#holyyyyyyyyyyy

the door clicks open, and your breath catches.

there he is—hair tousled from the wind, cheeks pink from the high-altitude chill, his superhero suit clinging to his frame in that way that makes your mouth water. his eyes find you instantly, dark and hungry, and your pulse jumps under your skin. he’s looking at me. only me. the possessiveness in his gaze makes your chest tighten, your fingers twitching with the urge to reach for him. but you stay put. good pets wait.

"good boy," he murmurs, voice rough like he’s been flying for hours, and the praise sinks into your bones, liquid heat spreading through your veins. he’s happy with me. i did well.

you lean into his touch the second his palm meets your cheek, nuzzling against his skin like you could crawl inside it. his thumb brushes your bottom lip, calloused and firm, and you sigh, lips parting instinctively. "missed you," you whisper, the words trembling just slightly. it’s an understatement—you ached for him, counted the minutes, needed him like air.

"i know." his voice is soft, but there’s steel underneath, that quiet dominance that makes your stomach swoop. "did you behave while i was gone?"

you nod eagerly, desperate for him to see how good you were. "ate what you left out," you murmur, cheeks flushing at the memory of the carefully prepared meal he’d set on the counter before leaving. he takes such good care of me. "didn’t touch myself." your voice drops to a whimper—god, you’d wanted to, thighs squeezing together every time you thought of him, but you’d held back. you always hold back for him. "waited right here."

his fingers slide into your hair, gripping just enough to make your breath hitch, and you melt, eyelids fluttering. yes, yes, yes.

"perfect." he tugs, just a little, and you go willingly, head tipping back to bare your throat, your entire body singing under his control. his gaze rakes over you—your parted lips, your flushed skin, the way your chest rises and falls too fast—and his smirk is devastating. "you’re so good for me."

your vision blurs at the edges. he thinks i’m good. he’s proud of me. it’s all you’ve ever wanted.

(and if your hips jerk forward, just slightly, chasing friction—well. he’ll take care of that, too.)

you melt. god, you always do—your body going pliant and boneless under his praise, your thoughts dissolving into static as warmth floods your chest. it’s pathetic, maybe, how easily he unravels you, but you don’t care. you live for this, for the way his voice wraps around you like a collar, snug and inescapable.

he could ask for anything—your clothes, your voice, your orgasms—and you’d give it to him without hesitation. you’d strip bare in an instant if he told you to, would bite your tongue bloody if he ordered silence, would let him ruin you over and over again if that’s what he wanted. because he knows what’s best for you. the certainty of it coils tight in your gut, sweet and suffocating. because he takes care of you. his hands always know where to touch, his voice always knows what to say, his rules always keep you safe. because you’re his. and nothing has ever felt more right.

"c’mere," he murmurs, fingers tightening in your hair just enough to make you whine before he’s pulling you up. you go, stumbling into his chest like gravity itself bends for him, and his arms wrap around you—strong and secure, perfect. you press closer, nosing at his collarbone, breathing in the scent of wind and sweat and him. his lips brush your temple, featherlight, and your knees nearly give out all over again. "love you."

you bury your face in his neck, inhaling shakily, your fingers clutching at the back of his suit like he might vanish if you let go. "love you more," you mumble into his skin, the words muffled but fervent. you do. you love him more than air, more than sanity, more than your own pathetic freedom.

he laughs, low and fond, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours, and you know—no one will ever understand this. no one will ever get why you crave his control like a drug, why you thrive under his rules, why the weight of his ownership feels like coming home. they’d call it twisted, call you broken, but they’re wrong. you’ve never been more whole.

but you don’t need them to.

you just need him—his hands, his voice, his praise. you need the way he looks at you like you’re something precious, something his. you need the way he holds you like he’ll never let go.

(and he won’t. you’ll make sure of it.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

it hadn’t happened all at once—this thing between you, this belonging. you’d been best friends since childhood, mark’s laughter ringing in your ears for years before either of you realized how deep the roots had grown. but then he got his powers, and the world tried to pull him away, and you—you couldn’t stand the thought of being left behind. the first time you kissed him, it was desperate, clumsy, your hands fisting in his shirt like you could physically tether him to you. and mark, sweet, greedy mark, had kissed back like he’d been waiting for it. like he’d always known.

the shift from lovers to this—to fuzzy cuffs and control and the dizzying relief of surrender—was just as inevitable. you’d always trusted him more than anyone, had always followed his lead without question. so when he first pinned your wrists to the bed and growled “mine” into your skin, you didn’t hesitate. you arched into it, whined “yes, yes, yours,” like the words had been carved into your ribs all along. and when he started setting rules—eat this, wear that, don’t come unless i say—you obeyed like it was scripture. because it was. because mark knew you better than you knew yourself.

now, when people whisper about how he’s too possessive, too controlling, you just smile. they don’t understand. they don’t see the way he cherishes you, the way his hands cradle your jaw like you’re something sacred even as he orders you to your knees.

they’ll never understand—not the way your pulse steadies the moment his voice drops into that firm tone, not the way your muscles unlock when he takes the weight of choice from your shoulders. every command is a boundary, every rule a fortress, and inside them, you’ve never felt so safe. it’s not submission—it’s surrender, and it tastes sweeter than anything you’ve ever known.

he spoils you, though no one would believe it. they’d see the way he orders you to eat the last slice of pizza, to wear the softest sweater he bought you, to curl up in his lap when you’re tired—and they’d call it control. but you know better. you see the smirk he hides when you moan around a bite of dessert he "made" you take, feel the way his fingers linger on the fabric of the hoodie he "demanded" you put on, hear the quiet satisfaction in his voice when he murmurs "good boy" after you’ve done exactly what you both wanted.

you chose this. you begged for it—knees on the floor, hands shaking, voice breaking around the words "please, please, i need you to—" before he even let you finish. and when he finally said yes, when his palm cradled your cheek and his thumb wiped away your tears, you knew: this was where you were meant to be.

(and if anyone ever tries to take him from you? well. you may be his pet, but you’ve got teeth too.)