#archive.

@khdpontos

This was supposed to be cute. An adventure. Maybe even romantic. But it’s turning into a slow, claustrophobic descent into madness—where he’s hyper-aware of every inch of you and desperately trying not to show it. You turn your head, looking back at him and say, casually as ever, “You doing okay back there?”

“Peachy,” he mutters. You laugh. He feels it more than hears it—vibrating through your spine, right against him. Mark’s been weirdly quiet since you boarded. He’s tall, broad, and currently using every bit of that to shield you from the crowd like some kind of human barrier. In a way, it looks like he’s doing you a favor—keeping the strangers at bay, making sure no one elbows you in the ribs or steps on your shoes.

But really, it’s a favor to himself. Because the moment the two of you got forced into this position—your back to his chest, nowhere to move, barely enough air between you—his body started betraying him.

You can feel it. Every jolt of the train, every hiccup in the tracks, creates a flicker of friction that goes straight to the space between you. And while you decide to stay still for now, pretending to scroll through your phone like nothing’s happening, you don’t miss the way he shifts just a little—like maybe if he angles his hips differently, it’ll stop. Like he doesn’t want you to notice.

Poor thing’s trying so hard to be respectful. But the way your ass fits perfectly nestled against him, the way every tiny sway of the train drags his semi-hard cock right along that curve—it’s making it nearly impossible. Makes his dick throb in excitement.

His fingers are white-knuckled around the rail, jaw locked so tight it’s a miracle his teeth don’t crack. He’s doing everything he can to keep still, keep quiet, keep from bucking forward and rutting into you like he’s lost every shred of self-control. You’re not helping anymore.

You roll your hips, agonizingly slow, grinding your ass right into him, and he chokes on his breath. A whiny, desperate groan rips from his throat before he can clamp it down—so raw and filthy it sends a shiver through you. You feel it through his pants—his cock twitching against you, straining, begging.

He wants to move. Wants to rut and push you up against the wall of this train and grind his leaky, needy cock into you until he’s dizzy. The heat is unbearable. The pressure in his jeans is starting to ache. If he had any less discipline, it’d be over already. Right here, in public. With you.

You tilt your head just slightly, voice sugar-sweet and cruel. “You sure you’re okay, Mark?”

He breathes in sharp through his nose, exhales even slower, and clenches his jaw hard enough to ache.

And right then and there, he decides this is the last time he listens or agrees to partake in these dumb ideas.

The flame kisses the tip, a slow burn. He inhales—too fast, too much—and then it hits him all at once. A sharp cough tears out of his chest, then another, his whole body jerking forward like he’s been punched from the inside. You watch, amused, arms crossed as he fights against his own lungs.

A small laugh escapes you, light and sharp. “You’re not supposed to rush,” you chide, reaching for the blunt, plucking it from his fingers before he can protest. “Here, let me show you.” Smooth, practiced, you bring it to your lips, inhale slow, let the smoke curl inside you like a secret before exhaling in a soft, languid breath.

Mark glares, still half-choking, half-annoyed. “You could’ve started with that first,” he mutters, eyes red-rimmed, voice caught between confusion and irritation.

“’S not even my fault,” you scoff, sinking back into the couch. “Didn’t know you were gonna try ‘n inhale the thing like its air.”

Mark opens his mouth, then shuts it again, because—yeah. Fair point. He takes the blunt when you pass it back, more careful this time, dragging slow like he’s mimicking you. The smoke unfurls from his lips in thin ribbons, dissipating into the dim light of the room.

He exhales, waits a beat. “I don’t feel anything,” he says, flat, like he’s waiting for the universe to prove him wrong.

You roll your eyes so hard it nearly hurts. He cannot be serious. “No shit,” you mutter. The fact that he doesn’t know how weed works is honestly embarrassing. You would’ve thought Amber—Who’s often at party scenes—might have taught him at some point, but apparently not.

“It’s not gonna work instantly,” you say, settling deeper into the couch. “Well—actually, I don’t even know if it’s gonna work at all, considering you’re basically, like, half alien.” Mark looks at you, head tilting just slightly, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. Then that small, lopsided smirk appears. “You say it like it’s an insult.”

You huff, rolling your eyes, but there’s a twitch at the corner of your lips. “Maybe it is,” you tease, watching the ember glow between his fingers. “Maybe it’s not.”

He takes another drag, the ember burning low, and you shift closer without really thinking about it. Your bare knees brush against his, the fabric of his sweats soft against your skin. It’s a small touch, barely anything, but it feels like something.

Mark glances at you, eyes lidded, curious. You hold his gaze longer than you mean to. You’ve never really looked at him before—not like this. He’s handsome. Not in the obvious way, not in the way that makes people stop and stare, but in a way that sneaks up on you. The way his black hair falls over his forehead, just a couple strays stand out of place. The way the dim light catches the sharp lines of his face.

And he smells good. Even through the thick haze of weed, his scent lingers—earthy, fresh, something clean that sticks in your lungs longer than the smoke does.

“Stop hogging it,” you say, voice edged with faux annoyance. “Just ’cause I’m teaching you doesn’t mean you get to smoke the whole thing yourself.”

Mark chuckles, a low but sweet sound, it settles somewhere deep in your chest. Instead of handing it back, he lifts the blunt to your lips himself, holding it there like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You hesitate—just for a second—before leaning in, letting your lips part as you take a slow drag. The heat of the smoke curls in your lungs, thick and heavy, but you’re barely paying attention to that. You’re too aware of the way his fingers hover near your mouth, the way his gaze lingers, watching.

Maybe it’s the weed settling into your bloodstream, slow and syrup-thick, or maybe it’s just plain curiosity—but the thought creeps in before you can stop it.

You know he’s not a virgin. That much is obvious. But has he ever eaten pussy? Like, really eaten it? The kind that isn’t just half-hearted, obligatory foreplay, but something done with intent? With enthusiasm? You’d take him for the type.

The idea lingers, unexpected and distracting. You steal a glance at him—his lips slightly parted, still damp from the last drag, his expression relaxed, almost careless.

“Mark, have you ever eaten pussy?”The words slip out before you even think to stop them.

Mark freezes, eyes wide like you just asked him to solve a math equation with a gun to his head. It’s almost comical—the way his entire body tenses, the way his brain visibly lags trying to process if he really just heard what he thinks he heard.

“What—?” His voice cracks, just a little. “Why—why would you even ask me that?”

You almost lose it right then and there, laughter bubbling up at the sheer horror on his face. Like the thought has never even occurred to him before. Like you’ve just introduced a concept so foreign, so absurd, that his brain is rejecting it outright.

You bite down on your laughter, pressing your lips together to keep it from slipping out. “We’ve been friends for a long time, I’m just curious,” you say, trying to sound casual, like this is a completely normal topic of conversation.

Mark blinks at you, still looking like he’s in the middle of a mental blue screen. He shifts slightly, running a hand through his hair, clearly debating whether he should actually answer or just pretend this never happened.

A few moments of silence pass, thick and heavy between you. Then Mark exhales, sinking back into the couch, his body relaxing again—except for the telltale flush creeping up his ears.

“No,” he admits, voice low, almost begrudging. “I haven’t.”

You hum, nodding like you already knew. Like it makes perfect sense. You pluck the blunt from his fingers, bringing it to your lips with an easy inhale. “See,” you murmur through the smoke, exhaling slowly. “That wasn’t so hard.”

Another beat of silence, the kind that feels like it’s waiting to be broken. And, maybe because you’re high, or maybe because you just can’t help yourself, you push further. “Why not?” You glance at him, head tilting slightly. “You’ve had, what, two girlfriends? And you never ate it?”

Mark groans, tilting his head back against the couch like he wants to sink into it and disappear. “Why are you so invested in this?” You smirk, tapping ash off the blunt. “I’m just saying, statistically, it doesn’t add up.”

“I mean,” he starts, still staring at the ceiling like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the room, “I just never really got the chance, I guess.” You blink at him. Never got the chance? How does someone not get the chance? It’s not like his exes would’ve stopped him—if anything, they probably wanted him to. And then you realize.

He’s a superhero. He barely had time to show up to his own girlfriend’s charity drive or whatever that was, let alone explore his sex life. Between saving the world and getting his ass kicked, there was probably never a moment where things could slow down enough for something like that.

You laugh. You don’t even know why you’re laughing, but it bubbles out of you anyway, light and uncontrollable. Maybe it’s the weed, maybe it’s the ridiculousness of the conversation, or maybe it’s just him.

And then—before your brain can catch up to your mouth—you say it.

“If you ever want to, you could always practice on me.”

The second the words leave your lips, your whole body seizes with horror. Your once relaxed position vanishes as you jolt upright, hands suddenly restless, fumbling over themselves like they can physically rewind time.

“I meant—like, I meant it—” you stammer, face burning, voice pitching slightly higher. “It was supposed to be comforting!”

Mark finally looks at you, wide-eyed, lips slightly parted like his brain just short-circuited. For a long, agonizing second, he doesn’t say anything. And that somehow makes it so much worse.

Your face is on fire. Actually burning. You can feel the heat creeping up your neck, settling hot behind your ears. And then you make the mistake of looking at Mark—his face, usually so composed, is tinted pink, eyes slightly wide, lips parted like he’s still buffering.

Neither of you say anything.

The silence is unbearable. Suffocating. The kind that stretches so long it starts to feel like a tangible weight pressing down on you. You shift awkwardly, hands gripping your knees, mind running a thousand miles an hour trying to figure out how to backpedal—how to undo whatever the fuck this is.

Will you ever recover from this? Can you?

You consider just getting up and leaving. Walking out of the room, out of the apartment, out of the entire city if you have to. Maybe start a new life. Change your name. Forget this ever happened.

Mark’s head is spinning. Racing. In a thousand years, he’s never—never—thought about you like that.

Sure, you’re beautiful. That was always obvious. The kind of beauty that turns heads without you even trying. But he’s never let his mind go there before. Not with you.

You were carefree, nonchalant, always teasing but never crossing that line. Never someone he associated with anything lewd. But now? Now you’re sitting there, flustered and squirming all pretty, looking at him with wide, nervous eyes like you just realized what you said. Like you’re feeling the weight of it at the same time he is.

And fuck—now it’s in his head.

Mark jerks his head to the side, eyes locked on anything but you. The wall, the cluttered coffee table, the faint swirl of smoke in the air—anywhere that isn’t your face, because if he looks at you now, he knows something reckless is going to slip out.

Something he won’t be able to take back.

And then, because his brain is already working against him, because the weight of your words is pressing down on him harder than he can ignore, he hears himself say—“Is—Is that something you’d like?” The second it’s out, he wants to die.

Because now? Now the silence between you isn’t just awkward. It’s charged. Hanging heavy in the air, thick and hot, impossible to ignore. He can’t see your face, but he feels your reaction. The way your body shifts. The way your breath hitches, just slightly.

Your mind is a mess. A tangled knot of confusion, nerves, and something else—something warmer, heavier, something pooling low in your stomach.

And maybe it’s the weed. Maybe it’s the fact that Mark looks too good right now, all flushed and fidgety, broad shoulders tense like he’s fighting a war inside his own head. Maybe it’s the tension, thick and humming between you, pressing into your skin like static electricity.

Either way, your body reacts before your brain can catch up—nipples tightening under your shirt, thighs pressing together, heat coiling deep in your core. And at this point? It’s probably too late to walk it back.

“I wouldn’t mind.”

The words slip out, smooth and easy, but your heart is pounding. Mark finally looks at you, eyes dark, searching. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you like he’s waiting for you to take it back. You don’t.

You take a deep breath, then exhale, slow and steady. And for some reason, it’s relieving. Like you just confessed something you didn’t even know you needed to get off your chest.

Your body loosens, the tension in your shoulders easing as you sink back into the couch—only now realizing you had been sitting upright, practically perched on the edge, like your body had been trying to flee before your mind even decided.

Mark moves toward you, his face still flushed, that pretty pink creeping down his neck. He hesitates for a second, shifting awkwardly, then clears his throat—but his voice cracks slightly when he speaks.

“Uh—I’m not sure how this works, so… can you guide me?” He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes for a moment before glancing back at you. “Or, like, tell me if you don’t like it?”

There’s something endearing about it. The way he’s so earnest, so unsure despite everything else he’s capable of. Mark has fought villains, saved lives, survived things most people couldn’t even fathom, but this? This is what makes him nervous. You should be teasing him for it. You want to. But the way he’s looking at you, waiting, wanting to do this right—it makes your heart squeeze a little.

Honestly, you didn’t think he would do it. Despite your frantic panic, you thought after the initial shock that he’d laugh it off, make some awkward joke, maybe shake his head and change the subject. But here he is—kneeling between your legs, eyes flickering between your face and the space between you, his hands hesitating but steady on your thighs.

He drags your shorts off, discarding them aside like shed skin, and there’s your pretty, plush cunt laid bare before him. It’s not his first time glimpsing such a sight, but never this up close. His breath hitches, and he stares. You’re confused—does he not know what to do? Why is he just sitting there, staring? You’re on the verge of speaking when he edges nearer, parting your lips with a slow, deliberate nudge—strings of slick arousal gleaming between them.

You twitch as he eases in, his warm tongue sliding slow and deliberate between your folds, lapping at your pussy with a lazy, filthy drag, savoring every slick drop that clings to you. You’re sweet on his tongue—warm, slick. Maybe it’s too soon to admit, but he already knows he could get addicted to this. Just the taste of you’s got his dick throbbing and hard and his mind all hazy.

You tip your head back into the couch cushion, legs falling wider as he keeps licking at your sloppy pussy like some dog, all messy and eager. He glances up at you, and the sight alone makes him whimper against your slick, swollen pussy. Your head tilted back, lips parted, and glossy, soft little moans spilling from your throat—each one sinking into his skin, making his cock ache.

“You can use your fingers too… if you’d like,” you murmur, intending it as advice, but it comes out more like a command—breathless, needy. He obeys without hesitation, sliding two thick fingers inside you, eager to make you feel good. The way you squeeze around him, warm and wet, makes his breath hitch. He watches, mesmerized, as he pumps them in and out, each withdrawal leaving them glistening with your slick.

“Fuck, ‘s good, you’re doing so good,” you moan, voice breathy and sweet, and Mark swears he could cum in his pants just from that alone. The way you praise him, all soft and desperate, makes his cock throb, aching for relief. He zeroes in on your clit, licking over it before grazing it lightly with his teeth, earning a sharp gasp from you. His thick, calloused fingers follow, circling the sensitive bud with slow, deliberate motions. You’re soaked—coated in his spit, in your own slick—and the weed coursing through your system makes every touch feel twice as intense, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.

It’s filthy—the way he’s practically making out with your pussy, sloppy and desperate, like he never wants you to leave his mouth. His tongue flicks and drags, lips sealing around your clit with wet, hungry sucks, and when your hips buck against him, grinding down for more, he just moans into you. His jaw and nose are drenched, slick dripping down his chin, but he doesn’t stop—if anything, he dives in deeper, like he wants to drown in you.

“Tastes so fuckin’ good,” he whines against you, voice muffled by the mess of your pussy. His fingers are still buried deep, pumping into you with a steady, obscene rhythm, while his other hand is stuffed between his legs, rubbing over the aching bulge in his pants. He’s desperate—humping into his own palm like he can’t help himself, like just eating you out is enough to get him off.

“Fuck—” His words are slurred, muffled by the slick between you. “Tastes like you were made for me.”

It’s messy, shameless—the way he devours you, like he never wants to come up for air. His jaw aches, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, just pulls you closer, as if he could disappear into you completely. You grind against his face, chasing the sharp coil tightening low in your belly, and he only urges you on, gripping your thighs, moaning as he lets you use him.

Your moans spill into the thick air, breath hitching as your back arches. “‘M—‘m cummin’,” you mewl, voice high, trembling. The pleasure crashes over you in waves, thighs shaking around his head as you unravel, coating his tongue with your release.

Mark doesn’t stop—not yet. He groans against you, drinking in every last drop, licking and sucking like he’s starved, like he wants to commit your taste to memory. His breath is heavy, uneven, and when he finally pulls back, his lips and chin glisten with you.

His own hand moves frantically, pumping his cock through his pants, desperate, chasing the high that’s been building since he first had you on his tongue. The sounds of your pleasure—the broken whimpers, the way you shake, the way you’ve completely let go for him—send him over the edge. With a sharp, shuddering groan, his hips jerk, and he spills hot and thick into his pants, moaning through it, chest rising and falling in time with yours.

For a moment, the only sound between you is your ragged breaths, the faint hum of satisfaction settling between you both.

That night proved two things: first, that weed clearly has no effect on Viltrumites; and second, that Mark, without a doubt, eats pussy like a starved man.