#faint from hunger

[tom4jc]

Lamentations 2:19 Cry Out For Your Children

Arise, cry out in the night, at the beginning of the watches; pour out your heart like water before the face of the Lord. Lift up your hands toward Him for the life of your young children, who faint from hunger at the head of every street. Lamentations 2:19 War is devastating and destructive. It will cause hunger and loss of life. Children are often left without parents or homes, becoming…

[somegrumpynerd]

If you don't mind me asking, how did Nightmare learn to be a good "boss" (dad) in the first place? Did he have subordinates before the Bad Sanses? Did someone teach/adopt him after he was corrupted and he's going off their example?

...

Did he have Killers before this one and he learned from experience?

Y'know what's funny? Ages ago I was planning a (now abandoned) kinda comic series of Nightmare recording events after taking in a mortal for the first time (Killer). It was mostly supposed to be showing how he slowly grew to care for them and softened to them and the world over time (and also how the room behind him would get brighter and more colourful and filled with books and trinkets to show the positive change they were having on him).

And I did think early on about having a plot twist where it turned out he lost his first Killer and that was what made him start taking more care of them when he got another. But honestly that just makes me too sad lol I do think it's a cool idea for his character but I can't do it very well

I like to think, for my Nightmare at least, it was just a lot of doing it wrong for a long time until he learned better. When he first got Killer he was not a good boss, he was still pretty cold and uncaring and didn't really know anything that mortals needed. (In a way Killer was a bad one for him to start with because he wasn't really in the business of taking care of himself so he didn't say anything, he would just kinda collapse when the sleep or food meter got too low and Nightmare would drag him home.)

Horror was the first one in the team that would actually say if they didn't have something, like food or soap or blankets, and by that point Nightmare was pretty receptive to it. Every one of them has taught him things about what they all need but he's still learning and trying his best to make sure they're taken care of.

[tastesoftamriel]

If you wanna help me out pad thai is £10 plus delivery 😭

[koka-mi]

no faint streak broken we'll get em next time </3

[c0rpseductor]

honestly i shouldn’t be too shocked it’s been rough for me with ED stuff bc december and christmas season is always stressful to me as-is and now twice as much ever since mom’s attempt in 2021 since that was i think december 1 or 2. lots going on with this season that historically has been horrible. directly tied to my disordered eating no less!! the drunkorexia post immediately reminded me of the family christmas with my dad where i was restricting and just got marvelously drunk after basically not eating the whole day bc nobody wanted to talk to me and i hated my family and life and being there. BAD fucking time of year no wonder i’m losing my goddamn marbles

[acanthemp3]

finishing my shift 15 minutes late and sitting in my car with a thousand yard stare

[televenus]

i want to draw but i have to cook fuck my stupid baka life

[anantaru]

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ how they kiss you — love and deepspace

including. zayne, xavier, rafayel, sylus, caleb

genre. fem! reader, making out (quite sexual), body fondling, established relationship

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ zayne

there's always a subtle silence before you happen to feel it— you know? the way zayne watches your lips like he's studying anatomy again— not clinically, silly! but reverently, like he might carve the shape of your mouth into his memory.

so precise, so devout, it borders on madness. soaked in tension and lust— quite obsessive, don't you agree? almost grotesque in how deeply he desired you.

the man leans in, close enough for his breath to ghost over your skin as he abruptly stops, catching himself in the same course of action he tends to take, every damn time.

zayne held himself back like the act of restraint was the only thing keeping him from collapsing into you completely, succumbing to those pretty, warm lips of yours as something deep inside of him broke that night.

he's going deeper before pressing into your lips at last— his psyche, his shadows, the way the hunger on his tongue felt different than anyone else's as he cups your face like he's afraid of shattering it, mouth crashing into yours.

not messy, not wild, instead, devastatingly precise— and every stroke of his warm muscle felt like it's been rehearsed in secret, fantasized about in sinful dreams as his hand slides down your throat, thumb resting on your pulse like he's checking it— not for medical reasons, but for control.

the kiss deepens and sharpens at the edges of each lap and suckle of your bottom lip between his teeth as his body presses you to the nearest surface with a force just edging on subtle bruising— and when your fingers suddenly thread into his hair to taste him more, when you pull him harder into you— he groans low, a sound rattling from somewhere hidden and forbidden, yes, like something sacred within him was being exposed.

and well, in that exposé, zayne finds a terrible, exquisite relief in each slip and slide of your tongues intertwining, bodies stroking each other as though this was the only way he's ever known how to feel alive.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ xavier

xavier touches you first— although not to grope, yet to ground himself with his palm on your shaking hip while his other hand brushes against your soft cheek, and that look on him which was revealed next haunted you— like he's seeing a future he doesn’t believe he deserves.

slow, searching, his lips coax across your bottom lip, the tension behind each suckle on it unbearable as he continues to trace yours like he's adamant to make it everlasting. your boyfriend grunted like restraint stretched thin inside his frame, like one more kiss might tip him over the edge into something more, well, feral? ugh, but he holds himself back of course. 

yet just barely.

those kisses you shared weren't just random pecks here and there, they felt like confessions, truly, like a collapse of two loving hearts forming a dance of possession— each movement sharpening to the truth of what this relationship meant to him, all of it rooted in desire and lust, shadowed with emotional gravity and physical intensity of hands squeezing your flesh.

and you felt it, all of it— the tremble in his fingers, the quiet threat of his teeth brushing just behind every soft tug at your lip, as though even the smallest motion could unravel him further.

you arch into him, obediently feeling the low, guttural sound that escaped his throat— a half moan, a sound so faint it could almost be mistaken for a prayer, whispered to no god at all, but to the madness he cannot escape.

your lips stay close at all times, breathing hard against each other with foreheads pressed together, "i don't want to hurt you," his voice, thick with restraint, was taken hostage somewhere between a confession and collapse, yet his hands disobey him at last— sliding beneath your shirt with a quiet desperation, mapping the ridges of your shape like he's meant to be.

truly, if you let him keep going with those addictive kisses, he'll worship you until he forgets where he ends and you begin.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ rafayel

hands in your hair, rafayel's lips were already open and panting, breath warm and uneven and jaw slacked, well, it's all then and there with no waiting, no warning— just the sudden, dizzying sensation of being devoured by the man you loved.

his tongue was everywhere on you— teasing you, curling and invading your mouth as he moans into your parted lips, pulling your lower lip between his teeth and laughing when you gasp out in slight shock— quite literally, the man loved to push you over the edge, he lived for the sweet, little responses you'd grace him with in return.

from being tangled in your hair to squeezed within your clothes, rafayel slides down further to cup your ass, squeezing the addicting mounds of flesh as you wince into his hold, "ugh, you taste like a bad decision," he smirks, whispering against your mouth, yet already leaning right back in.

before you could even response to him he kisses you harder, deeper, lapping and lapping and lapping his hefty tongue against your own as your hips were grinding against him just enough to make the room spin and your eyes roll back into your skull.

without a doubt, every second with him felt like falling and screaming and shattering all at once— fast at that, disoriented and inevitable when all you needed is for him to imbed you with his scent until there was nothing left of you to claim.

it's there when you realize that rafayel tasted like the sweetest sin that has ever existed, not kissing to seduce, but to ruin— and make sure you’re begging him for it.

for a slight second he pulls away just enough to look at your lips and what he's done to them— and would you look at that? your boyfriend adored the lusting sight of swollen, glistening, needy lips parted and puffed up, "baby, you're gonna be the death of me."

rafayel says it like it's a promise.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ sylus

you can’t call this a kiss— no, not with the way sylus's mouth drags across yours like he's already lost the war against wanting you.

to call it a claim would be closer though, but even that sounds too civilized. there is nothing civil about the way his tongue parts your lips— wet, scorching, impatient, nothing gentle in the sting of his teeth catching your mouth, just enough to pull breath from your lungs and copper to your tongue.

he tastes it— even better, tastes you— and it makes something violent bloom in his chest as he growls out embarrassingly loud, not like an animal but like a man who's tasted divinity and was furious that he ever lived without it in the past.

his grip on your hips tighten as he drags you against him, feeling you up like shame didn't exist in his vocabulary, in fact, it quite literally didn't.

not a flicker of hesitation, not even the illusion of pause— only the dreadful inevitability of a hunger given form around his tongue, his lips moving with the certainty of something long premeditated, as if his body had been waiting its entire life for permission to devour you.

he doesn’t ask for allowance to be rougher, sylus knows he doesn’t need to.

his mouth licks into yours with a frenzied rhythm, like he’s trying to bury every unspeakable thought inside your throat as every shove, every bitten gasp, every ragged exhale that leaves his body was a hidden confession disguised as a dominating sin.

the man was not delicate. he was not kind. but he was true.

terrifyingly, brutally true.

furthermore, his tongue traces a wet line from your bottom lip, creeping toward your jaw, then dipping lower to your neck— infused with desperation and something dangerously raw.

his teeth find your skin at last— not out of need, no, but out of some dark impulse deep hidden beneath his heart, as if marking you up was the only act left that can prove he existed, that he's here, tethered to a body that's already unraveling.

"you have no fucking idea," he pants, his breath a jagged rhythm against your skin as if the act of inhaling and exhaling was the only thing that kept him secured— each exhalation a tremor, a faint admission of the madness threatening to spill over.

he smirks, "what you’ve done to me."

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ caleb

in the language of a yearning man, caleb doesn't speak— instead the silence clung to him like a second skin, as if words would shatter whatever fragile shell still held him upright.

as an alternative, his hands found your waist as he exhales deeply from his mouth when he feels your body— yet tentative at first, but with a pressure that deepens and sharpens, afterwards he leans in to kiss you.

not in a haste, no, not like a man chasing basic pleasure, but like a man aching with his mouth against yours— slow, burning, unbearably tender.

his lips taste of quiet torment, of years spent repressing the thing now trembling beneath his touch and the longer it goes on, the more unraveled he becomes— now here, his breath falters, his jaw tenses and when his tongue brushes up against your own needy one, it is with such aching slowness that it felt like a sin.

he grips your jaw softly, almost fearfully, as if he cannot believe you're letting him touch you as his other hand slips beneath the waistband of your pants— fingertips skimming over your bare flesh and squeezing at it like he's utterly worshipping you.

more and more, you want more but the kiss breaks open, becoming wet and open-mouthed, desperate and messy and ugh— caleb cannot stop and neither can you, even less when you whine at him all quietly and overstimulated, the kind of sound which made a man fall on his knees.

okay, he should pull away, correct? uh, before you'll both be unable to stop and take it further, you see the truth in that?

well, he doesn’t.

and neither do you.

©2025 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify, claim as your own

[angelseraphines]

ೃ⁀➷ playing dangerous ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ hwang in-ho x player!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header!

˚ ༘♡ player 177. your assigned number. the three digits stitched in stark white thread on the coarse forest-green tracksuit now clinging to your body. you didn’t remember putting it on. you didn’t remember anything between falling asleep in your cramped apartment and waking up in this sterile, alabaster void. the tracksuit was loose in some places, tight in others, the fabric rough against your skin, a similar sensation for the discomfort that had settled deep into your bones.

˚ ༘♡ the air here was heavy, oppressive. tension hung over the room like a storm cloud, pressing down on everyone in its path. you sat on the thin mattress of your cot, the iron bars of the bedframe biting into your back as you leaned against them. your throat was dry, your lips chapped, and a faint crust of dried blood clung to the edge of your mouth, an unpleasant reminder of the chaos you’d barely survived. in your lap rested a cold metal bento box, unopened. the thought of eating its contents of rubbery eggs and starchy rice, made your stomach churn. it wasn’t hunger gnawing at you but dread. eating felt like acknowledging the possibility of another day here, in this place where death lingered so close you could almost taste it.

˚ ༘♡ death. it wasn’t something you’d ever had to think about seriously before. you were young, healthy enough, aside from the occasional winter flu. life’s struggles had been mundane, bills, work, nothing quite noteworthy. you’d thought financial trouble was the worst of your problems. how naive that seemed now. the sharp crack of gunfire still rang in your ears, and the memory of bodies crumpling mid-run played in an endless loop in your mind. every scream, every desperate gasp for air as life left someone’s body, was etched into your mind.

˚ ༘♡ this wasn’t life. it was survival, twisted into something grotesque. children’s games weaponized against desperate people for the amusement of others, with the promise of money as bait. one hundred million won for every life taken. your own life, reduced to a figure on a balance sheet. you’d survived the first game, the horrifying version of red light, green light, but at what cost? surely, after witnessing such carnage, the others would have voted to leave. you’d been certain of it. but the desperation was stronger. greed was stronger. most players had chosen to stay, ignoring the horrors of what lay ahead.

˚ ༘♡ “the next game,” player 456 had said, “will be cutting shapes out of dalgona candy. pick the triangle. it’s the easiest.” his voice had carried a strange conviction, and he claimed to know these games intimately, even to have won before. but how could you trust him? maybe he was lying, or maybe it didn’t matter. maybe none of you were meant to leave this place alive.

˚ ༘♡ “hey, 177!” the crude voice shattered your thoughts, dragging you back to the present.

˚ ༘♡ you glanced up to see player 230, “thanos,” as he called himself, sauntering toward you. his garish purple hair stood out like a bruise against the sterile backdrop, and his brightly colored nails flashed as he gestured. he’d painted them to match the infinity stones, leaning fully into the nickname he’d given himself. behind him, player 124 followed, all sharp angles and slicked-back hair, his grin as eager and sly as ever.

˚ ༘♡ “why didn’t you vote for one more game, huh?” thanos sneered, his voice laced with mockery. “you had no problem playing foul last round.”

˚ ༘♡ you frowned, rising slowly to your feet. “you and i both know it was an accident,” you replied steadily. “everyone was running for their lives. i didn’t block your way on purpose. we both finished in time, didn’t we? no harm done.”

˚ ༘♡ he rolled his eyes, his expression exaggerated and spontaneous. “yeah, sure, whatever. typical cold-hearted bitch behavior.”

˚ ༘♡ player 124 cackled at the insult, his laughter harsh and grating. “that’s right. cold, stuck-up bitch,” he echoed, his voice dripping with scorn.

˚ ༘♡ their taunts were designed to provoke you, but you refused to give them the satisfaction. your hands curled into fists, but you forced yourself to relax them, forced yourself to breathe. these two thrived on conflict, and the best thing you could do was walk away. you turned on your heel, ignoring their shouts, and started to move toward the far corner of the room.

˚ ༘♡ “hey! i’m talking to you!” thanos barked, stumbling after you with heavy, uncoordinated steps. he didn’t get far. player 001 stepped into his path, his expression stoic and unyielding.

˚ ༘♡ “don’t you boys have any respect?” player 001 asked, his voice quiet but firm. there was something about him, an emanation of authority that made everyone within earshot pause.

˚ ༘♡ thanos bristled, his arrogance faltering for just a moment. “mind your own damn business, old man,” he snapped, jerking forward.

˚ ༘♡ player 001 didn’t flinch. when thanos lunged at him, the older man moved with startling precision, sidestepping the punch with ease. he grabbed thanos by the wrist mid-swing and twisted sharply, forcing a guttural yelp from the younger man as his knees buckled. with a swift motion, player 001 yanked him forward and drove an elbow into his chest, the dull, cracking impact echoing in the room. thanos collapsed onto the floor, clutching his ribs and coughing violently.

˚ ༘♡ player 124 scrambled forward, his face twisted in fury. “bastard!” he yelled, charging with reckless abandon. player 001 turned just in time, catching the younger man by the collar and using his momentum against him. a sharp twist and a well-placed shove sent player 124 sprawling into the edge of a nearby cot, the metal frame rattling as he hit it with a thud.

˚ ༘♡ the fight wasn’t over. thanos struggled to his feet, his face contorted in pain and rage. “you’re gonna regret that, old man,” he spat, lunging again. this time, player 001’s response was more deliberate. he ducked under thanos’s wild swing, stepped inside his reach, and delivered a devastating blow to his lower torso. the younger man doubled over, gasping, before player 001 swept his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor once more.

˚ ༘♡ not finished, player 124 staggered up again, charging at player 001 with fists raised. the older man sidestepped and grabbed player 124 by the arm, wrenching it behind his back and forcing him to the ground with a hoarse cry of pain. he planted a knee firmly against player 124’s spine, holding him there as the younger man squirmed and cursed.

˚ ༘♡ thanos, blood now trickling from his nose, crawled toward his friend, wheezing apologies and swearing obscenities all at once. player 001 released player 124 with a shove, stepping back as the two younger men lay crumpled together on the floor.

˚ ༘♡ the room was silent, every player watching in stunned awe. then, slowly, the silence broke into cheers and clapping. player 001 straightened his posture, his expression as calm and inscrutable as ever. without a word, he turned and walked back to where player 456 and a few others were gathered, leaving the two troublemakers to nurse their wounds.

˚ ༘♡ you hesitated, then followed him. when you reached his side, you spoke softly. “i wanted to thank you, sir. if you hadn’t stepped in, they wouldn’t have stopped harassing me and disturbing the peace. you’ve done us all a favor.”

˚ ༘♡ player 001 turned to look at you, his dark eyes meeting yours briefly before he nodded. he said nothing, his expression unreadable. there was something deeply weary about him, a weight that seemed to press down on his shoulders. his posture was rigid, his face lined with exhaustion, and though he was relatively handsome, it was the kind of masculine appeal eroded by time and hardship.

˚ ༘♡ you wondered what had brought him here, what had led him to the point where he’d chosen, or been pushed into, to enter this place. you didn’t ask. prying into his past would be an impolite gesture and an indignity for what he had done for you.

a/n: my first squid game fanfiction! i definitely want to write more for hwang in-ho in the future so let me know if you have any requests! 🤍

[falesten-iw]

Nothing can truly show you the reality of what's happening in Gaza, not a picture, not a video, and not even words. The truth is far worse than anything an image can capture. Families are not just enduring genocide, they’re being erased. Their history, their homes, their existence, wiped away like they were never there.

What’s left behind? Bits and pieces. Fragments. A scrap of fabric here, a shattered memory there. People are still trapped beneath the rubble. Some are alive, their voices weak but desperate, pleading for help that will never come. There’s no rescue equipment. No teams to save them. And anyone brave enough to try is met with drones, striking down anyone who gets close.

Those who’ve managed to survive aren’t just hungry, they’re freezing. Imagine huddling in a makeshift tent, shaking not just from fear but from the biting cold that seeps into your bones. The wind tears through everything, ripping apart whatever tiny bit of warmth you’ve managed to cling to. Inside the tent, there’s no comfort. Only the sound of bodies rustling as they try to stay warm, muffled cries of grief, and the haunting sound of people buried beneath the rubble, their faint cries for help echoing in the dark.

The cold doesn’t care. It doesn’t spare anyone—not children, not parents, not the elderly. It sinks into everyone, leaving them numb, both physically and emotionally. Hunger takes what little strength they have left, and the cold takes their hope. This isn’t some tragic story from the past—it’s happening right now. These are my people. This is my family.

A single line can hold the weight of an entire story, and a single choice can save a life. What if you skipped that extra coffee, brush pack, or subscription and put that money toward rescuing lives in Gaza ? One small sacrifice from you could provide food, warmth, or even survival to my family who’ve lost everything.

You might wonder, “Does it really matter? Can I make a difference?” The answer is yes. Every dollar you give is a line of hope, a stand against the darkness. Don’t let this story fade. Don’t let Gaza disappear into silence.

Please help us and donate now if you can, and reblog this post to spread our story.

Vetted and shared by @90-ghost: Link.

Verified and shared by @el-shab-hussein: Link

Listed as number 282 in "The Vetted Gaza Evacuation Fundraiser Spreadsheet" compiled by @el-shab-hussein and @nabulsi : Link

Listed on the Butterfly Effect Project, number 957: Link

Additionally, Al Jazeera News has documented apart of my family's case: Link

If, for some reason, you couldn't donate via GoFundMe, you can donate via PayPal instead.

Donate on GoFundMe: Link

Donate on Paypal: Link

Please keep the conversion rates in mind when donating through GoFundMe. Every 250 SEK is equivalent to 25 dollars, and 506 SEK equals 50 dollars and so on. Note: There’s even a raffle for a handmade Palestinian thob if you want to participate : Link

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[incognit0slut]

was i stupid to love you?

in which a lingering glance at Rossi’s wedding threatens your engagement.

content: angst, 4.8k, takes place right after truth or dare (14x15), a lot of dialogue, mention of prison arc, emotional distress, relationship conflict, not proofread a/n: when was the last time you saw me write angst? exactly. this is inspired by malcolm & marie bc i really like the idea of having an argument while moving around the house (also disclaimer i have nothing against JJ i just like being dramatic)

The lock clicks open. The door swings with a creak. Your heels tap against the hardwood in a hollow rhythm that feels almost too loud. There’s a tightness in your chest, that prickling behind your eyes, and a familiar ache pressing up from the pit of your stomach, churning into a faint nausea that you try to ignore. You’re trying to hold it back.

Not here.

Not now.

Spencer doesn’t even look up. The keys slip from his hand with a soft clink as they hit the side table, and he turns away with a quiet sigh that reverberates deep in your bones.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, tossing a glance toward the kitchen. “Think we could order something?”

You trail after him, the sharp click of your heels echoing as you step onto the kitchen tile. “We just came back from a wedding.”

He’s rifling through the cupboard, his fingers brushing over the mismatched mugs and neatly stacked plates before he pulls down two glasses. “I barely ate anything at the reception.”

You watch him, biting back a response as memories flicker to mind. The slice of cake he’d poked at absentmindedly, washing it down with sips of water instead of real food.

It wasn’t hunger he seemed focused on tonight. No, it was his quiet glances across the room you keep on catching from the corner of your eye, and that conversation he’d had at the bar. The one where his posture softened, his gaze so intent you’d found yourself staring at the back of his head, trying not to read too much into it—and obviously failing.

“Why didn’t you eat?”

He shrugs, his back still to you as he fills the glasses with water. “I don’t know,” he says, sounding almost absent, like it’s something he hasn’t really thought about. “I didn’t get around to it, I guess.”

The muscles in your jaw ticks as you bite the inside of your cheeks.

Spencer turns, offering you a glass. “I was thinking of Chinese, or maybe we can check if that Thai place you like is still open.”

You take the glass from him, barely sparing it a glance before setting it back down on the counter. “Whatever you want is fine.”

A subtle crease appears between his brows. “You sure? You usually have some opinion when it comes to food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You don’t want to eat anything?”

You suppress a sigh. "No. I'm tired."

The soft amber of his eyes dims slightly as he studies you. There's a flicker of uncertainty passing through them before he nods. “Alright,” he concedes. “We don’t have to order anything.”

A faint, humorless laugh escapes you before you can stop it. It tastes bitter, a little unfair, but it slips out before you can pull it back, “You don’t have to change your plans on my account, Spencer.”

“I’m not changing any plans,” he responds. “I’m just making sure you have something to eat in case you’re hungry.”

Your shoes dig uncomfortably into your feet. You shift your weight, starting to pace a few steps back and forth. "It's dinner, you don't have to check on me for every little thing. Do whatever you like."

He blinks, looking genuinely perplexed. "What are you saying? I was trying to be considerate."

"Right. Considerate.”

There’s an unmistakable bite in your tone.

“Yes, because we like doing these things together," he observes, watching your uneasy pacing. "Am I missing something here?”

You shake your head. “Nope.”

"Honey."

The term of endearment lands softly, slipping from his lips like he believes it has the power to melt whatever tension has suddenly crept between you. But it only tightens the knot building in your stomach. It’s stirring the words you’re trying to hold back, tangling them somewhere between your chest and throat.

He calls your name this time, his eyes narrowing into sharp lines. “You’ve been awfully quiet on our way home, and now you’re… honestly, I don’t know why you're acting this way.” His voice dips with a tinge of exasperation. "What’s this really about?"

The words you’ve been biting back feel like a stack of stones in your throat, rising up, up, up, each one pressed tighter by the gnawing nausea in your stomach. You can feel them gathering, and before you know it, they tumble out messily.

“I’m just saying, don’t let me hold you back from getting what you want. I wouldn’t want to stop you from anything—or, god forbid," you add, letting your gaze drift away as if a little distance might soften the blow, “anyone.”

The soft, almost stifled inhale he takes is audible. You don’t even have to look up to see his expression shifting. You’ve known him long enough to recognize the way his shoulders tense, the way his breathing slows as he processes your words. You know his reaction by heart, yet right now, you wonder if saying this was a mistake, if this is the start of something neither of you can take back.

His fingers twitching at his side slip into your line of sight. He's angry.

Maybe this isn’t the time to start a fight.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Your heels click softly as you turn.

“Forget it. I shouldn't have said anything,” you mutter, already moving toward the bedroom that’s been yours, too, for the past year. Although it feels strange tonight, like a space that belongs to someone else. A life you’re not entirely sure you belong in.

“No." His voice is somewhere behind you. “I think you should explain to me what you mean by that.”

You don’t respond, choosing instead to sink onto the edge of the bed, hands fumbling as you try to undo the straps of your heels. You twist the stubborn leather with more force. His shadow fills the doorway.

“Honey.”

Not again.

You decide to ignore him.

“Is there something you’d like to say to me?”

You tug harder at the strap. “No.”

He doesn’t buy it. “You’re clearly bothered by something.”

You shake your head, fingers still fumbling, the leather cutting against your ankle with each pull. “I’m just tired. Can we leave it at that?”

There’s a flicker of frustration in his gaze now, a crease forming between his brows as he studies you. He moves into the room. You barely have the chance to react before he lowers himself, bending one knee to the floor as he reaches toward the strap you’ve been fighting with. “Here, let me—”

“Don’t,” you interrupt, pulling your foot away. “I can do it myself.”

“I know you can. But let me—”

“I can do it myself!”

Your heartbeat thuds loud in your ears, each pulse feeding the frustration that’s wound its way up from your chest. He rises slowly, not a word passing his lips, but the tension radiates off him like heat. He’s close enough that his warmth presses against your skin, although it’s not the kind you usually find comforting. It’s almost suffocating.

You turn your focus back to the stubborn strap, your fingers trembling slightly as you struggle to grip it. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him slipping off his shoes, one after the other, the soft thuds barely audible over the rush of your own heartbeat. He pulls off his suit jacket, carefully smoothing the crumpled fabric before hanging it in the closet. For a moment, it seems like he’s going to let it go… until his gaze drifts back to you.

You can tell his patience is fraying, and you’re proven right when he asks again, “What did you mean by that? When you said you wouldn’t want to stop me from anyone… what was that supposed to mean?”

You finally manage to tug the strap loose. The heel drops to the floor with a muted thump. “It was nothing.”

“I don’t think you’d say something like that if it was nothing.”

Your focus shifts to the other shoe. “Just drop it, Spencer.”

"How am I supposed to drop it when you're implying... whatever it is you're implying?"

You keep your eyes down, wrestling with the strap in silence. He cuts through the quiet before it has a chance to grow.

“Don’t do that,” he says. “Don’t brush it off like it’s nothing when it clearly means something. I need to know why you said that.”

You kick off the other heel and meet his gaze for the first time since you walked into the room. “You really want to know?”

He reaches for his bow tie, yanking it loose it with one hard pull. “Do I want to know why you’re giving me this attitude right now? Yes. Yes, I do.”

Oh. So this is going to be that kind of fight.

You hadn’t expected it to go here. Fights with Spencer are very rare, usually more a clash of misunderstandings that you both laugh about with limbs tangled between sheets by the time you’ve made peace. But seeing him standing there with the tie hanging loosely around his neck and his five o’clock shadow casting an even darker line along his jaw, it hits you differently.

This is real. And this time, you don’t know if brushing it off will fix anything.

“Fine, let’s talk about it then.” You rise from the bed, tension carrying you to your feet. “Emily’s speech tonight.”

His brow furrows, not quite a scowl, more a cautious crease as he processes your tone. “Emily’s speech? What about it?”

“What do you remember of it?”

There’s a slight pause, and you can tell he's clearly caught off guard by the question. “She mentioned how Rossi and Krystal are twin flames."

“Right. Two souls that are always meant to be together.”

His face is still marked by confusion, but there’s something else creeping in. A subtle tightening around his eyes tells you he’s starting to piece it together. “I don’t understand what that has to do with—”

“You looked at JJ the second Emily made that speech,” you cut him off. “Spencer, you didn’t even spare a glance at your future wife because you were too busy making eyes at the woman who’s apparently been in love with you all these years.”

There. You said it. The words that have twisted around your insides all evening are finally out. And maybe they taste a little bitter, but at least they're not choking you anymore.

A second passes, then another, and by the time the fifth heartbeat ticks by, he’s standing there with his hand on his hip.

“That’s not what happened."

“Then what was it?” you demand. "I sat beside you the whole day, you didn't even try to hide it."

“That’s not—you’re twisting things.” His hand moves through his hair, fingers digging in as his curls tumble forward onto his forehead. “And you know what happened that night wasn’t real. It was a forced confession. She was under duress, we both were. JJ and I are just friends.”

You arch an eyebrow. “You look at all your friends like that?”

His hand drops to his side. "I don't know what else you want me to say. JJ said what she did because she thought we might die. She has a family, and a husband who she loves. We already went through this, I don't understand why this is suddenly an issue again."

“Maybe I wouldn’t be bringing this up if you didn’t look at her tonight like you were ready to break up that marriage yourself.”

A flash of shock and anger crosses his features.

“That’s not fair,” he snaps, his voice sharper than you’ve heard in a while. “Do you really think I’d disregard everything I have with you because of a look? Because of a history that has never gone anywhere?”

“I don’t know what to think. It's not like it happened just once, I saw you looking at her the same way at the bar." You step forward, accidentally kicking your discarded heel as you move. "What were you two talking about, anyway?”

He lets out a tight breath. “She was checking in on me. She… we haven’t talked much since then.”

The corners of your mouth pull down. “Mhm. Another round of truth or dare?”

“I can’t believe you’re using that against me." His hair flops forward as he shakes his head, falling messily over his brow. "If there were anything unresolved with JJ, I would’ve said something. But I didn’t, because there’s nothing there."

“And yet, she’s always been an important part of your life, hasn't she?"

He tilts his head. "What are trying to say now?"

Your tongue darts out, briefly brushing your lips. You're not sure you should say it, but it feels like a door has swung open—a door to words that have been waiting for their moment.

You take a slow, deep breath, filling your lungs with as much air as you can.

“When you were in prison, you put her on your visiting list ahead of almost everyone else. Doesn’t that say something about where she stands with you?”

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand over the back of his neck.

“She’s part of the team,” he says, as if he’s trying to spell out something he’s already explained a dozen times. "There were strict rules, I already told you that only a handful of people were allowed to visit. It wasn’t like I could just put anyone on the list.”

“But you could’ve put me on there!”

The familiar burn of tears prickles at the edges of your eyes, but you blink them back, refusing to let them fall. An explanation or protest is poised on his lips, but you’re already moving, closing the distance with a single, decisive step. A finger lands on his chest.

“I was your girlfriend, Spencer. Were you that determined to keep me out? Was the thought of seeing me really so unbearable? Do you even understand how hard it was to sit at home, knowing you were locked up, feeling completely helpless? Do you have any idea how much I hated myself day after day because I couldn’t do anything to help you?”

Your lips quiver. You feel like your heart is about to leap out of your throat.

“I was out here, just… waiting. Wondering if you were okay, if they were treating you alright, if you even had someone to talk to. And meanwhile, she’s there, with you. Every single time, she’s the one who gets to be by your side.”

Your nail digs into the fabric of his shirt.

“So forgive me if I can’t just let that go. Because when it mattered, it felt like you didn’t want me to be there for you. And now… now I don’t even know if you need me the way you seem to need her.”

Your breathing turns shallow, each inhale catching in your chest. The tears you’ve been holding back are dangerously blurring your vision. You swallow the knot lodged in your throat.

“I need a minute.”

Without another word, you turn and walk out of the room, leaving him standing there in stunned silence. You slip back into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as you finally reach for the glass of water that’s been sitting there untouched. You take a sip, barely feeling the cool water on your lips, when you hear his footsteps behind you.

“You think I don’t want you in my life?” he demands. “You think I somehow need her more than I need you?”

You set the glass down. “What part of ‘I need a minute’ do you not understand?”

“You really expect me to wait quietly after you unloaded every doubt you’ve ever had about us?”

You life your chin up. “Yes, I do. I need space to think right now.”

“What more do you want to think about when you’ve already convinced yourself that I’m always going to fall short? Is it so hard to believe that you’re the one I want?”

“You want to know why it’s so damn hard to believe?” You turn towards him. “Because every time I try to let this go, there’s always something. A confession. That—that not-so-subtle look. And when those things happen, it reminds me that I’m not as close to you as she is. I’m fucking tired of feeling like I’m fighting for space in your life.”

“Do you think I want you to feel like that? Do you think I’d go through everything we’ve been through if you didn’t matter to me?”

“Then explain to me why I wasn’t on that list!” you cry out. “Explain to me why, in one of the hardest times of your life, you couldn’t make space for me?”

“Because I was trying to protect you!”

A heavy, dreadful silence falls between you. He takes a step back, his eyelids fluttering shut briefly, and when he opens them again, there’s a softness in his gaze that mirrors the gentleness now threading through his voice.

“I know it probably doesn’t make sense to you, and maybe it never will, but I couldn’t stand the idea of you seeing me like that. Living through it was hard enough, but having you there, seeing me so helpless… It would have crushed me. I didn’t want that to be your memory of me.”

His Adam’s apple dips as he swallows, a quick, almost anxious movement you’ve witnessed countless times.

“And when JJ came to see me,” he continues, “the way the inmates looked at her, the things they said after she left… it was disgusting. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let that happen to you. I couldn’t live with thought of you being subjected to that because of me.”

You lower your head with a sigh. “I don’t care if they looked. I don’t care what they would’ve thought.”

“But I care,” he fires back, taking a step forward. “Because you mean more to me than anyone. All I wanted was to keep you safe, and maybe I didn't handle it right, maybe I made the wrong call... but it was only because I—" His voice drops into an even more gentle note. "Because I love you."

Your heart stumbles, an uneven beat that feels almost bruised, pounding hard against your ribs.

"I-I love you so much. More than I know how to put into words." The ache in your chest sharpens as his hands come up to cup your cheeks. "I don't like fighting with you. I hate it, actually. I hate seeing you look at me like this."

You also hate the way he’s looking at you. There’s a depth to his annoyingly pretty eyes that makes it impossible to hold up your defenses without feeling them crumble. You let your eyes flutter closed.

“Why don’t we… call it a night?” He suggests. “Let’s lie down. We don’t have to talk about this now.”

The blackness behind your eyelids does little to quiet your mind. Nor does his voice. Or his touch. Instead of offering peace, his presence throws every glance, every moment of tension from tonight into sharper relief.

You draw in a breath, trying to find some comfort in his palms against your cheeks. Yet, even this can’t smooth away the doubt that’s settled in. With a resigned sigh, you release the breath you’ve been holding along with the words that have been pressing at the back of your throat.

“You haven’t explained it to me.”

The shadows in his gaze seem to deepen when you open your eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve been going in circles, but you haven’t explained to me what happened tonight,” you say quietly. “Why did you look at her, Spencer?”

His thumb absently strokes your cheek in a way that feels more hesitant than reassuring.

“Be honest with me,” you press. “Was there a part of you, even the tiniest part, that still wanted something with her? Some small part of you that… wondered what it might be like?”

The silence between you presses in from all sides, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant, muffled ticking of a clock on the wall. It’s the kind of quiet that sharpens even the smallest sounds, yet his lack of response feels like the loudest thing of all.

You pull back from him with an incredulous laugh.

“Unbelievable.” The word barely makes it past your lips, then louder as you start to move, pacing the length of the apartment. “Unbelievable.”

“Wait,” he says, trailing after you, “I didn’t even say anything.”

You stop short by the couch and whip around to face him.

“You didn’t need to! You—you hesitated," you stammer, searching his face for any flicker of denial, but it’s there, plain as day, that split-second of doubt you caught. “That was already an answer.”

He inches closer. A hand closes in on you. “Please—”

You flinch, pulling back, and every muscle in your body tightens. “Don’t. Don’t touch me right now.”

His hand falls to his side. “Please… let me explain."

You watch his hand drop, fingers twitching like they’re not sure if they should retreat or reach out again, but he keeps them there, hovering in some invisible line you’ve drawn. He looks at you with those big, pleading eyes, and for a split second, you almost feel bad for him.

Almost.

A bitter sort of smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. "So now you want to explain?"

He takes that as permission, and his voice comes in low, almost cautious. "When I first started at the BAU, I had… maybe a crush. A passing thing, barely anything, really. But that was fourteen years ago.” His hand scrubs through his hair in a frustrated sweep. “Fourteen years."

Your brows pull into a frown. “Why am I only hearing about this now?”

“Because it was nothing,” he says, almost too quickly. “I was young, it didn’t matter. I didn’t think it was worth bringing up.”

“Oh, I get it now. All those old feelings came rushing back the night she confessed, didn’t they?”

He mirrors your frown, a visible line of tension etching itself between his brows as he protests, “It’s nothing like that.”

“Then what is it?” you press. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a whole lot like you’re caught between us because some part of you is still hung up on what might’ve been with her."

He shifts uncomfortably, and you notice the muscles in his jaw clenching the moment his gaze falters, dipping away for just a heartbeat before he looks back at you.

“It’s not that I don’t know what I want,” he starts to explain. “I didn’t expect her to say those things, and, yes, it threw me off for a moment. But that doesn’t mean I’m looking back, or that I want her. I want you.”

You shake your head, feeling a tired sort of frustration settle over you, and walk over to the couch. The soft cushions give slightly beneath you as you sink down.

“If you really wanted me, this wouldn’t be happening. You wouldn’t have let her get into your head like that. And now, you expect to believe that none of it meant anything?”

He’s quick to follow, closing the distance in a few tense steps. “It’s not—” His hands flex open and close at his sides. “You’re acting like one single look tonight is enough to decide I’m not committed to you. Do you really think I’d let some confession I didn’t even ask for get in the way of what we have?”

“It’s not just about that single look. It’s the way she could say something and suddenly, you’re pulled back to something you swore you’d put behind you. How am I supposed to feel secure when she still has that power over you?”

“And what am I supposed to do, then? Apologize for things I don’t even feel anymore?”

You flinch at the sharpness in his voice. A low, frustrated noise rumbles in his chest when you don’t respond.

“You’re always going to question me no matter what I say, aren’t you?"

You glance over at him, catching the disheveled strands of hair falling over his forehead, and it pulls you back to that night he came home after that dreadful night. He’d walked in looking worn in a way you’d never seen before, his whole posture weighted down as if he was carrying more than just the fear of being held hostage.

You remember sitting with him on this same couch, fingers brushing his, and asking what was bothering him.

JJ said she loved me.

Your heart lurched, a quick, quiet ache that you tried to swallow down. Really?

Don’t worry. It’s not true.

But with that same haunted look in his eyes right now, you can’t help but wonder if it really was just a well-intentioned lie.

“One glance and you’re accusing me of things that are never going to happen,” he starts again. “Do you really think so little of me? After everything we’ve shared, you really think I’d betray you like that?”

In true honesty, you don’t believe he would ever cross that line. But the doubts still linger, fed by those small hesitations, the moments when his eyes seem somewhere else. It’s not that you think he’d betray you. It’s that a part of him might still be holding onto something he won’t let you see.

“It’s like you don’t know me at all.”

Now those words you might actually believe.

“Maybe I don’t,” you say quietly, eyes drifting to the ring on your finger. You twist it absently, remembering the night he proposed. How he’d stumbled over his words, his cheeks flushing as he tried to make the moment perfect but ended up rambling in that endearing, nervous way of his. You’d laughed, reassured him that it was exactly right, that you didn’t need grand gestures. All you needed was him.

And yet, you don’t think he needs you as much you need him.

A hollow ache settles around your hand as you slip the ring off.

“What are you doing?”

You stare down at the gold band in your palm, blinking back the sting of tears.

“Tell me what you’re doing.”

Panic. Desperation. There’s a sudden rush of melancholy in his voice, a heaviness that wasn’t there a moment ago.

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I don’t know,” you whisper. “I—I don’t know anything right now.”

His face crumples, and in a sudden, almost instinctive movement, he drops down to his knees.

“No, no, you do know me. I’m sorry… I’m so sorry. Isn’t this—” he stops, then dips his head, trying to catch your gaze. “Isn’t that what couples do? They argue, they mess things up… but they work through it, right? Right?”

You look down, feeling the cool weight of the ring pressing into your skin.

“Spencer…” you begin. “I trust you. I do, and I’m sorry if I made it seem like I didn’t. But… I need to feel secure. I… I need to know that I don’t have to wonder or worry about where I stand. I never thought you’d be the one to make me doubt that.”

There’s a sharp ache in your chest.

“I didn’t think it could hurt this much. Not from you.”

Your pulse ring in your ear.

“I can’t—” The words catch in your throat, a stinging burn rising as you force them out. “I can’t be your wife when I’m constantly questioning if I have all of you. When I feel like… there’s always a part of you that isn’t mine.”

“I’m yours, honey. I’m always yours.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

There’s a slight falter in his voice. “Don’t—please don’t do this—”

“I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

He falls silent, and for a moment, the only sound is the rough, uneven rhythm of both your breaths filling the space between you. Then, like something inside him finally cracks open, he sinks down, pressing his forehead against your lap. The sudden weight of him forces a broken sob from your throat.

“Please,” he begs, fingers clutching at your sides. His chin presses deep into your thigh. “Tell me how to fix this. I can’t— I can’t lose you.”

“Spence…”

“I love you,” he blurts out, the words tumbling from him in a rush. “I love you.”

But what is love, really? Is it just a word people reach for when they’ve run out of things to say, a way to patch over bruised hearts and broken promises? Or should it feel like something more solid, something that doesn’t leave you questioning or aching? You can’t even tell anymore.

You wonder, too, if maybe you’ve been wrong all along. If this feeling in your chest isn’t love but something dressed up as it, something that fills the gaps while slowly hollowing you out. Because here you are, clinging to a love that somehow makes you feel like you’re both needed and unseen. Everything and nothing all at once.

You feel like a fool.

“I want to go to bed.”

His head lifts from your lap, a flash of surprise darting across his face, as though he hadn’t expected you to say anything at all, let alone that. “Yeah, okay, let’s go to bed. We’ll… we’ll figure this out in the morning.”

“I’d rather be alone.”

The words hit him visibly. His mouth opens, an argument forming there, but he catches himself, letting the silence stretch before he nods slowly.

“Then… I’ll stay out here. On the couch,” he offers softly. “Just… in case you need anything.”

A pang cuts through you at the thought of him stretched out on the couch, his legs too long, his shoulders folded in to fit the cramped space. But the idea of sharing a bed right now feels impossible.

You reach down, holding out the ring towards him.

“No,” he says firmly, gently pushing your hand away. “Don’t do that. This… it doesn’t mean we’re giving up. It just means we need time. That’s all.”

You’re not sure if your mind will change in the morning. The ring presses into your skin, but finally, you close your hand around it, nodding faintly before you peel away from him.

The tears start the moment the bedroom door clicks shut behind you. It spills over in a jagged, helpless cry that sounds nothing like you imagined heartbreak might sound. It’s messy, a kind of aching grief that feels too big for your chest, clawing its way out with no grace at all. You can practically hear how pathetic you sound, and yet you can’t seem to stop.

Even when the hem of your dress trails across the floor. Even when you finally collapse onto his side of the bed. There’s no stopping you. With the ring sitting cold in your hand, your tears keep coming, soaking into the pillow as you cling to the last trace of him woven into the sheets.

[stillwatervoid]

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!!!

You're here | Part 2

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.

[gukcnt]

VELVET WAVES ⭒ JJK

in which you go to a vacation in Maldives with your husband, where he shows his love for you by spoiling you with luxuries and passionate experiences that'll forever be in your heart.

pairing — husband dom!jungkook x wife sub!femreader

genre — established relationship, slice of life, domestic vibes, maldives vacation, married life, romance, smut, fluff

warnings/tags — 18+, explicit smut, slowburn sex, emotional and possessive love and intimacy, he is literally so obsessed with her and loves spoiling her, oral sex (f. receiving), breast play, nipple play and sucking, breast worship, making out, hickies/marking, body worship, bruising, scratching, slight pain play, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, missionary position, several orgasms, pussy inspection, fingering, clit stimulation, cum swallowing, eating out, face sitting, face riding, tongue fucking, man handling, hair fisting, dirty talk, praise kink, rough and slow paced sex, emotional sex, overstimulation, crying from pleasure, softest aftercare

wc — 3.2k

m. list

────୨ৎ────

The private jet descended towards the Maldives as you looked out the window, fingers twisting your dress nervously. Jungkook, your husband of two years, beside you, his presence filling the space—broad shoulders and dark hair falling over his piercing dark eyes.

He caught you being anxious, and his eyes darkened. He reached for your hand, calloused hand holding yours with a warmth that grounded you.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice deep, with that dominant edge that always sent a shiver through you.

“No worrying, this is our escape.” his thumb lightly caressed your knuckles. You managed a small smile, cheeks pinking as his eyes held yours.

Like he could see everything going through your mind.

۶ৎ

The air in the Maldives was heavy with the smell of salt and a faint sweetness, the sand felt warm beneath your bare feet, the constant wave of the ocean was a peaceful noise. Jungkook had gone through every detail before you guys arrived here and booked a private villa.

The villa was a masterpiece, with polished floors and sleek furniture. Glass revealed the beautiful view of the beach. The bed was wrapped in a thin curtain that swayed in motion with the breeze. You stood by the window, body clad in a sundress, inhaling the fresh air. Jungkook’s arms wrapped around your waist from behind, chest solid against your back.

“Like it, baby?” he whispered, lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your earlobe, sending a shiver down your spine.

His fingers brushed your hips with a possessive grip, claiming you. You nodded as you leaned against him, his presence and scent making you feel safe.

“It feels so magical,” you murmured softly. “It’s perfect, ggukie.”

He chuckled, a rumble that vibrated through you, so deep and rich.

“Only the best for my girl.”

His arms tightened around you, a promise that expressed fierce and tender love for you.

۶ৎ

The first day of your vacation started. Breakfast was a feast of ripe mangoes, croissants, and champagne.

After breakfast you sat cross legged on a cushioned chair by the beach, enjoying the sun. Your hair loose, swaying in the breeze. Jungkook watched you, gaze heavy, watching the way your lips closed around a slice of papaya, the juice glistening on your lips and dripping on your chin.

His eyes darkened, a silent hunger in them that made your pulse quicken.

After breakfast, he insisted on visiting the resort store with you. It was full of luxury, with expensive dresses and jewelry. You trailed your hands over a rack of gowns but hesitated at the price tags.

Jungkook, unbothered, selected a dress for you that clung to your curves, it was revealing enough with a low-cut neckline, making you blush. He also added shiny earrings, and an anklet made of seashell charms.

“jungkook, this is too much.” you said, voice small and unsure, “I don’t need all this.”

His expression shifted immediately, eyes narrowing as a frown etched his features. He stepped closer with his towering frame and cupped your cheek, tilting your face to meet his gaze.

Your heart thudded, lips parted.

“Sweetheart,” he said firmly, voice laced with a warmth that dimmed this commanding tone.

“I love spoiling you. Don’t ever take that from me.” he rasped.

Thumb brushing over your lower lip, your breath catching, his intense eyes making your knees weak.

“You are my wife, my baby. Let me show you how much you mean to me.”

You nodded with a racing heart, cheeks pinking, and he let out a hum of approval, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Good girl.” he murmured.

The words sending a tremor through you, an ache between your legs just from his words.

By the time you left, your arms were heavy with bags, and Jungkook’s smile was wide and satisfied, his hand rested on the small of your back, possessive and claiming, guiding you out of the store.

۶ৎ

You both decided to swim. Jungkook made sure it was only the two of you in the secluded area.

As always spoiling you.

The sand felt warm and tingly under your feet, the water crystal clear.

You had chosen a flimsy white bikini, its fabric thin and daring. You stepped onto the beach, feeling self-conscious because of how revealing it was.

The top barely containing the swell of your soft, full breasts, nipples hardened against the damp fabric, their outline visible. The panty hinted at the shape of your pussy beneath.

You tugged at the straps, heart pounding. Even though there was no one on the beach except Jungkook, you still felt a bit uncomfortable, not used to being exposed, but Jungkook’s reaction stopped you.

His dark eyes scanned you from top to bottom, jaw tightening, “Fuck, baby,” he growled, closing the distance between you both with two long strides, his hands gripping your waist with a claim that made you shiver.

“Look at you… so fucking unreal.”

His fingers skimmed the sensitive skin of your cleavage, you gasped, the simple touch sending a spark straight to your core.

“I’m so jealous of how this hugs your curve, when I should be the one doing it.” he said lowly.

Your breasts rose and fell with pants from his words, his eyes locked on them.

Almost hypnotized.

“Your tits…” his thumb grazed your nipple through the fabric, you let out a huff, arching into him.

Your hand falling on his bare chest to steady yourself, legs going weak

“And this,” he continued, hand sliding over your bare back before he cups your pussy mound over the bikini.

You gasped out his name with a tremble.

“Show me exactly what’s mine.”

“ggukie.” you whispered, voice shaky with embarrassment, slick pooling between your legs.

He smirked, leaning down to capture your lips in a hungry kiss, tongue tangling with yours, the taste of salt and him overwhelming you as you gripped onto his shoulder, breasts on his hard chest.

“Don’t hide, sweetheart,” he grunts against your mouth, breathing hotly against your parted lips.

“You are so fucking gorgeous, and I want to see all of you.”

He carried you towards the beach, the water was cool and warm against your skin. Jungkook held you close, arms strong and unyielding, legs wrapped around his waist as you floated together.

The moment was peaceful.

You both remained quiet, savoring the feel of each other intertwined underneath the water.

His hands soon started roaming all over your body, slipping beneath the water to cup your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples through the bikini, the wet fabric making the touch even more intense as you let out a soft “hah” in the air.

“God, I love how sensitive you are.” he murmured, lips brushing against your ear.

He pinched your nipples gently, rolling them between his fingers, and you cried out, “ggukie!”

His eyes darkened at the breathy call of his name, your legs tightening around his waist. His cock hard and pressing against your stomach

“That’s it, baby let me hear you.”

Your moans—were his obsession, the way you whimpered along with those gasps, the pleas of his name that spilled from your lips.

“Fuck your noises... baby, they drive me insane.” he rasped.

His words bring out yet another uncontrollable mewl from you, grinding against his swim trunks that held his erection, instinctively, earning a low growl from him.

“Keep that up, sweetheart, and we won’t make it back to the villa.” he warned, but his hands never stopped.

He wanted to see how far you could go.

Teasing your nipples until your body was trembling. Your head tipped back against his shoulder.

۶ৎ

Back in the villa, the air was thick with desire. The scent of salt lingered on your skin, mingling with the scent of your arousal.

His touches were rough as he guided you to the bed, the sheets cool against your heated skin.

He stood before you shirtless, muscles wet with a faint sheen of sweat, eyes locked on yours.

You looked at him, panting with a racing heart, darkness of his gaze promising pleasure and so much more.

“Lie back, sweet girl.” he commanded.

You obeyed, sinking into the plush blankets, pulse wild. He knelt between your legs, hands spreading your thighs. He took off your panties, and you gasped, trying to close your legs, but he held you open.

Your strength nothing compared to his.

He gazed at your pussy, bare and glistening, the cool air brushed against your slick folds, making your clit throb.

His gaze intense on your pussy, like he was inspecting you.

“ggukie, please.” you whined, voice trembling, thighs twitching, his fingers pressed against the soft flesh, eyes glinting darkly, wanting to worship you.

“Don’t hide this from me, baby,” he uttered lowly, voice laced with authority.

“You are fucking perfect.”

His fingers traced your folds, touch featherlight and you gasped, hips bucking.

“mhmm.”

Your pussy was swollen and slick, the scent of your arousal made Jungkook snarl.

“So wet, so goddamn beautiful.” he murmured, thumb brushing your clit, the contact sending a shock through you.

“Ahhmm gosh.” you panted, hand gripping the sheets.

“Look at this pretty pussy, made just for me.”

His words made you squirm, shyness fading due to the heat and need in your core.

He slid a finger inside you, the penetration slow, making you utter a shaky moan as your walls fluttered around him, warm and tight.

“Fuck, you are so tight.” he groaned and added a second finger, the slight burn mixing with pleasure making you let out a desperate sob.

“Please, ggukie.”

Your breathless desperation made his jaw clench. He curled his fingers, stroking that spot deep inside; you arched off the bed, a cry tearing from your throat as you fisted the sheets.

“That’s it, sweetheart, let go.” he said, voice rough.

His eyes remaining locked on your face as he drinks in your every reaction and noise. Your pleasure fueled him almost like he was the one experiencing it.

His free hand palmed his cock through his swim pants, the hardness almost painful, knuckles whitened from how hard he gripped himself.

“You’re so fucking sexy like this, falling apart for me.” his fingers moved faster, in and out, slicked with your arousal, the wet sounds mingled with your cries.

The intensity peaked when he pulled you onto his lap, guiding you to straddle his face. Your cheeks burned, the position exposing you completely, but his hands were impatient and demanding, pulling you down until your dripping pussy hovered over his mouth.

Pussy clenching above his eyes.

The heat of his breath teased your sodden clit making you to let out a mewl.

“Sit, baby,” he ordered, voice firm and the command sent a fresh wave of arousal through you.

“I want to taste every fucking inch of you.”

You lowered yourself with a trembling gasp and parted lips, his tongue flicked out, licking the entirety of your pussy.

You cried out his name instantly.

Gripping the headboard for support. His groan vibrated through your cunt, the sensation making you shake.

“Fuck, you taste like heaven.” he growled, hands gripping your hips, controlling your movements, encouraging you to move and grind harder on his tongue.

He wants you to use his face the way he wants you to.

His tongue was relentless, lapping your folds, savoring the sweet taste of you.

He teased your clit with quick flicks, your thighs quivering, moans loud and unrestrained.

A keening “ohh nghh hahh, ggukie” came out of your drooling mouth, hands tangled in his hair, pulling, making him growl against your pussy.

“Grind on me baby” he urged, lips brushing your clit.

“use my face like a good needy girl, fuck it”

You obeyed.

Hips rolled, and the friction of his tongue against your clit was overwhelming, each flick of this tongue sending you closer to the edge.

He plunged his tongue inside you, thick and hot, fucking your cunt with slow, deep thrusts, his mouth consuming you almost entirely as he drinks from you.

Like a starved man.

Tears pricked your eyes.

The pleasure so intense that it bordered on pain, a sob breaking free, your body shaking. His other hand stroked his cock, your movements and noises driving him wild with need.

“God... you are so fucking perfect.” his voice muffled in your pussy, lips slick with you.

He sucked your clit gently, and you gasped, almost lifting off his mouth, but his demanding hands didn’t let you move, not even an inch, his fingers bruising as he forced you to ride his tongue.

“No more, it’s too much, ggukie.” you huffed.

He acted like he didn’t hear you and kept going until your vision blurred and the coil tightened in your stomach.

When you came, it was with a wail, your pussy pulsing against his mouth, arousal coating his lips. You trembled, supported by his hands as he continued lapping at your release, drawing out pained gasps from you, hands soothing your trembling thighs.

Jungkook laid you back, his patience running out, barely giving you time to breathe.

He freed his cock, the sight stealing your breath—thick, veined, head flushed with need and precum.

You felt a fresh rush of arousal, pussy clenching around nothing at the thought of him inside you.

He kissed you first, his lips soft and demanding, tongue exploring every corner of your mouth. He trailed kisses down your neck and collarbone, sucking gently, leaving faint marks with the graze of his teeth.

When he reached your breasts, he lingered, sucking your nipples until they were swollen and sensitive, each pull of his mouth and teeth drawing moans and whimpers from you, his cock twitching from your noises.

“You are so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, voice thick with raw emotion, “my sweet girl, my everything.”

He positioned himself between your legs, cock brushing your entrance, the hardness of it brushing your entrance, making you moan. Your hands clutched his shoulders, hips bucking.

“Feel how much I want you.” he growled, dragging the head of his cock through your wetness, coating himself.

The slick sound pinking your cheeks as you looked away, panting with warm cheeks

“Ggukie, please.” you begged desperately, and he smiled.

He leaned down to kiss you again roughly, tongue tangling with yours, a fight he always wins.

He pushed himself inside you slowly, making you cry out his name.

“ggukiee!”

The stretch burned deliciously, his heavy and thick cock filling you inch by inch, the sensation was overwhelming.

Your pussy fluttered around him, warm and tight as you took him inside fully.

“Oh, mm, fuck.” you moaned, nails pressing on his back, leaving red trails, and he groaned, a low, primal sound.

“God, I love that.” he growled, eyes fluttered closed, enjoying the delicious sting of your scratches.

“Mark me, baby, show me I’m yours.”

He moved slowly with deep thrusts, the wet sounds of him fucking you filled the room, mingling with your breathy and whiny moans.

“You feel like fucking heaven.” he said roughly, gripping your hips, guiding you to meet his thrusts the way he wants to.

He was in control of your body.

It made you even more aroused, if that was even possible.

“So tight, so wet, all for me.” he groaned.

His dirty talk fueled your arousal more; you trembled, and sharp “ohs” and “ahs” left your mouth with each thrust of his cock inside your pussy.

His eyes remained on your face, memorizing all your reactions.

“My perfect girl” his lips brushed your earlobe, before he bit it softly, making you whimper.

“You take my cock so well, like you were fucking made for it.”

You sobbed, back arching with your pussy clenching around him.

Being filled by him over and over again, pushing you closer.

“That’s it, baby, milk me, fuck.” He grunts, the thrusts get faster and more forceful, each one deep, he hits that spot inside you that makes you see stars.

He worshiped your body like you were his goddess, along with that.

He squeezed your bouncing breasts, thumbs pinching your nipples until you were writhing.

The dual sensation too much for you.

He left small marks all over your neck, marking you, while never stopping his relentless thrusts.

Your sobs and moans grew louder and shakier, and it drove him wild, cock twitching inside you.

You both came together, your orgasm crashed through you hard, a wail tearing from your throat as you clung to him, sobbing, your nails digging into his skin.

He grunts, filling you with spurts and spurts of his own release, teeth biting your shoulder.

“Are you okay, my baby?” he asks, gently pulling out of you, bringing you into his arms.

You nod, too tired to speak up, just enjoying and soaking up his presence. Your pussy was achy and throbbing, dripping with his release.

But you felt so good.

You rested on his chest, a small smile tucked on the corner of your lips, his heartbeat steady against your cheeks.

۶ৎ

Aftercare has always been your favorite with your husband.

Jungkook cleaned you with a warm cloth gently; his touch felt soothing against your sensitive, raw skin.

The room was quiet, only the distant waves could be heard and the sound of both of your breathing mingling together.

The air still heavy with the smell of sex and salt. He kissed your forehead softly, lips lingering.

Your body tired but heart full.

“Sweetheart,” he hums, voice soothing yet thick with emotion, “you’re my entire world, you know that, don’t you?”

His fingers drew small patterns on your back, grounding you to him, his words making you shiver.

“I would burn the whole world down to give you everything.”

You whimpered at his words as you looked at him with glistening eyes, his love for you overwhelming.

“jungkook, you already give me everything” you breathed.

“You make me feel so loved... so whole.” you whispered, own voice trembling with feeling.

His eyes softened, a rare crack in his dominant facade, reserved just for you, he never lets anyone see him so vulnerable and open.

“You’re my baby,” he whispers.

“my sweet girl. I’m fucking obsessed with you—your laugh, the way you blush and the way you say my name like its goddamn everything”

You buried your face in his chest, feeling overwhelmed. You traced the scratches you made on his back.

He kissed you slow and deep, lips hungry, proving all his devotion for you.

“I will never stop wanting you, never stop needing you.”

Your silent claim on him.

“I love you.” you murmured, breath fanning his chest.

He held you tighter, as if he never wanted to let you go.

۶ৎ

The next few days, the vacation passed like a dream neither one of you wanted to end.

Moments of comfort and connection.

Each day brought something new—watching sunsets together, sharing dinners under the night sky and small, quiet, intimate moments.

But that one night stood out the most, the sound of the waves in the background and the way he held you, as if nothing else mattered.

That moment forever in your heart.

His love for you deeper than any ocean in the world.

[rawan-soso]

MY SISTERS AREN’T DOING WELL!!

Soso is struggling to recover from chickenpox, her fever keeps coming back and the hot weather isn’t helping. We barely have any food to give her to help her immune system fight the disease. She’s too thin, too small and too weak for her age. She cries constantly from pain and hunger. Our other sister keeps fainting due to malnutrition.

We struggle to stay afloat due to the insane prices. $1,000 for 25kg of flour. $150 for 1kg of sugar. Fruits, vegetables and meat are hopeless. Hygiene products and medicine are a luxury.

I know we’re not the only ones asking and I know you guys are struggling too. I understand that. But please at least share if you see this. There are people out there who can afford to donate and I need to reach them!

✅Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #347 )✅

PLEASE DONATE HERE

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

ARE YOU A P★RN STAR?

paring : phainon, mydei, anaxa, aventurine, sunday x f!reader

tws : nsfw / smut, creampie (vaginal), cow-girl, nipple play, biting, hair pulling, tit-fucking, slight slut-shaming, breeding kink, licking, spitting in mouth, degradation, humiliation, nasty sēx, filthy sēx, cōck-drunk reader, slight pūssy drunk Sunday and spanking.

synopsis : when the fucking is sooo good he thinks you’re a pornstar. minors do not interact.

☆ PHAINON !

Your thighs are shaking from the effort, hips grinding slow but deep, taking every inch of Phainon’s cock like you were born for it. His back is relaxed against the headboard, long white hair draped across the pillows like silk, armor undone just enough to expose his pale chest and the faint sheen of sweat catching in the hollow of his throat. He watches you ride him like it’s a performance made just for him—those blue eyes soft, but hungry.

His hands are everywhere. One draped low on your waist, thumb brushing just beneath your bellybutton, right over the obscene bulge his cock makes inside you. The other? Pinching your nipple between gloved fingers, tugging and rolling until your breath stutters and your body clenches down around him.

“Mmnh—fuck, P-Phainon…” you whimper, already a wreck.

He laughs softly—low, intimate, like you’re the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted.

“You ride me like you’ve done this before,” he murmurs, gaze lazily trailing from your tits to your hips. “You fuck me like you’re on camera. Should I be tipping you for this performance?”

Your face burns, but you moan when he rolls his hips up into you, stretching you even deeper. The size of him still makes you twitch, even after being split open for so long—your cunt sucking around him greedily, sloppy and wet, strings of slick coating his thighs. He’s so thick it hurts, but you don’t stop riding. You can’t.

Phainon leans forward with a soft growl, grabs your jaw, and coos, “Open.”

You obey, mouth wide and tongue out like a good little pet—and he spits. Warm and slow. It hits your tongue and you moan, dizzy and desperate. His smirk deepens as he watches you swallow it without hesitation.

“That’s it… fuck, you’re perfect. Filthy little thing,” he whispers, brushing your bottom lip with his thumb. “So sweet when you beg for it, but look at you now. You’re just a slut when I let you ride, hm? Just a tight little hole to milk me dry?”

His words make your hips stutter, your body starting to fold forward, overwhelmed and clenching.

“Aww,” he croons, mocking gently, “You gonna cum from that? From just being used? Go ahead, baby. Cum on it—show me how bad you want to be full.”

He grabs your hips, holding you steady, and fucks up into you with slow, brutal force. Every thrust is heavy, obscene—your soaked cunt squelching around him, drool slipping from your lips as you cry out, helpless to stop it.

“I’m gonna cum—!” you sob, nails digging into his shoulders, body trembling violently.

Phainon’s voice is low and rough now, breath hitting your ear. “You’re gonna take every drop. You hear me? I’m gonna fuck it so deep it sticks. I want it dripping out of you for hours, ruining your thighs—soak the sheets, make a mess. That’s what this pretty pussy’s for.”

You scream his name as you cum, hard and loud, pussy locking down around him in waves. And he keeps going.

Keeps. Fucking. Up. Into. You.

He watches your eyes roll, your body twitch and convulse, your moans turning to dumb little cries as you drool down onto his chest.

And then he groans—deep. Loud. Body tensing. He thrusts up and stays buried, cock twitching inside you as he cums. Hot. So much. You can feel it pulse, feel your insides getting filled, and the warmth makes your legs give out.

But he doesn’t stop.

He fucks it in. Keeps thrusting slow, deep, holding your hips down while he pumps every last drop inside. You’re whimpering, overstimulated, already full—but he groans again, voice raw with hunger.

“Did I say I was done?”

His hand reaches between your legs, fingers to your clit, rubbing in slow, cruel circles.

“I want to see it spill. I want to watch you leak all over me. But not yet—not till I’ve filled you again. You’ll take it. All of it. You’re mine. You were made to be fucked like this.”

You sob, nodding, brain white-noise and legs trembling.

And Phainon smiles, soft and wicked.

“That’s my good little star. Keep riding. We’re not stopping, ‘till you can’t take it anymore.”

☆ MYDEIMOS !

Mydei’s hands are brutal on your hair, gripping thick strands and yanking your head back just enough to expose your neck. You gasp, mouth open, lips wet and trembling from how badly you need him. Your body is a trembling mess—so soaked, so hungry for every inch of him that your thighs won’t stop trembling, your hips nearly losing all control.

He leans in, teeth grazing your skin with sharp bites, lips trailing down your neck in hot, sloppy licks that leave you gasping and squirming.

“You ride me like you’re some kind of fucking pornstar,” he growls, voice low and ragged, dragging you down to his level by your hair. His golden eyes flash with fire and something darker—pure, raw hunger. “How the fuck do you ride this big cock like that? You trying to make me cum everywhere?”

You whimper and moan against him, your tongue slipping out to taste the salty skin beneath his jaw. Your mouth moves on instinct, licking and biting his neck with a desperate need that makes him snarl in pleasure.

“Fuck, you’re so wet. So goddamn messy. You’re leaking all over me, babe. You want me to breed you, huh?” His grip tightens, fingers clawing into your hair harder, making your head jerk back. “Tell me you want to be full of me. Tell me you want me to fill you up till you can’t walk.”

You nod, breath coming in desperate gasps, voice trembling but raw with need. “Please, Mydei… fuck me so hard. Fill me up. I want all of you.”

He snarls, pushing into you with a force that steals your breath, hips slamming up with hard, punishing thrusts that make your whole body scream. Your nails dig into his shoulders, clutching him like a lifeline as he fucks you deep, balls slapping against your slick folds.

His mouth finds your throat, teeth sinking in just enough to leave marks as he growls, “You’re mine—mine to breed, mine to ruin. You’re gonna take every last drop, you hear me? Fill you up so full you’re dripping and leaking all over my cock.”

Your moans come out choked and messy, your head spinning from how good it feels and how much you want more. Your pussy clenches uncontrollably around him, soaking him through and through, desperate for every thrust.

Mydei’s hand moves down to your breast, grabbing hard, fingers pinching your nipple until you cry out and arch into him, your mouth falling open in a shaky gasp.

“You’re a filthy slut for this, huh?” he spits, voice thick. “Riding me like I’m the only one who’s ever fucked you right. Like you belong to me.”

You whimper, biting your lip hard, tongue flicking out to taste the salty mix of sweat and spit that drips from his mouth.

“You’re such a whore, aren’t you? Can’t get enough, can you? Riding me like your whole world depends on it.” His thrusts get faster, rougher—pounding you deep and hard until you’re nothing but heat and wetness and trembling flesh.

He growls again, voice low and deadly, “Cum for me. Show me how bad you want it. Show me you’re mine.”

You scream his name, cumming so hard it feels like your body’s going to shatter. Your legs shake violently as he keeps fucking you through every wave, dragging you down into a dark, filthy haze where nothing exists but him pounding into your dripping cunt.

When he finally cums, his roar is deafening, hips jerking hard as he spills inside you, filling you so full you swear you can feel every hot drop.

He holds you tight, fingers tangled in your hair, and breathes out, “Goddamn… you fuck like you’re getting paid, baby. You’re mine.”

Mydei’s not done making you his messy, dripping little breeding prize yet—he’s got you right where he wants you, and he’s about to push you even further over the edge.

His heavy breaths fog up the room as he pulls out just enough to watch your body tremble, slick and swollen around him. Your pussy is dripping wet, dripping all over his thick cock, and he’s gripping your hips hard—like he’s marking you, claiming you as his.

“Look at you,” he snarls, eyes dark and wild, “so fucking needy and fucked out already. You want more, don’t you? You want me to fuck you again and again till you’re shaking and begging?”

You’re panting, cheeks flushed and slick with sweat, mouth open in a desperate pant. You nod, words falling apart in your throat, but your body screams the truth—soaked, slick, full of that raw hunger only he can feed.

His hand snaps forward, grabbing a fistful of your hair again and yanking your head back hard enough to make you gasp in pain and pleasure. His lips find your jawline, biting harshly then licking the bite like a cruel lover savoring his prize.

“You’re mine,” he growls, voice rough like gravel, “and I’m gonna breed you so hard you won’t remember your own name. You’re gonna ride me until you’re leaking all over my cock, crying my name like the filthy slut you are.”

You moan, trembling, the words like fire in your veins. You feel so empty and so full at once—your pussy dripping, clenching, burning from how much you’ve already taken, but still aching for more.

Without warning, he flips you over with brutal strength, pressing your chest down to the mattress. Your breath catches as he slaps your ass hard, a loud smack echoing in the room.

“On your hands and knees. Take it like the good slut you are.”

You obey instantly, hips jerking back when he lines up and slams back inside you. His cock stretches you deep and hard, driving into you with rough, punishing thrusts that make your vision swim.

His hands grip your hips and then slide up to your waist, squeezing hard, one hand trailing down to find your clit. He rubs it fast, cruel, making you squeal and shake as he fucks you harder.

“Look at this pussy—mine, dripping all over my cock,” he growls, voice thick with lust and satisfaction. “You gonna take every drop I give you? Gonna let me breed you full?”

You’re choking on a sob, biting your lip so hard it bleeds, body trembling in pure overstimulation. His cock pushes deeper, hitting places that make you scream.

His hand shoots forward, grabbing your hair again, yanking your head back so you meet his gaze.

“Say it,” he commands, teeth flashing, “Say you’re mine.”

“Mine…” you gasp, tears streaming,

“That’s it. Good girl.”

His thrusts speed up, pounding into you with merciless force, hitting deeper, stretching you wide until you’re shaking violently beneath him.

Your moans turn into desperate cries as you cum again, hard and wild, pussy clenching so tight around him he groans deep in his throat.

And then—his own body tenses, hips jerking as he empties inside you, filling you with hot, sticky ropes of cum. You’re so full you feel like you might burst, but he holds you tight, fucking you through every pulse until he’s spent.

Finally, he collapses next to you, fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you close.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, voice low and satisfied, “always.”

☆ ANAXAGORAS !

Anaxa’s eye bore into yours like a predator sizing up his prize. The heat in the room was thick enough to suffocate, but you barely noticed—because you were already drowning in the feeling of him beneath you, the way his body pressed up, claiming every inch of your skin.

He smirked, that slow, dangerous smile that promised both pleasure and pain. “Are you sure you’re not some kind of fucking porn star?” His voice was low, teasing, laced with a hunger that made your breath hitch.

You flushed, heart pounding as you rolled your hips over him, feeling the thick length of his cock pressing deliciously against your slick core. “Maybe I am,” you whispered, biting your lip. “Maybe you’re just lucky enough to find out.”

Anaxa chuckled, a throaty sound that sent vibrations right through your bones. His hands slid up your sides, fingers curling around your ribs before slipping under your shirt to cup your tits. The warmth of his palms set your skin on fire.

His thumbs found your nipples instantly, flicking and pinching with expert precision. You gasped, hips stuttering as a sharp spike of pleasure radiated through you. “God, you’re so fucking sensitive,” he murmured, eyes gleaming with cruel delight.

You whimpered, arching into his touch as he tightened his grip. “Don’t stop,” you begged breathlessly. “Please.”

Anaxa’s grin deepened. “You’re such a dirty little girl, begging like that.” His fingers pinched harder, rolling your nipples between thumb and forefinger until you squirmed under his hands.

You leaned forward, lips brushing against his jaw, breath hot and shaky. “Make me yours,” you whispered, “Breed me, Anaxa. Fill me up.”

His hands dropped from your chest, one sliding to grip your hip firmly while the other tangled in your hair, pulling your head back just enough so you met his smoldering gaze.

“Ride me like you mean it,” he growled, voice low and dangerous.

You lowered yourself slowly onto him, every inch of his thick cock sliding deep inside you. The sensation was overwhelming—hot, full, and utterly consuming. You closed your eyes, savoring the way he stretched you, the way your bodies fit perfectly together.

Anaxa’s hands gripped your hips, steadying you as you began to move. You set a slow, steady rhythm, hips rolling forward, grinding down onto him like you were claiming him as yours.

He moaned, low and rough, fingers digging into your skin. “That’s it, Show me how badly you want this.”

You bit your lip, cheeks flushing hotter as you picked up the pace, bouncing on him harder, hips snapping with urgent need. The slick sound of skin sliding against skin filled the room.

Anaxa’s hands roamed your body—down your back, tracing the curve of your ass, up your sides again, before settling on your breasts. His thumbs returned to your nipples, flicking and twisting them with expert teasing.

Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering shut. The mixture of pain and pleasure was intoxicating.

“You’re such a fucking good girl for me,” he whispered, voice thick with desire. “So wet, so ready. You’re made to take me like this.”

You gasped as his cock pulsed inside you, hitting deep with every thrust. You felt your body tightening, the coil of pleasure building faster and faster.

Anaxa leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re going to come for me, I want to see you lose control.”

Your hands clenched into fists at his shoulders as your hips moved frantically, desperate for release. The warmth in your tummy bloomed, spreading out in waves of heat and dizzying pleasure.

“Fuck, yes,” you moaned, voice breaking. “Anaxa—please.”

He growled, thrusting up harder, faster. His grip on your hips tightened, nails biting into your skin as he chased his own climax.

Your body tensed, muscles trembling as the first orgasm crashed over you, hot and overwhelming. You cried out, head thrown back as you rode the wave, trembling beneath him.

Anaxa didn’t let up, driving into you with fierce determination, pushing you through your high and straight into his own.

His breath came out ragged, voice thick with need as he cursed your name, releasing deep inside you with a shudder.

The heat of his seed filled you completely, and you felt yourself soften around him, a delicious haze settling over your senses.

He pulled you close, arms wrapping around your waist, holding you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

“Mine,” he whispered, lips brushing over your temple. “Always mine.”

You smiled, heart pounding, chest rising and falling beneath his steady hands. “Forever.”

Anaxa’s fingers drifted back to your nipples, pinching and rolling the sensitive buds even as he held you. “Look at you—marked, full, and dripping for me.”

You shivered, nerves raw and trembling, but burning with satisfaction.

“You’re my perfect girl,” he murmured, voice rough with pride. “And I’m never letting you go.”

Your breath hitched again as his lips trailed down your neck, teeth grazing softly.

“Ride you again?” you whispered, needy and bold.

Anaxa laughed, deep and satisfied. “Always.”

You rose up, hips moving slow at first, savoring the feeling of his cock filling you, then faster, harder, until the room echoed with your cries and his low groans.

He teased your nipples mercilessly, flicking and pinching, the pleasure sharp and delicious, pushing you closer to the edge again and again.

“Come for me, baby doll,” he growled. “Fill me up, show me how good you are.”

Your body clenched, eyes closing tight as another shuddering orgasm tore through you.

Anaxa matched you, crashing over the edge with a groan, his seed hot and wild inside you.

You collapsed together, sweat-slick skin pressed tight.

“Porn star,” he whispered with a smirk, voice teasing but full of love. “That’s exactly what you are.”

☆ AVENTURINE !

Aventurine’s grin was slow and knowing as he watched you settle onto his lap, the heat between your bodies already thick enough to choke on. His fingers traced lazy patterns across your thighs, teasing the bare skin visible beneath your skirt as you straddled him like you owned every inch of the bed.

“You like sitting on me like this?” His voice was low, smooth, carrying that teasing edge that made your pulse race. His hands slid up, palms pressing against your hips, fingers digging in just a little, reminding you he was in charge even as you took the lead.

You smirked, hips rocking gently in response, feeling him hard and ready beneath you. “Maybe I do.”

His breath hitched as you pressed closer, the wet heat of your slick folds brushing his cock, already thick and aching inside his pants. He tugged at the waistband of his trousers, sliding them down with a lazy, possessive tug until his length sprang free—long, thick, and already glistening with precome.

“God, you’re so fucking sexy,” he murmured, hands gripping your hips tighter, thumbs tracing circles on your skin. “Look at you, all wet and hungry.”

You leaned down, lips brushing his jaw, voice breathy and low, “You want to taste me?”

Without hesitation, he tipped his head, catching your mouth in a slow, deep kiss that burned with heat and promise. His tongue slipped inside, exploring, claiming, as his hands roamed your back, pulling you flush against him.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, nails raking gently, teasing him as you slid your hips forward, rubbing yourself against his bare cock. The slick, sloppy sound of skin meeting skin filled the air, wet and messy.

He groaned into your mouth, hands moving to your breasts, cupping them hard. His thumbs flicked over your nipples, rolling the hardened buds until you shivered against him, breath hitching.

“God, your tits are fucking perfect,” he whispered, pulling back just enough to suck one nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing lightly, sucking and biting with delicious possessiveness.

You gasped, arching into him, slick folds grinding harder against his cock as you felt him pressing up, aching to slide inside you. His hands moved lower, gripping your hips as he lifted you up and down, slow and steady.

“Ride me,” he commanded softly, voice thick with need. “Make a mess on me.”

You sank down onto him, slick warmth swallowing his length as you moved in a steady, slow rhythm. The bed creaked beneath you, the slick, sloppy sounds of your bodies moving together filling the room.

His hands gripped your waist, thumbs digging in as he held you close, pressing his chest to your back. His lips brushed the curve of your neck, leaving hot kisses that made you shiver.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, voice low and possessive. “So fucking perfect.”

You leaned forward, hands on his chest, grinding harder as the coil inside you tightened. His cock pulsed inside you, thick and demanding, filling you completely.

His fingers slid under your shirt again, squeezing your tits roughly, thumbs flicking your nipples as he thrust up into you. The mixture of his hands on your tits and the feeling of him deep inside sent your breath spiraling.

“Don’t stop,” you begged, voice trembling.

He didn’t. His hands rolled your nipples between fingers and thumb, pinching harder now, his cock pistoning inside you with relentless, messy force.

You cried out, the pleasure spilling over, burning through your veins as you came hard, muscles clenching around him, squeezing him deep.

He groaned, voice rough as he followed, releasing with a shuddering growl, thick ropes of cum flooding into you, hot and heavy and marking you.

You collapsed against his chest, breath ragged and sweat-slicked skin pressed tight. His hands still kneaded your tits, thumbs flicking the sensitive nipples as he whispered against your ear, “So fucking beautiful when you come.”

You whimpered, lips brushing his neck. “More.”

He laughed low and dark, hips still twitching as he slid one hand down to your dripping folds, fingers slipping inside you to stroke and tease.

“Always more,” he promised, eyes burning with hunger.

You pushed up, grinding back onto his fingers as he sucked your neck, marking you, claiming you.

His hands tangled in your hair, pulling your head back gently so he could look at you. “You like being my messy little slut?”

You nodded breathlessly, lips parting in a needy smile.

He leaned down, capturing your mouth in another deep, possessive kiss before rolling you onto your back. His hands roamed your body like he was memorizing every curve, every inch of wet skin.

He cupped your breasts again, this time bringing them together as he lined his cock up with your mouth. “Show me how much you want it,” he murmured.

You wrapped your lips around the tip, sucking him slowly, tasting yourself on him, the slick warmth mingling with his salt and musk.

He groaned, hips jerking as you deepened the kiss, his cock filling your mouth, hands tangled in your hair to hold you steady.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark and hungry. “Such a fucking good girl.”

He flipped you back onto your hands and knees, pressing you into the bed as he knelt behind you. His hands gripped your hips hard, spreading your legs wide.

“You’re so wet,” he growled, pressing his cock against your entrance before sliding inside with a slow, deep thrust that stole your breath.

You cried out, his length stretching you open, filling you completely.

His hands slid up to your chest, squeezing your tits roughly, thumbs pinching your nipples as he started pounding into you from behind, messy and relentless.

The slick sounds of your bodies slapping together filled the room, mixing with your cries and his low, filthy growls.

He reached around to cup your face, brushing your hair back as he whispered, “You’re mine, and I’m never letting go.”

You shivered, body trembling as the coil of pleasure built again, thick and wild.

“Come for me, baby,” he urged, voice rough. “Let me fill you up again.”

Your body clenched, muscles spasming as you came hard, hot, and wild.

He followed, releasing deep inside you once more, his breath ragged as he held you close.

You collapsed together, slick and tangled, the mess of cum and sweat marking the proof of your fire.

He kissed your shoulder, voice soft but still thick with want. “You’re perfect. Always.”

You smiled, flushed and trembling. “Yours.”

☆ SUNDAY !

Sunday doesn’t stop staring.

From the moment you straddle him, skirt rucked up around your waist and nothing underneath, his pretty yellow eyes go wide. His tongue darts across his lip as you sink down, slow, letting him feel every second of his thick cock sliding into your soaking heat.

“Ah—fuck,” he gasps, hands trembling against your thighs, grip tightening like he’s scared you might disappear. “You’re… you feel… you’re too good, it’s too much—”

You lean in, planting both hands on his chest, your hips starting a steady grind, slow at first, then with a messy slap that makes both of you gasp. His wings twitch. Delicate, those opalescent wings behind his ears flutter once—like a flicker of his pleasure leaking out without his permission.

You smirk. “You always this sensitive, or is it just me?”

He groans, high and desperate, his hands flying up to cup your hips. “Just you. Fuck, just you. I never—never felt anyone like this—”

Your pussy squeezes around him hard and he shakes.

“God,” he pants, “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You roll your hips in a deep, dragging circle, the sound of your soaked cunt taking his cock again and again filling the air, lewd and obscene. His head falls back against the pillows, neck exposed, flushed and gleaming with sweat.

“You gonna cum already?” you whisper sweetly, nails dragging across his chest, over the silk of his shirt. “Just from me bouncing on it a little?”

“D-Don’t say it like that—!” His hands jerk against your thighs, trying to grip harder, control something, anything, but you keep riding him with that same smooth rhythm, your pace unbothered, steady, cruel.

He bites his lip hard, hips stuttering underneath you. “I can’t—fuck—slow down—I can’t—”

You grab a fistful of his soft silver hair and yank his head up.

His gasp is filthy, his whole body jolting. The wings twitch twice, shivering behind his ears like they’re about to start fluttering full-on.

“Oh, you like that, huh?” you coo, watching the heat bloom across his cheeks. “Good boy.”

A noise slips from his throat—high, broken—and he chokes on his own breath, trying to thrust up into you even as you keep control of the rhythm. His cock twitches deep inside you, so hot and swollen you can feel the desperation in every twitch of his hips.

“I wanna fill you,” he babbles, helpless. “I need to. You’re gonna take it, right? All of it? Let me stuff you full—make you mine—”

You laugh, filthy and delighted, and bounce harder, the lewd sounds of your bodies clapping together echoing around the room.

“Then do it,” you purr. “Breed me, Sunday.”

His eyes flutter back in his head, hands flying to your ass, squeezing hard as his body tenses—

And then the wings behind his ears start flapping.

Not twitching, flapping. Fast, erratic, panicked with pleasure as he cums inside you hard, his breath stalling, mouth open, hips jerking helplessly. Thick warmth spills inside you, pulsing deep as he fills you to the brim.

“Ahhh—oh fuckfuckfuck—!” he whimpers, panting as your pussy keeps milking him through every wave of orgasm. “It’s so good—I’m gonna—gonna—nghh—”

You don’t stop.

Even as he shakes and trembles, you keep moving, rolling your hips slow and mean, making sure every drop stays buried deep inside. His cock twitches again, and he sobs, clinging to you like his life depends on it.

“I can’t—can’t stop cumming—” he gasps, voice thick and wrecked. “Feels too good—too fucking good—!”

You grab his face, tilting it toward you as you ride him into overstimulation.

“Then don’t stop,” you whisper, voice syrup-sweet. “You wanted to fill me, right? Then make sure it sticks.”

He cries out, hands tangled in your skirt, his breath ragged and broken. His wings keep flapping, wild and frantic with every wave of pleasure that wrecks him.

You slow the pace, dragging his cock deep inside with each bounce, making him feel every squeeze of your walls, every slick movement. He’s whining now, legs trembling, face buried in your chest.

“More…” he breathes. “I need more—can’t stop—I wanna do it again, wanna fill you up again—fuckfuckfuck—”

You grin, raking your fingers through his messy hair.

“You really are needy,” you hum. “Cute.”

He looks up at you, face flushed, lips parted, pupils blown wide. “Say it again,” he pleads. “Say I’m yours. Say you want it—want me to breed you again—”

You ride him slow, deliberate, dragging his cock out almost to the tip before sinking back down with a wet, squelching sound that makes you both moan.

“Breed me again, Sunday,” you whisper, voice hot in his ear. “Put another load in me. Ruin me.”

He whimpers.

His cock twitches violently, already hard again despite the mess dripping between your thighs. He grabs your hips and begs— “Pleasepleaseplease, let me, I can, I swear, I’m gonna give you everything—”

You lean down, mouth at his ear, whispering filth while grinding your clit against him.

His wings flutter again, light and frantic, like they’re betraying every desperate, aching feeling he can’t put into words.

You kiss his cheek, sweet and cruel.

“Then give me everything, sweetheart.”

Sunday is panting underneath you, his flushed chest rising and falling fast like he just ran a marathon. His soft white hair sticks to his forehead, his yellow eyes glazed over as he tries to remember how to speak.

You’re still on top, your thighs sticky and sore, cum dripping out of you in slow, hot spurts, but you don’t move. His cock is still buried inside, twitching weakly, too sensitive, too hard again.

His trembling fingers trail up to your hips. You watch him gulp, throat bobbing, his mouth barely working before he blurts out—

“…Are you a porn star or somethin’?”

You blink. Then laugh, hard.

He looks up at you like you’re magic and sin wrapped together, his pretty little wings flapping weakly behind his ears as he stares in complete awe.

“I’m serious,” he breathes, sounding dazed. “That was—that was not normal. No one’s ever—fucked me like that—talked like that—rode me like—like you knew exactly how to break me—”

You smirk, leaning down, your lips brushing over his jaw.

“Poor baby,” you purr, voice like warm syrup. “You thought you could handle it. Thought you could just lie back and breed me like it was gonna be easy.”

He groans like you punched the air out of his lungs.

“You made me—f-fuck, I came so hard I think I blacked out,” he admits, his cheeks bright red. “My legs don’t even work. You milked me.”

Your hips roll again, slow and taunting. He yelps, body jolting underneath you, tears prickling in the corners of his pretty golden eyes.

“You’re still hard,” you whisper, amused, “and you’re still inside. You wanna go again?”

He makes a broken, needy sound in the back of his throat, hands gripping your waist like you’re the only thing tethering him to reality.

“Yes,” he pants. “God, yes. Please, again. I’ll cum again, I swear—I’ll give you so much—I wanna fill you until it leaks out when you walk—‘til I can see it dripping down your thighs—”

His wings twitch harder, that fluttering picking up again. You grab one fistful of his hair and pull, and he moans.

“Such a messy little thing,” you say sweetly. “You like that your cum’s dripping out of me, huh?”

“Yes,” he whimpers.

You clench around him on purpose, just to watch his jaw go slack and his back arch off the sheets.

“That’s why you thought I was a porn star?” you tease, licking along his cheek. “Because no one’s ever let you cum this much?”

“N-No one’s ever—talked like that—fucked like that—”

You start to move again, your pace a little meaner now, riding him slow but deep, messy wet sounds filling the air as another rush of cum spills from between your thighs.

His head falls back, mouth open, eyes fluttering.

“Oh fuck—again—” he gasps. “You’re gonna make me cum again—so fast—ah—ahhh fuck, you’re perfect—”

You lean close to his ear, your voice low and hot.

“Gonna knock me up this time?” you whisper. “Gonna make it take?”

He screams.

His hands dig into your hips, slamming you down onto him as he cums again, hard and fast, stuffing you even fuller than before. His wings beat out of control behind his ears, frantic, like they’re about to lift him off the bed.

“Oh fuck—baby—fuck—it’s so much—!” he moans, sobbing as he pumps you full again. “I can feel it—it’s everywhere—fuckfuckfuck—”

You rock against him gently as he twitches, body shaking under you.

By the time you finally still, both of you ruined and soaking in his cum, he’s just staring up at you. In love. Destroyed. Worshipful.

“…You gotta tell me if this was real,” he whispers, hoarse. “Because if you’re not a porn star, I think I just saw God.”

You grin.

“I’m not a porn star, sweetheart,” you whisper, brushing his hair out of his eyes, “I’m worse.”

And Sunday’s pretty little wings shiver all over again.

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[fleurbly]

SOME HELL TO TAKE US TO HEAVEN

summary: the silence between you and him breaks the night you seek the gardener's touch, but it's remmick who finds you— bloodstained and defiant. blood stains everything, and remmick's claim is darker and more relentless than ever.

warnings: infidelity (just a smooch on the lips dw), angst, explicit content, sex in front of a corpse, blood kink, breeding kink if you squint, themes of: jealously, obsession, and possessiveness, violence (very subtle), oh and did i mention finger licking smut.

pairing: remmick x reader

w/c: 7k+

MINORS DNI, DNI IF TAGS AFFECT YOU

You don’t remember what day it is.

It never matters.

The curtains are always drawn. The clocks are always quiet. The house is too big, too clean, and too still—like it’s waiting for something. Or maybe mourning something that already happened.

You move through it like you’re underwater. Every step soft, every room colder than the last. The halls stretch on forever, filled with portraits you don’t recognize and furniture no one ever uses.

Servants pass you in silence. Eyes down. Hands folded. Like they’re scared of you. Or worse—trained.

You don’t speak. You don’t sleep.

You just… exist.

And Remmick?

He watches you like he’s still afraid you’ll disappear. Like he hasn’t already taken everything that made you you. He walks beside you, sits across from you at the long dining table, always close, always quiet. Pretending this is normal. Pretending you’re his.

But you remember the moment it all changed.

The pleading. The bite. The way his hands shook when he held you down and said, “I won’t let you go.”

You didn’t want forever.

He gave it to you anyway.

Now you wake up in silk sheets and live in a world you never chose. A beautiful, lifeless cage. A body that doesn’t age. A heart that doesn’t beat.

And somewhere deep down, past the numbness, past the quiet—

You’re starting to feel angry.

You sit at the long dining table, the weight of the silverware pressing cold against your fingers. The breakfast on your plate sits untouched for minutes, the eggs turning gray and the toast hardening. You drag your fork around the plate, making little circles but not really eating. You don’t remember the last time you felt hunger—or anything much at all.

The house is quiet. Too quiet. Only the faint rustle of curtains in the breeze and the distant creak of floorboards remind you it’s alive.

Remmick is across from you, staring in that calm, quiet way he always does. It’s been weeks—maybe months—since either of you spoke more than what was necessary. The silence between you is thick and cold, like a wall neither wants to break.

You stare down at your plate again, wishing you could disappear into the cold marble beneath your feet.

Then, finally, he speaks.

“We brought in a gardener,” he says, voice low and rough like it’s no big deal.

You lift your head, surprised. “A gardener? That’s pretty dumb, don’t you think? Bringing someone new here when we ain’t even allowed outside.”

He shrugs, like it don’t bother him none. “Agnes wanted it. Said the place’s been dead quiet for too long. Said we needed somethin’ living around.”

You know Agnes. The old woman who’s been here forever, watching you both with eyes that never miss a thing. She’s the only one who knows everything. She knows what Remmick did to you—how he stole your life and made you this.

You stare at Remmick. “You know Agnes knows what you did. She knows you forced me into this. You took my life and left me stuck.”

His eyes darken. “I did what I had to. I ain’t about to lose you—not again.”

You shake your head bitterly. “Well, hiring a gardener so I can watch someone else live while I’m trapped here? That’s just cruel.”

He doesn’t say nothing else. Just leans back and watches you, calm but burning underneath.

You stare at him a moment longer, the silence stretching between you like a thick rope pulling tight.

Finally, you break it. “Does Agnes even know what it’s like? Being stuck in this place, livin’ forever like some damn ghost? Watchin’ the world move on without you?”

Remmick’s jaw tightens. His eyes flick away, then back, like he’s fighting some words. “She knows more than you think. Been around long enough to see what all this does.”

You scoff, bitter and sharp. “Yeah, well, seeing ain’t the same as caring.”

He leans forward then, that rough voice low and steady. “I care. More than you know. Don’t mean it ain’t hell, but it’s hell with me by your side.”

You want to yell at him. To tell him he can’t fix this, that you don’t want his kind of ‘care.’ But the words catch somewhere deep, tangled with the pain and anger you both bury.

So you stay quiet.

Remmick’s gaze softens for the briefest second, then hardens again like he’s pulling himself back from something.

“Look,” he says, voice rough but honest, “I’m tryin’. Maybe not the way you want. But I’m here. Ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

You want to believe him. You want to reach across the table and grab whatever’s left of him. But all you do is swallow the lump in your throat and stare at the cold silverware in your hands.

Outside, somewhere beyond these walls, the gardener moves through the grounds. A reminder that life still breathes—even if you don’t.

You stand in the darkest corner of the big, empty room, where the sunlight never quite reaches. The curtains block most of it, but thin slivers sneak through, carving pale lines on the floor and dust motes drifting lazily in the air. It’s cool here, the only place you feel safe from the harsh, burning world outside—because you know you can’t touch it.

Outside the window, the gardener moves through the sprawling gardens, wiping sweat from his forehead and rolling up his sleeves. His skin shines faintly, alive and warm in a way you’ll never be again. You watch him carefully, fascinated, like he’s a mystery you don’t quite know how to solve.

He’s new. Someone who’s not bound by the silence or the rules of the house. Someone who probably hasn’t been told to never speak to you or anyone else. And maybe, just maybe, someone who reminds you what it feels like to be mortal.

Your fingers curl around the edge of the windowsill, gripping it as if it might hold you in place. You’ve never felt this strange mixture of jealousy and hope. You don’t know what he’s thinking. You don’t know if he sees you.

The house feels heavy around you, like it’s trying to pull you back into its cold grip.

Curiosity pushes you forward, and before you know it, you’re moving quietly down the marble staircase, your footsteps silent against the thick rug. You slip through the halls, careful to stay in the shadows, your heart hammering in a way it hasn’t in years.

You round the corner near the kitchen just as the gardener comes through the back door, pushing his shirt up over his head to wipe the sweat from his neck. His skin gleams faintly, muscles flexing with the motion.

You don’t mean to make a sound, but your sudden breath catches in your throat, and you startle him.

He spins around, eyes wide and alert, the shirt falling back into place.

You hold up your hands, trying to calm him. “Sorry… didn’t mean to scare you.”

He blinks, recovering quickly. “Uh… no worries. You’re…?”

…someone who’s not usually seen,” you say, lips curling into the ghost of a smile. “But I live here.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing just slightly, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking or testing him. “Didn’t know anyone was home. I’ve been out there all morning.”

“I noticed,” you say, voice softer now. “From the upstairs window.”

He rubs the back of his neck, still a little out of breath. “Guess I should’ve waved.”

That almost makes you laugh. Almost. You step closer, just enough so you’re no longer tucked behind the hallway wall, but still safely out of reach of the sunbeams stretching across the floor.

“You’re the new gardener,” you say, like you’re confirming it for yourself.

He nods. “Yeah. Nate. Got the job through an old lady—Agnes, I think?”

That name makes your spine stiffen.

You nod once, slowly. “She’s been here a long time.”

“She kinda runs the place?”

You huff under your breath. “Something like that.”

He looks at you again, this time longer. Not in a rude way, just… curious. Trying to place you. “You don’t look like staff.”

“I’m not.” You glance past him at the open back door. Bright light spills in, touching the edge of the stone floor. You don’t go near it.

He follows your gaze, then looks back. “You alright?”

You pause. It’s not a question you get asked. Not by anyone real. Not for years.

“I’m fine,” you lie. “Just… not used to new faces.”

“Well,” he says, wiping his hands on his jeans again, “guess we’ll have to fix that.”

You don’t answer, but you don’t turn away either.

And when he walks past you toward the hallway, whistling low under his breath, you feel something strange stir in your chest.

Something close to warmth.

Something dangerously close to wanting.

You’re still watching the hallway where the gardener disappeared when a voice, low and surprised, cuts through the silence behind you.

“Well, I’ll be.”

Your body tenses. Slowly, you turn your head.

Remmick stands just behind you, arms crossed over his chest, leaning lazily against the doorway like he hasn’t been watching this whole time. Like he didn’t just catch you somewhere you never should’ve been.

He raises an eyebrow, eyes cutting toward the door.

“You lost or somethin’, sweetheart?”

You blink, mouth parting. “I was just…”

“Just what?” he asks, stepping further into the hall, boots soft on the rug. “Wanderin’? Sightseein’? Didn’t know this dusty corner of the house got so interestin’ all of a sudden.”

You don’t answer. You don’t lie, either.

Remmick watches you a moment longer, then tilts his head slightly.

“You’ve been actin’ strange,” he says, quieter now. “Since the new hire showed up.”

You look back toward the door. “It’s nothing.”

“Yeah?” His voice drops, soft but sharp. “You sure? ’Cause I ain’t seen you downstairs in… what, months? And now you’re standin’ here like you’re waitin’ on somethin’. Or someone.”

You clench your jaw, gaze fixed on the sliver of sunlight crawling across the tiled floor.

“I’m not waitin’ on anyone,” you mutter.

Remmick steps closer, slow and deliberate. Not enough to crowd you — just enough to remind you he’s always near.

“Agnes said you been quiet lately,” he says. “Quieter than usual. Though then once this boy shows up, and suddenly you’re wide awake. That ain’t nothin’, darlin’. That’s somethin’.”

You finally turn to face him. His expression is unreadable, calm, but watching you like a hawk.

“You spying on me now?” you ask, voice cool.

He chuckles under his breath. “You really think I ever stopped?”

You hate that he’s probably right.

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. The hallway feels too still. Like the house is listening.

You fold your arms, lean back against the wall. “You jealous?”

Remmick’s mouth twitches, but not into a smile.

“I don’t get jealous,” he says. “I get curious. And right now, I’m real curious why you’re suddenly watchin’ a man who don’t even know what you are.”

You look away, throat tight. “He doesn’t matter.”

His voice lowers. “Then why’re you still starin’ at that door like he’s comin’ back?”

You don’t answer.

And Remmick doesn’t push.

After a long moment, he sighs, voice low and rough. “I don’t know what you’re playing at,” he says, stepping closer, eyes sharp. “But if I were you, I’d stop. Before I cut off your little… interactions with him.”

You turn to face him, eyes hard.

“Cut me off?” you repeat, voice steady. “You think you can control who I talk to now?”

He shrugs, but there’s something dangerous in his calm.

“I don’t have to control you. You choose to stay here. In that room. Away from everything. Away from me.”

Your jaw tightens.

“Maybe I choose it because it’s the only place I don’t have to feel your breath on my neck.”

Without another word, you turn sharply on your heel and stride away, each step fueled by the fire burning beneath your skin. Your anger drowns out the heavy silence, your heart hammering louder than your footsteps.

Remmick’s voice cuts through the still air, rough and urgent, but you don’t look back as he yells out your name angrily.

It had been more than a month since the gardener arrived.

Since Nate arrived.

Time slipped strangely in this place — too fast when you wanted it to slow down, and agonizingly slow when all you wanted was change. You had been watching him from windows, from shadowed hallways, from the corners where the light didn’t reach. And during that time, Remmick had… changed.

He wasn’t gone. Not really. He still lingered in doorways, in mirrors, in the space just behind your shoulder. But he spoke less. Watched more. Distant — or something like it. If someone asked, you wouldn’t even know how to describe what he was to you. Not a lover. Not anymore. Not since that last touch that barely felt like one. Not since you started counting the silence between his visits.

You thought maybe he was pulling away.

Or maybe you were.

It’s late when you go downstairs. The house is quiet, like it’s sleeping. You like it that way. No voices. No eyes. Just your bare feet brushing against the cold wood as you make your way to the kitchen. You weren’t expecting to see anyone. You weren’t wearing anything special — just the same worn shirt and shorts you always wore to bed, your hair a little messy, your eyes tired.

You reach for a glass, the tap whispering as you fill it.

Then you hear a soft sound — a shuffle behind you.

You turn slowly.

And there he is. Nate. Standing near the far end of the counter, like he’s been there a minute or two but didn’t want to scare you.

“Oh—sorry,” he says quickly, hands lifting a little. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

You blink, heart giving a strange little lurch. “No, it’s okay,” you say. “Just… didn’t think anyone else was up.”

He gives you a small smile, eyes flicking down, then back up. “Could say the same about you.”

He looks warm, even in the dim light. Hair tousled, shirt a little wrinkled like he’d been tossing in bed, or hadn’t gone at all. He leans back against the counter, arms crossed lightly. He’s looking at you in a way that makes your skin feel too tight.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you say.

He nods. “Same.”

The silence stretches between you again, but it isn’t awkward. It’s just… charged. You sip your water, but your hands feel shaky.

You shouldn’t be here.

Not with him.

Not like this.

He moves before you can think too hard — steps just a little closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to feel it. That tension. That pull. That thing inside you that’s been curling tighter and tighter the longer you go untouched.

“Do you… like it here?” he asks, voice low.

You glance up at him. “This house?”

He nods.

You shrug, setting the glass down. “It’s not really a matter of liking it. It’s just where I am.”

He watches you for a second, then says, “Doesn’t feel like you belong here.”

That makes you laugh, soft and dry. “You’re not the first person to say that.”

He tilts his head. “I don’t mean that in a bad way. You just… feel too real for a place like this.”

You don’t know what happens next. Maybe it’s the way he says it. Or the way he looks at you like he actually sees you. Or maybe it’s the memory of how long it’s been since anyone reached for you like they meant it.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re stepping into him — and kissing him.

It’s not gentle. It’s not planned.

You just grab the front of his shirt and pull him in like you’ve been starving for it. His mouth is warm, surprised at first — then hungry. You taste sweat, sleep, something earthy. Something real.

Your body presses to his, your fingers curling into the fabric like it’s the only thing holding you together. His hand finds your waist, fingers tentative but firm. You let yourself sink into it — dizzy, warm, burning. You don’t even realize your eyes are closed until the kiss breaks and you’re left panting.

You step back a little, your heart thudding loud in your ears.

“I…” you start, but the words fall apart.

You don’t know why you did it.

To feel something?

To forget how cold Remmick has become?

To punish him for every time he looked through you like glass?

You shake your head, unable to meet Nate’s eyes.

“I don’t know what came over me,” you whisper.

And it’s true.

But you already know it’s too late to take it back.

And then —

A creak.

The subtle, dragging sound of worn shoes on wood.

You look up, heart jerking into your throat.

Agnes is standing in the doorway.

Half-shadowed, half-lit by the hallway lamp behind her. She says nothing. Just… stares. One hand curled loosely around the hem of her shawl. Her face unreadable. Pale eyes watching like you’d stepped into a play she’s already seen before.

You jump, hands instantly pushing Nate back.

Too late.

Agnes doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

Just stands there, unmoving.

The room feels suddenly colder.

You open your mouth. No words come.

She still doesn’t say anything. Just… slowly turns and walks back into the hall.

Like she never saw a thing.

But you know better.

You felt her see it.

ADD DIVIDER HERE

Dinner sat cold between you, untouched like everything else lately. The quiet in the room wasn’t peaceful — it was heavy, like a weight pressing down on your chest. You could feel Remmick’s eyes burning into you from the other side of the table, watching, waiting. He wasn’t moving, just sitting there, hands clenched on his lap, jaw tight.

Finally, he spoke. His voice was low, slow, and rough with anger— that drawl twisting his words like a knife. “You don’t have much appetite these days. What’s eatin’ at you, huh?”

You didn’t answer. You kept your gaze on your plate, tracing the chipped edge with your finger, your stomach knotting with guilt and something else. He leaned forward a little, eyes sharper now, darker— like he was trying to burn the truth out of you.

“Agnes told me. She seen you, didn’t she?” His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “Saw you with that damn gardener. Told me every goddamn detail.”

You finally met his eyes. “She doesn’t know what she saw.”

His laugh was cold, bitter. “Don’t play me for a fool. I’m not blind, and I ain’t stupid.”

You shook your head slowly, stubborn as ever. “I didn’t plan it. But it happened.”

His fist slammed the table, rattling the dishes. “You kissed him.”

“Yes,” you said, voice steady even though your heart felt like it might burst. “I needed something real. Something you stopped giving me.”

His eyes burned brighter, fury laced with jealousy. “You think you just walk up and take what you want? What makes you think he’s better than me?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and met his gaze head on. “We used to be something, Remmick. But you… you turned me into someone I didn’t even recognize.”

“Don’t you dare say that,” he snarled, voice shaking with barely contained rage. “I’ve been here. Every damn day.”

“Not really,” you snapped back. “You’ve been here, but you’ve been gone. You stopped touching me, stopped looking at me like I mattered.”

He stood up suddenly, boots thudding on the floor, pacing like a caged animal. “You think I don’t want you? You think I’m not burnin’ up inside watching you slip away?”

You stayed seated, jaw tight, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you crack. “I didn’t ask for this,” you said. “But it happened. I was starving for something real. And you—you left me starvin’ in this goddamn house.”

He stopped pacing, stepping close enough that you could see the wild fire in his eyes. “You’re mine,” he growled, voice low and fierce. “And don’t you forget it.”

You lifted your chin, cold and defiant. “Then maybe you should’ve acted like it before this got so damn far.”

The silence stretched between you— thick and electric. Neither of you moved, caught in the eye of a storm that was only just beginning to rage.

The tablecloth whipped off the long wooden table with a sudden, violent yank. Plates, glasses, silverware—all smashed onto the floor, the crash echoing like gunshots in the stillness of the room. Your breath hitched, heart pounding loud in your ears, while your eyes darted between the shattered mess and the man standing right in front of you.

Remmick wasn’t just angry—he was a storm about to break. His gaze burned through you, dark and wild, and before you could even think of moving, his hands shot forward and grabbed the arms of your chair with a grip so tight it almost hurt. His fingers curled around the wood like iron clamps, pinning you there.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sheer force of it. You were trapped, caged, held in place not just by his hands but by the fierce, furious energy radiating off him. He wasn’t letting you go. Not now. Not ever.

He leaned down slightly, his face close enough that you could see every flicker of rage and desperation in his eyes. His voice dropped low, rough like gravel scraping against stone.

“Where d’you think you’re gonna go, huh?” he growled, his breath hot against your cheek. “Out that door? Back to him? Like you could just walk away from me like I’m some damn ghost?”

Your chest tightened, lungs struggling to draw a steady breath under the weight of his stare. You wanted to pull away, to push him off, but his grip was relentless. It was like he was physically tethering you to this moment, refusing to let you slip away.

“You think you can just throw all this away? After everything?” His voice cracked, raw with jealousy, pain, and something dangerously close to obsession. “You think I’m just gonna sit back and watch you... fall apart in someone else’s arms?”

The heat of his anger was suffocating, but beneath it, you caught something darker—something broken. A twisted kind of love that wasn’t tender or soft. It was jagged, sharp, and fierce, and it clawed at your skin.

“I’m not lettin’ you go,” he snarled, voice dropping even lower, almost a whisper now, like a threat wrapped in a confession. “You’re mine. You don’t get to just walk outta here and pretend like nothin’ happened.”

Your mind reeled, heart pounding like a wild drumbeat. You’d never seen this side of him before—so raw, so brutal. You wanted to fight back, to break free, but there was something about the way he held you, caged you, that made you freeze.

For a long moment, you just sat there, breathing hard, caught in the storm of his fury and the tangled mess of your own guilt and stubbornness.

Suddenly, he pulled back. Like your skin had burned him.

Remmick ripped his hands off the chair and staggered back a few steps, running both hands through his hair hard— fisting the hair, tugging like he needed pain to ground him. He paced, turned halfway from you, then spun back like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to yell or throw something.

“I can’t even stand to look at you right now,” he spat, voice rough and shaking with rage.

You flinched, just barely. But he caught it.

“Oh, now you flinch?” he barked, laughing bitterly. “That’s rich.”

His boots scuffed loudly against the floor as he paced again, one hand bracing on the back of a chair like he was trying to hold himself up. His chest heaved with shallow, furious breaths.

“You—you went behind my back,” he said, louder now, like each word was being dragged out of him. “With him. Like I was some fuckin’ ghost to you. Like I didn’t matter.”

You opened your mouth, but he was already shaking his head.

“Nah. Don’t. Don’t give me some half-assed excuse. Don’t act like you didn’t know exactly what you were doin’. You knew what it would do to me.”

He turned to you again—his expression cracked open, not soft, but shredded. Angry and hurt and unhinged all at once.

“Get outta my sight.”

You didn’t move.

“I said go,” he snapped, voice breaking. “’Fore I say somethin’ I can’t take back. Because right now? Right now I don’t even know what the hell’s stoppin’ me.”

You stood slowly, your legs shaking under you, but you held his gaze. Even as his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might shatter. Even as his hands curled into fists at his sides.

He looked at you like you were everything he’d ever wanted and the one thing that could destroy him in the same breath.

You stood there, hands trembling at your sides — not from fear, but from everything boiling under your skin. You stared him down, jaw tight, pulse hammering in your throat.

He wanted you gone? Fine. But you weren’t walking out without saying what needed to be said.

“You wanna act like this is new?” Your voice was sharp now, cold, slicing through the tension like a blade. “We were already done the second you turned me, Remmick.”

That stopped him cold.

He froze mid-step, back to you, fists clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white. You could practically see the heat rolling off him as the silence stretched—tense, waiting, dangerous.

He turned around slow. Eyes wide, lips parted like he couldn’t believe you actually said it. “You wanna say that again?” he asked, low and lethal.

You didn’t hesitate.

“We. Were. Done,” you repeated, voice louder now, throat burning. “The moment you made that choice for me. When you took everything I was and twisted it into something that only fit you.”

He laughed—but it was wrong. Broken. Hollow and dark and shaking with disbelief. “So that’s it? That’s what I am now? Some monster who ruined you?”

“You didn’t ruin me,” you snapped. “You lost me. Big difference.”

That did it.

He exploded.

In one motion he kicked the chair nearest him hard, sending it crashing against the wall with a loud bang that echoed through the room. He looked like he didn’t know what to do with his hands—like he wanted to break something or scream or grab you and make you feel how much you still belonged to him.

“You think I didn’t feel that night?” he shouted, voice fraying. “You think I didn’t carry it with me every goddamn day since? I never wanted to hurt you!”

“But you did,” you said, voice low now. “And you keep doing it. With silence. With anger. With this—” you gestured between you, the broken plates, the broken everything. “This isn’t love, Remmick. Not anymore.”

His chest heaved, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might snap.

And then he did the worst thing of all.

He said nothing.

He just looked at you—ruined and furious and helpless—and didn’t say a damn thing to stop you as you turned to leave.

It had been a month.

Thirty long, bitter days where silence settled in like mold, clinging to the walls, seeping into the floorboards. If it was even possible, the house felt darker now. Quieter. Not just in sound—but in weight, in presence, in everything it used to hold.

You hadn’t seen Remmick since that night. Not properly, at least. You felt him, though. Somewhere in the house, pacing the halls like a storm with nowhere left to strike. His boots echoed sometimes through the upstairs hallway in the dead of night—slow, heavy steps that always stopped right outside your door. But he never knocked.

Surprisingly, he never did anything about Nate either. Never went after him. Never brought it up again. That made it worse somehow—like he was waiting for something. Or maybe punishing you by doing nothing at all.

You avoided Nate like the plague. You couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t let yourself. Not when everything between you was soaked in guilt. Not when Agnes had seen. Not when it had blown your world apart.

And Remmick? You hadn't spoken a single word to him.

Not one.

Agnes knocked every evening, soft little taps against the wood. Sometimes she even called your name, her voice muffled, strange, unreadable.

You never answered.

You only opened the door once the hallway was empty, grabbed the plate of food in silence, then set it back out hours later—cold and barely touched. Some nights you didn’t eat at all. You weren’t even sure you were hungry anymore.

You were more of a ghost now than anything else.

No longer someone loved. No longer someone feared.

Just… someone who had ruined everything.

You knew it was your fault. There was no denying it now, no softening it, no excuse to spin. You’d kissed Nate. You’d let it happen. You didn’t stop it. You’d looked at him like he saw something in you, something good. And you liked it.

But liking it didn’t make it right.

Liking it didn’t take back the way Remmick had looked at you that night— like you'd broken him in a way that couldn’t be put back together.

The walls of your room felt tighter now. Smaller. You spent your days staring out the window, watching a world that moved on without you. The curtains stayed drawn most of the time, and the air smelled like dust and rain.

You didn’t know what you were waiting for. Maybe you were just waiting for something to change— anything. But the silence held. And so did you.

The house was silent that night. Not just quiet— silent. The kind of stillness that felt too heavy to be natural. It clung to the walls, to the floor beneath your bare feet, and hummed in the corners like it was waiting for something to break.

Everyone was probably asleep.

Probably.

But you knew better.

Remmick was out there somewhere. Watching. Listening. Waiting. He always was.

You stood in the middle of your room for a long time before moving, staring at the door like it might open on its own. Like someone might be out there, daring you to step through.

But nothing happened.

Still, something tugged at you. Hunger. Thirst. Anger. Everything. It was all wound tight inside your chest like a coil ready to snap, and you were tired of pretending it wasn’t.

So you opened the door.

The hallway was dim, only moonlight from the windows painting long lines across the wooden floor. No footsteps. No voices. Just that same thick silence.

You didn’t look around. You didn’t need to.

You already knew he was there. Somewhere in the dark. Watching. Always watching.

But you didn’t stop. You walked down the hallway, each step slower than the last, until you reached Nate’s door. You didn’t knock.

You just turned the handle.

He was sitting on his bed, still fully dressed like he hadn’t expected to sleep. Like maybe part of him had been waiting, too. His eyes widened the moment he saw you, surprise flickering fast across his face.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, cautious.

You didn’t answer. You stepped inside, closing the door gently behind you with a soft click. Nate stood up slowly. “Hey,” he said again, softer now. “Did something happen?”

Your eyes met his, and something in your stare made him pause. You weren’t the same as you had been a month ago. There was something darker behind your gaze now—something that didn’t flinch.

“You were right,” you said calmly, walking toward him. “That night in the kitchen. You saw something in me. And I think I liked it.”

He blinked, clearly unsure if this was real. His shoulders tensed. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you and Remmick, but—”

You cut him off with a smile. But it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.

It was sharp.

“Remmick doesn’t matter tonight.”

Nate stared at you, jaw clenched. He didn’t move as you stepped closer. You stopped only when you were a breath away, your hand lightly grazing the front of his shirt.

“You missed me, didn’t you?” you whispered, voice honey-slick and low. “You’ve been thinking about it. About me. About what could’ve happened if we hadn’t been caught.”

His breath hitched. “You’re not like this.”

“Not like what?” you asked, tilting your head. “Honest? Hungry?”

You leaned in closer, brushing your lips near his ear. “Desperate?”

Nate’s hands hovered in the air like he didn’t know whether to touch you or push you away. “You’re upset. You’re not thinking straight.”

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. “I’ve never thought clearer.”

He swallowed hard, eyes scanning your face. Your expression didn’t waver. There was nothing soft left in it.

You reached up and placed your hands gently on his chest. Your fingers moved slow, deliberate, dragging across the fabric. You could feel his heartbeat, fast and unsure.

He exhaled shakily. “Why are you here?”

Your hands stilled. Then you smiled again.

“Because you wanted me here.”

And he did. That much was obvious. But something deep in his gut started to twist. Unease. Fear. He opened his mouth to speak again, to say something, anything—

But your hands were already moving.

You leaned in, close enough for your lips to graze his jaw.

Then, just as your voice dropped to a whisper:

“I’m sorry.”

Your mouth met his neck.

And then you bit.

Blood was everywhere.

It soaked the sheets, dripped onto the hardwood, splattered across your arms, your throat, your collarbone. Nate’s body lay discarded on the floor, neck torn open, eyes still wide in shock. The warmth of him was already fading, pooling dark beneath him like ink bleeding from paper.

You stood over him, chest heaving, hands shaking—but not from regret. Not fear.

No.

From something colder. Hungrier.

The silence in the room was thick—until it wasn’t.

You didn’t hear the door open.

But suddenly, he was there.

Remmick.

He stood in the doorway like a shadow made flesh, his tall frame swallowing the moonlight, eyes locked on you—not the body, not the mess, just you.

And he looked...

Ravenous.

Not angry.

Not shocked.

Devoted.

His boots tracked slowly through the blood, staining the soles, leaving red prints behind. He stopped right in front of you, barely inches away, breathing heavy like he’d run through hell itself.

His eyes roamed over your face—bloodstained lips, crimson smeared down your chin, the violence still fresh—and for a second, it looked like he might drop to his knees.

Instead, he laughed.

A low, broken sound, hollow and ragged. His fingers twitched at his sides.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, the faintest drawl coloring the edges of his words. “You’re somethin’ else.”

You said nothing. Didn’t need to.

He stepped closer, hands grabbing your face—rough, trembling.

“You ain’t got no idea what you’ve done to me,” he breathed, forehead pressing to yours, voice cracking with raw, fevered need. “I watched you. Saw you take him apart. Lord, I ain’t never wanted anything more than I want you right now.”

Blood still dripped from your skin, slick and warm. His thumb brushed your lower lip, smearing the crimson like it was sacred.

“I thought I was losin’ my mind before,” he whispered, grip tightening, “but now? Seein’ you like this?”

He laughed again, sharp and wild.

“I’m done for. I’m gone.”

His mouth hovered near yours—not to kiss, but to breathe you in.

“You don’t even understand what you are,” he hissed. “You think this is guilt? That you’re some kinda monster?”

His eyes traced the blood on your throat like it belonged there. “This here? This is power, darlin’. This is love.”

You didn’t move.

You didn’t flinch.

Something deep inside, long buried and dark, started to believe him.

He leaned down, lips grazing your ear, voice dropping low and rough, the accent thickening like smoke curling in the dark.

“I wanna ruin you,” he said. “Wanna worship you. Watch you tear the whole damn world apart and know you’ll come home to me when you’re done.”

His fingers curled tighter under your jaw. No restraint left in his eyes.

“You don’t get it, do ya?” he whispered. “You just became mine. Again. And this time? This time I ain’t lettin’ you go.”

Your breath caught, tears burning behind your eyes. Your voice cracked, trembling as it spilled out, raw and ragged:

“Remmick... I’m sorry. So damn sorry. For everything. For breakin’ you. For runnin’... For not bein’ yours when I should’ve been.”

Your words were soaked in blood and pain, each one heavier than the last.

And the worst part?

You didn’t want him to let you go either.

Remmick’s breath hitched at your words, a flicker of something almost tender flashing through the madness in his eyes. His grip loosened just enough for you to breathe, but not enough to let you go.

“Damn right you’re sorry,” he murmured, voice thick with something fierce and possessive. “And hell, maybe that’s all I ever needed to hear.”

He pulled you closer, the heat of him burning through the blood and the cold, every inch of you drawn into the storm of him.

His breath hot on your neck, growls, “You’re mine, and I’m gonna make sure no one ever forgets it.” You know Nates corpse is lying nearby, a grim reminder of the darkness that binds you.

“You’re a fuckin’ mess, ain’t ya?” Remmick’s voice is a low drawl. He pushes you back onto the bed, the warm, sticky wetness of the crimson sheets seeping through your clothes. His body covers yours, his weight pressing you into the hard surface. The mattress groans under your combined weight, but the sounds of the bed are drowned out by your mutual ragged breaths.

His hand tear at your clothes.

You don’t resist. Your body aches with need.

He tosses the shredded remnants aside, his eyes roaming over your naked form, taking in every detail. You’re covered in blood, your skin slick and glistening, your mouth and chin stained with it. He groans, his cock hardening against your thigh.

Nate’s lifeless eyes seem to watch you, but you don’t care. This moment is yours. Yours and Remmick’s.

Remmick’s mouth claims yours in a brutal, hungry kiss. His tongue invades, claiming, possessing. You melt into him, your body molding to his, your senses drowning in his scent, his taste, his touch.

You don’t know when he’s lowered his pants, though somehow in between you could feel him, feel his length.

His hands grip your wrists, pining them above your head. Remmick’s kiss turns ruthless, his teeth scraping against your lips, drawing blood. He licks it away, gowling low in his throat. His body grinds against yours, his cock hard and insistent.

You try to move, but his grip is like a vise, unyielding and dominant. He breaks the kiss, his lips trailing down your neck, his teeth nipping at your skin.

You feel the rush of blood in your veins, the heat of your arousal, the desperate need for release.

He moves lower, his lips and tongue exploring your breasts, your stomach, his touch driving you wild with need. You arch into him, your body begging for me, your hands straining against his hold.

“You’re gonna take everything I give you,” he says, his voice rough with command, that slight drawl only making it hotter.

His mouth finds your inner thigh, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. You shiver, your breath hitching as he bites down, hard enough to leave a mark. He soothes the sting with his tongue, his hands gripping your hips tightly, holding you in place.

His mouth moves higher, his tongue tracing the line of your pussy, his breath hot against your flesh. You moan, your hips lifting off the bed, your body begging for more. He teases you, his tongue flicking against your clit, his fingers spreading your lips wide. You can feel the anticipation building, the pressure in your core, the tightening of your muscles. He brings you to the edge, then pulls back, leaving you panting and frustrated.

“You’re mine,” he says, his voice rough with emotion.

He smiles, a slow, wicked curve of his lips, and then he’s moving, his body sliding up yours, his cock pressing against your entrance. He looks down at you, his eyes locked on yours.

You smile back, a slow, seductive curve of your lips, and he groans, his body trembling with restraint. You can see the muscles in his arms and chest straining, like he’s barely holding back.

With a single, brutal thrust, he enters you, filling you and completing you.

You moan, your head falling back, your body arching into his, your senses drowning in the pleasure of his touch. He moves slowly at first, his hips rolling, his cock sliding in and out of you, his body driving you wild with need.

The room is thick with the scent of sex and blood, the air heavy and oppressive. Remmick’s body is slightly slick with sweat, his muscles tense as he hovers over you. “Fuck,” he hisses, his voice laced with a mix of lust and suddenly with anger. He leans down, his breath hot on your ear.

“You think you can just walk away from me? Think you can take what you want and leave me hangin'?"

He thrusts hard, his hips slamming against yours, his cock driving deep into you. You gasp, your body arching off the bed, your nails digging into his back. His voice is rough, his accent dripping with sex and dominance. "You're mine, and I'm gonna remind you of that every fuckin' day."

He pulls back, his cock almost leaving you, before slamming into you again. The bed shakes, the headboard banging against the wall. You moan, the sound raw and primal, your body trembling with the force of his thrusts.

His hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh, leaving bruises. He’s relentless, his body pounding into yours, his cock hitting that sweet spot deep inside you. You can feel the pressure building, the heat in your core, the tightening of your muscles.

"You like that?” he growls, his voice a low rumble. "You like it when I fuck you hard? When I remind you who you belong to?"

He leans down, his teeth grazing your neck, his tongue licking the sweat from your skin. You shiver, your body arching into his touch, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

"You know I do," you whisper, your voice hoarse with desire. "You know I crave it."

He groans, his body trembling with restraint. "That's right, you do. And I'm gonna give it to you. Every fuckin' day. Every fuckin' night."

He sits up, his hands gripping your thighs, spreading you wide. He looks down at you, his eyes roaming over your body, taking in every detail. You’re covered in blood and sweat, your skin glistening. He groans, his cock hardening even more, if that's possible. "Look at you," he murmurs, his voice filled with awe and hunger. "So fuckin' beautiful. So fuckin' mine."

He leans down, his lips capturing yours in a brutal, hungry kiss. His mouth trails down your neck, his teeth nipping at the skin, leaving love bites that will most definitely bloom into bruises. You can feel the rush of blood in your veins, the height of your arousal.

He moves lower, his lips and tongue exploring your breasts, stomach, your hips, his touch driving you wild with need. You wanted more.

His fingers trailed low, his thumb circling your clit, his touch light and teasing. He wants you with need. You moan, your hips lifting off the bed, your body begging for more. He chuckles, a low, dark sound. It was too much for you all of a sudden.

You try sitting up, to ease the intensity, but he pushes you down, his hand pressing against your chest. “Nah sweetgirl, your gonna take me.” He moves his thumb away from your clit, his relentless thrusts increasing.

“You wanna come, don’t you?” he whispers, his voice a low growl. “You wanna come all over my cock. You wanna milk me dry, don't you?” You nod, your body trembling, you could barely make a word out.

He pulls your legs up slightly, his cock hitting depper if that was even possible. You moan, your voice echoing in the room, your body shuddering with the intensity of your release.

He follows soon after, his body tensing, his cock pulsing inside you as he spills his seed, his groan of pleasure a symphony to your ears.

“I love the way you sound,” he says, his body collapsing on top of you. “I fucking love the way you feel. All tight and wet. All for me.”

He cups your jaw, his thumb brushing away Nate's dried blood. “You’re mine,” he states darkly. “And I ain’t ever lettin’ you go. You hear me? Never.”

And you don’t answer—not with words. Your breath shudders against his, your eyes heavy-lidded and glassy, like you’re drowning in him.

He leans in, his lips ghosting over your cheek, your temple, not kissing—claiming. His voice is low, hoarse from want and something deeper.

"You remember that," he whispers, breath hot against your ear. "Every time I touch you tonight… every sound I pull from your throat… every time I make you come apart beneath me—remember."

His hand slides down, leaving a trail of blood and heat in its wake.

"You said sorry," he murmurs, like it’s a vow now. "But you don’t gotta be sorry, darlin’. Not for who you are. Not for what you did."

And he reminds you of that, over and over, well into the night—until the walls know his promises by heart and your body forgets it ever belonged to anyone else.