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deikshen · 4 months ago

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I love getting Shen Qingqiu pregnant (and it's funny that just today I've done it twice already), so... Shen Yuan who transmigrates into Shen Qingqiu, and in the midst of his medical check-up with Mu Qingfang about that whole qi deviation thing, Mu Qingfang hints that perhaps the qi deviation was due to using too much of his qi to pause his pregnancy.

Shen Qingqiu it's like: pardon??? Pregnancy?????

Sure enough, the System confirms: Shen Qingqiu's body is pregnant! And Mu Qingfang, falling into all that of a certain amnesia after the qi deviation, explains to him that he has a pregnancy in a very early stage that he never wanted to interrupt, but "the responsibilities around him, responsibilities that only grew" were too much to have a baby at that time. And he's been putting off his baby's growth with qi... for a long time.

Shen Qingqiu asks him very, very quickly how the hell he can keep doing that. No. He's not having a baby. He's just getting a new body. He just died. What the fuck. Thanks, but no thanks.

Of course, later on, with Without-a-cure, it is very difficult to continue diverting his qi to keep the baby hidden and not growing inside him. At this point, Shen Qingqiu does not terminate the pregnancy just because... Because he does not feel capable. Plus, he feels a little guilty; the original goods could have terminated that pregnancy if he had wanted to. What gave him, an impostor in a stolen body, the right to end a life that the original Shen Qingqiu was so jealously protecting? He had already taken one life. He would not take a second.

So even he does need more qi about it, and if he needs Mu Qingfang's external qi to hide it during the larger outbreaks of Without-a-cure, Shen Qingqiu decides that maybe he'll give the baby a chance to be born when he has to throw Binghe into the Abyss. The house will be empty by then, won't it? And will be sad. And painful. And he'll need a distraction.

One month before the IAC, Shen Qingqiu lets go of the qi seal and allows the baby finally to continue growing. It is strange to feel it, and even stranger to feel it grow. Mu Qingfang congratulates him on his decision, explains what symptoms he will have to deal with in the coming weeks, what tea is best to avoid, what herbs he should drink. Shen Qingqiu is tense, distant and somewhat nervous, fearing something dangerous or close to a qi deviation since he was not actively sealing the baby now. His body still has to get used to the enormous hormonal chaos that will gradually subside; Shen Qingqiu is resigned and hateful, but he simply decides that it will not be something that will keep him awake at night.

The IAC passes. The morning after Shen Qingqiu throws Binghe into the abyss is painful and filled with tears and the first signs of morning sickness. Unfortunate timing, as many other Peak Lords and Sect Leaders see him nearly faint and run off to vomit.

What Shen Qingqiu doesn't expect (or, knowing the reputation of the original Shen Qingqiu, should expect) are the rumors.

Shen Qingqiu is jealously protecting his small belly bump, hiding it before it is necessary to say it, but it is inevitable that it will be discovered. It's surprisingly less well received than he expected. His refusal to speak about what happened to Luo Binghe, his refusal to give him up for dead, his enormous sadness, her refusal to tell the identity of the baby's other father... Shen Qingqiu is hearing the rumors from his own disciples before Shang Qinghua and his spy nets of An Ding disciples bring him the news that the rumors have already spread.

Apparently, everyone believes that Shen Qingqiu was having an affair with his spoiled disciple Luo Binghe ("He even bet so much on him and his victory in the IAC!"), and when a beast killed his beloved disciple, Shen Qingqiu fell into a heartbreaking sadness from which he could only be freed by the fruit of his love that was now growing in his womb.

Sensitive, loud, chaotic. Shang Qinghua mocks him. Shen Qingqiu hits him with his fan and insults him. Living with the author is an unpleasant nuisance when Shang Qinghua confirms that he never wrote about Shen Qingqiu being pregnant, although he didn't actually write about things that later happened either. The world filling in the plot holes, he says, and Shen Qingqiu hates it.

Pregnancy is a painless process. Shen Qingqiu suffers through it like anyone else, but he has his good moments. He gets excited about the baby. Mu Qingfang confirms to him that its a boy. He lulls him to sleep when he wakes him up in the middle of the night with kicks. Even before he is born, he is already causing trouble; Shen Qingqiu finds himself loving this little boy very much and wishing, after all this time, to finally meet him.

The baby is born. If Shen Qingqiu was curious about the identity of the second father, nothing on the baby's face tells it; it is a sweet and cute baby identical to Shen Qingqiu, except for some undeniably big and beautiful eyes.

He also has his own character: he cries a lot, he only calms down in Shen Qingqiu's arms, he hates strangers coming close, he cries when someone else carries him, and enjoys when Shen Qingqiu sings to him. He is quickly loved and spoiled by the entire sect and his disciples.

Shen Qingqiu allows himself to forget that he will only have four years to live for this baby. Luo Binghe will return seeking revenge, and Shen Qingqiu does not plan to escape; as long as he allows the baby to live, and as long as Cang Qiong don't burn, he can hand himself over to Luo Binghe's revenge.

(Of course he has prepared sun-moon dew mushrooms. He's not an idiot. He also has enough legal scrolls that in case he dies, his baby will stay with Shang Qinghua and the anonymous brother Shang; Shang Qinghua will run away with his little one and they will meet in a village far away, where the "anonymous brother" lived. Shen Qingqiu would raise his son as an anonymous herbalist and they would live as simple NPCs without bothering anyone.)

Shen Qingqiu has his beloved little baby and a plan. It is a surprise to him when, one night, there is a knock on his door. His baby is just over a year and a half old, he stammers a few words, he learned the dangerous art of walking and running; so little time, so much domestic comfort, of course Shen Qingqiu does not expect disciples returning from the Endless Abyss directly to his doorstep.

Yet there he is. Luo Binghe. Luo Binghe who looks at him with an unfathomable expression, dirty in blood, with torn robes. He is unbearably handsome, tall and with a heavy black sword on his back.

Shen Qingqiu is frozen, only thinking about running away with his baby, when Luo Binghe just falls to his knees in front of him.

("Shizun, the rumors are strong, even in the Abyss. When did this horrible disciple disgrace his Shizun like this? Will Shizun be able to forgive this one for his mistakes? If the Abyss was the punishment Shizun intended for this disciple's behaviour, then this one understands. Please forgive this horrible beast for his audacity.")

Shen Qingqiu had already made peace with the rumors. He actually tried to ignore them most of the time. So, for Luo Binghe of all people to believe them ("As if there was any way to forget... that!!! It takes two to make a baby, and you and I didn't do it...!!!"), and even more so, to feel guilty about them… As if something in Luo Binghe's head made him believe that if he were to get infected by the sex pollen of some flower, he could really dishonor his Shizun like that! For that you first need to want it with this Shizun, silly boy!

Shen Qingqiu knows that he has no chance to lie to him, less in something like that. As soon as Luo Binghe finds out that his son has no Heavenly Demon blood in his veins, it will be risky and dangerous. He wants to tell him the truth. He has to tell him the truth.

... However, who can blame a man for having a little hope that everything will eventually work out? Perhaps he should show the baby first, his little offspring, to making him understand that its a harmless baby and does not deserve to suffer. But who could blame him for wanting Luo Binghe to not notice the truth and just accept it and stay as if he had never left?

... Probably the same people who might blame Shen Qingqiu when he presented his sleeping son to Luo Binghe (after letting him bathe and eat something decent), and just a caress on his baby's pale forehead with the careful claw of Luo Binghe caused a red zuiyin to appear.

What the fuck, WHAT THE FUCK?! Airplane, WHO THE FUCK DID SHEN QINGQIU HAVE AN AFFAIR WITH??! WHAT OTHER HEAVENLY DEMONS ARE THERE?! HOW FUCKING LONG HAS THAT BABY BEEN HIDING?!

...

(Somewhere beneath the mountain, Tianlang-jun sneezes. Ah. Strong-willed human cultivators of pretty faces and bad temper. They were always his weakness. One would think that someone like Tianlang-jun would learn after being abandoned by a wandering cultivator apprenticed to a demonic cultivator with a very bad reputation, but, it was not the art of love also having a broken heart?)

#svsss #scum villain self saving system #scumbag villain #shen qingqiu #luo binghe #svsss au #svsss ideas #mxtx svsss #bingqiu #mpreg #magic pregnancy #more or less #shang qinghua #luo binghe babytrapped himself #shen qingqiu is doing his best #sqq: I will have a pregnancy right after my beloved disciple was given up for dead #sqq: and I will behave like a widow in mourning while I insist that he is not dead #sqq: definitely nothing suspicious #sqh: ... bro #mqf could kick all the rumors out of the water with only one clinical record #unfortunately he won't do it on his own and sqq does not consider his reputation to be important enough to get the heavy cards out #i just think how funny tianlang-jun's genetics are #babies identical to their gestational moms but with those eyes #i guess it will be fun when those eyes are more evident on the child's cunning face and even mqf is like ?????

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lazy-ahh · 1 month ago

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YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE GOES GOOD WITH GAMING?

pairing mark grayson x male reader

you’ve waited weeks for him to return from his mission, and now he’s here, warm and insistent against you, while your ranked match blares ignored on the screen. the worst part? you don't mind losing. despite the weeks of hard work. you want his lips on yours, his weight pressing you into the chair, the way he murmurs "i missed you" between kisses like it’s a confession. but you’ve clawed your way to this rank-up game, and you never quit—even when mark’s tongue is lapping up the precome leaking from your tip and your fingers are trembling on the keyboard.

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

mark’s been gone for weeks—some off-world mission, because apparently, the universe can’t handle itself without him. not that you’d admit it, but you missed him. more than you should. more than you’d ever let him know. you caught yourself staring at your window too often, half-expecting to see his silhouette against the glass, that infuriatingly patient tap-tap-tap before you’d let him in. as if he didn’t know you left the damn thing unlocked for him every night. typical.

everything reminded you of him, which was unacceptable. so you buried yourself in distractions—school, homework, then straight to your pc, booting up marvel rivals before you could even think about how quiet the room felt without him. the game had been his idea, of course. he’d all but shoved it at you, that stupid, eager grin on his face as he said, "just try it. if you hate it, i’ll never bring it up again. but you won’t." as if he hadn’t already known you’d love it.

at first, he was the one explaining everything—mechanics, lore, all that useless trivia he’d absorbed like some kind of nerd-shaped sponge. "see, magik’s portals work like this—" or "no, don’t engage yet, strange’s cooldown is—" annoying. endearing. you’d never admit either out loud. but then you got better. faster. soon, you were the one calling shots, dragging his sorry ass through ranked matches while he laughed in your ear, loud and unguarded, every time you pulled off some insane play. "holy shit—did you just parry that ult?! that’s illegal. you’re actually cracked. YOU JUST SAVED MY LIFE OH BABY I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU-"

he never complained, even when you outclassed him. just watched you with that quiet, proud look, like he’d somehow won just by getting you to play. sometimes, when you were both too tired for another match but not tired enough to log off, he’d let his character idle beside yours in the lobby, humming some off-key tune while you fiddled with skins. "you’re keeping me up," you’d grumble. "then kick me out," he’d shoot back, knowing full well you wouldn’t.

now, with him gone, solo queue was a nightmare. you tried comms, but it was a coin toss—either decent teammates or the kind of toxic dps mains who threw matches the second things went south. you added a few tolerable players, grinding comp at set times, but most of your matches were still solo. and you’d climbed. platinum, after weeks of stubborn, teeth-gritted effort. you could already picture mark’s reaction—that mix of irritation (probably pretend) and admiration he got whenever you outdid him. not that you’d gloat. much.

the real problem would be playing together once you hit diamond. he was still stuck in gold, and you refused to smurf. so for now, you were stuck in elo hell—platinum I to diamond III, then back down again, in a cycle that felt like the universe mocking you. but you’d figure it out. you always did. and when he got back, you’d make sure he knew exactly how much ground he had to cover to keep up.

you were half-heartedly proofreading your essay, the queue timer ticking away in the corner of your screen, when your hand moved before your brain could stop it—grabbing your phone, unlocking it, immediately swiping to mark’s messages like muscle memory. it was a bad habit at this point. every idle moment, every second of downtime, your fingers betrayed you, pulling up his chat like some pathetic reflex. and there they were, still staring back at you: his last messages from weeks ago, before comms cut out and space swallowed him whole.

your thumb hovered over the screen, tracing the timestamp like you could will it to change. then—there. that stupid, stupid one-liner he’d sent right before losing signal: ‘try not to miss me too much!’ as if he hadn’t known exactly what he was doing. as if you weren’t already doing exactly that.

a quiet, involuntary laugh escaped you, sharp and fond all at once. "idiot," you muttered, but the word came out too soft, too warm, and you hated how easily he could drag that out of you. like you were some sappy romance protagonist instead of yourself. you tossed your phone back onto the desk, maybe a little harder than necessary, and forced your eyes back to your essay.

it didn’t work. the words blurred together, your focus already frayed, and you could feel the heat creeping up your neck. stupid. stupid markus sebastian grayson, turning you into this—some lovesick fool who couldn’t even function right without him around. worst of all? you knew he’d be grinning if he saw you like this. that smug, infuriating look he got when he realized he’d gotten under your skin.

you gritted your teeth and stabbed at your keyboard, queue be damned. you had an essay to finish. and not think about him.

and then—as if the universe itself was mocking you—tap-tap-tap.

your head snapped up so fast your neck protested. for a second, you wondered if you’d finally lost it, conjuring him up out of sheer, pathetic longing. but no. there he was, floating outside your window like some overgrown, dirt-streaked moth, his stupid grin brighter than the goddamn moon behind him.

mark looked wrecked—hair a mess, suit scuffed, one of his lenses cracked—but his smile was the same as always: crooked, too-wide, the kind that crinkled his eyes and made his stupid dimples pop. like he’d been waiting for this moment, like seeing you was the best part of his damn day.

and then—because you were a fool—you scrambled for the window like some desperate rom-com lead, fumbling with the latch like you hadn’t left it unlocked for him on purpose. your face burned. disgraceful.

mark’s expression flickered—confusion, then worry, his smile dropping as he darted forward. "baby? is everything alright?"

before you could even attempt to salvage your dignity, he was inside, his hands cradling your face like you were something fragile. his palms were rough, still warm from flight, thumbs brushing over your cheeks as he searched for injuries. "you okay? you look—" he paused, studying your flushed face, the way you were very pointedly not meeting his eyes. then, slowly, his lips twitched. "…oh."

oh. like he’d just figured you out. like he knew.

you wanted to die. "shut up," you muttered, but it lacked any real bite—not when your traitorous heart was pounding loud enough for both of you to hear.

mark’s grin softened, something unbearably fond in his eyes as he leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. "missed me that much, huh?"

"no," you lied, immediately.

he laughed, quiet and warm, and you hated how it made your chest ache. "liar."

and then—because he was the worst—he kissed your stupid, burning cheeks, one after the other, like he was savoring the way you squirmed. "it’s okay," he murmured, lips brushing your skin. "i missed you too."

you were never living this down.

and then—because he was the absolute worst—he kissed your stupid, burning cheeks, one after the other, lingering just to feel the way you tensed under his touch. "it’s okay," he murmured, lips brushing your skin like he was savoring every second of your embarrassment. "i missed you too."

you were never living this down.

just as you opened your mouth to snap something—anything—to wipe that smug look off his face, your pc chimed. the two of you turned in unison, and there it was, flashing bright and mocking on your screen: match found.

"shit," you hissed, scrambling back toward your desk. "i forgot to fucking cancel queue—"

mark barked out a laugh, loud and delighted. "no way. you’ve been grinding rivals this whole time?" he was already following you, leaning over your shoulder with that infuriating grin. "aw, baby. did you miss me or the game more?"

you elbowed him hard enough to make him oof, but he didn’t budge, just hooked his chin over your shoulder as you frantically clicked to lock in your character. "shut up. i was bored."

"uh-huh," he drawled, eyes scanning the screen. then—"holy shit." his fingers dug into your shoulders. "you’re one game from diamond?!"

you could feel the grin in his voice before you even saw it—that stupid, contagious excitement thrumming through him like a live wire. it was unbearable. worse, it was working, that familiar warmth pooling in your chest despite your best efforts to stomp it out. pathetic. since when did you let him sway you so easily?

"took you long enough to notice," you muttered, aiming for derision but landing somewhere dangerously close to fond. your chest tightened traitorously when he let out that low, impressed whistle—the same one he used when you pulled off something reckless in the field. like you’d impressed him.

"damn. guess i’ve gotta step up my game." his lips brushed your temple, lingering just long enough to make your fingers twitch on the keyboard. you jerked your shoulder up to shove him off, but he just laughed, the vibration of it rattling through your ribs. "carry me when i’m back in gold, yeah?"

"in your fucking dreams," you snarled, but the bite dissolved the second his laugh vibrated through your shoulder—warm and familiar and alive, filling up the hollow spaces his absence had carved into your room for weeks. your traitorous heartbeat steadied against your ribs, and you didn’t shove him off when his chin dug into your shoulder. pathetic.

you’d never admit it out loud—would rather chew glass than acknowledge how much you’d missed this—but his presence at your back, solid and warm and breathing, made your fingers stutter over the character select screen.

then mark, the insufferable bastard, decided words weren’t enough.

his lips found the hinge of your jaw first—soft, teasing—then the corner of your mouth when you tilted your head automatically. "distracting me on purpose?" you muttered, but the protest cracked when his teeth grazed your bottom lip.

"is it working?" he murmured against your mouth, all smugness, and you hated how easily your body betrayed you, leaning towards him with a scoff that turned into a sharp inhale when his tongue swept over yours.

his hands cradled your face like you were something precious, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as he kissed you slow and deep, the way he knew unraveled you. your fingers curled around his wrist—anchoring, needing—while your other hand slid up to cup his jaw.

when you finally pulled back to breathe (because unlike him, you were human, damn it), mark didn’t go far. his forehead stayed pressed to yours, lips swollen and curved into that stupid, satisfied smile, his breaths just as uneven as yours. his eyes were half-lidded, dark with something unbearably fond as they traced your face—your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the way your fingers still clung to him like you’d die if he let go.

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

you swallowed the i missed you more threatening to spill out. "shut up. i’m trying to rank up." you shoved at his chest, but your fingers curled into his suit instead of pushing him away—another pathetic betrayal your body refused to stop committing.

mark’s grin turned wicked, eyes flashing with that infuriating knowing look as he chased your lips before you could even think to turn back to the screen. his hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he kissed you again, deeper this time, hungrier. his tongue swept against yours, slow and teasing, then insistent when you made a noise embarrassingly close to a whimper.

you could feel his smirk against your mouth, the way his free hand gripped your thigh to pull you closer, his body pressing yours back into the chair until you were arching up into him without thought. his teeth caught your bottom lip, tugging just enough to make your stomach flip, and when you gasped, he took advantage, licking into your mouth like he was trying to memorize the taste of you.

your hands were everywhere—one fisted in his hair, the other clutching at his shoulder, nails digging in when he nipped at your tongue. his breath hitched, and the sound went straight to your already-fogged head. you could feel his heartbeat where your thumb brushed his pulse point, wild and alive, and it made something possessive curl in your chest.

then—

the sudden blare of the match-starting music ripped through the haze.

you jerked back, breath ragged, lips swollen and wet, just in time to see your character standing idle on-screen, the round start timer already counting down.

"fuck," you hissed through gritted teeth, fingers scrambling across the keyboard with desperate precision. mark blinked, dumbfounded as he processed your sudden panic before chuckling, that infuriatingly warm puff of air hitting your pulse point. "seriously?" his arms tightened around your shoulders in protest, nuzzling deeper into the crook of your neck like some overgrown cat refusing to move from its favorite spot.

"you're really playing right now?" he murmured, lips forming the words against your skin in a way that made your fingers stutter on the WASD keys. the amusement in his voice was unbearable, especially when you could feel his smirk pressed into your shoulder.

"one game away from diamond," you muttered, the words coming out flatter than you intended. the forced casualness did nothing to mask the frustrated and disappointed edge underneath. "if i leave now, i lose twenty fucking points."

mark sighed dramatically, the full weight of his disappointment radiating through his entire body before he finally—reluctantly—peeled himself away. the sudden absence of his warmth against your back felt criminal, and it took every ounce of your pitiful self-control not to spin your chair around and drag him back by his sinfully narrow waist. "fine, fine," he conceded, stretching with exaggerated resignation. "I'll go shower. but you owe me," he added, pausing just long enough to press one last kiss to the top of your head—chaste but loaded with promise—before sauntering toward the bathroom with that infuriatingly perfect sway to his hips.

you waited until the bathroom door clicked shut before allowing yourself one single, shaky exhale, your fingers finally steadying on the mouse as you looked at your character. the screen blurred for just a second before you violently blinked it back into focus. damn this stupid game. damn mark for being so distracting. and damn you most of all for caring about either.

the match loads in with that familiar chime, and suddenly the world narrows to the glow of your monitor—every neuron firing, every muscle coiled tight with precision. your fingers dance across the keyboard in practiced patterns, movements sharp and lethal despite the phantom heat still burning where mark's lips had been moments ago. focus. you need to focus.

the numbers don't lie—48% ult charge, one teammate already flaming in chat, the enemy hawkeye picking your supports like fucking target practice. your teeth grind together hard enough to hurt. stupid. you never should've filled as support. if you'd locked in iron fist from the start, this match would've been over already.

when the third round starts with another pathetic stagger, you snap. "swap with me," you speak into voice chat, voice steady and determined, already selecting iron fist before the whiny psylocke main can protest. the second the lock-in confirmation pings, your shoulders drop half an inch—better. this you can work with. this you can carry.

your crosshair finds the enemy healer's skull just as—

warm fingers skate up your inner thigh, slow and deliberate. mark's palm presses flush against your leg, his thumb tracing idle circles through the fabric of your sweats.

your entire body jerks so hard your knee slams into the desk—mark's suddenly between your legs like some fucking phantom, all sharp teeth and wicked gleam in his eyes as he looks up at you. "what the fuck," you snarl, but he just presses a single finger to his lips, the bastard, like this is some goddamn library and not your room.

"don't let me distract you," he murmurs, voice dripping with false innocence—and then his clever fingers are sliding your sweats down with agonizing slowness. you should shove him off. you should. but your hands stay frozen over the keyboard even as your pulse jackrabbits in your throat.

then his mouth—fuck—his mouth is on you, and the world narrows to the wet heat of his tongue dragging up your cock in one long, filthy lick, from base to tip, slow enough to make your thighs tremble. he lingers at the head, swirling the flat of his tongue over the slit just to hear the choked noise it punches from your throat. bastard.

he does it again—slower this time, savoring the way your hips jerk up, your fingers flexing like you can’t decide whether to shove him off or pull him closer. but mark just hums, amused, and pins you down with one broad hand splayed across your stomach, his grip firm enough to keep you in place but gentle enough that you could break free if you really wanted to. (you don’t.)

then he sinks down, taking you into his mouth inch by inch, his lips stretched tight around you, his tongue pressing up against the underside in a way that makes your vision blur. he pulls off just as slow, dragging his teeth just shy of too much, before diving back down like he’s got all the time in the world. like he wants to ruin you.

and the worst part? he’s watching you the whole time—eyes dark, lashes low, his gaze locked onto your face like he’s memorizing every twitch of your expression, every bitten-off curse. like your pleasure is the only thing that matters.

it’s unbearable.

your character dodges a stun on pure muscle memory because christ—the way mark hollows his cheeks, lips stretched obscenely around you, the wet slick sounds filling the room every time he pulls up just to plunge back down. his eyelashes flutter against flushed skin when your thighs instinctively squeeze around his head, and your mouse creaks under your death grip, sweat rolling down your temples as you choke back a moan that's been building in your throat for minutes.

"m-mark—" you hiss through clenched teeth, but he just hums around you, the vibration shooting straight to your spine. your foot kicks out involuntarily, knocking against a wall as he picks up the pace, lips red and slick with spit, watching you unravel above him. the match is chaos—your team screams comms in voice chat, frantic calls to focus the enemy tank, but all you hear is the filthy slide of his mouth and your own ragged breathing.

you're so fucked.

mark's tongue drags along the underside of your cock with practiced precision, swirling around the head before sinking down until your hips twitch against the chair. his throat works around you, warm and tight, and you barely register the kill feed flashing on-screen as your healer dies, leaving you alone on point with the overtime bar bleeding out. for one delirious second, you think there goes my rank-up game—but your hands move anyway, your body reacting on pure instinct as you somehow, somehow clutch the round.

"p-please—" the word tears out of you like a surrender, raw and desperate in a way that would’ve had you recoiling if your brain wasn’t reduced to static. your fingers twist in mark’s hair—pulling? pushing?—as your hips stutter helplessly. "mark, please, go—ah—go easy—" it’s pathetic, how your voice cracks on the last syllable, how your thighs tremble under his palms like you’re some inexperienced kid instead of—

mark listens, but not the way you wanted. he pulls off with a filthy, wet pop, your cock twitching against your stomach, flushed and glistening under the low light. the bastard has the audacity to grin, lips slick and swollen, breath coming in quick puffs against your overheated skin. "that good, huh?" he rasps, dragging his tongue along your length in one torturously slow stripe, savoring the way your abs clench violently.

you barely have time to gasp before he’s mouthing at the head, pressing wet, open kisses along the vein underneath—teasing, always teasing—his breath scorching where you’re oversensitive and throbbing. then—just as the enemy team respawns, just as your team’s frantic pings flood the screen—he swallows you back down in one smooth slide, deep, until his nose brushes your stomach and he stays, throat working around you in slow, deliberate pulses.

your hips jerk instinctively, chasing friction, but mark just digs his fingers into your thighs, pinning you to the chair with infuriating ease. the contrast is maddening—the game’s frantic audio in your headphones, your team’s character voice lines of getting hurt, the enemy pushing point—while mark’s mouth is nothing but molten stillness, his tongue pressing just there every time you twitch. sweat drips down your temple. your knuckles whiten on the mouse. you can’t tell if the choked noise that escapes you is from the hawkeye headshot that just wiped your backline or the way mark breathes through his nose, content to let you unravel in his grip.

his eyes flick up to yours through his lashes—dark, amused, the bastard—lips stretched obscenely around you as he watches your screen with detached interest. like this is just another game to him. like he knows you’re two seconds from either throwing the match or throwing your dignity out the window to fuck into his throat.

somehow—through the haze of sweat and mark’s fucking teeth grazing you on an upstroke, through the way your thighs tremble around his shoulders—you clutch. iron fist’s ult meter hits 100% with a deafening chime. your muscles coil, every fiber taut with tension, and mark’s grip tightens on your hips in warning, nails biting into skin. but you launch yourself into the backline anyway, the kill feed exploding in a burst of color. triple. quad. your team’s hysterical screaming in voice chat drowns out the wet, obscene sound of mark finally moving, sucking you down to the root just as "victory" flashes across the screen in blinding gold.

your team continues to scream—cheering, cracking jokes, their earlier hostility forgotten in the adrenaline rush. you would've thought this was a beautiful moment if you weren't currently being sucked off by your boyfriend. you mutter a breathless "gg" into the mic, lips twitching at the chorus of "holy shit, w fucking iron fist!" before you’re cutting them off with a sharp click of your mouse. the headset hits the desk with a clatter.

you don’t even get to savor the win. mark’s hands are on your hips now, dragging you to the edge of the chair with a roughness that makes your stomach flip. his nose presses into your stomach, lips sealed tight as he swallows around you with a filthy, shuddering groan—like he’s been waiting this whole fucking match to ruin you properly. your back arches off the chair, fingers tangling in his hair hard enough to hurt, but he just moans around you, eyes fluttering shut like this is exactly where he wants to be. like he’d happily die here, between your thighs.

"f-fuck—mark—" you whimper, but it’s too late. he’s not stopping this time.

his tongue drags along the underside of your cock in a slow, filthy stripe before he takes you deep again, one hand sliding up your chest to thumb at your nipple through your shirt. the dual sensation punches a ragged noise from your throat, your hips jerking involuntarily. mark hums in approval, the vibration rippling through you like a live wire. his free hand slips under your thigh, hiking your leg over his shoulder to press you even closer, until you can feel every hitched breath he takes through your skin.

he pulls off just to mouth at the head, tongue circling the slit with agonizing precision, and you whine, high and desperate. his eyes flick up to yours, dark with something unbearably fond even as his lips glisten with spit. "love you like this," he murmurs against your skin, voice wrecked. "all mine. fucking perfect. i missed you so much baby, you don't even know the half of it—"

then he’s sinking down again, taking you until his throat flutters around the tip, and you’re gone—fingers tightening in his hair as you spill down his throat with a broken cry. mark swallows every drop, lips staying locked around you until you’re twitching from oversensitivity, until your grip on his hair loosens to cradle his face instead.

when he finally pulls away, his lips are swollen, his cheeks flushed. he rests his forehead against your thigh, breathing hard, and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh—soft, reverent. like you’re something sacred.

"welcome home," you mutter, voice hoarse.

mark's grin is worth every goddamn second of the wait—all bright-eyed and breathless, his lips kiss-swollen from where you'd bitten them. you're still coming down from your high, chest heaving, fingers trembling against the keyboard where you'd gripped it too tight. you should shove him off. you would shove him off. any second now.

"baby," mark murmurs, and fuck, the way your stupid traitorous heart lurches at that tone—all soft and reverent, like you're something precious instead of a mess of sweat and frustration and arousal. his fingers trail down your stomach, feather-light, and you hate how your body arches into the touch before your brain catches up.

"don't—" you start, but it comes out hoarse, ruined. mark just smiles, that dorky, infuriating smile that makes your chest ache, and presses a kiss to your shoulder while his other hand navigates your mouse with infuriating ease.

"c'mon, diamond boy," he teases, clicking queue with one hand while the other slips lower, fingers tracing your rim in slow, maddening circles. "wouldn't want you to lose your hard-earned rank, would we?"

you choke on air when his fingers slide past your lips—calloused and tasting faintly of salt—pressing down on your tongue with deliberate pressure. "suck," mark murmurs, and your traitorous mouth obeys before your pride can protest, hollowing your cheeks as you work his fingers wet. his breath hitches when your teeth graze his knuckles, his other hand fisting his own cock through his pants at the sight of you—lips stretched, lashes fluttering, teary-eyed, that fucked-out daze already clouding your expression just from this.

then those slick fingers are dragging down your stomach, pushing past your thighs, and—"fuck—" your hips jerk when one curls inside you, crooking just right. "you're insufferable," you spit, but it loses all bite when your hands scramble uselessly between the desk and his wrist, torn between shoving him away and grinding down onto his hand.

mark laughs against your pulse point, the vibration rattling through your ribs as he adds a second finger with that same unbearable patience, stretching you slow. "keep playing," he breathes into your ear, twisting his wrist to drag a broken noise from your throat. "i wanna see you try to focus when i'm fucking you full of my cock."

the match loads in with that obnoxiously bright chime, but the sound barely registers—not when mark’s fingers crook just right, scissoring deep and dragging a broken moan from your throat. your vision whites out for a second, hips jerking uselessly against his hand as he adds a third finger, stretching you with that infuriating, practiced ease.

"fuck, you’re tight," mark murmurs against the shell of your ear, his free hand sliding up to palm your chest, thumb brushing over your nipple. "when was the last time you touched yourself, baby?"

you choke on a gasp when his fingers press deeper, hitting that spot that makes your thighs tremble. "few—fuck—few weeks ago," you manage, voice ragged. "didn’t— didn’t do shit. couldn’t—"

his teeth graze your earlobe, sharp and teasing. "couldn’t what?"

you hate how breathless you sound. "couldn’t reach deep enough. wasn’t—hnng—wasn’t you."

mark groans, low and filthy, his fingers stilling inside you just to feel how you clench around them. "christ, you’re gonna kill me," he mutters, but he’s grinning when he nips at your jaw. "lucky for you, i’m real good at reaching where you need me, huh?"

you scoff, the immersion breaking for a second as you look at him unimpressed, "did you really just say that—ahh—" and then he curls his fingers just so, and you’re pretty sure the entire universe short-circuits.

mark withdraws his fingers with a slick sound, and the emptiness is agony. your head drops forward, teary eyes staring down at yourself—flushed, trembling, needy—and you hate how pathetic you look. how wrecked he’s made you already. his cock twitches in his pants at the sight, and the groan he lets out is filthy. "look at you," he murmurs, voice rough. "all desperate for me."

before you can snap something defensive, his hands are on your hips, hauling you up with that stupid superhuman strength of his. you stumble, legs shaky, but he steadies you effortlessly—then drops into your chair, pulling you down onto his lap in one smooth motion. the heat of him sears through his clothes, and you feel him, hard and eager beneath his boxers, the fabric damp where he’s been leaking for you.

"there," mark murmurs, his breath hot against your ear as his hands slide up your thighs, pushing your legs apart wider. you can hear the smirk in his voice when he adds, "better view, yeah?" his fingers make quick work of his own pants, shoving them down just enough to free his cock—already hard and leaking against your back. "still gotta pick, baby," he teases, nipping at your earlobe when you hesitate on the character select screen. "unless you wanna dodge? though, i don't think you can dodge in this game."

you scoff, locking in iron fist with more force than necessary. "shut up."

the game loads in a blur of colors and sound, but all you can focus on is mark's teeth sinking into your shoulder as you guide your character toward the point. his hands roam your chest, pinching and teasing until you're squirming in your seat. "f-focus on the fucking game," you mutter, even as your hips push back against him.

mark just laughs, low and dark, before licking a stripe up your neck. "giving yourself pep-talk? how cute."

"i swear to god, markus sebastian grayson, if you say one more cheesy thing i will throw you out of my room."

when the enemy team finally pushes in, bullets and abilities flying across your screen, mark chooses that exact moment to shove two fingers past your lips. "suck," he orders, and you do—tongue swirling around his digits, moaning when he curls them just right. he pulls them out slick with your spit, trailing them down your stomach before reaching between your legs.

"f-fuck—" you choke out as his spit-slick fingers circle your rim, teasing before one pushes in to the second knuckle. your back arches off the chair, thighs spreading wider despite the game still raging onscreen. "mark—!"

"that’s it," he growls, his free hand groping your chest as he works you open again—first one finger, then two, scissoring slow until you’re panting, your neglected cock dripping onto your stomach. his own erection grinds against your lower back, leaking precome onto your skin. "still gonna carry, or am i too distracting?" he taunts, curling his fingers just so until you see white.

you barely register the starlord that flanks your team from behind you, killing your punisher as mark withdraws his fingers, leaving you clenching around nothing. "look at you," he murmurs, lining up his cock—thick and flushed and yours—against your hole. "already fucking yourself back on my fingers like you’re starving for it." he pushes in slow, just the tip at first, and the stretch burns so good your toes curl. "shit—" he groans, hips stuttering when you clench around him. "still so tight, even after i loosened you up. fucking perfect."

he pulls out until just the head remains, those shallow, teasing thrusts making your nails scrape against the keyboard. "more—" you demand, voice cracking, but mark just laughs—bright and smug—keeping the pace agonizingly slow.

"beg prettier," he murmurs against your ear, and you’re going to fucking murder him later.

the thought evaporates when your character dies on screen, a sharp "fuck!" tearing from your throat as your head thuds back against his shoulder. mark’s chuckle vibrates through your spine. "distracted, baby?"

"shut the fuck up," you groan, but your hips twitch back against him instinctively, seeking friction. his hands tighten around your waist, holding you still.

"uh-uh. you wanted to play." his teeth graze your earlobe. "so play."

then your character respawns, and you barely have time to register the 30 SECONDS OF OVERTIME warning before mark slams up into you in one brutal thrust, filling you completely. your back arches as you come with a choked gasp, vision whiting out around the edges—

"that’s it, sweetheart," mark praises, biting down on your shoulder hard enough to bruise before soothing it with his tongue. his arms cage you against the desk, his cock twitching inside you as he murmurs nonsense into your skin: "so good for me, taking me so well—fuck, look at you."

you’re trembling, oversensitive, but the game’s still going. with a shaky breath, you force your hands back onto the keyboard, your movements sluggish as you try to focus past the haze. mark hums approvingly, resting his chin on your shoulder to watch the screen, his cock still buried deep. every slight shift of his hips—every lazy pulse inside you—has your fingers stuttering on the keys.

"c'mon, baby," mark murmurs against your jaw, his breath warm as his fingers trail higher up your thigh. "carry us." his other hand slips around your waist, pulling you back flush against his chest—solid and familiar and home after weeks of empty space and staticky comms. "missed watching you play," he admits quietly, lips brushing your earlobe. "missed watching you win."

you're going to strangle him. after you win.

his nose nuzzles into the space behind your ear, inhaling deeply like he's memorizing your scent. "god, missed you," he continues, voice going rough around the edges. "mission was hell without your voice in my ear. kept thinking about how you'd chew me out for taking stupid risks." a soft laugh vibrates through his chest and into yours. "missed that too."

your fingers hesitate on the keyboard for half a second before you tilt your head just enough to press a grudging kiss to his jaw—the closest part of him you can reach without twisting your entire body. "i missed you too, beloved," you mutter, the endearment slipping out despite yourself. "but right now, i'm trying to focus."

mark makes a wounded noise at the nickname, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. "say that again," he demands against your throat, lips dragging wet and insistent over your pulse. "c’mon, sweetheart, just once more—" his hips shift minutely, and fuck, you feel it—the way his cock twitches inside you, already so hard it makes your breath stutter. your grip on the mouse tightens reflexively, knuckles going white around it as you try to focus on the flickering screen instead of the heat of him buried to the hilt.

"later," you rasp, securing a kill and kicking away through sheer muscle memory. "if you can fucking behave."

mark groans like you’ve wounded him, but he mostly stills—except for the way his fingers keep tracing absent, possessive circles low on your stomach, except for the way his lips keep finding patches of skin to suck bruises into between ragged breaths. "better win fast then," he murmurs, teeth scraping your shoulder in warning. "cause i missed all of you, [y/n]."

your eyes flick down instinctively—and there, just below your navel, the faintest swell where the tip of him presses up inside you. the sight punches a shaky noise from your throat, your body clenching around him before you can stop yourself.

"f-fuck—" mark’s whimper is wrecked, his forehead dropping heavily between your shoulder blades as his hips jerk involuntarily. you can feel him throbbing, the slick drag of him as he accidentally pushes deeper. "christ, you’re gonna kill me," he grits out, fingers trembling where they splay across your stomach like he’s mapping the bulge.

you swallow hard, throat bobbing against the thick press of him inside you, forcing your attention back to the screen even as your thighs tremble on top of mark's. "then fucking stop moving," you snap, but your voice fractures halfway through, turning the command into something embarrassingly close to a plea. the kill feed lights up with your username in bold strokes but the victory does nothing to hide how wrecked you already sound, how your walls flutter around him when he chuckles darkly against your neck.

"you're doing so good, baby," mark murmurs, lips dragging along your pulse point as his hands slide up your chest. his thumbs brush over your nipples through your shirt, teasing just enough to make you jolt but not enough to truly distract—not when you're finally gaining ground, finally winning. "carrying this match and taking me so well..."

you bite back a whimper, fingers flying across the keyboard as you cap the point. eight minutes. eight agonizing minutes of mark's cock seated deep inside you, his hips making tiny, barely-there rolls whenever you did something particularly impressive—a well-timed ult, a perfect parry—until you were dripping around him, your sweat-slicked back sticking to his chest. you don't even remember when you (or mark) had taken your shirt off. the start had been a disaster, but after forcing that useless jeff to swap, after taking matters into your own hands, your team steamrolled through the enemy like they were nothing. just like you knew they would.

the victory screen flashes gold, the triumphant DING of your rank-up swallowed whole by the filthy, wet sound of mark’s cock driving into you—deep, too deep, the angle so brutal your vision whites out for a second. his hands lock around your waist, flipping you before you can even process it, and suddenly you’re straddling him, knees digging into your chair as he yanks you down onto him with a groan that rattles your bones.

"fuck, look at you," mark gasps, voice shredded. his fingers scramble over your hips, your stomach, your chest—like he can’t decide where to touch first, like he’s starving for all of you at once. his hips snap up, relentless, the thick drag of him punching a broken noise from your throat. "all mine. perfect for me."

his praise is molten, spilling between feverish kisses, between the slick clash of tongues as he licks into your mouth. you can taste your name on his lips, sweet and desperate. his cock brushes that spot inside you with every thrust, just right, and your back arches on instinct, nails biting into his shoulders hard enough to bruise.

"knew you could do it," he growls, hands fisting in your hair to tilt your head back, exposing your throat to his teeth. "knew you’d win. my brilliant, beautiful boy—"

his voice cracks on the last word, and god, the way he’s looking at you—eyes black with want, lips swollen from kissing you stupid, his usual awkward confidence unraveled into something raw and needy—it’s worse than the pleasure, worse than the way his cock stretches you open. because this? this is mark grayson coming apart beneath you, for you, his breath coming in ragged bursts as his grip on your hips turns possessive.

you’re both a wreck—skin gleaming with sweat, your thighs trembling where they bracket his hips, the filthy, wet sound of him sliding into you over and over until your vision whites out at the edges. his grip on your hips is brutal, thumbs pressing into the bone hard enough to bruise, holding you down as he grinds up with a snap of his hips that punches a sob from your throat. "mark—!" his name comes out broken, slurred between panting breaths, and he’s no better, his voice ragged as he chokes out, "that’s it, baby, take it—fuck, just like that—" like he’s unraveling, like he’s worshipping you.

you cut him off with a sharp roll of your hips, stealing the groan right from his lips as you take control, your fingers tangling in his hair to yank his head back. "shut up," you mutter, but it’s fond, "you’re so fucking loud." his hands scramble at your back, blunt nails dragging red lines down your skin as you ride him with ruthless precision, chasing your own pleasure just as much as his, the whimpers and groans coming from his lips not stopping. the chair creaks dangerously beneath you, your forgotten headset hitting the floor with a clatter, but you don’t care—not when mark’s thrusts are growing erratic, his rhythm faltering under your relentless pace.

you lean in, teeth scraping his cheekbone before you kiss him, messy and biting, swallowing his gasp as you nip at his bottom lip. "gonna come already?" you taunt, voice rough, "thought you had more stamina than that."

mark growls—low and feral, the sound rumbling through your chest like thunder—and suddenly the world tilts. his arm snakes around your waist, hauling you back flush against him with a brutal yank that makes your gaming chair screech in protest. your chest meets his, sweat-slick and heaving, as he manhandles you like you weigh nothing.

one hand fists in your hair, wrenching your head back to expose your throat while the other grabs both your wrists, pinning them behind you with crushing ease. "stay still," he groans against your ear, voice ragged with want, and then he’s moving—snapping his hips up hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs, each thrust deeper, meaner, the angle punching ragged moans from your throat.

you’re burning. tears streak down your face, hot and humiliating, but you can’t—fuck, you can’t stop the way your body arches into him, the way your thighs tremble as he fucks up into you with punishing precision. his hand gropes your ass, fingers digging into flesh as he holds you at that perfect, devastating angle, every drag of his cock lighting your nerves on fire.

"that’s it," mark pants, his breath scalding against your shoulder. "take it. fucking take it." his pace turns brutal, the wet slap of skin on skin drowning out the game’s distant lobby music. you don’t care. can’t care. not when he’s ruining you like this, not when every snap of his hips has you sobbing, oversensitive and wrecked but needing more—

"fuck, look at you," he pants against your ear, voice wrecked as he watches his cock disappear into you with every snap of his hips. "taking me so fucking good—god, you feel perfect—" his words dissolve into a whimper when you clench around him, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he fucks into you with desperate, uneven thrusts.

you can feel him everywhere—the heat of his chest pressed against yours, the bite of his fingers on your wrists, the relentless stretch as he bottoms out again and again. "gonna—fuck—" mark's warning is barely coherent, his whole body tensing as he pulses inside you, his release hot and overwhelming. but he doesn't stop—can't stop, not when you're still clenching around him, not when your own orgasm is so close.

his hand slips between you, calloused fingers wrapping around your neglected cock, and it only takes three rough strokes before you're coming with a broken cry, painting both your stomachs in streaks of white. mark groans as you tighten around him, his hips stuttering through the aftershocks as he mouths at your shoulder, your neck, anywhere he can reach—like he still can't get enough even now.

mark gathers you against his chest as you both come down, his lips pressing shaky, open-mouthed kisses to whatever skin he can reach—the sweat-damp curve of your temple, the corner of your swollen mouth, the frantic rabbit-quick jump of your pulse. "so good," he mumbles against your throat, voice wrecked and raw. "so fucking perfect for me. missed you—god, missed you so much, baby." his arms lock around you like steel bands, all that stupid superhuman strength trembling with the effort of not crushing you.

you feel him shift—his softening cock dragging slow and filthy out of you, the obscene wet sound making your thighs twitch—then pause. his breath hitches when he sees it: his cum starting to leak from your used hole, glistening in the dim light. a rough noise tears from his throat, and before you can even process it, he's pushing back in with one sharp roll of his hips, the thick head of his cock scooping up the spill and stuffing it back inside you where it belongs. "mine," he growls, biting at your shoulder as he seats himself to the hilt again, making sure not a single drop escapes.

you should shove him off. should snap something scathing about his disgusting possessiveness, his pathetic need to keep you full of him. but your traitorous hands fist in his hair instead, dragging his mouth to yours in a biting kiss as your legs lock around his hips. his groan vibrates through your chest when you arch up, taking him deeper—like you couldn't bear to let him pull away either. pathetic. you're both so fucking pathetic.

so. this was supposed to be a quick little 3-4k one-shot. supposed to be. but then reader and mark decided to have feelings (gross) and now here we are at 7.7k words of competitive gaming, unresolved tension, and mark being absolutely insufferable (affectionate). whoops? anyway, hope you enjoyed this self-indulgent mess as much as i enjoyed writing it—because honestly, i have no regrets.

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