his sleeve to rest on his shoulder, “because, funnily enough, I am also in love with you, Timothy Drake-Wayne.”

“Oh,” Tim breathes, “you are? Because that would be great.”

Your other arm slips around his other shoulder, and suddenly, you’re right in front of him. Your front is pressed against his, and Tim’s arms automatically wind around your waist to keep you locked in this embrace.

You smile up at him, sweet and enticing. “This is the perfect moment to kiss me now, Tim,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” Tim nods, neurons not firing at all, “yeah, okay, I’m gonna kiss you now.”

You throw your head back to laugh, but Tim has his lips against yours before you can make fun of him. You meld into his instantly, pulling him closer with your hands behind his head. Just in case, Tim reaches up to grab a hold of your champagne glass so it doesn’t spill, and you let him, instead going to play with the hair behind his neck instead.

Dick might’ve whooped from the other side of the ballroom, but Tim’s not paying attention to anyone but you. And the way you taste so sweet, right there, right against him, because you’re his now and—

You break away. Tim’s is horrified when a whine rips out of his throat.

This time you get to laugh, leaning back when Tim attempts to chase your lips. “No, Tim,” you scold, like he’s a misbehaving dog, “we are not making out at your father’s gala.”

“But I wanna,” Tim complains, placing your flute on a nearby table so he can get a better purchase on your hips. “I wanna show you just how much I love you, how much I’ve held back from going at you at the office like a horny teenager.”

“Tim! We’re in public!” You laugh, and before he can whine again (horrifying, why is he doing this?) you press a kiss to his lips to shut him up.

The reaction is automatic. Tim is putty in your hands, because you have him wrapped around your little finger.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Tim,” you say gently against his lips, “I love you, dear work husband.”

Tim sighs contently, brushing his nose against yours. “Love you more, dearest work wife.”

Hey. At least any tabloids out there who are rushing to get photos of the two of you onto their front pages won’t be able to say anything like illegitimate relationship because now, it’s legitimate.

Now, Tim’s just gonna have to plan out the next couple of months and gauge how soon is considered too soon for him to propose.

general masterlist・come chat to me here!

[calico-cheriies]

must be love

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ SYNOPSIS: Batboys as boyfriends and their habits in a relationship! SFW + NSFW. 18+. 〝 What did you give me to make my heart beat out my chest? 〞 Batboys x Reader. ⋆˚࿔ A/N: Thanks for love on my last post! I TAKE REQUESTS! Sorta rusty, but I've missed writing sm chat

ᯓ★ DICK GRAYSON.

SFW

DICK GREW UP WITH BRUCE'S OLD WORLD MANNERS AND ALFRED'S TENDERNESS. It would be insulting to both of them if he didn't treat his partner following those examples of devotion.

Always has a hand on you. Thigh when he's driving, drawing circles on the inside with the other on the wheel, the small of your back as you're walking through a crowd to help you guide through the heat of bodies around you both, your hip when he's talking to someone else.

So there's no question when you both are out that you're his. Not because he clings, just because he's so unmistakably in love and he's loud about it. His hand finds yours without thinking, it's second nature to him. He laughs louder when you're happy, arm stays around your waist.

When you're not around? If someone tries their luck, any girl is met with a smile and he shakes his head sweetly, "Someone gorgeous has me."

Another thing about Dick is he shows up. Not just for you, the other people in your life. They're important to you, so they're important to them. He bribes your little brother with action figures and of course he'll drive your sister to soccer practice, and they can hit boba on the way home afterwards. Holds your dog during fireworks. Your roommate has a bad date and he's on the couch with you and gives his two cents from a guy's perspective and wait hey, he thinks Wally's her type?

"They like me, right?" His hair has stray pieces of sawdust from helping your dad fix the garage door, and there's a streak of grease staining his shirt. "I can't have your whole bloodline turning on me if I mess up babe."

He wants to find his way to fit into your world. And vice versa for sure!

Will bring you to the manor, and kiss the inside of your wrist and introduce you to Alfred like you're royalty. "This is (her. him. them.)"

Like that's all the explanation needed.

With the others, he lights up when they ask about you, or when you play cards with Jason and Tim, compliment and study Dami's drawings or make Bruce and Cass laugh.

When you go out with his friends, he'll drape his arm around you and grin when they tease you both.

At his apartment, he presses a kiss softly to your lips after you steal a sip of his beer and Roy will grin at the lovestruck expression on Dick's face before raising his brows at him, "Why don't you ever do that to me?"

Flowers are often. Will deliver them casually, too. Was 4th of July a worthy occasion for them? You don't know but you don't really mind.

NSFW

Munch city. DON'T YELL AT ME I'M RIGHT.

Lives for your pleasure, but there's nothing performative about it, he just gets off to how he can make you feel.

He takes his time, draws it out, and holds your hips down to keep you from squirming. "Where're you going, pretty?"

Literally moans into you, louder if you get louder, looks up at you as if he's seeing the face of God.

"So pretty like this, fuck."

Offers constantly. You'd honestly think he's ovulating. You're drying your hair as you step out the shower, and he's kissing the side of your neck sweetly, and tugging you to his bed murmuring something like, "C'mere. Wanna taste you real quick." It's not quick, you both know, but he's already kissing inside your thighs.

All hands and praise!!

Doesn't rush the after, he's walking you to the bathroom and when you're back he has a wet towel and an iced water with a straw.

ᯓ★ JASON TODD.

SFW

JASON DOESN'T LOVE LIKE HE WAS BORN INTO IT, BUT RATHER LIKE HE HAD TO LEARN HOW TO DO IT.

Clumsy, then careful!

He's practical, until he's not.

Until you mention wanting to see a local play, and when you get home he's bought tickets to four.

"This one's experimental." His finger points to the pamphlets he got when he drove down to the ticket office. "This one's about war. Feminist period piece. A musical." He gets quieter, and shrugs like it's not a big deal. "Thought we could make a thing of it."

He's practical until he's adopting a kitten with you, no question.

You find her outside your complex in a silver bin, tiny and shaking and definitely sick. He just sighs and peels off his jacket to wrap it up as you kiss his cheek. "Guess we're cat people now."

You find him on the couch with the cat on his chest and he's reading Wuthering Heights lowly to her. He doesn't look up, just rolls his eyes.

"Don't start, [Name.] She likes the voices."

He doesn't say I love you early. But he definitely acts like it. He'll pull you behind him when you cross the street quickly, text you "home safe?" before you've even made it to your driveway.

Observant would be putting it lightly. Your favorite shampoo and conditioner is in his shower and he keeps makeup wipes and guesses your lipgloss shade to have an extra in his pocket in case you misplace it.

Checks your apartment locks, and replaces them, "Sweetheart, these deadbolts were shit."

Learns all your favorite recipes.

He learns how you like your eggs how you want the edges of your sandwiches.

"You feed the people you love, right?" A beat. "And I love you."

Your favorite childhood meal. How your mom made it after your first breakup, a week later the aroma is filling your apartment, and he has sauce on his cheek and he's trying not to grin.

He loves to cook with you too! Jason'll open the jars, hold your hips while you're focused on stirring.

Annotates your favorite books. Watches your favorite movies. Without complaint. He wants to know you. And initially it was scary, but you're healing parts of him he didn't know were hurt, and he tries to do the same.

Tipsy Jason? The roughness practically melts out of him.

He drinks slow till you arrive, and when you do, he lights up and Roy laughs and shakes his head as Jay pulls you into his lap with his drink still in hand, kissing your shoulder.

You tease him for being clingy, but the next he's murmuring into your hair, "Don't get how someone like you gets to be with me."

NSFW

Needs to see your eyes, and hear you fall apart because of him.

"C'mon, sweetheart. Wanna see those pretty eyes while I fuck you."

Whines when you moan his name, and ruts harder when you beg.

If you try and stay quiet, he slows down and looks at you like he's got every bit of time on his hands. "Say it again, want that voice, baby."

ᯓ★ TIM DRAKE.

SFW

DESPITE EVERYTHING, TIM IS CONSISTENT! He always makes time for you, and doesn't brag about it, doesn't rearrange his schedule in front of you.

"I'll be in your neighborhood in ten minutes." You raise your voice to protest, but he's already lacing up his shoes.

Spoiled would be an understatement, but to Tim? It's bare minimum, don't even think twice about it.

He'll subtly match outfits with you. Red tie, to compliment your gloss. Soft grey if you choose blue. Enough so when pap photos come out later, you'll notice.

"You do that on purpose?"

"We look good."

Places for dates are quiet when you go out: old jazz bars, private late night planetarium tours.

When he picks you up, the smoke curls in the air like the music and he's gotten you the booth in the corner next to the drums.

You also go to the aquarium, the whole place is closed to the public. You swing his hand as it's laced into yours, eyes glittering and you can tell he's trying not to laugh at your excitement. “How did you manage this?”

He just shrugs, and kisses your cheek. “I had a favor owed. Small bribe. You said you used to come here with your mom.”

You almost melt into the floor.

He loves your perfume! In a really sweet way.

Will steal your scarf in the winter to wear to work. Buries his face into your shoulder when he hugs you.

Eventually purchases a travel size of your signature scent for himself to help remind him of home when he's away.

He keeps a photo of you in his wallet, tucked behind his ID. Steph teases him for it, claims he acts like he's a soldier at war carrying a picture of his wife.

It happens on accident that you find it, you're sitting on your couch on a Sunday, your legs draped across his lap, he's rifling through it to find a gift card that has thirty more bucks on it. He flips through it, one hand on your waist, thumb tracing lazy circles over your hip bone.

There's a flash of photo paper and you blink. "Go back."

He raises his brows, freezing, "What?"

You pluck it from his hands, thumbing it through yourself and there it is. A tiny picture of you. He must've printed it himself, but you remember when it was taken. You, with a matcha latte and a goofy grin pointing to a billboard behind you with Tim's face on it.

You laugh, but tuck it back in. "You keep this in your wallet?"

"Yeah." His voice is soft, but his eyes crinkle with amusement.

"Why?"

"Because it's the one I always liked. Makes me laugh. You look pretty and like soft. And mine."

You stare at him a moment too long, and he rolls his eyes, "Okay, I sound insane."

"Nope."

Also nights in?? A great break for Tim. He gets overwhelmed easily and when he comes home he wants something real and sometimes that's you playing Mario Kart on his floor in his pajama bottoms.

Or decorating cookies shaped like lopsided bats.

You let him put his armor down, literally and figuratively.

NSFW

He works from beneath you!!! Controlled and deep thrusts, eyes locked on yours and studying the way your chin tilts and nose scrunches when he hits the right spot.

His hands are everywhere, but your hips are his favorite, rolling them in slow circles.

"That's it," "Just like that, fuck."

He also loves seeing you completely bent over sorry. Your back arched, legs shaking and your winded breath every time he pushes it in deeper.

Kissing your shoulder. Groaning against your back, he'll make you look at him

[calico-cheriies]

It was 3am and you were supposed to be asleep, but after dating TIM DRAKE for almost two years now, you picked up on his weird sleeping patterns. Tonight in particular your brain won’t rest. Not until you will receive his usual post patrol message.

2am, then 2:30, 3 and 3:30am rolls around and your lack of sleep was slowly turning into anxiety. Why hadn’t he texted yet? Did something happened? You try to make sense of the situation, but your brain is refusing from making you think logically. And just as you were about to message him, his message comes through.

“sorry for the late message. had to run in the shower immediately after i arrived home cause i was covered in blood” he texts 

“not mine btw” he follows up, knowing already to clarify. 

“good, good. im glad you’re ok love, i was beginning to worry. what are you doing now then?” you text back, eyes fluttering at the screen waiting for those three dots to appear. But they don’t. In their place a picture appears. 

Him. In front of the mirror. His face covered by his phone, one arm on the sink leaning a bit to flex his muscles and that towel dangerously low, enough to see his v-line and the outline of his hardness against it. Oh….

“damn, drop the towel? 🙂‍↕️🙏🏻”  “for scientific purposes obviously…” you add in two consecutive texts. 

You know it’s unlikely he would do it, but teasing him comes naturally to y— he did it. You cannot even continue your train of thoughts because suddenly his next picture comes through. The towel gone, his pretty cock— and that damn blushy pink tip— staring right back at ya, hard against his stomach. 

You can’t even begin to form a coherent thought  as another picture comes through. 

This time he is on his bed, on his knees— which are open to show the view between his legs— His hungry, leaking, cock is begging to be touched; while his face now—no longer covered by the phone— looks at his phone through the mirror reflection with a knowingly devilish grin. And your mind goes to one thought, and one only, how desperately you wish to have a dick. Because he looks so damn breedable right now. 

“cause I don’t feel like I did it right the first time ;)” he texts back within seconds from sending that second picture. 

“hey…? you still there lol?” he texts back after 10,  long minutes without a reply from you. Did he overstep? Was it too much…?  But then the outdoor camera alerts him of a movement outside his front door. 

“im outside. open me up.”  ________________________________________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

A/N: I wrote this at 5AM and had the sudden, horny, urge of writing for Tim. Nothing else to add lmao. Also this is not proofread :(

© GLAMOURSCAT (all rights reserved. do not share, modify, translate and re-upload my work outside of tumblr)

[calico-cheriies]

Riding Tim as he spews random facts at you he learned while going down rabbit holes during cases, cutting in and out with moans and whines as he does.

Tim testing you as he asks you different questions making sure you’ve actually been listening to him. If you get it wrong, he stop thrusting. If you get it right, he’ll continue. Slowly though.

[calico-cheriies]

❀ꗥ～𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ～ꗥ❀

❀ꗥ～ Sinister!Mark Edition! Part Two! ～ꗥ❀

Pairing: Sinister!Mark Grayson x Southern Belle!Reader

Warnings: Forced intimacy, slow-burn terror, 18+

Tags: Horrorcore tbh LMAO, but also kinda tender - only make it creepy as hell

Word Count: 2,477

Synopsis: You fed the stranger bleeding in your yard. He kissed you like a claim, then left like a dream. You think it’s over – until you wake up to a figure at the foot of your bed.

a/n: this is so dark – but i had to y’allll the first part didn’t really capture how FUCKED this man is.

read part one ❀ꗥ～Here!～ꗥ❀ you can start reading the main series ❀ꗥ～Here! ～ꗥ❀

You freeze.

Not because it’s romantic—not because your heart’s fluttering.

But because something primal deep in your bones tells you: This man is not kissing you out of love.

His mouth is on yours like it’s a claim, not a question. Like he's sealing something. Ownership. Territory. Hunger, still—but darker now. More certain.

When he pulls back, your breath comes shallow—not from want, but from instinct.

You do not flinch.

You do not make a sound.

You just blink up at him, slow and measured, and give a little breathless laugh like you’re surprised, not alarmed.

“Well,” you say, steadying your voice like you’re smoothing wrinkles out of a tablecloth. “That was forward.”

He stares at you. Watching. Waiting. His eyes still lit up like coals. He doesn’t seem confused. He’s not embarrassed. He’s assessing.

You smile—small. Soft. The kind you might give a bear sniffin’ at your front porch, hoping it wanders off before you need to reach for the rifle.

“I, uh... I reckon city boys don’t believe much in personal space, huh?”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t move.

So you tilt your head, gentle-like. Lower your voice.

“But let me just say, sugar... when someone feeds you and lets you in their home, that don’t mean they’re offerin’ themselves, now. That just means they were raised right.”

He blinks once.

Still not moving.

You take a careful step sideways—not backward. Just enough to break the tension without lookin’ like you’re scared. Hands loose. Smile easy.

“Why don’t we take a breath, huh? It’s been a long night. You look like you’re still half in fight-or-flight mode.”

He watches your every move.

Your next breath is slow. Even.

“Now, I ain’t mad,” you say lightly. “But I do think maybe you’re a little off-kilter, what with the blood, the heat, and the fact that you ain’t slept proper in Lord knows how long.”

Finally, his expression shifts.

Just a twitch. A crack in that stone-set jaw.

“...You’re not scared of me,” he says, quiet. Confused.

You give a little shrug, even though your heart’s jackhammering in your chest.

“I got plenty of sense. Which is why I should be.” You hold his gaze. “But I also know better than to make sudden moves when a wild thing’s cornered.”

A beat passes.

Then another.

He steps back.

Just an inch. But it’s enough. The pressure in the room starts to ease, like the air’s stopped vibrating with something ready to snap.

You don’t sag with relief. You don’t run.

You just give him that same warm drawl you gave him at the grill, steady as sweet tea in July.

“Why don’t I fix you some cobbler to go?” you offer, already moving toward the counter. “You look like someone who might need a little somethin’ sweet to settle down.”

His gaze stays locked on you. But it softens—fractionally.

And you, darling southern soul that you are, keep your hands busy and your voice light.

You do not let him see how hard your hands are shaking.

The peach cobbler’s still warm from the oven as you cut a square and slide it into the container—hands steady, movements smooth, like you’re packing up a plate for a neighbor and not a walking apocalypse in a black-and-yellow suit.

Behind you, Mark hasn’t moved. You can feel him watching. Heat curling across your spine like a brand.

You hum—just a little tune you half-remember from childhood. Something calm. Domestic.

“Cobbler’s good for late nights,” you say gently, grabbing a spoon. “Sugar calms the nerves. Least, that’s what my gran used to say.”

When you finally turn, container in hand, he’s not there.

Just... gone.

No door creak. No gust of wind. No warning.

Just absence.

You stand there for a second, staring at the spot where he was. The house is too quiet. Your ears are ringing from how fast the silence hit.

Your knees buckle.

You catch the edge of the counter just in time to keep from hitting the floor. The container slips from your hand and clatters to the hardwood. The lid pops off, cobbler splattering across the floor.

You don’t care.

You press your back to the cabinet, sliding down until you’re seated, hand clutched to your chest, trying to breathe.

Holy hell.

That man had murder in his eyes and kissed you like he owned you—and then just vanished like the boogeyman out of a child’s nightmare.

You sit there a long time.

Eventually, your heartbeat settles. The cobbler stays where it is, forgotten and sticky.

You leave the kitchen light on when you go to bed.

Later that night…

You’re dreaming of hickory smoke and flickering porch lights. Of trees splitting open like paper and red eyes watching you through the dark.

Your sleep is light. Uneasy. Heat clinging to your skin like sweat.

You twitch awake, opening your eyes to the quiet.

The fan buzzes softly in the window, rattling every few seconds in its loose frame. The bedroom is dim, lit only by the haze of moonlight slipping in through the curtains, casting long shadows that stretch across the walls. For a few long moments, it feels like any other night in Georgia—hot, heavy, and still.

You shift beneath the sheets, trying to shake the lingering weight of the dream, the way it made your skin crawl even in sleep. Your hand moves to adjust the blanket, to tuck it under your chin—

And then you freeze.

There’s a shape in the room that wasn’t there before.

Not the armoire. Not the chair. Something taller. Broader.

Someone.

It takes a second too long for your brain to catch up. To understand.

A man is standing at the foot of your bed.

He’s not moving. Not breathing. Just there—watching.

You open your mouth, instinct flaring like a spark to dry kindling, but the scream barely begins before he’s already on you.

You don’t hear him move. There’s no sound—not even the creak of a floorboard. Just a rush of air and then his weight pins you down, hand clamped tight over your mouth.

The panic is instant and white-hot, a lightning strike behind your ribs. You stare up at him, wild-eyed.

Mark.

He looks different now. No more blood. No torn seams. His suit is intact, his skin clean, as if he bathed in a river and walked barefoot through hell to get back here. Moonlight cuts across his face, catching on the burn of his eyes—still that unnatural, glowing red that feels more furnace than human.

He’s not smiling.

He’s calm.

Like this is natural. Like breaking into your bedroom in the dead of night and holding you down is just another part of the ritual. Like you invited him in.

“Shhh,” he murmurs, low and close. His voice curls in your ear, thick and warm like molasses. “It’s just me.”

You try to speak—can’t. Your body is all panic.

“You were dreaming,” he adds, like that explains something. Like that’s why he’s here. His thumb brushes along your cheekbone, gentle in a way that makes it worse.  

He shifts his weight slightly, still straddling your legs, still in complete control. His hands settle on either side of you, caging you in. He studies your face like he’s reading a map he plans to memorize.

“I told you I’d come back,” he finally says, voice just a rough murmur.

You summon every ounce of your composure, every trick you’ve ever learned from dealing with cornered animals and temperamental men.

“I remember,” you say softly. “But you didn’t have to... sneak in. I left the porch light on.”

He huffs a small breath through his nose, something that could be a laugh. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

Your fingers curl into the bedsheet.

“Well,” you murmur, offering him the same soft lilt you gave him over ribs and sweet tea, “I reckon the horse is already out the barn on that one, sugar.”

Mark leans down slowly, not quite touching you, but close enough that the fan’s weak breeze can’t reach between your bodies. His eyes flicker across your face—your mouth, your throat, your eyes again.

“You were dreaming about me.”

You stiffen.

“I—I don’t know what I was dreaming about,” you say carefully, trying to sound calm, not accusing. “It’s all a blur.”

“No.” His voice is firmer now, almost possessive. “You were scared. I could feel it.”

You want to ask how. Want to ask what the hell he means. But you’re too afraid the answer will be something you won’t survive.

Instead, you nod—just once.

“Maybe I was,” you admit. “But it was just a dream. Nothin’ more.”

Mark doesn’t respond right away. He just watches you for a long, drawn-out moment that scrapes across your nerves like a dull blade. When he finally does move, it’s slow—deliberate.

He sits back, still on the bed, but no longer pinning you down. One of his hands trails along the edge of the blanket, straightening it. Tucking it around your leg. Like he’s tucking you in.

The gesture is too tender. Too quiet.

Your skin prickles.

“I like it here,” he murmurs. “It’s peaceful.”

You nod again, trying not to let your breathing betray you.

“Well... that’s Georgia for you.” There’s a pause, and you find yourself scrambling to fill the silence—to ease the tension. A pause. “…You hungry again, sugar?”

That smile widens. This time, it is a little cruel.

“No.” There’s another pause, then his hand reaches down, fingers brushing against your wrist. Barely a touch. “I didn’t come for food.”

You swallow hard.

You think you might still be dreaming. You hope you are.

But he’s real. And he’s watching you like you’re his now. Like you never had a say.       

He leans down again.

You don’t flinch. You don’t move at all.

His hand cradles your jaw, thumb brushing lightly along the edge of your cheek. Gentle. Reverent. Like he thinks you’re something sacred—but only because he already owns you. His lips find yours a moment later.

And the kiss is slow.

God, it’s slow.

Not desperate. Not wild like before. Just deliberate. Controlled. His mouth molds to yours with surprising softness, coaxing your lips to part, drawing out a breath you didn’t mean to give. His hand slides along your neck, thumb ghosting over your pulse, feeling every panicked thump beneath your skin.

Your body tenses—and then betrays you.

Your breath stutters. Your spine arches just slightly, instinctive. And when his tongue brushes the edge of your lower lip, you feel heat bloom low in your belly like it’s been waiting for an excuse. You don’t lean in—but you don’t pull back, either.

You can’t.

Because you’re not sure what he’ll do if you do.

When he finally pulls away, it’s only by an inch. His breath fans over your lips, warm and steady. You can still feel the shape of his mouth on yours.

“You taste like sleep,” he says quietly. “Like warmth and sugar and something I want to keep.”

You laugh—barely—a tiny, forced breath of sound that trembles at the edges.

“Guess you’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth, then.”

His grin widens.

This time, it’s wicked. Possessive.

A little inhuman.

He leans in slow again, savoring it—like this moment, this closeness, is a treat he's earned. His lips brush yours again, not demanding but deliberate. Controlled. It’s a kiss designed to unravel you—not with heat, but with certainty. Like he’s making a point.

His hand slides lower.

Not rough. Not rushed.

Just certain.

Fingers tracing the line of your hip, slipping beneath the blanket, then the thin cotton of your sleep shorts. You go still—every nerve screaming silently—but you don’t stop him. You can’t.

He finds the spot easily.

He doesn’t linger. Doesn’t need to.

Just a single touch—slow, perfect pressure to the soft bud of nerves that makes your breath hitch and your back stiffen. The sound slips out before you can trap it—a quiet, involuntary moan, half-formed and helpless.

And he lives for it.

You feel the satisfaction ripple through him, a deep breath in, almost a sigh. Like that sound—that one tiny, traitorous reaction—was what he came for.

He withdraws his hand slowly, carefully, like he’s closing the lid on something fragile.

Mark watches you a moment longer, then sighs through his nose—content, almost. Like a man finally home after a long journey. He shifts slowly, sliding off your hips, his weight leaving your body with a strange reluctance.

But he doesn’t leave.

Instead, he slips beneath the sheet like he belongs there.

Like this is his bed now, too.

His arm winds around your waist without ceremony, anchoring you against the solid heat of his chest. His other hand finds your hip, fingers splaying out possessively, thumb dragging lazy little arcs along the thin cotton of your nightshirt.

You’re frozen, every muscle taut, every nerve screaming. But he just hums low in his throat, like you’ve soothed something ancient and snarling inside him.

“Go back to sleep,” he murmurs against your ear. His breath is warm on your skin, lips brushing the fine hairs at your temple. “You need your rest.”

You swallow hard, still staring at the wall, unmoving. Your heart pounds so loud it’s a wonder he can’t hear it echoing off your bones.

His grip tightens slightly—not painful, just reminding. Like a leash being drawn snug.

“We’ve got a big day tomorrow,” he adds, soft as prayer. “Don’t want you too tired.”

You don’t ask what he means.

You don’t want to know.

Your eyes are wide open now, fixed on the moonlight shifting across the wall. You nod, just once—enough to make him loosen his hold by a fraction, enough to sell the lie.

“Alright,” you whisper.

His lips press to the back of your neck, slow and deliberate.

“Good girl,” he breathes.

Then stillness.

Not silence—because you can hear everything. The steady thrum of the fan. The cicadas buzzing outside. The distant bark of a dog.

And his breathing. Slow. Calm. Measured. He’s at peace now, wrapped around you like a shroud.

You stay exactly where you are. You don’t blink. You don’t breathe too deep.

Because you can feel the truth of it in your bones—if he even senses you’re pretending, you won’t survive the night.

So you lie there. Perfect. Still.

Awake until the light comes.

And all the while, his breath stirs the hair at the nape of your neck, warm and steady, like a man sleeping beside the love of his life.

Like you aren’t a cage he’s decided to live inside.

[calico-cheriies]

❀ꗥ～𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ～ꗥ❀

❀ꗥ～ Sinister!Mark Edition!～ꗥ❀

Pairing: Sinister!Mark Grayson x Southern Belle!Reader

Warnings: I mean sinister is his own warning but honestly it’s very tame – I love reader too much to do her dirty

Tags: Reader is oblivious—Mark is not, domesticity but make it dangerous, food = feelings = possession, reader feeds the wrong man

Word Count: 2,684

Synopsis: You were just being polite—feeding a hungry stranger who looked like he hadn’t had a decent meal in days. It’s what any good southern girl would’ve done. He didn’t talk much, didn’t smile much either, but bless his heart, he cleaned his plate like a man on death row and looked at you like you’d done southern sorcery. Only problem? Now he won’t leave.

a/n: to set the scene: Mark was passing over Georgia otw to a big city during the Invincible Wars but we all know – this man can eat 👀 so when he smells that southern cookin’ he’s just GOTTA make a pit stop (this might lowkey be my favorite?? VERY tempted to do another part for this)

you can start reading the main series ❀ꗥ～ Here! ～ꗥ❀

The backyard is alive with the sound of friends laughing, the sizzle of meats on the grill, and the light clink of glasses—just a typical Saturday night cookout in Georgia. The heat doesn’t mind, clinging to your skin, but it’s all good, ‘cause you’ve got the best BBQ in town and enough sweet tea to keep anyone happy.

You’re just about to check the ribs again when something cracks the air.

Not a flash of lightning. Not a plane. No, this is bigger—or at least, seems bigger. The kind of sound that makes the trees shudder and the dogs howl in panic.

You look up from the grill, squinting into the sky. Your friends barely notice, still wrapped up in their own conversations. Everyone's too deep into the party to hear it—except for you. And that sound? It’s bad. Too bad. But you brush it off as a fluke, not like you’ve ever been one to get skittish.

Then you hear it again—closer this time.

Boom.

The ground shakes underfoot.

A few heads turn. Someone laughs.

“You sure we’re not near a runway or somethin’?” a friend jokes.

You shake your head. The air smells wrong, though. Something metallic. Something deep in the earth. But the food’s almost done, and there’s a few folks eyeing that last batch of coleslaw, so you shrug it off.

That is, until the trees part like they’re being ripped down by some invisible hand.

A figure steps out of the smoke and into the clearing. You freeze for a second—tall, broad-shouldered, and covered in dirt and blood? Definitely not your usual neighbor popping by. But hey, this is Georgia, and folks sure have a habit of popping by when you least expect it.

He’s wearing a black and yellow suit, torn at the edges, face grimy and set like he’s walked through hell itself. His eyes are glowing, but you don’t notice that right away. Your brain does the mental gymnastics of “he looks like he’s been hunting” and “okay, maybe he’s lost” before you really stop and look.

The guy’s not normal. Not by a long shot.

But you? You? You just tilt your head, raise an eyebrow, and call out.

“You lost, sugar? You look like you been runnin’ from somethin’.”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even flinch when you address him, standing there in the middle of the yard like he’s deciding whether to blow everything up or just... stand there.

You walk over toward him, not too fast, but not slow either. You’ve got ribs to finish, and the night’s getting late. You’re not about to let some weird stranger ruin your good time.

“You hungry or what? You don’t look like you’re from around here, but the food’s hot. And I ain’t got time to be askin’ a million questions. So, either you’re gonna stand there starin’ or you’re gonna sit and eat.”

He watches you. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe for a long second, but when he shifts, you notice the hunger in his posture. It’s not a casual look. It’s the kind of stare that makes your pulse pick up, but you’re too wrapped up in hospitality to worry about it.

“I’ve got cornbread, sweet tea, and a whole lotta ribs. If you’re just gonna keep standin’ there, I’m gonna think you don’t know what you’re missin’.”

And without saying another word, you turn, walk back into the house, and leave the screen door open behind you.

The next thing you hear is his boots hitting the porch. Heavy, determined. He’s following you inside.

You don’t even turn around.

“C’mon, sugar. Don’t be shy.”

He sits at your kitchen table, too stiff, too tense to be comfortable. But you’ve got ribs on the counter, mashed potatoes on the stove, and a whole pot of collard greens simmering in the corner, so you just keep doing what you’re doing. Setting the table. Stirring the pot. Making sure everything’s just right.

“I don’t bite,” you offer casually as you set down a plate, the food still steaming. “Unless you ask nice.”

He’s not looking at you. He’s looking at the food. His eyes flicker between the plate and you like he can’t believe it’s real. But once that plate hits the table? It’s like something in him snaps.

He grabs the ribs. Bare hands. No knife, no fork. Just raw hunger.

And you? You just stand there, watching.

“You’ve been hunting for a while, haven’t you?” you ask, half-teasing. “You eat like you ain’t had a meal in months.”

He looks up then, eyes catching yours. There’s something darker in his gaze, something sharp.

“I’ve gone longer.”

“Yeah? Well, ain’t no need for you to be so grim. You’re eatin’ good now.”

You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching as he devours the food. It’s almost impressive, the way he’s tearing through everything. It’s like he’s starved. Like he needed this meal more than anything.

You can’t quite explain why, but... you feel like maybe you’re the one in control here. Maybe it’s the southern charm, or maybe it’s just your damn good cooking. Either way, you’re gonna enjoy this strange little moment with the stranger at your table.

“You want more?” you ask casually, tipping your head to the stove.

He just looks at you again. This time, it’s less cold, more... curious.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I want more.”

You're putting the finishing touches on his second plate—extra mashed potatoes, a little more brisket, because Lord knows he tore through the first like he hadn’t seen a fork in years—when the screen door creaks open again behind you.

Maggie’s voice cuts through the low hum of cicadas and music drifting in from the backyard.

“Hey, [y/n]? We ran outta napkins—” She stops mid-step.

You turn, smiling, just as Tate bumps into Mag’s shoulder with a beer in hand.

“You got more inside? I spilled a little—”

He stops too.

Both of them are staring toward your kitchen table where your unexpected guest sits like a warning carved in stone. He’s hunched forward slightly, eyes too red, posture too still, like a bear that hasn't decided if you're a threat or a snack.

You just step over to his side with a hand gently landing on his shoulder. His body is tense—coiled tight like a spring—but you don’t think much of it.

“Now don’t y’all go starin’,” you say cheerfully, running your hand down the back of his suit, brushing off some soot. “This poor thing just came in outta the woods lookin’ half-dead. I reckon he’s been huntin’ all week and didn’t catch a thing. Probably embarrassed, bless his heart.”

Maggie’s mouth opens, but no words come out. She glances at Tate like are we not gonna talk about the blood on his sleeves?

“You feedin’ him... uh... now?” Tate asks slowly.

“Course I am,” you chirp, already sliding the second plate in front of Mark. “Look at him—he ain’t eaten in days. I can tell by the way he’s sittin’. All tight like a rabbit in a foxhole. You know how men get when they ain’t fed proper.”

Mark’s jaw flexes. His eyes flick up toward Maggie—then to Tate—slow, calculating. You’re standing right beside him, warm hand still on him like a tether.

You misread the look entirely.

“Don’t mind him,” you say, waving it off. “He’s just nervous. You drop a man into a house full of strangers and feed him a full plate, and o’course he’s gonna be a little guarded. That’s manners.”

Maggie swallows.

“...Right. Manners.”

Mark hasn’t said a word since they came in, but his hands have stopped flexing under the table. His gaze shifts back to you. Still sharp. Still unreadable.

You smile down at him, proud of yourself for making him feel welcome.

“You got a name, sugar?”

He watches you a beat too long before answering, voice low and rough. “Mark.”

You clap your hands softly, delighted.

“Well, Mark,” you say, grinning. “Hope you brought an appetite, ‘cause I don’t let folks leave my house hungry.”

His expression barely shifts, but something in his eyes flickers.

“I won’t.”

—

You’re leaning against the counter again, glass in hand, still chatting with Maggie about the peach cobbler cooling on the windowsill when someone new wanders into the kitchen. Robbie. That friend of Tate’s who always thinks he’s funnier than he is. Got a little too much sun, a little too much beer, and not nearly enough sense.

He sees you, lights up like a porch bulb.

“Well damn, [y/n], you been hidin’ in here the whole time?”

You laugh, casual.

“Had to make sure my guest didn’t keel over from starvation. Boy looked like a scarecrow when he came outta them woods.”

Robbie gives Mark a once-over. Slows down at the red eyes. The blood-streaked arms. The unnatural stillness.

“He, uh… doin’ okay?”

“He’s fine,” you said, brushing past it. “Just needed a hot meal and a warm porch, that’s all.”

Mark doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t move. Just watches.

Robbie sidles up next to you, close enough that you feel his elbow graze yours.

“Well if you get tired of playin’ nurse, I wouldn’t mind stealin’ you away for a dance. We still got music out back. You always were the best two-stepper on this side of town.”

You smile, polite and a little bashful.

“Ain’t danced in ages.”

Behind you, the chair legs scrape.

You glance over—Mark’s shifted. Just barely. His hands are resting on the table now, fingers spread like he’s grounding himself. Or like he’s seconds away from launching across the room.

Robbie doesn’t notice. But Maggie does. She suddenly finds a reason to check her phone.

You, bless your soul, remain utterly unaware.

“Robbie, don’t be silly,” you say with a playful swat to his arm. “You just want someone to show off to.”

Robbie grins.

Mark twitches.

Your guest’s gaze is locked on the spot where Robbie touched you. His lip curls—not quite a snarl, but close. His knuckles go white.

“So what if I do?” Robbie says, leaning a little closer. “You know I’ve had a soft spot for you since high school.”

Your laugh is soft. Good-natured.

“You and every other boy south of Atlanta, Robbie. Y’all get all misty-eyed soon as I break out the cornbread.”

You don’t notice the shift in air pressure, the subtle hum of tension winding tighter and tighter around the kitchen.

But Maggie does. Tate does. Even the damn flies do.

Robbie just keeps grinning.

“Well, maybe I need a reminder of what I’ve been missin’, huh?”

Then he reaches—lightly, playfully—to touch your waist.

That’s when Mark stands.

Fast. Quiet. Absolute.

Everyone freezes.

He’s not yelling. He’s not doing anything dramatic. He’s just standing there, still as death, eyes glowing brighter now, like coals stoked hot. He’s staring at Robbie with the kind of look you’d give a bug you’re deciding whether to step on or dissect.

Robbie’s hand drops instantly.

“Uh…” Suddenly Robbie’s as sober as a preacher.

You blink, glancing between the two of them, completely missing the tension about to snap the room in half.

“My,” you say lightly, stepping between them without a care in the world, hand brushing Mark’s arm. “Y’all seem wound up tighter than a racoon’s tail in a trap.”

Mark doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t breathe.

But he doesn’t move either.

“He’s just bein’ friendly,” you tell him sweetly, like you’re calming a jumpy horse. “Ain’t no harm in a little flirtin’. That’s just how folks around here are.”

You pat his chest—firm, warm.

“You don’t gotta puff up like a bear just ‘cause someone gets talkative.”

Mark finally blinks.

Barely.

But he sits.

Not because he’s calm.

Because you asked.

And Robbie? Robbie suddenly remembers a reason to be anywhere else.

It’s quiet in the kitchen now.

—

The last of the guests have trickled out, carrying pie in foil and beers in koozies, waving lazily and promising to see you at church next Sunday or at Maggie’s baby shower. The cicadas are humming louder now that the sun’s down, and the overhead light casts the room in that warm yellow glow that makes everything feel soft.

You're at the sink, sleeves rolled up, wrist-deep in soap suds. The smell of hickory smoke still lingers in the air, wrapped around vanilla and leftover grease. Your back’s to him, humming low under your breath as you rinse off a casserole dish.

Mark hasn’t said a word since Robbie left.

He’s sitting at the kitchen table again, but not eating. Just watching. Still. Quiet.

Too quiet.

You glance over your shoulder with a little smile.

“You doin’ okay over there, sugar? You look like you’re waitin’ for the other shoe to drop.”

He doesn’t respond at first. His eyes flick down to the plate in front of him—the third one you filled without thinking. Then back to you.

“You cook like this all the time?”

You laugh, tossing a dish towel over your shoulder as you scrub at a stubborn bit of baked-on cheese.

“’Course I do. You think folks show up here for my charm alone?”

You don’t see it—but he grins.

Sharp. Quiet. Possessive.

Then his chair scrapes back.

You glance up just in time to see him cross the room in three slow steps, stopping behind you. He doesn’t touch you yet, just stands there, close enough that you feel the warmth of him against your back.

The tension’s different now.

It’s not hunger.

It’s not restraint.

It’s decision.

“That’s good to hear,” he murmurs, voice rough at the edges, curling around the shell of your ear.

You blink, hands stilling in the water.

“Huh?”

You turn—only for him to step in, one hand bracing on the counter beside your hip, the other lifting to cup the side of your neck. Gentle. Too gentle for how wild he looks.

Eyes glowing.

Mouth parted.

Grin sharp.

“I didn’t want to have to go far for it.”

Your breath catches.

“For what?”

“All of it,” he says, thumb dragging slow along your jaw. “The food. The soft voice. The hands that don’t flinch. You.”

You blink up at him, laugh a little shaky now.

“You talkin’ like—”

“I’m telling you,” he cuts in, soft but final. “You belong to me now.”

The world tilts.

Your lips part, but he’s already there—close, not kissing yet, just brushing his forehead to yours, like he’s anchoring himself to something precious.

“You fed me,” he breathes. “You smiled at me. That’s it. That’s all it takes.”

Your heart is thudding now, ears ringing, hands still damp from the sinkwater.

“You sure that’s how it works?” you whisper, breathless, not pulling away.

He grins wider.

“It is now.”

And then he kisses you.

Like he’s starving all over again.

[calico-cheriies]

❀ꗥ～𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭, 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐧 ～ꗥ❀

Pairing: Main!Mark Grayson x Southern Belle!f!Reader

Warnings: None

Tags: Fluff, slice-of-life, Mark is so down bad

Word Count: 2,430

Synopsis: Mark thought senior year would be business as usual—until you walked in with your sundress, Southern drawl, and a smile sweet enough to stop time. Now he’s flustered, floored, and falling faster than you can say “bless your heart.”

Mark Grayson had never met anyone who said “bless your heart” and meant it.

But then again, he’d also never met anyone quite like you.

You walked into senior year like you’d wandered off the set of an old movie—sun-kissed curls, soft floral dress, and the kind of voice that could convince a man to hand over his wallet and then thank you for the privilege.

He’d barely registered your name when you smiled and said, “It’s such a pleasure to meet y’all,” in that syrupy-smooth drawl that melted his brain like butter in a hot skillet.

Then by some chance of fate you were moving towards him, the hem of your dress swaying with each step.

“Good mornin’. Is this seat taken?” You ask it sweet as a songbird, southern lilt strong and unmistakable.

“N-no—I mean, yes. No, it’s not. Taken. You can sit. Please. Yes.”

Lord have mercy.

You slide into the desk next to him, setting your notebook down with delicate little motions that feel straight out of a tea party. Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, you turn toward him and offer your hand—palm down, fingers dainty, like you’re expecting him to bow or kiss it or something.

“I’m [y/n]. I just moved up here from Georgia.”

Mark stares at your hand like it’s a museum exhibit. Is this a handshake? Is he supposed to—what is this?? His brain completely blanks.

And for a horrifying half-second… he leans in.

Like actually starts going for it. Lips slightly puckered. Brain offline. And then—Wait. No.

Nope nope nope can’t kiss people’s knuckles in school, that’s not a thing, what are you doing??

He aborts the mission so hard it turns into a full-body spasm, catching himself just in time to awkwardly grab your fingers in what might technically qualify as a handshake, but mostly feels like someone trying to high-five a porcelain doll.

“I’m Mark. Grayson. Mark Grayson,” he blurts, voice about three pitches higher than it should be.

You just smile like you didn’t notice any of it—like boys almost kissing your hand and glitching in real time is a perfectly ordinary Tuesday.

“All right, folks,” Mr. Ellison’s voice cuts through the low hum of conversation like a guillotine, “let’s settle in. Schedules or not, biology waits for no one.”

A few students groan as they shuffle back into their seats. Mark jerks his hand back like it’s been caught doing something illegal and turns toward the front of the room, suddenly hyper-focused on absolutely nothing.

You, meanwhile, cross your ankles beneath your desk and flip open your notebook like you’re starring in some 1950s prep school movie. Calm, composed, and utterly unbothered.

He swore he might never recover.

And he’s not sure how you’ve only been in class for five minutes and already made the air smell like magnolias and peach cobbler.

You’re sitting there ike you don’t feel the way time slows down in your wake. You tuck a loose curl behind your ear, pulling out a mechanical pencil that’s been decorated with little sparkly rhinestones. He watches the way your fingers move. Is it weird to think fingers can be pretty? That’s weird, right?

God, he hopes he doesn’t smell like gym socks.

You nudge his elbow gently.

“Do y’all have any spare textbooks? I didn’t get mine yet.”

You’re looking at him like you’re asking for help with a flat tire or directions to the county fair, and he knows this is his moment to say something smooth, something cool. Instead:

“You can use mine. I mean. We can share. You can just—look at mine. The book. Together. Like. With me.”

You blink once. Then that smile spreads across your face again, warm and syrupy-sweet.

“Well, aren’t you just the kindest thing.”

He swears, it echoes in his brain. Kindest thing. Kindest thing. Kindest thing.

This is it. This is how he dies.

You scoot your desk just a little closer, enough for your shoulder to brush his. He pretends he doesn’t feel it. He definitely feels it.

The teacher starts class, and Mark tries to focus on mitochondria or whatever, but it’s useless. He’s hyper-aware of how close you are, how you hum under your breath when you read, how you dot your i’s with little hearts.

It’s only the first period of the first day and he’s already cooked.

You’re just starting to lean in closer, mouthing something to yourself as the teacher drones on about cell structures, when a knock comes at the classroom door. Mr. Ellison barely glances up.

“Come in.”

It’s a teacher’s aide holding a clipboard, already scanning the desks.

“Sorry to interrupt. We need a [y/n] [l/n] in the front office? Something about enrollment forms and schedule confirmations.”

You blink, surprised, then gather your few things with a little flurry of motion—your notebook, your pencil with the rhinestones, your tiny floral purse that looks like it belongs at a garden party instead of a high school.

Mark doesn’t even realize he’s holding his breath until you stand.

Your dress sways gently as you rise, cotton fabric hugging your waist and floating just enough around your thighs to catch the light. The scent of something soft and floral—peach blossoms and vanilla, maybe—lingers in the air as you pass.

He stares.

It’s not polite, not for as long as he does, but his eyes follow the way your hair bounces, the delicate sway in your hips, the tiny heeled shoes clicking daintily against the tile. That dress—Lord, that dress—should be out of place here. It should be too much. But on you? It looks like it was made to be worn in a room full of people who’ll never be able to look at anyone else again.

She’s not real, he thinks.

She can’t be real.

Then you glance over your shoulder—just the quickest little look—and offer him the faintest smile.

“I’ll be back in a bit, sugar.”

SUGAR.

Yeah. He’s gone. Forever. Call the coroner. Mark Grayson just died in AP Biology.

The rest of class drags like wet cement.

Mark keeps glancing toward the door, holding out hope like some desperate, starry-eyed fool. Every time someone walks past in the hallway, his head snaps up just in case it’s you coming back.

It never is.

Eventually, the bell rings. Mark’s still staring at the empty desk next to him like it owes him an apology. He packs up slower than anyone else in the room, dragging his feet in the hope that maybe—maybe—you’ll walk through that door at the last second.

But you don’t.

He sighs, shouldering his bag and heading out, trying to forget the little pang of disappointment in his chest.

And then, just as he passes the front office, the doors open—and there you are, warm light hitting your hair like a movie moment. You spot him instantly.

“Oh, thank goodness it’s you, sug!”

Your face lights up like you’ve just found a long-lost friend at a train station. You hurry toward him, holding a pink slip of paper and looking thoroughly flustered in the most adorable way imaginable.

“Would you mind helpin’ me find my next class? This place is more confusin’ than a cat in a room full’a rockin’ chairs.”

Mark blinks. He has never loved an idiom more in his life.

“Y-yeah. I can—I mean, sure. What room?”

“214, I think. It’s so much bigger here than my old school. I’ve turned around twice and still don’t know where I’m goin’.” You say it with a laugh, brushing a curl behind your ear, and Mark swears the hallway gets brighter.

He nods too hard, again. “It’s this way. I got you.”

(Lies. He has no idea where 214 is. He’s gonna find it though. Even if he has to check every door in the building.)

You fall into step beside him like it’s the most natural thing in the world, arms folded delicately around your binders and purse slung over your shoulder. He’s hyper-aware of the faint floral scent trailing behind you, of how your heels click softly on the linoleum like the start of a country love song.

“I knew I’d get turned around sooner or later,” you say, puffing out a breath and pouting slightly. “This place really is twistier than a squirrel in a slinky.”

Mark lets out a half-laugh, like his brain’s buffering.

“A… squirrel in a slinky?”

“Mmhmm.” You nod, entirely serious. “Back home, my school was so small we didn’t even have second floors. You could sneeze in the cafeteria and they’d bless you from the front office.”

Mark is looking at you like you just stepped out of a storybook. You’re not even trying to be charming—it’s just who you are. Like gravity.

“What school did you go to?”

“A little one in Magnolia County. Real small. We didn’t have lockers—we had cubbies. And everybody knew everybody’s mama. If you so much as chewed gum in class, your pastor’d hear about it by supper.”

He snorts. “That sounds… intense.”

“It was! But sweet, too. Like… honeysuckle in the middle of summer. Kinda sticky, kinda pretty.” You glance at him sideways. “You ever been to the south?”

“Uh… I think we had a layover in Dallas once.”

You laugh like that’s the funniest thing anyone’s said all week, hand fluttering lightly over your chest.

“Darlin’, that don’t count. That’s just airport barbecue and overpriced peanuts. You gotta feel the south. Sweat through three shirts before noon. Go fishin’ with your uncle and come home sunburned and full’a peach cobbler.”

He swallows. He doesn’t know if it’s from the imagery or just the way you say darlin’ like it’s a nickname you’ve known him by forever.

“I’ll… keep that in mind.”

You hum, smiling to yourself. “Well, if you ever decide to take a road trip down there, let me know. I make a mean sweet tea. Mama says it’ll knock the sin right outta ya.”

Mark chokes.

“T-the sin?”

“Mmhmm,” you say, all innocence. “But you don’t seem like you got too much in you.”

He nearly trips on the floor tile.

The two of you reach the door of room 214 much sooner than he would have liked.

“Oh, look! I think this is it,” you say, sounding like you've just solved the mystery of the universe.

Mark looks at the door, trying to hide the slight twitch in his brow. Didn’t this damn door know he was planning on searching the entire school?

“I—yeah, I guess it is,” he mutters. You give him a naïve smile, oblivious to the dramatic tension building in his brain.

“Well, I’m glad I didn’t drag you halfway across campus, sug. You’ve been a real help.”

Mark rubs the back of his neck, trying to shake the annoyance off. He can’t help it—he just really wanted to spend more time with you. Hear you talk about something else. Maybe you’d say another weird idiom or, hell, he'd even take a long-winded story about peach cobbler at this point.

His mind drifts to a random idiom you might drop next time. Maybe something like… “That’s as tricky as a two-headed coin.”  

… Yeah, no, that doesn’t even make sense. But the way you say things—just offbeat enough to make him laugh, just charming enough to make him want to hear more—it doesn’t matter if it’s nonsense.

Just as he’s about to say something about how it wasn’t a big deal, he watches you dig around in your purse. Then suddenly you’re pulling out a piece of candy—something like hard caramel wrapped in shiny foil.

You look up at him with that sweet smile of yours, holding it out toward him. “Here, this is for all your trouble.”

He blinks at the offering, a little stunned, because who in the world does that in high school? But before he can protest, you’re already wiggling the candy closer to him, your smile practically glowing.

“Go on, don’t be shy,” you tease, southern drawl as thick (and cute) as ever. “Grandma always says if you’re gonna think real hard, you gotta have a lil’ sugar. Should help you through the rest of the day.” You wink, and he swears his future with you flashed before his eyes—white picket fence, hound dog on the front porch, kids on a tire swing hung from a big oak tree and all.

Mark takes the candy like it’s a live grenade—carefully, reverently, like he might mess it up just by holding it wrong. His fingers brush yours for half a second, and it’s a miracle he doesn’t just collapse right there in the hallway.

“I, uh… thanks,” he says, voice cracking embarrassingly at the end.

You beam at him like he just passed some kind of unspoken southern etiquette test. “Ain’t nothin’ to it, sugar. Just don’t let it melt in your pocket, or you’ll be stickier than a porch swing in July.”

He has no idea what that means. None. But he nods like it’s the gospel truth.

You turn toward the classroom, situating the bag of candy back in your purse like this is just what you do—hand out sweets, say things that fry the circuits in people’s brain, waltz into lives like you were always meant to be there.

He opens the door for you without thinking. Of course he does.

“Why, thank you, darlin’,” you say as you pass him, and Mark’s pretty sure he just got knighted or something.

Then you walk into the room like a literal princess—soft sway in your step, curls bouncing just so, your dress catching the air like it’s got a mind of its own. And he stands there. Watching. Staring, really.

The door starts to close behind you, slow and dramatic like the final scene of a movie, and Mark's still standing there, candy in hand, wondering if anyone’s ever ruined a man’s sense of reality this fast—with just a smile and a drawl and a purse full of sugar.

read part two ❀ꗥ～ Here! ～ꗥ❀

[calico-cheriies]

❀ꗥ～𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ～ꗥ❀

❀ꗥ～ Omni!Mark Edition!～ꗥ❀

Pairing: Omni!Mark Grayson x Southern Belle!Reader

Warnings: None

Tags: Fluff, slice-of-life, god Mark is trying so hard and it’s got me in a chokehold

Word Count: 2,268

Synopsis: Mark is an unquestioned powerhouse whose following in the steps of his father perfectly – which apparently includes playing the good guy role for a little while here on Earth. After saving the day in a place he had never visited before – Savannah, Georgia – he sees you for the first time, and he finds himself immediately captured by you. And bless his heart; he’s trying real hard.

a/n: waaaait omni-mark is actually too cute with her this turned out so good 😭

you can start reading the main series ❀ꗥ～ Here! ～ꗥ❀

The explosion rattled every window in downtown Savannah.

You were halfway through handing out church fliers for the bake sale when the sky opened up like the Good Lord Himself had decided to throw hands. Something mechanical shrieked overhead—a hunk of alien tech spiraling out of orbit—and folks scattered like hens. But you? You were too busy trying to help old Miss Calloway get her walker down the courthouse steps to run.

That’s when he showed up.

A blur of red and white streaked past, and the air cracked like thunder. The machine exploded mid-air, scattering debris, but not a single piece touched you. When the smoke cleared, he was hovering there—arms crossed, chest rising slow.

He looked like the kind of man Mama warned you about: handsome as the devil, with a jaw like sin and eyes sharp enough to cut. A blood red and pure white suit, that strange symbol on his chest, and not a hair out of place.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice deep and all business.

You blinked. Smiled. “Well, ain’t you just the tallest glass of sweet tea I’ve ever laid eyes on.” You dusted off your sundress, calm as anything. “I do believe you just saved my hide, sugar.”

He stared at you.

Actually stared. Like you’d grown wings.

“…You’re welcome,” he finally said, stiff as a board.

—

You figured that’d be it. Just another cape breezin’ through town, gone like a summer storm. Lord knew Savannah didn’t have the kind of villain activity to keep someone like him around.

But then, a week later: a bank robbery on Broughton.

You were across the street looking at fabric for a new church dress when the robbers burst in, masks askew and nerves twitchin’. Not thirty seconds passed before the front of the bank exploded outward in a thunderous crash, and guess who came walking through the smoke like Judgement Day in boots?

Omni-Mark.

Two would-be robbers unconscious. A van flipped. The building cracked clear down the façade.

He stood there for a second, breathing like he’d just fought a war. Then those eyes found you again.

“…Are you okay?” Same question. Same voice. Like he didn’t remember asking it the first time.

You dusted off your bag and smiled slow. “I was, until someone sent half the brickwork into my fruit basket.”

He blinked.

Didn’t apologize.

Just nodded once and flew off, leaving the street cracked and the bank’s ATM embedded in a mailbox.

The week after that?

Arson at a seafood joint. Only it wasn’t technically arson—it was an overenthusiastic crawfish boil gone wrong.

And who just so happened to swoop in and rescue two elderly patrons and a plate of hushpuppies?

You guessed it.

By the fourth “coincidence,” you’d had just about enough.

You were at the farmer’s market, haggling over okra and mindin’ your own, when some no-name villain calling himself “Professor Static” tried to rob the honey vendor. The man had jumper cables and a Bluetooth speaker duct-taped to his chest.

And still—here came red-and-white terror incarnate, landing hard enough to knock over a bushel of peaches and sending poor Professor Static into early retirement with one punch.

You didn't even flinch this time. You just turned and said:

“Well if it ain’t my own personal tornado again. You know, I’m startin’ to think the Lord sent you to test my nerves, not save ‘em.”

Mark, still brushing bits of villain off his knuckles, replied earnestly: “There was a threat in the area.”

You tilted your head. “Mmm. And this particular ‘threat’ required a man who can break the sound barrier and throw tanks?”

He blinked like a confused dog. Then just said: “Yes.”

You smiled sweetly. “Well bless your heart. Guess Savannah’s just become real high-priority all of a sudden.”

After that, it escalated.

You’d see him perched on the roof of the Piggly Wiggly while you grocery shopped. He once “coincidentally” flew past your book club meeting—held in the back of a tea shop.

Even the church roof getting repaired wasn’t spared — you caught him “inspecting the structural integrity” one morning. At six a.m.

“Coincidence,” he told you, solemnly.

“Mmhmm,” you replied, sipping your coffee on the porch. “And I’m the Queen of England.”

It all came to a head at the Sunday picnic behind the church.

You’d just handed Pastor Whitmore a plate of deviled eggs when a little boy started crying about his balloon floating up into a pecan tree. Before anyone could grab a step ladder, a sonic boom knocked over three lawn chairs and Omni-Mark landed in a crouch like a soldier behind enemy lines.

He plucked the balloon from the tree with surgical precision, handed it to the wide-eyed boy, then turned—like he couldn’t help it—and locked eyes with you.

You didn’t break your stride. Just walked up to him, parasol bouncing against your shoulder, and smiled.

“Well hey there, stranger,” you said like you hadn’t seen him five times that week. “You just happen to be floatin’ by again today, huh?”

“I was nearby.”

“Oh really?” You tapped your lip with one gloved finger. “Because far as I can tell, Savannah’s been quieter than a cat nap in August—until you started showin’ up.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

You leaned in just a touch, that parasol bouncing lightly on your shoulder, and let your voice drip warm like honey on a biscuit.

“Now sugar, I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but if I didn’t know any better…” You paused, let him look at you, take you in like he always did — like he didn’t understand how something so soft could hold his attention so hard. “…I’d say you’re sweet on me.”

That got him.

He stiffened. Visibly. Brows drawn down like you’d just spoken ancient Sumerian.

“I’m what?” he asked.

You blinked. “Sweet on me.”

“…Is that a—threat?”

You nearly choked.

“Well no, darlin’,” you laughed. “It means… you’ve taken a shine to me. Got a fondness. Somethin’ warm and fluttery in your chest every time you see me walk by in a sundress.”

He stared at you like you’d spoken in riddles. “I don’t know if I have that.”

You arched a brow. “You been followin’ me all over town like a lost bloodhound with a crush and you don’t even know?”

“I know I see you,” he said, slowly. “And it… interrupts everything else. I think about you when I’m not near you. I look for you in crowds. I don’t understand it.”

Your heart did a little hiccup. Not that you’d show it.

Then he shifted—just slightly—and gestured behind him like he’d almost forgotten.

“I saw this,” he said, dead serious, “and I thought of you.”

You followed his hand.

And there it was.

A tree. Not just any tree—a full-grown, live oak, trunk thick as your grandmother’s front porch columns, roots still clumped with Georgia clay.

“I brought it,” he added plainly. “For you.”

You turned fully now, dress swishing, lips parted.

“…You brought me a tree.”

“It’s strong,” he said, like he was listing military assets. “Deep roots. It survives storms. And it’s beautiful.”

You stared.

He looked almost… hopeful. Like he wasn’t sure he’d done it right, but he really wanted to.

You pressed your hand to your chest and sighed. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“Did I choose wrong?” he asked, suddenly uncertain. “Is this not a… courtship gesture?”

You had to bite your bottom lip to keep from laughing—though not unkindly. No, it wasn’t mockery—it was fondness. Pure and surprised and maybe just a little fluttery.

“No,” you said at last, stepping up to him. “It ain’t wrong. It’s just…”

You rested your hand gently on the center of his chest, right over that insignia, and smiled.

“…You’re real strong, real fast, and real bad at this.”

He looked down at your hand. At your smile. And for the first time, his posture eased.

“…I’ll learn,” he said.

“Lord help me,” you muttered, half to yourself, “you’re cute—but you sure ain’t right.”

Behind you, someone whispered, “Is that your boyfriend, baby? He brought you a tree.”

You sighed. “No, ma’am. Not yet.” Then looked back at the man who could snap planets in half but was standing there like a schoolboy with a daisy, and added:

“But he’s tryin’ real hard.”

—

You should’ve known the tree was just the beginning.

The very next week, you came back from choir practice, humming “Precious Lord” under your breath with a casserole dish in one arm and a tote bag of hymnals in the other—only to stop dead on the sidewalk.

Because your house?

Was gone.

Completely, utterly gone. Just a smooth patch of red Georgia clay and some very confused squirrels.

You didn’t even drop your casserole. Just squinted at the empty lot and muttered, “Oh, hell.”

You hadn’t even had time to call the police when a blur of red and white landed softly on your lawn—just popped into existence like some kind of good-intentioned superheroic ghost.

Mark stood there with his arms folded, looking like he’d done something monumental and was waiting for you to notice.

“Hi,” he said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “I moved your house.”

You blinked. “…You moved my house?”

He nodded. “Yes. I reinforced the supports and rotated it thirty-six degrees for optimal morning exposure. The noise levels in your previous neighborhood were above what I deemed safe. I’ve included natural barriers. Defensive elevation. There’s even a freshwater stream now.”

“…You moved my whole damn house.”

He tilted his head. “Are you… not pleased?”

You finally set the casserole down on a tree stump, took a deep breath, and strode over to him in three deliberate clicks of your Sunday heels.

“Mark, darlin’… I know you mean well,” you began, voice soft and syrupy, “but courtin’ a woman does not involve real estate displacement.”

“I didn’t damage it,” he said quickly. “I preserved everything exactly. Even the wind chimes.”

You pressed two fingers to your temple like you were tryin’ to keep your soul from leavin’ your body.

Mark took a cautious step closer. “Would you… like to see it?”

You stared at him for a long moment, arms crossed tight, casserole cooling on the stump beside you.

“…You moved my house and you want to take me on a field trip to the scene of the crime?”

“I think you’ll like it,” he said, hopeful.

And before you could say yes, no, or bless your heart, he picked you up—gentle, cradling you like you were something breakable—and whooshed into the sky.

The wind tugged at your curls, your heels danglin’ mid-air, and you had half a mind to scold him for flying off with a lady like you were luggage.

But then you saw it.

Set right on the crest of a hill overlooking a winding stream, surrounded by swaying oaks and golden brush, was your house.

Your entire house. Not a board out of place. Porch swing still swayin’. Petunias somehow re-potted on the steps.

It looked like a catalog ad for “Backwoods Dreamin’” — and you had to admit, it was gorgeous. If deeply unhinged.

He landed smoothly and set you down on your front walk like he’d done something sweet instead of city-code-illegal.

“I aligned it so the kitchen gets the sunrise,” he explained. “And you mentioned wanting to see more stars at night, so I calculated the light pollution radius and picked the optimal spot.”

You turned slowly to look at him, expression flat.

“Mark… honey, I said I missed seein’ stars — I didn’t mean for you to relocate me to a planetarium in the woods.”

“…Oh.”

You exhaled, long and slow.

“Alright,” you said, hiking your dress slightly as you climbed the front steps of your own house now resting on foreign soil. “That’s it. We’re havin’ a talk.”

He followed behind like a student reporting to the principal.

You walked into your kitchen, poured sweet tea into two mason jars (still miraculously in your cupboards), and sat him down at the kitchen table like he was about to be scolded by every southern matriarch in history.

You set the jar in front of him before fishing in your purse and pulling out your emergency notepad (every proper southern lady carries one), flipping to a fresh page. Then, in very clear, looping script, you wrote:

How Not to Woo a Woman Like She’s a Hostile Planet(Southern Courting Etiquette for the Superpowered)

No lifting houses. Ever.

Flowers are romantic. Entire ecosystems are overkill.

Don’t solve mild inconveniences with extreme force.

Ask before giftin’ anything that could legally require zoning permits.

No surprise livestock. This includes alien livestock. Especially if they glow.

He peered over your shoulder like this was a test he didn’t study for.

“What’s ‘livestock’?” he asked seriously.

You slowly turned to him. “Did you bring me an animal?”

“…Not anymore.”

You didn’t ask.

You simply handed him the notebook, patted his chest gently, and said, “Study this, darlin’. Hard.”

He took it in both hands like you’d just handed him the Declaration of Independence.

“I will,” he promised. “I’ll memorize it. I can learn.”

And Lord help you.

You liked him.

“You’re sweet,” you said, standing and walking over to rest a hand gently on his shoulder. “And dumb as a box of river rocks, but sweet.”

He blinked. “Is that… good?”

You smiled. “Sugar, it’s a start.”

[calico-cheriies]

I understand that the hype may have died down a little after the season ended but I LOVED the invincible variants— just the idea of it had me hooked that I had to write about it (also I’m trying to improve so I need to write more). Reader is gender neutral!

CW: mentions of blood and violence (nothing too explicit), minor language

He had your boyfriend’s face.

He had his hair, his build, hell you were convinced that this clone was Mark—

But the costume, a homage to his father’s— the one that left your love crumpled into the ground missing several teeth— left you frozen. And the drying blood that was caked onto his gloves made you cower away from him.

When the doppelgänger called your name, it only made you tighten your grip on the rusty crowbar. It wouldn’t do much against him, but it was the only thing giving you the slim ounce of false sense of security.

“I know that you’re confused right now,” he floated down towards you, rubble falling from the hole he put through the roof— when did he even see you run into this place? “And I know that you’re scared— but I won’t hurt you.”

It was comical almost, seeing as to how quick he was to slaughter people in his wake. He didn’t hesitate to crush a man’s head or to slam a woman into the concrete, viscera covering the area and leaving your clothes covered. Now he was approaching you like a wounded animal, hands outreached and speaking the same cadence just like his dear old dad.

This Mark brought nothing but death.

And it was a cruel joke that you would die at the hands of a monster wearing the face of the man you love.

Before you met your grisly end, you would try to swing at him. It wouldn’t leave as little as a smudge on his face, but it would at least give you some satisfaction before he left you mangled—

“It’s no use.” Now he was in front of you, taking slow, deliberate steps. He was already knowing your intentions, but you didn’t care. “I’m stronger than you, faster— we both know how this will go. All I want to do is talk—“

“Get away from me.” The crowbar was shaking in your grip, but it was your only lifeline at this point. “You’re not Mark.”

“I’m Mark, just not this universe’s Mark.” He corrected. “I’m not weak like he is. And I’m not stupid enough to let you go again.”

The crowbar was out of your hands before you could even blink, clattering to the ground with a loud echo. You tried to back away, stumbling over your own feet when he grabbed you— whether to catch you or kill you, you didn’t know. His arms were around your waist, reminiscent of times with your Mark— and it made you scream.

You slapped him, desperate to get out of his grasp. You slammed your arms against his chest, trying to push him away— but he just held you tighter in response.

You held your breath when the variant’s shoulders tensed as he sighed deeply. His hands squeezed your waist, like he was restraining himself.

“You can try to fight me all you want, but all you’re doing is delaying the inevitable.“

“What do you want with me?” You hated how weak you sounded, how small you felt. “I promise whatever you’re looking for or whatever you want, I don’t know anything—“

He called your name once more, sounding offended. “I don’t need information. I want you.”

You flinched when his thumb wiped at your cheek. You didn’t even know when you started to cry. He almost looked sympathetic. Almost.

“I made the mistake of letting you go before, and then I lost you for good.” He picked up your entire body, carrying you as he began to fly. You’ve been in this position countless times before with your Mark. But this time you felt fear instead of giddiness.

You wondered if falling to your death would be more merciful than going with him. You’ve instinctively grabbed around his neck, and you were left filled with dread as you flew past the destroyed roof, spotting another figure heading close to you.

“No matter what you do, I’m not letting anyone take you again— and I’m never letting you go.”

[calico-cheriies]

Like father, like son

[calico-cheriies]

virgin!reader who gets flustered by just making out with omni-mark.

he finds it annoying when you squirm too hard in his open lap, the grip on the back of your neck is slickening the grip he has on it with sweat. the jaw aching minutes of un-interrupted kissing has all lead up to this very moment.

his free hand has been heavily rooted to your right hip, squeezing thin bird bone between thumb and remaining gloved fingers. it's a good guide to help focus your squirming into something more productive.

he finds it cute when you can cum from just having your tongue sucked on and ever so slightly letting his hips dig and grind up into your soaked cunt. your eyes rolling backwards, lashes gluing together with gloopy clumps of watery mascara. your jaw slacked and strings of drool tie the both of you together. his open maw inhales the heavy nearly visible clouds you exhale out. it's something out of a brain rotted animated cartoon based around sex he's glanced at once.

the tv program failed to copy how a innocent virgin like you, comes apart so easily and looks like the prime example of what a slut should look like.

[calico-cheriies]

“you’ve… done this before?” he asked, quiet, cheeks blazing pink.

you nodded slowly, watching the nerves swim behind those green eyes. “izuku, i want to go slow. i want to make it good for you.”

he looked away for a second. then looked back. like he couldn’t decide whether to be ashamed or excited.

“i’ve… thought about it. with you. just…” his voice dropped to a whisper. “i don’t know what i’m doing.”

you smiled softly and cupped his cheek, climbing into his lap. “you don’t have to know anything, baby. just feel.”

he gasped when you took his shirt off. his whole body trembling under your fingers. you kissed down his chest, whispering how beautiful he was, how sweet, how good, how yours. and when you finally pulled down his briefs? he whimpered.

“p-please,” he mumbled. “don’t laugh or anything.”

you didn’t. you were too busy staring at the way he throbbed for you, flushed and leaking, twitching in anticipation. you pressed a kiss to his tip and watched his eyes roll back.

“shit—!” he cried, grabbing at the sheets. “wait—wait—!”

you smiled, crawling back up and straddling him, letting his cock slide between your folds. “too much?”

he looked up at you with watery eyes and shook his head. “please don’t stop.”

you sank down onto him slowly. he was panting, writhing. tears already threatening at the corners of his eyes.

“baby,” you whispered, rocking your hips gently, “you feel so good. you’re so big, so warm. you’re making me feel so full.”

he moaned, high and sweet, head falling back against the pillow. “i c-can’t—this is—so good—!”

you rolled your hips again, leaning down to kiss his neck. “it’s okay, izuku. just let go. i’ve got you. i’ve got all of you.”

it didn’t take long. you were still moving slow, still riding him deep and tender, when his body tensed under you.

“i—baby—i’m gonna—!” he cried.

you held his face, kissed him deep, and whispered against his lips. “come for me, izuku. just like that.”

and he did, hard. with a desperate, broken moan that made your heart ache. his arms wrapped tight around you, his body shuddering from head to toe. but when you tried to pull off him, he whimpered.

“no—please—stay. i—can go again. i want to make you feel good too. i want to keep going—”

you paused and looked down at him. his curls were sweaty. his lips were kiss-bruised. his cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.

“you want more, baby?”

he nodded, bit his lip. “i don’t wanna stop. not yet. please… ride me again.”

so you did. and the second time he came even harder. whimpering your name like a prayer, tears slipping down his cheeks as he clung to you like you were his whole world.

[calico-cheriies]

mark as a situationship would ruin the generation's brightest minds because he really really really treats you like you're dating and that you often do domestic things together even if you have no labels and that you technically arent exclusive due to his status as a hero because he genuinely disappears off the face of the earth sometimes

but hey! he's such a great fuck and he's soooo kind and knows exactly how to make you feel better when you're down but still you two aren't dating and he's adamant on actually clarifying what you are because he's busy