s3thwrit3sstuff

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

❝ In my sins, I look for you ❞

yandere!ftm!vampire X ftm!reader | reader has had top surgery & bottom growth | sub. bttm. reader  | wc: 6.2k

warnings: horror elements, dub. consent, blood kink, period sex, oral sex (r! receiving), frottaging, overstimulation (r! receiving), dominant & submissive elements, obsession

pt. 1 ;

authors note: is anyone ever disappointed at the lack of period sex (especially for ftms) fics that include a vampire? I am. BTW, Putra is a vampire based on Malaysian folklore – I wanted my own rep too, lmaooo. ;p Listening to ▸ Sang Penikam by Noh Salleh / M. by Anil Emre Daldal  Patreon | Discord

The horrors over his shoulder were strange. As you gazed upon the strings of flesh draped across the branches your mind floats away, as if disconnecting from your body as it tried to comprehend the gore around you. The scent of blood had soaked into the leaves, trailing down the pathways of the tree barks and dripping from the crumpled beer cans. Entrails and broken bones popped against the dim light, the sheen and heat that emitted from them causing your stomach to twist. Putra sings a song, his long hair shielding your line of sight as he tilted his head down at you. 

“Adinda,” his tone was soft as his now human face grinned down at you. The smears of blood across his lips reeked of a metallic tang and it didn’t even seem to bother him. The thick crimson that streaked down his jaw and onto your clothes made you whimper, so he shushed you gently. 

“Those brutes. Forgive me for the mess they forced me to make. Once we’re safe, home, I’ll change.”

You were shaking in his unnaturally strong grip. But Putra simply holds you closer, rubbing his thumb over your shoulder to warm you up as he walked casually through the woods. Retracing your footsteps in the night, going down the same path you had. 

How long has he been watching you? You wonder with dread. He was holding you in his arms as if you were nothing more than a stack of papers, and as your brain reminds you of how easily he tore through people’s bodies, you were certain you might as well be. Here you were, in the arms of a murderer with supernatural strength. Someone you weren’t even certain was a human. 

“Where are you taking me?” you whisper softly. The woods are thinning out now, the ground transitioning into the frat house’s manicured grass and eventually the asphalt sidewalks of your campus. The streetlights flickered above you as he passed by them, his soft humming causing a haziness to cloud your mind as you try to gather as much information as you could. You clearly weren’t going to win this with brute strength — just the sight of his bloody teeth as he smiled down at you caused ripples of gooseflesh across the back of your neck.

”Home. Oh, well, a house. We’ll need to keep you safe. Your scent is far too sweet, sayangku.”

He lifts his gaze ahead and his eyes darken. You feel the brush of his hair against your cheek as it lifts up, defying the laws of gravity as his cheeks lift up into that unnatural, wicked, smile.

”They can smell you.”

You know you shouldn’t. But there was a chance that maybe what he was seeing was other people, so you turn to follow his gaze and your breath gets caught in your throat. The sidewalks that had been empty before, safe from a few students going to the party or some other, were now littered with these figures. They were hiding behind the poles, bloodshot eyes trained on you. They looked odd, some barely humanoid as they towered over the trees or tried to follow Putra’s steady pace with their tiny bodies. A few of them tried hard too mimic people, with four limbs and a head as they stood on two legs but then it was their faces or their posture or their stature.

Too skinny and tall, limbs dragging onto the floor. Head shaped oddly, too many eyes, too little eyes. 

One stood in the way of Putra. It was wrapped in a dirty white cloth, feet and arms bound together as the only thing that showed was its rotting face. It fixed its cloudy eyes on you, bending its knees then jumping to get close. Although the act seemed ridiculous, the stench and the hunger it had emitting from it made you lean into his chest. You clutched at his blood soaked shirt and his chest rumbled, a shriek building in his throat as he slowed his steps. 

“What the fuck are they?” your voice might as well have echoed. The world had gone quiet and you found that your breath was becoming visible in the air. Putra and that thing continued to stare the other down as they both got closer, his grip on you tightened as it began to growl. 

“Hantu,” he snarled out. 

“Bau kau manis sangat, mata batin kau terbuka. Bangsat semua. Dia milik aku!”

The wrapped ghost snarls in return, gnashing his teeth together which makes Putra spin on his heel, keeping his eyes trained on it as he walks backwards. It glowered, bending its knees again which made Putra laugh. For a moment, you think he might actually fight the thing with you in his arms but he glances down at you and whatever anger he had within him drains.

You were terrified. Trembling like a leaf in the wind, the blood drained from your face as you clutched at his shirt and squeezed your eyes shut. 

These bastards could wait their turn to be ripped apart. Putra had to bring you to somewhere safe, where they wouldn’t bother you. 

Somewhere the both of you can finally just be together. 

You recognized the building. The warm red bricks and iron wrought gates — it was Will’s apartment. His parents had rented it out before he enrolled in university, and now it was his while he studied. It was a more quiet area of town, the other tenants keeping to themselves. You’d been here a few times to study, revelling in the loft he had and making use of his big oven during a bleak Christmas break where he spent his time with you after you had a nasty spat with your folks. It was filled with happy memories, warmth imbued in the wooden floors and the Polaroids pinned to the living room wall. 

It’s jarring to see it now. Dark, cold, eerily quiet safe from the sounds of your own breathing. Every bit of life had been sapped away from his apartment, the air stale and dusty. 

“Will?” you called out, flinching when Putra shot you a tepid glare. That made you shrink into yourself, he’d only been mad at you one time and he caused a massacre right in front of your eyes. You weren’t going to see what he’d do if it were just the two of you. 

He sets his jaw, gently setting you down on Will’s grey L-shaped couch before he finally tries to wipe away the blood from his mouth. At this point, it’d dried and it barely wiped off and had merely smudged across the back of his hand and sleeve. You bring your knees to your chin, wrapping your arms around your legs as you watch him fuss over the mess on himself. 

“…Who are you?” 

Putra narrows his eyes, glaring at his clothes as he stands. He walks to the kitchen, turning the sink faucet as he washed his hands clean. 

“You know who I am. You called —“

”I didn’t,” you cut him off, brows pinched together as you watch the tenseness in his shoulder. ”I didn’t call you.”

”But you did,” he pressed the final word, as if needing you to realise that he didn’t just pop out of thin air like you thought he did. He braced his hands on the sinks edge, bringing the water to their lips and chins. “Just like I’ve been calling for you.”

”My dreams? That was you?” He perked up, eyes lighting up as he glanced at you from over his shoulder. “Yes, that was me.”

You felt like punching him in his creepy face. All those sleepless nights, waking up in cold sweat and suffering through a sleep deprived headache throughout the entire day. Needing to work harder to catch up with classes, missing outings with friends because you were too tired; all because he’d been ‘calling’ for you?

”Why?” you’re gritting your teeth together, trying to keep your emotions in check before you do something you regret. As unassuming as he looked now, you knew how quickly that could change. ”Why were you calling for me?”

Putra turned, walking towards you as pinkish water dripped down his chin. For a moment, he towered over you, his height increased by the shadows that freely peeked through Will’s wall of windows. He then kneels politely in front of you, folding his hands on his lap as he tilts his head downwards, gesturing with his eyes to your fisted hands. 

You uncurl your fingers and he’s so careful as he takes your hand into his grasp, feeling the curve of your knuckles and joints as he turns your palm up. He presses his lips there, the scar down the left side of his lip pressing to the pads of your fingers as he sighs and melts into your touch. You stiffen unsurely, heart hammering in your chest as he nuzzles his face into your hand. 

“Because we’re intertwined, our fates are attached.” He says this as though it is a factual, common knowledge shared among people when it absolutely wasn’t. 

“I’ve been waiting for you, adinda. Waiting, and waiting, for you to call for me. So we can be together. This land is strange now, the people are stranger, but you’re still the same.”

Putra looks at you and you can see the adoration within him pour out with every slow blink, those long lashes he had tickling your palm as he strokes the back of your hand. Touching you with reverence as he kneels before you when he’d already shown you just how powerful he was. 

“You’re still mine.”

”You’re not answering my questions clearly,” you sigh, pursing your lips as you try to make sense of the nonsense he’d spewed out in that soft voice. 

“How else should I answer such menial questions?” He surges to your face, lifting himself off his calves as he invades your space. Putra’s hair has this weirdest habit, almost as if it was emoting with him — the ends of it curl and lift with delight and anger and at the moment, as he comes closer to you they were lifting in complete delight. You place a hand on his shoulder and he instantly freezes. 

The sides of his mouth twitch but his thick brows slope, a semi-pout painting his features. You blink owlishly at him, trying to find the words as the seconds tick past. 

“…Adin —“

”I’m not kissing you until you answer all my questions. Normally. Clearly.”

You held your breath as he processed your words. But to your surprise, and chagrin, he starts chuckling. It’s unlike the shrieking he’d done, no fear rushed through you or the fine hairs on your neck lifting in alarm. He sounded like a normal person, and you scolded yourself for the rush of blood that pooled to your cheeks. 

“Alright, I’ll play your game. How many questions do you have for me?”

‘How about a 100?’ you wondered derisively but settled for 10. Putra settles himself back onto his ankles, hands once again politely folded on his lap as he nods encouragingly at you. 

“Okay, first question,” he hums to let you know he was listening. You clench your jaw, waiting for your brain to come up with something that would give you more answers than questions — you glance at the scar on the right side of his face, it was an odd little addition to the symmetry of his face. He curls the corner of his lips, tilting his head as he connects your gazes together. 

“What’s your name?” a flash of hurt crosses his face. His smile turns into a lipless frown, he turns his gaze to his lap and you feel an inane sprout of guilt. You couldn’t let him know that you had somehow figured it out — he was already convinced that somehow you had called for him, if he knew that his name had surfaced in the dark ether of your mind it would only enable him. 

“My name is Putra,” he whispered. 

“What are you?” Putra brings his hands together on his lap, threading his fingers through the other as his lower lip juts out. 

“I’m…yours?” you deadpan and he looks away from you. “We agreed you’d answer it normally and clearly, Putra.”

His name coming out from your mouth makes his eyes brighten up. You tuck this valuable piece of information in your mind for sticky situations.

”I’m…a vampire, of sorts.”

”Of sorts?” 

“Are you sure you want to use that as a question?” 

You huff through your nose, narrowing your eyes as you let your eyes take in the state of Will’s home. It was clean, but the little plants he had were beginning to wilt and you eye the trashcans he had, relieved that there wasn't any rotting food nor any flies buzzing around. 

“What happened to Will?” 

All at once, the room goes cold. Putra’s eyes go dark as he looks up at you, the moonlight flooding in through the windows making his skin much paler. You stiffen as his face goes void with emotion, tendrils of his hair lightly raising in contempt until he glances away again. Your breath comes back to you but you don’t dare move 

“He was a coward. What kind of men do you have in your life, adinda? He ran the moment he felt an inkling of fear. Dasar penjajah.” 

“What is that? What are you saying? That word you call me — what does it mean?” 

He frowns at this. Brows pinched in utter confusion. 

“Kau lupa bahasa ibunda?” 

Your frustrated silence is an answer, he swallows his confusion and answers. 

“That,” he says in a pointed tone. “Is Bahasa Malayu, I’m insulting those cowards and his bloodline of colonizers and the word,” his face softens the tiniest bit but then he continues. “That word is a word of affection. Something husbands call their partners. That’s six questions, you have fours left.” 

“You’re a vampire, you said. You sent those nightmares my way — you said I called for you and…and now you’re calling me your husband. I…I’ve never met you before.”

”Not in this life,” he mutters. “And for that, I hope you can forgive me. I didn’t mean to leave you alone for so long.”

“What do you mean by this life?” 

“Back then, we were taught that our souls do not reincarnate. Those foolish religious sycophants. You and I, we’re proof that they’re wrong. Your soul is the same, even if things are different. And I’m the same as before, you will see it soon.”

”Reincarnated?” you had never really thought of the terms and conditions of the afterlife. You’d work yourself into knots, finding little loopholes to the rules, daydreaming about the possibility of heaven and hell but reincarnation had never really been that satisfying. In one life, you were a humble man with a family and in the next, you could be reborn as a cow in a dairy factory or a rock. It felt odd hearing people claim that in their past lives, they were a famous figure or some evil dictator — so you can’t quite fathom what this vampire — ‘of sorts’ — was even saying. 

“I waited, I said, I waited for you,” Putra reaches for your hand again and his touch makes a shudder run through you. Ice cold, like a corpse. 

“Eight questions, two left.”

”Wha — That — That does not count.” Putra chuckles, trailing the edges of his lips to your fingers and palm and finally your wrist, eyelashes fluttering as he takes a breath. He pauses, eyes nearly rolling back as he looks at your lap, mouth slowly hanging open; his tongue wets his lips and the hint of teeth you see makes you eerily aware of how hungry his gaze is and what you had currently spilling from between your legs. 

He kept saying you smelled sweet. Even the thing in your apartment said the same. Your scent is too sweet, he growled out to you when the wrapped ghost had appeared and you’re hit with a sudden realization that he had meant it was because you were bleeding. Blood was used in all sorts of rituals, Hollywood horror movies that involved witches or black magic had taught you that much no matter how inaccurate everything else seemed. 

“Putra,” you tried to make your voice stern but it wavers anyways. He flicks his eyes to you, and you gasp softly at how blown out his eyes were — nearly swallowing the whites of his eyes as he waits for you to speak. 

“Two more questions,” you reminded as you cupped his cheek in your hand. Your touch causes him to politely close his mouth, relishing in the warmth of your palm. 

“How long have you been waiting for me to…for my soul to reincarnate?” 

Putra’s breath shudders on its way out, you could feel it brush over your skin as he tightens his grip on your hand. 

“It felt like an eternity. All I remember was falling asleep next to you, then just restless dreams.” 

You inwardly mutter that he deserved it but something about his sentence causes you to blurt out your last question. 

“Falling asleep next to me?”

He nods as his eyelids flutter open — the lashes tickling you as he raises onto his knees again. The hunger in his eyes returned this time, but there was this melancholy in them this time. Putra’s eyelids grew heavier, the bump on his nose grazing your cheek as he wrapped those deathly arms around your body. You feel him squeezing you, tighter and tighter but not enough to worry you. It spreads a rush through you, a layer of comfort you’d never known before in the form of him. 

He cradles the back of your head and your knees give way to his torso just as your eyes shine with tears.

”Like this,” he says into your ears. His chest presses over yours and you can feel the press of his mass flushed to your ribs. As if he was intent on melting into you, devouring you, like he wanted to be so close to you he wished to imprint the shape of him against yours. 

His face tucks into your neck, you gasp at his brush of teeth but he stays chaste as he breathes you in. 

“We held each other, like this.”

It’s your warmth that causes his lower lips to quiver. Oh, you don’t know just how he missed this, missed you. 

To feel your heart race against him, to feel your shuddering breath over his ears, to feel your body thrum with energy and life. 

Never again will he allow anyone to take this from you; he’ll be sure of that. Putra would be your sole protector in this life, forever and ever and ever. If death himself couldn’t rip Putra away from you, was life naive enough to try again?

“That’s ten questions,” you try to find an excuse to stop him but when he pulls away enough you’re stunned at the serene smile on his face. You swear you see a flush of red on his skin as his eyes squish into crescent moons. Putra brushes a thumb over your cheek, you pretend not to see flashes of horror behind your eyes with every blink. 

He places his forehead over yours, tendrils of his hair falling over his shoulder as he takes in every little detail of yours face. You feel the hand on your head push your head forward, a firm insistent in his pose as he flicks his dark eyes to your lips. 

“May I kiss you, adinda?”

Although he asks this, you know it’s just for show. You were trapped in his hold, his hunger pinning you in place as he waited impatiently for your meaningless answer.  You curl your hands into fists and lean forward, pushing your lips onto his. 

He groans into the kiss, the ends of his hair lifting as he pushes against you. You feel him moving, turning his head as he keeps you there, holding onto the nape of your neck as he places his knees besides your legs, effectively straddling you as he whimpers desperately.

”Putra — wait —“

”More, please,” he pants out. You keep your lips firmly shut, squirming now in his hold and he makes a noise akin to a wounded animal. Still, he presses his lips to yours. Kissing you again and again, his chest rising and falling as he relishes in the feeling. Your eyes widen when you notice him crying. 

Dark red liquid lines his eyes, slipping down the curve of his cheek as he stares down at you. It’s a ghastly sight, further proving his inhuman nature but you can’t help but stare at him as he cries crimson tears. It shimmers under the silvers of the night, like ruby gems decorating his face. Priceless bloody pearls that streak down to his neck and shirt, and onto your cheek as he sobs softly. 

“Please, adinda. Engkau sahaja yang aku mahu, engkau sahaja yang…engkau…” he tries to wipe his bloody tears away from you and you realize that he’s shaking. Here he is, a man strong enough to rip people into ribbons of meat, a vampire who’d been waiting for you for…for forever; sat on your lap, crying because he…

”I don’t…I don’t understand, Putra. I want to, but I don’t understand,” your voice was soft, afraid to cause him further distress. A drop of his tears paint your lips but you hold off on reacting as you watch him. 

“Please, let me kiss you. I can be good for you, I’ll protect you, I’ll make sure no one will ever hurt you like they did tonight. I know you said you don’t know me, that you didn’t mean to call for me, but you do. You do,” he laughs softly as he uses both hands to tenderly hold your face. He draws in closer again, his eyes nearly as greedy as him as it eclipses everything else in your sight. The red was beginning to stain the whites in his eyes and you lean backwards but he simply chases. 

“Kau mandi bunga, jumpa bomoh bodoh itu, suruh dia bukakkan mata batin. Semua itu untuk aku. Jiwa dan raga kau tahu.”

”You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.” 

“Putra, you’re scaring me,” he shushes you softly, soothing you like he would a baby as he brushes his lips over yours. 

“You’ve nothing to fear, cinta hatiku. I’ll never hurt you.”

His kisses this time weren’t insistent. It was commanding. You felt him grip onto your jaw and puppet you to his whims, you whimper into his mouth and he simply swallows it up. Everything, everything about you makes him lose his mind. It’s like you don’t see it — how handsome you were that night.

He’d felt the pull, heard the key turn and unlocked the doors to his cold prison the second that cold water washed over your face, the fragrant flowers sticking to the sides of your neck and your hair and the curve of your lashes. It was as though he was alive again as he watched from the corner of the room, feeling himself be stitched together by your acknowledgement of his existence. Dust and ash condensed together until his shape was complete and the first thing he did was admire you. 

Rose wasn’t the most tactful shaman, but Putra could smell it from her blood that she came from a long line of strong women. He hadn’t minded her, or the strange place he was now in, but he noticed Will. Holding his phone as he recorded the intimate ritual, recorded you topless and wet and dazed and Putra couldn’t believe it. This man, with his nose-curling scent, and too sharp smile — if Putra hadn’t been too weak at that moment he would’ve torn him apart. 

He watched as you barely came too, dizzy from Putra using your energy. Will had helped you with your clothes, and Rose watched Putra’s shape from the corner of her eyes. It was funny seeing her pride shift to wariness and settle on dread when his body finally became tangible enough for her to recognize what he was. 

“This energy isn’t malicious,” she’d told you. “It simply wants to communicate with you, this spirit is full of love. It won’t hurt you.”

She wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t malicious towards you, he wants to talk to you, he was full of love for you. He won’t hurt you.

This did not apply to anyone else.

Will had said goodbye to Rose and she knew it in her gut that that would be the last time he’d see him again. 

You could feel yourself getting lightheaded, drowning in the taste of darkness as the scent of jasmine overtakes your senses. Putra is relentless, his teeth nipping at your lower lip as he practically eats you alive. You feel your body melt against the couch, no longer leaning away but instead giving him more room as hazy memories fill you.

Kissing someone had never felt like this damning before. You weren’t a virgin, you’d had your fair share of lovers and partners but they had never managed to make you feel this rush before. You could pinpoint fear but in that hurricane of emotions, you felt a sense of nostalgia — it felt like a copout, some inane bullshit the universe was throwing your way to make this feel okay and you hated that you were taking it. He kissed you the way you liked, shameless as he sucked on your tongue, barely giving you room to breathe as he whispered your name against your lips. Nose bumping into yours, his strong hands loosening their hold as they trailed down your neck.

An ache settles deep within you. You try to push it down, try to swallow it to find some rationality in this supernatural mess but Putra pulls away; a trail of blood and spit now smeared across his mouth as he gazes down at you.

”Please,” he begs. You see the puffs of air between you as he gingerly traces his hands down your sides, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt. 

“Let me show you how well I know you, how much I worship you.”

You must be delirious. Insane. Losing your goddamn mind. In a state of psychosis even. But your silence is answer enough and Putra carefully pushes your knees apart. 

He’s starving — hands gripped under your thighs as he slips his tongue to your sex. Again, and again, and again. You’re panting, gripping onto the back of the couch as he groans, his pink muscle worming in and moaning at the taste of you. That metallic tang, that sweetness that causes his eyes to go dark like a shark. You can’t find the words — tongue heavy like lead as he messily dives in again. 

“You’re shivering” Putra murmurs to your thighs, biting down on your flesh as he gives your poor cunt some momentary relief. “Are you cold?”

continued ▸ Patreon

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

❝ I blame it on your love.❞

Mark Grayson X ftm!reader | prologue, angst | wc: 1.1K

warnings: death, mentions of torture, experimental procedures done on reader, graphic depictions of violence, mentions of trafficking (briefly)

masterlist ; pt. 0

authors note: the reader's backstory was very much influenced by Luka (from Alien Stage) and Black Widow/Winter Soldier (spec. the MCU) but I just wanted to toy with the idea of reader being something made for one purpose, finding another, but realizing their feelings will never be returned... Until he sees that in another universe, it is. Listening to ▸CODA by GRAY / Track 10 by Charli XCX Patreon | Discord

The first human with powers had set a domino affect in motion. A gentle shove against the laws of psychics, something that could simply be passed on as a mutation. Maybe a third eyelid like that of a crocodile, or an extra finger, a tail even. The next few that came, whether through sheer luck at birth or through blindly groping around in an ancient cave to become a God's avatar, were less subtle in every way possible.

But the effects were written in history. From persecution, to worship, to fear and finally to now.

Necessity.

Who needed nuclear bombs when you had a man who could fly through the air, with the strength of a thousand men, with the name Immortal?

With his team of other super humans, some even non-humans, keeping the world safe; it was tough on business.

You despised them. Heroes. In their brightly coloured outfits, streaking through the sky as symbols of hope when all it was was blind adoration.

But you despised them more for being the catalyst to your birth.

Birth. The word sounds foreign to you. You needed a mother for that, a warm body, a soothing voice, warm milk made just for you and all that bullshit.

You weren't born. You were made. They didn't want a child, much less a baby, they needed a weapon.

"Nothing flashy," a voice would speak. His voice rough, garbled from the amniotic fluid of your tank and your newly formed ears.

"I don't need laser eyes or acid breath. I need a brawler, a killer, a fucking weapon."

Your first breath was on the floors of a cold room. You'd reached up to tear the stubborn film of fluid over your mouth and nose, little chest heaving as your eyes were blinded by the light of a flashlight.

The first thing you felt after being made was cold indifference. No excited tears, no relieved sobs, just pen scrawling on paper and deft fingers poking and prodding your body. Needles pushed in, scalpel nicked and sliced, monitored closely as they dragged your body onto the cold metal table. They spoke, while you watched.

There were metal hooks on the walls, with different variations of you's. The room was so cold that it would keep bodies fresh for as long as they needed to be and you let out your first cry as it settled over you.

What millions had looked for their entire lives, their purpose to be in this world, had been revealed to you the same night you were born.

A weapon.

The GDA had their hands full enough as it is, petty crimes weren't enough to get them to even glance their way. But when they hear whispers of a gang with a superhuman child who had the strength of a tank and with skin as strong as reinforced metal — well, that was new concern entirely.

It didn't help that you were wickedly good at using your age to put people off guard. The heroes who'd rush into the burning building at the sounds of your screams, found with their bodies burnt to crisps but their neck twisted and ribs split open before the smoke inhalation got to them.

The heroes who thought you were a kidnapped child, forced into some sort of skin trade as you huddled in the corner of dark room only to be torn limb from limb by you.

Cecil was disturbed by your violence but he couldn't help to think at how efficient you were.

The intel you'd stolen from countless organized crimes, the corrupted police men and government officials you'd gotten information from. Your methods were crude but perhaps with a little guidance, some well-placed warmth, a well-timed praise here and there...

Catching you proved to be an impossible task at first. Whatever these fucks had implemented in you hadn't mattered, it was your instincts from years of killing. You had a knack for finding cameras, your eyes brazenly making contact with the lenses before you jumped towards it.

You couldn't fly — Cecil didn't believe in God, but he did mutter some words of relief at this — but your super strength gave you the ability to leap high into the air, fingers tearing through brick and metal so you could climb onto the walls like some deranged spider monkey.

Wearing you down once they did corner you was another task entirely. Immortal had lived thousands of lifetimes, but he'd never seen the animalistic anger you had in your eyes. A broken arm didn't matter to you, you'd simply bared your teeth at him and tore of your hand from the elbow down.

If you felt pain, you didn't show it.

You used your exposed bone as a knife instead.

Immortal had decided that for the greater good, he would put you out of your misery.

Cecil had saved you.

No, that's not right. Cecil hadn't saved you because he wanted to; Cecil found usefulness in your purpose. You knew this the second he spoke to you, and you didn't fight back against the restraints of the pure white room you were in.

A weapon with no wielder, with no purpose, what choice did you have?

The missions didn't matter to you. You did them without question, without failure. Cecil would give you ice cream for a job well done and you'd take it to your room, quietly eating it as medics tended to you and recorded any anomalies.

You were useful. They needed to keep you alive.

They told you one day, this kindly lady with her dimpled grin and warm brown eyes, that you were 10 years old.

The revelation didn't stick, you stared impassively at her and nodded.

When you 12, Cecil gave you a new mission.

Omni-Man's son, Mark Grayson.

With Omni-Man refusing to join the GDA, he was still a bit of a wild card. Cecil liked to keep his affairs in check and he had promised Deborah Grayson to keep away from Mark, to give him a normal childhood.

So why not give Mark a new friend?

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

❝ In my sins, I look for you ❞

yandere!ftm!vampire X ftm!reader | reader has had top surgery & bottom growth | sub. bttm. reader  | wc: 6.2k

warnings: horror elements, dub. consent, blood kink, period sex, oral sex (r! receiving), frottaging, overstimulation (r! receiving), dominant & submissive elements, obsession

pt. 1 ;

authors note: is anyone ever disappointed at the lack of period sex (especially for ftms) fics that include a vampire? I am. BTW, Putra is a vampire based on Malaysian folklore – I wanted my own rep too, lmaooo. ;p Listening to ▸ Sang Penikam by Noh Salleh / M. by Anil Emre Daldal  Patreon | Discord

The horrors over his shoulder were strange. As you gazed upon the strings of flesh draped across the branches your mind floats away, as if disconnecting from your body as it tried to comprehend the gore around you. The scent of blood had soaked into the leaves, trailing down the pathways of the tree barks and dripping from the crumpled beer cans. Entrails and broken bones popped against the dim light, the sheen and heat that emitted from them causing your stomach to twist. Putra sings a song, his long hair shielding your line of sight as he tilted his head down at you. 

“Adinda,” his tone was soft as his now human face grinned down at you. The smears of blood across his lips reeked of a metallic tang and it didn’t even seem to bother him. The thick crimson that streaked down his jaw and onto your clothes made you whimper, so he shushed you gently. 

“Those brutes. Forgive me for the mess they forced me to make. Once we’re safe, home, I’ll change.”

You were shaking in his unnaturally strong grip. But Putra simply holds you closer, rubbing his thumb over your shoulder to warm you up as he walked casually through the woods. Retracing your footsteps in the night, going down the same path you had. 

How long has he been watching you? You wonder with dread. He was holding you in his arms as if you were nothing more than a stack of papers, and as your brain reminds you of how easily he tore through people’s bodies, you were certain you might as well be. Here you were, in the arms of a murderer with supernatural strength. Someone you weren’t even certain was a human. 

“Where are you taking me?” you whisper softly. The woods are thinning out now, the ground transitioning into the frat house’s manicured grass and eventually the asphalt sidewalks of your campus. The streetlights flickered above you as he passed by them, his soft humming causing a haziness to cloud your mind as you try to gather as much information as you could. You clearly weren’t going to win this with brute strength — just the sight of his bloody teeth as he smiled down at you caused ripples of gooseflesh across the back of your neck.

”Home. Oh, well, a house. We’ll need to keep you safe. Your scent is far too sweet, sayangku.”

He lifts his gaze ahead and his eyes darken. You feel the brush of his hair against your cheek as it lifts up, defying the laws of gravity as his cheeks lift up into that unnatural, wicked, smile.

”They can smell you.”

You know you shouldn’t. But there was a chance that maybe what he was seeing was other people, so you turn to follow his gaze and your breath gets caught in your throat. The sidewalks that had been empty before, safe from a few students going to the party or some other, were now littered with these figures. They were hiding behind the poles, bloodshot eyes trained on you. They looked odd, some barely humanoid as they towered over the trees or tried to follow Putra’s steady pace with their tiny bodies. A few of them tried hard too mimic people, with four limbs and a head as they stood on two legs but then it was their faces or their posture or their stature.

Too skinny and tall, limbs dragging onto the floor. Head shaped oddly, too many eyes, too little eyes. 

One stood in the way of Putra. It was wrapped in a dirty white cloth, feet and arms bound together as the only thing that showed was its rotting face. It fixed its cloudy eyes on you, bending its knees then jumping to get close. Although the act seemed ridiculous, the stench and the hunger it had emitting from it made you lean into his chest. You clutched at his blood soaked shirt and his chest rumbled, a shriek building in his throat as he slowed his steps. 

“What the fuck are they?” your voice might as well have echoed. The world had gone quiet and you found that your breath was becoming visible in the air. Putra and that thing continued to stare the other down as they both got closer, his grip on you tightened as it began to growl. 

“Hantu,” he snarled out. 

“Bau kau manis sangat, mata batin kau terbuka. Bangsat semua. Dia milik aku!”

The wrapped ghost snarls in return, gnashing his teeth together which makes Putra spin on his heel, keeping his eyes trained on it as he walks backwards. It glowered, bending its knees again which made Putra laugh. For a moment, you think he might actually fight the thing with you in his arms but he glances down at you and whatever anger he had within him drains.

You were terrified. Trembling like a leaf in the wind, the blood drained from your face as you clutched at his shirt and squeezed your eyes shut. 

These bastards could wait their turn to be ripped apart. Putra had to bring you to somewhere safe, where they wouldn’t bother you. 

Somewhere the both of you can finally just be together. 

You recognized the building. The warm red bricks and iron wrought gates — it was Will’s apartment. His parents had rented it out before he enrolled in university, and now it was his while he studied. It was a more quiet area of town, the other tenants keeping to themselves. You’d been here a few times to study, revelling in the loft he had and making use of his big oven during a bleak Christmas break where he spent his time with you after you had a nasty spat with your folks. It was filled with happy memories, warmth imbued in the wooden floors and the Polaroids pinned to the living room wall. 

It’s jarring to see it now. Dark, cold, eerily quiet safe from the sounds of your own breathing. Every bit of life had been sapped away from his apartment, the air stale and dusty. 

“Will?” you called out, flinching when Putra shot you a tepid glare. That made you shrink into yourself, he’d only been mad at you one time and he caused a massacre right in front of your eyes. You weren’t going to see what he’d do if it were just the two of you. 

He sets his jaw, gently setting you down on Will’s grey L-shaped couch before he finally tries to wipe away the blood from his mouth. At this point, it’d dried and it barely wiped off and had merely smudged across the back of his hand and sleeve. You bring your knees to your chin, wrapping your arms around your legs as you watch him fuss over the mess on himself. 

“…Who are you?” 

Putra narrows his eyes, glaring at his clothes as he stands. He walks to the kitchen, turning the sink faucet as he washed his hands clean. 

“You know who I am. You called —“

”I didn’t,” you cut him off, brows pinched together as you watch the tenseness in his shoulder. ”I didn’t call you.”

”But you did,” he pressed the final word, as if needing you to realise that he didn’t just pop out of thin air like you thought he did. He braced his hands on the sinks edge, bringing the water to their lips and chins. “Just like I’ve been calling for you.”

”My dreams? That was you?” He perked up, eyes lighting up as he glanced at you from over his shoulder. “Yes, that was me.”

You felt like punching him in his creepy face. All those sleepless nights, waking up in cold sweat and suffering through a sleep deprived headache throughout the entire day. Needing to work harder to catch up with classes, missing outings with friends because you were too tired; all because he’d been ‘calling’ for you?

”Why?” you’re gritting your teeth together, trying to keep your emotions in check before you do something you regret. As unassuming as he looked now, you knew how quickly that could change. ”Why were you calling for me?”

Putra turned, walking towards you as pinkish water dripped down his chin. For a moment, he towered over you, his height increased by the shadows that freely peeked through Will’s wall of windows. He then kneels politely in front of you, folding his hands on his lap as he tilts his head downwards, gesturing with his eyes to your fisted hands. 

You uncurl your fingers and he’s so careful as he takes your hand into his grasp, feeling the curve of your knuckles and joints as he turns your palm up. He presses his lips there, the scar down the left side of his lip pressing to the pads of your fingers as he sighs and melts into your touch. You stiffen unsurely, heart hammering in your chest as he nuzzles his face into your hand. 

“Because we’re intertwined, our fates are attached.” He says this as though it is a factual, common knowledge shared among people when it absolutely wasn’t. 

“I’ve been waiting for you, adinda. Waiting, and waiting, for you to call for me. So we can be together. This land is strange now, the people are stranger, but you’re still the same.”

Putra looks at you and you can see the adoration within him pour out with every slow blink, those long lashes he had tickling your palm as he strokes the back of your hand. Touching you with reverence as he kneels before you when he’d already shown you just how powerful he was. 

“You’re still mine.”

”You’re not answering my questions clearly,” you sigh, pursing your lips as you try to make sense of the nonsense he’d spewed out in that soft voice. 

“How else should I answer such menial questions?” He surges to your face, lifting himself off his calves as he invades your space. Putra’s hair has this weirdest habit, almost as if it was emoting with him — the ends of it curl and lift with delight and anger and at the moment, as he comes closer to you they were lifting in complete delight. You place a hand on his shoulder and he instantly freezes. 

The sides of his mouth twitch but his thick brows slope, a semi-pout painting his features. You blink owlishly at him, trying to find the words as the seconds tick past. 

“…Adin —“

”I’m not kissing you until you answer all my questions. Normally. Clearly.”

You held your breath as he processed your words. But to your surprise, and chagrin, he starts chuckling. It’s unlike the shrieking he’d done, no fear rushed through you or the fine hairs on your neck lifting in alarm. He sounded like a normal person, and you scolded yourself for the rush of blood that pooled to your cheeks. 

“Alright, I’ll play your game. How many questions do you have for me?”

‘How about a 100?’ you wondered derisively but settled for 10. Putra settles himself back onto his ankles, hands once again politely folded on his lap as he nods encouragingly at you. 

“Okay, first question,” he hums to let you know he was listening. You clench your jaw, waiting for your brain to come up with something that would give you more answers than questions — you glance at the scar on the right side of his face, it was an odd little addition to the symmetry of his face. He curls the corner of his lips, tilting his head as he connects your gazes together. 

“What’s your name?” a flash of hurt crosses his face. His smile turns into a lipless frown, he turns his gaze to his lap and you feel an inane sprout of guilt. You couldn’t let him know that you had somehow figured it out — he was already convinced that somehow you had called for him, if he knew that his name had surfaced in the dark ether of your mind it would only enable him. 

“My name is Putra,” he whispered. 

“What are you?” Putra brings his hands together on his lap, threading his fingers through the other as his lower lip juts out. 

“I’m…yours?” you deadpan and he looks away from you. “We agreed you’d answer it normally and clearly, Putra.”

His name coming out from your mouth makes his eyes brighten up. You tuck this valuable piece of information in your mind for sticky situations.

”I’m…a vampire, of sorts.”

”Of sorts?” 

“Are you sure you want to use that as a question?” 

You huff through your nose, narrowing your eyes as you let your eyes take in the state of Will’s home. It was clean, but the little plants he had were beginning to wilt and you eye the trashcans he had, relieved that there wasn't any rotting food nor any flies buzzing around. 

“What happened to Will?” 

All at once, the room goes cold. Putra’s eyes go dark as he looks up at you, the moonlight flooding in through the windows making his skin much paler. You stiffen as his face goes void with emotion, tendrils of his hair lightly raising in contempt until he glances away again. Your breath comes back to you but you don’t dare move 

“He was a coward. What kind of men do you have in your life, adinda? He ran the moment he felt an inkling of fear. Dasar penjajah.” 

“What is that? What are you saying? That word you call me — what does it mean?” 

He frowns at this. Brows pinched in utter confusion. 

“Kau lupa bahasa ibunda?” 

Your frustrated silence is an answer, he swallows his confusion and answers. 

“That,” he says in a pointed tone. “Is Bahasa Malayu, I’m insulting those cowards and his bloodline of colonizers and the word,” his face softens the tiniest bit but then he continues. “That word is a word of affection. Something husbands call their partners. That’s six questions, you have fours left.” 

“You’re a vampire, you said. You sent those nightmares my way — you said I called for you and…and now you’re calling me your husband. I…I’ve never met you before.”

”Not in this life,” he mutters. “And for that, I hope you can forgive me. I didn’t mean to leave you alone for so long.”

“What do you mean by this life?” 

“Back then, we were taught that our souls do not reincarnate. Those foolish religious sycophants. You and I, we’re proof that they’re wrong. Your soul is the same, even if things are different. And I’m the same as before, you will see it soon.”

”Reincarnated?” you had never really thought of the terms and conditions of the afterlife. You’d work yourself into knots, finding little loopholes to the rules, daydreaming about the possibility of heaven and hell but reincarnation had never really been that satisfying. In one life, you were a humble man with a family and in the next, you could be reborn as a cow in a dairy factory or a rock. It felt odd hearing people claim that in their past lives, they were a famous figure or some evil dictator — so you can’t quite fathom what this vampire — ‘of sorts’ — was even saying. 

“I waited, I said, I waited for you,” Putra reaches for your hand again and his touch makes a shudder run through you. Ice cold, like a corpse. 

“Eight questions, two left.”

”Wha — That — That does not count.” Putra chuckles, trailing the edges of his lips to your fingers and palm and finally your wrist, eyelashes fluttering as he takes a breath. He pauses, eyes nearly rolling back as he looks at your lap, mouth slowly hanging open; his tongue wets his lips and the hint of teeth you see makes you eerily aware of how hungry his gaze is and what you had currently spilling from between your legs. 

He kept saying you smelled sweet. Even the thing in your apartment said the same. Your scent is too sweet, he growled out to you when the wrapped ghost had appeared and you’re hit with a sudden realization that he had meant it was because you were bleeding. Blood was used in all sorts of rituals, Hollywood horror movies that involved witches or black magic had taught you that much no matter how inaccurate everything else seemed. 

“Putra,” you tried to make your voice stern but it wavers anyways. He flicks his eyes to you, and you gasp softly at how blown out his eyes were — nearly swallowing the whites of his eyes as he waits for you to speak. 

“Two more questions,” you reminded as you cupped his cheek in your hand. Your touch causes him to politely close his mouth, relishing in the warmth of your palm. 

“How long have you been waiting for me to…for my soul to reincarnate?” 

Putra’s breath shudders on its way out, you could feel it brush over your skin as he tightens his grip on your hand. 

“It felt like an eternity. All I remember was falling asleep next to you, then just restless dreams.” 

You inwardly mutter that he deserved it but something about his sentence causes you to blurt out your last question. 

“Falling asleep next to me?”

He nods as his eyelids flutter open — the lashes tickling you as he raises onto his knees again. The hunger in his eyes returned this time, but there was this melancholy in them this time. Putra’s eyelids grew heavier, the bump on his nose grazing your cheek as he wrapped those deathly arms around your body. You feel him squeezing you, tighter and tighter but not enough to worry you. It spreads a rush through you, a layer of comfort you’d never known before in the form of him. 

He cradles the back of your head and your knees give way to his torso just as your eyes shine with tears.

”Like this,” he says into your ears. His chest presses over yours and you can feel the press of his mass flushed to your ribs. As if he was intent on melting into you, devouring you, like he wanted to be so close to you he wished to imprint the shape of him against yours. 

His face tucks into your neck, you gasp at his brush of teeth but he stays chaste as he breathes you in. 

“We held each other, like this.”

It’s your warmth that causes his lower lips to quiver. Oh, you don’t know just how he missed this, missed you. 

To feel your heart race against him, to feel your shuddering breath over his ears, to feel your body thrum with energy and life. 

Never again will he allow anyone to take this from you; he’ll be sure of that. Putra would be your sole protector in this life, forever and ever and ever. If death himself couldn’t rip Putra away from you, was life naive enough to try again?

“That’s ten questions,” you try to find an excuse to stop him but when he pulls away enough you’re stunned at the serene smile on his face. You swear you see a flush of red on his skin as his eyes squish into crescent moons. Putra brushes a thumb over your cheek, you pretend not to see flashes of horror behind your eyes with every blink. 

He places his forehead over yours, tendrils of his hair falling over his shoulder as he takes in every little detail of yours face. You feel the hand on your head push your head forward, a firm insistent in his pose as he flicks his dark eyes to your lips. 

“May I kiss you, adinda?”

Although he asks this, you know it’s just for show. You were trapped in his hold, his hunger pinning you in place as he waited impatiently for your meaningless answer.  You curl your hands into fists and lean forward, pushing your lips onto his. 

He groans into the kiss, the ends of his hair lifting as he pushes against you. You feel him moving, turning his head as he keeps you there, holding onto the nape of your neck as he places his knees besides your legs, effectively straddling you as he whimpers desperately.

”Putra — wait —“

”More, please,” he pants out. You keep your lips firmly shut, squirming now in his hold and he makes a noise akin to a wounded animal. Still, he presses his lips to yours. Kissing you again and again, his chest rising and falling as he relishes in the feeling. Your eyes widen when you notice him crying. 

Dark red liquid lines his eyes, slipping down the curve of his cheek as he stares down at you. It’s a ghastly sight, further proving his inhuman nature but you can’t help but stare at him as he cries crimson tears. It shimmers under the silvers of the night, like ruby gems decorating his face. Priceless bloody pearls that streak down to his neck and shirt, and onto your cheek as he sobs softly. 

“Please, adinda. Engkau sahaja yang aku mahu, engkau sahaja yang…engkau…” he tries to wipe his bloody tears away from you and you realize that he’s shaking. Here he is, a man strong enough to rip people into ribbons of meat, a vampire who’d been waiting for you for…for forever; sat on your lap, crying because he…

”I don’t…I don’t understand, Putra. I want to, but I don’t understand,” your voice was soft, afraid to cause him further distress. A drop of his tears paint your lips but you hold off on reacting as you watch him. 

“Please, let me kiss you. I can be good for you, I’ll protect you, I’ll make sure no one will ever hurt you like they did tonight. I know you said you don’t know me, that you didn’t mean to call for me, but you do. You do,” he laughs softly as he uses both hands to tenderly hold your face. He draws in closer again, his eyes nearly as greedy as him as it eclipses everything else in your sight. The red was beginning to stain the whites in his eyes and you lean backwards but he simply chases. 

“Kau mandi bunga, jumpa bomoh bodoh itu, suruh dia bukakkan mata batin. Semua itu untuk aku. Jiwa dan raga kau tahu.”

”You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.” 

“Putra, you’re scaring me,” he shushes you softly, soothing you like he would a baby as he brushes his lips over yours. 

“You’ve nothing to fear, cinta hatiku. I’ll never hurt you.”

His kisses this time weren’t insistent. It was commanding. You felt him grip onto your jaw and puppet you to his whims, you whimper into his mouth and he simply swallows it up. Everything, everything about you makes him lose his mind. It’s like you don’t see it — how handsome you were that night.

He’d felt the pull, heard the key turn and unlocked the doors to his cold prison the second that cold water washed over your face, the fragrant flowers sticking to the sides of your neck and your hair and the curve of your lashes. It was as though he was alive again as he watched from the corner of the room, feeling himself be stitched together by your acknowledgement of his existence. Dust and ash condensed together until his shape was complete and the first thing he did was admire you. 

Rose wasn’t the most tactful shaman, but Putra could smell it from her blood that she came from a long line of strong women. He hadn’t minded her, or the strange place he was now in, but he noticed Will. Holding his phone as he recorded the intimate ritual, recorded you topless and wet and dazed and Putra couldn’t believe it. This man, with his nose-curling scent, and too sharp smile — if Putra hadn’t been too weak at that moment he would’ve torn him apart. 

He watched as you barely came too, dizzy from Putra using your energy. Will had helped you with your clothes, and Rose watched Putra’s shape from the corner of her eyes. It was funny seeing her pride shift to wariness and settle on dread when his body finally became tangible enough for her to recognize what he was. 

“This energy isn’t malicious,” she’d told you. “It simply wants to communicate with you, this spirit is full of love. It won’t hurt you.”

She wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t malicious towards you, he wants to talk to you, he was full of love for you. He won’t hurt you.

This did not apply to anyone else.

Will had said goodbye to Rose and she knew it in her gut that that would be the last time he’d see him again. 

You could feel yourself getting lightheaded, drowning in the taste of darkness as the scent of jasmine overtakes your senses. Putra is relentless, his teeth nipping at your lower lip as he practically eats you alive. You feel your body melt against the couch, no longer leaning away but instead giving him more room as hazy memories fill you.

Kissing someone had never felt like this damning before. You weren’t a virgin, you’d had your fair share of lovers and partners but they had never managed to make you feel this rush before. You could pinpoint fear but in that hurricane of emotions, you felt a sense of nostalgia — it felt like a copout, some inane bullshit the universe was throwing your way to make this feel okay and you hated that you were taking it. He kissed you the way you liked, shameless as he sucked on your tongue, barely giving you room to breathe as he whispered your name against your lips. Nose bumping into yours, his strong hands loosening their hold as they trailed down your neck.

An ache settles deep within you. You try to push it down, try to swallow it to find some rationality in this supernatural mess but Putra pulls away; a trail of blood and spit now smeared across his mouth as he gazes down at you.

”Please,” he begs. You see the puffs of air between you as he gingerly traces his hands down your sides, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt. 

“Let me show you how well I know you, how much I worship you.”

You must be delirious. Insane. Losing your goddamn mind. In a state of psychosis even. But your silence is answer enough and Putra carefully pushes your knees apart. 

He’s starving — hands gripped under your thighs as he slips his tongue to your sex. Again, and again, and again. You’re panting, gripping onto the back of the couch as he groans, his pink muscle worming in and moaning at the taste of you. That metallic tang, that sweetness that causes his eyes to go dark like a shark. You can’t find the words — tongue heavy like lead as he messily dives in again. 

“You’re shivering” Putra murmurs to your thighs, biting down on your flesh as he gives your poor cunt some momentary relief. “Are you cold?”

continued ▸ Patreon

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

I need to lock in jesus fucking christ

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

The mark variants are polluting my brain as well... I can't stop consuming media of them

No, literally. They’re in my head, whispering ideas into my ear canal like evil snails!!!

I can never resist a good harem for reader inserts and they are NOT helping! 😭

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

The amount of Mark Variant X reader fics flooding my timeline...it’s so tempting....

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

hmm

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

❝ Sell me all of your laughter, and I will take some of your fear. ❞

yandere!ftm!vampire x ftm!reader | reader has had top surgery & bottom growth | sub. bttm. reader | wc: 7.9k

warnings: graphic depictions of violence, horror elements, blood, dubious consent, unhealthy relationship dynamics, obsession, stalking, menstrual cycle mentioned

pt 1 ; pt 2

authors note: he truly is unhinged, lmao. also the tiktok comments about him are so unhinged too so it truly balances out. Also!!! I'll be posting the smut continution of this fic (period sex, t4t, frotting, overstim) as a Patreon exclusive later this month~! ;3

Listening to ▸ kelam malam by The Spouse ft Aimee Saras / After Midnight by Yuna

Patreon | Discord 

It comes to you like whispers carried by the wind. Flowing past you quickly, leaving nothing more than a sweet brush against your cheek — these fleeting memories of a life you had lived. The humidity in the air makes dew drops collect onto the broad fan leaves of the forests. The vine-choked trees, with life teeming from the cracks of their barks, and further down — way down— underneath the dead leaves that would soon turn into food for the trees they came from hid more creatures. Some with more legs than you could count and some with poison teeth and flickering tongues.

Your heart does not feel fear. These creatures were your neighbours, the forest was your playground; you respected it, but you did not fear it. 

But then, a laugh. 

It shrieks, the pitch unnaturally high as it bounces around you. The forest all at once plunges into darkness — you reach forward, hoping to cling to a tree to put your back to it, but you hear the hiss of a snake, the crawling of a thousand legs on dried leaves — the pointed end piercing through like a sharpened blade — and freeze. 

It laughs again. It sounds farther away this time, but you don’t dare to move. It was a trick, something so laughably simple yet cruel. Using someone’s hope and fear against them.

The further away it sounds, the closer it is.

You stifle your noises, focusing hard on the pounding of drums in your ears as you attempt to navigate the darkness. This forest was teeming with life and death, creatures that were made by god, and men roamed through here. Have you forgotten that? 

Have you forgotten this?

The night you first met your devoted one, in your first life and theirs. Star-crossed lovers, bounded by fate. 

You feel its cold hand settle on the back of your neck. Each joint cracks with every movement as its strength brandishes itself. You gasp and reach to pry it off, but it simply laughs, the noise echoing along as though it was mocking you. 

With one hand, it lifts you off your feet, bringing you into its cold embrace as he presses his cheek to your neck. He sings to you as he carries you. Securing one arm around your waist, bringing you to the gnarly branches of the mighty tree; it towers over everything else in the forest, harbouring life between its elephant-sized roots protruding from the dirt and the spindly branches. 

He sings and sings. Crooning sweet names into your ears no matter how much you struggle and scream. He keeps you here, with him, on top of a tree where no one will find you. 

“Adinda,” He whispers. You squeeze your eyes shut, tears spilling from your darkened lashes, trailing down the curve of your cheeks. It shushes you, as though soothing a babe in its arms, pressing its lips to your tears. He savours the taste of it — you hear his sigh of diminutive pleasure — then crawls up to the corner of your eyes, your temple, the top of your head. 

He says it again. Practically sing the word ‘adinda’ into your ear, his bloodshot eyes being the only thing you can see whenever you look to your left. Blood had stained the gelatinous whites, making his already hazel eyes brighter than usual — he looked like an animal, the red-rimmed eyes framed by his long, downward lashes. The fats underneath his eyes were squished by his rising cheeks, the sharpened ends of his teeth making you whimper. 

He mouths your name, murmuring it in adoration as his terrifying face draws closer, and closer, and closer. 

“Adinda.”

You wake up with a start, clutching at your chest as you scramble to sit up straight. You can barely catch your breath, still hearing your heart pounding as sweat slips down the nape of your neck. It sends shivers down your spine, so you hurriedly wipe at it, trying to forget the feeling of those spindly fingers and those cold lips away from your body. 

The dark sky rumbles, rain now pattering against your windows, and you slip your eyes closed to gather your sanity again. You place your elbows on your knees, covering your eyes with the heel of your palm and sinking into the muffled noises of the rain now coming down on your city. 

It’s the same dream. The beginnings are never the same, sometimes mundane or happy, but then you hear a whisper of your name. Voices layered on the other, luring you to the entrance of a forest that stretched on forever. It compelled you into its embrace, startling you each time,  although you already knew the outcomes. 

You drag your hand down your face, trying your best to let your senses come back to you. The noises the raging storm makes at least provide something to focus on other than the sheen of sweat left all over you — making your clothes cling onto you like a second skin and travelling its way to nooks and crevices you’d rather stay dry. It overwhelms you enough to make you rip the blankets away, your feet finding solid ground and your body moving automatically towards your kitchen instead.

Your phone’s lock screen tells you it’s far too late to be awake but far too early to be attempting to snuggle back under the sheets. Your day was going to begin far earlier than you’d like — you try to uplift your mood by thinking about those juicy little worms the early birds get, but it doesn’t do much to lighten your frown. 

“You’ve looked better,” Will chirps out the second he lands his eyes on you. His words and his tone never quite matched, but you’ve grown used to it. He uncrosses his legs, settling an arm around the back of your seat as you slide out on your desk. The auditorium was cold, even with your thick hoodie doing its best to keep you warm. Will’s enthusiasm at least distracts you, so you sigh and reply. 

“I had the worst sleep last night, woke up all sticky.” His brows jump to his hairline and you roll your eyes, gently nudging him away as you mutter for him not to be gross. “Sticky because you were with someone else or?” Will bounces his expressive brows, trying to get into your line of sight as you pull out your laptop. 

“Yeah, you didn’t notice that your mom wasn’t home last night?” You retort bluntly, chuckling at his gasp. 

“Rude. But no, seriously, was it the nightmares again?” You purse your lips, rubbing at the back of your neck as you reluctantly nod your head. 

“You should get that checked out.”

”My nightmares? Sure, I’ll go to the dream specialist doctor the next time I get it,” you sink into your seat, applying more pressure to your nape to shoo away the phantom sensations. The more you talked about it, the stronger it got and the A/C was not lightening it up. You shiver involuntarily, shaking your hands side-to-side to make the numbness dissipate. 

Will frowned at it all, placing his elbow on the desk and cushioning his cheek in his palm while he tapped his pen on the desk. 

“I’m being serious, dude!” Will leans in again — ducking in and ducking away reminds you of a goose's long neck — with that devilish smirk. “You should go to those witch doctors.”

Instantly, your face falls into a deadpan with your nose curling up. That was a ridiculous notion — those were just hoaxes, people falling into placebo effects while they wasted money on nothing more than mixed herbs and spices sealed in a bottle with wax. You focus on setting up your laptop, shaking your head while Will tries his best to convince you.

”C’mon,” He nearly whines. 

“I can spend my money on better things, Will. Also, do you actually believe in those things?” 

“You don’t?” 

More people begin to flood into class, their sleepy murmurs and mumbles creating a comfortable white noise all around you. It makes you feel less antsy the more people gather. 

“I don’t,” you mutter. “Did I give the impression that I did?”

”That’s not the point, I’m just saying, if melatonin gummies aren’t working and weed isn’t working —“ You narrow your eyes at him as another student slips behind both of you, greeting her friends and seemingly deaf to Will’s voice — or maybe she simply didn’t care enough — so he hushes his voice down again. 

“You tried all the before-bed routines and rituals. Why not? I know a gal,” You scoff. “You know a gal?”

”Yeah, she’s my gal. My bestie even. Remember when I was struggling a lot with my creepy ex-girlfriend and haunted apartment? She helped me out, bro! Listen,” he places his palm across the screen of your laptop, drawing an annoyed sigh from you. He shrugs, turning the laptop away as his knees brush against your thighs. 

“I can pay for the sesh, we can go together. She can check out what’s wrong with you in here,” he gently taps his temple. “Or if you’ve got some creepy ass ghost attached to you.” 

There was no point in denying Will — he was annoyingly persistent. If you didn’t agree with him now, he’d simply but pressing and poking until you finally cave and the last thing you needed on top of university assignments, and weird nightmares, was to have Will constantly whining for you to heed his whacky advice. 

So you hang your head, sighing as you reluctantly tell him you’ll indulge in his ideas. 

What could hurt?

”You better be paying, bro.” You reach for your laptop and swipe away some barely there fingerprints from your screen. 

You were sure Will was lost. There was no doubt about it in your mind. When you imagined a witch doctor, you didn’t exactly think of the suburbs of some cul-de-sac. Especially not a house at the end, tucked neatly in the centre of a horse-shaped road surrounded by family vans and leftover toys in their yards. 

You frown, leaning forward in the passenger seat as you take in the two-storey house. There were little gnome lawn ornaments littered across the steps leading up to this house’s porch, densely packed near one corner of the porch. Their beady little eyes peek at you from the wooden slats of the railing. You lean backwards, then give Will a hesitant look. 

“This is where your gal lives? Did you find her on Etsy or something?” Will rolls his eyes, unbuckling his seatbelt as he unlocks the doors. “It’s an at-home business, okay. C’mon, you’re just being critical.”

He doesn’t climb the steps, instead, he guides you to the side of the house, and you glance at the gnomes for a final glance and pause when you notice the messily painted blues, browns, and greens now positioned to the corner of their eyes. You blinked, furrowing your brows as you squinted at them, but Will waves you over, whispering your name, which distracts you for a second. 

When you glanced back at them, their eyes were blankly staring ahead. You feel a slight shudder down your spine, inhaling sharply as you catch up to Will’s side. It’s dark, you think to yourself whilst rubbing your arms to get rid of the random chills. There were mostly just porch lights; shadows could play tricks on you, and so could your brain. Besides, gnome ornaments couldn’t be considered anywhere close to scary or witch-doctor-y. 

Will opened the wooden gates to reveal a flourishing garden that you were sure would be beautiful in the daylight, but seeing the dense flowers and greenery made your stomach twist uneasily. There was the sound of flowing water somewhere, and as Will confidently marched to the basement door, you peer deeper past the flower-choked iron arch and see a dark stone fountain, the little cherub sprouting out water from his horn while balancing on one leg. There are stone benches facing the fountain, and you tilt your head as you spot a furry critter curled up on one of them.

The cat lifts its head up, its yellow eyes glowing like an orb as its multicoloured coat gleams underneath the moonlight just like its collar. 

“Dude, c’mon.” Will opens the red door, motioning for you to follow with his head. The cat crosses its paws delicately, laying its head on them as it continues to watch you. 

The inside of the basement didn’t feel too serial killer-y. Despite how dimly lit it was, you didn’t smell anything rusty, and there weren't any tools hanging from the walls with shovels leaning in one corner. There was a thick incense scent in the air, something that managed to wring a cough from you, and you held onto Will’s jacket so you didn’t lose sight of him. There was a wooden platform in the centre of the basement, with a low, dark wood stained table stacked above it — its surface littered with silver plates and an assortment of coconut husk bowls. You glanced at the candles in some of them, furrowing your brows at their dark colour and instantly tightening your hold on Will. 

The silver plates had some patterns engraved into them, the handles intricate and lovingly polished. An assortment of herbs wrapped in twine were soaked in the other bowls, the surface rippling despite no movement. Okay, this is feeling more witch doctor-y. Will tries to climb onto the wooden platform, and you tug him until he almost topples over onto you.

”Where did you say you found her again?” Your question causes him to roll his eyes. “Does it matter?”

”Will, there you are!” 

A woman emerges from the shadows, and the sight of her has your insides shuddering. Her smile stretched across her face, displaying her perfect white teeth and lifting her already high cheekbones further up; there was a sheen to her dark, neatly tied up hair that complimented her tanned skin and coffee brown eyes. 

She dressed in a button-up blouse and a pair of white pants, and she looked so out of place in this environment that you subconsciously take a few steps back. It felt like she was just trying to blend in, willing her stripes to change to trick those around her. Will notices this and slings an arm across your shoulders, pinning you to his side.

”Hey, Rose! Brought you my friend I told you about?” the idea that he talked about you to her made you frown. “The one who is having trouble sleeping, yes?” she nods as Will nods and you shake your head side-to-side.

There was an accent you couldn’t quite put your finger on, but it sounded so hauntingly familiar. The lilts in her words, you’ve heard it before. 

”Well, come on. Let’s try to find the source of your unrest. Shoes off, please.”

Rose climbs onto the platform, folding her legs gracefully and gesturing for both of you to sit across from her. 

“When did this all begin?”

A fly is buzzing in your room. Its fat body lands on your arm, the iridescent wings fluttering to a stop while it rests on your skin. Those big red eyes look aimlessly around, the grubby little legs sweeping over its head as it crawls tentatively across your wrist and into your palm. 

You wonder what you look like to this fly. If it felt the coldness seeping from your skin and if it could smell the oiliness that clings to you. When you part your lips, you feel the crackling of dried spit, and if you were able to feel shame, you were sure you’d feel it completely consume you. But in its absence was simply apathy and numbness. That and this ache in your stomach, stabbing dully at you and pooling discomfort lower, and lower, and lower.

The fly inches closer to the centre of your palm, and when your finger twitches, its wings buzz in alarm. The shadows of your fingers overtake it, and now you feel it flying in a flurry — those fragile wings beating against you. 

Nothing registered in you except for the dirty beast in your hands. It was as frightening as it was freeing. To be devoid of anything while you held onto a life that you could so easily destroy. Your lashes tremble just as your knuckles turn white; you wet your bottom lip and feel it.

You feel its body crush into nothing, its microscopic organs and bulging eyes turning into nothing but disgusting liquid smearing itself onto your skin. Within you, there’s this urge that overtakes everything else. You sit up, your joints jolting from the days of inactivity, and bring your palm to your lips to lick at the fly’s remains. 

The taste makes your eyes water, and you stumble around wildly, falling off your bed and knocking your knees onto the floor with a violent thud. Your nails rake across the floor as you rush to get onto your feet. The bathroom door practically bursts open as you dry heave into your sink. 

The cold water brings your senses back to you, crashing onto you so wildly it’s as though a rogue wave had slammed down and brought you to the depths. You clutch at your stomach, groaning as you brace your forehead on the rim of the porcelain sink. Pain shoots down your spine, rendering your legs useless as you desperately try to keep yourself upright. You feel it run down your leg, that warm crimson that you despise. 

You bring yourself to the shower, smacking your palm against the frosted sliding doors and twisting the handle of the shower. Ice cold water sprayed against you, and you’re reminded of that night with Will. 

That basement, bathed in the dim lights of dancing flames. Rose above you, smiling knowingly as she brought the ladle of water above your head. It was cold water, the pot dark and endless, with only flower petals floating within it, but even that did little to lighten your anxieties. 

She had told you that these nightmares could be a spirit trying to contact you, something you struggled not to scoff at. When Will asked what was there to do, Rose simply suggested that you communicate back — which made you scoff in her face. 

You shudder, hissing through your teeth as you try to stand and fix the temperature. Desperately trying to fix this bleak situation. 

How many days has it been since that night? You scramble your brain to find the answer, but your memory is fuzzy. The water warms and you reach to peel away your shirt, furrowing your brows when you take notice of the design at the front. It was the shirt you’d worn that same night. Stained and yellowing, and as you squint in the darkness you notice an odd maroon gathered near the ends. You bring it up closer, using the lights from the door to somehow bring more clarity to your vision.

It was dried blood. The warm water wasn’t helping much in washing it out but all you could stand to do was just stare at it in utter confusion. That night, that distorted night. You glance at your legs, noticing the scrapes on your knees and dirt between your toes and more glaringly was the lack of pants. 

You try to gather as much intel as you can after your shower and thorough teeth brushing. You walk to your living room and the smell of the rotting food hits you in an instant. That would explain the fly that had found itself in your bedroom, you thought bitterly to yourself. You grimace at the sight of your trash can but don't dare get close to it, not without opening a few windows first. 

There was someone on your couch. It makes you freeze in place, breath catching in your throat as you see it. It was a constantly moving shape; those fluttering wings and millions of bulging red eyes swarmed together in the shape of something humanoid. It was sitting on your couch, hunched over as it took bites off food from polyester packaging. 

You feel the hairs on the back of your neck straightening up. The noises it made as it gorged itself on the moldy leftovers made you cover your mouth. It stops eating, but the sounds don’t stop. It turns its neck in your direction, and you see it perk up. 

“You.”

Something about its voice was wrong. It was human but too strange, too warbled, too odd. But you can sense the excitement in it; the genuine glee. 

“You can see us.”

It stands. Or floats. But it’s taller than you expect it to be. That dark body, a constant hive of movement, a flurry of noise and more eyes than you could count — it walks towards you. Blocking what little light was trying to peek through the curtains of your living room. 

“You can see us!” it says again, and you swear you see it smile. Tight, rotting, flesh revealing itself through the mob of bugs. Rotten teeth, blackened and chipped with mouldy strips of too-wet meat and fungus-riddled noodles between it greet you with delight. The stench makes you lightheaded, and your entire body screams at you to run but your body is frozen. 

“It’s been so long since one of you can see.” It reaches out to touch you. 

The buzzing is growing louder, deafening you as it eclipses your sight with nothing but itself. The corpse the flies are holding up, that they’re feeding on, is emaciated but unnaturally stretched out. Its jaw unhinges, and you find yourself pressed back against your fridge. 

“You smell so good,” it groans. A few of its bugs spray and land on you, and you whimper, trying hard to breathe, but the scent of decay is too heavy. The rotting food, the underlying sweetness of decaying human flesh.

“You smell so sweet.”

A bony hand lands beside your head. The exposed muscle and flesh reveal maggots nesting within its bones. You squeeze your eyes shut when you feel it breathing on your neck, its viscous saliva dripping onto your neck as it huffs and puffs. 

“So, so, sweet.”

You feel the brush of jagged teeth, and just as fast as it was there, it was gone. 

The oppressiveness and heaviness that cornered you lifted, as if it was never there in the first place and with nothing else pinning you to the fridge, you slid down, and your legs sprawled out onto the floor. You’re going insane, of this you’re convinced. Seeing these things, every detail so vivid, the scent of it was still stuck onto you like a film of second skin. You whimper, digging the heels of your hands to your eyes as you try your best to breathe. Tears manage to roll down your warm face as you drag your legs up to curl over in on yourself. The hairs on your arms are still stiff- your body slowly heating up as you feel a pulsing pounding furiously in the back of your mind. 

“I’m okay,” you whisper to yourself. “I’m okay, I’m okay. E - everything is fine, I just need…I just…”

You take a deep breath, lifting your head as you try to look around the room through the slits of your fingers. Nothing was lingering. No black mass, no rotting teeth, no maggots crawling through open infected wounds — just a messy, dim apartment. 

You sob, shakily grabbing onto the counter and standing up as you look around the apartment again. 

“Shit, I’m losing it.”

You wait for your legs to find the strength before your journey to the windows. Frigid air slaps you in your face, but you welcome it. Even when the tears begin to sting from the cold, you simply slide the window open further. The smell needed to go away as fast as you could make it. The sourness and rot that was beginning to stick onto your furniture. You clench your fists, then grab the garbage bag, shoving every little piece of food into it. The fridge rocks in its spot when you rip the door open, frantic in your search for any trace of rot. 

It needed to all be gone. You needed things to be clean and bright again. These gaps in your memory seemed abnormal but in the grand scheme of things — what the fuck was that thing? —you found it hard to focus on. 

There are noises outside, signs of life in the form of footsteps and chatter, which comforts you; knowing you weren’t truly alone made your shoulders draw downwards. Your apartment began to get colder with the windows thrown wide open, but at least the smell is gone. 

You carefully slip yourself out your front door, shifting yourr eyes from side to side ass you make your way to the trash chute. After this, you’d need to clean your fridge and possibly burn down that couch and make it look like an accident. Then you can call Will.

Will. 

You pat the sides of your sweatpants, clicking your tongue when there is nothing but lint sticking to your palms. You were going to hunt him down and hound him with questions. With how high-strung you were, there was an itch to tiptoe the lines of what one would consider torture to get all the answers you needed. A low ache pulsed in your middle, and you braced yourself at the entryway of your apartment, groaning lowly. 

You manage to get back to your bedroom. Flinging your stained sheets away, pillows and whatever else tumbling onto the floors until you find your phone just on the verge of dying. Your screen lights up once you’ve plugged it in and the notifications flood in faster than you can keep up. Missed calls, messages, and emails — from friends, your landlord, and teachers alike. You piece together that you’d been MIA for close to two weeks but nothing more than that.

Until you spot Will’s name in your messages.

[ WILL: Dude, what did I tell youuuuu ]

[ WILL: She’s great, right? I told you there was some freaky shit making you have those nightmares ]

[ WILL: Text me when you wake up, yeah? You were practically falling over trying to get to your apartment, bro. Gonna be waiting for my thank you tomorrowwwww ]

The next messages were him asking where you were and if you were purposefully missing classes. A few gifs of an annoyed cat thumping its tail, him spamming you and telling you he covered for you until his tone shifted.

[ WILL: Are you alive??? ]

[ WILL: Dude, I’ve been having the weirdest dreams. Can we talk??? I asked your neighbours, and they said they haven’t seen you, but they saw someone take your takeout ]

[ WILL: Dude. I’m serious. We NEED to meet. I think something is happening. I haven’t been able to sleep; I keep waking up and ]

He sends you a series of photos of the window in his room. It was so dark, you could barely make out where his furniture was but he keeps sending them, again and again. Each photo, new and each text accompanying it asks you a simple question. 

[ WILL: Do you see it? ]

You don’t have a clue what he’s talking about, but the longer you stare and search for it in these night photos your stomach twists. Some of them are of his windows, some are his door, some his closet and some, horrifyingly enough just the ceiling above his bed. 

There was nothing there. Despite his insistence. 

[ WILL: I just keep it in my dreams in my room ]

[ WILL: Rose won’t answer my calls or texts i think something happened to her ]

[ WILL: DUDE WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU ]

Your thumb hovers over the call button near Will’s name and takes a breath before pressing it. The monotonous rings seemed to echo through your silent house as you sat on your bare mattress, the wind whistling eerily into your ear, and the longer this goes on, the more your hopes wane. But then, someone picks up.

”Will?” You strain your ears to hear a breath, a sigh — hell, you’d even settle for an atrocious burp melting your ears- but there is nothing but static silence. 

“Quit fucking around, Will. You’ve been spamming my phone, and now you won’t talk to me?”

You purse your lips together, rubbing your elbows as you glance out the windows. The sky was beginning to darken and you made haste in shutting the windows and drawing the curtains shut, balancing your phone between your cheek and shoulder. 

“Will! Are you fucking with me? I —- I don’t know what I’ve been doing these past few days. I saw this thing in my living room and — what - what do you mean my neighbours saw someone taking my takeout?” 

You’re rambling now, turning on the big lights in your home as you and the sun compete on who’d be quicker; would you be able to keep the darkness out, or would it still somehow slip inside? 

“Will, fucking answer me!” You shouldn’t shout — according to your landlord, your neighbours were already pretty annoyed with the putrid smell emitting from your apartment as is. But how could you be expected to stay calm or quiet in this situation? You were still glancing over your shoulders, every little movement from the corner of your eyes or the aftertaste of an awful scent you can’t put your finger on keeps fuccking with you more and more. 

And now the only person who could answer your questions was keeping quiet on the other line. He was known to joke around, but this was not the time. You pinch the bridge of your nose, irritation causing your hands to begin to tremble — that and the lack of food you’ve had all day. 

The phone call ends with a click and you rear back to stare at your screen in disbelief. He’d hung up on you. The motherfucker hung up on you. You’ve half a mind to yell into the empty apartment until he sends you a text.

[ WILL sent you his location ]

It’s better than nothing. Maybe he was in trouble, too? Disoriented from his bout of extremely vivid hallucinations- what other choice did you have? 

If you wanted answers, Will was the only person who could provide them. You glanced at the time, shuddering for some reason as you’re reminded of just how dark the night could be. It never frightened you before, but Will’s frantic messages and photos coupled with everything else —-

You shook your head resolutely. No. You can’t let yourself be scared, it was probably just something that lady put in her candle wax that made the both of you high. Will didn’t knock out because he grew immune to it — yeah, that made much more sense than acknowledging the existence of ghosts and ghouls. 

So you swallow down these childish fears and dress into something warm before setting off. You don’t bump into a lot of people, which was the good thing about nighttime time you suppose, but it’s eerie seeing the long empty hallways and sidewalks. You tell yourself the shapes out of the corner of your eyes are just an empty plastic bag tumbling through or shadows warbling from the flickering street lights- anything but whatever you think you’re seeing. You keep your gaze focused on Will’s pinned location. 

When you hear a gaggle of students approach, you pull your hood further up, not wanting them to see your pale lips or the bags under your eyes. Their perfumes made you glance over your shoulder, nose twitching as the scent of jasmine flooded your senses. But you quickly focus on your mission. 

The further you went, the more you realised where you were heading, and you froze on the sidewalk as you stared up at the fraternity house. Further back, in their backyard of sorts, were the woods where a happy scattered group of people were practically skipping into. You could hear the sounds of a party, nothing too major but loud enough to have your headache return at the thought of it. A bonfire party — of all places to ‘talk about it’ he wanted it to be among drunk jocks where the smell of beer, piss, damp earth and dead leaves, and smoke would cling to your clothes. 

“You’re so dead, Will.” You said through gritted teeth. 

 Oddly enough, the anger numbs out everything, but the fear of embarrassing yourself completely shuts down the fear that’s been breathing down your neck. You follow the sound of laughter and the scent of beer and perfume when a hand taps on your shoulder. You spin around in alarm, nearly toppling over a tree root and falling backwards until he grabs at your elbow and coat. 

You gasp, head tossed backwards and reeling at the upside-down view of the forest until he slowly rights you onto your feet. 

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to frighten you.” His voice was soft, just like his eyes were. He smiles at you, pulling his hands away and politely folding it behind himself as he inclines his head at you — bowing his head in a greeting. You blink, taking in his appearance as you try to gather your thoughts. 

He wore a high-collar shirt, though the collar was unlike the common button-up shirts you’ve seen before. It looked stiff and proper, and there were a few buttons that stopped just in the middle of his chest. His hair was long, very long. It swayed behind him as he tilted his head at you, the little half-up ponytail he had moving along with the motion as well. 

“Uh, yeah, it’s fine.” You shift under his gaze. He had the darkest shade of brown you’d ever seen — nearly pitch black as he refused to tear them away from you. “Are you looking for someone?” He asks you, taking one step closer. 

“No,” you bring your hands to yourself, hugging your elbows as the party behind you roars in excitement. “I’m here for the party,” you lie, and you’re not entirely sure why, but something about the way he’s tilting his head makes your insides squirm. You move your hand lower, brows twinging in pain as your stomach cramps once again. 

“You’re hurt?” he takes another step, and you take another back. It was like an odd dance, and you see a gleam in his eyes. “Are you going to the party too?” You turn away from him, walking towards the glow of the bonfire, and he quietly follows behind you. 

“You know someone from here?” 

“Mm, no.”

”Were you invited?”

”No. I was taking a walk to clear my head, it was nice. The world is so quiet and serene. It’s romantic.”

You give him a half-grin, focusing back on your phone. Now that you were close enough, it was entirely up to you to find him. The hubbub steadily grows, and both of you find yourselves peeking into the party from the perimeters, still hidden by the trees while you watch the crowd dance and drink. You scan through the bodies, squinting through the flashing fairy lights and the constantly shifting flames of the bonfire. 

“Do you know someone from here?” His soft voice inquires, nearly singing into your ear as he gets close enough to look down at your phone. You turn it to your chest, furrowing your brows as you hiss at him, “Dude, who the hell are you?”

He frowns, blinking rapidly as his brows slope into a pathetic expression. 

“You don’t - you don’t remember me?”

”Remember you? I don’t even know you!” You scowl at him, pulling away harshly as you stomp into the crowd. 

“You called me.” his voice is still lingering so close. It’s as if he was just hovering close to you, so you send a glare to him, but you don’t see him. He’s still watching you from the tree line, that frown so evident on his face as he watches you. His arms now resting onto the bark, nails digging into the tree, and for a moment, you swear you see his eyes widening further and further — the whites of it making his skin turn paler as he slinks behind the tree, his hair turning ink black.

You can’t take your eyes off of him out of fear that he’d move if you did.

”You called me. You can’t run away from me. How is that fair?”

You flinch, reaching up to cover your ears. He wasn’t yelling at you; his mouth was barely moving, but his voice was all around you. He’s growing taller, his nails now fully digging into the tree as the bags under his eyes get darker. It was strange watching someone go from human to something else entirely; his skin stretched and stretched as he began to tower over everyone else.

But no one else seemed to see him. They’re looking at you, concern painted across their faces as they try to approach you, acting like you’re some strange wounded animal when there was something right there. 

“You called for me.”

”Are you okay?” 

You flinch away from someone’s touch, eyes wild as you take in the crowd. Why were they looking at you like you were crazy? 

“Whoah, chill!”

”Do you not see him?” You point towards him, but to your horror, he is no longer there. You stutter, the air around you getting thin. The girl purses her lips, elbowing her boyfriend as he makes a crude comment about you smoking something and calmly trying to get you to pay attention to her.

”Hey, you’re in my class with Mr Pimento, right? Uh, you’re friends with Will, yeah?” 

You nod shakily, breathing through your nose as your hands start shaking.

”Why are you talking to her so nicely?” he hisses into your ear. You turn around, swatting near your ears as you whisper if she could hear him, but she simply raises her hand and gives you a series of condescending ‘hey, it's okay’s’

She places a hand on your arm, and you hear him laugh; you can hear the smile on his face from the way his voice lifts. 

“You don’t flinch away from her touch, adinda? Do I need to make her disappear, too?”

”I think we should call someone,” she murmured to her boyfriend. “No way, babe. He’s just having a bad trip. Listen, buddy,” he slings his arm around you and the next laugh that comes raises in pitch. You try to squirm away, but he simply holds you closer. 

“Jeff,” his girlfriend warns. “He’s having a hard time breathing. let him go.”

”No, babe, listen. This guy just needs to chug!” 

That was the last thing you needed. You can’t find the words, still struggling to breathe as you press your hands to his side and try to rip away as that laughter continues to echo in your skull. He lugs you towards his friends, the cooler box of beer splashing against your feet, making flashes of memory run through you.

That dark basement again with Rose over you, ladling the water over your head as she chanted. Will was waiting behind her, watching you with his phone in his lap, poised in a way that meant he was recording. Flower petals ran down your body, the cold water smelling like jasmine and screwpine, a hint of staleness coating your lips despite the fragrance. 

You whimper, now digging your heels into the dirt. 

“Jeff! I’m serious!”

”Do you want me to kill them?”

”Relax! He’s fine! He just needs something to help him tide over that high. What did you take, buddy, huh? It’s got you really fucked up, huh?”

“I can do it. For you. I’d do anything for you.”

”Babe, he can barely breathe!”

”Relax!”

”Adinda.”

You wheeze weakly, raising your head to look up at the tree tops, where you spot him. Dressed in white while his hair framed his face, those soft eyes peering down at you so sweetly as he poised himself into a crouch. He was waiting for you to say it — say that you needed him. 

How cruel. He could see how panicked you were, how you were squirming in Jeff’s hold as he took the chance to clutch at your chin and keep your head tossed back. One of his buddies pops open a beer can and you kick your feet out weakly, still trying your best to breathe. Suddenly, his laughter was being missed compared to theirs. Jeff’s girlfriend shoves him, trying to tug you away, but she’s outnumbered. 

The beer splashes onto your face and your lips; you gag as it splatters towards your nose, but they’re relentless. They chant, Jeff bouncing you in his hold as they pour beer down your throat. Another person tilts their phone your way, laughing as they records you.

”Let’s go! Chug! Chug! Chug!” 

“Adinda.” 

He needs you to need him. Isn’t that clear for you? 

So say it. 

Say you need him.

Call out for him.

“Please,” you choke out, desperately trying not to throw up as you’re lifted again. Everyone’s touching you, tugging and lifting and forcing your jaw open as cheap beer is forced down your throat, splattering onto your face and making your eyes water. 

“Please.”

He grins down at you, now fully crouched as he falls forward. It’s oddly relieving to hear everyone scream when he lands onto Jeff’s girlfriend, the bonfire shuddering as a chill went through the clearing. He had her hands on her throat, his claws digging into her flesh as he pinned her down. 

“Betina tak guna,” he snarls. Jeff releases you, sending you crashing onto your hands and knees. He yells, rushing towards him, but a sickening snap resounds through the crowd. She wheezes, her breath rattling as it escapes her broken and bruised throat. His dark eyes show through the curtains of hair; he slowly stands up from her body and moves his leg forward in a graceful arc ahead of him, the dirt crunching underneath him as he moves around Jeff. Letting him see the state of her as he almost dances around him. 

“Holy shit.”

“Is Alex…?”

“No way, she’s, she’s not - “

You cough, wiping away the beer and spit from your mouth as you gather your senses. When you lift your head, you see Alex’s head cradled in her boyfriend’s lap; as he shakes her body, her head moves unnaturally — no longer tethered to her spine as she stares directly at you, eyes wide in shock as tears travel down her forehead. 

His hair shields you from the sight as he crouches in front of you, smiling so widely you can see the insides of his cheeks, every molar and fang being revealed to you while he takes in the details of your face. 

“Adinda.”

Your pupils jitter, he simply leans in further and further in until his forehead is against yours. He breathes you in, his eyes unblinking as he cradles your cheek in his palm and brushes his teeth against your lips. 

“See how much I can do for you if you simply ask? I’ve been waiting for you for so long, sayangku.”

Jeff yells behind him, still trying to somehow revive Alex by shaking her around. 

“You called for me that night. You woke me up from my sleep. Did you feel me calling for you, too?”

He’s torn away from you, Jeff rearing his fist back to punch him in the face so he simply open his mouth and Jeff realizes too late that he’s made an awful mistake by the time his jaw unhinges. It stretches so much the bonfire’s light brightens up his cheeks, making it glow so warmly despite his paleness. When his jaw snaps, it takes off Jeff’s hand by his wrist; the tearing of flesh and crunch of joints and bones shredding through the screams of terror. Blood paint across the earth and tree ,and you’re frozen in place just watching him.

Watching as he dances through the crowd of terrified people. Tearing them apart with his strength, ripping their throats off as he shrieks in laughter. Swallowing their blood as he paints his white outfit in red, he leaps into the air to pin them down — crushing their ribcages on impact and squealing as they choke on their blood. 

It’s a massacre under the moonlight. Blood sizzling when it lands on the burning wood and your head pulses as another memory rips through you. You can’t piece it together, only getting glimpses of pattern lace and a name.

Putra.

His name. His painted lips and decorated ears, how sweet his eyes were back then when he’d comb through your hair. 

“Adinda,” he’d call you. Nuzzling into your neck in the darkness of the woods, even though the both of you shouldn’t be doing this – shouldn’t be feeling this for one another when your husbands waited for you back home. Times were different then, but you still felt the same. Being born as a woman, despite being a man in every other way. He was the same. 

You gave him that name. 

It’s quiet when he’s done. The only noise being the crackling fire. 

Putra sings as he makes his way towards you, gently gathering you in his bloody arms.

“Let’s go home, adinda. All this blood, it’ll attract others. Yours especially,” he noses the top of your head and presses a kiss there.

“Your blood is just mine.”

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

oh my god, someone hold me please this was so sweet and soft and good aURGHHHHHH IM SQUEALING

HOME IS WHERE YOU ARE

pairing jason todd x gender neutral reader

the blood on his gloves isn't yours. the ache in his chest is. it's been there since the first time you kissed him - this relentless, terrifying need that claws at his ribs whenever he's away from you.

the city sprawled beneath him like a living thing—glistening with rain-slick streets and fractured neon reflections, breathing in the way only gotham could. the air smelled like exhaust and distant rain, the kind of chill that seeped into bones no matter how many layers you wore. jason perched on the edge of a rooftop, one knee drawn up, his helmet resting beside him like a discarded thought. the wind tugged at his hair, sharp and insistent, but he barely felt it.

his fingers flexed against the concrete ledge, rough beneath his gloves. he should be moving. should be working. but his mind was elsewhere, tangled up in the warmth of your sheets, the quiet hum of your voice, the way your breath hitched when he kissed that spot just below your ear—

god.

all he could think about was you.

the way your voice softened when you said his name, syllables curling around it like a secret. the way your hands always found his, fingers slotting together like they were made to fit, like you were afraid he’d vanish if you didn’t keep him anchored. the way you smiled at him—soft, fond, like he was something good, something whole, even when he knew the truth of what he was.

he exhaled, slow, watching his breath fog in the cold air.

he missed you.

it was stupid. ridiculous. he’d seen you barely a handful of hours ago, before he’d dragged himself out into the gotham night. you’d kissed him slow, lazy, like time itself had unraveled just for the two of you—like he was something worth savoring. (and you, stubborn as ever, would argue that time spent on him wasn’t wasted, not ever. "time with you," you’d say, voice all soft and sure, "is the only time that matters.") your hands had lingered on his chest, thumbs tracing the edge of his kevlar like you were memorizing the shape of him, and for one reckless, dizzying moment, he’d almost said fuck it and stayed. almost let the city burn if it meant another hour tangled in your sheets, in your warmth, in you.

and now here he was, heart aching like some lovesick idiot, like he hadn’t spent half his life pretending he didn’t need anything at all.

a shout echoed from the alley below, sharp and panicked. the sound snapped him back into his body, into the night, into the work waiting for him.

right.

work to do.

(´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

blood bloomed across his knuckles, dark and slick, painting the cracked leather of his gloves. the sharp snap of bone beneath his fists echoed in his ears, followed by a choked-off scream that dissolved into whimpers. the air was thick with it—the copper sting of blood, the acrid sweat of fear, the gunpowder clinging to his jacket like a second skin. this was easy. this was simple. this was the language he spoke fluently, the only one that ever made sense in the jagged edges of his world.

but then—

silence.

just for a breath. just long enough for his mind to turn traitor.

how could you love him? how could you look at him—really look—and not flinch away? he was a patchwork of scars and fury, all sharp edges and half-healed wounds, a weapon honed by pain and rage. he knew what he was. knew the weight of the blood on his hands, the ghosts that clung to his shadow.

and yet—

you touched him like he was something precious. like he wasn’t already ruined. your fingers traced the scars on his skin like they were something to cherish, your voice soft and steady even when he was anything but. you held him like he was fragile, like he’d break if you held him too tight, and that was the cruelest joke of all—because he was already broken, and you were the only thing holding him together.

he didn’t deserve you.

he didn’t deserve the way your laughter warmed him from the inside out, didn’t deserve the way you sighed his name like it was a prayer, didn’t deserve the way you looked at him like he was something good.

but christ, he wanted to.

(´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

the bike roared beneath him as he carved through gotham's veins, tires eating up asphalt as streetlights bled into golden streaks in his periphery. his body ached with the familiar symphony of bruises and cracked ribs, his mind weighed down by the night's violence, but none of it mattered because all he could think was you, you, you—the phantom memory of your hands in his hair, your laughter ringing in his ears, the way your breath hitched when he kissed you like he was starving for it.

the apartment was dark when he finally stumbled through the door, save for the flickering blue glow of some late-night infomercial playing to an empty room. there you were, sprawled across the couch like some domestic daydream, tangled in that godawful batman blanket alfred had gifted you as a joke (the one jason pretended to despise but secretly adored because it meant you were warm, because it meant you were here).

he leaned against the doorframe, just watching. memorizing the way your chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, the way your lashes fluttered with some dream he'd never know, the way your fingers twitched like they were searching for him even in sleep.

then you stirred, blinking up at him with sleep-heavy eyes, and your lips curled into that soft, drowsy smile that never failed to unravel him stitch by stitch.

"hey, red hood," you murmured, voice rough with sleep but laced with amusement. "save any kittens from trees tonight?"

he huffed a laugh, already shrugging off his jacket. "nah, just a few assholes from getting their teeth kicked in. you know, the usual community service."

you grinned, shifting to make room for him. "gotham's lucky to have you."

"gotham's a pain in my ass," he grumbled, but he was already sinking onto the couch beside you, his body gravitating toward yours like it was the only thing that made sense.

his chest tightened when you reached for him, fingers brushing the fresh cut on his cheekbone with a tenderness that threatened to undo him completely.

"missed you," you whispered, like it was a secret.

he leaned into your touch, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing you in—laundry detergent and that stupidly expensive shampoo you loved and something so inherently you it made his ribs ache. "missed you more."

you laughed, quiet and warm and his, pulling him close until there was no space left between you.

home wasn't four walls or a roof or a city that never slept.

home was you.

always you.

1.1k words, short and sweet, all just about how jason misses you every time he's away from you for longer than five minutes. like. chronically. pathetically. scrap that, three minutes. okay, scrap that too, he'd miss you if you weren't in his sight after five heartbeats- (this man is a 6'2" weapon of mass destruction who folds like a lawn chair the second you smile at him. i respect it and i NEED IT.)

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

I’m losing my mIND THIS WAS SO GOOD

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

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

Pairing: Alternate!Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe that’s why you don’t hear him.

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

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

“Found you,” he whispers.

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

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

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

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

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

And then, there he is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mark?” you whisper again, voice trembling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you wonder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then stop!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I get it.”

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

Is he even Mark—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This isn’t the Mark you know and love.

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

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

Because you let him.

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

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

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

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

Yet—a curious thing happens in your brain.

You’re not afraid. You can’t be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your body betrays you.

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

It welcomes him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he dives.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And your mind blanks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s still not enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it hits you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“William never complains.”

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

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

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

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

“Mmmh, holy shit—yes!”)

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

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

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

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

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

“Mark—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your voice would crack, gaze dropping to the floor.

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

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

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

“You won’t even tell me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You should stop.

You should have never let it go this far.

But then—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then—your phone starts ringing again.

This time, Mark notices.

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

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

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

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

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

But he’s quicker.

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

A shudder rips through you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…Y/N?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That yeah—he’s here.

And yeah—he’s fucking you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

Then—suddenly—his hand wraps around your cock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because how dare you?

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

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

You know you’re wrong.

You know time is running out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, he never might.

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

Me, reading my fic drafts: Damn this is pretty good, when's the author gonna finish it?

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

❝ Yes, sir, no, sir, you’re not the boss of me! ❞

Sakura Haruka x ftm!reader | fluff, established relationship, one-shot | reader has had top surgery |  wc: 1.1K

warnings: minor mention of bullying, minor mention of classism

authors note:  The rare instance where the MDNI is not on the post whoah. Also this fic is more of a drabble I think, not much plot but regardless!!! (this is for you @minusormax <3)

Listening to ▸ safeword by Halsey, Flawless by The Neighbourhood Patreon | Discord 

Haruka wasn’t a big fan of your uniform. The way the neatly stitched emblem of your school crest gleamed, as though the yellow threads were woven with real gold, backdropped by the rich navy jacket across your shoulders coupled with the crisp white shirt underneath — everything about you irritated him. It was an instinct within him, or a reaction due to him being ostracised for his appearance, to keep you at arm's length away. Haruka would snap his teeth in retaliation if you drew in close, with your neatly styled hair and perfectly polished nails. 

The school you attended were filled with rich kids; there was an edge to their mocking that Haruka despised. It was this look in their eyes, this knowing expression, so sure of themselves as they looked down on others. 

Ants. Everyone else was ants to them, they saw this as a fact and that smug expression they wore made him grind his teeth in irritation. 

During his patrols, he’d scoffed inwardly at the sight of you walking past him. The dark leather school bag you held, the little keychains clattering together with every step you took. So carefree, weren’t you? 

He pushed on. You weren’t going to cause any trouble — that little grin across your face and skip in your step hardly made any alarm bells ring. 

He never expected to fall for you.

There was a gentle knock on their classroom door. The sound was so peculiar, that a few of them thought they were simply imagining the noise —  the students of Furin High School weren’t well known for their gentle greetings. Other than a few quieter students, even they usually came with their pack of rambunctious friends. Still, a few of the boys turned their heads at the sight of a different school uniform and a boy smiling politely at everyone’s way. 

Behind him, a gaggle of stunned heads had bobbed along. This causes him no distress or bashfulness. Instead, this beautiful stranger — with his neat school uniform that belonged to a private high school at the edge of their city — simply acts as though this was the most natural thing in the world. 

It goes quiet, conversations turning into murmurs while his eyes bounce from one face to another. He pauses and the clothed box he’s holding drops from his chest to his stomach as his brows sloped.

“Is Haruka here?” his voice sets everyone back to life. Instantly, they blink and turn to the other, wondering who Hakura is and why this angel wants to see him. 

“Uh, he went to a Class Prez meeting he should be — “ 

Haruka calls out your name from down the hall, his eyes widening as he fully registers that you’re here. That annoying uniform and that handsome face. Haruka’s shoulders go from tense to relaxed, Suo suppressing his urge to tease him. Even with his harsh personality, Haruka truly can’t help from being an open book when it comes to his affection for you.

His body softens up at the sight of you. 

Haruka catches himself, his wits returning to him in the flex of his neck as he walks towards you. In all honesty, he preferred you being here. Surrounded by other Buforin students, they’d keep you safe — even if he knew you were more than capable of handling your own.

“Haruka-kun!” 

Nirei was sure Haruka might make strawberries envy the shade of ripe red his ears turned. Suo and him share a knowing look, finding it hard to contain their sniggering. Their classmates press their faces to the hallway windows, some even peeking their heads out while the students by the stairs all whisper amongst themselves. 

“Why are you here?” Sakura says in that usual gruffness, though it is noticeably softer. 

“I made you a bento!”

A chorus of confused ‘’eh’s”  went around the room. Nirei covers his mouth with his hand, feigning shock as he glances at Suo who stares on with that usual subtle grin on his face. 

“Bento?!” one boy exclaims.

“Someone made you a bento!?” Hakura scowls at the yell.

“Are you two a thing or something!?” You blink innocently at the shock so clearly painted on everyone’s faces. 

“Are you ashamed of me?” Haruka’s neck nearly snaps from how quickly he turns his head to look at you, his eyes as wide as saucer plates. He tries to find the words, mouth gaping for a second. 

Without even answering you, he grabs at your elbow and drags you away. Despite the yells of protests and general rowdiness, he is steadfast in his quest.

“Haruka!” You grunt at his speed, struggling to not stumble over your own feet to attempt to keep up with him. He barrels through the crowd, going down the stairs so fast you’re pressing the lunchbox to ensure it wasn’t getting too rattled around. 

“Where are we going!?”

He skids to a stop, sliding open an unused faculty room, then gently rushing you in. You stare at Haruka’s heaving back for a second, lips pushed forward into a pout as you wait for him to collect his thoughts. 

“Ashamed?” He narrowed his eyes at you from his shoulder, turning his body to face you. His approach, though coupled with his scowl and glare, was not heavy-footed. It didn’t illicit any fear in you. He doesn’t crowd you or pin you to the desk, but as he crosses his arms, Haruka’s elbows lightly brush against your chest. 

“Do you seriously think I would be ashamed of you? What are talking about?”

“But you didn’t tell your classmates about us?”  Haruka’s fair skin warms into a shade of pink that quickly darkens to red. 

 “It’s — why do they need to know that? It’s not like you tell your classmates about me,” he huffs out. Flustered and bashful — like some shy schoolgirl with reactivity issues. 

Your eyes soften, sitting down on the edge of the table and cooing at him. 

“Of course, I tell my classmates about my tough boyfriend!” 

When Haruka returned to his classroom, his head felt so hot he was surprised smoke hadn’t emitted from the top of his head or out of his ears. He held the bento you made preciously to his chest. 

He swats everyone away, verbally and physically as the others try to peek into it. Keeping it away from watchful eyes all until lunchtime rolls around, when he successfully finds a place for some privacy he hangs his head and mutters your name while warmth spreads across his chest.

The bottom was blanketed by some crips lettuce, the green making everything else pop out from the cream wood. The soft rice was shaped into a familiar cute dog, though his little nose was made with a finely cut seaweed sheet, his eyes were mismatched; blue and yellow. His dog ears were also split in colour, matching Haruka, while he had little pink flowers acting as a blush under his dual-coloured eyes. 

There were sausages and star-shaped fluffy omelettes, little sauce boxes tucked away just for him. He shakily held the hand-written note that you wrote, the ends of his hair lifting as he smiled down at it. 

[ Eat well, Haruka-chan~! <3 ]

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

that werewolf fic was like crazy??? good crazy tho 🤭

I’m so glad you enjoyed it! 🥹♥︎ I had such a fun time writing for them, I can’t wait to do more fics with them~

I drew the pack, it’s a bit rough but grAH!!!

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

❝ Oh, I need to hold you close❞

yandere!werewolves x ftm!human!reader | NSFW, fluffy, VALENTINES SPECIAL | sub. bttm. reader | reader has had top surgery and bottom growth | NOT PROOFREAD | wc: 6.7k

warnings: monster fucking, knots, pack dynamics, scenting, territorial behaviour, d. penetration, anal sex, scarification, biting, brief mention of a piss kink (but in a joking way), unapologetically possessive, borderline manipulative (r! and the yanderes), mentions of breeding, unnatural amounts of cum, violence, mentions of animal death, body horror (werewolf transformations), AFAB terminology used (clit referred to as cock/dick)

authors note: Oh my god, I'm so sorry this was posted so late. I had an impromptu, volatile, family trip the week of Valentine's and it totally threw off the schedule but the pack is finally here!!! I hope you all love the boys as much as I do! ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و

Listening to ▸ One More Night by Chris Grey / Want You So Bad by The Vaccines / Cherry Coloured Funk by Cocteau Twins  Posted two-weeks earlier here ▸ [ Patreon ]

Ilya decides early on that you don’t need to work. Murmuring to your skin, you could just live like animals with him in a cabin somewhere. He’d plough the lands to make it fertile — his blunt words and sharp grin never failed to make you shove his face away at his obvious innuendos. It was a desire he had within him that you understand but wouldn’t humour.

As much as you hated this capitalist society — society, you mumbled to yourself in a mocking hiss — you enjoyed the little luxuries your job afforded you. It felt good making your own money, even if it came at the cost of dealing with the general public. 

After all, it would only take a few hours, and then you’d drive back to your home at the edge of the town to home, or he’d unceremoniously arrive in his truck, with Keaton waving cheerfully your way as he hopped down from the back. His gummy grin, with those fangs poking his lower lip, instantly tugged the corners of your lips up. The younger man wrapped his arms around your waist and lifted you in his usual greeting. 

“Keaton,” Your little groan made him laugh boisterously. He hitched you up higher, curling his arm under your ass with a victorious ‘whoop!’ that forces you to purse your lips together as a way to not encourage him further.

Ilya would watch with that smug canine-like grin from where he was sitting, draping an elbow out the window and calling out for you with his voice dripping with confidence. 

“My coworkers are starting to think you guys are recruiting me into a woodland cult, you know that right?” You said with a pointed tone, one brow raised to prove your point.

Keaton bounces you, which makes you yelp. Wrapping your arms around his fluffy head of hair also makes him yelp. Ilya simply chuckles at the humorous sight. Even with supernatural strength, Keaton was chronically clumsy. 

“We make a pretty shit cult!” Ilya tilts his head down as he yells, his dark shades sliding down his nose bridge slightly while your nosy coworkers either turn their gazes away from the parking lot or hurry to their car. Small town, it couldn’t be helped. Most of their entertainment comes from hot gossip and your queer relationship with four men was irrevocably the hottest gossip they’ve ever had the pleasure of witnessing. 

“Ilya!” You scold whilst still trying to crunch your stomach, Keaton balancing you on his shoulder. “You’re an ass, I’m gonna have to talk to them tomorrow!”

Keaton finally places you on the hood of the truck, hiding his sigh of relief as he boxes you in with his hands. His puffy monolids earn him a concerned stroke over those pretty brown eyes from you. “You didn’t come home last night, you didn’t get into too much trouble, right?”

Keaton was the youngest in your pack, polycule, the menagerie of men that had found themselves attached to you. He worked hard to prove himself worthy to you and others even though he didn’t need to. 

He grins coyly, nuzzling his nose into your palm sweetly to reassure you. “Nothing your boy couldn’t handle, sweetheart,” You crinkle your nose at his flirtatious tone, that damn English accent of his never failing to make heat rush to your face. It wasn’t fair that he knew this fact. 

What with him being a werewolf and all — 

“His ass is hot enough as it is, Keaton. Let’s not burn it on the hood.” 

Ilya brushes the long framing pieces of his pale gold hair back, a pinkish, healed, scar that ran down his right eye peeking out from the top and bottom of his shades. Your thumb brushes over Keaton’s right jaw, how the scar dips into his cheeks a bit. Matching scars. Sweet, wasn’t it? 

You succumb to Keaton’s manhandling as he picks you up and places you on the passenger side, squeezing you between himself and Ilya. 

“Harley’s making dinner,” Keaton informs as he rolls down the windows. You lean back, kneading into your neck. “What’s the occasion?”

Ilya gasps dramatically, pushing his glasses up to rest them on his head. He turns his head, ignoring the road ahead. “You forgot what today is? Of all days?”

Keeping up with four birthdays was a hassle, but you’re certain that today wasn't any of their birth anniversaries—as Keaton likes to call them—so you simply turn his scruffy chin forward while you think. 

“I’m heartbroken,” Ilya continues while Keaton chuckles softly. “We’ve prepared so much for you.”

“Was today a busy day?” Keaton asks, placing his elbow on the window ledge with a brow raised. “You didn’t notice the decorations?”

Both of them guffaw as you furrow your brows in thought. Today was rather busy and you found yourself focusing on tasks rather than the decorations. But you remembered the smell of bouquets and the little heart motifs scattered around and you gasped softly.

“I can’t believe you forgot about Valentine's Day,” Keaton laughs through his words. “You’d think that as a guy dating four other men…”

“Our sweetheart here is as cruel as he is beautiful, Keaton,” laments Ilya. The breeze flowing through now smelled of pine and wood the further you went. The trees now grew taller as the path continued to become more winding.  

“Hey, I was busy!” You huffed defensively, lightly squirming against Keaton’s hold when he wrapped his arms around your shoulders. “I’m sorry I’m not running around the woods naked, hunting venison. I provide for my four housewives with streaming services and wi-fi.”

Ilya laughs just as he breaks the monotonous drive with a smooth turn to a down path. The ride is bumpy but Keaton simply holds you close. Your home is an older house. Its skeleton is sturdy, with signs of care and improvement plastered here and there. The warm wood tones and stone gave it a much cosier feel, with Harley’s abundance of plants hanging down and planted in large pots. Ilya’s garage was detached off to the side, and messes were strewn about in controlled chaos that no one dared to disturb in case it disrupted Ilya’s flow. 

The newest addition to the side of the home was a sunroom for Harley and Pearl to make their own. Bags of dirt and freshly potted plants were in one corner while the other had a large table covered in paint and brushes. The gravel crunched under the weight of the truck and you spotted Harley’s blurry figure behind the patchwork frosted-and-stained glass windows as he made his way to the front door. When he smiles, the scar down his lip stretches, and you press a loving kiss over it just as you wrap your arms loosely around his shoulders. 

“Happy Valentine's Day, baby.” Your words instantly soften his eyes, gently squeezing you closer to his soft front as he presses a kiss on your forehead.

“That’s unfair!” Keaton gawks, coming to Harley’s side and only quieting down into a playful glare when he’s bestowed a loving kiss on his temple. “He forgot today’s Valentine’s Day until Ilya and I told him. You cheater,” You stick your tongue out at Keaton and he returns it whilst Ilya and Harley share a warm kiss.

The day’s exhaustion was slowly seeping out of you as your mates surrounded you, but you were still missing one more.“He’s been missing you, bad” Harley takes a soft tone and the worried scrunch of your brows makes him poke the little wrinkle which made you chuckle — Harley patted your backside as you slipped past him to make your way towards your precious Pearl.

You hear his desperate whines through the door of the den, calling out his name softly as you creak open the French doors. Pearl peeked his head out from the mess of duvets, scented clothes, and pillows. His hair messily flowing over his shoulder as he straightens up into a kneeling position, the padded chain on his ankles clinking as he attempts to inch closer to you. 

He appeared feverish but still wholly there. You offer a kind smile, kneeling and pressing a kiss to the scar across his nose — the length of which was the space between his eyes — and threading your fingers through his hair to massage at the base of his skull. His eyes flutter close, leaning onto you and sighing in contentment as he breathes you in.

“Keaton was yelling, ‘bout what?” Pearl whispers. You stifle a chuckle, focusing on working your fingers on him and easing him as much as you can. 

“I forgot about Valentine’s Day. He reminded me, so I wished Harley a Happy V-Day at the door and K called me a cheater.” You feel his lips stretch into a wide smile, his teeth lightly brushed against your jaw as he embraces you. 

“I think I’m just an opportunistic hunter, not a cheater,” Pearl hums his agreement as he noses at your neck. You close your eyes, working your touch to his face to brush over the raised scar — the action makes him shiver but he doesn’t ask you to stop. 

“Your rut’s comin’ in hot, huh?”

“Harley’s been helping, but I just really missed you today.”

It was romantic that Pearl’s rut was coming on today of all days, which made it a bit more special. Not that any of you needed to be convinced to help the other out in their time of need, in more ways than just sexual, but you suppose you understand why they — Ilya and Keaton — were being whiny about your forgetfulness. 

Ilya makes his presence known with his deliberate footsteps, waiting for Pearl’s tense shoulders to lower before he makes his way inside. Pearl greets him with a crackly rumble of his throat that Ilya returns. 

“Harley’s made dinner. Let’s wash up, mh?”

You can’t help the rush of excitement that washes over your body at Ilya’s purr and neither can Pearl. He stands up, the thick blanket over his shoulder the only thing keeping his bits away from view. Ilya’s the tallest in your pack, towering over most people and intimidating them with his sharp grin and gleaming blue eyes — it doesn’t help that he’s pretty well-built. Wolf shifters, werewolves, lycans — whatever you wish to call them — built muscles better than the average human and Ilya was a fine example of such.

Pearl intimidated others with his height as well. Despite his thinner frame and long hair, his height and the scar across his pretty face could be a terrifying combo to others when he’s looming over your shoulder with his green eyes darkened. Ilya finds Pearl adorable despite his tendency to make people piss in their pants from his wide-eyed glare though. Joking it was the reason he fell for him when he met the two of you for the first time.

The blonde wrapped his arms around the feverish Pearl and motioned for you to follow them to the bathroom. You reminisce about how all of you came to be. 

Pearl had been your childhood friend. He’d always been the quiet kid, preferring to keep to himself and despising when the classroom got too loud or noisy. You felt protective of him then and he adored you for doing so — he never mentioned how tough his home life was when you were little, and his supernatural healing never left much scars anyway, but having you share your toys with him or quietly sitting next to him during recess was always a soothing balm to the abuse that awaited him behind closed door.

He’d been so protective of you. In his own way. Quietly watching your window at night, his ears pointed forward in alert at every little noise that came from your room. Memorizing the smell of your clothes, your unique scent, the soap you used, the shampoo, the cologne — but nothing compared to seeing you laugh. The crinkle in your nose, the smile lines on your cheeks, seeing your gums and your lips spread open while you throw your head back. Pearl swears nothing compared to that. 

So when Ilya came to your town, with his bike and blonde buzzcut and annoyingly seductive accent, Pearl felt his hackles rise. Humans had an instinct, something inside them that sent prickles of goose flesh across their skin when they met eyes with people like Pearl. From the dark ages maybe. A survival trait they kept within their DNA, generations of terror woven into their bloodlines.

Ilya wasn’t a human and that frustrated Pearl. Because suddenly, he couldn’t use his intimidation tactics anymore. Ilya and him were on the same level and Pearl couldn’t sleep for nights as he insisted on sleepovers at yours, making a weepy story about his father drinking again.

It didn’t annoy Ilya to smell Pearl’s scent all over you. That cool confidence he had when he’d land his shoulder on your locker and smile down at you made Pearl leave claw marks on his textbooks, his claws puncturing through the thick cover when Ilya made eye contact with him from across the hall.

In truth, Pearl wasn’t the only one feeling troubled with Ilya’s presence. You did as well. Feeling some odd guilt when Ilya convinces you to stay in his garage for longer, or being under his arm and getting flustered when you were sure you’d been forming a crush on Pearl. 

Ilya on the other hand? 

He was loving every second. Your conflicted expressions. The ‘will he or will he not’s?’ moments between you made him feel giddy. You seemed so guilt-ridden as if he was a guilty pleasure.

And Pearl’s frustration and anger? It was like an aphrodisiac. Finding a pack after moving away from his previous one with just his mother and little sister was tough — Pearl’s family weren’t exactly tolerant to those with, as they had put it, fucked up accents. It was malicious at first, screwing with Pearl’s favourite little human, but then…

Pinning him down, chunks of dirt flew up into the air as they wrestled and bit at each other. Bits of fur and spit flying around, blood painting the ground, their breaths puffing up into the cold air that night. Pearl’s dark coat shone with crimson, his claws slashing down at Ilya’s cheek and splitting his skin apart — god, it was so hot seeing him so angry.

Pearl escaped beneath him, panting as he watched him shed his skin to his human one. Naked, bruised, battered, bleeding — licking the blood away from his lips as he openly eyed Pearl. 

The scar that ran down his right eye bleeding heavily just like the scar across Pearl’s nose.

Ilya had never considered himself as monogamous. His version of love was as wild as he was. He despised those who cheated though, and if his partner had been monogamous, he’d respected it and be content; though, as he helped Pearl and you in the shower, with Harley and Keaton setting up for dinner, he was right where he needed to be.

Ilya helps Pearl with washing his waist-length hair, admiring him and you as the water cascades down your bodies. When he presses close, Pearl lets out a snort at the feeling of Ilya’s hard-on to his ass.

“Am I the one in a rut or are you?” Ilya presses his tongue to Pearl’s neck, growling playfully as he presses closer. You laugh when shampoo lands on his tongue and the tall blonde wretches, hacking and tilting his tongue towards the shower to wash it off. 

Harley doesn’t ask what happens when he steps inside, simply ignoring Ilya choking on the water as he places some towels on the counter. You coo out your thanks between the giggles and he reaches in to place a kiss on your lips and Pearls as well. 

Harley and Keaton had come together in a package. Stumbling into your territory by complete accident during a full moon, meeting the wrath of a protective Pearl and Ilya because they’d been watching you soak in the moonlight naked as the day you were born. 

The scar on Harley’s lips and Keaton’s jaw — it healed just fine at first. Until they got closer to your pack and heard Ilya’s romantic retelling of their scars seemed to convince Keaton that he needed to reopen it. To mark himself with something to remind themselves of the first time they met all of you, Harley didn’t seem convinced at first until he had you sat on his lap with a wolf shifter’s claw in one hand, fashioned into a dagger. 

‘Who did that come from?” he asked. You smile at him, leaning in until he can feel your eyelashes brush along his temple. “Ilya broke it during your fight. I was so scared watching the both of you fight, the growling, the ripping.”

Harley gulped thickly, his heart racing as he remembered that first encounter. You place your hand over his chest, his senses were so heightened at that moment he swore he heard the friction of your palm against his curly chest hair. 

“I had the best sex of my life that night,” Harley squirms when you giggle into his ear. “Keaton said you fucked him through the mattress that night too.”

Being a human honestly didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. You had these men on your damn leash and that wasn’t some secret. It was truly all your doing — Pearl’s stalking, Ilya’s desire to have you stay at home with them, Harley’s constant doting, Keaton’s need to impress you.

In truth, despite your playful teases and chidings, you adored the love they showed you—even the more intense sides. 

Why would you change their nature? When you go into a den of wolves, did you expect them to not use their fangs and claws?

This was how love had always been. Pearl’s breath on your bare neck while you sleep. Ilya’s claws poke at the flesh of your waist when he notices eyes on you. Harley’s growl against your shoulder when he smells someone else on you. Keaton’s fangs threaten to pierce your thigh when he has your legs over his shoulder in an alleyway after someone was being ‘too nice’  to you.

Harley had prepared some spicy vodka pasta with some chicken, something that made Pearl sway excitedly in his seat as he took bite after bite. Idle chatter was shared, Keaton complaining about your forgetfulness and slyness while Ilya mentioned getting to repair some old man’s precious bike after warming up to him at the bar. 

“I was out all night to make sure no one crashes our party later,” Keaton admits with a proud smirk. You can imagine him and his grey coat, getting on his strong hind legs to smell the shifts in the air then going on all fours again — a streak of silver between the tall trees in the night. 

“That’s a cute way of saying you pissed marked our land,” Your teasing makes Harley and Pearl roll their eyes. Ilya laughs, covering his mouth while Keaton flares his nostrils at you in a huff. “You’re totally askin’ for it, aren’t ya’?”

“I’m just saying!” You chuckle as you raise your hands, “It’s cute!”

“It’s not supposed to be! I’m keeping intruders away, bears and all that!”

“Keaton, honey, can we not talk about your piss during dinner?” Pearly politely interjects. 

“Wha — why not!?”

Ilya purrs, swallowing his food to add more to the conversation until Harley disrupts his plans by shoving more pasta in his mouth. 

A night walk after dinner was the perfect way to begin your party. Your mates had gone ahead first, nuzzling your cheek sweetly as they shed their human skin. The sounds of their bones breaking and muscles tearing apart, the heat radiating from their rapid growth and change, made the night air much more bearable. The gore that was leftover stained your bare feet, but Ilya sweetly licked it away, pressing his nose to your stomach and pleading silently for your touch through his fur.

Your skin was like cool river water, soothing his too-hot skin as it slowly adjusted to the environment. Keaton bumps into him, impatient as his tail thumps into the ground and he presses his snout to your shoulder, towering over you as he uses his two hind paws legs to stand on. Harley’s large hands press to your waist, his claws carefully hovering as he nudges your palm to his snout. 

They were terrifying beasts of legend. Even on all fours, they were nearly as tall as horses, and when they stood up on their legs they easily dwarfed even the tallest man. Their claws could easily disembowel you and their fangs could puncture through your skull with no effort. Hell, if Keaton was careless enough, he could fracture your ribs just by thwacking his tail to your chest.

The stench of iron and heated flesh should scare you if the sight of their transformation didn’t, but you’d grown so desensitized to it. You admired the sight, the smell, the feeling of their strong muscles underneath your hand as they overwhelmed you with affection. 

Pearl approaches you from behind, his breath making your hair sway as his large tongue licks at your neck. You cradle his bottom jaw, feeling the blunt teeth he has with no fear despite knowing how easily he could just snap your fingers off. He whines, feeling you inspect his maw so casually — letting him taste you when he was already so pent up. 

Neither did that thin white shirt you have on. Whenever you moved, the ends of it swayed enticingly across the tops of your bare thighs and there was nothing more that he wanted to do than bury himself between them. 

You push his mouth away, detaching yourself from the four of them. Walking backwards, feeling their blood on the dirt, watching them watching you; how their eyes glowed in the dark when a cloud momentarily hid the moon away from such a frightening scene. They don’t move but every muscle seemed ready for a chase. 

You tease them by baring your teeth in that devilish grin, each step away from them coy and playful. You’re getting too far — Pearl takes a step forward and you freeze just as they all do. Harley’s low growl sends shivers down your spine, he licks at his teeth, taking a step as well which Ilya follows. 

It’s Keaton’s impatience that starts the chase. 

He takes one, then two, three and by the fourth you’ve turned around and began running. 

These woods, your woods, were familiar to you. You knew every nook and cranny, running in the dark didn’t scare you anymore. Even with four werewolves hunting you down. You could hear them, barking and howling as they rushed towards you. 

You use your size to your advantage. Ducking and weaving through the branches and trees. Ilya’s bulky size falters with every sharp turn and Harley’s not faring any better. The branches cut into your skin, further enticing them as you laugh breathlessly.

The light breaching from the treetops was swaying, something only Pearl often did when he’d jump from tree to tree to try and pin you down. He wasn’t usually so impatient but it was fine. He’d been waiting all day for this, his rut now fully overtaking him as he zeroed in on you. 

You break through the trees into a familiar clearing. A snarl rips through the pounding in your ears and you see them. Four monstrous wolves surrounded you, their tongues lolled out as they panted and panted. Breathing in your scent greedily while you watched them get closer and closer and closer.

Pearl’s large paw covers the entirety of your chest. The claw of his pointer finger poking your bottom lip, applying just enough pressure to make you suck in a breath. Their skin was rough, they had to be considering how they moved around under the moonlight — hunting to provide for you and protecting you from other supernaturals. 

It’s hard to kiss when they’re shifted. But you can tell he wants to. Those green eyes are so overcome with choices and needs as he takes in the sight of you. The breeze that flutters by makes you shiver, so Pearl grabs you by the waist to pull you in. 

“I want to tear you apart,” his voice is barely human. Every word was a snarl, but underlying is unmistakably your Pearl. You feel through his fur, suppressing your grin as you spot his tail beginning to sway from side to side. 

“Are you asking or telling me?” 

You’re on your back. The soft grass and undergrowth cushion you further as Pearl hovers above you, his size completely dwarfing the night sky. Hiding you away from the heavens, keeping you safe from whatever deity that watched on. No, they wouldn’t be able to see you — they didn’t deserve to see you like this. They weren’t Ilya, or Harley, or Keaton. The angels hadn’t proved their devotion to you, not like they had.

Harley approaches with his russet brown fur and gold eyes beckoning for your attention. Pearl pays him no mind as he focuses on your thin white shirt. He tears through it, further exposing your body to him. You gasp, feeling the raised welts he’d left stinging so he leans down to lick at it, keeping it warm from the cold night air. His tongue made you inhale sharply, warmth spreading throughout your entire body as he dragged it down your sternum to your navel and finally to his warm cunt. 

Harley watches Pearl, bringing your head to his stomach to lie on. You know he’s just being cautious — Pearl was in a rut; he could get impatient. You weren’t a werewolf with supernatural healing, if he was too rushed, he could hurt you. You send Harley a sheepish grin but your face quickly melts into pleasure as Pearl’s warm tongue slips inside of you. The visual would terrify anyone. This beast with his deadly mouth over your sex, his sharp claws digging into the plush of your thighs while his fangs hover too close. But this was pure heaven to you — this image might as well be painted onto chapel walls. 

You moan out his name, digging your shoulders involuntarily into Harley as he laps and fucks your hole. Your taste overtakes his muddled senses, just as your scent does. The moonlight on your bare skin with Harley keeping you comfortable and warm — his hard-on peaking through his sheath. Pearl can hear Keaton’s pants as he circles, the grey wolf keeping his head low as he waits for his turn.

While Ilya was simply watching on. He always did love to watch — kinky fuck. 

Pearl imagines Ilya laughing at his insult and how sweet your laughter would be when you join in, then Harley and Keaton. A symphony that Pearl still can’t believe he’s allowed to hear or participate in. 

You arch your back when he brushes his fangs on your cock, something he reprimands by digging his claws into your flesh. Your blood is an aphrodisiac that Keaton can’t resist. He draws close to your side, whining as he tries to lick it away. The sound Pearl’s jaw makes when he snaps at him makes you flinch, so Harley licks at your neck. His chest rumbles soothingly to keep you calm. 

“Keaton, wait,” Harley reminds. He whines again, laying his head on your chest. Pinning you down. It’s hard to do much in this form without risking an injury to you and Keaton’s not known for his patience so you call out to him, voice breaking as Pearl continues to pay close attention to your twitching and raising cock.

“I can suck you off, baby.” 

Keaton’s cock had fully come out of his sheath the second Pearl had laid you on the ground. It twitched against his stomach. The thick member gleaming with pre as he positions himself to your side. It’s a bit awkward considering this anatomy wasn’t meant to be kneeled like this, but he doesn’t complain — not when you press your pillowy lips to his leaking tip and look up at him so sweetly.

“You brat,” Harley chides though he doesn’t mean it. Keaton was the youngest, a fact he often used to his advantage to get his way. Keaton just focuses on you, his smug energy being felt even with no grin or smirk. 

Watching you take monster cock was a sight only for them. They imprint it into their memories. Your lips struggling to wrap around it, cheeks desperately sucked in as you breathe through your nose. That determined look in your eyes as you bob your head — you took in their human cocks like a champ, you weren’t going to let a little transformation stop you from doing the same when they’ve turned. 

Keaton ruts his hips, his tip hitting the back of your throat. You pull away with a lewd pwah sound, panting raggedly as Pearl brings you to your first orgasm of the night. You don’t even get to warn him before you moan out for him once again, ripping out a handful of grass from the dirt as you cum. 

Pearl pulls away, licking his mouth. But he wasn’t satisfied. His cock hung heavy between his legs, bright red and angry as he climbs back on top of you. He lets Keaton lick at the remnants of you on his snout while he nudges his tip against you. He ruts and ruts, grunting and growling as he feels you. 

You whine softly, keeping Keaton’s cock happy with your hand while you hungrily stare at his dick rubbing against your cunt. 

“Yuh - you said you were going to tear me apart,” you whimper out. “Ruin me already.”

“Fuck.”

His cock applies pressure, but your cunt won’t give in. It frustrates the both of you. You reach a hand down to spread yourself for him, whispering pleas for him to try again so he does. The tip of his dick presses in and the pressure makes you chew on your bottom lip. Harley’s chest rumbles again while Keaton teases at your chest with his large hands. Rubbing a bit of dirt onto you — tainting you further.

“Doing so good for us, yeah? Taking in Pearl’s thick fucking cock like a champ. Yeah, c’mon, we know you can do it,” Harley reminds you to breathe and finally Pearl’s tip pops inside, something that makes you squirm. He stills, despite his instincts yelling at him to keep pushing in — Pearl stills. He doesn’t want to hurt you, he can’t.

But when he looks down at you and sees your wet eyes and wetter cunt, he feels his self-restraint escaping him. Your body was at a cross between pushing him out or keeping him in, pulsing around the sensitive cockhead but you had made up your mind.

“Muh -More, more, fuck — more, please.”

So good for them. You were made for monster cocks. Made just for them to fuck, to use, to ruin, to tear apart.

Pearl snarls, gripping at your waist with both hands and pushes in. You groan deep in your throat, eyes rolling back as his dick splits you apart. His girth was making your head spin, the more he pushed in the emptier your brain got.

“Halfway in,” Keaton grumbles out, “C’mon baby, you got it.”

Pearl angles your hips, adjusting you as if you were some toy, then gives you a few shallow thrusts. It makes you squeal, dirt digging under your nails as sweat slides down your neck. 

“Breathe, sweetheart,” Ilya’s voice makes you whimper. The white wolf nips at Pearl’s arms, immediately making him loosen his bruising grip. “You’re pushing Pearl out. You want his cock, right?”

You nod, weak little ‘mhm’s’ coming from your chewed-up lips. 

“You don’t wanna be empty anymore, right?”

“No, never again. Want all of you inside, all of you.”

Harley chuckles at that while Keaton sympathizes with you, nudging his snout to your cheek sweetly. 

“Focus on taking his dick first, greedy little thing,” Ilya coos. 

Pearl slides more of himself in. Letting your body adjust and when he finally bottoms out, you’re convinced nothing could compare to this. This fullness, being this complete. Pearl strokes over the bulge in your stomach with his thumb, gently pressing down and laughing breathlessly when you mewl. 

“Fuh - fuck, you’re — I can only feel your cock.”

Pearl’s changing the shape of your insides. His cock pulsing desperately and then, warmth floods you. You shudder, squirming again in alarm while he’s trembling above you. You can feel his cum leak out of you while he can feel just how much warmer it makes you. 

You’re not disappointed at him cumming so fast, considering how his dick was still as stiff as a metal pole — 

He drags his cock out, and the obscene noise your boypussy makes earns a happy thump of Keaton’s tail against the ground. The emptiness you feel is short-lived, but you still manage to sob out that you need him inside again, to which he happily obliges. 

Pearl thrusts himself back in, his knot swollen as it continues to press against you. He adjusts his stance, pushing you further up Harley’s body as he fucks you. You’re at his mercy, body going limp as he continues. 

No, not just at his mercy. You can feel Harley’s cock against your shoulder, and Keaton’s on your chest. 

You can’t let them go unhappy. 

It was Valentine’s Day.

You’re on your hands and knees now. It was easier like this to use all parts of you. Your knees were spread, the crushed grass beneath you leaving indents of the blades of grass into your knees and palms. You can barely breathe with Harley’s cock inside of your mouth but with Keaton’s rough thrusts, you find yourself gagging and choking more than you’re sucking. 

“Keaton, slow down.” Harley chuckles. “He can barely keep himself on my dick.”

Keaton whines, shaking his head and pinning his ears back as he presses his hips to your ass. It made you cough, nearly falling onto your face if it weren’t for Harley catching you. 

“He feels so good,” Keaton’s accent got rougher the drunker he got. More growly as he struggles to actually speak. “Fuck, he’s so soft. So tight, shit Harls, there’s so much cum inside of him. It’s so fuckin’ gross.”

You should make an indignant retort, though you know Keaton’s just degrading you, but you’re too focused on cumming again. Keaton groans when your insides squeeze him, practically fluttering around him as you pulse and jerk until you finally manage to catch your breath. 

“Fuuuuck” Keaton hitches you back, grinding you onto his cock until he finally lets out a load inside of you. You moan, legs shaking as you feel globs of cum sliding down your thighs. 

“Yeah, take all of it, baby.” 

Harley straightens your position, letting you lean against Harley as he nudges his cock to your hole. 

“Think he’s loose enough?” Keaton shrugs a bit, giving you another roll of his hips which you can barely manage to tighten up at anymore. “Fuck yeah, he is.”

Ilya chuckles at Harley’s wagging tail. Sucking in a breath when Pearl bites into his shoulder, his cockhead once again pressing into that spot that makes Ilya’s entire body shudder. 

“Ilya,” Pearl snarls out, going as hard as he can without worrying about breaking any hip bones. Ilya takes him in with ease, grunting with each thrust while his dick leaks onto the forest floor. 

“Feelin’good, pretty?” 

The nickname sounded odd in the moment. Werewolves weren’t pretty. But Pearl was. He’d always been, even like this — No. Especially like this. Fucking him senselessly, his rut in full effect. 

“You’re so tight, Ilya.” 

The white wolf simply moans in agreement, baring his neck as he watches you.

You’re being held up by Keaton, your skin shining with sweat and dirt and bits of blood while Harley nudges his cock to your half-filled entrance. You feel his stare — he’s so proud that you can still be aware enough to notice — and give him a loose grin.

What a whore. 

Smiling so sweetly at him even when two cocks were pressed against you. 

Pearl growls as he catches on Ilya’s stare, his dick twitching inside of him as you completely break apart at the two of them.

They didn’t even have to thrust — they couldn’t even if they wanted to – to have you squirt around their halfway in cocks. Your hips bucking and thighs twitching as you pant, gripping onto Harley’s neck desperately as your toes curl in the air. 

“Shit, I can’t — Mngh! Ngh-ah! I can’t stop cumming, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Ilya shed into his human skin, stalking close to you as you’re laid on Pearl’s front. Chest to chest as he shushes you, using his strength to easily manipulate your hips up and down his cock. 

“You’re so ready for my knot, baby,” Pearl encourages. 

Ilya kneels between Pearl’s legs, grabbing at the mounds of your ass before he spits at your soaked asshole. You moan, turning to look over your shoulder, watching Ilya as he licks at it. You flutter your eyes closed, simply wrapping your arms around Pearl’s neck.

“Knot me, knot me, knot me.”

Pearl grunts when Ilya tongues at his knot, teasing it just because he could. Keaton's loud yelp earns a pleased groan from you, watching as Harley fucks into him in their human form. 

Ilya’s cock presses into you and you perk your ass backwards, feeling him stretch your ass out. It’s always been Ilya’s favourite — it was rare for him to fuck your boycunt, he preferred this hole, he says. 

He was the only one allowed to fuck it. Your walls welcomed him in, practically greeting him in a hug, and he smiles when he feels Pearl’s cock.

“Our cocks are frotagging inside of you, sweetheart.” Ilya tells you, biting down on your earlobe with his still too-wolflike teeth. “You’re so filthy. So fucked up. You’re spilling out cum with every thrust. Can you even feel me inside of you?”

You can’t manage a reply. Making noises of agreement as your cock rubs against Pearl’s coarse fur. 

“Cuh - cummin…cummin — Ah-ah” you can’t even scream anymore. Not like Keaton who tossed his head back, cock bouncing on his wet stomach, as Harley fucks him into the dirt.

Pearl’s knot slips inside, by accident, and you squeak in alarm. Ilya shushes you, helping Pearl guide you further down his knot. It’s big, fuck it’s big. Your cunt still offers some form of resistance, but it’s futile. 

“There we go, that’s our boy.”

Ilya gives you rough thrusts, something that even makes Pearl moan as he can feel the movement from inside of you before he claims your insides. His cum is the only one leaking out of your ass. When it leaks down to where you’re connected with Pearl, he tries to lick it clean which earns him a smack to the face by Pearl’s tail. 

“Oh- oh fuck! Harls!”

Ilya and Pearl watch the scene before them, the sound of skin slapping skin making Ilya groan. 

“C’mon Harls,” Ilya purrs. “That’s it, fuck his ass. Such a good boy, eh? He deserves a load in him.”

Keaton mewls, arching his back as Harley finally cums inside of him. The sensation was enough to send him over the edge as well. 

For a while, the only people talking were Ilya and Harley as they praised and licked each other clean while you laid on Pearl who refused to shift back — he refused to while you were knotted so preciously around him. 

What was left of your shirt was used to wipe away sweat and cum. Your mates were so gentle as they cleaned you up, kissing up your spine and rubbing at the bruises on your waist. 

“Fuck,” you groan out as your thoughts finally return to you. That warm haziness in your brain still lingers though not as strong. 

“I’m never forgetting Valentine’s Day ever again.”

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

My constant struggle when writing PWP

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

am i cooking or am i being cooked....

[ patreon ]

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

The only time I’ll write a female YN is if she’s getting head from another woman or if you pay me. Stop requesting female YN.