cronasluvr

[cronasluvr]

HOUSE A HOME ! ! !

Toji Fushiguro x Male!Reader

Toji Fushiguro’s apartment has never known softness, until you. In a home that reeks of old regrets and fresh bruises, you scrub the floors, patch the holes, and feed his boy like he’s yours. Toji should kick you out before you see too much. Before you make it too easy to believe he deserves warmth. But tonight, for once, he lets himself stay where it’s clean and quiet...and calls it home.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆⁺₊⋆ ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Toji Fushiguro lets the door slam shut behind him. It rattles in the frame, like everything in this half-rotten apartment, the hinges need fixing. He’s halfway through cracking his neck when the quiet catches him first: no crying, no rustle of a restless baby, no faint radio hum from some neighbor’s tinny speakers. Just… clean silence.

His eyes drag over the room as he kicks off his boots. The stack of takeout boxes he left in the corner is gone. The sticky coffee table he never wipes down doesn’t have the sheen of dried beer anymore. There’s a faint scent of soap and… something warm, something homey. Curry maybe.

He pads further in. The bedroom door is ajar. Inside, his boy, his tiny, suspicious-eyed Megumi, is dead asleep in his crib. The blankets are new, soft blue with cartoon dogs. Toji frowns at that, he didn’t buy those. He didn’t do any of this.

The answer’s on the couch.

You’re there, half-curled up under a ragged old blanket that barely covers your shoulders. Your hair’s mussed from dozing, one arm draped off the edge. Next to you on the scratched coffee table sits a steaming bowl with foil over it and a folded napkin. For him.

Toji rubs a hand over his jaw, eyes lingering on the neat little sight you make so stupidly domestic, like you belong here with all the grime and half-finished fixes and the kid you didn’t make but keep caring for anyway.

He ought to wake you up. Ought to grumble at you for wasting your time scrubbing floors that’ll be dirty again tomorrow. Ought to remind you you’re not his wife, not Megumi’s mother, not anything that should be shackled to this shit-stained place.

But instead, he sits down on the floor beside your sleeping form, back against the couch. Reaches up, tucks that slipping blanket back around your shoulders.

“‘S too good for me,” he mutters to nobody, maybe to the cracked ceiling, maybe to the ghosts that like to whisper at him when it’s this quiet.

And then he just listens to the soft, steady sound of your breathing.

Tomorrow he’ll ruin it again. He always does. But tonight, for this breath, for this heartbeat, Toji Fushiguro lets himself feel like he’s got a home.

Toji shifts carefully off the floor, not wanting to wake you. He peels back the foil on the bowl you left. It’s curry, just like he guessed, thick and rich with chunks of carrot and potato. It’s hot too, you must’ve timed it so it’d be fresh when he walked in. He grunts under his breath, the lump in his throat as unwelcome as it is unfamiliar.

He sits on the coffee table, spoon scraping gently against the ceramic. First bite burns his tongue but he barely cares. He eats fast, like a man who doesn’t know when the next good meal’s coming. Which, for him, is mostly true.

Behind him, there’s a tiny rustle.

“Pa…?”

Toji twists halfway around, spoon still in his mouth. There’s Megumi in the bedroom doorway, cheeks flushed from sleep, hair sticking up in all directions. He’s clutching that stupid little dog blanket you got him, the one you fussed about because Toji never bothered to buy his kid decent sheets.

“What’re you doin’ up, brat?” Toji asks around a mouthful.

Megumi scuffs his bare toes against the floor. “‘M hungry.”

Toji huffs out a short laugh that’s more air than humor. “Ain’t got any food for you. Wait ‘til tomorrow—”

Megumi shakes his head, scowling just like him. “No. He put food in the fridge.” He points a tiny finger at you, still knocked out cold on the couch. “‘S for me. He said.”

Toji frowns. He pushes himself up with a grunt, walks to the fridge with the curry still steaming in his hand. Sure enough, containers stacked neatly on the top shelf. Labeled, too: ‘Megumi — mild curry’, ‘Megumi — chicken soup’, ‘Megumi — rice, soft veggies’.

“Fuck…” Toji mutters under his breath, so quiet Megumi won’t repeat it.

He pops open a container, nukes it in the microwave. Megumi watches him with big, tired eyes, blanket dragged behind him like a tail. When Toji sets the warm bowl and tiny spoon on the table, Megumi clambers onto the couch next to you and digs in without a word.

Toji just stands there, curry in one hand, watching his son eat food he didn’t cook in a house he never really made a home, but you did. You, asleep with a tiny smile flickering on your lips, even now.

He catches Megumi’s quiet voice between mouthfuls: “Thank you, Papa.”

Toji looks down at the half-empty bowl in his hand. Swallows the knot.

“…Yeah. ‘S nothing.”

But he glances at you when he says it, and knows it’s not nothing at all.

Megumi finishes his little bowl of curry with sleepy, determined bites, blinking owlishly up at Toji in the dim kitchen light. He tries so hard not to yawn, but his eyes water anyway. Toji smirks, ruffling that messy black hair with his big palm.

“Come on, brat. Bedtime again.”

Megumi grumbles but obeys, trailing after Toji as he pads down the short hall to the bathroom. Toji flips the light on and pauses.

For a second he just stands there, curry still warm in his belly, watching the quiet proof of you in every corner. The cracked old sink has new toothbrushes lined up in a cup. One for him, one little one for Megumi, and one he figures must be yours. Tiny kid toothpaste sits beside real shampoo instead of the shitty all-in-one bottle he used to rinse Megumi’s hair.

Megumi tugs at the hem of Toji’s sweats, wanting to be lifted up. Toji obliges, perching him on the counter so he can help with brushing.

“Open up. Lemme see those fangs,” Toji mutters, pretending to growl, and Megumi giggles around the brush.

When he’s done, Toji wipes the toothpaste from his son’s chin with surprising care. He flicks the light off and steers Megumi back to the bedroom, but Megumi stops at the door, pointing.

“Look.”

Toji already saw it, but his throat tightens anyway. The dusty old futon is made up with new baby-blue sheets, a matching blanket. Beside it, stacked neat, are three or four slim storybooks with big bright pictures, and a battered stuffed bear you must have found at some thrift store.

Toji swipes a palm over his jaw, too rough for how soft he’s feeling. “Hn. Lucky kid, huh?”

Megumi nods solemnly, already crawling onto the fresh sheets. He hugs the bear tight. Toji tucks him in, big hands oddly gentle for someone who’s usually all scars and violence.

Before he turns off the light, Megumi pipes up, voice small in the night:

“Will he stay?”

Toji freezes in the doorway, staring at the lump under the covers. “…Who?”

“‘Im. The one who cooks. He’s nice.”

Toji thinks about you, passed out on the couch, bunny-soft and warm even in sleep, still here when he should’ve scared you off ages ago.

“Yeah,” he grunts, low enough that Megumi’s probably half asleep before he hears it. “He’ll stay.”

He flicks the light off, closing the door with the softest click he can manage.

And when he pads back out to the main room, he pauses by the couch, just watching you breathe, the soft rise and fall under the ratty blanket.

“Fuckin’ idiot,” he mutters. But his hand drifts down anyway, brushing a stray hair from your forehead.

Maybe he’ll tell you tomorrow. That you’re family now, whether you meant to be or not.

You stir awake to the familiar weight of someone big shifting near the couch. The scratch of stubble against your temple makes you smile even before your eyes open. Toji’s sitting on the battered coffee table, elbows on his knees, watching you like he’s been doing it for a while.

“Mornin’,,” he grunts, voice low but not unkind.

You blink sleepily, rubbing your eyes. “You eat the food?”

Toji snorts. “Yeah. Quit fussin’.” But his hand drifts to your hair again, fingers carding through it with the same rough gentleness you’ve grown addicted to.

You shift to sit up and immediately start rattling off plans. “Okay, I gotta pick up more detergent, the lightbulb in Megumi’s room is about to blow, and I should grab more milk—”

Toji scowls, cutting you off with a sharp look. “Why the fuck do you care? Sit your ass down. This ain’t your house. I get sick of you, you’re gone. That easy.”

It’s not the first time he’s said it, , that bluff, that threat. But you don’t flinch. You just smile, sleepy and stubborn, and lean into his palm when he tries to push you back down.

“Maybe,” you murmur, catching his wrist. “But I love Megumi. And I love you. So I care.”

His jaw ticks. He hates when you say it so casually like it’s obvious, like it doesn’t scare him shitless.

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot.”

You grin. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot. Now move. I gotta grab fresh sheets for your bed too. These ones are a crime.”

He tries to argue, tries to bark that you’re wasting your time but when you stand, warm and half rumpled from sleep, pressing a soft kiss to his stubbled cheek, the fight leaves him all at once.

“…Fine. But you’re takin’ my card.” He growls, pressing the old beat-up credit card into your palm. “You’re not wastin’ your own cash on my mess.”

You beam at him. “Yes, sir.”

And he can’t help it, he grabs your chin, kisses you hard enough to make you breathless, muttering against your lips, “Hurry the fuck back. Megumi’ll ask for you first thing.”

You whisper back, soft and sure, “I always do.”

It’s late when Toji drags himself up the dingy stairwell, boots muddy, hoodie smelling like stale sweat and cheap whiskey. Another dirty job done. Another handful of bills shoved deep in his pocket. He fully expects to find the apartment dark, the hall cluttered, the air stale and heavy.

Instead, when he unlocks the door, he’s met by soft light flickering from a corner of the living room.

A brand-new little TV, not fancy, but bright and clear, hums gently on the rickety stand. Megumi is sprawled on a clean rug right in front of it, eyes wide and glued to some colorful cartoon, a little bowl of sliced fruit beside him.

Toji’s tired eyes drag up and around the room. There’s fresh paint on the old walls nothing fancy, but enough to cover the worst water stains and scribbles. Even that big hole he punched near the bedroom door last year is patched up, sanded smooth and painted over.

The place doesn’t smell like dust and cigarettes anymore. It smells like clean laundry, something sweet bubbling faintly in the kitchen.

Megumi notices him, tiny mouth forming a sleepy grin. “Papa!”

Toji huffs a soft laugh, crouching to ruffle his hair. “Hey, brat. Who let you watch TV this late?”

Megumi giggles, points toward the hallway. “He did!”

Toji glances up just in time to see you step out of the bedroom, sleeves rolled, hands dusted with a bit of paint. You freeze mid-step, caught, a sheepish smile tugging at your lips.

“Hey,” you say softly. “You’re back early.”

Toji just stares for a heartbeat at the fresh walls, the tiny TV, the giggling kid, the clean floor that doesn’t stick to his boots anymore.

“…You painted.”

You nod, wiping your palms on your sweatpants. “Yeah. And patched up the holes. Figured it’s about time Megumi has a real place to grow up in.”

His throat tightens, unfamiliar and annoying. “You… bought a TV?”

“Secondhand. Good deal. He likes cartoons before bed, it keeps him calm.” You tilt your head, eyes softening when you see how hard he’s blinking, fists clenching like he doesn’t know where to put them. “Go shower. I’ll heat up some stew. Then maybe you can sit here and watch a show with your son for once, hm?”

Toji scoffs but it’s weak, easily swallowed by the lump in his chest. He drags a hand through Megumi’s messy hair again, eyes fixed on you like you’re some vision he still can’t believe he gets to keep.

“…Keep spoilin’ my kid, huh?” he mutters.

You grin back. “Only because he deserves it. And so do you.”

Toji drags himself through a quick shower, hot water pounding the grime and blood from his skin until the steam fogs the tiny mirror. When he steps out, he catches himself in the glass scarred, tired, someone who looks half-feral and yet still has that stupid soft tug in his chest at the thought of finding you waiting in his crumbling apartment.

Toji wakes up later than he means to, body sore from weeks of bad beds and worse jobs, but for once the ache feels like it’s softened under the warmth of clean sheets and the faint scent of coffee drifting from the cramped kitchen.

He drags on sweatpants, rakes a hand through his messy hair, and follows the sound of giggling.

You’re there exactly where you always end up, barefoot in front of the tiny stove, humming to yourself while a stack of cartoon-shaped pancakes grows on a chipped plate. Megumi’s perched at the table in his booster seat, still in his too-big sleep shirt, chubby hands clapping delightedly at the mess of syrup and fruit on his plate.

Each pancake is its own goofy clown face: strawberry noses, whipped cream hair, chocolate chip eyes. The toddler squeals when you plop another onto his plate and give it a silly voice, “Hello, Mister Giggle Belly! Eat me up!”, before you pretend to make it talk to Megumi’s delighted laughter.

Toji watches from the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame. Something in his chest twists, tight and unfamiliar, when he sees the sticky syrup on Megumi’s cheeks and the way you glance back over your shoulder, beaming at him like he’s the whole damn sunrise.

“Hey, sleepyhead.” You grin, spatula still in hand. “Hungry? Or do you want a clown pancake too?”

Megumi turns, cheeks puffed with food. He shoves his fork out in offering half his pancake, proudly mangled. “Papa! Eat clown!” he chirps, and Toji swears his heart nearly caves in.

He crosses the little kitchen in three steps, ruffles Megumi’s messy hair, and leans down to steal a sticky kiss from your lips.

“You’re spoilin’ him, y’know that?” he mutters against your mouth, but he’s smiling, so soft it’s barely recognizable on him.

You just kiss him again, sweeter than syrup. “Good. He deserves it. So do you.”

Toji huffs a laugh, low in his throat, then grabs a fork, sits down beside Megumi, and lets himself eat clown pancakes too. Just for a while, the world outside doesn’t exist.

You’ve settled Megumi back on the rug, now curled up against Toji’s thigh while a cartoon plays too loud in the background. You press a steaming bowl into Toji’s big palm, nudging him until he sits back against the battered couch. Then you squeeze into the little sliver of space left at his side, blanket draped over your own shoulders but spreading it to cover him too, like he’d ever admit he wants that warmth.

Megumi’s already dozing, small head resting heavy on Toji’s knee. The show drones on in soft colors and squeaky voices, but Toji doesn’t watch it, not really. He watches you instead: the way you sneak glances at him when you think he won’t notice, the tired softness in your eyes, the way you lean closer without asking.It’s quiet enough he almost misses it. Your voice, whisper-quiet against the screen’s flicker, “I know…” You hesitate, like you’re afraid the words will break him if they land wrong. “I know I can’t ever… replace her. I’d never try to, Toji. She was… she’s Megumi’s mama. Yours too, in a way I can’t be. I know that.”

Toji’s jaw tenses. He wants to snap at you, tell you to shut up, but you keep going before he can find the words.

“But I can still try to… to give him what she’d want for him. A clean place. Warm food. Toys. And I can try to give you… a family again. If you want it.”

Your hand brushes his under the blanket, timid, waiting for him to pull away. Toji doesn’t pull away. He grips your hand instead, rough fingers wrapping around yours tight enough to hurt.

He doesn’t say much, never does, but when you risk a glance at him, you see it all there in the way his eyes have gone suspiciously shiny, the line of his throat bobbing with a wordless swallow.

“Dumbass,” he rasps, voice hoarse. “Don’t say shit like that. You already are.”

Before you can ask what he means, he tugs you closer. So close your side is pressed to his, so close you feel Megumi’s sleepy breaths against your leg, so close you feel the quiet tremble when Toji lowers his head just enough to brush his forehead against your temple.

“…’s good,” he murmurs, rough but softer than you’ve ever heard him. “Stay. Keep doin’ it. ‘S good for him. Good for me.”

And for the first time, you believe he means it.

[cronasluvr]

where we begin.

clark kent x male reader.

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. when unexpected changes test them, clark and you find new strength in each other.

𝐅𝐋𝐔𝐅𝐅 & 𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓. one-shot [6.8k].

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. male reader 〳 corenswet!clark 〳 established relationship 〳top!clark 〳 bottom!reader 〳 m!preg (reader) 〳 morning sickness 〳 pregnancy symptoms 〳 rough sex 〳 size kink 〳 breeding 〳 cumplay 〳 rimming (r!receiving) 〳 blowjob (r!giving and r!receiving) 〳 gagging 〳 spit 〳 body worshiping 〳 body marking 〳 impregnation

The tension in Clark’s broad shoulders hadn’t fully left, the residue of a long day spent balancing deadlines and world-saving lingering beneath his skin. But now, as he stood close to you in the dim light of your bedroom, the weight shifted, replaced by a raw, urgent need that pulsed through every muscle.

His chest was a perfect landscape of muscle; hard ridges beneath his shirt, the steady rise and fall with each breath like the ebb of some mighty tide. Thick arms wrapped around you, the power in his grip undeniable but tempered by tenderness. When his hands closed around your wrists and pinned them above your head, it was a command whispered in silk and steel; you felt the immense strength holding you effortlessly, the sheer force he could wield without breaking you.

You barely moved beneath him, a mixture of desire and awe flooding you as his steady gaze locked onto yours. His clothed cock pressed heavily against your thigh, rock hard and thick, aching from the long day without release. Just the thought of finally having you beneath him, your body open and vulnerable, made his pulse race faster.

He traced his fingertips along your jawline, eyes darkening with want and something softer,something like worship. “God, you look so good for me,” Clark growled quietly, voice rough with need. His tongue flicked out, wet and warm, licking the shell of your ear as his hands slid under your shirt, palms flattening against your back.

Your breath hitched when his mouth found the sensitive hollow of your neck, teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you shiver. The scent of your skin—your sweat, your natural musk—flooded his senses, fueling the fire growing between his legs. His bulge twitched insistently, aching to be buried deep inside you, to feel your tight heat clenching around him.

He kissed down your collarbone, lips lingering over the delicate skin, before lowering himself until his mouth hovered just above your chest. His tongue circled a nipple, sucking it hard, the sharp sting mixing with the pleasure like electricity racing through your veins. Your hips lifted without thought, grinding up against his mouth as he teased you mercilessly.

“Clark…” you gasped, fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, full of dark promise and a deep, unwavering love. “Not yet,” he whispered, voice rough but patient. “I want to taste every inch of you.”

His hands roamed lower, sliding beneath your pants and underwear, palms warm and sure as they wrapped around your cock after he stripped the undergarments off. His thumb circled the sensitive head, slick with precum, sending jolts of pleasure through your body. Clark’s mouth descended slowly, lips parting to take you in, the heat of his breath making you moan deep in your chest.

His tongue worked expertly along your shaft, flicking over the frenulum with teasing flicks, then taking more of you in, his throat flexing as he swallowed your length. His hands squeezed your hips, anchoring you as he bobbed his head, the wet, hollow sounds of his mouth working you filling the quiet room.

Your body trembled, heat pooling deep in your belly, your fingers clutching the sheets as pleasure built to a desperate crescendo. Clark pulled back with a gasp, lips swollen and glistening. “You’re so beautiful,” he growled, voice thick with lust.

He stripped off his own shirt, revealing his broad, chiseled chest slick with sweat. His skin gleamed under the low light, muscles rippling as he shifted his weight in continuing to undress himself from top to bottom.

Clark’s mouth lingered against your skin a moment longer before he slowly pulled away, leaving your entrance slick and burning with need. You shifted, breath ragged, eyes dark with hunger, reaching eagerly for the thick length already standing proud and heavy against his lower abdomen.

Clark knelt on the bed, his muscular thighs spread just enough to balance the heavy weight pressing between them. His cock was impossibly large, long and thick, veins pulsing like rivers of raw electricity beneath the taut skin. The swollen, glistening head oozed with precum, slick and shining in the soft light. It wasn’t just the size that demanded attention; there was a primal urgency in its heavy swell, a heat that radiated off his skin in waves.

Beneath it, his balls hung low and full, swollen with need and thick with the promise of release. The skin was taut but velvety, the weight pulling slightly at his thighs as they shifted with every breath he took. You watched as the heavy sacks swung slowly, brushing against the smooth planes of his legs, the slightest movement sending them teasingly bouncing—so full they looked like they could burst.

Each subtle motion made his cock sway, a pendulum of desire that your eyes couldn’t leave. When he shifted forward, you could see the thick length stretching, pressing insistently toward you, begging for your mouth. The warmth from his skin was intoxicating, mixing with the faint scent of sweat and musk that clung to him after a long day.

Your own breath caught as you reached out, fingers trembling, the anticipation knotting in your stomach. Your mouth watered as you leaned closer, lips parting slowly like a soft invitation, your tongue already aching to taste that immense hardness. The weight of him pressed into your senses, too much, and yet not nearly enough.

Around you, the quiet of the room seemed to shrink, the only sounds were your quickening breath and the subtle slick noises of his arousal. The bed creaked faintly beneath him, the shifting of muscles taut with desire drawing you in deeper.

You could feel the heat of his body before your lips even touched him, that heavy weight of his cock and balls swinging just enough to brush teasingly against your chin. It was a promise; the promise of all the fire and strength and tenderness that Clark held inside, and the unspoken invitation to take it all.

At first, you managed only the head, your lips stretched impossibly wide around the thick crown, tongue swirling at the sensitive ridge beneath the rim. The heat radiating from him was fierce, almost overwhelming, and you could taste the salty musk, the rawness of him that made your heart pound.

You tried to slide farther down, to take more of him, but his girth was relentless, so thick it stretched your jaw beyond comfort. Drool pooled at the corners of your mouth, escaping and trailing wet streaks down your chin. Your jaw ached fiercely from the stretch, muscles tight and trembling, but you refused to stop.

Clark groaned, his hands threading through your hair, holding your head steady and encouraging you wordlessly. His cock throbbed against your tongue, the length so heavy it brushed the back of your throat when you tried to take him deeper. Gagging softly, you pulled back a fraction, breath hitching, but your lips never lost contact.

You swallowed hard, working your mouth with slow, deliberate strokes; lips sliding down, tongue flicking over the swollen veins, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just enough to send shivers through both of you. Every inch of him filled your senses, the overwhelming size a delicious challenge you were determined to meet.

Clark’s hips jerked lightly with need, his breath ragged as he moaned low in your ear. “Fuck, you’re so good at this,” he gasped, fingers tightening in your hair.

You pushed through the ache in your jaw, eyes locked on his face, watching the raw desire flicker in his gaze. You wanted to show him how much you needed him, how much you worshiped every inch.

Your jaw stretched, aching deliciously as you tried to take more, but the sheer girth was relentless, too thick to fit comfortably, yet you didn’t want to stop. Drool pooled at the corners of your mouth, slick and warm, dripping down your chin in slow rivulets. You swallowed hard, your tongue working tirelessly, tracing the swollen veins that throbbed beneath the sensitive skin.

Your hands wrapped around the base, stroking slow and sure as your mouth continued its relentless worship. Clark’s cock throbbed and twitched in your mouth, each pulse sending jolts through your lips and tongue.

Clark groaned low and deep, hips pressing forward, cock throbbing against your tongue. “Driving me crazy,” he murmured, voice thick with need. His hands tightened in your hair, anchoring you close even as his body trembled with effort. He had been at work all day, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, but now—here, in this moment—he was yours entirely.

You gave him a teasing smile, a low hum to send vibrations to his cock, pulling back just enough to catch your breath before diving back in, lips stretched impossibly wide around his cock, swallowing every inch you could manage, utterly lost in the sweet, overwhelming sensation of taking him in.

You pulled back just enough to gasp for breath, lips swollen and slick, eyes locked on his face where raw desire flickered. The sight of his flushed cheeks, the slight sheen of sweat on his brow, the dark glint in his eyes; it all made your pulse race.

“You’re killing me,” Clark groaned, voice rough. “Nearly came right then and there...”

“Wouldn’t be the first time, y’know.” You laughed, wiping some drool off with the back of your hand.

Before you could say another word, Clark’s hands slid up your sides, steadying you as he pulled you closer. His lips brushed over yours, then dipped down to your chin, his tongue flicking out to lick the stray drool from your skin with a slow, teasing lick.

The warmth of his mouth followed, soft and hungry, as he captured your lips in a deep, possessive kiss. His breath mingled with yours, rough and sweet, as he held your bare body tightly, an unspoken promise that this night was only just beginning.

Clark broke the kiss reluctantly, his eyes dark and molten with need as he cupped your jaw, slowly easing you down onto your stomach. His hands slid to your hips, pressing firmly to lift your ass, angling it up just right. Your back arched instinctively, pressing your chest into the mattress as you spread yourself open for him.

The soft curve of your spine, the smooth swell of your ass elevated and exposed; it was a perfect invitation. Clark’s cock throbbed heavily against your thigh, veins pulsing with urgent heat as his breath ghosted over your slick entrance.

Then, with slow reverence, he lowered his mouth to your entrance. His tongue flicked out tentatively at first, teasing the rim with gentle, deliberate strokes; each movement setting your nerves ablaze and pulling a soft moan from your lips.

The wet heat of his mouth pressed against your sensitive walls made you gasp, hips twitching as his tongue traced deep inside your tight hole, exploring with careful insistence.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” Clark murmured against your skin, voice thick and husky with need. Licking again, flattening his tongue, slower with deliberate tease, over your crack. “So good…”

You shivered beneath him, fingers digging into the sheets as his tongue traced slow circles over the crown, inching deeper with exquisite patience. “God, Clark…” you breathed, the sound barely more than a whisper, desperate and raw.

Your muscles clenched and released, responding to the thick, curling pressure of his fingers slipping inside alongside his tongue. The combination of wet heat and firm touch sent waves of sharp pleasure shooting through you. Your body arched higher, pressing into his touch as your breath hitched with each slick, pulsing stroke.

“You feel so good like this,” Clark whispered against your skin, lips brushing over the curve of your ass, “all open for me.”

Your fingers clenched the sheets beneath you, body trembling with every slow curl of his three thick fingers digging deep, stretching you gently while his tongue danced in delicious, maddening patterns. The slick friction mixed with the steady push of his fingers made your vision blur with heat.

“I want to taste all of you,” he murmured, voice thick with hunger. “I want to feel you shudder around me.”

Your hips gave a desperate, involuntary push against him, needing more, craving that relentless worship. Clark’s cock twitched hard, pressing heavier against your thigh as the slick warmth of your body wrapped him, and his breath grew ragged with the mounting ache.

“You’re mine,” he breathed, voice rough as he swallowed the low moan you let slip. “Every inch.”

Catching your breath, you muffled into the pillow as you felt Clark pull his fingers out of you, “Stole my line, asshole.”

You both chuckled as Clark’s hands slid from your hips to the curve of your waist, fingers curling gently but possessively. With a slow, deliberate motion, he shifted his weight and pressed into the bed beside you, the heat of his muscular body warming your skin. He carefully flipped you over, easing you back until your spine met the mattress and your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer.

The sudden shift sent a delicious flush of vulnerability and excitement coursing through you. Your raised thighs framed him perfectly, hips tilting up as your breath caught at the sight of him: his broad chest rising and falling, muscles taut from the day’s stress now softened in the quiet intimacy between you.

Clark’s eyes darkened as he looked down at you, admiration and hunger burning in their depths. He brushed a damp lock of hair from your forehead, his touch tender despite the fire building inside him.

He paused a moment, savoring the connection, the slick heat pooling between your bodies. His cock twitched, heavy and aching, the thick length pressed against your wet entrance. Clark let out a low groan, the sound vibrating deep in his chest.

His hands settled firmly on your hips, anchoring you, steadying both of you as he traced slow, teasing circles with the tip of his cock over your tight, slick rim. You arched your back, pressing into him, silently begging.

Clark’s breath hitched, and he looked down at you with a softness that made your heart ache. “You know,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, “no matter how long my day is… coming home to you like this… it makes everything better.”

You smiled, breathless. “I’ve been waiting for this all day too.”

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a slow, deep kiss. His mouth was warm and gentle, full of promise and reassurance, grounding you amidst the heat and longing.

When he pulled back just enough to whisper against your skin, his voice was thick with affection and need: “I want you to feel safe with me. Always.”

You nodded, your voice a soft whisper. “I do. With you, I’m home.”

Clark’s eyes held yours, shimmering with something deeper than desire; a fierce, unwavering love. He pressed one last lingering kiss to your forehead before lowering himself again, ready to join you fully.

“Ready for me?” His voice was low and thick, laced with longing and care.

You nodded, breath hitching, legs tightening around his waist as you lifted your hips to meet him.

Clark’s cock pressed heavy against your slick entrance, the swollen head teasing the delicate rim with agonizing patience. The tight heat of your muscles contracted around him, a delicious, fiery grip that made every nerve scream. Your body quivered, hips instinctively pressing up to meet him, welcoming the impossible stretch.

The slickness coated him like silk, but the tension of your tight, unyielding flesh was a slow-burning fire. Clark’s hands dug into your hips, steady and sure, as he fought the urge to slam in hard and fast. Instead, he pushed forward with slow, excruciating care—his cockhead pressing past your tight ring, stretching you wide, inch by agonizing inch.

The room was thick with heat, the scent of sweat and sex hanging heavy in the air. Clark’s muscles flexed visibly beneath his skin, veins pulsing along his thick arms and broad shoulders as he anchored himself above you. The primal power of his body coiled like a spring, every movement deliberate, restrained, fueled by pure need.

Your breath hitched with the exquisite burn of being filled so completely, your back arching as the stretch deepened, cock buried to the hilt inside you. The overwhelming fullness was at once breathtaking and overwhelming. Every inch a delicious ache that left you trembling, skin slick and flushed.

Clark’s chest rose and fell in ragged breaths, his strong jaw clenched tight as he slowly sank deeper, the thick length of him filling you with a punishing, agonizing stretch. The hot friction of your tight walls clenching around his shaft sent shivers of raw, unfiltered pleasure straight to his cock, making it pulse and throb with urgent need.

“You’re so fucking tight,” Clark growled, voice low and ragged, a dark hunger flickering in his eyes. “Damn, you take me so well. You’re perfect.”

Your fingers dug into the sheets, nails scraping the fabric as you surrendered to the overwhelming sensation. Your hole stretched impossibly wide, every muscle trembling around his cock like a vice. The heat pooling between your bodies was unbearable, sweat slicking your skin, mixing with the taste of each other.

Clark’s hands gripped your hips harder, flexing his powerful arms as he slowly began to move, the slow, steady push of his cock sliding in and out of your tight, burning heat creating a relentless rhythm that stole your breath and stole your mind.

“Fuck,” he hissed, voice thick with desperation and awe, veins pulsing beneath the surface as his thrusts gained strength. “You feel so good. So fucking good.”

You gasped, voice breaking under the pressure and pleasure. “Clark—oh, fuck—don’t stop. It hurts so fucking—fuck!”

The wet slap of skin meeting skin filled the room as he set a brutal, punishing pace, muscles pumping, cock throbbing, the stretch still aching but melting into searing, overwhelming bliss.

Every inch of you was alive, every nerve firing, every breath stolen by the relentless pounding of his thick cock driving deep inside you. You clung to him, breathless and shaking, utterly consumed by the raw, carnal heat between you.

Clark’s cock drove deeper with every brutal thrust. Thick, swollen, hot; stretching your hole beyond its limits, past the line between pain and pleasure until they were indistinguishable. Your rim clung to him desperately, spit-slick and flushed raw, the edges fluttering helplessly as his girth dragged through your tender channel, ruining you. Every withdrawal left your hole gaping open around air for a split second, flushed and twitching, before his cock forced it wide again with a slick, wet pop of resistance giving way.

“Christ,” Clark groaned, one hand sliding from your hip to your bare chest, pressing you deeper into the mattress as he adjusted the angle. “You’re gripping me like you don’t wanna let go.”

His voice was hoarse, dripping with reverence and restraint, but his body was anything but. His cock was a steel-thick monster inside you, heat-flushed and veined, every inch slick with your wetness and the precum he kept spilling into you. You could feel it pulse, twitch, throb with need inside your stretched heat like it was alive. His heavy balls slammed against your taint with each thrust, the wet smack echoing through the thick, humid air, overlaid with your own ragged cries and the low, guttural sounds he made as he fucked you deeper.

Clark’s body radiated heat. Not just from the exertion of moving that massive frame, but because he willed it hotter. His sweat poured in rivulets down the ridges of his chest, beading between his pecs, running down the sharp cut of his abs. His skin burned where it pressed against yours—feverish, slick—and the air around you shimmered with it, suffocating and intimate. It clung to you like a second skin.

Your fingers scrambled blindly for purchase, first clawing at the sheets, then sliding helplessly over his sweat-slicked back. When you found his skin—his wide, muscular shoulders, the tight flex of his lat as he rocked into you—you clung. Digging your nails into him like a man drowning, dragging red lines across the bulging muscles that carved his back and arms like sculpted marble.

“Fuck, baby—harder,” you gasped, voice cracking. Your thighs trembled, calves kicking uselessly against the mattress as you were driven down onto his cock again and again. “Don’t stop, don’t you dare fucking stop—”

“I’m not gonna,” he growled, voice gravel and smoke. “You’re gonna take it. All of me. Gonna keep taking this cock until I make you forget your own name.”

He punctuated it with a thrust so deep it punched a cry from your lungs, your whole body seizing beneath him. Your mouth dropped open, no sound coming out for a moment except the choked hitch of breath and the obscene gluck-gluck of his cock pistoning into your soaked hole.

Clark withdrew all at once, your hole clenching around emptiness, fluttering, desperate. Before you could beg, he was already manhandling you into a new position; hands strong, but never cruel. He flipped you onto your stomach in one smooth motion, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades as his hands gripped your hips and lifted your ass. You barely had time to brace yourself. Cheek pressed to the damp sheets, arms trembling; before he lined himself back up and fed his cock into you again, slow and brutal, like he wanted you to feel every inch of it burrow back inside. The new angle drove him deeper, thicker, his cockhead now punching right into the soft bundle of nerves inside you with surgical precision.

He reached up, palmed the back of your neck, pushing your face into the mattress as he angled his hips again, thrusting with a brutal precision, tip grinding up against your prostate with every pass.

You were sobbing now, not from pain but from being so full, so utterly destroyed. Your rim burned, stretched around him wide and red, swollen and shiny from the unrelenting assault. You felt him everywhere: inside your guts, in your stomach, in your chest. It was like he’d moved your organs just to make space for his cock.

“Look at you,” Clark panted, bending over you now, chest dragging over your slick back. His voice came hot against your ear, laced with something wicked. “Look how pretty you stretch around me. You love this, don’t you?”

You could barely nod. Your hands came up again, reaching back and straining your back and shoulders muscles to slide over his sweat-drenched chest this time—touching the thick, solid wall of his pecs, then scratching down as you moaned through clenched teeth.

His body tensed as you clawed. “Shit—keep doing that. Fuck—mark me, baby.”

And you did. Scratches bloomed down the curves of his chest, over the bulge of his biceps as he bore down harder. His thrusts turned ragged, pace violent, wet slaps echoing as his balls smacked your taint again and again, your ass clapping back against his hips with each bounce.

The slick mess between your thighs grew worse. Your cock leaking untouched against the sheets, Clark’s precum pouring into you, squelching with every plunge.

The room was drenched in noise. Moaning, panting, slapping, the squelch of ruined slick, the guttural growl of a man on the edge.

Then:

“Mine,” Clark said, voice thick and trembling. “Every inch of this sweet hole—mine.”

Your hole spasmed around him in reply.

You didn’t know how long he kept you like that: face pressed into the mattress, arms sprawled and limp, ass in the air like an offering. Time warped under the weight of him, his cock sawing in and out with a relentless, punishing rhythm that left your hole raw and weeping around him. The squelch of it, the obscene slap of his hips against your ass, the slick drag of your walls failing to close around his girth—it all melted into one deafening symphony of filth.

Clark’s body trembled above you now. You could feel it—his breath faltering, rhythm stuttering, muscles twitching like he was holding back a goddamn earthquake. He was drenched in sweat, drops falling from his brow onto your back, his grip on your hips bruising.

“Fuck,” he growled, voice unraveling. “You’re so—tight, baby. Taking all of me—gonna fill you up, I’m gonna—shit, I’m gonna cum.”

You cried out, voice wrecked. “Please. Do it. Give it to me. Fill me up, Clark—please, please—”

That broke him.

With a final, punishing thrust that drove his cockhead flush against the deepest part of you, Clark buried himself to the hilt and held. His whole body locked up—thighs flexed, ass clenched, chest rising in a trembling gasp—before he let out a guttural, almost wounded moan.

“Damn—”

Then you felt it.

His cock twitched violently inside you as the first rope of cum shot deep into your guts—hot, thick, and seemingly endless. It hit you like a brand, flooding your already ruined hole, filling you so fast it pushed a wave of his seed back out around the seal of your rim. He didn’t pull out. He couldn’t. He just stayed there, cock throbbing inside you, releasing in heavy, wet spurts that made your stomach cramp from how full you were getting.

You were moaning incoherently, clenching down on him with every pulse, your own cock untouched and leaking against the sheets. Your body was shaking now, pushed over the edge just from the pressure and the sheer, brutal warmth of being used like that. You didn’t need to be touched.

You came without warning. Your whole body lurching forward, ass still high, cock spurting messily beneath you in helpless spurts. You moaned his name into the mattress, eyes rolling back as your hole squeezed around him, milking the last of his orgasm right out of his still-hard cock. It was too much. You felt overstuffed, the creamy slick of both your cum and his pouring down your thighs, pooling beneath you.

Clark collapsed over your back, chest heaving, still twitching inside you. He didn’t pull out. Not yet. His arms wrapped around your waist like a lifeline, mouth pressed to your spine.

“I got you,” he whispered hoarsely. “You did so good for me. So fucking perfect.”

You could only whimper in reply, your body limp, hole leaking, still stretched wide and stuffed full of him. You didn’t want him to move. You wanted to stay plugged, branded, marked.

And Clark—he stayed.

Clark’s breath was ragged as he stayed buried inside you, hips still twitching with soft aftershocks of his release. His heavy cock, still thick and slick, pulsed deep in your wrecked hole, hot seed dripping freely inside you, pooling in the depths where only he could reach.

He rolled onto his side, but didn’t pull out; deliberately keeping you full, his swollen cockhead coated in his own warmth, nestled in your tight, stretched channel. Every slight move sent waves of his cum splashing deeper into you, a heavy, slick flood that made your guts clench and pulse in response.

I’m so full. So fucking full of him, your mind spun, hazy with pleasure and exhaustion. Like I could burst, but I don’t want to. I want this—want all of him buried inside me, filling me completely.

“You’re mine like this,” Clark whispered against the back of your neck, voice low and possessive, fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns down your spine. “I’m breeding you, filling you up—making sure every drop stays where it belongs.”

You shivered, heat blooming beneath his touch, breath catching. “I… I don’t wanna lose it,” you admitted, voice cracked and small, fingertips curling into the sheets. “I want it all. I want to feel it inside me.”

Clark’s lips curved against your skin, his chest warm and heavy over your back. “Then you’ll have it,” he promised, voice rough with want and satisfaction. His hips nudged imperceptibly, spreading his hot seed in deep, glutinous waves inside you. “Every last drop. Nobody else gets this. Nobody else touches you like I do.”

Your body trembled, overwhelmed by the sensation of being so utterly taken, so thoroughly marked by him. His cum was a heavy, delicious weight inside you; proof of possession, intimacy too raw and fierce for words. Your cock twitched helplessly, slick and leaking, but Clark’s presence grounded you, steady and relentless.

“I’m yours,” you whispered back, breath hitching, “all of me. Always.”

Clark groaned softly, fingers digging lightly into your skin, marking you like the prize you were. The air hung thick with sweat and heat and the scent of your mingled arousal—a heady, suffocating mix.

You couldn’t do anything but let your breath catch and fall with his, tangled together in the quiet aftermath, filled to the brim with him.

The first time you felt it, a faint flutter of nausea, you shrugged it off. Maybe it was something you ate, or just exhaustion from the long days filled with too much to do and too little rest. You told yourself it was nothing—just a passing thing that would fade away with a good night’s sleep.

But the mornings came harder than expected, the sour twist in your stomach growing sharper, more persistent. Coffee, once a comfort, now turned bitter and burned your throat. You found yourself clutching the bathroom sink, trying to ward away the wave of dizziness that made your knees weak.

Clark noticed. Always attentive, but cautious not to push too hard. He brushed your hair back one morning as you sat pale and quiet on the edge of the bed.

“You look off,” he said softly. “Maybe you’re just worn down.”

You nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Probably just stress.”

But stress didn’t explain the way your muscles ached without cause, or how fatigue seeped into your bones no matter how much you rested. Some nights you woke drenched in sweat, your heart pounding like it was trying to break free from your chest. You’d lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to pin down the strange heaviness pressing low in your belly.

Clark had his own theories, quiet and tentative. “Maybe some weird reaction to that alien virus I fought last month,” he offered one evening, watching you pick at your dinner without appetite. “It’s been raining a lot too…maybe allergies?”

You appreciated his effort to find answers, even if they didn’t feel quite right. The idea of your body betraying you like this unsettled you more than you wanted to admit.

Days stretched into weeks, and the symptoms deepened. The nausea became a fixture in your mornings, sneaking into afternoons and sometimes evenings. Your clothes started to fit tighter around your waist, and the occasional sharp pang left you gasping for breath. You found yourself hesitating before movement, afraid of what might come next.

Clark’s watchfulness never wavered, but the questions remained unspoken. You both seemed to dance around the truth neither wanted to voice—not yet. Instead, you talked in fragments, theories swirling but never landing on the impossible.

“Maybe it’s something we haven’t seen before,” Clark mused quietly one night, the weight of the unknown pressing between you. “Something new, something… strange.”

You swallowed hard, not trusting your voice. “Yeah. Strange.”

In the quiet spaces between, your mind wrestled with the mounting evidence your body couldn’t hide. You knew something was happening. Something beyond sickness or stress, but the answer was still out of reach.

Mornings grew heavier, the nausea settling in like an uninvited guest who refused to leave. You caught yourself laughing quietly at your own grimace while stirring the coffee you barely drank. You skimped out on the half-and-half today; no bueno.

“I swear, if this is some cosmic joke, I’m sending a strongly worded letter,” you joked, though your voice lacked its usual spark.

Clark watched you from the doorway, concern etched in his features. “You really don’t look well,” he said, voice low. “Maybe you should take it easy today. Call off work?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” you said, waving him off with a weak grin. “Just auditioning for a new role: ‘The Human Barf Machine.’ Think I’ll nail it. But—I’ll be fine. Took a pill.”

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to brush your temple with the gentlest touch, then flattened the back of his hand over your forehead, testing your body temperature. “This isn’t like you. You’re not fine.”

You shrugged, trying to keep the mood light even as your stomach twisted again. “Maybe I’m turning into a toddler. You know, like a baby with tantrums. Just missing the diapers.”

Clark’s brow furrowed deeper, and he hesitated before speaking. “You’re not tired like this because you’re just ‘turning into a toddler.’ Something’s wrong. Have you been keeping track? The nausea, the dizziness, the sweating…”

You sighed, the humor fading for a moment. “Yeah, I’ve noticed. You’re the expert on alien physiology, right? Got any theories?”

He shook his head, voice careful. “Nothing that fits. It’s like your body’s fighting something, but I can’t tell what.”

That night, you both sat on the couch, the air heavy with things unsaid. You toyed with the hem of your shirt, trying to find distraction in the fabric. “Maybe I’m just allergic to adulting,” you quipped, but your smile didn’t reach your eyes.

Clark reached out, fingers curling around yours. “I want to help, but I don’t know how. Just tell me if it gets worse, okay?”

You nodded, biting back the growing worry that was slowly replacing the humor. “I’ll try.”

The days that followed brought sharper waves of exhaustion, your body moving slower despite your best efforts. You caught Clark’s glance more often; that mixture of helplessness and determination to find answers.

One afternoon, after you nearly toppled trying to stand, Clark was quick to steady you. “Okay, that’s new,” he said, voice firm but worried. “You’re not just tired. We need to figure this out.”

You forced a laugh, leaning into him for support. “At least I’m consistent,” you murmured.

He shook his head, the joke falling flat. “This isn’t just fatigue. Something’s happening. I’m going to do some tests, run some scans.”

You hesitated, not wanting to admit how scared you were. “Fine. But only if you promise not to tell me I’m dying every five minutes.”

Clark smiled faintly, squeezing your hand. “Deal. But seriously, we’ll figure this out. Together.”

The days blurred, each morning greeting you with a fresh wave of nausea that tightened your throat and made your limbs feel leaden. You caught yourself rubbing your belly absently, a strange weight pressing there—not just physical, but something intangible that set your nerves on edge. You hated how little control you had over your own body lately.

Clark noticed every change, even the ones you tried to hide. One evening, after you had sunk onto the couch, drained and pale, he knelt before you, his eyes searching for clues.

“You’re barely eating,” he said softly, brushing a stray hair from your forehead. “You’re losing weight. This isn’t just stress…or-or a flu!”

You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “I don’t know what it is. None of it makes sense.” The words tasted bitter. “Maybe… maybe it’s something to do with your biology. I mean, you’re Kryptonian! Maybe I’m… affected by that somehow?”

Clark gave you a small, tired smile. “That’s the best guess I have too. But nothing I’ve seen before explains this.” His hand lingered on your shoulder, firm and grounding.

Nights were the hardest. Your body betrayed you with sudden chills and sweats, and the heaviness in your belly pulsed like a silent drumbeat. You avoided mirrors; your reflection showed tired eyes shadowed with worry, a body subtly changing in ways you couldn’t name.

You’d try to joke about it sometimes, masking your fear. “Maybe I’m turning into one of those aliens you always fight,” you said once, voice cracking. “You know, with weird powers and random health problems.”

Clark laughed softly but didn’t press. “If that were true, I’d have figured it out by now.”

As the weeks wore on, you found yourself avoiding physical activity altogether, drained after even the smallest exertion. The occasional sharp pain caught you off guard, stealing your breath. Clark’s concern grew more visible, the usual confident protector replaced by a quiet worry.

One afternoon, you were halfway through a light workout when your legs buckled. Clark caught you easily but the alarm in his eyes was unmistakable.

“This can’t keep happening,” he said, voice low but firm. “We need answers. I’ll run more scans tomorrow.”

You nodded, too tired to argue. “Thanks,” you whispered.

Clark’s support was steady, but you could tell he was holding back his own fears. Neither of you spoke of pregnancy. It felt impossible, a fantasy that didn’t belong in your reality. Yet the symptoms kept mounting, pressing on your sanity, forcing both of you to question what you thought you knew.

The dull ache in your belly had deepened into something more insistent, a pressure you could no longer ignore. The nausea wasn’t just morning’s visitor anymore; it lingered, a constant hum beneath your skin. Your clothes strained against a slowly rounding waistline, and you caught yourself tracing the curve with trembling fingers, unsure what to make of it.

Clark noticed first. One evening, as you sat quietly, absentmindedly rubbing your stomach, he cleared his throat, eyes searching yours for permission to say the thing neither of you wanted to say.

“This is going to sound crazy,” he began, voice low, “but… have you thought about the possibility that you might be… pregnant?”

You blinked, the words hitting like a thunderclap. Your mind scrambled—no, that couldn’t be. It had to be something else. “Clark,” you said slowly, “I don’t have a uterus—that’s… no. I mean… and you’re a man! Kryptonian man, sure, but also—again, I’m a man… with no uterus! How would that even be possible?! AGAIN, you’re a man! I’m—”

He shrugged, looking both embarrassed and serious, but took your hand in his to ground you back to reality. “I don’t know. I’m just saying… maybe your body is doing something we’ve never seen before. Something biological, something… beyond what we understand.”

The silence between you stretched, heavy and full of questions neither could answer.

You swallowed hard, the reality settling in with a strange mixture of fear and awe. “If that’s true,” you whispered, “then what… what happens next?”

Clark reached for your hand, squeezing it firmly. “Then we face it. Together. Whatever comes, we’ll figure it out. Like always.”

Your breath caught as tears pricked your eyes. Not just from fear, but from the weight of sharing this impossible secret. The weeks of sickness, the exhaustion, the pain; it all made sense now, tangled up in this surreal truth.

And despite it all, a fierce, stubborn hope blossomed inside you. Maybe this unexpected journey wasn’t just something to survive. Maybe it was something to cherish.

The days after that conversation carried a new kind of weight—not just the physical heaviness pressing against your body, but the gravity of the truth you now shared. You and Clark moved carefully through the world, an unspoken pact woven between you.

Clark’s presence was a steady comfort, his hand warm around yours as you navigated doctor visits and late-night talks filled with questions neither of you could fully answer. His strength, once so clearly physical, now revealed itself in patience and gentle reassurance.

You leaned against Clark’s chest, the quiet hum of the evening wrapping around you like a soft blanket. The fear and confusion still lingered, but beneath it all was something steadier—a shared resolve, a partnership forged in the unexpected.

“I’m scared,” you whispered, voice barely more than a breath.

Clark’s fingers threaded through your hair, his touch gentle and sure. “Me too. But whatever comes, we face it together.”

You lifted your head to meet his eyes, finding in them that unwavering calm you’d always depended on. “You think we should start thinking about names?”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Already? We haven’t even figured out how this is possible, and you want to name it?”

You grinned, playful despite yourself. “Hey, you said ‘whatever comes,’ so I’m holding you to it.”

Clark gave a small, reluctant smile. “Okay, but let’s keep the names simple. No family names, and definitely nothing too… out there.”

You smirked. “No promises. I’m sure Jimmy would be jumping for joy if we named a boy after him.”

He shook his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I’m guessing he’d also want dibs on picking the middle name.”

You rested your forehead against his, the weight of everything between you feeling a little lighter. For the first time in weeks, the future didn’t seem so uncertain.

You grinned. “You know, if we’re really doing this whole ‘parent’ thing, maybe you should think about making it official. You know… marriage and all that.”

Clark’s brow lifted, a slow smile spreading. “Jumping ahead a little, aren’t we?”

“Hey,” you said with mock seriousness, “it’s the logical next step.”

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

[cronasluvr]

an architecture of need.

clark kent x male reader.

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. he doesn’t just love you with his words. he loves you with the full strength of him. over and over again.

𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓. headcanon / blurb collection [1.7k].

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. male reader 〳 corenswet!clark 〳 established relationship 〳top!clark 〳 bottom!reader 〳 cockwarming 〳 size kink 〳 belly bulging 〳 cumplay 〳 overstimulation 〳 deep penetration 〳 worship (of reader’s body + clark’s body) 〳 soft dom!clark 〳 dirty talk 〳 fingering 〳 muscle kink 〳rimming (r!receiving) 〳body worship 〳 post-sex intimacy 〳 reader has a gaping, cum-leaking hole 〳 clark cums a lot

What the Body Remembers

He kisses you like he’s sorry he wants you this much. Fucks you like he never learned how to stop needing. Clark Kent isn’t unaware of his body—the strength of it, the size, the way people look—but he never uses it to dominate. Not unless you ask. Not unless you beg. When he’s inside you, he’s not a god or a weapon. He’s a man. One who loves you, fills you, touches you like a prayer said every night in private. One who breaks your body open with reverence, and then makes pancakes. This is what it’s like to be undone by Superman.

Muscle Memory

He fucks you slowly at first, like he's afraid of being too much. He knows how big he is, how your stomach bulges when he presses in just right. He sees the way your back arches, the way your mouth parts, trembling and breathless, already stuffed so full of him. And he still asks if you're okay. Always. Softly. A kiss at your temple, even while you're shaking. But then there's the moment he hears your breath hitch and sees you look down. Sees you watching your own belly stretch with the obscene outline of his cock. Something flips. That quiet awe in his chest turns into hunger. He rocks into you harder, the bed frame groaning under both your bodies. He watches your thighs start to quiver. Watches your hands scrabble for anything—him, the sheets, your own cock— and he doesn’t stop. Just breathes heavy and praises you, voice thick with arousal. “You take me so good, baby,” he whispers. “Every time, I swear, you fit around me like you were made to. Just perfect.”

Worship

Sometimes he’ll slow down just to admire you like this. Not during foreplay—no, during. When you're already panting under him, hips slick and hole drooling with the stretch, and his cock keeps pressing deeper. He palms your thighs with reverence, kisses down your chest like you’re some sacred thing. Big hands spreading your legs wider. Thumbs digging into the softest parts of you. He’ll murmur things under his breath that make your skin feel hot and holy. “Love your body,” he says. “So soft. So pretty. All mine. And when you clench around him at the praise, he fucking smiles.

Making His Mark

He cums too much. Always has. The first time he stayed the night, you woke up sore and leaking and still full—because you’d passed out before he’d even finished cleaning you up. Kryptonian stamina. He apologized with breakfast in bed and a guilty smile, but when you told him you liked it, he blushed so hard it reached his ears Now it’s become part of the routine. Every time he finishes, he stays inside, grinding in shallow, greedy circles like he’s trying to fuck it all in deeper. The sheets stained, your thighs sticky, your hole raw and red and dripping down the curve of your ass. He watches you try to crawl away, boneless and overstimulated “You can’t just… fill me like that,” you mutter, dizzy. “You’re right,” he says. “I should do it again.”

Spent

He loves looking at you after. Really looking. Your chest rising and falling in slow, wrecked rhythm. Your lips parted, your eyes glazed, your thighs still twitching from the aftershocks. His cum leaking from your hole in thick, messy ropes, all down your skin, soaking into the sheets. You always look ruined, used, perfect. He touches you like he’s not sure he deserves the sight. Just drags a hand down your chest, your thigh, breath caught in his throat. You’re gaping, still stretched wide around the memory of him, and he swears under his breath every time. He brings a hand between your legs and drags two fingers through the mess. Shudders when you whimper from the touch. “Jesus,” he whispers. “Look what I did to you.”

Muscle Memory II

Clark’s a big man. And when you worship him—really let your hands explore the stretch of his abs, the thick strength of his thighs, the wide expanse of his chest—he gets flustered. Because he doesn’t expect it. He doesn’t think you see him like that. But you do. You kiss the line of his stomach, trace your tongue up to the cleft between his pecs, and he sucks in a breath every time. “You’re beautiful,” you say. He huffs out a laugh, ducking his head. “You think so?” You palm him through his briefs—heavy, half-hard, already huge— and smile up at him. “I know so.” When you finally get him naked, you take your time. You kneel between his legs, run your hands across every inch of that body, skin warm and golden under your palms. You stroke his cock slow—long, thick, flushed pink at the tip—and tell him how good he looks like this, hard and wanting for you. “I want you inside me,” you whisper. “Want you to fuck me open with this big fucking thing. Want you to fill your boyfriend with all that cum until it’s dripping out of me.” His breath hitches. And then he gives you exactly what you asked for. "Sweet heaven."

Where You Go Softest

There’s something about your body that Clark loves with aching intensity. Your thighs, especially. He says they’re his favorite place to rest his head, his hands, his mouth. You’ve seen him fuck himself stupid just from the sight of you spread open, thighs trembling, your cock flushed and leaking against your belly. He grabs handfuls of your ass while he thrusts, steady and deep, burying his face in your neck to muffle the sounds he makes. Sometimes he just moans your name like a broken prayer. “Could stay inside you forever,” he pants. “You feel so fucking good, sweetheart. Squeezing me like that, fuck.” And when he’s just eating you out? Forget it. He’s obsessed. Tongue buried in your hole, big hands pinning your hips down, leaving finger-shaped bruises across your ass as he devours you like he’s starved. He doesn’t stop until your cock’s twitching untouched on your stomach and your thighs are shaking around his ears.

Without Harm

When he holds you down, it’s not with force. It’s with care. Clark cradles your waist with one hand, the other under your ass to angle your hips up, and it’s almost absurd how easy it is for him to manhandle you. He could bend you in half with one arm, pin your wrists above your head with a single hand, keep you in place while his cock drills deep. But he never rushes. Even when he’s fucking you hard: sweat beading at his temples, his broad chest slick and flexing over yours—he checks in. A hand brushing your cheek. A kiss between thrusts. A question, murmured against your throat. “Still good, baby? Can you take more?” You always say yes. Even when your body’s shaking. Even when your hole is raw and stretched wide open, swallowing him deeper than you ever thought you could take. He presses a hand to your lower belly and moans when he feels himself inside you. “God. That’s me.”

Overflow

Clark doesn’t need toys. Doesn’t need anything but you on your back, legs spread, begging him to go slow while your body contradicts you and sucks him in. He’s thick from tip to base, flushed and heavy, the kind of cock that curves just enough to ruin you. You’ve never been able to take him all at once, not without working up to it. He helps; spit, fingers, gentle coaxing—and still, every time, your body trembles when he breaches you. “You’re doing so good,” he whispers, rocking his hips. “Let me in. Let me fill you up.” And he does. You feel him for hours after. His cum drips out of you long after he’s pulled out—thick, cloudy, sticky strings that leave you ruined between the legs. Sometimes you can’t even close your thighs properly. Sometimes he doesn’t pull out at all. You’ll feel it trickle out when you’re washing dishes or putting on pants, and he’ll catch you pausing with a faraway look in your eyes and murmur, “Still leaking?”

Evidence of Him

He never tires of seeing you like this. Sprawled out beneath him, wrecked. Limbs slack. Hole gaping. His come dripping out in slow, shiny streaks down the curve of your ass and the inside of your thighs. Clark watches. He runs his hand down your spine, dips his fingers between your cheeks, and hums at the sight of your trembling rim, twitching open, pink and raw and leaking. He never says much. Just soft sounds of awe. A whispered “Christ,” maybe, or “You look perfect like this.” Sometimes he spreads you open again just to see it. To see how loose you are. How thoroughly he’s fucked you. How your hole flutters like it misses him already. “You need me again?” he asks, almost innocent. Thumb still dragging through the mess he left. You nod. Of course you do. He’s already hard again.

The Unravel

It doesn’t take long to unravel. Clark can take you standing up, bent over the sink, pressed against the wall, or face down in bed with a pillow under your hips. Every angle stretches you in new ways. Every time feels like the first time. Sometimes it’s fast. You’re soaked already, hungry for him, and he’s in you with one smooth thrust. Sometimes it’s slower. Long strokes, deep grinding, his hand around your cock while he fills you. Your body doesn’t know what to do with him. It tries to reject the stretch, even as your moans get louder, your back arches, your legs shake. And when you come: ruined, overstimulated, voice cracking from how hard you cry out. Clark follows with a deep, full groan. He never pulls out.

Rest, Ripe, and Heavy

Afterward, he’s always starving. You’re still trying to catch your breath, still aching and loose and wrecked, and Clark’s already pulling on a pair of sweats, padding barefoot into the kitchen. You call after him. “Can you give me like five minutes before you start making dinner?” He pops his head back in, cheeks pink, curls messy. “I wasn’t gonna make dinner,” he says. “Just a snack.” You laugh, rubbing your stomach. “You just blew my back out.” He shrugs, sheepish. “I’m still a growing boy.” You roll your eyes and tell him to come back to bed, and he does, climbing under the sheets with you, hand pressed to your belly, whispering he’s sorry for how sore you’ll be tomorrow. He’s not sorry.

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

[cronasluvr]

﹌⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆⊹ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆﹌

Have you ever thought how Mark would react if he had a boyfriend that's husband material? 🤔

Imagine the reader likes to help Debbie out whenever he feels like it, and Mark is watching him help Debbie and thinks to himself, " I NEED husband him up ASAP. "

﹌⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆⊹ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆﹌

This is kinda related to the fic that was about my request but eh!!

– Number 1 fan!! 🌊 anon

HUSBAND MATERIAL

pairing mark grayson x male reader

in which mark grayson realizes two things: (1) his sharp-tongued, emotionally constipated boyfriend is absolutely husband material, and (2) he might actually combust if he doesn’t put a ring on it soon.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro , @cynvia

the first time you met debbie, mark was a mess. not because he thought you wouldn’t like her—no, he knew you’d love her, because debbie was impossible not to love—but because his brain kept conjuring up worst-case scenarios. what if she brought up that time he cried during titanic when he was twelve? what if she mentioned his weird phase where he tried to grow a mustache and failed spectacularly? what if she pulled out the baby photos?

he could already see it—debbie grinning, oblivious, while you slowly turned to him with that razor-sharp look of yours, the one that said "i will never let you live this down." your eyebrow would arch, just slightly, and mark would have to resist the urge to phase through the floor in embarrassment.

but instead, you surprised him. you shook her hand with that same quiet confidence you carried everywhere, offered her a rare, barely-there smile, and said, "it’s nice to finally meet you, mrs. grayson." your voice was even, polite, but there was something underneath it—respect, maybe even warmth.

and just like that, debbie’s eyes lit up. "oh, sweetheart, call me debbie," she said, already pulling you into a hug you didn’t stiffen away from (which, coming from you, was basically a declaration of love).

mark exhaled, watching as you let debbie fuss over you without so much as a sarcastic remark—which, coming from you, was also basically a miracle. there was something painfully tender about the way you tolerated her motherly instincts, how you didn’t pull away when she fixed your collar or how you actually listened when she started rambling about mark’s childhood like it wasn’t the most embarrassing thing in the world.

his chest felt too tight. you were always so guarded with everyone else, all sharp edges and dry comebacks, but here you were—letting his mom drag you into the kitchen to "help" (which really meant her talking your ear off while you chopped vegetables with terrifying precision). and the worst part? you liked her. he could tell by the way your shoulders relaxed just a fraction, by the barely-there quirk of your lips when she laughed.

god, you were going to be insufferable about this later. not because you’d tease him (though you definitely would), but because now you had leverage. now you knew exactly how to make him melt—just by being nice to his mom, of all things.

mark was so, so screwed.

mark leans against the doorway, watching the way your hands move with knife-sharp efficiency against the cutting board. the afternoon light catches the silver band of your watch—the one debbie gave you for your birthday—as your wrists flick in perfect rhythm. there's something intimate about seeing you like this, sleeves pushed up to reveal those faint scars across your forearms, the ones you never explain but he's traced with his lips countless times. your brows knit together in concentration, but your mouth is softer than usual, not quite smiling but... settled. at peace. it's a good look on you, mark thinks.

debbie bumps her shoulder against yours, flour-dusted fingers gesturing wildly as she recounts mark's pancake disaster. "the smoke alarm went off three times," she giggles, and you make that sound—not quite a laugh, just air rushing through your nose as you keep chopping carrots with military precision. but then you surprise mark by muttering, "he still burns toast at least twice a week," without even looking up, and debbie gasps like you've just handed her classified information.

mark's mouth falls open. you're gossiping. with his mom. the same you who usually communicates in grunts before coffee is now quietly adding, "last tuesday he tried to make grilled cheese in the microwave," and debbie leans in closer as if you were whispering the secrets of the universe. "let's just say i have to buy a new one."

"markus sebastian grayson!" she shrieks, while you finally glance up just to shoot him that smug, knowing look—the one that should annoy him but just makes his pulse stutter instead.

it's terrifying how easily you fit here, between the chipped tiles and his mom's laughter. the same way you fit into mark's life without him even realizing—leaving his favorite energy drinks in the door pocket of the fridge where he always looks first, or how you "accidentally" buy too many of those awful snacks he likes whenever you grocery shop. you pretend it's coincidence when you throw his wrinkled shirts in the dryer before school the next day, when you leave ibuprofen and water on his nightstand after particularly rough patrols.

and god, the way you take care of his mom too—replacing her favorite spatula when it breaks before she even notices, memorizing how she takes her tea (two sugars, splash of milk, in the robin egg blue mug because it "tastes better" that way). you roll your eyes when she hugs you but never actually dodge it, and mark's pretty sure you've developed some kind of silent communication system where you just know when the other needs coffee or space or someone to listen.

your knife hits the cutting board with steady thunks, the rhythm syncopated with debbie's laughter as she dramatically recounts more of mark's childhood failures. you're not smiling, not really, but there's something unbearably soft in the way your shoulders relax, in the quiet "tch" you make when she tries to sneak more vegetables onto your cutting board. mark presses his temple against the doorframe, overwhelmed by how badly he wants to freeze this moment—you in his mother's kitchen, sunlight catching the silver in your watch, looking for all the world like you belong here.

mark presses a palm to his sternum like he can physically hold in the swell of emotion threatening to crack him open. it's too much. you're too much. this version of you that exists between the space of his childhood home and his mother's affection, this you that lets yourself be soft in ways no one else gets to see. it makes him want to fold you into his arms and never let go, makes him want to kiss the frown lines between your brows until they smooth out forever.

debbie wipes her hands on her apron, glancing at the clock. "oh! i almost forgot! i need to send some documents to a client," she says, already moving toward the stairs. "don't burn the kitchen down while i'm gone." the wooden steps creak under her hurried footsteps, leaving just the two of you in the warm, spice-scented kitchen.

the rhythmic tap of your knife against the cutting board fills the silence. mark watches the way your fingers curl protectively around the onion, how your wrist flicks with each precise slice. he pushes off the doorway and drifts closer, drawn to you like gravity. when he reaches to steal a piece of carrot from your neat little piles, you smack his hand away without even looking.

"you're staring," you mutter, the knife flashing as you dice the onion into perfect slices. your tone is flat, but mark doesn't miss the way your ears have gone slightly pink.

"can't help it," he grins, crowding into your space anyway. his chest presses against your back as he peers over your shoulder. "you're cute when you're all domestic. look at you, so caring and nurturing."

you elbow him in the ribs, but there's no real force behind it. "shut up. if you're just going to stand there, make yourself useful." you jerk your head toward the pile of unpeeled potatoes in the sink.

mark makes a show of sighing dramatically but grabs the peeler anyway. he bumps his hip against yours as he takes up position at your side, close enough that your sleeves brush with every movement. "so," he says, scraping at a stubborn potato eye, "you and my mom, huh? trading my deepest secrets even though i'm right here?"

you huff, but he sees the corner of your mouth twitch. "she started it." the admission comes grudgingly, like you're confessing to a crime. your knife stills for just a second before you add, quieter, "she's... nice."

the simple words make mark's chest go tight. he watches the way your shoulders relax when you think no one's looking, the careful attention you pay to making each vegetable slice even. when he bumps your shoulder gently, you don't pull away—just grumble something about "personal space" while continuing to let him lean against you.

the potato peelings pile up in the sink as mark works, his movements slower than yours but just as focused. every so often, he'll "accidentally" flick water at you, grinning when you scowl but don't actually move away. the kitchen fills with the sounds of sizzling oil, the scrape of knives, and the quiet, comfortable silence that only comes when two people know each other down to their bones.

mark's voice comes out softer than he means it to, fingers stilling against the half-peeled potato in his hands. "i wasn't lying though," he murmurs, letting his temple rest against the curve of your shoulder. he can feel the warmth of you through the fabric of your turtleneck, can smell that stupidly expensive cologne you pretend you don't care about. when he tilts his head up, you're already looking down at him—and there it is. that fleeting, unguarded expression you only ever wear when you think no one's watching, all quiet wonder and something painfully tender. your knife has stopped mid-chop, fingers frozen around the handle.

"you look relaxed and handsome like this," mark whispers, watching with delight as your ears go pink. you open your mouth, no doubt to deliver some scathing remark, but all that comes out is a flustered huff before you pointedly return to decimating the vegetables. mark doesn't miss how your shoulders hunch slightly, how you're suddenly very invested in making sure each carrot slice is perfectly even. he grins, pressing a quick kiss to your flushed cheek before going back to his potatoes, cheeks warm.

the moment shatters when debbie sighs dramatically from the doorway, arms crossed over. "look at the two of you," she coos, leaning against the counter with a smirk that spells trouble. "peeling potatoes together like some old married couple. should i start calling you my son-in-law now, [y/n], or do i have to wait for the official paperwork?"

you nearly slice your finger clean off. "mrs. grayson," you hiss, voice strangled, while mark chokes on his own spit. but debbie just waves a hand, eyes sparkling as she takes in the way you're both flushed to the tips of your ears, how mark's fingers have tangled unconsciously in the hem of your shirt.

"i'll be looking forward to the day you two get married," she continues breezily, nudging mark with her hip as she steals a slice of cucumber. "that way [y/n] can't make any more excuses as to why he can't call me mom." she pops the vegetable in her mouth with a wink, utterly pleased with herself when you make a noise like a deflating balloon.

mark watches, equal parts horrified and endeared, as you stare at debbie with wide eyes, knife dangling limply from your fingers. your mouth opens and closes several times before you finally manage a strangled, "that's—you can't just—" before giving up entirely, turning back to the cutting board with enough force to worry about the structural integrity of the vegetables.

"mark," you finally grit out after a long pause, shoulders tense, "control your mother."

but mark's too busy pressing his face into your back to muffle his laughter, arms wrapping around your waist as debbie cackles in the background. he can feel your heartbeat rabbiting against his cheek, can feel the way you're trying (and failing) to suppress your own smile. and when you eventually elbow him halfheartedly, muttering something about "insufferable graysons," it's with the same careful gentleness you reserve just for them.

his mom's words echo in mark’s head long after she’s left the kitchen to relax and drink wine. married. son-in-law. the concepts should feel too big, too soon, but they slot into his chest like they’ve always belonged there. the knife slips in his grip, nicking his thumb—invincible, brought to his knees by the mental image of you rolling your eyes at him over shared tax documents.

and that’s when it hits him, sudden and certain as sunrise:

i need to husband him up asap.

because you’re it for him. the way you patch up his wounds after missions with clinical precision but trembling fingers, how you always know exactly where to aim your grapple hook to catch him when he’s falling. the way you pretend to hate his terrible jokes but he’s seen the way you scribble them down later in that little black notebook of yours. you fit against his life like a puzzle piece he didn’t know was missing—grumbling through morning patrols together, bickering over takeout containers in the fridge, your pinky secretly linking with his under movie theater armrests.

mark wants it all. wants to memorize the exact shade of your scowls and loving looks at 6 AM, wants to keep finding your bobby pins (for emergencies like picking a lock according to you) mixed in with his spare change, wants to grow old—

the thought stutters like a skipped record.

because he can't.

you can. you're human—all fragile bones and fleeting heartbeats, temporary in ways that make his ribs ache. the knife slips again, drawing a thin red line across his knuckle, but he barely registers the sting. not when the realization crashes over him like a tidal wave: he'll still look like this when time etches silver into your hair, when laugh lines frame your mouth like parentheses around all your secret smiles. he'll order your stupidly complicated coffee (double shot, chocolate dusting, exactly three ice cubes) for centuries after you're gone, and the weight of that knowledge leaves him breathless.

but then your hands are there—always there—pressing a bandage over his careless wound with that familiar scowl. "idiot," you mutter, but your fingers linger against his pulse point a second too long. and mark thinks—if forever isn't written in the stars for them, he'll carve it into every moment you share. he'll love you with the desperation of a sunflower clinging to sunlight, memorizing the way your eyelashes cast shadows at noon and how your throat moves when you swallow your too-sweet tea.

"what's that look for?" you grumble, swiping a thumb across his cheekbone. there's flour in your hair (from you helping with baking dessert earlier), he notices, dusting your strands like premature gray, and the sight punches a wounded noise from his chest.

mark catches your wrist, pressing his lips to the delicate bones beneath your skin. "nothing," he murmurs against your knuckles, tasting salt and dish soap. "just thinking about how much i love you."

you make that tch sound he adores, but your fingers slot between his like they were made to fit there. "sentimental fool," you mutter, but the way your thumb strokes absent circles against his wrist betrays you.

he chuckles, nosing at the sensitive spot behind your ear—the one that makes you shiver—and you immediately shove at his face with your free hand. "don't you dare—" but it's too late; he's already mouthing at your jugular, teeth scraping just hard enough to make your breath hitch. you taste like home and that bergamot shampoo you pretend you don't carefully select. when he soothes the bite with his tongue, you groan but tilt your head to give him better access, fingers tightening in his hair like you can't decide whether to push or pull. good thing for you (and for him or else you would've kicked his ass), your turtleneck can hide the love bite that was forming.

"asshole," you mutter halfheartedly, but you're leaning into him anyway, the side of your head resting against his when he finally settles for wrapping his arms around your waist and his chin on your shoulder. he can feel your heartbeat against his chest, steady and alive and here.

after a quiet moment, you clear your throat awkwardly. "i... reserved that table at le bernardin. tomorrow. seven sharp." you won't meet his eyes, focusing very intently on rearranging the chopped vegetables into unnecessarily precise lines. "don't be late. again." the unspoken 'i know you've been stressed lately so i got us a table at your current favourite restaurant' hangs between you, soft and vulnerable in ways you rarely allow. good thing mark's good at speaking your language.

mark's throat tightens. this is how you love—in practical gestures and gruff concern, in remembering his favorite comics and hyper fixations and pretending it's no big deal. he presses his smile into your shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of your detergent and that faint metallic hint from your throwing knives. "yes, dear," he teases, just to watch your ears turn pink. now he's thinking if gold would look good on you. of course it would, everything would look good on you. he just needs to find out which one you'd prefer.

and as he watches you meticulously wipe down the counter—always cleaning up his messes, always staying—mark thinks, yeah. he's definitely going to put a ring on it.

heyyy 🌊 anon! finally got to your request and i’m so glad you asked for this because god, we all need more of this soft, domestic fluff in our lives. spent two hours pouring my soul into this 2.8k one-shot and loved every second of it—like, please, i need this. i need markus sebastian grayson’s dumb ahh in my life. and debbie?? absolute queen. would let her adopt me in a heartbeat. would literally lover her as a mother-in-law :']

[cronasluvr]

grab your chain danglin' from above

Jason Duval x male reader smut

2.5k words

Warning for bottom male reader, unspecified drug deals, pat-down searches, and rough sex.

You meet up with Jason to make a deal, but it all goes south when he gets suspicious that you're trying to bust him.

“You wearin’ a wire?” Jason asked, interrupting your train of thought as your fingers skimmed through your wallet. 

“What?” You responded, flicking your eyes up before going back down into your wallet, starting your count of the money you owed again.

You heard the heavy thump of Jason’s footsteps as he walked up, “are you wearin’ a fuckin’ wire?” He repeated slowly. 

You pulled your eyes away as you slid your wallet back into your pocket, holding the money out in front of you. But this close, it looked like the money you owed him was the last thing Jason was thinking about. 

You tried to smile to ease the tension, “I’m not wearing a wire,” you said, holding out the money in front of you as a peace offering. 

The smile fell from your face when Jason snatched the money away, quickly counting it under his breath. You took a step forward as Jason moved towards the bed in the dingy motel room you agreed to meet at, but Jason swiftly halted the movement. 

Jason slammed your body back into the door, a hiss of pain falling from your lips when your body came into contact with the wood of the door. The money you gave him was tossed onto the bed, left in a pile by the bag he had pulled from his pocket.

“Hey man,” you brought your hands up in surrender, knowing that from how broad Jason’s shoulders were, there was no point in trying to push him off, “I’m not-”

“Take it off,” Jason interrupted, his hand balling up the front of your shirt in a tight fist. 

“What?” you whispered, your heart beating loudly in your chest. The rich scent of Jason’s cologne filled your nostrils, doing little to help your brain try to comprehend why he thought you were wearing a wire. 

Your apprehension only made Jason angrier, the man making the choice for you as he tore your shirt open. 

“I’m not wearing a fucking wire!” You yelled, spreading your arms so Jason could see your bare, wireless chest. 

“Turn around,” Jason commanded, making you roll your eyes. 

“Fine,” you said, doing a slow turn, “you owe me a new shirt,” you grumbled, holding onto the sides of the shirt as it started to slide down your shoulders. 

You couldn’t hold in your gasp as Jason’s hands moved around your hips, his fingers skimming underneath the waistband, still seemingly searching for the wire. 

“These too,” Jason said. 

“Seriously?” You asked, craning your neck to look at the other man. 

You had never seen a man look so serious as you looked at Jason’s face, and to avoid walking out of the motel room with a ripped pair of pants, you did as you were told. You turned to face Jason, holding eye contact as you angrily kicked away your pants, too pissed off to feel silly about the action.

“Happy?” You asked, arms crossed over your chest. 

You watched Jason’s chest fall as he let out a breath through his nose. His hands went back to your hips, once again running his hands around your hips, this time, much slower and with greater purpose. 

This time, when Jason’s fingers went under your waistband, he came into full contact with your skin instead of your underwear. Rough and calloused fingers ran across the sensitive skin of your hips, your teeth sinking into your lower lip as you held back another gasp. 

“These too,” Jason repeated, his voice low. Jason’s fingers pulled free as yours moved, your eyes watching in confusion as Jason stepped away.

He turned his back towards you as you pulled your underwear down, the sound of a bag crinkling signaling his movement. You covered yourself after your underwear joined your pants on the floor, not wanting Jason to see the state you were in. 

It wasn’t the fact that you were naked, necessarily, but that you were half-hard. What could you say? A man giving you orders really gets you going. 

Jason returned with a small bottle held in his hand, “turn around,” he said, not giving you the chance to figure out what he held. “Wait,” he said with a chuckle, his free hand pulling what was left of your shirt off. 

You let your hand rest on the wood of the door, your body going tense as you tried to fight back a shiver from the cool air of the motel room. Your hands scrambled to find purchase on the flat surface when Jason kicked your feet apart, your cock left dangling uncovered between your legs. 

From your shoulders to your lower back, Jason ran his hands down your body. He must have been crazy, you thought, to still be looking for a fucking wire. You were unable to hold back the noise you made when his hands went lower, one hand spreading your ass cheeks, while the other he used to run the dry pad of his finger across your hole. 

When it didn’t give under his finger, Jason’s hands pulled away. This time, they hooked over your shoulders, his fingers digging roughly into the tense muscle. “Relax,” Jason whispered into your ear, lips brushing the shell as his fingers worked. 

Jason’s breath puffed against the back of your neck, moving further away as you felt your shoulders drop, “maybe,” you heard the click of a cap before a few moments later his finger returned, “this’ll help,” he said, a smirk evident in his voice as the wet pad of his finger ran across the furl of your hole. 

“You really think a wire is in there?” You bit out, trying to adjust to the thick intrusion. 

“Only one way to find out,” Jason said, finger going in deeper. 

You could faintly hear the hum of the air conditioner pumping cool air into the room, louder than your gasping as Jason’s finger kept going in. You opened your mouth, attempting to ask just how long his finger was, but of course, that's the moment he found your prostate. 

Jason didn’t even let the full sound of your moan come out before his hand was covering your mouth, muffling the noise as it ended. “I think I found something better,” he said with a deep chuckle. 

Encouraged by the sound, Jason’s finger pulled free before it plunged back in, faster than it had before. His hand remained in place as you let out another moan, your cock filling out as pleasure rocked your body.

When Jason pulled his finger free once more, a second joined the first. You groaned against the hand over your mouth, the burn of his thick fingers almost feeling as if it’d be too much. 

“Shh,” Jason cooed into your ear, his hand moving down your body to wrap around your cock. If your erection had flagged from the pain, Jason’s fist around your cock made quick work in stroking it back to full hardness. 

His hand around your cock moved at a snail’s pace as his fingers kept moving inside you. You moaned through the stretch of his fingers as he spread them apart, even if a part of you was still apprehensive. If this is what only two of his fingers felt like, you couldn’t imagine three, or his cock. 

Your cock twitched in Jason’s hand, mouth nearly watering just at the thought of his cock. If it were anything like his body, it would make you forget all about the deal you were supposed to be making. 

“Fuck,” Jason groaned behind you, his hand wrapped tight around the base of your cock, “how’re you still so tight?” he asked as he added a third finger. 

You felt full, satisfyingly so, and you couldn’t help but clench down on his fingers. You pushed back the little distance you could on his fingers, brushing against the bulge in Jason’s pants.

“Fucking- hold on,” Jason said, pulling his fingers free faster than you expected. 

Your hole clenched around nothing as you turned your head to see where Jason had gone. He was only a few steps away, giving you the perfect view to watch as he wrestled his pants open to get his cock out. 

Your imagination didn’t amount to how big it actually was. It protruded from his open pants, standing at full attention. It swayed and bobbed in the air as he turned the rifle back through the bag from earlier until he produced a small packet. 

“You brought that with you?” You asked as you watched him tear the small square packet open. 

“Always gotta be prepared,” Jason answered, a smirk on his face when you were finally able to tear your eyes away from his cock. He rolled the rubber down his cock slowly, unable to help the disappointment you felt that he wouldn’t let you do it. 

“There’s a perfectly good bed right there,” you said, your eyes flicking over Jason’s shoulder to the bed where the bag and pile of cash lay.

Jason let out a huff of protest, like he instead wanted to fuck you through the door. He nodded over to the bed, his hand slowly stroking lube over his cock. 

You could only take a few steps over before Jason was slamming you down face-first into the bed, narrowly missing the bag. You turned to send the man a glare, hating the way your cock throbbed at the site. There was something about a man counting money with his hard cock out moments away from fucking you that you liked, you realized. 

Satisfied with the amount, Jason placed the money and the bag on top of the table beside the bed. You watched in anticipation as Jason stepped up to the bed, maneuvering your body onto your hands and knees. 

He teased your hole, rubbing the head of his cock along your entrance, slicking up the cleft of your ass. You both groaned when the head of his fat cock pressed inside. It felt like you could barely breathe, and it was just the head Jason had inside. 

You reached back to grip Jason’s jean-clad thigh, feeling denim and heat. Unable to hold yourself up on one arm, you fell face-first into the bed, your cheek coming into contact with soft cotton. 

You dug your nails into the pants Jason wore, his hand coming to rest over yours. As he bottomed out, he pulled your hand from his thigh by the wrist, his other hand gathering the other one so he could grip them both behind your back in one of his large hands. 

Fully at Jason’s mercy, the time you had to adjust to his cock was decided by him. However, he aided you in making you feel more comfortable with small circles of his hips, his cock still deep inside you. The movement jostled your prostate in short brushes, sending sparks of pleasure through your body. 

Jason pulled his cock free in a torturously slow movement, your hole once again clenching down on nothing when it was pulled free. The next thrust was harder and faster, punching a moan from your chest as Jason’s balls came to rest on your ass. 

You swore you could feel his cock in your stomach as you clenched down, the burn of it from as you adjusted quickly becoming pleasure. You didn’t move against the hold Jason had on your hands, not even pushing back against the next thrust he gave. 

Jason’s cock expertly met your prostate, sending waves of pleasure that started from your head that went down your whole body. It centered itself in your cock, making your balls draw up tight. 

His thrusts grew animalistic, pausing momentarily to change positions, causing the bed to dip as he brought his foot up on the bed. His hand moved from your wrists up your back to grip tightly onto your shoulder. His hold skirted along the lines of pain and pleasure, knowing that if the grip didn’t leave a physical mark, you would be feeling it later for days.

The headboard banging against the wall, moving in time to the rhythmic creak of the cheap springs beneath your combined weight. If earlier, when Jason had covered your mouth because he didn’t want anyone to hear through the door, he didn’t seem to mind now. If anyone was unfortunate enough to be in one of the neighboring rooms or happened to walk past the door, they would know exactly what was going on inside. 

You moved a hand between your legs, moving to wrap your fingers around the base of your cock to try and stave off your orgasm. But it was the biggest mistake you could make if that was your goal, because just from the brush of your fingers had your orgasm racing through you. 

You came with a loud cry, the sound being absorbed by the cotton below your mouth. The aftershocks that Jason fucked you through had your mouth falling open as you sucked in heavy breathes as you came down from such an intense rush. Drool fell from your mouth as they racked your body, quickly going cold against your skin like the mess of cum that stained the sheets between your legs. 

When it neared the point of being too great, the smack of Jason’s hips against your ass began to falter. Both hands moved to grip your hips, strong even through the sheen of sweat. After a few stuttered off thrusts, Jason came with a loud moan, his heavy weight collapsing on top of you as he filled up the condom. 

You fell into the cold mess below your hips, your soft cock giving a twitch. If you weren’t going to get hard again now, you surely would later to the thoughts of the noises Jason made when he came. 

Though Jason’s weight on top of you was crushing, you nearly let out a noise of protest when he rolled off, his softening cock slipping free. 

You turned to look at Jason, watching the way he pillowed his head below his hands. He looked fucked-out and wholly satisfied, and you knew that it was a sight you wouldn’t soon forget. 

You felt yourself slowly relax into the bed, not even bothered by the mess, “can I have my stuff now?” You asked. 

“It’s in the bag,” Jason responded, his eyes closed. 

The air conditioner went through two cycles before you eventually got up, your hands reaching for the money on top of the bag. 

“Ah ah ah,” Jason said as you went to set the cash down beside him, “think of it as a first customer discount,” he said as he sat up, “and here. Since I ruined the other one,” he said, taking off the button down he wore, leaving him with just a plain white shirt on top. 

“Thanks,” you said as he handed it over. You took the time to slowly button it up, instead of doing something stupid, like leaning over and kissing him. 

[cronasluvr]

“𝐎𝐅 𝐉𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓”﹙ 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐎. 𝐗 𝐌!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 ﹚

⋆˙⟡ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𓋰 ╭ 18+ ╮dom top miguel o’hara & sub bottom male reader ⓘ professor!miguel o’hara, college au, anal sex, jealous!miguel o’hara, gay, professor/student relationship, possessive, rimming (receiving), oral sex (receiving), loud moaning, unprotected sex, rough sex, no lube

I had to reupload this fic from when I was (@//miguelwhora). I posted it on Valentine's Day and decided to reupload it here again to see where my Miguel stans are.

Miguel never felt jealous until he encountered you in one of the courses he taught. He was always fixated on you, envisioning scenarios where you would plead him to intimately fuck you right there at the table, in front of everyone, to assert to whom you belong to. His jealousy arose when a new student joined his lecture late into the semester and sat beside you, observing the budding closeness between you and Miles.

You were uncertain about Miguel's feelings as he always wore a serious expression during his lectures. It was clear that you both had to keep your relationship discreet to avoid any implications on his job or accusations of favoritism. To maintain professionalism, you decided to keep your distance and interact with classmates, like Miles, who you quickly bonded with. Occasionally, Miguel would give you an odd stare, hinting to stay away from Miles. This new expression was unlike his usual demeanor, leaving you puzzled.

After class concluded, as students were exiting the classroom, you heard Miguel specifically request to speak with you privately by calling out, "Mr. (last name), may I have a moment of your time?" Miguel's demeanor was solemn and intense, with his gaze fixed on Miles, who lingered near the entrance door.

"Sorry, Professor, but could we discuss this at a later time or perhaps via email? I'm running late for my next lecture," you said, maintaining a professional tone in the presence of Miles.

"This is not open for debate. I need to speak with you now. Is that clear?" Miguel snapped, causing tension in the room. Despite Miles' attempts to calm the situation, Miguel's agitation only seemed to escalate. Observing Miguel's reaction, you felt uneasy but decided it was best for Miles to leave the classroom for the moment.

"Miles, go ahead. I'll catch up with you later. Just text me if you need assistance with the lecture," you assured Miles, urging him to go before he missed his next class. As the door closed, you found yourself being pulled towards the professor's desk, feeling the pressure on your wrist causing discomfort. You winced, noting the strength of Miguel's grip, as he led you to the table to address whatever was bothering him.

When he released your wrist, you gently rubbed it and winced at the lingering pain. Your face contorted in a scowl, but when you glanced up at Miguel, you saw his intense gaze filled with anger. Before you could question his sudden hostility, he enclosed both sides, blocking any escape route with his powerful arms. His intimidating stare both frightened and enraged you as he moved in closer, eliminating any remaining space between you. His eyes, initially fixed on yours, drifted down to your lips as he leaned in and kissed you.

You were powerless as Miguel took control of your lips, savoring every flavor. His actions were primal, his tongue exploring your mouth with a mix of licking and sucking, engaging in a battle for dominance that thrilled him. Eventually, he shifted his attention to your lips, continuing his sensual assault while simultaneously slipping a hand under your shirt to tease and play with your nipples, eliciting a pleasurable response from you. Observing your arousal, Miguel relished in the knowledge that he was the cause, enjoying the taste of your lips as he gently nibbled and tugged on them. Despite your evident excitement, he chose to halt his actions, not wanting to escalate the situation further.

As Miguel departed, leaving you yearning, you sensed an uncharacteristic teasing in his absence. "Why not reach out to Miles for more pleasure?" Miguel's words hinted at a hint of jealousy, implying a sense of betrayal with someone you had just met. After a brief moment of pondering, you realized that the typically stoic professor was indeed jealous.

"Could that be why you've been behaving unusually today? You know Miles-" Your sentence was interrupted by Miguel slamming his hands on the table and leaning in towards you. "Do not mention his name; it will only worsen my anger," Miguel interjected, his frustration evident from the bulging veins on his forehead.

"Remember, Miguel, you did express the desire to keep our relationship discreet in public. I have no acquaintance with Miles and would never flirt in front of you, as that would be deemed unfaithful, a behavior I do not condone. Do you truly believe I am capable of betraying your trust for someone I have no romantic interest in?"

You attempted to reassure him that there was no romantic involvement between you and Miles. However, every time Miles was brought up in conversation, he would become visibly agitated and might even act impulsively.

"Why’d you give that cabron your number? The only man’s number who should be on your phone is mine," he questioned possessively.

Refusing to entertain his jealous outburst, you calmly responded, "Please stop with the jealousy act. There is nothing going on between us. I only shared my number with him because a certain professor is a hard-ass with the assignments."

Prodding his chest lightly for emphasis, you issued one final warning, making it clear that you were no longer willing to entertain his irrational behavior.

“You know what tonight I’ll be sleeping in my dorm room. Have fun jerking off to the thought of me.” Despite your efforts to break free Miguel remained firmly in your space.

The expression on Miguel's face changed immediately after your comment, clearly upsetting him. Before you could respond, he abruptly turned you around and shoved you down onto the table. As you lay there, you felt his hands exploring your clothed ass. Suddenly, you noticed the fabric of your jeans tearing and felt a cool breeze on your exposed ass.

Before you could gather your thoughts, Miguel roughly spread your ass and began exploring your most intimate area with his tongue, sending waves of pleasure throughout your body. You were unable to utter a word to stop him, enchanted by the pleasure of his touch. As his tongue delved deeper, a moan escaped your lips, only to be met by Miguel's intense gaze. Your moans of pleasure grew louder as he continued his exploration, igniting a mutual excitement between you. Your right leg brushed against his growing bulge, heightening the intensity of the moment.

Miguel continued to pleasure you with his tongue, causing you to let out louder moans. You tried to stifle your sounds, but Miguel caught your hands and restrained them. "I want to hear you," he insisted, his voice deep and husky as he explored every inch of your hole.

You allowed Miguel to put aside the recent argument and focused on the sensation of his tongue exploring your body. The thought of him taking you right then and there consumed you, regardless of who might hear. Your mind raced with fantasies of how he could fuck you, but lost in the moment, you realized his tongue had stopped its motion.

"Why did you stop? It felt so good," you lamented.

Miguel's expression revealed a sly smile, relishing in the fact that you still desired him. He teased the idea of stopping, hinting at your behavior being inappropriate for a professor-student dynamic.

Despite his words, he couldn't resist your allure, wanting you to surrender and plead for more. "Maybe we should end this here. You're acting quite slutty. Do you have any sense of decency for your professor?" Miguel leaned in, arms crossed, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Miguel attempted to walk away, but you quickly grasped his forearm, locking eyes with him, and pleaded, "Please don't go. I need you."

Your words had the desired effect on Miguel, who seized your shirt collar and forcefully turned you on your back. As his hands explored your clothed chest, he tore off your shirt, leaving you naked sprawled on his desk. "This is how I want you, begging me for more," Miguel's deep voice resonated, eliciting a submissive response from you, causing goosebumps to form on your skin as you felt utterly vulnerable.

You watched as Miguel touched the bulge in his pants and began to tease it. "Is this what you wanted?" he taunted, but you remained fixated on his bulge, yearning to release his thick cock. "You can't even speak. You're completely hypnotized, acting like the dirty little slut that you are," Miguel sneered.

As Miguel unzipped his pants, the unmistakable sound caught your attention. You listened to the rustling of his hands as he revealed his erect cock, playfully teasing the entrance of your eager hole. Your soft whimper only fueled Miguel's arousal, as he observed, "You seem very eager. Do you crave this cock inside you?"

In that moment, all you could manage was a nod, consumed by the anticipation of his cock teasing your eager entrance. "Alright, precioso, I'll satisfy your hunger," Miguel murmured, spitting on his member before thrusting forcefully into you. Despite the initial discomfort, your cries were a blend of pleasure and pain. Miguel's actions were not gentle, fueled by lingering jealousy, but you welcomed it, accustomed to his size.

You felt Miguel's cock exploring and stretching your insides, his grunting moans turning you on. Deeper inside, he hit your sweet spot, making you moan even louder. "Miguel, please, keep hitting that spot," you begged. Excited, he continued to please you.

His movements quickened, his balls slapping against your ass. As Miguel picked up the pace, your moans grew louder, both of you enjoying the pleasure he was giving you. He was determined to be the only man to make you feel this good. Thrusting harder, the desk shook under his powerful movements. You tried to hold on to the edge of the desk, but Miguel lowered his body to match yours, wrapping your arms around him.

Miguel kissed you aggressively, his tongue dominating yours as his moans grew feral. "Tell me, whose ass is this?" he demanded. You struggled to speak, but gazing into his handsome face, you managed to reply, "It's yours, papi."

With forceful thrusts, Miguel made you feel pain mixed with pleasure, pulling out and plunging back in. Tears filled your eyes, but you welcomed the sensations. Pushed to the edge of the desk, your legs were lifted above your face as Miguel towered over you.

Miguel lifted your legs in the air, bracing himself on the table to maintain balance. He inserted his shaft into your backside, moving rhythmically against you. The weight of the position made your stomach feel heavy, yet you were too lost in passion to protest. Sweat coated your body from the intense experience, with droplets trickling down your face and lips, tasting salty and sweet.

"Amor, I'm close," Miguel murmured, his voice barely audible as he gazed into your eyes with a mixture of intensity and desire. His thrusts slowed briefly before quickening again.

"I'm almost there too," you replied, meeting his pace. Miguel embraced you tightly, his movements becoming deeper and faster. As he pressed into you, a moan escaped your lips, his arms enveloping your waist. Your bodies entwined, shifting under his weight until your back was against the desk. His eyes locked onto yours, dark and filled with longing, as he plunged deeper within you. Your hands gripped the table's edge, ready to climax. Miguel nuzzled your neck, delivering soft kisses that turned more intense, almost biting.

Miguel's deep grunts signaled his impending release. Holding onto him, his final thrust brought both of you to a climax, his body shuddering as he released inside you. You felt a surge of pleasure between your bodies, a mix of ecstasy and satisfaction.

Afterward, Miguel wiped himself clean with your torn shirt, collected you new clothes from his cabinet, and left you alone in the room. "Clean up and go to class," he instructed, his tone stern as he exited.

You dressed in the fresh clothes he left behind, muttering about his behavior. "What a dick."

[cronasluvr]

can you make a patrick bateman and male reader?

like reader is a suck up(aka good boy) for patrick and always wanting to please him?

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐍 — suck up

tw: manipulation, toxic relationship, 'friends' with benefits, office sex, scratching, cock stepping, kneeling, somewhat pet play, light use of good boy, collaring substitutes, choking, Patricks ego, some of y'all lowk didn't watch the movie

note: chat im flopping so hard

you were annoying to him. just another person getting in his way, gawking over him like a fruit fly suckling for juice.

you were always fluttering by him, buzzing like a bee. 'do you need anything Mr. Bateman?' , 'oh, i can get that for you, no worries!' , 'anything you want Mr. Bateman'

it was killing him, felt like you were constantly nagging and poking at the inside of his brain for God's sake couldn't you ever leave him alone?

but sometimes, he couldn't stand when you took days off. sure, everyone always got on his ass but he preferred when it was you. the way you'd perk up like a little dog when he called for you or even when you saw him.

that big smile you put on your face, you may as well stick your tongue out and breathe heavily like a dog. though, it wouldn't be as great as your heavy breathing close to his ear while your legs spread up in the air.

the way your feet would curl and the way you'd claw along his chest needily, your head shaking from side to side as if you were trying to clear your head from the overstimulation.

or the way you'd actually stick your tongue out when you were beanath his desk, his shoe stepping on your cock as it was hard and leaking through your black suit slacks.

when you'd melt at his small praises. "like this? do you like it like this?" your voice breathy and little tiny whimpers mixing in with your questions needy with validation. all he needed to say was you were being a good boy and you wouldn't let up.

you were surprisingly good at riding him, only issue was you broke his chair once.

he'd always make a habit of harshly grabbing at your waist, crescent shaped nail indents digging into your skin which would only make you speed up and chase more of that sickeningly sweet touch he gave you.

your head thrown back, obscene and obnoxious moans and grunts echoing off of his office walls. your button of slipping off your shoulders with that cock drunk expression on your face.

every single- "Mr. Bateman, Mr. Bateman!" was better than the music he'd constantly drown himself in.

sometimes he would make you crawl on the ground and put papers in your mouth and give them to him, and he'd only keep your tie on and tug it harshly. he'd enjoy looking at the way you'd gasp, that lovesick look in your eyes.

you were crazy, stupid, weird in his eyes. but you fueled his needs so desperately, and you probably didn't even know how high of an ego boost he got from you.

too bad you weren't in. such a shame—

"sorry im late Mr. Bateman, i promise i'll make it up to you." luckily you never, ever broke your promises.

[cronasluvr]

The creator is bonoimma ❤ @unini was the genius who suggested Please don't be mean Tumblr 🙏

You weren't sure what caused this to happen, or maybe you did.

The rivalry was mutual on both sides, shit talking the other team, taunting; just being toxic overall. You were more vocal than the rest of your team, cocky and screaming every curse in the English dictionary. Across the aisle, Iron Fist looked ready to pound you into the ground, while Spider-Man and Human Torch gave you a look. It was dark and lustful.

The round started, and it was chaos. While the rest of the teams were duking it out, you were suddenly snatched from the action by webs. The ropes of webs were pulled, leaving you to face Iron Fist, Spider-Man, and Human Torch.

Everything else after was a blur.

All that mattered was you being on your knees, naked, with Iron FIst, Spider-Man, and HT naked, stroking the hung cocks above you. Their muscular chests heaving as they stared down at your nude body, their groans filling the air, drowning out the fighting and explosions that were happening not so far away. Precum oozing from the cockheads, glistening their hung cocks as they smeared it.

"So hot," Spider-Man whispered, biting his lips as he used both hands to stroke his hung cock. He was breathless as he was the most vocal of the three, tilting his head back with his eyes rolled back from the debauchery.

"Damn right, the little bitch is better quiet." Iron Fist growled, breathing heavily as he fucked his palm. You looked much better like this in Iron Fist's eyes: naked and submissive. Maybe he'll put your mouth to use next time. He grumbles under his breath, punching the nearby wall, causing it to crack and shake, leaving a fist-sized crater.

"Are you trying to get us caught?" HT whispered as he pumped his cock. He didn't want to get caught with his pants down and masturbating, or maybe he does? The thrill of being caught by either teams made his cock throb and leak more precum, his heavy balls twitching.

You were somewhat lost in the lust, your cock bobbing up and down from the sight of three muscular men pleasuring themselves. You could tell their climax was approaching from the way their bodies were trembling and how they stroked.

The tension in the corner was cracking like a dam. Low groans and growls escaped their mouths as Iron Fist grabbed your hair and yanked you closer. Their fapping got aggressive, balls slapping against hands as the air got headier.

"Take our fucking cum." Iron Fist groans, stroking his cock faster, putting his arm around Spider-Man's shoulder for support. HT did the same, putting his arm on Spider-Man for support. You instinctively opened your mouth, waiting for your reward.

They could feel their balls tightening before hot ropes of cum spurted from the cockheads, coating your face and body with their thick, pearly white load. Spider-Man was the most vocal, followed by Iron Fist and HT. You happily swallowed any of the cum hitting your mouth, licking around your lips to swallow the remnants. The climax lasted for a couple of minutes as they stroke out any cum left.

You were definitely going to shit talk again.

Taglist: @spnfanboy777 @hiddens-eden @buckyshusband0 @zamfam4272 @maxxioislost @raspberryyuuki @furiousflowercreation @ghostking4m @sluttyhusband @wolf-knights @your-cow-boy @mack-thedork @starboye @boypied @sleep-0-deprived @cronasluvr

[cronasluvr]

SO, i want you to hear me out.

i have to remember all my stuff for re, but let's say we have Leon when he's still just starting out as a cop before he even goes to raccoon city and our beloved reader is a captain in the police department. Leon is a little tired after it all, filing cases and spending nights at the station. eventually the reader catches Leon while he's finishing up documenting a case and they finally get to talking. sooner rather than later they discover they share a couple hobbies and slowly they begin to talk. Leon is stressed and who else but the captain of the station is going to help him and reward him for his hard work?

PAIRING -> Leon S. Kennedy x M!Reader

SUMMARY -> Leon’s new, a rookie. He does his best, stays late to do and catch up on work, and is one of the best men you got even for him to be new. What happens when he finally gets to have a full conversation with his captain?

NSFW. MINOR’S DNI.

I wanna bite him.

You’ve only known him for about a month and he’s already your favorite. Yes, you’re well aware you shouldn’t be picking favorites, but he stays late, gets papers done quick, and does things he doesn’t need to be doing until a whole month. Meanwhile all the other “older” cops think they get an extra week to do something just because they’ve been there longer. Which was not true whatsoever.

Back to Leon, you’ve spoken to him a bit. Probably not as much as you should, but the thought counts. As far as you know, he’s a hard worker and is dedicated to do his best. But you can also see that he try’s a bit too much. You’ll need to tell him he can take a step back every once in a while.

It was another night, Leon already knew he was gonna have to stay a few extra hours. Sighing he opened up a folder, taking out the notes and documents that were inside. He took a quick look at the papers, going over them yet again. Just as he was about to pull another thing out of the folder, he heard footsteps. Which immediately alerted him. Turns out the footsteps were yours, you were getting ready to leave the station and go home. With you standing there, looking at Leon without saying or doing anything, it was beginning to get awkward. Soooo, you spoke up. Clearing your throat first. “Well,” you begin, starting to walk up to him. “I think we haven’t fully gotten to know each other.” He stared up at you, blinking a few times before responding.

“Oh! Uh..” Leon started, but never seemed to finish. Not knowing what question to ask or how to start off. He stood up, though. Holding his hand out to shake yours, which you did as well. You then started a conversation, first asking a question then following up with a statement. Which this went on for at least fifteen minutes. The both of you going back and forth, asking questions about one another; finding out that you had some things in common and have similar interests. The conversation was sweet, interesting. Yet it took a turn when you got closer to him. It was friendly, not purposely meant to intimidate him or anything. He continued to look up at you, struggling to keep his composure. Why the hell was this so difficult? You kept up the conversation, tried to. You, yourself were starting to get a little amped up. You couldn’t stop stealing looks at his lips, which was a problem. You were his captain, not his fuck buddy.

The sexual tension between you guys was so obvious and strong, but neither of you made a move. That was until you couldn’t take it anymore. Your thoughts ran through your mind and eventually went down to your cock.

He was a stressed out, tired, hardworking man. If you two were to do something, this one night probably wouldn’t mean anything. He needed something—someone to help him. Being not necessarily pent up but in need of some sort of relief. And you were there with him, alone, in an empty police station possibly flirting with him. Yeah, this wouldn’t mean anything, right? Wrong. Things escalated, you moved things out of the way on his desk. Once in the clear, the two of you moved back. Lips connected while grabbing at each other. When he got close enough, he sat himself up on his desk. Hands then coming up to the sides of your face—holding while the two of you kissed. You angled yourself, pressing against him in a way that he could feel you’re hard-on. “Mm..” he groaned, muffled by your lips. Should he be doing this? Absolutely not. Is he going to do it anyway and savor this moment? Yes.

“Y’feel what you do to me? God—“ you huffed, against his mouth. “You work so hard—fuckin’ perfect.”

Leon whined, shifting his position so that he could wrap his legs around you and pull you impossibly close. His hands went down to your belt, starting to quickly undo it. After that was out of the way he started on your pants. Which in the process you bucked into his touch without even realizing. You captured his lips again, this time the kiss was nothing but tongue and teeth. The two of you needed each other so bad you kept messing things up. Fumbling with taking off clothes, knocking things over, accidentally forgetting to do something. But in the end, he still got your cock shoved into him as if he was gonna disappear within seconds.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The sweet, sweet sounds that left Leon’s mouth were heavenly. Mouth open, eyes shut, and head back against the table. His legs were wrapped around your waist, purposely squeezing to pull you closer to him—get your cock deeper than it already was. “Such a hard worker, aren’t you? The moment you got here you worked, ‘n worked, ‘n worked.”

Leon whined, dick jumping and twitching at your words. He clenched around you—beginning to squirm. God, he was pretty. The way he reacted to your touch, praise, and whatever else you gave him. The sheen of sweat all over his body made him glisten in the dim light. Which just added onto the list of things that made him fucking beautiful. You dragged your hips back slowly, then pushed forward at the same pace. Your thrusts were slow, yes, but you made up for it by making sure you were deep inside him.

When you sped up your pace Leon cursed under his breath. The brutal pace catching him off guard.

“Shit!”

“Nothin’ you can’t take.” You cooed.

He breathed out a whimper—legs twitching. You leaned down over him, pressing your lips to his skin. His eyes were shut, it was all beginning to be too much. Your cock pushing into him at a relentless pace, your words, your touch. His dick leaked and throbbed—begging for some sort of attention. But it all felt good. It was something he deserved for working so much, so hard. “Oh- ohh..” Leon moaned. He clenched around you, gripping your cock. It caused a low groan to crawl from your throat. Your lips trailed up and up, pressing a kiss to his collarbone before sucking a hickey. Then moving on to his throat, forcing him to move his head up.

In a few minutes, Leon’s back was arching, his hands gripped the edge of the table he was on, and he was moving his hips up into the air as he came. Spurts of white shooting from his tip, and onto his chest; staining that area white. He huffed, chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. It didn’t help when you kept thrusting into him, even when your hips started to stutter and fuck up the rhythm you’d set. He began to squirm. A whine slipping from his spit slicked lips.

You moaned, hips jerking as you finally came. You filled him up with your cum, and watched as it soon started to leak and drip from his hole. He felt so full. Stuffed with your cock and your cum. “Fuck..” he whispered. It was silent for a few seconds, well, aside from you two trying to control your breathing. But once you got ahold of it, you leaned back down and whispered straight into his ear.

“We ain’t done.”

[cronasluvr]

Until The End Of Time

Kit Connor x M!reader

SUMMARY : MINOR’S DNI, Kit letting You ride him, Him watching you ride filling you up.

NSFW

WC : 500+

“Where do you want me?” he asked, his voice low and sultry, sending shivers down your spine. You met his gaze, a smirk playing on your lips. “Let me ride you,” you replied, your voice steady despite the excitement coursing through you. With a grin, Kit sat up, his hands moving to the waistband of his pants. He pulled them down to his ankles, revealing himself to you, and your breath caught in your throat at the sight.

Slowly, you positioned yourself over him, your body hovering just above his. You took a deep breath, feeling the anticipation build as you began to slide down onto him, inch by inch. Kit's eyes widened, and he let out a low groan.“Fuck, look at you right now…” Kit breathed, his eyes darkening with desire as he watched you take him in.

You started to move, your hips rolling against him, the sensation sending waves of pleasure coursing through both of you. The rhythm built, and you found yourself lost in the moment, But then, Kit’s hands found your waist, gently slowing you down. “Not so fast, baby,” he murmured,  He wanted to savor every moment, and you could feel the intensity of his gaze on you.

The pace slowed, Kit's breath became ragged, and you could sense he was close. Kit’s eyes were locked onto yours, filled with an admiration and lust. You could see the way he was losing himself and it made you feel powerful, desired. “God, you feel amazing,” he gasped, his breath hitching as you slowed down the pace.

Kit filled you completely, a low groan escaping his lips. “You good?” he asked, his voice laced with concern and satisfaction. You nodded, a smile spreading across your face as you shook your head, wanting to stay connected, to feel him inside you for just a moment longer. Kit’s hands gently caressed your sides, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin as you both caught your breath. 

“I never want this to end,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. “Neither do I,” Kit replied, his eyes softening as he looked at you. “You’re amazing.”

Taglist ~ @starboye @boypied @cronasluvr @amor-xoxo @magicstarbits @capsicleforever @loverclear @cravingrickgrimes @gayaristocrat @m4r13ll @sluttyhusband

[cronasluvr]

Assigned to You

🐺Pairing(s)🐺🠞Isaac Lahey x shy!male reader ⚠️CW⚠️🠞 gay, gay-sex, top Isaac, bottom male reader, Isaac is an ass lover, ass eating, size kink, breeding, Isaac is bigger than you (6 '2 to 5' 6 or something), anal-sex, Isaac has a big cock, both of you are 18, Isaac cums quickly, and needy reader. 🔞Rating🔞🠞 Explicit and fluff 🐺Requested🐺🠞 Yes

🖊️Word Count🖊️🠞 4.1k

🐺Summary🐺🠞You and Isaac were pinning after each other for a long time, but you were too nervous and shy to say anything. That changed when your English teacher assigned you to be partners in a project. Feelings were confessed, and both of your closeted desires sprouted into reality. 

Read before continuing: IF YOU ARE YOUNGER THAN 18 OR ANY OF THE WARNINGS MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE, DO NOT CONTINUE READING!

Note: I haven’t watched Teen Wolf, so there might be some mischaracterization. I’m mainly using Google and other sources to get a better understanding. This happens after Isaac turns into a werewolf. 

“Today, there will be a group project! Before you get excited, you will have assigned partners…”

The moment Ms. Ramsey mentioned “group project,” you internally groaned and felt your heart sink. You weren’t keen on working with a random classmate, you barely knew their names apart from a few notable ones. Group projects are the worst, you would much rather work alone than with someone else. 

You were very much a loner and a shy person, staying in the background and among the shadows of hundreds of other students. High school was overwhelming enough, and you didn’t need to add the pressure of speaking to other students to the mix. It's not like you’re gonna have contact with them after graduation is over, they’ll fade away into the obscurity of life. 

Although there was someone you liked (or loved), Isaac Lahey, you shared the majority of your classes with him, so you naturally saw him everywhere. Your eyes would follow him, filled with love and desire for him. He was your hallway boyfriend, seeking him out in the hallways and giving subtle glances when he walked by. To anybody, it was creepy and obsessive, and they’d be right.

You don’t know what pulled you towards him. Maybe it was your similarities: quiet nature, shy, and lonely. Although you did notice him becoming more confident and dominant, he still had compassion and kindness. It only made you like him more. 

Or maybe your attraction was to his physical appearance; he was tall, standing at 6’2 (187 cm), with a lean, muscular stature after being on the lacrosse team for a year. You found that out by sneaking some glances whenever he would lift his shirt. Oh, how you love his dark, blonde hair; you want to run your fingers through his soft hair, staring into his large blue eyes.

Though you doubt he feels the same way, he’s definitely out of your league. You didn’t want to confess for fear of rejection. 

The number of students was thinning out, with only four remaining. You prayed that the teacher would pair you with a random person rather than Isaac. However, your prayers weren’t answered as the other two students were paired together. 

“And the last pair is Isaac and Y/n. You’ll have a week to complete this…”

Your heart stopped, mouth hanging open as those words went through your ears. You couldn’t believe you were assigned to Isaac! Out of all the students in the classroom, it had to be him. You didn’t mind working with anyone else because they weren’t Isaac, they weren’t the guy you were crushing on. 

You glanced at Isaac, sitting in the middle section of the class. He glanced back at you with a smile on his face; it was a genuine smile, soft and warm. His eyes looked like they were sparkling as they made contact with yours. You felt your heart beating faster, cheeks turning red as you looked away from his gaze.

“Use the rest of class to talk about what you’re gonna do.” Ms. Ramsey said, returning to her desk, turning on the monitor, and entering the different groups into the system for grading once the time comes. “Oh, and please don’t procrastinate,” was the last thing she said before returning to her work.

“Hey, Y/n! So, what do you want to do for this project?” Isaac’s voice snapped you out of your inner thoughts, causing you to jump a little. You felt embarrassment wash over your body, getting scared by your crush, who was your partner for the next week. 

“What was the project about…?” you said, voice barely louder than a whisper. You were stuck in your world, not hearing what the teacher was saying. 

“It’s an analytical project on any piece of literature, as long as it's appropriate,” Isaac paused so he could grab a chair. “She probably thinks someone is gonna analyze a pornography book.” Isaac continued, chuckling at the thought, before placing his materials on your desk and taking a seat. 

“Anyways, wanna start? And maybe let's go to your place to continue working,” you agreed to Isaac while you were internally battling yourself. You were stressed over inviting your crush over– what if he judges your tastes, or what if he judges everything about you? 

You didn’t feel as excited as you should have.

Isaac was honest with himself, and he was ecstatic that you got to be his partner. He always noticed your discreet glances whenever he was not looking. Even before he accepted Derek’s idea of turning him into a werewolf, he had eyes for you. Everything about you attracted him, the same way you are with him. 

He also couldn’t get the courage to approach you. He thought you didn’t feel the same way; hell, he didn’t think you knew he existed. So, he admired from afar, doing the same ministrations as you, without the other knowing. 

Idiots in love. 

His attraction changed after he was transformed into a werewolf. His sense of smell became so enhanced that he could now detect the scent of different people; whether it was an unpleasant or average smell, yours was distinct. Your scent was unique, and he could smell it change whenever he was close to you. 

Your scent blended in with others, but it was still distinct to his nose. When you were in his vicinity, it would spike; he could smell your scent wafting in the air, turning sweet and delicious at times, while other times it would sour and foul. He could attribute the foul and sour smell to your nervousness about confession and fear of rejection. 

He was going to try to slowly approach you, help you feel less tense around him, and hopefully less shy. Maybe even open up and confess to him. 

xxx

Over the next few days, Isaac eased you into his presence, hoping to get you out of your shell and open up to him. 

He did this by being gentle with you, speaking softly and lightly – never teasing, never pushing with his voice. He regulated it so as not to seem obnoxious and loud. Sometimes, he would lean in slightly, pushing the boundaries while speaking to you. 

Whenever he would sense your fear and anxiety spiking, he would back off and give you space. He apologized for getting too close and intruding on your personal space. “Sorry about that. Got carried away.” Isaac says, scratching the back of his head, cheeks flustered from embarrassment. 

He made small talk, disregarding the project, with you, wanting to learn more about you. He listened intently to every word you said, sometimes getting lost in your soft, spoken voice as you talked about random topics and your interests. You kept rambling until the assignment was forgotten under a pile of conversations.

Isaac was proud that his ministrations opened you up. Maybe the time was right. 

“Oh… I’ve been rambling!” you mumbled, looking at the time; you rambled for almost two hours about [your interest]! “Sorry for wasting time, we should get back to work,” you continued, mumbling, looking into Isaac’s eyes for anything negative; there was nothing. He stared at you, his elbows resting on your desk, with one hand holding his head. His eyes were soft, shining as if he were enchanted.

“No, no, I liked your rambling. I like listening to your voice.” Isaac said without a second thought. His old self would’ve been mortified for saying something like that, but he wasn’t like that anymore. It was the truth, and he had no qualms with himself. 

You froze, mouth open, but no words were coming out; your face was flustered before breaking eye contact. “Really… why?”

Isaac laughed softly, causing your face to turn redder. “Why not? I like hearing your voice and learning everything about you! You’re more interesting and genuine than many others. Kind, thoughtful… I’ve always noticed you.” Isaac said, his remaining on your figure as he slides closer, but not too close. 

You looked into Isaac’s eyes with shock, attempting to see if the other man was pulling at your heartstrings. There were no ill intentions, no joke, or cruelty hidden behind those deep-blue eyes; his words were authentic, and he really meant them. You awkwardly laughed, trying to recollect some words to say, your mind reeling from the truth in Isaac’s words. 

“I… didn’t think you noticed,” you said, biting your lip, your heart hammering. Alarms were blaring in your head, this was actually happening, this isn’t a dream. Your breathing became heavier; it was happening fast, but you felt relieved. Like a heavy weight was lifted off your shoulders, knowing that Isaac possibly feels the same. 

“I’ve always noticed you. In fact, I thought you didn’t notice me.” Isaac said gently, sensing your heart rate getting faster, placing his hand over your smaller one. He squeezed it softly, smiling with his teeth as he felt you calming down and settling. “I like you, Y/n. A lot.” Isaac finished, waiting for your reaction and response.

You didn’t move, your brain scrambling for a response to Isaac’s confession and grasp on your hand. Your heart was beating faster, and your breathing was strained as you choked out: “Oh… I like you too! I thought you were out of my league.” You replied, your tense body relaxing and breathing returning to normal levels. 

Silence filled the atmosphere, the quiet breathing, and the humming sound of the ceiling fan as its blades rotated. Isaac broke the silence, “Can I… kiss you? Or is that too soon? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable!” Isaac rambled before you shushed him with your finger, smiling warmly at Isaac’s cuteness and words.

“Of course, I want this…”

xxx

Isaac was lying down on the bed, your body pressing against his as your hands were on both sides of his head. You could feel the other man’s hand moving and gripping your hips, grounding your smaller body against his larger one. 

Your lips are moving in sync, and you could feel your body melting into his grasp as he deepened the kiss. The kiss was wet and sloppy as you opened your mouth to Isaac’s invading tongue. Your eyes fluttered closed, enjoying Isaac being the dominant one. Your teeth clack against one another, Isaas’s tongue beating yours in dominance, and the erotic sounds of wet kissing, quiet moans, and groans slipped through 

Isaac was getting more aroused, his bulge grinding against yours, his grip tightening as he thrusts against your bulge. The bed squeaks from the dry humping, your two bodies moving in sync. Isaac’s eyes rolled back as his cock was straining in his pants, his breathing getting heavier as he needed more. Isaac broke the kiss with a light snicker, placing a light kiss on your nose before tracing his mouth down to your neck, leaving a trail of marks and saliva. 

You were breathless after the heated kiss, and your breathing transformed into soft moans. The werewolf’s lips found your neck, giving sloppy kisses and bites. You could feel Isaac’s large hands groping your ass through your clothing, kneading the flesh like how a baker would with raw dough. 

“You wanna continue, baby?” Isaac said, breathing heavily as he desperately wanted to touch your naked body, feeling it underneath his fingertips as he showed you what it means to feel and be loved by someone. 

“Yes! Please, I need you,” you replied needily, humping Isaac’s clothed bulge. Your once timid and anxious brain was clouded by need and lust. There was no shame or embarrassment left in your body as you begged Isaac to continue his ministrations. You needed his touch, you needed everything Isaac could provide, now that you have him wholly to yourself. 

This was the type of drug you could get behind and become addicted to. 

“My baby is needy? Let me fix that.” Before you could blink, Isaac had suddenly switched positions with you, flipping you onto your stomach with your ass pointed up. He made quick work of your pants and underwear, hastily removing them until your fat ass was bare before his eyes. Unbeknownst to you, Isaac’s eyes glowed yellow, his werewolf side clawing its way out. He could feel himself going feral from the sight of your ass, but he didn’t want to lose control and expose his secret to you, not yet. 

He let out a bellowed growl before leaning down, his hands holding your hips in place. Isaac fondled your cheeks, hypnotized by the way your fat ass was wobbling and jiggling from his hands. “Ngh…” The pillow muffled your whine and moan as you felt Isaac’s tongue run over your bare ass. 

“Oh God!” you gasped softly, biting the pillow as you felt Isaac spreading your cheeks, your little hole revealed to his lustful eyes, glowing brighter like your hole was a prize from a carnival. Without hesitation, Isaac leaned forward and licked a long stripe, his wet tongue making contact with your hole. 

Your eyes widen before fluttering closed. The werewolf made out with your hole, coating the muscle with saliva as he kneaded your flesh. His lips give light kisses around your hole before pulling out and biting the flesh of your ass. Isaac’s groans were muffled as he buried his head in your ass, wrapping one arm around your legs and yanking you closer to him. 

“O-oh fuck… I-Isaac.” You cried, pushing back against his face. You could tell he approved from the satisfied groans and growls. Your cock was twitching, bobbing in the air, precum dripping onto your bed sheets. Your mind was going blank, you’ve jacked off and fingered yourself before, but this was different, more pleasurable and intense, and it was with Isaac. 

“Love this ass, baby…” Isaac groans, pulling back to breathe, taking long gulps of air as he admires his work. Your hole was soppy, coated with saliva, with your cheek having bite marks and scratches. He could see your hole fluttering, gaping, and clenching around nothing, begging for something to fill it. 

With due time.

“You’re gonna feel some pain, baby…” Isaac said, lathering two fingers with saliva, bringing the digits closer to your hole. Slowly, he pushes them inside you, groaning as he feels your hole fluttering and clenching around his fingers. He could feel them sucking his digits deeper. 

“I-Isaac!” you gasped softly, whining from Isaac’s intruding fingers. You clenched the sheets, biting down on the pillow as the werewolf spread your hole, preparing you for something bigger and thicker. Although you didn’t need preparation because you fingered yourself a couple of minutes before Isaac arrived.

“It hurts? Sorry, I… you don’t feel… tight?” Isaac said, brows furrowing as he felt your hole being loose. The gears in his head were turning before the realization. “Didn't take you to be that person, baby. Fucking hot if you ask me.” Isaac grins, still pressing his fingers as deeply as he could, scissoring and stretching your hole. The werewolf didn’t expect a shy, introverted person like you to be naughty and needy, but he liked that.

Your face grew slack, jaw dropped as Isaac’s fingers sheathed deep inside you, unknowingly riding his fingers. He touched your gummy, pink walls, spreading them as he searched for the fabled spot that was taught in sex education: the prostate. 

“That’s it, baby. Doing good.” Isaac praises as used his other hand to grope and fondle your right ass cheek. He was so caught up in his ministrations that he forgot about his own needs. He looked to see his cock bulging out, throbbing with a precum seeping through the fabric. “Jesus Christ…”

You could hear your heart pounding in your ears as his words repeated. Your moans and cries of pleasure fell from your tongue, mixing with the sinful sounds of his fingers thrusting deep inside, accompanied by wet squelching. “Oh God… feels so good… making me feel so good…” You arched your back and pushed your ass further into the werewolf’s grasp. 

Something was blooming in your stomach, its petals were blooming as the roots sank deep into your nerves. Your breathing got heavier, your body tensing and clenching around Isaac’s fingers, halting them and making the digits unable to move. It was a dizzying sensation, and drool seeped from the corners of your mouth, soaking the pillow. 

“Feel good? Yeah… it does… cum for me.” Isaac growled as he abused that special bundle of nerves 

Your response was immediate, a myriad of messy and muffled cries of pleasure and relief. Your cock throbbed before spurting its load, coating the bed sheets. Your body was sweaty underneath the shirt, trembling and shaking from the orgasm, and you collapsed onto the bed. Your vision was blurry and white.

“Do you wanna continue or…” Isaac said, pulling his fingers out with a wet plop sound. He didn’t want to continue until you gave him confirmation. He couldn’t finish his sentence before you moved back, grinding your bare ass against Isaac’s clothed bulge. The werewolf moans as he feels his dick being squeezed between your cheeks, his eyes roll back as he fells his climax nearing.

He wasn’t even inside you, and he was already about to cum. 

“Yes! Please… need more… need you!” You begged, arching your back and desperately grinding against Isaac’s clothed bulge. It was just as you imagined it to be: large and thick. Your hole twitched at the thought of being filled to the brim with that beast.  You were lost in the sensation of lust, your body developing a mind of its own as it disobeyed your brain. It needed Isaac to satisfy the thirst that had been denied for a long time. 

“Okay… okay, I’ll give you what you want, but I don’t know if I’ll last long,” Isaac admitted. He could feel himself teetering on the brink, a single thrust would send him into an orgasm. He was slightly embarrassed by confessing it, but it was his first time being intimate with someone, so you couldn’t blame him. 

“I don’t care! I just wanna feel you inside of me… just fuck me,” You replied, whining from waiting for too long for Isaac to penetrate your aching hole. You didn’t care about Isaac admitting to cumming early, you just wanted to feel connected with him. That’s all you wanted: a connection with your lover. 

Isaac nodded and began stripping his clothes, tearing them off along with his pants and underwear. He groaned when his aching large cock was released from its cage, it twitched from the cold breeze with precum oozing from the cockhead. “Let’s take that shirt off,” Isaac said, reaching down and pulling the hem of your shirt up. You lifted your arms when he yanked the fabric over your head and tossed it to the side with his clothing as well. 

“I’m going in…” Isaac gave you the heads up, grabbing your hips and pulling you closer to his abdomen, his cock resting between on top of your ass. His chest heaved as he held his length and aimed it towards your saliva-coated hole. He gulped as he pressed his cockhead against your hole, sweat dripping down his body as he braced himself. 

Your heart was pounding, your breathing hitched as you held onto the pillow. You could feel the blunt shape of his cockhead pressing against your entrance, the pressure increased as your breathing got heavier until your rim gave in and the swell of Isaac’s cock sinks in. Your body trembled from the force. Isaac’s grip on your hips was firm, nails digging into your flesh as he didn’t stop until he cock was fully sheathed. 

“Isaac… It's so large! How…” you moan shakily, back arching to give Isaac more access. Air was leaving your body as your insides were being stretched to accommodate the werewolf’s large cock. It stopped when Isaac hilted into you, his cock swallowed by your tight, warm hole. It didn’t hurt as much, thanks to your previous enjoyment and Isaac stretching you with his fingers. 

Isaac growls and groans, removing his hands from your hips before collapsing onto your smaller frame. His hands find yours, holding them as his larger and stronger body covers your smaller one, his head buried in your shoulder. He was able to control himself for a while, but the cracks were shattering his composure as he felt your rim squeezing and spasming around his cock. His train of thought was becoming cloudy as the only thing on his mind was to fuck and breed your hole. 

“Lose control… I don’t care if you cum early,” you said with a heavy breath, tilting your head back to kiss Isaac on the cheek. 

That was the last straw for him. Isaac stood up, removing his hands from yours to your hips. His grip was firm as he pulled back with his cockhead being left inside before ramming back into your hole. Your eyes widen as Isaac began aggressively fucking your ass, his cock reaching deeper than ever before. The bed squeaking got louder with the headboard slamming into the wall. 

A symphony of moans and growls mixed with the bed squeaking and wet squelching, with the topping of wet skin slapping and balls slapping against yours, echoed through the house. You were grateful that your parents were out for the evening, so they wouldn’t have to hear their son getting his guts rearranged by his classmate. The bedroom was hot and sweaty, with sex permeating the air. 

Your fingers gripped the pillow tighter as your moans grew louder with Isaac’s cockhead ramming directly into your special bundle of nerves. Your body was becoming overstimulated as it was still recovering from the previous orgasm, your cock was hard as it bobbed with each thrust Isaac was giving. Your cries for more grew louder as base instincts took control, begging to be claimed internally by Isaac’s thick cum. 

With Isaac being inexperienced, he didn’t last long. He gave a couple of rough thrusts before reaching his climax. He was lost in the feeling of your warm hole swallowing and tightening around his throbbing length. He couldn’t handle the spasming and clenching of your hole trying to milk his cock of its load.

“O-oh god… I’m cum… can’t pull out.” he was gonna pull out but it was like your ass knew and prevented it. His breathing hitched as he grounded his hips, growling as his cock spurted its load deep inside, flooding your hole with waves of hot cum. His balls tightening as it pumped more cum that began to seep through your plugged ass, soaking the sheets with the sticky substance. You came at the same time, adding more cum to the sheets, more watery than thick globs.

Isaac collapsed beside you before his strong arms wrapped around your chest, pulling you into his embrace. He peppered kisses on your shoulders and nape area, his hands rubbing circles on your hips to soothe the aching he caused. 

“Sorry for cumming early…” Isaac apologized, nuzzling into your shoulders. He moves slightly, his cock, which was still inside your hole, rubbed against your sensitive spot causing you to moan and clench which in turn caused Isaac to groan. You could feel his heavy breathing rubbing against your skin as he held you close, his lips touching your salty, sweaty skin. 

“It’s okay… I don’t care about that… does this mean you wanna be my boyfriend?” you asked, leaning into Isaac’s warmth, grabbing the comforter and pulling it over your bodies. The comforter provides extra warmth, and you don’t even care about the cum on the sheets or the cum oozing out of your hole.

“Of course.” 

THE END

Author’s note: Hello, my strawberries! I hope y’all enjoyed this fic! To be honest, I don’t know if I ate with this one. Very special thanks to my proofreader🠞 @sagethegaywitch Taglist🠞 @hiddens-eden @spnfanboy777 @buckyshusband0 @zamfam4272 @raspberryyuuki @maxxioislost @furiousflowercreation @ghostking4m @sluttyhusband @wolf-knights @your-cow-boy @mack-thedork @starboye @boypied @sleep-0-deprived @cronasluvr Join my taglist! Masterlist here! I have K*-f* if you wish to support!

[cronasluvr]

Not Mr. Winchester

🚗Pairing(s)🚗🠞 Dad’s Best Friend Dean Winchester x male reader ⚠️CW⚠️🠞 gay, gay-sex, daddy kink, dirty talkinh, degradation, manhandling, spanking, biting, size difference, size kink, belly bulge, cum inflation, breeding, blowjob, face-fucking, caught sex, Dean has a big dick (of course), top Dean Winchester, bottom male reader, age difference, age-gap, possessive, and possessive behavior. (Dean is 48, and you’re 27.) Dean lusts over you, and you do the same. 🔞Rating🔞🠞 Explicit 🚗Requested🚗🠞 Yes

🖊️Word count🖊️🠞 3.5k 

🚗Summary🚗🠞 Dean retires from his hunting career and decides to visit his old best friend. He found that you existed, the son of his best friend. Despite the apparent age difference and you being his friend’s son, Dean felt attracted to you and wanted you.

Read before continuing: IF YOU ARE YOUNGER THAN 18 OR ANY OF THE WARNINGS MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE, DO NOT CONTINUE READING!

The Chevy Impala rumbled down a familiar street that Dean used to come down often. Being home after traveling the whole country with his brother and angel, solving cases and killing supernatural creatures, felt surreal. Dean enjoyed his hunting career, but it was time to lay down his arsenal. He deserved this break. 

There was one other place Dean wanted to be besides his home: his old best friend’s place, your dad’s home. 

He and Dean go way back, encouraged by their families to hang out since they were friends in their youth. They’d been friends until contact was lost when the Winchester followed his father’s footsteps, becoming a hunter and subsequently traveling the country for years and killing various creatures. 

After retiring, Dean found his old friend through social media and set a date to meet again and catch up. They grabbed a few beers, laughed about the old days, and talked about their current lives. He couldn’t tell your father about his hunting career unless he wanted to be seen as a lunatic. No, he just lied about being a mechanic.

His baby came to a halt in front of a house, and Dean turned off the engine, taking the keys and slamming the door shut. He walked closer to the modest porch with a mat on the floor. He knocked on the door with the side of his hand, waiting to see a familiar face, but he didn’t expect to see someone else. 

You were enjoying your summer vacation after a grueling year of college; getting your master’s degree was a pain. You were sitting around in your father’s home, doing nothing in particular, until a loud knocking disrupted your daydreaming. “Go answer it!” your father yelled from another room, busy with his own work. 

Grumbling under your breath, you got up from the couch and answered the door. You thought it was one of those Jehovah's Witnesses coming to preach, but you were mistaken for an older man. He was rugged, with clear-shaven stubble, a perfect jawline, dazzling green eyes, and short hair with streaks of grey in it. The man had a broad and solid body, and you could see the outline of his toned abs through his shirt. 

You realized you were staring for too long and spoke. There was a noticeable blush as you were ogling an older man, but who wouldn’t? “Who are you?”

“Who are you?” Dean replied, his voice deep and husky as he spoke to you. He looked confused, as if he were expecting someone else.

“Y/n? I live here,” you replied. You couldn’t help but lust over… everything about this man! His voice made your cock twitch in your pants, and you assumed he’s probably a freak in bed. You would bet everything that he was packing heat in those restrictive garments would probably be heavy and warm in your grasp. Dean spoke again, snapping you out of your daze. 

“Nah, that's the wrong answer. The man who lives here should be older… and taller, not short and young.” Dean said until it clicked in his head: This has to be his friend’s son! It had been twenty or so years since they had been in contact. You must have taken your mother’s genes over your father's.

You were about to respond before your father butted into the conservation, wondering what the commotion was. “Son of a bitch… Dean Winchester.” Your father said, huffing out a disbelieving laugh. “Miss me?” Dean laughed as the two older men embraced each other and chatted. You stood on the sidelines, watching the interaction and bashing yourself for lusting over your father’s best friend.

“Y/n, this is Dean; Dean, this is my son, Y/n,” your father said as he introduced his old best friend and son to each other. There was an awkward moment before you two shook hands, Dean’s large hand enveloping yours in his grasp.

“Pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasures is all mine, little fucker.”

xxx

You saw Dean virtually every day, but you weren’t complaining. Getting to see that hunk of a man every day was a dream come true, especially when he lifted his shirt to show his happy trail leading to your happy meal. 

You observed from afar every time Dean came over, laughing and drinking with your father, talking about life and everything that happened. You could feel yourself falling more in love with Dean, loving everything about him.

Despite the tense first meeting, he was actually kind once you saw through the sarcasm and bravado exterior. He sometimes teased you over little things or whatever your loudmouthed father told him. Even then, you could see the lust in Dean’s eyes. He wasn’t acting on those desires, mainly because you’re the son of his best friend. 

You would take it upon yourself to tease and poke at Dean. You would get touchy with him, accidentally touching his bulge, commenting on how strong he is, and sometimes grinding your ass against him whenever your dad wasn’t looking. Dean wouldn’t push you away, though, sometimes grabbing your hips and thrusting his bulge, making you feel the monster in his pants. 

He would mumble something under his breath before he regained consciousness and left, hiding his bulge and going to the nearest bathroom. You could only grin, watching the older man retreat to the bathroom with an aching erection, knowing he was jerking off to relieve himself. 

Dean was having an internal crisis. He enjoyed catching up with your father, but he couldn’t handle you being a minx. He was used to men and women throwing themselves at him and being touchy, but you were different, mainly because you were the son of his friend and younger. To him, it was forbidden, but that made him want you more. 

Whenever he visited, he would have to deal with your advances. He would stand in the kitchen while your father was doing something else, and then you would walk in. You would compliment him and start getting touchy, and he would respond to you, sometimes getting lost in the sauce. 

He would grab onto your hips and grind his bulge against the swell of your ass. He wants you to feel the monster in his pants and show you the effects you have on him. He would mumbled under his breath how he was going to fuck you and keep you as his. His grip tightening as he moans softly from feeling your body responding to his grinding, his monster cock aching and throbbing. 

After a couple of minutes, the forbidden rule kicked in, and Dean retreated to the bathroom. He felt like a hormonal teenager, something he hadn’t experienced since he was … a teenager. He would constantly jerk off to thoughts of you and would pretend you were there with him. Whenever he was home enjoying his retirement he would fuck a pocket pussy for relief but it no longer satisfies him. 

Despite the clear sexual tension, something your father hadn’t suspected yet, Dean grew closer to you. He learned what you’re doing in college, your personal life, and your potential suitors, which made his blood boil. Whenever you weren’t teasing or touching him, you would mention a date or hanging out with other men. 

Dean doesn’t know why he’s experiencing extreme amounts of jealousy. He tries to justify it, but his answers lead him to the same conclusion: he loves you. He thought it was sexual and nothing more. He was going through a crisis, but it didn’t matter anymore. 

Whatever he wants, he’ll get, screw the fact that you’re his best friend’s son. 

xxx

You were both in the kitchen; Dean was leaning against the counter while drinking a bottle of beer, and you were making some food. Your father was in the other room, said he’d be occupied for hours. Perfect opportunity. For days, you’ve noticed Dean’s composure was cracking, and you wanted to give the final blow. 

“Yeah, some guy asked me out. I don’t know if I should, though. He’s kinda hot, slightly older, and physically appealing.” You went on talking about the random guy that doesn’t exist, only to rile him up. It was working, you could feel the older man’s glare burning in the back of your head. Continuing the antics, Dean got more jealous despite the man you’re talking about not existing.

Silence fell over the kitchen before Dean’s footsteps grew closer. Your smirk grew wider as you swayed your hips, then you felt two rough hands grabbing onto your hips, pulling you towards his body. “You think this is some fucking game?” Dean growls as his grip on your hips digs into your flesh. 

“Walking around like a little slut, shaking this ass against me… even in front of your father,” Dean says as he slapped your ass, the sound echoing through the quiet kitchen and living room. “By fucking God— you’re driving me crazy. You wanted me to snap, huh? This is what you wanted?” Your smirk grew wider as you enjoyed the way Dean was reacting. His body was emitting heat as you felt his large, muscular body pressing against yours. 

“Now tell me, boy, you gonna keep playing around, or are you gonna put your mouth and ass to good use?”

…

“Take that fucking dick… yeah… fuck… when did you learn that?” Dean groans as he fucked your mouth, one hand gripping your hair as he thrusts his hips, other hand holding onto the kitchen counter. The wet slobber and gagging sounds left your mouth as you struggled to handle Dean’s big cock. 

It felt heavy in your mouth, the manly musk filled your nostrils as your nose was buried in the man’s pubic pelvis, and his heavy, cum-filled balls slapping against your chin. Your cock was throbbing in your pants as Dean fucked your face. “Good boy…” Dean moans as he feels your hands holding onto his legs, slowly moving up to his ass. 

You slobber all over Dean’s cock, coating the large piece of meat with saliva. Your tongue swirled around the cockhead, pushing into the slit and tasting the precum flooding your mouth. Tears began welling in your eyes as your jaw started to hurt from the rapid thrusts. “You wanted this, boy. I ain’t holding.” Dean growls as he looks down to see you looking up at him with teary eyes. 

Dean’s big cock throbbed and leaked precum from the thought of being able to feel your tight ass; something he’s been wanting to experience. Dean muffled his groans, not wanting to attract unwanted attention from his friend. He feels one of your hands squeezing his ass while the other one fondles his heavy balls. 

“Jesus Christ… better than any woman… so good~” Dean moans as the combined feeling of your tongue and hands fondling his sensitive areas is euphoric. This was everything he wanted; seeing you on your knees, plump lips wrapped around his cock, and his cock being sucked. He gentle pets your hair before gripping in to fuck your mouth faster. 

“Got a load ready for you, boy. Want me cum on this face?” Dean growled as he took out his cock completely and slapped it against your face. You whine from the feeling of Dean’s heavy meat slapping against your face, your saliva smearing on your cheeks, and your right eye. You began whining and begging Dean to continue fucking your mouth, tempting the man by licking his cock with each slap.

You could tell it was a dominance play; Dean asserting his full dominance over your body and mind. 

“Dirty boy, that desperate for cock?” Dean says before grabbing both sides of your head and thrusting his cock into your mouth. His breathing gets heavier as he feels his balls tightening from your blowjob and the adrenaline of being caught. If he were caught, he’ll most likely be kicked out and contact severed, but it would be worth it in Dean’s book. 

Dean stared at the ceiling, his eyes rolling back from the sensation. He was lost in a trance, on cloud nine as he tightened his grip on your head. He was gonna cum, but the sound of the door opening and footsteps quickly approaching snapped Dean out of his daydream as he stopped all movements and stuffed his cock completely inside your mouth. 

You felt Dean slowing down before ramming his whole cock inside your mouth. You were confused and gagged as the long, thick cock filled your mouth to the brim, your nose touching Dean’s trimmed pubic region. You struggled momentarily before relaxing and started breathing through your nose. 

You wondered why Dean stopped; your answer came shortly.

“Dean! Have you seen Y/n? Gotta talk to the little brat and he isn’t answering his phone,” your father said as he stepped closer to the other side of the counter, unaware of his best friend's throatfucking his son.

“Uhh… he’s out with some friends…” Dean says slowly so as not to blow his cover. His hand gripped your head tighter as he slowly thrusts his cock deeper into your wet cavern. He purposely made some noise to mask the gagging and heavy breathing coming from behind the counter. Dean’s composure was eroding as he began cursing your father to leave already. 

“Well, tell him I’m gonna be at a business meeting once he gets back,” your father said before leaving, not questioning Dean’s disheveled look, heavy breathing, and suspicious behavior. His footsteps fade away, the sound of the door opening and closing. 

Dean waited before yanking his big cock out of your mouth, his cock was coated with saliva; a web of slobber connecting the cockhead to your mouth. Your face was completely fucked; flustered from his cock filling your mouth, tears striking down your face, and the undeniable lust in your eyes. 

“Look at you, boy… on the counter,” Dean says as he pulls you up and positions you on the countertop, your legs on his shoulders. Lust consumed Dean’s mind as he couldn’t wait further; he proceeded to rip off your pants and briefs, the fabrics tearing as your ass and little hole were revealed to the hungry man’s eyes.

“Hey, jackass! Those were my favorites!” you complained, but Dean shut you up by getting on his knees and burying his face between your cheeks. You gasped and moaned softly as you felt the man’s tongue lapping and licking strips against your twitching hole. His tongue swirled and licked around the tight ring of muscle, feeling it twitch and trying to grab onto his tongue. 

“Shut up, brat…” Dean growls as he wraps his arms around your legs to prevent them from closing. He started kissing and biting the plump flesh, making sure to leave his mark, plus to show those boys that you’re off limits. Your moans echoed through the quiet house as Dean devoured your ass.

“Oh god~ daddy~” you groaned as your hand moved down to grip Dean’s hair, pushing the man further. The older man groans, but his mind short-circuits after hearing that specific word. He pulled back and stood up. “Say it again.” 

“And what if I don’t?” you grinned and giggled with amusement, wanting to be bratty towards Dean. 

Silence fell over the two of you. Dean blinks before grinning, dark amusement and wolfish. He let out an incredulous laugh before his hand made contact with your ass. You whine from the impact as Dean slapped your ass for a second time, amused by the flesh turning red and jiggling. 

“You’re really funny, huh? You wanna be a little brat?” Dean murmurs, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr as he stroked his big cock. “I think you need a lesson,” Dean growled as he positioned his cock at the entrance of your hole before ramming it in. His big, fat cock splitting your ass open as he pushed deeper until he was hilted with his heavy balls pressing against the bottom of your ass. 

You felt the air being punched out as your ass was filled with Dean’s cock. The empty house was filled with the groans and moans of your coupling. Your eyes rolled back as your virginity was taken, your body trembling from the burning sensation, and your nerves being lit on fire. Dean roars as he grips your hips tightly, his big cock throbbing inside your tight and warm ass as he feels your ass gripping and clenching around his cock.

“You still wanna be a brat, little shit? How about I fuck the hell out of you…” Dean growled as he didn’t hold back and started thrusting. Your moans echoed through the house, the cockhead hitting your prostate directly. The loud sound of skin and balls slapping mixed with your moans and groans was music to Dean. He would pull out, leaving the tip in before ramming his cock to the hilt. 

“D-daddy~ oh god…~ daddy… sosh good~ so big inside…” You began blabbering as your mind was melting down from the intense pressure and pleasure. Your cock throbs against your abdomen, smearing precum on your skin. 

“Yeah? I know it does… pathetic virgins wouldn’t know how to satisfy you.” Dean growled, throwing daggers at the nonexistent men. “Need someone older… fuck… look at that.” Dean’s train of thought was interrupted by the sight of a bulge forming each time he thrusts.

“I-is that…?” you mumbled as you moved your hand down, hands trembling from the brutal thrusts. Your hand settled over the area, marveling over the bulge Dean’s big cock caused. The older man ceased his thrusts, letting you touch the stomach bulge. Your eyes widened as you could feel Dean’s cockhead through your abdomen, squeezing the tip through the layer of skin. 

“That’s my dick, baby. The first and last dick you’ll ever take.” Dean says as he breathes heavily. There was a cocky tone behind his words as his ego was boosted. His hand hovered over yours as he began thrusting again, feeling the bulge form, he let out a bellowing groan. 

Dean feels his cock throbbing, heavy balls tightening as he knew his orgasm was approaching. He wanted to last a little longer, but your babbling and tight ass didn’t help. His teeth dug into your lips as his grip tightened, leaving more marks on your hips as a reminder of this debauchery. 

“Gonna breed this… fucking ass! Nothing but a breeding bitch for me… a warm place to dump my cum…” Dean groans as his thrusts get sloppy. “Stroke your pathetic cock.” Dean growled as he slapped your thighs. You started stroking your neglected cock in sync with the older man’s brutal thrusts, even moving your body in time with him. 

“D-daddy~ daddy~ gonna cum~” you whine as you squeeze your cock, attempting to milk it. Your trembling body responded to the nearing orgasm by clenching around Dean’s cock, pulling it deeper. Dean thrusts a few more times, his hand stroking over the bulge. 

Dean clenches his teeth as he gives one more thrust. Your body goes slack as you come to a shuddering orgasm. Dean roars as jets of cum flooded your hole, he could feel the bulge expanding from the sheer amount of cum being pumped. Its been awhile since Dean last fucked somebody and jerked off; he was pent up. 

You saw white, blissfully satisfied from being filled with Dean’s cum. Your cock throbbed, spurting and painting your chest with cum. Dean could hear your soft whines and cries as you gripped the edges of the counter. Dean leans over you with contentment, panting as he nears your face. 

“So good, baby. So good.” Dean purrs as he kisses your neck and shoulders. Your vision cleared as you basked in the warmth and affections of the older man. You looked down to see a little bump where Dean’s cock is. The sight causes you to tighten around the man’s cock, Dean moaning from the action.

However, the moment was ruined. 

“Dean? Has y/n returned– what the fuck?!?!”

THE END

a/n: Hello, my strawberries! I hope y’all enjoy this fic! I think I low-key ate with this one.  Very special thanks to my proofreader🠞 @sagethegaywitch Taglist🠞 @hiddens-eden @spnfanboy777 @buckyshusband0 @zamfam4272 @raspberryyuuki @maxxioislost @furiousflowercreation @ghostking4m @sluttyhusband @wolf-knights @your-cow-boy @mack-thedork @starboye @boypied @sleep-0-deprived @cronasluvr Join my taglist! Masterlist here! I have a K*-F*, if you wish to support

[cronasluvr]

Winter's Grip

❄️Pairing(s)❄️🡲 Yandere Bucky Barnes x male reader ⚠️CW⚠️🡲 gay, yandere behavior, kidnapping, Stockholm syndrome, top Bucky Barnes, throatfucking, oral sex, blowjob, facial, face fucking, Bucky has big dick (of course), bottom male reader, sexual assault, blood, mention of gore, you get trauma from the event, Bucky uses your trauma to manipulate you, and you fall in love with Bucky. Bucky is kinda creepy and soft in this.  🔞Rating🔞🡲 Explicit  ❄️Request❄️🡲 Yes

🖊️Word Count🖊️🡲 3.1k

❄️Summary❄️🡲 Bucky mistakes you as a target he used to love and vows to never let you go. When you show resistance to his actions, Bucky decides to go to extremes. Whatever it takes for you, stay in his grip.

Read before continuing: IF YOU ARE YOUNGER THAN 18 OR ANY OF THE WARNINGS MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE, DO NOT CONTINUE READING!

Your body shifted in the sheets as you slowly woke up. Your vision was blurry and disoriented until you adjusted—that’s when you realized the room you were in wasn’t yours. This bed and its adornments weren’t yours. The windows were barred like they were from a prison, and the door was made of metal and locked. 

Fear began rushing through your body as you quickly got up, your feet hitting the floor, and blankets hitting the wooden floor. You were surprised that you weren’t chained to the bed, but your pulse hammered as panic started setting in. Why would your kidnapper give you freedom of movement? That was the least of your worries as you tried thinking of ways to leave– there was no way. To calm yourself down, you further analyzed the room, finding it simple and cozy. 

It was like any normal room found anywhere else– a dresser, a closet, and some entertainment. The walls and accessories were painted your favorite color, making it better than your actual room. 

Then, you heard the door sliding open and closing behind the man you can confidently say kidnapped you. “Morning, doll,” the mysterious man said in a soft and husky voice as if he’d done this before. He actually did some years ago, but that was different from now. He sounded soft and polite, but there was something else there– a sinister tone that was masked. 

You flinch at the voice, turn around to see a large, imposing man with broad shoulders, his left arm completely made of metal, and a cleanly shaved stubble. He looked familiar, like someone you have seen before, and his voice sounded familiar, too. 

Flashback

It was a busier day than usual, but it was always like that working at a coffee cafe near the Avengers Tower. The plus side was getting to meet the various members of the Avengers and getting to know some of them personally, mainly their orders and snacks. You would find yourself chatting with Captain America, Hawkeye, etc. They said the cafe was better than Starbucks– good, fuck Starbucks. 

You were covering your co-worker's shift for the time being due to her responding to a family emergency. You were moving back and forth, taking orders and making them before handing them off. The next person came forward, you could tell he was new, a face you had never seen until now. 

“Good morning! What can I get you?” you said cheerfully and smiling at the man. As you waited for the man to respond, you began looking him over. He had a metal arm, handsome features, and was built like Steve Rogers. Interesting, he must be a new addition! 

“Cold brew, please,” the man said as he looked down at you. His eyes were looking into yours. There was something in them, something you couldn’t place your finger on. You then realized you were staring at him! “Coming up… what’s your name?” you said, cheeks flustered from the embarrassment after being caught staring. 

“James Barnes.” 

Present Time

“James?” you said with a shocked tone. Why would he do this to you? Sure, he became a regular… coming in every day, then came in every couple of hours and just sat in the corner. You thought he was doing something important and decided to come to the cafe! Then again, your co-worker told you how the man, James Barnes, would stare at you.

“I’m so glad you remembered me, doll,” Bucky replied with a satisfied smile as he walked towards you. His footsteps send quakes through your body as you begin backing away from him. Your pulse and breathing quicken as your body starts trembling. “W-why? Why… where am I?” You felt your back pressing against the wall. Bucky stood in front of you, his metal hand tilting your head up.

“Obvious question with an obvious answer: home,” Bucky said as his face contorted with a sick and wicked grin. Now you could see the look in his eyes, the hidden look: psychosis and craziness. His grip on your chin tightened.

xxx

You looked familiar to Bucky. Someone he remembered from his past as an assassin. You looked like one of his targets whom he loved dearly and couldn’t bring himself to kill. Even after the brainwashing HYDRA did, it couldn’t make him do it. Yet, the target was killed anyway, and Bucky had to endure the punishment for disobeying. 

He still remembers even after being fixed. 

When he saw you working at the cafe his best friend recommended, all his memories of you began flashing through his head. Bucky made himself believe you were his deceased lover from thirty-four years ago. His infatuation became darker and dangerous than before as he was determined to never let you slip from his grip.

After Bucky ordered his drink, he sat at one of the tables and gave subtle stares and glances. God, you were hot, just like how he remembered. “James Barnes, your order is ready!” When he heard you call his name, he felt a butterfly fluttering in his stomach and arousal surging through his body. He wanted to hear your voice screaming and crying for him, causing his cock to throb in his pants at the thought. 

Bucky walked to the counter. “Here you go,” you said politely. “Thank you,” Bucky replied as his hand touched yours. He felt the electricity coursing through his body. He was certain now, you were gonna be with him. He started coming to the cafe every day, then every hour, just to see you. He would always sit in the corner, pretending to do something when he was just staring at you. 

He started stalking you. He waited across the street for you to be done with your shift. He followed you home just to make sure you were home safe! He went as far as to break into your apartment, stealing some items and looking through your personal belongings. After weeks of following and gathering information about you, he determined it was ready for you to come home. 

Your real home is with him. 

xxx

Life in captivity wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t good. Bucky gave you free rein of the room, but that’s it. You weren’t allowed to leave the room. The super-soldier would cook and bring all your meals and snacks to your room and spoil you with money. Yet, if you ever showed any signs of wanting to escape or spoke about leaving, it would result in being punished. Spanking, slashes with a knife, and whipping are common. Your body is littered with bruises, cuts, and some dried blood. 

“Why must you disobey me? I’m only protecting you! The world is filled with savages that will tear you apart, you’re safer with me!” Bucky said with a fake pout as he tried to sound soft-spoken. You were naked on Bucky’s lap as he spanked you, grinning from the fat of your flesh, jiggling from the impact. You were being disobedient again. It pains Bucky to hurt you, but it's necessary to squash any resistance. 

He may have to go to the extreme. 

Bucky purposely left your door open, and you took advantage of it, dashing out of the building and into the world you left behind. Freedom was short-lived as a group of men cornered you. All of them were armed and started heckling you, using obscene language and inappropriate touching. 

You felt disgusted as the men were touching your body. “No! Stop it! Let me go you fucking assholes!” you screamed as you tried hitting one of the men but resulted in you getting sucker-punched. The air was punched out of your chest as the men took advantage of your disorientation.

“Such a pretty boy. Wonder if you’re a virgin.” “I wanna make him bleed.” “Wonder if he’s a screamer.” You tuned out the conversations as you were in a daze. Your breathing quickens as tears prickle from your eyes, and you flail your arms. You would rather get mauled by a bear than deal with these men. At least bears are predictable. 

Your clothing was being ripped as the men started unbuckling their pants. This was really happening. You tried gaslighting yourself into thinking this was a nightmare, but it's reality. Being with Bucky was safer… You should’ve stayed! 

Boom

A loud gunshot rings through the air as the men crowding you are shot dead. Your body was covered in their blood. The metallic smell flooded your nose as you looked down to see some brain matter on your shirt with other pieces of the human body. “This is what I meant. The world is full of savages.” Bucky said calmly as he crouched to your level. Your screams pierced through the air as some of the blood and brain matter entered your mouth. 

You felt Bucky bringing you into his embrace as you cried and screamed from everything that happened. Your breathing hitched and paused, hiccuping as tears rolled down your face. “It's okay, doll. I’m here,” Bucky soothingly said as he rubbed circles on your back. This was the only way for you to learn, to squash any resistance against him and replace the thoughts of escape with fear of the outside world. 

After the incident, Bucky took you back home and promptly washed your body clean, washing away the blood and gore, his rough hands soothing your skin as he cleaned you. You physically flinched away from the man’s touch, still shaken from the touches of the other men. The super-soldier rubs the body wash into your skin, wanting you to smell delicious.  

“Shh… you’re safe with me. Stay here with me. That’s all I ask of you.” Bucky says, as if he were one of those parents who didn’t want their children to leave. He used the shower head to rinse off the water. You could feel something snapping inside yourself.

Bucky consolidated and gave you the space you needed. Whenever you woke up from night terrors, he would soothe you and help you fall asleep again. You would find yourself wanting more touches from Bucky, yearning for him. The fights cease as you start letting Bucky control your routine. 

Whenever he bought clothing, it would usually end up torn in the corner, but now you wore them. You would inhale any scent Bucky left behind, his smell calming you down. The food you used to be repulsed by became adored as you thanked Bucky for feeding you. You would find yourself begging for Bucky to be beside you. 

The super-soldier was highly satisfied with everything. It pained him to send those savages to do those things to you… But it was worth it in the end! Plus, he satisfied his urge to kill someone. Bucky now has you completely dependent on him. He couldn’t be happier in his life. 

xxx

Bucky was cooling down on the couch after working out. His broad, muscular body glistened with sweat, moving up and down as Bucky panted from exhaustion. The super-soldier serum gave him a muscular body instantly, but he still wanted to keep it in shape, and he knows you like him being naked. His hair stuck to his forehead, sweat sliding down his abs, and his vibranium metal arm gleamed under the light. 

“Fucking hell.” Bucky groans as he feels his cock throbbing in his pants. His cock always comes to life after an intense workout. His rough hand rubs the prominent bulge, and then he leans his hand back, letting out a deep groan from the contact. Then, he hears quiet footsteps approaching.

“Love?” you meekly said, turning the corner to see your husband shirtless on the couch. Your gaze immediately shifted to admire the man and the notably large bulge in the super-soldier’s pants. Bucky huffed his chest with masculine pride as he basked in your attention. You were only wearing Bucky’s large sweater– oversized, but you liked it. 

Bucky’s eyes glinted with lust as he took in your body. Vulnerable and soft… something that turns Bucky on. His large, fat cock throbbed painfully at the thought, ready to burst out of his pants. “Come here, doll.” The super-soldier gestured as he rubbed his bulge while making eye contact with you. 

Your plan to seduce Bucky was working; wearing the oversized sweater worked like a charm. Your body still felt disgusting after those savages touched you, but you know Bucky is gonna rid their touches and replace them with his. 

You eagerly approached Bucky before getting on your knees in between the man’s legs, Bucky spreading his legs to give you more room. You nuzzled into his bulge, your breathing becoming heavier as you rubbed your face into Bucky’s bulge. “You desperate for my cock, doll?” Bucky groans as patted your head lovingly. 

You nodded your head in confirmation, your hand getting ready to pull the super-soldier large cock out, but he stopped you. “Good boys use words when they want somethin' from me.” Bucky asserted as he rubbed your head with his metal arm. You swallowed; your throat felt dry from his words. 

“I’m waiting,” Bucky said as he leaned back, expecting your answer. “C-can… can I… suck your cock?” you stuttered, looking at Bucky with puppy dog eyes. The sight of your pleading face made Bucky’s cock ache and stir in his pants. “Go ahead, doll,” the super-soldier said, biting his lips. 

You hastily unbuckled Bucky’s pants and pulled down his underwear enough to let the man’s monster cock to breathe. This is the first time you’re seeing Bucky’s cock. It was large, measuring 8.5 inches, and as thick as a soda can. The sight made you gasp as this was the largest thing you had seen. How were you supposed to take this?

 “Big, ain't it?” Bucky laughed as his ego grew from your shocked and worried expression. He was lengthy even before the serum heightened it. He was proud of his size. “So… big…” you mumbled as you wrapped your hand around the thick piece of meat, amazed at the size while Bucky groaned from the feeling of your cold hand giving experimental pumps, your eyes focusing on the throbbing cock. 

“Come on, doll… put your mouth on it.” Bucky urges as he thrusts softly into your hands. His hand tugged on your hend, the angry cockhead brushing against your cheek. You didn’t need to be told twice as your lips sealed over his cock, your tongue darting out and teasing the cockhead. “Fuck yes…” Bucky moans as he slowly pushes your head deeper onto his cock. 

“Breathe through your nose, doll,” Bucky grunted as his cock was slowly swallowed by the sticky warmth of your mouth. His cock pulsed in the tight heat as you tighten your throat muscles around the large piece of meat. You began choking, whimpering as your mouth was filled to the brim. Bucky stopped pushing your head down, your nose touching his pubic hair. He could hear you gurgling and gagging on his dick. 

Your face was turning red from the lack of oxygen, tears rolling down your face as it was too much. Your jaw began hurting. “Relax, doll… relax.” Bucky soothingly said. Following his advice, you relax your throat and start breathing through your nose. After some time, you begin to deepthroat him. 

“Fucking hell… such a cock hungry slut.” Bucky growled as he grabbed your head and began thrusting his hips into your mouth. You were caught off guard but adapted to the rapid pace. The room was filled with loud groans and gagging, with Bucky’s heavy balls slapping against your chin. 

“Just like that, doll~ fuck. That’s a good boy,” the super-soldier groans as you grip the man’s muscular thighs for support. Your tongue swirls around the cockhead, the salty precum flooding your taste buds. Your free hand moves to cup Bucky’s heavy balls. They felt hefty in your hand as you fondled and squeezed the heavy sack. “Shit… look so pretty… choking on my fucking cock like a dirty slut.” Bucky rambled as he rolled his hips, ramming his large, fat cock into your mouth. 

“Fuck… gonna cum soon, doll,” Bucky said as he yanked his cock out of your mouth. His length was covered with saliva and a web of saliva connected your mouth with his cock. The super-soldier stroked his cock aggressively to the sight of your fucked out face. Your cheeks are bright red and covered in spit, precum, and saliva, and tears rolled down your puffy eyes and dripped onto your swollen lips. 

“Fuck yes, doll… oh fuck…” Bucky groaned as he stood up. The distinct fapping sound of his heavy balls slapping his hand echoed in the room, his breathing became heavy as he was near his climax. 

“Please… Bucky… let me have your cum! I want to be a good boy!” you cried and begged as you wanted the man you desired heavily to paint your face with his thick load. “Yeah? Desperate slut, give me that mouth again.” Bucky said before slamming his cock back into your mouth, both of his hands of your head as he face fucks you. 

This new motivation made you more urgent, eagerly sucking Bucky’s cock faster, your hand grabbing onto Bucky’s toned ass for support. If the super-soldier had a side-by-side view, there was a bulge every time he rams his cock into your mouth. “F-fuck… oh fuck.” Bucky moans as he pulled his cock out and jacked himself off. 

“Come on, doll… oh yes, yes, yes…” Bucky mumbled as he gave a final thrust, blowing his thick load. His cock spurted its thick creamy load, painting your face with white substance. Bucky’s large body trembled from the sheer intensity of his orgasm. It's the best one he’s ever experienced, and the super-soldier’s chest heaved as he recovered.

“Look so pretty covered in my cum.” Bucky purrs as he looks down at you. Your face and hair were covered with his thick load. You were panting with your neglected cock throbbing underneath the oversized sweater. Bucky notices your discomfort and whines for him to touch you.

“Don’t worry, doll. I’m gonna take good care of you.”

THE END

A/n: Hello, my strawberries! I hope y’all enjoy this! I was extremely horny while writing this. Very special thanks to my proofreader🠞 @sagethegaywitch Taglist 🠞 @hiddens-eden @spnfanboy777 @buckyshusband0 @zamfam4272 @raspberryyuuki @maxxioislost @furiousflowercreation @ghostking4m @sluttyhusband @wolf-knights @your-cow-boy @mack-thedork @starboye @boypied @sleep-0-deprived @cronasluvr Join my taglist! Masterlist here! I have K*-f* if you wish to support!

[cronasluvr]

Heated Argument

🌃Pairing(s)🌃🡲 Dick Grayson x Male reader ⚠️CW⚠️🡲 gay, gay-sex, top Dick Grayson, bottom male reader, rough sex, Dick Grayson has a big dick (for sure), biting, Dick pins you down, you feel neglected by Dick, manhandling, slight possessiveness, slight possessive behavior, ass eating, ass slapping, and Dick is good at aftercare. Kinda angst in the beginning. 🔞Rating🔞🡲 Explicit and fluff at the end.  🌃Requested🌃🡲 Yes

🖊️Word Count🖊️🡲 1.8k

🌃Summary🌃🡲 You and Dick engaged in a heated argument about Dick prioritizing others over your relationship. Dick leaves without a second word only to come back more frustrated. It boiled down to heated sex with him. 

Read before continuing: IF YOU ARE YOUNGER THAN 18 OR ANY OF THE WARNINGS MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE, DO NOT CONTINUE READING!

You were waiting for Dick again, much longer than usual. This is the fourth time this week. You waited at the dinner table, picking at the food you made with the fork. You lost your appetite before dropping the metal utensil, tears welling in your eyes as you tried to control your emotions. The only sound was your feet tapping the floor in aggravation. You get that Dick has responsibilities and cares deeply for his family, yet you felt like you were second to everything. 

The feeling of neglect by your boyfriend was prominent! You should be his priority unless something important comes up. You would go days without a single text back from Dick, only getting read but no message. Calls would go to voicemail until Dick decided to show his face again for a couple of hours before returning to his duties. You basked in those moments before sulking again after he left. 

You were at your wits' end– then you heard the familiar sound of the door being unlocked. You didn’t run to the door and greet Dick; you sat at the table and stared at the space. Dick walked into the place– he was irritated by what happened earlier in the day and only wanted to be in your presence. 

“Why do you always do this to me, Dick?” you said with sharpness, cutting the silence in the room. Your voice sounded broken as you tried to be composed. “You drop everything for them, but not me. I know you have responsibilities, but when do I come first? Cause it looks like I’m coming last in everything! I rarely see you! When was the last time we hung out or spent time together?” The tension that’s been building was getting released as you stood up from your seat. 

Dick let out a heavy breath, looking down and rubbing his template. He was exhausted and annoyed from earlier and didn’t feel like dealing with this. “Come on, baby. That’s not fair.” Dick said as he looked into your eyes. He tried to control the frustration as he didn’t wanna snap at you. 

The argument descended into yelling as Dick tried to explain himself but it wasn’t working. Unable to deal with you, Dick left the apartment without another word. You grumbled at the cowardness of the hero, but at the same time, you were turned on. You have never seen Dick like that.

You were still heated, though.

Meanwhile, Dick was on patrol, but nothing could calm him down. He was working himself until his nerves were going to pop. He was more aggressive when handling thugs on the streets. The fight consumed his mind, but also how hot you were. He had never seen you like that. Dick looked and noticed he had a prominent bulge in his spandex. 

He returned home, and the arguing continued. Neither of you could remember what happened during the shouting match but it ended with Dick pinning you to the wall, his lips roughly crashed against yours, the pent-up emotion pouring into the kiss. Teeth clashed for dominance, but it was clear that Dick would win as he refused to lose control. His tongue slipped into your mouth. 

Dick pulls back momentarily with soft gasps and panting between you two. His breath was ragged, a string of saliva connecting to your mouth. The hero tightened his grip as he roughly kissed you again. His athletic, acrobatic body pressed against yours as he deepened the kiss. While you were distracted, Dick, using his strength, picked you up and carried you to the bedroom. 

His strong arms wrapped around you, effortlessly hoisting you up like you weighed nothing. Dick’s grip was firm, one hand supporting your back and the other under your thighs. You kissed the hero as he carried you, instinctively holding onto him. 

There was no turning back as he kicked the bedroom door open, tossing your body like it was nothing onto the bed. He then manhandles you, turning your body onto all fours with your ass in his face. Impatient, Dick tears your pants and underwear, and you can hear the fabric ripping as the cold air hits your exposed flesh. 

“Hey! You better pay for that–” you said before whining softly as Dick roughly slaps your ass. He grins, watching the flesh jiggle from the impact. You were silenced, biting your lower lip and moaning softly as Dick continued slapping your ass.

He didn’t stop until your ass looked ruby red and when it did, Dick spread your cheeks, exposing your pretty hole to him. He didn’t waste any time and dived in. 

You clenched the bed sheets as Dick ate your ass. His rough hands held your cheeks as his tongue licked wet strips and danced around your tight ring muscle. It was like he was making out with your hole; his hands forcibly caused your cheeks to jiggle. You could hear the distinct wet squelching sounds as Dick coated your crack with his saliva. 

“Tashhe… shoo good.” (Taste… so good) Dick groans as the warmth of his tongue pushes past the ring muscle and into your gummy velvet walls. Your eyes fluttered as your cock was springing to life.

Dick pulled back and coated his fingers with saliva before sliding two thick digits into your tight ass. Groans of pain and pleasure left both your mouths as you felt the fingers stretching your hole while hurting a little, and Dick groaned from how tight you were around them. 

“O-oh god…” you cried softly as Dick thrusted his fingers deep into your hole, stretching your muscles and coating them to make sure it was ready for the main event.

You could feel one of the fingers tapping against your velvety walls, trying to find your prostate. After probing for a bit, Dick’s fingers hit it. Your bundle of nerves sent the message of pleasure throughout your whole body as the hero began touching it more. 

Dick grins as he watches you wither underneath his touch. He removed his fingers from your gaping hole and hastily removed his Nightwing suit. He needed to be inside you, to feel your tight and warm hole around his aching cock.

Dick spat and lathered his cock with saliva, stroking it as he groped your cheeks. He bites his lips, groaning softly as his hung cock throbbed and leaked beads of precum from the slit. He slapped it against your cheeks before sliding it down to your soaked entrance. 

You moan as you feel Dick’s cockhead teasing your hole. Dick groans as he essentially impales you on his cock. It didn’t hurt much due to the prep Dick gave you earlier but he didn’t hold back. Your eyes roll back as the man gave hard thrusts, fucking his frustrations into you. The bed squeaked and shook, almost like it was about to break from the combined weight and pressure. His heavy balls slapped against yours as the sound of skin-slapping filled the room. 

“Not going anywhere… staying here,” Dick muttered, his voice deep as he leaned and started biting your neck, claiming your shoulders and your body as his. He littered your skin with his marks as his cock rammed into your prostate. Your cock rubbed against the bed, staining the sheets with your beads of precum.

“Mine… all mine! Will stay here with you… won’t leave.” Dick babbled and mumbled as if he was crazed, a wildlook in his eyes as he marked and claimed your body.  

It felt like your body was on fire from the overwhelming stimulation you’re receiving. Dick’s breathing got heavier as he felt his balls tightening. He wasn’t going to last much longer from the way your hole clenched around him, milking his cock desperately. It's been a while since he's been inside you. His skin was glistening with sweat as his body was going into overdrive.

“D-Dick… soosh good… ngh~... y-you promise?” you cried and wondered if Dick was gonna stay true to his words. You were tired of getting your hopes up only for them to be crushed.

“I promise, baby… I promise… fuck… gonna cum.” Dick moans as he grips your hips harder, surely leaving marks. He pounds your hole faster before he hilts all the way inside, letting out a groan as his cock spurted its thick load into your ass. His balls tightened and throbbed as it continued pumping more cum. 

You cried in ecstasy as your cock spurted its load on the sheets, staining them. You felt your body trembling from the release and Dick’s rough pounding. The room was quiet besides the heavy breathing and panting as you basked in the release and warmth of Dick being with you. The hero pulled out with a loud pop, grinning as he watched his load leak from your hole. 

“Where are you going?” you questioned as you heard Dick leaving, his footsteps disappearing into the apartment. You instantly thought he was leaving again but that was shot down when Dick returned with water and some snacks. He began cleaning you off and offering you some water. After that, he laid on the bed and pulled you into his embrace, massaging your body and soothing your aching muscles. 

“Sorry for everything… and for being too rough,” Dick said as he nuzzled into your hair, inhaling the scent of it. You basked in the feeling, laying your head on Dick’s bicep and rubbing circles on the man’s pecs. It's been so long since you last saw or touched the man’s body. Amazing, as usual. “You better keep that promise.” That was the only thing you said to Dick. 

And he did keep his promise. 

Dick still goes on patrols but he cut the hours and days, having someone else fill in for him. He still attends to family matters but makes sure you’re first– unless it's something extremely serious. The man spent his time with you, taking you on dates or just sleeping together. Dick couldn’t believe he did that to you and would beat himself over it. 

At least he changed for the better. You were satisfied.

THE END

A/n: Hello, my strawberries! I hope y’all enjoy this! I need Dick and his Dick– need the double Ds. Very special thanks to my proofreader🠞 @sagethegaywitch taglist🠞 @hiddens-eden @spnfanboy777 @buckyshusband0 @zamfam4272 @raspberryyuuki @ghostking4m @maxxioislost @furiousflowercreation @sluttyhusband @wolf-knights @your-cow-boy @mack-thedork @starboye @boypied @sleep-0-deprived @cronasluvr Join my taglist! masterlist here! I have K*-f* if you wish to support!

[cronasluvr]

𝔖𝔦𝔠𝔨 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔴𝔞𝔫𝔱 Joel Miller x male reader

Summary: Accidentally inhaling aphrodisiac spores when on patrol with Joel Miller

Tags: Set between The Last of Us Part I and II. Male reader. He/him pronouns are used towards the reader. Friends to lovers. Lots of science rambling that can be skipped. Sex pollen. Aphrodisiac spores. Age gap. Smut. Gay smut. Top Joel Miller. Bottom male reader. Handjob. Anal sex.

ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

Words count: 7000 words

Your horse’s hooves crunched rhythmically through the icy crust, breaking apart the layer that had hardened atop the road since dawn. You sat astride it with a loose posture, the reins slack in your gloves, not out of laziness but from quiet trust in the beast beneath you. Its coarse winter coat was dusted in pale flakes, which you brushed gently from its mane as it snorted softly, exhaling warm breath that curled through the air like smoke.

You murmured nonsense to it under your breath, fingertips carding through its thick mane, thumb trailing along the ridge of its strong neck.

Ahead of you, Joel’s figure broke the horizon in long, steady strides of his horse. The worn brown coat he wore was dark against the snow, spotted with white. His rifle hung across his back and the familiar hunch of his shoulders gave away the fact he was already scanning for any promising structures that might yield a can of soup or an untouched medicine cabinet.

His horse moved at a sure pace, faster than yours and he never looked back once.

You bit your lower lip, teeth digging in enough that you felt the faint sting. The silence was a weight between you, thick and unwelcoming for most of the patrol.

You leaned forward slightly in your saddle, clearing your throat.

“Hey, uh…” You hesitated. Shit. Too many ways to ask this, and none of them sounded good in your head. You went with the one that had been festering in your brain since Maria handed you the new schedule this morning. “Do you have any idea why Ellie asked to switch patrol partners this week?”

The second you said it, you winced. It sounded accusatory, like you were prying into something you weren’t supposed to know.

Joel didn’t stop but his head turned, and he looked back at you over his shoulder.

Snowflakes clung to the scruff lining his jaw, tangled in the silvered strands of his beard. Hazel leaning to amber eyes met yours, brow drawn like usual.

Fuck, he was so handsome.

That gaze held you frozen for a second and then he turned back forward without saying anything.

You scrambled to patch it. “I just meant, y’know—hope she’s alright.”

“She’s fine.” A faint mutter back as the only answer you got. Didn’t address what you really asked.

You sat back in your saddle, exhaling slowly, watching your breath curl away like smoke from a dying fire.

The horses continued forward in tandem, hooves crunching the snow in that steady rhythm again until Joel’s horse let out a low nicker and Joel gave a grunt as he pulled on the reins.

“Hold up,” he called and you tugged your horse to a stop beside him, coming close enough to see ta descent hidden under a treacherous quilt of white.

The snow dipped fast here, sliding down into a basin where the large roof of a house poked up barely above the surface. You could only see the tip of its peak, the chimney like a crooked finger reaching up from the grave.

“Jesus,” you breathed, shifting in your saddle.

Joel dismounted with practiced ease, boots sinking into the snow with a muted thump. He walked toward you, glancing over your horse’s bridle.

You started moving to do the same, grabbing the rope from your saddle to find somewhere to hitch the animal but Joel reached out and took the rope from your hands, his gloves brushing against yours just briefly. “I got it.”

You blinked. “Oh—I mean, I can—”

“I said I got it,” he muttered, turning before you could answer, tone gruff and clipped with no real edge to it.

You watched him walk away with both ropes, tying the horses down near the base of a bare tree, checking the knots twice. Then he turned back and started walking toward you again, shooting you a quick glance before his eyes dropped back to the snow and he trudged forward, jaw tight, gloved hands flexing.

You didn’t say anything as he passed you, just turned to follow him as he stepped carefully into the snow toward the house that lay buried beneath the frost.

The descent looked steep and slick, but there was a stupid itch that crawled right up your spine.

You’d ridden the tension of Joel’s quiet for long enough and now that you were finally off the horse, boots sinking ankle-deep into snow that practically swallowed your ankles, the temptation was too good to pass up.

You crouched before throwing yourself backward and let your weight carry you down. Soon the snow greeted your ass with a soft, satisfying crunch before you slipped down fast. Cold stung your cheeks and the wind clawed at your face in the most fun way possible.

Behind you now that you surpassed him, you heard Joel’s voice carry through the crisp air.

“Are you fuckin’ serious?!”

It made you laugh harder, the sound catching in your throat and blooming outward until you collided with the incline of the buried roof. A flurry of snow rained down from the eaves above, thumping into your hood, spilling down your back. You choked out a gasp from the coldness but even as you shoved the snow off your head and shoulders, you couldn’t stop grinning.

Dusting yourself completely, the flush of exhilaration was still warm under your skin, fighting back the bite of frost.

Then Joel appeared from the top of the hill, trudging down with that big, square frame. You barked out another laugh at the look on his face.

He looked beyond pissed, jaw locked tight, mouth set in that signature scowl, eyes that held fury, surprise, and a glint of reluctant amusement hiding behind his scowl that he’d be damned if he ever let you see it.

You pull that kinda stupid shit again,” he growled once he was close enough to loom over you, “I’ll leave your goddamn body out here for the infected to find, see how long you last.”

The low rumble of his voice dragged down your spine, no sarcasm or laughter in his tone.

“Worth it.” Your grin only widened and he groaned in annoyance and turned sharply, trudging toward the side of the partially buried chalet without giving you another glance.

You went to the other side with a spring in your step, gun free while eyes scanned the snow-sunken facade. On the far end, hidden beneath a white curtain of ice-glossed ivy, was a tall window pane, mostly unbroken, though the glass was filmed with frost and streaked by old melt marks.

You approached it carefully and leaned in, using your gloved fingers to rub a circle of visibility through the foggy layer.

The room inside was a full-blown lab. Makeshift but organized, a mess inside only science could make. Metal tables lined with test tubes, vials filled with preserved samples of unknown and apparently rotten liquids.

You half-whispered, half-called over your shoulder, “Joel.”

You heard his footsteps crunch toward you just a few seconds later, fast and heavy. He stepped up behind you, his body close enough that you could feel the heat from him through all that damn flannel and denim and leather. His left hand braced against the side of the window as he leaned forward to peer in.

Your eyes flicked to his arm bent at the elbow, flexed from the slight lean, thick under the tight sleeve of his shirt where his jacket had pulled back. Veins like cords twisted along his forearm, disappearing into the glove at his wrist.

You forced your attention back to the lab. “Looks pretty clean in there. Not too dusty. Might be medicine and supplies.”

He gave a soft grunt in response while his eyes stayed on the room for another second, narrowed slightly.

Without a word, he stepped back, shifted the rifle off his shoulder, gripped it at the barrel and with one quick motion, raised the butt of it.

The glass exploded in a clean fracture under the weight of his swing. Shards burst outward and you flinched on instinct.

The remaining edges of the window splintered inward. Joel gave them a quick once-over before stepping in, boots crunching as they touched down on the dark wood floor inside.

“You comin’ in or what?” He turned back, giving you a look. His brow lifted before he added, “Figured if nobody came runnin’ when your dumb ass rolled down that slope, place’s probably empty.”

You climbed in after him, boots thudding against the floorboards and exhaled a quiet breath. The air inside was cold but untouched. Your gun stayed low, loose in your grip but ready.

You went left, he went right. The place wasn’t huge, just one main room, everything scattered but oddly preserved. Your eyes caught on a stash in the corner and you knelt, rifling through what looked like a first aid kit still sealed. Antibiotics, gauze, alcohol, a cache of painkillers, labeled and bagged, bottles still full and expiry date a few years out. Your heart jumped at the treasure found.

There were coins there as well. Metal, worn but intact. Circular, silver with a black enamel inlay. The firefly logo etched across the surface, an insect with outstretched wings, speared through by a vertical line.

There was a whole open floor empty beyond your position and, at the far end, wooden stairs led down. You walked toward them, cautious, gun still at the ready.

As you reached the stairs, particles floated in the shaft of faint light that fell from above.

Spores.

You crouched quickly, unshouldering your pack, flipping it open and digging through the supplies. Fingers fumbling until they closed around the mask. You yanked it free, pulled the straps around your head and started to seal it tight.

Joel was still across the room, his broad back to you, opening drawers and scavenging the place while his hand remained loose over the handle of his revolver, head slightly tilted downward in focus.

Your eyes roamed shamelessly, every inch of him was weathered in the most painfully attractive way and you lingered too long.

Your foot shifted slightly, the floor groaned.

You opened your mouth, his name halfway up your throat when the wood beneath your boots gave out with a snap, splintering down the center.

Your back and shoulders scraped down jagged beams, the slap of gravity pulling you through the tight shaft until you slammed into the floor below, shoulder-first, the impact blooming pain across your collarbone and upper back.

A strangled sound ripped from your throat that was half curse, half gasp. You bounced, rolled to your side, landing hard on your ribs and hip, the floor beneath you unforgiving and damp.

Your breath punched out of your lungs, and for a second, all you could do was lay there, curled slightly, jaw clenched as a long, dry groan dragged from your throat.

The air was wrong. Thick, wet and almost syrupy, like you’ve dropped into the lungs of something alive. Humidity clinging to your skin through the cracks in your jacket.

The smell is a layered, sickening mélange of rot that’s gone sweet with time, earthy decay soaked in moisture.

Your eyes start watering, it feels like your lungs have been lined with spider silk soaked in vinegar. A burn blooms in your throat, sharp and sudden at the first breath, like the air is slicing on the way down.

Your body bucked on instinct. A wheeze tore up your throat, nostrils flared and instantly recoiled.

You shoved yourself upright, coughing dryly, mouth open but refusing to inhale again.

You pulled the mask down with a rough tug, fingers scrambling at the small button of the purifier unit and pressed hard.

The machine vibrated against your cheek, a dull, mechanical hum that began to work.

Your lungs begged for oxygen, ribs now clenching in panic, diaphragm spasming as you waited.

The air filtered through the mask started to feel cooler.

You pulled in a small breath. It didn’t burn this time, the air now feeling artificial.

The pressure in your chest loosened. You swallowed hard, heart pounding like a fist behind your sternum and sagged forward against the wall behind you.

You breathed deep and the filtered air fed your lungs, staving off the panic.

Joel’s voice tore down through the ruined floor as he called your name, tone gravel-thick and thunderous, sharp with panic. You could hear his boots scuffling above, wood groaning dangerously under his weight. You looked up through the splintered opening, all the ceiling was covered in those pinkish walls made of fungus, hence why it was so weak to your weight and gave away.

His face appeared, the muscles in his neck were taut, jaw tight and eyes wide.

“I’m fine!” you shouted, voice muffled behind the plastic and filters of your respirator. You lifted your arm slightly, wincing. “Don’t come close, the floor’s fuckin’ rotten!”

His jaw flexed, eyes tracking the layout quickly before he cursed again before he disappeared rom view as he backed away from the rim of the hole. Even then, you could still hear him pacing, booths thudding in short, frustrated steps.

Finally, you had the breath to look around. The chamber below was far larger than you expected, a full-blown Firefly lab. The quality of what was left here, even if buried under spores and decay, screamed intent.

Fluorescent lights still clung to the ceiling in long, unbroken bars, cracked but intact. A metal gurney with padded restraints sat center-stage and trays of unused surgical instruments glinted on a shelf.

It was organized, intact and completely drowned in spores.

You turned slowly, lifting your flashlight. The beam cut across thick plumes of particulate matter—pinkish, soft as down, thick as fog. You couldn’t see more than ten feet ahead without seeing spores shift in your beam. They clung to the ceilings, ballooning in dense patches—fungal colonies like pulsing lungs latched to the beams above.

There was nothing here. No clickers, corpses or even bones.

How the hell had all these spores flooded the place without anything ever dying here?

Something touched your arm and you recoiled violently, breath choking in your throat, a muffled, startled “FUCK!” bursting past your respirator. Your gun raised on instinct, heart skidding into panic.

It was Joel.

He had dropped down through the stares you were also supposed to take and his boots were now planted solid beside yours. Snow crusted his shoulders, mask was on tight. The lenses fogged slightly from his breath and his gloved hand gripped your bicep hard enough to anchor you in place.

He said your name low, voice slightly distorted behind the mask’s filter unit.

“You hurt?” he asked, tone rough and steady, eyes scanning you, flicking over your chest and arms for any injury. “Talk to me.”

His grip on your arm didn’t loosen, fingers clamped just above your elbow, firm and grounding and the way his sharp gaze was fixed on you sent a tight shiver up your spine.

You swallowed hard, tried to answer, but something in your tongue tangled. Your voice stuck. Maybe it was the mask or the pain still radiating in your shoulder.

You could feel the thick line of muscle under his coat, his forearm flexed just slightly with the hold. His glove had slipped back a little and you could see the veins in his wrist, raised over sinew and tanned skin.

You blinked fast, heat slid into your cheeks, a slowness curled through your stomach, a strange pressure behind your eyes, like your blood was moving differently all of a sudden.

Joel’s fingers squeezed your arm harder.

“You gonna answer me or not?” His voice was gruffer this time and sharper, but the edge was concerned, cloaked in impatience.

You cleared your throat. “I’m—fuck, I’m fine. Landed hard on my arm, that’s all. Just a bit numb. Didn’t break.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed slightly, those rich hazel irises locked to yours, searching for any lie, the tension around his brow eased enough and let go of your arm. Slowly and reluctantly.

Then he pulled out his pistol, the metal glinting slightly in the artificial light as he stepped past you, solid and silent. He didn’t glance back as he muttered, “Don’t fuck around in here.”

He moved half a step ahead of you, as if shielding you, checking corners, vents, behind ruined tables.

“I made a lot of noise when I fell,” you said after a moment, eyes still flicking toward darkened corners. “If anyone was down here, infected or not, they would’ve jumped me already.”

You moved slowly, your boots gliding across the damp concrete floor. Your heart was still hammering, but it wasn’t the same tight spike in your ribs or shortness of breath. It was different slower now and heavier. Like your body was trying to tell you something it hadn’t figured out how to say yet.

You reached the edge of a workstation mottled now with patches of thick, fleshy mold that bloomed in pinkish tendrils across its surface like bruised coral. A few black strands of mycelium threaded through it like veins, pulsing faintly under the dim overhead light, their edges glistening wet.

The sight turned your stomach slightly, but you kept your gloved fingers steady as you reached toward a paper half-submerged in that wall of gross, spongy matter. It stuck a little when you tugged, tore faintly at one corner, but you coaxed it free, holding it up to the beam of your flashlight.

The ink had bled in places, the middle of the page warped by whatever moisture or rot had saturated the mold. But the text was still legible. You squinted at the heading:

[PAGE 7 – Entry 3.2a] (Corner torn, middle stuck together with green mold latticework)

…first success with fungal/plant hybridization observed at 09:34. Spore culture 7G-Alpha2 successfully integrated plasmid DNA from Panax quinquefolius via Agrobacterium-mediated transformation. Fusion strain exhibited marked increase in alkaloid production, unusual for a fungal host.

No fruiting body yet, but the lab humidity chamber has sustained active mycelial growth for 72 hours. Odor profile altered, slight pheromone volatility.

It was hard to wrap your head around at first, bioengineering, spore cultures, DNA fusion with plant-based alkaloids.

You blinked. The print started to blur slightly from your own eyes. A warmth started to crawl under your skin, like standing too close to a fire.

The paper shook slightly in your grip.

Blood serum from rat trials (Group C) shows a significant spike in dopamine and oxytocin levels post-aerosol exposure.

(Handwriting changes. More urgent and slightly uneven.)

Repeat: Respiratory intake is the only variable. Sample B221 designated as viable for further study.

IMPORTANT: pathogen is non-contagious, inert outside of air-saturated chamber. Transmissibility halts without direct spore inhalation. Gene-editing safeguards remain intact. Replication cascade requires >95% humidity and nutrient gel base to activate.

NOTE: Confirm sterilization thresholds before storage.

You let the page drop onto the table, breath pushing out in a soft huff through your mask. Your chest rose and fell slowly, like your lungs were pressing out against something thick. Not hard to breathe, just heavy. Your eyes stung again, not with tears this time, but a strange sort of pressure behind them, as if a headache was blooming there.

You rubbed a gloved hand against your forehead, then turned and that’s when you saw a tank in the corner of the lab, half-shrouded in the drifting cloud of spores. Glass, large and thick but with one entire side cracked. The inner wall was fogged over with old condensation, now streaked with pinkish residue.

Inside, two small skeletons, rodent-sized. One lay curled in the corner, partially buried under a pile of decomposed straw bedding. The other closer to the cracked glass, lay on its side, bones bleached by exposure and time, ribs cracked inward. No visible growth or spores clinging to the bones and yet, this had to be where it started.

One of them, maybe spooked or altered by the hybrid strain, must have panicked. Slammed against the glass, broke the seal and the spores released, flooding the lab.

Your fingers reached for the small stack of papers next to the base of the tank, corners browned, text visible under fungal smudges. You flipped through them, heart thudding harder now.

The first few lines jumped out at you:

“Strain B221 is no longer Cordyceps. Its host behavior is driven not by neural hijack, but chemical amplification. Sexual arousal is observed as byproduct of pheromone analogs stimulating limbic regions directly…”

Subject 15 (male, 32. Accidentally inhaled spores when mask malfunctioned) self-reported lucid state. Vitals spiked: pulse at 158 bpm, skin temp +3.6°F, erection maintained for 37 minutes post-exposure with no physical contact.

Subject did not lose speech or identity.

(Sticky zone begins. It’s smudged, brownish-gold mold—scraped text legible in places)

Increased tactile sensitivity begins 10-15 minutes post-exposure. Subdermal flush around neck, thighs, lower abdomen. Shivering, full-body muscle tension. Erection onset within 10 mins of phase start, resistant to manual suppression.

Increase in tear production, ocular surface wetness. Scleral micro-discoloration: red flush forming at medial corners of eyes, growing outward, associated with burst capillary dilation + fungal metabolite buildup.

STRONG HYPOTHESIS: Fungus aims for propagation via sexual fluid exchange but lacks vector. Safety threshold remains: not contagious via skin, saliva, or semen. Only active in the direct inhalation zone.

You lowered the papers, heartbeat thudding faster in your ears now. Your neck felt damp, pulse fluttered under the skin, and your fingers, shaky now, flexed against the notes.

This is just panic. That’s what you told yourself. Residual adrenaline, shock and pain. Chemicals fucking with your head.

You turned your head, mouth slightly open behind the mask, lips now wet.

The page you held trembled in your grip again. Your arms felt a little like jelly, spine pulled into a slow arch as you inhaled deeper than you meant to. It felt too good.

You dropped the stack to the filthy floor without thought, boots crunching lightly over a smear of dried spores and dust and held the last page tight between trembling fingers.

[PAGE 4 – Entry 6.3: Flare-Up Termination Response]

You could barely focus. The words were fuzzy at the edges, letters bleeding in and out like water-smeared ink, but you forced yourself to trace them, each line landing like a hammer against your spine:

Activation of neurochemical effects now appears governed by host endocrine cycles.

Initial hypothesis of random arousal episodes disproven. Host hormone panels show pattern: recurring surge in fungal expression linked to pulsatile testosterone and cortisol rhythms approx. every 29–32 days.

Strain lies dormant within lymphatic and pulmonary tissue during inactive periods. Reactivation corresponds with small but measurable hormonal fluctuations, suggesting fungal intelligence keyed to endocrine shifts.

Symptoms remain until sexual climax occurs. Neurochemical scan reveals drop-off in fungal signaling immediately following orgasm.

Spike in dopamine, prolactin and oxytocin likely flood receptor sites, disrupting fungal influence and causing symptoms to alleviate over time.

A single bead of sweat rolled down your temple, slipping under the edge of your mask. The inside of your collar was soaked. Your breath hissed in and out of your filter system, loud and uneven, each inhale tighter than the last.

You felt it a presence behind you

Joel was standing behind you. You didn’t know how long he’d been watching. Had he read over your shoulder the whole time? Had he seen the way your knees had started to tremble?

He huffed. A single breath, deep and thick through his mask.

“What the fuck were these people on.” He muttered, voice flat and gruff through the static distortion of the respirator.

“Buncha freaks,” he added, head tilting slightly as he scanned the tank again. “All this damn science talk to explain the fungus makin’ folks horny once a month.” His tone is bitter and blunt.

A hum started in your ears, a pulsing buzz that crackled at the base of your skull, like someone had pressed your head against an old generator. Your heart was racing too fast. The corners of your vision flickered faintly and your cock gave a twitch in your pants.

You sucked in a breath, fast. Your chest burned under the pressure of your shirt. Fuck, the mask was too tight, too hot. You stumbled a step sideways and the page in your hand fluttered from your grip like ash.

Joel shifted behind you in sudden awareness.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he asked, his voice low, rougher now. Still trying to sound like he didn’t care too much. But you knew that tone. You’d heard it before when Ellie was missing too long from patrols.

You turned, your mouth opening, but nothing came out. You were panting, full lips parted behind the glass of the mask, leaving the inside fogged over. It smeared with each breath, your own condensation clouding your vision. You saw Joel’s outline, dark and solid, but the details were gone. Only the shape of him remained.

Your hands dropped to the table’s edge, knuckles white, the cool steel hissing against your palms through your gloves. You were burning.

The heat pooled low in your belly, pulsing and tightening. Your cock twitched again, harder this time, thickening in your pants. No friction, arousal bloomed in your nerves like static.

Joel called your name again, louder and sharper this time, but you didn’t answer.

His hand gripped your arm hard, pulling you halfway up off the table with one sharp motion.

It felt so good. The pressure of his hand on you, fingers wrapping around your bicep through your jacket and glove, anchoring you in place, his whole body solid beside yours. You turned your head toward him, lips parting on reflex, throat working with something you couldn’t swallow down.

It was instinct more than anything that made you jerk away. His touch felt like it was melting you and the mask became unbearable. Your muscles tensed as you tore out of his grip, stumbling toward the stairs.

Your boots pounded the steps, feet nearly slipping once as your equilibrium gave a pulse. You slammed your palm against the wall and caught yourself, everything felt like it was breathing.

Upstairs was colder, but it didn’t help, you staggered toward the broken window, the one Joel had smashed earlier and leaned against the wall beside it, fingers fumbling at the straps.

You ripped the mask off your face with one wild pull and it dropped, still connected by the dangling strap and hung from your wrist as your other hand clawed at your jacket. The zipper stuck and you swore loudly, yanked it down hard. Peeled it off like a second skin, undershirt now drenched with sweat.

You collapsed back against the cold wood of the wall, head hitting it with a dull thunk, eyes fluttering half-shut as your hands cupped your face.

Joel’s boots hit the wooden floor with short, hard thuds as he marched across the room, jaw clenched so tight the muscles twitched in his cheek. He reached you in three long strides and without hesitation, he reached up and tore the mask off his face. The hiss of the release valves and the scrape of straps broke the silence.

The look on your face near broke something deep inside him. Your skin was flushed high with heat, brow slick with sweat and your lips hung parted, breathing ragged and short, the muscles in your chest heaving like you’d been running uphill for miles.

“Joel—” you started, voice catching in your dry throat.

You could barely get the words out, barely keep your legs beneath you, but still, somehow, you tried. You reached for anything that didn’t lead to this. “It’s just the heat down there,” you muttered hoarsely, trying to keep your voice level.

Joel’s jaw ticked, the twitch in his cheek gave it away first. His shoulders pulled tight, lips parted, the words ground out between teeth so clenched it was a miracle they even made it into the air.

“Don’t lie to me.” He took one slow step closer threatening, he wasn’t gonna let you squirm out from under it with soft words or shaky logic.

“Don’t stand there tellin’ me lies to my goddamn face when your eyes’re goin’ red.” he snapped.

That caught you off guard. You stared back at him, heartbeat thudding like a war drum in your throat. With trembling fingers, you raised the mask still dangling from your wrist and pulled it up toward your face.

Your reflection stared back, twisted and blurred by the warping curve of the mask but the color still shone clear.

Your sclerae were no longer white. Laced with thin filaments of vascular pink that curled out from your irises.

The mask slipped as your grip failed and it clattered to the floor, your knees began to give and Joel’s hand shot out instinctively, callused fingers curled firm around your muscle, grounding you instantly grabbing your arm, hard and fast, gripping you just beneath the bicep.

The heat from his touch flared sharp beneath your skin, like a wire running directly to your core. Your chest jerked and you let out a sound that resembled half a pant and half a gasp.

You leaned into his touch before you even knew you were doing it and he felt the full weight of you press against his side. Joel guided you quickly, rougher than he meant to, toward a pair of dusty chairs behind a table.

You sagged into the seat with a rough, graceless thud, pulled down more by the arm than lowered carefully. He was bad, he knew, but you didn’t complain. You folded over yourself instead, elbows planted on your knees, head dropping into your hands. The chill of the room clashing with the inferno unspooling in your belly. It was impossible to ignore the tent in your pants, painful and throbbing.

Joel exhaled through his nose before taking a seat beside you, silent at first.

Your voice cracked when you finally spoke. “You…you probably shouldn’t be this close to me.”

Joel turned toward you, that line between anger and worry had worn thin over the last hour, and now it just looked like exhaustion and guilt.

“I might not know shit about that science crap,” he mumbled. “But even I caught the part where it ain’t contagious.” His voice was flat, throat working visibly when he swallowed.

He didn’t have anything else to say because his throat was a thick knot of worry, his brain couldn’t prioritize what to yell at first about how stupid it was to come down here, how he should’ve been watching you like a hawk or about how goddamn helpless he felt now, with nothing to shoot, nothing to kill, no way to stop what was burning you up from the inside out.

Joel’s jaw clenched, his eyes wouldn’t leave your face.

Christ, you looked wrecked.

Expression ached with something hot and helpless, lips twitching as if trying to form a word you didn’t know how to say. You were burning up in front of him with need and not once had you begged or pleaded or lashed out.

You were just taking it, shaking through it strong, even while falling apart.

And hell if you didn’t still look—

He cut the thought off before it finished. Wasn’t right. Not now.

The heat from you bled into his clothes and skin. He felt it in his ribs, in his neck and in his gut. Every inch of him screamed to get you somewhere safe, but nowhere was safe now. Not from this.

So he gave you what he could.

Joel shifted beside you for the chair to creak and the scent of him to wash over you, sweat and cedar. You hadn’t even realized you’d learned so far into him.

His hand came to rest on your waist, firm and grounding. You twitched at the contact, and yet didn’t pull away. His fingers flexed once against your side, thick and calloused and warm, and then you were being pulled closer into him.

The ugly squeal of your chair legs scraped across the floor.

Your hands gripped his shoulder, hard, desperate. You buried your face in the curve between his neck and shoulder, trying to hide the groan that clawed its way up your throat. His flannel scratched your cheek but you didn’t care.

“Shoulda kept my fuckin’ eyes on you,” he muttered into your hair, voice low and tight. “You wouldn’t be in this mess if I hadn’t…This’s on me.”

You shook your head against his collarbone and tried to talk to express how it wasn’t his fault, that it was all yours, but the words collapsed into a guttural hiss as his hand moved, gliding downward with terrible slowness.

Your whole body jolted when warm, thick and firm fingers cupped the bulge in your pants.

Your teeth sank into your lower lip until you tasted blood, your breath hitching into ragged whimpers. You couldn’t look at him.

“Joel—” you gasped, unsure what you were about to beg for.

But he didn’t stop, his thumb moved in a slow circle over the wet spot you’d soaked through your pants, so gentle it felt like cruelty.

He turned his face into your hair, breathed in slow.

“I’m gonna help you,” he said, voice gone hoarse, just a whisper now, like he hated himself for every syllable. “Ain’t right lettin’ you sit here like this when I can stop it.”

Your heart pounded so loud it drowned everything else, fingers tightening in his shirt, hips lifting to meet the slow pressure of his hand. Shame made your face flush to the roots.

His hand moved again, undoing your belt and working your zipper down. Every movement broadcast how much he didn’t want to scare you. There was a subtle catch in his breath when your cock sprang free, hard and leaking against your abdomen.

“You’re burnin’ up bad.” He breathed, low and reverent.

You nodded against his neck, eyes screwed shut. “Please.”

That one word broke something in him. His fingers wrapped around your shaft and you let out a ragged moan as your hips bucked into the heat of his grip. Your forehead pressed tighter to his neck.

“I got you,” he whispered, hands starting to work, twisting near the tip, pulling tight at the base and sending sparks up your spine each time.

He nuzzled the side of your face, beard scraping your cheek. “Ain’t right how pretty you look like this.”

You whimpered pathetically and his thumb circled your slit with the lightest pressure, smearing your precum.

Your hips rolled helplessly up into his fist, every stroke pulling the orgasm closer but never letting you fall over the edge and he kept going, whispering into your hair, murmuring gruff, sweet nonsense that shouldn’t have worked but made you shudder every time.

His forehead pressed into the crook of your neck, his hand pumping faster now, breath now shakier. His other free hand brushed your stomach, fingers splayed flat across your abdomen, grounding you and keeping you in place.

You cursed and sobbed his name over and over. Each time more broken and desperate as your cock throbbed wildly, precum soaking his fingers and your abdomen.

You shouted his name, hips jerking wildly into his hand as thick ribbons of cum splattered your shirt and his hand. You gasped and broke apart in his arms, the high so sharp it bordered on pain.

Joel held you the whole way through as your frame sagged into him, breath in ragged gasps. His hand finally let go of your twitching cock, cupping the back of your head instead and pulling you tighter into his neck.

The second the last spasm of your orgasm passed, a new wave of pain slithered its way up, that burning ache hadn’t left as your dick throbbed angrily.

Your breath caught again, this time not from pain, but the sting of need ripping through your belly.

Every inch of his exhale soaked into your skin, warm condensation painting the side of your throat, followed by the gentle, maddening scrape of his beard. A dry rasp that danced across the oversensitized line of your jaw and shoulder, each bristle dragged across the flesh.

Your brain was a fogged glass window, heat smeared across it in trembling streaks and you groaned as you pulled back only to climb him.

Your knees hit the outside of his thighs and you straddled him, planting yourself in his lap with a desperate moan, the shape of his big bulge now grinding flush against your ass through both of your pants.

A huff of shocked air left his lungs, half a grunt, half a curse.

No words escaped him as your mouth crushed his, your hands dove into the heavy bristle of his beard, fingers cupping the rough cut of his jaw as you forced your mouth against his while grinding hard against the thick bulge in his pants.

A grunt was ripped from his chest, rumbling up his throat from the sudden kiss, lips parting beneath yours before he even thought to resist. That first second he froze but the time to recover and he kissed you back like he was starved.

His hands came up hard, wide palms slamming against your back to pull you into him as chapped and rough lips moved with your own. There was a hunger in the way he tilted his head, letting your mouth press deeper into his, groaning again when your tongue slid along his.

He hadn’t expected this, didn’t think he’d get to touch you ever. Now you were straddling and kissing him like it might undo the agony inside you.

You moaned into him and he gasped again, pulling back to breathe but your lips chased him, eyes hazy and lost. You made a quiet, broken noise when he didn’t meet you right away, a whimper that cracked in the back of your throat.

He hated every piece of how this happened. This wasn’t how he wanted to earn you.

He wanted you to choose him because you saw him for who he was and wanted him anyway.

You kissed him again, this time down his throat. Your lips fastened to the rough column of his neck, soft and open-mouthed, tongue licking a trembling path to the notch of his collarbone, lavishing the path ahead.

The outline of his cock throbbed thick against your ass, and your body ground down even harder, seeking the friction with a rhythm that made you gasp while looping your arms around his shoulders to keep steady.

With a low growl, Joel’s hand slid down and hooked beneath your thigh, gripping tight to help you grind deeper against him. His voice rasped out near your ear, breath shaking.

“Y’keep movin’ like that and I ain’t gonna be able to hold back.” He murmured, lips brushing your jaw.

Your hands flew down, fumbling with his belt and he watched you with wide, dark eyes, chest heaving as your fingers yanked open the buckle and fought the button free.

He groaned the second your hand pulled him free, thick, hot and heavy. He was bigger than you’d even imagined in the loneliest of nights.

Joel’ broad palms dropped to your ass sliding inward with a warm smear of spit as he circled your rim with maddening slowness, then pushed one thick finger in without warning.

The stretch burned, but not enough to make you stop or even slow down. You rocked back onto him instinctively, greedy, grinding down to take him deeper.

His other hand came up to stroke your lower back, grounding you as he added a second finger. This time he slowed, watched your face, lips parted and trembling as the stretch widened and your nails dug into the flannel on his chest. The ache rode a razor’s edge with pleasure.

Joel twisted his fingers as he fucked them in and out of you, wrist flexing just so to press against that hot, shivering bundle of nerves inside.

You pulled back, his fingers sliding free with a wet sound that made your cheeks flush and when he reached for you again, you were already rising onto your knees, lining yourself up. One hand gripped the base of his thick and hot cock before slamming yourself down on it.

“Ah—fuck—” Joel choked out, his head snapping forward to bury in your neck, voice breaking against your skin as your tight heat swallowed him whole in a single motion.

Your hole stretched around him with brutal urgency. The burn was immediate, the ache sharp, your body seized again as you came with no warning, just an explosion that tore through your nerves. Your cock twitched where it was trapped between your abdomens, painting streaks of cum across Joel’s stomach and your shirt, your chest heaving as your walls clamped down hard, milking him with pulsing aftershocks of your sudden orgasm and he cursed into your neck.

“Goddamn—you came?” His voice was hoarse, near disbelief while his hands grabbed your hips so hard you thought he’d bruise you, holding you flush against him, buried to the hilt.

Your hole spasmed again, fluttering around him and drawing another groan from his throat as you cockwarmed him. He was panting now, breath hot and erratic against your skin.

Joel felt your still hard cock poking against his stomach, leaking slick again even though you’d just come.

One thick arm snaked down beneath your ass, the other sliding up to your waist, and with one solid motion, he stood.

“J–Joel?” you gasped, voice wrecked.

“Shhh,” he growled while holding you so tight and close that the angle didn’t change, you whimpered when he adjusted you higher against his chest.

Glass shattered, metal clanged, paper flew as Joel’s hand swept across the table near the center of the room, knocking everything to the floor in one vicious sweep of his arm.

It was impossible to care for any of those things when he dropped you down onto the now-cleared tabletop and pushed your thighs open wider, stepped between them, and rammed himself back in with the full force of his body behind it.

“F–fuck!” Your arms snapped tight around his neck, legs locking around his waist. You clung to him, body shaking as he bottomed out again with no warning or pause.

He pulled back and slammed back in again.

Your head fell back with a cracked moan, neck exposed, chest arched. His name poured out of you like a prayer. Joel grunted with every thrust, sweat dripping down the sides of his face, neck corded tight with strain.

You were gone for the feel of him fucking you, claiming and filling you up so completely you didn’t know where he ended and you began. The table shook beneath you with each savage thrust, the wood groaning in protest under Joel’s strength.

Your cock rubbed between you again, hard and wet and pressed to his abs. Each slam of his hips rocked it up your abdomen, drawing gasps and broken noises from your throat, dragging your insides with every inch it claimed and then retreated from.

His head dropped into the crook of your neck, beard rasping against your pulse, breath hot and heavy as it stuttered into your skin.

His voice cracked against your throat. “Still wonderin’ why Ellie swapped patrols with you?”

It was surreal hearing his voice cut through the fog now. You hadn’t even realized the fungus haze had thinned. Not gone, but faltering.

“I—yea—mmmf—” You tried to respond but it broke halfway into a moan when his cock sank back in to the base and stayed there.

“She Saw the way I was watchin’ you. Knew I was askin’ too many goddamn questions ‘bout how you were.” He said with a raw voice as he grounded into you.

“Kid gave me this week. Told me to stop bein’ a stubborn, miserable bastard and just make a move.”

You shivered, breath punching out of you with every thrust.

“Joel—” you moaned.

“Didn’t want this to happen this way but I ain’t lettin’ you suffer alone.” He groaned again, biting into your shoulder briefly.

Your mouth opened but only more gasps came out. Finally, between broken breaths: “I’d’ve said somethin’, Joel…if I’d known… I—I—fuck—I wanted you…”

That did something to him. His thrusts grew rougher and faster. The rhythm shattered and replaced by raw instinct.

Your lips crashed together, his tongue plunged into your mouth, devouring you as his hips slammed forward one final time as he came.

The heat erupted inside you, his cock pulsing thick spurts coming deep in your abdomen, his entire body shuddering against yours. He groaned into your mouth, voice wrecked, lost, the sound of a man giving up every defense he ever had.

Your cock jerked between you, untouched, and splattered hot release all across his abdomen and yours.

The air between your bodies steamed, heavy and thick with the scent of sweat and sex. Your face was buried against Joel’s shoulder, every breath a sharp drag of oxygen through your teeth, his beard scratching against your temple with each slight twitch of his jaw.

Joel let out a breath that landed heavy against the skin of your throat.

This fucked-up fungus was now fused to you now. Living in your system. You didn’t know when it would happen again but all you had clue of was what it meant it will do.

You felt your throat tighten from dread.

“I’ve got it in me,” you whispered. “I—fuck, Joel. I’ll have to live with this.”

“You ain’t alone in it,” he murmured. “I’m here. You hear me?” Voice softer and lower now.

He gave you a moment before handing you your wrinkled shirt. You slipped it over your head slowly, wincing with each movement before doing the same with your pants.

You both moved slowly through the same broken window.

The air outside was colder but clean and you paused near the horses.

“We ain’t tellin’ no one,” He said, tone flat and quiet, “when we get back to Jackson,” he continued, low and firm, “this stays between us. That lab, the spores, what it did to you.” A beat. “Ain’t nobody else’s business.”

He looked at you like you were already his to protect.

He stepped back, mounting his horse in one practiced motion, tone now taking a lower, husky edge to it as he spoke again. “Next time it starts again, you come find me. I don’t care what time it is, where we are. You don’t go through that by yourself, y’hear me?”

[cronasluvr]

Desperate Things

Hayakawa Aki x m!reader x Angel

smut; Sex with a partner you can't touch isn't a challenge passed easily. Not until you think to let another person join - for you to enjoy and for Angel to visualize himself in.

✮ top!reader, threesome, anal fingering, anal sex, voyeurism/exhibitionism ✮

~ 1.5k words ~ | MDNI | Masterlists

Longing is all Angel knows. Your relationship and the restriction his power imposes makes your presence unbearable sometimes - so near yet impossible to touch. And after all this time, after every trick and every technique you've tried - the gloves, the mutual masturbation, the phone sex - you had a new idea. A vessel for you to fuck and for Angel to imagine himself in.

Aki seemed like the logical choice. The fellow devil hunter already had his eyes on you and your boyfriend, charmingly sweet and very obviously willing. Even more so when you approached him with the proposal. Asking a coworker to have sex with you while your partner watches was not a situation you ever imagined yourself in, but you managed surprisingly well over two evening beers and a drawn-out cigarette.

"So... you'll fuck me. For Angel..." Aki repeats your proposal back to you, eyes cast to the smoke rising from his words.

You hum, watching him closely. He doesn't seem turned off by the idea at all. If anything, the small blush over his cheeks and teeth nervously nibbling on his lower lip betray a sense of excitement. "Yeah. What do you think?"

Aki turns his head, thinking it over like he hadn't made his decision already. There's silence as he takes another deep drag, and takes his time exhaling, fingers nervously dancing over the cigarette. "Sure."

In your bedroom, Aki feels like the stranger he is. This private space reserved for you and the angel devil now infiltrated by him, awkwardly sitting on the bed, hair down, hands nervously wringing. The devil hunter tries not to stare, tries not to care about what you two are discussing one last time, but his eyes keep wandering back to you and Angel, close, talking.

The devil stares up at you, eyes big, lips parted, nervous and excited. "Just enjoy yourself, darling," you reassure, smiling gently. The urge to reach out and cradle your boyfriend's face seems overwhelming, your hands curling by your sides. "Tell me if there's anything you don't like."

He nods, biting his lip, his eyes shyly casting to Aki. "Okay..." he murmurs, blinking at the blushing devil hunter. Angel's hands clutch the hoodie you handed him tighter before he retreats to a chair by the bed, wings wrapped around him protectively.

Aski's attention already jumps back to you, approaching him with a curious kind of hunger in your eyes. He's underneath you in seconds, eyes wide, hair loose against the mattress. "Put on a good show for him, yeah?" you murmur to him, lips on his neck, leaving a trail of nibbles up to Aki's ear.

He turns his head, glancing at Angel, still curled on the chair, white feathers surrounding his form like a shield. Their eyes meet, red flush now matching on their cheeks before your guiding hand forces Aki's attention back on you, chin between your fingers. Blue eyes look up at you, widened, blown with waiting arousal.

Aki's lips are soft, tangibly nervous against yours, and easily submitting, and with closed eyes, it's almost surprisingly easy to imagine Angel underneath you instead, kissing you so willingly, so surprisingly desperate. Aki's hands curl against the mattress before your guidance allows them to hold onto your shirt, the contact warm and close, like you're used to this already - being touched without restraint.

Your kiss deepens, broken when Aki's shaky fingers pull your shirt upwards, over your head, revealing your naked torso. The hunter's eyes are shy when they cast down only briefly, swallowing at the display of nude skin. Angel is shameless with his staring, pulling his hoodie of yours up to his nose, and inhaling subtly.

The first moan falls from Aki's lips when your finger presses into him, now naked beneath you, his legs spread like an invitation for the pulsating erection between your thighs. He's tight, wrapping around your digit like you're the first he's ever taken, writhing beautifully with every thrust. Angel has started getting restless, shifting, eyes widened, wings twitching away and close again.

You press another finger into the male beneath you, turning to look at Angel, who's watching Aki like the twitches of his body speak a foreign language. "Faster," Angel's voice is so quiet, it barely carries over to you.

"Faster?" you repeat, turning to look at Aki, who's too focused on being stuffed to comprehend a single word. "If that's what you want, babe," you shrug, grinning, fingers picking up pace.

Aki's body jerks in response, a loud gasp falling from his bitten lips while his head turns against the mattress, desperate to grasp the feel of your fingers penetrating him and stretching him further with each thrust. "F-fuck! C-can't, I... can't," he cries out, thighs straining as they try to close against your other hand keeping them apart.

"You can, baby," you correct easily, speaking loud enough for your boyfriend to hear you. "Still gotta take my cock, 'kay? Be good." He whines, his hands grabbing onto his own legs, holding himself open for you but avoiding eye contact, even from Angel. Your attention is on Aki's hole, swallowing your thrusts greedily, opening wider each time you stretch your fingers.

"Think you're ready, hm?" you hum after some time, looking at Angel while asking the question. The devil had shyly positioned his palm over his pants, pressing against his arousal, fingers flexing each time you thrust into Aki. You can't help a smile, barely even registering the confirming grunt from Aki.

His arms wrap around your neck when you lean over him, thighs adjusting until your cock is just pressing against him, hole puckering to take you in. Your attention isn't on Aki, though, it's fully trained on Angel, watching the devil's eyes widen when your cock is slowly swallowed by his colleague's ass, the tightness visibly pulling you in, making the muscles of your thighs twitch until you're entirely buried.

Angel is biting his lip, face contorted in pleasure like it isn't Aki being split open by you but your boyfriend. The strangled moans from beneath you finally make you turn your head, faced with Aki's rolled back eyes, lips parted as if his lungs crave for more air than the room provides. His Addams Apple bobs with every choked whimper, inviting you to lean down and leave a bite along the side of Aki's neck. You enjoy this easy affection, the ability to touch and claim and feel however you want.

Your hips start moving almost automatically, rutting into Aki, clumsy at first, more need than technique behind the thrusts until composure finds you again and you angle your hips properly and find an easy rhythm. Each slap of your body into Aki's has the man grunt out another moan, thighs tightly locked around you.

A more familiar-sounding whimper makes your attention jump again, needing a second to register what's happening next to you. Angel had pulled down his pants, legs propped up on the chair, wings still close to almost shield what is happening - the devil two fingers deep inside himself, watching you and Aki through hooded eyes, and matching the rhythm.

The visual makes you groan, hips stuttering, arms weakening the slightest bit. You're glad Angel is able to enjoy this too. Aki looks over as well, eyes lidded and not betraying any thoughts about the devil touching himself. You do notice his subtly bucking hips and prominently turned-on expressions - Aki is putting on more of a show.

You fuck deeper into him, dragging it out, closing your eyes to imagine the angel underneath you instead. When you open them to find Aki, you're not disappointed. Angel's moans reach you more freely now, the pleasure taking his restraint and shame easily, making it harder to hold back.

"Fuck," you grunt, fighting to keep your head lifted, and look at Angel, who's still mimicking your pace, "I'm getting close, baby. You too?" Aki whines but seems to understand he isn't the one being spoken to. His hand wanders downwards to stroke himself along each of your thrusts.

Angel can only nod, unable to form words, his high-pitched noises telling of the pleasure he feels. Aki's easily spilled moans start to mix with Angel's hypnotically, and it doesn't take long before the irresistible mix of sensations finally pulls you over the edge.

"C-coming," you announce between gritted teeth, barely making the word out before your release paints Aki's insides, seconds after he came, his release spurted over his pale stomach, chest rising from the intensity. Your body strains, eyes involuntarily closing as the sensation blurs your vision.

Angel comes almost simultaneously with you the sound familiarly lewd just before you collapse next to Aki, breathing heavily, feeling the warmth of the hunter's skin right next to you. There's nothing but the sound of synchronizing breaths filling the room for a long moment before the soft tap tap tap of gentle feet joins. The bed dips when Angel climbs onto it, sliding into your waiting arms along a blanket draped between you with practiced ease.

No one speaks, not yet, simply letting the energy of three spent and satisfied bodies shift the atmosphere into comfortable buzz and allowing ideas of what this arrangement might lead to root deeply.

[cronasluvr]

Insatiable | Mark Grayson x Incubus!Male!Reader

Summary: Mark Grayson dies of jealousy every time his flirty, easygoing, and perpetually exhausted best friend—who he may or may not have a huge crush on—makes out with random guys behind the school. Until the day you confess you’re a half-breed, like him. But not quite like him. Because while he’s half-Viltrumite, you are... half-incubus? Whatever that means… Mark’s more than willing to find out.

Pairing: Mark Grayson x Incubus!Male!Reader

Warnings: 18+, making out, frottage/dry humping, (semi-public?) oral (Mark receiving), anal sex.

Tags: Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Fluff, Pining Mark, Mutual Pining, Top!Mark, Bottom!Reader.

w.c: 19.7k  |  a/n: Heeey, it’s been forever!!! DID YOU MISS ME? Because I definitely missed you! I’m really sorry for being so inactive lately. I've been so busy between a nasty case of writer’s block, college stress, and work chaos... yeah, life sucks. Anyway! Here’s a little big treat I managed to squeeze out between bursts of inspiration and writer’s block. As always, English isn’t my first language, so please forgive any mistakes here and there. Hope you enjoy it!

You have a reputation.

You know it. Mark knows it. Hell, probably half the school knows it.

It clings to you like a second skin—whispers in the hallways, smirks in locker rooms, giggles that trail behind you in class. You’re a flirt, and not the harmless kind either.

The kind who’s always leaning just a little too close in crowded hallways, disappearing behind buildings with someone breathless and flushed, only to reappear like they’ve won the lottery. But then a week or two passes, and you’re gone. Slipping out of their lives like it never mattered. Like they never mattered. One minute, you’re all sultry glances and lingering touches. The next, you’re onto the next curious set of eyes across the room.

People talk. Some resent you. And yet, no matter how many times you walk away, there’s always someone new, eager and willing, thinking maybe they’ll be the exception.

And today, Mark sees it happen all over again.

He watches from across the cafeteria as you chat up some guy in line. You’re leaning in close—closer than necessary. Your shoulder brushes his, and your head tilts slightly when you laugh. That slow, lazy grin slides across your lips like it’s effortless. The guy blushes. Of course he does. He leans in without realizing it, like he’s being pulled by a string.

Mark doesn’t even taste the food in his mouth anymore.

He stabs his fork into his tray, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the casual way your hand lingers near the guy’s arm, the light in your expression that no one else ever gets to keep. His stomach knots.

You’re just playing. Again. He knows it. But that doesn’t stop the heat from rising in his chest. Doesn’t stop the slow burn of something he doesn’t want to name.

Then you laugh at something.

The guy laughs back, awkward and eager.

Mark’s knuckles go white around his fork.

“Uh, Mark to Earth?” William says, waving a hand in front of him. “I’ve been talking to you for, like, five minutes.”

Mark blinks, forcing his jaw to unclench. “Huh? Sorry. What?”

William raises an eyebrow, following Mark’s gaze to where you’re now smirking at something the guy said.

“Oh. Y/N again,” William mutters, deadpan. “Shocking.”

Mark’s ears are already burning. He glances down at his tray. “What about him?”

William sighs like he’s had this conversation in his head a hundred times already. “Dude. At least pretend to be subtle. Jealousy isn’t a good look.”

“I’m not—” Mark starts, a little too fast. He swallows hard, tries again with forced calm. “Whatever. It’s just—I’m worried, okay?”

“Oooh, worried. Right. Sure,” William drawls, nodding slowly like he’s humoring a toddler. “Totally not jealous that Y/N’s out there reeling in his next victim while you sit here pouting and crying about it.”

Mark nearly chokes. “What are you even—oh crap, he’s coming back. Shut up.”

He watches, frozen, as you murmur something to the guy before breaking away, walking straight toward them.

Mark jerks his eyes down to his tray, only now noticing the fork in his hand bent clean in half from how tightly he’d been gripping it. He swears under his breath, quickly ducking his hands beneath the table to fix it. He’s midway through smoothing it back into shape when you slide into the seat beside him, smooth as ever.

You sigh, lazy and soft. “Hey, nerds. Sorry I’m late. What’re you gossiping about without me?”

Your head props in your hand, elbow on the table, eyes flicking between them with something like curiosity—but dulled, like even that costs energy.

It’s always a bit of whiplash when you’re around them. The version of you the school knows—the smooth-talking, flirtatious heartbreaker—melts away almost instantly. With them, you’re just you—that quieter, wearier version only your close friends ever get to see. Your posture slouches. The sharp smirk fades into something hazy. Your eyes, once bright and teasing, grow distant.

It’s like watching a performance end the second the curtains close.

Mark watches, fascinated and frustrated in equal measure. He hadn’t been lying earlier—he is worried. Because behind the easy voice and sleepy grin, he sees it—that edge of exhaustion you try so hard to hide. That distracted look in your eyes, like your mind’s always somewhere else.

“Oh, we were just talking about Mark being jeal—ow!” William yelps, his leg jerking under the table.

Mark glares daggers at him, foot still pressed against William’s shin. His look says shut up so loud it might as well be spoken.

You raise a brow at the exchange, unimpressed. Even that tiny expression looks like it takes effort. Still, your gaze stays on William, waiting. “…About Mark being what?”

Mark straightens too fast. “Oh! Uh. Just—just excited! Y’know. About the tour. The Upstate U thing. It’s gonna be… fun.”

William grumbles into his food, refusing to look up. “Super fun.”

Your eyes light up just slightly—just enough to make Mark breathe easier. “Oh yeah! Right. Thanks again, William, for letting us crash your date with that hot pre-med guy.”

“Oh, well, since Mark insisted, how could I possibly say no? I love having my two best friends third- and fourth-wheeling all the time. Makes it so romantic.”

You snort, your posture loosening as you lean back and wink. “Don’t worry, Will. I’ll make sure to drag Mark away the second we get there. I’m not about to cockblock my friends.”

William’s smile turns razor-sharp. “Good. Make sure you keep Mark busy all day. And by all day, I mean all night too. You two are sharing a room—trust me, you don’t wanna know what I’ll be doing in mine.”

“Done,” you reply breezily, nudging your knee against Mark’s under the table without thinking.

Mark jerks like he’s been shocked, spine going stiff as his leg instinctively shifts away. He pointedly ignores the smug look William throws his way.

But of course, William isn’t done.

“So,” he drawls, “what were you talking about with that guy in line? You seemed real into it.”

Mark stiffens, lips pressing into a thin line as he shoots William a warning glare, one William very obviously avoids.

You blink, like the question catches you off guard—like you’d already forgotten about that guy entirely. Then realization sets in, and you wince a little. “Oh—that. I was just… hungry,” you mumble, eyes darting away. “Wanted to cut the line. Said something dumb to distract him, but standing around that long kinda sucked. I got tired.”

“Hungry?” Mark echoes, the irritation draining from his face as concern rushes in to take its place. “You’ve already had, like, four trays. You still hungry?”

You glance at him, giving a half-hearted shrug. “I have a big appetite?” you offer, lips tugging into a weak sort-of-smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Mark catches it—the pout in your mouth, the barely-there glance toward his tray of food, the subtle tremble in your tone.

He doesn’t hesitate. Quietly, he slides his tray across the table toward you, nudging it close enough to make the offer clear.

Your eyes widen just a bit.

“You can have mine,” Mark says, trying to play it off with a shrug. “I’ve had enough.”

Your face lights up instantly, all exhaustion momentarily eclipsed by a bright smile “Seriously? Dude, thank you! God, I’m starving.”

Without another word, you pick up the fork—Mark’s fork—and dive into the food like you haven’t eaten in days.

Mark tries very hard not to think about how you’re eating off the same fork he used. That it’s kind of like—well, not a kiss. Not really. But also kind of not not one. He’s not five. He knows that. He tells his face that too, willing the heat in his cheeks to die down.

William snorts around a mouthful of his own food. “Jesus, you eat like you never did before. Got a black hole in there or what?”

You snort too, pausing just long enough to swallow. “Feels like it.”

Mark watches you. Watches the way your cheeks puff as you chew, the smooth motion of your throat as you eat, the quick swipe of your tongue across your lips between bites.

He swallows, too.

“Almost like you’re… insatiable,” he murmurs, without thinking.

You pause. Not for long—but enough. Your rhythm falters as you glance back at him, something unreadable in your expression. Like he just struck a chord you weren’t ready for.

It vanishes quickly. You laugh, not quite as bright as before. “Yeah,” you say, chuckling, “feels like it.”

But something’s changed. The words feel heavy now. Like a joke that isn’t really a joke. Like there’s something you want to say, but won’t.

Mark notices. Of course he does.

But, as always, he doesn’t say anything.

Mark never seems to know what to say around you.

So he sits there.

Watching you.

And in his own quiet way, maybe he’s insatiable too.

By the time you all arrive at Upstate U and meet Rick, you make good on your promise to keep Mark out of William’s hair. You wave William off with a cheeky salute and a wink, then drag Mark into your own version of a tour: one that includes skipping the official info sessions, sampling from half the food trucks on campus, and wandering through hidden places neither of you expected to find.

Mark doesn’t complain. In fact, he’s having a good time—a great time, actually.

He’s laughing too much. Smiling too easily. He tries not to notice the way his body jolts when his shoulder always ends up pressed against yours whenever you walk side by side. He tries not to focus on the way his chest swells a little too much every time you laugh at something he says. He really tries to ignore the way his heart picks up every time your eyes catch his and hold, just for a beat too long.

But what Mark can’t ignore—no matter how hard he tries—is the way your breath hitches after walking for too long. The way your pace slows, like your legs are dragging. The way your body leans into him like you don’t even notice you’re doing it—like gravity’s pulled you sideways and he’s the only thing holding you up. The way you keep rubbing your eyes, like you were trying to scrub the exhaustion out of them.

Eventually, Mark can’t pretend anymore.

“Hey,” he says gently, his hand brushing your shoulder to guide you toward the nearest bench. “Let’s sit for a bit.”

You blink, but let him. The second you sit down, your body sinks into the bench like it’s doing half the work your legs can’t anymore.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Peachy,” you mutter, voice low and strained. “Why?”

Mark watches you carefully, his brows pulling together. You’re sweating slightly, and your skin has that drained, almost translucent look to it.

“You’re pale,” he says quietly. “And kind of… out of it. Are you sure you’re okay? We can go back to the dorms. You don’t have to push yourself.”

You don’t answer right away, eyes darting to the ground, breathing shallowly like you’re barely holding it together.

And what Mark doesn’t get—what drives him a little crazy—is why you keep pretending you’re fine.

Especially with him.

“I’m just—” you start, then stop yourself, jaw tightening as you press your lips together in visible frustration “—hungry.”

Your eyes drift past him, unfocused, flicking over the stream of students walking by. You look like you’re scanning them. Assessing.

“I should eat,” you mutter, dazed. “I should… eat something…”

Mark straightens in his seat, alarm rising in his chest. “I can get you something,” he offers quickly, ignoring the fact you’ve already eaten enough for three people today. He just wants to help. “Something sweet. Maybe your blood sugar’s low?”

You look up at him then, and something in your expression knocks the wind out of him. Your brows pinch, eyes cloudy, lips parted like you’re about to cry.

“That’s not enough,” you whisper.

Mark blinks. “What do you mean?”

Then, without hesitation, without shame, you whisper, “I wanna kiss someone.”

Mark freezes.

“What?”

“I need someone,” you repeat, more firmly this time, bracing your hands against the bench like you’re about to stand. “I’ll find someone. Just—stay here, okay? It won’t take more than fifteen minutes.” You push yourself up, but stumble as you take a step forward.

Mark doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares at you like he doesn’t recognize you for a second.

Kiss someone? Now? You were clearly unwell—too pale, too drained, barely standing—but even now, even like this, you were going to throw yourself at some stranger? After spending the entire day together, after laughing and joking and walking shoulder-to-shoulder like you actually wanted to be around him?

His throat tightens. A bitter coil wraps around his heart, hot and suffocating and impossible to shake. Something ugly rears its head in his chest. A sick twist of frustration and hurt and—

God.

William was right.

Jealousy.

Mark presses his lips together. He doesn’t want to be the kind of guy who gets angry about this.

He’s not entitled to you. He never was.

But that doesn’t stop his hands from curling into fists in his lap, knuckles white.

Because you’re clearly hurting. And you won’t tell him why.

Because you’re pushing yourself toward strangers, toward danger, when he’s right here.

Because, for once, he wants you to pick him.

And you don’t.

Before you can take another shaky step, Mark stands up and grabs your wrist.

“No.”

The word comes out sharper than he means it to—clipped, almost angry.

You stop, turning to him with startled, uneasy eyes. “I’ll be right back, Mark. I swear.”

“No,” he says again, firmer this time, his brow knitting. “You’re about to collapse, Y/N. I’m not letting you go to—what, kiss some random guy just because you’re feeling off?”

You blink, taken aback by his tone. “Look, I get you’re worried, but—”

“No, Y/N,” he cuts in, voice rising, frustration breaking through. “I’ve never judged you for the crap people say about you, alright? Never cared what they whispered in the halls. But this? This is insane. You’re sick, and your solution is to hook up with a stranger? We’ve been here less than a day!”

The next words slip out before he can stop them.

“Can you not act like some hormone-crazed idiot for five minutes and just take care of yourself?”

The second the words leave his mouth, he wants to take them back. But it’s too late.

You go completely still, eyes going wide.

Then, slowly, your expression hardens.

“Hormone-crazed idiot?” you echo, voice low and cutting, disbelief flickering in your eyes. “Is that what you think I am?”

“Wait—Y/N, I didn’t mean—”

You tear your hand from his grip, expression stony. It’s like a dam breaks beneath your exhaustion, a spark of rage reigniting the strength that had been fading from you all day.

“What am I then, huh? Just some horny screw-up who can’t go a day without climbing someone? You think this is fun for me? That I like being like this?”

Mark shakes his head, panicked, but not quite understanding the meaning of your words. “No—God, no, that’s not what I meant, it’s just—”

“Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone else thinks I’m just some—some fucking slut who can’t keep it in his pants. But you—” Your voice breaks. “I thought you knew me better than that, Mark.”

Mark’s stomach drops. “I do! I swear I—”

Before he can finish, William’s voice cuts through the charged air, calling over the crowd, his arm linked with Rick’s.

“Hey, idiots! Having fun with—oh…” William’s voice trails off, sensing the thick tension between you two. He awkwardly lowers his raised arm. “Hey… is everything okay…?”

Mark barely holds back a groan, cursing himself for the words that slipped out so stupidly. He wants to apologize, to pull you aside, to fix it—

But then a sudden explosion shakes the ground beneath them, a cyborg-looking-monster crawling out of a hole.

What happens next is a blur of instinct and adrenaline. One second he’s Mark Grayson, desperate to take back his words—the next, he’s Invincible, saving his best friends from death.

And when it’s over, when he drags himself back, bruised and breathless, to where William and you are huddled in safety—

William stares at him, whispering under his breath, “Mark…?”

And you—you’re not surprised. Not even angry. You just frown, gaze deliberately avoiding his, eyes unreadable and distant.

It’s in that moment Mark knows he’s screwed up big time.

You don’t speak to him again until later, when the nightmare finally ends—Sinclair in GDA custody, William shaken but safe, and Rick badly wounded but alive.

“Can’t believe Sinclair nearly turned you into one of those things,” William mutters, arms wrapped tightly around Rick.

Mark stands off to the side, awkward and out of place in the fluorescent-lit room. You’ve long since excused yourself, mumbling something about sleeping this fucking day away. The words had been dressed up as a joke, but Mark saw through it—the way your hands trembled as you gripped the doorframe, the deep shadows under your eyes, the sheen of sweat clinging to your pale face.

He remembered the way you leaned on him earlier, how your steps had faltered, how you kept pretending you were okay.

You weren’t.

And now, after everything that’s happened, Mark’s worried sick.

“I’ll…” he starts, voice flat, drained. “I’ll go to bed too. You guys, um… get some rest.”

Rick nods. William does too, but his eyes linger—sharp, knowing, and meaningful. A silent get your shit together.

Mark tries.

The room is dim when he slips in, cold moonlight pooling faintly through the curtains. You’re already curled up on one of the beds, facing the wall. For a moment, he feels crushed because you’re still mad at him.

Moving quietly, he strips out of his clothes with mechanical, resigned motions, slipping into his pajamas—until your voice cuts through the silence.

“Mark?”

He freezes—mid-motion, halfway through tugging his jeans off—heart leaping to his throat.

He turns quickly to face you, finding you sitting up groggily in bed, hair tousled, eyes heavy with exhaustion.

“Y/N,” he breathes, almost stumbling over your name. He’s so relieved to hear you talk to him again, but the guilt crashes in just as fast. “Are you—did I wake you? Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

You shake your head slowly, blinking away the haze. “No. I wasn’t really sleeping anyway.”

Mark hesitates by the edge of his bed, torn between giving you space and wanting to inch closer. “Do you… need something?” he asks softly. “Water? Food? Anything?”

You’re quiet for a beat, looking at him in a way that makes his heart clench—like you’re still tired, still hurt, but no longer angry. Just… worn down.

“Nah,” you murmur, voice low. “I’m fine.”

Silence stretches between you.

Mark sits there, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on him. He hates it—the tension, the awkwardness, the distance, especially when you were having such a good time today. The kind of fun that only happens when you’re with someone you really like.

And Mark likes you.

Probably a lot more than he wanted to admit.

Probably enough to get on his knees and beg if that’s what it would take to fix this. He’s already forming the words in his head, some clumsy apology laced with sincerity, when you speak first.

“So… Invincible, huh?” you mutter, the faintest edge of amusement cutting through your exhaustion.

Mark latches onto the sound of your voice—that tone—like a lifeline.

“Yeah,” he chuckles awkwardly, rubbing his neck. “That’s, uh. That’s me.”

You hum, noncommittal, gaze drifting toward the window. “Were you ever going to tell us?”

Mark’s breath catches. His smile falters. It would be easy to lie. To say yeah, eventually, of course.

But all that comes out is a quiet, “...I don’t know.”

You don’t say anything right away. You just rub at your eyes again, the way you always do when you’re trying to rub away sleep. It sets Mark on edge. His fingers twitch with the urge to reach out—check your temperature, get you water, make you take something, do something.

But he stays put.

Eventually, you exhale a long, slow breath. “It’s fine. I’m not mad about that.”

That.

Mark winces, the word cutting a little deeper than it should.

And then, finally, it spills out—earnest and clumsy and too fast.

“About—about what I said earlier…” he begins, voice low. “I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t care what you do—or don’t do—with other people. I swear. I was just… I was just really worried about you. You looked like you were about to pass out, and then hearing you say you wanted to kiss someone—God, I didn’t know what was happening. And I panicked. And I said something shitty. I’m sorry.”

Your expression doesn’t change at first. And Mark waits, his stomach a mess of nerves, the silence dragging sharp between you.

Then you sigh—long and heavy—and finally meet his eyes.

“I know,” you murmur. “God, I know. You don’t understand—can’t understand what—who I am. I shouldn’t have gotten mad at you for not knowing. That’s not fair.”

Mark frowns. He doesn’t feel any better—if anything, worse—because it sounds like you’re taking the blame for what he said. And that doesn’t sit right with him.

“What do you mean?” he asks, voice quiet. “I was the one who basically called you a hormonal mess to your face. That’s on me.”

You press your lips together and shake your head. “Yeah, well… I was the one who said I needed to kiss someone right there. Without context, that sounds…” You trail off, flinching, dragging a hand down your face. “I was out of it. I shouldn’t have said it like that, but I was desperate. Still am.”

Mark’s frown deepens, confusion flickering across his face. He opens his mouth, then closes it, unsure of what he even wants to ask. But the question lingers in his chest, heavy and jealous and aching.

Desperate? Still?

“You still…” he starts, then hesitates. “Still want to kiss someone?”

You blink at him, startled—but not like he’s wrong. More like you didn’t expect him to say it out loud.

Mark clears his throat, awkward, trying to shove the twist of jealousy in his chest down, his imagination running wild with images of you seeking out someone else’s lips in the dark.

“I… I think I’m gonna need a little more explanation than that,” he says carefully. “Because if this is still about kissing someone, I’m—uh—I’m not following.”

You go quiet for a moment, just looking at him—eyes uncertain, troubled, teeth pressing into your lower lip like you’re holding something in.

And that’s when Mark really sees it.

It’s serious. Whatever this is, it’s eating at you. And suddenly, he’s crossing the room without thinking, settling gently at the edge of your bed like he’s afraid to startle you.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You can tell me anything. You know that, right?”

You look at him, eyes wide and tired, like you haven’t slept in days. And then, with a dry, humorless smile, you shake your head.

“Well,” you whisper, “now that I know you’re Invincible... guess I owe you some truth too.”

Mark’s pulse jumps. “Truth?”

“Call it… an exchange of secrets,” you say, voice quiet, almost shy in a way that makes Mark’s stomach flip.

He leans in without thinking, drawn like gravity. “A secret?” The word comes out breathless. He’d thought he knew everything about you.

You hesitate. Nervousness is written all over you—tense shoulders, twitching fingers, the way you can’t quite sit still. But even so, you meet his eyes, refusing to look away.

“Promise you won’t look at me differently,” you whisper, so quiet he has to lean even closer to hear. “Promise this won’t change anything between us.”

Mark doesn’t hesitate. “I promise.”

Because really—how bad could it be?

You lick your lips, glance down at your hands, still fidgeting in your lap.

“Mark,” you begin slowly, “my family has... a curse. It’s been in our blood for generations. And—” Your hands fist in the sheets. “There’s nothing I can do to stop it. I need you to understand that. This isn’t—it’s not a choice, okay?”

Mark’s brows knit together, already twitching with worry as his mind jumps to every worst-case scenario. He’s heard of curses. He’s seen what they can do. Amanda—Monster Girl—was proof enough that they were never just quirky inconveniences. People suffered under curses. People died because of them.

And the way you’re speaking now—so serious, so insistent, practically pleading—hits something raw inside him and twists.

He nods, quickly, urgently. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. I believe you.”

You swallow hard, hands tangled tightly in the bedsheets.

“I’m…” You close your eyes for a moment, like it physically hurts to say it. “I’m not—I’m not fully human, Mark.”

The silence that follows is thick.

Mark’s eyes widen, those words bouncing around his skull, impossible to ignore.

“Part of my bloodline—on my mother’s side—is something else,” you continue, carefully, assessing his reaction with anxious eyes. “We call it a curse, but it’s more like a... condition we inherit.”

Mark listens intently, piecing together the implications, nodding slowly along.

Finally, you exhale shakily, gaze steady but vulnerable.

“I’m part incubus.”

The words hang heavy in the air.

“That’s why I needed to kiss someone earlier,” you admit, fingers twisting in the sheets. Your cheeks burn even in the dim light. “Normal food... it’s not enough. I can eat it, but it doesn’t sustain me. I need—” A shaky exhale. “Arousal. Desire. Intimacy. The energy that comes with it.”

Mark watches as you shrink into yourself, the confession leaving you vulnerable in a way he’s never seen.

“And when I don’t...” You hesitate, then force yourself to go on. “When I go too long without it, my body starts to shut down. You saw it earlier today. That’s what it looks like when I’m starving. I was trying to hide it because I didn’t want—I didn’t want you to know this part of me.”

Mark just stares, stunned—not with disgust or fear, but with a dawning realization. His mind scrambles, trying to make sense of everything. Okay.You’re part incubus. He’s not totally sure what that entails, not really, but he can piece it together. You feed off arousal—off desire. And without it, you get sick. Really sick. Okay. That much he gets.

Then finally, softly, “You’re sick because you’re starving.”

You grimace at that, the words clearly stinging, and glance away. Still, you nod—just barely. A small, exhausted gesture.

“You kiss people to… eat?” he asks slowly. “So back at school—when you were with people—you were feeding?”

You don’t nod this time. You wince instead, tilting your head with an awkward expression.

“Not exactly,” you murmur. “I don’t feed from kisses. That’s not enough. I just…” Your voice dips, suddenly shy. “I just mess around long enough to make people feel... something. Get their arousal going. When things start to, y’know, heat up.”

The second that last phrase escapes your lips, you let out a groan and bury your face in your hands.

“God, I hate saying it out loud. I hate how it sounds. But it’s not like I can turn it off, okay? If I could, I would. Believe me.”

Your voice is muffled behind your palms, frustration and shame coloring every word.

“Hey, hey,” Mark says gently, reaching out to take your hands in his. He pulls them away from your face with soft insistence, making sure you see the sincerity written all over his expression. “I don’t care, okay? This isn’t something you chose. It’s not—it’s not your fault.”

Mark swallows hard, glancing at you again—really looking. You’re still pale. Still swaying a bit where you sit. There are dark, bruised shadows beneath your eyes, and you look one bad night away from collapsing.

“I mean… if you didn’t feed,” Mark says slowly, working through it aloud, “you’d be like this all the time, right? That sounds like it’d really suck. I mean, look at you now. You’re still…”

He trails off, his gaze drifting over you with a worried crease in his brow.

A short, dry huff escapes you. You blink at him, tired and a little amused. “Yeah. It sucks. I could even die.”

You say it so lightly, like it’s no big deal—like you’re joking—and it knocks the breath right out of him.

Mark stares, stunned for a beat, the weight of that sentence finally settling in.

Then he leans forward, closing the space between you, close enough that his breath brushes yours. His hands slide up to your shoulders, firm and grounding as he pulls you gently toward him.

“You could die?” Mark hisses, panic tightening his voice. His fingers dig into your shoulders, eyes wide with fear. “How—how much time do you have left? Why didn’t you tell me? Shit—we should find someone immediately. God, I was the one who stopped you earlier—I’m such an idiot. Oh my god, are you dying?”

“Mark, Mark, breathe,” you say, raising both hands in a placating gesture, a genuine—if tired—smile tugging at your lips. “That only happens in really extreme cases, alright? I’m nowhere near that point. I swear.”

Mark lets out a shaky breath, but his grip on you doesn’t ease.

“Then why not—” He swallows hard, hating the question even as it leaves his lips. “Why not stay with one person? Wouldn’t that be easier than constantly finding new people?”

What he really wants to ask is, Why aren’t you ever serious with anyone? Why not choose someone, stay safe, be safe?

But your eyes drop, the smile fades, and something heavy settles over your expression. You look sad.

Mark hates it instantly.

“Mark…” you murmur, hesitant. “You understand I feed off these people, right? What do you think that means?”

You don’t wait for his answer.

“There’s only so much I can take before they start breaking down,” you say, voice low. “At first it’s subtle—just a little fatigue. But after a week or two, it’s worse. They lose sleep. They get distracted. Their appetite drops. Their energy drains. And I’m not even feeding properly. Just kisses, Mark. Barely enough to keep myself upright, and it already wears them out.”

Mark’s brows knit together, the weight of your words hitting hard, sinking deep.

“And that’s me holding back,” you say, shoulders tense. “That’s me playing it safe. And it’s still not enough.”

You glance at him then, eyes glinting with something close to fear.

“What happens if I stop holding back? What if I lose control? What if I finally taste the real thing—and I can’t stop? I’m scared, Mark. I’m scared I’ll hurt someone. Kill someone.”

The raw honesty in your voice does something to Mark’s pulse. He should be shocked. Maybe even disturbed. But all he feels is an overwhelming pull—an urge to make you feel safe, to ease that pain etched into every word.

“The real thing?” he echoes, voice rough despite already knowing the answer.

You give a dry smile, raising a brow. “Sex, Mark.” Then your gaze drops, and color creeps into your cheeks as you mumble, embarrassed, “I think it’s the only thing that can truly sustain me. Maybe for months, if I’m lucky. But humans are—” You pause, frustration coloring your voice. “Humans are just so... fragile.”

Mark swallows hard, throat dry. He’s still holding onto your shoulders, the heat of your skin seeping through the soft fabric of your t-shirt. He can feel the tremor in your muscles, subtle but undeniable. The shallow rise and fall of your chest. Even now, even after spilling everything—you’re still trying to hold it together.

And he hates it.

Hates that you’re suffering.

Hates that he can’t fix it. Not unless you found someone to—

Found someone—

Someone.

Mark’s breath hitches. His eyes flicker from your face to his hands on you… then back up. The idea hits him like lightning—sudden, bright, impossibly simple and obvious.

His mouth moves before he can stop it.

“Can I help?”

Your head snaps up, eyes widening. “What?”

Mark doesn’t back down. His grip tightens slightly as he leans in, voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re starving. And I’m... here.” A beat. “Let me help.”

The offer hangs between you, trembling in the charged silence.

Mark can feel the heat rising to his face, nerves unraveling beneath his skin. He’s suddenly hyperaware of how close you are—close enough to see the way your pupils swallow the color of your eyes, close enough to feel your breath hitch.

“Mark,” you breathe, stunned. Then you shake your head quickly, like you’re trying to shake the thought loose. “No. That’s—did you not hear what I just said? I don’t wanna hurt you. You could end up dying—”

“I’m not human!” he blurts out, voice rising a little in panic, desperate for you to understand. “I mean—I’m not entirely human, like you. I’m half Viltrumite—that’s why I have these powers. An alien race on my dad’s side and—” He stops, shaking his head hard. That’s not the point. “Anyway! I’m strong. Durable. I heal fast and have insane stamina. I won’t—won’t get hurt if you…”

He trails off, drowning in his own embarrassment. God, he hopes he doesn’t sound desperate—just a friend trying to help. Nothing weird about it. Even if—shit—even if it means kissing you.

Mark nearly chokes on his own spit.

Yeah. Right. Kissing. That’s what he’s offering.

No—it’s more than that.

He feels it land in his stomach, heavy, hot, terrifying.

“If we have... sex,” he finishes, cheeks flaming. But the moment he says it, he feels stupid and awkward, his eyes darting everywhere but yours. “I—I mean, we can try. You feel awful all the time, right? And I’m strong. I can take it—I know I can. Because, you know…” He lets out a nervous, breathless laugh, too fast, too forced. “I’m, uh… I’m Invincible. That’s—ha—that’s me.”

The laugh dies a quiet death in his throat.

He bites his lip, eyes dropping to the floor. Silence settles between you again, thick and suffocating. Mark can hear the pounding of his heart, wild and humiliating, slamming against his ribs like it’s trying to escape. God—he sounds so stupid. You probably think he’s being weird. Or desperate. Or both.

Offering to—God. He can’t even say it in his own head without his face going up in flames. But he’s thinking it.

Worse—he’s been thinking it for a while now.

He starts remembering all those times you snuck off after school, slipping behind the gates with someone new, someone who wasn’t him. All those nights Mark lay in bed wondering what you were doing, what it would feel like if you picked him instead.

He remembers how you smiled at him in the middle of crowded hallways—just for a second—and how his heart would stutter in his chest like it forgot how to work. Only for that smile to shift to someone else a moment later, while Mark just stood there, swallowing disappointment like it was a habit.

He remembers how you flop onto his bed whenever you visited, casually thumbing through his comics and calling them lame with a crooked grin, even though you keep reading them anyway just because he likes them.

Your body stretched out in his sheets, your scent lingering in his pillows long after you’ve left. The way your lips tug into a smirk when Seance Dog does something stupid, or how you bite your lower lip when you’re focused, brow twitching every time a plot point annoys you. The way your smile sneaks in, helpless and honest, when you stifle a laugh just to mess with him.

Mark’s thought about kissing you before. Right there, in the quiet of his room, while you were sprawled across his bed, completely at ease. But he never dared.

And now, sitting here in the stillness of this dorm, you only inches away, the thought slips back in.

Mark thinks of kissing you again. Now. But he’s still too shy to try.

Then, soft and amused, you chuckle quietly, breaking the silence.

Mark’s head snaps up, lips already pulling into a nervous pout, bracing for your usual teasing.

But you’re not teasing.

You’re looking at him with something else in your eyes—soft wonder, a kind of startled tenderness, like you’re seeing him clearly for the first time. Your smile is crooked, small. “Invincible, huh.”

Mark swallows thickly and nods. “Invincible.”

A beat.

Then your fingers reach for his collar, curling into the fabric with a tremble he can feel, and Mark’s heart just stops.

“Mark Grayson,” you whisper, half awe, half fear, “do you have any idea what you’re signing up for?”

Mark’s never been more certain about anything.

“I do.”

You smile at him—soft, fond—and for the first time in what feels like forever, the exhaustion in your eyes eases, just a little. Just enough to make Mark’s chest tighten.

Then you tug him closer by the collar of his shirt, and Mark’s breath stutters. Your breath mingles with his—warm, steady, grounding—while his comes out shallow and trembling, lips parted, eyes half-lidded, skin flushed with want.

You’re so close. So unbelievably close. The heat of your lips brushes his, barely there, and Mark leans in without realizing, drawn to you like a magnet.

You inhale deeply, and then let out a soft, pleased hum, one that shudders down his spine.

“You really want it,” you whisper, almost to yourself, voice tinged with wonder. “I can smell it on you.”

Mark doesn’t get the chance to ask what that means—how you can know. Because then your mouth crashes into his, and you groan into the kiss like it’s a relief, like it’s something you’ve needed just as badly.

Mark’s eyes flutter shut, and melts.

It starts slow—tentative. Testing. But Mark sinks into the kiss like he was made for it, hands finding your waist and gripping tight. You sigh into his mouth, lips parting, and Mark doesn’t even think—he just deepens the kiss, tongue brushing yours, hungry and desperate and real.

And the noise you make—

God.

Mark’s never heard anything better.

He presses into you, completely lost in the moment—lost in the feel of your mouth against his. Slowly, your back meets the mattress with a soft thud, and Mark follows, bracing himself on his elbows and palms above you. But neither of you pulls away—not even for a second. The kiss deepens, tongues greedily tangling, hungry for more.

Heat coils low in Mark’s gut. His mind spins, thoughts breaking apart like static. It’s overwhelming—in the best possible way. Your mouth is warm, wet, desperate, kissing him like you want to devour him.

And maybe… maybe you do.

When he finally pulls back, gasping, the sight of you steals what little breath he has left. Color has returned to your cheeks, your eyes bright and focused now, dark with want. The transformation is startling—like watching a wilting flower spring back to life after rain.

Mark swallows thickly. “Better?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You inhale, lips slick and a little swollen. “Better,” you murmur. Then you raise a hand, fingers brushing tenderly along his cheek. “You?”

Mark pauses. He thinks about the warmth simmering in his chest, the way his skin tingles under your touch, how every nerve feels alive. If you’re better, that means it’s working—that you’re feeding off his arousal. Off him. But he doesn’t feel drained. Not really. Just the heady buzz of desire, the thrill of finally having you beneath him. If this is what feeding you feels like, he’d gladly offer himself up again and again.

“Still good,” he murmurs, smiling crookedly. “Really good.”

Your smile lights up the dim space between you as you pull him back down. Mark groans into the kiss, body sinking against yours when your hand slips behind his back and pulls him in. Chest to chest. Hips to hips. The contact burns through his clothes, sending sparks dancing along his nerves.

This is for you, he thinks wildly as his hips jerk forward of their own accord. To make you strong again.

The moan you let out against his lips is downright sinful. Your legs part instinctively, guiding him to slot perfectly between them. “Mark—” you gasp, fingers tightening in his hair, “are you sure—”

His answer comes in another sharp roll of his hips, drawing a punched-out sound from your throat that goes straight to his cock.

Yes. God, yes.

No words could possibly capture the certainty thrumming through his veins. You seem to understand anyway, arching up to meet his next thrust with a filthy grind that has you both moaning into each other’s mouths.

The heat between you is unbearable now—the drag of fabric against oversensitive skin, the way your hardening lengths press together with each desperate movement. Mark’s never been this hard in his life, every nerve ending alight with the need to give you more, more, more.

“So good,” you slur against his lips, voice thick with pleasure. “Fuck, Mark, so good—”

The words go straight to his core, and Mark’s eyes flutter shut, hips moving faster, chasing that sound, chasing that praise. He wants to hear it again. He wants to earn it. Relishing the way your body trembles beneath him—not from exhaustion now, but from the pleasure he’s giving you.

He can feel it happening; the strength returning to your limbs even as his own energy wanes. It’s not unpleasant—just a deep, satisfying fatigue, like after an intense flight. More than worth it to see color flooding back into your face, to feel your grip on him growing steadier by the second.

So he keeps going, harder, faster, grinding against you like some hopelessly horny teenager.

Turns out the hormone-crazed idiot had been him all along.

“F-Fuck—” Mark chokes out, his voice raw with need, skin flushed and hypersensitive. “Y/N... god, Y/N...”

You moan in response, fingers twisting in his shirt as you drag him closer. The kiss turns messy—all biting lips and clashing teeth, the kind of desperate intensity that leaves you both breathless. Your hands slip beneath his shirt, palms scorching trails across the sweat-slick planes of his back. Mark shudders violently, muscles jumping under your touch.

“Mark—” you gasp, arching up against him, pleasure painting your features. “Mmh, Mark—”

And it hits him.

You’re in the dorms.

William and Rick are probably still very much awake. It’s the middle of the night. And both of you are getting way too loud.

Mark’s face flames with embarrassment.

And when you open your mouth to moan again, he panics—just a little—and presses a hand gently over your mouth to muffle the sound.

Your eyes fly open, dazed and confused, locking with his. And shit—the sight of you like that nearly makes him lose it right then and there.

“Shh,” Mark whispers, breath ragged, forehead pressing against yours. “They’ll hear us.”

You go still for a beat, eyes flicking to the door like you’ve only just remembered where you are. Then you nod slowly, locking eyes with him again.

Mark gives a shallow thrust, still holding his palm over your mouth, just in case. This time, with your lips no longer fused together, his eyes remain open—watching every microexpression of pleasure that crosses your face. The way your pupils blow wider with each thrust. The tension building in your jaw. Most striking of all—the life flooding back into your exhausted features as you meet him halfway.

The silent exchange is somehow more intense than the noises you’d been making before. Mark reads every hitched breath in the flutter of your lashes, every spike of pleasure in the way your fingers dig into his back.

The room is filled with nothing but the sound of heavy breathing, the faint creak of the old bed, and the rustle of tangled sheets. Your gazes lock, dark and searching and hungry. And god, god, Mark has never felt anything like this.

There’s a thrill buzzing down his spine, a flutter in his chest that’s got nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with you. His heart pounds wildly, not just from exhaustion, but from pure, surging adrenaline—pumping heat into every vein, every muscle.

His muscles twitch and flex instinctively from the sheer pleasure wracking his body. His breath catches and his cock aches, hard and leaking into his boxers, needier than it’s ever been.

Mark wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.

The heat coils inside him, slow and molten, building pressure with every thrust and grind of your hips against his. Your eyes never leave him, and it wrecks him. That look—like he’s the only thing in the world that matters. The way you’re giving yourself to him, trusting him, wanting him.

Wanting him.

You want him.

The realization hits like lightning, and Mark’s whole body reacts—hips grinding harder, cock pulsing desperately, breath coming fast and uneven as the world narrows to nothing but you. His brain short-circuits, every rational thought evaporating under the weight of that need.

Then your hand slips down.

Past his waistband.

Fingers wrap around his cock, warm and sure and so willing.

Mark chokes on a breath, buries his face in the crook of your neck just as you stroke him—once, twice.

And that’s all it takes.

His whole body shudders violently as he comes, hard, gasping into your skin, cock pulsing in your hand, spilling over your fingers with a soundless cry. His hips jerk helplessly as you milk every last drop from him, until he collapses against you, sensitive and spent.

His breath comes in shallow, uneven gasps, thighs twitching, mind blissfully blank. The exhaustion hits him like a wave—a deep, satisfying lethargy that weighs down his limbs, his eyelids fluttering as he fights to stay awake.

“You okay?” you murmur, voice rough, fingers still lazily stroking his oversensitive flesh. Mark shudders, biting back a whimper, and instead sinks his teeth into your shoulder—not hard, just enough to ground himself. “Mark?”

“I’m fine…” he slurs, voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. “God, I’m so fucking fine.”

You chuckle, low and warm, but your grip tightens again, just for a second—just enough to have him whining, squirming, his spent cock twitching pathetically in your hold before you finally relent.

Mark forces himself up on shaking arms, giving you space to breathe. But in that exact moment, as your hand slips free of his boxers—fingers glistening with his release—he sees something that nearly undoes him all over again.

With zero hesitation, you bring those cum-slick fingers to your mouth—and lick them clean.

Mark’s brain short-circuits.

His mouth goes dry as he watches your tongue flick out, slow and deliberate, catching every drop like it’s something precious, your eyes locked on his the entire time—daring him to look away.

“Shit—” Mark chokes, his spent body throbbing weakly at the sight. “Y/N—”

You hum, eyes fluttering shut as if savoring the taste, lips curling into a sinful little smirk.

Mark swears under his breath, his energy draining further, vision blurring at the edges—but even now, even exhausted, he can’t tear his gaze away.

And all Mark can think is he did that.

He made you feel alright.

He gave you strength again.

Because you’re glowing—god, you’re glowing.

“Y/N…” he breathes, voice trembling. “Are you—are you feeling okay now?”

You hum contentedly, licking the last traces of cum from your fingers with a satisfied sigh. “Never been better.”

Mark’s answering smile is drowsy but genuine. “Good. That’s... good.” His eyelids flutter despite his best efforts to keep them open.

“Mark?” you ask gently, sensing the shift in his body—how it droops, how his muscles go slack.

He blinks at you, slow and owlish, trying to hum an answer. He’s fighting it—desperately trying to stay awake, to prove to you that he’s okay. That you don’t have to worry. That he’s strong enough to do it again, whenever you need it.

But he can’t.

It’s like trying to fight anesthesia—his consciousness slipping despite his will, soft and slow and inevitable.

To his surprise, you don’t panic. Instead, a tender smirk curves your lips as you guide his swaying body off of you, helping him roll onto his side so he lands beside you instead of collapsing on top. You tug the sheets over both of you with a quiet, satisfied sigh, then curl around him, limbs tangling comfortably with his.

Mark still has just enough strength to pull you closer, wrapping his arms around you in return.

The very last thing he feels is the soft brush of your lips at the corner of his mouth.

And then, everything fades.

Since that night, nothing’s happened between you again.

The very next morning, you thanked him with a soft kiss to his cheek, all warm affection and casual ease. You seemed energized, almost thriving, while Mark woke up feeling sluggish and tired—though nothing serious enough to make either of you worry.

You even laughed when you noticed how drained he was. “If I tried that with a regular human,” you said thoughtfully, “they’d probably drop into a small coma, I think.”

So… yeah. Mark had to admit, his Viltrumite heritage did come with some perks beyond just strength.

And for a while, you were fine. More than fine.

Mark watched you through the days, then weeks—half expecting you to suddenly corner a random classmate and start making out with them just to feed again. But you didn’t. Not once.

Which probably had something to do with the fact that you’d… well. Eaten his cum. You mentioned it offhandedly once, saying it gave you an “energetic bonus,” like it was a protein shake or something. And Mark—Mark thought about that for hours. Days, maybe.

He’d let you do it again in a heartbeat. Every day, if you asked. At any time. Anywhere.

And that’s the problem.

You haven’t asked.

Apparently, whatever you got out of him that night was enough to keep you going for weeks. Which is honestly impressive, considering the two of you didn’t even have full-on sex. You just… grinded against each other and you gave the world’s shortest handjob—and he still passed out immediately after like some overwhelmed virgin.

Because, well, he was overwhelmed.

Mark tells himself he needs to work on his stamina. He can’t let that happen again—not if he wants to actually get to the next phase with you. Not if he wants to please you, the way you made him feel that night.

But it’s also true—you were starving back then. Maybe you pulled more from him than you usually would. Maybe the lust, the arousal, the craving he felt for you gave you a bigger energy hit than either of you realized.

Whatever the reason, ever since he tasted your lips, Mark’s been a mess.

The memory of your mouth on his, your body moving against his—it’s been looping in his head, like some kind of self-inflicted torture. Every brush of your shoulder in the hallway sends sparks racing down his spine. Every laugh, every look, every accidental touch leaves him dizzy and desperate.

But no matter how much he’s burning for it, you haven’t brought it up again.

And it’s driving him insane.

Until today.

Today, everything crashes in on him at once—final exams before graduation, the pressure of saving the world, the delicate balancing act of being both Mark Grayson and Invincible. And on top of it all, the world is still feeling the aftermath of his dad’s betrayal—cities still recovering and people still mourning.

Nobody’s surprised that he’s been... off lately. Tense. Angry all the time.

And today, today, he needs to forget. He needs to focus, needs to scrape his mind back together and make it through these tests. Needs to at least try to get into that stupid university where, in some far-off dream, he’d get to kiss you for the first time all over again.

So it happens that morning.

You’re standing by your open locker, flipping through your notes with a nervous sort of energy—brows furrowed, lips pressed together, eyes flicking over the pages like you’re trying to memorize your way out of a breakdown.

Mark drags himself to the locker beside yours, slow and heavy, his limbs weighed down by too many thoughts—things he doesn’t want to forget and things he wishes he couldn’t remember.

Then, his gaze flickers—unconsciously, inevitably—toward you.

Mark sees the pinch in your brows, the way your eyes dart over your notes, how your foot taps restlessly against the tile floor. You’re clearly stressed, just like him. But that’s not what gets him.

What always gets him—every damn day, at every damn hour—is your mouth. The shape of your lips. The way your tongue sneaks out to wet them. The soft pink-red shade. The memory of how they felt, how warm they were, how much he wants to kiss them again.

And again.

And again.

“Mark?” you ask suddenly, voice cutting through his spiraling thoughts.

He flinches, eyes snapping up from your lips to your eyes.

“Y-yeah?” he stammers, cheeks flaring with heat.

You stare at him for a beat too long—head tilted slightly, brow raised, eyes scanning his face with something unreadable. Then, your nose flares subtly, like you just smelled something... good.

But instead of saying anything, you just shrug and turn back to your locker.

“Man, these exams got me super stressed out,” you say, casually, as if you hadn’t just caught him staring like a lovesick fool. “I just want school to be over already.”

Mark exhales, trying to ground himself, shoving thoughts of your lips out of his head. Focus. Focus on the tests. On anything else.

He forces a grin. “Tell me about it. I’ve been studying and dreaming about studying. Like—actual nightmares about textbooks chasing me. It’s the worst.”

You huff, amused, tossing the last of your things into your locker before checking the time on your phone.

“We still have time,” you say simply.

Mark grabs a single book and looks at you, hopeful. “Wanna keep studying?”

But you snatch the book from his hand and shove it back into his locker, slamming the door shut. Mark blinks, wide-eyed, and barely has time to react before you step in—closer than close—close enough for your breath to ghost against his ear.

Mark goes completely still.

“Don’t you wanna do something else?” you whisper, voice a low, teasing purr that sends a sharp shiver down his spine. “Like… come with me behind the school. Just us. I can help you unwind. And, y’know…”

Your fingers trail down his chest slowly, making Mark swallow hard, until your hand finds his wrist and wraps around it, firm and sure.

“…I’m feeling kind of hungry.”

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, eyes gleaming with mischief, a small smirk tugging at your lips like you already know the answer.

And you do.

Mark, predictably, nods dumbly, heart hammering against his ribs.

Your smirk deepens, and without missing a beat, you spin around and tug him along by the wrist. Mark follows—half dazed, half panicked—as you lead him somewhere behind the buildings, wherever it is you always take people when you’re like this.

His face burns, pulse racing—not just from anticipation, but from the very public nature of this. People glance your way, eyes trailing from your linked hands to Mark’s flushed face, some raising their brows knowingly.

Because you have a reputation.

And when you disappear behind buildings with someone flushed and breathless, it only ever means one thing.

And Mark’s flushed and breathless, alright—practically being dragged to that one secluded spot you always claim for yourself.

Is this... is this what it is? What he is? Just your new hookup to mess around with?

No—no. Because unlike the others before him, Mark’s your best friend.

You wouldn’t just discard him. Right?

Besides, Mark’s stronger. Better. He can handle you feeding on him, handle the drain, handle you. He’s not like the rest. He offered. He wanted this.

You chose him.

That’s what he tells himself when you shove him gently against the cold concrete wall behind the school, shadows swallowing you both whole.

You smile at him—soft, sweet—before leaning in and kissing him.

And god, that’s exactly what he’s been craving since the first time.

Mark melts, instantly, like wax under your touch, his arms sliding around your waist to pull you closer. You fit against him like you’re made for it. Your mouth, your kiss, your tongue—everything syncs with his like it’s something you’ve done a thousand times before. Like it’s natural.

Yet, a treacherous part of Mark’s mind—still conscious, still worried—whispers that maybe all the others you’ve kissed against these very same walls thought the exact same thing. That they were special. That they could handle you.

Only for you to leave them two weeks later when they couldn’t keep up.

And now Mark’s heart pounds, not with lust—but fear.

He has to hold it together. Has to prove himself.

He doesn’t want to be another body you use and then forget. Doesn’t want to be weak—doesn’t want to collapse every time you touch him.

He wants to be the one you keep coming back to.

And then—

Then your hands move down, fingers fumbling with the buckle of his jeans.

And Mark completely loses it.

He tears away from your mouth with a breathy gasp, eyes wide, voice ragged. “Y/N?”

You pause, blinking at him, fingers still lightly tugging at his belt. Your expression softens—almost embarrassed.

“Is this okay?” you ask, voice quiet. “I wanted to… suck you off. But I don’t know if—”

You stop yourself, shaking your head like you’re mad for even thinking it. Your fingers begin to retreat, pulling away from his jeans.

“Forget it,” you mutter, avoiding his gaze. “We have exams. You’re already tired. I don’t want to make you worse if I—ugh. Stupid of me. Kisses are fine.”

You lean in again, lips parted, ready to claim his mouth like before—but this time, Mark stops you.

Because the moment the words suck you off left your lips, he stopped hearing anything else.

“You can,” Mark rasps, voice thick. “I want you to. I can take it.”

You pause—eyes searching his face, unsure for just a second. But then your nose flares again, catching his scent, and you close your eyes like it’s the best thing you’ve ever breathed in.

“Fine,” you murmur, voice thick and hazy. “Tell me to stop if it’s too much.”

Mark nods—more a reflex than a conscious answer—because he couldn’t form real words even if he tried.

And then, with aching slowness, you sink to your knees in front of him. Your hands move to the waistband of his jeans, careful and deliberate as you tug them down, freeing his straining cock from his underwear.

Mark’s hands instinctively fly back, palms splayed flat against the wall as his knees buckle slightly. He needs the support, because if he doesn’t hold himself up, he’s sure he’ll collapse the moment your mouth touches him.

Your eyes flick up at him, half-lidded and glassy with heat. Then you reach forward and wrap your hot fingers around his cock.

Mark yelps, his whole body jolting, cheeks burning red from the base of his throat to the tips of his ears.

“Y/N—” his voice cracks embarrassingly as his cock twitches in your grip. This can’t be real. This can’t actually be happening.

You hum approvingly, pumping him slowly once, twice, watching with rapt fascination as a bead of precum wells up at his tip.

“Already so hard for me,” you muse, thumb swiping through the moisture.

The casual observation makes Mark’s head thud back against the wall, a quiet, mortified groan leaving him.

But whatever embarrassment he feels is drowned out by the overwhelming flood of arousal, lust, and whatever else it is you feed on coursing through him.

You probably enjoy it—how easily he falls apart for you, how effortlessly his body responds, like you don’t even have to work for it.

You probably love it. Because then you lean in, face close to his cock, eyes fluttering shut as you inhale deeply—drawing in the raw scent of his arousal straight from the source, your warm breath ghosting over the flushed, sensitive tip.

“Fuck,” you whisper, pupils blown wide. “You smell perfect.”

Mark doesn’t have the brain to process what that even means, not when the question gets stuck in his throat and dissolves the second your tongue flicks over the tip of his cock.

A choked groan tears from his chest as you start to lick, slow and deliberate, savoring the precum with deep, focused sucks. His knees buckle slightly, and he squeezes his eyes shut in a desperate attempt to ground himself, to focus on anything other than the maddening heat of your mouth.

But it’s impossible.

You’re shameless—licking and sucking him like this is just natural for you, like it’s not embarrassing at all the way it’s mortifying for him. Your tongue moves up and down his shaft in wet, lazy strokes, then circles the head with practiced ease before you suck again, harder this time.

You groan, low and satisfied, and the vibration shoots straight through him.

Mark shudders, his hips jerking slightly, and helpless little sounds tumble out of his mouth before he can even think to swallow them down. And then—shit—then your mouth opens wider, lips stretching, tongue curling, and you take more of him in. Inch by inch, hot and wet, deeper and deeper.

Mark nearly loses it right there.

His back slams harder into the wall, his fists curling uselessly at his sides as he fights the urge to completely fall apart. But it’s not because you’re draining him—not yet, at least—it’s because it’s you.

Y/N. His best friend. The guy he’s been crushing on for way too long. On your knees behind the school, mouth full of him like it’s nothing, like it’s something you want.

It’s insane. He’s insane.

Shit—shit.

Mark dares to glance down, eyes wide and glassy with stunned pleasure, needing to see it to believe it.

And the sight nearly breaks him.

You, between his legs, hands steady on his hips, eyes half-lidded with hunger and focus. Your lips, stretched wide and glistening, moving up and down his cock with obscene wet sounds. His shaft gleams with spit and precum, slick and throbbing, disappearing and reappearing between your lips.

He moans again, soft and wrecked, unable to look away.

Meanwhile, you’re letting out soft, muffled sounds around the thick length stuffed in your mouth—like you really like it. Like you’re losing yourself in the sensation of having Mark buried so deep, your mouth full of him, nose flaring with every push of his hips. The wet, obscene noises echo in the tight space, and your brows furrow—not from discomfort, but something heady, something near-blissful.

It’s like pleasure for you. Something Mark can’t fully grasp, not when you feed off this—feed off him—like this is more than just sex, like it’s sustenance.

Then, on a particularly sharp thrust—Mark can’t help it, his hips moving on instinct—his tip hits the back of your throat.

You gag softly, breath hitching, teary eyes snapping open, glassy and dazed.

Mark curses under his breath, panicked, already pulling back, the apology forming fast on his lips—

But then you moan.

Loudly. Lewdly. Fingers digging into his hips, dragging him back in.

Mark nearly collapses.

“Oh—oh god—” he chokes out, his grip on the wall slipping as his thighs tense.

You don’t stop—don’t even slow down. You just suck harder, deeper, hungrier. Mark can feel the heat of your mouth wrapped around every inch of him, and it’s too much—it’s so much.

“Y/N,” he gasps, “God—I’m gonna—”

But you don’t let go. If anything, your pace quickens, mouth working him with precision and purpose. Mark’s knees shake, buckling slightly, and he nearly traps your head between his trembling thighs without meaning to.

“Y/N—fuck, I’m so—so close!”

You hum again, low and satisfied, like that’s exactly what you wanted to hear. Like his desperate moans and breathless whines are feeding you, pouring that raw energy straight into your core. And you take it, eyes fluttered shut in bliss, like this is your version of heaven.

“Y/N—” Mark gasps, a final, desperate warning.

But you don’t stop. Fierce and hungry, you take him in again—once.

Twice.

And that’s all it takes.

Mark comes with a deep, guttural groan, his head thrown back against the wall, hips jerking forward to bury himself to the hilt in the wet heat of your mouth. Hot, bitter release spills from him in thick pulses, straight down your throat—and you gulp it down without hesitation, moaning like it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted.

The sounds you make—hungry, pleased, possessive—echo in the tight space, and Mark’s entire body trembles under the weight of it all.

His thighs shake violently, straining from the effort to stay standing. His vision flickers at the edges, a burst of white noise flashing across his mind. He’s faintly aware of the wall at his back, of the air that won’t quite fill his lungs, and the overwhelming, foggy pleasure that steals every coherent thought.

He’s fine. He tells himself that. He has to be.

Because he wants to prove he’s stronger than the others. That he can take it. That he can give and keep giving if that’s what you need.

Even as the lightness threatens to pull him under.

But just as his cock begins to soften, your mouth stays—closes tight around the tip, fingers curling around the base where your lips can’t reach. You start stroking again, firm and insistent, while your tongue circles his oversensitive head.

You’re milking him. Ruthlessly. Determined to get every last drop.

Mark jerks with a sharp cry, the overstimulation sending electricity through his nerves. His hands claw at the wall, legs quaking uncontrollably.

“Y/N—” he breathes, voice high and wrecked, “Jesus Christ, that’s—! I—I can’t—!”

And finally, finally, you stop.

You pull off him with a soft gasp, your breath hot and ragged. His cock slips free, flushed and twitching, coated in your spit and what’s left of his release.

You lick your lips lazily, and smile. That same satisfied, gleaming smile that tells Mark you got exactly what you wanted.

Slowly, you rise to your feet, flushed and glowing—energized in a way that almost radiates off your skin—while Mark’s left trembling, still caught in the aftershocks of his high.

“My god, Mark,” you huff a breathless laugh, eyes sparkling. “That was—I’ve never felt anything so—” You cut yourself off when you finally take in his state—the sweat beading at his temples, the way his chest heaves. Concern flickers across your face. “You good?”

Mark immediately shakes his head, trying to clear the static clouding his thoughts. “M’fine... I’m just—overwhelmed,” he admits, voice hoarse but honest.

You pause, frown flickering briefly across your lips as you glance him over more carefully. He’s pale. Wobbly. Still fighting to steady his breath. A pang of guilt twists in your chest—maybe you took too much. Maybe he wasn’t ready. Maybe he’s going to drop right here and hit the damn pavement.

But Mark, breathless and clearly drained but stubbornly determined to prove a point, straightens off the wall on shaky legs.

“I’m fine,” he says again, firmer this time. “Really. That was—” he exhales deeply, a dazed smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “that was so good.”

Your face lights up again, the concern replaced by a beaming grin. “Damn right it was! Mark, you taste amazing. I’ve never tasted so much—fuck, I didn’t think I’d ever get to have that much cum,” you ramble, fast and thrilled, practically buzzing with glee. “It energizes me so much, like—Jesus, I could live off you... Do you need help with that?”

You gesture toward his pants, still hanging open. Mark blinks, dazed and stunned by your casually filthy words, but still gives a small nod.

You hum, pleased, as you crouch slightly to tug his jeans back up, fingers moving with practiced care. You even take your sweet time buckling his belt again, still grinning to yourself like this is the best thing that’s happened all week.

Meanwhile, Mark struggles to steady his breathing, eyes half-lidded as he watches your every movement. He savors the careful way you straighten his clothes, tugging his shirt down gently before reaching up to brush a strand of hair from his damp forehead.

His breath catches when your palm lingers against his cheek.

“You okay?” you ask again, softly, trying to sound serious—but the buzz of energy beneath your skin, the high of feeding, makes your voice a little too bright.

Mark smiles, slow and fond. “Amazing.”

“You’re not, like… out of it, are you?” you press, brows furrowed. “Still with me?”

He lifts his hand to cover yours, holding it against his cheek as he leans into your touch like he never wants you to let go.

“I’m fine,” he murmurs. “Better than fine. I actually feel…” He trails off, searching for the right words. There’s some drowsiness, sure, but it’s the good kind. “Relaxed. Like—really relaxed. Not anxious anymore.”

Your smirk is immediate, the faintest blush touching your cheeks. You look so alive—flushed and glowing, like the fatigue Mark had always assumed was your default had never really belonged to you. For months, he thought you were just… exhausted all the time. Turns out, you were starving.

“Good,” you say, lacing your fingers through his. The contact sends a fresh spark along Mark’s nerves. “Come on—we’ve still got time to meet up with William, Eve, and Amber. We can cram together before the test.”

Mark stumbles after you, legs still shaky, cheeks still burning, head still in a haze—but for entirely new reasons. The memory of your mouth on him lingers like a brand, and the knowledge that he alone can sustain you without breaking sends a possessive thrill through his veins.

He’ll be ready whenever you need him again.

When you need him again, Mark’s in the middle of arranging his things at the Upstate U dorms.

He’s been trying not to sulk about the dorm assignments. Really. It’s fine that you’re rooming with some random guy instead of him. Totally fine. And hey, it’s not all bad. He’s rooming with William, and you’re only three doors down.

However, when he’s strolling back with his Seance Dog action figure on hand, he spots it—the damn sock on the doorknob. The one William had declared as their “do not disturb” signal. Mark freezes, then groans loudly enough that a passing freshman gives him a weirded out stare.

Rolling his eyes, Mark turns on his heel and makes a beeline for your door instead. No knock. No warning. He just pushes it open like it’s a completely normal thing to do.

You’re in the middle of unpacking, back to the door, bent slightly as you shove clothes into your half of the closet.

“William’s having sex,” Mark grumbles as his greeting, shutting the door behind him.

You let out a startled laugh, glancing over your shoulder. “Already? It’s literally the first day of college.”

“Right?!” Mark perks up, pointing at you like he’s just been seen. “I was thinking the exact same thing! Who even has sex on the first day of college? I haven’t even finished unpacking.”

You snort again, amused, and turn back to your stuff. “Sucks for you,” you say with a teasing smirk. “But since you’re here, wanna help me put my stuff away?”

Mark’s shoulders sag dramatically as his eyes sweep over the room—half-open boxes everywhere, clothes spilling out, chaos even worse than his own side of the dorm. “Aw, man.”

“You chose to come here, Mark,” you say with a grin, reaching out and grabbing his wrist, pulling him toward the mountain of chaos you call your stuff. “Now suffer the consequences.”

Mark lets out a dramatic sigh as he lets you tug him along, but his protests are half-hearted at best. He grumbles the entire time—loudly and performatively—but never actually stops helping. He jokes through it, snickers when he finds weird stuff in your boxes, and keeps rearranging things the way he thinks they should go, just to mess with you.

He doesn’t really mind. In fact, Mark loves it—being near you, touching your things, asking dumb questions just to hear you talk. Every little trinket you pull out is a new excuse to stay a little longer.

By the time the bed is made, your desk is mostly arranged, and the floor is walkable again, Mark flops down face-first onto your mattress with a dramatic sigh. He rolls over onto his back, one arm slung lazily across his chest, and watches you fiddle with the last few decorations on your desk.

“What’s up with that thing?” he asks, nodding at a pretty trinket you’re setting in the corner. “Looks ancient.”

You glance over your shoulder, then shrug. “Oh, this? Just a stupid family relic. Supposed to bring me good luck or something.”

Mark pushes himself up on one elbow. “Family relic?”

“Yeah!” you nod brightly—then pause, eyes flicking to him with a slightly sheepish look. “Y’know. That side of the family, if you get me.”

That perks Mark right up. You rarely mention your incubus lineage, let alone the mysterious relatives who share it.

“Does it actually work?” he asks, genuinely intrigued. “The luck thing, I mean.”

You chuckle, fingers brushing over the trinket. “Sure it works.”

Mark straightens completely, eyes wide and full of wonder. “Really? How?”

You turn to him slowly, expression softening into something warm and deeply fond. Then you rise from the chair, walk over, and drop down beside him, the mattress dipping under your weight. You don’t say anything at first, just smile as your hand reaches up, tenderly cradling his cheek.

Mark’s breath catches.

“Well,” you murmur, thumb brushing lightly over his skin, “I met you, didn’t I.”

And Mark’s heart just—melts. There’s no other word for it. It swells in his chest and bursts behind his ribs like a supernova, a rush of feelings he doesn’t bother to hide.

Then he leans into your touch without thinking, eyes fluttering for half a second. “It must work both ways, then,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

You laugh gently—and god, he loves that sound. It lights up your whole face. There’s something about it, that laugh, that smile, like it always bubbles out of you before you can stop it. Like you can’t help but be happy in his presence.

Mark watches you, eyes soft, his heart thudding like it’s trying to tell him something—like this is the moment. His hand is a little clammy against the blanket. He’s thinking about kissing you. Really kissing you.

But he doesn’t.

Because the truth is, aside from those two times you fed off him, you never actually kissed. Not once. And not because you didn’t want to—but because if you weren’t hungry, if there was no need to satiate that part of you, neither of you ever crossed that line.

Still, you liked touching him. You liked brushing shoulders when you walked together. Liked laying your head on his shoulder during long movies. When you visited his house, you liked sneaking into his bed just to nap together—curled into him like you belonged there.

Mark misses your lips. But if you weren’t hungry—if you didn’t have to feed—then both of you stayed in your safe little bubble.

Would it be weird if Mark kissed you right now?

Would you think he’s being a weird friend?

Mark doesn’t know where the two of you stand. Yeah—you’ve grinded against each other, you’ve sucked him off behind the school. But what did it mean? Just a way for you to feed yourself? Or did it mean more?

Did he mean more?

Mark can’t tell. Isn’t sure.

But when you look at him like this—all soft eyes, quiet smiles, that unshakable tenderness lighting up your whole face—Mark lets himself wonder. Can he believe for even a second that you feel the same way he does?

Can he kiss you?

“You can,” you whisper, soft as a secret.

Mark freezes.

Eyes widen just a little in surprise. For a moment, he thinks maybe you read his mind—but then he realizes…

He said that out loud.

And you said yes.

“…Really?” he asks, heart in his throat.

You laugh, soft and fond, thumb brushing along his jaw. With the same hand still cradling his face, you guide him closer, slowly, until your lips almost touch. “Really.”

Mark closes the distance.

He kisses you.

Not like before. Not the frantic, life-sustaining kisses you’d taken from him. This is something softer. Something given.

His heart races, hand rising to cup the curve of your cheek, thumb brushing your skin as he closes his eyes, savoring the softness, the warmth, trying to burn the sensation into his memory, into his very flesh.

You sigh softly, lips parting slowly as you deepen the kiss. Mark holds back a groan, turning it into a breathy gasp instead, his tongue meeting yours with a shy hesitation. He tastes the faint hint of chocolate from the snack you’d eaten earlier while taking a break from unpacking. Unable to resist, he gently sucks on your tongue, and you shudder against him, a soft moan slipping free.

God, Mark loved it. Loves it. Couldn’t get enough. Wanted this—wanted you—forever.

He tilts his head, deepening the kiss further, teeth catching on your bottom lip in a playful bite. One hand sneaks around your lower back, pulling you closer—

Then someone knocks on the door.

You freeze against each other, lips still brushing as you pull apart just enough to share a wide-eyed look. Your cheeks are flushed, your breathing uneven—beautiful, Mark thinks, already mourning the loss.

“Probably my roommate,” you murmur, catching your breath as the knocking comes again. “I’ll check.”

Mark pouts, reluctant to let go, but quickly squares his jaw and puts on his best tough-guy face. If this is your roommate, then he’s definitely marking his territory. No one’s stealing his best friend.

You give him a faint, sheepish smile when he slides a protective arm around your waist, and then you reach for the door handle.

But the second it swings open, you both freeze again.

Right there, in the hallway, is fucking Seance Dog in the flesh.

Mark reacts immediately, stepping between you and the bizarre cloaked figure before him, grabbing its body. “Who the hell are you—?”

The creature—Seance Dog—launches into a rambling explanation, but Mark barely registers it. His attention is locked on the hallway beyond the open door, where students pass by, oblivious.

You spin on your heel, eyes wide, rushing to the window. “Go! I’ll find backup!”

Turns out “backup” is William, who stumbles after you through the wooded edge of campus, half out of breath and half-convinced this is some elaborate prank, while you yell, “Yes, the Seance Dog! No, I don’t mean cosplay!”

When you both catch up, Mark is standing in a clearing, arms crossed, face tight with frustration. Mark turns when he hears your voice and immediately starts explaining—Thraxa, billions of people in danger, yada, yada. It’s all so sudden, and he watches you both closely as the explanation sinks in.

William nods along, immediately agreeing. “Dude, you have to go. We’re talking, what, forty-two billion lives?”

Mark flinches, glancing toward you, searching your expression. You haven’t said anything yet. Arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

You finally speak. “For—for how long again?”

Mark hesitates, his heart thumping. “Just—just a few weeks. Give or take.” He turns to the bug alien. “Right? A few galaxies away?”

The bug alien nods solemnly.

Mark looks at you again, eyes quietly pleading. He wants you to say no. He hasn’t even had his first class yet. You kissed, for real, for the first time not even an hour ago, and now he’s supposed to just…leave?

If you said no, he wouldn’t go. Not for anything.

You fold your arms, brow furrowed in deep thought. “I mean… if we’re talking about that many people… and he came from so far just for you, then…”

You trail off.

Mark’s heart sinks. He wants to help, really—but he also wants to stay. Wants to start this new chapter with you, complain about professors together, compare how bad the cafeteria food is, sit next to you in class and whisper jokes under his breath just to make you snort.

And—and he hadn’t even fed you properly. Not really. Not the way you needed. Not the way he wanted to.

But then your eyes meet his again, steady and sure despite the tightness in your jaw, and you nod. “…Then I guess you should go.”

And that’s it.

He suits up. The blue and yellow slide over his body like second skin, and Nuolzot is already gesturing toward the sky, to the ship hovering in low orbit.

But Mark pauses. He turns back to you. In two steps, he’s standing in front of you again, gloved hands rising to cradle your face.

“A month,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “A month tops. I swear I’ll be back before you even notice.”

You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Alright, Invincible,” you say, trying for playful. “Go save that planet. Come back before you flunk out before classes even start.”

That makes him laugh, breathless—and then his eyes drop to your lips.

And he kisses you before he can second-guess himself again.

Your mouth meets his instantly, warm and sure, like you’re afraid this will be the last time you get to feel him like this.

When you part, breathless and close, Mark wants to say it. The words burn on his tongue.

I love you.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he chuckles awkwardly, as if laughter might hide the way the words nearly slipped out.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “See you soon.”

And then, without waiting another second, he shoots up into the sky, trailing after Nuolzot and leaving the ground—and you—behind.

William’s voice echoes upward. “Wait, wait, wait—since when are you two together!? I need details!”

Mark doesn’t look back.

If he had, he might have seen the way your smile faltered the moment he turned away.

Mark returns to Earth two months later—twice the time he promised you. And somehow, that’s the part he can’t stop thinking about.

He should be happy to be home. Should be focused on the fact that he’s safe, alive. And still, a small part of him is terrified. Terrified that you’ve moved on. That in the time he was off-planet, you got bored of waiting, maybe met someone new—someone who actually stuck around like they said they would.

So he doesn’t go to you. Not right away. Not even when every fiber in his body aches to.

First, he goes home. He sees his mom—because of course he does. She needs to know he’s alive. That he’s okay. That he’s now the older brother to a half-bug alien baby. He spends time there, takes his time, and tells her everything.

And then, finally, he makes his way to Upstate U.

Now he has to see you—has to face whatever version of you he left behind. The one who might hate him, or worse… be totally fine without him.

He stops by his dorm first, quickly changing out of his suit and into something more casual. The more he thinks about you, the tighter his stomach clenches with anxiety.

When William remarks, “You were gone a long time, like forever in college years,” it feels like salt in the wound.

Mark winces, tugging his shirt over his head. “Yeah. I know.”

Surely you’re upset.

If not upset, then… indifferent.

And Mark honestly can’t decide which would hurt more.

Still, there’s something bubbling in his chest—nerves, maybe. But also that warm, fluttery anticipation he always gets when he’s about to see you. God, he missed you so damn much. Thought about you more times than he can count while everything around him fell apart in space.

So he throws on clean clothes, rakes a hand through his hair, and takes a deep breath to ease his nerves.

“Wait, where are you going?” William asks as Mark heads for the door.

“Y/N’s room?” Mark says it like it’s obvious. Because it is. You’re three doors down. Three doors he’s been counting since he landed.

William’s expression shifts. “Oh. Uh. Y/N’s not here.”

Mark freezes. “What?”

“Went home two weeks ago. Medical leave.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. “Medical leave?” Mark’s voice cracks. “What happened?”

William shrugs helplessly. “No clue. He’s been sick for weeks though. Like, really sick.”

Mark’s mouth goes dry. His pulse spikes.

Sick?

Sick?

His thoughts spiral—there are only a few things he can think of that would make you sick. And none of them make sense. None of them feel random. Not for you. Not with what you are.

“What—what kind of sick?” Mark demands, already striding back into his dorm room, his voice tight, too fast. “Like a cold? Stress?”

But he already knows.

God, he doesn’t want to, but the truth is already clawing up the back of his throat. Gnawing at his brain like it wants him to panic.

William frowns, thrown by the sudden shift. “I don’t know the full details, man. He just said he was feeling weak… too tired to even make it to class. He even passed out once—that’s why he asked for the medical leave.” William’s tone is a mix of concern and confusion. “Something about malnutrition or whatever, which is weird, right? I mean, he usually eats enough for twenty—hey. Hey, where the hell are you going?”

Mark is already halfway out the window.

“Where do you think?” he snaps, voice cracking with the edge of panic. “I’m going to see him!”

And then he’s gone.

The wind tears through the dorm behind him as he rockets into the sky, leaving William shouting something he doesn’t hear.

Mark doesn’t care. He can’t. Not now. Not when all he can think about is getting to you.

So he pushes himself faster—faster than he’s flown in weeks. His hands clench and unclench in the air, sweat slicking his palms, speeding toward your home.

He arrives within minutes, and in those minutes, his brain spins through every worst-case scenario imaginable. Why are you even sick? Why’d you stop feeding? You need it to survive. That’s what you told him. So why? Why would you stop? It makes no sense.

Why the hell would you let yourself waste away?

Mark doesn’t bother with the front door. Not when your bedroom window is right there—always open. Always left unlocked. For him.

Mark flies up to it without thinking, presses against the glass, peering inside. It’s dim and quiet. Then his eyes dart to your bed—rumpled sheets, blanket kicked off, and you curled up there, too still, too pale. His chest seizes.

“Y/N?” he calls, voice uncertain—like he’s afraid to startle you.

You don’t answer.

Mark climbs through the window on shaky feet, moving to your side with heart pounding. His hand hovers before gently settling on your shoulder.

“Y/N,” he says, lower now. “Hey. It’s me. I came back.”

No answer.

His eyes scan you closer—the dullness in your skin, the dark shadows beneath your eyes, the faint sheen of sweat on your forehead, your cracked lips, the sunken look in your face.

Mark’s heart drops. His grip tightens on your shoulder, and he gives you a soft shake, panic bleeding into every movement.

“Y/N, please.”

Then—finally—you stir.

A soft, low hum escapes your throat. Your face scrunches weakly, like even blinking takes effort, and you crack one eye open, confused and half-dazed.

Mark lets out a shuddering breath, part relief, part fear, and drops to his knees beside the bed.

“Oh thank god,” he breathes out, his voice cracking, reaching up to cup your cheek gently. “Hey. I’m here. I’m here, okay?

“…Mark…?” you slur, voice cracked and barely a whisper.

Mark leans in immediately, heart racing, face just inches from yours. “Yeah, yeah—it’s me! Are you okay? Y/N, what’s going on?”

You blink slowly, trying to will your eyes to stay open. Then, with some effort, you shift on the bed, uncurling from yourself like a bear out of hibernation—sluggish and disoriented. You squint at him, dazed. “Mark, hey.” A weak cough follows, your throat dry and raw. “How’re you doing? It’s been so long.”

The casual way you say it—like you’re not on the edge of passing out on your own bed—shatters Mark all over again.

“Y/N…” Mark says, voice thick with disbelief, worry pulling hard at his face. “Forget about me—what happened to you? You look…”

He trails off, unable to say it, but his expression says enough. His eyes, wide and glassy, trace every hollowed detail in your face.

“Oh,” you exhale, trying to play it down. “It’s fine. I’ve just been… a little weak, is all.”

“A little weak?” Mark repeats, voice rising in disbelief. “You’re not a little weak, Y/N. You’re—God, William said you’ve been like this for weeks.”

You grimace, trying to smile through it, to keep him from worrying. But Mark sees right through the act. He watches, helpless, as you try to sit up, bracing yourself on trembling elbows—only for your arms to give out, your head dropping back to the pillow with a soft thud.

Mark stands and shifts to sit on the edge of your mattress, hands settling gently on your shoulders like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go.

“Hey—hey, don’t push yourself,” he says, voice low but firm. “Just—just stay still, okay?”

You don’t resist. Couldn’t even if you wanted to. You simply lie there, head sunk into your pillow, eyes barely open. You’re too tired to argue, too tired to even pretend you’re okay. Your breathing stays shallow, lips cracked, face drained of color.

Mark’s chest tightens. He watches you for a second that feels like forever before finally breaking the silence. “What happened, Y/N?” he asks, even though deep down, he already knows. He just needs to hear you say it. “What is it?”

You make a face, like there’s a million things you could say—but none of them are enough. Still, you force your lips to part.

“It’s just—” your voice wavers, then you let out a breath, helpless. “I haven’t fed off… you know…”

Mark’s brows draw together, his lips pressing into a tight, thin line.

You don’t look at him when you admit it—voice barely above a whisper. “Not since you left.”

There’s silence. A thick, awful silence.

Mark flinches like the words hit him in the chest. His heart starts pounding again, harder this time. “Why didn’t you go to someone else, Y/N?” he blurts—too sharp, too panicked. It comes out like an accusation, and he instantly regrets it.

You flinch too, like the words cut deeper than he meant. You look away, your features tight, skin grayed with exhaustion, eyes watery and dull. “…Should I have?” you ask, small and fragile.

And the answer is obvious. So obvious it makes Mark feel like a damn idiot for even saying anything.

No.

No.

Mark exhales shakily, one hand moving to cradle your cheek as he leans down, his forehead pressing gently to yours.

“No,” he whispers, voice thick. “Of course not.”

Only him. You’d only ever wanted him.

And god—god—isn’t that selfish of him, when your life was literally on the line?

But you smile.  It’s small and tired—drained, really—but it’s a smile all the same. Like those words were exactly what you needed to hear. Like there was no one else you wanted to feed from anymore but Mark.

You tilt your head up, lips brushing his in a soft exhale. “Then… kiss me.”

Mark doesn’t hesitate. He bridges the last inch between you the second the words leave your mouth, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that’s soft, careful—desperate in all the ways he won’t admit out loud. Your sigh against him is so content, so relieved, it almost brings tears to his eyes.

He kisses you like he’s trying to make up for every lonely day he was gone.

His hand slides to your jaw, tilting it gently, thumb stroking your cheek as he deepens the kiss. His heart stutters at the way your body slowly starts to respond—weak, yes, but responding. When his lips part yours and your tongues meet, Mark groans softly into your mouth, heat coiling low in his gut.

He doesn’t rush, but the rhythm quickens just a beat. Enough to let himself feel your breath grow steadier against him, the slight tremble in your limbs easing, pulse pushing just a little stronger beneath your skin.

Then—God, your hands. They reach for him, still shaking, but purposeful. Fingers gliding up his chest, slow and searching, until they hook around his neck and pull him closer.

Mark obliges without hesitation, his other arm sliding beneath you to lift you gently against him. He feels your grip strengthen with each passing second, your kisses growing more urgent. And when you finally arch into him with a reawakened hunger, Mark knows he’ll give you everything.

Again and again and again.

The kiss breaks with a soft, wet sound, your shared breaths mingling in the thin space between you.

“Oh, Mark,” you whisper, voice rough and shaky, “I missed you.”

You look better already—cheeks touched with color, eyes less glassy. But it’s still not enough. Not even close.

There’s still tension in your brow, a strain in the way you lie beneath him, like it hurts to be hungry and still not full. Veins faintly shadow your temple. The dark bruises beneath your eyes haven’t faded. And the way your tongue drags across your lips—it’s need, raw and unfiltered.

“Missed you too,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’m so sorry.”

He knows one kiss won’t fix this. He knows better than to think you’d recover after just a moment of closeness. It’s been two months. Two months without feeding. Without touching. Without even knowing if he was coming back.

You needed more. Needed more than friction, more than mouth and tongue. You probably needed more than just getting him off like the last times—where you fed and then let him go, always asking for nothing in return.

You probably needed the real thing.

Mark’s throat tightens.

“I’m gonna—” he starts, breathless, almost shy, “—gonna make you feel good, okay?”

His hand trails lower, until it cups the heat between your legs, the bulge already thick and straining through your sweatpants. He squeezes, just enough to make you gasp, and the soft whine you let out snaps something in him.

Because for the first time, Mark thinks about it.

You’ve made him come—twice now. And afterward, he’d always been so wrapped up in his own high, in the rush of it, the haze, the way you looked so content with just tasting him... he never stopped to reciprocate the favor.

God, he’s been so selfish.

Mark’s throat bobs as his hand strokes you again, this time with more purpose—his thumb grazing the sensitive head through the fabric of your sweatpants. You keep making those greedy little sounds, soft and needy, and right then Mark decides—he’s going to make you fall apart under him. He’s going to make you shiver and whimper his name as you come undone.

“Mark,” you sigh, arching against his hand. “Oh, Mark.”

He picks up the pace, leaning in to capture every gasp and whimper straight from your mouth. Your tongues meet again—hungry and messy—as Mark begins grinding against you, his own arousal building, knowing you can feel it, feed off it, and revel in it.

It doesn’t take long for the pressure in his jeans to become unbearable—his cock straining hard against the fabric, pulsing with every beat of his heart. He can’t take it anymore. Can’t wait. And besides, this—this—is the fastest way to get you back on your feet, glowing with strength.

He pulls away from your lips just enough to murmur, “Let me,” breathless, fingers already hooking into your waistband. “Let me take care of you.”

Your soft, desperate moan is all the permission he needs.

With trembling hands, Mark peels down your sweatpants and underwear in one fluid motion, careful as he slides them past your legs. You shudder at the exposure, but you don’t hide—you open your legs willingly, inviting him in. Your face is flushed, the color blooming down your neck and ears. It’s the first time you’ve ever been this vulnerable with someone. And from the look in your eyes, you’re glad it’s Mark.

He drinks in the sight of you, chest heaving. Then, in one smooth motion, he strips off his shirt and tosses it aside, eyes never leaving you.

“Shit…” You bite your lip, but there’s a glint in your eyes—a flash of mischief under all that exhaustion. “You’re so sexy, Mark.”

Mark flushes, his skin warming as your hands roam his chest, greedy and sure, fingers tracing over muscles that flex and shudder under your touch. It’s too much—almost overwhelming—and he has to brace himself, hands planted on either side of your head to keep from collapsing on top of you.

“Fuck—” His hips jerk involuntarily when your hand travels lower, undoing his belt, pulling the zipper down. “Y/N…”

You breathe out a needy sound when his cock springs free, hand wrapping around him without hesitation.

“Jesus,” you murmur hoarsely, licking your lips. “I’m so—so hungry, Mark. I can’t wait.”

Mark moans at the sight of you, the desperation in your voice making his head spin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You stroke him with trembling fingers, and Mark’s hips move in time with your touch, his breath growing ragged. “Yeah. Fuck. I’ve been—starving for you.”

Mark groans, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, undone by the way your fingers work him—confident, greedy, like you need him. And yeah, you do. He knows what his pleasure does to you. Knows how his arousal, his moans, even the steady pulse of precum leaking from his tip—slicking your fingers—is what makes you stronger. What feeds you.

But it’s not enough.

He wants to see you come for once. Wants to hear you gasp and writhe because he’s making you feel good.

“Can I…?” he breathes, eyes locked on yours, his voice tight with restraint. “Can I fuck you?”

Your hand slows, eyes going wide, startled by the question—but then you smile, soft and full of something like fondness.

“Yes,” you whisper after a moment. “Of course.”

Mark exhales like he’s been holding his breath for months, pressing his forehead against yours. When his lips find yours again, the kiss turns desperate—all teeth and tongue and months of pent-up longing. You meet him with equal fervor, legs parting instinctively as his hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against him.

“Should I—” Mark gasps between kisses, his voice thick with both desire and hesitation. “Should I prep you or—”

“No.” The word comes out sharper than intended, your fingers digging into his shoulders. “I’m not some fragile human who needs coddling. Just fuck me, Mark.”

There’s something feral in your voice now—primal and wild in a way he’s never heard from you. The more energy floods your system, a spark of life returning to your features, the more your instincts take over.

“Okay,” he rasps, more to himself than you. “Okay, just—”

Mark swallows hard, his gaze trailing down your body with a mix of awe and nervous hunger. His breath catches at the sight of your cock straining between you, at the way your hole flutters impatiently.

His eyes drop—slowly, hungrily—trailing down your body, pausing at the sight of your flushed cock, your spread legs, your willing entrance. He swallows thickly, breath catching in his throat.

“It’s fine,” you whisper, voice softening just enough as your hand continues to stroke him, thumb grazing the sensitive head, coaxing more precum from his tip. “I’ll guide you.”

And guide him you do.

You pump him a few more times, slicking him up while he groans, every sigh vibrating against your lips. Then you part your legs even further, just enough for his hips to fit between them snugly. One hand steadies his cock, the other resting on his hip as you line him up, brushing the tip against your entrance.

“Just like that,” you sigh, arching beneath him. “Push, Mark. Please.”

Mark’s hips stutter, his cock sliding between your cheeks with desperate, jerky movements. He’s achingly hard, every nerve alight with need.

“Is this—” His voice cracks as the head of his cock catches at your entrance. “God, Y/N—is this okay?”

Your answer comes with a whimper, head tipping back against the pillows. “Yes. Fuck me. I want you.”

Mark’s hips stutter, and then your legs hook around his waist, pulling him in—forcing him deeper.

“Fuck—” he chokes out, voice tight.

The head of his cock sinks into you, your body welcoming him in a slick, hot pull that makes both of you moan, trembling against each other.

“Yes—” you gasp, fingers curling against his back. “Push, Mark. I don’t care. Just do it.”

Mark bites down on his lip, squeezes his eyes shut, and pushes.

The glide is smooth, easy—thanks to the slick layer of precum and your guiding hands. He shudders all the way in, your body stretching to take him, tight and perfect around him. You groan, hands digging into his back as if to hold him there forever.

“Yes, yes,” you moan, eyes fluttering shut. “Fuck, Mark, yes.”

For a suspended moment, when he’s fully buried inside you, all Mark can do is feel—the way you pulse around him, the desperate clutch of your hands on his back, the dizzying realization that this is happening.

He barely remembers how to breathe, barely manages to stay upright with how shaky his arms feel braced on either side of your head. His whole body is trembling—and maybe it’s not just the exhaustion from space. Maybe it’s not just the days without sleep, or the long journey back.

Maybe it’s you. Draining him with every moan, every squeeze, every drop of arousal he gives you.

And still—still—he doesn’t want to stop.

“Move,” you order, voice low and hushed.

Then you move beneath him first—hips grinding upward, taking him in deeper—and all of Mark’s coherent thought shatters.

“Harder,” you gasp, nails scoring down his back. “Please—”

Mark obeys with a broken moan, thrusting out and back in, out and in again. The pace he sets is clumsy and frantic, but it doesn’t matter—because you love it. You moan louder with every stroke, squirming beneath him, nails digging into his back, dragging down hard.

“So good,” you sigh, head tipping back as pleasure ripples through you. “God, Mark—so good.”

The room fills with the slap of skin on skin, the choked-off noises Mark makes when you clench around him, the way your shared breaths grow ragged and uneven.

Mark buries his face in the curve of your neck, teeth scraping against your pulse point as his muscles tremble with exertion. There’s a familiar tug at his consciousness, a slow drain of energy that should terrify him but instead sends a thrill down his spine.

Because when you moan in his ear like that, when you shiver around him, when you praise him in that wrecked voice—

“Like that.” Unsteady but sure. “Just like that.”

Mark couldn’t stop if he tried.

The renewed vigor in your movements—the way your fingers clutch at him with renewed strength—tells him it’s working. You’re coming back to life beneath him, flush with stolen energy, even as his own vision starts to blur at the edges.

“Don’t stop,” you beg, voice wrecked.

Mark doesn’t. Not when you feel this good around him—hot and tight and his.

So he fucks you through it, chasing your pleasure even as his body screams for respite, determined to give you every last drop until you’re sated.

Until you’re whole again.

Then Mark’s thrusts begin to falter—his rhythm stuttering, teeth sinking into your shoulder— and he gasps, voice wrecked and shaking, “I’m gonna—I’m gonna come—!”

You groan, biting your lower lip hard enough to sting.

“Come inside me,” you moan—half-whimper, half-command. “I’m so fucking close. I want you inside.”

Mark whimpers at your words, hips jerking wildly now, erratic and desperate. The thought of finishing inside you scrambles whatever’s left of his composure.

“Y/N—” he chokes out, barely audible. “I’m—I’m coming—”

And then he does.

His entire body goes taut, trembling, his hips giving one final, deep thrust that buries him to the hilt. His orgasm hits like a wave, a raw, broken cry torn from his throat as he spills into you, thick and hot. You arch beneath him, eyes fluttering shut, a moan clawing out of you as you feel it—every pulse, every drop filling you.

It’s that—the heat of his cum flooding you, the sheer intensity of his release—that finally pushes you over the edge.

You come untouched, back arching off the bed, spilling hot across your stomach as you cry out his name.

“Fuck, fuck,” you babble, shuddering. “Fuck, Mark—”

He’s still moving, just barely—his hips twitching in helpless, involuntary thrusts as he rides out every last wave of his orgasm, cum leaking from the edges of your hole. It’s messy. It’s perfect. It’s so good it makes you smile through the aftershocks, warmth blooming in your chest with every stolen breath.

“Fuck,” Mark sobs, forehead dropping against your shoulder, gasping like he can’t breathe. “My god…”

His muscles spasm—thighs trembling, arms shaky and weak—and finally give out. With a groan, Mark collapses on top of you. You huff out a breath, wrapping your arms around him, a soft, breathless laugh escaping your lips.

“Mark,” you whisper, voice soaked in satisfaction. “You good?”

He doesn’t answer. His face is still buried in your neck, breath warm and erratic against your oversensitive skin. He wants to answer, to lift his head and kiss you—because God, you felt so good, because you made him feel incredible, and for once, he knows he made you feel good, too.

But he can’t.

His limbs feel like they’ve turned to stone. Not just his head, not just his arms—everything. The weight of exhaustion hits him all at once like gravity’s been waiting for its moment to strike. The fatigue he’s been running from all this time finally catches up, drained utterly by you. He blinks, trying to fight it off, but it’s useless.

“Mark?” There’s concern edging your voice now, even as your fingers continue their soothing motions along his spine. “Mark.”

You’re warm, energized—glowing with renewed strength—and that, at least, feels like a win. He tries to respond, but the only sound that escapes is a slurred, “Hnng?”

Sleep is pulling him under fast. Even your voice—the one thing he wants to hear—is fading, like it’s coming from another room, another world.

You shake him once. Then again. But he’s already slipping, the darkness too heavy, too deep.

The last thing he’s aware of is the way his cock still twitches inside you, the way your thighs tighten reflexively around his hips, and the way you keep whispering his name—like a lullaby echoing in his ears.

If this is how he goes out, Mark thinks dimly as darkness claims him, it’s one hell of a way to go.

When Mark wakes up, he’s curled around a pillow that smells like you, drooling on it like a damn baby.

He blinks, sluggish and unfocused, head heavy, limbs like lead. His whole body aches—not in a bad way, just in that spent, used-up kind of way. He feels wrung out and dazed. Did he not die?

Groaning, Mark pushes himself up onto his elbows, muscles trembling under his own weight. He glances around, eyes squinting as the pieces slowly fall into place: the decorations on the walls, clothes scattered on the floor, sheets half-draped over his bare body. He recognizes all of it.

And when he hears your faint humming from somewhere beyond the door, it all crashes back.

Oh. He had sex with you. Like—real sex. And somehow, he lived to tell the tale.

His eyes widen as reality slams into him. He jolts upright on your bed—your bed—heart pounding. Shit, did he pass out? How long has it been? What day is it? What year is it? He feels like he’s been out for decades, and yet somehow still not enough to shake the heavy fog pressing on his consciousness.

Then your humming gets louder. He snaps his head toward the door just in time to see it swing open—and there you are.

You spot him, freeze mid-step, and for a split second, the whole room holds its breath.

Mark’s dry lips part. “Y/N—”

“Mark!” you gasp, face lighting up with a wide grin. “You’re awake! Oh, thank god!”

You cross the room in three eager strides, arms open, all warmth and affection. You throw yourself into him without hesitation.

Mark lets out a soft oof as he catches you, the momentum knocking him flat on his back again. The room spins briefly, but the second he registers the weight of you on his chest, the warmth of your skin, the sound of your voice—he relaxes. He smiles, soft and dopey, and buries his face into your shoulder, breathing you in like he’s never been more grateful to be alive.

“Hey,” Mark greets, voice hoarse but tinged with amusement. “How long was I out?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you press your face into his chest and hold him tight—like if you let go, he might vanish. Then, after a long moment, you pull back. But instead of replying, you cup his cheeks with both hands and kiss him.

Mark melts into it without hesitation, hands sliding to your waist, holding you close. He sighs against your lips, groaning softly as he kisses you back like it’s the only thing keeping him awake.

When you break apart, your smile lingers, bright and full of affection. “I was worried you wouldn’t wake up for at least a week,” you murmur, thumb brushing gently over his cheekbone. “Most humans wouldn’t. But you—it’s only been, like, sixteen hours.”

Mark jerks upright so fast he nearly headbutts you. “Sixteen hours?!”

You wince, guilt flashing across your face. “Y-Yeah. But—I called your mom! I didn’t exactly explain, but she knows you’re here. She told me to make sure you call her as soon as you’re up.”

Mark exhales, half in disbelief, half in relief. “Jesus. I didn’t think I’d be out that long.”

“…I’m sorry,” you whisper, glancing away. “I shouldn’t have pushed you like that. I didn’t think—I shouldn’t have risked your life just to feed. Just to—be close to you like that.”

“No.” Mark cuts in, his hands sliding up to your shoulders, squeezing gently. “Don’t say that.”

His eyes are steady when you meet them.

“It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says, firm but soft. “No matter the consequences. Me. With you. Like... that.”

He blushes, and you blush, and suddenly neither of you can hold eye contact.

“The best thing?” you murmur, fingers fumbling with the sheets. “Really?”

Mark swallows hard, his embarrassment obvious, but the truth is already bubbling too close to the surface to hold back. Everything he’s felt for you, everything he’s been trying to keep buried, is rising—unstoppable now.

“Yes,” he says softly, voice a little shaky. “Having sex with the person who matters most to me... because you needed me. Because I—”

The pause stretches, fragile.

“Because I love you.”

Your eyes widen at that, the guarded concern melting into something raw and vulnerable.

“Really?” you ask again, a little breathless.

“Of course,” Mark says, a little more sure this time. “I love you, Y/N. And I’d do it all again in a heartbeat if it meant seeing you like this—your real, bright, happy self—again.”

Your lips part in surprise, then you smile—wide and brilliant and so full of love it practically blinds him. Before his tired brain can catch up, you throw yourself at him again, arms around his neck, kissing him open-mouthed and deep.

“I love you too, Mark,” you whisper against his lips, soft and sure.

Mark kisses you back, slow and full of affection, even though his body still feels like it’s made of lead. His chest aches, but in the best possible way—because it’s full of you.

“I’m sorry I was gone so long,” he murmurs between kisses. “If I hadn’t been in space, you wouldn’t have been starving. That’s on me.”

“Don’t say that,” you roll your eyes, but the affection in your voice makes it feel more like a caress. “It’s my nature, okay? Not something you can control. And I waited for you—because I knew you’d come back.”

You lean in and peck the pout off his lips, soft and loving, and then both of you just… look at each other. Breathing the same air. Sharing the same space. The silence stretches, but it’s not awkward—it’s warm.

God—he loves you. Loves everything about you. And loves even more that you feel the same.

“So… does this mean…” Mark hesitates, cheeks pink, “we’re a thing now? Because I want us to be. I really do. I don’t ever want you kissing assholes behind the school anymore—or, well, now at college—because… you have me.”

You giggle, flustered, cheeks glowing. “Yeah—I have you.” You kiss him again, square on the mouth like you couldn’t possibly get enough of him. “And you have me.”

Mark grins, red-faced and beaming, before he pulls you tight against his chest and kisses you again—deep and slow and full of all the words he’s still too overwhelmed to say.

Like I love you.

Like I don’t ever want to let go.

Like don’t ever let me go either.

Then you say, casual as anything, “By the way, my parents want you to have breakfast with us.”

“What?!” Mark pulls back instantly, blushing so hard it reaches his ears. “They—they were here the whole time?!”

“What? No!” you say quickly, just as flustered. “But when they got home from work and saw me fine—you know, they kinda figured out what must’ve happened for me to be this fine. And, ugh—” you roll your eyes, groaning into his shoulder, “they wanna thank the boy who saved their ‘stubborn son’s life,’ or whatever.”

Mark exhales, still pink but processing. “Oh. Then… sure. I mean—do you think they’ll be okay with us? You and me?”

You smile, full of quiet certainty. “Mark, they’ve always liked you. Remember the cake my mom made you for your sixteenth birthday?”

“She decorated it with Seance Dog comic panels,” Mark mumbles, still flushed.

“Exactly,” you laugh. “I’ve been telling them about my crush on you since forever, Mark.”

And Mark flushes all over again, helpless to do anything but smile and pull you back in for another kiss.

A/N: thank you for readingggg, kisses and hugs and more kisses for dealing with me (●'◡'●)