connorlupin

[connorlupin]

this isn’t a request but you’re the only writer i know who writes the monster!au so

dragon!reader and dragon!price are haunting my thoughts. dragons usually have to hold themselves back when sparring because they’re so much stronger than other monsters but with price & reader they don’t need to, to the point where the other members of the 141 are kinda wondering if they need to intervene.

what they do or don’t know is this is you and price courting, testing each other’s strength to assess whether you’re suitable mates. once you have decided you’re suitable it continues in the bedroom, fighting for dominance and testing each other’s stamina as price rides you or you pin price down and see if he can take all the strength behind your thrusts.

OH god I LOVE the way you think! I know @rodolfoparras also did a dragon price some time ago but I'm happy to let my monsterfucker out lol :D I'll consider this a spitball thingy but GOD DAMN did my hyperfixation hyperfixate on this :Ddd kinda rushed at the end but it's 3AM :/

CW:NSFW

What about if dragons measure not just raw strength, but all other aspects as well? They're prideful by nature and with so little of them remaining no self-respecting dragon will settle for a witless brute or a powerless scribe.

Price had lost hope in finding a mate centuries ago because he's even pickier than most of his kin; in his view, a proper one needs to be strong enough to completely pin him down, needs to be smart enough to see the insults in his honeyed words and give back as good as he does, needs to be clever enough to lead men as good as he does.

A proper mate needs to keep up with him on all levels.

And for a dragon of his age, that's an unachievable set of criteria. Oh sure, many of the dragons he's met over the years have tried to match him, but all fell short, leaving him lonely and unsatisfied.

Then he met you, a fellow Captain, a fellow dragon. Though only a few centuries younger than him, you're a wyrmling in his eyes, your scales like shining metal compared to his muddled gemstones. An arrogant wyrmling if the way you peacock for him the first time you enter the training room has anything to say about it— your wings spreading out and muscles rippling, back straightening out to make you taller, scales glinting in the artificial light; little details that anyone else can brush off as a simple stretch but to a dragon it screams of your interest in him.

His slitted eyes roam across your body, both equal parts disdain and curiosity. "Got somethin' ta say there boy?" His words are rough like sandpaper.

"No, no." You hum as you get into the ring, every little movement purposely done to showcase your hard earned musculature. "Just that you should skip out on this fight. Wouldn't want you to throw your back out old man."

"Old man huh?" His eyes blaze with the same fire at the end of his cigar, your words igniting something in his chest that had long been extinguished. "I'll show you old."

And suddenly he's in the ring, both of you trading blow for blow with the same savagery your progenitors had frightened mankind with for millennia, your claws leaving deep grooves in the concrete when you miss his side, his tail smashing a portion of the ground into dust when you avoid it, the ground between you cracking when you try to push the other away, loose scales and dust and debris littering the ground as you and Price wrestle on the ground.

Both of your teams watch from the sidelines, your team calming the other members of TF141 that this is just how dragons are, pointedly ignoring your victorious snarl when you pin Price down to the ground, your clawed hand harshly pushing his face into the concrete to the point you might break his nose as you bite the back of his neck, forcing him to submit. "I win,"

"Not fer long." He snarls back just as deep, feeling alive for the first time in who knows how long. "Best two out of three." And with that he jerks, remaining wing slamming into your side and knocking you off balance long enough for him to fling you into the wall opposite of him.

You don't know how many rounds you go before you're forced to stop by a very pissed off Laswell, who also pointedly ignores the obvious bulges in what remains of both of your pants, giving both of you a stern talking to about wrecking the damn training room.

You're ready to leave after being chastised like a child but Price is quicker, passing you with a "Good fight back there." rumbling in his throat, the soft scales of his wing brushing along your jaw. Your eyes nearly pop out of your skull when you meet his gaze, and Price has a good poker face but the smoldering look in his eyes and the low grumble in his chest makes it's obvious you've peaked his curiosity.

But that's just the start, the hard part is keeping it. While regular dragons may spend time with a potential mate conversing on scholarly subjects or having philosophical debates, you and him have a more practical way of assessing the other's intellect — Battle plans.

To your teams it sounds like a harsh argument, ideas thrown around and sharp insults tacked on top, their heads ping ponging between you and Price as you look over maps, trying to one up the other. Eventually your teammates leave you to settle this on your own.

"And I'm telling you, old man," You growl, both of you so close there's barely any space between you as you point at the map. "We can push a smaller team through the forest while we lead the frontal assault, our wip's not going to have anywhere to go then." You huff, holding your head up high to make it obvious you're proud of your idea.

Price gives you the stink eye, before he scans the map again, humming to himself. After a few seconds he lets out a scoff. "We don't have enough men for that." He says, but the sharp edge in his tone is dulled. "But—" His tail moves to brush against your own, your rough scales brushing against his smoother ones. "—It has some merit."

Price doesn't draw attention to the way your tails intertwine, wrapping together like two snakes, and neither do you. But the short purr that bubbles out of your chest says everything he needs to know, growing louder when he answers with his own, your shoulders brushing together. "Aight, back to work." He cuts your purrs short, but you can't hide the pleased look on your face as your tails remain coiled together.

Then comes the actual courting dance.

One late evening spent looking over documents in the privacy of his office, your tails once again coiled beneath the desk after successfully having proved your wit to him again, absentmindedly telling embarrassing stories of your respective teams. . . Price has a revelation. You might be it. "Hey lad."

You look up, your full attention on him. "Yeah?"

With a mumbled grunt too quiet for you to hear Price slides a hand beneath his shirt and pulls a large green scale from the meat of his shoulder blade, the wound healing before it can even bleed.

Instinctively you know what this means, for knowing how a prospective mate treats an extension of you will show how they'll treat you. But you still speak up, needing proof for your own mind that you're not insane and haven't been burning the wrong tree. "What?"

Price glares at you, "Don't play dumb," He says as he slides the large scale across the table to you. "It doesn't suit you." There's an underlayer of heat in his words, blue slitted eyes looking you over in a much more appreciative light.

You can't control the big grin that spreads across your face, "Oh, then what does suit me?" You ask as you follow his lead, yanking out one of your larger scales from your own back and sliding it to him. It makes the difference between you two obvious, his green scale muddled with age compared to your shiny one.

"Arrogant muppet." The gentle way he picks up your scale clashes with his harsh words, cradling it in his hand like it'll crack at the slightest of touches, his face reflected in the surface.

You grin, "Just confident." You feel his sharp eyes judge every minute twitch of your fingers as you pick up his scale. Price's poker face hides the way his heart melts at the loving way you brush a thumb across the surface, how it throbs when you don't immediately attempt to make it shine like some whelps once did, accepting him for how he is by putting it in your breast pocket.

God, he doesn't even know how much he'd fantasized about something like this when he was still young, vestiges of a purr escaping his throat at the tender way you treat his scale. "Right." He shakes his head and places your scale in his own breast pocket, handing you another stack of papers. "Get back to work."

You grin and do as he says, wings twitching as a sign of joy, your tail squeezing down on his and receiving a squeeze in kind.

Price feels like a horny teen when he lays awake in bed late at night with your scale held between his claws. He feels stupid for feeling so giddy at the thought of having a mate, a proper mate, yet his body thinks differently. Just holding it in his hand is enough to make him grow hot, your scent still clings to the scale and Price finds himself holding it close to his nose to familiarize himself with it and Hell his body loves it, cocks growing hard in record time and his thighs wet with slick. The poor thing doesn't even know what to relieve first, his free hand constantly going between stroking his cocks and fingering himself, mind craving the heat of another dragon that he'd been deprived of.

What Price doesn't know is that you're in the same boat, biting your arm to silence yourself as you imagine it's Price you're breeding instead of a pillow, splintering the headboard from how hard you're gripping it in an attempt to not damage the scale.

Then shit hits the fan when during a routine mission you two are ambushed, and while two dragons are no easy prey for mankind, humans have long since gone from using rocks and sticks. You catch sight of a sniper's scope glint seconds before the bullet targets Price, and in only a few seconds to think you throw yourself in the way, Price's scale in your breast pocket puts enough resistance to make you survive the bullet, but you feel it crack, and that. . . that sets you off.

Price doesn't even have the time to lift his gun before you're tearing through the battlefield like a man possessed, anger burning like a volcano in your chest for trying to hurt him, elemental breath and draconic strength unleashed to it's fullest potential.

And Price? Price watches the show with that same heat burning in his belly, forced to bite his lip to silence the pleased purrs as he rubs his thighs together while you tear flesh from bone, mate flashing in his mind. Look how he protects you His mind purrs, Good mate. Perfect mate.

"I'm sorry." You whimper when you've finally calmed down, the battlefield nothing but a ruined crater and the shards of his scale held tenderly in your cupped hands. "I failed, I-"

"Come here." Price cuts you off quickly and pulls you down into a harsh and desperate kiss, all teeth and tongue and need. He parts just a fraction of an inch, "You passed." He growls and only then do you notice the sharp arousal in his scent, your animalistic hindbrain jumping for joy as you kiss back because holy shit he considers you worthy.

And now that he's found his mate? You best believe his body is going to make up for all the centuries he'd spent alone.

It doesn't even take a week for him to enter heat, waking in a daze with his twin cocks hard and his thighs glistening with slick, your scent lingering in the sheets and your side of the bed still warm. The walls almost shake from how deeply he growls when he registers that you're not next to him, just enough sense in his head to throw on a towel around his waist before angerly stomping through the halls to find you, sniffing you out like a bloodhoud.

"Bloody muppet." Price growls as he yanks you by the horns back to his room, the scent of his arousal so potent you're struck dumb, letting yourself be pushed down. Price's claws slice through your clothes, his hole so slick and eager for you he doesn't even need to stretch, just jumps onto your lap and in one fluid motion takes one of your cocks to the root. "Fuckin' finally." Price hisses, instantly setting a harsh pace of bouncing on your cock that would have had a lesser race end up with a crushed pelvis.

You grip his hips for dear life, surging up to mark his neck and shoulders with bites as he does the same, his ass clapping against your thighs. "Mate." Price moans, hole clenching around you, his cocks leaking against your stomach. "My mate." He grips your hair and pulls you into a bruising kiss, "Going to last long for me yeah?" He asks, a bit of mockery on his flushed face as he feels you cum inside him, riding you through your orgasm as the sudden onslaught of sensations frazzles the intelligent parts of your brain. "Not going to disappoint me now are you?"

Good thing dragons have really short refractory periods.

"Not a chance." You snarl and flip him over suddenly, rumbling purrs escaping your chest from the surprised sound he makes. You attempt to pin him down and he squirms out of your hold, another bout of wrestling breaking out between you that has you two tumbling off the bed and onto the ground.

"That so whelp?" Price breathes out when you manage to pin him down, your strong hand keeping his face flush with the floor. "Do you really think you can keep up?" A pleased thrill runs down his spine from the sensation of your weight bearing down on him, his knees automatically locking up to hike his ass up, tail flipping up to display his slick hole for you.

"Do you?" You counter, one hand on his head, the other pressing both of your dicks together, your two tips pressing against his ass. "You're so wet and desperate, should have just pinned you down the moment I saw you instead of courting you." With one sharp thrust you push in, a pained and elated moan tearing out of his throat at the sensation of your twin cocks spreading him wider than any toy ever could, scratching that itch he'd had for who knows how long.

The stretch and burn and pleasure muddles his mind, reduces him to low animalistic snarls and growls as he does his best to push his hips into yours. "Hurry the fuck up." Price orders, whole body shaking from the way you set a harsh pace, bashing on his prostate, your balls slapping against his own, each hard thrust pushing and pulling his face across the floor. "I'll- fuck- fall asleep."

"You sure about that?" You push your weight further on him, forcing his wing to spread out, your own partially wrapping around him, "Seems to me like-" A bit of elemental breath leaves your throat when one particularly strong thrust has his hole clamping down on you, his back arching to push his hips as close to yours as one of his cocks spews cum on the floor, "-like you're not in a place to order me around."

"You- ah-fuck-ah- wanker." His insult would be a lot more hurtful if he didn't whine like a bitch in heat, both of you devolving into primitive snarls and growls with the only thought on both of your minds being the need to fill Price with as much of your cum as you physically can.

[connorlupin]

Been thinking about (and acting out) a Fantasy AU where mage m!reader is former a adventuring buddy with a knight/mercenary. They end up having a FWB relationship but neither are willing to put a label on it. Maybe due to internalised homophobia, maybe due to the knight being from a dying house that he is obligated to raise to greatness once more.

They end up saving the kingdom and all is well until the knight requests a Princess's hand in marriage. The king agrees; the reader is heartbroken and disappears to a piece of land he asks as a boon. Reader and knight have a blowup afterwards argument where they both say things they can't take back.

Fast forward a decade or two. Reader is raising a child (can be adopted or magically created) when the great ball/the young Prince's birthday celebration happens. Kid (that's what I'm calling them for the rest of this. Prompt? Dump?) wants to go but reader forbids as he says it's not safe these days and that they needed to be there to keep the illusion spell covering their home running. The real reason being that he just doesn't want to see the knight– now king, again.

The kid goes anyway and reader has a conniption. He chases them to the capital where the kid set up a trap for him. Turns out kid has been sneaking out to the capital a lot more times than they could count and befriended the young prince. They started to wonder why their fathers are so hush hush about their love lives and learn why through some palace rumors and the chief guard who was another one of reader's adventure buddies.

The prince also leads the king to the designated meetup point at which point he and the reader get trapped. The abrupt meeting is awkward at first, both parties remembering their last meeting, then the king asks reader why he disappeared, reader responds what happened to them, after a while of them just standing in silence, they have a tearful heart to heart after which they confess to each other. They then make out.

Say Gex ensues and reader gets bred until he gets covered in so much white it makes the Pillsbury Dough Boy blush. Then the lived happily ever after. The end.

I accidentally deleted my first draft, I want to cry. Btw, might turn this into an actual fic. Just gotta figure out what fandom to write it for.

[connorlupin]

TROUBLE LOOKS GOOD ON YOU

pairing mark grayson x (vigilante) male reader

you’re a disaster wrapped in kevlar and bad decisions. mark grayson? he’s sunshine in spandex. you shouldn’t work. you don’t work—except when it’s 2 am and the city’s quiet, except when his hands find the cracks in your armor like they were made to fit there. except when he looks at you like you’re something worth loving, and for once, you don’t have the heart to tell him he’s wrong.

the crumpled hood of the villains’ getaway van makes a decent chair, if you ignore the broken glass. you’re sprawled across it like it’s your personal throne, watching mark hover nearby like an overprotective shadow. the would-be thieves are zip-tied in a groaning pile, one of them still half-stuck in the dumpster you gracefully introduced him to earlier.

"wow," you drawl, kicking your boots up on the shattered windshield. "you guys really thought this plan would work? even i have higher standards, and i once fought a telekinetic badger with a crowbar."

mark continues to hover near you, arms crossed. "you drop-kicked a guy into a dumpster," he says, like it’s some kind of crime.

"correction: i tactically repositioned him into a dumpster," you counter, grinning as he rolls his eyes. "and hey—" you gesture to the defeated goons. "—no guns, no hostages, just a little creative problem-solving. admit it, vincible. you love having a partner who keeps things interesting."

he opens his mouth—probably to whine about "excessive force" or whatever—but stops when you flick a crumpled soda can at his chest. the way his frown fights a smile? priceless.

mark sighs, defeated, before finally floating down, landing with a stupidly heroic thud. he offers you a hand, and you take it, if only to mock his gentlemanly gesture. except he doesn’t let go. and—weirdly—you don’t pull away either. his thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow and deliberate, and you have to fight the urge to yank your hand back just to spite him. (who does he think he is, melting your edges like this?)

"you wanna come to my house for dinner?" he murmurs, leaning in just enough that his breath ghosts over your ear. "mom says she’s cooking your favorite dish to entice you. her words, not mine."

you can hear the smirk in his voice. bastard. "wow, bribing me with food now? you’re getting desperate, vincible," you shoot back, but your traitorous fingers tighten around his anyway.

he huffs a laugh, warm and close. "is it working?"

(yes.)

"depends," you lie. "what’s she making?"

"pork sisig."

"sisig?" you deadpan, raising an eyebrow. "damn, aunt debbie’s playing dirty. she knows i’d crawl through hell for that crispy pork."

mark’s grin is obnoxiously smug. "yep. she also said if you say no, she’ll save the leftovers for me instead—"

"over my dead body," you snap, already dragging him toward the street. his laugh is stupidly bright for someone who just witnessed you yeet a man into a dumpster ten minutes ago.

(and okay, fine—maybe you like that sound. maybe you’ve memorized the exact way his nose scrunches when he’s trying not to cackle at your bullshit. maybe you’ve even stopped "accidentally" stealing his hoodies because his scent clinging to you is… whatever. not the point.)

"knew you’d cave," mark sing-songs, swinging your joined hands like an overexcited golden retriever. the sidewalk crowd parts around you two—not out of fear (though your rep should warrant it), but because invincible is practically skipping down the street with a guy who once put a batarang through a drug lord’s windshield as a warning shot. the stares burn into your back. great. tomorrow’s headlines will be invincible’s mysterious boyfriend revealed! with some paparazzi shot of mark grinning like an idiot while you glare at the camera like it personally offended you. you think it's funny (and endearing) that mark doesn't seem to care.

you shove him with your free hand. "shut up. i’m tolerating you for the food."

"uh-huh," he says, voice dripping with the kind of smugness that makes you want to strangle him. or kiss him. annoying. "that’s why you also agreed to movie night after. and let my dad teach you viltrumite chess last week—which, by the way, you cheated at—"

"vincible," you growl, "i swear to god—"

he kisses your gloved knuckles, slow and deliberate, just to watch your brain bluescreen. asshole.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

"aunt debbie, i don’t think i can eat anyone else’s cooking of sisig anymore," you say around a mouthful of rice, already reaching for your third serving. "this is illegal. you’re gonna ruin all other food for me."

debbie beams, refilling your plate before you can even ask. "good. that means you’ll keep coming back," she says, flicking your forehead lightly. "mark said you punched a guy through a wall today. again."

"he deserved it," you mutter, shooting a glare at mark—who’s too busy laughing into his soda to defend you. his knee knocks against yours under the table, warm and steady, and fuck, you hate how your body betrays you by leaning into it. like some pathetic magnet. like you’re not the guy who once made one of the most notorious villains flinch.

nolan leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "you know, when mark said he was dating someone ‘intense,’ i didn’t realize he meant ‘frequently commits property damage.’"

"oh please," you scoff, pointing your fork at him. "you literally leveled a city once. i’m tame compared to you."

the table goes quiet. mark chokes on his drink.

then nolan laughs—deep and booming—while debbie shakes her head like she’s already drafting your apology to the mayor. "he’s got you there, honey," she says, patting nolan’s arm.

mark kicks your shin under the table, grinning. "stop impressing my dad. it’s weird."

"make me, vincible," you shoot back—just as debbie slides another heap of sisig onto your plate.

you don’t miss the way mark’s fingers brush yours when he steals your spoon to eat your food, though. or how his thumb lingers on your wrist for half a second too long, calloused and sure. bastard. he knows what he’s doing. knows the way your pulse jumps under his touch, knows you’ll let him take whatever he wants from you—food, space, the last shreds of your reputation as chicago’s most unshakeable bastard.

and the worst part? he gives it all right back. in the way he leans into your space like he’s trying to fuse your skeletons together. in the way his laugh softens to something private when you grumble "fine, take it," pushing the plate toward him. in the way he tugs you into the couch later, his nose buried in your hair like he’s trying to memorize the scent of gunpowder and cheap shampoo.

(you’ll never admit it, but you’d raze cities for this guy. and he knows. he knows.)

you lay there, ear pressed to his chest like it’s the only compass you’ve ever needed, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat. it’s too much. it’s not enough. your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt like you’re afraid the universe will yank this away any second—because it always does. because you’re the kid who crawled out of a battlefield that could've been his grave, the soldier cecil left behind, the ghost who burns too bright to keep. you don’t get this. not soft blankets on your back, not warm hands in your hair, not mark’s stupidly perfect ribs rising and falling beneath your cheek like some kind of prayer.

but for someone who’s never stayed in one place longer than a mission briefing, this feels like home. and that’s the most terrifying part.

the two of you stay like that for what feels like forever, mark combing his fingers through your hair like you’re something precious instead of something broken. your arms lock around his sinfully thin waist, pulling him closer with a quiet huff of contentment. you, who’ve bitten off threats with bloodied teeth and called it a smile, who wear your scars like armor—you melt against him. your usual sharp edges (the furrowed brow, the tension in your jaw, the always-ready-to-bite smirk) smooth out into something peaceful. something safe.

mark’s chest rumbles with a silent laugh beneath you. ha. knew you were a softie. he doesn’t say it out loud, but you feel it in the way his fingertips trace your scalp, in the way he presses his lips to your forehead like he’s sealing a promise.

and damn him for it, because he’s right. damn him for the way his hands fit against the notches of your spine like they were carved to hold ruin. damn him for how easy he makes it—to breathe, to stay, to believe the impossible truth that a heart as shattered as yours could still be something worth kissing.

damn him for the way his stupidly perfect smile slots between your ribs and into your heart every time he looks at you. those soft brown eyes that don’t just see you, but keep seeing you—past the bloodstains and the body count, through every lie you’ve ever worn like armor. his dark hair spills across the pillow like a piece of the night sky you’re allowed to touch, and isn’t that the cruelest joke? that someone made of starlight and second chances would choose to orbit a black hole like you?

damn him most of all for how he loves you. reckless and relentless, like his heart didn’t get the memo that yours is a crime scene. he pours love into you like it’s something you could deserve—overflowing and endless, while all you can give back are jagged pieces and residues of warmth and love, scraped raw from the ruins of you and in-between the cracks of your broken heart.

and the worst part? you’d let him ruin you like this forever.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

it’s 2 AM, that cursed hour your body insists on waking to like clockwork, some leftover survival instinct from a life that demanded you sleep with one eye open. but tonight, the reason you’re awake is softer. warmer. mark’s chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, his breath steady as a metronome. you push up on one elbow, slow and careful, just enough to see his face in the blue-dark of the living room—all the daylight tension smoothed out of his features, his lips slightly parted, his stupidly long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

you stay like that, frozen in the quiet, staring with the kind of naked devotion that would’ve made your younger self sneer. pathetic, he’d have said. weak. but here, now, with no one to witness except the moon through the curtains, you let yourself look. let yourself want. your fingers itch to touch, so you do—trailing through his hair like you’re mapping the shape of something holy. his strands are stupidly soft between your calloused fingers, and when he sighs in his sleep, nuzzling unconsciously into your palm, your chest does something embarrassing.

you’re so fucked.

you should stop. you don’t. minutes stretch like taffy, sticky-sweet and endless, your thumb brushing his temple, the shell of his ear, the dip behind his jaw. you’re a thief memorizing the contours of a treasure you’ll never deserve. mark shifts, and for a heartbeat you think you’ve woken him—but no, he just turns his face into your wrist, his lips grazing your pulse point like an accidental kiss.

then his eyes flutter open.

and god, the way he looks at you—like you’re the first thing he wants to see every morning for the rest of his life, like he’s already dreaming and you’re the best part. his groggy smile is a knife between your ribs.

"morning, sleeping beauty," you murmur, your voice rough with something too close to worship. your fingers don’t stop moving through his hair, even as his arms tighten around you, pulling you down until your foreheads touch.

"what time is it?" he slurs, already half-asleep again.

you press a silent kiss to the corner of his mouth. "you don’t need to know." your hand slides down to cover his eyes, playful. "just... go back to sleep."

"no, no... it’s fine." mark’s voice is still thick with sleep, but his grip on your wrist is sure as he pulls your palm to his lips, pressing a kiss to the scar that cuts across it—the one you got the night you two met, back when you still pretended you weren’t impressed by him. he pushes up onto his elbows, his hair sticking up in every direction, and kisses your forehead like it’s a habit. "i know you wanna go for a ride. i’ll come with you."

and fuck. you’ve spent your whole life being looked at, not seen—except by him. your breath stutters, eyes wide as you stare at him like he’s just peeled back your ribs and counted every broken piece. what did i ever do to deserve you? you don’t say it, but your face must scream it, because mark just laughs softly, already tugging you off the couch with that stupidly chivalrous "up you go" grip he’s had since day one.

a year together, and it still hits you like a sucker punch: how easy this is for him. how he knows you better than you know yourself—knows that when the nightmares or the restlessness claw at you, your first instinct isn’t to talk, or fight, or drink. it’s to vanish into the city’s veins on your bike, let the wind rip the thoughts right out of your skull. and mark? he doesn’t ask. doesn’t lecture. just straps on his helmet like it’s the most natural thing in the world to chase your demons at 2 am.

"you’re buying the coffee after," you grumble, shoving his shoulder as you grab your keys off the counter.

mark grins, already toeing on his sneakers like a man who’s done this a hundred times. (he has.) "uh-huh. and you’re not gonna speed just to feel me cling to you like a scared koala."

"no promises, grayson."

wow. 2.3k words of pure sleep-deprived brainrot (are you sure?) at 2 am and somehow... it worked? i was absolutely COOKING while listening to "soft spot" by keshi on repeat - that song basically soundtracks the whole couch scene so please go give it a listen! we all deserve this exact brand of tender love in our lives (manifesting it right now for all of us) cause we know we all need that inVINCIDIH-

[connorlupin]

Hi I just came across your post about divorced BatDad Reader! And Im absolutely in love! I was wondering do you think BatDad Reader! Would ever start dating again? If so I would love to read your ideas, if not I would also love read about what you have in mind instead. Love your writing btw

Sincerely, Anonymous

Thank you so much. I'm glad people are loving this as much as I am because god knows I'm obsessed

I believe that there is a possibility of BatDad Reader and Bruce getting back together, but it would require changes to his and Bruce's lifestyles that I just don't think Bruce would ever do.

I hope it comes across in the other fics I've written that I think Batdad and Bruce are like madly in love with each other. They work well together and for what its worth they do care deeply about eachother. The issue is that Bruce's unfaithfulness and complete and total dedication to his cause combined with BatDads tendency to forgive Bruce and not push him to be different and his own low self esteem create a situation where getting back together even though they love eachother is just not a good idea.

I also believe that a large part of them staying divorced is that BatDad has begun to take the steps to center himself in his own life and I think getting back with Bruce would require Bruce to go to therapy or BatDad to stop going and start putting his wants on the back burner again.

Bruce is a very haunted man and often we see him needing the pain he has to be expelled through violent means. I think the idea that this drive that has caused him to save so many people has damaged his personal relationships so badly never really hits him as something that needs to change. He has also spent so much of his life using Batman as a way of coping and he does not seem self aware enough to recon with what it would mean to cope better.

That's not to even mention his infadelity that I believe are caused by a number of issues the first being that Bruce enjoys the dangerous aspect of his job and life and the people he cheats on you with all give him that satisfaction. He's such a control freak that he sort of tries his hardest to corral your life and relationships while going after any person who gives him the rush of instability you just don't.

(I do want to write some headcannons about Bruce and BatDad while they were in a relationship because I think to a degree we see him being a bit possesive and constantly scared of you cheating and he tries to control that aspect of your life)

I could see a world in which Bruce decides that his behavior is taking from him everything that makes life worth living. I could see him deciding that the behaviors that pushed you away have gone on for too long and he needs to be different and then him drawing you back in as he changes and gets better.

Though I could also imagine him telling you to come back and saying that he will change only to not do that and you either permanetly cut him off or you just completly collapse in on yourself in the relationship and pretend like his actions don't hurt you.

Through all of this though he is completly obssesed with replaying your relationship and going over it with a fine tooth comb. He looks for every breaking point and every instance that proved that you were pulling away from him. He also invades your privacy. A lot. I think he actual bursts a blood vessel if you start dating again.

[connorlupin]

I know we all eat up how fucked in the head all the variants are and how shitty/toxic they treat you while still loving you (each in their own weird way) but what if just every single variant treated you in the nicest most loving way possible.

Like you’re the ONLY one who gets gentle touches and kind words. Yeah, some Marks are more gruff and cold than others but there’s literally only love on that mf’s face when he looks at you

They’re all obvs still crazy as hell and would do literally anything for you and to have you but they’re not gonna be unnecessarily cruel or mean (to you!!)

They’re all doing their thing of destroying and killing and RUN to you the second they find you. the switch is immediate it’s scary they’re like needy cats who hate competition bc well. How could they NOT fight over you?? While they���re causing mayhem and basically playing keep away with you, they’re all talking about their own versions of you and keeping you safe from each other.

Legit screaming at each other only to just look at you and start saying the most sappy bullshit

They never hold you too tight!! Never too forceful!! No threats towards you ever!! Just a lot of sad puppy dog looks if they try and be affectionate and you swerve that shit lol

Won’t stop them from kidnapping you tho LMAOO they just love you so much <3 they’re gonna be controlling at most unfortunately!!

Idk if this makes sense I’m high and just thinking about every Mark being nice to me bc I love them

[connorlupin]

MDNI Dragon price with horns = blowjob handles

You just keep him there, poor guy all needy and whimpering, sounds you almost never heard.

You were just there, sat on your office chair with one of your elbows resting on the arm and your head leaning on your hand. The lust your eyes had was something endearing.

He had been stressed all day, almost going to burst at the minimal sound someone made and what was the best remedy to his anger? Cock down his throat.

So here he was, the tent in his pants visible with a small wet patch forming over the head, his hips spread wide and his knees digging pain in his joints from all the time he knelt.

Most ppl assumed he was the dom in the relationship as he was a dragon but....were they right?

You held him with a tight collar, he had to listen to you.

He wanted relief? Good but at what cost?

His sharp canines tried to not hurt your sensitive cock but at the end of a blowjob, blood was drawn out almost always. You swore you could see the fading scars over time.

As I said, his hips were spread wide and god it did hurt to not be able to free himself, he did not know where to put his hands

Through his loose dark green shirt he began to touch his hot body, no avail, still too much.

He went to touch his clothed dick but a sharp kick from one of your boots made him yelp

"The fuck did I tell you Captain? No touching unless I say so!" "God you are insatiable"

"Guess the little reward I had for you will be held...uh and here I was about to give you the sole of the boot for you to jerk on"

The whine he made....the fucking whine he made...

I might expand this later...

[connorlupin]

Sub!Mark Grayson Smut ABC's

A/n: Tried to keep it gender neutral, but it’s heavily implied to be male reader (reader has dick/strap)

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*: ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Mark is adamant on doing most of the aftercare, even if he bottoms

"it's just easier if I do it" he'll claim.

And before you can even protest, he’s already moving- using his quick-flight abilities to change the sheets, clean you up, and fetch water for you both, all in the blink of an eye.

Other than that, aftercare is all warmth- consisting of soft praises, gentle touches, and the comforting weight of his body in between your arms.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Mark loves your hands, he wants to feel them around his neck or in his hair during sex. He wants to watch you jerk him off and glide your long fingers in and out of his puffy hole.

Even outside of sex the warmth of your touch is a quiet comfort. Whether your fingers are laced with his or resting gently on his thigh, it grounds him in a way you don’t realize.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Mark is an absolute cum slut and you can't change my mind.

He loves the flavor of it and will lap up anything that dribbles from your slit.

He's not a big fan of facials, because they're dirty and he doesn't like the feeling of cum drying in his hair, but aside from that, he's more than happy to feel you cum on his tummy or all over his back.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Mark enjoys dominance play, regardless of whether you have powers/are as strong as he is. He gets excited when you’re combative- he especially likes when you thrash and kick at him.

Secretly he wants you to fight back and take control over him- muzzle him, tie him up, and put him in his place like some sort of mutt- but he’s too embarrassed to ask.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Mark isn't very experienced. He's watched plenty of porn and he learned a bit during his relationship with Amber. However, he never bottomed before you came along, so taking his anal virginity was a process that you had to help walk him through.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Now I know this is a boring answer, but Mark loves missionary- regular missionary, laying down sideways, or up against a wall. Anything that involves making eye contact with you really.

(He'll still let you hit it from the back though, he knows how much you love his sculpted ass.)

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Mark has always been a little awkward when it comes to anything romantic. Especially in the beginning of your relationship, he struggled to take sex seriously- not because he didn’t like it, but because bottoming for you was intimidating. To ease his own nerves, he’d crack jokes or laugh at himself whenever he did something embarressing, hoping to mask his fear with humor.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Mark doesn't grow a lot of body hair in general. His chest is completely bare and he is hardly covered on his arms and legs.

He keeps himself trimmed but not fully shaven.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Like I said before, in the beginning of your relationship Mark was especially awkward and goofy during sex.

But over time- through a handful of near-death experiences and tragedies- he’s come to understand the beauty of intimacy. He knows now that every time you have sex it could be the last, making each touch, each whispered word, all the more precious.

Sometimes, when you hold him close while fucking into him, he swears he can feel your souls collide as if in that moment, he understands all of your thoughts and feelings more deeply than anyone else ever could.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Mark Grayson may be a Viltrumite, but at the end of the day, he’s still human- a young horny human.

Mark jerks off daily, even with how busy his schedule is.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Mark has a praise kink.

The poor boy is always so stressed and overworked, sometimes all he really needs is a few words of reassurance from the person he loves.

He never realized how much he craved praise until he met you.

The first time you held him close, whispering sweet nothings into his ear while bullying your way inside him, he felt something shift. Overwhelmed by the warmth of your words, he teared up, letting the euphoria wash over him. Cumming all over himself as tears dribbled off his chin and onto his chest.

Since that night, you’ve made a conscious effort to shower him with kind words, knowing just how much they affect him.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Literally anywhere that isn't his mom's house.

He'll fuck on the bed, on the couch, on a counter, on the floor, in your car, or in a secluded public area- he doesn't really care he just doesn't want to be caught.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Mark loves the sound of your voice. Dirty talk him in public or whisper praise into his ear and he'll be so embarrassed.

Besides that, just looking at you is enough to get him worked up. He loves the sight of you after a workout- all flushed, sweaty, and glowing. And fresh out of the shower? That might be his favorite view. He loves to see you wearing nothing but a towel with your v-line just barely poking out.

Watching the beads of water drip down your abdomen and on to the floor will have him on his knees almost instantly.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He won't outright say no, but Mark doesn't like wearing his suit or roleplaying during sex.

He spends so much of his life hiding behind a secret identity, with you, he just wants to be himself. He doesn’t want to be Invincible- he just wants to be Mark.

(if he comes back in a ripped suit though its free game- its not your fault he looks so good after getting his ass beat.)

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

This boy is a munch- no questions asked.

He will be on his hands and knees for you before you can even get a word in.

He enjoys receiving too, dont get me wrong. He loves the view of you engulfing his cock in your mouth. He loves the warmth of your lips and the way your moans make him shiver, but nothing beats the weight of your cock in his mouth.

Sometimes after a hard day he'll want to cock warm you with his throat, sucking you down to the base and keeping you there while he rests his eyes or scrolls on his phone.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Both- depends on the day.

Slow intimate sex with Mark is great, but more often than not the two of you are pent up and will fuck like rabits.

Mark is insanely resilient. You can be as rough as you want, and he will never even think about tapping out or making you slow down.

Slap him, spank him, whip him, choke him, spit on him, tug on his hair- literally no matter what you do he can handle it.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

The both of you are very familiar with quickies. You probably have more quickies than you do actual sex. Time with him is often cut short because that god damn beeper is always going off.

The two of you will usually attempt to squeeze out at least one quick orgasm every time you're left alone with each other.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Mark hasn't really had the chance to explore his own kinks, so the more time he spends with you, the more he begins to understand what he’s into.

He wouldnt like anything outright disgusting and he’s definitely not an exhibitionist. However, other than that he’s willing to explore pretty much anything.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Marks stamina is genuinely never ending. He could pump out load after load after load and will have barely worked up a sweat.

If he had the time and if you could keep up he could probably go at it for a full 24 hours.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He’s never owned a sex toy before, he’d rather be caught dead than have Debbie stumble across it while cleaning his room.

From what he’s experienced with you, he enjoys cock rings and vibrators.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He's not a major tease, but that doesn't mean he doesn't know what you like and won't use it to his advantage.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

When you’re having rough sex- lots of incoherent babbling and loud moans

alternatively- during slower nights lots of suppressed groans and quiet whimpers close to your ear.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Mark can be a crybaby. Sometimes he’ll shed tears from the overwhelming pleasure he’s feeling. Other times he cries from the weight of his responsibilities, shedding tears as you help him relieve his stress and replace it with pleasure.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Relatively average in length- like 5 1/2 inches but girthy and veiny.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Mark is young and relatively inexperienced so he is extremely eager to fuck.

At some points he’s practically begging for you dick him down- and if you complain about being too tired he’ll ride you until you physically cant take it anymore.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He can fall asleep after if he tries, but sex doesn’t necessarily make him tired.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*: ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡

A/n: These head cannons are self indulgent don’t shoot me if you disagree ;)

[connorlupin]

Now nothing’s the same | Alternate!Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

Summary: You know it isn't your Mark the moment he steps into your room. The blood on his suit isn't his. The way he looks at you isn't right. The things he whispers aren't things your Mark would ever say. Yet, you let him stay. And more.

Pairing: Alternate!Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

Warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, frottage, overstimulation, rimming (R receiving), belly bulging, unprotected sex, spit as lube.

Tags: any Mark variant, Reader is lowkey not okay, and he’s a virgin (so prob unrealistic sex?), Unrequited love (for original Mark), Top!Mark, Bottom!Reader.

w.c: 12.2k  |  a/n: English isn’t my first language. This is the first time I write smut so it probably sucks, but hey, I wrote 12k? How did that happen? Yikes… Feedback is appreciated—as longs as is respectful. Also, I wrote this with no particular Mark in mind, so feel free to imagine your favorite variant! The only exception is Mohawk Mark, since his unique hairstyle would immediately reveal he's not the mainstream version at the very beginning (unless you prefer to imagine the reader being dense and oblivious to that glaring detail...).I guess it doesn’t really matter. IMAGINE ANY MARK! And enjoy!!!

Ever since the news broke about cities around the world being destroyed by multiple versions of Invincible, you’ve been hiding. It’s the only logical thing to do—for someone powerless like you, there’s nothing else to do. You can only wait for the nightmare to end, for the heroes to rise victorious. For Mark to rise victorious.

So you stay in your home, clutching your phone, waiting for something—anything—to change. A day passes, and Mark still hasn’t answered your messages. He’s busy, you tell yourself, burying your face in your pillow to stifle the ache in your chest. Of course he’s busy. How could he not be? His hands are full with the weight of the world on his shoulders—fighting, saving, surviving. The news keeps reporting on the Invincibles’ rampage, updating the world daily. A stupid text message—of course Mark doesn’t have time to reply.

(You try not to think about how Mark has been pulling away from you, slowly but surely. How, ever since you confessed your feelings and ruined everything, he hasn’t looked at you the same. How you should’ve kept your heart locked tight, your love buried deep, just so you could keep him close. But you didn’t, and now nothing’s the same.)

So you wait, trapped within your four walls, your chest heavy with worry for your friends—your hero friends—who are out there risking their lives. You cling to the news like a lifeline, watching as the Invincibles tear through city after city, leaving thousands dead, all while they smile like it’s a game.

So you wait, and pray. Anxiety coils tight in your chest, pressing against your ribs until it feels like you might burst. But eventually, hunger forces you to move. You drag yourself to the kitchen, hands trembling as you fumble with the bread. You barely register the motion, your mind drifting to every terrible, unlikely scenario where Mark—your Mark—doesn’t make it. The thought alone makes your throat tighten.

It’s not good. You shouldn’t be this negative. But there are so many Invincibles, and if they’re anything like the Mark you know, then even the strongest heroes must be struggling. People will die. People you care about. And you try—God, you try—not to think about who, who, who.

Maybe that’s why you don’t hear him.

Not that there’s any particular sound to warn you. No footsteps, no creak of the floorboards. Just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional rustle of the curtains by the open window.

One second, your eyes are on the bread on the counter, and the next, an unexpected voice brushes against your ear.

“Found you,” he whispers.

Your heart leaps into your throat, and you freeze, the knife slipping from your hand and clattering to the counter. Your breath hitches as you turn your head slowly.

(Vaguely, you think about Mark fussing over you like a mother hen, that familiar crease forming between his brows. “You really shouldn’t leave your window open like that,” he’d chide, voice laced with exasperation. “Anyone could get in.”

But you’d just laugh, brushing off his concern. “It’s a sixth floor, Mark. And you’re the only weirdo who does.”

I’ll always leave my window open for you, you wouldn’t say.

I’ll always be waiting for you to come, you couldn’t say.)

And then, there he is.

“Mark?” you breathe, relief crashing over you in an overwhelming wave. You don’t notice the differences—how his suit is wrong, smeared with fresh blood and viscera that drip onto your clean floor. How his eyes are too wide, too unblinking, something wild lurking behind them. You don’t see any of it. All you see is Mark standing there, safe, alive. “Oh my god, Mark.”

You rush to him without hesitation, arms outstretched, wrapping him up in a desperate embrace. You’ve been so worried, so consumed by the gnawing anxiety of losing him, that just hearing his voice, just seeing him, shatters any rational thought.

For a moment, he stiffens against you. But then, his arms lock around you with a force that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. It’s too tight, too much, an intensity Mark has never held you with before. That should have been your first warning. But as soon as he hides his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your sensitive skin, you forget about everything that seems wrong. You forget about the blood, the wild look in his eyes, the way his grip feels almost possessive. All you can focus on is the way he inhales deeply, as if he’s been starved of this—of you.

You shudder, heart pounding for reasons you can’t quite explain, and then he sighs, low and satisfied, the sound vibrating against your skin.

(“You smell really good,” Mark would murmur, crowding into your space, his nose nearly brushing your neck as he inhaled deeply. “Like, really good.”

You’d shove at his chest, face flaming despite yourself. “Christ, Grayson, you’re not a dog. Back off.”

He’d laugh—that stupid, sunshine-bright laugh that always made your pulse stutter—and lean against the lockers with infuriating ease. “Just being honest… Hey, you could tell me what perfume you use. Maybe then Amber would actually like me on our next date.”

Your chest would tighten, eyebrows knitting together before you could stop them.

“Can’t help you there, pretty boy,” you’d say, slamming your locker shut harder than necessary. When he raised an eyebrow at you, you’d flash a razor-thin smile. “Turns out it’s natural. One hundred percent me.”) 

“It’s you…” Mark whispers, his lips brushing against your neck. You hold your breath, trying to suppress the goosebumps rising on your skin, but it’s futile. His voice is low, almost reverent, and it sends a shiver down your spine. He squeezes you tighter, his arms like steel bands around you. “Oh, it’s you.” 

“Mark?” you ask hesitantly, confusion laced in your voice. “What is it? Are you hurt?” 

You try to push yourself away, hands pressing against his shoulders to create some space—because you can’t do this. You can’t handle him holding you like this, his voice hoarse and low against your neck, his breath hot enough to make you weak. You’re friends. Only friends. He’s made that much clear, and this—this isn’t fair.

But you barely manage to put a few inches between you before he whines, a sound so raw and desperate it catches you off guard. In an instant, he pulls you back in, burying his face deeper into the crook of your neck, his grip unyielding.

“Mark?” you whisper again, voice trembling.

“Not yet,” he replies, his tone pleading. “Let me hold you one more minute.” 

And you don’t have the strength to refuse him.

Yet, as the seconds tick by and he keeps clinging to you like a child afraid to let go, you can’t help but notice the things you’ve been ignoring.

Why is Mark here? Why would he suddenly show up at your apartment when he’s supposed to be out there, saving the world? Why would Mark—the same Mark who’s been keeping you in this strange, distant limbo for weeks, who barely speaks to you beyond polite conversation, who’s been looking at you with a mix of discomfort, guilt, and something else you can’t quite place—be holding you so desperately right now?

Then your attention drifts to his clothes. His suit, but not really his suit. The blood—the thick, dark blood that, now that you’re truly paying attention, doesn’t belong to him. And it’s a lot, pooling around your feet, staining your floor, soaking your clothes.

A sickening weight settles in your stomach, curling, twisting, nagging at the back of your mind. Your arms go slightly limp around him, hesitation creeping in where relief had been just moments ago. Your brain, which had felt so light, so grateful just a minute ago at the sight of him safe, suddenly flashes back to the news. The destruction. The Invincibles terrorizing the world.

And you wonder.

Finally, he exhales—a slow, steady breath, like someone bracing themselves. Then, he lets go, his hands lingering on your arms as if he’s reluctant to break contact entirely.

“Y/N…” he whispers, a wide grin stretching across his face. It’s an unusual smile, unnatural, amused when it shouldn’t. “Here’s where you’ve been hiding, huh?”

“Hiding?” you ask, unsure. “Well—I can’t really do anything else, can I?”

Mark smiles spreads. But his eyes—there’s something in them you hadn’t noticed before. Wide, almost frantic, something raw burning behind them. The dark circles under them make him look exhausted. His hair is a mess. And yet, his expression softens as he studies you, gaze tracing over every feature like he’s trying to memorize you. It’s so intense, so intimate, it nearly steals your breath away.

“What—What are you doing here?” you ask, glancing away, flustered. “Is it—is it over? The fight?”

He coos, a gloveless hand reaching for your chin to tilt it back toward him with a grip that’s firm, almost possessive. “Oh, it’s over. There’s nothing to worry about anymore,” he says, voice light, too light, too nonchalant for someone who just came from a battle. Mark doesn’t speak like this after a fight—he’s never so casual, so detached.

(Mark’s hands would dig into his hair, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I’m just—I keep fucking up.”

“You’re not,” you’d tell him, hand pressing warm circles between his shoulder blades. “You save people, Mark. Every single day—”

“Bullshit!” He’d jerk upright so fast you’d recoil, chair screeching against the floor. “More people die than I save!” He’d pace, fingers twisting in his hair. “Stop—just stop telling me I’m not fucking up! Stop trying to—to make me feel better! You don’t understand how I feel!”

Your chest would tighten, fingers curling into empty air where he’d been. “I know I don’t.”

“Then stop!”

“However—” you’d stand up as well, eyes locking onto his as you caught his face in your hands, palms pressing gently against his cheeks. Mark would freeze, his breath hitching, wide eyes locked onto yours. “However, I know the world would be worse without you in it. Just thinking about the possibility of not having Invincible on our side—it scares me. Because you’re the only one strong enough to protect us. The only one who can stand up to the worst threats.”

Your thumb would brush over his cheekbone, touch impossibly gentle.

“And I’m sorry you have to carry that responsibility, Mark. But you’re not failing. Not to me.”

His expression would crumble, his eyes glistening with unshed tears before he’d pull you close, burying his face in your shoulder. His breath would shake, and you’d feel his fingers dig into the fabric of your shirt.

Your cheeks would burn, heart stuttering, but you'd swallow your feelings and offer only the comfort a friend should.

“I’m sorry,” he’d murmur, voice thick. “I’m sorry.”

You’d breathe in, closing your eyes. “Don’t be.”)

Your cheeks burn as he tugs you closer by the chin, forcing you to look straight at him. Your hand instinctively reaches for his wrist, but you don’t pull away. You should. But you don’t. Yet, you can’t stand the weight of his stare, so intense, so close, it feels like it’s peeling back layers of you, exposing everything you’ve tried to suppress.

“Nothing to worry about?” you force the words out, trying to ignore the heat flooding your face and the fluttering sensation in your stomach. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” he nods, his voice low and steady. Then, without warning, he leans closer again, his face burying into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply like he just couldn’t get enough. “Oh, shit. How I missed this.”

“Mark?” you ask quietly, voice trembling despite your efforts to steady it. His breath is hot and electric against your skin. The warmth blooming in your face spreads down, coiling through your body. “What are you doing? Jesus—this isn’t like you.”

“Oh, really?” he hums, lips ghosting over your pulse. The brush of them—so soft, so deliberate—makes you shudder. “Not even a little?”

“No…” you exhale, shivering when his arms snake around your waist, squeezing hard enough to make you squirm. “No. Mark. What—what are you doing?”

Your hands reach for the counter behind you, gripping the edge tightly, desperate for something to anchor you. But Mark—his scent, his body pressed so tightly against yours, his breath burning against the most sensitive part of your throat—makes it impossible to focus, impossible to think. It’s like everything around you is spinning, and you can’t make sense of any of it.

“What do you think I’m doing?” he asks, his tone amused and teasing, like this is all some game to him.

And that finally makes you scowl, the heat in your cheeks now burning with a mix of anger and humiliation. You inhale sharply, trying to regain your senses, but an ugly feeling of shame and hurt settles heavily in your chest.

You lift a hand and push him, or at least try to, your strength no match for his. Still, he complies, pulling away with a reluctant sigh, an annoyed expression flickering across his face as he finally tears himself from you.

“This isn’t funny, Mark,” you say, glancing away, unable to bear the intensity of his stare. “Stop it.” 

“Stop what?” he complains, his fingers digging into your waist as if he’s reluctant to let you go entirely.

“That,” you snap, gripping his wrists and prying his hands off. “You can’t just—just ignore me for weeks and then suddenly show up and treat me this way. It’s—it messes with my head! It’s not fair, Mark!” your breath comes heavy, your chest rising and falling as you struggle to form the words. Your eyes drop to the floor, and you add quietly, “Just stop.” 

He’s silent for a moment, and you can feel his gaze burning into you, searching, analyzing. His head tilts slightly, as if he’s trying to piece something together.

“We’re not… together?” he asks after a beat, his voice incredulous, like the idea is absurd.

The question makes you flinch, and a fresh wave of anger surges through you.

(“I’m sorry,” Mark would mutter, his hand awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes avoiding yours. “I just—don’t see you that way.”

You’d glance away, your lips pressed together in a tight line, trying to hold back the sting of rejection. “I’m sorry too.”

“It’s just—there’s someone else I wanna try it with.”

“I get it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know,” you sigh, wanting Earth to swallow you whole and disappear forever. But this is Mark, and you couldn’t bear living without Mark. “We’re still friends, right? This doesn’t have to change anything.”

He’d smile at you, his eyes creasing at the edges in the way you adored. “Yeah—Friends!”)

“Of course not!” you snap, voice rising. “You made it very clear you—you love someone else!”

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest as you take a step back, putting some much-needed distance between you and his overwhelming presence. Was he mocking you? Playing some cruel joke?

But then again, as you pace around the kitchen, trying to hold yourself together, your eyes flicker to his odd suit, to the blood clinging to him, to the confused, almost baffled look on his face. And you think again—why is Mark here? Why, really?

Is he even Mark—

“But Y/N—” he whines, trailing after you like a lost puppy, his voice pleading, “—I would never, and I mean never look at anyone else but you!”

You frown, shaking your head. “I can’t even believe you’re saying this to me right now,” you mutter, trying to keep your voice steady. “Did you hit your head too hard fighting those lunatics?”

You don’t notice the way he tilts his head at your words, don’t catch the way his eyes darken, flashing with something unreadable.

“If you don’t have anything better to do, then just leave,” you huff, bitterness lacing your tone. “I don’t wanna—humiliate myself any more than I already have. You had your fun. So go away.”

You turn on your heel, heart pounding as you stride toward your bedroom where your phone is charging. There’s a gut feeling gnawing at you, a sensation you can’t shake, and you need confirmation. You need reassurance.

Is the Mark standing behind you even your Mark at all?

Your gut twists violently, but you can’t shake it. The second you step into your bedroom, your hand fishes for your phone, fingers trembling as you scroll through your contacts and press the button.

But Mark hasn’t left. He follows right after you, moving with an easy, unhurried stride, and when he realizes what you’re doing, a slow, knowing smile spreads across his face.

“O-ho?” he hums, amusement dripping from his voice. “My, my, Y/N, why’re you calling me?” 

His hand moves, effortlessly covering yours, fingers warm and firm over your knuckles. The phone rings—once, twice—and Mark leans in, his breath brushing against your ear, voice low, teasing.

“I’m right here, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You don’t need anyone else.” 

Your breath hitches. The sound of the third ring barely registers before he plucks the phone from your grasp with unnerving ease. You don’t even resist—your fingers tremble as they slip away from the device. Not that it would have done anything, anyway. The fifth ring echoes into silence, then clicks to Mark’s familiar voicemail. Useless.

The air in the room shifts, heavy and overwhelming. You watch, frozen, as he casually places your phone on your desk, just far enough out of reach.

Then, the moment your eyes meet his, you know.

This isn’t the Mark you know and love.

Mark hums, content, utterly unbothered as he slides back into your arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He sighs, pleased, like he belongs there, like nothing’s wrong.

Maybe you’re in shock. Maybe it’s fear, or disbelief, or survival instincts.

Because you let him.

Your arms fall open, letting him settle more comfortably against you, his weight pressing into you as he nuzzles closer. His warmth, his scent, the way he holds you tight—it’s all too much. And you—weak-kneed, breath unsteady—let him.

“Are you going to kill me?” you can’t help but ask eventually, voice quiet, barely a whisper.

He makes a confused sound in his throat, the vibration brushing against your skin and sending a shiver down your spine. “Hmm—not yet.”

Not yet. You should be terrified. Every nerve in your body should be screaming for you to run, to fight, to do something other than stand there, frozen, pliant in his grip. You know he’s dangerous. You know he could snap your neck without a second thought.

Yet—a curious thing happens in your brain.

You’re not afraid. You can’t be.

Because when your eyes settle on this Mark—and he looks exactly like the Mark you know, the Mark you have feelings for—something just… doesn’t click the way it should. Fear doesn’t come. Disgust doesn’t rise in your throat. Dread doesn’t tighten its grip around your chest.

Because he looks so much like Mark. And duh—he is Mark. But not yours, and that alone should be enough to make you want to bolt. Yet—as he nuzzles into your neck, his hot breath tingling against your skin, his solid body pressing into yours with a firmness that feels both grounding and overwhelming, and the way he called you ‘sweetheart’—it all makes you want to give in to him.

The feelings you’ve buried—the ones you’ve shoved down since the day Mark rejected you, since the day you forced yourself to be okay with just being friends—are clawing their way back to the surface, stronger, faster, more consuming than ever.

“Oh yeah, you don’t have to worry though,” he says, his lips brushing against your pulse in a way that feels deliberate, calculated. “It’d be such a waste to kill you so fast. I came here for you, after all.”

His lips trail along your neck, slow and purposeful, and despite everything—despite knowing this isn’t right—you sigh, shivering at the unfamiliar, intoxicating affection. He moves upward, lips ghosting over your skin until he reaches your ear, nipping at your earlobe.

“Mark…” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut, body melting under his touch.

“Ohh, I know, baby,” he mutters, voice thick with amusement, dripping with smug satisfaction. You can feel the smirk curving against your skin. “I know everything you like. I know every inch of you. Let me show you.”

Your body betrays you.

Your mind knows better—knows that this Mark isn’t yours, that the weight of his body pressing into yours should send alarms blaring through your head. But when his fingers skim your waist, when his breath fans hot against your skin, when he sighs like he belongs here—your body doesn’t fight him.

It welcomes him.

Your hands twitch at your sides, uncertain, but you don’t push him away.

“I can’t believe this universe’s Mark wouldn’t date you,” he muses, fingers wandering, exploring, curling behind your back before cupping your ass and squeezing. A choked sound catches in your throat as heat floods through you, your knees nearly giving out. “I mean—look at you.” His voice dips, teasing, triumphant. “Barely resisting.”

You bite your lip, swallowing a sound you refuse to let escape.

He laughs then—open, mocking, and so, so cocky. “And here I thought I’d have to fight this Mark over you, but—” his grin widens, wicked and pleased. “I don’t think I have any competition, sweetheart.” His lips brush against your jaw, his grip tightening possessively. “You’re all mine.”

He starts to push against you, forcing you to walk backward until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress. You fall onto the bed, breathless, your heart racing as he looms over you, his eyes dark and hungry.

“Just mine, okay?” he growls, his voice low and dripping with possessiveness. “I wouldn’t let anyone else touch you—not even him. Not even this universe’s pathetic version of me.” He scoffs, his hands gripping the hem of your t-shirt and tugging it off with a harsh, almost desperate motion. “Loving someone else? When I have you? He’s a fool. He doesn’t know what he’s missing. Y/N—you have no idea how much I’ve missed you, how much I’ve—” 

He groans, biting his lip hard enough to leave a mark, his eyes raking over your exposed skin like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that can satisfy him. You shiver, a deep blush spreading across your face. It’s too much, too fast, and you feel utterly exposed as his gaze devours every inch of you. His expression twists, a mix of desperation and adoration, as if he’s memorizing every detail of your body, committing it to memory so he’ll never forget. His fingers twitch, hovering over your skin but not touching, like he’s savoring the moment, stretching it out just to make you squirm.

It’s too intimate, too intense, and for a fleeting second, you forget that he’s dangerous.

“Stop staring,” you weakly complain, turning your face away.

“Oooh, oh-ho-ho, yeah, baby, you’re just like I remember...” he laughs, his breathing uneven, his voice shaking with a wild, almost manic energy. “Yeah—I’ll never let him have you. Never let anyone else even look at you. You’re just mine—holy shit.” 

And then he dives.

His lips crash into yours, claiming rather than kissing, his entire body pressing you down into the mattress, forcing your legs open. It’s desperate, feverish—starving. His tongue pushes past your lips, stealing your breath, and you moan into his mouth, eyes squeezing shut as you struggle to keep up with his messy, frantic rhythm. He kisses you with a ferocity that leaves you dizzy. He groans and growls against your lips as his hands roam your body, gripping and groping every inch of exposed skin. His fingers brush against your nipples, teasing and possessive, and you can only take it, breathless and overwhelmed, your mind spinning as he claims you in every way he can.

“Yeah, baby, keep making those sounds for me,” he murmurs against your lips before diving in again, swallowing every breath, every whimper like it fuels him. “So, so good. Fuck, you have no idea—it keeps me going.”

Your breath stutters as his fingers pinch your nipple, hard enough to make your back arch, a sharp gasp escaping your lips. His free hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat as he grinds his hips down. Your legs part without a second thought, welcoming him, urging him closer until he’s right there, pressing into you, slotting himself between your thighs.

“That’s it, spread wider for me,” he pants, voice dripping with dark approval. “You’re still so good, fuck.”

Your lips burn, swollen and tingling from his kisses, and when you blink up at him through your lashes, you catch the glint in his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, the usual warm brown of his eyes swallowed by something feral. That smirk—all sharp teeth and predatory hunger—should terrify you. Because the Mark you know has never looked like this before. This unhinged and unsteady. It’s a sharp, gut-wrenching reminder—this isn’t your Mark. This isn’t the sweet, awkward Mark who you fell for, the one you trusted. This Mark is wrong, a twisted mirror image, and you should be fighting him, shoving him away, clawing your way out even if it’s futile—

But then he leans down and presses the softest, faintest kiss to the tip of your nose.

And your mind blanks.

Because holy shit—Mark, the man you’ve been pining over for months, years, is kissing you. And it feels so good, so intoxicating, it messes with your head, scrambles your thoughts into something dangerous.

You know it’s wrong. You know this isn’t him. It’s like pouring your feelings into a stranger, a shadow wearing his face. But fuck—this Mark grinds against you, slow and deliberate, and you feel him, the hard press of him against you, thick and aching with want.

You gasp, body tensing, startled by how badly he wants you.

“Ohh, baby,” he whines, voice thick with desperate need, like he’s been starving for this moment for lifetimes. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave bruises, marking you as his. “Let me—” His hips roll again, dragging his thick length against your own, and you choke on air. “Let me make you feel good. Let me make you come, please, baby, please.”

Teeth scrape along your jaw before finding that sweet spot beneath your ear—the one you didn’t even know was sensitive—and you arch off the bed with a broken moan when he sucks harshly at the skin. His lips, his tongue, his teeth—he maps every inch of you like he’s memorized you, like he already knows every single weak spot before you even realize them yourself.

“Please? Please?” he keeps begging, voice so raw, so desperate, so utterly pathetic it makes you dizzy.

And you—you’re still too caught off guard to react properly. Because Mark—your Mark—never looked at you like this. Never even wanted you like this. But this Mark? He’s rutting against you like an animal in heat, his massive cock straining against his suit as he whimpers your name, making your head spin.

It’s wrong. It’s so, so wrong. Because Mark rejected you. Because you told yourself you’d be fine with just being friends. Because this isn’t even him—just the evil, dangerous version of him.

(Mark would slip into your open arms, his body heavy with exhaustion.

“I just—I’m scared,” he’d admit, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Scared of turning into my father. Scared of hurting people. And after everything with Angstrom…” his voice would trail off, fingers twitching against your back like he’s afraid to hold on too tightly.

You’d run a soothing hand along his spine, grounding him. “What do you mean?” you’d ask, gentle, coaxing him to keep talking.

“He—he talked about me like I was a monster,” Mark would whisper, voice tight. “Like there’s a version of me out there who destroyed everything. A version of me who’d kill everyone I love. A version of me who’d… destroy you.”

A slow, quiet exhale would leave your lips. “But you’re this Mark,” you’d remind him. “You’re my best friend. And you’d never do that.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, slowly, Mark would sags against you, burying himself deeper into your warmth.

“Yeah,” he’d murmur, barely more than a breath. “Never.”)

But when you move—when you grind up into him, your body answering before your mind can stop it—he makes a noise, something between a groan and a sob, and it’s so wrecked, so full of relief it makes your stomach twist.

Your arms loop around his neck, dragging him closer, pressing your bodies so tight together you can feel his heartbeat hammering against your own. And when his teeth sink into your throat, sucking so hard you know it’s going to bruise, a sharp, broken sound escapes your lips.

The room burns around you, filled with the obscene sounds of his desperate whines and your shaky gasps, the slick friction of fabric between your joined bodies.

“Yeah—” you gasp, nails raking down his back as pleasure coils tight in your gut. “Fuck, Mark, just—Do it. Do it.”

He groans, deep and guttural, a sound so full of possession it sends a sharp pulse of heat down your spine. Then his teeth sink into your neck again—hard enough that you know he’s breaking skin. And when his tongue licks the wound, sucking the blood like he owns you—you know he’s got you.

Your mind fractures into white-hot static as every rational thought—the blood crusted on his suit, the madness in his eyes, the thousands he’s slaughtered, the fact this isn’t your Mark—dissolves into primal need. Nothing exists but the electric pleasure coiling tighter in your gut with each desperate grind of his hips.

“Mark,” you sob, voice breaking as your body arches against him of its own volition. Your fingers twist in his hair, pulling him closer. “Oh god, Mark. Fuck. Mark.”

A guttural snarl vibrates against your throat as he claims your mouth again, his tongue pushing past your lips in a violent mimicry of what his hips are doing against yours. The growing dampness between your thighs should shame you, but all you can focus on is the delicious friction, the way his teeth scrape your bottom lip when you moan too loud.

But it’s still not enough.

Not with these fucking clothes between you, not with the way you’re both rutting against each other like wild animals, frantic and insatiable. It’s maddening. You need more.

Your nails claw at his back, at his suit, needing to feel his skin the way he’s feeling yours.

“Get it off,” you manage to gasp between feverish kisses. “Please, Mark.”

With a dark chuckle that sends shivers down your spine, he rears back just enough to grip his suit’s collar. The fabric shreds like tissue paper beneath his strength, revealing sweat-slick skin you immediately map with trembling fingers. His pupils blow wider at your touch, chest heaving as he crushes you back into the mattress.

“Oh yeah, Y/N...” he purrs, his voice thick with satisfaction as his fingertips trace the dark marks blooming across your neck like bruises. Proof that you belong to him. “Bet this universe’s Mark never made you feel this way, did he? Never touched you like this?” his grip tightens suddenly, making you gasp. “I’m the first, aren’t I? The only one who’s ever had you like this?”

You whimper, nodding without thinking, legs locking tight around his waist, keeping him close, keeping him there.

His grin stretches, wild and triumphant. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing,” he murmurs, his hand trailing down with agonizing slowness—down your neck, across your heaving chest, brushing over your sensitive nipples, gliding down your stomach... Until, finally, his fingers settle between your legs, pressing against the thick, aching bulge in your sweatpants, squeezing just enough to rip a needy moan from your lips. “Look at you,” he breathes, eyes wild with possessive hunger. “So fucking perfect for me. So ready to be mine. Does your Mark know what a desperate little thing you are? How easily you fall apart under my hands?”

His smile tilts, both awestruck and predatory. Then, he leans in until his lips brush yours, his hand working you through the fabric with rough, perfect strokes that have you trembling.

“So hard just for me,” he murmurs against your mouth. “He could never make you feel like this. Never touch you like I do.” His teeth graze your bottom lip. “He could never compare. I’m better, I’m stronger—”

He peppers kisses along the corner of your mouth, your flushed cheeks, tender and teasing, a sharp contrast to the way his pace quickens—faster, rougher.

“—I could make you feel even better,” he purrs, pressing his lips against your ear, voice so low, so filthy it makes you shudder. “Make you scream my name, so loud and clear, maybe the other Mark could even hear you.”

Your breath stutters, a deep moan slipping from your lips, body twisting under his touch.

“Ohh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” he chuckles, breath warm against your neck, teasing, taunting. “You’d love to let him watch. Love to let him see you break for me. Let him realize what he’s lost—what he’ll never have again.”

His voice dips lower, sinking into something darker, something twisted.

“You’d let me fuck you in front of him, wouldn’t you?”

Your body jolts, heat flashing through you in a violent rush, shame curling in your stomach like a vice.

“N-no—!” you gasp, eyes squeezing shut, face burning with humiliation. “No, I wouldn’t—”

But your body betrays you. Trembling, surrendering, completely giving in—your hips rut desperately against his hand, your pre-cum soaking through the fabric, staining it.

“Liar,” Mark breathes against your swollen lips before crushing them again in a kiss that’s hot, rough, and bruising. “I can feel how much you want it. How much you need it.”

His thumb presses cruelly against the head of your cock, rubbing slow, torturous circles through the fabric, making you see stars. Your whole body jolts, a strangled gasp tearing from your throat.

“Maybe I should drag him here,” he whispers, grinning against your lips. “Make him watch as I fuck you so good, you forget he’s your Mark Grayson. Make him see how perfectly you take me—how you were always meant to be... ours.”

You shake your head frantically, words lost between your ragged gasps. “No—”

But your back arches, cock throbbing obscenely against his palm. The more he whispers these filthy fantasies, the harder you get, hips stuttering, desperate and eager, seeking more, more, more, as his words sink deep into your brain, filling you with something forbidden, something wrong—something you like.

The pressure builds unbearable. His fingers move with ruthless precision, stroking, squeezing, dragging you to the edge, pulling sounds from you that should be humiliating—but you can’t stop.

Then you think about it. About your Mark. The one who’s still out there, fighting, struggling, exhausted and worn down. You think about what would he think. What would he do if he saw you like this. You imagine your Mark’s confused face watching—the horror in his eyes as he sees you come apart under his doppelgänger’s touch, moaning and whimpering like some cheap slut desperate for any version of him.

“Mark,” you sob as waves of shame and pleasure crash over you. “Mark, Mark—”

Mark exhales a breathy chuckle, eyes dark with fascination. “Oh-ho-ho. That’s it, baby. I’m here. I’m right here.”

And then it hits you.

White-hot pleasure blinds you completely as you spill in your sweatpants like some untouched virgin, his name tumbling from your lips in a broken prayer. Your body arches violently, convulsing as your legs clamp around his waist like a vice. Your hands claw at his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him, to this moment, to reality itself.

“Jesus…” he exhales, almost in awe, his grip tightening possessively. “My god… so perfect.”

You’re reduced to a trembling, gasping mess—shaky legs, toes curling, vision whiting out as the aftershocks rip through you. Mark watches it all with a smug, hungry smirk, his eyes locked onto your face, drinking in every twitch, every quiver like he’s trying to memorize it, to brand it into his mind.

“Yeah—let it out, Y/N,” he whispers, voice thick with satisfaction. “I did this to you. I made you feel this good.”

(“Does that feel good?” Mark would mutter into your ear, his hands still working awkwardly at the knots in your back.

You’d groan, face mushed into the pillow. ”Yup. Feels good. Really good.”

“I still can’t believe you’re making me do this,” he’d grumble, brows pinching together.

You’d stifle a laugh, eyes fluttering shut. ”You lost the bet, Grayson. Now keep massaging my back. My muscles are still wrecked from all the damn work you put me through covering you at Uni.”

“William never complains.”

“Because William sucks at covering! The only reason you’re not suspended is because I’m just too good at lying—Oh! Yeah! Right there, don’t stop,” you’d sigh, melting into the mattress. ”Oh my god, yes…”

His hands would freeze, fingers pressing hesitantly into your skin. ”…Can you stop making those sounds?”

“What sounds?” you’d murmur, half-dazed.

Mark would be quiet for a beat, then resume with a sigh. “Never mind. How about this? Does that feel good?”

“Mmmh, holy shit—yes!”)

Finally, you sink into the mattress, chest rising and falling in desperate, uneven breaths as your climax wears off. Your head falls back against the pillows, glazed eyes barely tracking Mark’s movements. His fingers leave the bulge in your sweatpants, moving to your waistband, fumbling briefly before tugging your sweatpants and underwear down, inch by inch.

“Just let me take care of you,” he mumbles, dazed. “Always gonna take care of you.”

The cold air bites at your oversensitive cock as he yanks it free, his pupils blown wide as he stares at what’s his. Before you can even process the exposure, Mark flashes you a wicked grin before his lips wrap around your cock, hot and wet and devastating. Your hips jolt, body convulsing at the sensation. His tongue swirls, savoring, exploring, a deep groan rumbling in his throat as he tastes you. The overstimulation is unbearable, electric. A strangled, pathetic cry rips from your throat as your hands fly to his head, fingers tangling in his hair, trying—failing—to push him away.

“Mark!” you jolt, thighs snapping shut around his head, trembling, squeezing, clutching. “Oh my god. Oh my god—oh my god. No—”

A deep, satisfied groan rumbles through him, vibrating against your cock and making you yelp. His hands pin your thrashing hips down, holding you there, making sure you take it.

“Mark—”

“Mine,” he snarls between filthy, wet sucks. “Gonna taste every fucking drop.”

The overstimulation borders on painful as he works you ruthlessly through your sensitivity, your cries growing increasingly broken. And yet, somewhere beneath the overwhelming pleasure, a traitorous part of you preens at being so desperately wanted.

Wanted. By Mark. Not your Mark, not the one who’d gently rejected you, but a Mark all the same. A version from some twisted reality who’d torn through dimensions just to claim you. And it sickens you—the satisfaction curling in your gut, the twisted pleasure of knowing that somewhere, in some reality, Mark has always wanted you. Craved you. And if he’s here, willing to ruin you, to unravel you with nothing but his mouth, then who are you to stop him?

His tongue works you over with filthy precision, hot and wet and perfect in ways you’d never dared fantasize about. You writhe beneath him, sheets twisting in your fists, as your gaze drops to where he’s sucking you off—Mark Grayson, on his knees for you, eyes close in joy. The sight alone punches a broken noise from your throat.

“F-fuck—!” you arch violently, tears spilling as pleasure crests into near-pain. “Fuck, I can’t—Mark, please, I can’t—!”

Finally, he lets you go with a slick, obscene ‘pop.’ He pants, breath heavy, lips red and wet as he leans over you. You’re gasping too, your chest rising and falling in erratic bursts, your body trembling like you’ve run yourself into the ground.

Mark watches you, gaze trailing over your flushed skin, your wrecked, tear-streaked face. And then he grins.

“I love you like this,” he murmurs, voice rough. His thumb swipes at the wetness on your cheek. “Love it when you cry.”

(“I hate when you cry,” Mark would say, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. ”I hate it even more when it’s me who made you cry.”

You’d slap his hand away, face twisting into a scowl. ”Shut up, Grayson. How dare you—how dare you act upset.” Your voice would shake, anger sharpening every word. ”You can’t even say sorry. Can’t even fake an excuse for why you’ve treated me like this, ignoring me for months… And don’t try to deny it—William noticed too!”

He’d wince, eyes darting away. ”I can’t—I can’t say it.”

“That you’re sorry?” you’d scoff, disbelief dripping from the words.

Mark would bite his lip, shaking his head desperately. ”No! Of course not. It’s—the reason.”

“The reason you’ve been pulling away?” you’d snap, swiping the back of your hand across your wet cheek. Then, it would hit you—heart lurching. ”Is it… because I confessed? I thought we were past that. That we’d still be friends no matter what…”

Your voice would crack, gaze dropping to the floor.

Mark would flinch, shoulders slumping in defeat. ”It’s part of the reason.”

“I don’t understand,” you’d murmur, voice breaking. ”You said it didn’t matter. You promised it wouldn’t change anything.”

“I don’t understand either,” he’d admit, hand scrubbing roughly through his hair. ”Just—just give me time. I need to… figure some things out.”

“You won’t even tell me?”

Mark would press his lips into a tight line, guilt flashing across his face as his gaze caught on your tear-streaked cheeks. ”I can’t.”)

A helpless sob rips from your throat as he surges forward, capturing your bruised lips in a desperate, feverish kiss. He moans into your mouth, deep and needy, and you can taste yourself on his tongue—hot, salty, intoxicating. The realization only makes you burn hotter.

Then, a moan rattles in your chest as his free hand trails lower, fingers teasing where you’re most sensitive. Your gasp is sharp when one presses against your entrance.

“W-wait—” you huff, shaky hands pressing against his broad shoulders. “No… I’ve never—never done this…”

Mark freezes, his expression shifting from surprise to something terrifyingly euphoric. “Oohh, Y/N can you get any more perfect for me? My god—not even in my universe were you a virgin.” He chuckles, low and dark. “Were you saving yourself for him? Hoping he’d finally see you the way I do? He’s such a fool—But I will make you feel good. I’ll make you feel so good.”

As he speaks, his hands roam, gripping your thighs with an iron hold before pushing them up—forcing you open, leaving you vulnerable beneath him. Your face flushes with embarrassment and arousal, your hands instinctively gripping the sheets tightly at the sheer obscenity of the position. He flashes a playful grin, his breath warm against your ass, causing you to gasp and breathe unevenly.

“What— What are you doing?” you stammer weakly, squirming uncomfortably, peering down with shame as Mark leans over your hole, a wide smirk across his face. You realize a second too late was he’s up to. “Wait, wait—Oh my god!”

Your back arches, mouth letting go a deep, throaty groan and your eyes rolling back when Mark inserts his tongue, licking and lapping at the inner walls of your hole, sucking and nibling and kissing. Your head throws back against the pillows, skin burning so hot you swear you’ll melt into the sheets. The sensation is overwhelming—Mark’s hot tongue delves between your cheeks with shameless enthusiasm, licking and probing with obscenely wet sounds that make you squirm uncontrollably. You writhe in delicious contradiction, torn between pulling away and pressing deeper into his merciless mouth.

“Mmh, look at you—” Mark pants between greedy licks, his voice thick with arousal. “That’s it. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”

You’re beyond responding, your hips stuttering and your asshole clenching and unclenching with the unfamiliar, yet intoxicating sensation. The pleasure is so intense you bite your lip raw trying to contain the filthy sounds fighting to escape. It’s useless, though, because Mark keeps eating you out and it only takes a few minutes of this sweet torture until you start whimpering and mewling like a little whore.

“F-fuck—!” the curse tears from your throat as your toes curl and back arches off the bed. Your cock stirs back to full hardness, dripping pathetically against your stomach. “Fuck—Mark, my god! Don’t stop, fuck—Oh my god—”

You’ve never been touched like this before—it never even crossed your mind, not even in your wildest fantasies. But damn, it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Who would have thought that being pleasured like this could feel so incredibly good? You might just climax right then and there with Mark’s warm, skilled tongue working its magic, and you’d die happily. Your erection is unbelievably hard, leaking pre-cum onto your stomach, but you don’t dare touch yourself because you’re too busy gripping the sheets for stability.

But then Mark pulls away, and you moan and whimper with need, trying to tighten around him in an attempt to draw him back.

Mark smirks and chuckles, and you feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment at your own lewdness.

“God, baby, you’re so perfect for me,” Mark rasps, pulling back just enough to loom over you. His lips glisten with your taste, his breath coming in ragged bursts. “Look at you—already falling apart just from my mouth. Think you’re ready to take me, sweetheart? Think that pretty little hole can handle my cock?”

You hadn’t noticed before, too lost in the haze of pleasure—but Mark’s hips have been moving restlessly the whole time, fucking the air with desperate, instinctive thrusts as he devoured you. Now, as he looms over you, you can feel him, hot and throbbing, grinding against your thighs through the thin fabric of his suit. And fuck—he’s massive. Even through the material, you can feel the sheer size of him, the way he twitches with every needy thrust. And yeah—his mouth has left you slick, loose, ready to be filled—but shit. Viltrumites have monster cocks, and it scares you.

And yet—and yet, as Mark moves against you, teasing, testing, making sure you feel the sheer girth of him even through fabric, all you can feel is hunger, a desperate need.

So, huskily, with glazed eyes, you whisper, “Yes, Mark. Yes.”

He doesn’t make you beg twice. One hand tears the remaining suit away like tissue paper, his cock springing free—thick, veiny, and already leaking. The flushed tip bobs against your thigh, leaving a sticky trail as your breath catches.

“Fuck, Y/N—” Mark’s voice breaks as he strokes himself, his wild eyes drinking in every tremble of your body. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this. How many nights I dreamed of this moment. You—here, with me again.” His breath shudders, his grip tightening. “Had to find you. Had to make you mine again. I missed you. I missed you.”

His feverish rambling sends your pulse into overdrive, and for one fleeting moment, you wonder about that other life—what version of you could make a man this desperate, this feral with need? What was their relationship like? How did it end? How did Mark end up here, in your universe, searching for you? But then Mark’s strong hands are spreading your thighs wide, his body settling heavily between them, and all coherent thought evaporates in a rush of dizzying arousal.

Shit, shit—Mark Grayson, the boy you’ve been in love with since eighth grade, is about to fuck you. And shit—that thought alone makes your cock ache, your hole clench with anticipation, even as your mind screams that this isn’t your Mark. Your real Mark is probably fighting for his life somewhere. Maybe even dying. And here you are, letting his evil counterpart have you—willingly.

That makes you a horrible friend. You’re disgusting. A traitor. You’re giving in to every dirty fantasy you’ve ever had, every longing you’ve buried for years, all because this Mark—the wrong Mark—looks at you with the hunger you’ve always dreamed of seeing in your Mark’s eyes.

It’s sick. It’s twisted. You’ll never be able to look your Mark in the eye again. Guilt twists in your gut, heavy and suffocating.

You should stop.

You should have never let it go this far.

But then—

“Shh, baby, I got you,” this Mark whispers, shattering your spiraling thoughts. His voice is soft, almost reverent, as he lines himself up. “I got you. Gonna make you feel so good.”

You shiver, heat flushing your skin as his cock presses against your entrance, thick and hard and real. Instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist, locking behind him, pulling him in.

Mark groans, deep and satisfied, his fingers pressing into your thighs as he grins down at you.

“Fuck, yes,” he hums appreciatively, running possessive hands along your trembling thighs. “You’re so good, Y/N. So good.”

His fingers dig deep enough to leave bruises as he drinks down every gasp, every shudder of your oversensitive body like a man starved. And just when desperation coils in your gut—when the teasing pressure at your entrance becomes unbearable—Mark sheathes himself inside you in one brutal thrust.

“Fuck—!” your cry shatters the air as your body bows taut, back arching off the bed. The stretch burns, his thickness forcing you open in ways that make your vision whiten at the edges. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

He’s massive, painfully so. You can feel every ridge, every vein as your body struggles to accommodate him. It’s too much—you’re certain he’ll split you in two.

And yet... The fullness is intoxicating. It burns. It aches. But it also satisfies something deep within you, a primal need you hadn’t even realized was there. Tears prickle at your eyes as you clench the sheets, overwhelmed by the sheer reality of Mark Grayson buried inside you.

“Fuck...” Mark’s voice is guttural, dripping with satisfaction as he bottoms out. “God, you’re tight.” His hips grind deeper, wringing a broken whimper from your throat. “Taking me so perfect—fuck, you feel incredible. Like you were waiting just for me.”

And then, slowly, oh so fucking slowly, he begins to pull back out, dragging a wrecked moan from your lips. Your fingers clutch at his shoulders, desperate for something solid, something to hold onto as he sets a rhythm, each movement sending heat curling through your veins.

“That’s it,” Mark pants against your neck, his breath scalding as he inhales your scent like an addict. “Just like that… you’re perfect. Nobody else could take me like this.” His teeth graze your pulse point possessively. “Only you. Only mine.”

The next thrust is deeper than the last, stealing the breath from your lungs and making your hips jolt up instinctively, a surprised sound catching in your throat.

“Oh god, Mark,” you whine, nails digging into his back, voice breaking on a breathy moan. “Ah—ngh—fuck—”

The agonizingly slow drag of his cock has your vision swimming, pain and pleasure blurring into one overwhelming sensation. He’s so thick, so long, so heavy inside you. Every time he pushes in, it feels impossibly deeper, stretching you, filling you—until it makes your stomach bulge slightly, a small bump appearing in the flat plane of your abdomen.

Mark groans, eyes going wide, his hand settling at the base of your belly. “God, look at you,” he breathes, awed. His fingers press into the bulge, tracing the outline of himself inside you. “Fuck, I’m buried so deep in you. Right here, Y/N—you feel that? That’s me claiming you. Oh-ho-ho, goddamn, look what I do to you.”

His dark chuckle vibrates against your skin even as awe colors his voice. He punctuates each word with a punishing thrust, fingers digging into the visible outline of himself inside you like he wants to brand the shape of his possession into your flesh. And you can’t look away either—because holy shit, this is the first time you’ve ever felt anything like this, and it’s almost too much. Too intense. Too consuming.

Tears streak down your flushed cheeks as your legs tremble violently. The initial pain has melted into overwhelming pleasure, your body adjusting to his impossible size with desperate, shameful eagerness.

“More,” you rasp between gasps, arching up shamelessly. “Faster. Harder. Please—”

Mark chuckles darkly, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deep. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice thick with hunger. “Gonna make you feel good. Gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

The dark promise in his words should terrify you. Instead, it sends another pulse of white-hot pleasure straight to your aching cock. Then he moves—harder, faster—tearing the air from your lungs, leaving you breathless and reeling. Your body clenches around him, every nerve alight as a broken whimper escapes your lips.

“Mark—Mark—” you mumble his name between gasps, unable to form anything else. “Mark, ah—Mark—mmh—fuck—”

A sharp cry rips from your throat as Mark shifts his angle, hitting a spot inside you that sends a violent shudder through your entire body. Heat surges down your spine, forcing you to arch off the bed, toes curling, every nerve alight with raw, electric pleasure.

“Fuck! There! Mark—ngh—fuck!” you moan, biting down on your lip so hard you taste the faint tang of blood. Mark growls, his movements deep and unrelenting, each thrust pressing you further into the mattress. The bed creaks beneath the force, your skin burning where his grip tightens. “There! Keep going! Fuck, it feels so good—Mark!”

Then—through the haze of heat, through the sinful sounds of skin against skin, of your wrecked moans and his low, animalistic groans—something intrudes. A sharp, buzzing vibration. Your ringtone.

Your eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused, flickering toward your desk—just a few feet away, where Mark tossed your phone. You’re aware the screen glows, the sound ringing in the background, before another brutal thrust wipes all coherent thought away. Let it ring. Nothing matters except the way Mark’s splitting you apart, remaking you as his with every snap of his hips.

The phone rings and rings… then stops. And you don’t even notice when it goes silent, too preoccupied with the drag of Mark’s cock inside you, the way your nails sink into the broad expanse of his back, leaving behind deep, angry marks.

“Perfect,” Mark rasps against your ear, his voice wrecked and reverent, “Taking me so fucking good, Y/N. Made for this. Made for me.”

Your thighs shake violently around him, toes curling as his filthy praise reduces you to nothing but lustful moans and pleading whimpers.

Then—your phone starts ringing again.

This time, Mark notices.

He stills inside you with a low snarl, his body tensing as he straightens slightly, casting an annoyed glance toward the device. But when he reaches for it—his cock still buried deep inside you, making you whimper—his expression darkens with wicked amusement as he reads the caller ID.

“Well, well,” he purrs, looming over you once more, planting one hand beside your head while the other dangles the phone just inches from your flushed, dazed face. “Take a look at this.”

Your stomach drops at the familiar name flashing on screen. It’s Mark—your Mark—calling you.

“Should we answer it, baby?” he muses, tilting his head as his lips curl into a smirk. “Let him hear what you sound like when you’re properly fucked?”

“No—!” you gasp, wrecked and breathless, your heart hammering against your ribs as you reach for the phone, desperate to snatch it from his grasp. “Mark—”

But he’s quicker.

“Ah, ah,” he tuts, lifting a single finger in mock reprimand, effortlessly keeping the phone out of reach. His other hand tightens around your hip, keeping you pinned. “You need to get your shit together first, Y/N. Wouldn’t want him to know what you’re doing, now would you?” His eyes gleam with wicked delight. “With that pornographic little voice of yours—so wrecked, so needy for my cock…” He leans in, his breath fanning over your ear. “I bet he’d figure it out immediately.”

A shudder rips through you.

Your vision blurs—tears welling at the edges, cold fear twisting deep in your gut. But worse—worse—is the way your body betrays you. The way you clench around him involuntarily at the thought. At the sheer humiliation of it.

Of your Mark listening on the other end. Unaware. Oblivious. As his variant fucks and ruins you.

“See? I know you,” he murmurs, his voice syrup-thick with satisfaction as he strokes your cheek with unnerving tenderness. His free hand cups your face, his thumb dragging over your lips. “I know exactly what kind of fucked-up little thing you are.”

His grin widens as he watches your lips tremble, your breath coming in quick, uneven pants.

“I’m glad you’re the same here as you were in my universe, Y/N. I adore you like this.” Then, his tone dips lower, velvet wrapped around something dangerous. “Now—try to keep him distracted while I take my time with you, yeah?”

Before you can react, he thrusts—sharp and sudden—just once, but it’s enough to steal the air from your lungs. A strangled gasp escapes you, body reacting on instinct, pulse hammering as he stills once more.

Mark leans in, his breath hot against your parted lips, his amusement dripping with warning. “Otherwise, he’ll keep calling,” he murmurs. “And I don’t want him interrupting us.”

Your stomach twists in knots of anticipation and dread. The phone is still ringing, still just out of reach—Mark’s name flashing on the screen, a second away from being answered. And all the while, this Mark remains inside you—hot, solid, pressing deeper with each second of silence.

“Okay...” you breathe, forcing air into your lungs. “Okay.”

Mark’s smirk turns predatory as he brushes a featherlight kiss to your nose before tapping the answer button, offering you the phone back—and as soon as you grab it and press it to your ear, he immediately resumes his slow, deliberate thrusts that make your toes curl.

“Y/N? Y/N!” The real Mark’s voice—familiar, concerned, kind—crackles through the speaker. He sounds breathless, frantic. “Are you okay? You called and I couldn’t answer but then—but then I called back and you didn’t pick up, and I’m—I’m worried—”

You squeeze your eyes shut, teeth sinking into your lip, fighting so hard to keep quiet. But the Mark above you doesn’t make it easy, his hips moving with cruel precision, his smirk deepening as he watches you struggle.

“…Y/N?”

“I’m here,” you choke out, voice miraculously steady despite the way your body arches into each thrust. The not-yours-Mark’s eyes glint with dark amusement as he increases his pace. “I’m... okay.”

Your voice wavers. You can’t help it. A shaky sigh escapes when he ducks his head to nip at your throat, his hot breath raising goosebumps across your oversensitive skin.

“Thank God,” your actual Mark exhales, the relief in his voice almost painful to hear. “Listen, Cecil just— he lost track of a variant. Said he was heading your way, Y/N.”

The not-yours-Mark stills inside you, his expression shifting to something dangerously intrigued. “Oh?” he murmurs against your pulse.

“Y-yeah?” you blurt too loudly, praying the real Mark didn’t hear him.

Your fingers dig into the sheets as the not-yours-Mark begins moving again with renewed purpose, each thrust calculated to wring helpless sounds from your throat while you struggle to keep your breathing even.

“Yeah,” your actual Mark replies through the phone, his voice strained. “I’ll—I’ll come your way. Or the GDA will pick you up, but—it’s dangerous to stay in your apartment! Please, just—just leave. Right now.”

You choke back another gasp, barely holding yourself together. No—you can’t let Mark come here. You can’t let the GDA get involved either. The humiliation would be unbearable—agents witnessing you like this, being taken apart by the same monster who probably leveled cities and slaughtered thousands before claiming you in your own bed.

“No!” you blurt out, voice cracking under the weight of too many emotions. “No, nngh, fuck—you can’t!”

You’re losing control. This Mark—the wrong Mark—is hitting your prostate with every brutal thrust, his teeth sinking into that sensitive spot on your neck while his fingers twist your nipples mercilessly. Stars explode behind your eyelids as another lewd groan escapes you. Virgin or not, there’s no way you could stay quiet under this assault. You realize with dawning horror that he doesn’t want you quiet—he wants you loud, to moan, to let your Mark hear you. To let him know.

That yeah—he’s here.

And yeah—he’s fucking you.

For a moment, there’s only silence on the other end of the call.

Then finally, Mark speaks again, slower this time. “This—this isn’t negotiable, Y/N,” he says, though there’s something off—a hesitation, a shift in his tone as your breath stutters audibly. “Are you… okay?”

No. You’re not okay. You’re overwhelmed, wrecked by pleasure more intense than anything you’ve ever known, losing your virginity to a twisted version of the man you love. Hot tears of shame spill down your cheeks as a sob tears from your throat.

“...Y/N?” Mark’s voice sounds distant now. You can barely hear him over the rush of blood in your ears, over the slick sound of skin meeting skin, over the obscene, broken whimpers falling from your lips.

“Mmmh, fuck,” you gasp as the pressure builds unbearably inside you. “Fuck—Mark—”

“That’s it, baby,” not-your-Mark whispers in your ear, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction. “You wanna come, don’t you? Wanna scream my name?”

The dam breaks. “Yes! Fuck, yes, yes!” Your voice shatters with each punishing thrust. Dignity forgotten, you arch desperately against him, meeting every movement as you beg mindlessly. “Mark—I can’t—oh god, please, please...!”

The line goes silent for an agonizing moment, the static crackle carrying more weight than words ever could. You squeeze your eyes shut, shame and guilt and disgust warring with the pleasure coiling tight in your belly—but it’s too late now. Far too late.

“Y/N...?” his voice comes through the receiver—your Mark’s voice—strangled and low, thick with realization.

Your stomach drops. He knows. Oh god, he knows. He fucking knows.

Not-your-Mark lets out a pleased hum against your neck, his fingers lazily plucking the phone from your trembling hand while his hips snap forward, forcing a needy moan from your lips. The wet sound of skin on skin is unmistakable. There’s no way your Mark could mistake what’s happening.

Not-your-Mark’s eyes glint with something wicked as he presses the phone to his ear, smirking.

“Too late, dickhead,” he says, just as breathless as you, his voice dripping with smug victory as he punctuates each word with another brutal thrust. “He’s already mine.”

Mark’s furious roar bursts through the speaker. “You—!” you close your eyes, mortified, tears falling down your cheeks because this is the moment Mark realizes you’re a horrible friend. “I’LL FUCKING KILL YO—”

But the sound is cut off with a sickening crunch as not-your-Mark’s fingers tighten, phone shattering, fragments falling like dust.

“Oops,” he pouts mockingly, tilting his head with feigned innocence before his expression darkens. His hand snakes around your throat, not tight enough to hurt but firm enough to claim. “Now where were we, sweetheart?”

When he slams back into you, you arch off the bed with a broken scream, your legs spreading wider of their own volition. He chuckles darkly, hands sliding under your thighs to fold you nearly in half, opening you up so completely that each thrust punches the air from your lungs.

“Fuck,” he growls, pace turning erratic as his control fractures. “Look at you—taking me so perfect. Tell me. Tell me how much you love this. How much you love taking my cock.”

“I love it,” you gasp without thought, your mind obliterated by pleasure. “Fuck—I love it. I love you.”

A deep, guttural moan tears from his throat, his grip on you tightening as he nods frantically. “Yeah? Love me? Fuck— I love you too, baby. I love you so fucking much.”

And you know he’s not your Mark. You know your real Mark is probably flying at full speed right now, minutes, or even seconds from bursting through your window. But Christ—hearing those words, in Mark’s voice, from his lips, with his face twisted in raw, desperate worship—it makes you dizzy. It makes you happy.

“I love you,” you say again, fingers twisting into his dark hair, dragging him down until your panting mouths brush. “I love you. Always have—fuck—since—since before you even got your powers, Mark!”

“Yeah?”

“Yes! Ah—fuck, yes!” The words dissolve into moans as you kiss the corner of his mouth, your lips sliding messily against his. “When you were such--a nerd! Loved you since we were kids. Love you now. I always will—”

He groans, swallowing your words with a feverish kiss, his hands squeezing your cheeks until your mouth falls open, surrendering completely. Tongues tangle, breath mingles, and he moans right into you—

“I love—” he pants, his movements growing erratic. “I love you, Y/N. Fuck—Gonna take you home with me. Gonna keep you forever. Steal you from that idiot...make him see what he threw away—”

Then—suddenly—his hand wraps around your cock.

It’s been untouched this entire time, leaking wildly against your stomach, and the moment his fingers curl around it, a sharp, broken whimper escapes you. Your hips jerk helplessly, legs trembling as pleasure rips through you.

“Fuuuuck,” you sob, shuddering against him. “Don’t stop—don’t stop. I’m gonna—”

“I got you, baby,” he growls, stroking you faster, fucking into you harder. “Gonna make you feel so fucking good. Gonna take you away. Gonna own you!”

And God help you—his words don’t sound like threats when you’re drowning in white-hot ecstasy. In this moment, you’d let him drag you through dimensions, would beg him to claim you completely—because he wants you. He loves you. He craves you in a way you’ve always ached to be craved. And right now—you’d let him take you. You’d let him do whatever the fuck he wanted.

“Ah—ah, Mark—” Your body locks up, stomach tightening, hole clenching around him as the pressure on your cock becomes unbearable. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come—”

“Yeah, baby, let it out,” he growls against your lips, his hand working your cock in perfect sync with his punishing thrusts. “Come for me. Now.”

You shatter with a strangled scream, body jerking violently as you spill across your stomach in thick, hot stripes. Your vision whites out, every muscle locking and spasming as pleasure tears through.

Mark groans like a man possessed, his thrusts faltering as your hole flutters and clenches around him. “Fuck—fuck—” He slams into you one final time, burying himself deep, and then he’s coming too, hot and thick, filling you to the brim. His grip tightens as he grinds himself deeper, prolonging every last spurt, wringing every aftershock from you until you’re trembling and spent beneath him.

You can’t move. Can’t speak. All you can do is lie there, trembling, as he keeps pumping into you, dragging out your orgasm until you’re sobbing from oversensitivity. His hips grind against yours, forcing every last drop into you like he’s determined to make sure you remember this.

When he finally pulls out, you whimper at the loss, your body limp and wrecked. Sweat and come cling to your skin, your chest heaving as aftershocks wrack through you. Every inch of you is marked—bruises blooming where his fingers, his teeth, his lips claimed you.

You barely register the mattress dipping as he lays beside you, his arms wrapping around your exhausted frame. A soft, lingering kiss presses to your forehead, his voice a soothing murmur against your damp skin.

“Shh, shh, Y/N,” his fingers trace lazy circles against your back. “Go to sleep. I’ll take care of everything.”

Even in your dazed, post-orgasmic haze, you understand what “everything” means.

It means your Mark—your universe’s Mark—is on his way. It means a fight is inevitable. It means blood, destruction, the clash of two forces that look the same but could never be. And when that moment comes, you’ll have to face him—face the shame that will devour you whole.

Because how dare you?

How dare you moan his name for someone else? Whisper desperate I love yous to the wrong version of him? Come undone beneath a man who wears his face but isn’t him?

And after you told him it was fine—that you were fine—staying just friends. After you swallowed every aching, desperate feeling just to keep him close. But in the end, you gave in. You let temptation pull you under. You let yourself have him—or the closest thing to him. And now, there’s no taking it back.

You know you’re wrong.

You know time is running out.

And you know that when he says he’ll take care of everything, this Mark intends to kill your Mark—just as your Mark wants to kill him.

But your body betrays you—mind foggy, muscles lax with satisfaction, the afterglow pulling you under. As consciousness fades, this not-quite-Mark draws you closer, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth. His breathing steadies, his solid frame surrounding you in deceptive safety.

(And vaguely, you think about your Mark. About how he’s been pulling away from you, slowly but surely. How, ever since you confessed your feelings and ruined everything, he hasn’t looked at you the same.

“I promise I’ll tell you,” he’d say, a week ago, his eyes avoiding yours in a way that pains you. “I promise I’ll tell you the truth. All of it. And—”

Then he’d looked up, and something in his gaze pinned you there—fervent, almost feverish.

“I’ll—” he’d stop himself, cheeks coloring faintly, and yet he wouldn’t relent his steady gaze. ”I’ll tell you the reason I’ve been acting like such an asshole to you. And I hope...you can forgive me after.”

“Why not now?” you’d ask, puzzled, fingers curling into your palms. ”Why not when I’m asking you, Mark? Right here, and right now.”

He’d flinch, his eyes closing for a fleeting second before opening them again. ”Just—gimme one more week,” he’d rasped. “One more week and—I promise I’ll tell you everything. I’ll—confess everything.”

And as he’d turn around, his broad back to you as he’d take off—not before glancing at you with troubled eyes, an intensity in his eyes you can’t quite place—you’d only guess he’s gonna say he hates you. That he’s gonna say, now once and for all, he can no longer be your friend.

And how you should’ve kept your heart locked tight, your love buried deep, just so you could keep him close. How you should’ve never, ever opened your big mouth and let your feelings spill out.

But you did, and now nothing’s the same.)

“I’ll take care of it,” Mark murmurs again as you drift away, his voice a dark promise. “Never gonna lose you again. Never.”

The last thing you register before sleep claims you is the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your cheek.

And in the final flicker of consciousness, a single thought drifts through your mind— You wished Mark had told you the reason.

Now, he never might.

[connorlupin]

✎ ⋆｡ 𐙚 ˚𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲𝘄𝗼𝗹𝗳!𝗺𝗮𝗹𝗲!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝘅 𝗺𝗮𝗿𝗸 𝗴𝗿𝗮𝘆𝘀𝗼𝗻

A/n: my first little smut writing, hopefully this is good cause I got into a freaky mood to do this (please dear god struck me down.)

warning: breeding kink | and idk about the rest, but I just had a feeling to write this.

〉with the bed creaking, mark ignored how his boyfriend’s sharp nails were clawing at his back. All he could only focus on was the man’s howling and moaning. Soft whimpers as he slammed his cock against the male’s prostate, he felt like he was in heaven. The way his boyfriend clenched onto his cock, the way he wish to give his boyfriend the pups he deserves. It’s been the nth round yet, cum sloshing in the werewolf’s stomach as he whines louder.

Mark pounding shook the bed harder as sweat pooled against his forhead, even the air smelled like sex and musk. Mark looked down to see a bulge in the werewolf’s stomach. Mark’s eyes dilate, eyes blown wide as he pressed his hand over his boyfriend’s pudge. The big man whines louder, clenching mark more as mark couldn’t help but grunt.

“That’s it.. milk me baby.. I’ll give you all the pups you want..” he says lowly, smiling with a dark grin as the werewolf nods, already in subspace as he can’t even talk much other than stare with those cute glossy eyes and shaking mouth.

Mark leaned down, kissing the lips of his beloved boyfriend who melted into the kiss. Lips mangled, mark grips his boyfriend’s hips, piston his hips as he nailed in deep. Leading to the buff and beefy man to yelp. His eyes widen as he came onto his stomach and Mark’s. Feeling mark fill him up for another time.

Mark smiled despite half looking ready to pass out, they’ve been doing this since afternoon to night. His boyfriend looked also ready to pass out as his arms fall limp from Mark’s back.

Mark fell onto the man’s big chest, cupping them as he gave it a kiss.

“Want another round?”

“Mark!”

[connorlupin]

Could I request, if you want, a conquest fic. It can be short, it can be bullet points, I don't care- I am STARVED because there's no content of him at all.

Maybe like, a little blurb of him just laying in bed next to reader and wondering how he ended up falling in love with a little human, questioning his life (not in a bad way) while reader is sitting up and reading a book or something- basking in the afterglow of pounding his beloved old man. Or it doesn't have to be smut related at all, I'm okay with pure fluff!

Thank you for the consideration ❤️

Conquest x male reader 

Blurb 

My new classes are starting tomorrow, and I can feel jitters all up under my skin, like every time I do anything new with my life. So, im ignoring that by writing. 

i tried to fluff this up, enjoy gamers.

Falling in love was not a feeling many, if any, viltrumites got to experience. It is such a vulnerable feeling, like an exposed nerve pulled to the surface, a nerve ending that only that other person could press and pull. 

It is a weakness, the greatest weakness Conquest has ever experienced. For his lonely heart to be taken from between his own grizzled bloody hands, and held near someone else's chest, as if it mattered and carried importance. 

Being held as if you mattered, to be kissed and appreciated, to have meaningful nothings and words that carried such a deep emotional weight, was almost unbearable.  

At least, those were the thoughts going through Conquest's mind as he laid in the bed you two shared, a bed you had specially ordered to be able to fit him and his weight. Covered in a duvet that had to be ordered large enough to fit, and still be comfortable.  

His heart... ached in ways he still struggled to understand as he let his seeing eye turn to you. There you were, sitting and reading one of your favorite books, one you had reread at least five times since you two became an “item”, as you earthlings say. 

Because earth was not just for worms anymore. If it could create someone like you, someone who could look at somebody as violent and bloody as Conquest, a man with a title and no name, and still feel love? Then earthlings were not worms at all. 

There were moments where Conquest wondered if he should kill you, not because he truly wanted too, but because feeling so weak and vulnerable was... unusual, new and scary. Never could he find it in himself to hurt you, his hands cradling instead of crushing, for once he found himself being careful. 

You must have noticed his quiet staring, his usually intense face looking lax and calm, thoughtful even. “What is it?” you ask, putting the bookmark between the pages you were reading. “Was I not good enough?” you joke, putting the book on the bedside table so you could give Conquest your full attention. 

Conquest's prosthetic hand twitched by his side, before he lifted it, fingers that had killed hundreds, thousands, millions, brushed so carefully against your skin. 

“You really are so cute sometimes” you chuckle, your voice making his heart clench, his insides flutter, his face heat up. And as you lean down the kiss him, Conquest finds his eyes shutting to simply bask in this feeling. Such a human feeling, such a weakness, but so very good.  

Yes. Good. Thats what it is. The vulnerability, the warmth and care, makes the fear of the unknown worth it. To be held in your arms, as if Conquest was someone who needed to be protected, was special. Something he could never see himself without, not anymore. 

[connorlupin]

Vlad Dracula Tepes x Vampire male reader

⚠️Warnings!! Centuries on going situationship. Denial of love and feelings reader, internalized hatred and homophobia. Patient and yearning Dracula.⚠️

Shadows of Obsession

The moon hung heavy in the midnight sky, casting its pale light upon the vast expanse of Dracula's castle. A haunting silhouette stood on the balcony, gazing out over the horizon, his crimson eyes drinking in the landscape he had come to loathe. He was the ruler of night, the embodiment of death. Yet there was something that still gnawed at him, something buried deep within the recesses of his immortal heart.

Vlad Dracula Tepes, the lord of the night, stood alone. And yet, he wasn’t. He could feel you there, even without seeing you, your presence always on the periphery of his mind.

You had been his constant, a forbidden force, a contradiction to his every belief and yet, every desire. You were his obsession—the one thing he could not destroy, the one thing that both cursed and intrigued him.

You, the one who refused him.

His thoughts were always haunted by you, the one who had lingered in his life for centuries. You, the one who never fully surrendered to him.

The first time he'd laid eyes on you had been centuries ago, when you had both been nothing more than mere shadows drifting between realms of men and monsters. You had been so different from the others he had known, so defiant, so unyielding. You wore the darkness like a second skin, but there was something human in you still—a glimmer of weakness, a warmth he could not bear to acknowledge.

He had tried to claim you, to make you his in ways that were as inevitable as the turning of the earth. But each time, you resisted. You rejected him, rejected his love, his attention. Your pride was your armor. Your refusal was a wound to his ego.

You would disappear for years, sometimes centuries, only to find your way back to him, as though fate itself had conspired against you. He'd always find you in the shadows, always just on the cusp of reaching you. Your self-loathing matched his own, the bitter truth that no matter how far you went, you were drawn to him.

You were a vampire, bound by the same curse he carried, yet you were so different. You never wanted to belong to him. You couldn't. You couldn't allow yourself to be the object of his obsession, knowing the consequences of giving in to a love that was forbidden—one that could only destroy you both.

But still, the nights grew longer, and the connection between you deepened.

The memories were bitter, entwined in regret and yearning. A shared glance across the darkened halls of his castle. A fleeting touch on a cold, stone stairwell. His lips brushing against your ear as he whispered words of longing, of a love that could never fully bloom.

"You always return to me," Dracula's voice would echo in the silence of your shared moments. It was a statement, not a question, because he knew it was true. The truth cut deeper than any blade could.

You'd turn away, always pretending indifference. But inside, you were drowning in the turmoil of your own heart. What you felt for him was not love. Not entirely. It was something darker, something more dangerous—a love born from centuries of tangled threads, the very nature of your souls binding you in ways that defied reason.

"I can never be yours," you would say, words heavy with the pain of years spent denying him. "You are not what I want. You never were."

His jaw clenched, the sharp edge of his fangs glinting as his eyes flashed with a fury that only you seemed to draw from him. "And yet, you cannot escape me. We are bound, whether you wish it or not."

The silence that followed was thick with the weight of unsaid things. There were no answers. Only the pull of the inevitable, the sense of fate that had you both locked in an eternal struggle, torn between desire and the bitter realization that you could never be free.

"I do not want to be your companion," you spat out, each word laced with venom. "I do not want to be a part of your dark kingdom."

And yet, the years passed, and you returned. Every time, the same bitter refusal followed by the same pull of desire, each encounter more suffocating than the last. Each time, Dracula would wait in the shadows, as patient as ever, knowing that your resistance would only bring you back to him.

In the quiet moments, when the world seemed still, he would look at you and wonder if you truly hated him or if you simply hated yourself more for loving him. But he never asked. And you never told him.

"You will come to me again, as you always do," he would say softly, his gaze fixed on you. "This is your fate. Our fate."

And, despite yourself, you would.

THE END

[connorlupin]

Kinktober day 10

Mark Grayson + Alien Biology

I wanted to write viltrumite reader stuff, and I figured out this was a great way to explore my viltrumite biology headcanons.

Warning about blood and the likes in this, as viltrumites are a very… violent people. Readers got a moustache, cuz hes a viltrumite.

Kinktober 2024 masterlist

Space was vast and borderline endless, and with less than 50 viltrumites left, Mark hadn’t expected to run into any of them. Least of all you, who happened to be one of Thraggs favoured sparring partners, making you one of the few, if not the only viltrumite left that had the powerful leader on his toes. You were more than just strong, you were smart. Scary smart. Which was also how you had so easily tracked down invincible.

Mark knew it would have most likely been a fight to the death, that’s what it had started out as anyways. All the blood and violence, the two of you crashing through asteroids and planets, carving tunnels through the very makeup of worlds and societies homes.

He had kept his head on straight in the beginning, even if Mark felt his blood bubbling and rushing through his body like a shaken soda bottle, the bubbles only seeming to grow worse as more blood was spilled. The pain was almost unbearable, but part of it had him feeling more alive than any other thing ever had made him feel.

At some point during the fight Mark must have bitten you, as your upper torso was naked, the fabric of your uniform having been shredded. There was a slowly bleeding wound on your shoulder in the shape of his teeth, Mark feeling a hot syrupy feeling pour down his spine and pooling in his abdomen.

He felt… hot. Mark audibly panting as his mouth hung open, the googles of his suit having been shattered when the fight started. He was much younger than you, you were in your thousands, but there was still something interesting about him. Maybe it was just the fact that he was nothing more than a half breed, and had survived your punches, even if you hadn’t even used half your strength.

Or maybe it was the thick scent of arousal rolling off him. It was a viltrumite scent through and through. You had only met very few humans, and had smelled even less when aroused, but the scent was different. For viltrumites it was closer to the scent of bloodlust, of conquest and absolute dominance. For humans it just felt hungry, like a weak creature wanting to copulate.

You had a feeling that Mark didn’t fully know what he was feeling. Any smart viltrumite would have turned the battle from deadly to more carnal, if only to save what few remained of your species, but Mark kept taking pot shots at you and letting out guttural noises that had to be the human in him. His suit did little to hide the hard shape of his arousal either. You almost wanted to curl your nose at the sight, had his father not even taught him to control himself?

It was pitifully easy to finally pin Mark down. You only needed one hand to do so, straddling his torso and simply holding his hands above his head as he almost snarled, barring his bloody teeth at you like a cornered animal. His nose was bleeding, there were multiple bleeding cuts on his body, and from the looks of it there were at least three broken bones, and yet he still wriggled and spat at you.

Mark only seemed to register what he had been feeling when you tore his suit off him like butter, staring from his neck and down. Part of you wanted to scold him for being so indecent about his arousal, any true viltrumite would know how to control their slit and breeding appendage.

But even you were perplexed when you tore what ugly suit of his all the way down to his thighs, and were met with a sight you weren’t used too. He didn’t have the usual tools of a viltrumite. His breeding appendage was outside his body, as well as hard and oozing against his stomach. Out of curiosity you released his wrists to reach down and fondle that little pouch under it, not reacting to the fact that his now free hands had started clawing at you again.

“You truly are just a half breed” you mumble, more to yourself than anything, but it was enough for Mark to pull himself out of that unfamiliar steamy thirst for blood and dominance. Seeing him so easily pull himself from the instinctual need to always be in control and have your way was yet another interesting sight, you could only assume it was his human half again.

“What’s that… what’s that supposed to mean” Mark croaks out, eyes settled on your bloody hands inquisitively exploring his twitching hardness like it was something you hadn’t seen before. Normally the sight of blood on his body would have made Mark heave, but for some reason knowing it was his and your blood? It only fuelled that new unfamiliar feeling inside him.

“True viltrumites do not leave themselves vulnerable like this” you rumble out, giving his sensitive appendage a squeeze, raising a slow brow as the half breed arches off the ground with a howl, spilling white all over himself. It was cute, in a way. The young half breeds scent only grew thicker, and leaning down with a sniff confirmed that what he had spilled all over himself was what had caused it.

You knew you should just kill him, but that would be such a shame. Sure, he wasn’t a full viltrumite, and didn’t even pose a threat to you, but it could at least be interesting to keep him around. “W-what are you doing” he whimpered, his hands much softer now as they grabbed onto your hair, his noises too enchanting to be those of a viltrumite. Viltrumites didn’t moan, they growled, snarled, yelled and roared, they never let anybody make them weak enough to moan like this. And yet, Mark allowed it.

The taste of his spend, his seed, was foreign on your tongue, but it wasn’t a bad taste. His little chest was cute too, Mark jolting and twitching as your moustache tickled his skin. So, his skin was more sensitive too, he truly was endearing. Your tongue was hot against his skin, it seemed his body temperature was slightly lower than yours as well.

Licking up his neck let you feel the pulse thrumming under his skin, you almost wanted to sink your teeth in and wrench your head back, just because his vulnerable veins were so close to the surface. It was a miracle he had lived so long, when he was so weakly built. Marks lips were soft against yours, his noises still huffing out between your lips as his arms curled around your neck, pulling you closer instead of trying to break it like most other viltrumites would have done.

How odd, his tongue wasn’t smooth, it had little bumps across the surface. Not enough to be annoying, but enough to be felt against your own. It wasn’t as flexible or as long as your own either, the tip of your tongue easily tickling the back of his throat as Mark gagged, yet moaned at the feeling.

He was rubbing against you again, dragging his dripping length across your muscular stomach as Marks legs hooked around your hips. You had little experience in kissing, there was no need for it in your culture. You didn’t have intercourse for fun, it was only a process to breed and to dominate, but having Mark huff and pant into your mouth as he wiggled about let you see why humans were so obsessed with it.

“Let me show you what I meant” you mumble against his lips, giving the roof of his mouth a lick before pulling back, your lips almost twitching upwards at the way he tried to chase you. There were some flickers in his eyes, like Mark wasn’t sure what to do, his human and viltrumite nature battling between submitting to you, or fighting you again.

Pulling down what remained of your suit seemed to settle for him, as Mark laid back on his elbows to watch, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion when he saw… nothing. There was nothing there, but length of flesh, and no balls, it almost looked like the body of a ken doll.

“Confused, half breed?” you grumble, amusement clear in your voice, what looked like the starts of a very small smile on your lips. It took some focusing on your part, to manually let your slit split open, having to reach down and assist in pulling it open. You hadn’t had any use for it for a very long time, so it took a little for the prehensile length to slide out.

“W-what the hell is that” Mark choked out, eyes wide as he watched what had to be your dick slide out. It was a deep red, like your blood, except for the small bumps and blunt spikes clearly meant for hanging on to assist in breeding, but not to harm too much, they had a purple tinge to them.

Mark didn’t know if he should do, or how he should react, even if that warm hot honey-like feeling was telling him to simply lay back and let you take your price. You had won, after all. So, unless he wished to die, he better let you have your way with him.

“This is what the body of a true viltrumite looks like. And here I thought you were simply a pervert who cared not for politeness. But it turns out you simply can’t control it” you hum, letting your prehensile length curl around his, the soft bumps rubbing against his skin and making Mark gasp and pant again.

Mark was mostly limp as you sat back and pulled him into your lap, letting him wrap his arms and legs around you, since he wouldn’t be able to hurt you anyways. “Go on, Mark. Show me how your humans like it” you rumble into his head as Mark rubs his face against your shoulder, panting against the wound still present there. It had stopped bleeding a while ago, but Mark still lapped at it with his strange tongue, as if trying to draw out any more of your powerful blood to wash against his tastebuds.

He moved like a man possessed, chasing his pleasure as he thrust into the writhing tube your own breeding appendage made, the half breed keening whenever those blunted soft spikes dug into the veins correctly. You got some pleasure out of it, sure, but it was nowhere near the amount Mark seemed to get as he moaned and whined. You didn’t find yourself annoyed by him though, simply letting him cling to you as you held him, letting him fuck himself as he craved.

Seeing his strange human-like appendage spill again was fascinating, your own length squeezing around his tighter to try and milk out more of it, making Mark whimper wetly against your neck. It seemed he needed time to rest between loads, how interesting.

It was a different experience for you, to sit there and simply hold another person, but the half blood clearly needed it, his scent all over the place and yearning for touch. It was only when you were sure he had returned to himself, at least somewhat, that you started drawing your own length back into your body.

Mark let out a noise, something high pitched and needy as he almost scrambled out your lap. The muscles in your torso tensed, ready for him to return to his blood thirsty haze, only for his mouth to descend onto your ribbed length. “W-what in the, what are you doing” you grunt, grabbing the back of his head, staring down at him with a hard expression.

“Do you guys… not have mouth stuff?” Mark questioned, his expression lax but confused, it reminded you a bit of those images you had seen of human dogs. “Mouth stuff?” you grunt, still not knowing what he meant. Was he trying to put your breeding shaft into his mouth? But why, there was no need for that, it didn’t assist in what it was there for. You were not shocked that humans had created something like this, with how obsessed they were with copulating.

“Let me show you, this time” Mark panted, a new determination flickering to life in his eyes as he wrapped his soft lips around one of your more vulnerable body parts. It sent a flash of heat up your spine, all the way up to your brain, sparks of pleasure coiling around inside your body. Maybe human ideas weren’t… too bad. You would have to study this, and you had an inkling that Mark wouldn’t be against helping you in your endeavours.

[connorlupin]

Rex Cockwarming Reader During a Phone Call

Drabble Rex Splode x Male!reader

SMUT - you been warned

Rex was struggling—really fucking struggling.

The phone was on speaker, the voice on the other end completely oblivious to what was happening. Meanwhile, Rex was impaled on you, his thighs trembling as you kept him firmly in place.

But what was worse?

Your hands were underneath him, gripping his waist as you slowly lifted him up—just an inch—before letting him drop back down.

Over and over again.

"Yeah, yeah, I’m listening," you said casually into the phone, your voice steady despite the way Rex was fighting for his life on top of you.

His fingers dug into your shoulders, his breath shaky as he tried so hard not to make a sound. Every time you lifted him, the head of your cock dragged against his sweet spot—and every time you dropped him back down, he had to bite his lip to stop a whimper from escaping.

He was melting—his body too sensitive, his hole stretched completely around you, twitching with every subtle movement.

"Rex?" the voice on the phone called.

His eyes shot open—fuck.

"Y-yeah?" he croaked, his voice strained, his body jerking slightly as you gave him a particularly slow, deep drop.

You were smirking, enjoying the way he was completely at your mercy.

"You good? You sound weird."

Rex’s face burned. He tried to steady himself, but the way you were working him over—not even fucking him, just using him as a cockwarmer while toying with him— it was too much.

"I—I'm fine," he lied, his voice breaking slightly.

You squeezed his waist, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss against his heated skin before murmuring, "Good boy."

Rex’s breath hitched, his whole body shuddering—and if this call didn’t end soon, he was going to lose his mind.

"please continue"

awe shit..

notes- i want a subby rex so bad~

[connorlupin]

Hoodie Thief

Mark x Rex x GN! Reader

--+--

Category: Fluff

Synopsis: You can't help it that their hoodies are comfortable, that's their fault for leaving them open to take.

Requested c/c: 4.4k

You weren’t a thief. At least, not in the criminal sense. You preferred the term "collector"—an aficionado of fine, oversized hoodies, specifically those belonging to Mark and Rex. It started innocently enough: a forgotten hoodie draped over the back of your chair, a borrowed sweatshirt on a chilly night. But then, it became a game. A personal mission. A full-fledged hoodie heist.

Your closet was your trophy room, filled with an ever-growing collection of Mark’s and Rex’s hoodies, each with its own story. The navy one from when you and Mark had a movie marathon and he fell asleep, leaving it unguarded. The forest green hoodie you "borrowed" from Rex after he tossed it aside at the gym. The beloved black hoodie that still smelled like his cologne—an absolute gem.

The boys were catching on.

“Alright, this is getting ridiculous,” Mark huffed, standing in the middle of your room, arms crossed. Rex loomed beside him, looking equally betrayed. “I know you have them, just give them back.”

You stretched lazily on your bed, feigning innocence. “Have what?”

Rex scoffed. “Don’t play dumb. We’ve been missing at least six hoodies between us. And every time we see you, you’re wearing one.”

You glanced down at the very hoodie you were wearing—Mark’s dark grey one. You shrugged. “This? Oh, this is mine. Had it for ages.”

Mark narrowed his eyes. “It literally has my initials stitched on the sleeve.”

You tugged the sleeve into your palm. “Coincidence.”

Rex exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Alright, that’s it. We’re raiding your closet.”

Panic surged through you as they moved toward the door. You scrambled to block their path, arms stretched wide. “Gentlemen, let’s be reasonable. What if—hear me out—we negotiate?”

Mark arched an eyebrow. “Negotiate?”

“Yes! A hoodie-sharing treaty. A trade system. I get visitation rights, and in return, I won’t steal—borrow—anymore.”

Rex folded his arms. “Or… we take them back now.”

You gasped dramatically. “That’s theft!”

Mark rolled his eyes. “That’s literally what you did.”

Rex smirked. “Yeah, but see, we’re just reclaiming stolen property. Totally different.”

You clutched the hoodie dramatically, backing toward your bed. “I don’t think the law would agree.”

Mark stepped forward. “You want to test that theory?”

You considered your options. There weren’t many. With both of them blocking the only exit, an escape was impossible. You could fight—except Mark had wrestled you into submission more times than you could count, and Rex was built like a freaking tank. No, brute force was out. That left only one thing: deception.

“I can’t believe this,” you muttered, shaking your head. “After everything we’ve been through? The late-night fast food runs? The times I let you copy my notes? I thought we were friends.”

Mark and Rex exchanged looks. Mark sighed, rubbing his temples. “We are, which is why we’re giving you a chance to surrender peacefully.”

You took a deep breath and nodded solemnly. “Fine.”

Both of them visibly relaxed.

Then, in one swift motion, you grabbed the nearest pillow and launched it at Mark’s face. He let out a startled yelp as it hit him square in the chest, giving you just enough time to scramble onto the bed and dive for the pile of hoodies stacked in the corner.

“Get them!” Rex shouted.

Chaos erupted. Mark recovered quickly, lunging to grab your ankle, but you kicked free, rolling onto the floor with an armful of hoodies. Rex dove, but you twisted away, hurling another pillow at him. It didn’t do much, considering he barely flinched, but it bought you a few precious seconds to scramble toward the door.

You almost made it. Almost.

Just as your hand reached for the doorknob, strong arms wrapped around your waist, lifting you clean off the ground. “Oh no, you don’t,” Mark grunted as he hauled you backward.

You kicked wildly, refusing to go down without a fight. “Let me go, you monsters!”

Rex snatched a hoodie from your grip. “Victory!”

“Traitor!” you screeched.

Mark dumped you unceremoniously onto the bed, where you landed with an undignified oof. Before you could get up, Rex grabbed the rest of the hoodies and held them triumphantly over his head.

Mark smirked down at you. “Looks like the reign of the hoodie thief is over.”

You sat up, pouting. “I hope you both know I’ll never forgive you for this.”

Rex grinned. “Somehow, I think you’ll survive.”

You crossed your arms, already plotting your next heist. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

[connorlupin]

The Intern [2] | Miguel O'hara x M!Reader

#NSFW, Age Gap (mid 20s and mid 30s), reader's a homewrecker, Miguel's a cheater, mentions of toxic marriage, male!reader, bussy loading, porn with feelings, Miguel's a bit of a dickhead, top Miguel (for now), bottom reader (for now), blowjob, reader gets lectured and likes it, reader has daddy issues

Note: heheheheh

-- The Intern --

[ How it Started: 1/2 ] [2/2]

Miguel had to admit, he was surprised–he didn’t expect you to carry on like nothing happened.

Most people he’d fucked around with in the past, be it in school or during his tenacious dating life, would stomp their feet and quit whatever club, sport, or job they’d joined just to get close to Miguel, just to get a shot with him. He couldn’t blame them. He saw himself as a pretty good-looking guy, a smart man, one that took care of himself and could turn on the charm without even trying; he got what he wanted more often than not, and that included the people who threw themselves at him. He always wondered why they thought they’d somehow cement themselves into his life after just one night. 

But then there was you. You, who still sat with Gabi when you had the time. You, who still helped her with her homework, who still listened to her long-winded rants about whatever movie she obsessed over that week, who still got the shy little thing to talk and smile and laugh. It made something weird and thick weigh down Miguel’s chest, like molasses found a way to suffocate him from the outside. Maybe you didn’t deserve to be fucked and forgotten like the rest. 

And he found you there, still, on a day where Gabi was busy with a playdate at the Parker’s household. Maybe this was the best chance he’d get to talk to you again. 

“Alone, huh?” Miguel asked before sitting across from you, a cup of coffee warming his hands. “Kinda sad.”

You sighed and looked out the window, filled to the brim with drama. “You’re tellin’ me. I got abandoned by a kid. This is worse than bein’ stood up, let me tell ya.” 

Yikes. Was what Miguel did the same as standing you up? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to think about it too much. 

"Right, right." Miguel cleared his throat and leaned in a little. "About the other night–" 

"What?" You asked, looking a little too dumb for your internship spot suddenly. 

"Halloween." Miguel looked at you meaningfully and your lips pursed slowly, just like the day he first saw you. Miguel gave a tight-lipped smile. 

You leaned back in your seat and crossed your arms. "I, uh, dunno if this is the right place to talk about that. Dunno if there is a right place to talk about that, if 'm bein' honest." 

"Let's talk in my office," Miguel said, not offering room for argument or questions as he stood and started walking. 

"Wh–now?" 

"Yes, now." 

–

Well, you were supposed to be talking, not blowing him under the desk. Thank god the department heads got their own private spaces. 

One of Miguel's big hands fisted in your hair, holding back your soft locks so he could get a good look at your face as it twisted in concentration. You took him too easily for how big he was, each languid dip of your head welcoming him down your tight, hot throat until–until–

"Mierda–" Miguel pushed your head down to his base, forcing your nose flush up against his well-trimmed hair and blushing skin. You groaned and gagged as he bucked into your mouth and unloaded thick, sticky strands of cum down your throat. You swallowed around him, doing your best to take it all down. 

A harsh bite from you had Miguel letting go and leaning back in his seat. He panted and rubbed his face, but his eyes snapped back to you as you took your time getting off of him. He expected you to pull off and make a mess while you snapped and scolded him, but you went slowly, not rushing. 

Your tongue worked him through the aftershocks, rubbing under his length and thoughtfully tracing the thick veins and sensitive muscle still pulsing from your pampering. Miguel's fingers carded through your hair again as he watched you work; your hand slipped up and gripped his base once enough was out of your mouth to hold. You ran your tongue around him once, twice, thrice, before sucking on that thick, darkened head for much longer than necessary. Maybe you just wanted to be thorough. Maybe you just couldn't get enough of him. 

"Gonna get me worked up again, 'f you keep doing shit like that," Miguel warned, something of an excited laugh fluttering through this soft panting. 

You took a second to swallow (Oh, God, you were torturing him) before wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "Do you want me to get you all worked up again, Doc?" 

That pesky hand around his shaft tightened before stroking him firmly and fully. Miguel sighed and melted into his chair. He could probably let you pamper him for hours, if his sex drive were to be trusted. Maybe he could–

"Kidding," you said with a mean wink. You kissed the tip of his cock before letting go and parking your ass on his desk. "So. About Halloween?" 

Miguel blinked away the whiplash and scrambled to tuck himself away. "I, uh–yeah. Halloween." He nodded to himself in thought, definitely remembering what he wanted to discuss. 

You stared at him, so expectant, before leaning in and resting your elbows on your knees. "N'awe, did I suck the brain cells right outta your pretty head, Doc?" You fake pouted, and Miguel scowled. 

And he blushed. Just a little. "I just–I was just–y'know what? Maybe you deserved it."

"Pft. I deserved what?" You asked, leaning back onto your palms then. “Bein’ hit then quit?” 

Miguel frowned. His brows drew together and his jaw set uncomfortably while he looked away. It seemed to make you a little uncomfortable by the way you moved to reach toward him before deciding against it. Your hand combed through your hair instead and you sighed, surrendering. 

“Look, I–if I seriously expected the royal treatment from a guy totin’ a wedding band on his pretty lil’ finger, I’d be a shockin’ moron, alright?" You sighed and rubbed your face with both hands. "I mean--it's just s'pposed to be sex, man. Sex ain't complicated like that." 

Miguel narrowed his eyes at you. "I’m–what are you–sex is complicated." His palms landed on your thighs as he leaned in. “You don’t actually think–”

"Sex is busting and moving on with life,” You interrupted sharply. You grew tense for a moment, but forced a relaxed laugh. “I'm kinda surprised you didn't get me fired, if I'm being real."  

The realization hit Miguel fast and hard, knocking the goddamn wind out of his stupid lungs--you were the type of guy left in the dust, the sort that shit heads like Miguel hit and quit, fucked and forgot. The sorry dregs of an exciting sex life filled with names he didn't care about and some he couldn't bother to remember. But Miguel knew your name. But did that even matter to you?

"But, uh…I should get goin', so. Yeah. Good talk." You made your move to shuffle off the desk, but Miguel's hands on your thighs didn't budge. "Oy, I gotta go, old man. You hard of hearing already? Should I call the nursing home or–" 

"Santa Muerte, do you ever stop talking?" Miguel sighed and shook his head. "I haven't said my piece yet, kid." 

You pursed your lips, probably holding back some cursed joke about giving him a blowie, and nodded. "Okay. Say your piece." 

"I will. And you're gonna shut up while I talk, got it?" 

"Got it." 

"Good." Miguel took a deep breath to calm the storm in his chest. "First of all, you've got the wrong idea about sex. It matters. Even if you're just sleeping around, it's because you're looking for that connection. It's a good thing. A beautiful thing. So, I don't want to hear you say all this shit about sex not mattering. Especially when you're talking about sex with me." He looked you up and down, and the fond feeling curled up his chest stretched and lazed like a cat sunbathing. "Got it?" 

You nodded, a vibrant dusting of red saturating your skin. That doe-eyed look was back on your face, just like the first time you'd hooked up with him in his office. He really did adore it. He maybe kinda adored you. 

"Good." He fidgeted with your slacks, pulling on the crisp material with busy fingers as he thought about sentence structure and syntax and connotation and–and– 

Just say it, Miguel. "I shouldn't have left you on Halloween." 

You laughed shyly. "I--what?" He watched you rub your cheek like you were trying to rid yourself of the scarlet blush staining your skin. Miguel had to admit, your reactions were doing wonders for his ego. 

"I said," He started, leaning in a little, lowering his voice. "I shouldn't have left you on Halloween." After a pause, a beat to get you to say something, he continued, "I'm sorry, alright? It's not happening again." 

Another laugh (more like a giggle) bubbled out of you, just as nervous and shy as the last. Your hands fussed with your hair and your tie, your lab coat and your cuffs, until your nerves calmed a bit, the slow circles rubbed into your thighs helping to ease you down from hysteria. It was embarrassing. You were embarrassed. But you were happy.

"Y-yeah, alright. Cool. Neat." You coughed. "Awesome. Uh, I just–you–I have to–" and you leaned down, almost tumbling off the desk, and kissed him. 

Miguel hummed deep in his chest–a heartfelt welcome to your needs and wants. His chair shifted slightly as you haphazardly slipped off the desk and into his lap, expertly never breaking the kiss, and getting comfortable; your arms looped around his shoulders, your hands fisted and carded through his hair, your thighs rested on either side of his slim waist. 

“You’re shockin’ hot when you’re bein’ nice t’ me,” you mumbled against his lips, maybe a bit into his mouth. “But in that, y’know, authoritative dad kinda way.” Your breath stuttered when a mischievous hand slipped into your slacks and cupped your toned ass with a firm squeeze. 

Miguel smirked. “Daddy issues, huh?” Your small scoff and the firm tug of his hair answered him. His smirk warped into a grin. “Want me to scold you more, huh? You get off on that?” 

“You keep talkin’ shit and I’m calling you papi in public, dickhead,” you mumbled as you fumbled with the zipper of his pants. You paused though, and looked up in thought. “But you could help me with my taxes. That’d be really sexy of you.” 

Miguel blinked stupidly for a moment before chuckling and shaking his head. “Why am I not surprised you’re shit at taxes?” God, you were cute. 

“Hey, hey, I’m not shit at them, I just hate them.” You shrugged before very casually slipping his hard-on out of his pants and giving it a few preparatory strokes. “Could use some tips.”

“Or an accountant,” Miguel offered. It was your turn to blink dumbly. “You think I handle my own money? I pay someone to do it.” 

“Huh. You’re seriously in a different tax bracket.” You squeaked when Miguel somehow managed to rip down your slacks down to your mid-thigh. “Hey–” 

“I’ll buy you a new pair.” He helped the pants off of you while you half-stood to get the damn things off, letting them hang off one leg in your haste to get the party started. “And I’ll get my accountant to take care of your taxes.” 

That had you beaming. “I think we’re entering sugar daddy territory, Doc.” You grinned between the sweet kisses you dotted along his jawline. Miguel felt the barest scraping of teeth against his skin, and his cock swelled more. What he wouldn’t give to let you bite and marr him as you wanted. 

But he couldn’t, not with Dana’s skeptical eyes and Gabi’s naive glances watching him from every angle. 

“It’s our little secret,” Miguel whispered with a kiss left against your cheek. 

Your lips found his again, letting your  impish smile sear his skin with sanguine intent, like a contract signed with the devil. 

Miguel would do anything to keep extending that contract. 

[connorlupin]

Hey Gator, I was wondering if you can do headcannons or an imagine of a skincare day between bucky barnes and a male reader?

Bucky Barnes x male reader 

Headcanons 

I know... very little face face care, im the kinda guy that just uses soap. So,,, this kinda vague. 

My fave Bucky era will always be just post winter solider Bucky, but I know he hasn't been there for a long time, but i also... have not seen the newer captain america movie, and im not gonna. So, when this takes place is up to you. 

Who brings up the idea of a skincare day, depends on when this takes place. Like, if its early on, i imagine you bring it up to give Bucky a day where he doesnt need to worry, and gets to practice selfcare. 

But later on, it might be Bucky that brings it up, after he falls down the hole of selfcare, skincare pipeline on social media. Though, its also more likely if you are working a lot and stressed. 

You two would have fun looking up the different materials and tools used for skincare, and you end up stumbling into different kinds of care too. Suddenly, you guys are also researching the correct ways to wash hair, clean nails, and just your skin in general. 

Being a super soldier, also means Bucky has some higher senses. Not like, spiderman levels, but still higher than normal, so you guys end up researching stuff without too much scent in it. 

When you go to bed, Bucky also spends time looking up the kinda stuff you can make at home, since spending so much money on stuff still feels over the top.

When you guys finally get your planned day off, you both end up standing in the bathroom, crowding around the sink, wearing those headbands with animal ears on them, even if you dont have long hair. 

It's part of the experience, and all that. Maybe you guys prep some snacks too, like tea, hot cocoa, fruit and cookies, so on and so forth.  

You guys apply the different skincare on each other, for the romance. I could imagine that Bucky sits on the toilet, and as you apply the different things to his skin, he ends up shuffling you into his lap. 

Lots of kisses are passed back and forth, Bucky just becomes all gooey and soft around the edges, especially if you guys decide to do one of those hair masks, or something where you need to mess with his hair. 

You guys would have to look up videos on how to do different stuff if you havent done it before, but even if it gets messy, you guys still have fun. 

If you guys do the thing where you put cucumbers on your eyes, Buck ends up just eating them to watch whatever movie you guys put on, after you two end up back on the couch. 

Bucky gets so intimate when hes washing whatever you guys used off you, being so loving and soft with a damp cloth or tissue, mumbling to you that it mus thave worked because you are even more handsome than before. 

I feel that Buckys knowledge about killing and all that, means he has a lot of knowledge about the human body. This means he knows where the pressure points are, and he can massage your back better than most. 

He does it to complete the “spa experience”. If you return the favor he just melts and hums, all pleased and comfortable. 

[connorlupin]

₊˚⊹⋆

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐘 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄₊˚⊹⋆

────୨ৎ────

𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐗 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅!𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐄!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ Summary: you think you’re heavy? Mark wants all your heavy love onto him.

⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ Info: inspired by odetari’s music of “heavy love” Hehhe. Werewolf!boyfriend!reader x mark grayson small work here!

⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ Genre: lime/comfort(?)

⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ Warning: slight aka suggestive work. Yknow what yeah it’s lime. Reader doubting Mark’s strength and this being mark before season 3

⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ Word count: 1,008

Lying down on Mark’s bed, you couldn’t help but keep scrolling through pages on Instagram. Littered with tons of fangirls yapping about how invincible could bench press a whole building if he wanted to.

You scoffed at this, sure mark was strong. But he can’t be that strong.

Shit, you’re a big guy. Not chubby, but just big. Mark is shorter than you, but loves to top you.

You cannot fuck that little ass dog, he does the fucking. Either way, you keep scrolling throughout your for you page, looking at some news.

Mark comes into his room, walking over as he held your favorite soda in hand. “Heyyy, guess what I found in the fridge. “No way, [fav.soda]! Give it here.” You say up quick to grab at it.

Mark moves back before you could even really reach the damned beverage.

“Ah ah, what do we say?” Mark teased with a knowing smile.

“I won’t say it.”

“Cmon… it’s in the paper of being boyfriends. You have to say it.”

Grumbling, you looked at him. “Thanks.. daddy.”

Mark chuckles under his breath before giving you the drink. “That’s better, baby.” He hands you the drink. You gave him the middle finger, sick of his shit. Mark lets out another laugh before he rest up against you.

You drank the soda, ignoring his lingering eyes onto your pectorals. He’s always had the weird urge since dating you to just, grab them. And now here he is, staring at them as he looks at your stoic face.

“Can I?” He says softly, he reaches his hand towards it. Just to cup it. But a hand smack leaves him with a pout.

“No. No touching til I say so.”

“Yes sir.” Mark says with a grin. You couldn’t help but laugh, despite his position in this relationship. You walk him like dog, okay not really but he’s such a munch for his boyfriend.

You guys started to relax a bit, day turned into night. You were casually out of the showers, mark had already finished his. He sat at his desk, looking through his computer with a bored look.

Hearing the bathroom door open, he turns his head to see you walk into his room, closing it. His eyes rank over your body. Hunger written onto his expression, but not the “ooh food” hunger.

But hunger for a certain man. And that man is you.

“Hey.” He says softly, leaning back into his chair. He pats his lap, you raised a brow. You oddly felt conscious about your build. You shake your head, moving over to his bed to lay down.

Mark frowns, turning his eyes to see you lay down. You usually sit on his lap, at any chance like any chance he gets to touch you.

He yearns to touch you, to be by you. He can’t live a moment without not being by you or at least having a handful of you.

“What’s wrong?” He says, not even trying to hide his concern. “It’s nothing.” You simple said, going onto your phone.

You were clearly hiding something, he always can tell when something was up with you. He gets from his desk, moving towards you.

“Cmon… something’s bothering you babe.” Sighing, you confessed to him. “Okay so I scrolled onto instagram and seen some of your,” you air quoted mid sentence, “fangirls talking about you can just bench press anything like a building.” “I could.” “Shut up I’m not finished mark.” Mark held up his hands in a surrendering gesture before putting them down and listening.

“You’re still human mark, no way in hell could you just lift up a building. Hell I don’t think you can even lift me.” Mark scrunched his face up.

“Yes I can.”

“No you can’t.”

“Do you even know who my dad is, y/n?” You raised a brow as he sat down, letting the bed sink a bit. “Yeah. He’s Omni man.” Mark nods, “and I’m his son. I know I don’t tell you much. But I’m sure I can show you how I can handle you.”

It all happened so quickly. Mark lifts you onto him, you could feel him squeeze your muscular thighs. His eyes blown out as he stares at you as if you lifted the entire stars and galaxy. “I can’t get how you think I can’t just lift you up and destroy you.” He says lowly. His voice low and deep, dripping with lust.

“Well.. do it.” A dark smirk reaches his face as his hands goes up onto your hips, giving them a quick squeeze.

“As your command.” He starts to kiss your neck, leaving you let out a soft sigh. You can feel him grazing his teeth against your Adam Apple.

His hands pressing against your ass, squeezing it. You yelp a bit, feeling flustered despite the times he’s done this before. He then kissed you, your lips mingling with his.

He bites your bottom lip, looking up at you whilst you had your arms around his neck. His hands leaves your hips to go under your shirt.

Caressing your abs to your chest, god he presses his lips harder against your own. You taste so good to him, his fingers rubbing against the bud of your nipples. Cupping your chest, you moan against his lips, breathing heavy.

As mark goes to take your shirt off, Debbie bursts in. That made you immediately get off mark, leaving mark devastated in his mind but flustered on the outside.

“Mom!”

“What? I just want to say goodnight to you both… but if you guys are doing anything weird in here. Keep it down to a minimum.” Debbie then leaves, leaving you and mark a little embarrassed.

“Uh… wanna just cuddle for the night?” Mark asked as he turned to you. “Yeah.. that’ll be nice.” You said with a slight smile.

You and mark laid down after he turned the lights off and placed the covers over you both.

Guess you forgot how strong he could be….