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## can’t help falling in love !!

summary──── no matter what tragedy strikes, you and jason can’t help falling in love with each other. based on “can’t help falling in love” by elvis presley.

pairings──── jason peter todd x addams!male reader

warnings──── fluff, angst, very suggestive in the beginning, foul language, death and resurrection, mentions of violence, brainwash, hurt/comfort, destined soulmates, possessiveness if you squint, blood

author’s note──── okay, i take back what i said. i probably won’t stop writing addams!reader anytime soon. by the way, i don’t have specific jason in mind so any universe can be imagined for all my jason fics.

Wise men say

Only fools rush in

But I can’t help falling in love with you

The chilly air makes goosebumps appear on Jason’s skin as he hugs himself to shield away from the cold. Dark shine of the moon bringing peace to the silence completely surrounding him, Jason admires the statues littered across the graveyard behind the Addams manor in honour of your fallen ancestors. Despite darkness lurking behind every shadow and spirits wandering around tirelessly, this place held utter peace and comfort, warming Jason’s heart by embracing it tightly in their arms.

Each ancestors had extraordinary headstone that fits them best with their statue standing tall and proud, it truly shows how Addams honour their family members the right way. None of their headstones were simple or boring, each having unique traits that Jason was certain they used to have when they were alive. Each Addams have unique traits that differed from one another, but all of them were undeniably extraordinary. They aren’t like any other, much like how his lover’s not like any other.

Jason feels a coat being wrapped around him before two arms sneaks around his waist, shoulder weighing slightly from where you rest your chin on it. He fights back a smile.

“You could’ve called for me, beau. My siblings wouldn’t have minded one less duelling partner.” You softly say, pressing a kiss on his shoulder.

Jason instinctually leans back, snuggling to your neck. “Yeah, but you should spend more time with ‘em. Always with me, they’re gonna start thinking you’re forgetting your own siblings.”

“I assure you, they would not.” You start slowly swaying your bodies together to a non-existent music as Jason follows through with you. “They’re going to start thinking you’re forgetting them. Wednesday and Pugsley prefer you more than me, sweetheart, especially Wednesday.”

“Oh, really?” Jason smirks.

“Yes, really.” You nod with a sigh, though he could tell you weren’t annoyed at all. “She pushed me down the stairs last night after we’ve gotten back from our date.”

Jason throws his head back with a laugh, “Sorry, babe. She might or might not have invited me to throw an axe at Pugsley and I turned it down.”

“No wonder she was beyond irritated with me,” Amusement fills your tone as the corner of your lips twitch up to form a subtle smile. Jason looks at you over his shoulder and you immediately lean in for a lingering kiss, butterflies erupting in his stomach as his heart skip a beat. You then kiss his cheek and forehead before resting your chin back on his shoulder with eyes closed.

Jason sighs in content, admiring your captivating features that somehow reminds him of death. But your presence wasn’t as cold as death, it’s warm and engulfing despite your touch rivaling that coldness of an ice. He leans closer for a moment, only to lift your arms that were around him so he could face you while still being embraced by you, burying his face on the crook of your neck.

“I really love you.” He sighs, arms secure around your back.

“I would do everything for you,” Your reply was instant, resting your head against his. He felt your arms squeeze him as if to emphasise, and he chuckled.

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?” The silly question slips from his lips, half-joking and half-serious, pulling his head back to look into your nearly lifeless eyes. He’s reminded of how it’s only alive because of him.

Your eyebrows raised slightly in mere question and amusement, but you take his hand and press a tender kiss on his palm.

“I adore you in every universe. I love you just as much as Icarus has loved the sun — even more than he’s loved the sun. I would shatter the ground and raise hell just to find you wherever you go. I would paint the sky with shooting stars to fulfill your wish. I would tear the world apart and watch the universe collapse if you are ever taken from me, for a life without you is a life full of unquenchable thirst and eternal hunger unworthy of surviving. I would worship every ground you stand and walk on to an extent which I wish not to touch the ground you haven’t touched yet, for it hasn’t been blessed with your divine greatness. I would offer you my eyes if your vision fails, my voice if yours can no longer function, my heart if yours cease to beat, my hands if you can no longer hold the world in yours, my legs if yours fail to take you to places you’ve dreamed of. Only death shall keep me away from you, and even so, it would merely be enough to prevent me from either clawing the dirt apart and rising alive to hold you in my arms, or dragging you down with me to rest for all eternity together.”

By the end of your speech, Jason was already crying ocean of tears as his eyes twinkles in overwhelming happiness, extremely touched.

Both of you always make long and romantic declaration of your love for each other in most random times, and while his speech makes you smile from ear to ear and giddy like a high schooler, yours often never failed to reduce him into nothing but a sobbing and crying mess. He hates it, but could never bring himself to hate you for making him cry.

You smile gently at him and press very soft kisses on both of his eyelids before continuing, “Therefore, the answer is yes, my love. I would still love you if you were a worm.”

Jason chokes out a chuckle, sniffing. “Fuck you for always catching me off guard and making me cry.”

Your hands cup his red face as you coo, “Do not be ashamed for shedding your tears, Jason. Quite frankly, I find them very captivating.”

“Yeah?” He smirked. “You like seeing me cry?”

“Ah, yes...” A flirtatious smirk appears on your lips, one arm pulling him close and the other hand sneaking up to gently clasp your fingers around his throat. “Indeed, I do. Especially in bed.”

Jason resists his urge to moan when you squeezed slightly, tilting his head back a little to give you more access. “Why in bed when you can make me cry right here and now?” He whispered, rather lusciously as you stare into his lustful eyes.

You lick your lips before smashing your lips on his hungrily and Jason quickly reciprocates, no longer feeling the chilliness of the graveyard air.

Shall I stay?

Would it be a sin

If I can’t help falling in love with you?

Jason loves you more than words can express. He loves you oh so dearly that he would turn back to the God that his heart stopped believing after he came back to life just so he could recite prayers for an eternity with you. Jason never thought it was possible to love someone so much so that he’d be willing to both give up everything for you and give you everything you want.

But sometimes, love makes him afraid.

Afraid of losing you. Afraid of seeing you hurt. Afraid of knowing anyone and anything can take you away any moment. He hadn’t thought about what you feel everytime you see him injured, but when you walked into the living room all bloody, bruised and slashed, his heart stopped and the mug he was holding just slipped from his hand to shatter on the floor.

You laid down on the large expensive sofa with a slight wince as Jason ran off to find some medical kits available in the Addams manor, being helped by Thing to locate its whereabout, before running back in with the necessities. He almost got a heart attack when he saw you had your eyes closed, seemingly not breathing, looking paler than usual. Dropping the medical kits on the carpeted floor below the sofa, he quickly checks on your pulse and sighs in relief when he feels it, just then remembering that an Addams is very unlikely to show any physical signs of breathing unless letting out a sigh.

You open your eyes and admire his face twisted in worry and fear, moving up a hand to pat his head twice. “It’s not necessary to be overly concerned, my dear. Nothing to fear of, these are mere injuries that can easily be treated.” You wave it off with the same hand, somehow very calm and nonchalant despite how intense your injuries looked.

Sadness now replacing the look on his face, Jason wordlessly shakes his head and begins to treat the bruises and cuts on your face with careful and soothing hands. You stop him gently to remove your vigilante suit before letting him continue, comforting silence filling the almost grim atmosphere. Jason doesn’t realise you’re watching every bit of his expression, seeing the way his perfect eyebrows furrow and his lips frown slightly every time he moves from one injury to another. It feels like the injury’s getting worse the more he moved to the next, and it made his heart heavy.

Your gaze softens, knowing he was having second thoughts about speaking the things that bothered him.

It seems Jason has quickly gathered the strength to speak because before you can throw encouraging words, his quiet voice interrupts the comfortable silence. “I know you’re not afraid of dying or anything with your culture and all, but it makes me worry a lot.” You nod to let him know you’re listening. “I sound like a real hypocrite ‘cause I go out on mission then come back here looking like a fucking zombie more than I want to admit, so I don’t have the right to say anything like this, but you almost gave me a heart attack.”

The corner of your mouth twitched, silently encouraging him to speak his thoughts more as he cleans your wounds. You don’t miss the way Jason’s hand trembled.

“You’re not...” He trailed off, hesitant to continue as he bit his lip as if to contemplate whether or not to say it out loud. He followed through it, anyway. “You’re not gonna leave me, right?” Jason tries, looking up and meeting your eyes. His emerald irises were wavering in worry and hint of fear.

Your hand gently caress his face, Jason leaning on it immediately. “As I’ve said before, mon amour... Death is merely enough to prevent me from crawling back to you.” Ignoring your freshly bandaged wounds, you pulled Jason on your lap and tugged at the back of his neck to kiss his lips passionately and comfortingly. “Leaving you only means leaving my heart and soul behind, darling. We wouldn’t want me to feel incomplete, would we?”

Jason sighs in content against your lips, before carefully shifting on the big sofa so he could squish beside you and pull you to his chest, initiatively big-spooning you.

“m’just really scared to lose you,” He whispered, burying his face on your hair and hugging you close, but not tight enough to hurt. It’s not like you’re capable of feeling pain, but you appreciated his kindness nonetheless.

You press a tender kiss on his chest, looking up at him and frowning softly. “I sincerely apologize for frightening you, my love. I’ll make an oath to be careful next time.”

Jason nods, basking in your warmth, your scent, your presence.

Gods, he loves you too much to let you go. He could never, would never. You belong to him just as much as he belongs to you and even death has no right to take that away. You were his, and only his — in life and in death.

You feel Jason’s arms tighten around you, and resisted the smile spreading across your face. Death can never intimidate you as your culture revolves around it, but the thought of losing Jason was always triggering for you. It made you dive into insanity and quickly get rid of the problem at hand, as if you’ll suffocate if you’re not quick enough to eliminate the threat. Handling Joker physically, handling Bruce mentally, handling those irrelevant crime lords who nearly hurt Red Hood off the streets violently, all things of sort.

Fall down with me further, mon chéri.

Your mind shall be filled with me and only me, even if it’s the utter fear of losing me.

A dreamy look flashed across your eyes before disappearing fast, burying your face in his chest and embracing him tighter. If you’re both too afraid for the other to die and lose them, then maybe dying together would not sound so bad at all.

You had read once on a book that falling in love is a curse, for you’ll drown in it before you even realise and fail to resurface once you fall too deep, unable to ever get out again.

However, if that is the case, you disagreed. Because it was never a curse, it’s only ever been a blessing.

Like a river flows

Surely to the sea

“Where the fuck is he!?” Jason yelled in rage, red clouding his vision as he threw the mug on a wall. Panic, anger, and worry filled his chest that made his frustration grow even more.

Bruce sighed, worry also plastering his face as he attempted to grasp your location with the computer. “He’s only been gone for an hour, Jason. Be patient.”

“Anything can fucking happen in an hour!” He growled back, glaring harshly before the worry and panic began to overthrow his anger, one hand slipping through his hair and tugging at it. “I— fuck, what am I gonna do? I shouldn’t have let him go alone, I should’ve went with him—”

Dick quickly approached his little brother when his breathing started to grow uneven. “Jay, hey... Breathe, calm yourself first. He’s going to be okay, he’s an untouchable badass.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Jason shakes his head, rubbing his face. “I wouldn’t know what to do without him— I can’t live without him, Dicky. I can’t.” His voice broke as he trembled, silence filling the air with everyone frowning in sadness and worry.

Darling, so it goes

Some things are meant to be

Jason felt his heart thumping loudly against his chest when he saw you fighting enemies with only sustaining little injuries, relief flooding throughout his body. It’s like the world brightened up again, ironically.

You made eye contact in the middle of the fight, smirking at him. “Can’t get rid of me easily, love.”

A light-hearted chuckle erupts from Jason as he joins you along with the Batfam in fighting the League of Assassins, you and Jason moving in sync as if dancing through the violence. Both of you moved swiftly together, fitting each other perfectly like the pieces of a puzzle, using each other occassionally as a leverage against them.

“This is like dancing in our graveyard,” Jason grinned under his Red Hood helmet, adrenaline rushing in his veins.

“Indeed, it does feel like it.” You responded with subtle enthusiasm, only noticeable by your lover. He laughs at your answer, enjoying the moment even when it was violent.

Take my hand

Take my whole life too

He doesn’t know why he got distracted. He doesn’t know why he didn’t pay attention more to his surroundings. But before Jason knew it, Raj’s Al Ghul’s sword was nearly piercing into him.

Until your firm and cold hand pushed him away, everything feeling like a slow motion in Jason’s eyes as the sword pierced into your chest and through your back, directly striking the heart. Jason’s eyes widened, anguished call of your name slipping from his lips. Blood dripping from your mouth, you tightly held onto the sword before driving one of your sais on Raj’s Al Ghul’s throat, where a vital point is.

The League of Assassins member fell on the ground first, clutching his throat and choking on his own blood.

Amusement flickers in your eyes, even at the graveness of the situation. You looked back at Jason and smiled, grabbing the sword’s handle and pulling it off your chest despite Batman’s loud protests. Loud metallic clank echoes within the warehouse as you dropped the sword on the concrete, stepping forward once towards your lover, but your legs giving away made you almost tumble down.

Jason immediately catches you in his arms and lays you on his lap, tears stinging his eyes as his breath quickens, removing his helmet to throw it beside him. Heartbeat rapid and restless, heart dropped to his stomach, nausea forming in the pit due to the sight of blood flowing outwards to your vigilante suit from the hole on your chest. He could feel a panic attack nearing, but couldn’t be bothered to care when the blood kept pouring out even when he applied pressure.

“No— no, no, no, no.” He chokes up, swallowing the lump that formed in his throat, trembling hands continuously putting pressure on your chest. “Stay with me, please. Stay with me. I can’t—” He sobbed. “I can’t lose you.”

Your breathing was shallow yet no fear plastered your face. There’s your usual calmness, the nonchalance that Bruce used to be so unsettled when he first met you, your almost dead eyes still sparkling in love and adoration for Jason. You don’t seem to care about your injury nor the outstretched arms of the Grim Reaper.

Your bloodied lips stretches to form a weak smile, captivated by Jason’s beauty under the moonlight. “You’re still magnificent, cherí… A sight to behold… under the moonlight…”

“Baby, now’s not the time.” Jason whined pathetically, tears flowing endlessly from his eyes. Dread, fear, devastation settling in his chest. “Please, baby. Please. I don’t know- fuck, I can’t live without you.” He cried, uncaring that you two were surrounded by his family. “I don’t… I can’t, baby. I— I can’t lose you, please.”

Adrenaline rushing through your veins and motivated by your sheer love for him, you reached up to wipe his tears and grab his other hand to intertwine it with yours. Jason’s heart drops further down the abyss when you then used it to pull out his dagger — the one you gifted him — out of his holster. “You would not lose me, by other’s hands, my sweetheart… I made an oath, to only offer you my life and soul, with no one else to have the privilege of ending me.”

“No— please, baby, no…” Jason weakly shakes his head, sobbing.

You gripped his hand that held the dagger. “You ought to, cherí… It is an honour for me to die by your hands. Please, allow me… to love you, one last time.”

Jason whimpered your name, crying heavily as he leans down to rest his head on yours. You were so cruel, wanting to die by his hands, wanting him to live forever with his hands stained in your blood— but Jason knew that’s how extent your love was for him. He could never deny you, not when it was your greatest wish.

Croaks and sobs escaping him, Jason finally drives the dagger through your chest, right where the sword pierced you. It is only then you slumped against him, hands slowly dropping to your sides with mouth slightly turned up in a smile of peace and satisfaction.

The greatest proof that you love him. Carving yourself deep into his heart, so he could never be alone even when you’re physically gone.

Jason wailed in anguish and sorrow, hugging your now lifeless body close as he brokenly recites the speech you gave him in the graveyard.

You hurt him badly, loved him too cruelly, but it was still better than losing you forever. He would’ve driven the dagger into his own beating heart if only you allowed him.

For I can’t help falling in love with you

Jason lost the brightness he had in him. Emerald eyes lifeless that seemed as if you took his soul with you, still functioning yet lacking in human emotions as if he was a robotic being.

Sometimes, he breaks so suddenly. Utters your name like a curse, sobbing and weeping in his room, scar so deep in his heart he scratches at his chest in attempt to get it out to stop the ache. His emotions were too unstable that left him unqualified to continue the vigilantism, which he agreed emotionlessly when pointed out by Bruce.

Sometimes, he’s shattered too much and far too gone in grief that he sleeps on your grave. Covers himself in blanket and nuzzles on your headstone, as if it would give him the warmth you always radiated despite being as cold as death. He could only sleep that way; the sleeping pills don’t help, but being close to your body does.

He holds his dagger close to him all the time. Stained in your dried blood that he never got the nerve to wash off, afraid that his mind would someday choose to forget your existence to block out the trauma.

He wears everything you used to wear. Uses your weapons, things, accessories. His favourite is your sunglasses. Having your possessions close always made him feel like you were embracing him.

No one ever attempted to get them away from him in fear of shattering his soul furthermore. His entire being seemingly dependent on everything that reminded of you, they didn’t want to trigger something inside of him any more than the scar in his heart did.

“Love truly is the greatest twisted curse in the world, Mr. Wayne.” Morticia mutters in sorrow as she looks out the window of the Addams’ manor, watching Jason curl up against your headstone with tears silently streaming down his face.

Bruce looks down in dejection, nodding his head.

His boy was beyond repair, and no one could do anything about it because you were gone.

Like a river flows

Surely to the sea

Jason’s eyes were wide in shock and horror. Emotions swirled within his chest; anger, disgust, sadness, grief, disbelief, and joy battling one another that overwhelmed him all at once. His family stood with him in front of the monitor, their expressions just as horrified as him, the familiar situation causing dread to settle in the pit of Bruce’s stomach.

The monitor showed you, alive and well with the exception of your eyes seemingly more dead and lifeless than before. Everything was the same from your emotionless face to your vigilante suit that you died in, but Jason could see right through you. This wasn’t you. This you wasn’t his.

Not when you were standing in the same room as the Joker who you’d immediately kill if you were put together.

Jason was even more certain you weren’t his when he sees you up close, your personality different from that sophisticated, nonchalant yet wonderful one you had before. You’re just… blank. A dead person living without humanity and following orders. You don’t follow orders, you hated being controlled.

The familiarity makes his chest clench and hurt. He’s been through this exact thing, he never thought you would experience it too.

“I don’t want to fight you, baby.” Jason whispered, voice cracking. His helmet hiding the heartbroken look on his face that you were standing in front of him with your sais pointed dangerously in his direction.

You scowled. He’s somehow familiar, your chest erupting in unknown emotions that Talia never taught you about. The urge to hold him close was tugging at the strings of your heart, but you stay glued to your spot. “I do not know you, fool.” You emotionlessly remark.

Hurt flashed across his face. There’s nothing he wanted more than to be held by you and hold you close, but how could he when you don’t recognise him? Did they brainwash you? Your memories lack, but they could come back, right?

“Red Hood,” Batman warningly calls his name when you lowered your stance.

Jason still didn’t pull out his guns.

“Baby, it’s me.” He whispered weakly. “Please, you said you’ll hold me again. You’ll crawl out of dirt to hold me or pull me under with you, remember?” Jason tried again, tears shimmering his eyes. His throat burned.

Your eyes narrowed, brows furrowing. You feel like you’ve told him that, but couldn’t remember. Something was banging on your head from the depths of your mind that made it throb. Gripping your sais, you desperately ignored the pain to focus on your task.

“Ignore it,” Talia’s voice entered your ears. “Kill him.”

Darling, so it goes

Some things are meant to be

“Fuck!” Jason yelps when you managed to slash him on his leg, dodging your next attack quickly. “Wait— please, listen to me!”

“Red Hood, watch out!” Red Robin shouts just as Jason narrowly avoids your sai flying towards his head.

He couldn’t find any other way to get you to listen. The way you attempted to tune him out makes him believe you were feeling something, but there’s nothing he could do when you keep coming at his throat. Desperation runs through his veins, heart still bleeding out for you even as you try to kill him. The coldness in your eyes was foreign that carved another scar in his heart, but he can’t hate you no matter what.

Jason’s heart jackhammered against his ribcage when you finally caught him by the throat and slammed him harshly on the floor, your murderous look that he always loved plastered over your face. He stops struggling after realising he could never hurt you again, and slowly hovers his hand over your wrist. Your grip on his throat was tight, but Jason couldn’t be bothered to panic.

He finally had you again at last. Why should he panic when the source of his life was so near to him?

“Have you gotten exhausted of fighting back?” You calmly tilted your head, curiosity in your eyes. Jason doesn’t miss the split seconds of conflicted look.

“I can’t,” He replies quietly. “I love you, baby. Never stopped.” His other hand raised to remove his helmet, ignoring Bruce’s protest, and your grip on his throat faltered as soon as you make eye contact with the emerald eyes that you adore too much.

“I don’t want to fight you. So kill me,” Jason mumbled with a soft voice. “Allow me to love you one last time and stab my heart with your sai. For a life without you is a life full of unquenchable thirst and eternal hunger unworthy of surviving.” He recited your own quote back to you with a tearful smile.

Closing his eyes, peace overtakes Jason for the first time in a long while since losing you as he waits for the abrupt pain of being pierced through the heart. However, all that came was softness attaching itself to his lips.

Take my hand

Take my whole life, too

Jason snaps his eyes wide open in shock at your lips pressing against his, the death grip on his throat loosening just to hover affectionately over it. His body naturally reacts, moving on its own to reciprocate your kiss and relish in it, arms flying up to wrap around your neck.

You pulled away when he yearns for oxygen, a sob nearly escaping him again when he sees the love and warmth in your eyes. You smile gently at him, brightness returning to your previously dead eyes. “I’m deeply sorry, my love. I’m back.”

Jason tearfully chuckled and crushed you in a hug, heart rapidly beating against his chest. Relief wasn’t enough of a word to describe the happiness he felt. The feeling of being embraced tightly by you causing tears to stream down his face for the nth time, his longing and yearning finally being fulfilled. He missed this, he missed you, he missed his only home.

For I can’t help falling in love with you

Neither you nor Jason had left the bedroom since returning, having locked yourselves up in his room that you shared to obtain privacy for yourselves. None of the Waynes were bothered too much as they understood how much Jason yearned for your presence, the only comfort he’s ever had in his life.

Jason’s been holding onto you for dear life with the fear of you vanishing out of nowhere, his face buried on the crook of your neck and hand resting on your chest directly above your heart to feel it beating through his palm. Your arms securely wrapped around him in reassurance makes him feel more safe and at peace than he ever did. He pulls away slightly to look up, seeing you already staring at him with fondness and comfort.

“Don’t leave me again, please.” He croaks like a lost child, voice cracking.

You kissed his forehead. “I’d return to you in a heartbeat, my Jason.”

Jason stares into your gentle eyes, snuggling closer to you and intwining his legs with yours to feel every part of you. “Can’t live without you, baby.” He whispered.

You smiled. Perhaps, it was time to tell him.

Even death can’t severe the emotional bond and love you have for each other, which leaves one option; together. Falling out of love was never in either of your vocabulary, anyway.

For I can’t help falling in love with you

© all rights reserved to hadesrise ──── stealing, plagiarising, or using my works for monetary gain is strictly prohibited. ask permission before reposting or translating.

HI NEIGHBOR — PART TWO

• JASON TODD x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — you’re new to the neighborhood and find yourself becoming friends with the residential bad boy, Jason Todd. From his perspective, you seems like a outgoing guy yet there’s a mystery to you he couldn’t quite figure out.

WARNING! Suggestive Langauge. Swearing. Violence.

WORDS! 8.6k

AUTHOR’S NOTE! here we are with part two, I hope you enjoy!

NEXT PART! THREE

PREVIOUS PART! ONE

The atmosphere in your apartment was thick with tension, the air still sharp with the lingering scent of gunpowder and shattered glass. The dim, flickering light from the broken TV cast long shadows across the room as you stormed into your bedroom, moving with determined purpose.

Jason stood frozen near the doorway, still reeling from what he'd just witnessed. His mind raced, replaying the brutal, calculated way you'd taken down the League of Assassins operatives with a skill he'd never expected — not from you. Not from someone he thought he knew.

He followed after you, his boots crunching on broken glass. "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded, voice rough with frustration.

You didn't even look at him, your expression cold and unreadable as you yanked open your closet. Clothes were shoved aside with practiced efficiency until you reached the back wall where a large, worn duffle bag rested.

Jason's eyes narrowed as you pulled it out and threw it onto the bed, immediately unzipping it. His heart skipped when he saw what you packed — stacks of cash, a worn passport, and several other small pouches he couldn't immediately identify.

"Planning a trip?" Jason growled, stepping forward.

You shot him a glare but didn't stop moving. "Surviving," you corrected coldly, tossing in a compact utility knife, a small first aid kit, and another roll of cash from a hidden compartment in your dresser. "Staying here is a death sentence now."

Jason clenched his jaw, anger flaring despite the chaos swirling in his mind. "You knew this was coming."

You froze for half a second, your shoulders tensing before you zipped up the side pouch of the duffle. "I had a feeling," you admitted quietly. "But I was hoping I'd have more time."

Jason took another step closer, his voice low and dangerous. "Time for what? Who the hell are you?"

You slowly turned to face him, your expression still unreadable — cold but... tired. Like you were exhausted from keeping the truth buried.

"Who I was," you corrected softly, your voice tinged with something darker. "That person... doesn't exist anymore."

Jason's sharp eyes searched your face, anger and suspicion warring within him. "You fought like one of them. Like you were trained." He practically spat the word, his fists tightening at his sides. "Were you part of the League?"

Your jaw clenched. "I was never one of them," you bit out, venom in your tone. "But they sure as hell tried to make me."

Jason's breath hitched, his mind flashing back to the brutal efficiency of your fighting style — every move precise, lethal, and honed through relentless training. The League's signature.

"How?" he demanded, voice low.

You exhaled slowly, running a hand through your hair, as if grappling with how much to say. "I was... taken. Years ago." Your voice dropped, filled with quiet resentment. "They wanted another weapon. I didn't give them one."

Jason processed your words, every piece of the puzzle snapping into place far too easily — the way you'd fought like it was second nature, the way you always seemed on edge despite your laid-back facade. It all made sense now.

He stepped even closer, his voice deadly serious. "Why the hell didn't you tell me?"

Your eyes burned with frustration as you met his gaze. "Tell you what, Jason? That I was hunted by assassins from a global death cult?" You shook your head. "I left that life behind. I thought... hoped... they'd forgotten about me."

Jason's jaw clenched, knowing better than anyone that the past never really lets you go.

But then, your eyes flicked toward the twin pistols holstered on his thighs, still faintly gleaming under the dim light. His leather jacket was slightly torn from the fight, exposing familiar tactical gear beneath — armor reinforced with Kevlar, built for survival.

Your gaze sharpened, realization dawning.

"My turn," you said quietly, taking a slow step toward him. "Who the hell are you?"

Jason's expression hardened, his fingers brushing the grip of one of his pistols — not in threat, but out of instinct.

"You're not just some guy I met in the hallway," you pressed, your voice cutting through the heavy silence. "You show up with takeout and combat-grade instincts... You knew exactly what those assassins were the second they came through that window."

Jason's fists clenched. He hated how sharp your mind was, how fast you'd pieced it together — but there was no point in lying now.

"You don't want that answer," he growled.

"Try me," you shot back, taking another step forward until you were just inches apart. "You can't stand here demanding answers when you've been hiding just as much."

Jason's breath came in slow and measured. His eyes burned with intensity as he met your fierce, unyielding gaze — two people trapped in a web of half-truths and buried pasts.

Finally, he exhaled sharply, letting the tension bleed out of his shoulders.

"I'm Red Hood," he said quietly, his voice like steel.

Your breath hitched, recognition flashing across your face — you knew that name. Everyone in Gotham did.

"The vigilante..." you whispered, stunned.

Jason's lips twisted into something between a smirk and a grimace. "Depends who you ask."

The weight of the truth settled between you like a heavy storm ready to break.

Before either of you could say another word, the sound of shattering glass echoed. You could hear the faint, purposeful creak of boots against metal outside—someone approaching from the fire escape again.

Jason moved to the door, drawing his twin pistols, while you shifted into a defensive stance near the broken window, fingers brushing the hilt of a blade you'd grabbed from your duffle bag. Your breaths were steady, controlled, honed by years of survival. Whoever was coming wasn't going to get the drop on you this time.

The sound of the window frame creaking as something heavy landed just outside made both of you snap into action. Jason aimed his pistols toward the shattered glass while you prepared to lunge.

"Hold your fire, Todd," came a low, commanding voice from the shadows outside.

Jason cursed under his breath but lowered his guns ever so slightly, recognizing the voice immediately. "Damn it..."

Before you could process what was happening, three familiar figures emerged from the broken window and landed soundlessly inside your wrecked living room.

Batman. Nightwing. Red Robin.

Their presence was both menacing and commanding, even in the dim, shattered apartment. Batman's dark cape flowed behind him like a living shadow, his piercing, unreadable eyes locking onto you in an instant. Nightwing landed just behind him with practiced ease, scanning the room with a wary but curious expression, while Red Robin moved with sharp, tactical precision, already assessing the damage and possible exits.

Jason sighed, holstering one of his guns with a sharp click. "Could've knocked," he muttered bitterly.

Nightwing's eyebrows shot up as he took in the mess. "Looks like someone already did." His eyes flicked toward you, lingering for a second longer than necessary, curious and calculating.

Batman stepped forward, voice cold and commanding. "Jason. Report."

Jason gave you a quick glance, silently telling you to hold back—for now. "The League of Assassins showed up," he said shortly. "They weren't here to talk." His voice was sharp, his frustration barely held in check. "They were after him." He tilted his head toward you.

Red Robin narrowed his eyes. "Damian was right, wasn't he?" His voice was clipped, cautious but not accusing.

Jason clenched his jaw. "Technically, yeah." He let out a slow breath. "But it's... complicated."

You stiffened, every muscle ready to spring into action. Their eyes were all on you now—judging, calculating, and deciding whether you were a threat. You could feel Batman's cold, unyielding scrutiny weighing heavily on you, like he could see everything you'd ever done just by looking at you.

"Who is he?" Batman demanded, his deep, gravelly voice leaving no room for evasion.

Jason met his gaze head-on. "He's... one of us." His voice was firm, though uncertain in a way you'd never heard before. "But not the way you think."

Nightwing frowned, crossing his arms. "You're sure about that?"

Jason's jaw tightened. "I am now."

Their attention turned fully toward you—and you moved.

Without a single word, you lunged toward the shattered window, your instincts screaming that staying put would only get you killed—or worse, captured. Your feet hit the ledge with practiced grace as you dove into the dark, empty alley below, barely making a sound as you twisted mid-air and landed in a perfect crouch.

Jason's curse echoed faintly behind you, but you were already moving—ready to vanish into the night.

But as soon as your boots hit the wet pavement of the dark alleyway, you froze.

Figures emerged from the shadows — not just one or two, but an entire unit of League assassins, their gleaming blades reflecting the dim, hazy light from the streetlamp above. Their movements were silent, calculated, and far too familiar.

And then... she appeared.

Talia al Ghul.

Tall, graceful, and utterly lethal, she stepped out from the shadows as though she belonged to the night itself, her dark cloak billowing slightly in the cold Gotham breeze. Her piercing, calculating eyes locked onto you with chilling precision.

"Running, are we?" she said smoothly, her voice low and deadly, with just the faintest hint of amusement. "I would've expected better... from one of my creations."

Your blood ran cold, but you didn't let it show. You forced yourself to stand tall, your breath steady, fists clenched at your sides.

"Talia," you spat, voice hard as steel. "You should've stayed gone."

She smiled—a slow, dangerous thing that never reached her eyes. "You truly thought you could leave that life behind? Escape?" Her tone turned sharp. "No one escapes the League."

Behind her, the assassins silently drew their blades, stepping into position with terrifying precision. Their cold, unblinking eyes locked onto you.

Your heart pounded in your chest, but you shifted into a ready stance, muscles taut and prepared to fight—to survive.

"Tell your dogs to back off," you warned darkly. "Or I'll put them down too."

Talia tilted her head, studying you like a predator deciding how much effort it would take to crush its prey. "I taught you... everything. Do you really believe you can win?"

Before you could respond, the sharp, familiar click of a gun being cocked echoed from the rooftop above.

"I don't believe," Jason's voice drawled, sharp and dangerous, echoing down the alley like a death sentence. "I know."

From the ledge, Jason stood tall with his twin pistols aimed directly at Talia's head, his eyes blazing with fierce, protective determination.

A second later, Batman, Nightwing, and Red Robin silently appeared on the opposite end of the alley, cutting off the League's exit like an unspoken declaration of war.

Talia's cold smirk only deepened as she studied the standoff—but something dangerous and personal burned in her gaze when her eyes flicked back toward you.

"This... will be fun," she whispered, just before her assassins surged forward.

The fight was just beginning.

Soon the alleyway echoed with the clash of blades and the sharp crack of gunfire. Rain began to fall, making the worn pavement slick as shadows danced under the flickering streetlights. The League of Assassins swarmed like a wave of relentless predators, silent and deadly, their blades gleaming like fangs in the dark.

You, Jason, Batman, Nightwing, and Red Robin fought side by side in a brutal, chaotic rhythm. Every movement was precise, every strike calculated. Jason's twin pistols barked loudly, forcing assassins into defensive retreats. Batman moved like a dark specter, disarming enemies with brutal efficiency. Red Robin was a blur of staff strikes and gadget-based precision, while Nightwing's electrified escrima sticks cracked like thunder through the air.

But they just kept coming.

For every assassin you put down, two more seemed to take their place, emerging from the thick shadows like something unstoppable.

Breathing heavily, you drove your elbow into an assassin's jaw, sending them crashing into the alley wall. Another charged at you from the side, but you twisted mid-step, driving your knee into their chest and sending them sprawling.

Jason fired a well-placed shot at an advancing swordsman, barely glancing back as he shouted, "We can't hold this position much longer!"

Batman growled, blocking a pair of incoming blades with his armored gauntlets before disarming his attacker with a vicious twist. "We fall back together. Stay—alert!"

But as you staggered back into formation, you felt it.

That familiar pulse thrumming in your chest—the power you'd spent years suppressing, forcing down, pretending it didn't exist. It surged, burning beneath your skin like molten fire, begging to be unleashed.

Another wave of assassins advanced, eyes cold and deadly. Their relentless precision... their sheer numbers... you knew there was no escape without making a choice.

No more running.

You clenched your fists, gritting your teeth as the power surged through your veins—hot and demanding. The ground beneath your feet trembled faintly as energy began coiling around you, rising with intensity.

Jason noticed first. "What the hell—?" he muttered, glancing back at you with wide, confused eyes.

Then it happened.

Your eyes blazed a fierce, radiant yellow, glowing like molten embers in the dark. Your fists shimmered with the same golden light, illuminating the rain-soaked alley in a blazing, pulsing aura of energy.

The assassins hesitated, visibly faltering for the first time.

Batman's sharp gaze snapped toward you, his mind already assessing, calculating—but even he seemed momentarily taken aback.

Without another word, you moved.

The first assassin surged toward you with deadly intent, twin blades flashing. You met him head-on, driving a glowing fist into his chest with tremendous concussive force. The shockwave from the impact sent him flying backward like a ragdoll, crashing through a stack of metal crates with a deafening CRASH.

Another assassin lunged from behind—silent, precise—but you twisted sharply and let them hit you.

Steel met skin.

The assassin's katana came down hard against the back of your head—only to shatter against your glowing aura like brittle glass. You didn't even flinch.

Jason's mouth dropped open. "Holy—"

Before the shattered blade hit the ground, you spun on your heel, catching the stunned assassin by the collar. With inhuman strength, you hurled him over your shoulder, sending him skidding across the rain-slick pavement.

Three more assassins charged—but you were faster.

With fluid, precise agility, you flipped over them in one smooth, powerful motion, landing just behind their formation. Before they could react, you lashed out with rapid, thunderous punches, each strike powered by raw concussive force. One by one, they crumpled like broken marionettes, groaning in pain as they hit the ground.

"What the hell..." Red Robin breathed, eyes wide, staff lowered momentarily.

From the rooftop, another assassin hurled a cluster of throwing stars with deadly precision—but your glowing eyes tracked them easily.

Too slow.

You sidestepped effortlessly, dodging the projectiles with perfect precision before launching forward like a streak of lightning. With one explosive strike, you drove your glowing fist into the assassin's chest, sending them crashing through a rusted fire escape ladder, twisting the metal on impact.

Nightwing muttered under his breath, "I'm definitely not putting this in the report."

The last assassin standing hesitated, visibly shaken—but before they could retreat, Jason raised one of his pistols with cold, lethal intent. "Don't even think about it," he snarled.

The assassin wisely dropped his blade, collapsing to his knees in surrender.

For a long, tense moment, the alley fell into silence, broken only by the faint crackle of electricity still shimmering around your glowing fists. The faint pulse of your energy slowly dimmed, flickering out as your breath slowed.

Jason, Red Robin, and Nightwing stared, still processing what they'd just seen.

Batman's piercing gaze locked onto you—cold, analytical, and deadly serious. Whatever calculations he'd been running in his mind just shifted dramatically.

Then... the faintest rustle echoed from the far end of the alley.

You spun around—but Talia al Ghul was gone.

Vanished.

Only the faint outline of her form remained in the falling rain, swallowed by the shadows as if she'd never been there at all.

Your glowing fists dimmed completely as you exhaled slowly, wiping sweat from your brow—but the looks from the Bat-family remained.

Jason broke the silence first, his voice low and rough.

"...The hell... was that?"

Red Robin stepped forward, still stunned. "That's why they want you." His voice dropped with dawning understanding. "They weren't just after your skills... they were after that."

Nightwing crossed his arms, lips tightening as he processed what he'd seen. "You're not just some ex-League runaway." His eyes gleamed with something deeper—worry. "You're a weapon."

Batman's voice cut through the air like a blade—cold, calculating, dangerous.

"Start talking," he commanded, his gaze locked on yours. "What are you?"

You met their stares head-on, your voice steady despite the weight of what just happened.

"I'm not what they made me."

But even you weren't sure how much longer that would be true.

The Batcave was cold, vast, and dimly lit, illuminated only by the bluish glow of the massive Batcomputer and the low flicker of overhead work lights. The faint sound of dripping water echoed through the cavern's endless expanse, mingling with the distant hum of advanced technology. The sharp, metallic scent of the cave's reinforced platforms and tactical gear filled the air.

You stood in the center of the operations platform, arms crossed, refusing to sit despite Jason's earlier gruff suggestion. Tension crackled like static between you and the Bat-family surrounding you—watching, assessing, waiting.

Batman loomed near the Batcomputer, his imposing figure partially obscured by the shadows of his cape. Nightwing stood to his right, arms crossed, his piercing blue eyes unreadable but focused. Red Robin paced near the console, fingers lightly grazing the hilt of his staff as he processed what little information you'd shared. Jason—Red Hood—stood closest to you, his expression sharp, still radiating frustration but tempered by something else... something protective.

The weight of their stares pressed down on you, heavy and unrelenting. They wanted answers—but you weren't ready to give them.

"You need to start talking," Batman said, his deep, commanding voice cutting through the thick silence like a blade. His intense gaze locked onto yours, unreadable but calculating. "Who are you to the League?"

You clenched your jaw, refusing to flinch. "I'm no one to them. Not anymore."

Jason growled lowly, stepping forward. "They sent an army after you—Talia personally showed up. Don't stand there and act like you're nobody."

Before you could respond, a sharp, familiar voice rang out from the shadows near the far entrance.

"He's not 'nobody.'"

Everyone turned as Damian Wayne—Robin—strode toward the group, his green cape flowing behind him, his expression cold and unforgiving. His gloved hands were clenched, and there was something almost... triumphant in his piercing green eyes.

Batman's brow furrowed slightly. "Damian—"

"I know exactly who he is." Damian came to a stop a few feet away from you, his sharp gaze locking onto yours with something between contempt and twisted respect.

"His name... is Kai." His voice was low but cutting. "He was Ra's al Ghul's most guarded secret—a weapon the League tried to perfect but couldn't control."

Jason and Dick exchanged sharp, stunned glances. Red Robin's fingers tightened on his staff.

"What are you talking about?" Jason demanded.

Damian's lip curled faintly. "He was trained in the League's deepest sanctuaries—places even I wasn't allowed to enter. They called him the Chi Warden." His voice dripped with bitter acknowledgment. "The only student who ever mastered the forbidden teachings of Chi Manipulation."

Batman's gaze darkened. "Explain."

Damian's tone remained cold and clinical. "The League trained him to harness life energy itself—Chi." He gestured toward you with a sharp flick of his wrist. "He doesn't just fight—he amplifies his strength, speed, endurance... even his mind. Every punch he throws—every movement—is charged with devastating power."

Red Robin's eyes widened slightly. "That's... impossible." His voice was quiet but shaken.

Damian's expression remained harsh. "Not for him." His gaze narrowed further. "The assassins didn't come to kill him. They came to retrieve him—because he's their greatest asset."

Jason swore under his breath, his eyes burning with new understanding.

You stood rigid, your fists clenched at your sides. The truth was out—again. No more running. No more pretending.

"You didn't tell us this," Nightwing said quietly, disappointment flickering in his tone.

"I don't owe you anything," you shot back, your voice rough with pent-up frustration. "I'm not with them—I left!"

Damian took a threatening step closer. "The League doesn't just let people go. They'll hunt you until they get what they want."

Jason snapped, stepping between you and Damian with sudden, fiery intensity. "You're the reason they're here in the first place!" His voice was sharp with blame. "You couldn't leave this alone—you called them here!"

Damian's eyes flashed with defiance. "I was protecting Gotham."

Jason surged forward, his voice low and dangerous. "You unleashed a war on Gotham—all because you couldn't accept being wrong."

Before the situation could escalate, Batman's voice cut through like a thunderclap.

"Enough."

The room fell into tense silence.

Batman's gaze remained locked on Damian, his voice low and deadly calm. "Jason's right. You escalated this." His tone turned cold. "And now it's our responsibility to fix it."

Damian's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Batman turned to face you fully, his expression unreadable but final.

"From this point forward... you're under our protection."

Your eyes widened, and you bristled.

"I don't need your protection," you growled, your fists clenching. "I'm not some helpless target—"

"You are now," Batman interrupted harshly, his cape shifting as he stepped forward. "The League won't stop. They'll come at you again... and next time, they won't hold back."

You took a sharp step toward him, refusing to back down. "Let them try. I've survived worse."

Jason grabbed your arm, his voice rough but sincere. "You don't have to anymore."

You yanked your arm away, breathing heavily, feeling that familiar, burning power stir in your chest.

Nightwing's voice softened as he stepped closer. "You've been fighting this alone for too long." His eyes were steady but understanding. "Let us help."

You looked around, still tense—still not ready to trust—but you saw something in their faces that caught you off guard.

Belief.

Not fear. Not suspicion.

Just... belief.

After a long, heavy moment, you let out a slow, reluctant breath.

"I don't need you," you said quietly—but the fight had drained from your voice.

Jason smirked faintly, something softer in his sharp gaze. "Maybe not... but you've got us anyway."

The cavern fell silent, but this time... the tension felt different.

It felt... lighter.

The Batcave remained eerily quiet after the intense confrontation with the Bat-family. The faint hum of the Batcomputer's advanced systems echoed through the cavernous space, accompanied by the occasional drip of water from the towering stalactites. You stood near the massive central platform, still tense, still processing everything that had just happened — the fight, the truth about the League's pursuit, and the Bat-family's sudden decision to protect you, whether you liked it or not.

Jason hovered nearby, his sharp blue eyes constantly flicking toward you, watching for any sign of unease. Though he'd never admit it out loud, there was a hint of understanding in his gaze, tempered by the same guarded wariness you saw in all of them.

You crossed your arms, shifting uncomfortably as Batman, Nightwing, and Red Robin stood in a small formation a few feet away, speaking in low, urgent tones. Even from where you were standing, you could feel Batman's intense presence — unreadable, commanding, calculating. His cape hung like a shadow around him, making him seem larger, more imposing.

Nightwing broke from the conversation first, his sharp, perceptive eyes flicking toward you as he approached, arms relaxed but his posture still alert.

"You're gonna be staying here for now," he said smoothly, gesturing toward the massive stone staircase leading deeper into the Batcave. "It's... safer than anywhere else in Gotham."

Your eyebrows rose slightly, skepticism clear on your face. "You're just... letting me stay here? In your base?"

Jason snorted quietly. "Trust me, this wasn't a group vote." His sharp gaze cut toward Batman, whose attention remained fixed on the Batcomputer.

Nightwing offered a faint, knowing smirk. "Think of it as... protective custody. At least until we figure out what the League's next move is."

Red Robin joined the conversation, adjusting one of his gauntlets as he approached. "You're still a security risk," he admitted bluntly. "But if the League's after you... keeping you out there is a bigger one."

You exhaled slowly, still processing, still unsure if this was some kind of elaborate setup. Before you could respond, movement from the far side of the cave caught your attention.

An older, refined man in a crisp suit descended the stairs with a quiet grace, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. His presence was calm but commanding in a way that felt almost regal.

"Master Jason, Master Timothy," he greeted smoothly, his sharp eyes flicking toward you without missing a beat. "I see our guest is still in one piece."

Jason rolled his eyes. "Barely."

The older man turned toward you, offering a polite, knowing smile. "I am Alfred Pennyworth. Consider me... the caretaker of this establishment." His tone was precise but warm, holding the weight of someone used to commanding both respect and loyalty.

"...You're their butler?" you asked, still unsure how he fit into the picture.

Jason smirked. "He's a lot more than that."

Alfred nodded graciously. "I assure you, I've worn many hats in my time." His sharp gaze swept over you briefly, assessing in a way that reminded you far too much of Batman. "Follow me, if you would."

Before you could argue, Jason gestured for you to move. "Come on. We've got a room set up... temporarily," he added pointedly.

With no real option, you followed Alfred and Jason up the winding metal staircase that led out of the vast, intimidating cavern. The faint hum of the Batcomputer's systems faded into the distance, replaced by the subtle creaks of the old stone walls and distant echoes of water dripping far below. You were still struggling to wrap your head around everything—the fight with the League, Talia's pursuit, and now... this.

As you were walking, you noticed Jason glance at you sideways.

"...So," he said casually, his tone almost conversational, "figured out who he is yet?" He nodded toward the central platform, where Batman continued working at the Batcomputer.

You frowned. "Batman?"

Jason's smirk widened just a bit. "Bruce Wayne."

You stopped dead, processing the name like a bolt of lightning. Bruce Wayne. Billionaire. CEO of Wayne Enterprises. Gotham's most famous man.

"That—what?!" you hissed, your voice low but sharp.

Jason shrugged with practiced nonchalance. "Yeah. Not exactly subtle if you know what to look for."

Bruce Wayne is Batman.

The thought echoed in your mind, refusing to settle. You'd always known Gotham was built on shadows and secrets, but this? Gotham's richest, most untouchable billionaire secretly being its most feared vigilante... it felt unreal.

Jason walked ahead with a practiced ease, his broad shoulders relaxed, though his sharp eyes kept flicking back toward you. He was watching—not out of suspicion, but out of something else... maybe concern, though you doubted he'd admit it.

Alfred led the way with an air of calm efficiency, his polished shoes clicking softly against the stone steps as the three of you ascended toward Wayne Manor above. His posture was precise, his expression unreadable—but there was something almost protective about how he carried himself.

You finally reached a reinforced door at the top of the staircase, seamlessly blending into the stone wall. Alfred pressed a concealed panel, and with a soft hiss, the heavy door slid open, revealing the grand interior of Wayne Manor.

Warm light bathed the grand hall ahead, in stark contrast to the cold, mechanical glow of the Batcave. Polished wood floors gleamed under the soft glow of antique chandeliers. Ornate paintings lined the walls, framed in dark, rich mahogany. The air was warmer, almost comforting, with the faint scent of aged leather and something faintly floral lingering in the background.

You stepped through cautiously, still half-expecting something dark or dangerous—but instead, you were greeted by the quiet elegance of one of the grandest homes in Gotham.

Jason smirked faintly as he saw the way your eyes flicked across the lavish surroundings. "Weird, right?" he said casually. "Going from a death-trap cave to... this." He waved vaguely at the massive foyer. "Takes some getting used to."

You stayed quiet, still taking it all in as Alfred paused in the hall, turning back toward you with his usual calm precision.

"Your accommodations have already been prepared," he said smoothly, gesturing toward the grand staircase at the far end of the foyer. "If you would follow me..."

Jason shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "Welcome to Wayne Manor." His tone was light, but there was something deeper beneath it... something that felt like acceptance.

You hesitated for a moment before following them up the staircase, still uneasy but no longer fighting it.

The second floor of Wayne Manor was just as grand as the first—long hallways lined with intricate wood paneling, elegant carpets, and large, decorative windows that overlooked the expansive, moonlit estate grounds.

As you reached the top of the stairs, you spotted two familiar figures waiting near the far end of the hall—Nightwing and Red Robin.

Or rather... Dick Grayson and Tim Drake.

Dick was casually leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his signature easygoing grin already in place. Tim stood more rigidly, his sharp, calculating eyes flicking toward you with clear curiosity—but there was no hostility there... only analysis.

"Finally," Dick said with a mock sigh, pushing off the wall and striding toward you. "Took you guys long enough." He extended a hand, his grin widening. "Guess we skipped formal introductions down there. Dick Grayson."

You blinked, still processing as you slowly shook his hand. "Nightwing," you muttered under your breath.

Dick smirked. "Only on weekends."

Tim approached next, his demeanor more reserved but still respectful. He tugged back his hood, revealing sharp, intelligent features beneath dark, slightly tousled hair.

"Tim Drake," he introduced simply, his tone more serious. "Red Robin."

Before you could even begin processing that, Jason snorted from behind you. "Yeah, they're real subtle about the whole 'secret identity' thing."

You shot him a sharp look. "You live here. I figured you'd be more careful."

Jason shrugged with a faint smirk. "At this point? You're in the middle of the biggest secret in Gotham. Figured you'd put two and two together eventually."

Your head was still spinning. Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Tim Drake... Jason Todd. Gotham's wealthiest family... also its most dangerous protectors.

Tim's gaze lingered on you thoughtfully, as if calculating something. "We've trusted you this far," he said evenly. "Figured you should know who you're working with."

Before you could respond, Alfred smoothly gestured toward a door at the far end of the hall. "Your room is just through here." He unlocked the door with a quiet click and stepped aside.

Jason waved you forward. "Go on. Take a look."

You hesitated for a moment before stepping inside... and paused.

The room was... unexpected.

The space was large but not overwhelming, with tall windows framed by thick, heavy curtains that could be drawn shut for privacy. A sturdy, well-crafted bed sat against the far wall, its dark wood frame polished to perfection. A simple but elegant desk and chair rested near the window, accompanied by a fully stocked bookshelf filled with everything from classic novels to tactical manuals.

The room felt... lived-in somehow, like it wasn't just a place to sleep but somewhere to belong.

You turned back toward them, still processing. "This... is for me?"

Alfred inclined his head politely. "Temporarily, of course. Until the situation with the League is resolved." His voice softened slightly. "Though I assure you... you will be safe here."

Jason's expression flickered with something more serious for a brief moment. "It's better than whatever dump you were staying in before."

You looked at Jason with a raised eyebrow, “We live in the same apartment building.”

Jason couldn't argue with that.

Alfred offered a faint, approving smile. "I trust everything is... satisfactory?"

You nodded slowly, still overwhelmed. "It's... fine."

Dick chuckled softly. "You'll get used to it." He clapped Jason on the shoulder as he passed. "Try to be a decent roommate, huh?"

Jason rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah."

Before leaving, Alfred fixed you with a pointed, knowing look. "Trust... is earned," he said quietly. "From both sides."

With that, they left, leaving you alone in the quiet warmth of the room.

For the first time in... longer than you could remember... you felt something you thought you'd lost.

Safe.

The quiet stillness of Wayne Manor settled heavily over its grand halls, broken only by the occasional creak of the old wooden beams shifting with the wind. The moonlight filtered faintly through the large, arching windows, casting long, pale beams across the darkened corridors.

Jason wasn't the type to sleep easily—never had been. Restlessness was practically second nature after everything he'd been through. The night clung to him like an old, familiar coat, wrapping him in its dark embrace.

But tonight felt different.

His eyes snapped open, breath steady but sharp, instinct kicking in before his mind could fully process what woke him. He lay still for a moment, his senses on high alert, listening for anything wrong.

Nothing. No footsteps. No creaking doors. Just the faint rustling of wind against the large windows.

He exhaled slowly and ran a hand down his face, trying to push down the uneasy feeling crawling under his skin. Something about tonight didn't sit right.

His gaze drifted toward the glowing red numbers on the clock across the room: 2:47 AM.

"Damn it," he muttered, throwing off the blankets and sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees. He stared down at the worn scars on his calloused hands, trying to shake the unease that wouldn't let go.

It's fine, he told himself. He's fine.

But he couldn't convince himself.

Jason stood abruptly, pulling on a worn hoodie over his plain T-shirt. His boots barely made a sound against the polished wooden floors as he slipped into the dimly lit hallway, his sharp blue eyes flicking toward every dark corner out of old habit. His hand rested instinctively near the hidden knife holstered at his back—not because he expected trouble, but because... just in case.

He approached the door to your room at the far end of the second floor, pausing just outside. His fingers grazed the cold brass handle, hesitation tightening his chest.

He shouldn't check. You were probably asleep, and barging in like a paranoid guard dog would only make things worse.

But something felt... wrong.

Jason turned the handle quietly, easing the heavy wooden door open just far enough to peer inside—and froze.

The room was empty.

The bed was still neatly made, the blankets untouched. The soft glow from the distant moon spilled across the empty desk and darkened shelves, highlighting how utterly vacant the room was.

His breath hitched. His heartbeat kicked into overdrive.

"Damn it," Jason hissed, fully stepping inside, his sharp gaze scanning every inch of the room for any signs of struggle—or escape. But there was nothing.

He moved quickly, checking the adjoining bathroom and the walk-in closet—both empty.

Jason clenched his fists, his mind already racing with worst-case scenarios. He reached for the commlink in his ear instinctively—but stopped.

No... calling in the others would only make things worse if it turned out to be nothing.

But what if it wasn't?

Jason turned on his heel, already striding back toward the main hall, ready to scour the entire manor inch by inch if he had to—until—

"Looking for something, Master Jason?"

Jason spun toward the familiar, steady voice coming from the dimly lit corridor behind him.

Alfred stood calmly at the base of the grand staircase, perfectly composed despite the late hour. His sharp, discerning eyes flicked toward Jason with quiet understanding, arms neatly clasped behind his back as though this was all expected.

Jason exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand down his face. "Where the hell is he?" His voice was low but tense.

Alfred inclined his head toward the large windows at the end of the hall, where the faint glow of moonlight shimmered through the thin curtains.

"He's outside," Alfred said smoothly, his tone warm but firm. "I thought it best to let him be... considering the circumstances."

Jason's eyes narrowed. "Outside?" His voice edged with frustration. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Alfred arched a single, perfectly composed eyebrow. "You were... resting, Master Jason. I thought it best not to disturb you unnecessarily."

Jason opened his mouth to argue—but stopped himself. There was no use. Alfred always had the upper hand in these conversations, no matter how tense the situation.

Jason let out a slow breath, tension bleeding from his shoulders. "Where outside?"

Alfred's faint, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "The gardens. Near the old stone bench by the eastern courtyard."

Jason hesitated for a moment longer before nodding sharply and heading toward the nearest exit leading to the gardens. His boots clicked softly against the polished floor as he strode toward the back entrance, pushing open the heavy double doors with a quiet creak.

The cold night air hit Jason like a sharp, refreshing wake-up call. The quiet serenity of the gardens stretched out before him, bathed in pale moonlight. The old stone pathways wound through immaculately maintained flower beds and towering oak trees swaying gently in the cool breeze.

Jason's sharp gaze scanned the courtyard immediately, looking for any signs of movement—and then he saw you.

You sat on the edge of a weathered stone bench near a small reflecting pool, partially hidden beneath the sprawling branches of an old oak tree. The soft glow of moonlight bathed your face, highlighting the distant, contemplative expression in your eyes.

You sat perfectly still, elbows resting on your knees, fingers laced together as though lost in thought... or memory.

Jason exhaled slowly, his pulse finally steadying. You were fine.

He approached carefully, boots crunching softly over the gravel path. You didn't react at first, too deep in your own thoughts—until Jason's familiar voice cut through the quiet.

"Could've mentioned you were sneaking out," he said gruffly, though his tone lacked its usual edge.

You glanced up, blinking in faint surprise, but your expression softened slightly when you saw him.

"Couldn't sleep," you said quietly, your voice steady but distant. "Didn't want to... stay inside."

Jason slowly sat down on the opposite end of the bench, resting his forearms on his knees as he studied you carefully.

"...Didn't think you'd still be here," he admitted after a moment. "Figured you might've... run."

Your gaze dropped back to the still surface of the water. "I thought about it."

Jason nodded slowly, understanding. "But you didn't."

You sighed, the weight of everything still pressing down on your shoulders. "Where would I even go? They'll find me... no matter where I run."

Jason's sharp eyes softened just a fraction.

"They won't find you here," he said firmly. "We won't let them."

For the first time, you believed him—even if you weren't sure why.

And in the quiet stillness of the Wayne Manor gardens... the night finally felt calm, neither of you spoke. The tension stretched like a thin wire between you—charged and fragile.

Finally, you exhaled, breaking the heavy silence. "Why?"

Jason's brow furrowed slightly. "What?"

"Why do you care so much?" you asked again, your voice rough, tinged with frustration—but also... something more vulnerable. "You keep putting yourself in danger—for me. Why?"

Jason stiffened slightly, his shoulders tensing beneath his worn leather jacket. He opened his mouth, but you kept going, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

"You barely know me, Jason. You didn't have to help me—any of this. You could've walked away... but you didn't." You shook your head, frowning. "So... why? Why do you care?"

Jason's expression darkened for a moment, like he was fighting something inside himself. His jaw clenched, his fingers twitching like he wanted to do something—but he forced himself to stay still.

He took a slow, measured breath before finally speaking, his voice low and rough. "...Because I get it."

You blinked, momentarily thrown off by the quiet intensity in his voice.

Jason's gaze dropped to the ground, his hands flexing into tight fists. "I know what it's like... to be hunted. To feel like you're never safe." His voice turned sharper, edged with something raw and personal. "Like you're always looking over your shoulder... wondering how long you've got before someone finds you."

Your chest tightened, his words cutting deeper than you expected.

Jason lifted his head, his piercing blue eyes locking onto yours—intense, unwavering.

"I know what it's like... to think you're only worth what they made you. Like you'll never be anything but the weapon they tried to turn you into." His voice dropped lower, rough but sincere. "But you're wrong. You're more than that."

You stared at him, throat tight, unable to speak—but he wasn't done.

Jason scooted closer, his voice softer now—real, stripped of its usual sarcasm and bravado.

"You're not alone in this. You never have to be." His expression softened—not in pity, but in something far deeper. "I care, because... you're someone I want to fight for."

His voice dropped to a near whisper. "You're someone I... care about."

The words landed heavily between you, charged with something undeniable. No bravado. No lies. Just truth.

Your breath hitched, and for a long moment, you couldn't speak—couldn't move.

Jason's sharp eyes softened just a fraction, his expression still guarded—but there was hope there, too, hesitant but real.

The quiet between you felt like its own language—something shared in the stillness of the night.

Without thinking, without planning, you took a shift over, closing the small distance between you. Jason's breath hitched slightly, his eyes widening just a fraction—but he didn't pull away.

Slowly, carefully, you reached up, resting a hand against his chest, feeling the steady, strong rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your fingers.

And then... you kissed him.

It wasn't hurried or desperate—it was steady, deliberate... grounding. A silent acknowledgment of everything neither of you could put into words.

Jason inhaled sharply, his body stiffening for just a second—but then he melted into it, his hands hovering near your sides as though unsure if he was allowed to hold on—or if he even deserved to.

But he didn't pull away.

For a few long, perfect seconds... nothing else existed.

When you finally pulled back, your breath mingling in the cool air, Jason's eyes stayed locked on yours—stunned, soft, and... open.

You let your fingers linger on his chest for just a moment longer before leaning back, exhaling slowly as reality settled back in.

Jason's voice was rough, barely above a whisper. "...You didn't have to do that."

"I know," you said quietly, your voice steady but soft. "I wanted to."

His lips twitched faintly—almost a smile—but something deeper flickered in his intense gaze... something that meant more than words ever could.

Before either of you could say anything more, you stood up and took step back, turning toward the darkened path leading deeper into the gardens.

Jason's hand almost twitched toward you... but he let you go.

"Goodnight, Jason," you said softly, your voice steady—this time, without fear.

Jason sat there in the quiet stillness, watching you disappear into the shadows of the garden path—still feeling the lingering warmth of your touch and the weight of your words.

And for the first time in a long time... he let himself hope.

The grand dining room of Wayne Manor was bathed in soft morning light spilling through the tall, arched windows. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries drifted faintly through the air, though the table's occupants seemed far too tense to notice.

Bruce stood at the head of the long mahogany dining table, clad in his usual sharp, tailored suit. His commanding presence was as steady and immovable as ever, his intense, calculating gaze fixed on a holographic display projected from a slim tablet resting on the polished surface.

Jason sat a few seats down, leaning back with his arms crossed, his sharp blue eyes flicking between Bruce and the screen with thinly veiled impatience. His leather jacket was still slightly scuffed from the previous night's battle, though he didn't seem to care—or even notice.

Across from him, Tim sat with perfect posture, fingers steepled thoughtfully under his chin, his expression calm but deeply analytical. His mind was clearly already racing through the layers of Bruce's emerging strategy.

Damian stood near the window, his arms folded neatly across his chest, his sharp, calculating green eyes cold but focused. He listened in silence, but there was something guarded in his stance—as if he was waiting for the perfect moment to interject.

And then there was you.

You sat toward the center of the long table, still processing the events of the past few days—the brutal fight with the League, Talia's dark promise, and the revelation of your past as their so-called "Chi Warden." You could still feel the faint hum of power lingering beneath your skin—a constant reminder of what the League wanted you to be... and what you'd refused to become.

Your gaze drifted subtly toward Jason, catching the faint glimmer of something soft in his usually sharp, guarded eyes. His expression was neutral, but there was something there—a quiet, steady reassurance. An anchor.

You exhaled slowly and forced yourself to focus as Bruce cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention back to the projection.

"We can't eliminate the League as a threat," Bruce began, his deep, commanding voice echoing through the quiet room. "But we can sever their hold on you."

His eyes flicked toward you briefly—not cold, not calculating—just certain.

"They'll keep coming," he continued, adjusting the holographic interface. "But if we dismantle their current leadership structure... disrupt their resources... and cut off their intelligence networks—"

"Talia," Jason interrupted bluntly, his voice rough with frustration. "You mean we need to take her down."

Bruce's expression remained unreadable, though a faint flicker of acknowledgment passed through his sharp eyes. "Talia is the immediate threat... but removing her won't be enough." His voice dropped lower. "The League doesn't stop because one leader falls. They adapt."

Jason scowled, fists tightening against the polished table. "So what—you're saying this could take months? Years?"

Bruce's piercing gaze remained steady. "Yes."

His answer hit the room like a cold, sharp blade. The silence that followed was thick with tension.

Jason shook his head sharply, clearly fighting the urge to explode. "We don't have that kind of time, Bruce."

"We do," Bruce countered firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "But only if we're smart. If we make one wrong move... he pays the price." His gaze flicked toward you, and for a brief moment, you saw something deeper in his expression—responsibility, determination. "We will end this... but we have to do it right."

Jason bit back whatever retort was burning on his tongue, his jaw tightening—but he stayed quiet, for now.

Damian, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke, his voice cold and precise.

"...Attacking them directly won't work." His tone was sharp, clipped, almost begrudging. "They'll expect it. They'll want you to come after them."

All eyes turned toward him as he stepped closer to the table, his sharp green gaze locked firmly on the projection.

"They know how you operate," he continued, his voice low but steady. "My mother... she'll anticipate every tactic you try." His expression darkened. "She trained me... and she created him." He nodded toward you without even glancing in your direction.

Your jaw clenched slightly at his words, but you held his gaze, refusing to flinch.

Damian's voice lowered even further, quiet but deadly serious. "The only way to beat her... is to be unpredictable. Strike where she doesn't expect it."

Bruce's expression didn't change, though something faint shifted behind his eyes—consideration.

Jason let out a harsh breath, still visibly tense but... thoughtful now.

Tim nodded slowly, processing. "He's... right. If we follow the League's rules, we'll lose." His sharp gaze flicked toward Bruce. "We need to think... differently."

Bruce's mouth tightened slightly, though he didn't argue.

As the room fell back into tense, thoughtful silence, your gaze drifted back toward Jason again. His sharp features were still etched with frustration, his fists clenched against the table—but there was something... softer beneath the anger.

He felt you watching him and slowly lifted his eyes to meet yours—steady, unwavering.

For a long moment, the room, the tension, the plan—it all faded into the background.

His expression softened just slightly—only for you. It wasn't much... but it was enough.

You allowed yourself a small, faint breath—relief, trust.

And then Bruce's commanding voice cut through the air once again, grounding you both back into the mission.

Bruce turned toward you fully, his voice calm but firm. "Until we can neutralize their reach... you stay here. Under our protection."

You bristled immediately, sitting up straighter. "I don't need protection. I've survived this long without you."

Jason opened his mouth—ready to argue—but Bruce raised a hand, silencing him with a single sharp gesture.

"This isn't up for debate," Bruce said coldly, his piercing gaze locking onto yours. "You're not alone anymore. They will come for you... and this time, they won't stop."

Your fists clenched, power flickering faintly beneath your skin—a familiar, dangerous heat.

"I can fight," you growled, your voice rough but certain. "I'm not helpless."

Jason's voice cut through, rough but steady. "We know."

You turned toward him, caught off guard by the certainty in his tone.

Jason leaned forward, his sharp blue eyes burning with quiet determination. "But you don't have to fight this alone. Not anymore."

His words hit harder than you expected, cutting through your defenses like a blade. For the first time in years, you felt something you thought you'd lost—

Hope.

don’t worry everyone the doctor who wiki has everything under control

Pulse 💗

Summary: Bucky can hear your heartbeat through the wall, and he can tell everything isn’t alright.

Pairing: Bucky x gn!Reader

Words: 600 (exactly 600, holy moly)

Warnings: None really, just mentions of anxiety and adhd. Wrote this within an hour, sorry if its bad

A/N: Self indulgent fic alert! This goes out to all my peeps who struggle with ADHD/anxiety. It sucks, but hang in there!

Divider credit: @saradika

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Come in,” you called, not looking up from the papers on your desk.

A brief second passed, and the door creaked open. A cautious Bucky peeked his head in.

“Hey, are you okay?” He asked.

You suddenly became aware of your leg bouncing 70 miles an hour, and forced yourself to stop. 

“Yes, why?” You replied, ignoring the urge to get up and walk around.

“Well, I—” he hesitated, and brought his hand to rub the back of his neck, “I was passing by and I heard your heartbeat going really fast—super hearing and all that,” he awkwardly chuckled.

“120,” you stated, glancing at your watch.

“What?”

“My heart rate is 120 right now.”

“That’s pretty high for just sitting,” he responded, having a hard time hiding his concern.

“Well, y’know, anxiety,” you breathily laughed, but it wasn’t that funny.

“What are you anxious about? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Nothing.” You sighed, lowering your pen and facing him. At this point he was now in your room, perched in front of your door.

“Doesn’t seem like nothing.”

“Seriously, I’m kinda freaking out over nothing right now.”

“C’mon, you’re always telling me I’m valid for having concerns, you are too.”

“No, I mean there is literally no singular thing I’m anxious about right now—it’s just physical anxiety, the general feeling that I’m going crazy, or dying, I don’t know, both I guess. That sounds so dramatic. I really am fine. I mean, I’m not fine, but I am, yeah?” You rambled on and on, and cursed yourself when you noticed your leg had started bouncing again.

“I don’t think you’re okay, do you want me to bring you to Dr. Cho?”

“That’s sweet of you, but I don’t think there’s much she can do. The worst of this should pass in thirty minutes anyway, it’s just my meds.”

“Oh.” 

You could tell Bucky wanted to ask more, but wasn’t sure if it was polite.

“I have ADD. ADHD, whatever you want to call it. So I take medicine so I can focus on certain tasks, like these reports. And it does help me focus, but it’s also a stimulant, so it also gives me a lot of anxiety, which is totally awesome!” You scoffed.

“Why do you keep stopping your leg from bouncing?”

“I don’t know, I don’t want to annoy you.”

“If bouncing your leg makes you feel better, it doesn’t bother me.”

“I feel like I’m embarrassing myself,” you whined. 

Beep.

You looked at your watch.

“Oh, look at that, 126!”

“Do you—would…would a hug be something that would help you? Calm you down?” He offered, casually putting his arms out for emphasis.

“Sure, Bucky,” you smiled, and stood up to meet him halfway. You knew it wouldn’t fix it, but it certainly couldn’t hurt.

Bucky wrapped you in a big embrace, and you were shocked by how warm and teddy-like it was. You gave a small sigh, and rested your face in his neck, knowing you weren’t going to be the first to let go.

He held onto you for longer than you expected, just calmly swaying together in your room. 

To your dismay, he eventually let go of you. You were about to thank him and return to your work, but he gently grabbed your wrist and brought your watch to his sight. 

“107. Good, but I think we can do better than that,” he sweetly smiled, and wrapped you back up into his arms. 

“It might take a while.” You mumbled into his shirt.

“As long as it takes.” He cooed.

A/N: Should be either A) studying for a history exam I have tmw, or B) writing my stupid essay that the rough draft is due tmw, but I wrote this instead bc I’m procrastinating  HELP ME

when reading smut and y/n says “daddy”

Devoured

Hi! I love your fics!

Can you do a Snobby!Rich!M!Reader x Jason Todd where Jason sees the reader at one of Bruce’s gala, boasting about how rich he (his dad) is. Jason thinks nothing of it at first until the reader starts coming up to Jason and bragging about how much richer he is etc. Eventually, Jason gets so fed up he takes the reader to his room where he fucks the shit out of the reader until the reader is begging and whining. Kinda like brat taming.

Jason Todd x Snobby Rich Male Reader

ficlet

Might have made the reader kind of an airhead, on accident. Hes also got some muscle, but in the “I only have muscles to look good” typa way.

Trying to stretch the writers muscle, since writers block has had me in a violent chokehold for weeks now. Not proof read for this reason, and because i have a major headache.

Jason rarely attended the various galas Bruce, or rather the Wayne name or Wayne enterprises, threw. He had only been dragged along because of a bet he had lost during their last patrol, meaning he had no choice but to go, since none of the others wanted to go to this specific gala. New investors were invited, which meant new money, which meant snobbier than usual rich folk.

It wasn’t hard to see you were new money when you arrived, from the way you carried yourself to the way you dressed. You didn’t stand out much amongst the rest of the new money folk, in expensive brands that cared more about the name than the actual design. But compared to the usual old money that normally attended Wayne galas, you stood out like a sore thumb. The way you were bragging didn’t help either, though, everyone seemed to be bragging, like some kind of measuring contest.

It only became a problem when you started bragging to him. You didn’t even seem to care that he was a Wayne, and definitely much richer than you. He found himself indulging your rambling and peacocking in the beginning, it wasn’t Jasons fault his type were cocky little brats who thought they were untouchable.

The way you fluttered around, chest puffed out, hand on your cocked hip as your lip pouted in a way that made Jason want to bite it. As you grew more tipsy your bragging went from cute to obnoxious, making a heady annoyance start brimming under his skin.

Jason felt what little patience he had left snap when you were so obnoxious as to pull up your Gucci shirt, your lips in such a cocky grin as you showed him the red diamond piercings in your nipples. Seeing the red against your flushed skin made his jaws clench, and before your next brag and boast could sputter out of you, Jasons large hand closed around your bicep and pulled you his way.

You stumbled as Jason lugged you up the many stairs inside the manor, up to the upper floors that were never open during galas, down the hallways and in through a door. There wasn’t much time for you to look around, or comment about the poor looking design, before Jason was upon you like a starved wolf upon a rabbit.

His lips were dry, and this close you could feel the scars carved against them. The noise that left you was borderline pathetic as his tongue slid between your lips, the thick muscle dragging against the roof of your mouth, before Jason truly started devouring you. Grasping uselessly at his suit jacket, you felt so unsure on your feet and dizzy, like you were about to collapse against him.

A sharp gasp tumbled out of you as Jason picked you up, his strong arms flexing like you weighed nothing. It clicked somewhere in the back of your mind that those muscles of his weren’t just for show. Not like you who only worked out and ate well to have the appearance the masses only dreamed of. As you were lost in your thoughts Jason threw you down on the bed, his strong hands grasping at your shirt and jacket, ripping the fabric down the middle, resulting in you whining and crowing in the way only a spoiled rich person could.

The breath that he huffed out was sharp and short, his green eyes flicking up to meet yours, so much intensity in them that you felt your spine straighten. “Ill buy you something better” he grunted as he ripped your pants and boxers, shredding the fugly fabric and throwing the strips off to the side like useless trash.

It was habit at this point that had you whining and complaining, even going as far as to roll onto your front and kicking your legs in a pitiful way, complaining the entire time about him not respecting you or your things, and how he was just some dumb musclehead that didn’t know anything.

Jason didn’t even have the energy to act like he was listening, watching as the muscles of your back flex and pull. There was no true definition for your build, no muscles built from hard work or a rough life, like you were some kinda kendoll with the perfect muscle to fat ratio and specialized trainers. But it did give you an amazing ass, round and perky, the sight of it making Jason drool with the need to taste.

Your next protest was completely cut off as Jasons rough scarred hands grabbed your cheeks, spreading them just far enough for him to bury his mouth between them. A high-pitched squeak that melted into a watery whine rang from you, as Jasons broad wet tongue buried itself in your hole. Burying your face into one of his pillows, you tried to silence the embarrassing noises, eyes prickling with unshed tears as Jason’s hand snuck under your hips to fondle your weeping hardness.

Jason pulled back with a wet slurp, his lips and chin covered in drool as he glanced up over the expanse of your back, seeing the way your head was ducked down and hiding. “I thought you were whining, come on, tell me how much you hate it” he purred, voice deep and hot, making your insides clench as it felt like honey running down your spine.

You lift your face enough to stutter out a few half thought out protests and fussy words, none of them actually making much sense. Behind you Jason smirked, knowing what little brain you had was struggling hard to piece together your usual bravado, which also allowed him to coat his fingers in lube and warm it up enough to not be too uncomfortable.

Once again, your words were cut off as Jasons slicked fingers slid inside you, Jason crawling up enough to rest against your back. He was much bulkier than you were, his scarred torso pressed against your own blemish free back, his weight pressing you deeper into the mattress.

There were a few attempts to insult him, but the way Jason seemed to have expertly found your prostate, and how he kept rubbing against it, you found it very hard to form your lips to muster up any meaningful words. It all felt like too much, everything was too hot, too slick, too stimulating but also not enough, and Jason only seemed to enjoy your reactions more and more.

Through it all Jason made sure to press kisses against your shoulders and neck, the dirtiest but most delicious words mumbled into your ear, as his fingers twisted and turned in ways that had you tearing up. You didn’t even notice how he added more fingers, until Jason finally withdrew them completely and he sat back on his haunches.

It took more brainpower than you had at the moment to peek over your shoulder, your eyes shooting wide at his overly scarred torso, but also the weapon he was rolling a condom down onto. As if sensing your thoughts Jason crawled back on top of you, rubbing himself against you as he reassured you that it would fit, you just had to be good.

The comment about your behavior made you sour, scrunching up your brows and sticking out your lip in a pout. Instead of scolding you, Jason just hooked an arm around your upper torso, turning you enough to kiss you, just to distract you enough to keep you loose and pliant for him to slide inside. The stretch had you whining, but it didn’t hurt anywhere near as much as you thought it would, and soon Jason was seated fully inside.

It had never been Jason’s plan to go easy on you, but he gave you enough time to adjust before he started moving, drawing back before pushing back in with a strong thrust of his hips. Like his fingers Jason seemed way too skilled at finding your prostate, which made your arms give out and sending you crashing back into the mattress as his hips shoved against your own.

His tone was almost taunting as Jason lifted you up by the grip he had around your torso, his voice thick and mocking in a hot and fluid way, reminding you to breathe. It was only then that you realized you had been holding your breath, the air fucked right out of your lungs every time he shoved into you, and his fast and deep pace gave you no time to gasp air back into your lungs.

Tears blurred your vision as you panted and almost drooled, hands clawing and grasping at the sheets. You were sure you must of cum at least once, if not twice, but Jason gave you no time to bask in it or fully register it before the next jab against your prostate had you reeling.

The noises that left you might have been begs and pleas, for him to go harder, faster, for more, but you couldn’t have been sure. At some point Jason even started praising you, making sure to speak right into your ear, telling you just how good you were taking it, and wasn’t it just so much nicer to not be such a brat? A warbly whine left you in response, a full body shudder crashing through you, as you tumbled over the edge for what must have been the third time.

Jason seemed to finally have met his own end, a deep guttural groan ringing from his chest as you bottomed out, his eyes clenched and brows furrowed as he spilled into the rubber around his length. Part of him regretted not just taking you raw, but there was always next time.

You must have fallen asleep or passed out, as you were clean and in a pair of boxers when you next came too. You were even laying against Jason’s chest, one of his strong arms wrapped around your back to keep you pressed against him, ear against his pec, his heartbeat strong and even. A soft kiss was pressed against the top of your head, Jason muttering for you to go back to sleep.

And who were you to protest. Normally you would have started a fuss just because he thought he could order you around, but the way a deep satisfying exhaustion hung over you was enough to keep you quiet and compliant, for now. As you slumped back against him Jason just chuckled slightly, flipping to the next page in the book he was reading, his other hand rubbing up and down your back. Maybe you weren’t so bad as he had thought, Jason didn’t even mind your snooty attitude, since he gave him an excuse to tame the brat right out of you.

Now nothing’s the same PT. 2 | Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

Summary: It’s been two weeks, and you still can’t face Mark. Can’t hear his voice, can’t stand his face, can’t bear his touch—because everything about him reminds you of the things you’ll never have again. Of the lines you weren’t supposed to cross. Of all the things that will never be the same.

Pairing: Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

Warnings: 18+, very brief mention of SA (but it’s a misunderstanding), dry humping/frottage, oral (Mark receiving), anal sex, anal fingering, belly bulge.

Tags: There’s more plot than porn but there IS porn (eventually), so—Porn with Plot, Reader is highkey not okay, self-hatred, extreme guilt and shame, misunderstandings, light angst, fluff, getting together, morning sex, Top!Mark, Bottom!Reader.

w.c: 22.2k  |  a/n: English isn’t my first language, so sometimes the tenses might be a little inconsistent in the flashbacks! I got kind of lost in my own narrative style (why did I do this to myself? lol). Anyway, it’s finally here. 20k+, baby. I’m honestly a little nervous because a lot of people were waiting for this one, and I really hope it lives up to what you were expecting. Also, thank you for the comments, the likes, the reblogs—I see every single one and they mean the world to me. Enjoy!!!

Part 1 | You're here

By the time your phone’s ringtone cuts out for the tenth time this night, you’re left staring at the screen with a hollow numbness.

The notifications glare back at you—missed calls in angry red, all bearing the same name, each one a fresh stab of guilt. Below them, a flood of unread messages piles up. You won’t open them. Can’t open them.

Because you’ve done the worst thing imaginable.

You betrayed Mark.

Mark, your best friend since fifth grade. The one who, along with William, had pulled you into their duo like you’d always belonged there. The person who laughed with you, stood by you, trusted you.

And you betrayed him.

Now, the mere thought of Mark makes your stomach churn with nausea. The shame is suffocating, a filth you can’t wash away, sinking into your skin like a brand. You feel disgusting. A monster. Because that night with his variant—the one who was all darkness and hunger and twisted devotion—exposed the worst parts of you. The pathetic, desperate parts. You’d poured every unrequited longing into a warped imitation of the boy you loved, because you were starved for it. For the way he looked at you. For the way he wanted you.

And that’s what sickens you most. How easily you gave in. How badly you wanted it. How, for just a fleeting moment, you let yourself believe that Mark could ever lov—

Your fingers dig into your hair, breath hitching.

No. You can’t face him. Can’t even answer a simple phone call—to what end? To hear the disgust in his voice? To confirm just how much he hates you now? To witness the exact moment your friendship shatters beyond repair?

(Vaguely, you remember the shattered window, the jagged shards of glass dispersed across your floor, dust swirling thick in the air.

And then you, thinking, oh he’s going to die.

But in that moment—still half-dazed, aching, your body heavy with the lingering aftermath of sex—you don’t know if you meant him. Mark. Your Mark. Your best friend, the one who has always been nothing but good to you. Or him. The other Mark. The one who took you apart with a smirk, the one who claimed you as if you were already his.

You knew the fight was inevitable. Knew one of them would kill the other. Knew it would be like watching an immovable object meet an unstoppable force.

And when the dust cleared from Mark’s thunderous landing, when you saw his murderous expression mirroring the alternate’s, when their identical hatred burned through the tension—

For one terrifying heartbeat, you couldn’t tell which was which.)

You throw yourself onto the bed, yanking the covers over your head like they could smother the memories—or the shame.

But no amount of hiding could erase the evidence still etched into your skin. The bruises that just wouldn’t fade even after two weeks. Deep purple and stubborn, they mapped every place he had touched, bitten, kissed. There wasn’t a single inch he’d left untouched. Of course not—he’d been thorough, murmuring your name in desperate whispers, sucking marks into your neck like he wanted to devour you whole.

You flinch, shaking your head to dispel the thoughts. The replay. But you did this often—remembered the rasp of not-your-Mark’s voice, the way his hands had gripped you with possessive desperation.

Because you’d liked it.

God, you’d loved it.

It had been a fantasy ripped straight from your most secret thoughts, and the proof still lingered on your body, both exhilarating and humiliating. Worse still was how your skin prickled at the memory. How even now, just thinking about that night makes heat coil deep in your gut, no matter how much you want to suppress it.

(Cecil Stedman would stand over you, his expression unreadable, hands clasped behind his back.

“Are you hurt?” he’d ask, eyes flicking over you, assessing.

You’d freeze, blood draining from your face as you realized—your fingers were fumbling with the collar of your hoodie, tugging it up, up, up, instinctively trying to hide the bite marks beneath.

They wouldn’t know. They couldn’t know.

The GDA agents had swept into your apartment just minutes after Mark had thrown his variant through your shattered wall with a punch that shook the building. By then, you’d already be fully dressed, face burning with shame and self-loathing, hating the way your legs still trembled from the lingering aftershocks of pleasure.

There was no way Cecil could know what had happened. No way Mark would have told him on his way here.

And yet—still, you’d shrink into yourself, pulling at your collar, crossing your arms tightly over your chest, yanking your hoodie’s hood low over your face. You’d eye everyone with barely restrained panic, thoughts spiraling—they’ll know, they’ll see, they’ll realize— 

“Don’t worry,” Cecil would say, sensing your unease. “Despite our differences, I know Mark always gives his all to protect the people he loves.” 

You’d flinch. Close your eyes. Shrink even further inward.

“…I know,” you’d murmur, voice hoarse and raw.

Cecil would interpret your withdrawn attitude as a trauma response or shock. He wouldn’t know the truth—you wouldn’t tell him. And the others in his team could only guess, while you tugged at your collar again, desperately trying to conceal the bruises blooming on your neck, the tremor in your legs, the ache in your body—the stickiness still drying on your thighs.

“Mark will take care of it,” Cecil would assure you. “No one can hurt you anymore.”

Yet, guilt would seize you by the throat.

Because the truth would weigh heavy on your tongue—how you had arched into those cruel hands, how you had begged him to take you, how the tremble in your body wasn’t from fear, but from the awful, shameful wanting still thrumming under your skin.)

Your throat bobbed as your fingers drifted to the darkest bruise on your neck, pressing down just to feel the ache. The pain was sharp, immediate—a reminder that it had been real. That he had been real.

And that you’d let him.

And fuck—if it doesn’t make your body tingle, heat up, and freeze all at once. If it doesn’t make you a horrible friend all over again. That’s why you’ve been ignoring Mark’s calls. Why, as your phone buzzes in the silence of your room, you refuse to pick up. Refuse to hear his voice. Refuse to stand before him.

Because now you know.

You know the way Mark’s kisses taste like. Know the shape of his body, the flex of his muscles as he moves over you. Know the sounds he makes when overcome with desire—the quiet gasps, the low groans, the desperate moans. Know the way his cock feels, hot and heavy, buried deep inside you, making you see stars and stealing every last bit of air from your lungs. You know the way his hands grip your hips, how perfectly your bodies slot together, the pressure building and building, the obscene slap of skin on skin as he fucks you into the mattress—

Jesus.

Your fingers twist in the sheets, body shuddering as the memories surged back—vivid, hungry. This is why you can’t face him. Because he knows what you did. You both do. How the hell can you ever look at Mark in the eye again? Knowing that now—now—you can never suppress your feelings again, never shove them back into the corner of your heart where they belonged. How do you face him when every glance sends your pulse racing? When your body remembers what it’s like to be loved by him—even if it wasn’t really him?

Just thinking about it makes you lose your grip, heart hammering, body shivering. Because it remembers.

And there’s no way in hell you’ll ever be able to forget.

That’s why you grab your phone, Mark’s name flashing for the nth time, and finally power it off.

The silence that follows is deafening. But the noise in your head doesn’t stop—the endless, pounding thoughts reminding you that you don’t deserve Mark. Not his kindness. Not his forgiveness. Hell, maybe not even his anger. Not the sharp edge of his accusations, not the fury in his screams.

You deserve nothing from him.

(“Nothing,” you’d answer, avoiding his piercing gaze as he studies your body. “It’s really nothing, Mark.”

You’d try to ignore the way his breath comes in sharp pants, the blood staining his suit, how his eyes seem wild with something you can’t place.

Right then, he would remind you too much of the other Mark—who walked into your apartment with that razor-sharp smirk, who ruined you after. Ironic, how now your Mark looks just the same. Only this time, the blood belongs to that version.

The fight’s over.

Your Mark stands victorious.

And deep down, you knew this was always how it would end. You knew he’d be the one left standing.

Still, somewhere beneath it all, you’d try not to think about his variant, who had whispered your name like a prayer just hours ago, gripping you like he couldn’t bear to let go.

“Nothing?” Mark would repeat, voice raw and cracked from exhaustion and the tension hanging between you two. “Y/N, you’re—you’re hurt. You need to get checked out—”

He’d step forward, arms reaching for you. But you’d flinch, stepping back, desperate need to put distance between you, because you feel filthy, disgusting, and you can’t let him touch you like this.

He’d freeze, hands hovering awkwardly in the air, his expression faltering between hurt and disbelief. Then his eyes would flicker to the exposed skin on your neck, to the wound where not-your-Mark had bitten you hard enough to draw blood, then to your lips, swollen and tender from his kisses, and finally to your eyes—red-rimmed, glistening with unshed tears.

Mark’s expression would twist. Just the slightest. Just enough to reveal the anger beneath the exhaustion.

“I wasn’t hurt,” you’d whisper, voice quiet, weak, barely holding together. But the shame would force the words out anyway—force you to confess, to lay yourself bare, to make him hate you. And with your face burning, throat tight, you’d add, so, so quietly— “And you know it.”

Mark would go silent, his shoulders sagging, face falling as if the weight of everything had drained the life out of him. And you—God, you’d want him to hate you. To finally look at you with the disgust you’ve earned. Punch me, you’d think as the silence stretches. Yell at me. Scream at me. Hate me.

But after what feels like an eternity, all he’d say is, “...I don’t—I don’t understand. Why—”

“Kid,” Cecil would interrupt from down the hall, voice clipped and irritated. “The fight’s not over. We’ve still got at least ten Invincibles around the world. Stop the chitchat and get back to work.”

But Mark wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t budge. Even when you couldn’t meet his eyes, he’d stay rooted there, mouth forming words that won’t come—

“Kid,” Cecil would repeat, louder.

And this time, Mark would turn, his broad back facing you, his expression hidden from view.

It’d be his voice—deliberately measured, controlled—that’d betray just how much he was holding himself together, like he was speaking through clenched teeth. “We’ll talk, Y/N. Alright? We’ll talk… later.”

And then he’d be gone, launching into the sky, leaving you behind with the suffocating need to be hated.

Because if he hated you, if he was furious, if he despised you—then it’d be so much easier to just walk away.)

“Fuck…” you whisper, the familiar sting settling deep in your chest, a raw, aching pain that makes you sink further into your mattress, wanting to disappear. “I screwed everything up, didn’t I? Fuck…”

Now, with your phone dead, no calls ringing through, no texts demanding your attention, you’re left alone with nothing but the desperation of your own thoughts, drowning in self-loathing and shame. You can’t stop thinking about everything you wish you could change. All the things that will never be the same.

William has been trying to reach you, too, these past few days. You’ve seen his messages pile up—confused at first, then worried, then frustrated when you vanished completely. And you know it’s not fair to him, disappearing without a word, without an explanation. But you can’t face any of it—not the mistakes, not the consequences, not even your friends.

Not Mark.

Because the embarrassment is unbearable. Because the guilt is eating you alive.

Even here, tucked away in this borrowed apartment with its unfamiliar walls and cold silence, you can’t escape it. After that night—after Mark tore through the walls, shattered your window, with the only mission to kill the variant who dared touch like that—you had no choice but to move somewhere new. Somewhere Mark didn’t know. It’s the only reason he hasn’t shown up yet—hasn’t hovered in front of your window demanding that long-overdue conversation.

With a heavy sigh, you bury your face in the pillow. If you can’t escape your thoughts awake, maybe sleep will silence them. That’s the lie you tell yourself, when loneliness settles into your chest like a second skin, its weight overshadowed only by the remorse festering in your mind.

And as consciousness slips away, you wish—not for the first time—that you’d never fallen in love with Mark Grayson in the first place.

When you wake up hours later, sweat clinging to your brow from dreams you can’t recall, it’s not the sun that rouses you.

It’s the sound.

A soft, rhythmic tapping—knuckles against glass. Insistent. Steady.

Your heart skips a beat as you jolt upright, body tense, sheets tangling around your legs as drowsiness evaporates. You scan the room, blinking hard, trying to convince yourself you imagined it— 

But there it is again.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Your muscles go rigid. Because this is the twentieth floor. No one should be knocking through the window.

You glance at the clock on your nightstand. Nearly six in the morning. The sky outside is still draped in gray. Just who in the world—

And then it hits you, the realization sinking in like cold ice.

Who else could it be?

Who else but the one person in the world you’ve been trying so damn hard to avoid—who could casually knock on your outside window like this, despite the fact you’re hundreds of feet above the ground?

Mark.

It must be him. It’s always him. Right outside your window grinning like an idiot and ready to tell you all about his day like it was the most important thing in the world.

But that was before.

Now you doubt he’s here to talk about his day.

You sit frozen, breath shallow, heart pounding like it’s trying to escape your chest. How the hell did he even find you?

Cecil swore—

(“Please,” you’d beg, hands clenched into tight fists. “Don’t tell Mark.”

It would be the third day since the Invincibles’ invasion and destruction, and Mark would still be out there—fighting, barely holding on, while you cowered in GDA safehouses. You’d already demanded a new home, a new phone—now you just needed Cecil’s silence.

“I can’t. He’s threatened me more times than I can count this month alone,” Cecil would grumble, rubbing his temples. “You think I can hide his best friend without a way to trace you? He’s gonna lose his shit.”

You’d hug yourself tighter. “I know… but he’ll understand it’s me who doesn’t want to—” see the disgust in his eyes or hear the betrayal in his voice “—talk.”

“The answer’s still no, kid,” Cecil’s tone would brook no argument. “From the way he reacted when I told him about the rogue Invincible heading your way? I wouldn’t want to know what he’d be capable of doing if I kept this from him.”

Your heart would stutter then freeze—shame and longing and self-loathing and love crashing over you in nauseating waves.

“Then...” you’d swallow around the lump in your throat. You dreaded the moment the fighting stopped, the moment Mark came looking for you, demanding answers. “Then… give him my number. That should be enough, right? If he’s worried, I’ll answer. But don’t tell him where I’m living now.”

Cecil would study you for a beat too long. Just as panic starts creeping up your spine—

“Fine.”

You’d blink. “Really? You swear?”

He’d sigh, long and insufferable, like he was so done with all this. “I swear. Now get out. I still have important shit to do—like saving the world.”

You wouldn’t waste a second, already turning on your heel, heart racing now that you knew you could walk away from Mark without having to deal with the shitty thing you’d done. Without explaining. You could pretend it never happened. Let him hate you for it—that’d be easier.

“But—” Cecil’s voice would stop you cold. When you glanced back, his gaze was piercing as steel. “The second he thinks you’re in danger and wants anything to do with it… the deal’s off.”

You’d process the warning for a moment—but then, you’d think… there’s no way Mark wouldn’t hate you now. There’s no way Mark would want anything to do with you now.

So you’d nod, knowing you’d be safe.

Because after the Invincibles came Conquest, and the aftermath of their fight, and the countless deaths... and you’d know that Mark had enough shit to worry about to even spare you a single thought.)

Fucking Cecil—he sold you out. It’s barely been two weeks. How could you possibly be in danger?

And yet, the tapping continues—more urgent now, almost frantic. You don’t need to look to know it’s Mark. You feel it. The way your skin prickles, the way your pulse stutters, your body shuddering as if it remembers.

He came for you. And maybe… maybe you always knew he would, no matter how many times you convinced yourself he’d hate you enough to never look back.

Still, your body locks up, sitting bolt upright in bed, torn between throwing the window open or sitting there, pretending you’re not home, praying he gets bored and leaves.

But the moment your feet slide to the floor, the second you stand, legs carrying you forward—your body already knows the answer. Because if Cecil gave him your address, that means Mark’s worried. That means he won’t leave. And more than that—You want to see him. Despite everything. Despite the shame, the guilt, the dread curling in your stomach like a cold fist.

Because god, you missed him. You miss him.

Your palms start to sweat, knees unsteady beneath you. But you take a breath—a deep, uneven breath—and decide to just do it. Hear him out. Let him yell. Let him cut you off. Just… rip off the fucking band-aid and move on.

With a trembling hand, you draw the curtain aside— 

And with your breath caught in your throat, you finally see him.

Mark’s reaction is immediate. One moment, his fist is raised, his expression twisted in anxious concentration, frozen mid-motion to knock again at your window. But then—his eyes widen, brows lift in surprise as his mouth falls slightly open.

“Y/N—” his voice comes muffled through the glass, both palms pressing flat against it like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. “Y/N, oh my god. It’s really you. I’ve—” a ragged gasp cuts him off, breath fogging the window between you. “Are you—fuck, are you okay? I’ve been—God, we’ve all been—William and Eve and—and everyone. You just stopped answering your phone and William couldn’t—and the texts wouldn’t get through—I thought maybe you were—”

His rambling cuts off abruptly when you flip the window lock and slide it open.

The sudden lack of barrier leaves Mark statue-still, his eyes darting across your face with alarming intensity. You notice the slight sheen in his eyes, the way his lips tremble as they part and close, his shoulder raising and falling, fast and shallow.

“I’m okay,” you mumble, staring at your feet. The concern in his voice feels like a knife twist. After everything, he shouldn’t still care this much. “I’m sorry.”

The words seem to shatter whatever trance Mark was in, because the next thing you know, he’s crossing the gap between you in the blink of an eye. You’re forced to step back, a huff escaping your lips as his arms wrap around you in a desperate, tight embrace.

“Oh my god...” he mumbles, voice barely above a whisper as he buries his face into the curve of your shoulder. “I’m glad—so glad you’re okay.”

Despite his words, no matter how relieved he sounds, your body tenses against him. Your arms stay stiff by your sides, refusing to return the hug. Mark notices immediately—of course he does. You can feel him stiffen, too—his breath catching when he notices how your body freezes up, the way you seem to pull away from him without moving an inch. In a flash, he’s pulling back, hands flying up in surrender like he’s been burned.

“F-fuck—sorry! I know I shouldn’t—after what... after him—” he winces, eyes snapping shut in frustration, like he can’t stand himself. “I—I just... needed to see you were safe.”

He glances away now, his shoulders sagging, the tension in his posture dissolving into something sad and small. His lips twist downward into a pitiful frown, and when he speaks again, it’s quieter.

“I’ll go. I get it. You don’t wanna see me anymore.”

Shit.

This isn’t how it was supposed to go.

Where’s the anger? The betrayal? The screaming match you’d braced yourself for?

You’d imagined this moment a hundred times—Mark bursting in, furious, disgusted, finally giving you the hatred you deserve. Not this... this crumbled version of him, respecting boundaries you never knew were there, looking at you like he’s the one who did something wrong.

It’s not fair.

You were ready for anger. You could’ve handled anger.

But not this.

Not Mark, sad.

Your hand moves on instinct—snapping out, grasping his wrist before he can float off again, knuckles white from how tightly you hold on.

“Don’t—” you choke, the word catching on a breath you didn’t mean to let go. “Don’t go.”

His breath catches audibly when you stop him. You feel the shift in his posture as he turns back toward you, his pulse jumping under your fingertips. When you dare a glance up, his gaze burns into yours with an intensity that steals your breath.

And fuck—no, you can’t do this. Can’t look at him, can’t face him. You were right to keep your distance. So, without thinking, you quickly avert your gaze, feeling the heat rush to your face—shame, embarrassment, self-loathing… you don’t know what it is anymore, but it’s making you burn, your cheeks flushed in a way you wish you could stop.

“We need to talk, right?” you force the words out, voice dry, cracking a little. “Then let’s talk.”

Even though you really, really don’t want to. But you owe him this. You’ve been avoiding this conversation long enough, running from it like a coward.

“Right,” he whispers softly, voice barely audible. “Let’s… talk.”

Yet neither of you say anything. The silence stretches between you, awkward and thick and heavy. That’s when you realize—your hand is still on his wrist. You let go like it burns, flustered and flinching back as if caught doing something you shouldn’t.

That’s when you really look at him.

He’s not wearing his  suit, nor his goggles. Just Mark Grayson, in a sweater and jeans, standing in your tiny room like a regular boy. He didn’t come here as a hero, just as your best friend. And judging by the way his hair’s a mess and his eyes are rimmed with exhaustion, he probably rushed. Probably didn’t think twice before threatening Cecil into giving up your location. Probably didn’t even try to hide who he was, flying all the way to the outskirts of the city at dawn, with nothing shielding his identity.

Anyone could’ve seen him. Anyone could’ve guessed who he was. But still, he came. All of that… just to be here with you. To find you. To make sure you were okay.

The silence shatters when you blurt out, “Are you okay? I wasn’t there when—with Conquest—” your voice cracks. “God, I’m sorry.” Another reminder of what a shitty friend you are. “I’m so sorry.”

Mark rubs at his neck, a familiar nervous gesture. “Don’t worry about it. Honestly? I’m glad you weren’t there. You shouldn’t have to see me... like that.”

You hum in response, eyes darting everywhere but him—walls, floor, the curtain still fluttering from when you opened the window. God, the awkwardness is suffocating. Why can’t you cut through it?

Then, quietly, Mark continues. “About… whatever happened. That day.” His voice is tentative, like he’s afraid even saying it might make you crumble. “You don’t have to talk about it. I get it. You’re probably—” he swallows thickly “—traumatized.”

Traumatized?

Your eyes flick up at him, blinking in confusion. “What?”

His eyes stay fixed on the floor. “I’ll give you all the time you need. And if you can’t ever—” a shaky breath. “If seeing me is too hard, I get that too.”

“Mark,” you shake your head, confusion tightening your chest. “What do you mean?” And then, dread begins to settle deep in your bones, a cold fist wrapping around your heart. “What… what do you think happened?”

He recoils like you’ve struck him, nearly stumbling back through the window frame. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again—

“Don’t make me say it.”

You freeze.

Brows draw together, thoughts racing, flipping through every possible thing he could mean—until you see it. The guilt carved into his face. The way he’s carefully keeping his distance, like he’s afraid to spook you. His eyes flick, just for a second, to your neck—where faint marks still linger, bites and kisses pressed into skin that’s long since stopped feeling warm. His expression darkens.

And then it hits you.

(You’d read his messages after the battle was settled—after the smoke cleared and the city stopped screaming.

One after the other, each one hit like a blow to the chest. Guilt. Remorse. Regret soaked into every word.

Mark (2:03 AM): I’m sorry I wasnt there

Mark (2:04 AM): I’m sorry I let it happen

Mark (2:06 AM): I should’ve been faster

Should’ve gotten u somewhere safe the moment we knew

(Missed Call - Mark - 2:07 AM)

Mark (2:18 AM): im sorry

can u pick up the phone?

Mark (2:22 AM): y/n

Mark (2:25 AM): ples

Mark (2:25 AM): please

(Missed Call - Mark - 2:33 AM)

Mark (3:37 AM): I’m sorry. Im sorry. Cecil said u didnt want to talk

Mark (3:39 AM): I get it...

Mark (3:45 AM): im sorry

shouldve never let this happen to u

Mark (3:47 AM): im sorry)

Suddenly, horribly, you understand.

“Oh my god, Mark,” you exhale, dragging both hands over your face as the heat floods in—burning shame, disbelief, something sick and sour twisting in your gut. “God… I don’t—I wasn’t—whatever you think happened to me, you’re wrong.”

Mark frowns. His lips press into a thin line, his jaw tightening. “What do you mean I’m wrong?” he says, voice low, tight with frustration. “Y/N—you don’t have to… I mean, if you’re trying to comfort me, or spare me, or whatever—”

“I wanted it!” the words spill out before you can stop them—louder, sharper than you intended.

But you need to say it. Need him to see you for what you really are—a disgusting, traitorous, filthy human being who took advantage of the situation. Who let himself melt at the first touch of hands that weren’t Mark’s but carried his face, his voice, his warmth. A hypocrite who’d spent years pretending your feelings were platonic, only to come undone the second some twisted reflection of Mark offered you everything you’d ever craved.

God, so this is why there’s no yelling, no accusations thrown at you. Because Mark—your Mark—still sees you as someone worth trusting. Someone worth protecting. Someone who, in his mind, must have been tricked, coerced, hurt. Even after listening whatever happened that night—the sounds of skin meeting skin, the desperate need in your voice as you begged the other Mark to make you come, to unravel you in his touch—he still thinks you’re the victim.

Shit. Shit.

Your arms fall limp at your sides, exposing the damning evidence purpling your throat. “That’s what you’re not getting,” you whisper, tears blurring your vision as you stare at the floor between you. “He didn’t force me. I let him. I—” your voice cracks “—I begged.”

Mark doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

And you can’t stop.

“You should hate me,” you choke out, and god, your voice sounds wrecked. “The person you think I am? That’s not real. I mean, look at me—” A wet, shuddering breath. “God, look at me. After everything I said about still being friends? Pathetic. I’m not your friend. I’m can’t be your friend,” your shoulders shake. You wrap your arms around yourself. “Just—just hate me already.”

You still won’t look at him. Can’t bring yourself to. The silence stretches, broken only by the wind whistling through the open window, raising goosebumps on your skin. And that silence—it feels worse than yelling would’ve.

Hot, heavy tears slide down your cheeks, burning against your skin. Because maybe now he sees it—what you are, what you did, and what you, even now, can’t fully regret. Because fuck, it felt good. So good.

And because you can’t even lie to yourself and say you wish it hadn’t happened, is exactly why Mark should walk away.

Why he should look at you with disgust.

Why he should despise you.

That’s why—

A warm hand cups your cheek.

Mark’s touch is featherlight, his thumb brushing just beneath your eye, catching a tear as it falls. The softness of it, the quiet gentleness of him touching you like you haven’t just shattered everything between you—it steals the breath right out of your lungs.

When you look up, confusion clear on your face, he simply says, “You know I hate when you cry.”

Your lip trembles, and a weak sob escapes before you can stop it. Of course. Even now, after everything, he offers kindness you haven’t earned.

Then he’s moving—stepping into your room. Into your space. Into you. Without hesitation, he pulls you into his arms, slow but sure, like he’s done a hundred times before. He tucks your head against his shoulder, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other rubs slow circles between your shoulder blades.

You melt into him almost instinctively, breath hitching in ragged gasps—like you’ve been drowning, and only now are you finally breaking the surface. But then doubt creeps in—hesitation lingers because you’re not sure you should be this close to Mark, should allow yourself this comfort. But despite everything, you slowly bring your arms around him, unsure but needing him more than you’ve needed anything in the past two long, empty two weeks since you ruined everything.

Because fuck—Mark is everything you’ve been craving. Because this is the Mark you know and love. The Mark you fell for. Gentle, kind, steady. Warm in a way that feels like safety.

And when you bury your face in the crook of his neck, his scent hits you—familiar and grounding—and it makes your head spin. His body, solid and real, holds you like you’re still someone worth holding onto.

“Y/N,” Mark says, voice low and rough, vibrating against your ear. “I could never hate you.”

You shudder as tears well up again—hot and blinding—spilling over as you squeeze your eyes shut. He’s too good. Too gentle. And it hurts.

His embrace is everything the other Mark’s wasn’t—steady instead of desperate, grounding instead of possessive. He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll break, like he sees you, and it’s unbearable.

“I know,” you whisper, voice muffled against his shoulder. “But you should.”

He pulls you closer at that, impossibly close, until there’s no space left between you. And you try—God, you try—not to notice. Not the heat of his hands tracing soft circles on your back. Not the way his breath ghosts along your ear and neck. Not the matching rhythm of your breathing, your heartbeats thudding in sync, chest to chest. You try to ignore it all. Because it’s too intimate. Too soon. Too much to handle when your body still remembers the weight of his—his—naked body against yours. The slide of sweat-slick skin, the hitch of breath against your ear, all breathy moans and hushed gasps.

“No,” Mark blurts suddenly, voice tight, shaking with regret. His fingers fist into the back of your shirt like he’s terrified you’ll pull away. “You should hate me. I was a total asshole to you, Y/N. For weeks. Months, even. And you were right. I wasn’t being fair to you. I ignored you, pushed you away, treated you like crap, and I didn’t even have the guts to tell you why.”

He swallows hard, his next words coming quieter, more broken.

“And then, when it really mattered, I couldn’t protect you. I failed you. You should hate me,” he exhales, his arms tightening around you ever so slightly. Then, in a single, intimate whisper right against your ear, Mark adds, “I’m sorry.”

The words lodge in your chest, unexpected and disarming. That tight knot of guilt loosens just enough to let you breathe.

I’m sorry. The words come so suddenly, so softly, that you almost miss them. You were supposed to be the one asking for forgiveness, the one weighed down by guilt and regret—not Mark.

What Mark did—keep you in this strange, distant limbo for weeks, barely speaking to you beyond polite conversation, and looking at you with a mix of discomfort, guilt, and something else you can’t quite place ever since the day you confessed your feelings—was never something you could truly blame him for.

You were the one who couldn’t keep it in. The one who let your feelings spill out and ruin everything. The one who wanted to still be his friend, desperate to keep him in your life, clinging to any scrap of him you could get.

You were the one who promised yourself you’d move on, who told Mark as much.

And then you ruined everything again.

Because the moment someone with Mark’s voice, Mark’s smile, Mark’s face reached for you, you didn’t stop him. You let yourself fall into him like he was this Mark—as if that made it okay. You let him touch you, claim you, own you in ways this Mark never did, never agreed to—while all you could do was gasp and beg for more.

God. And Mark’s the one saying sorry?

“I forgive you,” you say, the words slipping out faster than you can stop them—too eager, too willing to let months of confusion and pain be wiped away with a single breath.

But as you speak, you feel the wrongness of this moment. You can still feel the heat in your cheeks, the way your skin tingles where it touches his, the dizzying familiarity of his scent flooding your senses. Your body remembers. It remembers. Every place he touched you, every mark he left, every kiss still lingering like a brand. And even if it wasn’t him—wasn’t your Mark—it doesn’t matter.

Because your body doesn’t know the difference.

And you know, with sudden clarity, that this has to end.

“I forgive you, Mark,” you repeat, quieter this time. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s in the past.”

Maybe he hears it—that slight shift in your tone. The edge of something final curling around your words. Because then his arms tighten around you—not restraining, just holding. Just keeping you close a little longer.

“That means we’re still friends, right?” the question comes out muffled against your shoulder. You don’t need to see his face to picture the crease between his brows, the hesitant frown you’ve known since fifth grade. “Y/N?” His voice cracks. “Because I forgive you too. Whatever happened that night—” his breath hitches “—it’s in the past for me too, alright?”

You open your eyes. The morning sun is rising outside your open window, spilling pale light through the fluttering curtains. A breeze slips through and brushes against your skin, drying the last of your tears. There’s an odd calm in your chest now, the quiet certainty of a decision made.

For one lingering moment, you let yourself stay—letting the warmth of his body soak into yours, letting yourself pretend—just for a heartbeat—that things could be simple. That they are simple.

Then, gently, you pull away, slipping from his arms with predictable ease. Because of course he lets you go. Of course his hands fall open the instant you retreat, always respecting your boundaries, even now.

Mark stands still as you step back, gaze dropping to the floor, unwilling to meet his eyes.

Mark shifts uneasily. “Y/N...?”

“No.” The word comes out steadier than you feel. “We can’t be friends.”

Mark doesn’t respond right away. You can feel the weight of his confusion, the way he’s trying to process your words, replaying them in his mind as if he might’ve misheard.

“What?” he breathes, voice small and cracked.

You swallow hard, nails digging into your palms. “I can’t do it. I can’t pretend everything’s fine. I can’t go back to what we were because—” you suck in a breath and let the truth crash out of you, unfiltered. “Because I can’t trust myself around you, Mark.”

Mark goes utterly still.

“Because when you hold me like that, I start remembering... things that weren’t real. Things I shouldn’t want.”

A beat.

Mark’s hands twitch—like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t dare. His mouth opens slightly, like he’s about to speak, but nothing comes out.

You don’t stop. You can’t stop. You have to tear through the illusion before it starts to wrap around you again—before you slip, before the memories seduce you back into longing.

“I know it wasn’t you,” you continue, forcing the words through the lump in your throat. “I know you don’t see me that way. And I know it’s not really your fault.”

You glance away, arms folding tight around your chest like a shield—an instinct born from shame and desperation, as if you could protect your body from betraying you all over again. Of remembering it.

(The way not-your-Mark would hold you, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise.

The unbearable pleasure coiling tighter and tighter.

The way he’d groan and growl against your lips as his hands roamed your body, gripping and groping every inch of exposed skin.

The way his lips would brush against yours, both of you panting, gasping for air, and still leaning in—still trying to kiss, to steal whatever breath the other had left.

The way his hips would move, his body joined with yours, each thrust hitting just right, so deep inside you.

“I love—” he’d pant, his rhythm faltering. “I love you, Y/N.”

And how do you recover from that?

How do you erase it?

How do you look Mark in the eye when your body still aches with memory?

You don’t.

You can’t.)

A traitorous shiver runs through you, heat blooming under your skin like fire.

“But I can’t unfeel it,” you rasp, voice hoarse and cracking. Your cheeks burn with the triple weight of shame, guilt, and something far more damning—arousal, thick and undeniable. “I can’t unknow what it felt like to be—” you hesitate, then force the word out “touched like that—by you.”

You take a step back. Then another. And another, putting precious distance between you.

“And I can’t go back to being just your friend like none of it ever happened, Mark,” you continue, breath hitching. “I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry. There, it’s your turn.

The words hang in the air, cold and final. This is the moment the fragile thing between you fractures beyond repair.

You can’t be his friend. Not when just looking at him sends your mind reeling with flashes of skin and heat, of whispered promises and breathless moans and the ache of being wanted. It plays behind your eyes in obscene, impossible detail every time you blink. And it’s not fair—not to Mark, who trusted you. Who never asked for this. Who deserves better than your traitorous body and its wretched, persistent wanting.

Let him hate you now. Let him recoil from the truth of how badly you’d craved it—how part of you still do. His hands. His mouth. His moans. The way he’d murmur I love yous like a prayer against your skin—

“What—what are you saying?” he asks, voice rough with disbelief. He takes a step forward, closing the distance you so carefully created. “That this is—it? Just goodbye? Don’t… Y/N, just—look at me.”

When you don’t, his fingers brush your chin, tilting your face up with a gentleness that undoes you. The tears on his lashes glint in the sunlight.

“You think I can just walk away?” he says, voice raw and aching. “Pretend like you’re not my friend anymore? Like I can forget you? Like—like I can hate you? When I—”

He breaks off, his brows drawing tight, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as frustration flickers across his face. For a heartbeat, he closes his eyes, as if bracing himself, before reopening them, locking onto yours with an intensity that nearly breaks you.

Then, softer, more vulnerable than before, he asks, “You remember I needed to tell you something? Before everything went to shit, before asshole versions of me started crashing through our world?”

Your eyes flicker over his face, confusion and turmoil knotting inside you. Still, you take a deep breath, slowly nodding. “You wanted to tell me the reason you’ve been pulling away,” you murmur, voice quiet. “You said it was because of my confession…” The words taste like ash. You exhale sharply, the ache in your chest blooming fresh as you take another step back. “God, Mark—just forget it. It doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t need an explanation. I know why you pulled away,” you swallow hard. “I ruined it. That’s on me.”

“No, no, Y/N,” he says urgently, voice desperate as he steps forward, closing the gap between you with stubborn, desperate steps. He’s now deep into your room—into your life, the way he always does. And you know, without him saying it, that he’s not leaving. “Just—just listen to me. Please.”

And then, as if he can’t bear to let you go, he does something that completely catches you off guard. His hands reach for your face, warm and steady as they cup your cheeks, rough fingers pressing against your skin. You freeze instinctively, breath catching in your throat.

He tilts your head gently, making sure your eyes meet his. And there it is. His gaze—warm, brown, familiar—pierces through the wall you’ve tried to build, melting the icy grip around your heart. There’s something there in his eyes, something that’s been there for months now, something you recognize but still don’t understand.

For some reason, your heart picks up its pace.

“The reason I’ve been pulling away is because I—I was confused,” Mark says, his voice cracking, thumbs tracing shaky circles on your cheeks. “Because I didn’t want to hurt you—or say the wrong thing. And I thought—I thought maybe if I kept my distance, if I just gave it time, it’d all go away. That you’d move on. That I’d be okay with it.” He lets out a shaky breath, jaw tightening. “But I’m not okay with it. I’m not okay with losing you—not now, not ever. Because every damn day since you told me, Y/N… I’ve been—”

He chokes on the rest, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly, calloused fingers trembling against your cheeks.

“Every day since you confessed, I’ve been wanting to—” a frustrated growl rumbles in his chest as the words get stuck in his throat as if they were physically painful to admit. “Fuck. I’ve wanted—”

The sentence dies on his lips again, but the way his gaze drops to your mouth says everything he can’t.

And suddenly, the air feels too thick, too tight. You can’t breathe. Not anymore.

You feel the heat of his stare, the way it burns through your skin, and the space between you grows impossibly smaller. It makes your chest tighten, heart hammering. Every inch of you is aware of how close he is, of how much he invades you. His touch, his presence, his warmth—all of it settles into you, tingling against your skin.

You want to step back. You want to create some distance, to breathe, to think—but his hand stays firm on your face, thumb gently brushing away the tear you didn’t even know had fallen. And God, it’s just like that other version of him, that hunger in his eyes—the need that burns too brightly for you to ignore.

“…Mark?” you ask, low and uncertain. “I don’t—I don’t understand.”

His eyes darken as they trace over your face, dipping to your lips in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. His breath hitches, just slightly, when you unconsciously lick your lips, an instinct you can’t control under his intense gaze.

“God, don’t make me say it,” he murmurs, voice rough. His forehead presses against yours, the heat of his breath mingling with yours, soft and shaky. “Y/N, I want—I need to—”

Whatever he’s about to say, he doesn’t. The words get caught again, but he doesn’t need to say anything more. Not when he answers in the only way you’ll believe him.

Mark leans in, closes the last bit of space between you, and kisses you.

Your eyes flutter shut unconsciously, a startled gasp catching in your throat as his lips meet yours.

The sensation—Mark’s lips, warm and firm and real against yours—obliterates all coherent thought, leaving you lightheaded and trembling. And then, one final thought cuts through the haze like lightning.

Mark Grayson—your Mark Grayson, the one you’ve known since fifth grade, the one you’ve been secretly in love with since eighth, the kind and good Mark—is kissing you.

The thought alone makes your knees buckle, your pulse roar in your ears, your breath come in shallow pants against his mouth.

“Mark…” you breathe, managing to pull back just enough to speak, your cheeks blazing. “What—”

But he doesn’t let you finish. He’s kissing you again, harder this time. Both hands cradle your face, pulling you in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

Your breath stutters, lost between his lips and your own racing heart. You don’t even realize he’s maneuvering you until your back meets the wall, his body pressing you there, surrounding you completely in his warmth, his scent, his safety.

When he finally breaks the kiss, it’s with a soft exhale that ghosts across your tingling lips. The sound is equal parts contentment and barely restrained hunger, as if he’s both savoring this and already aching for more. He rests his forehead against yours, breathing ragged. When his eyes open—dark and blown wide—they shine with something fragile and new and raw.

“Y/N…”  he whispers, voice hoarse and trembling. “Shit. I’ve wanted to tell you for so long, but I’ve been too much of a coward to say it. But, Y/N, I—” He pauses, his expression softening, brows furrowing in that way that always makes you ache, the slight pout of his mouth tugging at your heart. He inches closer, his breath warm against your lips, and in that breath, he whispers, “I’m in love with you.”

Your lips part, expression faltering as tears threaten to fall again, blurring your vision. The weight of his words, of his confession, pulls something tight in your chest, unraveling the last of your restraint.

Mark’s thumb gently brushes under your eyes, catching the tears falling, his gaze filled with a quiet regret. “I’ve loved you for so long. And I’m sorry it took me this long to figure it out. I guess—I guess I was so used to having you in my life that I didn’t even realize what I was feeling. And when I finally started to get it, I freaked out. I pushed you away because I was scared. Scared of—of what it could mean.”

A shaky inhale, both yours, his, it doesn’t matter.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he whispers again, leaning in closer, his breath mingling with yours, so close now you can feel the heat of him. “I love you. I love you. I love—”

You silence him with a kiss—partly because your racing heart can’t take another declaration, partly because you’ve dreamed of this moment for what feels like forever.

The heat of his mouth against yours sends fire through your veins, and suddenly you’re clinging to him, fingers twisting in his shirt as you melt into the embrace.

Mark groans against your mouth, his body pinning you to the wall with a delicious pressure that makes your head spin. But you don’t care—can’t care. Not when every inch of you is burning, not when all you can think about is the soft, urgent way his lips move against yours, like he’s been starving for this.

When you part your lips to deepen the kiss—greedy, desperate, aching to be closer—his tongue slides against yours in a slow, exploratory caress that draws a whimper from your throat. The sound seems to unravel him—his hands drop from your face to your waist, gripping hard as he pulls you flush against him. You can feel the wild hammering of his heart through his chest, its rhythm perfectly synced with yours.

“Shit—” he breathes against your swollen lips, his cheeks flushed deep pink. “I can’t get enough of you, Y/N. I can’t—”

You tangle your fingers in his hair, yanking him closer until your breaths are mingling, quick and desperate. “I get it,” you whisper, voice thick. “Mark—just—don’t stop. Keep kissing me.”

Mark does just that.

His arms tighten around you, and the small, needy noise he makes in the back of his throat sends a rush of heat through you. The solid warmth of him holds you steady when your knees threaten to give out, his presence completely consuming, anchoring you in the overwhelming feeling of being wanted, of being wanted by him. And when he nips at your lower lip, the sharp burst of pleasure-pain makes you arch into him with a broken moan.

Shit—shit.

Your body remembers too much, too vividly, and it doesn’t take more than Mark’s feverish kisses—all teeth and tongue and desperate, gasping breaths—for your skin to start buzzing with heat, for arousal to stir sharp and sudden in your pajama pants.

His hands roam with a nervous, almost clumsy urgency, shaking slightly as they slide along your body. You can feel his inexperience in the way he hesitates between touches, in the hitched breaths against your lips—and god help you, it only makes you harder, heat flooding your veins until you’re certain your blush stretches from your cheeks to your chest.

“Mark,” you murmur breathlessly between kisses, “Mmh—Mark…”

You try to say something—warn him, maybe—to tell him that maybe you should slow down, take a breath, but he kisses the words right out of your mouth. And damn, it’s embarrassing how quickly your body betrays you—how just the feel of him, warm and solid and real, reduces you to this trembling mess. He’s only kissing you, for Christ’s sake, yet it feels like he’s branding himself into your very bones.

Still, a coil of anxiety twists low in your stomach. You’re afraid he’ll notice. Afraid he’ll freeze and freak out. Because as far as you know, Mark’s never been with a man—never even kissed one. His alternate version, sure, seemed experienced, confident, knew exactly how to touch you and make you moan. But this—this is your Mark. And the way he kisses you—eager, almost awed, his breath catching like he’s afraid this might all be some kind of dream—it feels different. And if his confession earlier was true—if he’s spent months wrestling with his feelings—then Christ, this might be his first time doing any of this with another guy.

And shit—maybe this is going too fast. You’re getting so fucking turned on and don’t want to scare him off, but—

“Oh, fuck, Mark—” the whimper tears from your throat as he pulls you closer, almost desperately, like he wants to melt into you completely. And when his hips press against yours, the friction makes you jolt, breath catching in your throat.

Your dick is rock hard. You don’t need to look down to know this. And judging by the way Mark suddenly stops kissing you, breath heaving as he pulls back just enough to look at you, flushed and wide-eyed, you know he can feel it too.

The sight of him—messy hair, lips swollen, breath ragged—is so fucking hot you feel your cheeks burn even hotter, shame and desire twisting together in your gut.

“I’m—” you start, ready to pull away, to gather yourself, to put an end to this heated moment before you completely lose it. “I’m sorr—”

But Mark doesn’t let you finish. His hips snap against yours in a sharp, deliberate thrust, erasing every inch of space between you. A broken noise escapes you as you finally feel it—the hard, undeniable length of him straining against his jeans, big, just like you remember.

Mark whines, his breath hitching as he rolls his hips again, slow and experimental this time. The sound he makes is downright filthy, a shuddering sigh against your lips.

“Oh my god,” he gasps, forehead dropping to yours. He does it again, and this time you both moan, the vibration mingling between your mouths. His voice is wrecked, shaky with want. “Y/N—fuck—can I…? Please, can I…?”

You don’t even know what he’s asking, but it doesn’t matter. Not when he’s this hard, this needy, rutting against you like he’ll die if he stops. Not when every ragged breath, every desperate thrust, tells you he wants this just as badly as you do.

“Yes,” you choke out, hands fisting in his shirt to pull him closer. “God, yes—”

Suddenly, your feet lift off the ground. The world tilts as Mark lifts you with that effortless superhuman strength, his hands firm beneath your thighs, until your back meets the wall with a soft thud. Your legs lock around his waist instinctively, pulling him flush against you until every inch of your bodies align—chest to chest, hip to hip, the hard length of him grinding against yours in a way that makes your vision blur.

“Mark—”

His name spills from your lips in a breathless moan as you roll your hips, unable to stop the desperate friction.

It still doesn’t feel real—that after all these years of pining, of biting your tongue through every casual touch and forced smile, of convincing yourself it’s okay to be just friends, of him telling you he didn’t see you that way—he’s here, kissing you with the same frantic need burning through your veins.

So the words escape in a whisper, raw and shy with years of pent-up longing, “I love you.”

Mark’s groan vibrates through your chest, his grip tightening on your ass with barely restrained need. “Yes, yes—” his voice cracks, eyes blown wide with vulnerable sincerity when they meet yours. “I love you too. God, I love you.”

Something in you cracks at that, and you yank him forward, lips meeting in a messy clash of teeth and tongue. There’s no finesse—just frantic, open-mouthed kisses as your hips move in a desperate rhythm. Every roll of his hips sends electric shocks down your spine, pulling ragged gasps from your throat. You can feel everything—the thick drag of his cock against yours, the tremors in his fingertips where they dig into your skin, the wild hammering of his heart where your chests press together. The growing dampness between you only fuels the fire, fabric sticking uncomfortably as precum soaks through layers of clothing.

It’s overwhelming.

He’s overwhelming.

Mark nips at your lower lip with a broken whimper, and for one dizzying moment, you want more—more of his warmth, of his weight pressing you into the wall, of his hands gripping your skin hard enough to leave fingerprints, of his strength pinning you in place like he never wants to let you go. You want him to consume you, to claim you, just like—

Like—

Like his variant. The one you let touch you exactly like this just two weeks ago. The one who kissed you, ruined you, took everything you had to give simply because he looked like your Mark. Sounded like him. Moved like him. You let him in, let him leave his marks on your body—because you were desperate. Because you missed this Mark so damn much it hurt.

All at once, the heat evaporates and the fog of arousal clears. You’re acutely aware of the growing shame, the sudden weight of your guilt pressing down on you.

How dare you? How can you stand here, grinding against your Mark, kissing him as if you didn’t just betray him in the worst way? As if you didn’t let some twisted reflection of him fuck you senseless. As if you didn’t moan I love you to a monster wearing his face. As if the bruises have faded when they’re right there, purpling under your shirt where Mark’s fingers rest now.

Mark freezes the second your body goes rigid against his. His eyes flutter open—hazel gone dark with want, now clouded with confusion.

“Y/N...?” his voice is rough and uneven. “What’s—did I hurt you? Did I—fuck, was that too much?”

He slowly puts you down, feet safely back to the floor, although his hands hover over your waist, trembling—still touching, but not squeezing anymore. Like he’s afraid he crossed a line. Like he’s the one who should be ashamed.

And god, that just makes it worse.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you say, voice small and barely convincing. “I just—”

Your hand lifts before you can stop it, fingers brushing along the tender skin of your neck—right over the bruises and bites the other version of Mark left behind. Still there. Still vivid. Still haunting.

Even after your Mark killed him, that other Mark lingers. Clinging to your skin like a curse you can’t scrub away.

Mark’s gaze snaps to the movement, his eyes tracking your fingers with a focus that makes your pulse stutter. You see the exact moment his gaze changes. His pupils narrow, his jaw clenches. That barely-contained storm behind his eyes. You’ve seen it before, that look, and now recognized it for what it is. Jealousy, raw and unguarded, before he wrestles it back under control.

You look down quickly, heart sinking under the weight of shame. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, because what else can you say?

(You wished they had disappeared along with the alternate Mark.

Every time you’d look in the mirror, you’d wish those marks could vanish—make it easier to forget, to pretend it hadn’t really happened.

But no matter how many times you’d wash, how hard you’d scrub until your skin turned red and raw, they’d still be there.

Eventually, you’d give up, sinking into the hot stream like you could melt into it—like you could drown the guilt, the shame, and the hunger that still throbbed beneath your skin, embedded in every lingering kiss.

Then you’d shut your eyes, mistaking the heat for his touch, the steam for his breath. You’d press your fingers into the bruises he left, hard, like you could still feel him there.

And the heat—God, the heat—wouldn’t come from the water anymore. It’d rise from deep inside you, from the places he had touched, heat coiling low in your belly every time you touched them.)

“I’m sorry,” you say again, softer this time.

You feel like you’ve messed it up—again. Like any second now, Mark’s going to snap out of it, take one good look at you and regret all of it—regret the kissing, the grinding, the confession.

“Why are you sorry?” Mark asks instead, head tilting, that painfully familiar puppy-like confusion softening his features. Then his gaze drops back to your neck, to the bruises purpling your skin, and his expression twists—something between a pout and a grimace. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but it’s difficult for him to even ask. “Do you…” he hesitates, swallowing hard. “Do you want him more?”

“No!” you answer immediately, the idea so absurd it’s nearly offensive. “Of course not.”

Because it’s always been Mark. Always.

You’ve spent these last few days pretending it was him, after all. Imagining it was your Mark’s hands that touched you, his voice that whispered those filthy, obsessive promises against your skin. Dreaming it was your Mark who kissed and claimed you, fucking you so deep into the mattress you’d never forget it was him. Every time you closed your eyes, it was him. Even when you woke up shaking, sweaty, needy—it was always him.

Still, your fingers linger on your neck, shame and guilt twisting in your chest like a knife. The bruises feel like damning evidence of your betrayal—like they’re proof of something ugly, something that might disgust him.

You can’t help the question that slips out, barely above a whisper. “Do you want me less?”

Mark doesn’t hesitate.

“No,” he says, like it’s the simplest truth in the world.

And you just stare at him, torn between disbelief and overwhelming relief. It doesn’t make sense—none of this makes sense. Because—because why? Why would he forgive you? Why would he still want to want you?

Mark sees the doubt in your eyes before you even speak. His hand lifts slowly, hovering just for a moment—until it settles against your cheek, warm and gentle.

“I don’t want you less,” he says, firmer now, his gaze locked onto yours. “I just—” his thumb strokes your cheekbone, his voice dropping to a rough whisper “—hate that it wasn’t me.”

Your heart stutters.

“I hate that he touched you like that—that I wasn’t there to stop it. Or—” he falters, jaw tightening as if he’s choking on his own thoughts. His cheeks flush, matching the heat on yours. “Or—fuck—that it wasn’t me. The first to do it.”

Your breath catches, lips parting in a silent gasp. His thumb strokes your cheek absentmindedly, and you lean into it instinctively, like your body knows what your brain hasn’t caught up to yet. His breathing grows shaky, his gaze darting from your eyes to your lips to the marks on your neck—lingering there, his tongue swiping unconsciously over his lips while something hungry blooms in his gaze.

“I should’ve said something sooner,” Mark murmurs, almost to himself. “I should’ve been brave enough to tell you I loved you. That I wanted you. That—”

He cuts himself off, closing the distance between you in one decisive movement. His eyes darken, glassy with want as they flick between your lips and the bruises on your neck.

Then—slowly, so slowly—his hand trails from your cheek to your throat, his fingers skimming the marks with featherlight touch.

“Can I…?” Mark breathes, eyes flicking between your neck and your eyes, trembling at the edge of control. “Please?”

You shiver beneath his touch, voice catching in your throat. All you can manage is a small, trembling nod.

It’s all he needs.

Mark presses you back against the wall, his arms locking around your waist with a possessiveness that sends your pulse skittering. His face buries into the crook of your neck, breath coming in ragged, uneven bursts that raise goosebumps across your skin. His lips hover—barely touching, achingly tentative—and you can’t tell if he’s teasing or just being careful.

Either way, the anticipation is torture. It’s too intimate. Too much. Too not enough. You need more, more, more.

“Mark…” you breathe, voice impatient, eyes slipping shut as your fingers tremble behind his back, clinging to the fabric of his sweater like it’s the only thing anchoring you.

Finally—finally—Mark kisses you.

His soft, warm mouth finds a bruise. He lingers for a heartbeat, then deepens it, tongue sweeping over the purpled skin in slow, deliberate strokes. A sigh escapes you, your head tipping back to give him better access as your body goes pliant against his. Mark groans, low and full of approval, the vibration traveling straight to your dick. His tongue works harder now, sucking over every bruise like he’s trying to erase them, replace them. Like he’s marking you all over again but this time with his. Like he’s trying to say mine.

“Shit, Mark…” you groan, pressing closer, chasing the friction you both left behind just a minute ago, desperate to build the heat until it swallows you whole. “Mark…”

He answers your unspoken need without hesitation. His hips snap forward, meeting yours with a roughness that punches a groan from his lips and a moan from your throat. The sound seems to unravel him—his hands tighten on your waist, pinning you flush against the wall as he sets a relentless pace. You can’t move, can’t think, can only roll your hips in time with his, each thrust drawing out another broken sound.

And all the while, his mouth never leaves your neck—sucking, licking over the bruises like he’s determined to replace every one of them with his own. Bigger. Darker. His tongue branding you with every slow, hungry drag, possessive suck.

“Fuck—mmh, Mark…” you gasp, voice wrecked and breathless, your body trembling from how much you feel him—his cock pressed thick and heavy through your clothes, his tongue hot and wet against your neck, his fingers digging into your skin with a needy kind of desperation.

It’s all too much.

Your head’s spinning, floating, untethered. You’re not even sure this is real.

“Mark,” you whisper, hoarse and pleading, “kiss me. Please. Kiss me.”

Mark pulls back from your throat with a ragged gasp, lips flushed and slick, eyes dark and dazed. And then he’s on you again—hand twisting into your hair, dragging your mouth to his in a brutal, breathless kiss. It’s all teeth and tongue and heat, the kind of kiss that’s more collision than contact.

You moan into him, a fractured sound that melts right into his mouth. He swallows it greedily, groaning back with a breathy, needy sound of his own. Neither of you can breathe—it’s evident in the way your chests heave between frantic kisses, in the dizzying exchange of panting breaths, yet neither of you dares pull away. Neither of you even think about slowing down.

And it’s that—the burn in your lungs, the ache in your chest, the way your head spins from oxygen deprivation—that tells you this is real. God, it’s so real it hurts.

Mark Grayson is kissing you.

Not the maniac from another dimension. Not the twisted version of Invincible who destroyed cities and killed thousands before paying you a visit.

This is your Mark—your best friend who laughs too loud, who geeks out over comics. The boy who’s just as inexperienced as you are, yet kisses you with a determination that makes your knees weak.

This is the boy who’s a hero, not a monster.

It’s everything at once—the crushing weight of Mark pressed against you, the rough drag of his thick cock against yours through layers of fabric, the obscene wetness soaking both your pants as his hips roll in desperate, uneven thrusts— that does it. That coils the tension in your gut tighter until your legs shake violently under the weight of it. His moans vibrate against your lips, ragged and desperate, and when his hips stutter—once, twice—you break.

Your vision whites out, mouth falling open in a silent cry as you spill into your boxers, your entire body seizing around him. But Mark doesn’t stop—his thrusts grow faster, lost in the haze of pleasure, and the overstimulation wrings a choked sob from your throat—toes curling, thighs trembling as your oversensitive cock twitches helplessly. In a daze, you bite his lower lip hard enough to draw a startled whimper from him.

Then your head falls back against the wall with a wet gasp, a silver strand of spit still connecting your swollen lips.

“Ah— fuck, Mark…” you wheeze, vision swimming, the world tilting dangerously. “Fuck, fuck… I can’t—I’m gonna—”

Mark’s gaze sharpens, the lust clearing just enough for him to look—to take in the way your legs tremble around his hips, the obscene wet patch blooming across your thin pajama pants, the way your knees keep buckling from the aftershocks still rolling through you.

“Shit—” his voice cracks, hands flying to steady you. “Y/N—fuck, are you—? Did you just—?”

The raw awe in Mark’s voice makes your flush deepen unbearably. “Shut up, Grayson,” you mutter, eyes darting away.

“Oh,” he breathes, voice raspier now, fingers digging into your hips like he’s trying to ground himself. “Oh, that’s so hot.”

You groan, pressing your hands to his shoulders, squeezing hard as you squeeze your eyes shut, mortified. God. You just came from grinding against him, both of you still fully dressed, like some desperate teenager. The humiliation burns worse than the pleasure.

“Should we—” Mark starts, voice unsure, cracking a little as he swallows hard. “Should we stop?”

You blink slowly, catching your breath, heartbeat still loud in your ears. The high is fading enough for you to register how hard he still is—his jeans pulled tight around the obvious strain in them, and he looks like he’s suffering. You shift awkwardly, skin burning, but the answer is easy. No, you don’t want to stop. Not even close.

“I could,” you whisper, “suck you off.”

The second it leaves your mouth, your face goes up in flames. You want to bury yourself under a rock—but you don’t take it back. Not when Mark’s breath catches in his throat, when his grip on your waist tightens, and he stares at you like you just offered him the goddamn world.

“Huh?” he blurts, like his brain just short-circuited. “You mean—you don’t have to. I can—shit, I can just—”

You yank him down by his collar, cutting off his rambling with a firm kiss.

“Mark,” you murmur against his lips, “I want to. If... if you do.”

A bead of sweat trails down his temple as he nods, rapid and jerky. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, sure. Absolutely. Please.”

The eager, clumsy response pulls a laugh from you—soft and fond. God, this is your Mark. Awkward and earnest and perfect. And you love him exactly like this.

Then, you’re sinking to your knees—right there against the wall, with Mark still caging you in. Your pulse roars in your ears as you look up through your lashes, watching his reaction unfold in real time. His lips part on a silent gasp, eyes wide like he can’t quite believe what’s happening. Your heart races. His, too—you can see it in the rise and fall of his chest, the way he’s already breathing unevenly, fingers twitching at his sides before he braces them against the wall for balance.

You’re nervous—your hands tremble a little—but you mask it with a veil of confidence, your gaze steady as you reach for the waistband of his jeans. You’ve never done this before, not for anyone. But you’ve thought about it. Over and over. You’ve fantasized about this exact moment—him, always him—Mark in your mouth, groaning your name, falling apart for you.

And the thought alone has your mouth watering.

Your fingers fumble with the zipper, heat blooming in your cheeks as your mind races with possibilities. You picture him thick and heavy on your tongue, imagine the weight of him, the taste of him deep in your throat. Your lips part instinctively, anticipation pooling low in your stomach.

You glance up one last time.

Mark’s already leaning into the wall, palms flat against it like he’s afraid his knees might give out. His cheeks are flushed, pupils blown wide, chest heaving—and you haven’t even started yet.

A thrill licks up your spine, tugging a small smile to your lips as you watch him squirm.

Finally, you tug at the waistband of his jeans, peeling it down along with his boxers in one slow, deliberate motion. His cock springs free, already fully hard and trapped for so long that it curves upward eagerly, the dark flushed tip glistening with precum. You hear Mark’s breath hitch sharply, his abdomen flexing as his whole body tenses.

And damn... he’s big. Just as big as you remember from his variant. Thick, veiny, heavy—pure Viltrumite genes. But this time, the size doesn’t intimidate you. Not even a little. This time, you bite your bottom lip, pulse quickening with excitement. Then you wrap your fingers around the base of him, feeling the heat and weight in your hand. He groans, breath hitching, hips giving the tiniest, desperate jerk toward you like he didn’t mean to move but couldn’t stop himself.

You lean in slowly, breath warm against his sensitive cock, watching how it jumps under your touch. There’s a bead of precum glistening at the tip, catching the light, and your tongue flicks out—just a little closer, just a little more.

“Oh my god…” he breathes, voice cracking like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “You’re actually—you’re really gonna… oh my god—”

His words dissolve into a choked moan when you finally take him into your mouth, the taste flooding your senses—salty and musky and something uniquely Mark. You take him into your mouth slowly, tentatively, clumsy as you try to adjust to the stretch of him. Your lips drag awkwardly over his length, your jaw already aching, but you hum, determined, and take a little more, and feel his whole body jerk in response.

“S-shit! Shit, Y/N, that’s—” his hips stutter forward before he catches himself when you nearly choke, hands turning into fists against the wall. “S-sorry, I didn’t mean to—oh fuck, your mouth—”

One of his trembling hands finally finds your hair, fingers tangling gently at first before tightening unconsciously when you suck harder. The broken noise he makes goes straight to your own groin. Jesus. You’ll let him grab you however he wants if he keeps making those sounds.

“F-Fuck,” he whimpers. “Oh god, that feels—shit, it feels so good—oh my god—”

Every choked-off groan, every aborted thrust of Mark’s hips sends fresh heat coiling low in your belly. He’s falling apart just from this, just from you, and the power of it leaves you lightheaded. God, it’s better than you’d fantasized. The weight of him on your tongue, the way your lips strain around his girth, the salt-bitter taste of precum flooding your mouth—it’s overwhelming in the best way.

It’s messy, awkward even. Your jaw aches a little already, and your rhythm is more trial and error than skill—mouth bobbing up and down, hand working the base in shaky sync. You know it’s obvious you’ve never done this before. Maybe you’re not even doing it right. But from the way Mark reacts—thighs trembling, the punched-out whimpers spilling from his lips, the white-knuckled grip he has on the wall for balance—it’s clear you’re doing something right.

So you don’t stop.

You can’t stop.

You want this. You want him. Just like this.

Then, when you swirl your tongue along a thick vein on his cock, hollowing your cheeks with a deep suck, Mark shatters. His moan cracks through the room, raw and unfiltered, as his hips jerk forward on instinct. The sudden push sends him deeper than before, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat with a jolt that makes you gag. Your eyes water, throat clenching around him, lips stretched painfully wide. It hurts, it burns—but strangely, the stretch feels so good that heat flares, sharp and intense, straight to your own cock.

And then Mark’s yanking back, his cock slipping free with a wet sound. “Shit—sorry, fuck, I’m sorry,” he blurts out, voice cracking as he stares down at you in horror. His face is flushed and guilt-stricken, lips parted like he’s still catching his breath. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t mean to do that—God, are you okay?”

You catch your breath, lips parted as you pant unsteadily, chest rising and falling with effort. Your throat still burns, your eyes sting faintly, and your jaw aches—but none of it bothers you.

You lift one trembling thumb to the corner of your mouth, wiping away the mess of spit slicking your lips. When you glance up at Mark again, he looks wrecked, still flushed, still trembling with arousal—but his hands hover awkwardly, like he’s afraid to touch you now.

God, that hurt. The stretch in your throat was raw, intense, almost too much.

But it also felt so good.

“I’m okay,” you rasp, voice hoarse but sure. Your cheeks burn hot with your confession, but you don’t look away. “I—I don’t mind if you… lose control a little.”

Mark blinks, still breathing hard. “Huh?” he asks dumbly, his voice dazed. “No, that’s—I don’t—” His jaw tightens. “I don’t want to hurt you, Y/N…”

Despite his words, his hips betray him, twitching forward ever so slightly, like he’s already imagining it again.

You lick your lips, greedy and insatiable, the taste of him still lingering there. All you want is to feel that weight again—the ache, the stretch, the sting at the back of your throat. The way he made you feel full, like you couldn’t take another inch and still wanted to try.

“I don’t mind,” you whisper again, lashes fluttering as embarrassment bubbles up—but not enough to stop you. How do you even say this? How do you explain needing him like this? “I really…” a shaky breath, “want you to fuck my mouth. Please?”

Mark’s eyes go wide. His mouth parts in a soundless gasp, his whole face flushing deep crimson, like the words physically hit him. “Are you—” he stammers, swallowing thickly, “are you sure?”

You nod, resting one hand gently on his hip. With the other, you drag your thumb across the flushed tip of his cock, smearing the bead of precum there. He groans, low and broken, his eyes fluttering shut at the sensation.

“I’m sure,” you breathe, leaning in to press an open-mouthed kiss to the flushed head, tasting the salt and bitterness of him. “I’m so sure, Mark.”

Mark’s hips jerk violently when you take him back into your mouth—a little deeper this time, a little more confident—his cock twitching against your tongue.

“Fuck—” his voice cracks. “Y/N, I—”

But still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t let himself fall into the temptation, not fully. He holds himself back with a trembling restraint, biting his lip so hard it turns pale, brows drawn tight, sweat glistening on his forehead. A moan catches in his throat as you work him over—slow licks, teasing sucks, your tongue gliding along every ridge and vein, doing everything in your power to break him.

“Oh god—” he chokes out, eyes squeezing shut as his hips twitch forward, just slightly, sliding deeper into your mouth.

Even then, you feel the hesitation, the way Mark is fighting himself—desperate to lose control, to give in, but terrified of hurting you.

“You’re so—fuck—it’s too good—,” he sobs, voice high and tight with pleasure. “You’re so—my god—hot.”

The praise coils heat low in your belly.

You pull back until just the head rests on your tongue, savoring his choked whimper. Then—with a steadying breath—you sink down, lips stretching obscenely as you take him deeper than before. You don’t stop when it hurts. Not when the pressure burns. Not when your throat tightens and your gag reflex threatens to kick in the moment his cock hits the back of your throat.

You hum, the vibrations swallowed by the stretch in your throat, and your own arousal spikes sharply at the overwhelming fullness, the stinging pressure, the weight of him.

And Mark—Mark completely shatters.

He throws his head back with a strangled, guttural cry, the sound ripped straight from his chest. His grip on control slips. Hips twitch forward on instinct, not violently, but fast enough to force a gag out of you, your nose brushing against the base of him.

Mark gasps, eyes snapping open in panic the moment he realizes what he’s done. “Fuck, I’m sorry—”

But before he can pull away again, before his worry ruins the high building between you, you dig your fingers into his sweat-slick hips and drag him closer, taking him to the hilt, until you can feel him pulsing somewhere behind your tongue. The pressure is so deep it knocks the breath out of you and settles low in your core. Your eyes sting, tears welling, but you don’t let go. Not yet.

Mark chokes on a moan.

“Fuck! My god, fuck, mmh, Y/N—” he whines, voice cracking beautifully. His chest rises and falls in frantic, shallow bursts, his fists clenched so tightly on the wall that his knuckles turn bone white. “Y/N, ah, I can’t—that feels—oh, you feel—”

He can’t finish the sentence.

He just moans, dissolving into low, breathless curses and half-formed words. Nothing coherent. Just helpless sounds of pleasure as you swallow around him, hollow your cheeks, hum at the sheer power of making him fall apart like this.

Then, when he finally can’t resist anymore, his hands fall from the wall with a trembling lack of grace, letting his forehead drop against it with a dull thud. A second later, his fingers slide into your hair, rough and sure, gripping tight at the roots as his palm cups the back of your head. When he looks down at you, his eyes are glazed over—wild and unfocused—lips red and swollen from how hard he’s been biting them.

The sight alone sends electricity crackling down your spine, goosebumps breaking across your skin. You’re completely, helplessly caged now—trapped between Mark’s thick cock filling your mouth and the wall at your back, with his hands in your hair, keeping you there. And all you can do is look up at him through teary lashes, his cock still nestled on your tongue, and wait.

“Okay,” Mark whispers, voice thick with arousal, low and rough like it scrapes the inside of his throat. “Okay… If you want it that bad—then have it.”

You don’t even get a chance to savor the victory.

Mark’s hips snap forward without hesitation, sheathing himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Your throat convulses around him, tears springing to your eyes as he bottoms out—but the choked noise you make only seems to undo him further.

“Ah fuck…” he whimpers, head knocking back against the wall, his fingers fisting in your hair, dragging you in deeper as he rolls his hips. “Fuck—Y/N—Just like that. Just like—”

The words dissolve into a groan as he starts to move in earnest, his hips driving forward while his hands guide you deeper. Each thrust hits the back of your throat with perfect precision—that sweet spot where pain and pleasure blur into something heady and intoxicating.

You force your throat to relax around him, swallowing reflexively even as spit spills from your stretched lips in glistening strands. The burn is exquisite—the ache in your jaw, the stretch of your mouth, the tears pricking at your lashes— every sensation confirming how completely he’s using you.

“Fuck!” Mark’s groans above you, his thighs trembling. “God, you take me so well—” His thrusts turn erratic, the slick sounds of your mouth working him filling the room. “So fucking perfect like this—”

When you blink up at him—watery-eyed, lips swollen, chin glistening—Mark completely loses it.

His fingers tighten in your hair, pulling just enough to sting as his hips stutter. You feel the moment he tips over the edge—the way his cock swells, his breath coming in ragged bursts, his entire body tensing tighter and tighter.

“Oh fuck,” Mark chokes out, eyes squeezed shut, his hands shaking in your hair as his hips rhythm’s falter. “Y/N, I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You barely have time to brace yourself—your heart slamming against your ribs—before he falls apart.

With a shattered cry, Mark thrusts one final time, hard and deep and primal, burying himself so far in your throat that your nose brushes into the sweat-damp curls at his groin. His fingers tangle in your hair, gripping tight, pulling you flush against him until you’re choking.

Then you feel it.

There’s no warning, no chance to prepare, no space to breathe. His cock throbs, pulsing hard against your tongue as he comes, hot and thick, spilling straight down your throat in heavy spurts. You stifle a cough, eyes squeezing shut as tears well and spill, the pressure nearly too much, your throat clenching and flexing against the merciless intrusion.

“Fuck—fuck—!”

Mark groans, high and broken, giving one last desperate grind of his hips like he can’t help himself. The head of his cock nudges impossibly deeper with each twitch, his balls pressing against your chin as he rides out his orgasm. You gag around him but don’t pull away—can’t pull away—not with the way his hands are tangled tight in your hair, holding you there, not with how far he’s buried himself inside you. All you can do is swallow around the heavy spurts of cum, each twitch of his cock coating your tongue and sliding down your throat, leaving your eyes stinging and your lungs burning.

But it’s okay.

It’s perfect.

This is the sting you’d been chasing.

On your knees, mouth full, Mark’s musky scent thick in the air, the taste of his cum coating your tongue, sliding down your throat in slow, hot pulses. The ache in your jaw. The tears drying on your cheeks. The need to please him—and only him. The right Mark. The one who’s kind. The one who’s good.

When he finally pulls back, his cock slips free from your lips with a lewd, wet pop, leaving you dazed and panting. You let your head fall against one of his trembling thighs, lightheaded and dizzy as you catch your breath. Your throat aches in the best way, the burn sharp and satisfying as you swallow down the last of him with slow, heavy gulps.

“Oh my god—” Mark exhales, voice rough and breathless. “Y/N, I’m—god—I’m sorry…”

His hands are gentle as they haul you up, steadying you when your legs threaten to buckle. The guilt in his tone is almost comical—as if he could ever hurt you, as if this isn’t exactly what you wanted.

“Shit—I didn’t hurt you?” he asks, brows furrowed, eyes scanning your face like he’s afraid to find pain there. “You okay? I’m sorry—I should’ve—should’ve stopped before—”

You silence him with a kiss—deep and consuming, filled with heat and reassurance. Mark groans into it, tasting himself on your tongue, his hands sliding to your waist to grip you tightly like its reflex.

“You didn’t,” you murmur when you break apart, voice hoarse but sure. “I love you.”

Mark exhales shakily, eyes glassy and dazed, dark with something fragile.

“I love you too,” he breathes. “God—that was... so good. I—I love you so much, Y/N. Jesus… Are you sure you’re okay?”

To make his point, he gently wipes the corners of your eyes where tears still linger, his thumb soft against your skin, his expression faltering with concern.

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips as your hands settle on his shoulders. “I’m okay... Are you okay?” Your gaze drifts downward pointedly.

“Huh?” Mark blinks, still dazed, before following your line of sight. His cock, which had started to soften, now perks up once more, half-hard and rising again with a visible twitch. He flushes deep red, mortified. “Oh—shit. I’m sorry, I—I don’t know what’s—I mean—You were amazing and I already came, so I don’t know why—”

You laugh quietly, fondly, cutting him off with a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry, Mark,” you murmur, voice low and close to his ear. “We’re not done yet.”

He barely has time to register what you’ve said before you’re pressing on his shoulders, guiding him backwards. He stumbles with a startled yelp, his jeans and boxers still tangled around his knees, making him waddle back awkwardly like a penguin. And then—with a final push—he drops onto your bed, landing on his back with a bounce, eyes wide and stunned as he looks up at you from the mattress.

The sun’s just started to rise outside your window, casting long streaks of gold across the room. It catches the curve of his cheek, the red of his lips. And it catches yours too—the light spilling over the softness in your eyes, the affection so fierce it makes your chest ache.

Mark props himself up on his elbows, staring at you with flushed cheeks, red ears, and a sheen of sweat on his forehead. The sight is so endearingly vulnerable it coaxes a soft smile from you before you can stop it.

Then, wordlessly, you reach for the hem of your t-shirt. You pull it over your head in one fluid motion, revealing your bare chest to the growing warmth of the morning light. Before hesitation can creep in, you hook your thumbs under the waistband of your pajama pants and underwear, pushing them down, one knee after the other, until there’s nothing covering you.

Mark’s breath catches audibly as he takes you in. His pupils dilate, eyes raking over you, wide and reverent. He sees everything—all of you—and his gaze doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. If anything, it sharpens.

There are marks on your skin. Faint purple bruises. Bite imprints. The shadow of fingerprints where his variant had held you too tightly. Mark’s gaze darkens as he takes them all in. He follows every trace like he’s deciding where he’s going to start replacing them—where he’ll press his own fingerprints over those old ones, where he’ll bite to make new ones.

Your pulse thrums wildly at the thought, heat pooling low in your belly.

Still, the question slips out, quiet and uncertain. “Do you… still want me?”

Mark doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.” His voice cracks as his eyes drop lower, where your cock stands hard and aching. “God, yes. Yes. Always.”

The raw certainty in his voice sends your heart fluttering. You step forward until your knees bump the mattress, then climb toward him with deliberate slowness. Mark watches, transfixed, his breathing growing erratic—sharp inhales followed by shaky exhales, as if he’s forgotten how lungs work.

You can’t help the soft chuckle that slips from your lips as you straddle him, your knees settling on either side of his hips. Your fingers reach for the hem of his sweater, tugging gently, and Mark lifts his arms obediently, swallowing hard as you peel the fabric off him. As you do, he kicks the rest of his jeans off in an awkward scramble that makes you bite back another smile.

When Mark is finally bare beneath you, his chest rising and falling like he’s already worn out, he locks eyes with you. There’s nothing guarded in his gaze now—just raw, honest adoration.

You lean in and kiss him.

One hand trails across his chest, feeling the hard flex of muscle, the way his abs clench and shiver under your palm. Mark sighs against your mouth, melting into it.

His hands slide up your thighs, fingers squeezing, greedy, like he needs to memorize the shape of you. He groans low in his throat as they climb higher—until they curl around the swell of your ass, pulling you flush against him.

You gasp, startled and electric, just as his teeth graze your bottom lip in a teasing bite.

“Y/N…” Mark breathes, dazed and needy, his hips lifting instinctively, desperately, trying to grind against you—trying to chase just a little more friction between your cocks. “Please… come on, please…”

You swallow his plea with another kiss, languidly tangling your tongue with his before breaking apart. Beneath you, Mark looks utterly wrecked—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, panting in the heavy quiet. The room is thick with heat and want, the air nearly humming with it. But even with your own cock leaking against his, aching just as bad, you press a steady hand to his chest and push him back until his head meets the pillows in a soft bounce.

“Y/N?” he asks, brows knitting, a pout forming—but he doesn’t resist. He just looks at you, confused, a little breathless, waiting.

You pause for a moment, just taking him in.

That night with his variant, everything had been cloaked in shadows—his body, his face, his expression. And sure, it’s not like you didn’t know it was him—Mark, hero and all. But damn, your Mark is built like something out of a dream—broad shoulders, narrow waist, muscles shifting under your hands, chest rising fast with every breath. And now, in the soft glow of morning, Mark’s features aren’t shadowed, aren’t dark, aren’t animalistic.

Just sunlight slipping through your open window, catching in his hair, warm across his skin. His head sinks into your pillow, hair tousled, cheeks flushed, eyes locked on you like you’re something holy—eyes full of something close to worship. And fuck, he looks perfect.

You bite your bottom lip, anticipation thrumming through your veins, before reaching toward your bedside drawer. Your fingers wrap around the familiar shapes—lube and a condom—and when you pull them out, Mark’s eyes go wide.

His gaze darts from your face to your hands and back again, his chest rising quicker, excitement blooming across every inch of his skin.

“Oh my god, are we—” he swallows, eyes wide, voice barely above a whisper. “I mean, are you—are you sure?”

Your cheeks flush with heat, but you don’t look away. “I’m sure,” you murmur, voice quiet but steady. “Are you?”

“Yeah. Yes,” he breathes, voice thin and shaky, his fingers trembling right where they rest on your hips.

“Yeah?” you repeat, a little breathless yourself, as you flick open the lube cap with a quiet pop.

Mark nods, eyes fixed on you with laser focus, like he’s drinking in the sight of you—every movement, every breath. His lips part slightly, tongue flicking out unconsciously, and it makes your heart flip, your body hot all over.

The lube is cold when it hits your fingers, slick and slippery. You brace yourself, resting your free hand against Mark’s chest where his heart thunders beneath your palm, and lift yourself slightly on your knees. You try to block out the way his gaze clings to you, the way it makes your stomach twist with nerves and desire at once, and you slide your fingers lower, toward your entrance.

You swallow, breath catching, and with a soft gasp—one you don’t know whether it’s yours or his—you press a finger inside.

Mark jerks beneath you, his cock twitching, hips lifting off the bed slightly like his body is trying to follow yours. His grip on your waist tightens—not hurting, but holding, trembling, like he’s trying so hard not to lose control. You know you must look obscene like this, fucking yourself open on top of him, and it clearly does something to him. His fingers dig in, a low, choked noise leaving his throat.

But then—suddenly—he lets out a breath that sounds nearly pained, one hand snapping up to grab your wrist and still you.

You freeze, eyes flying open, confusion and a flicker of panic flooding through you.

“Mark?” your voice comes out small. “What’s wrong?”

But his eyes aren’t on yours. They’re locked on your leaking cock, on the way your body moves, his gaze so full of hunger it nearly knocks the air out of you.

His voice is shaky when he speaks. “Can I—” he breathes. “Can I do it?”

A shudder runs through you as you register his question, then you nod, dazed.

That’s all the permission Mark needs.

He reaches for the lube, coating his fingers with shaky hands, then lifts your hips with a care that makes your heart skip. You brace your arms behind you, palms resting against his knees, back arched in anticipation.

“Like—like this?” he asks, voice uncertain but eager, his slick fingers trailing toward your entrance, brushing lightly in a way that steals your breath.

“Yes,” you exhale, eyes half-lidded. “It’s okay… just push—”

He pushes in before you finish speaking, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips, body jerking at the intrusion. His fingers are thicker than your own, the stretch immediately noticeable.

“That’s fine?” he asks, already breathless.

“Fuck—yes,” you mutter, thighs trembling.

Mark watches, fascinated, as your hips twitch, silently begging for more. He complies eagerly, sinking deeper. “Oh shit,” he murmurs. “You—you feel so tight, so warm.”

You bite your lip as he begins moving experimentally, feeling your body gradually relax and accept him. Then he slides in a second finger.

Your head tilts back, a pant escaping your lips.

“Shit—” you groan, the tip of your cock leaking messily against your stomach, throbbing with the weight of your arousal. “Deeper, fuck, deeper, Mark. It’s fine. I can—ah—handle it.”

Mark’s breath hitches. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He pushes in a third finger.

It makes you jolt—your toes curl, your vision whitens, and a broken moan slips past your lips before you can even try to hold it back.

It’s different.

You never felt this way when you did it yourself.

You’d tried. Again and again, chasing the same fucking high from that first time—but it never came close.

(You’d jerk awake in the darkness of your new apartment from yet another haunting dream—sheets clinging to sweat-slick skin, body trembling.

You’d feel disgusting, guilty, and ashamed—because it was another dream of Mark doing things to you he’d never done before. Not your Mark, anyway.

In the darkness of your room, alone and overwhelmed by shame, you’d vividly remember the touch of not-your-Mark’s hands on you, his shuddering breaths against your ear, his possessive grip, his kisses down your throat, his groans and growls, the sheer size of him, buried so deep inside you that it jolted your entire body.

And when you’d finally come to, breath caught and sheets damp, you’d realize it wasn’t really the variant you were dreaming of. Because in the haze, his face would shift—when the sneering cruelty melted into your Mark’s tender expression, his touch gentling even as he fucked you deeper.

Your cock would throb against your pajamas, traitorous, and aching with a need that refused to be ignored.

You’d buy lube the next day like some shameful criminal, hoping to drown the thirst you couldn’t shake.

But deep into another restless night, jerking awake from a dream that left your body aching, Mark’s face seared into your mind like it had been burned into your eyelids—fingers buried knuckle-deep inside yourself—you’d realize something awful.

You can’t.

You can’t satisfy it. The need. The wanting. The hunger.

Mark’s variant had whispered it, during that heated moment, a filthy promise in your ear: Gonna ruin you for anyone else.

And he’d been right.)

But with Mark—

With Mark—

Fuck, it feels good. It feels right.

So good it melts your inhibitions, strips away your shame. You let every sound fall from your lips—gasps, moans, breathless cries—because he’s reaching places inside you that’ve ached ever since the day you learned what it felt like to be touched—to be wanted—by him.

“Fuck, Mark—fuck!” you cry out, biting your lip hard in a half-hearted attempt to stifle the filth spilling out. “Oh fuck, that’s it—that’s so good—”

Mark responds by pushing deeper, fingers curling just right. Your hips stutter, body trembling.

His mouth is parted, breathing shaky, eyes dark and full of reverent lust as he watches you unravel. He takes in every twitch, every sob, every buck of your hips, like he’s burning it into his memory—learning exactly what makes you gasp, what makes you writhe, what makes you lose control.

Then he twists his fingers just right, and your mouth falls open in a soundless moan.

Your toes curl, your arms nearly give out. “There—” you gasp, voice wrecked, “there, yeah, that’s—god—”

Mark can’t hold back any longer.

With a low, guttural growl, he props himself up—one arm curling tight around your waist, the other still working you open. You gasp, startled by the sudden movement, but your breath is stolen the moment his lips crash against yours. It’s fierce, bruising—desperate. You wrap your arms around his neck without thinking, pulling him closer. He moans into your mouth, swallowing every shaky breath, every whine, every broken sound that slips from you.

“Fuck—Y/N,” he pants between kisses, voice wrecked and trembling. “Let me—mmh—let me, please. Please.”

You know exactly what he’s asking.

You don’t need to ask.

You don’t need him to say it.

It’s written all over him—in the way his hips buck into the air, his cock flushed dark red and leaking steadily, twitching with need. In the way his muscles tense and flex with restraint he’s barely hanging onto. In the way his fingers keep fucking into you, wet and slick, the obscene sounds echoing in the quiet, sunlit room.

And god—you want it too.

You’ve wanted this. You’ve dreamed of this.

Over and over, the memory of that first time replayed in your head like a sweet nightmare, haunting you with something you never thought you’d feel again. Not with your Mark. Not after everything. Not if he hated you.

But shit. You were wrong.

He doesn’t hate you.

Mark wants you.

Despite everything. Despite what you did. Despite the marks someone else left on your skin. Despite the betrayal.

He still wants you.

And fuck, he wants you bad.

So you kiss him, tongue sliding against his, messy and desperate. You let him suck and lick into your mouth however he wants, because god, he seems starving for it. Like he’s been holding back for years. Then, you press a hand to his solid chest. He lets you, even though your strength is nothing compared to his—but Mark lets you guide him anyway. Lets you push him down, pull away from the kiss, lips swollen and glistening, a soft pout on his face and heat in his eyes, waiting eagerly.

His fingers slip out of you with an obscene, wet sound, and despite everything, a needy gasp escapes your lips at the sudden emptiness. But the thought of what’s coming—something thicker, fuller—makes your skin tingle with anticipation.

Mark’s head falls back onto your pillows, messy hair damp with sweat leaving faint prints in the fabric. There’s a giddy thrill in knowing that, even after this day, your sheets will carry the raw, distinct scent of Mark Grayson in them.

He watches you intently, eyes burning with anticipation, breathing shallow.

“It’s okay,” you murmur, grabbing the condom and tearing it open. Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “I’ll take care of you, Mark.”

Because today, you wanted to be the one to give him everything he craved—to make him feel good, to pleasure him. It was your weakest, most pathetic way of making up for letting another version of him touch you first. But it was all you had to offer.

You settle on his thighs, fingers curling around his thick, heavy cock, rolling the condom down his length with painstaking care. Mark’s eyes flutter shut, his head falling back into your pillow with a soft moan, sweat-damp hair clinging to his forehead.

“Y/N…” he breathes out, voice cracking around your name. “God—Y/N…”

You don’t stop, making sure the condom fits just right. Then you reach for the lube, slicking your fingers generously before wrapping them around his cock again. He jerks in your hand, hips twitching helplessly as you spread it evenly, coating him until he’s glistening and ready.

“Please—fuck—please…” Mark gasps, barely holding it together. His voice is raw, thick with need, and every broken sound he makes sends a fresh coil of heat twisting in your gut.

You swallow hard, the fire in your belly almost unbearable. “It’s okay,” you repeat, softer this time,  though you’re no longer sure who you’re reassuring—him or yourself.

Finally satisfied, you lift your hips—guiding his cock with a shaky breath toward your entrance. The swollen tip brushes against your rim, thick and fat, and it makes you flinch with anticipation. Mark’s head snaps up instantly, his eyes flying open, dazed and dilated, lips parting like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

“Oh my god—” he whispers, almost in awe.

You sink down slowly, just enough to take in the tip, and a gasp tears from your lips. Mark lets out a low groan, biting into his bottom lip as his brows knit tight with restraint. His fingers claw at the sheets beside him, knuckles white, trying so hard not to thrust up into you.

You look at him then.

Flushed, eyes half-lidded, his chest rising and falling in sharp, unsteady bursts. The sunlight filters across his face, casting him in a warm, golden glow, making him look like something unreal. Like something angelic and ethereal.

He’s nothing like the other version of himself.

This Mark isn’t looming over you with control. He’s underneath you, undone, baring his vulnerability like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

This isn’t the Mark who took; this is the Mark who gives, who lets you take the lead without hesitation.

And when he looks at you, it’s not with obsession or possessiveness. It’s with reverence.

Your Mark—all sunlight, warmth, kindness, the one you fell for, the one you never stopped aching for.

Your Mark, who meets your gaze with pouty lips, flushed cheeks, and aching despair when you don’t move.

You grin—soft and disbelieving. Your heart swells with something too big to name, affection blooming so wildly it nearly chokes you. You can’t believe this is real. That it’s not some dream clawing at your chest in the middle of the night, reminding you of what you could never have. Because it’s not.

You have it now.

You have him.

Your Mark.

Mark’s hips stutter upward with a whimper, his cock sliding just that fraction deeper inside you. When your eyes meet again, you make sure he sees it—knows it.

“I love you,” you say.

He freezes, then his eyes soften, wide with something so raw and tender it punches the air from your lungs. A shy, breathless smile tugs at his lips, and he murmurs. “I love you too.”

It’s enough to make you start rolling your hips—once, twice, three times—in slow, teasing circles over his tip. Your body heats under the friction, under the weight of his gaze. And when Mark exhales, a soft sigh slipping from his parted lips, that’s when you move.

You drop onto him in one smooth, determined motion, sheathing his cock fully inside you with a single thrust, helped by the slick glide of lube.

Mark’s reaction is immediate—head snapping back, mouth falling open as a guttural moan rips out of him, eyes fluttering shut, spine arching hard against the mattress. His hands shoot to your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise—bruises that, for sure, you’ll trace later with a breathless kind of  joy  instead of regret.

“Oh, fuck! Fuck!” he chokes out, hips jerking up instinctively, driving in deeper. “Fuck—Y/N, you’re—you’re so—” his voice splinters, breaking into a wrecked, almost-whimper, “—tight.”

You pant, head tipping back with a broken cry, your body twitching as Mark stretches you open. “Oh my god, Mark—”

His cock throbs inside you—thick, full, massive—just like you remembered. He’s forcing you open in a way you never thought you’d feel again. In a way it aches, burns, and hurts.

It’s too much—you know it is. You should’ve taken your time, let yourself adjust, eased into it. But god—god—you liked it. The overwhelming stretch, the raw, sudden fullness. The steady throb of Mark’s cock buried inside you.

You realized it that night—when Mark’s variant had pushed in without gentleness, without patience or shame—that you fucking loved being used like that.

He should’ve known, of course. Just like he knew everything else about you. That the fullness drove you mad. That the ache didn’t repel you, it fed something inside you—something primal, greedy, and starved. That no one could ever satisfy it but him.

Gonna ruin you for anyone else.

A shudder runs through you.

Yeah. Yeah.

No one but Mark.

No one.

“F-Fuck,” Mark stammers, his voice thick with heat, his expression crumpling in bliss. “Mmh—fuck—it’s so hot, it’s—god, it’s like I’m gonna melt.”

His hips roll deeper into you without thought, dragging a sharp, broken whimper from your lips. Your muscles tighten around him, a visceral reaction, and Mark chokes on a moan—half sound, half sob—as his fingers clamp harder into your skin.

“Mark—” you gasp, hands flying to his chest to steady yourself, nails digging into solid muscle as you tremble. “Nngh—how—how does it feel?”

“So good,” he chokes out, chest heaving. “God—it’s so good. You’re—fuck—you’re perfect. Just—”

His words dissolve into incoherence, his body trembling under yours. His chest is rising too fast, too shallow, his face flushed red and wrecked, lips parted in stunned, shivering gasps. He’s coming undone right beneath you, completely losing it, and you haven’t even started yet.

You watch, equal parts awed and concerned—because you need him here. Not spiraling. Not fading.

“Mark,” you whisper, cupping his flushed cheek, your thumb gently brushing over his heated skin. “I’m right here. Breathe.”

He sucks in a sharp breath, like your voice alone gave him permission to come back to earth.

“That’s it,” you soothe, grounding him, voice soft but firm. “That’s it, baby. Just breathe.”

Little by little, through shaky, shallow inhales, Mark’s eyes flutter open. You smile at him, tender and full of adoration, and reach up to wipe the tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. When his gaze finally lands on you—dazed and wide—his pupils are so blown they nearly swallow the brown of his eyes whole.

“My god—” he exhales, forehead slick with sweat, chest rising and falling slower now. “Oh my god, Y/N. Are you—are you okay? I’m not hurting you, am I?”

The question’s ridiculous, really—he was the one on the edge of passing out from forgetting to breathe.

You let out a soft chuckle. “I’m okay,” you reassure, stroking his cheek, then squeezing his cock with a deliberate clench. He gasps beneath you, twitching inside. “Are you, Mark?”

“Mhm,” he hums, nodding frantically as he swallows thickly, hips giving the smallest, involuntary jerk. “Peachy. Great. Never been better. Just—just a little… overwhelmed.”

“We can wait—”

“No. No!” he interrupts, voice pitched and desperate. His hands grab at your hips, dragging you down, sinking himself even deeper inside you. You gasp at the sharp, pulsing stretch—at the feel of every ridge, every thick inch of him. “Shit—sorry—fuck, I can’t wait,” he groans, breath hitching again. “I need you.”

Your cheeks burn, heart stuttering, desire coursing through your veins like wildfire—lighting you up from the inside out. Mark needs you. Holy shit. The words echo through your mind on an endless loop—sharp, breathless, haunting. Words you’ve longed to hear—to feel.

Your voice is barely a whisper, foggy with disbelief and affection. “Okay.”

Your hand drifts from his cheek to his chest, palm gliding over the warm, sweat-slicked skin, tracing the dips and ridges of his toned torso. Mark shivers beneath your touch, breath hitching, like your fingers alone are short-circuiting him. Then, slowly, you trail your hands down his arms, catching his wrists and guiding them lower—down, down—until his palms rest against the flat of your stomach.

Mark’s eyes widen instantly, a sharp breath tearing from his lips as his gaze snaps downward.

“You feel that?” you whisper, rolling your hips in the smallest motion, just enough to press his hand deeper into your abdomen. “That’s you.”

You already knew it’d be there—just like the first time. That small, firm bump rising from the flat plane of your stomach—where Mark’s cock is buried so deep, so thick and long and overwhelming, it carves a visible imprint against your abdomen.

Mark chokes on a sound that’s half-groan, half-growl. “Ah, shit…”

His eyes are blown wide, locked on the bulge beneath his hand, thumb slowly pressing into it like he can’t believe it’s real.

His voice comes out hoarse, wrecked with awe and arousal. “Shit—look at that. Look how deep I am. Fuck, Y/N…”

Mark thrusts up experimentally, a sudden jolt of his hips that punches a yelp from your throat. But your body responds before your mind can catch up—thighs trembling, you lift yourself just enough to drop back down, and the sharp rush of pleasure that crashes through you both is instant.

His eyes flutter, unfocused, locked on where your bodies meet—the slow shift of his cock inside you, how far he sinks in, how deep you let him go. Rearranging you. Filling you so completely he looks like he might lose his mind.

“Aw fuck—” Mark groans, voice cracking around the edges, head lolling back before snapping forward again, trying to keep watching. “Fuck—I’m inside—I’m so fucking deep—”

He proves it in the next moment—hips snapping upward at the exact moment you slam down. The impact draws twin cries from you both, his hands still pressing into your belly like he needs the tactile proof of just how deep he’s buried. You rock into him again, and again, the rhythm building into something messy, urgent, addictive.

“Yeah, Mark—” you pant, voice shaky, trembling with every word, “—yeah, nh—it’s you.”

“Fuck—” he breathes, brows knotting together in that beautifully wrecked way, lips parted, breath stuttering. “Mmh—fuck, it’s so hot. You’re so—shit—so fucking hot—”

His voice dissolves into broken sounds—soft whimpering breaths, helpless noises you never imagined you’d hear from him. And god, the way he’s falling apart under you makes something burn in your chest.

You reach for him again, hands finding his wrists, guiding his palms away from your belly, intertwining your fingers with his. You start moving in earnest—hips rolling, grinding, riding him with purpose now. You use his hands as leverage, keeping them pinned against your waist, making him hold you steady as you fuck yourself down onto his cock like you were made for it.

“Y/N—ah—Y/N—” Mark groans, his voice ragged, hips jerking up to meet you halfway. He’s trying, trying so hard to match your rhythm, to give you everything. “Fuck—ngh—Y/N—”

“Oh god, oh god—!” you cry out, head falling back as one especially deep thrust slams into that spot, sending white-hot sparks ripping up your spine. “Mark—fuck—there—oh my god, there—”

You slam down at the same moment Mark snaps his hips up, and his cock slams straight into your prostate so hard it sends a white-hot jolt through your body—your vision blurs, eyes nearly rolling back into your skull.

“Holy fuck—! Fuck, fuck, fuck—!” you gasp, your whole body arching into the pleasure. “Fuck, Mark—Mark—”

Your nails dig into his arms, clenching around him, pulsing and tight and desperate. You ride him with everything you have—up and down, again and again—chasing that perfect heat, that delicious pressure deep inside you, stretched full around the thick length of him. Your own cock leaks helplessly, slapping against the firmness of his stomach with every bounce, every thrust, adding sparks of stimulation that make your whole body twitch.

“Shit—Y/N—fuck, like this?” Mark pants, meeting your hips with frantic thrusts. His eyes are wide and dark with arousal but still so painfully earnest—always checking, always making sure. “Here? Feels good?”

“Yes!” you cry out, spine curving as you push down harder, grinding into him, pressing in deep, chasing more even when you’re already full to the brim. “Yes, yes—yes!”

Every nerve in your body lights up—your fingertips, your thighs, your cock, all buzzing with raw, electric heat. And when you angle your hips just a little lower, just right, Mark’s thick cock crashes into your prostate again—and again—and again, pounding that spot in a rough, perfect rhythm that steals the air from your lungs.

“Fuuuuck—” you gasp, voice catching in your throat as your eyes squeeze shut, pleasure burning hot and blinding. “Oh god—it feels so good—so fucking good—”

“Yeah?” Mark pants beneath you, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips, gripping you like he can’t get enough. He drives up into you, deeper, harder, and the greedy way he squeezes you makes your head spin. “Jesus—you feel amazing,” he groans, breath shaky. “You’re so fucking tight, I’m—I swear you’re gonna kill me—fuck—”

Your thighs are burning now, trembling from the strain. Your stomach coils, muscles seizing with effort.

“Ah—ngh—Mark—I can’t—” you whimper, voice breaking as you cling to him, nails dragging across his shoulders as your strength slips. You’re shaking all over, legs giving out, rhythm falling apart.

You can’t keep going. Even though your body wants to. Even though you’d give anything to ride him into oblivion. But your legs shake violently, threatening to give out entirely. The only thing keeping you moving is Mark—his strong hands lifting your hips, guiding you up and down on his cock.

“I can’t—Mark,” you sob, eyes brimming with overwhelmed tears. “Please—fuck me. Just fuck me—”

Mark growls—deep and guttural—and you barely have time to breathe before he shifts, rolling you to the side. The world tilts, everything spinning—and then you’re on your back, blinking up at him, caged beneath the weight of his arms on either side of your face.

And then he kisses you like he’s starving, swallowing your gasps as he devours your mouth with desperation. You cling to him, barely coherent, mind already melting as his body aligns with yours again, cock pulsing hot and heavy where it presses against your entrance.

Instinctively, your legs lock tight around his waist, arms looping around his neck. Mark thrusts back in with one smooth, deep stroke—your body taking him effortlessly, like it’s made to welcome him. Your toes curl at the stretch, at the sheer fullness of him, stars bursting behind your eyes as another desperate, broken moan rips from your throat—one that Mark swallows greedily between kisses, mouths moving feverishly against each other.

“Mmph—Mark,” you pant into his mouth, barely able to breathe, “I love—mmh—I love you.”

Mark pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes shining with unshed tears of pleasure that mirror your own. “Fuck, Y/N—” His voice cracks, hips stuttering. “I love you. So much. So much.”

You nod, dazed and floating. “Don’t stop. Please—keep going.”

And he does.

He fucks into you hard, desperate, the sound of skin meeting skin raw and constant. He now knows you can take it—knows you want it—and Christ, he wants it so bad too. Wants to lose himself inside you, feel every inch of you wrapped around him as his self-control frays and snaps, tension coiled so tight in his gut it’s barely manageable. You’re squeezing him perfectly, body clenching down like you need him, and every sound you make pulls another raw groan from his throat.

He wants to stay here forever. He wants to be inside you, part of you, one with you—if that were possible, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

“You like it?” he pants, voice cracking with another deep, sharp snap of his hips. “Y/N—fuck—you like it?”

“Fuck! Yes!” you arch off the bed, toes curling. “I love it—I love it—I love it—”

His teeth sink into his bottom lip, head spinning as your incoherent moans fill the room, every sound soaking into his skin like heat. You melt into him with every thrust, open and pliant and so fucking willing it nearly undoes him. God—and he’d run from this. From you. Too scared of what he felt. Too scared to face it, to own it.

Mark could’ve had this months ago. Could’ve heard these sounds, seen this look on your face, felt you tremble like this under him—if he hadn’t been such a goddamn coward.

“Good,” Mark growls, thrusting harder, more desperate now. “Good—because I’m not letting go.”

He presses a featherlight kiss to the tip of your nose before trailing lower, breath hot as it ghosts across your neck. Your breath stutters—your entire body tightens—when he lingers over the bruises. Fading now, but still there. The ones his variant left behind to claim you, to make sure you don’t forget him. To make sure your Mark didn’t either.

Mark’s jaw clenches.

Then he bites down.

A choked gasp rips from your throat, pulse pounding as his teeth sink into the bruised skin, right where it still aches.

“Oh god—” your eyes fluttering shut, voice breaking into a high whine. “Mark—”

He doesn’t stop—sucking dark new marks over the old ones, sweeping his tongue over each one like he’s rewriting them. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave their own bruises, his thrusts never losing their punishing pace. It’s overwhelming, the way he consumes you.

“Fuck, Mark—” you groan, head tilting back to give him more room. “Fuck, yes—”

A broken moan tears from your throat as Mark picks up pace, his hips slamming into you with a force that should hurt but only sends lightning up your spine. Each thrust punches deeper than you thought possible, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur at the edges. His breath scalds your neck—panting, uneven—and you feel the goosebumps erupt across your skin.

Then his hand wraps around your leaking cock, using your own precum to slick the way as he starts jerking you off with frantic, uncoordinated strokes.

You nearly black out.

“Fuck! Mark—!” your back arches off the mattress, nails biting into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. “Mark—Mark!”

It’s overwhelming—too much at once. His cock nailing your prostate with terrifying accuracy. His mouth hot and wet on your neck, teeth scraping just shy of breaking skin. His hand working your length with a roughness that borders on painful.

Mark’s everywhere. Around you, inside you, all over you. And you don’t stop him. You can’t. You love him. And love every second of it.

“Yes, yes, yes—” you babble, face scrunching in overwhelming pleasure, eyes rolling back. “Fuck, yes. Mark—ah—don’t stop, don’t stop—I’m gonna—”

Tears blur your vision, trailing down your cheeks as the sensations overwhelm you. Every thrust, every bite, every breathless groan Mark lets out sends you spiraling. You’re burning from the inside out, aching, and full and right at the edge.

“Mark—” you pant, voice wrecked, hips jerking to meet the strokes of his hand. You’re trying to warn him, trying to form words that make sense. “Mark—I’m gonna come—oh fuck, I’m so close—”

But then—just when it’s all building to an uncontrollable high—the frantic pace stutters.

Mark slows, pulling away from your neck. His forehead drops gently against yours, nose brushing nose, both of you panting, your breath mingling in the space between.

Everything slows down.

You stare at Mark through glassy, dazed eyes.

The sunlight hits just right, turning the brown in his eyes molten gold, his lashes casting soft shadows on his cheeks. His hair is damp and messy, clinging to his forehead, his face flushed and burning, lips swollen and parted with every heavy breath. His expression—open, yearning, achingly soft—melts straight through you.

Mark looks beautiful.

Mark looks yours.

And Mark whispers, “I got you.” Then softer, “I love you.”

And you believe him.

God, you believe him.

The kiss that follows steals what little breath you have left. Your body locks up—a lightning strike of pleasure that makes your thighs tremble violently around his hips. You come with a strangled sob, shaking apart in his arms. Your body clenches around him, cock twitching in his hand, hot release spilling across your stomach, over his fingers. Every jolt wracks through you like a wave, and Mark holds you through all of it—grunting softly into your mouth, matching the kiss with gentle rolls of his hips and firm strokes that push you through it.

He drinks in every gasp, every broken sound you make, kissing you slow and deep, teasing your lips between his, coaxing out every last drop like he wants to milk you dry.

“Mark,” you rasp, voice rough and awed. “Mark.”

“I’m here,” he breathes, voice just as wrecked, thumb brushing your cheekbone, wiping away tears you didn’t realize had fallen. “I’m right here.”

Tears spill over—not from the oversensitivity, not from the aftershocks still wracking your body—but because this is Mark. Your Mark. Not a dream. Not a cruel echo from another world. Not something twisted in the dark.

“I love you,” you sob into his mouth, clenching around him hard, desperate to hold onto him. “I love you so much, Mark.”

Mark makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat, his hips stuttering but still driving into you with that same relentless intensity that has you squirming beneath him from the overstimulation—but you take it.

“Love you too,” he breathes, voice cracking.

And then—Mark comes.

You feel it in the way he bottoms out with one final, shuddering thrust, so deep you can see the outline of him through your stomach. In the way his cock pulses inside you, spilling heat into the condom until it swells, pressing insistently against your tender walls. In the way his entire body locks up, then collapses against you with a broken whimper, his mouth desperately seeking yours even in the haze of it all.

You part your lips for him. Let him lick, let him breathe you in.

Then he finally slips his cock out, making you whimper into his kiss at the sudden emptiness. Your legs twitch, shaky, your body clenching instinctively around the absence. But Mark kisses you again—gentle, grounding, soft—and then collapses back onto you, chest to chest, skin to skin.

And finally—everything stills.

The only sounds left are your ragged, breathless gasps as the two of you try to come down, lungs working overtime to catch up. Mark buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, pressing soft, distracted kisses along your throat. You shudder, cheeks burning with flustered heat at the intimate display of affection—even after everything, even after just having sex with Mark, it makes you shy.

Jesus—you just had sex with Mark.

And there’s no guilt clawing at your chest. No remorse creeping up your throat. No shame curling in your gut like it wants to make you sick.

You had sex with Mark Grayson—and this time, it’s perfect.

You hum, low and content, arms sliding around his back, your nails lazily dragging over his skin in faint, aimless patterns. Mark shivers against you, arching slightly in reflex, his weight shifting more into you—pressing you deeper into the mattress, and into him.

“That tickles…” he mumbles against your ear, voice low and hoarse, rough in a way that makes your heart jump.

You chuckle softly. “Baby.”

He grumbles something incoherent, then nips playfully at your neck, just below your ear—exactly where he knows it’ll make you squirm. You flinch, breath catching, a sharp little jolt running through you.

“That tickles,” you echo, trying for mock annoyance, but the smile is already pulling across your lips.

Mark doesn’t need to see it—he hears it, the smile on your tone. He smiles back, the hint of mischief in his grin evident as his teeth graze your neck, sending another shiver through you.

Then he pulls back just enough to look at you, bracing his elbows on either side of your head. His eyes—soft and full of love—search yours with an intensity that makes your chest tighten.

“Hey,” Mark says shyly, cheeks tinged pink.

“Hey,” you whisper back, just as flustered.

“That was…” Mark exhales, his chest still heaving slightly. “That was amazing.”

Your cheeks burn, body still buzzing—soft and sore and tingling in all the right places. “Yeah,” you say, voice hoarse. “So good.”

He swallows hard, eyes flicking over your face like he still can’t believe you’re real, and here, and his. Then, like he can’t say it enough, Mark exhales. “I love you.” He buries his face in the crook of your neck, arms pulling you close as if he’s afraid to ever let go. “I love you. God, I love you. I’m never—never letting you go now. No one—” his voice drops to a low, dangerous whisper “—will take you away from me.”

You chuckle, warm and light, and wrap your arms around him in turn, holding him just as tightly. “Good. I love you too.”

It’s a promise.

It’s that simple.

In the quiet aftermath, Mark’s nose stays buried in the crook of your neck, breathing you in like he’s addicted to your scent, you feel something pressing insistently against your thigh.

You blink, stunned. “...Are you hard again?”

Mark whines—a high, embarrassed sound muffled against your skin—as he shakes his head violently. But his hips betray him with shallow, involuntary thrusts against your leg.

“My god,” you murmur, voice low and amused, affection lacing every word. You feel his hips twitch, his cock nudging insistently against your thigh. “Is this… is this a Viltrumite thing? Did I just condemn myself to your ridiculous alien stamina?”

He groans against your skin, lips brushing sensitive flesh as he mumbles, “…Maybe.” Then, quieter, with a smile curling into your collarbone, “Or maybe I just really fucking like you.”

Your cheeks heat, breath catching, your own body already stirring in response. Your cock—sticky and still sensitive—starts to throb faintly between you. “I guess... we're lucky the day just started.”

Mark lifts his head at that, and the sight alone knocks the air from your lungs—his grin wide and a little bashful, brown eyes gleaming gold in the sun, hair a mess, lips kiss-swollen, skin glowing with sweat and love.

The rays catch on the sweat still glistening between your bodies, on the marks you’ve left on each other—fading bruises, fresh bites, the ghost of fingertips pressed too hard. Little traces of everything that’s changed. Of all the things that will never be the same.

A/N: Okay, I’m honestly a little embarrassed by the ending, haha—I swear I wrote like three different versions and scrapped them all 😭 it gave me such a hard time... Anyway! I really hope you enjoyed it! this is the end of it!

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First Time - b.b. x gn!reader

Summary: You have a habit of calling people by cute nicknames or monikers, and Bucky isn't sure why it made him feel so good.

a/n: I'm breaking my hiatus finally!!! this is just a cute lil fic somewhat based on first time by hozier without the thought-provoking underlying angst. 1.9k

Content/Warnings: tfaws!Bucky, fluff, pining, tfaws fight scenes, zemo mention, multiple Sam appearances, references to fights/violence, use of y/n, use of the nickname doll when referring to the reader, friends to lovers? (let me know if i'm forgetting anything)

Masterlist

Believe it or not, Bucky Barnes tried to not think about his past. 

Though his efforts to make amends were a work-in-progress, and his name was brought up in the press more often than he preferred, Bucky Barnes tried to think about his past as little as possible. 

The first time you called him James was the first time he had liked the way it sounded. You had smiled at him, sweet and welcoming, as Sam introduced the two of you.

“It’s nice to meet you, James.” God, did it fall off your tongue in the nicest way. “Thank you for looking after birdbrain over here.” You giggled at Sam’s distant-sounding protest.

Bucky cracked a sideways smile, not being able to stop himself. “You can call me Bucky, doll.”

Your smile morphed into a sort of smirk, cheeks warming at the nickname he gave you. “Is that what you prefer?”

He hadn’t given it much thought anymore. He knew James as the person who enlisted in the military, the person who fell from the train following Captain America into the throws of war. James was the person who was Hydra’s plaything, the assassin, the monster he was so desperate to forget. Bucky was the charmer, the best friend of Steve Rogers, the swing dancer who had a habit of punching bullies(justified obviously). 

Now, he didn’t feel like either. Going by Bucky was the easiest option, since it was the part of him he was desperate to gain back. Talking to you however, he didn’t think he cared what he was called anymore. 

He gave you a soft grin, one that may have held a bit more meaning than flirtation. “I don’t mind either, you can call me whatever you want.”

—

The first time you called him by any kind of nickname was the day they went to Madripoor.

“Sammy! Buck!” You called their names as you waved big at them from the small airport hangar. 

Bucky tried to slow his heart as the pair walked closer to you. Sam let out a chuckle next to him, a teasing smile thrown his way. “Hope you don’t mind the extra company, Buck.”

With a frown and a grumble, Bucky widened his gait, the toe of his shoe catching on Sam’s, causing him to trip up momentarily. “Don’t call me that.”

He reached you first, allowing his smile wider further than before. “Hi Y/N, what’re you doin’ here?”

You placed a gentle hand on his left shoulder, rubbing back and forth. “It’s good to see you too,” you chuckled. “Sam told me what you guys are doing with Zemo. He thought I might be able to provide some kind of help, right Sam?”

Sam walked up with somehow both a smirk and scowl on his face and pulled you into a quick hug. “That’s right, though I might’ve invited you along so that I’m not the only one putting up with his old ass.”

Bucky scoffed, trying to ignore the lack of warmth from your otherwise occupied hands. “Are you sure about this, doll? This is probably gonna end with all of us on a watch list.”

You nudged his shoulder, your own smirk gracing your features. “As if I wasn’t on one already.”

The boys both chuckled, before Sam spoke up. “Speaking of watchlists, he’s here.”

Boarding the private jet that Zemo just happened to have, Bucky tried to keep his eyes on you the whole time, even as you sat in the leather seat between him and the window. 

“I’m sorry, I’m just fascinated by this - I don’t know what to call it,” your brows furrowed at the sentence, at the faint smirk that rested on Zemo’s face. “But this part seems important. Who is Nakajima?”

Bucky was out of his seat in an instant, metal fingers gripped tightly around his throat. Zemo’s face wiped itself of any amusement. Bucky spoke into his ear low and gruff, but it could easily be heard throughout the plane cabin. “You touch that again and I’ll kill you.” 

He snatched the notebook back into his and heavily sat back down into his seat, hand wound tight around the small journal

Your fingers reached across his lap and wrapped around his clenched metal fist, thumb rubbing soothingly over the back of his hand. “Just ignore him, sweetheart. You and I both know nothing that man says is worth anything.” 

Bucky looked down at your joined hands, then glanced up at you with a small smile. He gave your hand a couple of squeezes, and tried to focus back on the words being said throughout the rest of the plane ride. 

—

The first time you called him “baby” was during their fight with John Walker. 

Madripoor and Latvia had been filled with silent stares, small smiles, and soft words . Fleeting “friendly” touches ensued as well - Bucky’s hand on your back drawing small circles, your gentle grasp of his hand or arm when he clenched his fist.

Bucky talked to you about Yori, about his too soft mattress, about his too shitty of a therapist, his want to get a cat. You told him about meeting Sam, your agency background, your agreement that he should totally get a cat. And now, you just wished you could have that again.

Walker was too strong, landing solid hits on both Sam and Bucky that could easily start slowing them down. He had lifted the shield over their bodies too many times, clearly holding on to the same psychotic fury he had when he killed the Flagsmasher.

To this point, you stood frozen in watch. You weren’t there when the fight started, and between Sam and John’s current focus on Bucky, you weren’t sure which side needed the most aid.

John had flung Bucky into a nearby metal utility pole for Christ’s sake, and a cry wretched itself from your lips. You ran to his side as he laid on the ground unconscious, metal arm cackling with untamed electricity. 

“Bucky,” you murmured as you checked his spine for any breaks. You could hear his breath, as shuddered as it was after an impact like that. You moved him to lay on his back, palm pressed to his cheek. “Bucky, honey, come on, wake up.”

You tapped his cheek a couple of times in slight panic, other hand unconsciously combing his hair back. A couple of moments passed before he groaned and huffed out a cough. “Bucky,” you sighed a breath of relief, eyes near tearing up as the tension left your body. “Are you hurt, baby?”

He sat up with a grimace, another groan leaving his lips. “What the fuck?”

“He took the serum,” your hands had yet to leave his face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He looked up at you with a wincing smile, still bright enough to make your heart stutter. “I’m okay, sweetheart.” The red gracing your cheeks could be easily based on the intensity of the fight, but it was unsaid knowledge that wasn’t the case. He touched the hand holding his cheek as you swept a thumb back and forth. A grunt from the fight crashed them both back to reality. “He’s gonna kill Sam.”

You stood up, pulling him with you by his metal arm. Bucky swung his arm around to recalibrate before jogging forward. “We gotta get the shield. Be careful, don’t let him pin you.”

____

The first time you kissed him was in Louisiana. 

You giggled from the picnic table as you watched Bucky dodge Sam’s nephews, cake in hand, as they tried to tackle him for his arm, as well as when several of the children pleading to hang off of it.

He sat next to you on the bench of the table, shoulder pressing into yours as you basked in Sam and Sarah’s storytelling. Bucky shared some bittersweet stories about Steve, drawing smiles from everyone listening. Each laugh had you leaning into him a bit more, but a complaint could not be heard, especially when your hands brushed under the table.

The evening continued on like that into the early night. Bucky entertained the masses, looking a lot like the charmer he used to be. Sam reminisced with his community, taking many photos with his local family. 

You sat on the pier, leaning back against the wooden bench as the sun set over the water’s horizon. You could faintly hear laughter behind you on the dock mixed with the sound of the stereo’s music drifting over. A smile grew on your face as a presence made its way towards you, shoes scuffing against the wooden slats. A soft hand rested on your shoulder and sent warmth through your body. “Care for some company, doll?”

You flashed Bucky a smile that had him weak as you turned back to him and patted the space next to him. He sat down close, thigh pressed against yours, shoulder to shoulder yet again. 

“What’re you gonna do now, Buck? You think you’re gonna stick around?” 

He sighed, staring down at his metal hand in contempt. “I don’t know,” his hand clenched in his lap. “I’ve been following orders for a long time now. Might be good for me to work with someone, not for. Even if birdbrain has a habit of getting on my nerves.”

You reached across his lap and gently unfurled his fingers. He wished the pressure he felt against the metal was more tangible for once, more definitive. “You should do whatever makes you feel the most free, sweetheart.” You slipped both of your hands around his, rubbing small circles with your thumb. “Whether that be with Sam or doing something else. You deserve it.”

Bucky’s eyes drifted over your face and observed its features - the small smile that curled around your lips, the kindness in your eyes. “And what about you?” he spoke softly. “Will you stay?”

You looked up to him and searched his eyes with a hopeful grin. “Are you asking?” you chuckled, using one of your hands to comb his hair back behind his ear, thumb resting on his cheek. “If I’m needed, I’ll stay.”

Bucky puffed out a breath that he didn’t realize he was holding. “Well ya know,” he threw a bright smile in your direction. “Sam’s gonna need you here so he doesn’t lose his mind.”

You chuckled, leaning a little bit closer.  “And you? Do you need me?”

Bucky took in the space between you, the way your breaths mingled, foreheads near touching. “Yeah, baby,” he allowed himself to fully lean in. “I need you.”

You kissing him was like coming up for air, or finding water in the middle of the desert. It was salvation, it was required for him to have in order to survive. Your lips were soft, tasting faintly of the beer you had earlier. His mouth moved against yours like a magnet following them wherever they went. His hand drifted to your waist, moving you somewhat into his lap as you both smiled into the kiss. When you finally broke apart, it was only for the need for oxygen to fill your lungs. 

You giggled from above him, heads pressed together. Your hands locked themselves around his shoulders in an embrace that forced him to stay where he could feel the pant of your breath across his skin, not that he was complaining. “I guess I’ll stay then.”

Please reblog and comment! It's my first fic in *two fucking years* and i need to know that this is still good lol

Logan Howlett x Cyclops variant male reader

Ficlet

Reader is a Cyclops variant, just extra spikey, because Scogan is one of my guilty pleasures. I don’t know a whole lot about the X-men, so this I try to keep it vague.

I’m also very sick, so if this sucks, that’s why. I didn’t get a request for this, but I just needed it out my system.

Deadpool and Wolverine Spoilers ahead!!

The void was a strange place, it didn’t take Logan long to learn that. Being stuck with Deadpool meant he had come to expect seeing weird shit, but a very angry, very bloody, almost half feral Cyclops was not one of them. You were simply so… angry. From what the resistance could tell them, your deep connection to the punch dimension, and whatever else had you picked up by the TVA and dumped into the Void, kept you safely out of Novas grasp, even if she very openly wanted you by her side.

Seeing the familiar visor made Logans heart ache so deeply, but that snarl on your lips reminded him too much of himself. Deadpool being himself immediately started cracking jokes, only for you to blast him with your eyes. And instead of just throwing Deadpool back, it seemed to completely disintegrate arm right off his body. Logan later learned that was one of the reasons the TVA picked you up. Apparently, your mutation was… wrong. Cyclops wasn’t meant to slice people in half with his eyes, just throw or punch them back. But whatever life you had lived, had shaped you differently.

Working side by side with a Cyclops again took some getting used too, and for you it was difficult too. But that rivalry but underlying respect was still there. You couldn’t decide if you wanted to hit him or kiss him when Logan absentmindedly called you Slim for the first time. In the end you nailed him in the knee with your one of your beams, just enough to get him to trip face first into the ground. That had caused Logan to snap out at you with his claws, but there had been no real heat behind it.

After everything, with Nova, with the TVA, and with you and Logan for some reason settling down in Deadpools dimension, things were up in the air. The X-men still existed in this world, and neither of you felt much want to join them again. Both for the fact that they clearly already had a much more stable Cyclops, and their Wolverine had been dead for years at this point. So, in the end you two just stuck together, tracking down different mutant traffickers and other bad guys, and dealing with them in your own violent manner. Your beams and other abilities, and Logan technically being dead in this world kept you both an unknown card in this world, to everyone but Deadpool at least.

Sure, at some point your actions would catch the attention of the X-men, but it would take them a while, and during that time the relationship between you two brewed into something new and different, but still good. At least, you thought it was good, and if Logans shoulders growing less tense and his eyes less haunted meant anything, then you could only assume the same from him.

Seeing Jean, Remy and Anna Marie on a hit wasn’t something you expected though. Logan had never truly dealt with his grief of losing them, and you had over dealt with it, to the point where you felt nothing but an empty black hole, which fueled the more deadly part of your powers. In the end, you sent Logan away, as you distracted the present X-men, with the fancy black beams you had mastered, keeping their appearance different enough that they wouldn’t be able to tie it back to their Cyclops.

Maybe the reunion with past familiar faces was what broke the camels back with Logan, as the moment you guys got back to your motel room, you found yourself flung onto the bed, Logan easily ripping your baggy clothes off your body. “Logan- hold up” you grunted out, as he descended upon you like an animal, sinking his teeth into your neck, your shoulders, your chest, as his hands grabbed and kneaded at you. Unlike most cyclops, you had a healing factor, so it was fine, but still, seeing him so fervent had you worried.

Logan had never been one for talking about feelings, but he also wasn’t gonna force you to do something when you clearly wanted to talk about it first. In the end, you two wound up laying side by side, Logans ear resting against your chest to hear your heartbeat even if his heightened senses easily could have heard it anywhere else. It was clearly painful for him to talk about it, how he felt, what he wanted to do about it but couldn’t, what he thought of himself, so on and so forth. And through it all, you just found yourself rubbing his back and caressing his hair, giving him replies when he needed it.

Getting all the nasty details off his chest seemed to be what Logan needed, as he became so much more relaxed and softer afterwards. You had never imagined you’d see the wolverine of all people being soft, but him laying on your chest and drawing small shapes on your stomach was proof it was real. Hearing it all from Logan brought of some of your own suppressed memories, stuff you wanted to forget or stuff you had overanalyzed till it lost all meaning, but still, you found yourself spilling it all to him. What happened to you, your own x-men, your powers, how you ended up in the void.

It left you both feeling vulnerable, like an exposed nerve, but also so much closer. It was at this point you two officially started your relationship, and would also be the day you celebrated anniversaries, even if Logan acted like he didn’t care.

In the end, you two hadn’t really planned too far out in the future, what you would do, where you would go, you just kinda lived at the edge of your seats and went where the wind took you. Of course, you guys joined Deadpool and his little gang of misfits every now and then, whenever you were around his territory. You shouldn’t have been surprised when the X-men finally fully tracked you down. Apparently, Colossus had been a great guy and kept you two hidden, since you in his words “needed time to heal and find yourselves”.

Them having Kurt bamf into your motel room was too much though, especially as Logan almost skewered him on his claws, only avoided by old instincts of Kurts taking him out of fire. They had all been near tears when they saw Logan, some happier or weepier than others. He fit in so great with them, and made that lonely sour feeling rear its ugly head as you sank into the background.

Logan, being ever observant, pulled you to the front, and introduced you by his nickname for you, easily stating that you were his, and that was that. Your visor had been lost a long time ago, replaced by whatever shades or goggles you two could find, but it was pretty clear who’s variant you were. It left the X-men floundering when it became obvious you two were more than just allies. Your preference for bloody violence was also pretty new, but what could they really do.

You both denied joining the X-men, blaming it on not wanting to settle down in one place. Xavier had a very knowing look on his face, so you wouldn’t be shocked if he knew exactly why neither of you felt comfortable amongst their ranks, at least for a long while. That didn’t keep different X-men from pulling up on you two any chance they got. Apparently seeing an edgier more rebel version of their leader and/or headmaster was quite a hit. They talked about you offering students beer for months, and how sour this worlds Cyclops looked about you made you cackle. So maybe it wasn’t all bad. But only the future could really tell, but with Logan, and your shared group of randos, then that future didn’t look too bleak .

---

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

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

Pairing: Alternate!Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe that’s why you don’t hear him.

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

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

“Found you,” he whispers.

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

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

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

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

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

And then, there he is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mark?” you whisper again, voice trembling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you wonder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then stop!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I get it.”

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

Is he even Mark—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This isn’t the Mark you know and love.

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

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

Because you let him.

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

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

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

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

Yet—a curious thing happens in your brain.

You’re not afraid. You can’t be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your body betrays you.

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

It welcomes him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he dives.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And your mind blanks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s still not enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it hits you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“William never complains.”

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

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

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

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

“Mmmh, holy shit—yes!”)

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

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

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

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

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

“Mark—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your voice would crack, gaze dropping to the floor.

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

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

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

“You won’t even tell me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You should stop.

You should have never let it go this far.

But then—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then—your phone starts ringing again.

This time, Mark notices.

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

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

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

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

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

But he’s quicker.

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

A shudder rips through you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…Y/N?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That yeah—he’s here.

And yeah—he’s fucking you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

Then—suddenly—his hand wraps around your cock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because how dare you?

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

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

You know you’re wrong.

You know time is running out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, he never might.