#eclipse's case files

You clasp a hand over Mark’s mouth, quieting him. 

The neighbors had already knocked on your door at ungodly hours so often, you’re worried they’re gonna make an actual noise complaint one of these days. 

You blink slowly down at him. The air is thick and heady, making sweat stick to your skin, “Are you going to be quiet, Mark?” You whisper. He makes a small sound that’s muffled beneath your hand. So, you go for the meaner approach, “Or else... we’re going to have to stop.”

He whines at that, but ultimately quietens when you give him a firm look. 

After a few seconds of being shut up, he nods, and you remove your hand. It’s connected to his mouth by a line of spit. You wipe it on his red-hot cheek with a hard smile. 

You place your hands back on his abdomen. It flexes or rather- jerks, but as promised he doesn’t make a sound. You roll your hips shallowly experimentally, and he groans. 

You place a finger to your lips, and he nods, a bit dazed, and bites his bottom lip. 

You continue to roll your hips against his own, steadily increasing your pace. He cant say a word besides the whimpers that escape him accidentally, so his head thrashes against the pillow, and his thighs jerk and flex under you. Talk about an unsafe ride. 

His bottom lip bleeds from the pressure of his sharp teeth, and you decide to act funny. You rise on your knees, the lewd sounds of the both of you being disconnected filling your dark bedroom, and Mark’s eyes roll back, and he shakes his head, knowing what you're about to do, “No. Please—”

You drop down with an unfamiliar speed, and Mark lets out a drawn out, loud moan. At the sound and motion, you feel butterflies in your stomach. 

He rests his head back on the soft pillow, a pillow made with material better than silk, worth more than half your internal organs back on Earth. To your gleeful delight, it will be ripped, ruined and discarded. Funny. But honestly, you never really did like him to have nice things too often.

He’s just far too spoiled, in your opinion. 

His eyebrow twitches in annoyance, “Just so you know, I wouldn’t treat you like this.” 

The frustration breaks way to a half-truth. Would your despicable Mark torture you while he was on top? Absolutely. Would he adhere to your set of cruel methods? Not exactly. While he preferred to pull as many orgasms from both of you as possible, you believed in the art of patience. Of drawing out the perfect, warm orgasm that steadily bubbles up from the deepest part of your stomach and burns off your nerve endings when washing through. 

The kind of orgasm he would be reaching for every time he’d sit on his plush bed and draw his hard cock from his pants. He’d stroke the underside of his sensitive dick and think: “I wish my angel were here to help” Though you wouldn’t live to see the day he expresses any sentiment of gratefulness. 

However, Mark believed in patience just as much as he did mercy. In no quantity at all. 

He senses that he hasn't swayed you at all by the way you lightly trace over the skin of his hips, and he sighs. He succumbs to desperate, perverse methods like some kind of whore. 

He shimmies his hips upwards a bit, trying to entice you into fucking him hard like he wants. He whines, “C’mon, baby don’t you want to make your man proud?” He says in the prettiest voice he can muster. 

Sadly, you can read Mark like a book, and all the act does is make you roll your eyes. 

You really can’t teach an old dog new tricks. 

You grab the sides of his narrow hips, and meanly squeeze the fat of his ass, deciding to humor him, “Can I get a please?” 

He sticks his tongue out in distaste at your demand, yet he predictably complies. Though not without uttering the word in the most annoying way possible, “Please–” 

The sentence ends on a choke when you quickly pull the plastic dick out of his hole then slam back in, taking pleasure in the sound that he makes. 

You grip the back of his neck for leverage, and pound his greedy hole into oblivion. Because when has Mark ever even deserved nice things? Even a romantic orgasm would be far too much for him. He was too much of a goddamn leech. 

You press your chest to his back, pushing him further into the mattress, intending to get inside of him as deep as possible. You switch your grip from the back of his neck, to the front, squeezing at his airway mercilessly. 

He chokes, surprised at your boldness. “Oh, fuck– shit, babe.” He laughs shakily, taking perverse joy in your rough treatment. “So good to me, aren’t you?” 

Not bothering to spare him a respectable response, you continue to pound into him like that's what he was made for. You don't grace him even a second to take in a breath. Just the way you fuckin’ like it. 

The lewd sounds of skin slapping fill your bedroom like they were made to be there, and you barely resist squeezing his throat like you’re going to kill him. Keeping it to an every once in a while. 

Though… you honestly can’t resist the sounds of his sweet choking, so you channel all your strength into your fist. Leaving him gripping for purchase on the mattress. 

The sounds of fabric ripping, or his face turning pale don’t deter you. In fact, it does the exact opposite effect, giving you motivation to fuck him harder. He continues to sputter chokes and pleas, but is largely unable to by the unwavering force you have around his neck.

When he starts to shake and twitch uncontrollably, you begin to understand what exactly he’s trying to babble. 

“C-Cu-.” You bite the cartilage of his ear, then let loose on his airway, just so he could spill the words out, “Gonna- fucking–” He stutters hoarsely, and his hips twitch and jerk. 

You hum in affirmation to his warning. Spoiled, spoiled, spoiled.

Using your free hand, you snake it down to his poor, leaky cock, and squeeze its base roughly, delaying his orgasm. 

You let go of his throat and smile when he gasps in a large breath. 

He coughs, "Baby, please, wait--"

“Say please like you fucking mean it.” You lick at his neck, then bite the area harshly, and he screams. You still don’t let up on the abuse your strap-on does to his poor hole. 

“P-Please!” He cries, gasping desperately. You push his face back in the pillow, making sure he struggles for breath, “Please!” You hear him scream into the pillow, muffled. 

You dig your fat cock into the deepest part of him and let go of his dick. You smile when his hip stutters and his dick releases its seed onto the sheets beneath him. 

Weak spurts spill from his tormented cock and he groans. It’s only then that you decide to pull out, making him whine. 

You sigh, tiredly and get off of him. You feel hot, and disgusting, and Mark still somehow got what he wanted. You tsk to yourself.

Silently working on removing the belts from your hips, he rolls on his back to look at you, quirking a brow, ”Why’d you stop?”  

✩ SINISTER MARK ➔ Asphyxiation, oral fixation, dog imagery

Mark’s mouth wraps around the bright pink of your strap-on like it’s a glorified chew toy. You’re lucky it’s not your actual dick. Because with the way he bites, chews, sucks, and drools all over it, you’re sure it would have been a strict off-limits zone for him. 

Your hands move to tangle into his dark, thick hair, petting it softly. Hoping it the action will let up on his aggravation just a tiny bit. 

It works, because he shoves the cock up his mouth deeper, letting out a small choke as he sucks. 

He looks at you with the prettiest puppy eyes you’ve ever seen, waiting for his well-needed praise after such a hard day.

You know if you don’t give it, he’ll have your head. Or at the very least, he'll sulk in a corner. Either case is less ideal than the other.

You coo to him, watching spit drip from his lips and onto his spread thighs, “So good, Mark.” The dribble is everywhere from down his mouth, and you can't tell when exactly the sweat ends and the saliva begins, “You look so pretty like this.” 

His moans are muffled around the pink dick. He takes slow, measured breaths through his nose, so he won’t have to stop for air frequently, and blinks his eyes up lazily at you. Then rolls them. 

Exactly like a pretty puppy. 

Despite the defiance, you still play nice, “Are you going to lube up my dick so it can go in your pretty hole?” His hard dick between his thighs twitches at the reminder, and he does his best to nod with the strap-on in his mouth. He tries to say, “Yes”, but it comes out more like an incoherent garble. 

He tries his best to slide the thick cock from out of his mouth, coughing and sputtering when it’s fully out. He wipes at the dribbles of saliva around his lips, speaking throatily, “Yes, I want to.” 

The plastic cock drips of his saliva, practically soaked in it. Yet, he puts his mouth back on the tip, sucking lightly to get used to the feeling, before putting it halfway through his mouth. 

He tries to shove as much of it as possible inside of his mouth, but then looks up at you for help when he doesn't seem able to. 

“Help?” You ask. If he could pout around the dick, he would. You grab the back of his hair again, and steadily help him down the length of it. 

Instinctively, he stutters and chokes as the sex toy slides down the wet cavern of his mouth. He instantly grabs your thighs for support, trying to alleviate the intruding feeling. You remove your hands from his hair and stroke at his cheek, trying to coax him back his measured breathing through his nose. 

There’s no point in pulling him off. If he says he wants to take it all, he’s going to take it all. And no amount of praise will get his mind off his goal. 

He looks back up at you, ‘Help me.’ he seems to say.

You sigh. For all his imprudence, you cannot wait to make him cry on your dick. 

However, you are beginning to  feel impatient at the way he only steadily inches more of it down his throat. The slow pace is starting to frustrate you.

The hedonistic side of you wants him around your cock, now. Irrationally, you grab the hair on the back of his head harshly, he gasps around the cock at the contact. You brutally push him all the way down to the base of the cock. 

He chokes around it immediately, and his grip on your thighs turns bruising as his throat tries to accommodate to the sudden intrusion. He fails, and a pool of drool spills from his mouth, but your hands don't let up, keeping him there. 

“Come on. You can do it,” You goad, tilting your head to the side, “Can’t you?” 

You see alarm bells ring in Mark’s head, and he tries his best to accept the length of it in his greedy mouth. “Can.” He slurs. 

His nose kisses the skin of your stomach, and he blushes, making it even more difficult for him to breathe. But he’s keeping himself there, unmoving. Though you do see him chewing around the plastic to alleviate the burn of his throat. 

After a few more seconds, Mark moves a few inches down the cock, landing halfway. He swallows, or– tries to swallow. His throat fucking burns. 

He continues to suck and chew around the cock, getting lost in the warm feeling of his mouth filled. 

You tap his cheek a few times. He opens his eyes to look at you through his lashes. He hadn’t even noticed he’d closed them. 

You're beginning to feel a little more impatient.

“Mark…” You move your feet airily, then slightly drag it across his dick, barely touching. He instantly grips your thighs again and chokes around the dildo. His neglected dick twitches at the simple contact, and he closes his eyes as he tries to even his breath again. 

“You want to be filled up?” He moans around the cock at your filthy words, “Wanna be mine?” 

Slowly, he moves his lips across the dick and out, leaving it with a lewd pop! Fucking hot. 

He heaves when he’s finally met with air. His face is sweaty and debauched, eyes glazed over like he had just gotten fucked. He’s a complete slut. “I’m already yours, I don't have to work for it.” He says throatily, vocal cords basically compressed off. 

You hum, just trying to keep him quiet. He can get pretty mouthy, and you can’t bother to hear bitching when you’re so horny right now. 

He’s feeling extra touch starved after barely being offered any stimulation before it’s taken away, so he stands up quickly. You lay down on the sheets, and before you can even bother to start to get comfortable, he’s already clambering onto your lap. 

You raise an eyebrow, like you’re not just as turned on, “Someone’s eager.” 

He lines his hole with the bright pink plastic cock, dripping of his drool and spit, pressing his hands to your stomach for support. 

The tip breaches his hole, slicked up and ready for his awaiting hole. You’re so fucking jealous. You can’t imagine how warm and silky he feels…

He moans, tipping his head back, but doesn’t dare stop at just there, continuing to slowly descend down the pretty dick, his hole fluttering around it. 

When he reaches the hilt of it with ease, he shifts, trying to relax himself onto it slowly.

But you know better. You know that he wants to be treated like the cumtoy that he is. 

You tap his hips, then squish the flesh. He moans in response. “Come on, baby. Move.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Im calling this work: "Do you think you peg me in every universe?"

"Duh."

Thanks for the request, meow meow meow

You tut, “Look what the cat dragged in…” Classic villain of the week introduction, but you really couldn't help yourself. Invincible has been trying to catch you for months with not even a single close call on your end. This time, you decided to stick around after he had “apprehended” you. It was an entirely sadistic move. All to show him that even if he did catch you, (Which –lets make it clear– he will not) you’d immediately overpower him. 

It isn't your fault you were blessed with compulsion. Those who didn’t know you, called you honey-tongued. Though who did know you, called you a lying, conniving bitch. Which is a little harsh because you weren't really a liar.

“What did you do to me?” He spits. The poor thing was stuck in place while your lackeys made quick work of the bank’s vault. You’d thank them later by sparing their lives. 

“Answer me!” 

You sigh. You loved the guy to an extent, really you did. But sometimes he could get very annoying before he could be cute. 

You huff, putting a hand on your hip and shaking your head at his poor manners, “Invincible,

"how about you walk with me?” 

The effect of the compulsion takes place. His eyes dilate noticeably, and they seem locked on yours for a few moments. Then, when you start to walk he follows. The face he makes is visibly confused as to why he would obey you. 

“What–” 

“And don't talk, please.” His tongue complies and remains at the roof of his mouth. He knits his brows together further. 

You walk into a random executive’s office and shut the door behind you with a click. 

You sigh, as though thoroughly inconvenienced, “So, what is it this time?”

He crosses his arms and gives you an annoyed look. You raise your eyebrows, then it hits you with a laugh. 

“Oops,” You say insincerely, you wave your hand, “Speak.” 

Again, it's like he’s in a trance for a few moments, then he shakes his head, “What is it this time?” He groans, “You are robbing a bank!” 

You shrug, “So?”

“You did the same thing last week!” 

“I blew the money on a yacht made of pure gold and the motherfucker sank, what can I say?” 

He squints his eyes, though you couldn't tell by his big fat goggles. However, his displeased frown does more than enough to let you know what he’s thinking, “Bullshit! You know damn well you could just hypnotize someone into getting you a new one! Why even bother?” 

You shake your head, “Language. You are so vulgar for a pacifist.” 

He seems to forget his earlier point in favor of defending himself, “I am not a pacifist! But you don't make it easy to not pull my punches.” He’s fuming. He's fuming and you think he looks like a kitty cat.

You put your hand to your cheek, as though endeared by the sight in front of you, “You’re going to learn, some people are evil for the sake of being evil.” You purr. 

He scowls, “So you’re the worst of the worst, huh?” 

You stalk towards him till you’re right in front of him. Your grin is all cheshire, “I'm the best of the worst.” 

Unable to help yourself, you run a finger along his exposed cheek. He slaps it away a few seconds too late. 

Still, you don't deter, “What about you?” You smirk, “Don't tell me you’ve never thought of wearing ear plugs before coming to face me off, do you?” 

His heart beats a little faster in his chest, and he hopes you can't hear it. He glares at you with his arms crossed and his teeth grit. But he doesn't say anything in his defense. 

“Invincible,” The way you say it makes him retreat on himself further. Your eyes run along the planes of his face with the smile of a vixen. Though, you’re next words are laced with an undeniable threat, “Tell me yourself or ill drag the words out of you. Take your pick.” 

Shit. 

He can't do it. He can't contain his flush anymore. You could probably– no, definitely tell. 

Still, he keeps quiet, trying his best to retain a modicum of dignity. 

“You force my hand needlessly,” You lament, but grab his chin anyway, making him look at you, “Tell me.” 

His mouth speaks of its own accord, “Because I like it.” 

You raise your brows. Oh? That's interesting. Not unexpected, you figured as much. But interesting. 

His face is a tomato now. He wants to crawl into a ditch and die. He could, probably. You haven't forced him to stay put. But… 

“I don't think anything I can say is more embarrassing than the truth, huh?” You run your finger along his jawline. Worst part? He lets you. 

“Tell me,” You start, voice low, “How fast do you rush over when you see my face on TV?” He shivers, and presses himself further into the desk behind him, “Do you deny other heroes to come see me? And just for what? To catch me slipping away…?” You mutter. You’ve only recently noticed the pattern, but was too prideful to see every move was made with intention. You wonder how long he’s been waiting to get caught in your web… 

He shakes his head, turning away, “No…” 

“No? No, what?” He presses himself flush against the desk, and you against him. Really, it was shame worthy. Your power had a silly amount of drawbacks, the victim needed to be looking at you and hearing you for your compulsion to take effect. You’ve seen how fast Invincible is. If he wanted to, he wouldn't even need to look into your eyes before feinting to shatter your spine, “No, i'm not a sick pervert?” You chuckle, “Because that's a stupid lie…” 

He swallows. He’s imagined this scenario over a double dozen times while biting his pillow, his dick in his hands as he fists it hopelessly. Each time he’d close his eyes and picture you commanding him to do something downright humiliating. That would be enough to make his hips stutter into the fleshlight and come with a muffled scream. 

You snap your fingers in front of his face with a grin, “Invincible? Hello? Don't tell me you're so rude that you won't even answer when you’re spoken to?” You sigh. 

His stomach flips. God, he can't believe himself. He grits his teeth together so as to not make an embarrassing sound, “I don't talk to lowlife criminals.” 

You look utterly pleased with yourself, your smile a permanent feature on your face, “Oh, but I suppose having wet dreams about one is dignified?” 

He chokes. How could you have– 

The door swings open, and you both turn at the same time. The man at the door doesn't in the least look confused, a glossy fog permanently on his eyes thanks to your compulsion, “It's done, boss.” 

You throw him a smile that doesn't reach your eyes, “Faster than last time. Good.” Then, you turn to the superhero in front of you. A soft ringing assaults his ears, your compulsion taking root. He can't even wince. 

“You’re not going to move from this spot until you hear me get away in the car.” 

You hit someone.

You think you did. You're not sure.

Your hands are locked on the steering wheel. Your knuckles have gone white. You can hear your heart in your ears, high and shrill and unnatural.

You open the door. Not because you're ready, but because you need to.

Your legs shake. You're trying to walk normally, as though someone didn't just crash into your windshield. Your body won't cooperate.

Still, you force yourself forward. One step. Then another.

The man’s lying there, sprawled like a rag doll in the middle of the road.

You crouch in front of him, breath catching. Blood pools beneath him—too much blood, and from where, you can’t even tell. The sight makes your eyes blur, your stomach flip.

Your mouth works before your brain does. “Hello…?”

The man almost immediately groans, shifting slightly, though you suspect it's more of a spasm. 

With the sign of sentience, panic builds into your body, and you clutch his shoulders, “Hello?! Hello, are you okay?” 

You let go of him and fumble with the phone in the back of your pocket. You get the password wrong a few times in your state of alarm, and it just makes you panic even more. 

You want to say something to relieve him of the agony he must feel. But all you can come up with is, “I'm going to c-call an ambulance…” You slur your words as you fumble with the buttons.

“Wait,” He says, perfectly clear. Though his voice is a little raspy. 

You immediately obey, looking up from your phone to the man, “W-What is it?” 

“Don't call an ambulance.” 

Your heart is beating loudly, pumping so much oxygen in your blood you're somehow growing woozy, “Okay…”

He sits up with a grunt, clutching his side. Your eyes stare lifelessly at his face, purposefully avoiding the wound.

“Do you want me to drive you to the hospital?” You speak slowly, your tongue feeling heavy in your mouth. You're not sure you're pronouncing words properly.

He shakes his head, and you notice a shaky grin on his face. You suppose because he is scared that he is going to die, “No. No hospital.” He says quietly.

You speak before you think, “Please, I’ll cover the expenses–” 

He lets out another loud groan, and the shrill sound in your ears grows louder.  Till all you can hear is ringing.

“No…” His face is beading with sweat and he’s breathing shallowly, “Can you… can you stitch me up?” 

No. You’re not a doctor. You don't even know what that would mean. “I have a first aid kit in my car.”

He speaks to you calmly, “Alright." He breathes, labored and short, "Then go get it.”

At his sudden sharp tone, you snapped out of your brain fog and got up, bambi-scrambling to your car. You find that familiar white box you've never used in the passenger seat compartment. With shaky hands, you set it down on the asphalt, and click open the latches. 

You spot bandages, gauze, tape, and pain relievers. Disposable gloves, scissors, and tweezers take up a corner. A helpful red and white pamphlet is taped to its lid.

You stare at it all for a long time, then shakily start to rifle for something useful in this situation.

“Can you go a bit faster, sweetheart?” You hear him tell you, almost like a taunt, “You don't want a criminal record this young, do you…?” 

You can't grace him with a response; your mind is not on Earth. You take some antiseptic, and look towards him. He's already presenting his wound to you. 

Fuck.

You resist a gag because you know you’ll end up immediately throwing up. You want to pass out and never wake up after this. It's so bad. It looks really really bad and it's pulsing. Oh my god it's pulsing and it's bleeding so much. Oh God… 

You don't understand… You think as your brain thuds against your skull, Why hasn't someone driven by? Did the neighbors not hear the crash of a body colliding with your windshield? Making a huge crack onto it? Did they not hear your car skidding to a halt? Or the way your heart beat so much it was about to jump out of your chest?

You don't understand. 

You feel a hand coming on your shoulder, snapping you out of your panicked fit, “Easy there, sweetheart,” He tells you, boredom seeping into his tone, “Calm down. It's fine.” 

You don't know when you started sobbing, “It's not fine. You’re going to die.” 

He snorts, “I ain’t gonna fuckin’ die.” 

You can't help yourself when he gathers you in his arms, shushing you. You feel the warm wetness of his blood against your side, but you don't care. You cry into the crook of his neck. Confused. Confused on why this is happening to you and why nobody is coming to help. Why…

“Are you sure?” You ask, shakily. 

“Pretty fuckin’ sure,” He tips your chin to look up at him. His pupils are blown wide, but other than that, he looks fine… His skin color is a normal shade, too. In fact, it even seems to be a bit ruddy… 

He moves a few stray hairs out of your face, “Would you feel better if you stitched me up at your house?” 

You nod gratefully, sniveling and heaving, but grateful for the opportunity. Grateful that he isn't mad at you. Or sad that he is going to die on the road. Because you’re the one already sad that he is going to die on the road. 

You stand up first, and extend your hand to help him get up. He leans his weight mostly on you, and he groans with each step you take. But you make it to the car. 

You help him to the passenger seat —trying your best to not look at his chest rapidly moving up and down— and click the seatbelt in place for him. 

“Safety first, right?” He mocks with an upturn of his lips.

Your stomach churns. 

The ride back to your house is quiet. At first, he runs his eyes along the interior of your car, curious. After a while, he just lays there, eyes closed, but breathing. You have never been so grateful that someone was breathing. 

You slow and put the car in park in your driveway. He still hasn't opened his eyes yet. 

Driving sobered you up a bit from your panic, and you’re feeling steady on your feet when you circle around and open the car door. You haven't even realized how much the car had smelled coppery from the stench of blood till you're exposed to the fresh air.

You lean across his form to unbuckle the seatbelt when he stirs, like he woke up from a cat nap. You pause. 

“You’re a little touchy-feely, aren't you?” 

It's strange how there isn't even a tremor to his voice. It's all so strange, really. When will someone realize something is wrong and come help you…?

“Sorry,” You say, a little embarrassed. But you still act as his crutch as you reach your doorstep. He leans most, if not all his weight on you. He must be in a world of pain, poor thing... And he still had the decency to help you calm down. You need to get your mind straight and help him. 

Like he did in the car, the second he arrives in your home, his eyes rake over every every corner and crevice. 

He whistles, “You live here? Fucking cherry, babe.” 

Your home is nice. Not because you got a job and worked hard for it, but because it was inherited from your grandmother who signed the deed over to you after she was admitted to a care home. 

It's a two story open floor plan. The furniture is old. But it has its charm. 

The french windows were always open, letting in the fresh air. Tonight, the first thing you do when you get home is shut them. 

You don't know why you don't want anyone to know there is a bleeding man in your home, but suddenly the noble part of you that was willing to accompany him to the hospital and face charges for your crimes was gone. He did not want to go to the hospital, and you did not want to go to jail. Maybe you could work something out… 

For now, you grab the bigger first aid kit at the top of your kitchen cabinet. This one had much more equipment than the one in your car. 

When you pass by the closed window, the darkness makes a sort of mirror. When you see your face in the reflection, you blink. Your face is bleak and sunken. Your eyes have puffy bags under them and your hair is a mess. 

You rinse your face before going to see him again. You feel infinitely better afterwards. Not good, because you're still scared and you're feeling lost. But better. 

You spend a good part of the night learning how to stitch a wound. 

While you're watching the tutorial, he lays lazily on the couch next to you. Watching, but not with much attention. 

When you calmed down and told him you didn't know how to close a wound, but you’d be happy to hold his skin together while he stitched, he laughed in your face. 

“Well, you better fucking learn then, huh?” He had told you. 

You're not that weird. You first helped him with the bleeding and the wound’s much cleaner now. There's a warm dish towel pressed to it to stop any more bleeding. However, it's been a few minutes and the cloth is still completely white. 

He sits there. Shirtless and a little sweaty next to you. You’re not sure when he put his cheek on your shoulder. But he does. A heat blooms on the apples of your cheeks. 

“This is soo boring,” He laments. 

“I am trying to save your life…” You mutter. Not really convinced in yourself either. 

You put your phone down, confident in the technique, and take a deep breath. You spend a few moments threading the thin string to the eye of the needle, and his yawning exaggeratedly did not make your hand any less shaky.

The wounds shallower than you remember when you were scared in the dark and alone. But the pink flesh still pulses, thrumming. 

He holds the edges of his skin together like he’s half assing a task at his corporate job. You don't deter, remaining focused as the needle pierces his skin.

And so, you begin to stitch. 

There's hardly even a grunt of pain on his end. You suppose he’s tired of that. Still, the way the thin needle pierces the flesh makes your heart beat faster with fear and your hands start to get sweaty. 

You’re at it for a few torturous minutes. Finally, there's the satisfying snip of sharp scissors cutting the thread. 

You did it. You really did it. It doesn't look very pretty, but you could care less, really. He is not going to die. And you played hero. God… 

You allow your shoulders to sag and to exhale deeply. Almost immediately after, fatigue hits your body faster than you hit the… All the adrenaline keeping your form steady seeps out of your system as you begin to calm. 

You throw the dishcloth into the laundry basket and put everything back in place. You wash your hands that are already clean (hardly any blood on him by the time you started), but just in case. 

You’re beginning to feel dizzy. The events of tonight are finally starting to catch up to you. All you want to do is fall asleep on your warm bed and forget this all happened. 

From behind you, two hands creep across your waist, wrapping around it. He leans his chin on your shoulder. 

You stop. And your heart is back to beating like a hummingbird. You swallow before you speak, “...Yes?”

He hums, muttering against your skin, “Thank you. For taking care of me.” His words are breathy and have a lilt of something… devilish in them, “That was so…” He smirks, though you can’t see, “Brave.” 

Inhaling deeply through your nose, you answer, “You're welcome. And…” You swallow, genuinely guilty, “I'm sorry for what I did to you.” You can't say out loud what exactly. Not yet.

He almost says for what? Then catches himself, clearing his throat, “It's not that big of a deal, honest…” He grins, “I'm a very forgiving person, you know?” 

His hands begin to entertain themselves by moving under your shirt, feeling at the soft flesh there. You remain deathly still. 

“Listen, doll,” He starts, “You know I hate to bother a pretty little thing like you, but you wouldn't mind if I crashed here a couple days, would you?” He starts to play with the waistband of your pants, and a heat starts to pool in your stomach, “Just until I recover. Then I’ll be out of your hair. Promise…” The low timbre of his voice was starting to do things to your head. 

You don't know when you started to lean into his touch, just that you started to nod, “Yea, okay. Obviously… stay–” You choke on your words as his other hand inches towards your breasts, “Stay as long as you need.” 

-------------------

“Just stay calm and I’ll fix everything, I promise.” You hear a shrill scream and the sound of a thousand science fair volcanoes erupting. In response, you duck behind an apartment building. 

Clutching your bag to your body, you somehow make it through the alleyway and out the other side, just a little further from the destruction. In that moment, Mark decides to give you some of his classic, wise advice, “And preferably get further from the damage? I can still see you, you know…” 

You close your eyes and cringe at that. Oh, that snarky, asshole, piece of shit. With a big mouth, too. You glare at the sky. Although you don’t see him, you hope it gets the message across. 

Maybe if Mark stopped pulling his goddamn punches, then a fire breathing dragon wouldn’t be terrorizing your district. And in that moment you swear to yourself that when Mark saves the universe, you’ll kill him immediately after, so he wouldn’t even get to enjoy it. 

Before you can plan your revenge on your boyfriend, a car plummets heavily into the gravel from the sky, just a few feet away from you, and you instictively scream. The car makes a million different noises of honks and rings as you try to catch your breath. Why me? You lament, Why goddamn me? 

“Are you okay?” You hear across the line once you’ve calmed down a little more, and you clench the phone in your hands. 

“Just peachy. I’ll call you back when I get some place safe.” You snap into the speaker, and Mark says something brilliant like, “Whuh?” before you end the call. 

You make sure to put your phone safely in your bag before you run. You run faster than you’ve ever run before in your life. You run away from the danger, from monsters and superhero boyfriends and unfortunately— your apartment and flat screen TV. 

Adrenaline keeps you going till you reach the heart of the city. You manage to accidentally break the lock of your planned safehouse in your rush, but you decide to shut it behind you and pretend that didn’t happen. 

You hang your bag, and in that moment quickly decide that leaving the door unlocked was not one of your brightest ideas, and you begin to barricade your door, placing any heavy furniture you can find in front of it. Which honestly, isn’t much. 

Once you sit down on the plain white bed, you start to notice the burn in your legs and your sides from sprinting halfway across the city. You try to rub your waist as you look for Mark’s contact on your phone. 

“Need help with that?” 

The voice makes you shriek and jump from the bed. Your heart beats a mile a minute as you see Mark– no, Mark with a mohawk resting on the inside sill of your window. 

With that realization, you take a pillow and throw it at him, “Oh my god Mark, you scared me—!" He dodges easily and you try to catch your breath, "What are you doing here? Go. Help The Guardians or something.” You say, slightly out of breath.

Mark hops off the window and stalks towards you, there's a crazed gleam in his eyes, “Don’t worry, it’s all taken care of…” He says rather breathily, like he’s in awe or in disbelief. 

He comes towards you till he’s right in front of you, and you miss the way he grips your shoulder by the way your blood is still thumping madly in your veins, and slides across your arms till he reaches your hands, and squeezes. 

Ignoring your rapidly beating heart, you get on your tippy toes and try look across his shoulder to the window. Without even taking a glance yet, you hear a scream and the sound of catastrophe. Before you can open your mouth to tell him to 'get back out there!', Mark zips to the window, shutting the blinds and coming back to his original position with such speed it nearly knocks you off balance. Luckily, he’s there to stabilize you by gripping your hips, digging his fingers through your jeans. 

“Mark—” You tell him, then sigh when he raises his eyebrows and smiles. He appears a bit different. You’d noticed it when you first saw him, but with the blinds closed…

“What’s with the new do?” You ask him, “Got your hair burnt off or something?”

He laughs, boisterous in a way that Mark has never. You wonder if it’s the adrenaline from the battle, and merely roll your eyes. 

He pushes you back to the bed, till you willingly fall on the white sheets and he climbs on top of you. 

“Fuck. I missed you, you’re so goddamn hot.” He breathes as he kisses your jaw wetly, trailing all the way to your chin. “You like my hair?” 

You ignore him. “The world needs you, and you’re here, fooling around?” You grumble, not exactly thrilled with this turn of events. 

He can play the ignoring game too, “My hair. Do you like it?” He kisses your lips sloppily, and you don’t even extend the effort to kiss his back, just letting him suck and kiss as he pleases. 

Your eyes flit to his hair, thinking about it seriously for a moment, “Mmm…yeah. It’s sexy. I guess.” You add that last part to keep his ego contained. He chuckles and bites at your neck, kissing it roughly after. 

“You’re so fucking sexy im gonna ruin you.” 

He wastes no time in pinning you and making out sloppily on the bed. You grip the hair that is on his head to angle him as you please. He finds that funny.

You barely hear your phone ring. But with super hearing, of course your boyfriend manages to detect it. Mohawk Mark kicks at your bag, and your phone clatters out of it, showing a missed call from: Mark <3

Other than his unremarkably ordinary name, you’ve learned a few other unremarkably ordinary things about the man playing guest in your home: he refuses to wake before ten, won’t eat a meal without a toasted bagel on the side, has appallingly bad manners—and his piercings make his kisses cold, always leaving a shiver trailing down your spine.

It’s a gaggle of insignificant things you learn about a housemate. Yet it’s far too intimate of information for two strangers sharing a roof under—what you believe is—necessity. Whenever the discomfort creeps in, you tend to push it down. It’s too upsetting. And you’re still barely processing the fact that you just got away with a crime. Not out of wit, but because he simply allowed you to. Not dissimilar to children playing a game of house.

Likewise, he’s learned many things about you. He still blinks dumbly during your regular panicked fits, only watching as you wear down your nails and glance around nervously. But he’s learned to change the ashtray when it’s overfilling, to avoid the news channel at all costs, to tuck away scattered papers lest they overwhelm you; and at night, he replaces the logs at the fireplace, fretting over them with a poker while mumbling to you.

It’s only been a handful of days, so it’s ridiculous how easy it is to fall into a routine. This is especially true when Mark makes believe that it is routine. You feel as though you slept for a hundred years and woke up to a mystery that is your life. Unfortunately, you had let it all happen.

“We need more wood for tomorrow night,” he tells you, watching the fire catch onto the last of your supply. The sound of the crackle makes your eyes droop. “Should be a few dry ones near the stream bed. Trees that fell last winter.”

You nod mindlessly, watching the flames consume the logs with sleepy interest. Your head feels heavy, and the effects of the Tylenol are wearing off. You decided to pull an all-nighter last night, then had to start work at eight.

Unsurprising to Mark, you work from home. Though it did elicit a delighted cackle from him. But you weren’t embarrassed. Not at all. You may work from home, but he didn’t work, period.

"We could get them from the department store," You lay your head on the armrest, gathering your legs closer to you. You're already starting to feel warmer. "I can go in the morning," you utter softly.

There’s quiet as he moves the logs around with the poker, hand on his hip, complaining to himself about how their arrangement fell and soon your entire house will be up in smoke. It’s all just a dull hum to you as you grow drowsier and drowsier on your couch. Your hands find the throw behind you and pull it over your legs.

"You got tools in that shed of yours?" he asks, nudging at a log.

You nod, "There are. But I haven't been there for a long time."

"Hatchet?"

You shrug. "Maybe."

He slides the poker onto the tool stand. Either he’s satisfied with his work or he’s decided that preventing a fire in a house that isn’t his own isn’t worth his time anymore.

He gestures for you to lift your head, then settles under it. His lap is a comfortable pillow, and his hands come to rest on your head. It lulls you even deeper into sleep.

You’re not sure what you’re doing with him anymore. He’s been extra touchy ever since he got here, and you suppose it’s your fault for never denying his advances. Now, he’s comfortable enough to cross his bare feet on your coffee table.

You know your face speaks for you. You don’t even try to conceal your look of horror at his explicitly bad manners. But he always has his eyes trained on the trashy reality TV show playing above the fireplace, absentmindedly playing with his lip piercing. In layman's terms, Mark is ignoring you.

"I'll go through the shed, see what your nan thought was useful enough to keep." The sound of the fire crackling and his voice just makes you sleepier, "Then, I'll go out early tomorrow to chop up some firewood. Alright?"

He speaks as though underwater. You can’t keep your eyes open any longer. You feel the blanket being pulled over your shoulders. You nestle your head further into his lap, growing comfortable. His hands begin to smooth over your hair, coaxing you to sleep.

The headache between your brows settles into a dull throb, barely there as you slowly lose your lucidity. "I could go with you," you mumble, feeling like a pliable house cat.

You distantly hear the man above you snort, as though in disbelief.

He knows you don’t know what you’re saying, and you’re definitely going to eat up your words tomorrow. Make up some half-baked excuse about how work is killing you. If there’s anything he’s learned about you, it’s that you’re a hermit.

Still, he humors you, "Sure. We'll even take your car. We can make a little date out of it."

You don’t answer. You feel as though you’re being dragged under a peaceful, dark lethargy.

—

Every time you leave your home, you're reminded as to why you don't.

You keep your trips around town to a minimum. Barely there. And that's a good thing. You're resourceful, while taking up as little space as possible.

You make your own coffee at home, so there's no need to go to the only cafe located in the heart of town. You buy your ingredients in bulk, so there's never any need to go to the only diner a few blocks away from your home. You don't have a dog, so you don't have to walk one every morning. You skip out on most events, so you don't know anyone in town.

You're honestly not sure why you're like this. You're always tired, even when you're not pulling all nighters. Your meals are balanced. Though you suppose the only thing you do slack off on, is exercise. Maybe some vitamin D.

Still, getting out of bed seems to be an impossible chore.

Not to mention, you're sure no one in town is particularly fond of you. You're convinced it's because they can see the hollowness inside you, where your bones cave in like a bird's. Sometimes, you contemplate as to why you're alive, or what you're meant to do. You feel like a waste of air sometimes. But you're way too pussy to kill yourself.

So, like a lot of people, you suck it up and live with it.

This morning, while you make coffee for two (one black, the other with extra sugar) you finally admit it to yourself. You only let Mark stay because you're lonely, not out of altruism. You're not sure you're even capable of the latter.

You feel a little warmer knowing your only company won't be yourself. That there is someone to bicker with. Though it's mostly him complaining, and your complacence. Him yelling at the terrible couple on TV, and you giggling. You don't initiate conversation, because you're too shy.

You don't know what's different about this morning. Because this morning sucked.

"I'm excited," You told Mark, watching the way his ringed fingers leisurely grip the steering wheel. You had tried to keep the bouncing in your seat to a minimum, but it was hard, "I've never collected my own firewood before."

His eyes lazily flickered to yours, and you think you must've had a big dumb smile plastered on your face, because he mirrored it.

"That's stupid." He informed you, matter-of-factly, "Because its easy as fuck. And it saves you a couple bucks, too."

You hummed, your hands rubbing over your thighs. You were fidgeting a bunch, trying to quell the urge to run like you want to. You haven't felt like this in ages. Filled with so much pent-up excited energy.

His eyes go back to the road. He starts driving with a barely-there hand, his other arm swung over his seat. But your town is small and most people walk. You only saw a few cars on your drive to the woods.

He grinned, "Just watch and learn, babe. You'll see that I'm a fucking pro." He nods to himself, as if already picturing it, "Try not to look too impressed, but I know you'll want to, anyway."

You were far too busy trying to keep your legs from swinging like you're a child at the playground, but you still nodded, "I'll try."

"Actually I changed my mind. Don't try. Feel free to ogle, even"

You chuckled, "Alright."

Like all things, it goes bad when you think it's going good.

Mark watches you attentively, like you're the best act in a goddamn circus. He has that stupid smirk on his face that he can't seem to wipe off ever. He leans over the blunt tip of your grandmother's sharpened axe. So sharp it cuts through the grass it's ledged on. He watches you as you wane through a muddy pool of water. He doesn't even consider extending an offer to help. To him, it's funny to watch you struggle.

It was just your luck that your necklace had decided to snap and fall just as you were passing by a shallow pond. It slid over the grass on a ledge and fell into the water with an unceremonious plop!

Once you managed to collect your jaw, and Mark to quiet his snickers, you hiked up your jeans to your knees, ready to go get it where you saw it fell. But when you started looking, feeling everywhere around that spot, it just wasn't there. You've even managed to get the bottoms of your jeans soggy because you keep accidentally bending down.

You groan, squinting your eyes to try and spot something sparkly in the water. But it's useless, it's so murky you can't even see the silhouette of your bare feet right beneath you.

At the notion that the water seems to have swallowed up your nice necklace like a snake unhinging its jaw to consume prey— you slap the surface with a childish groan.

"I give up." You utter petulantly. The necklace may have been your grandmas, a pretty, simple design. May have also been a little on the expensive side. It was sweet of your grandma to leave behind for you, really. But at this point, it was also more trouble than it was worth.

You extend your hand upward, where he's standing over you, hoping he'll take it and help you up so you can just leave already.

He doesn't. Instead, he tilts his head over to a far left corner in the water. “Look there. I think I saw something catch the light.” 

You look to where he's pointing at. You squint against the slightly harsh glare of the sun. You don't see anything but more murky, gross water.

There's a big chance he only said that to try to prolong your misery for his own twisted amusement. Because now, his new favorite pastime seems to be watching the sun beat against the back of your neck as you wane through what basically was skimmed sludge.

You throw him a look. He shrugs, his plaid covered shoulders moving up with the motion. 

"Doesn't hurt to look," He reasons with a grin. 

Could hurt.

You tuck that thought away and trudge over to where he pointed to. You crouch down —making sure not to get the back of your jeans dirty again— and dip your hands into the water, feeling for a chain or a pendant.

For the first few seconds, you feel like a blind mouse fumbling through a maze, desperate for a prize—a morsel of Swiss cheese. Yours is worth more, but feels just as vital. You fumble through pebbles and grit, searching for something necklace-shaped. Your fingers graze something. Then—suddenly, and completely unlike you—your face lights up. Your smile stretches wide, so wide it almost hurts.

You feel something! You've really found it. Mark was right, it must have floated here when you had dropped down into the water. With ease, you pull it out from where it was wedged between two rocks, blood pumping into your veins from excitement. Or the heat.

Your facial expression falls a full 180 degrees when the thing you pull out isn't your grandmother's necklace, but a small, blue sea creature instead. One of which you had just impolitely dragged from its home. Its thin, delicate arms had you believing it was your necklace. You try to block out the noise of Mark laughing.

With a sigh and a small apology under your breath, you bend down to try and drop it back into the water. Just as you were about to place it back into the rock you found it on, its tendrils unfurl, writhing. It kindly attaches itself with suctions onto your hand, believing you to be a predator.

You look at it for a good moment. 

Then you scream.

You can't contain it, "Ew, ew, ew!" You wave your hand around wildly, trying to shake it off. It stays stuck and unwavering to your palm like gorilla glue.

After a few feral seconds of trying to shake it off, you manage to fling it to a random direction. On the way, you slip and end up falling on your ass from the momentum.

You emerge from the water with a loud, desperate slosh just before your face can sink.

You hear a demonic cackle of laughter as you sputter, wiping at your face with the drenched sleeve of your jacket. Your freshly washed hair is dripping, and so is the rest of you. If your throw killed the slimy, clingy thing, it was well-deserved.

You glare at Mark through wet lashes, and his obnoxious laughter fades to a titter as he sees your expression.

He decided to play nice, "Having fun over there?"

Or as nice as Mark could be, anyway.

You clumsily rise from the water, trying not to slip on pebbles, while completely soaked to the bone. The air that hits you after emerging is freezing. You feel like you just walked into a butcher's refrigerator. Your hair is sticking to your neck and your clothes to your body. Gross.

God, you hate being outside.You really, really hate being outside.

You will yourself to begin trudging through the water to the ledge where Mark is waiting at, positively dripping and feeling awful.

You grip your own arms. Your nose is the coldest. It almost stings. 

The bright sun above immediately helps to warm you up, keeping you from shivering too much. You keep your eyes on the water you wane through. A mixture of annoyance and shame welling up in you. Mostly annoyance. Also a bit of horrific, unbridled hatred for nature. You can't believe you almost took a yoga class with pine trees and the smell of wet air. It would've fucking sucked.

Just as you get close to the ledge, a reflective sheen of silver comes into view, its sharpness dangerously close to your face.

You instinctively back up, your heart still not calmed from the scare you just had of almost drowning. You see the familiar ruby red of your pendant flash against the gaps of sunlight.

It’s hung onto the blade of the axe, like he fished the necklace out with it.

You don't take it. Your heart beats a mile a minute. "Where did you find it?"

You do take his outstretched hand. “It floated over when you fell on your ass. Dumb luck, huh?” He grins.

You frown at the phrasing of it, and hook your foot onto the rock protruding. With ease, he helps haul you out of the small crater. You immediately shiver like a wet dog.

He pockets the necklace in his jeans, promising to fix it when you go back home as compensation for your troubles with a stupid smile.

Mark gratefully does not rush you while you squeeze the water out of your hair like a rag back into the pond. Your sopping wet jacket has been unzipped and peeled off of you, left to dry against a boulder. Mark feels everything for you but pity, you're sure. After all, you could see him looking at you in your skimpy tank top. The clothing sticks to you like glue, and you try to loosen it at your chest. But you're too cold and frazzled to be as embarrassed as you would have liked.

"Told ya you should've taken off your jeans before going in the water. If you had, they'd be dry now."

Yeah. Like you'd strip in front of a stranger while bending down. You've lost most of your mind, but not that much.

"Now that I think about it…" He taps his finger against his chin, "its not too late." He muses.

You don't grace him with a response.

The rest of the trek through the woods is unbearable. The air is cold, and you were sure you were going to catch a fever as it violently beats against your already wet chest. Your legs feel like jelly as you squash through the soft, wet ground underfoot.

And just your luck, a thin fog encases you. So you can't be as far from Mark as you would've liked. You're not really in a conversational mood after his idea was the one to leave you soaking wet and shivering in the middle of the woods.

As you hike walk, Mark keeps looking behind him, pausing every once in a while to wait for you to catch up. All the while, he has the axe leisurely hanging over his shoulder. Like the effort is nothing for him.

You try your best to keep your mind off the annoyance bubbling in your chest at the casual display of strength. It already hurts enough as it is, let alone without the ego bruise.

You ignore that and eye its positioning, "Is that safe?"

He looks at you, purposefully dodging your question. The reason he does that is because he is annoying. "If you're me, yeah."

You were asking about yourself.

After what feels like a torturous mile or so, Mark stops at a clearing, tucked behind a ridge of ferns. It's not as sunny here like it was near the pond, but not too cloudy either. You peek out from over his shoulder, and sure enough, a few trees lay lifeless on the ground. Where a vicious storm must've torn them from their roots.

Moss steadily eats away at the bark. The smell of rot mixes with the smell of… everything else that is nature.

There's silence as Mark scans the clearing. He takes a few steps closer, moving away from you so he can swing the axe off his shoulder comfortably. He mounts it onto the dirt without looking, and starts to scrutinize each fallen tree closely.

Since you have apparently finally arrived at your destination spot, you decide to settle your soaking wet body onto the grass, taking a break from all the walking that has been agonising for your bruised butt.

You watch him nudge a branch with his boot. It cracked clean. “This one’s good. Dry enough.” He says to you.

Though you were a little upset, you eye him curiously. You weren't sure what the criteria for firewood was. You usually pick it up at the department store, where a teenage boy with messy hair and even messier worn uniform picks them out for you.

“Least I could do.” You remember what Mark told you as he pet your hair whilst you were fading in and out of consciousness. His voice was rough, misused from hours of watching the television with rapture and constantly grunting in place of responses.

You're beginning to miss clerks, and managers. And tile floors. And walls. And warm fireplaces. Anything that screams this is an urban civilization where people live, basically.

You watch attentively as he lined up the axe, aiming it at the thickest part of the trunk. Your eyes don't look away, already anticipating the sound it'll make when the blow will land.

The first strike echoed sharply, the noise bouncing off the bark. You distantly hear the sounds of birds cawing, probably disturbed by the sound.

Thankfully, after the first time it becomes less impressive. For a while, the only sounds are the axe swinging down onto the bark, the birds, the wind, and your teeth violently chattering as you hug yourself, trying desperately to preserve warmth.

Nature was supposed to be calming, you grumble to yourself under your breath. Your eyes flit to a random direction, and you see something made a hole in the grass. You sit up straighter to see if its a deer print or something.

Its a dead bird. Lying flat on its back. 

You shudder, out of cold and annoyance. The department store and the polite clerk suddenly seem extra appealing to you at the moment. 

Settling on a stump, you look down at your dry sneakers. The only thing you're wearing that's dry. The wind is blowing stronger, making you wrap your arms around yourself tighter and it makes you miss home desperately. 

Seemingly out of nowhere, the sounds of the axe colliding with bark stop. You hear the axe being set down on a thunk of wood and then the sound of heavy boots walking across humid grass. 

You're not keen on listening to him gloat or even tease you about your current predicament. It was the last thing you wanted and it would just make you even more miserable.

When he's directly in front of you, you take a deep breath to steel yourself from the jabs that'll be thrown at you. You sniff from how cold it is and look up.

He's holding out his plaid shirt for you. 

You blink, surprised at the sweet offer coming from The Grandiose Asshole TM. His nice gestures are usually out of the blue and only when you need them. Not desire them.

Still you shake your head at his offer, taking a deep breath. "It's fine."

He cocks his head, not looking convinced. He wriggles it a bit, like he's trying to entice a puppy with a treat, "Come on. I know you want it."

You continue to utter your polite little no's. And Mark expected it. Really he did. Prepared to tease you the first one or two times. But at your insistence, the rage simmering to the surface of his skin was beginning to boil.

"Don't you get it?" He sighs, thoroughly inconvenienced, "The sound of your shivering is getting on my fucking nerves." He looks directly into your eyes, entirely serious.

You're taken aback by the sudden darkness in his tone. You grow as stiff as a corpse. Swallowing, you suddenly become aware that you are alone in the woods with a man you do not know. With a weapon only he can wield. 

Your feet brace firmer against the ground. You’re not sure where you could run to, but you were pretty fast. You could get far. And when you're close to the neck of the woods, your screams would be heard. 

All you need to make sure of is that they won’t be ignored. 

Suddenly, snapping you out of your thoughts, an unexpected grin makes its home on his pierced face. As though he hadn't said anything strange at all. 

"Come on." He wriggles it again playfully, "Let me be a gentleman, yeah?"

You feel your heart pound against your ribs, like it wants out. Still, with a healthy dosage of fear, you nod. You take the shirt from his hand and slip it over your shoulders. It smells like his musky cologne, and his body heat is stuck to the thing like glue. 

Instantly, you feel better when you wrap it tighter around your body, like a big warm hug. You take a deep inhale that you hope he thinks is because you're cold and not because you're sniffing his shirt. 

You mutter a small, "Thanks," just to placate him, and to perhaps make him less murderous. 

It works, because he turns on his heels back to his makeshift workstation. He whistles like he's done philanthropic-level virtue as he walks back over to the stump. He grabs the axe, switching his grip on it a few times. You assume he's trying to show off his impressive strength, to put you in a better mood. 

He shoots you a smile over his shoulder, then a wink. Quickly, he turns back and swings at the ready piece of wood. 

You watch him snap the bark neatly in half. Then in quarters.

The cuts aren't exact, but pretty damn good. You frown. 

Fuck him. 

You try not to let the smell of damp earth overpower the cologne, so you dig your freezing nose into its collar. Your eyes flit to the muscles on his back moving with each swing.

Just because you're deeply rattled with him, doesn't mean you can't appreciate what God graciously gave him. He wears nothing on top but the wife beater he wore under that plaid shirt. You feel bad for having his shirt, but not bad enough to return the thing anytime soon. You watched his strong biceps flex as he raised the axe and the small beads of sweat that disappeared under the top… God. 

You look away, unable to help your brain from moving to less than holy thoughts, and you want your head screwed on tight while in the middle of these eerie woods. You try to remember to never come back to them again.

Just before dusk, when the sky is pink and the shadows are long, you feel warm fingers slide against your cheek, stirring you awake. You had dozed off against the stump. Upon waking up, you’re pleasantly surprised to find a towering skyscraper of ready-to-use firewood

The drive back to your cottage was short. The trek out the woods, not so much. When you finally made it to the forest's neck, you ran to your car, and ended up staying there like a sitting duck. You waited uselessly as he loaded the something-dozen pieces of log into your trunk himself. The ones he also carried through the woods…himself.

You don't understand where the strength comes from. He has a sweet tooth and practically lives on your couch, always watching trash TV. Then, he goes to bother you when he gets bored of that. Which, to your knowledge, does not expend much effort, either.

You get rid of the thought. He's injured, for God's sake.

Injured. Yet strong. Yet lazy…

Besides not knowing where the strength comes from, you also don't know where he's from. You've attempted to pry into his personal life a couple times. Just little comments or questions here and there. You try your best to come off as casual and discreet. However, each time he answers your questions vaguely or with a grunt.

Which happens to throw you off because he literally lives in your house. 

The drive back home is quiet, save for Mark's whistling as he taps the silver rings on his lithe fingers to your steering wheel. He tries to mess around with the radio, tsking when the already poor signal loses connection. His turns are starting to get sharp —a product of his annoyance— which disorient you. Other than that, Mark's proven to you today that he was an OK driver. Though you'd argue it's easy enough to drive through empty streets with minimal traffic…

He parks sloppily into your driveway. But you don't mind, your shoulders sagging in relief when you realize you're finally back home. All you want to shake off the bothered feeling the forest gave you.

He let you shower first, and said you "Needed the hot water more than me, anyway." You weren't really going to let him shower first if he didn't offer, but the sentiment is nice.

There is a shower in the guest bathroom, but he complains that it's too cold for his tastes, so he likes to use yours instead. 

In truth, you didn't like him lurking around your house while you were otherwise preoccupied, but you didn't have a choice. You were freezing and you were sure you were going to come down with a cold. 

On the bright side, at least you didn't need to take a leave of absence from work. 

You turn on the faucet to a warm setting, so you don't shock your body with a temperature change. Instantly, you sigh in relief as the warm water splashes against your body. You feel like you did when you were a kid. Swimming in your grandma's pool all day in the summers then feeling the nice, hot water of the shower afterwards like a treat.

You smile as you think about those days. You were so upset a year ago when you'd found out your grandmother had Alzheimer's. You weren't incredibly close, but you loved her. You loved her a lot. Though, you didn't listen to her a lot when she was in her right mind. She used to always dote on you when you and your mother would come stay in her summer home.

Grandma's always been cool to you when you were a kid. Mostly because you only saw her on holidays, when she always took you on vacations.

And by vacations, it's usually homes she owned in random places around the world. She used to tell you there was a time where she had one in the Hampton's, but she ended up breaking it off with the guy who owned it. She told you he was too "clingy" and bothered her far too much for her tastes. You didn't care. The ones in Yorkshire and Switzerland's countryside were more than fine by you, in your humble opinion. 

You're snapped out of your thoughts of cows with bells and England's gothic structures when the door clicks open.

You freeze. After living alone for so long, you forget to lock your doors. It's a major oversight on your part. You hold your breath as you wait for Mark to leave. 

It's fine, you tell yourself. He decided he was going to pick up a towel because he was too tired of waiting for you and wanted to use the freezing cold guest bathroom. Which is more than fine by you. He's going to leave, obviously. 

You hear the sounds of clothes dropping on your rug.

You grow deathly still, and don't dare look. Your voice comes out more high pitched than you would like. "What are you doing?"

You hear him struggling with the button of his jeans, "Relax, doll." He grumbles, fumbling with the button. He finally gets it and shucks off his pants and boxers in one go. He kicks them away, then steps into the shower behind you, "Just didn't wanna miss out on the hot water, that's all." He turns on the faucet on his end.

A his and hers shower. You've always imagined your grandmother as innocent, because she is a grandmother. But when you were touring the home for the first time and spotted…that. You couldn't believe it. And you were much too embarrassed to ask her about it when you visited the care home. And it's just poor manners to do so, really. Especially after she generously gave you this entire home.

You can feel him behind you in the spacious shower, and you can't breathe. You've always imagined the first time getting naked with someone to be romantic, sensual and slow. In the dark with a few candles organized around rose petals. You wanted to feel sexy, while feeling loving kisses placed on your neck…

Not this! Not out of stupid convenience.

You take a deep breath and suck it up. You know you're not going to say anything about it. He knows you're not going to say anything about it. So you don't bother to complain.

You're not sure how long you've been staring into nowhere when you begin to calm down. The heat from the shower and the warmth from him behind you help relax your taut muscles just a little so your shoulders can slack. 

A stupid, touch-starved, virgin part of you screams for him to turn around. Wishing that he would hold you and give you those same cold kisses you get from his snake bites.

A saner, rational, and also virgin part of you tells you to just get on with it so you can get out of the shower already. Make sure nothing unnecessary happens between the two of you — more than it already has — and grab your robe. Too many mistakes were made and now's not the time for another.

Too many mistakes to turn back, the depraved part whispers to you like the devil.

There's no such thing, your holier than thou side tells you.

You hear him uncapping a bottle of shampoo, but you keep still. Though the idea of him washing just his mohawk is amusing to you. 

It’s not until you see some of the suds circle at your feet and smell the scent of your cinnamon shampoo do you hear him speak, “If I were you, I’d hurry." There's that taunt in his voice, "Unless you want your ass to freeze even more?” 

Sighing, you barely lift your head when you see a hand holding out your bottle of shampoo. You look behind you, to see if he’s turned around– but he actually still has his back facing you, handing you the bottle from an awkward angle to maintain your privacy. 

You swallow, a small flush spreading to your cheeks. You didn’t offer him that same grace, even if it was purely by accident…

Still, you can't stop looking, the muscles on his back are very well defined, the memory of watching them flex while he grunts, swinging the axe onto the bark is still fresh in your perverse mind.

Your gaze unwillingly continues down to his behind… Hello sailor. 

When you look up again, you find his eyes on yours, and you resist a yelp, body going still. His soft eyes look at yours, honey brown and golden. 

Fuck. You're so embarrassed. At this point, you're not even faulting him for all that he's done to you. Every boundary crossed like a childish game of skipping. It's your fault for being such a repressed wimp.

Instead of cursing at you, he smiles, “Tricked ya.” The words barely register before his smile widens to a grin.

Taken aback, you blink, "Tricked…?" You echo, confused. Only to find his eyes raking over the back of your body as well.

You don't know if it's possible to become both lightheaded and as heavy as a boulder. But you do now. It's like your feet cannot support your weight anymore and your knees will give out.

You know that if you did, Mark would catch you. 

You dispel that egregious thought immediately.

He chuckles, finding your confusion cute. Like he'd walk into a shower with a girl naked just to shower. That trick is so old. Empty talk about saving water, or wanting it to be hot. He thought you wouldn't fall for it. Maybe slap him across the face. But you really believed in his innocence, when he's shown you anything but. God… you were too cute– maybe even a little dumb for your own good sometimes.

And besides, he has a few things to repent for. More than a few, actually. And he knows a good way to pray for that forgiveness. A very good way. That he’s good at. Yeah. 

"Ya know," He starts, your body goes hot, and not from the water. "I didn't really get to thank you for your amazing hospitality." He grins like the cat who got the mouse between its fangs.

He still hasn’t fully turned around, only his head faces you. And thank God, because you don’t think you could handle that.

But instead of the fresh air you crave, all you smell is that delicious cinnamon shampoo he’s using, breathing in his scent is the only thing you can breathe right now.

You try to keep your eyes trained on his, but it’s difficult. Besides, you can just barely see the rest of him from the bottom peripheral of your view. But with whatever self control you have left, you keep it trained on his face.

You’re not sure if he’s blushing, or if he’s red from the hot water, “I want you.”

Your breath hitches. The way he says it so carnally makes your cunt throb. Like he's desperate and starved in the desert, and you're his only reprieve.

You feel so hot and stupid. He is making you feel so hot and stupid. And he probably likes that. You're so dizzy and you are going to double over and throw up.

Then, you realize it. He is waiting for your yes.

How gentlemanly.

You're not sure when you nod, just that he turns off his side of the water and presses against you.

The water is spilling on the two of you in harsh rivulets. His hands have made their home on your naked hip, moving carefully as though you'll break. And honestly? You will.

You gasp when he squeezes. The sensation is unlike anything you've experienced before, coupled sweetly with the warmth of him pressing against you.

You can't do this. But you're also going to die if you don't do this.

His chin lands on your shoulder, and he starts to nose at your neck, before placing a chaste kiss on your neck.

He's kissed your neck before, making out on your living room couch. But this is different. This has crossed a wholly different line.

Are you fucking stupid?

Yes. Yes, you are.

You feel especially stupid when he grinds his hard cock against your ass, and you release a shaky sigh. Your own arousal has been building up since he entered this shower, but still, it feels like debauchery.

He just holds you like you're going to implode if he does anything else. Occasionally planting kisses on your wet skin. He just stays there, as if comforted by your presence as much as you're comforted by his.

You try to relax, really. But you just accidentally push at his hardness. He grunts.

"Sorry," You gasp, shivering despite being under now scalding hot water. To your misery and bliss, Mark starts to place open mouthed kisses along your neck.

You can tell he’s trying to be delicate and slow, but he’s barely containing his heat, and you’re not doing him any favors by jerking against him.

Still, he just inhales deeply through his nose, and holds you tighter against him.

After a noisy kiss against your shoulder, he says, “Can I see you?”

You swallow, knowing he can see you. He just wants to embarrass you.

So he doesn't play nice after all.

Still, you turn in his hold, intending to be close. And the goddamned asshole immediately backs up a few steps to get the full view.

You force the embarrassment of being naked in front of someone for the first time to the back of your brain, taking the green light to examine his body as well.

You spot the matching piercings on his collar bones that you've become familiar with, glistening against the water. Your gaze trails down, to his pierced nipples… He's even more uncouth than you had thought.

When your eyes go to his lower stomach, you gasp, putting a hand over your mouth.

And honestly, never mind the huge, throbbing monster of a cock with piercings all over it. Your issue is with the tramp stamp right above it.

You thought that kind of tattoo was mostly gotten on your lower back, but it's not any less tramp-y if it's above your dick, either.

He must be thoroughly amused by your look because he grins, "Like it?"

You don't. You don't like how vulgar he is at all. But in the moment you find that you do. Stupid cupid.

"Yeah." Way too breathy than you would have liked.

He seems to be just as enamored with you, because he eyes you much more unabashedly. That sends a new wave of butterflies in your stomach.

His eyes bore into your wet sex, then meet yours, “Do you want me to thank you, still…?” He breathes. Cocky.

You nod quickly, "Yes."

"Don't worry," He approached you again, bumping his body with yours and maneuvering you against the wall, "These piercings will feel really good inside you."

Oh, you don't doubt that.

"But first," He starts to kiss sloppily at your collarbone, between your breasts, then to your stomach, taking his time as he makes his way down your body. All you can do is moan into the steamy air like an idiot and hope you're doing ok.

He kneels between your legs, eyes on your cunt. 

He blinks, staring at it, "Cool," He breathes.

He looks up at you with honey-brown eyes, wide and glassy, like melted caramel catching the morning light. He pats your thigh, "Let's get your pretty self prepped, yeah?"

You have an idea of what he's going to do. You've read books with far too much indecency for your own good and watched a few homemade videos here and there. So you're pretty familiar with how this goes down.

He snickers, "You spread your legs like a slut."

Gee, blame a girl for trying to help you along, would you?

His hot breath fans over your wet sex, making you squirm. And the sensations you feel when he places a smack of a kiss against your clit are much better than you ever could with the press of your fingers.

Your moan is far too high pitched for a kiss.

"Knew it." He kneads the flesh of your thighs, then prys them open even further, "You're a virgin. Too obvious, babe."

You've taken to ignoring him, mind too hazy to give him a response. But he impatiently waits for one. Going as far as to pinch you to get it.

"What?" You ask, incredulous, frustrated that he isn't burying his face into your cunt yet, "What do you want me to say? Sorry for being a virgin?"

He scratches that previous thought about you being cute. You're actually really fucking adorable.

He rewards your sass by sticking his tongue out to lick across your folds, spreading them.

Immediately, your thighs clamped around his head like muffs. And he groans.

"Sorry, babe. 'S too early but I wanna see how tight you are…"

That's the only warning you get before he slides a finger into your hot, wet entrance.

Your hands come to grip your own hair, biting your lips at the sensation, trying to keep quiet. But the sounds of your moaning escape you nonetheless.

"Haah, that's good." He sounds like he's the one receiving oral. He moves his finger in, out, in, out, "Really good."

His mouth is on your entrance, lapping up at your wetness like a dog. His slurps are lewd, on purpose.

You're so embarrassed. You're trying to shut up but it's impossible. You think your elderly neighbors can hear you. Or the journalist. Maybe even the whole neighborhood. It's driving you insane.

You yelp when he hoists your thighs over his shoulders.

"Lose the stick up your ass." He tells you astutely.

You don't know what overcame you, but he's taking his sweet time and you're only getting more frustrated, "Pull it out since you're down there already."

He laughs, loud and boisterous. The vibrations against your cunt make you squirm, but with his strong hands gripping your thighs like a vice, you can barely move anywhere.

"God, babe. I am going to make you fall in love with me. Swear it."

A blatant threat in your opinion, before he dives into the wet cavern of your cunt again.

Your heart is beating so fast and you're growing so hot. Your pants and moans echo through the spacious bathroom.

You throw your head back and it hits hard concrete. Your groan is mixed in with a cry of pleasure.

He pats your thighs in consolation, before easing a second finger into your cunt.

It barely takes, but he makes it. Squeezing his ring along with his middle with the audaciousness to scissor them inside of you. You grip his hair and scream.

At the pain. At the pleasure. At the embarrassment. At the desperation. It all mixes together into one hot, stupid mess.

You clamp down on his fingers and you cum. You cum harder and faster than you've ever cum before in your pathetic life. It's dizzying, it makes your throat raw and you kick at his back. But it's the best feeling you've ever experienced.

He guides you through it, sucking at your clit then licking your folds, slowing down his movements when your high starts to ebb.

He pulls away from between your thighs, not even taking a decent gulp of air before he wetly kisses your inner thigh.

"I told you I'd make you fall in love with me," He says musically.

You're ashamed to admit that might be halfway true.

—

Surprisingly, Mark is nice to you after. He helps you clean up so you both smell like your cinnamon shampoo, delicately washing over your back with his hands. He's his usual chatty self, but you're so out of it you can't keep track when he keeps jumping between topics.

He treats you like his girlfriend and not a stranger who hit him with their car when he kisses you on the bed. He's all over you, kissing everywhere on your face. Even when you try to push him off and protest.

He's on top of you, and you glare at him. Although everything is softened under the hazy glow of post-sex, you've regained some of your bearings again and realized he is still your very ill-mannered housemate.

Nonetheless, he's stronger than you and likes to crush you under his weight when you get too bothersome about his blatant harassment of squeezing and pinching your cheeks (both kinds).

"You should've seen that look on your face, it was all like," He sticks his tongue out crudely and rolls his eyes back. Then he looks at you with a full blown grin, "Like that. It was really funny."

You ignore him with a groan, rolling over onto your stomach. "Get off my bed."

Now it's just worse because when he presses his pierced chest to your back, your chest is compressed against the sheets, practically sucking the wind out of you.

Still, you'd rather be crushed under his weight than give him the satisfaction of wheezing.

"Aww," He says, condescension dripping like honey, "You're so adorable, like a kitten." He smiles toothily like he just came up with the best idea of his life, "Can I call you kitten?"

You try to push him off you, completely disgusted, "No!"

"I'm kee-ding," He says, not kidding. He squeezes leisurely at your hips, his thumbs pressing into the fat of your ass. "I've got another name that suits you wayy more."

You grunt, your wriggling finally stopping as you accept your defeat. You sigh, "What?"

He squeezes the flesh of your ass, "Crazy."

—-

Someone used to call you that, back when you were a kid and you'd have panicked fits under the crafting tables. You were the nicest, but also the most troublesome child in preschool. When kids got over their fear of coming to school within the first week, yours persisted to the second grade.

You're sure it was a tease — or, most probably a bully — from kids your age. Either way, it's like all those strange memories resurfaced to your mind when he called you that.

You're not still hung up on the names you were called when you were four or five. Of course not. It simply striked you how accurate it was when he called you that.

Mark falls asleep like a half hour later like a rock. His arm dangling lazily over your waist is no better than dead weight. After finally wrestling out of it, you slide your feet into your slippers and pad quietly out your bedroom.

It's been a while since you've had hot tea to calm you down. Nearly since Mark first came here. You used to have it to calm your nerves pretty much everyday. You push down what that could— and does mean.

You sip the chamomile out of your giant bowl of a mug and turn on the TV. Much to your annoyance, the first thing you see when it assaults you with its bright colors is the news at full blast. Mark must've been watching it while you were taking a shower.

You blink.

It's not much. Just a robbery from the neighboring town, a couple miles off from here. Still, it bothers you. One of the robbers happened to accidentally kill an accountant. 

You switch channels just as a person gives a detailed eye witness account to a ginger haired reporter. 

The channel switches to the middle of a spy movie, right at its climax. While watching an agent parachute from an airplane very dramatically, you recognize that reporter on the news as your neighbor, and you wonder what could've brought her all the way there just to report a random robbery. Seems weird.

Your train of thought is cut off by the gun shots of the main character shooting the unnamed terrorist of an unnamed country.

You sigh, pushing your cheek into your palm. You won't be getting any sleep tonight.

♡

a/n: ik im not the only one whos a sucker for wife beaters under plaid and chopping wood... fans self

Also, im aware that no weird stuff happened yet. This chapter is still a "setting the stage" sort of one. soo yup mohawk n reader being a thing from the get go was the plan. itll all make sense later. maybe

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The chain above Mark rattles when he pulls on it. The metal is thick and mounted to the ceiling far above. (courtesy of him) So it's pretty secure, he’d say; and nothing really feels wrong… so why was he just a tiny bit scared? 

From across the room, you fiddle with some objects in a smooth black box. You're broken out of your concentration when you hear him twist and squirm. 

You spare him a glance, raising a brow, “...‘You doing okay over there?” 

Mark pulls on the chain again, furrowing his brows at it in thought, “Shouldn’t it be stronger?” He lifts his head at an awkward angle to look at you, “I mean— you know I could break out of this easily, right?” 

You pick up the box and walk over to him, setting it on the bed for later. Then, you look down on him, trying to get a good look at his current state. At the inspection, he feels his face growing slightly pink. 

“That’s not the point.” You cross your arms, looking into his eyes, “You’re not my hostage, Mark. That’s the idea. You’re purposefully relinquishing control over to me, so you can feel good.” You tilt your head,

“Got it?” 

“Uh–” He looks at you with a blush across his face then nods slowly, swallowing, “Um, yeah. I think I got it.” 

You smile nicely, playing with the thin, silky belt of your robe,  “Good.” 

Mark’s eyes immediately land on the black silk, focused on the way your fingers teasinging go over it, “So…” He looks back at you with a smirk, “Am I the only one that’s gonna be undressed here, or…?” He teases, but you can tell he’s nervous. 

You do believe that a healthy dosage of nervousness and…fear is good. Even advisable. But, Mark seems to be far too on edge. And, well, we can’t have that, can we? 

And so, you decide that now’s a time as ever to show a little sweetness. You crouch down to his level, mustering the most disarming look you can and whisper, “Just be patient.” You use your fingers to gently trace the skin below his briefs, and you feel the strong muscle beneath flex. At the sight, you hum in approval. “You can do that, right? Be good and patient?” You splay your hand over his stomach, looking directly into his eyes, “So you can have nice things.” 

His eyes flit away nervously under your gaze, and he wants to run away, feeling overwhelmed already. But he stays put. “Yes.” 

“Hmm? Yes, what?” 

“Um…yes…ma’am?” 

You giggle, tapping his hip, “Good boy.” Then stand up to look through the box on the bed. 

He groans, trying to cover his face with his forearms, “This is so not okay.” His voice cracks endearingly in the middle of the sentence. Thank god Mark can’t see your face right now, because you’re trying to suppress a laugh. And if he sees you laughing at him, he may actually run. 

From the mysterious black box, you take out a thin wand. It’s silver and metallic, with a sizable ball at the end. On the rod itself are variously sized balls. It’s very pretty and dainty in your opinion. It suits Mark in that regard.

Inside the box is another rod. Except, this one has a lithe tip that thickens as it goes down. It's painted a dull black, and looks far meaner. But you can’t judge a book by its cover, only by how good it’ll feel inside of Mark. You hold the silver one in your hand and look at the black one. 

Decisions, decisions…

However, your train of thought is cut off by a wobbly voice down below, “Babe!” Mark whines from the cushion on the floor, you look behind your shoulder to see a very pink and pouty Mark Grayson. He sighs when he sees your reasonably unimpressed face. A face that his ego does not take lightly. However, his hot head between his legs seems to trump the one between his shoulders. “Don't take too long, it's weird being here all by myself…” He looks away, “I want you here with me.” He mumbles that last part.

You’d chastise him for neglecting the first rule you’d told him only a mere minute ago, but you internally (and perhaps graciously) decide to forgive him because he does look like he’s going to melt… And a sad Mark does make you sad…

Alright then, lightwork. Just decide quickly, by using clever Jean-Paul Sarte’s decision-making philosophy. You believe it went something like…

Eenie… meenie… minie… moe…

There we go. Silver one it is. 

To avoid scaring the trembling kitty at your feet, you place it outside of his line of view when you sit back down between his legs. He doesn’t even notice, more attentive to the fact that you’re here with him.

As a reward for being so (im)patient with you, you lean down to place a kiss on Mark’s lips. However, you stop just a few centimeters away from his mouth to watch how he chases after your lips. It’s cruel, but can anyone blame you? It’s endearing.

You hold his warm face as you kiss him, and he kisses you back in earnest. Even though needy and fidgety, Mark takes his time to suck on the supple flesh of your lips before escalating, which you highly approve of. You make sure he knows that by running your right hand slowly down his body, landing just below his waist. Your index finger teasingly pulls on the waistband of his briefs, and Mark backs away from your mouth to huff. Above the both of you, you hear his chains clatter together as he instinctively tries to touch you too. He groans in your mouth when he realizes he’s restricted. How cute. 

His bottom lip juts out and you already hear the complaint on the tip of his tongue. So, you decide to distract him from his neediness by alleviating it. Your kiss-bitten lips lean down to his jaw to begin to place kisses along it. You make your way down his neck, making sure to suck a hickey at the base of it. 

He shivers at the hot, wet contact of your tongue with his sensitive neck. Instinctively, he groans and throws his head back, which is all the better for you. 

You lick, suck, kiss, bite along his neck. A pleasure for you as you feel butterflies burst in your stomach. You glance up to see his flushed face, biting his lip. You can’t help the smirk that grows on your face at the sight. You blink up at him through your lashes, enamoured by how genuinely beautiful he is. But that only embarasses him, making him flush and hide his face in his bicep. 

You can’t help but laugh at the sight, crawling just a little further so you’re face-to-face with him. 

“Maaark,” You say musically, nosing at his cheek. He ‘Hmm?’’s

This is the usual routine. But sweet Mark, bless him, can’t seem to put two and two together. 

Your hand slips beneath his briefs slowly, and he immediately jerks, pulling on the chain hard in a bout of nerves. Your eyes flit up instinctively to where it's mounted on the ceiling, but it hasn't budged. Your baby boy is so handy, it makes your heart swell. You kiss his hot cheek to try and soothe the overwhelming feeling. You feel his rapidly beating heart against yours. A wild BA-THUMP, BA-THUMP, BA-THUMP, hammering against his ribs. His heart echoes its language to yours, and you try your best to cradle it safely in your arms. 

“Mark…” You whisper, kissing his cheek. You keep your face pressed to his, “I love you.” 

His breath is a little ragged, but he responds anyway. Like he always does. “I love you too–!” 

He ends the declaration in a groan as you gently stroke the base of his hard cock. You kiss the corner of his lips, keeping the soft, careful pace. He huffs loudly, his lungs shallowly trying to take in air as you wrap your arm around the base of him with two nimble fingers. 

He lets out an “Oh!”, and his breath doesn't calm down. You kiss his pretty, flushed lips a few times. “Okay?” You  ask, then correct yourself when he doesn’t respond, “Green?” 

Despite the fact that he looks like he’s in complete agony, he sniffs and nods, “G-Green. Don’t stop, okay? Please.” He shuts his eyes and bucks his hips into your touch, making you gasp softly, “I wanna cum so bad.” He whines. 

Oh, Viltrumites. Ever so sensitive you are. 

Your lucky pretty little Mark over here has stamina, or you would have never let him orgasm this fast in a million years. You can’t just have everything you want just because you have a pretty face, you know? 

You grip the base of his cock, and he throws his head back, moaning. You use your other hand to lower his briefs, then wrap around his length brutishly without a care. He whimpers at the harsh contact, the left side of his hips lifting. But you know he likes it that way. He’s so darling. 

“I hope the message is clear:” Your hot breath against his face makes him whimper, “You can cum, but I won’t be nice about it. Do we have a deal, bunny?” 

The pretty nickname makes him groan breathily, and he nods furiously. “Deal. Deal– oh, deal. Oh please, please, PLEASE–” 

You move at the animalistic pace you promised him. With every stroke upwards, your fingers pay a harsh visit to his head by squeezing, making him choke. You no longer concern yourself with his cries, his “please” ‘s, or the chains threatening to break from the ceiling that it is mounted to. All you care about is delivering his wish. 

However, his fidgeting is a problem. You bring your legs to hold back both his thighs. But his strength, of course, overwhelms you, no matter how delirious he may be. Your lower half ends up jostling around as you try to calm him like you would a wild steed. But if this one decides to become good, then maybe you won’t need a whip after all. 

You feel it in the way that his hip stutters that he’s close. In the way that he babbles, “Love you, love you, love you–”

He bucks his hips forward one last time and he cums hard, screaming. His release spills onto his stomach, his thighs, and tarnishes the perfect black silk of your robe. Not that you mind one bit. 

He breathes heavily into your neck, trying to come back to Earth. You stroke his soft black hair as he does, and kiss his forehead. 

You kiss the tip of his nose and decide to ask a silly question. “Mark,” “Hmm?” He says softly. “What are you?” 

His mouth is slightly open, and his eyes are glazed over. He squints his eyes, and his brows furrow as he tries to think about what you want him to say, “U-Um… your pet?” 

You laugh at the sweet answer, “Yes. But also something else.” 

Overwhelmed and overstimulated, his cock weeps for him as he tries to think, “Mmm- ah– Umm…” 

You sit up on your haunches and undo the fastens of your sultry robe, deciding it was time to reveal the mini-surprise, since the poor silk was already filthy. 

It slips from out of your arms and lands on the floor, revealing an even more seductive black lingerie. Lace lines the cup of the bra and where it ends thinly below your hips. It connects to a pair of garters on your thighs and ends at the long, sheer black thigh highs. 

Evil, but make it sexy. 

You smile down at him, “The answer is mine.” 

You move your hair out of your face to see Mark’s face, and it’s nothing short of awestruck. His mouth hangs open, and the glaze in his eyes clear as he tries to focus on the view in front of him. You think you see some drool escape his pink lips, but you’re more focused on the silver rod you hold in your hand, something Mark is not. 

His cock twitches, and he makes a small sound at the back of his throat. Then, he reels it in to form a sentence, “Was all that just-just foreplay or something?” He asks nervously, but with the way the corner of his lip twitches upwards, you suspect he can handle it. 

You smirk, “It can be anything you like.” You position your legs on either side of his abdomen, then lower to a kneel, right above your most beloved part of him, (other than his big, loving heart) his well-defined abs. Just looking at them makes you groan. 

Deciding you want his undivided attention, you blink pretty eyes at him as he looks up at you with an unsure, but needy expression. You already feel his dick come to life once again from behind you. It makes you shiver.

“Do you want a show, Mark?” You move the suit's crotch to the side, teasingly slow. His eyes are trained on the area between your thighs, focused and unblinking. 

“Yes–” His sentence cuts off awkwardly, and he looks up at you, “Please.” Noticing the way you slightly raise your eyebrows, he adds, “Ma’am.” 

You send an approving smile his way, and he shakily smiles back. 

“Well, you haven’t been on your best behavior…” His stomach tenses from underneath you, and his throat tightens up, “But…” You smile, “You did your best. But just know that won’t be enough next time. I expect perfect. Isn’t that right?” 

He immediately nods, exhaling a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Though it stings, he’s thankful for your leniency. 

“Besides, you’re my good boy.” You hum, then move the thin fabric to the side, exposing your dripping core. He gasps instantly at the sight, then lets out a needy sound at the back of his throat. Your entrance pulses at the intense gaze it’s receiving, which just makes Mark swallow, “So, you’re allowed to be spoiled every once in a while, right?” 

He nods, licking his lips, “Yes.” He looks up at you with his pretty doe eyes, “Yes, please. Thank you.” 

At his blatant display of eagerness, you can’t help but drag your free hand between your folds, making you moan in satisfaction. Mark flexes beneath you at that. 

You circle your clit lithely, trying not to excite yourself too much too early. Not everyone can go on like a Viltrumite. “You know, Mark,” His eyes snap up to your own, hanging to your every word with obscenely rapt attention, “I may need some help.” He bites his bottom lip with a groan. You bite your own to stifle a giggle. 

You continue to circle leisurely at your clit. Seductively, you whisper, “Can you help me, Mark?” 

You hear the chains above you rattle and clatter from above you immediately. He seemed to have forgotten the constraints and wanted to lunge to you, but was only able to lift his upper body slightly. Once he realizes the cause of his failed attempt, he looks up at the chains with a deep frown and furrowed brows, suddenly wishing he could break it into a million tiny pieces. 

Then, he directs his unimpressed gaze to you, trying to garner sympathy by whining your name pathetically, “Please?” He pulls on them lightly, “Off?”

You snort, then slip a finger just between your folds, but not going further. Simply teasing your entrance. Mark is back to his entranced stare without needing to be told twice, mesmerized by the way the tip of your finger immediately slicks up from your wetness. 

Saliva pools in his mouth, and he swallows it before he speaks, “Please– I can help—” 

You both gasp when your finger slips in your entrance, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Your thumb comes forward to begin circling your clit. You struggle to time the thrusts with the way you tease your clit. But after a few seconds, you capture it perfectly, enunciated by the way you moan louder. 

“You like this, Mark?” You huff, looking down at his enraptured face, his jaw agape into an ‘o’ shape, “See what you do to me? This is all you. You make me so fucking horny, know that?” He whines at your filthy words, and pulls on the chains. His pretty pink face nods, wanting to close his eyes shut but not wanting to miss a second. 

“Y-You said I could help.” He begs with a flex of his hip, bucking up into the air. You bring your hand down to the side of your hip. 

“Control yourself,” You pull your finger out, it’s wet and covered in the scent of your essence. You lower yourself down on his abdomen, making him gasp. You moan softly, the feeling of his chiseled stomach against your sensitive clit making your pussy clench. You gently rock yourself on him, the movement making your sight heady with lust, and all you can see is Mark below you, panting like a dog. You bring your hand to his chest, “And you can help.” 

You grind yourself against his abdomen, with no intention of coming anytime soon. Only to arouse yourself further. You need to be as wet as possible for what you want to do. 

But Mark feels so good. Not to mention, his wanton whimpers and moans only boost your pleasure. His hip still jerks and flexes from beneath your hand, his dick wanting to be touched and played with desperately, but he doesn’t dare voice it. You don’t even think he notices with how hard he’s staring at your soaking wet entrance. 

You feel your head get lost in the momentary pleasure. The feeling of wanting to come suddenly bursting in your stomach, and you have to physically shake your head to clear it of its wanton haze. Aimlessly, your other hand scrambles to the sounding rod next to you. Mark swallows audibly and makes a dizzy ‘Huh?’ sound, but you pay it no mind. 

You will yourself to concentrate as you angle the silver wand to insert it between your folds, the ball of it to the front of your crotch, close to your clit where your fingers hold it in place. You look down to see a speechless Mark. You can practically see his empty brain try to form a cognizant thought as he tries to register what it is you’re doing. 

You move the handle of it forward slowly, the balls on the wand glide through your folds and your clit with slicked ease, making you gasp. It steadily comes out the other side, in plain view of Mark. He angles his head even further forward to take a good look at it. It’s already gleaming with the beautiful sight of your wetness. His mouth falls open further, his tongue threatening to loll out, and his cock throbs. 

He whines your name as he stares at the wand, suddenly painfully aware of how jealous he is of it. Mindlessly, he only lightly pulls on the chain, subconsciously realizing that his effort is futile, since he is not going anywhere anytime soon. Just a reflex.

“You like it?” You smile, turning it so the light catches on the slicked metal, “I picked it out for you. I thought you’d think it was pretty.” 

“U-Um— What?” He says intelligently, having not heard a word you said. 

In that case, you decide to go for a more physical approach, taking his jaw and angling it downwards to look at nothing but the silver wand and your cunt. You make it pass backwards again quickly, and you almost choke on the feeling. 

“I said– Do you like it?” You bear through the pleasure-pain to bring it back forwards in front of him, so he can take a decent look. You feel a glob of his spit drip down your thumb. 

He nods quickly, trying his best to get into your good graces, “I like it, like you.” He blabbers. 

“Do you know what it is?” 

He nods immediately again, his eyes glazed over and his expression drilled in on your wet core. Wet for him, wet ‘cause of him, love him, you love him, gonna fucking come— His dick twitches at his train of thought, and it bleeds precum insistently. He blinks and tries his very best to answer you, “Suh- So- Me?” He replies astutely.

You hold onto his shoulders, digging your nails into the firm, strong muscle, he groans, “Yea, you want it? You wanna use it after me?” 

His mouth falls open, the flush that encapsulates his face reaches down to his chest. His hip involuntarily bucks forward sharply. He whines when the motion does not reward him with any stimulation. 

Drool freely escapes his mouth as he watches the wand– the wand that’s going to be inside of him, drip with your wetness. Your slick coats the entire rod, and he shivers at the obscene sight of it– at the– at the future implications of, of–

You glide the wand through your folds and simultaneous reach behind to stroke the underside of his painfully hard dick. You both moan wantonly at the same time. 

His biceps strain desperately against the chains. He can’t do it, he can’t do it. He needs to touch– kiss, bite– 

He feels a wetness at the head of his cock, and he gasps, taken aback by its coolness. You move to sit on his strong, thick thighs, circling the head of the wand along the head of his dick gently. Occasionally, you ‘accidentally’ swipe it along the slit of his head. 

“Ah– mmm, Hah– B-Baby?” His firm thighs flex beneath you, but he’s thankful for the comforting weight as his face watches the wand move dangerously close to the hole of his urethra. 

You move it daintily across the side of him, his muscular thigh jolts upwards but you can tell he’s trying his best to control himself for you, so you don’t get hurt. Aww. 

You move the thin tip directly on his dick’s slit, he whimpers. 

“Do you want it, pretty baby?” You insert a centimeter in, he moans, then back out, “Hm, what do you say? I got it all lubed up for you, you know.” 

He nods like he’s mad, “Please, please, I wan’ it.” 

He sniffs, confused on whether to watch the wand inch closer to his dick or the way your body looks in that skimpy lingerie. He whines, feeling agitated and overwhelmed. 

Luckily for him, you don’t think twice before you lower the rod into his welcoming hole. He gasps, his face lowering to the sight, barely an inch in. He squirms, suddenly hyper aware and very vigilant. 

You look up at him, when you find his eyes zeroed in on the sight of the textured wand slightly inside of him. You directly ask, “Green?” 

He blinks, drunk on the sight and the feeling, “Yea.” He fidgets, “So green.” 

You continue to lower the rod down slowly, and the first ball inserts inside of him, and he sighs, satisfied as it moves against his insides. Using the chains to help him, he sits up a little more and seeks your lips. 

You grant it to him, sucking on his bottom lip gingerly. You continued to push the rod down, and the feeling of the tiny spheres moving inside of him was starting to make him antsy, his thighs jutting and flexing insistently. But he still kisses you back, albeit sloppily. You keep going, inching the silver rod further into him. 

He breaks the kiss with the gasp when the entire thing is inside of him, the handle jutting out. 

He pants, trying to get accustomed to the feeling of something so…big inside somewhere as sensitive as his dick. He didn’t think it's that big, especially not when you were playing with it, but now, it feels huge. 

You hum at the sight, and don't bother to push it back when his hole slowly tries to push it out. You say the first thing that comes to mind, “You would look very pretty with a dick piercing.” 

He grows bashful, despite the fact that he’s fully naked in front of you with a rod you’ve shoved up his cock, “Uh, really?” He says hesitantly, “Well, uh maybe I’ll get one? If you like it, I mean…” 

You laugh at his nervousness, holding the handle between three fingers, “Yeah. Why not?” You say airily, throwing him off before pull at the handle quickly, leaving only one ball inside of his painfully hard cock. He gasps, letting out a shaky moan as he pants. 

“O-Ow! I'm– sensitive, you know.” He pouts at you. 

You chuckle deliriously, “You’re beautiful.” You push the wand completely back in, deep inside of his cock, then back out, letting the texture on the rod do its magic. 

Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out, in, out, in, Out In Out In Out In–

Mark screams, squeezing his eyes shut as the feeling waahes over him, eating him whole. He digs the heels of his feet onto the floorboards, and you hear a snap, snap, snap. 

You don't concern yourself with the chains that rattle above you wildly as Mark tries to control what, when, and why. His head rolls back and forth quickly, trying to alleviate the feeling, but it just makes it worse. 

“Hah— Cum.” He says haphazardly, bucking his hips forward to match your thrusts “‘m gonna, cu-ahm!” He feels himself scream so loud, he wonders if the entire neighborhood could hear. 

You grip his shoulder with one hand, digging your fingernails in, “Mhm, yeah, gonna cum?” You thrust the wand faster into his pretty cock, “Cum pretty baby, do it.” 

He pants and nods, obeying you. He meets the wand at the exact moment you shove it back inside of him, entering him excruciatingly deep, and he cries. He cries as he cums, he cries when you quickly pull out the wand to watch the way his release paints his stomach and thighs. 

A few more weak spurts come out of his twitchy cock, and he whimpers. 

You look at your sticky, dirty hands, and a dizzy chuckle comes over you. You instinctively put a finger into your mouth and suck, tasting his semen

At the sight, Mark moans, “Ah, shit.” You look up at him, and a loud clash is heard. He breaks free of his chains and lunges at you, toppling over you on the floor. You fall with an audible oomph. 

He kisses at your jaw, and you feel his hard dick against your thigh. In that moment, he plays cheeky and uses your own words against you, “Wanna cum?”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

a/n: For those of you who are curious, the quote by Jean-Paul Satre is: "Man is nothing else but what he makes himself." i.e. that our decisions create our own essence. so thats a quick philosophy fact to impress your co workers ;)

Funnily enough, I spent an indecent amount of time trying to decide between Friedrich Nietzsche and Jean-Paul. Then, I realized that 1) Not everyone is a philosophy major, or into existentialism, so they wouldn't give a fuck who that even is. 2) Even if they were, they still wouldn't give a fuck because its literally bdsm smut. Talk about a reality check!

This took a while so I hope its up to par... ugh.