#eclipse's mark grayson

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