#his light

a smirk tugs at your lips as you land light as a shadow on a fractured rooftop, your fingers drumming an idle rhythm against the brick ledge. below, a squad of viltrumite enforcers—humans who bent the knee and traded their pride (and their everything) for a shred of false safety—stomp through the streets like overgrown toddlers in armor. their faces are twisted in frustration, and it’s delicious.

you’d led them on another wild goose chase, of course. first, the fake distress signal you rigged near the old subway tunnels—just loud enough to lure them in. then, the real trap: a web-line tripwire that sent the first three face-first into the pavement. while the others were busy untangling their comrades, you’d already swiped their comms and left a little present in their supply packs—a stink bomb cobbled together from scavenged chemicals. nothing dangerous, just hilarious.

by the time they realized they’d been played, you were long gone, perched up here with the best seat in the house to watch the chaos unfold.

too easy.

you tug your mask up just enough to free your mouth, revealing a smirk that’s more habit than humor these days. the half-stale protein bar you scavenged earlier crumbles in your grip—some kind of "nutrient-rich survival ration" (if you squint really hard). not exactly the greasy pizza you used to inhale after patrols, back when the world made sense. back when he was still—

you bite down before the thought finishes.

it’s food. that’s all that matters. food is hope, and hope is currency now—for the rebels holed up in the subway tunnels, for the kids in makeshift shelters who still light up when you swing by with supplies. for the ones who haven’t given up, even when the sky is full of monsters wearing familiar faces.

that’s why you do this. why you keep swinging, keep tossing out jokes that land a little too hollow now. why you breathe through the ache in your ribs, the one that has nothing to do with last week’s bruising and everything to do with the gaping hole where your best friend used to be.

(you’d known him since you were both knee-high troublemakers, since shared lunchboxes and scraped elbows and promises whispered under blanket forts. "us against the world, right?" you’d said. he’d grinned, a small smile reserved just for you. "always."

now the world’s burning, and he’s the one holding the torch.)

a sudden gust of wind nearly knocks you off balance—the kind of wind that doesn't belong on a rooftop, the kind that carries the scent of ozone and conquest. your spider-sense screams a second too late, because of course it would hesitate when it's him. your body knows that voice even when your heart wishes it didn't.

"you're becoming a real problem."

that voice. god, that voice. it's deeper now, rougher around the edges like everything about him has been sanded down into something sharper. it sends a cold knife straight through your chest, twisting with the memory of how it used to sound when he'd laugh at your dumb jokes instead of scowling at your resistance.

you don't turn around. you can't. because if you do, you'll see nolan grayson's—no, omni-man's son—not the lanky kid who used to trip over his own feet during little league, but the empire's golden boy with that ridiculous little grey skirt-flap thing that somehow makes him look more graceful (and... hotter?). you'll see the way his shoulders carry the weight of entire conquered worlds, the way his eyes have gone as cold as the vacuum between stars. when did he start looking so haunted? what happened to the boy who used to sneak out his window just to stargaze with you on your fire escape?

mark grayson hovers behind you, a living monument to everything you've lost. you can feel his gaze like a physical weight, burning into the back of your skull with an intensity that makes your spider-sense hum uneasily. this isn't your best friend anymore—this is the heir apparent to omni-man's legacy, a harbinger of the empire with the face of someone who's seen too much and regretted too little. the boy you knew would have been cracking dumb jokes about his "princely cape" (it's not a cape, you'd argued a hundred times, but he'd never listened). this man? this man only speaks in threats and ultimatums.

what happened to you, mark? you want to ask. when did we become this? but the words turn to ash in your mouth before you can speak them.

"what's the matter?" you force a laugh that doesn't quite reach your eyes, fingers crumpling the protein bar wrapper as you shove it into your pocket with more force than necessary. the movement makes your shoulders roll in a careless shrug—all practiced nonchalance, all performance. "big, bad empire can't handle one little spider? i'm flattered, really. didn't know i rated this much personal attention from viltrum's finest."

the silence that follows is heavier than it should be, thick with all the words neither of you will say. when he finally speaks, his chuckle is hollow, the sound of fabric closing over something broken. "you're not little. you're a thorn in our side." a pause that lasts just a beat too long. "and thorns get plucked."

your breath catches despite yourself. that's new—the cold precision in his voice, the way he says "our side" like he wasn't once the kid who whispered "your side or no side" during midnight movie marathons when he thought you were asleep.

finally, you turn. and god, there he is.

his hair's longer now, strands sweeping across his forehead in a way that would've made fourteen-year-old mark groan about it getting in his eyes during training. but the boy who used to complain about haircuts is gone—replaced by someone whose gaze cuts deeper than any blade. the insignias on his shoulders catch what little light filters through the smog, gleaming like polished grave markers.

your chest aches. because this isn't just nolan's son, the empire's rising star—this is the human disaster who used to follow you around like some bizarre mix of lost puppy and overprotective golden retriever. the one who'd show up at your window at 2 AM, shaking and silent, until you pulled him inside and let him cry himself out against your shoulder after particularly brutal "training sessions" with his dad. the one who promised through bloody lips that you'd always have each other's backs, even when the whole world went to hell.

liar.

or maybe you're the fool for believing it. for not seeing how deep nolan's hooks were set. for not trying harder to pull him out when you still could. the thought settles like lead in your gut—another weight added to the collection you'll unpack someday when the world isn't ending.

"so what's the deal?" you cross your arms, the movement deliberately casual even as your pulse thrums too fast under your skin. your head tilts with false ease, the way you'd do back in high school when pretending his dad's latest brutal training session hadn't left him shaking. "you here to recruit me? or just to finally squash me?" the words come out lighter than they feel, your trademark smirk feeling more like armor than amusement today.

mark's expression flickers—just for a second—and there it is. that ghost of something human in his eyes. regret? guilt? or just indigestion from whatever morally questionable viltrumite rations he's been eating? you wish you could laugh at your own joke, but the question claws at your ribs instead: why would a conqueror, a killer, someone who chose this path, still have room for that look? the one that used to cross his face when he'd show up at your door with split knuckles and a story about "training accidents" you never quite believed.

"join us." his voice is lower now, rougher, but you'd know that cadence anywhere—it's the same one he used when convincing you to sneak out for 3 AM diner runs. (one of the times he was being rebellious. he should have been sleeping, resting, recovering, before another day of training and listening to boring but brainwashing lectures and teachings about viltrum. instead, he eagerly flew to you when he was sure that his dad was asleep; and you eagerly followed him in-between skyscrapers as you swung and flew by each other's side.) except now it's wrapped around words that taste like betrayal. "you're strong. skilled. the empire could use someone like you."

your chest aches like someone's reached in and squeezed your still-beating heart. strong. skilled. but not 'you'd be safe here' or 'i miss you' or any of the things the boy you knew might have said. just another asset to be collected, another piece on the board. the realization settles heavy in your gut, but you'll be damned if you let it show. instead, your grin sharpens, all teeth and no warmth.

"wow." your fingers tap against your chin in mock contemplation, the movement deliberately theatrical—the same way you'd ham up decisions about which flavor of ice cream to split back when things were simple. "that almost sounded like a compliment." you snap your fingers like you've reached some grand conclusion. "let me think—hard pass."

his jaw tightens, that muscle twitching near his temple just like it used to when you'd needle him about his terrible taste in movies. "this isn't a joke."

the air between you crackles with all the unsaid things—the memories of late-night rooftop confessions when you'd shown him your first clumsy web-shooters, his awed laughter as you stuck to the ceiling of his bedroom that very first time. you let your voice drop, all pretense of humor bleeding away like the sunset at your backs. "never said it was." your fingers twitch toward your web-shooters out of habit, but what you really wish you could reach for is the past. "but i don't bow to conquerors. even if they're..." your throat tightens. "even if they're old friends."

his eyes widen slightly—not with confusion now, but with something far more dangerous: remembrance. you see the exact moment it hits him, that flicker of the boy who'd stayed up all night with you, alternating between freaking out and geeking out over your transformation. his breath catches almost imperceptibly, and for one terrifying second, you think he might say your name.

"you don't know what you're throwing away," he growls instead, but there's a new edge to it now—something raw beneath the anger. the words land differently when you both know exactly what's being thrown away: not just ideals or allegiances, but every shared secret, every whispered promise, every stupid inside joke that still echoes in your head at the worst moments.

"funny," you say, the word tasting like ashes on your tongue. "i was about to say the same thing to you." your voice doesn't waver, but your fingers curl into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms through the fabric of your gloves. the familiar gesture hides the way your hands want to shake.

the air between you grows thick enough to choke on. for one suspended moment, the years melt away. you're not a rebel and a conquerer—it's just two dumb kids again, shoulders pressed together in your treehouse fortress, pinky-sworn to protect each other from anything and always saving each other a seat at lunch. you can almost smell the grape soda and bandaids.

then you see his head tilt slightly, those enhanced ears catching some distant command you can't hear. his shoulders stiffen like someone's poured liquid nitrogen down his spine. the sudden shift is jarring—the boy you knew freezing over before your eyes, replaced by the soldier he's become. his fingers twitch at his sides like he's physically restraining himself from clutching his temples.

when his gaze refocuses on you, whatever fragile connection you'd almost rebuilt shatters. his face becomes a mask of cold determination, the kind that used to only appear during his father's worst training sessions. "last chance," he grinds out, but his voice lacks its earlier conviction. there's something almost pleading in his eyes, buried deep beneath the viltrumite discipline.

you know this dance too well—the subtle straightening of his spine, the way his fingers flex like he's physically shaking off weakness. you'd seen it a hundred times during childhood sleepovers when nolan's voice would slither through the phone, watched how mark would transform from the boy who laughed at your dumb impressions into a statue of perfect discipline mid-sentence. now his muscles coil with that same terrible readiness, but there's hesitation in the way he keeps shifting his weight, like part of him is physically fighting against his own instincts.

your stomach twists. you don't want to fight him. you never did. not when you were kids defending each other from bullies, not when you practiced sparring moves in his backyard, and certainly not now when every punch would land harder emotionally than physically. the guilt sits heavy in your throat—you should've seen the signs sooner, should've dragged him away from that house when you still could. you were just a kid too, but that excuse rings hollow when you remember how he'd looked at you like you hung the stars, how he'd always followed your lead. you could've led him somewhere safer.

(maybe that's why this hurts so much—if you failed him then, fixing him now is your responsibility. the tragic punchline to your childhood promise: "i got your back, okay?")

you pull your mask back down with hands that don't shake (they don't, they won't) as you turn. "see you around, grayson." the surname tastes bitter—you haven't called him that since the day he first introduced himself, small and bright-eyed on the playground.

his fist clenches so tight you hear fabric stretch. but he doesn't stop you. doesn't say your name. doesn't do anything except stand there like a monument to everything you've both lost as you leap off the roof, the wind stealing your breath as you swing into the smog-choked sky.

your heart pounds loud enough to drown out the city's screams. your eyes sting with more than just pollution.

you don't look back, but your traitorous mind paints the picture anyway—that same shattered expression he'd wear when nolan's training went too far, the one where his lips pressed into a thin line but his eyes screamed for help. he'd always wait for you to bridge the gap, to be the one to hug him first or crack the joke that broke the tension. now there's no one to reach for him, and the image of him standing alone on that rooftop, arm half-raised like he might actually call you back this time, hurts worse than any punch ever could.

you can't afford to look. can't afford to hope. not when the world's burning and your hands are already full carrying the weight of all the times you should've reached for him sooner.

“My light, you have already thanked me enough-” he whispered, leaning in and gently placing a kiss upon your lips before pulling away and resting his head upon your own, “just the mere sight of you- the sight of you carrying our child... It is more than I could have ever asked for... And it is the most perfect form of gratitude I could receive…” his voice trailed off as he looked down and rested his hand on your belly, “And I will never let anything come to harm you or our child. I swear it, by the gods.”

You felt your cheeks begin to burn as you blushed, a small laugh emanating from you, "I don't even think death could tear us apart. And if it could, it would be a fight… for I refuse to live without you, my love…my shield, and steadfast guardian.” You leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss on his cheek before smiling softly and whispering, “You will make a wonderful father- I have no doubt about that.”

His tail wrapped around your thigh, “And you a wonderful mother,” tugging you closer to him, his eyes watching you as you giggled.

Your gaze drifted back down to your chest, the leaking continuing to bother you, your hands coming to gently massage your sore, heavy breasts, “I'm- I'm sorry it's just that they-.”

Zevlor's eyes were fixated upon your chest, “You seem to be leaking more than usual-“ his tail twitched and he tried his best to remain calm. But the sight of you, so full with his child, your body reacting to its presence and preparing itself, had his cock twitching, straining.

Would you be put off by his offer to help? Would you see it as an intrusion, a violation of your motherly privacy? The questions danced in his mind, creating a storm of doubt and hesitation. Zevlor, who had faced countless battles and adversaries without flinching, now found himself at a loss. He wanted to offer you relief, to ease your discomfort in any way he could. But the thought of approaching you with such an intimate request made his throat dry.

“They have-“ you admitted, embarrassed, “It's all very new, and I'm still getting used to it, I suppose.”

He could feel his hands start to tremble, his heart pounding in his chest as he summoned all the courage he could muster, “I- well, perhaps I could assist you-“ he began, his voice oh so soft and tentative, “I see that you are in discomfort, and I- I cannot bear to see you in pain.”

Zevlor cursed himself for sounding so foolish. What was he thinking? How could he ask something like that of you? You were carrying his child, the last thing you needed was for him to impose himself upon you.

You looked at him, your eyes wide with surprise, "Assist me?"

Zevlor felt his cheeks flush even deeper, but he pressed on, “Yes,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “If you would allow me.

For a moment, there was silence and his heart raced as he awaited for your response... Fearling that he might have overstepped, that you would be repulsed by such an offer.

“Hm~” You bit your lip with a mischievous smirk, “What a bold proposition~” Your fingers tiptoed across his chest, “And from the commander of the Hellriders no less.” You slid your hand between the ties that kept his tunic closed and gave it a little tug.

A shiver ran down his spine as your fingertips traced over his skin. You were teasing him, and it was driving him mad.

You reached for his hand, pulling him closer, “Please~” you begged, your eyes filled with a need only he could satisfy, “Please, don't leave me in this state of agony~”

His tail tightened around your leg, his body instinctively pressing closer to yours, “I will take care of you, I promise.” his free hand reached out to brush away a strand of hair that had fallen in front of your eyes, his fingers lingering on your cheek, “But only if you truly want me to.”

“Always~” you whispered, a gentle laugh escaping your lips, “You are the only one I would wish to relieve me, not even the gods could convince me otherwise.” Your head leaned forward, lips ghosting against his, “Show me- show me the devotion you have for me~”

With those words, the final wall of his self control shattered, and his lips were upon yours, his arms wrapping around your waist before gently pulling you down with him onto the couch. The feel of you straddling him was divine, he had you always to himself, but he felt as though he had been waiting an eternity for you today. You were both so desperate, so hungry for each other, and he could feel himself losing control.

Zevlor broke away from your lips and trailed kisses down your jawline, nipping at the sensitive flesh of your neck.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling his ponytail lose, holding him close, “Zevlor~”

The sound of his name on your lips was the sweetest music, and he would never grow tired of hearing it. He kissed down the length of your neck, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin.

“I- I love you,” he murmured against your neck, his fingers fumbling with the buttons of your dress, “so very much.”

You giggled and leaned back to give him access to the clasps that held your dress together, “and I you, commander~”

Zevlor gave a half laugh at the sound of his past title, a smirk playing at his lips.

He slowly peeled away the layers of your clothing, and once exposed to his hellfire eyes he drank in the sight of your body, his eyes roaming over every inch of you, his cock straining against the confines of his trousers. You were perfect, and he would worship you until the end of time.

He dipped his head down to kiss your collarbone, his lips tracing a path along your chest. When he reached the swell of your breasts, he paused, his breath hot against your skin.

"May I?" he whispered, his fingers ghosting over the soft, supple flesh.

You nodded as your heart fluttered, “I- please, yes~”

Zevlor gently cupped your breasts, his thumb circling the taut bud of your milky nipple, “You're so beautiful, my dear…” he whispered.

His fingers drew a gasp from those pretty lips of yours. His touch- his touch was so tender, so reverent, and you couldn't help but moan as his tongue flicked over your nipple, tasting the sweet milk that had leaked from your breasts.

When he began to suckle, drawing the stiff peak into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the tip- you could feel how his tail caressed the soft curves of your ass. You back arching, pressing yourself closer, wanting more, needing more.

A part of him was ashamed, the thought of his child crossing his mind, yet he couldn't stop. The taste of your milk was intoxicating, and he could feel himself throb within the confines of his pants, his cock aching to be within you.

His teeth grazed your soft tit before biting down gently, drawing a gasp from you as your milk flowed against his tongue. Perhaps it was all the years he had been alone catching up with him, the years of solitude and longing. Since meeting you he had always been gentle, always putting your pleasure before his own. But tonight, the way your milk acted like an aphrodisiac, he found himself wishing to think of himself, just this once.

He wanted to mark you, to claim you in a way that left no doubt of his love and devotion for you. He could feel the heat radiating from you, the way your body responded to his touch. His fingers dug into you, his nails biting into your flesh, pulling you closer as he continued to nurse, his teeth leaving small bruises on your tender skin.

“Forgive me,” he whispered against your breast, his voice rough with need, “I- I can't help myself.”

“Don't stop,” you breathed, “I-it’s okay~”

Your words were like a balm to his soul, easing the guilt and shame that had threatened to overwhelm him.

The sharp points of his teeth grazed your nipple again, sending shivers through your body, and a groan escaped from his throat. You felt his cock, hard and aching, pressing against your thigh as he drank deeply. Savoring every drop of milk that flowed from your breast onto his warm tongue. He was a parched man in the desert, and you were his oasis.

You bit your lip, your breathing growing ragged as his hand came to caress your other breast, pinching and rolling the nipple between his fingers.

“Zevlor~” you whined, “l-let me~ ah~ ♡“ You reached for his belt, struggling to free him from his trousers. But his hands covered yours, stilling your movements, and you gave a frustrated whimper, “pl-“

“Let me,” he murmured, his hands moving to undo the buckle, freeing his aching cock. You wouldn’t help the small noise that escaped from the back of your throat as he wrapped his fingers around his shaft, his thumb spreading the pearl of pre-cum that had formed at the tip.

“I-I'm going to take such good care of you,” he promised, his voice a husky growl.

His free hand came to rest on your hip, his fingers digging into you ever so gently, his cock throbbing as you ground yourself against his thigh, “I know you will~”

Zevlor couldn't hold back any longer, his self control snapping and giving way. He lifted you, shifting his position so that his cock was poised at your entrance, and slowly, oh so slowly, he lowered you onto his length, the head of his cock parting your slick folds.

The feel of your warmth enveloping his thick ribbed cock nearly drove him mad. Your cries as he stretched you out so perfectly, the feel of your body adjusting to accommodate him… Your round belly brushing against his abdomen…

Lost in the sea of ecstasy, he was only brought back to reality by your moans, the sound of his name tumbling from your lips as he took your breast back in his mouth. He was surrounded by you, consumed by you, and it was the greatest pleasure he had ever known.

“Ah~ Z-Zevlor~ I- love you~” Your mind was clouded by the intense pleasure, and the only thing you could think about was him, him and his cock, him and his love, him and his child.

He could feel your body tightening around him, the way your muscles clenched and released with every thrust. His hands gripped your hips, guiding your movements as you both lost yourself in each other.

“I-im- I'm close,” you whispered, your breath coming in short gasps, your nails digging into his shoulders, holding onto him as if your life depended on it.

Zevlor could feel your walls begin to contract, the rhythmic pulse of your climax building and building, the way your body trembled and shook. He thrust harder, faster, his own release building with every movement, every single time his ridges rubbed against those perfect gummy walls of yours, the way they clung to his cock and sucked him in, like your body was made for him.

“Come for me,” he whispered, his voice rough and commanding, “Let go, my love. I have you. I will always have you-Always and forever.”

You clung to him, your whole body tensing as you creamed around his cock, your cunt ready to milk him, the pressure of his fingers on your hips enough to bruise. Your mind went blank, all thoughts wiped clean by the white hot pleasure coursing through your veins. Your mouth hung open in a silent scream, drool dripping from the corners of your lips.

The way your pussy clenched and spasmed around him triggered his own release… Burying his face in the crook of your neck, you could feel the warmth of his seed filling you, his cock twitching as he shot load after load deep inside of you. Marking you, painting you white, his claim written all over your walls, his claws digging into your skin, a mark left in the shape of him.

His scarred chest pressed against the swell of your stomach, your breasts squished between the two of you, the last few drops of milk trickling from your nipples, creating a sticky mess. He could feel your heartbeat racing, matching the erratic beating of his own. You were both exhausted, spent, the adrenaline finally starting to fade.

He gently kissed your shoulder, his tail curling around your leg and he couldn't help but notice how perfectly you fit against him. Like two pieces of a puzzle. You were the other half of him, the one who completed him.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his hand tracing small circles where his child rested within you, his tail caressing the length of your thigh, his lips pressing a tender kiss along your shoulder, “for everything."