Yours

Leon had just gotten dumped by his girlfriend, he honestly doesn't even know why. And you, being his best friend, listens to his complaints attentively. 

"I hadn’t even gotten to kiss her yet.!" He murmurs into the palms of his hands. He's currently sitting parallel to you on your couch, hunched over with his head in his hands.

"Dude how long were you with her for?"

"Like...a few months"

"And you didn't kiss her? Like at all?"

"Don't rub it in my face..." He peeks out from his hands to glare at you, but he looked more like a small angry dog

"I'm not!-Listen, lighten up man, it was only a few months, at least she didn't wait for it to get like, serious or anything, that'd suck way more".

"I guess it would" Leon finally lifts his head up, his eyes are slightly red and puffy, implying that he probably cried before calling you and coming over, it tugs at your heartstrings a bit

"Exactly" you move a hand to playfully ruffle his hair, earning a scoff from him. "So, have you ever kissed anyone?" You ask, moving your hand back to your own lap. Now he looks a little embarrassed.

"I can't say I have." He averts his gaze. You can't help but grin

"Do you...want to change that?" You suggest. Leon immediately understands what you're alluding to.

Next thing both of you know, your lips gently press against his, they’re stupidly soft, like he put on chapstick very recently. You don't want to stop, and he doesn't seem to either. You reach your hand to cup his face, stroking his cheek with your thumb slowly. His hands hesitantly reach for your sides, fumbling with your shirt.

He’s very shaky, messy, and honestly not great at it. Everything about it reminds you of a clumsy puppy. You want to hold him and treat him like he’s made of glass. He’s already whiny from just a kiss. You press a hand to his chest and coax him to lay down, he listens with no hesitation. You adjust yourself, moving on top to straddle him, leaning down to kiss him again—making the slightest hip movements against his crotch. You thread your fingers into his hair, grabbing a fistful; he lets out shaky grunts against your mouth, you don’t miss the way his hips twitch upwards onto yours against his will.

When you finally let your lips off of his, he whines. He looks so good under you, big blue eyes staring up at you with a pleading expression. He honestly looks pathetic, and it’s such a turn on. You graze your knuckles against his cheek and he leans into it, nuzzling your hand. 

You move your hips one time, slowly. You immediately register the twitch under you.

“I’m—sorry, I didn’t mean to-“ He stammers quietly, avoiding eye contact. You shush him softly and roll your hips against him, again and again. Your hand lay flat on his sternum, steadying yourself. His hands stay gripping your shirt. He’s biting his lip so hard it might draw blood. You put your thumb to his mouth and pulled his bottom lip from his teeth

“No no, none of that, I want to hear you” that made him whine again, presumably in embarrassment. You lean back down to kiss him again, still rutting your hips against his erection. Your teeth graze his bottom lip, inserting your tongue into his mouth, you let out your own groan when you rut your lower half against his cock. You angle your hips to keep hitting that spot, finding a rhythm; it’s clear that he’s big. You press your tongue against his; his mouth is so sweet and you can’t get enough of it.

“Fu-uck that feels—good” he forces his words out against your mouth with a whimper. You press all of your weight onto him, which seems to be no issue for him. He fully wraps his arms around your waist, keeping you in place. He doesn’t even realize his own strength, probably not even noticing that he’s holding you down. He looks like he’ll turn into a puddle of tears at any moment, he’s painfully hard. 

“I want—“ he starts and then stops himself. He’s so riled up over a little bit of dry humping.

“You want what?” Your hold his face, making him maintain eye contact with you, even though he could so easily turn his head but he chooses not to. He looks humiliated just from being asked to clarify what it is he wants. All he can do is look at you like a kicked puppy until you give in.

“Use your words next time” you move your body down the couch until you’re face to face with his crotch, he audibly whimpers. You unzip his jeans and pull them down just enough for his bulge to be visible through the fabric of his underwear. You tease at his waistband with one hand while looking up at him, the other hand caressing his waist and chest under his shirt. When you finally pull his underwear down, you can fully see his erection, your assumption was right—he’s fucking big, and he doesn’t even seem to realize it.

“Sorry if it…looks— ah!—” He didn’t even get to finish his awkward, unnecessary apology before your lips connected to his tip

“Your- your lips are soft” He murmurs, watching your head slowly make its way down his shaft. He hesitantly puts a hand on your head, gently threading his fingers through your hair. Once you’ve gotten most of his shaft into your mouth you flatten your tongue on the underside of the base and hollow your cheeks, bobbing your head up and down slowly. His grip on your hair tightens and his thighs press against the sides of your head. You pull your head off him for a moment

“Fuck my mouth”

“What—No I couldn’t—I don’t want to hurt you”

“You won’t, do it”

“Just tell me if it’s too mu—okay you’re going back down- holy shit—“

You resume and feel the grip on your hair return, he slowly guides your head up and down his shaft with both of his hands, twitching in your mouth. He starts to get more comfortable with moving your head after a while, guiding you up and down at a quicker, but still manageable pace. Your own hands sit on his thighs, and move up to his torso, feeling him up. That earns more frequent whines from him, and he gets more rough with you, still whimpering and whining.

“I’m sorry— I don’t mean to be rough— your mouth feels so good- you’re so fuuucking- good at that” He tilts his head back and accidentally pushes your head all the way down, making you gag. He immediately pulls your head up and looks at you like he was the one that just gagged

“I didn’t mean to do that are you hurt?—“

“Do it again.” You cut him off, he looks like he’s about to cry, can’t have that; even if he is a very pretty crier. The surprising part is when he actually does it with no protest or what-ifs. 

“I want to be inside you pleasepleasepleaseplease let me fuck you” He’s already begging and he didn’t even need to be told to, how could anyone say no?

Wordlessly, you lift your head off him with an audible pop. You take your own pants off and kick them off somewhere on the floor, leaving you in just boxers. Leon looks like he’s about to explode.

You press two fingers to his lips, he automatically opens his mouth, you press your fingers on his tongue, prompting him to swirl it around your fingers, looking up at you for approval. Your free hand removes your boxers, throwing those to the side with your pants. His eyes immediately focus on your arousal, almost drooling at the sight of it. You remove your fingers from his mouth and reach behind yourself, prodding at your entrance with your now slick fingers, you feel his hands snake around and graze your hand, eyes now back on yours with a pleading expression.

“I want to… help? Please?” He murmurs, too flustered to speak up. You nod and insert a finger into your entrance

“I’ll tell you when you can put a finger in” you respond, he seems very content with that, he nods in acknowledgment.

After a few moments of stretching yourself with a finger, you give him the okay to add his own finger, you can immediately tell how much bigger it is compared to yours. The pad of his finger gets a good feel of your spongy walls, already imagining what it will feel like on his dick.

“Slow, curl your finger a little” you verbally guide him, he obeys, perfectly hitting that spot, a small gasp is heard when his finger hits it. That motivates him to keep pressing into it, adding the perfect amount of pressure. 

He looks at you with pure adoration, eyes roaming your whole body, observing every reaction from you. 

“I need you in me, like now, Leon” you huff, taking your fingers out, and his follow

“Are you sure it’s enough? I don’t want to hurt”

“It’s fine, just please, put it in” you adjust yourself to sit right in front of his cock, feeling it twitch against you. You grab the base and press the slicked tip against your entrance, you both let out a hitched breath. He grabs hold of your hips to steady you, watching you slowly push his cock in. It stings a little, but that’s the consequence of minimal prep.

“Just tell me if you’re in pain”

…

“Oh god…you’re tight—“ he stammers out when he’s about halfway in, starting to really feel you around him.

Unfortunately(?), impatience gets to you, causing you to completely let your body loose, dropping your weight on his cock. His grip on your hips tighten, and a loud, guttural moan leaves his mouth. You let out your own sounds, he’s so deep, you swear you can feel him in the pit of your stomach.

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou oh god—” Leon’s arms wrap around your waist. You start to lift your body up with your legs, then drop back down on him, you soon find a rhythm, fully riding him as moans and whines from both of you hang in the air. All of his thoughts pour out, slurring out whiny praises while thrusting his hips up to meet yours. At this point you aren’t even riding him anymore, because with his arms around your waist it’s hard to move, now he’s the one doing most of the work, fucking into you and not letting you do any of the work

“You’re beautiful you’re so— fuucking beautiful ohmygod-“ You can feel him throb inside, you press your entire weight on him to make him stop momentarily.

“Don’t cum yet—not until I say you can” You manage to demand through moans. He simply nods obediently and squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Can I please move again want to fuck you good—“ His words are jumbled and slurred together, but still coherent. It’s your turn to wordlessly nod. 

He basically pounces on you, pushing you on your back and throws one of your legs over his shoulder, looping his arm around it. His other hand is planted on your hip. On the first thrust his cock rams into your g-spot, making you tighten around him and moan louder than you ever had this whole time. That motivates Leon to keep hitting that spot as best as he can, picking up the pace and roughness of each messy, needy thrust until your body shakes from the rapid movement.

“That’s it—oh my god…good boy” that awakens something in Leon’s brain, he has to stop his thrusts momentarily to keep himself from cumming.

“ImsorryImsorry—it feels so good I don’t mean to—” he whines, pressing his cheek against your elevated leg. He keeps up the increasingly aggressive movements, whining apologies throughout. 

“I’msorryyh- I need you sobad I can’t slow—“

His leaky cock throbs inside you, indicating his close release, along with less calculated, more sloppy thrusts.

“Holy sh— I’m so close—“He turns to face your propped up leg again, pressing messy kisses along the skin in no particular pattern. You feel your own climax impending, making your hole clench around him. The squeeze made him moan particularly loudly. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’s the one bottoming.

He presses his palm against your abdomen, originally meant in a comforting or soothing way, until he felt a small but noticeable bulge rhythmically moving in and out with his thrusts, and you can feel it all, his cock so deep inside, and his hand pressing against you.

“Oh—is that my— oh my god fuck you’re so hot” He adds a small amount of pressure, causing you to let out a guttural moan, feeling both forms of stimulation at once. That makes Leon want to keep his hand there and thrust harder. The couch is audibly creaking under the two of you. You swear you can see tears pricking at Leon’s eyes. The hand on your abdomen presses down just a little bit harder.

“I love you—I love you fuck I love you” He didn’t mean to say it, but he became so overwhelmed his thoughts just spill out of his mouth. That snaps you out of your daze completely, he just told you he loves you. Not a whisper just once, loud and repeated like a prayer.

“I love you Leon- oh I’m close- harder— we can come together—“

“Thankyouthankyoufuck you feel so good” he slurs out for the millionth time

“I love your cock— I’m gonna come- come with me-“

You feel your orgasm crash over your whole body like a particularly harsh wave.

Leon on the other hand, is so holematized he almost forgets that pulling out is a thing. He quickly pulls out of you and cums on your abdomen, the smallest amount leaks out of your entrance.

You both catch your breath, Leon leans down to press his forehead against yours and closes his eyes. You do the same.

His body collapses on top of yours, arms going around your shoulders

“Did you… mean it?” You pipe up

“Huh?”

“You said you love me…did you mean it?”

“I— yeah. I’m sorry if you don’t feel the same and I ruined everything between us”

“Leon, I said it back , and we just had sex, our relationship was going to change no matter what”

“You’re right” he huffs out a laugh

“I do love you, Leon”

“I love you, too” he nuzzles his face in the crook of your neck.

End A/N: Good LORD I finally finished it(NOBODY GAF)!! I love Leon omgcmhh I would kill and die for him. Just finished my first week of senior year (yay me) and decided to finally finish this Oneshot I promised months ago.

"It is insane— you are insane…!" You whisper-yell to your younger brother, though the word 'insane' feels far too generous for the logic he is employing. Viserys’ nose scrunches up in anger, his fingers just itching to wrap around your neck as he insists that this is the only way to secure an army to take back the Targaryen honour.

You are both huddled in the shadow of a heavy tapestry, your voices barely rising above a hiss, yet the intensity of the argument makes the air between you feel electric.

Viserys is vibrating with a desperate, frantic energy, his eyes wide as he paints a picture of a golden throne and a city reclaimed, all bought with the currency of your sister’s hand. You argue that a Dothraki alliance is a gamble built on sand, that Daenerys is a girl, not a political chip to be tossed into a nomadic gamble. But Viserys doesn't hear the word risk; he only hears the word crown, and his voice reaches a fever pitch of indignation.

"The great horse-lord has arrived," a small, breathless voice interrupted. You pivoted, the tension in your shoulders vanishing the moment your eyes landed on Daenerys.

She stood in the doorway, looking smaller than her years in the oversized silks, her violet eyes wide with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. She looked like a fragile piece of Valyrian glass, and the sudden shift in your chest was visceral; the anger you had felt toward Viserys evaporated, replaced by a protective warmth that always seemed to bloom whenever she entered the room.

You stepped away from the shadows of the tapestry, offering her a soft, reassuring smile that reached your eyes, consciously softening your posture so she wouldn't feel the lingering electricity of the fight.

"You're trembling, Dany," you murmured, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of silver-gold hair behind her ear. The gesture was instinctive, a quiet anchor in a world that had spent years trying to drift them all apart. Looking at her was like looking at a reflection of everything the Targaryen name was supposed to be, not the frantic, jagged greed that drove Viserys, but a sort of innate, quiet dignity.

She was the only thing in this gods-forsaken city that felt untainted, and the thought of her being traded like a piece of livestock to a man who spoke a tongue of screams and wind made your stomach coil.

"He is waiting," Daenerys whispered, her voice barely a ripple in the silence of the room.

You didn't let her take the first step. Instead, you slid your hand down from her cheek to grasp hers, your fingers locking firmly around hers. The contrast was weird, your hand, calloused and steady, against her small, porcelain palm.

You liked to think you weren't escorting her; you were anchoring her. As you led her toward the threshold, you felt the fragile tremor in her frame, a rhythmic shaking that spoke of a terror she was trying desperately to suppress for the sake of the family name.

"Keep your eyes on me, Dany. Just for a moment longer," you murmured, your pace slow. "When we walk out there, you aren't walking into a void. You're walking with me. I will be the shadow at your shoulder, and if the air becomes too heavy to breathe, you only have to squeeze my hand, yeah?"

The sunlight of Pentos was blinding as you stepped into the courtyard, the heat hitting you like a physical weight. The Dothraki were a sea of leather, bronze, and muscle, their horses shifting restlessly, hooves drumming a nervous rhythm into the packed earth. At the centre of the swarm sat Khal Drogo, perched upon his stallion with a languid, predatory grace.

He was draped in furs and silks that clashed with the arid air, his long braid swinging against his thigh as he surveyed the three of you. You didn't feel the intimidation Viserys felt— the kind of fear that masqueraded as reverence. Instead, you felt a prickle of irritation. To you, Drogo looked less like a conqueror and more like a peacock in leather, his chest puffed out with a confidence that felt unearned in the face of your own blood.

You tightened your grip on Daenerys’s hand, your gaze narrowing as you took him in. He was certainly a specimen of a man— broad-shouldered and bronze-skinned— but the bells in his hair jingled with every slight movement, a noisy ornament that seemed absurdly ostentatious.

The bells in Drogo’s hair gave a final, sharp chime as he shifted his weight, his onyx eyes scanning the three of you. You didn't see a warlord; you saw a man who spent far too much time grooming his facial hair and smelling of horse sweat and expensive oils. The idea that this man, this loud, braided peacock, was the pinnacle of power, and the price for which your sister was being bartered, felt like a personal insult to the blood of Old Valyria.

Drogo’s gaze slid from Viserys to the wide-eyed Daenerys, and finally, it settled on you. He didn't look away. He lingered on the set of your jaw, the steady way you held your ground, and the protective grip you maintained on Dany’s hand.

There was a shift in his expression, a flicker of genuine curiosity that smoothed the hard lines of his face. He didn't see a displaced prince or a frightened refugee; he saw a predator masquerading as a bodyguard, a man whose stillness was more dangerous than Viserys’s frantic energy.

A slow, knowing smile tugged at the corner of the Khal's mouth. He spoke a few words in his tongue to his bloodriders, his voice a low rumble that sounded like stones grinding together in a riverbed. The bloodriders shifted, their eyes narrowing as they looked at you, but Drogo raised a hand to silence them. He dismounted his stallion in one fluid motion, his boots hitting the dirt with a heavy thud.

You didn't move an inch, your boots rooted in the Pentos dust as if you were a statue carved from stone. As Drogo approached, the air around him seemed to ripple with the heat of the afternoon, but your focus remained narrow and sharp.

You didn't offer a bow; you didn't offer a smile. Instead, you let your gaze harden, your brows knitting together into a deep, visceral scowl that spoke of a territorial instinct older than the cities surrounding you. It was the look of a wolf guarding a cub, a silent declaration that while Viserys might be selling the girl, you were the one who decided if she was delivered.

Drogo stopped a mere pace away, the scent of leather and crushed grass clinging to him. He was a tiny bit taller than you, but you refused to tilt your head back in a way that conceded the height. You simply stared, your eyes tracking the rhythmic jingle of the bells in his braid.

To the bloodriders circling behind him, this was a breathtaking breach of etiquette— to scowl at a Khal was to invite a blade to the throat. Yet, Drogo didn't reach for any type of blade. He tilted his head, his onyx eyes dancing with an amusement that suggested he had found something far more interesting than a bride.

"He is very rude," Viserys hissed, stepping forward with a frantic, placating smile. "Khal Drogo, please excuse my brother. He has always been… overly protective of our sister. A trait of the blood, you understand? A passion for the family legacy."

Iksan se rude mēre? (I am the rude one?) You think, but you didn't look at Viserys. To acknowledge his stuttering apologies would be to acknowledge the desperation that fueled them, and you had no appetite for his cowardice. Instead, you maintained your gaze, your eyes locking onto Drogo.

When you shifted your gaze to your little sister, you didn't see the "Silver Princess" Viserys imagined or the political pawn the Magisters of Pentos envisioned. You saw a child who was vibrating with a terror so profound it seemed to hollow her out from the inside. Her violet eyes were wide, shimmering with unshed tears, and they searched yours for a way out. In that gaze, there was a silent, desperate plea: don't let them take me.

Fuck.

You looked at Daenerys— really looked at her— and saw the way her small fingers were clutching your hand, not as a gesture of affection, but as a lifeline. She wasn't a princess in this moment; she was a frightened girl being led to a slaughterhouse draped in silk. Viserys saw a crown, and Drogo saw a prize, all you saw was your baby sister.

The thought of her waking up in a yurt, surrounded by a language she didn't understand and a man who viewed women as possessions, made a roar of protective fury rise in your throat. You knew, with a sudden and absolute certainty, that you could not let her go. Not to this man, not to this life, not even if it meant burning every bridge in Pentos to the ground.

You didn't let go of her hand. Instead, you stepped slightly in front of her, shifting your center of gravity to shield her body with your own. Was it a risky move? Yes. Was it a reckless one? Almost certainly. But as you felt Dany’s small hand tighten around yours, the risk felt insignificant compared to the visceral need to stand between her and the trade.

"The girl is not for sale," you said. You felt Dany’s breath hitch against your shoulder, her small frame trembling, but you didn't budge. You tightened your grip on her hand, shifting your stance to lock your boots into the dust, creating a living wall of Valyrian stubbornness. "Find another bride, find another alliance, or find another way to get your army. But you will not take her."

Viserys made a sound like a strangled hen, his face draining of colour. "Brother! You cannot—"

"Be silent, Viserys!" you snapped. You shifted your weight, feeling the heat of the Pentoshi sun baking the earth beneath your boots."You may play the merchant, but I am the wall. If you want a horse-lord’s favour, find a different coin to spend."

Turning your gaze back to Drogo, you offered a smile that didn't reach your eyes, a sharp, cold thing. "My sister is not a trade. Now, unless you intend to drag her away in chains, I suggest you take your horses and your bells and find another path. Fuck off, Khal."

The bloodriders surged forward, their hands flying to the hilt of their arakhs, a collective snarl ripping from their throats. They looked at you as if you were a ghost or a madman, their eyes wide with the shock of seeing a man speak to the Sun and Stars of the plains as if he were a common stable boy. Viserys had actually stopped breathing, his mouth hanging open, certain that the next sound he would hear would be the wet thud of your head hitting the dirt.

Drogo didn't move. He stood perfectly still, his onyx eyes scanning your face, searching for the flicker of fear that always accompanied such defiance. He found none. Instead, he saw a man who was entirely willing to bleed to keep his sister's hand in his own.

He stepped closer, invading your personal space until the scent of musk and leather overwhelmed the salt air of the coast. You didn't flinch, though your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

Drogo’s gaze dropped from your eyes to your mouth, then swept down the length of your frame, lingering on the strength in your shoulders and the unwavering set of your jaw. A low, guttural sound vibrated in his chest, not a growl, but a chuckle of genuine appreciation.

"The little dragon has a sting," Drogo murmured in the Common Tongue, his voice a rough velvet that seemed to vibrate in the air between you. He ignored Viserys entirely, treating the exiled king as if he were nothing more than a buzzing fly. His eyes returned to yours, flashing with a sudden, predatory hunger that had nothing to do with political alliances or the promise of a throne.

He stepped closer, his chest nearly brushing yours, the heat radiating off him in waves. Slowly, with a lack of urgency, Drogo reached out and ran a calloused thumb along the line of your jaw. It wasn't a gesture of aggression, but one of appraisal, as if he were measuring the quality of a stallion's spirit. "The girl is a flower," he said, his gaze dropping to the small, trembling hand you still held firmly in your own. "But the brother… the brother is a blade."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across the Khal's face, his onyx eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. "You tell me to fuck off," he said, the words rolling out in a low, rhythmic rumble. "I will. I will take my horses, my bells, and my bloodriders, and I will leave this courtyard to the dust."

He paused, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw once more, a touch that was possessive and challenging all at once. "But the price has changed. I do not want the flower. I want the blade."

Viserys looked as though he had been struck by lightning, his mouth opening and closing without a single sound escaping.

You felt Dany’s grip on your hand loosen slightly, her violet eyes darting between you and the Khal. The terror was still there, but it was now tempered by a flicker of bewildered hope. You shifted your stance, stepping back just an inch to create a sliver of space between you and the bronze-skinned warrior. Your voice was low, stripped of the aggression from moments before, replacing it with a cold, transactional precision.

"If I go with you," you began, your gaze locking onto Drogo’s onyx eyes with an intensity that demanded a binding oath, "You leave her alone. No claims, no contracts, no 'favours' called upon her in the future. She remains free of your shadow and the shadows of your bloodriders. Do you agree?"

Drogo’s expression didn't waver, though his gaze dipped once more to the silver-gold hair of your sister, then snapped back to yours. A slow nod followed, the bells in his braid chiming a soft, final chord. "The flower remains in the garden," he replied, his voice a rough rumble of certainty. "The blade comes to the plains."

"Alright then," you replied, the words sounding like the snap of a closing trap. You only looked at Drogo, matching the heat of his onyx gaze with the cold fire of your own. You had just traded your freedom for her safety, and as the reality of the bargain settled in, you felt a strange, electric thrill shoot down your spine.

The release of Daenerys’s hand was the hardest part. You did it slowly, as if breaking a spell, ensuring she was standing on her own two feet before you stepped away. You reached up, cupping her small face in your palms for one last fleeting second, and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to her forehead. With a playful, sudden movement, you reached out and ruffled her silver-gold hair, messing up the precise braids Viserys had insisted upon. It was a childish gesture, a reminder that she was still just a girl, and for a moment, the ghost of a smile touched her lips.

"Stay in the garden, little dragon," you whispered, your voice thick with a tenderness you refused to show the men watching you. "Grow strong. Be the light in this family, because the rest of us are far too fond of the dark."

You turned back to Drogo, the warmth vanishing from your face like a cloud covering the sun. The Khal was watching you, his posture relaxed yet poised, like a leopard observing a creature that had just walked willingly into its territory. He didn't offer a hand to lead you; he simply turned on his heel, expecting you to follow in the wake of his horse.

As you stepped toward him, you caught the look of absolute horror on Viserys’s face. You ignored him, stepping closer to the Khal until you were nearly shoulder-to-shoulder.

"One thing, Khal Drogo," you murmured. "Do not expect my personality and my self to die like a dog for you."

— A few weeks later.

The stars over the Great Grass Sea were a cold, shimmering audience, watching from a ceiling of velvet indigo as the festivities of the wedding feast wound down. The air was thick with the scent of roasting horseflesh and the lingering echo of screams— some of joy, some of agony— as the ritual combats had claimed their customary quota of lives. You had spent the day as a curiosity, a silver-haired anomaly amidst a sea of bronze, refusing to be cowed by the bloodriders who viewed your presence as a riddle they couldn't solve.

Then came the gift.

Drogo had led you away from the flickering campfires, his hand a heavy, warm weight between your shoulder blades, guiding you toward a tethering post where a creature of fire and muscle waited. It was a stallion, lean and leggy and young, with a coat the colour of charcoal.

"He is a bastard," Drogo murmured, his voice vibrating with a low, appreciative hum. He didn't mean the horse's lineage, but rather its temperament. The stallion tossed its head, eyes rolling with a wild, untamed energy that mirrored the restlessness currently clawing at your own gut. "He has a heart of fire and a head of stone. He has killed five men who tried to ride him already. He will try to throw you."

You looked at the charcoal beast, then back at the Khal. Drogo was leaning in, his onyx eyes searching yours, a challenging smirk playing on his lips. He seemed to be enjoying the moment, treating the presentation of the animal not as a gesture of generosity, but as a test of your mettle. He shifted his weight, his own mount, a lean, red stallion that looked more like a creature of myth than flesh, snorting in agreement beside him.

"Do you know how to ride?" Drogo asked. You let out a short, sharp laugh. "Do I know how to ride?" you repeated, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I was born in the saddle of a palfrey before I could walk, Drogo. I’ve ridden through the mud of the Free Cities," you countered, your voice a sharp, confident edge. "A charcoal 'bastard' with a grudge is hardly a challenge."

You didn't wait for him to offer a hand or a lesson. You stepped into the stallion's space, your movements fluid and devoid of the hesitation the horse expected. The beast let out a piercing shriek, rearing back and snapping its teeth toward your shoulder, but you didn't flinch. You stepped inward, closing the gap and planting a firm, grounding hand against its muscular neck.

With a sudden, explosive surge of motion, you vaulted onto its back. Your body snapped upward in a single, blurred motion of strength and timing. The stallion bucked once, a violent, jarring heave that would have sent a lesser rider sprawling into the dirt, but you absorbed the shock in your hips, gripping the creature's flanks with a strength that bordered on desperation.

For a second, you were suspended in the air, the world tilting on its axis, and then you slammed back down into the saddle with a heavy, satisfying thud.

You sat there, breathless, your hair wind-whipped and your eyes blazing. The horse was trembling beneath you, his sides heaving, but he wasn't trying to throw you anymore. He was waiting. You leaned forward, pressing your chest against his warm neck, feeling the thrum of his heart beating in sync with your own.

You looked over at Drogo, who was still standing by his red stallion, his expression one of genuine, startled curiosity. He had expected a struggle; he had expected the 'blade' to be chipped by the horse's fury. He hadn't expected you to mould yourself to the beast's chaos in a matter of seconds.

"Race ya," you challenged, your voice a playful rasp.

Drogo paused, his brow furrowing. You were a prize, a guest-slave, a curiosity, you were not someone who challenged a Khal to a contest of speed on the open plains. He looked at you, then at the charcoal stallion, then back to your smug, silver-gold reflection of defiance. He seemed genuinely perplexed that you would dare to suggest a competition where he could possibly lose.

With a sharp command and a sudden snap of the reins, you drove the stallion forward. The horse practically launched himself like a stone from a sling. The wind whipped past your ears, a roaring torrent that drowned out everything but the rhythmic, thunderous drumming of hooves against the earth. You leaned low over the horse's neck, becoming a single, streamlined extension of muscle and will, cutting through the twilight air with a predatory grace that mirrored the Khal's own.

Behind you, a roar of laughter erupted, a deep, booming sound that shook the air. Drogo had found the joke. He vaulted onto his red stallion with a fluid motion, his bells jingling in a frantic, melodic crescendo as he spurred his mount into a gallop.

The race was a blur of charcoal and crimson against the deepening violet of the horizon. Every time you glanced to your side, Drogo was there, his onyx eyes flashing with an adrenaline-fueled hunger.

The world became nothing but the smell of hot dust and the rhythmic, violent drumming of a thousand heartbeats between the horse’s hooves and your own. You pushed the charcoal stallion until his lungs sounded like bellows, the wind tearing at your clothes and whipping your silver hair into a frantic halo.

Beside you, Drogo was a silhouette of crimson and bronze, his laughter lost to the roar of the gale, yet his gaze remained locked onto yours, a silent, competitive fire that burned hotter than the midday sun. You didn't know where the finish line was, and neither did he; there was only the horizon, the bruising speed, and the intoxicating sense of being entirely, dangerously alive.

When the distance between you and the camp had stretched into a mile of shimmering void, you gave a sharp, commanding whistle. You didn't slow down gradually; you leaned back, digging your heels in for one final, explosive burst of speed that put you a fractional length ahead of the red stallion.

Then, with a sudden, jarring pull of the reins, you brought the charcoal beast to a sliding, spraying halt. The horse screamed, his hooves carving deep trenches into the earth, and you vaulted off his back before he had even fully stopped. You hit the dirt in a controlled roll and sprang upward, your chest heaving, your lungs burning with the sweet, sharp taste of dust.

Drogo pulled up a second later, his red stallion foaming at the bit. The Khal sat motionless for a moment, his chest rising and falling in a heavy, rhythmic cadence. He didn't look at the finish line, there had never been one, he looked at you.

A slow, predatory grin spread across Drogo’s face. "You ride like a demon," Drogo murmured. "A reckless, stubborn demon."

You didn't answer him immediately. Instead, you let your legs give way, sinking into the tall grass of the plains until you were sitting flat against the earth. The adrenaline that had powered your ride was receding, leaving behind a heavy exhaustion that felt like lead in your veins. With a slow exhale, you tipped backward, your spine meeting the soil with a soft thud. You lay there, staring up at the canopy of the Great Grass Sea's night sky, your long, silver-gold hair spilling across your face like a frayed silk curtain, blurring the constellations into shimmering, distorted smudges of light.

For a long moment, the only sound was the rhythmic, wet huffing of the horses and the distant, muffled cheers of the camp. You felt the earth beneath you, still holding the ghost of the day's heat, and for the first time in years, the crushing weight of the Targaryen legacy felt distant.

A shadow fell over you, blotting out the stars. Drogo had dismounted and approached, his presence a warm, imposing pressure. He didn't speak; he simply stood there for a moment, looking down at the silver-haired creature sprawled in his wake. Then, with a low grunt, he sank to the grass beside you. He didn't lie down, but he leaned back on his elbows, his bronze skin glowing in the fading twilight, the bells in his braid giving a final, soft chime as he settled.

"The others," Drogo began, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the ground and into your ribs, "They would say you are mad to challenge a Khal. They would say the blade has a flaw in its tempering." He turned his head, those onyx eyes searching yours through the veil of your hair. "But madness is often the only way to survive the world. Your brother… he is a man of shadows and whispers. You are a man of fire."

"Fire can burn," you replied, your voice a low rasp, "or it can be harnessed. Depends on who holds the torch."

You shifted on the grass, your shoulder brushing against the rough leather of his leggings. You had expected this transition to be a collision, a brutal claim of ownership. You were a prize won by a bargain, a captive in all but name, and you had spent the journey across the plains preparing yourself for the moment Drogo would simply take what he believed was his.

You had braced your spirit for the storm, imagining a night of forced submission where your only weapon would be the silent, cold endurance of your ancestors.

Drogo turned his head fully toward you, his gaze dropping from the stars to your heart hammering in the hollow of your throat. He didn't reach for you with the suddenness of a predator. Instead, he leaned in closer, the scent of horse-sweat and warm musk enveloping you like a shroud.

"The sun has set," Drogo murmured, his voice a velvet rumble that vibrated in the small space between your lips. "The race is over. The moon claims the plains now." He paused, his onyx eyes searching yours with an intensity that felt almost invasive, yet lacked any hint of cruelty. "Do you wish for this, [Y/N]? Do you want to be with me?"

You blinked. For a moment, your mind raced back to the stories of the Dothraki— the tales of raiding parties, the screams of captured women, the brutal, unilateral way the warlords of the plains claimed what they desired. You had spent the last few weeks constructing a mental fortress, bracing yourself for a night where your consent would be treated as an irrelevant formality.

You had expected a conquest, a forced surrender of your body to match the bargain of your freedom. The shock of his hesitation was more jarring than the bucking of the charcoal stallion. He was a man who could command a thousand blades with a single word, yet he was waiting. He wasn't hovering with the predatory intent of a man about to strike; he was simply there, his gaze steady and patient, offering you a choice that you hadn't known existed in this world of leather and blood.

A strange, tight knot of tension, one you hadn't even realised you were carrying in your shoulders, finally snapped. You looked at him, really looked at him, seeing the way the moonlight softened the harsh angles of his face. There was a raw honesty in his onyx eyes, a curiosity that mirrored your own.

He didn't want a broken thing; he wanted the blade, and a blade, you realised, had to choose to unsheathe itself. You shifted, rolling onto your side so you were propped up on one elbow, facing him. The distance between you was now a sliver of moonlight and warm air.

You could feel the heat radiating off him, a living furnace in the cooling night. Slowly, tentatively, you reached out. Your fingers brushed the gold rings binding his moustache, then slid lower, tracing the line of his collarbone where the bronze skin was slick with the remnants of the day's exertion.

The silk was a burden, a shimmering cage of weaving that felt suffocatingly heavy against your skin. You didn't look away from Drogo as you reached for the fastenings of your tunic, your movements slow. With a soft, sliding hiss, the fabric began to slip, sliding over your shoulders like a falling curtain. You let the garment pool around your hips, exposing the pale, lean muscle of your chest and the sharp line of your ribs.

You didn't stop there. With a quiet, focused intensity, you worked the remaining ties, shedding the layers of opulent finery until the wedding silks lay in a discarded heap of silver and cream upon the dirt. You stepped out of the fabric entirely, standing before the Khal in the raw, unfiltered moonlight. You were practically a map of Valyrian legacies— pale skin that seemed to glow against the indigo night, muscles honed by survival and a stubborn refusal to break.

You stood before him, stripped of every pretense and piece of silk, feeling the cool night air prickle against your skin. There was no instinct to cover yourself, no flicker of modesty to make you shrink beneath his appraisal. You were a creature of the dragon's line, and in your mind, there was nothing to be ashamed of in the architecture of your own body.

You stood tall, your posture open and challenging, offering him a view of a form that was lean and disciplined. Your skin was as smooth as polished marble, devoid of the coarse hair that plagued the men of the Free Cities, save for the white, masculine line of a happy trail that dipped from your navel toward your hips, and the thick curls of your pubic hair.

You didn't move, remaining as still as a statue carved from moonlight. You had laid your cards on the table, stripped of the finery. Now, the air felt electric, charged with a tension that made the fine hairs on your arms stand on end. You watched him, your violet eyes tracking the way his chest rose and fell in a heavy, rhythmic thrum.

The Khal remained seated for a secomd longer than necessary, his gaze travelling over you with a slow but steady hunger. He looked at you not as a possession, but as a peer— a challenge to be met. You felt a sudden, sharp spike of impatience.

You had bared yourself to the wind and the stars; it seemed only fair that the Great Khal should do the same. You didn't ask, and you certainly didn't plead. Instead, you arched a silver brow, a ghost of a smirk playing on your lips.

"What is the matter, Drogo?" you challenged, your voice a low, daring rasp that cut through the stillness of the plains. "Does the Great Khal find himself suddenly paralysed by a bit of moonlight?"

You shifted your weight, leaning forward just enough to let the moonlight catch the curve of your hip. The smirk on your lips deepened into something truly predatory. "I had heard the Dothraki were made of iron and storm, but looking at you now, I suspect you might just be a very loud man with a very fancy braid and a very small…"

The laugh that ripped from Drogo’s throat was less of a chuckle and more of a roar, a sound of genuine delight that seemed to vibrate the very earth beneath your bare heels. He didn't answer with words; he answered with action. In one fluid, explosive motion, his hand shot out, gripping your waist with a strength that felt like a brand of hot iron. He yanked you forward, the momentum sending you tumbling across his broad chest and landing squarely in his lap.

You let out a sharp, surprised huff as you hit the hard muscle of his thighs, your legs splaying across his lap to maintain your balance. You didn't struggle; instead, you leaned back, propping yourself up on his shoulders, your violet eyes dancing with a mischievous light.

"Small?" Drogo murmured, the word a low vibration against your skin. "You wish to test the measurements of the Khal?"

He dismantled himself with a efficiency that felt like a siege. The leather fastenings of his breeches gave way with a series of sharp, rhythmic snaps, and as the heavy fabric fell away, you felt the air leave your lungs. The moonlight, which had been your only companion in your nakedness, now seemed to pale in comparison to the sheer, imposing physicality of the man beneath you.

He was built like the earth itself, vast, hard, and unyielding. His cock was a heavy, twitching weight of bronze skin, thick and formidable, coupled with a raw, predatory heat that radiated against your thighs. It was a weapon of a different sort than a blade, though it looked just as capable of carving a path through anything in its way.

A slow, triumphant smile curled your lips as you looked down at him. "Well," you whispered, your voice a playful, breathless rasp. "Perhaps the rumours were underselling you."

Drogo’s hand, large and calloused, slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. The contact was electric, a collision of pale marble and sun-baked bronze.

You didn’t leave the final move to him. You were not a creature that waited to be claimed, and the heat radiating between your thighs had reached a fever pitch that demanded resolution. Reaching down, your fingers curled around the heavy, pulsing length of him.

His skin was hot, the texture of polished stone and velvet, and you felt the sudden, sharp intake of his breath as you tightened your grip. You began to stroke him, a slow, rhythmic motion that drew a low, guttural groan from deep within his chest. You watched his face, the way his onyx eyes hooded with a mixture of surprise and raw desire, the way his jaw tightened as you played with the weapon he had offered.

Satisfied with the tremor that ran through his massive frame, you shifted your weight, lifting yourself just enough to align the searing heat of his head with your hole. You didn't rush the descent. Instead, you hovered there for a second, the tip of him teasing the entrance of your heat, creating a friction that made your toes curl into the grass. Then, with a press of your hips, you began to sink.

The first inch was a shock of fullness that threatened to overwhelm you, a stretching sensation that felt like being split open by a warm, living blade. You gasped, your head falling back as you felt the sheer mass of him begin to fill the void.

The sensation was an intrusion of the most exquisite kind, a sudden, heavy expansion that seemed to rewrite the geography of your body. You let out a long, shuddering breath, your eyes fluttering shut as the pressure mounted, pushing against the very limits of your endurance. Instinctively, you leaned back on both of your hands, your arms locking to support your weight, creating a bridge of trembling muscle between your shoulders and the earth. You were a taut string of a bow, vibrating with the effort of absorbing him, your chest heaving as you fought to maintain the rhythm of your own breathing.

Drogo’s hands, wide and calloused, didn't just hold you; they claimed you. He felt the slight tremor in your arms, the way your breath hitched in a ragged, uneven cadence. With a low, predatory hum of approval, he shifted his weight. In one fluid motion, he gripped your waist and pivoted, rolling you off his lap and flat onto your back. The transition was seamless, the grass cushioning your spine as the world tilted and settled. Before you could even gasp at the change in position, he moved with the precision of a warrior, lifting your legs high and hooking them firmly over his broad shoulders.

The shift in angle was devastating. Now, with your hips tilted upward and your legs pinned, there was no room for hesitation or retreat. You were completely open, your vulnerability laid bare under the indigo sky, while Drogo loomed over you like a mountain of bronze and muscle. He looked down at you, his onyx eyes burning with a mixture of possessiveness and admiration. He didn't just want to take you; he wanted to see the exact moment the 'blade' finally surrendered to the fire.

"Now," he murmured, the word less a request and more a command.

He didn’t glide into you with the tentative caution of a man fearing he might break a fragile thing. Instead, Drogo drove forward with the sudden, violent precision of a cavalry charge, a single, powerful surge that slammed into you with the force of a landslide.

The air vanished from your lungs in a sharp, strangled gasp as you were pinned deep into the loam, the sheer mass of him filling every available space, stretching you to a limit that felt almost agonising and utterly transcendent.

Then, he began to move. He didn't establish a rhythm; he ignited one. Drogo thrust with a blistering, frantic speed, his hips snapping forward in a blur of bronze muscle and raw power. Each strike was a percussion of flesh against flesh, a rhythmic thundering that echoed the gallop of the charcoal stallion.

It was an assault of sensation, a relentless barrage that left you breathless, your head tossing from side to side against the grass as you struggled to keep pace with the sudden, exhilarating violence of his pace.

You felt the world dissolve into a series of fragmented images: the silver blur of your own hair whipping across your cheeks, the oppressive heat of his chest crushing yours, and the endless, velvet indigo of the sky spinning above you.

The speed was dizzying, a blurring velocity that turned the pleasure into something sharper, more desperate, like the feeling of falling from a great height and realising you loved the wind in your face. Your fingers clawed at the earth, digging into the soil and grass as you fought to anchor yourself against the storm of his body.

Drogo’s breathing had become a series of guttural, rhythmic snarls, his teeth grazing the sensitive curve of your shoulder. He wasn't the patient observer anymore; he was the storm itself. He gripped your thighs with a strength that would leave bruises, his fingers sinking into your pale skin as he drove himself deeper, faster, chasing a peak that felt like a cliff edge. The friction was a searing current of electricity, a white-hot spark that ignited in the pit of your stomach and radiated outward to your fingertips.

The sensation was too much, a tidal wave of heat that threatened to drown your senses, and the sudden urge for a different kind of collision flared in your chest. You weren't content to be the shore that the storm simply broke upon. With a sharp, feline hiss of breath, you reached up and wound your fingers deep into the thick, black mass of his hair, gripping the coarse strands with a firmness that brooked no argument. You jerked his head downward, a sudden, commanding snap that forced the great warlord to buckle and lean into your space.

He let out a startled, low grunt, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second before he met the collision. You didn't wait for him to find his balance; you surged upward, meeting him halfway in a kiss that tasted of salt, adrenaline, and the wild, untamed heat of the plains.

It wasn't a gentle union; it was a clash of wills, a desperate, hungry exchange of breath and tongue that mirrored the violence of the rhythm below. Your teeth grazed his lower lip, a sharp spark of aggression that seemed to ignite something primal in him, causing his hips to snap forward with renewed, bruising force.

The angle of the impact shifted, a sudden, precise adjustment of leverage that drove him deeper than he had ever reached, bypassing the surface friction to strike a singular, hidden nerve.

The sensation was a bolt of white light, an electric shock that bypassed your mind and detonated directly in your core. He hit your prostate with the precision of a master swordsman finding the gap in a breastplate, and the air you had been holding in your lungs escaped in a raw, unrestrained sound. You moaned loudly into Drogo’s mouth, the noise muffled by his lips but vibrating through your entire frame, a admission of complete and utter defeat.

The world narrowed down to a single, white-hot point of convergence. As you felt the sudden, rhythmic contraction of your own body, Drogo gave one final, devastating thrust, burying himself to the hilt. In that instant, the tension that had been building like a summer storm over the plains finally broke.

​Solanaceae. The air there didn't hold the familiar, comforting scent of damp earth or rain; instead, it was thick with the cloying, heavy aroma of night-blooming jasmine and crushed nectar. It was a strange, disorienting world caught in an eternal, suffocating twilight—bathed entirely in the eerie, violet luminescence of a dying sun that fed an aggressive, hyper-evolved sea of flora.

​Here, plants didn't just grow. They breathed. They pulsed with a slow, rhythmic heartbeat that vibrated through the soil. If you listened closely enough in the quiet spaces between the alien gales, you could hear them whispering in frequencies just below the threshold of human hearing—a living, breathing green consciousness stretching out across continents.

​Clark had long since formed a mental image of its beauty before he even set foot onto the planet's surface. Kara had spoken of it time and time again during their quiet moments at the Fortress, her eyes lighting up as she described its sprawling alien vistas and untamed wilderness.

​Kara, however, had somehow managed to forget a rather crucial detail: just how fiercely alluring Solanaceae's flora truly was. It wasn't just scenery; it was a siren song. Vibrant, aggressively brightly colored, and wrapped in a pheromonal scent so potent and intoxicating it felt capable of hypnotizing anyone foolish enough to drop their guard.

​Drifting silently across the surface of the bioluminescent waters were fields of lotus flowers—or at least, what Clark could only assume were the planet’s evolutionary equivalents. They covered nearly every inch of the glowing liquid, their petals shifting through impossible gradients of magenta and deep indigo.

​Clark found himself completely transfixed, unable to tear his eyes away from their mesmerizing dance upon the water. It felt as though an invisible tether was pulling him inward, dragging his consciousness toward the center of the bloom. And the very second he leaned in too close, misjudging the distance, the flower’s center shuddered. With a soft, mechanical hiss, it blew a thick, dense puff of hazy purple pollen directly into his face.

​He blinked, pulling back quickly, offering a quiet, self-reassuring sigh. Clark initially assumed earth's yellow sun would effortlessly wash away whatever foreign side effects were bound to enter his body, confident that his Kryptonian physiology would naturally recognize, fight off, and override any alien spores.

​By the time Clark touched down on the balcony of his Metropolis apartment, the yellow sun felt less like a battery and more like a magnifying glass burning through glass.

​He pulled off his damp suitt, the heavy red cape pooling behind him like a discarded weight. The city below hummed with its usual symphony of honking cabs, distant sirens, and the endless chatter of millions of heartbeats. Normally, that familiar chorus grounded him. Tonight, every sound scraped against his eardrums like sandpaper.

​While the pollen had seemed harmless at first, he started to notice the building fever, the way his flesh would flush and sweat would glisten against his skin. The building ache in his body that slowly spread to weakness in his knees.

​He staggered against the kitchen counter, his broad shoulders heaving as he tried to draw in a steady breath. But the air of Metropolis tasted stale, stripped of life, entirely devoid of the rich, chlorophyll-heavy vitality his altered biology suddenly craved.

​His vision swam, the edges of the room tinting a deep, bruised violet. Beneath his skin, his blood felt sluggish, humming with an alien frequency that echoed the heartbeat of Solanaceae. The pollen wasn't just a toxin; it was a catalyst. It was rewriting how his cells interacted with organic matter, turning his invulnerable body into fertile soil for something ancient and hungry.

​"Damn it," Clark muttered, his voice rough and breathless, lacking its usual steady baritone. He gripped the edge of the marble counter so hard the stone groaned under his fingertips.

​He knew brute force wouldn't fix this. His immune system wasn't fighting an infection; it was cooperating with one. And there was only one person on this entire green earth—or any other—who understood the intricate, terrifying language of botanical biology well enough to pull him back from the edge.

The glass doors of the loft slid open with a soft click, admitting a wave of humid, earth-scented air that contrasted sharply with the crisp Metropolis night.

You didn't even look up from the sprawling monstera you were pruning, your skin—completely verdant, a striking, vibrant green that looked as though it had been spun from chlorophyll and sunlight rather than ordinary flesh, yet possessed a remarkably soft, naturally earthy appearance—expertly snipping a rogue leaf. Dressed in fitted charcoal trousers and an unbuttoned emerald silk shirt that clung effortlessly to your lean frame, you moved with a quiet, predatory grace. Your hair fell loosely over your forehead, catching the amber glow of the grow lamps overhead.

"You're tracking cosmic dirt across my polished concrete, farm boy," you murmured, your voice a smooth, melodic purr that carried easily over the rustle of exotic ferns. "And judging by the way your heart is hammering against your ribs, you didn't just visit a garden center."

Clark didn't answer right away. He couldn't. He stepped further into the greenhouse, the heavy door sliding shut behind him, sealing them in an ecosystem of your own design. The sheer density of plant life—vines curling lazily around steel support beams, pitcher plants weeping sweet nectar, orchids blooming in shades of bruised plum—seemed to lean toward him as he passed, drawn by the alien spores radiating from his pores.

You finally turned, your deep eyes narrowing slightly as you took in the flushed expanse of his chest, the slick sheen of sweat coating his skin, and the distinct, unnatural violet shimmer tracing the veins along his neck.

"Solanaceae," you stated, dropping your pruning shears onto the potting table with a sharp clatter. A slow, knowing smile curved your lips, equal parts amused and fascinated. "Let me guess. You tried to smell the local flora, and it bit back."

"It wasn't a bite," Clark groaned, his knees finally buckling as the weight of the fever crashed over him. He caught himself against the edge of a mahogany worktable, scattering seed packets and glass vials across the floor. "It... it feels like my blood is turning to sap. The sun... it isn't helping."

You crossed the room in a few fluid strides, your bare feet making no sound against the damp moss carpeting the floor. Stopping just inches away, you tilted your head up, drinking in the scent rolling off him. Beneath the familiar ozone of a Kryptonian, there was an unmistakable, intoxicating fragrance—night-blooming jasmine, crushed nectar, and deep space wilderness, tangled with the unmistakable, heavy warmth of a potent botanical aphrodisiac.

"Of course it isn't," you whispered softly, stepping closer until the heat radiating from his broad frame washed over you. You reached out, your cool fingertips brushing lightly against his burning jawline. Clark let out a sharp, involuntary shudder at the contrast, his breath hitching as a sudden, overwhelming wave of clarity crashed through the haze in his mind.

The pollen wasn't just rewriting his biology; it was tearing down every wall he had ever built. The polite distance, the careful restraint, the years of burying every lingering, complicated glance he had ever stolen in your direction—the illusion dissolved entirely under the influence of the toxin. The way he looked at you shifted from desperation to a profound, undeniable hunger, every hidden desire suddenly laid bare in his wide, fevered eyes.

"You didn't just catch a space cold, Clark," you murmured, your voice dropping to a low, hypnotic hum as you felt the sudden, electric shift in his posture. "That pollen is trying to integrate. It recognizes a god-like vessel... and it wants to make a home out of you. Or perhaps, it's just stripping away all your pretty little lies."

"Can you... can you stop it?" Clark asked, though his voice lacked any real conviction. He looked down at you, his blue eyes glassy, dark with a mix of fever and a raw, exposed longing that made your own pulse quicken.

You let out a low, melodic laugh, sliding your hand down from his jaw to rest flat against the center of his chest, right where his erratic heartbeat thudded like a heavy drum against your palm.

"Stop it?" You whispered, leaning in close enough that your breath ghosted against his collarbone, smelling faintly of crushed ivy and rain. "Clark... I spent my entire life trying to make the world green. Why on earth would I want to cure something that finally makes you admit what you've wanted all along?"

Clark swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing sharply against the flushed skin of his throat as he tried to summon the familiar armor of his usual restraint. He dragged a heavy hand through his damp, dark curls, his chest heaving under the sheer strain of keeping his composure.

"I... I don't know what you're talking about," Clark breathed out, his voice carrying that earnest, earnest-to-a-fault earnestness that felt so uniquely, achingly him. Even with his knees trembling and his vision swimming with violet haze, he still tried to pull back, leaning away by a fraction of an inch as if pure willpower could override biology. "I’m fine. Really. I just... I need to get back to the Fortress, or—or talk to Emil. This is just a localized reaction, it's—"

"Shh," you murmured, the sound soft but utterly immovable.

You didn't let him finish the clumsy, defensive excuse. Instead, your hands—cool and firm against the fever-slick heat of his skin—slid from his jaw down to grip his forearms. Despite his godlike strength, Clark didn't pull away; the profound, caring ache in his chest made him yield entirely to your touch. His broad shoulders slumped, a ragged sigh shuddering past his lips as the fight drained right out of him.

"You're rambling, farm boy," you whispered, a gentle, fond edge softening the teasing curve of your green lips. "And you're shaking. Let's get you sitting before you accidentally put that broad frame of yours through my prize-winning monstera."

With a quiet grunt of effort—less from your own strength and more from guiding his dead weight—you wrapped an arm securely around his waist, pressing your verdant side against his burning heat. Clark let out a low, breathy groan, his large hands coming up instinctively to rest lightly on your shoulders, steadying himself not just to keep from falling, but because the mere contact felt like a lifeline in a storm.

You guided him across the moss-carpeted floor of the greenhouse toward a sturdy, vintage wrought-iron armchair nestled deep among a canopy of weeping ferns and cascading ivy.

As he sank down into the chair, the heavy leather cushion groaning under his bulk, Clark dragged his hands down his face, squeezing his eyes shut as a fresh wave of the aphrodisiac haze washed through him. The yellow sun inside his cells felt less like energy now and more like a live wire, humming in absolute harmony with the heavy, sweet scent of the greenhouse.

He looked up at you then, down from his seated position, his blue eyes wide, luminous, and terrifyingly honest. The polite, carefully guarded walls he usually kept between you—the safe distance of old acquaintances and shared orbits—were completely shattered.

"It's not just the pollen," Clark confessed, his voice dropping into that deep, resonant, impossibly passionate register that made your breath catch. He reached out, his calloused fingertips brushing hesitantly against your green wrist, as if needing to anchor himself to something real. His thumb traced the verdant skin of your pulse point with an aching, desperate tenderness. "God, I... I've been lying to myself for months, running back to Kansas, burying myself in deadlines at the Planet, pretending I didn't notice every single time you walked into a room. The pollen didn't create this, it just... it took away my excuse to keep quiet."

Your breath hitched, the playful, confident composure you usually wore like armor suddenly cracking at the sheer, overwhelming sincerity pouring out of him.

The confession hung heavy in the humid, jasmine-thick air of the greenhouse, vibrating with an intensity that outshone the amber grow lamps overhead.

For a heartbeat, the only sound was the rhythmic, organic pulse of the surrounding flora and the ragged, shallow cadence of Clark’s breathing. Your fingers remained pinned beneath his calloused hand, the contrast between his sun-warmed, fever-flush skin and your naturally cool, verdant touch sending a sharp, electric shiver up your spine.

You looked down at him—really looked at him—stripping away the invincible hero, the polished farm boy from Kansas, and seeing the raw, unguarded man underneath. The man who carried the weight of a dying world on his shoulders every single day, yet somehow looked at you as if you were the only real gravity holding him to the earth.

A slow, breathless smile touched your green lips, completely devoid of its usual sardonic edge.

"You really are a terrible liar, Clark Kent," you whispered, your voice softening into something rich and hypnotic as you stepped closer, closing the remaining space between you until your knees brushed against the edge of the wrought-iron chair.

With your free hand, you reached up, your fingers tangling gently into the dark, damp curls at the nape of his neck. The physical contact was immediate—his eyes fluttered shut, a low, helpless groan vibrating deep in his chest as his broad shoulders instinctively leaned into the touch, seeking relief from the fever consuming him.

"You spend all your time trying to save everyone else, carrying every burden, swallowing every truth just to keep the peace," you murmured, your thumb tracing the sharp, perfect line of his jaw. "Did you really think I wouldn't notice? Did you think I wouldn't want you right back?"

Clark’s eyes snapped open, a brilliant, swimming cobalt charged with an absolute, overwhelming tide of relief and raw desire. The hesitation—the lifetime of forced restraint and quiet longing—shattered entirely.

Before you could say another word, his large, powerful hands moved with sudden, urgent precision. One hand locked firmly around your hip, pulling you flush against him, while the other slid up to cup the back of your head, anchoring you to him as if you were the only anchor keeping him from drifting out into deep space.

When his mouth met yours, it wasn't hesitant. It was a collision of long-suppressed heat and desperate, starving honesty. His lips were burning hot against yours, radiating the excess solar energy and the intoxicating, alien pull of the pollen, tasting faintly of crushed nectar and ozone.

You gasped softly into the kiss, the sheer force of his emotion hitting you like a physical wave. Your hands slid from his hair down over his broad, flexing shoulders, feeling the heavy, frantic thrum of his heartbeat finally matching your own. The greenhouse around you seemed to respond to the shift, the surrounding vines and blossoms leaning inward, their heavy pheromonal scent wrapping around you both like a living cocoon, sealing you away from a world that neither of you cared about anymore.

The kiss deepened instantly, a fierce, hungry collision of breath and heat that completely overrode whatever remained of Clark’s legendary restraint. The pollen humming through his veins didn't just strip away his defenses; it acted like a live wire, short-circuiting every cautious impulse he had spent a lifetime building. Every stolen glance, every suppressed urge, every carefully guarded fantasy of pulling you close was suddenly demanding immediate, unfiltered payment.

Without breaking the kiss, Clark's powerful hands gripped your waist. With a seamless, effortless strength that ignored your protests entirely, he lifted you straight out of the wrought-iron chair. Your legs instinctively parted to lock around his hips as he surged to his feet, carrying you the few short steps across the damp, moss-covered floor.

A heavy mahogany potting table met your back, scattering a cascade of dried seed pods and small ceramic pots as he pressed you down against it. The hard wood bit through your thin shirt, but you barely felt it beneath the blazing heat of his body pinning you there. His chest rose and fell in jagged, violent intervals, radiating the intoxicating solar radiation mixed with the heavy, narcotic perfume of Solanaceae.

Abruptly, Clark pulled back, though he didn't let you go. His broad shoulders hitched as he fought for air, his blue eyes dark, wide, and dilated with an almost dizzying intensity. He stared down at your face, his gaze tracing your verdant skin before dropping to your parted lips.

"Sorry," he breathed, his voice thick, ragged, and trembling with a sudden rush of self-awareness. It was that instinctive, polite reflex—the polite Kansas boy trying desperately to apologize even as his body burned out of control.

Before he could pull away any further, you didn't give him the chance. Your long, perfectly manicured nails trailed sharply down the back of his neck, digging firmly into the taut muscles of his shoulders before slipping beneath the collar of his shirt. You raked your nails down his spine, a light, teasing scratch that made him shudder head-to-toe, a low, animalistic growl vibrating deep in his chest.

"Don't be so polite, farm boy," you rasped, your voice dropping to a low, wicked purr right against his ear.

Clark hummed—a deep, resonant sound of absolute surrender—and dove back down. His lips found the sensitive spot beneath your ear, pressing a hot, bruising kiss against your jaw before trailing a wet, deliberate path down your throat. You tilted your head back, exposing your neck to him as his mouth lingered deliberately over your throat, his teeth grazing your skin just hard enough to make you arch up against him with a sharp, breathless gasp. The greenhouse around you seemed to hold its breath, the heavy velvet petals of the orchids overhead opening wider in the thick, humid dark as Clark lost himself entirely to the pull.

The heavy, sweet scent of night-blooming jasmine felt almost suffocating now, wrapping around you both like a physical weight as Clark’s mouth worked its way down your throat. Every drag of his lips against your verdant skin sent a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core, the intoxicating mix of solar heat and alien pollen turning his usual gentle touch into something fierce, demanding, and utterly unhinged.

His large, calloused hands gripped your hips with enough force to bruise, hauling you flush against the hard ridge of his pelvis as he pressed you deeper into the mahogany table. The scattered seed packets and ceramic shards beneath you vanished from your awareness, entirely eclipsed by the friction of his body moving against yours.

You let out a soft, breathless sigh, your fingers curving tightly into the muscles of his back, tearing at the fabric of his shirt as you urged him closer, demanding more of the weight he was finally letting himself throw around.

Clark groaned into your skin, the sound vibrating straight through your chest. The pollen was rewriting every instinct he had, tearing down the walls of the careful, dutiful hero and leaving only raw, unfiltered hunger in its wake. He wasn't holding back for fear of breaking you; he knew exactly how strong you were, how much you could take, and the realization only made him bolder.

His lips traced a burning path back up your jaw, catching your bottom lip between his teeth in a sharp, possessive bite that stole the breath right out of your lungs. When he kissed you again, it was deep, bruising, and dizzying, tasting entirely of ozone, sweet nectar, and absolute surrender. His tongue swept into your mouth with a heat that matched the fever humming beneath his skin, completely consuming you as his hands slid up your sides, mapping the curve of your waist and ribs before tangling brutally in your hair, locking you in place so you couldn't escape even if you wanted to.

The greenhouse around you hummed in chaotic unison. Vines uncurled from the rafters, slithering downward to brush against your legs like green silk, while the surrounding blossoms spilled wave after wave of heavy, intoxicating pheromones into the humid air, feeding the frenzy.

Clark broke the kiss for just a fraction of a second, his chest heaving as he stared down at you, his blue eyes blown wide, dark, and wild with a terrifying, beautiful devotion.

"God, you're driving me insane," he rasped, his voice rough and broken, completely stripped of its usual steady baritone.

Without giving you a chance to answer, his mouth crashed back onto yours, his hands shifting to grab the hem of your emerald silk shirt, bunching the fabric in his fists as he prepared to tear it away entirely.

The rustle of tearing silk cut sharply through the heavy, humid air of the greenhouse as Clark's fists clenched, buttons popping and scattering across the mossy floor like loose gravel. The cool air of the room hit your bare chest, contrasting violently with the blazing, solar-heated brand of his hands as he finally pressed his palms flat against your skin.

You gasped, the sensation of his heat sweeping over your sensitive frame sending a violent shiver down your spine. Your legs tightened around his waist, locking him in place as your fingers dug deeper into the broad expanse of his shoulders, your nails scratching a sharp, possessive path across his skin.

Clark groaned, a low, resonant sound that vibrated straight through your chest. Every ounce of his legendary self-control—every careful boundary he had spent a lifetime meticulously guarding—shattered completely beneath the weight of the pollen and the raw, unadulterated need he had buried for too long. He wasn't holding back anymore. He caught your face between his large, calloused hands, his thumb pressing firmly into your bottom lip as his blue eyes burned into yours with a fierce, terrifying intensity.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice raw, breathless, and stripped of every polite veneer he usually wore.

You met his gaze, breathless and aching, your own green eyes flashing with an equal, answering fire.

"I'm looking," you rasped back, a wicked, triumphant smile curving your lips. "What are you going to do about it, farm boy?"

Clark didn't answer with words. He crushed his mouth back down onto yours in a desperate, bruising kiss that stole the air right out of your lungs. His body surged forward, pressing you deeper into the wooden table as his hands slid down from your face to grip your hips, lifting and aligning you with a sudden, breathless momentum. The ambient hum of the greenhouse reached a fever pitch around you—vines wrapping tightly around the legs of the table, heavy blossoms weeping sweet nectar, and the intoxicating perfume of Solanaceae.

Clark’s hands moved with a rough, urgent efficiency, his fingers working the button and zipper of your trousers with clumsy, frantic strength. He didn't bother trying to fold them; he simply hauled them down, stripping away your trousers and boxers in one swift motion and tossing them carelessly onto the damp moss below.

As the cool, humid air of the greenhouse hit your lower body, a sharp shiver raced down your spine. You instinctively tensed as your hardening cock, its tip flushed a striking, vibrant green against your pale verdant skin, was exposed to the open air.

Clark didn't give you a moment to adjust. His mouth dipped down, his lips hot and demanding against your stomach. He nipped and bit at your sensitive skin, tracing a deliberate, bruising path downward and leaving dark, blossoming hickeys across your lower abdomen before his lips hovered just above your navel.

He froze, his broad shoulders heaving as he forced his eyes up to meet yours.

"Is this okay?" he whispered, his voice thick with a raw, agonizing restraint that felt entirely at odds with the frantic pulse of the room. "I can stop."

You let out a soft, low chuckle, leaning back against the mahogany table with an effortless, languid grace.

"You'd make fine fertilizer for my pitcher plants if I wasn't okay with this," you purred, a wicked, teasing light dancing in your eyes.

Clark swallowed hard, the brief flicker of hesitation vanishing entirely under the double weight of the pollen and your teasing dare.

With a slow, deliberate movement, you sat up on the edge of the table, hooking your fingers into the hem of Clark’s red-and-blue jersey. You didn't give him a choice; you yanked the fabric upward, tearing it over his head and tossing it aside to reveal the broad, muscular expanse of his chest, slick with sweat and humming with pent-up heat.

You leaned back again, resting your weight on your elbows, and let your gaze drift downward.

Across the moss-covered floor, thick, fibrous vines snapped to life. They coiled like living serpents, slithering silently out of the shadows and weaving their way up Clark’s powerful legs. Before he could even tense, the vines slipped smoothly into the waistband of his pants, curling inward with an eerie, intelligent precision.

You smirked, crossing your ankles loosely as you tightened your mental grip on the surrounding foliage. With a gentle flick of your wrist and a steady, dominant pull of your consciousness, the vines tugged downward, stripping his pants and briefs away in one fluid motion and casting them aside into the ferns.

Clark let out a sharp, involuntary gasp, his breath catching in his throat as he stood completely, defenselessly naked before you.

The sight of him made your breath hitch in return. His god-like frame was magnificent, sculpted and flushed with fever, and standing fully erect—a blatant, undeniable symptom of the sex pollen flooding his Kryptonian bloodstream.

The moment the fabric fell away, a network of thick vines snapped tightly around his torso and thighs, pinning him momentarily in a cage of living foliage before they abruptly dissolved, sliding backward and disappearing entirely into the deep, breathing shadows of the heavy foliage that answered only to you.

Clark stood trembling in the center of the greenhouse, chest heaving, utterly at your mercy.

You curled your index finger, giving him a slow, deliberate beckoning motion.

Clark didn't hesitate for a single fraction of a second. The last fragile remnants of his restraint snapped clean in two. He stepped directly between your spread, open thighs, his large hands immediately locking onto your hips with a bruising, possessive grip that hauled you straight to the edge of the wood.

The movement brought your bodies flush together, alignment instant and electric. Your cocks brushed tip against tip—both of you slick, weeping, and aching with a vicious, hypersensitive friction that sent a violent, full-body shiver crashing down your spines.

Clark groaned, a harsh, ragged sound swallowed up by the humid air of the greenhouse. He leaned forward, his hot, heavy breath fanning wildly against your skin before his mouth found your collarbone. He kissed and nipped with frantic intensity, sucking hard at the verdant flesh until a cluster of deep, purple hickeys bloomed across your chest, matching the fevered marks he'd left on your abdomen moments before.

A sharp, breathless moan slipped past your lips. Your hands flew to his back, your long nails carving fiery paths up his spine while your fingers tangled fiercely in his damp, dark curls.

"Good boy," you hummed, your voice a wicked, praise-heavy purr. You shifted your hips just an inch, pressing your leaking cock hard against his to steal some friction, smiling darkly as Clark shuddered violently against you, his entire frame going rigid.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his chest heaving as he gasped for air. His blue eyes were practically swallowed by blown, dilated pupils, staring at you with the absolute, feral hunger of a man who had gone days without water in a desert.

Without warning, his hands gripped your waist and yanked you forward, lifting and pressing you flat against the mahogany table. He shoved your legs back, folding you upward until your knees nearly touched your shoulders, trapping you open and utterly exposed beneath him.

He didn't rush. Instead, he stopped, hovering over you with wild, fever-bright eyes, watching with breathless fascination as your cock twitched in the humid air and your tight hole pulsed and fluttered with aching anticipation.

"Can I?" he murmured, his voice cracking, thick with a mix of raw reverence and desperate need.

A sharp, trembling breath hitched in your throat, your fingers curling white-knuckled over the edge of the mahogany table as the weight of him settled completely between your thighs.

"Yeah. Please," you whispered, your voice dropping to a raw, breathless rasp.

Clark’s large hand wrapped securely around your ankles, holding your legs bent back and forcing you completely open, while his free hand dropped down to grip the base of his heavy, aching cock. He was slick with pre-cum, gleaming under the ambient amber glow of the grow lamps, every muscle in his forearm corded with strain as he fought to keep his movements deliberate.

Instead of pushing forward, he dragged the tip of his cock slowly, teasingly across your twitching, hypersensitive hole.

A sharp whimper tore past your lips at the friction, your hips instinctively bucking upward toward the touch. Clark bit down hard on his lower lip, a low, ragged groan vibrating in his chest as he watched your body react. He pressed your knees back an inch further, his dark, dilated eyes tracking the way your ass lifted eagerly off the wood, exposing you entirely to his gaze.

"Look at you," he muttered, his voice thick with a mix of awe and unadulterated need.

He didn't wait any longer. Slowly, agonizingly, Clark pressed forward, driving just the blunt head of his cock inside you. The foreign heat of him—supercharged by the solar radiation and the intoxicating sex pollen—flooded your tight walls. He shuddered violently at the immediate, suffocating grip of your warmth, his head falling back as a raw, breathless groan broke from his mouth.

"Fuck," you breathed out, your back arching off the table as your own cock twitched, leaking thick beads of pre-cum that smeared hot against your abdomen.

Clark grunted, his hips snapping forward with a slow, heavy slide that buried him deeper inside you. The thick, meaty slap of his balls against your skin echoed softly through the humid air of the greenhouse, swallowed immediately by the rustle of the surrounding ferns.

"God, you feel incredible," he panted, the words dragging out of him with a heavy, instinctive honesty that bypassed every filter he usually wore.

Clark dropped his hold on your ankles, his large hands sliding up to cup the backs of your knees instead. With effortless strength, he planted his forearms on either side of your head against the mahogany table, leaning his heavy, fever-heated frame down over you. He locked you in place, keeping your legs folded back and your tight, aching walls stretched completely open, entirely filled by the massive weight of his cock.

Your hands flew up instinctively, your long nails sinking deep into the solid muscle of his shoulders as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, giving you a second to catch your breath and adjust to the sheer fullness of him.

You shifted your hips restlessly, a soft, high-pitched moan spilling past your lips as his cock pulsed inside you.

"Stop playing with me," you breathed, your voice a desperate, gravelly whine.

Clark let out a low, rumbling grunt against your skin. He pulled back slowly, dragging his thick shaft outward until only the blunt tip brushed your entrance, before smoothly, deliberately sliding back in. He set a slow, agonizingly steady pace, his teeth nipping sharply at your pulse point as his body pressed you harder into the wood. With every forward glide, your leaking cock slapped against his abdomen, smearing the thick, clear pre-cum across both your stomachs in a slick, warm friction.

He picked up the rhythm just a fraction, the slow slide turning into a deep, measured roll of his hips as he pushed himself up, trailing hot kisses along your jawline before capturing your lips.

Every thrust had you gasping directly into his mouth, your cries muffled against his lips as the small clearing in the greenhouse filled with the wet, rhythmic slap of skin against skin and the frantic, hammering cadence of your joined heartbeats.

Around you, the room itself seemed to inhale your shared panic and heat. The ambient pheromones triggered a wild, sudden growth spurt through the greenhouse: thick green vines snapped across the mossy floor, coiling and climbing up the metal supports to wrap around the amber grow lights, while night-blooming flowers burst open across the ceiling in a cascading canopy of deep indigo and magenta.

You broke the kiss, tossing your head back against the wood as a raw, demanding edge crept into your voice.

"Harder," you panted, your hips bucking up to meet him as the pollen drove every ounce of restraint from your mind.

Clark didn’t need to be told twice. The raw, demanding edge in your voice acted like a match to dry brush, short-circuiting what little restraint the sex pollen hadn't already stripped away.

A deep, feral growl tore from his throat. The slow, agonizingly steady rhythm shattered instantly, replaced by a punishing, relentless velocity. His hips slammed forward with terrifying force, driving deep into you over and over again until the mahogany table beneath you shuddered and groaned in protest.

Every single thrust sent a blinding shockwave of pleasure straight up your spine. Your legs, trapped and pinned back by his heavy forearms, shook violently with the impact. Your hands slid from his shoulders, your fingers curling into his thick, dark curls as you arched your back off the wood, crying out his name into the humid, jasmine-thick air.

The greenhouse responded to the crescendo of your climaxing bodies with absolute, chaotic reverence. The vines carpeting the floor whipped into a frenzy, tangling thickly around Clark’s powerful legs and your own ankles like living shackles. Above you, the ceiling canopy burst into a shower of glowing, luminescent petals, raining soft, violet pollen down over your sweating skin like glittering dust. The air grew thick, heavy, and intoxicating, humming with the living pulse of a thousand awakened plants thriving entirely off the heat and friction of your coupling.

Clark pulled back just enough to look down at you, his chest heaving, his blue eyes entirely black with dilated pupils. He looked completely unraveled—the invincible Man of Steel utterly brought to his knees, dismantled and remade by your hands.

"God, you're... you're driving me out of my mind," he gasped, his voice cracking into a raw, breathless plea.

He didn't slow down. He locked his mouth over yours in a crushing, desperate kiss that tasted of ozone and nectar, his hips driving harder, faster, chasing the edge right alongside you.

Clark’s rhythm fractured, his powerful, controlled thrusts suddenly turning desperate and sloppy as the final, overwhelming wave hit him. His cock twitched violently inside you, swelling and hot as the tip hammered mercilessly against your prostate with every ragged, uncoordinated drive of his hips.

A low, guttural moan tore from his chest. You clamped down hard around him, your inner walls convulsing in a tight, greedy grip that proved to be his undoing. Clark stiffened against you, a violent shudder wracking his massive frame as his cock pulsed deep inside your body, flooding you with wave after wave of hot, thick cum.

The intense pressure triggered your own tipping point. You let out a sharp, breathless cry, your head thrown back against the mahogany table, your mouth parted as a blinding flash of white-hot pleasure stripped away all remaining thought. Your own cock twitched frantically, shooting thick ropes of cum across your stomach and smearing it against Clark's lower abdomen as he kept driving into you, refusing to stop even as you shattered around him, riding out the endless shockwaves of your climax.

Slowly, the frantic energy began to ebb, leaving behind only the heavy, rhythmic thrum of the surrounding flora and your own ragged breathing.

Clark carefully released your body, lowering your legs down from the bent position. They felt heavy, numb, and stiff from the prolonged strain, trembling slightly against the now damp table below you. With a slow, reluctant groan, Clark slid out of you, a soft, wet pop echoing in the humid air as he pulled back. He staggered slightly, catching himself against the edge of the table, his chest heaving as he gasped for air, his skin slick with sweat and glowing under the amber lights.

He stared down at you for a long, quiet moment, the wild, fevered panic of the pollen slowly receding from his brilliant blue eyes, leaving behind a heavy, lingering haze of realization.

"I'm... I'm sorry," Clark whispered, his voice cracking with a sudden, agonizing wave of guilt and remorse. He dragged a hand through his damp dark curls, looking away toward the floor. "God, I—this wasn't... something like this isn't going to happen again. I lost control, I should have—"

You let out a soft, melodic laugh, the sound dripping with absolute amusement and quiet triumph. You reached up, your long, dark green nail pressing firmly against the underside of his chin, forcing him to look back up and meet your gaze.

"Don't lie to yourself, farm boy," you murmured, your voice a low, teasing purr that sent a shiver straight down his spine. "You didn't lose control. You just finally stopped hiding."

Clark blinked, the apology dying on his lips as he looked into your eyes, seeing the undeniable truth written there. The pollen hadn't invented his desire; it had only ripped away the walls he had spent a lifetime building.

A slow, helpless, and utterly smitten smile curved across Clark’s lips, chasing away the shadow of his guilt. He leaned his weight forward, resting his forehead against yours as the last of his resistance melted completely away.

he growls. like actually growls. ears flatten completely and he bites down on the side of your throat hard enough to leave a mark that’ll last days. his hips snap forward and the half-formed knot pops past your rim with a filthy wet sound. you choke on a moan yet he doesn’t stop. just keeps grinding in short, brutal thrusts that force the knot deeper, stretching you open around the thickest part of him until your legs are shaking and ur cock is leaking all over your stomach.

“look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “taking it so well. m-my beautiful human—such a pretty hole.” every time his tip brushes against the inside of your calf it sends another spark of heat up your spine. bunny hybrids run hot when they’re in rut and shoto’s been in it for three days straight. three days of barely leaving the bed—three days of him waking youu up with his cock already half inside you, ears perked, eyes half-lidded and desperate.

you reach up and grab one of those soft ears and the reaction is instant. his whole body jerks, a broken sound tears out of his throat, and he comes hard. knot locking tight, flooding you in thick pulses that feel endless. his hips keep twitching even after, trying to push deeper, like his body refuses to believe it’s already done.

you’re still hard. of course u are. bunny rut does that to humans too—something in the pheromones, or maybe the way he looks at you like your the only thing that exists. he notices. of course he does. those heterochromatic eyes drag down your body, linger on the way your stomach is slightly rounded from how much he’s already filled you, then settle on your cock.

“still need more,” he says, voice soft now, yet still erratic. the contrast is unfair. “i-i’m gonna take care of you—please l-let me take care of you.” he doesn’t pull out yet. he can’t anyway, not with the knot still swollen. but when the knot finally softens enough for him to slip free, the gush of come that follows is embarrassing. he watches it with that same quiet intensity he always has, then uses two fingers to push some of it back inside u. possessive little motion. u shiver.

“again,” he says, already hard again. bunny refractory period is a myth and a curse. “want you on your stomach this time, please...” you don’t argue. not when he looks like that—flushed, ears twitching, cock glistening with both of you, already leaking for the next round. he flips you easily.

the bunny spreads you open with both hands and just stares for a second, watching the way he drips out of you. then he’s pushing back in, slower this time, savoring the wet heat. his chest presses to your back. soft fur of his ears brushes the nape of your neck. “feels like i was made for this,” he whispers against your shoulder. “made to fill you. keep you full. keep u smelling like me.”

you turn ur head enough to catch his mouth in a messy kiss. he tastes like you. he always does lately. his tongue is careful, unlike his hips though. they’re deep, rolling thrusts that drag against every sensitive place inside you until your cock is hard again between your stomach and the sheets.

he reaches under you, wraps a cool left hand around ur length, and strokes in time with his thrusts. the temperature difference makes you whimper. he loves that sound. his right hand stays braced beside ur head, warm fingers tangled with yours.

“gonna knot u again,” he warns, voice cracking. “i-i can’t stop—” 

“don’t,” u manage. “don’t stop.”

the second knot is somehow thicker. or maybe you’re just more sensitive. either way, when it locks inside you again you see stars. shoto comes with a quiet, punched-out moan against the back of your neck, body trembling, ears flat, tail tight around your thigh. he keeps rocking through it, little aborted thrusts that grind the knot against your prostate until you’re coming too, messy and overstimulated, soaking the sheets beneath you.

he doesn’t pull out this time either. just collapses on top of you, careful of his weight, and nuzzles into the side of your neck. soft kisses. soft breaths. the occasional twitch of an ear against your cheek.

“love you,” he murmurs, so quiet it’s almost lost. “love being inside you… love how warm you are...”

you reach back and stroke one of his ears. he melts. a soft, happy sound vibrates in his chest.

“‘m gonna stay like this a while,” he says. “t-the knot’s still big. and i… i like being close.”

you do too. even when your body feels wrung out and overfull and a little sore. even when you know he’ll be ready again in less than an hour again anyway. even when the sheets are ruined and the room smells like sex and soft fur and the specific sweet-spice of his rut.

outside the window the sky is starting to lighten. neither of you care. shoto’s hand slides down to rest over your stomach, right where he’s still buried deep. his thumb strokes slow gentle circles. “mine,” he whispers against yiur skin. you smile hazily into the pillow. “yours.” his ears twitch once more. happy, content, and already half-hard again inside you.

Applauses cracked through the vaulted living room of Castle Dimitrescu, ricocheting off the crimson drapes and the gilt sconces that flickered with beeswax flame.

A family of monsters clapping for a union that had been decided way before asking your opinion.

Lady Alcina Dimitrescu was the first to lift her gloved hands and even her clapping was theatrical. She half-turned toward the black-cloaked figure of Mother Miranda, long dark cigarette held between two of her tallest fingers, smoke curling up past the brim of her wide sunhat.

"Mother," Alcina purred, voice honeyed and slick, "what a truly beautiful union you have brought to fruition beneath my roof. I am honored beyond measure that you would grace my humble castle with a ceremony so delicate." Her yellow eyes flicked to you and Ethan before back again to her Mother figure, the barb hidden in the compliment was so soft it barely showed its point. "It is my absolute pleasure to host it."

Standing there with Ethan's warm arm curled possessively over your hip, you knew that every syllable Alcina spoke was for Miranda's ears alone.

The tall Lady's crimson lips smiled at the crow-woman but her golden gaze slid toward Ethan.

Beside the far column, hunched almost double, Salvatore Moreau was clapping too. His two mismatched, deformed hands slapped together and a thin string of greenish bile crept out of the corner of his mouth and he caught it with the back of his wrist, swallowing hard, blinking those pale runny eyes. He was trying so terribly hard not to embarrass himself in front of his tall sister as you saw his throat bob three times in succession, forcing the vomit back down for the sake of the occasion.

Deep in the shadow of the tall bookcase, cradled on Donna Beneviento's lap, Angie was howling with glee, mouth clacking open and closing while her tiny wooden hands slapped together at manic speed.

"More kisses, more kisses, more kisses!" the doll shrieked, kicking her stiff legs. "Kiss him again, do it wet!"

Donna herself said nothing, face hidden behind that heavy black veil and her long lace-gloved hands only tightened just slightly around Angie's midsection to still her.

The remaining sibling of your new husband, Heisenberg, stood leaning heavy against the frame of the door that led into the dining room, weight pressing into the wood so hard the old timber creaked under him.

His round sunglasses caught the candlelight in two little copper coins and you couldn't see his eyes, but you felt them.

Broad hand resting on the head of that great steel hammer and his gloved fingers drummed on the metal. He tilted his head back enough that the light caught the smirk on his mouth.

Miranda finally lifted a slender hand and the room fell silent.

"Alcina, my dear," Miranda said, her voice cool and reverent-sounding, though nothing about it felt maternal. "Once again, my thanks. Your hospitality is, as always, exquisite." She turned that beaked mask toward you and Ethan. "Congratulations, my children. Ethan and you, little one. Do enjoy your—" her voice curled around the word with the barest, driest twist "—matrimony."

There was something almost mocking in the way she said it and Ethan's arm tightened at your waist, fingers spreading over your back, thumb rubbing circles through your shirt.

"Now, if you will forgive me, my work calls." Miranda spread her arms and her form began to fracture apart into black feathers and beating wings. In the space of two heartbeats she was gone and a small murder of crows launched themselves upward through the tall window arch, shrieking and dissolving into the darkening sky beyond.

A single black feather drifted down, landing on the marble at your feet.

The moment she was gone, the whole room seemed to exhale.

Heisenberg was first to leave, shoving himself off the doorframe with his shoulder and dragging his great hammer along, head of it scraping the polished stone floor with a shrill metallic screech that made you flinch.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

"Congraaaats," he drawled over his shoulder, giving a lazy two-fingered salute without turning. "Best fuckin' wishes. May your union be long and… fertile." He laughed once but loudly. "Try not to break him too fast, Winters."

Ethan's jaw locked and arm at your waist did not move, but you felt the muscles in his forearm cord up, hard as rope under your ribs.

Moreau limped after his brother with that lurching, sidelong gait but he stopped in front of you, short frame from his state barely reaching Ethan's chest. His fishy pale eyes flicked from Ethan to you and back, watering. He tried to smile, lower lip trembling and when his mouth opened, there was a small wet click as something in his palate resettled.

"C-congratulations, brother," Moreau stammered up at Ethan, his voice thin and slippery like something dragged from underwater. "And to you, t-too. You're—you're very lucky. It's… very special." His head bobbed as he swallowed hard again. "I'm so happy for you."

Before you could answer, his slimy palm reached out and settled on your thigh over your jeans. It was cold and damp and even through the denim you felt the moisture soaking through in a small dark patch. Something like fish oil that made your stomach lurch. You clamped down hard on the instinct to recoil, feeling so sorry for even thinking he was ugly and the disgust trying to twist your mouth, but the sensation of that hand was almost more than you could bear.

Ethan reacted instantly.

"Thank you, Salvatore," he said, warm and civil on the surface, but under the warmth there was a low bass hum of something else as he pulled you flush against him with the arm at your waist, hard enough that Moreau's damp hand slid off your jeans with a soft wet peel. Ethan tipped his head down and pressed his lips to your cheek, chaste but firm, marking you.

Then he looked down at his hunched brother and his tone gentled into almost pitying.

"I'm sure it won't be long," Ethan told him. "Mother Miranda will bring somebody home for you, too. You just have to be patient, brother. You'll have someone of your own."

Moreau's whole misshapen face lit up. His lopsided eyes went round and shining as he nodded and a bubble of drool broke at the corner of his mouth. "Th-thank you, Ethan. Thank you. That's— th-that's so kind of you to say.”

He lurched away toward the great doors, casting a damp wave over his shoulder to Alcina and she did not even acknowledge his existence, her yellow gaze had not left you and Ethan for a single second.

"So," Alcina said, taking a long, slow drag from her cigarette and letting the smoke drift down at you two in a thin gray curtain. "How very curious it is all very much attention Mother has been paying you lately, Ethan."

There was tension threaded through her every syllable, she was smiling in her own oblique, aristocratic way, telling him she was watching.

Ethan shrugged one shoulder. "I haven't asked for anything in all these years, Alcina. I think this was overdue."

"Mm." Her red mouth quirked. "How well you put things."

From the shadows, the tall Lady's three daughters all lifted small hands and waved to you with sinuous fingers and flirty actions before the three of them dissolved into whirring clouds of shining blowflies and were gone.

Ethan cleared his throat. "Alcina. The stones I asked, you have them?"

Alcina turned her sly gaze on him and held it, smile deepening while making him wait.

"Bela." She yelled loud enough for the eldest daughter to re-materialize only from the waist up, her lower body still a hovering churn of black insects. She held out one small palm and let two glimmering gems fall into her mother's huge, gloved hand. Then, without a word, Bela dissolved again into buzzing motes and streamed away.

Alcina let the gems roll around her palm a moment, admiring the way they caught the light. Then, with a lazy carelessness that was almost insulting, she flicked her wrist and tossed both of them at Ethan.

Before they had even reached the halfway point through the air, black mold erupted from the flagstones beneath his feet. A single sinuous vine, glossy and dark, uncurled upward and caught both stones on its blunt tip with unerring precision. It retracted, gliding back to Ethan's hand and he plucked the two rubies off it with two fingers. The vine sank silently back into the floor without so much as a scuff mark.

"Thank you, Alcina," Ethan said. "We'll take our leave now."

"Do enjoy your honeymoon, darlings.” Alcina nodded and gestured airily with her cigarette. “And take that hideous thing with you." Her eyes flicked, the trail of her smoke pointing as well in the direction you followed.

In the far corner stood Mold, hulking in a hunched-forward silhouette, all sinewy black musculature slick with a permanent oily sheen, taller shoulder cresting above the other.

Pinkish serum still oozed sluggishly from the torn stump, running in slow rivulets down the ridged flank of his body and dripping in fat drops on the marble.

He had been staring at the floor the whole time.

Ethan glanced at him, then nodded and turned toward the exit, keeping you tucked hard against his side and, in turn, you went with him while behind you, with a soft slurping shuffle of ichor-wet feet, Mold followed, single remaining arm hanging heavy at his side.

The great front doors of Castle Dimitrescu groaned outward and the freezing dusk-air of the mountain slammed into your face, snapping you awake.

Taking the same path of this afternoon now in reverse, snow crunched hard under your boots as Ethan's boots left deep, deliberate prints beside yours.

Overhead the sky had turned a bruised-gray, thickened with clouds and somewhere behind those clouds the sun was sinking.

Halfway down the switchback path, Ethan finally let go of your waist and you immediately felt the absence of him, a cold seam of air along your left side. He was digging in the pocket of that navy hoodie he wore under his golden heavy coat and pulled out two small silver bands, each had a small circular cavity set into its top face.

He held out one palm with both rings on it and with the other he took the two rubies to press them gently into its bezel. His thumbs worked around the edges, firming the settings, sealing the stones down snug. He held one ring up to the last of the light.

The crystal was deep red, pigeon-blood and unshadowed even in the failing evening, it seemed to glow from within.

He turned to you, blue eyes coming up under his brows almost shyly.

"Can I…?" he asked and lifted the ring between his fingers. "Would you let me put it on you?"

His voice was so soft that it was the thing undoing you every time. This gentle, hesitant Ethan, someone who could summon black tendrils out of the earth and turn anyone in awful monsters, asking you for permission to slide a ring onto your finger.

"Yes," you breathed and he took your left hand in his palm so warm, veins along the back of his hand faintly luminous, threads of pale blue moving under the skin as he lifted your knuckles to his mouth and pressed his lips to them.

A closed-mouth kiss, warm and dry, breath ghosting across your fingers.

When he lowered your hand slightly, his eyes glowed enough to be frightening, blue of his irises phosphorescent and you could see the reflection of your own face in them, small and pale, half hidden by your own knuckles.

Something warm and buoyant bloomed inside your ribcage that filled the whole cavity of your chest until your breath came shorter.

He slid the ring onto your ring finger and it fit perfectly as if he had measured you in your sleep.

Maybe he had.

The crystal caught the last strained shred of sunlight through the low clouds and threw a tiny red dot of light onto his cheek.

He put the other ring on his own finger and lifted your hand again to let both rings touch, tapping the stones together with a clear little tink.

"There," he murmured. "Now everybody knows."

You couldn't speak.

He tipped his head down the mountain and let his arm reclaim your waist. "Let's walk it, not that far if we cut through the trees. Duke's cart takes the long road but I know a shortcut."

Your stomach dropped a full inch at hearing his proposal.

"Wait. You want to walk through the woods?"

He turned his head sideways, corners of his eyes crinkling and his mouth pulled up into a small crooked grin. "You scared, sweetheart?"

"There are lycans in there, Ethan."

"Mm." That grin got wider. "I know."

"Nobody goes in there, since I was a kid, they've said—"

"You afraid to go in with me?" His arm at your waist pulled you into his side and the words were teasing before his voice dropped a shade. "A marriage means I protect what's mine now. You understand? That's what this is." He lifted your left hand, kissed the ring on your ring finger. "From now on, anything with teeth that comes near you goes through me first. That's a promise."

You couldn't argue with that, not with the way his glowing blue veins throbbed once at the base of his throat as he said it.

He led you off the switchback path and into the treeline, forest swallowing everything the instant you crossed under the first branches. Even without leaves, the trees were so thick and knotted that daylight didn't get through.

Every step crunched on a carpet of frozen needles and bracken and branch creaked overhead at every step, making your shoulders climb toward your ears, hair on your forearms wouldn't lie flat.

A shrill little screech came from behind and you spun your head sideways.

Mold had followed you in while walking with the same lumbering hunched gait, one arm hanging low, stump of the other still weeping pink.

"Ethan," you said, chest aching at the sight. "Can you help him?"

Ethan stopped mid-stride and turned to look at your same direction, then at you and his mouth quirked at the corner.

"How about you do it?"

"…What?"

He laughed at your face and the laugh puffed out in a small cloud of steam in the cold air. He fully turned to stand in front of you, boots crunching on frozen leaves and he tipped his chin toward Mold.

"Go on. Fix him."

"Ethan, I have no idea how to."

He stepped so close that his nose brushed the side of your face, mouth grazing your cheekbone and his breath was moist against your ear.

"Focus, sweetheart," he murmured. His voice had gone lower and private. "Focus on what you want, picture exactly every detail and close your eyes if it helps. Then… push it out of you."

You closed your eyes and held the shape of Mold's ruined side in your mind, remembering how his arm looked, all sinew and glossy black skin.

Something respond somewhere behind your ribcage, a warm little pull, like a thread being drawn out of you the more seconda passed by.

You opened your eyes just in time to see Mold's stump had erupted, this time there were fine white filaments braiding themselves out of the missing arm wound, millions of them spinning together like weaving thread, thickening and gathering density. The threads twisted around one another and hardened as, in seconds, a whole arm had reconstituted itself but where the old arm had been slick tar-black, this new one was pearl-white.

A very sharp sort of blade at its tip long and hooked but also ivory-pale. The whole arm gave off a mineral, mycelial smell.

Mold lifted his new arm slowly and turned the blade this way and that.

He didn’t had a face to read but the way he held that arm out and stared at it felt, unmistakably, like awe.

Ethan turned to you and his lips parted a fraction, glowing blue eyes going wide as they caught the last of the dusk.

"Sweetheart." His American accent was reverent, hand coming up and taking your waist, drawing you around to face him fully, chest to chest in the freezing dim of the forest. "I've never seen that white mold before. You’re really a special one."

His hand rose to your jaw and cupped it, the glowing blue veins in the back of his hand were pulsing faster now.

"How the hell was I even able to?" You started and your voice was shaking. "Ethan, I thought you were the only one able to—"

"Oh?" he said, teasing while leaning in, forehead touching yours. "Only me? Am I the only one allowed to do the freaky stuff? Because I'm the Lord? Because—" a soft laugh "—what was it? I'm the one who drives people crazy and… feeds on their energies? Isn't that what my sweet husband told me?"

You scoffed and lifted your free hand to smack him lightly on the chest, feeling the shape of his pectoral through the soft fabric of the hoodie, solid and dense, causing your hand to pause a second too long there before you remembered to pull it away.

"I never said any of that, you ass. That's what the crazy people in the village say."

"Mm-hm." His mouth was so close now. "So what do you say about me, then? How would you correct these legends?" His nose brushed yours and he tilted his head just slightly, lips nearly on yours. "What am I to you?"

Your gaze fell to his mouth and you couldn't help it. His lower lip was slightly chapped from the cold, upper one dipping in a soft cupid's bow and his stubble ran right up to the edge.

His pupils had dilated so wide that the blue of them was only a thin ring around the black now and even that thin ring was glowing.

There was a humming pressure in the air between you that you felt settle behind your sternum and thrum there. It made your breath come short and knees soften.

You had felt this before since he had come into your life, this warm, coaxing gravity around him drawing you into orbit.

He didn't have to try or force anything, his presence just reached into you and something in your chest opened toward him.

It was becoming harder to tell apart from your own will.

"You're someone I'm grateful for every day. You’ve saved my life and gave me a chance at something new and happier. Than I ever thought I could have." your voice cracked, softer now, hesitant.

His breath caught in his throat, fingers on your jaw moving to your cheek and then his whole palm settled there, cradling your face, thumb sweeping under your eye. The blue veins in the back of his hand were pulsing very fast now, bright as gaslamps, feeding light up into his fingertips and in the reflection of his glowing eyes, so close to your own, you saw yourself.

Your own eyes were glowing too and there were faint threads of that same light glowing under your skin, running down the sides of your neck and along the tendons of your arms.

His mold had taken hold in you or something newer the two of you had made together and it was answering him now, calling to him from inside your own flesh.

God, you were so breathtaking now under his eyes, still you yet remade entirely by him and for him.

His thumb traced the corner of your mouth possessively as he pulled back just enough to look around the darkening wood, hand sliding down and fingers threading through yours, ring clinking softly against his own.

"C'mere, I want to show you something."

He stepped further into the trees and Mold did not follow him this time but slid up to your side instead, walking on your right silently.

The white blade caught what little light there was and gleamed pale, almost bioluminescent. That clean cold mineral smell drifted off of it.

Ethan stopped in a small clearing where the trees opened slightly and he looked around, mouth pulling into something between a smile and a sad expression.

"A lot of people died here, sweetheart. All victims of experiments or attack from the results of said experiments. This whole slope is nothing but bones under the soil." He toed the frozen earth with the tip of his boot. "But you know what that means? I have material."

Soon the earth shuddered and you felt it up through the soles of your boots.

In a circle around the clearing, the ground broke open by clawed hands of the usual black fungal color, glossy with slime and fingers tipped in dagger-like nails, followed by the bodies of the molded creatures.

They pulled themselves up out of the earth. Some of them stood on two legs, hunched forward like Mold, teeth in their mouths in uneven rows and chins running with black liquid.

Others came out on four legs, low to the ground, quadrupedal, horribly agile and thin.

They rose and circled, a dozen of them or even more that oriented themselves on Ethan.

Some of them turned their eyeless faces toward you and inclined their heads.

Ethan turned back to you, face so calm and eyes still glowing while his hand extended towards you, waiting.

Placing your hand in his, the circle of monsters shifted and they took a step closer.

"I can teach you this," Ethan said softly. He raised your joined hands to his mouth and kissed your knuckles again, and even in the freezing air his lips were warm. "All I've figured out since I left everything behind." His thumb rubbed gentle circles over the back of your hand. "You have it in you, I felt it the first night and you could stand higher than anyone else, with me."

The monsters swayed and of them, a lean quadruped, took a slow step forward and lowered its head almost to the ground in front of you.

"And I promise you," Ethan whispered, so low you barely heard, "if you stay with me, I will make you happy.“

The wind moved through the black branches overhead and somewhere very far away a single lycan howled.

You looked up at the strange gentle terrible man Mother Miranda had given you, looking at the ruby on your finger, glowing faintly of its own accord in the gloom, warmed by the light under your skin.

Mold was at your right, standing patient and proud, new white blade held slightly lifted, catching the last thread of dusk.

You squeezed Ethan's hand.

"Alright," you said and a smile broke wide across his face.

"We're gonna have so much fun." He breathed and the black ring of monsters around you shivered as one at the sound of his voice.

The rest of the walk down through the wood felt more like a procession.

Ethan kept you tucked snug against his side, arm heavy and warm across your lower back. Every so often his thumb would rub a small slow circle into the denim just above the jut of the bone while the molded creatures were following in silence, or as close to silence as a horde of half-decayed fungal things could manage.

Their bare wet feet made no sound on the frozen needles as the bipedal ones lumbered in a loose wedge, long arms swinging heavy and their heads dipped side to side to smell the air.

The quadrupeds fanned out farther, ranging into the underbrush while occasionally one of them would pause, lift its faceless head and let out a small wet chuff of steam before it would keep moving. All of them oriented on Ethan but every few paces one or two would tilt their heads toward you very attentively.

Mold walked at your right, respectfully close with his new white blade that caught what little moonlight had begun to filter through the bare canopy, flashing ghost-luminous in the dark.

You had walked maybe another quarter mile when the first howl came but Ethan didn't even slow his pace, he glanced once toward the source and his glowing blue eyes narrowed.

The molded around you did not need to be told. Two of the quadrupeds peeled off from the flank and streaked away into the dark, black bodies vanishing between trunks in the space of two heartbeats.

A lycan had bursted out of the brush and Mold was already at your side with his new white blade already raised.

The lycan had slammed into him and tried to claw at his chest with both paws and the wounds were closing rapidly, white filaments spinning themselves back together, hair-fine, glittering and the ragged edges of Mold's flesh knit shut in front of your eyes.

While the lycan was rearing back for another blow, Mold turned his shoulder and drove the ivory blade forward as it went through the lycan's chest so cleanly and its whole body sagged onto the shaft up to the point where Mold's arm met its ribs.

Mold had let it slide off the blade and it hit the frozen ground before he had lowered his hunched black head and began to feed.

The wet ripping sounds each led inside your head still.

By the time you cleared the last of the trees, the sky over the mountain had gone full night, thick with clouds and the roof of Ethan's house was visible ahead.

The moment your boots touched the packed dirt of the yard, the molded creatures behind you stopped, both you and Ethan turned and he was smiling faintly.

All of them sank into the ground as their body dissolved and waited for their master to summon them again.

Mold had not gone with the others. He was standing at the edge of the yard, big hunched silhouette half-lit by moonlight while he was looking at you. Or, well, he did not have eyes, but his head was tilted in your direction, angled just slightly and the tilt was unmistakably at you.

Very slowly, Mold lowered his head and you found yourself, without meaning to, dipping your own head in return. When you raised your eyes again, he too was already melting into the earth.

"He likes you," Ethan said, low and amused, close to your ear.

Your throat was tight for reasons you didn't understand while Ethan led you up the porch, boots thudding on the wooden boards and he pushed open the front door.

He had a look on his face that was a mix between embarrassed and determination as he bent.

His right arm hooked under the crook of your knees, calloused pads of his fingers dragging warm across the denim of your thigh while his left arm slid behind your shoulder blades and settled hot into your back, broad palm splayed wide against you and he grunted low in his chest to lift you up.

Your center of gravity swung out and up and settled against him and there was one dizzying second of weightlessness where your stomach dropped, legs kicking out in surprise before your arms went, entirely on instinct, up around his neck.

Both hands locked behind his nape, face ending up tucked against the warm side of his throat right where his jaw met the tendon.

A breathless, boyish laugh left his mouth that cracked in the middle, half a wheeze. "God, you're heavier than you look, sweetheart."

"Hey!"

"Joking, I got you don’t worry." He was grinning against your temple. He hitched you slightly higher in his arms with a small bounce that made you gasp and clutch at his neck.

The door hadn't fully opened and he wasn't going to fumble with it while holding you.

As he approached the porch step, a whole cascade of thin black vines slithered up out of the boards at the base of the doorframe, moving with the smooth muscular grace of eels and they wound up the door itself, pushing it wide open in front of him.

He walked through the opening with you cradled tight against his chest, ducking his head slightly so your temple wouldn't catch the frame and the vines pulled the door softly shut behind him, withdrawing down into the floorboards, gone.

While carrying you through the foyer he was still grinning like an idiot, crooked flush-cheeked grin and every few steps he'd hitch you higher and mutter, "don't wiggle—" and you'd laugh helplessly into his neck.

At the foot of the stairs he paused to make a show of it and he looked down at you with those blue eyes, one eyebrow cocked.

"Ethan, put me down, I can walk."

"Nope." The banister creaked under his hand as he passed and halfway up you tried, very quietly, to peek at his face and see if he was struggling and he caught you looking, immediately making an exaggerated ‘hyuh!’ sound like he was going to drop you and you clutched at his neck, making him laugh so hard he actually did wobble one step.

"Ethan!"

"Sorry, sorry. Couldn't help it." He made it to the top landing and breathing harder now from laughing.

His cheeks were flushed pink under the stubble and his hair had gotten a bit messier.

The door to his room was already opening for him from a slender black vine that had unspooled from the wall to twist the handle down and press the door inward, it stayed there, curled around the doorknob.

He carried you through and the vine drew the door shut behind him with a soft click.

The bedroom was warmer than the rest of the house and he crossed to the bed to set you down on the coverlet with care before standing over you and just looking.

Looking around because you’ve actually never been in his bedroom before.

The floor was a warm herringbone of dark polished wood and there was a heavy dresser against the wall with a small oil lamp on it. A big bed you were currently lying on that had a chevron-patterned quilt in dark green and cream, mounded pillows.

On the floor at the foot of the bed, a soft green plush turtle with a pink shell, a set of wooden blocks in primary colors and a little painted wooden car, small pale yellow rubber ball and a baby's play arch with dangling animals stitched to it.

Your gaze moved slowly across the questionable toys in his room, up to Ethan's face that had gone briefly, terribly still. He was looking at the toys too before his eyes came back to yours and there was something in them, some unspeakable old grief, wrapped over so many years that it had gone smooth. His mouth did not curve down, jaw not clenching but only looking and then he let out a very small breath.

Neither of you said a thing and some part of you understood, without having to be told, that whatever those toys meant, they were very heavy in meaning and not to be touched with words.

His large calloused hand rose and cradled your cheek, thumb sweeping under your eye. His skin was warm and the veins in the back of his hand pulsed faint blue. M

"Hey, look at me. Your heart's going a mile a minute," he murmured, corner of his lips curling upward as his thumb traced the line of your cheekbone. "I can feel it right in here." His other hand had come to rest, flat and heavy, right over your sternum. "You don't have to do anything you don’t want, sweetheart." His eyes flicked around the room, back to you. “This doesn't have to happen, I'd be happy just to hold you."

His hand at your chest pressed lightly, reassuring.

You looked up at him and heart was, indeed, beating rather fast but the warmth radiating off his palm through the thin fabric of your shirt was working its steady way into the inside of your ribs and the humming pressure in the air around him had softened into something coaxing that reached into the base of your skull.

No clue honestly how much of what you felt now was yours and how much of it was his, but you weren't sure you cared.

"I want this with you," you said, voice coming out lower than you meant it to.

His pupils dilated, blue of his eyes narrowing into a thin ring around wide black.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you whispered.

He was on you before you could take another breath, coming down over you slowly, planting one knee up on the mattress and easing his weight down with one big hand behind the back of your head cradling you flat, laying you back into the pillows. He propped himself over you on his forearms, hips braced above yours while lowering his mouth to yours.

The first kiss was just a press in greeting before his lips molded to yours and his mouth parted, wet warmth of him opening against you, followed by the slow soft slide of his tongue.

It traced the seam of your lips first, testing and when you opened for him with a small helpless breath, he came in slowly, tongue sliding against yours with heat that made a shiver run all the way down to your knees.

He rolled his tongue against yours and drew it back, every time he retreated a fraction and lured yours after him, drawing you in.

Your hands buried themselves in his hair, slightly damp from the woods as you fisted a handful of it at the crown of his skull and he made a low pleased sound against your mouth, vibrating through your lips into your teeth.

He tilted his head the other way and came back deeper as you felt your whole body warming, top of your head first, then your throat and after that, treacherously, further down.

His broad shoulders blotted out the lamplight and framed the whole room down to just him.

When he finally pulled back, he was breathing hard, mouth pinker than it had been and very wet, cheeks flushed and the ring around his blue irises had gone almost fully luminous, throbbing gently in time with the veins in his neck and the backs of his hands.

Something brushed your side.

You looked down, breath held as you saw black fungal tendrils, glossy while moving.

Two of them had risen from the sides of the mattress and were drifting just above your ribs, one of them lowered itself and grazed the exposed strip of skin above your hipbone where your shirt had ridden up.

Another traced the line of your bicep through the fabric of your sleeve, almost curious in their behavior

You made a soft sound in your throat.

Ethan smiled down at you, breathless, his mouth slick. "Sorry, sorry. I got a bit excited and it’s… kinda hard controlling everything every time. I can make 'em stop."

"No," you heard yourself say. "No. Don't."

His pupils blew out again, breath dragging in through his teeth.

"Sweetheart," he breathed and lowered his forehead to yours, breath ghosting hot across your mouth. "In those dreams you've been having…" his voice was so low and private that you felt the words vibrate on your own lips "we did a couple of things together, you remember?"

God, you did. As if waking up from those dreams flushed and shaking, unsure whether they had been sent to you or whether you had wanted them all along.

This was the confirm he had been the pioneer of those all along.

"I remember," you whispered.

"I was hoping if tonight we might try something a little… different." He smiled while those tendrils carassed all possible piece of skin exposed and it was a dangerous, tender smile.

He kissed the corner of your mouth. "But only if you want."

The pressure in the air around you thickened and the low warm hum that always spun out of him settled deep into the pit of your abdomen and pulled, feeling yourself opening toward him.

"Please, Ethan. Please. I want it… whatever you want." Your voice came out even smaller than before, rough at the bottom.

His eyes closed for a moment and he shuddered all the way down through his shoulders and into his hips where they braced above yours.

"Good," he breathed. "That's my good boy."

The tendrils moved and they came from every direction at once.

Two of them snaked up along your arms as your fingers, still buried deep in his dirty-blond hair, spasmed. They curled up your forearms in wet spirals and they so gently pried your hands free of Ethan's hair. They looped around your wrists and drew your arms up over your head to pin them into the pillows.

Then the two tendrils fused right at the point above your wrists, joining wetly into a single thicker cord, twice the strength and twice the grip so that both your wrists were bound together and held high. Your shoulders stretched and ribs lifted, back arching up off the mattress.

Another set of tendrils came up from below the bed and coiled around your ankles to spread you insistently, sliding your knees wide apart and settling your bare feet flat against the mattress with your legs bent at the knee.

Then they slithered further up under the hems of your jeans, over the tops of your socks and started their long slow travel up along the inside of your calves.

Goosebumps sparked wherever they touched, sharp constellations of them running up along your shins and up over your knees.

The instant they crossed your knees you gasped and they kept going.

Under your jeans, snugging against the skin of your inner thighs as they slid up until they reached the crease of your groin.

Together, they turned inward and they found your boxers, worm up under the waistband, and settled. One of them slid its cool wet length up along the underside of your cock, curling gently around the shaft from base to tip and the other spooled up under your sack, curling and stroking.

A soft high sound broke out of you before both tendrils withdrew backward, sliding along the crack and settling themselves.

One at each side of your hole, pressing in gently from both sides and framing the entrance without breaching it.

Two smooth cool weights right against your rim, pressure of them squeezing your entrance from either side, kneading softly.

This made you actually whine and Ethan was watching your face the whole time, blue eyes glowing and lips parting, worship and hunger all at once.

Your back arched as far as it could with your wrists pinned overhead and you bit your bottom lip until you tasted iron, cock throbbing hot inside your boxers, held snug in the coil of one of the tendrils, which had begun very lightly, to squeeze along its length in rippling pulses.

"Do you want—" Ethan asked and his voice was rough as gravel now, all boyishness burnt off it, "—this?"

The two tendrils at your entrance moved, one of them slid up as its tip pressed gently at your hole and you tensed on reflex, but it was so patient and you were already so slick (you hadn't even understood how you were slick, thought all your veins were currently phosphorescent so that could definitely had a contribution) while these tendrils themselves were coating you in some warm oil-thick fluid as they moved. The tip that went in first was small, not much thicker than a finger but it pressed deeper and sank while, surprisingly, beginning to swell.

You felt it thicken inside your walls as it went from finger-thick to two-fingers, then three till it got even wider and your mouth fell open, a punched-out sound came out from your throat and your hips lifted off the mattress on their own.

Another tendril drifted up beside your face and stroked slowly down your cheek, wiping the tear that had spilled out of the corner of your eye.

"—or…" Ethan breathed above you and his voice had gone hoarse, "this?"

The swelling tendril shrank back to its original size in one smooth pulse and then, before you could process the loss, a second tendril, matched in girth to the first, pressing itself alongside its twin at your entrance and began to ease in beside it.

Both at once, slow and patient, widening you out around them.

Your toes curled hard into the coverlet and both of your feet pointed, back arching so high that a second tear slid down your temple.

Ethan let out a husky, breathless laugh that got caught in his chest.

"Yeah," he murmured and there was a wolf-grin at the edges of his mouth. "I thought so. This one, then. Look at you." He lowered his forehead to yours and kissed the tip of your nose before rising up onto his knees.

The one maddening part was that he was still fully clothed while those things he summoned and controlled were stretching you open around, one of them curling around your cock inside your boxers, another stroking softly along your bound wrists and he was still in his blue hoodie and jeans.

He grinned down at you and reached over his shoulder with one hand to grab the hoodie by the back of the neck and hauling it up over his head in one long drag. The hem caught briefly on his stubble, hair mussing itself further as he tossed the hoodie somewhere behind him.

Underneath he wore a plain white t-shirt and that came off next in one quick motion that made the muscles across his shoulders roll.

Pale under the shirt, lean and corded, different scars. His left hand had awful stitches all around it at wrist level and some glossy black mold dripped from them occasionally, there were also blue veins pulsing beneath his sternum, radiating a bit everywhere just like your own body.

He unbuckled his belt, shoved the jeans down his hips and off, taking his boxers with them and he was hard, dick standing up thick and heavy against his lower abdomen along a subtle sheen at its base.

As if the mold's craftsmanship had extended even here, adding girth, length and a hot flushed weight that made your throat close.

He crawled back up over you.

"Not yet," he murmured, seeing where you were looking, running his knuckles down your cheek.

He hooked two fingers into the collar of your shirt and worked it off, lowering his mouth and pressing warm kisses to your collarbone, dip of your throat and valley between your pecs, stubble scraping soft against you and leaving behind an addictive burning sensation.

His tongue was hot as it flicked around your hard nipple right over the peak and you cried out involuntarily, hips bucking up off the mattress and driving the two tendrils deeper in and your bound wrists yanked hard against the tendril at your head as you sobbed.

Ethan hummed against your chest and his tongue circled you, every time making your cock throb harder inside the coil that held it.

He switched to your other nipple, tongue flattening and dragging before it peaked and flicked, dragging again right after as you writhed and shook your trembling bound arms.

All along your chest and your abdomen faint threads of light were pulsing under the skin, tracing the paths of veins, following the ladder of your ribs and gathering into a soft nimbus at the center of your sternum.

Every time your cock throbbed, the light did the same with it, running down the insides of your thighs, spreading up along your throat.

Ethan lowered his head to a rib and kissed one of the glowing lines.

"So handsome," he breathed.

He shifted to prop himself up on one elbow and his free hand went, unmistakably from what you could assume from the limited vision you had, down to his own cock.

Wrapping his fingers around it and began to stroke himself with his gaze fixed on your face and occasionally dropping the the work his mold powers had were up to, letting you know the sight of you like this was doing things to him.

The two tendrils inside you began to move, pumping in and out together, then alternating. When one withdrew, the other pushed deeper and they swelled by half a shade whenever they were fully seated inside before slimming to slide back out.

One of them had learned, already, exactly the angle that made you sob as it found your prostate ad hammered it, throbbing, while its twin fucked deep against it from the other side.

Those around your cock squeezed in matching pulses, slow up-strokes and slow down-strokes as its tip flicked cruelly along the slit at the head of you, gathering up the slick pre-come that dribbled out of you and smearing it back down along your shaft.

Ethan's fist worked his own cock in time with the tendrils.

"That's it," he was breathing and his abdomen muscles were flexing hard now, shadows between them deep and beautiful, "that's it, sweetheart, look at you, made for me."

You came without warning, the tendrils inside you pushed deep at exactly the wrong moment and the one around your cock squeezed tight, whole body of yours arching up off the mattress and into one long white line as your cock jerked hard inside the tendril's coil and hot spurts of come pumped out of you in thick pulses, hitting the underside of Ethan's abs and your own belly in many splashes.

The come landed white and hot on the glowing filaments under your skin and it lit up brighter where it fell, you could feel yourself glowing brighter through the release, mouth opening around a sound you didn't recognize as yours.

Ethan grabbed the base of his own cock hard and squeezed to stop himself.

"Fffff—" he hissed through his teeth, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched. "Christ, sweetheart."

You lay there panting while the tendrils inside you had slowed to a gentle rocking, keeping you stretched and warm. Your bound wrists tremble overhead, come cooling on your belly and your cock, still hard and trapped in its coil, twitches softly.

Ethan opened his eyes and looked down at the breath taking mess he had below.

"You want me?" he asked, hoarse. "You want me, sweetheart?"

The pressure in the room had gone thick, low humming behind your sternum climbing into your skull and it was pulling every good soft word you had ever thought about him up out of your throat, setting them on your tongue.

"Please," you whispered. "Please, Ethan. Please… in me. Please. I love—" your breath hitched and he made a broken sound that cracked out of his throat.

The two tendrils inside you slid out slowly both at once in one long retreat that left you gaping empty and gasping at the loss. The one at your cock loosened and slid down your thigh and unspooled while those at your ankles kept your legs spread, even the combined two at your wrists stayed.

He wanted you held as be crawled up over you on hands and knees, cock heavy between his hips, blue veins glowing in a slow throbbing tracery down his forearms. He hooked one of your knees up over his elbow and folded you nearly in half.

The veins of your body were glowing so bright than you could see the shadow of his cock against your inner thigh as lined himself up.

He was so much bigger than the tendrils, blunt hot pressure of him alone at your entrance making you hiss through clenched teeth and he leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours and his glowing blue eyes bored into yours.

"Breathe," he whispered. "Breathe, sweetheart. I got you. I'll go slow, promise."

Following his instructions as he breathed with you, in and out.

In and out.

He pushed, head of him breaching you and the world went white at the edges. Your hands fisted uselessly in the coil above your head, back arching as he pressed his mouth to yours in the same instant and swallowed the sound.

He sank in so slowly it felt like it took the whole night, every inch demanding a new adjustment that made you gasp and stretch, he was so hot and so thick inside you.

Thank God those molded tendrils helped out otherwise you wouldn’t imagine how unpleasant and challenging this would have been.

He bottomed out with a soft, deep grunt, hips flush against the backs of your thighs and he held there for a full ten seconds while both of you shook.

"Fuck," he breathed, eyes watering. "Christ, sweetheart."

You could only pant at this point and the situation got worse in the best way possible when he started to move.

He drew back only a few inches and pushed back in and even that was almost too much while he watched your face for any wince and adjusted every time. Slowly he let himself take more range, half of him and then most of him, the whole length going in long, deep drags that made the head of his cock hammer across your prostate.

It made a hoarse whimper break out of your throat.

His mouth was everywhere, kissing the glowing lines under your skin and murmuring into your ear a steady low stream of ‘you feel so good, look at you, my sweet boy, my sweetheart,‘

He picked up his pace.

Deeper and faster but never brutal, hips snapping into yours with a wet slap of skin on skin that echoed off the wood-paneled walls. The bed creaked under you rhythmically and the tendril at your wrists tightened its coil in time with his thrusts.

Those at your ankles held you wide open for him and every time he bottomed out they hitched a fraction wider, opening you further and giving him more.

His left hand came down to your cock, which was leaking and hard again, glowing so brightly that his fist around it lit up in a mixture of your colors as he stroked you in time with his thrusts.

"Ethan! Ohhhh God—"

"I know, sweetheart. Come for me, come on. Let me feel it."

You came harder this time, so hard you thought you might have broken something in yourself but even if that was the case you’d have healed in no time.

Your whole body clenched around him, tight and the light under your skin pulsed so bright that for a moment you couldn't see, cock spurting hot into his stroking fist in long ropes that landed on both of your abdomens as you sobbed his name.

He fucked you through it without slowing down while you spasmed around him, riding it out and drawing every last shudder out of you until you were boneless and shaking, whimpering with each stroke.

Then his rhythm broke and he drove in hard, broad chest crushing down against yours and his forehead ground into the pillow beside your head as he groaned deep in his chest.

Even through the shaking you felt the hot heavy pulse of him deep inside filling every inch of you and there was so much of it that just kept coming, his whole body shuddered against yours in long ragged waves and his fingers dug into the meat of your thigh where he was still holding your leg up, groaning your name into the pillow muffled and adoring.

He collapsed onto you but even then he caught himself on his elbows at the last second, caging your body without crushing you. His sweat-damp forehead pressed against your temple and warm breath tore out of him in ragged gulps.

His cock, still buried deep, twitched more times inside you and each motion pumped another slow warm pulse that made you moan softly against his neck.

The tendrils at your wrists uncurled slowly, your arms came down around him without your telling hold to and wrapped around his back to held him there against your chest.

Those at your ankles eased free too and your legs fell open around his hips while he just breathed against your throat.

"…hi," he mumbled after a long moment and it was so dreamy and wrecked that a broken laugh spilled out of you.

"Hi," you whispered back.

You asked the agent working the front desk of the DSO office, who seemed surprised to see you as he instantly sat up straight.

“Agent Kennedy is at the shooting range, sir. He requested to be left alone for any non-emergency reasons.” The man stuttered his way through the sentence, making your lips twitch at the thought that Leon might have scared the living crap out of the guy.

You gave the agent a comforting smile. “Thank you and you need to relax, my husband’s only grumpy because he’s so old.”

“Understood sir.” The agent slowly calmed down, making you chuckle.

You gave him a thumbs up before walking off to find Leon, wondering what got your husband in such a mood.

~~~~~

The sound of the shooting range’s door opening and closing made Leon sigh as he turned on the safety of his gun before putting it down on the table.

Leon yanked the earmuffs off his head, grumbling unhappily. “I thought I requested to be left alone unless there’s an emergency that requires my attention.”

“Request denied, Agent Kennedy.”

Leon jumped, his head whirling to the direction of the entrance to see you walk in with a smirk on your face. His eyes dropped to the casual outfit you were wearing, having stolen his black jacket as it fit snuggly over your body.

“Baby, what are you doing here?” Leon gasped out as you reached him before pulling you in by the waist to greet you with a kiss.

You smiled against his lips before pulling away. “I wanted to surprise my husband today, have you seen him? He’s usually not grumpy around me.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Leon chuckled, feeling some of the day’s stress lift from his shoulders just by the sound of your voice.

You turned your head, observing the targets that Leon had been shooting for the better part of the hour. “Someone’s a little out of it if he’s missed a headshot.”

“I don’t miss.” Leon retorted with a scoff, glancing at the cardboard targets that were hanging in the range before turning back to you.

You tilted your head, the act of it almost made Leon coo at how adorable you were being in front of him. He felt so lucky that you agreed to marry him.

Leon saw a flicker of an idea appear behind your eyes as you walked up to where the barrier was before lifting yourself up so you were sitting down on the table next to the gun.

Leon cocked an eyebrow at you as he walked up to where you sat, letting out a pleased hum when you spread your legs so he could settle himself in the middle.

Leon’s hands reached out to your thighs but you slapped them away, giggling at the offended look he gave you.

You shook your head and tutted. “Not yet, you have to prove that you’re a good shot before you can have your way with me.”

“Cute,” Leon murmured. “You think you sitting in front of me is going to distract me?”

“I don’t know, let’s test out that theory.” You smirked up at Leon before you wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him closer to you.

Leon hissed, feeling his hips meet yours before lightly glaring down at you while you just winked at him as your hands explored the front of the tight tactical shirt he’d always wear.

You leaned close, your breath hitting the sensitive spot on Leon’s neck as you let out a low chuckle. “All you need to do is get three headshots, which means you only have three tries and that’s it. If you win, you get to do anything you want with me.”

“If I lose?” Leon asked, making you pull back slightly so he had a better look at your face.

You raised your eyebrows at him. “Hope you’re okay being blue balled for the weekend.”

Leon’s eyes widened for a second, his jaw flexing at the challenge you gave him before he huffed out a laugh and reached for an extra set of earmuffs to put on your head.

“I don’t want you to go deaf, baby.” Leon murmured, getting an appreciative peck on the lips from you before you tugged on his hips again so it touched yours.

Leon held back a moan as he put on his own earmuffs before grabbing his gun and turning the safety off, he smirked and aimed at the new set of targets that came in.

The smirk on Leon’s face fell when your hands traveled down from his chest and then down to the area around his navel.

Leon hesitated in shooting as you repeated the process, his fingers flexing around the gun before feeling your hands pause around his abdomen.

Leon took a quick breath before firing, successfully hitting the target on the head before the board moved for the next target to appear.

With a new target, came a new problem as you dipped your head towards his neck and dropped a few kisses on his pulse point.

Leon’s eyes fluttered shut for a second, his stance faltering before he forced his eyes to open and locked back in.

Leon gulped when your lips trailed along the edge of his jaw, your teeth nipping lightly on his chin before you apologetically soothed the pain with your tongue.

Leon tried his best to focus, the gun in his hand wavering as you continued leave open kisses on his neck.

If Leon was honest, he felt his back sweat a little at the constant attention you were giving him before you took another pause and rested your face against his collarbone.

Leon immediately steadied his hands before firing his second shot, the bullet penetrating the head of the board clean.

Leon let out a sigh of relief, knowing that he had one more left. Maybe if he was fast enough, he could shoot the last target even before you could do something else to distract him.

Unfortunately, you were quicker than he anticipated when your fast hands unbuttoned his pants so you could shove your hand in to fondle his cock over his underwear.

“This is tougher than getting Elpis.” Leon muttered unhappily as he felt you continue to stroke him, unaware of what he had just said due to the ear muffs.

Leon didn’t waste any more time as soon as the target appeared right in front of him, firing off his gun and hitting the head in record time before turning on the safety of his gun and slamming it down on the table.

Leon was disappointed when your hand retreated before you covered him up. His eyes glazing over as he grabbed your hips tightly, capturing your lips with his.

You laughed into his mouth before stopping the kiss by pushing against his chest, making Leon frown as he obediently pulled away.

You gave Leon an amused smile as you took off the earmuffs, Leon doing the same.

“You,” Your finger poked Leon’s chest. “Will get your reward soon, just not in a government run facility.”

“I have a personal office.” Leon reminded you, making you roll your eyes at him before you pushed against his body so you could get off the table.

Leon watched as you dusted off your clothes, his eyes following your every move as you walked towards the main door of the shooting range.

You turned to Leon, walking backwards with a grin on your face. “I’m sure the DSO wouldn’t mind that you took a half day to spend quality time with your husband right? I very much would love to continue this in the comfort of our bed and not on the couch of your office.”

“You’re trouble.” Leon shook his head fondly at you, hearing you laugh at his response.

You smirked as you reached the door, your fingers resting on the handle. “Guess you’ve rubbed off on me, in more ways than one.”

You winked at Leon before walking out of the door, leaving the blonde man to sigh as he forced himself to calm down incase he traumatised anyone with the bulge in his pants.

He couldn’t wait to get home.

~~~~~

“You’re such a tease, you know that?”

Leon grumbled as he slammed the door of the apartment, watching as you were casually stripping in the middle of the living room.

You glanced back at him, removing your jeans as you continued to head towards the direction of the bedroom. “Yeah, and?”

Leon let out a deep chuckle before he chased after you as you disappeared into the bedroom, quickly removing the offending items of clothing that was on his body.

Leon was particularly glad to get rid of his pants that were beginning to feel a little too tight at the front.

Leon froze at the entrance of the bedroom, his eyes raking in the sight of your nude body on display.

He licked his lips at the sight. “Well, you’re a sight to behold.”

“You’re free to explore if you’d like. I’m not going anywhere.” You smirked at Leon, stretching your body lazily on the mattress.

Leon laughed before joining you in bed, he laid right down beside you with a fond smile on his face. “Hi.”

“Hey, you.” You replied, reaching out to caress Leon’s beard. Leon leaned his face towards your hand with a sigh.

Your soft laughter in response sent butterflies to Leon’s stomach. After years of being together, on top of being married, he still can’t believe how lucky he was to be yours.

Leon leaned in, locking his lips with yours as his hand grabbed your waist before pulling your body closer to his.

You let out a sigh that Leon immediately swallowed when your cocks touched, the friction creating sweet pleasure.

“Well I won the challenge, do I get my prize now?” Leon asked with a smirk.

You rolled your eyes at him before rolling your bodies over so you were sat on his lap, Leon’s hands automatically gripped your waist.

You smiled down sweetly at him, a sight that still made Leon’s heart skip a beat. “Your prize will be me taking care of you and making sure all your stress and worries go away.”

Leon gulped before letting out a sigh when you leaned down to his neck, leaving kisses that lingered on his skin as you descended along his body.

“Oh baby.” Leon moaned out when you took his cock into your mouth, the combination of the wet heat of your mouth’s interior and the way your tongue was swirling around his length caused him to throw his head back into the pillows.

Leon’s hands were gripping the sheets of the bed, his knuckles turning white when he felt the head of his cock hit the back of your throat.

You pulled off with a gasp, a string of saliva connecting the tip of his cock with your lips as you grinned up at Leon, your hand using your saliva as lube to jerk him off.

“Get up here, baby.” Leon tapped his face, smiling when you rolled your eyes at him before you got up and positioned yourself right over his head.

You chuckled, grabbing the headboard of the bed to support yourself.

“My favourite.” Leon whistled, his hands gripping your thighs as you stood over him before tugging you down to sit on his face.

Leon heard you sigh when his tongue penetrated your hole, he moaned in response knowing that he was the reason that you were feeling good.

The sounds of your moans combined with the wetness of Leon’s tongue as he ate you out, made his cock rock hard.

“Fuck!” You whimpered when Leon latched his lips on the rim of your hole and sucked while his tongue was still inside you. “Leon, I’m supposed to be taking care of you.”

Leon chuckled before patting your thighs, signalling you so you could get off his face. He didn’t want to overwhelm you just yet.

Leon winked at you as you settled back on his lap before he surprised you by turning your bodies over so you were lying on the bed this time.

“I know, baby but you know me. I can’t help but want to please you.” Leon murmured before capturing your lips with his in a heated kiss as he slipped his tongue into your mouth.

Leon greedily swallowed your moans and whimpers as he aligned his cock with your hole before he carefully pushing the head in.

You gasped into his mouth at the intrusion, Leon letting out a breath at how tight you were.

“It’s okay, baby. Just relax for me, the only way to take care of me is to help me take care of you.” Leon whispered against your lips before he kissed you to distract you from the pain.

You whimpered. “Leon.”

“I know, baby. You’re doing so good for me.” Leon cooed at you, sighing when you finally relaxed so he could bottom out.

Leon moved his hips with careful precision, checking your face to see any signs of discomfort as he dragged his cock out of your walls before slipping back in.

You gasped. “You’re so big.”

“After all these years, it’s amazing how it always feels like it’s our first time together.” Leon panted out, moving his hips faster.

You and Leon have had sex in many positions over the years, some hotter than others but Leon always loved having you under him so he could watch your facial expressions as he made love to you.

Your hands holding on to his back tightly, your nails clawing into the skin with every thrust of Leon’s hips that you took.

“Faster, harder.” You told Leon before throwing your head back into the pillow when he obliged.

Leon latched his teeth onto the skin of your neck, biting and licking as he continued his sharp thrusts.

Leon angled his hips and knew he hit the right spot when you suddenly cried out and hooked your legs around his waist to pull him deeper into you.

“Would you look at that, seems like I do have perfect aim after all.” Leon chuckled wetly against your neck before pulling back when your hand tugged the back of his head.

You smirked at Leon. “As long as this specific weapon of yours is aimed at me, Kennedy.”

Leon stared, your hair was messy as your skin was covered with sweat and he knew he reflected the same image in your own eyes.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful.” Leon let the words slip out of his mouth.

Your eyes widened for a second before your face softened as you reached out to cradle Leon’s cheek.

Leon sighed, leaning his face into your hand. His thrusts had gone slower, the heated charge of energy now replaced with sensual lust.

“Baby, with the way you’re squeezing me, I’m not going to last long.” Leon grunted out.

Your hand moved to the back of Leon’s neck, tugging his head down so his lips could meet yours before you pulled slightly back and nipped the bottom of his lip with your teeth.

Before Leon realised what was happening, his cock was filling you up with his seed. He felt his skin flush before he hid his face in your neck with a groan.

“That’s unfair.” Leon told you, his voice muffled against your neck as you chuckled.

Leon felt you kiss the side of his head as your fingers softly run through the hair on the back of his head.

You sighed, happily. “You made me cum a while ago but you were too caught up with looking at my face that you didn’t realise it, I thought I was going to combust by you hitting the hell out of my prostate even after I came.”

“I’m sorry baby.” Leon chuckled before lifting his head and dropping a kiss on your lips.

You smiled. “We have to get up, shower and change the sheets.”

“Do we have to?” Leon whined.

You cocked an eyebrow at Leon, seemingly unimpressed. “Yes.”

“I can just lick up the sweat from your body.” Leon suggested, trying to put all his weight down on your body so you couldn’t move out from under him.

You just gave Leon a look of disdain in return, a sharp contrast to the facial expressions you were giving him earlier while the both of you made love.

You poked Leon’s forehead, making him flinch. “If you don’t get off me and take a shower, I’m banning sex for the next month.”

Leon shivered, he knew you weren’t joking before he let out a defeated sigh and hung his head in defeat.

“Yes, dear.”

*****

Author’s note:

A little more Leon for this account, it’s quite fun to write Leon in a domestic setting

It didn’t take a genius to understand how the world worked. 

Predators and prey.

The distinction has existed long before language, before civilizations, and even before fire itself. Even now, centuries after society had supposedly moved beyond such primitive instincts, with laws and technology that stretched across continents, nobody could truly escape them as they were buried beneath skin and bone.

It was woven into the very foundation of life and no amount of modernization could completely erase millions of years of evolution.

Everyone knew it. 

Especially prey.

The only difference was that now they wore suits, paid taxes, and pretended otherwise.

Felines lounged in expensive penthouses while deer hurried through crowded streets. Foxes grinned with too many teeth for comfort. Bears occupied positions of power. Hawks stalked from above. Rats thrived in hidden corners of cities or their tiny homes while sheep gathered in comfortable communities where they felt safe among their own kind.

Most hybrids learned to coexist.

Most.

Because instincts however, were another matter entirely.

No matter how modern society became, nobody could completely suppress what nature had designed them to be. 

A bunny would always recognize a fox or wolf.

A mouse would always fear a snake.

And predators?

They never stopped noticing prey. As if that wasn’t enough, society was divided by a second hierarchy layered over the first.

Alphas, betas, and omegas.

Betas made up the majority of the population and generally lived ordinary lives. Alphas possessed stronger instincts and stronger pheromones—they naturally commanded attention whenever they were around.

Omegas were rarer.

Far rarer.

Sensitive to scents and instinctual cues. Often viewed as vulnerable regardless of whether they actually were.

For predator omegas, life could be difficult.

For prey omegas, life could be terrifying.

And unfortunately for you, fate decided to make you both.

A bunny. An omega.

A combination that attracted attention all the time.

Most days, you managed.

You kept your small ears hidden beneath hoods. You avoided dangerous neighborhoods. You ignored the lingering stares from strangers who caught your scent in crowded spaces.

Tonight wasn’t the kind of night you could manage.

The city streets felt wrong.

Too empty and too silent.

Your bunny ears twitch beneath the hood of your sweater as you hurried along the road. 

The sensation started as a simple feeling—being watched. Your heartbeat quickened and you glanced behind you.

Nothing.

Just empty sidewalks, a few flickering streetlights, no footsteps. Not even movement of trash tumbling in the light breeze. Yet the feeling refused to disappear.

The problem was that you didn’t know what was causing this fear. Not yet.

Hidden among the shadows of an alley, glowing eyes followed your every move. Tall ears tilted forward as he listened to the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat from several blocks away.

Patient, amused, even starving.

And there you were—so small compared to him and such fragile prey.

Sinister remained crouched behind a dumpster, one hand resting on the ground to stabilize himself and a grin spread across his face.

Most prey disappointed him.

You were different. You could feel him even from over there!

And yet, the hunt hadn’t even begun and you were already afraid without knowing you were actively playing with him.

—

Something moved behind you. 

A figure emerged from the mouth of a narrow alley so casually that, under different circumstances, you might have mistaken him for someone simply heading home after work or leaving a friend's place.

Dark jeans and a charcoal jacket left partially unzipped, hands tucked into his pockets.

Your steps faltered. There was nothing that should have been alarming, yet everything in your body erupted into panic the moment his eyes landed on you.

You couldn’t smell him before, now you could.

He’s not only a wolf, but an alpha.

Your bunny ears twitched violently beneath your hood.

The stranger’s head tilted slightly and a smile pulled at his lips.

It wasn’t friendly at all. It was more like he’d finally found something he’s been looking to play with. Something fascinating and so sweet smelling.

“Well,” he said softly.

“Ah!”

The sound that left you was humiliating.

A tiny squeak.

The kind of sound a frightened prey animal made, and the kind of sound that made predators excited to hear.

Your eyes widened.

HIs smile widened too.

You spun around and bolted down the street with every ounce of speed your little legs could manage. The sudden movement sent your hood flying backward, and two soft bunny ears immediately sprang free.

The sensation barely registered. You were too busy trying not to die. Behind you, however—

His eyes widened. “…A bunny?” His eyes followed the movement of your ears as they bounced with every frantic step.

Of all the prey animals he could have stumbled across.. a bunny. An omega bunny!

The universe clearly liked him today.

“…No way.” His grin slowly spread. Then spread further—until it bordered on unsettling.

That explained so much.

And those ears—small and rounded. Not the long elegant ears of larger rabbit breeds.

It was cute.

Ridiculously cute.

He actually laughed. A low sound that echoed into the lonely, night air. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

                         ༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶

Meanwhile, you were rapidly discovering that being terrified made it difficult to think.

A bunny wasn’t built for fighting. You were built for one thing.

Running.

And right now, you were putting that evolutionary advantage to use.

The city blurred around you. Streetlights. Storefronts. Passing cars. Everything became a streak of color.

Your bunny ears flattened against your head as you ran.

Don’t look back. Don’t look back.

Don’t—

Curiosity won.

You glanced over your shoulder.

The wolf was grinning and he wasn’t even trying.

He walked after you at first, hands still in his pockets. Completely relaxed. As if he already knew how this would end.

Why did he look so confident?

Why did he look so happy?

The answer arrived a moment later.

Sinister looked directly in your large eyes, then he started running. And suddenly the distance between you started disappearing.

Far too fast. The kind of speed nature had gifted wolves specifically so rabbits would never feel completely safe.

“N- No, no, no, no—”

You darted around a corner. Then another and another, desperately trying to lose him.

The city quickly became a maze. People became obstacles. You nearly crashed into a pair of deer hybrids waiting at a crosswalk. One startled look at your face was enough for them to step aside.

You kept running.

A fox hybrid exiting a convenience store blinked as you flew past. Then immediately moved out of the way after spotting the massive wolf several yards behind you.

Nobody intervened.

Nobody was stupid enough to get involved.

Not when an alpha predator looked that focused and that interested.

Sinister followed at an easy pace. He wasn’t even breathing hard, but you were fast, he’d give you that. Faster than most prey. Quick on your feet. Exactly what you’d expect from a Netherland Dwarf. But panic made prey predictable.

He could practically see your instincts making decisions for you. And his grin never faded.

He should have ended the chase already. Could have, very easily. Yet every time he got close enough to catch you, he slowed down. Just enough to allow hope to return. Allowing you to think maybe you’d escape.

Then he’d close the distance again to watch your panic spike all over. Watching those little bunny ears pin back tighter.

It was fascinating.

—

You glanced back again and your foot caught on an uneven section of pavement.

The world tilted for a moment and you stumbled.

Another squeaky sound escaped your throat. For one horrible second you thought you were going down. Somehow you caught yourself and kept running.

But the damage was done.

Mark’s eyes widened slightly, then narrowed. Something possessive flashed across his expression.

Ahead, your vision blurred. Your lungs burned. And you knew you couldn’t keep this up forever. Every breath came in short, frantic gasps as you sprinted through unfamiliar streets, desperately searching for somewhere—anywhere—to hide.

The sound of approaching footsteps never fully disappeared.

Your ears flattened tighter against your head as you darted around another corner. Then your eyes widened.

A children's park.

The small fenced playground sat mostly abandoned beneath the glow of nearby streetlights. Colorful plastic play structures cast long shadows across the ground. A slide. Monkey bars. A tiny plastic tunnel. A playhouse.

Your racing mind immediately latched onto one thought.

Everything was small, made for children. Made for someone much smaller than a fully grown wolf hybrid. Hope surged through your chest and without hesitation, you vaulted the low fence and sprinted across the playground.

The tiny plastic playhouse was too exposed. The slide offered nowhere to hide. The tunnel was perfect.

Well, perfect was a generous description because it was cramped, even for you. But you were a Netherland Dwarf hybrid. Small enough that people constantly underestimated just how tiny you actually were and could be.

Dropping to your knees, you quickly squeezed inside. The tunnel barely accommodated you. Plastic pressed against your shoulders, your bunny ears folded awkwardly against your head, but it worked. You crawled deeper inside until you reached the middle. Then you curled up as tightly as possible and waited.

Silence.

Your heart hammered against your ribs.

Thump, thump, thump.

Surely he’d lose track of you, right?

There was no way someone his size could fit in here. No way he'd bother checking the children's playground. No way—

But footsteps were approaching. 

You squeaked quietly as your blood ran cold.

The footsteps suddenly stopped. Silence returned.

You squeezed your eyes shut and pleaded internally.

“That was clever.” His voice sounded amused. “I’ll give you points for creativity, bunny.”

The casual nickname made your stomach churn unpleasantly. You pressed both hands over your mouth. Maybe if you stayed quiet—

A shadow fell across the tunnel entrance.

There was no way he could see you. The tunnel curved and the center section was hidden! He shouldn’t know you were here. Then again—

Wolf.

Enhanced hearing. Enhanced smell. Enhanced everything.

“Oh, come on.” Mark sounded almost offended. “You didn’t think that would actually work, did you?”

A small, terrified noise escaped your throat before you could stop it. Immediately regretting it, you clamped both hands tighter over your mouth.

Outside, Mark laughed. “There you are.”

The wolf crouched near the entrance. Not trying to reach inside. Not trying to drag you out. Just looking. Like he was enjoying this far too much.

Which, judging by the grin on his face, he absolutely was.

The scent of frightened omega practically filled the air around the playground.

Normally he would’ve ended the chase by now.

Normally the novelty would’ve worn off.

But this?

A tiny bunny rabbit hiding in playground equipment because the big bad wolf was chasing him.

The situation was ridiculous and somehow that made it even better.

Inside the tunnel, you pulled your knees tighter against your chest. If you stayed here long enough, he’d get bored.

Predators got bored, right?

One minute. Two. Three.

Neither of you moved.

Then Mark spoke again. “You know,” he said casually, “I was planning on going easy on you.”

Your ears twitched.

“You started running.. and then I found out you’re a rabbit.”

A pause.

“That really didn’t help your case.”

Your face burned. That wasn’t fair! None of this was fair. You hadn’t done anything. You just happened to exist.

Unfortunately, judging by the wolf sitting outside your hiding place with that patient smile on his face, that seemed to be more than enough.

He wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

                         ༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶

Twenty minutes passed.

At some point, your legs had stopped shaking so violently. Your breathing had steadied. And the crushing panic that had been suffocating you since the chase began had settled into something else.

Cautious hope.

Because the wolf had gone quiet.

Very quiet.

The silence stretched on for so long that you started wondering if he’d finally left.

Your ears twitched. Listening... and nothing.

Had he gotten bored? Maybe he’d realized this wasn’t worth his time. Slowly, carefully, you shifted inside the tunnel. The plastic creaked softly beneath you. A tiny bit more confidence returned.

Enough to make a terrible decision.

You began crawling toward the entrance with your heart pounding against your ribs. The tunnel opening grew closer. A sliver of moonlight spilled inside.

You stopped right before reaching it.

Listened.. nothing again.

Maybe he was really gone.

Your ears poked out first. Then the top of your head. Then your eyes. You cautiously peeked outside.

The playground was empty.

No wolf.

No—

A flash of movement.

Something dropped from above.

Your startled squeak barely had time to leave your throat before a hand shot toward you.

“Got you—” Mark's voice sounded far more excited than it had any right to.

You immediately jerked backward.

The grab missed. Mostly.

“Eeek!” You scrambled desperately deeper into the tunnel but the movement wasn’t fast enough—Mark’s hand closed on something. The back of your jacket, the fabric near the nape.

For a brief second, both of you froze.

You stared at the hand clutching your jacket.

Mark stared at the handful of fabric he’d managed to catch. Then his grin slowly widened. “Oh, that’s lucky.”

Your eyes widened in horror and you immediately grabbed the front of the tunnel with both hands. “No!”

He shifted until he was sitting comfortably on top of the tunnel.

Apparently, during those twenty minutes, he’d climbed up there without making a sound.

“Welp, now I've got you.” He sounded entirely too pleased with himself.

“Let go!” You pulled harder but his grip didn’t budge.

“No.”

“Why not?!”

“Because I caught you.”

What kind of answer was that?

Meanwhile, Mark looked delighted. His tail swayed lazily behind him. The moment you’d peeked your head out, his self-control had vanished.

He’d seen those little bunny ears. Seen those big, cautious eyes. Seen the hopeful expression that said maybe the scary wolf had finally left.

And before he could stop himself, he’d tried to grab you.

Unfortunately, his excitement had made him sloppy. Had you reacted a fraction slower, he would’ve had your wrist. Instead he’d ended up with a fistful of jacket.

Still.

A win was a win.

Inside the tunnel, you gave another determined yank. Nothing. The wolf wasn’t even straining. Your entire body moved yet his hand didn’t even tremble.

Which was horribly unfair and completely expected from an alpha wolf.

“Come on, bunny.”

The nickname made your ears twitch irritably again.

“I don’t want to.”

“You’ve made that very clear.”

A pause.

“You know,” he mused, “most prey don’t hide in playground equipment.”

“Most prey aren’t being chased by a giant wolf!”

“Hm, fair.”

And while you’d spent the last several minutes treating the tunnel like an anchor point, Mark seemed to have finally decided he’d indulged you long enough.

The tension on your jacket increased. Slowly and steadily.

“Wait!" The fabric pulled taut as you tightened your grip on the tunnel. “Wait, wait—”

Your hands slipped.

Mark gave one firm pull.

You were dragged several inches toward the entrance.

“Ah! Stop it! Stop!"

He continued pulling anyways, steadily reeling you in as though your resistance barely registered.

You kicked your feet against the plastic. The tunnel echoed with scraping sounds. Your fingers clawed. Nothing worked.

Moonlight spilled over your face.

And then—

You were out.

A startled squeak escaped you as the wolf effortlessly lifted you clear of the tunnel. The ground vanished beneath your feet.

Your entire body instinctively curled inward. Knees drawing up. Bunny ears flattening. Arms tucked close to your chest. As though making yourself smaller would somehow help.

You hung several feet above the ground, suspended entirely by the back of your jacket.

Mark stared.

And stared.

And stared.

The sight was almost enough to make him forget what he’d been doing.

The bunny had literally curled up midair.

Like some instinctive defense mechanism.

For a moment, the wolf simply admired his catch.

His voice sounded almost dreamy, “You know I’m stronger than you, right?”

You glared. Or at least attempted to.

The effect was somewhat diminished by the fact that you were currently dangling like a misplaced plush toy. “I noticed.”

He chuckled as he adjusted his grip slightly, just enough to keep you comfortable. Which was an entirely different problem.

“You really thought the tunnel would save you.”

“It almost did.”

“No. It did not.”

“It stopped you!”

“Barely. But, you know what the worst part is?”

“I don’t want to know.”

“I’m going to tell you anyways." You grunted and Sinister ignored it. “When I first saw you, I knew you were prey. Then I knew you were an omega. And when your hood fell off?" His grin widened.

“Oh no.”

You immediately knew where this was going.

“Oh yes. The ears came out.”

You buried your face in your hands.

“Your wittle bunny ears.” He mocked, looking delighted.

“Stop.”

“A tiny bunny.”

“Please.. stop.”

Sinister listened. For a moment at least—content to simply stand there with one hand in his pocket, the other holding the back of your jacket. Eventually, he tilted his head, dark eyes meeting yours.

“So.”

“So?” you repeated cautiously.

“So what exactly was your plan after the tunnel?”

“…I was hoping you’d leave.”

The silence that followed lasted two seconds before Mark burst out laughing. “Oh, yeah?”

“Mhm,” you hesitated.

His laugh grew louder, echoing across the empty playground.

“Oh my—” he exhaled between laughs, shoulders shaking. “You’re dumber than I thought!”

Your stomach dropped. "What?"

His hand tightened slightly on your jacket—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you exactly how easily he could. You flinched anyway.

“Oh, don't do that,” he said, voice dripping with amusement as he started to shake you. “I'm starting to like you.”

You squeaked instinctively, feet kicking uselessly at open air. Sinister clicked his tongue like he was scolding you. "Careful, pipsqueak."

"YOU did that!"

"I made a small adjustment," he corrected.

“It’s embarrassing,” he continued lightly, tilting his head again, “just thinking about the fact that you’re still alive. And you still have attitude."

“I didn’t do anything,” you said, voice strained.

“Oh?” The wolf leaned in slightly, his eyes sharpening, interest flickering back in like a switch had been flipped. “That’s the problem."

His smile softened. “You didn’t do anything,” he repeated, slower this time. “And yet you ran the moment you saw me. So, I followed."

"...That's stalking."

"Hunting."

"It's still stalking!"

“It's instinct.” He gave a small, amused shrug, like he didn't care about legal distinctions. His grip shifted again, and this time he lifted you a fraction higher, forcing you to look up at him fully. “How long did you think you could survive like that?” he asked quietly. “Really.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Sinister watched the silence stretch, then exhaled like he was mildly disappointed. “Prey like you always think distance equals safety,” he said, almost conversational. “Hiding spots. Corners. Little tunnels.”

His eyes flicked briefly toward the playground structure behind you.

“Temporary things.”

Then back to you.

“But you’re still here,” he added, voice dipping slightly. “So I guess I should give you a little credit.”

That should have sounded like praise. It didn’t. Not with the way he said it. Your ears twitched despite yourself.

“There it is, bunny,” he murmured.

“..What?”

He leaned back slightly, still holding you suspended, watching you like you were doing something fascinating without realizing it. “You’re not just scared. You’re responsive.. like, very responsive.”

Your face heated instantly. “I’m—”

His grip suddenly shifted, just like his energy. Your stomach dropped the instant his arm moved.

“Wait!”

The protest barely left your mouth before the world tilted.

He lifted you fully. No effort—just one smooth motion as if you weighed nothing at all. Like's he's finally decided something.

He was already turning away from the playground and started walking.

The playground lights faded behind you as he crossed the fence without slowing down, stepping into the darker stretch of trees bordering the park.

Your breathing spiked immediately.

“P- Please, stop—”

Branches shifted overhead. The city noise dulled. Everything grew quieter the deeper he went, until all you could hear was your own heartbeat and the steady rhythm of his steps.

You twisted slightly in his grip. “Where are you taking me?!”

“I don’t want anyone watching.”

You stopped struggling for half a second. “…W-what?”

He kept walking. Branches brushed past his shoulders as he moved deeper into the trees. Moonlight broke through in thin stripes, cutting across his face—dark eyes steady, focused ahead like you were already a done decision.

“I said,” he continued, “I don’t want anyone seeing us out there.”

Us? That didn't sit right with you.

“I didn’t do anything!” you blurted again, voice cracking slightly. “I just— I was just running!”

Sinister let out a soft sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “It’s not about what you did,” he said. He adjusted his grip slightly, holding you more securely against his side as he walked—like you were something that belonged there now.

“It’s about what you are,” he added.

The forest seemed darker after that. The trees thicker. The path less visible. You tried to look back toward the park, but it was already gone behind the trunks. The deeper you went into the trees, the worse your instincts got.

Mark finally stopped. Not in a clearing that looked safe. Not anywhere that made sense. Just a patch of uneven ground between twisted roots and low hanging branches where the forest floor dipped slightly into soft, wet earth.

You barely had time to process it before you were dropped.

“Ugh!”

Your body hit the ground with a dull, messy impact. Cold. Wet. Mud soaked into your clothes immediately, clinging to fabric and skin alike. You scrambled instinctively, trying to push yourself up—

But a shadow fell over you.

Mark dropped down with you. Like gravity meant nothing to him. He landed directly above you, one knee planted beside your hip, pinning the space around you without fully crushing you—but making escape feel instantly impossible.

Your breath hitched. “W-wait—!”

The wolf didn’t respond. Instead, he leaned in.

His nose moved slightly as he inhaled slowly. His attention wasn’t on your face. It was on your scent.

“No—don’t—!”

A hand caught your wrist before you could even finish moving. Mark hummed softly, almost thoughtfully, as if confirming something only he could understand.

Then his free hand moved... curiously?

He ran his fingers along your sleeve first, then your shoulder, testing, feeling, mapping you out like you were something unfamiliar he wanted to understand fully.

Your ears snapped upright in panic.

And that’s when his attention sharpened.

“Oh…”

It was quiet. Almost pleased.

His hand shifted immediately to your head.

You flinched hard. “Stop—!”

His fingers closed around one of your bunny ears. Not pulling harshly. Just holding it. Tilting it slightly as if inspecting how it worked.

Sinister tilted his head.

“So sensitive,” he murmured.

His hand moved again—briefly brushing your tail, then your hips, then your back. You shook under him, mud sticking to your clothes, humiliation and fear mixing into something you couldn’t untangle.

Your hands pushed against the ground, trying to twist free from beneath him. Your legs kicked weakly, slipping against wet earth and roots. “Let me go!”

"Stop it," Mark growled quietly, before he pulled your pants down, the fabric tearing with a satisfying, almost violent sound.

He didn't bother with finesse—he immediately positioned his large cock at the entrance of your tight, trembling hole and pushed.

“A- aaahhh!!” Your eyes flew wide, brimming with sudden, fat tears that spilled down your cheeks. A broken, high pitched squeak escaped you as your body was forced to stretch around the sheer girth of Mark’s dick.

As he began to pound into you with ferocity, the sheer mounting anxiety became too much for your small body.

“Stop—wait, p-please!!”

The sound of your panicked cried and whines were like fuel to the fire in Mark’s veins.

—

He ignored the mud coating his thighs and the grit grinding between your bodies—all he could feel was the tight, agonizingly delicious friction of your ass.

“T-too big!!”

With a grunt, Mark suddenly hooked his large hands under your knees, hauling your legs upward, forcing them all the way back to your shoulders. The position was completely exposing the pink, stretching hole to the moonlight and his predatory gaze.

“Too big?" Mark rasped, his face a mask of sweat and dirt as he leaned down, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear. "You're gonna take all of it. You're gonna take every fucking inch."

He began to hammer into you with a more aggressive, almost heavy rhythm, his hips slamming against your pelvis with a wet, slapping sound that echoed through the trees.

The overstimulation was reaching a fever pitch. The sheer size of his cock expanding your ass to the limit.

“It is! I- It doesn’t feel right! I don’t—”

“Liar. You love how it feels.” He interrupted as he increased his pace. His thrusts became shorter but rougher; driving himself into the very depths of your tiny body, aiming for that sweet spot. “..You love being filled up like this."

“M- Mmhh! No!”

The cold mud against your skin and the scorching heat of Mark’s cock was too much. Your small noises were becoming frantic, your small body twitching uncontrollably under the onslaught.

The sheer pressure in your lower abdomen, the overwhelming sensation of being stretched to the point of bursting, reached a breaking point.

Suddenly, a warm sensation flooded the space between you both. Your bladder finally gave way under the crushing weight of the stimulation.

A warm stream of urine flooded out from your twitching cock, mixing with the dirt and the sweat of your joined bodies.

The sensation was humiliating, but Mark didn't pull away. If anything, the piss only seemed to drive his primal instincts higher—feeling the build up in his own loins reaching crescendo.

“Look at you," Mark hissed, his eyes burning with a possessive light. "So messy. What a dirty little thing.”

Even then, he let out a low chuckle as he felt your body start to go limp and tremble violently under the weight of your release.

And now, he decided he wasn't just going to cum; he was going to breed you.

He pumped his dick in one last, devastatingly deep thrust, his hips locking against yours as his knot began to swell rapidly inside the overstimulated hole.

He groaned. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, teeth sinking into the soft skin, flooding your insides with a hot, thick release.

“W- Wait—! Don’t cum in me! Get it out!” You squealed.

Sinister didn’t listen nor did he let you rest. Instead, with a grunt of exertion, he shifted his weight, manhandling you with a brute strength that felt inescapable.

He forced your legs to the side, clamping them tightly together with one dirt stained hand to stifle any attempt at kicking or escape.

The other hand moved to your hip, spreading you once more, exposing the ravaged, gaping hole.

The sight was devastating.

The pink pucker was swollen, leaking a messy mixture of thick, white cum and the remnants of mud. It looked utterly wrecked, perfectly prepared for the nasty predator currently looming over you.

You could only lie there, trembling violently, your breath coming in ragged, broken whimpers as Mark began to drive into you again.

“No—no more! I- I’m so full!”

The plea was pathetic, a broken, sobbing sound that should have triggered pity, but to Sinister, it was nothing more than a confirmation of his power.

Seeing prey like you so completely undone—physically and emotionally—sent a wave of dark satisfaction through his chest.

"Full?" He mocked, his voice a rasp.

He leaned down, his weight crushing against your heaving chest, forcing the air out of you in a sharp gasp.

"You haven't seen anything yet. And you’re going to take every last drop."

He didn't care about the tears or the way your eyes were glazed over. With a quiet growl, he began to drive back into your ass. Each thrust was aimed at bottoming out against your womb.

“A- Aah! I don’t wanna be bred! Take it out!”

The words were a frantic, desperate prayer, but to him, they sounded like a challenge.

The mention of pregnancy, the ultimate act of claiming a potential mate sent a jolt of pure excitement through his spine. The idea of you carrying his scent, his mark, his actual offspring, made the wolf in his gut snarl with a possessive glee.

"That’s exactly what a little bunny like you is for." Mark hissed.

He wanted to hammer his seed so deep into your core that it became a part of you. Every time his hips slammed against yours, he felt the your insides twitching, trying to accommodate the unrelenting intrusion.

Your wails and squeals were becoming incoherent, lost in the rhythmic, wet slapping of bodies and the heavy sounds of his breathing.

                         ༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶

The forest was no longer a place of peace. The air was thick with the suffocating, musky scent of sweat, forest loam, and the sweet aroma of bunny pheromones.

A loud, sickeningly wet squelch echoed through the trees. The sound of his massive cock plunging into a hole that was already overflowing with the thick, creamy evidence of his previous bust.

"Look at how much you can take," he grunted, his voice a jagged, strained wreck. He leaned down, his face inches from your tear streaked, flushed visage. "Listen to that... you're practically drowning in it. You're nothing but a little breeding vessel for me, aren't you?"

You could only let out broken sobs, head tossing wildly from side to side in the wet ground.

"Aaaah! H—hah...! No, noo!"

And Mark could feel the familiar, agonizing swell of his knot beginning to expand once more, an aching pressure that forced him to bury himself as deep as physically possible.

He let out a long, guttural groan, his fingers digging hard into your hips that he was certain would leave permanent marks.

SPLAT.

With a final, devastating lunge, his knot locking tight against the entrance of your desolate hole. The sensation of being irrevocably sealed inside a bunny was intoxicating to him.

“E—eek!! Oh no!”

"There..." he gasped, body convulsing as he erupted a hot torrent of hot, sticky seed into you. "There you go. Take it all... take it, you little slut.”

He could feel the heat of his cum overflowing your tiny, overstretched womb, painting the very depths of your guts white.

But, he didn't just want to satisfy his lust. He wanted to saturate you. As the throbbing of his knot finally began to recede again, Mark felt a dark sense of completion.

He was still panting, his chest heaving with the exertion of the “hunt,” but the predatory madness in his eyes had softened into a dazed, possessive glow.

He didn't pull away gently—he gripped your hips one last time and surged backward with a sudden, violent force.

POP!

You let out a weak gasp.

The sound of his massive cock sliding out was loud in the quiet forest, a final, lewd exclamation of his conquest.

As the seal broke, a messy mixture of cum, urine, and mud spilled out of your devastated entrance, coating your thighs in a pale, sticky slurry.

Your body, absolutely spent and utterly broken, finally went limp..

You collapsed back into the cold muck, your limbs splayed out uselessly, small frame twitching with the aftershocks of the overstimulation. You looked like a discarded doll, eyes glazed and rolling back, breath coming in shallow, hitching gasps.

And unfortunately for you, Mark wasn't quite done.

He leaned down over you. Instead of a kiss, his teeth found the skin of your shoulder, sinking in with a sharp nip. He bit hard enough to draw a bead of crimson blood, the metallic tang of it mixing with the salty scent of sweat.

He moved to the other side, nipping at the curve of your neck, leaving a trail of stinging, red marks that would serve as a silent warning to anyone who dared look too closely.

He wanted the bruises to stay, he wanted the marks to remind you exactly who you belonged to.

“E—eep..” You squeaked softly.

"Yeah... keep making those sounds," Mark muttered, his voice still rough and low.

He reached out a large, dirt stained hand, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, smearing a bit of the mud across the your cheek.

The tiny, involuntary shudder that wracked you was followed by a familiar, warm sensation. In your state of sheer, lingering terror and sensory exhaustion, your little bunny bladder betrayed you once more, a thin, frantic stream of urine soaking into your skin.

Instead of being repulsed, Sinister felt a fresh surge of arousal. The scent of your fear and the sharp, acrid smell of piss mixing with the heavy musk of their sex was like a drug.

"Again?" A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Well, an extra round won't hurt me."

“Wait— …w-what?”

He didn't give you a moment to breathe. He simply lunged forward, the weight of his entire body was a suffocating pressure that forced the air from your lungs in a pathetic, wheezing "Uuuf.."

There was no room for you to move, no room to even breathe, let alone escape.

Mark reached down and gripped your soft bunny ears. He didn't hold them gently—he wound the velvet appendages around his fingers and tugged, forcing your head back at a punishing angle.

You squeaked.

He needed those eyes focused. He needed you to see the predator that was currently dismantling him.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low growl. He grabbed your chin, forcing those glazed, rolled back eyes to snap into focus on his own. "Don't you dare look away."

Without a second of hesitation, Mark moved. He didn't go for the heat of your lower half this time. Instead, he drove his thick, pulsing cock straight into your mouth.

The sudden movement forced a muffled, choked scream from your throat, eyes widening in sheer shock as your jaw was stretched to the breaking point.

He didn't care about comfort.

He began to fuck your face, his hips slamming against your chin and lips. The sound was a wet, messy cacophony of gagging, heavy breathing, and squelching.

Every time he thrust deep, he felt your small hands clawing uselessly at his muscular thighs, trying to find leverage.

"Take every fucking inch of me," Mark hissed, his eyes watching you struggle to accommodate him. "Show me how well you can take it.."

Your eyes were brimming with fresh tears, your face flushed and tear streaked as you fought to breathe around the invading length.

You were practically drowning.

The taste of mud, musk, and the sharp tang of your own urine made your head spin in a dizzying haze of sensory overload.

"That's it... swallow it all..." Mark groaned. He was relentless, his large hands tightening their grip on your ears, using them to steer your head back and forth, ensuring he was hitting the very back of your throat.

He wanted to feel the exact moment your body buckled.

He wanted to feel the heat of your throat constricting around him even more, wanted to feel your very soul surrender to his cock.

And you could barely make a sound—only muffled whimpers and the panic-stricken sounds of your own choking.

"Good boy... just like that.”

Your vision began to swim, the dark trees above blurring into a chaotic whirl of shadows. Perhaps death, somehow, was consuming you.

But Mark was reaching his limit, white hot sparks going through his nervous system. The familiar, violent tension. The urge to claim one last time before the exhaustion finally claimed him too.

"I'm... coming..."

He didn't pull out. Instead, he gripped the bunny's ears even tighter, ensuring he was as deep as physically possible.

With a final, bone deep lunge into your jaw, his hips locked against your face with a heavy thud.

He let out a long, ragged moan, his body tensing into a rigid arc—knot pulsing violently, and the sheer volume of the release was staggering.

You could feel the viscous liquid filling your mouth, sliding down your throat in an overwhelming rush.

You could only make desperate gagging and asphyxiating sounds. Your trembling, wet eyes rolled back once more as you struggled to swallow the amount of the hot deluge.

"All of it..."

Mark’s eyes burned with a dark, triumphant light. He didn't loosen his grip on the ears, holding you in that vulnerable, stretched position to ensure not a single drop was wasted.

—

He eventually pulled away with a slow, wet suction sound, his cock sliding out and leaving a glistening trail of white seed hanging from the your lips.

You let out a ragged wheeze.

Mark sat back on his haunches, his chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath.

He looked down at the wreckage he had made.

You lay completely sprawled in the stinking mire, small, filth smeared body still twitching with involuntary, post orgasmic tremors.

Your face was a mask of pure, beautiful devastation—eyes wide and vacant, staring up at the canopy in a blank, trance like state, mouth slightly agape and still leaking a bit of the creamy seed you had been forced to swallow.

"Fuuuck. You're actually really good," Mark muttered, a predatory, lopsided smirk tugging at his lips.

He reached down, his thumb tracing the edge of your swollen, reddened lip, smearing a bit of the leftover cum across your cheek. "Got me thinking if I should just keep you for myself. Hide you away where no one else can find you."

The thought wasn't a joke. There was a terrifying sincerity in his eyes, a possessive hunger that hadn't quite been sated by the physical act.

He wanted to wrap his arms around this small, ruined thing and never let the world see you again.

You didn't even blink.

You just lay there, a broken, beautiful mess of a bunny, your mind clearly lost somewhere in the hazy, overwhelming void.

Unaware that you were completely, utterly owned.

© 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐬 — do not copy my work.

m!reader after:

“Hey, what are you doing?”

Mark jumped at the sound of a boy’s voice. His head rose to the fence and spotted you, using your arms to just barely hang over the edge. Your hair was messy, and there was dirt smudged on your face, but what else do you expect from a kid.

The day you first talked to him was one of those days where Mark would take a random sheet or something close enough to resemble a cape, and run around his backyard, pretending to be a superhero like his dad. He had to prepare for when he finally got his powers of course.

Sure, it got a little bit lonely playing by himself, but he still knew how to make it fun.

“Hey, are you deaf or something? What are you doing?” Your eyebrows furrowed.

Mark cleared his throat, feeling slightly embarrassed. “Just playing.”

“You look like a superhero.” You tilted your head, looking closely at his makeshift cape. “I like it. I like playing hero too. My parents tell me I won’t get powers anytime soon though.” You pouted but then looked up again with a smile, revealing a few missing teeth. “But it’s fun to pretend. Can I join you? Do you wanna be friends?” You leaned in more, getting even closer to fall of the edge.

“Uhh.” Mark’s eyes looked back and forth. No kid has ever talked to him as eager as you, let alone ask to play with him. Plus, his dad told him friends would distract him from training, but it wouldn’t hurt having at least one friend? “Okay, we can be friends. Do you want to- oh.”

Mark could only stare at you who just fell face first into the dirt and into his backyard.

“I’m okay!” You exclaimed, springing back onto your feet and dusting yourself off.

“You’re kinda weird.” Mark commented.

“At least I’m not grumpy like you.” You thought back to the times you’ve seen him before. When you moved in, you had spotted him. On your way to school you saw him. And it was clear as day he wasn’t the sociable type, more like his dad than his mom. “Come on, let’s do something! I have so many ideas.” You grabbed his hand, walking around his yard for the first time.

From that moment on, you two were what was considered best friends. Each other’s only friends, but still best friends nonetheless.

Your days would be spent with only each other. You two would make capes and masks together, and then get yelled at by your mother for messing up her sheets and getting them dirty. When Mark would come over to your house, you’d show off your superhero action figures, which were a mix of bought and handmade. The both of you would also watch superhero moves together, beg which ever parent was watching over you two to let you guys stay up longer, and then fall asleep in less than ten minutes, resting on top of each other.

But even as you two grew closer, Mark made sure to keep that his father had powers and that he would (hopefully) eventually get powers, a secret. After all his dad told him that as long as he didn’t tell you the truth, he could continue being friends with you. And he would do anything to still be with you.

In fact, Mark seemed to care about you a lot when you were kids. Maybe it was because you were his only friend, or maybe it was because of something deeper than that.

The first clear sign was when you two were playing in your backyard instead of his.

You had brought him over to ‘show him something cool.’ The last thing he was expecting was an ant hill with thousands of tiny ants scurrying around. He couldn’t understand it. They were just ants. They only lasted for a few weeks before dying, and that’s if they die naturally. They couldn’t produce thoughts like you and he could or advance as a society. So insignificant, and yet you were enamored.

You crouched down, letting one of the ants crawl on top of your finger, which you brought close to yours and Mark’s face.

“You know what my dad told me? He said that ants have their skeleton on the outside. Isn’t that crazy?” You looked up at him with an expectant smile, though deep down you knew he could never be as excited over an animal’s anatomy like you.

You moved your hand and arm around, keeping your eye on the ant which was running around your forearm. “I wonder how deep their colony is. Their queen is probably- Ow!” You winced and flinched at the sudden feeling of the ant biting into your skin.

Mark’s eyes widened at the sound of your pain. His hand reached out and wrapped around your arm, crushing the ant that bit you in an instant, and his heel immediately smashing into the ant hill and angrily digging into it, causing the lines of ants to turn into frantic chaos.

“Mark! Stop!” You took a hold of him and pulled him back. Both of you fell to the ground.

“Why would you do that?” You both asked each other in union. Your tone upset while your friend’s tone was frustrated.

“That ant hurt you.” Mark spoke first. “I’m not just going to let it go free after doing that. It and its friends deserved it.” His eyes stared daggers into the destroyed ant hill. “They’re weak anyways.”

“That doesn’t matter.” You frowned. “It was probably just scared or something. It didn’t know any better.” You also looked at the remains of the ant hill but with a more solemn expression, which Mark couldn’t help but notice.

If it were any other scenario, Mark would’ve just left it, no remorse, no regret. The world was survival of the fittest, that was what his father told him anyways.

But with you around, it was different. The sight of you sitting up and holding your knees up to your chest. The sight of you just about to burst into tears, for some reason. Was too much for him.

“I’m sorry.” Mark remembered that his mom told him that was what people say when they make someone feel bad. “We can… rebuild the hill or something.”

You sniffed and rubbed your nose. “Okay.”

As the two of you built the highest hill possible, your smile slowly grew back, giving Mark a sense of relief. As long as you were happy, he was happy. You were his only connection to human life rather than his viltrumite heritage. So it wasn’t surprising he’d mirror you in some ways.

Life was good with you in it. You were like a ray of sunshine he never knew he needed. Things just felt so light with you compared to with his father. Especially when you laughed. Like how you did when he covered himself in duct tape and called himself duct tape man. You, being the good friend you were, stayed with him while his mom carefully removed it from his sensitive skin.

Mark missed those days. Where his only concerns were finishing the food he didn’t like and if you were okay. Now… it was conquering worlds for the viltrumite empire. He understood it was his duty though, his responsibility as a viltrumite. That was just how it was.

Mark opened his eyes at the call of his name and sat up immediately.

His father stood before him. “It’s time.”

Though short, those simple words were more than enough for Mark to understand what was going on.

He was finally going to return to Earth. To you.

“I understand, Father.” He nodded, standing up, his hands behind his back.

“I’ll be waiting outside.” Nolan said before disappearing in an instant.

Mark peeked his head out of his door, looking left and right before going back in and locking it. He looks around his room one more time, just for the feeling of reassurance. Mark crouched to the floor and reached under his bed, pressing a specific tile. A small cube shaped container rose. Mark grabbed the dear object and sat on his bed, examining the item.

A small action figure. Perfect condition, at least the same condition from when he got it. From you to him.

“You’re moving?” You stood at the front door that Mark opened after your constant knocking. “How come you didn’t tell me?” Your tone heartbroken. Who knew finally getting his powers would lead to this.

“I didn’t know how to.” Mark’s voice was quiet. He wanted to tell you the truth at that moment more than any other.

“Will we still be able to play together?”

“… I don’t think so.” How could he still play with you if he was light years away in another planet?

“I’ll miss you.” Your voice cracked. You had tried not to cry but at that point you couldn’t help yourself. You stepped forward and hugged him tight, which Mark reciprocated after settling into it.

“I’ll miss you too.” Mark muttered into your shoulder.

You backed off him and shoved something into his hands. It was an action figure of you two’s favorite superhero from your guy’s favorite show. He hadn’t noticed you holding onto it until that moment.

“I want you to keep this. Use and make other friends, but don’t forget about me, okay?” You wiped away your tears with your sleeve. “And when we see each other again when we’re older, you can give it back to me, and we can play together forever.”

Mark looked down at the toy in his hand and then looked up at you. “Forever?”

You nodded aggressively. “Forever. I promise.” You put on your best smile, the spots where you used to be missing teeth finally filled in with your adult ones.

“Y/n?” Your mom calling your name made your head perk up.

“Y/n?” She said before spotting you. Your mom sighed, walking towards you and gently grabbing your arm. “You shouldn’t be bothering them right now. They’re in a rush. Tell him goodbye and go home.”

Your expression turned sad before becoming confident again. “I’ll see you later, Mark.” You were able to say before being dragged away by your mom. “Bye!” You waved your hand to which Mark, less energetically, waved his as well.

That was the last time he saw you.

His thumb rubbed against the arm of the toy, his eyes focused. Mark was going to fulfill his promise to you no matter what.

After quickly dressing in his attire, Mark joined his father’s side, who was looking over space. They only exchanged a quick nod before flying into the vast galaxy.

And before he knew it, Mark had finally made it back to Earth. He had thought about returning one day, visiting you. But under the threat of his father finding out, and even worse, doing something to you for making him weak, kept him away.

Mark looked over the busy highways and tall skyscrapers as far as he could see. He could hear the sound of the trees bristling against each other from the wind. He took a deep breath in, the air also making his hair sway side to side, and exhaled.

“Mark.”

“Yes, Father?”

“I thought I told you to throw that trash away. It’s holding you back.” Nolan didn’t even bother to look at the item in his son’s hand. He already knew damn well what it was.

Mark’s hand defensively held onto it, his grip tightening, and kept it out of his father’s sight best he could. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Nolan only clicked his tongue. They had multiple arguments before about it. Why would something as small and as a useless toy mean so much to his son? But after years of fighting, it just wasn’t worth the effort anymore.

What was more important was the mission. That would always come first. To prepare Earth for viltrumite rule, quick and easy. All of those years of constant training wasn’t for nothing after all. And Mark didn’t survive his adulthood ceremony for nothing either.

The first step was dealing with the existing superhero teams. But aftering exterminating everyone in the Guardians of the Globe, everything was easy. Sure some people put up a fight, a few resistances here and there, but kill a few people and they’re quiet. No big deal.

They’ll eventually come around and understand what Mark and his father are doing. They’ll be grateful even. But at the moment, society would have to go through a rough patch.

Mark gazed over the fallen buildings, the fires, listening to sounds of the flames crackling and popping. His fist clenched, crimson blood dripping off of it. Even after being back on Earth, Mark still hadn’t had a single moment to visit his old home as he was still under the intense watch of his father. He had a feeling his father was in fact trying to keep him away from it.

But Mark never spoke up about it. How could he? A good son never questions his father.

“Mark.”

He turned his head around and looked up to see his father slowly descending from the sky.

“I trust you can handle the rest of this?” Nolan gestured his hand at the land beneath them.

His eyes widened but he quickly returned to a neutral expression. “Yes, Father.” Mark straightened his posture and bow his head down. “It would be an honor.”

“I’ll return in a few months then. Make Argall proud, Mark.” Nolan said before shooting into the sky, disappearing beyond the clouds. A gust of wind blew back Mark’s hair.

Mark couldn’t help but feel a little bit surprised. Did his father really just allow him to carry out the mission by himself. He supposed all of that being on his best behavior and obedience really did paid off.

“Just finish the mission.” Mark repeated to himself under his breath as he flew. He looked down and then stopped. When did he start head to his old home?

He looked around once more. There was no mistaking it. This was the old city he used to live in, just extremely destroyed and burning. He guessed his father got to it before he did.

Mark lowered himself back to the ground, gracefully stepping onto the concrete. The memories were starting to fill his head. The time you two would run along the sidewalks as your mother scolded you two to not be so close to the road.

A faint smile creeped onto his face before vanishing at the sound of a terrified man. Probably some high ranking company man based off the suit and tie, and the fact that he was yapping about money for some reason. What use would Mark have for that?

With each step he took forward, the man stepped back until his back was met with a wall.

“You.” Mark paused, asking himself if this was what he should be doing. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way about you, and yet he did. “Do you know someone with the name, Y/n L/n?”

The man, fearing for his life, stuttered. “W-what? Who?” He then realized this might be his only chance at living. “I mean, yeah! I know who you’re talking about my mistake.”

Mark’s brows furrowed as he watched him lie straight through his teeth. Did this man think he was an idiot?

“You’re wasting my time.” Mark’s hand extended in a flash, puncturing into the man’s stomach, and retracted. He flicked the blood off of his hand, an annoyed look on his face.

Not only was he mad at the man for attempting to trick him, but also at himself, for letting himself still be so affected by you. He wasn’t even sure if you were in this area anymore. And even worse, if you were still alive. You were always the weaker one of you two. So who knows if you even made it past day one of his and his father’s arrival.

The thought of you dead extremely upset him. Ruined his whole day. But as long as he never encountered your dead body, Mark would still have a sliver of hope in his heart.

Mark would of course still carry out the mission… but a small side goal wouldn’t change anything right?

Mark pushed off of the ground, rising into the air once more.

But he’s wasn’t sure what to do. What if you moved away while he was gone all of those years? He had no idea where to start looking? Plus, what did you even look like? Obviously, you must’ve grown since he last saw you, but how in the world was he supposed to recognize you?

He shook his head.

He had no right considering himself your best friend if he couldn’t tell you apart from some randoms. So each time he found a large group of people, before killing them, Mark would carefully examine each person’s face.

Mark landed in front of what was left of some college or university building and sat on a surviving bench, burying his head in his hands. His feelings were a mix of frustration, anger, and despair. He had been looking for you for the past three days, and there was still no sign of you anywhere.

He knew what his father would say if he saw him in his current state. Idiotic and pathetic. For both being so attached to you and for being on the verge of giving up.

Maybe if he carried out the mission with all of his effort, he could forget about you and finally let go of his lingering desire for you. Mark leaned back, his face towards the sun and his eyes shut.

Which country should he target first? Maybe he could check out that one country you mentioned you wanted to go to.

Then he heard it. A cough. A shuffle against some rubble. His head snapped towards the source of the noise.

A hand emerged from a pile of wreckage, pushing the ruins to the side. After a few minutes of struggle, the person finally emerged from the debris.

It was you.

Mark rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn’t just imagining it. He couldn’t believe it, but at the same time he did. Mark felt a sense of relief and a fill in his heart that he couldn’t describe. His body didn’t even move an inch. All he could was watch you from afar like he was afraid of ruining the moment or that you would disappear again.

“Come on, it’s okay. We’re going to be okay.” You mumbled quietly, lifting a cat close to your chest. Mark smiled at the fact you still cared so much about animals. Though he didn’t understand it, it was endearing to him for some reason.

You used your body to shove aside the broken pieces, wincing as you did so. Mark then noticed the tattered cuts all over your body, the torn pieces of your jacket and pants, the bruises and dried up blood.

He frowned.

You seemed so fragile, so close to the edge of breaking.

But no matter. He was there. He could fix you.

Finally making it out of the rubble, you started limping in some direction, which was when Mark decided that he had observed you enough.

He might’ve been a little too excited and flown to you too fast though. The momentum literally made you fall again, causing you to let go of the cat. You saw it run away before turning around and finally facing him.

Mark knew you wouldn’t have the same happy expression as you did when you two were kids when you’d see him for the first time in forever. But it still hurt a little, seeing your eyes filled with fear and your chest quickly rising and falling.

Neither of you said anything for a moment.

Mark was the first to break the silence. “Y/n?” His tone too gentle for someone who killed thousands upon thousands.

“How do you know my name?” You spat, your body too tired and sore to stand. All you could do was shove your palms into the ground and move back inch by inch.

It pained him that you didn’t recognize him. Maybe you were just disoriented since Mark could sense your heart beating rapidly. Or maybe you were scared of him?

“I’m not going to kill you.”

You looked up, confused. Was he toying with you? You knew he was some apathetic murderer, based on what you saw on tv and the aftermath you witnessed yourself. But you didn’t think he would be so sadistic to mess with his victims before killing them.

Mark couldn’t take the hateful glare in your eyes a second longer. “I could never hurt my best friend.”

You weren’t given another second to think or process what he just said to you as he suddenly appeared face to face with you, crouching.

Maybe it was the fact that you had a massive headache, hadn’t eaten for a while, or something, but the look on face in front of you almost seemed… desperate. He wanted something from you, but you couldn’t figure out what exactly he wanted.

You then took a closer look into his eyes. Something was just so familiar, but why?

“… Mark?” Your tone shocked, like you were in disbelief while also finding it ridiculous. There was just no way. No way that your childhood best friend who moved away came back as some powerful alien hell bent on conquering Earth.

Maybe you were on something and just didn’t know it.

You felt a hesitant hand upon your cheek.

Mark’s once concerned expression changed into a relaxed one. “I’m glad you didn’t forget me, because I never forgot you. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t.” He carefully moved your hair out of your face. His other hand caressed your arm, which was covered in scrapes but had one noticeable slash running down your arm, improperly bandaged with a spare piece of fabric. “You’re badly injured. You need aid.”

“Oh really?” For the first time ever, you hated your natural sarcasm.

You thought he was going to punch your head off but instead he just looked at you. “Hold onto me.”

“What?”

“I don’t want you to fall.”

“Wh-”

Mark grabbed you and shot up into the sky. So you instantly wrapped your arms around him, closing your eyes. “Mark! What the fuck!”

“What’s wrong?”

You refused to open your eyes, but you could tell you two were probably hundreds of feet in the air. So that was what he meant by ‘didn’t want to drop you.’

Just too much was happening all at once.

While you were experiencing the worst anxiety ever, Mark’s heart beat a little faster at how close you two were. Should he have been feeling that way? No, never. Was he still going to anyways? Yeah…

Mark looks around in all directions. He wanted to bring you to viltrum and get you healed in no time by their superior health technology, but since you were a human, that would be impossible. And he wasn’t experienced in medicine being raised as a warrior. So Mark made the only choice he could.

He flew in the direction of the last resistance he saw. They would have things that you need. And if they didn’t, he’d just get rid of them all.

You felt the wind against your back, every single sound drowned out by it. Luckily, it only took a few seconds for you to feel the ground beneath your feet again. You opened one of your eyes, trying to look around.

It seemed like some sort of hideout. You were happy for the people who were able to form safety groups. However, you hadn’t been so luckily. Alone since day one.

“What are we doing here?” You tried moving but Mark’s arms wouldn’t budge.

“To get you help.” Mark suddenly hooked his arm under your knees and his other arm on your back. Was he seriously caring you bridal style?

Mark casually walked into the base where people wanted him dead. A lot of them were fully ready to shoot him, but stopped at the sight of you in his arms.

If his memory was correct, this was the resistance with the leader who had powers, something to do with atoms? She actually put up a better fight than most others, but still not enough to defeat him.

Mark stood there, right in the middle, completely silent, until Eve came out.

Mark’s head tilted up. “Mend his wounds, and I won’t kill everyone in this building right now.” His head then lowered. “Try anything, and I’ll make yours and everyone else’s death as slow as possible.”

Eve, knowing better than to question him at the moment, called over the most qualified to help you out while keeping a close eye on him. “Fine.”

Mark gradually put you down as if you’d shatter in an instant and let go of you, who looked back and forth between him and the others as you walked forward. You were guided to sit down on one of those plastic chairs you’d usually see at family gatherings.

Eve walked over to you, looking over her shoulder at Mark and then turned back to you. “Sorry, but I have so many questions. Are you alright? How are you still alive?”

You glanced down at some person’s hands untying the fabric wrapped around your arm. “I wondering the same thing.” You let out a small laugh.

You two kept your voices low, which partially upset Mark but he brushed it off. Instead, he spent his time glaring at anyone who dared to look at him.

“But uh, I think maybe he hasn’t killed me yet because we were friends when we were kids? But he moved away. I had no idea he would return like this though.” You scratched your neck with your free hand.

“Yeah, how could you?” Eve replied. “Okay, brace yourself. This part is going to sting a lot.” She placed a firm grip on your shoulder.

You nodded, mentally preparing yourself, but you still flinched at the burning sensation and biting your tongue.

You then felt a strong gust of wind and blinked.

“Mark!” You shouted, making him stop his tracks. You opened your eyes to see him holding onto the person’s head from behind, just about to crush their skull.

You looked at the person’s terrified face, their body frozen in place. You looked up at Mark with disappointment.

“They’re just disinfecting the cut. Let them go.” As scared as you were, you made sure to keep your tone authoritative.

Mark only grunted in response before releasing them.

Everyone let out a sigh of relief in unison.

“We’re almost done.” Eve said, loud enough for both you and Mark to hear. She held out her hand over your scar. A pink light appeared and then materialized into stitches. You couldn’t help but feel amazed, that childhood love of superhero’s never truly went away.

Once her hand moved away, you gave your arm a test, straightening and bending it.

“Thanks.” You gave Eve and the others your best smile. You looked past them at Mark who seemed to be growing more impatient by the moment. You knew staying there for a second longer was too risky.

You stood up, struggling a little. “They did their part, Mark. Let’s leave them all alone now.” You held onto his arm when you reached his side. The sooner you two leave, the safer those people would be.

Mark hugged you tight, just like before, and shot into the sky again.

It felt amazing having you in his arms again. It was like he found the last missing part of him. And now, there was nothing in your guy’s way, nothing separating you two anymore. Overjoyed would be an understatement to describe Mark. But when he looked down at your face, you didn’t seem to feel the same.

“Did I do something to make you sad, Y/n?” Mark stopped, bringing his hand under your chin and forcing you to look him in the eyes. “Don’t lie to me.”

You sighed. “Well, my entire city and home have been destroyed, and the world is in chaos right now. So yeah, I’m a little upset at you.” You said in the politest way possible. “I don’t want to be conquered by aliens. I just wanted to start college and hate my classes. You know, live a normal life.”

“I can give you a better life though. Whatever you want, it’s yours. I’ll stop at nothing for you.” Mark pouted, the same way he did as a kid, realizing that his words didn’t get rid of the dark cloud looming over you.

An idea popped into his mind.

Mark changed his course, flying in some other direction.

“Mark, where are you taking me?” You asked flatly.

“You’ll see when we get there.”

You stood in confusion when Mark placed you down in front of an ice cream shop.

He hovered close to the ground. “Do you remember this place?”

Your eyes squinted as you read what was remaining of the shop name. “Wait… I do. This was the ice cream place we used to go to every summer.”

“Exactly.” Mark stepped onto the ground and took your hand, leading you forward. “Eating it always seemed to make you happy and you’d smile a lot. I want to see you smile again.”

“That’s… very sweet of you?” You walked through the space where a door should’ve been. The shop wasn’t in horrible condition, but it had definitely seen better days. Some of the lights were busted, some chairs knocked over, and the large windows had become just piles of shattered glass on the floor.

“Come on out now.” Mark moved towards the counter. “I can hear your heartbeat.” Each passing second only made Mark more irritated.

A worker stepped out from the back of the shop, his hands up and shaking. You guessed he must’ve been looking for resources or hiding. Poor him.

“What would you like, Y/n?” Mark glanced up at the menu. “We can share. Just like when we were younger.”

Playing along with him seemed to have worked since the moment he found you, and it seemed like that only thing you were able to do.

“I guess, can we get a number seven? With those flavors?” You pointed down at the ice cream tubs. Almost everything was running on backup power, so to everyone’s luck, things would play out normally.

The guy looked at you with a panicked expression, wondering what the hell was going on, to which you just mouthed ‘Just do it.’

The worker cleared his throat. “Yeah, I can for sure do that for you guys. Just give me a minute.” He lowered his hands, getting to work instantly.

“Come on, we can sit and wait. Over…” Your eyes scanned over the room. “There.” You proceeded to shove yourself into a booth. Mark followed and sat beside you, just a little bit closer than he should’ve.

“So…” You propped yourself with your elbows on the table. “Where have you been for these past years? Never thought I’d see you again.” You couldn’t forget that it was still your childhood best friend you were talking to. There were just so many things you wanted to know, beyond why he wanted to dominate the planet.

“In my duration of knowing you, I had lied to you. My father was a viltrumite, and my mother was a human. But due to the genetic dominance of viltrumite genes, I am close to being a pure blooded viltrumite. So when I ‘moved away,’ I was returning to the planet, Viltrum, for training with my just gained powers.” Mark felt a heavy weight being lifted off of his shoulders. He was finally able to tell you the truth, the full truth.

“So let me get this straight. You’re an alien who looks really human, but you can fly, move at high speeds, and have super strength pretty much?” You listed his abilities off of your fingers.

Mark nodded. “Correct.”

“Can you shoot lasers out of your eyes or something?”

“That would be ridiculous.”

“Right.” You sighed. “And I used to think you were just some regular human kid like me. Way to make me feel like a literally powerless loser.” You playfully scoffed and crossed your arms.

“Why does that matter?” Mark raised an eyebrow.

“Well, it doesn’t, but it also doesn’t change the fact that you can fly and stuff, and I can’t.” You observed Mark’s face, sharper and more defined than ever. He had that same pushed back hair style from when he was younger and the same dark brown eyes. So everything from the neck up would be what you’d expect, but everything under… definitely not. His clothes were pure white, but stained with blood. And why was he so toned? Did viltrumite clothing just give off that look? Or did the clothes just extenuate each and every muscle on his body? It felt wrong to admit, but Mark was scarily close to your type…

“Y/n?”

“Huh, what?” Your eyes shot back up.

“There something I need to return to you.” Mark placed something on the table and slid it towards you.

“What are you talking… no way.” You took a hold the old action figure and brought it closer to your face. “You kept it all this time? I thought you would’ve thrown it away.”

“I would never.”

You looked at him, surprised at how serious he seemed about it. You nearly forgot you had given him the figure of your favorite character. As you got older, that superhero obsession slowly died down, and you matured. You were pretty sure those toys you had as a kid were stashed away in a box in some storage unit after you moved for college.

“I don’t understand though.” You bent the toys limbs like you were checking its quality, which you were impressed by. “Why would you keep it?”

“Our promise. I have no interest in still playing with toys, but I still want to spent the rest of my time with you.”

You choked on air. “If I didn’t know any better, it sounds like you’re trying to marry me or something.”

“What’s that? I already told you I wasn’t going to kill you.” Mark leaned back into the seat cushion.

You placed the toy back onto the table. “You actually don’t know what marriage is?” If it were any other situation, you would’ve laughed out loud. In this case, you still laughed, but only a little.

Mark’s blank stare was more than enough of an answer for you.

“It’s basically when two people make vows and like promise to love each other until death.”

“Hm. How strange.” Mark brought his had to his chin. “Should we get married then?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Your ice cream is ready.” The worker, to be honest you had forgotten about, presented your order with two spoons.

“Ah thanks.” You noticed the man’s hands shaking, nearly dropping the ice cream. He was clearly fearing for his life, and Mark’s intense scowl didn’t help in the slightest.

Mark looked at you and then back at him. “Now leave. I’ll only spare you this once.” He gave a dismissive hand gesture.

That guy ran right out of there as fast as humanly possible.

You relaxed once the worker was out of sight. You then gazed down at the dessert. You had ordered what you used to always get with Mark, since you never were able to finish it on your own but wanted it badly. You couldn’t even recall the last time you had eaten it. You would have really enjoyed eating your former favorite treat if the circumstances were different.

You tried to use the spoon the scoop some up but then the pressure of moving your arm like that painful, forcing you to drop it.

You cursed under your breath.

Mark watched your struggle, and then picked up the other spoon himself. “I’ll feed you it.” His casual tone was just going to kill you.

“Mark, no. You’re not feeding me ice cream. Mark. I’m not your girlfriend.” You turned your head away from him, avoiding the spoon pointed at your face.

“Of course not, you’re my boyfriend.”

“I don’t think you know what that word means.”

“I know what it means. You’re a boy, and you’re my friend. Now stay still.” Mark inched closer to you.

You pushed your hands against his chest. “I’m not staying still. I-” Mark accidentally got some of the ice cream on your cheek, right next to your mouth.

“Damn it, do you think there’s any napkins here?” You half jokingly asked.

“No need.” You felt Mark’s hand grab your jaw, and his tongue against your skin, dangerously close to your lips. Your cheeks flushed, and a heat ran up your neck.

You were at a loss of words. You immediately backed away, wiping away the spot with the back of your hand. “What the fuck, Mark! Did you just lick me?”

“Yes, but you’re clean now.” Mark took a bite of the ice cream with the same spoon he was just trying to feed you with, then took another scoop and pointed it towards you. “Eat it before it melts.”

There was just no winning with this guy. “… Fine.”

For the next thirty minutes, you sat there, begrudgingly being spoon fed by your childhood best friend. Sure, it tasted amazing but that was besides the point.

As you ate, you started to think a little bit harder on how Mark acted towards you. How touchy he was towards you, how he treated you like you were the only thing that mattered to him, how he licked you like it was nothing. Everything the two of you did was just a little too intimate for being best buddies. It was almost as if he liked you more than a friend…

You quickly switched topics in your mind. Now, you were on your phone while Mark was trying to find somewhere to dispose your guy’s trash, after you had scolded him for saying to leave it there.

You texted your few friends and your family, assuring them you were okay and asking if they were okay. And while you waited for their response, you scrolled through your social medias, finding out new information every second. You saw people posting videos of their experience so far, people theorizing what in the world was going on, and people trying to figure out what to do now that Earth was in shambles.

You weren’t all too sure what to do either. Yes, you did basically have special privileges for some reason, but it was like walking on egg shells around Mark now. What would happened if you pissed him off? Pushed him to the limit without knowing it?

“What are you doing?”

You jumped in your seat at Mark’s sudden appearance. “I’m just scrolling. I’m surprised the service still works actually. Ah fuck.” You stared at the black screen with the symbol of the battery empty.

“And I left my stuff at home…”

“I can take you.”

“Oh yeah.”

You felt exhausted anyways, even after consuming all of that sugar. Your whole body still felt like it was on alert, and all you wanted was to lie in your heavenly bed again.

You had finally gotten used to just holding onto Mark as tight as possible and zone out while he was flying. Luckily, your house was pretty close. And even more surprisingly, still standing. It actually seemed untouched? The only defining thing was the your parent’s car wasn’t parked in the driveway. It gave you a little hope they were alright.

You stopped walking once you reached the front door. “Where’d I put my keys?… Don’t break the door open, Mark.”

Mark lowered his fist. “It would be more efficient if I did though.”

“For a moment. And then next thing you know my house is being broken into by strangers.” You shoved your key into the lock.

“You say that as if I couldn’t defeat them all.”

You pushed the door open. “Even so, I just don’t want that to happen. Come on.” You motioned your hand back and forth, signaling for him to follow you.

He hovered closely behind you.

As you were taking off your shoes and setting them close to the door, Mark examined the house he hadn’t been in for years. Not too much was different, just some new furniture and new photos decorated around the living room.

Mark picked up a random picture frame from the shelf under the tv. It was a photo of you (He partially smiled) and some other guy (He frowned). It seemed like a fairly recent picture. You were wearing a suit and tie, and standing close enough to the other guy to make Mark’s blood boil. Why was that guy’s arm around your shoulder?

“What’s this?” Mark presented the frame to you.

“Ugh, I told them to get rid of it.” You muttered, your brows furrowed. “That’s a picture of me and my ex-boyfriend at our senior prom. We broke up about a year ago. I guess my parents just forgot to throw it away.”

“Ex boyfriend?” He raised a brow.

“Means I used to like him romantically, but not anymore… I don’t wanna talk about it.” You looked down.

Your upset tone and expression was more than enough for Mark to already hate the guy.

“You don’t need to.” Mark squeezed the picture frame until it broke, the wood splitting and the glass shattering. And then tore up the image faster than the eye could see. He did it for you of course, but also maybe a little for himself.

You were already half way up the stairs, mumbling something about being tired. Mark naturally returned to your side, unsettlingly quiet.

You entered your room, still the same as you left it. After looking around for a bit, you found your charger and plugged your phone. You internally celebrated seeing it charging.

You looked down upon your clothes, if you would even consider them that anymore. Maybe you could look for a sewing kit later. And they definitely needed a wash too. From how much Mark was clinging onto you, the blood on him stained your clothes. And not to mention the dirt you had accumulated yourself from your little adventures.

You unzipped your jacket and threw it onto your chair. “I’m going to change.” You dug though your clean clothes, not bothering to look over at Mark.

“Okay.”

…

You turned around. “Are you going to get out?”

“Why would I need to? We have the same anatomy.”

“That’s not the issue.” You grabbed a random pillow and threw it at Mark who caught it with ease. “I just don’t want you looking, okay?”

“You humans are so weird. Feeling embarrassed about body parts.” Mark faced the wall, bringing the pillow to his face.

“I think you’re the weird one for being okay with seeing me near naked.” You said as you changed into clean and comfortable clothes. “Okay I’m done.”

You collapsed onto your bed, letting out a sigh. The coldness of the blanket and sheets were just right. Did your bed always feel this good? You opened one of your eyes and sat up.

“Mark, you are not lying in my bed. Back up, right now.” You held your hand out in front of him. “You have blood all over you. It’s a miracle it hasn’t gotten on the floors.”

Mark took a single step back. “But I want to join you. It’ll be like our sleepovers.”

You sighed dramatically before getting up and walking to your closet. “I’ll look for something for you to borrow.”

“Alright.”

“There’s gotta be something your size.” You pushed hanger after hanger. If Mark were any of your other friends, you’d have no problem finding something of yours for them to wear. But for someone with a body like Mark… it was difficult. You finally managed to find a basic large white shirt and gray sweatpants.

“Here, you can wear-” Your eyes were met with the sight of Mark shirtless and just about to undo his pants. Your head whipped around before you could see anymore. So without looking, you extended your hand holding the clothes towards him.

“Give a guy a warning next time dude!” You covered your face with your hands and faced the wall, not only to look away but to also hide how flustered you were.

“But I don’t mind if you saw me.” Mark bluntly stated. He truly did not understand why you were care so much about seeing each other’s bodies. Feeling embarrassment was a weakness after all.

“Well I mind, so just changed already.”

“I did.”

“So you can change into clothes that fast, but not out of clothes that fast?” You looked over at his nested folded pile of clothes on the floor, and then back at him. He actually looked like a regular guy you’d see in a class or in a hallway. So that’s what would’ve been if he was human.

You fell onto your bed again, shifting around to find the best position. You laid on your side, facing the wall. You heard the sound of shuffling behind you and then felt a warm presence against your back, an arm around your waist, and… was he nuzzling into your neck?

“Mark… what are you doing?” You laid there, frozen in place. You were too tired at that point to push him off.

“I’m not sure. It just felt right.” Mark’s face was against your neck, making you feel each breath as he spoke. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”

As much as you didn’t want to admit it, you felt extremely comfortable with Mark hugging onto you like that. And you were already so exhausted. Maybe letting him cuddle you this once wouldn’t hurt?

“No, you’re fine. Just don’t make it weird I guess.” You shut your eyes, moving around again.

“I missed you so much, Y/n.” Mark held onto you tighter.

“… I missed you too, Mark.”

Note: I did it guys. I finally finished this. Idk what the word count as I’m writing this but I know it’s at least 5k words which is crazy. But anyways I just wanted to say I’m so grateful for all of my followers and especially you guys who ask me questions or like request cuz I just love talking to people.

I hope that the anon who requested this prompt liked what I made. I lowkey went a bit crazy. Sorry the ideas just kept on flowing to me. ALSO, I’m always opened to requests for Mark Grayson that fine ass man. OMG I NEED HIM… okay. Calm down.

And if there’s any typos or like weirdly worded sentences… just ignore it… PLEASE

“She’s gonna be okay, kid,” Cecil said, walking into the room as the sliding door closed behind him.

“What if they find this place? I don’t want to lose anyone else.” Mark said, his eyebrows frowning as he stood beside Eve’s hospital bed. They encountered two variants on the field. One had worn a hood and was cocky and hot-headed, and the other was eerily similar to his father, same costume, mannerisms, and attitude. It was uncanny.

Mark told Eve to leave, but she didn’t. Her leg got snapped, and her body slammed into the concrete by the Omni variant. Now, she lies unconscious on the bed, hooked to a machine to keep her stabilized.

“They won’t, but we have more pressing matters. If you would follow me.” Cecil stated, leaving the room. Mark looked at Eve’s unconscious body before turning to follow Cecil. She’ll be fine.

“How is it looking out there?” Mark asked.

“The situation is still dire at the moment. Countless cities lie in ruins, and the death toll is estimated in the millions. The good news is that most of the variants have been eliminated.” Cecil replied, opening the doors to the main control room. There were people glued to monitors, watching the events unfold on the screen, attempting to calculate the next moves and tactics.

“I’m assuming there is bad news as well?” Mark inquired, staring at the main screen in the center of the room. It displayed the global map with red dots, representing the surviving variants and their locations. Looked like eight out of eighteen remained, but they were still threats.

“Indeed. As you can see, eight variants survived, but three of them appear to be heading towards Chicago.” The map shifted over to the North American continent. Three red dots, one in Chicago and the other two in Los Angeles and New York City. “The other is coming from Paris. We don’t know why they’re congregating specifically in Chicago. Possibly a meet-up. If the trajectories are correct, the location appears to be in the suburbs.”

“Where exactly in the suburbs?” Mark asked, his voice faltering as a pit formed in his stomach at the implication. The people important to him were in the area. Debbie informed him that she was with Paul in a safe location. You messaged him about bunkering down while William went silent.

“Zoom in on the trajectory. Judging by your tone, someone important is out there.” Cecil said, but Mark didn’t respond; his eyes were glued to the massive screen. As the map zoomed closer to the estimated location, Mark felt his heart drop. Your street appeared.

“I have to go,” Mark said without explanation, but Cecil could tell what was driving the young man.

“Kid, wait!” Cecil couldn’t get a word in as Mark had already left the room. There’s no way he could take on four variants. Some of these variants have more experience and combative skill. He managed two variants, but that was with Eve, and she’s out of commission now. He’s gonna face double the amount. Resources are limited, and the new reanimen, created with the corpses of the fallen variants, are still being developed. Cecil could only sigh.

You were preparing to hide in the furthest section of the house in case those variants decide to pay a visit. You weren’t sure that would work since Mark has superhuman senses, and logic dictates that the impostors share them. Maybe you were delaying the inevitable, playing a game of cat and mouse. You were about to go when a voice grabbed your attention.

It was Mark’s voice, pleading and begging for you.

“Y/n? Are you there? P-please, I need help! I-I uh… ran into one of the variants! Please, Y/n! I’m hurt!” Mark’s voice called out to you, muffled by the wooden door, as he pleaded for you to come to him. You felt your nerves ease as Mark's voice relaxed your muscles. You sighed with relief as you approached the door, but something was off.

Something was itching inside you. There was something wrong with this situation; that voice felt wrong. It sounded like Mark, but there was a hint of malice, dark, and twisted intentions. Just when you thought everything was going to be okay, anxiety and panic shot through the roof. Stepping away from the door, you bolted down the hallway. Mark’s voice continued to call out.

“Y/n, are you there?” The worried, pleading tone dropped, replaced by a soft laugh and scoff. Your intuition proved right. There was a long, drawn silence before a loud crash echoed through the empty house and neighborhood.

“Man, I thought you would fall for that,” the fake Mark said. You could hear his footsteps stepping into the foyer. You slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle breathing, gradually moving away from the approaching variant. Mohawk glanced around the interior, same as the one from his universe. That means the same layout, and if his brain serves him correctly, there was a hiding spot. He remembers you showing him the cubby hole during his youth.

Mohawk weighs the options of playing around or going straight for you. He wanted to give you the false sense of security, but he was dead impatient.

“Playing a game of cat-and-mouse? The Y/n from my universe always lost. It's fun playing the predator. I get to pounce on you.” Mohawk said, a twisted grin on his face and a bulge forming in his tight suit. He could hear your muffled breathing and quiet footsteps. He began whistling, hands behind his head as if he were leisurely walking in the park.

Your heart beat peaked, breathing unstable, and adrenaline pumping through your veins as a strong hand grabbed your shoulder and pinned you against the wall. But it wasn’t a wall, it was the variant's chest. His hands came to rest on your hips as he pulled you closer to him. So many thoughts were rushing through your head that you couldn’t keep up. It ranged from ‘oh god I’m gonna die’ to ‘why am I being held like this?’

Turns out Mohawk was impatient.

“Found you,” Mohawk said with a twisted grin. He gleefully laughed as he won his reward. You remain frozen in his unnervingly tight embrace. You got a perfect view of the variant. He looked identical to Mark, but there were noticeable differences. This variant had a distinctive mohawk haircut. His suit was black and blue, a different design, and no mask. Dried blood soaked his uniform, giving him a more menacing appearance.

You could tell this one was unhinged. Not like the others weren’t, but this one was different.

“N-no, please! I—” Your begging was cut off by Mohawk leaning closer. Your train of thought collapsed as the variant began sniffing your hair and skin, his hands rubbing into your clothed skin. You could feel his heavy breathing, his lips touching and gliding over your neck—over your pulse.

“M’not gonna hurt you,” Mohawk muttered, his grip tightening. Strangely, your body went at ease. You exhaled the air trapped in your throat. Your hands crept up Mohawk’s chest; you could feel his defined body underneath your palms. Your mind said this wasn’t Mark, but your heart registered him as your boyfriend. This was confusing; it was shattering your perception.

“I don’t—” before you could finish, Mohawk pulled from your neck and kissed you.

The kiss was surprisingly soft. His lips molded with yours as he deepened it. His tongue pushed past your teeth—exploring your oral cavity. Mohawk's taste, lips, and technique are similar to your Mark's. Your eyes widened from the gesture, but this kiss was meant to disarm you, and it was working. You began melting from the kiss, moaning softly as Mohawk refused to pull back. Your arms even left his chest to wrap around his shoulders.

You admit to enjoying the kiss, but reality was setting in. You were kissing a deranged, psychotic version of your boyfriend. Kissing a mass murderer, an impostor who wore his face. Panicking, you tapped and pushed at Mohawk’s shoulders, signaling to let go—and to breathe. Mohawk did let go only to dive into your neck. He bit, licked, and sucked on your skin, leaving bruises and marks.

“Fuck… you taste the same, no, better than I could’ve imagined.” Mohawk murmurs, groaning into your neck. Your face was pulsating red now. Soft moans escaped your lips as Mohawk ravaged your neck while greedily grinding against your thigh. You could feel his hardening bulge, the same size and thickness as Mark's. There was a fluttering sensation in your stomach, blooming through your body as it began reacting to Mohawk’s ministrations.

“I’m sorry,” Mohawk whispered. The admission caught you off guard, but the variant continued whispering in fragmented confessions.

“W-what? W-why are you here?” You stammered, facepalming inwardly at your weak, cracking voice. There was a jarring silence. Mohawk’s grip loosens as he frees you from his firm grasp. You took the opportunity to back away, but the variant intertwined his hand with yours.

“You. I was promised you. He promised me.” Mohawk answered. He was vague on who was behind the promise, but an educated guess would be that this unknown man is responsible for the global crisis that unfolded.

“Who exactly gave you that promise? A-and why me? What happened to me from your universe?!” You demanded to know, even though you were in no position to demand answers. Mohawk didn’t appear offended or have the urge to pop your head off. Instead, a somber expression fell on his face, and he finally spoke.

“I killed you,” Mohawk replied in a quiet voice. Your stomach dropped from the confession. You expected it, but you were still surprised. “I thought you were a weakness, like everyone else. So, I killed you for fun; I made a little game. I’ve come to regret that mistake.” The silence was palpable.

“That sounds like a pretty hefty mistake.” Before Mohawk could reply, there was another explosion outside. You yelped as the windows shattered from the impact and shockwave. Mohawk grunted, pulling you beside him as footsteps approached. A figure turned the corner. It was another variant. This one wore the same uniform as the Viltrumite woman with the Empire’s insignia on his shoulders.

“Great, another one.” You mumbled, laughing to cover up your sobbing and whining, as now you were stuck in the middle between two variants. Viltrum’s eyes landed on you, completely ignoring Mohawk’s presence and touch.

“Y/n… It's really you…” Viltrum muttered, stepping closer to you and Mohawk. His hardened, stoic features softened, light and life returning to his dull eyes. Heavy emotions were crushing Viltrum, something he’s suppressed for years. He finally gets to see you again. The familiar warmth and fluttering feeling filled his body, overwhelming his senses. His voice shattered that moment.

“Wow, wow, finders keepers, soldier boy. I got to him first!” Mohawk snarled, letting go of your wrist to size up the new arrival. Viltrum’s expression hardens as he crosses his arms. Mohawk pushes him back, his feet screeching against the hard wooden floor. Mohawk would be damned if anybody tried to take you from him after everything he went through and did for you. Soldier boy wasn’t going to lay a finger on you.

While they were distracted, you took the opportunity to sneak away. Surely they wouldn’t hear your quiet footsteps over their grunting and movements. The two variants were about to brawl when another crashed echo, ruining your chances to escape and catching the others' attention.

‘Another one?!’ you screamed internally.

The back door was busted open, and another variant walked through. This one costume was black and yellow, with black lenses, and a long yellow cape that draped over his shoulders. There wasn’t anything different other than his costume and his noticeably paler skin tone. You could tell his gaze landed on you as a wicked grin spread on his face, but it dropped into a sneer when he noticed Mohawk and Viltrum.

“Tsk, pity. I thought you’d both be dead; then I would’ve claimed him without problems.” Sinister commented, taking a few strides towards you. Mohawk and Viltrum halted their infighting, their attention fully on the black-and-yellow variant. Their bodies tense as Mohawk dashes to you.

“Unfortunate really.” Sinister thought it would be a walk in the park, take you, and bring you back home, but apparently, others wanted a piece of you.

“This dimension was weak! Hardly put up a fight.” Mohawk mocked with Viltrum nodding in agreement. He wasn’t going to mention how this dimension’s Mark knocked him out.

“I made swift work of my opponents,” Viltrum added, his voice unnervingly cold and calm. The tension in the room heightened as the variants looked among each other, calculating potential attacks. The silence was heavy until a distinctive whoosh of flight sliced it, and a gust of wind knocked everybody onto the ground.

These variants were dropping like candy! They were attracted to you like a lion stalking its prey. Despite being from different dimensions and facing different circumstances and choices, you must have held some importance to them.

You were disoriented, groaning and moaning until someone hoisted you onto your feet. Your vision was blurry; you couldn’t make out the person in front of you. You blinked a few times until the figure was clearer. It was another variant; it must have flown through one of the blasted entrances.

Unlike the others, who had distinctive features and suits, this one looks identical to the original Mark. If both were side by side and wearing the same clothes, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

This variant had a mixture of sorrow and disbelief with a hint of relief. You noted this variant wasn’t wearing a mask, a piece of cloth that Mark always wore. You said nothing as Maskless bore his eyes into your skull, biting your lips with a weak smile. Suddenly, you were pulled into a tight embrace, strong arms wrapping around your mid-section, and his face was nuzzled into your hair.

Unlike Mohawk, Maskless was gentler and tender. Your heart skipped a beat; his touch was similar to your Mark. Then, he spoke, his voice soft and laced with worry and relief. “Y/n, it's been so long. I never thought I would see the day… you’re not hurt, are you? These savages didn’t hurt you?”

This was uncanny, looked identical to Mark, and acted like him. Maskless pulled away and cupped your cheek; your face turned red. The variants got up and glared at Maskless, with Mohawk being the first one to bark.

“You ain’t calling me a ‘savage,’ and he’s fine. Look at him.” Mohawk snapped, venom and possessiveness in his voice.

“I would like to believe that until I saw Upstate in ruins. You could’ve killed him!” Maskless barks back, unfazed and undeterred by Mohawk.

“Well… uh, he wasn’t there! And I got here first, which makes him mine! So, back the hell up!” Mohawk growled as he was about to punch Maskless’s head off. He wasn’t going to admit that Maskless was right. He was reckless and didn’t pay attention to those he killed. That changed when he saw William among the ruins and remembered that you attended the same university. He thought he killed you, but William confirmed you left campus.

“You don’t have the authority to claim him.” Viltrum bumps in, grabbing Mohawk and Maskless by their shoulder and pulling them away from you.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah! Y/n doesn’t belong to you—you don’t get to decide for him!” Maskless said, agreeing with Viltrum. While they continued to bicker, Sinister took the opportunity to come behind you, leaning down to your ear.

“You’re not as bold as the Y/n from my universe. Doesn’t matter, but I wonder if your flesh tastes the same.” Sinister pondered. A sadistic, twisted expression etched on his face. He licked his upper lip, curious about your flavor. You froze, and the argument among the other variants fell silent as you thought about what had happened to your alternate version.

“Y/n from my dimension put up a valiant fight, but I snuffed him out. Tore him apart, limb from limb, and kept his eyes to look at. Oh, and ate some of him.” You were gobsmacked. The others must have heard it as well because their infighting stopped and turned towards you. “However, after that, I felt empty. I refused to believe I was attracted to you; I chalked it up to being obsessed with you. I kept thinking about you. I’ve come to realize I made an error of judgment.”

“I– wha…” You stammer. “You killed and ATE me? And regret it?” Sinister nodded in confirmation, and guilt and regret washed over him. “So, I’m dead in all of your dimensions?” you asked. The remaining three nodded.

“My dad… k-killed my Y/n. He said you were an obstacle. I-I never stopped loving you after your death.” Maskless said, his voice wavering and breaking as the memory flooded his mind.

“I wanted Y/n as my mate. I wanted to save him from his mundane life, but he became a rebel when the empire arrived. He was executed.” Viltrum replied, his hardened expression faltering, as he took on a somber look. Everyone turned to Mohawk, awaiting his response.

“Mm? Oh, right… You already know, but I killed you and enjoyed it. Also, kinda created a harem of your lookalikes,” Mohawk replied. The variants gave Mohawk a weird look, agreeing amongst themselves that no other human could replace you, while you were shocked and intrigued.

“What? Are we forgetting that Bumblebee over there ate his? Mine isn’t that bad,” the variant defended.

You stayed silent. You were intrigued by the circumstances that led to your death in different dimensions. Maskless seemed the most reasonable, Viltrumite sounded reasonable, but he didn’t go into depth about what pushed you into rebellion, and Sinister and Mohawk honestly scare you. Fear aside, you were conflicted on how to feel. The four of them deeply care and want you.

You could only imagine the horrors or situations they experienced in their respective dimensions, but at the same time, they’re all mass murderers. They wreaked havoc on the world and possibly killed millions of people, blood staining their hands.

“So, do any of you regret what you’ve done?” you asked.

“I don’t regret it—I mean, I do regret the killing and destruction of half of Europe, but if I hadn’t, then I wouldn’t get to see you again,” Maskless replied with a heartfelt response, causing you to blush again; damn weak emotions. Viltrum agreed, somewhat agreeing with Maskless.

“Meh, I enjoyed what I was doing cause I knew you were at the end,” Mohawk replied, shrugging. Given how he’s been acting, you should’ve expected that response coming from him. And it wasn’t a surprise when Sinister agreed with him.

“You may not be the same Y/n from our dimensions, but that doesn’t matter. We get a second chance,” Viltrum spoke with the other variants, who nodded in agreement. Right, a second chance. Each of them wants you, but you’re Mark’s boyfriend: this dimension’s Mark. This complicates things. They seem solely focused on you and do not want to inflict harm on you again.

“Right, but… I’m in a committed relationship with Mark, this dimension’s Mark.” You said, and the mood shifted. Each of the variants had a murderous intent on their faces from hearing your Mark’s name. Feral behavior mixed with restrained jealousy and boiling anger. They weren’t going to tolerate that.

“He doesn’t deserve you! He left you all alone! You could’ve died from one of the others! One of them… think it was the one with no goggles, was going to do horrible things to you! He can’t protect, but I can! He failed you!” Maskless ranted. His soft, restrained demeanor turned into a maniacal and lovesick one. A crazed smile on his face as he approached you, reaching out to cup your cheeks. You were taken aback, but you shouldn’t be surprised; he was still an evil version of Mark.

“Hey, back off! If I’m not mistaken, finders keepers! He’s mine! I’ll kill all of you if I must.” Mohawk snarled, punching Maskless into the nearby wall, leaving a sizable hole. You yelped as the variant wraps his arm around your waist. The alliance between them was collapsing.

“Oh, I’d like to see you try. I’ve been itching for an actual fight.” Sinister said, cracking his neck and stretching his muscles.

“I’m far superior to you; you won’t stand a chance,” Viltrum grunted, preparing to launch himself at Mohawk. Mohawk barked bullshit at the other variant. The situation was deteriorating rapidly, but the scene was interrupted by another voice, Mark’s voice, your Mark.

“Y/n!” Mark yelled as he hovered over your home. He noticed a massive crater in the middle of the street, windows shattered, and cars overturned by a powerful shockwave. He would’ve come faster if Cecil hadn’t held him back. Mark was panic-stricken; he wasn’t sure what he was gonna do or react if he saw your corpse.

“Mark!” You yelled back, pulling the attention of the Marks. You were thinking of running out and meeting up with your Mark, but Sinister anticipated it. Either way, it's not like you’ll make it far with four superpowered variants.

“Ah, ah, you’re not going anywhere, sweetheart.” Sinister purrs, pulling you into his chest. His hands rested on your hips as your head was buried in his chest, nuzzling in his pectorals. The others weren’t gonna pay mind to the sight, focused on dealing with the original Mark. Still jealous though.

Mark heard your screaming, floating to the ground, and entered through the massive hole in the front. He didn’t have to go deeper when he saw three of his variants ready to kill him, and the other one had you against his chest. “Let go and leave him alone! Or I'll make you.” Mark growled.

“Aww, I’m so scared! I’ve been wanting a round two.” Mohawk mockingly said with a sadistic grin. He was gonna kick the original Mark so hard in the balls that they would rupture.

“You’re outnumbered. You don’t stand a chance.” Viltrum stated, his voice void of any emotions except fury. His gaze was stone cold, calculating, and heavy. He wasn’t going to let this dimension’s Mark interfere.

“Finally, coming to your senses that Y/n is more important?” Maskless said with a venomous sneer. If he were your boyfriend, your safety and well-being would be his number one priority. You’d be the safest person on Earth!

You couldn’t see what was going on, your face buried in Sinister’s pectorals, but it seemed like the situation was getting heated, like a nuclear explosion was about to go off. You had to do something! There was no way Mark stood a chance against four powerful versions of himself. You had to brainstorm, or Mark would be crushed into a meat pancake of skin and bones. Taking into consideration that the variants seem to listen to you—somewhat—you surmised a plan.

Using their obsession and desire to have you, you could make a demand to spare Mark. While they were violent, unhinged, and sadistic, they’re still capable of reason and negotiating, as long as it benefits them. What more could they want than you? In their eyes, you were the diamond they’d been searching for. They’ll listen to you, hopefully.

“Mark…” You mumbled, calling out to the variant. Sinister peered down, and before he said anything, you leaped forward. Smashing your lips against his, Sinister was bewildered but gave in, returning the kiss.

You squirmed in Sinister’s grasp, like Mohawk, it was surprisingly gentle, but it quickly became heated and needy. Sinister was feverishly devouring your mouth, his tongue overpowering yours, and his hands keeping you in place while groping your body.

Same as Mohawk, you hated how you were enjoying the kiss. Same as your Mark with his own special twist that you enjoy. Sinister was yearning, desperate to taste you, something he wanted to know without eating your body. Now that he’s got a taste, Sinister doesn’t want this to stop. His hands are rubbing your hips and rear, squeezing and pulling as he gives slow thrusts.

Your moans were drowned out as you grinded your body against Sinisters. He was grinding against you as well; you could feel his clothed erection pressing on yours. It felt the same length and thickness that your body craved. You were losing yourself, your body and mind melting without resistance, probably due to the lack of oxygen.

Mark and the variants paused, watching the scene before them. The variants threw death glares at Sinister, seething with jealousy. Mark, on the other hand, was appalled. He couldn’t formulate a thought, but his body was already reacting for him. His dick was chubbing up in his tight costume. Why was it hot watching his boyfriend being dominated by one of his variants?

Mark wasn’t sure how to feel about this. He was no stranger to watching other men fuck his boyfriend; he liked being a cuck. It was a massive turn-on for him; this was nothing different, but it was his variants. The same variants that wreaked havoc and killed millions across the world. Yet, he couldn’t help but get horny. Not exactly the right time.

Sinister pulled back, your breathing heavy and face flustered. He chuckles and smiles, a dark and feral one. He wants to hear your cries, wondering if it's the same as the Y/n from his dimension. The others’ presence, unfortunately, ruined his thoughts.

“Aww, come on! He gets a kiss, but I can’t?” Maskless commented, whining and pouting. He’s screaming that he’s more deserving and worthy.

“Unfair…” Viltrum grumbled, scoffing under his breath.

“Ha, speak for yourselves, I got my taste.” Mohawk boasts, brags, and taunts Maskless and Viltrum. Both variants roll their eyes, cursing Mohwk and Sinister.

“Was Y/n this much of a minx? Didn’t get much time with mine,” Sinister asked, spinning you to face the others. He grinds his bulge against your leg, foaming like a feral animal. His dick is throbbing to have sex with you. Viltrum wondered the same, as he didn’t get to experience his Y/n.

“Oh yeah, before I killed him, he would bounce on my dick like he was dying,” Mohawk said, licking his lips as he looked at your disheveled state. He could feel the blood rushing to his lower body. That was the same face you’d give him when he was balls deep inside you, lost in the throes of sex and lust.

“Yeah, same,” Maskless answered, his face flustered, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from you. He reminisces about you riding him, bouncing on his dick, or pushing back to meet his thrusts. Viltrum remained silent as he observed, but he was feeling the same thing as the others: horny.

You had some rational thoughts left to propose a ceasefire between the variants and Mark, but it was spoiled when Mark launched himself at Mohawk.

“Stay away from him!” Mark yelled, landing a square shot on the variant's face. Your already ruined home—mainly the downstairs—shook for the third time, rubble and dust choking the air. Mohawk’s body flew a few houses down, and the two engaged in combat.

“No, wait! Fuck, shouldn’t you do something?!” you shrieked, turning to the other variants.

“Nope, let them fight, then we’ll take out who’s remaining,” Viltrum spoke with a firm voice; his face was indifferent. To him, it was better for the competition to kill or weaken each other. Maskless and Sinister backed Viltrum. It was weird how civilized they are despite wanting to kill each other.

“Just want to have you back,” Maskless muttered.

“Eh, I couldn't care less. Now, how about we continue?” Sinister whisper, leaning into your shoulder. His teeth grazing your skin as he laces it with bites.

You gasp softly, but groan in frustration. Despite the roughness, your body leaned into Sinister’s touch, begging for more. Viltrum and Maskless approached, and you could see the hunger and yearning in their eyes. Sinister didn’t oppose, probably cause he didn’t want to kill you accidentally.

“L-listen! Can you stop them for me? I… have something to say.” You begged Maskless and Viltrum, attempting to mask your flustered face with seriousness. The variants paused, weighing the options. The choice was obvious. You’re their weakness, so they conceded, launching themselves into the sky towards the brawling Marks.

A few minutes passed, and they returned with a bloodied Mohawk and Mark. Mohawk was bleeding from the nose with bruises on his cheek, and his costume was ripped, revealing his body underneath. The same could be said for Mark, although he didn’t look as bad as Mohawk, sporting some bruises and scars. Mark wanted to say something, but you shut him down.

“I… please, spare him.” Your request was simple, but it was met with disapproval and discontent. “If you spare him… I’ll uh…”

“Have sex with us?” Mohawk said with a shit-eating grin, finishing your sentence before you could. “And lover boy can watch. Show him that we’re better.” Your dick jumped at the suggestion. An orgy with four variants of Mark? That’s something you would sign up for, but a part of you was screaming no.

Mark didn’t say anything. Was he gonna watch four variants of himself fuck his boyfriend? That sounded hot as fuck. His dick sprang to life, causing him to squeeze his thighs to hide his erection. He should have voiced his disapproval, but he didn’t, and neither did you.

“Well, since no one is speaking up, let’s take this to your room.”

… (There’s no Markcest in this) …

Mark sat across from you and the others—the same chair where he watches other men fuck you, this time it was versions of himself. He was stripped of his clothing, his flaccid dick resting on his thigh, his nipples hardening from the cold air, and his chiseled body tightening. Mark previously wanted to avoid watching since it was bizarre to comprehend watching four clones of himself fucking his boyfriend, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

His once flaccid dick was slowly rising, blood pumping into the piece of flesh as he listened to your labor moans and breathing. You and the variants were naked as well; you were the center of their attention.

They touched and pulled at your body, wanting you to be closer to them. They worshipped you as if you were a delicate piece of porcelain—well, somewhat as the Mohawk and creepy, sadistic ones were rougher. The other two were gentler, albeit Mark could tell they were gonna descend into feral beasts. You can handle one Viltrumite, but can you handle four at once?

Sinister was behind you, occupying your right shoulder blade. He plastered bites and kisses on your skin, deep bites that caused some blood to seep through. You yelped, gasping as his canines pierced your skin barrier. His groans were muffled as he indulged in your blood, lapping and sucking the thick, metallic substance. One of his hands groped your pectorals, toying and flicking your nipple.

“Mmm, same flavor as my Y/n. Need more.” Sinister grunts, grinding his rock-hard dick against your ass. You could feel his heavy breathing and hear his moans pressing your ear. His ministrations were getting rougher as he greedily attempted to take possession. You chalked this up to his lack of experience with you from his dimension.

Parallel to Sinister, Viltrum occupied your left shoulder blade. Unlike his counterpart, he pressed soft kisses on your nape and shoulder. It was sloppy. His tongue lapped at the sweat forming on your skin, his mouth opened as he continued wetting your skin with his saliva. His fingers traced the middle of your back, kneading the flesh.

This is everything he could have wanted, besides sharing you with the others. He remembers having to breed with other humans and that vile woman. He wasn’t so gentle with them, regarding them as nothing more than a means of filling quotas. Viltrum remained silent as he basked in your body. His kisses slowly transitioned into bites, and sucking hickies on your neck, targeting the pressure points.

You couldn’t think when Maskless wrapped his lips around your cock. He kissed and worshipped your stomach before moving down to your crotch. The constant stimulation you were receiving from the variants caused your dick to pump and throb. Maskless eagerly sucked your dick, his tongue flicking your sensitive tip and swirling around your length.

His warm, wet mouth was expertly deepthroating you. His hand came to fondle your heavy balls, and the other massaged your thigh. You bit back a loud moan, but Mohawk protested otherwise. Mohawk was on the same side as Viltrum, in the front, but he was more focused on your pectorals, especially your nipples and ass.

“Ah, ah, ah! We all wanna hear you, especially him over there.” Mohawk growled before returning to your chest. Your eyes then moved to Mark; he was jerking off, slowly pumping his dick with long strokes. His mouth was agape, and his defined, chiselled body was glistening with sweat. You could see his balls fapping against his hand when he thrust into his fist. The sight was as stimulating as the variants’ abuse of your weak points.

You were dragged out of your daze when Sinister yanked your head back, gripping your hair as he smashed his lips against yours. Like the prior one, he dominated your mouth. While you were being suffocated, Mohawk’s hands groped and squeezed your ass cheek before journeying deeper. His fingers probed around your entrance, tracing the tight rim and poking inside.

You pulled back from Sinister’s kiss, your cries and moans echoing through the quiet house and neighborhood. It was too much, and you reached your climax, shooting your load down Maskless’s throat, who eagerly gulped it down. You glance down at Maskless. He was grinning as he swallowed, licking his lips and teeth. He got up from his position and pulled you into a kiss; you could taste the remains of your load on his tongue.

“Mmm, sweet, don’t you think? Tastes the same as I remembered.” Maskless said, pulling back as he felt the accomplishment of his action. You were the world in his dimension. He always made sure to bring you to multiple orgasms, and he was gonna do the same with you. There was much-needed time to catch up.

“Don’t think we’re done, babe,” Mohawk cooed, keeping his fingers near your puckered entrance. He tilted your head away from Maskless, examining your lips before licking the remnants of cum. “Mmm, it tastes sweet and somewhat bitter.”

“I think it's time we change the pace,” Viltrum stated, pushing you onto your knees. You came face-to-face with four identical dicks, all of them erected and throbbing, precum leaking from the slit. Your mouth was agape, tongue sticking out, and you were panting as you felt your body relax at the sight and aroma. This was a dream come true.

Similar to Mark’s dick, they were above-average size, but the shaft was thick—intimidatingly thick. Veins covered the shaft like a traceable roadmap, a prominent vein leading to the tip—something that was sensitive for Mark. You could see them pulsating. The head was swollen and broad, and a deep shade of red—a testament to their neglected needs. Precum glistened on the head, ribbons dripping.

Viltrum’s base was surrounded by a tight, trimmed patch of dark hair, while Mohawk’s and Sinister’s bases were messy but not thick bushes. Maskless’s patch was clean-shaven. Their balls were swollen and heavy, churning with thick loads that needed to be drained. You salivated, your lustful gaze switching between cocks.

Your brain short-circuited, succumbing to baser, primal sexual instinct. The reluctant, nervous feeling about having sex with Mark’s variants vanished, replaced with a feral need and desire. The main problem was which one to start with; all of their cocks were appealing. Doing eenie, meeny, miney, moe…

“Fuuuccckkk.” Viltrum cursed, letting out a guttural moan as he felt your tongue tracing his dick’s veins: Just as you suspected. Holding the base, you gave long licks, teasing the veins and cockhead. His precum touched your taste buds, tasted weird, an unfamiliar taste that you had never had. It was bearable though.

The others were displeased with your choice, wanting to be the first, but they’ll have a chance with your mouth.

After toying with Viltrum’s dick, you took it into your mouth. You moan from the thickness, stretching your oral cavity the deeper you swallow. Breathing through your nose and soothing your throat, you began bobbing up and down on his thick cock. You produced and gathered spit onto your tongue, lathering his length. You choked and coughed but pushed through, switching between sucking and stroking.

Viltrum was vocal, grunting and moaning as you sucked his dick. His eyes rolled back as it felt like you were sucking the life out of him. Your mouth was like a fleshy vibrator, tingling his dick in a good way. His hands came to your head, his fingers running through your hair and gripping it as he began to fuck your throat.

Mark bated his breath, groaning as he watched Viltrum use your mouth like his personal toy. He watched you begin stroking the others' dicks, arching your back, and eagerly taking them into your hands. He tips his head back, biting his lips as he squeezes his cock, preventing an early orgasm. His fist was coated with precum. His swollen tip was a shade of red, and his balls throbbed.

Mark still couldn’t believe something like this was happening. Out of all the possibilities that were running through his mind when this all started, he didn’t anticipate this: getting cucked by himself from other dimensions. Watching these variants have their way with you while he observes, naked and stroking his dick. Despite the unusual circumstances, Mark was enjoying this more than he expected.

“It's hard to believe we’re the same person. Pathetic.” Mark returned his attention to the voice; it was Sinister.

“Right? Fully expected him to fight, but nah. Guess he’s more interested in jerking off. What’s that word called?” Mohawk chimed in, laughing and joining Sinister in humiliating Mark while humping your hand.

“A cuck?” Maskless responded, grunting as he felt your hand move onto him.

“Yeah, that. Couldn’t be me. I’d rip any heads if someone tried th—” Mohawk’s sentence was cut off in a choke moan when you moved from Viltrum’s dick to his. He didn’t hold back and began to thrust his hips. “Fuck, babe.” Mohawk moans as your warm, wet mouth eagerly sucked his dick. His balls slapping against your chin, your slurping and gurgling becoming audible as drool seeps through your mouth.

“W-what’s… a cuck?” Viltrum asks, breathing heavily. He looked like a mess, his face sweaty and flustered. He wasn’t familiar with this term or its meaning.

“A cuck is someone who gets hard from watching his partner get fucked by another man. Prime example over there.” Sinister replied, pointing to Mark. Viltrum seemed to understand and agreed with Mohawk’s statement. Nobody touches what’s rightfully his.

Mark avoided eye contact, but the humiliation made his dick throb and leak more. They continued to poke fun at him. It was mainly Sinister and Mohawk who kept humiliating Mark, mocking and laughing at him. It appeared he was the only one who had a cuckold kink.

None of the others liked to share the same thing, boasting that they’ll kill anyone who’d do that. They were possessive of their Y/n to some degree. Maybe he wasn’t alone; the multiverse is expansive. Though the variants he ran into didn’t seem like the type to have a cuckold kink — maybe the one that wore Omni-man’s suit had a daddy kink? That would be ironic.

“T-think he’s the… fuck… only one: he’s an anomaly,” Maskless said, controlling his breathing as you moved to his dick. Like Viltrum, he was vocal, moaning and whining to his heart's content. It had been so long since he last had his dick sucked. After your death, he didn’t take another person; you were irreplaceable.

“He’s a pussy, makes sense,” Mohawk exclaimed, wanting Mark to hear him.

You switched between variants, going full circle. Making sure each one received a handjob or blowjob. You were breathless, your chest heaving, and your lungs sucked of oxygen—a burning sensation in your chest, but you admired your handiwork.

Their dicks were lathered with your saliva and their precum. Their glistening cocks stood tall and proud, almost an arrogant stance of their superiority and dominance. You could see the massive lengths throbbing and flinching, missing the warm cavern of your mouth.

A hunger overcame you, their cum. You wanted them to cum.

“Think it's time we prepare you for the main course, and by we, I mean me. I call dibs.” Mohawk asserted, leaving no room for protest as he assumed his position, lying flat on the floor and hoisting you over his body, your ass coming into his view. He was giggling, a dark and lustful giggle as he licked his lips at his early Christmas present before him.

“What are you—” You were cut off by a discernible slap followed by another. You gasped and moaned softly. Mohawk’s rough hands groped your cheeks before delivering another slap. He grinned as he watched the flesh jiggle and ripple from the impact.

“Don’t worry, babe. Go back to what you were doing. I got you. Oh, and arch your back for me?” Mohawk purred, returning his gaze to the grand prize. You nodded, following Mohawk’s word and continuing to suck and stroke the other Marks and arching your back to give Mohawk more ass to deal with.

Pulling you closer, Mohawk marveled at your ass. It was thick. Thicker and bigger than the Y/n from his dimension. He was salivating, foaming as he groped and squeezed your cheeks. His fingers are digging into your flesh, clawing at the skin. You must have been working your ass out; it was firm but soft to the touch.

‘That lucky bastard.’ Mohawk cursed the original Mark, jealousy evident on his face. That bastard had a hot piece of ass on his boyfriend and wasn’t making use of him? If he were your boyfriend, he would’ve been worshipping your ass every day—screw the countless lives that depend on him. He would have you on his dick 24/7.

Mohawk spread your ass cheeks wide open, revealing your tight, puckered asshole. He could see the tight ring of muscle pulsing. It beckoned him to move forward. Extending his tongue, Mohawk pressed it against your hole, hungrily lapping at the ring. He blew against your hole, smirking as it twitched before deliberately licking again.

“Mmmm!” You moaned with a mouthful of cock, one of the variants groaning from above.

Mohawk smirks as he begins to press sloppy kisses, hearing your muffled moans. A surge of pride and satisfaction filled him as he switched between the two methods. Your asshole was now sloppy, coated with his spit, but he wasn’t done. He wanted to enjoy a couple more minutes.

You felt tapping on your hips. Releasing the cock from your mouth, you looked over your shoulder.

“Now go on, sit on me.” Mohawk urged. He didn’t elaborate further, but you can detect the feral, hungry tone. He wanted to be buried between your cheeks. Biting your bottom lip, you gave him what he wanted, moving and hovering over his face so you could smush your ass against him. A whimper escaped your lips as his tongue penetrated your asshole.

Mohawk’s groans were muffled as he feasted on your ass. His hands slapped your cheeks as he forced your full weight on him. There was a faint, sloppy, and squelching sound; he was munching on you. He fucked your ass with his tongue. This was heaven.

While Mohawk was enjoying and preparing your ass, the other variants continued to use your mouth. They were getting more vigorous with you. By this time, your jaw was hurting, aching from being used by the Marks. You were gonna push through it though, you could taste the fruits of effort as their cocks throbbing and notice more leakage, hear their breathing becoming labored, and hear them hitching. Your neglected cock was on the verge of another orgasm—another from just sucking.

“F-fuuuccckkk… gonna cum…” Maskless cried, gripping your head and thrusting into your mouth with force. His head tipped back, and his eyes rolled back. He roared, slamming your head into his crotch and holding it there. His heavy balls rested against your chin, pumping as the first shots hit the back of your throat.

Maskless’s body tenses as this was the first orgasm he had had in months. Your cheeks hollowed as you tried to keep up, instinctively gulping his load. The taste was strong, musky, and sweet: A unique flavor. Another and another wad of his thick, creamy load burst into your mouth as you worked overtime to keep it from leaking.

Yours and Maskless moans mixed—further stimulating the variant. It felt endless. Some dribbled past your lips, soaking the ground underneath.

“T-Taking it so good… o-oh god.” Maskless whines, his hips jerking before relaxing as the last spurts weakened. You pulled back with a wet plop, giving Maskless’s cock a few licks and sucking on the tip to clean it, earning a weak moan. There was a web of spit and cum connecting your mouth to his tip; the sight was erotic.

You caught a glimpse of Maskless’s disheveled and sweaty face. He was panting, mouth agape as he returned your gaze. His brown eyes showed he was satiated, but still hungered for more. He had that glint in his eyes, the same glint Mark would give when he wasn’t done, and that it was only the beginning. That Viltrumite stamina was a force to be reckoned with.

“Alright, my turn.” Sinister interrupts, giving you no chance to recover as he yanks you over to him and Viltrum. Instead of using your mouth, Sinister and Viltrum crowded you, stroking their cocks over you. Your eyes twinkled. You were going to be covered with their hot, thick seed.

“G-gonna cum, love…” Viltrum groans, slapping his heavy cock against your face. The precum and saliva left a trail on your cheek, and the tip poked your right eye. Sinister followed the same path as Viltrum, but would sometimes ram his dick into your mouth, grinning as you choked and coughed on his dick.

“Keep your head like that.” Sinister grunts, his free hand lifts your chin. The variant didn’t need to say anything; you can tell what was coming next. You stuck your tongue out and waited, your cock throbbing and balls tightening. Their grunts filled the room, dicks and balls throbbing as ropes of thick cum spurted from the tips.

You gasped as your face was painted with their cum. Same as Maskless, they were releasing gallons of cum. Cum coated your face, and some landed in your hair. Sinister and Viltrum thrust into their fists, milking the last droplets before settling. Some landed in your mouth, but the majority landed on your face.

On the other side of the room, Mark gave a few more thrusts and cums at the same time. His hips lifted and jerked as ropes of cum coated his fist and the floor. That was probably the best orgasm he’s ever experienced being a cuck. The sheer amount astonished him. Falling back on the chair, Mark takes a moment to recollect himself.

Mark pants, taking gulps of air. His head was tilted to the side as he glanced back at his boyfriend and the variants. The three above looked drained, but their stamina returned in a matter of moments, their cocks jumping to life as the lustful thirst repeats. Those Marks must have been dehydrated in their dimensions—you were the reason— and now it's finally being quenched.

His thoughts began conjuring vivid images. Your face coated with thick globs of cum, dried tears streaming down your cheeks from the brutal throatfucking, and your eyes filled with pure ecstasy. Mark mutters under his breath as his spent, flaccid cock slowly rises.

Mark also notes the other one with a Mohawk. For a couple of minutes, he’s been buried underneath you, munching and worshipping your ass. He had a firm grasp on your hips, holding you down as he feasted—not giving you a chance to get up.

Never in a million years would Mark think he’d share something similar with an evil variant of himself. Despite being the same person and possibly sharing the same likes and interests, Mark refuses to accept that. They’re evil, sadistic, and unhinged, while he’s the polar opposite. Yet, he and Mohawk like the same thing: your ass.

Whenever he’d come to visit you after a grueling mission, you’d always wear those tight shorts or pants. It's like you were enticing him to pounce—that was your intention. The thin pieces of fabric left nothing to the imagination, showing off your large, firm assets. Sometimes he catches you struggling to put pants on. He just wants to yank them down and worship your voluptuous buns. He could feel himself salivating…

bam

Mark felt a strong punch to the head, forcing him out of his thoughts. The pain surged through his body as the top of his head throbbed with pain. The culprit was Sinister. Mark could tell it was him due to his paler complexion.

“What was that for?” Mark grunts.

“'Cause I wanted to,” Sinister added, “and you don’t want to miss the main event.” The variant taunted as he grabbed Mark’s head and forcibly turned him to face the next phase.

Mohawk was on the bed, near the edge, and lying down, with you straddling him. Your back arched, your torso melting into the variant's muscular body, your dick pressed against his abdomen, and your head nuzzled into his collarbone. The variant was thrusting his hips into the air, wedging his thick cock between your cheeks—missing your entrance.

Mark could hear your soft cries. He knows your hole was aching to be filled, and Mohawk was teasing you with fake promises of being penetrated. Exhilaration was pumping, mainly towards his dick as another variant, the one with a serious and cold tone, took position behind you. He wasn’t doing much but stroking as he looked hypnotized by the globes in front of him.

The last variant, which was nearly identical to him, stood near the bed. He was pumping his dick slowly. His hand reached and lifted your chin, thumb cleaning the cum off your face before feeding it to you, which you happily accepted. He then pressed soft kisses.

“Still can’t believe we’re the same person. You’re just so… pathetic.” Sinister coldly said, letting out a low, bitter scoff.

“We’re still the person, ya know?” Mark replied.

“Unfortunately, but we’re superior—better than you. Just look at him, pure bliss in his eyes. That is, unless you can prove otherwise.” That was the last thing Sinister said before rejoining the others.

Mark was silent. Now, he was itching to prove himself wrong if that’s even the right way to put it.

“P-please… I need it.” You cried, biting your lip and pushing your ass on Mohawk’s dick. Your hole was needy. It was clenching around nothing as it was prepared to latch and pull the variant’s dick into its tight, warm depths.

“This is hot as fuck—hearing you beg.” Mohawk snickered, slapping your ass and teasing your asshole with his tip, pressing it against your entrance before pulling away, leaving you high and dry.

“Can we get on with it? Either start, or I’m gonna do it.” Sinister interjected with annoyance laced in his tone.

“Like hell you would, but fine. Hold on, babe.” Mohawk murmurs the last part into your ear. He lifted you and lined his tip with your hole. You choked on your spit as the pressure against your hole intensified. Mohawk grits his teeth as his sensitive tip is on the verge of piercing your ass.

Your heart beats rapidly, and your muscles tense as the tip penetrates your hole. Slowly but surely, Mohawk’s thick cock pushed into your ass. The searing pain coursed through your body as the stretch was intense. Moans and groans mixed into a symphony. The variant let out bellowed groans as your tight inner walls choked his cock with a vice grip.

“Ngh… f-fuck, you’re so tight.” Mohawk groans, but it doesn’t stop him from pushing the last inches until he's balls-deep. Your body shivered, your hands latching and digging into the variant’s skin.

“Need that mouth again,” Maskless mutters, picking your chin and sliding his cock back into your throat. He chokes, the familiar warmth and wetness swallowing his shaft as he thrusts.

While Maskless uses your throat again, Mohawk pauses on his thrusts, allowing you to adjust. The painful stretch was melting away, and pleasure began to blossom. You signaled to the variant by tapping him on the shoulder.

Mohawk growls, pulling his dick out before ramming back into your ass. Your whines and groans were muffled. Your eyes rolled back as his thick cock was scraping and hitting your pleasure points. The variant’s heavy balls slapped against your cheeks with each harsh thrust he delivers.

Viltrum watched in pure amazement as your tight ass opened wide and took the other guy’s dick. His cock throbbed as it couldn’t wait to be inside your depths—after you made them agree to double penetration. He spreads and lathers his cock with precum, extra lubricant. After waiting for the right time, he positions himself behind you, grabbing your hips and lining his cockhead.

Mohawk stills and waits.

Viltrum groans as he pushes into your occupied ass, his dick sliding against Mohawk’s dick. It was ridiculously crowded, but the tightness and warmth made up for it. You were on cloud nine, entering a blissful state as you were overstimulated; your cock was twitching and leaking like a faucet as your third orgasm was on the horizon.

Your hole was now stretched to its limits, two thick cocks speared you open and scraped your inner walls. Your mouth continued to be used by the other two variants. Within a few minutes, the variants steadily moved in unison, developing a rhythm—one pulls out, and the other pushes in.

Their dicks are deliciously rubbing the right places. Both variants jackhammered into your ass, but Mohawk’s dick was the one ramming into your prostate. They weren’t the only ones. Sinister and Maskless used your mouth until it was their turn. Everything was muffled except for the wet squelching, skin slapping against skin, and the feral growls of the hungry variants.

Maskless’s groans were the loudest as he gently gripped your head, sliding his dick down your endless throat. You peered up at him; his clean, groomed appearance was now disheveled. He shared the same look as your Mark whenever you sucked his dick.

“You’ve had enough.” Sinister hissed, yanking you by the hair and pulling your mouth off Maskless. Your eyes shifted to the variant, his shaped canines gleamed with a wicked grin as he started to ram his dick down your throat.

“Hey, don’t be rough with him! Could’ve been more gentle?!” Maskless reprimanded the other, but it only earned him an eye roll.

“He can handle it. Just look at him.” Sinister replied, looking down at your disheveled, but blissful state. You enjoyed being double penetrated by two thick cocks and having your mouth used by two more. “He likes this.” Sinister reasoned, holding your head in place, forcing you to keep his cock in your mouth.

You stuttered, gagging as your nose touched the variant’s pelvis and pubic region. Your eyes watered from the treatment, but you pushed forward, flicking your tongue against the shaft.

“Holy shit, look at that! There’s a fucking bulge.” Mohawk chimed in, a cruel and amused cackle leaving his lips. He traces your exposed throat, feeling Sinister’s bulging cock through your skin. He could feel it throbbing and moving in there. That and the constant stimulation from your ass clenching around like it was trying to milk dick was pushing him to the brink.

With newfound invigoration, Mohawk picked up the pace, increasing the speed of his thrusts. Your surprised moans and whimpers were choked as it felt like the variant's dick was poking too deep. Your guts were being rearranged.

“Y-you feel so good…” Viltrum growled, panting as he followed Mohawk’s pace. Both of their cocks were fucking your stomach. Your nerves and senses were ablaze, and everything was becoming fuzzy. You could feel Viltrum pressing against your back, kneading your marked shoulder blades, and kissing your nape.

“Best fucking ass in the universe.” Mohawk moans, his head falling off the edge. His thrusts were getting sloppy as his cock throbbed. The variant’s balls tightened, preparing to blow a massive load deep inside your ass.

“And throat,” Sinister added, slowly pulling his cock out. Thick strings of saliva connected the points of interest like a spider’s carefully woven web. You took big gulps of air. Your lungs were burning before being cooled by much-needed oxygen.

“Couldn’t agree more,” Maskless said, pumping his dick with two hands.

In any regular situation, you’ve tapped out long ago, but that wasn’t happening. Your limits were being tested and pushed to the breaking point. Everything was overstimulating your senses and nerves. No guy other than Mark was able to make you have three consecutive orgasms, but these guys were Mark times four—since they’re the same person. Your cock was gliding against Mohawk’s abdomen, smearing precum.

You peered to the side to see Mark stroking his cock, humping his fist as he watched the scene before him. Like the others, he had a disheveled appearance, his muscular, toned body was coated and glistening with sweat and traces of cum—he was also rubbing and pinching his nipples with his free hand.

Then your eyes met, and you could see something in his; it was calculating and observant. You predicted he was planning something, but you couldn’t think as the loud bellows, moans, and groans filled your ears.

“G-gonna cum… breed this tight ass… make it mine.” Mohawk moans, snarling as his fingers dug into your hips. His thrusts fastened but stuttered as a torrent of thick seed gushed from the slit, flooding and painting your fleshy walls.

“Me too… make you my mate…” Viltrum mumbled and cried, biting harshly on your neck as another wave of hot, thick cum filled your ass, thick globs upon globs…

“Keep your pretty face like that… open your mouth.” Sinister growls as he furiously jerks his cock. You obeyed and opened your mouth, awaiting the variant’s delicious seed. He slaps his cockhead against your tongue, groaning as he unleashes his second orgasm. His thick load coated your taste buds, flooded your tongue as he pumped gallons.

“Swallow, sweetheart…” Sinister said with an exacerbated breath, watching as you swallowed yet another load of cum.

Maskless was the only one who didn’t cum as he wanted to save it for when he’s inside you. His cock was throbbing and flushed a deep shade of pink due to him squeezing the tip to prevent his orgasm.

Mohawk and Viltrum pulled out slowly, their cocks dragging along your fucked inner walls before pulling out completely with a wet, audible pop. A wave of cum gushes out of your gaping hole, sliding down your thighs. You cried from the empty feeling, missing the fullness of their cocks.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart. Save that for me when I take his place.” Sinister said.

After that, everything was a blur, but you had faint memories of intense orgasms, fucking, and marking as the four variants ravaged your body, wanting to claim you as their own. They dump load after load of hot, thick semen, filling you to the brim like a water balloon being filled with water. The variants took individual turns after the double penetration.

Maskless was slightly gentler than the rest, pushing you flat on the bed and getting in between your thighs. He teasingly rubbed his cockhead around the rim before sliding in without resistance. Broken groans escaped his mouth as the sloppy and warm feeling swallowed his dick. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper into you. During his time, he pressed soft kisses along your neck and cheeks—wanting to give you all the pent-up love and affection, something he couldn’t give you in his dimension.

Mohawk enjoyed cowboy style. He let you have the reins and watched as you desperately rode his dick, fucking yourself dumb on his dick. You were cock drunk to the point when he stopped you, you complained and whined, attempting to move, but he held you in place—his dick buried deep in your ass. He grinned and cooed softly as you begged him to move, your hands punching his chest. He granted your wish, migrating his hands to your ass and hips, still marveling at your thickness. The coupling between you and him filled the void that had plagued him for almost a year, and he finally understood his true feelings.

Sinister loved doggy style. He reveled in the dominance and deep penetration the position gave. Seeing you on all fours with your ass perched up for him to enjoy made him more feral than he already was. Unlike Mohawk, he took full control. One hand pressing your head into the mattress as his dick dug deep into your ass, long and deep thrusts. Hevlett out animalistic grunts, fingers digging into your hips or gripping your hair with a fierce hold. He would sometimes lean forward and start biting or tearing at your skin, wanting to solidify his possession. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake; he was going to take his time with you.

Lastly, Viltrum had you in a mating press position. Your knees pressed against your chest with your calves perched on the variant's shoulders. You had a clear view of Viltrum, his face contorting with pleasure and gritting his teeth as he gave powerful thrusts. You were in a haze, but you could make out his mumbling words: “You’d look beautiful with my child… only the best for my mate.” Viltrum knew you couldn’t get pregnant, but that didn’t stop him from putting you in a mating press. This was the optimal position for consummation. He was going to find a way to have a family with you; that’s his only wish.

The ordeal was a symphony of grunts and groans, the signature wet skin slapping against skin, and the cries for more. Yours and the other’s minds were clouded with sex and desire, reduced to primal instincts of raw breeding and sex. Each of the variants had its way of claiming you until your body was littered with bite marks, a testament to their possessive desire that overshadows Mark.

Your body ached, but in a good way. The attacks upended the weekend plans you had with Mark, and four variants were trying to take you back with them to their dimensions before fucking you in front of your actual boyfriend. They wanted to prove they were better than Mark—they were better than him.

You lie on the bed, rubbing into the dirtied sheets and blankets. You groaned from the aching joint pains and bites. You thought about everything that had happened in the last couple of hours. Having sex with evil versions of your boyfriend while he watched wasn’t on your bucket list, but you enjoyed it. That shouldn’t be a surprise since they’re nearly identical to the original.

The other variants stood at the bedside, examining your displayed body. They were prideful, proud of themselves as they looked at you and their handiwork. They muttered among themselves, surprisingly without conflict, until the main focus, Mark, made his move.

You didn’t realize what was going on until Mark came into your peripheral view.

“Mark..?” You mumbled, rising to a full body stance as Mark crawled onto the bed. He rested against the headboard, his thick, toned legs spread open with his throbbing dick standing proud and strong—it looked raw and swollen, probably due to jerking off for however long the marathon was on.

“Come here.” Mark grunts, patting his lap while stroking his dick as he makes eye contact with you. There was a glint in his eyes, something you haven’t seen before in him, but it made you excited. Your hole tightened, eager with anticipation as you crawled towards the man.

Once you were in arm's reach, Mark pulled you onto his lap. You straddled his legs, and your hands rested on his sweaty pectorals for support. Mark didn’t say anything, only holding onto your hips—doing what his variants were doing not that long ago. He could feel cum leaking out of your gaping hole, coating his happy trail and pubic region.

“Are you—ahh!” You choked, the air being punched out of your lungs as your ass was split open again. Your head tilted back from shock, and your eyes rolled back when Mark began to jackhammer. You could hear his heavy balls slapping against your ass, fapping mixed with wet squelching as the variant’s loads leaked with each aggressive thrust.

Mark growls like a possessed man, wrapping his arms around your waist and bouncing you on his dick and panting heavily as he fucked your sloppy hole. He could feel his variant’s cum sloshing and coating his dick with each thrust and feel the fluids leak, but he ignored and focused solely on you.

His eyes settled on your exposed neck, and a scowl crossed his face. Your neck was littered with marks and puncture wounds, with some caked dried blood—courtesy of Sinister. Without hesitation, he darted for your neck, feverishly and purposefully covering the variant’s claim. Biting and sloppily licking, his tongue lapped before he sank his teeth into your skin.

This was a welcome change. Mark had never been like this, opting for more vanilla and gentler sex, but now he was a man consumed by primal desires. He wasn’t holding back anymore. You could feel his dick ramming directly into your prostate, your dick flopping as he bounced on his shaft. You gasped as you felt his teeth sink into your skin, drawing some blood, which in turn caused you to clench around him.

Mark let out a guttural groan, encouraging him to thrust, but he wasn’t going to last long. His dick was sensitive from jerking off and cumming massive loads—surprising how he managed to control his impending orgasm. His thrusts become slow, but long and deep.

When one final thrust, Mark slammed you onto his shaft, holding you there with his fingers digging into your hips as his dick spurted another generous amount of thick, Viltrumite seed—joining the other variants. Both of you let out moans and groans. Having been drained, your dick only spurted a watery load onto Mark’s hardened, muscular chest.

You collapsed against Mark’s chest, your breathing broken and stuttering as you were officially spent. There was a wet plop as Mark pulled out, his cum oozed out of your hole. The room was silent except for the labor breathing.

“Guess he isn’t a pussy and has balls,” Mohawk commented, wiping his dick clean with a towel. “Was kinda hot watching though.”

“What?” Sinister said, a bewildered expression on his face as Viltrum and Maskless turned to him—even that perked Mark’s attention.

“Pervert, but I expected that from you.” Maskless murmurs. He was looking through your closet, sniffing your clothes, inhaling your delightful scent, before Mohawk said that.

“I call bullshit, I can’t be the only one!”

“You’re alone on this one,” Sinister replied. Mohawk rolls his eyes.

Vilrum stayed silent, but he did get turned on from watching you. Your moans were music to his ears, something he could listen to for hours.

You were completely out of it, resting against Mark’s warm chest as he soothed your aching muscles. You could say you deserve a pat on the back for single-handedly reducing the destruction of the world by fucking the remaining variants.

Mark didn’t say anything. He was soothing you while his gaze focused on the others, watching their moves. Sinister grins at him, bearing his teeth, while Mohawk gives him the middle finger. Maskless was busy burying himself in your closet, and Viltrum stood and looked around your room.

“So, this is where you've all been?” A voice sliced through the quaint room. This new voice grabbed your attention. The newcomer had a cold and disciplined voice, weirdly calm as well.

“Aww, come on, you already defiled him? I wanted to be the one! It's been so long.” Another voice spoke. This one sounded bratty and aggressive, the opposite of the other one.

You slowly reeled your head to the entrance of your room. Your jaw dropped; there were four more variants.

One had a suit similar to Omni-Man’s—he even has that father-like tone. He stood tall with a serious but flat expression. His arms crossed as he examined the scene before him. Standing next to him was another variant with stripes and the Viltrum insignia embedded on his shoulders. He had a sadistic smile as he looked over your naked body, licking his lips.

“It's really you…” A deep and raspy voice said. This variant was more noticeably different than the others. He looked bulkier and more muscular than the others, but he sported deep, jagged scars. His skin looked scorched and veiny, and his eyes were covered by black visors that looked as if they were fused to his sockets. His attire looks like a prisoner's clothing.

The last one was silent, but you could feel his gaze. He wore a black-and-blue suit with a mask covering his face. He seemed like a phantom. He’s just standing there, menacingly; watching and waiting. You could only think of one thing:

“Oh god. There’s four more.”

The End

Author’s note: Hello, my strawberries! This is the longest fic I’ve ever written by a long shot—two months in the making. I don’t know if I’ll ever get to this level. There is more content with Mark coming in the future! That’s something I’m excited for.

Art works belongs to this user on twitter!

Special thanks to my proofreader: @sagethegaywitch

It was early in the morning, if you could call it that. The sun’s everlasting light struggled to pierce the permanent, gloomy, thick smog of Gotham. Instead of the bright blue skies filled with puffy white clouds, like the citizens of Metropolis get to enjoy, you get mute, gray skies and light that casts long, winding shadows on the concrete canyons of Gotham. You got the pleasure of enjoying a dull yellow or orange hue in the morning hours. It wasn’t idle, along with the high crime rate, corruption, and pollution—at least the rent was cheap.

But at least it was morning. The once-sparsely populated streets, walkways, and subways were beginning to fill with frantic crowds. Thousands of workers emerged from their homes and poured out onto the streets. You could hear the city's ambiance below: cars honking and revving—plus the typical sound of police cruisers' sirens wailing in the distance. You assumed they were responding to one of many murders that had happened during the night, or someone had discovered one of Jason’s unique ways of dealing with criminals.

Maybe that explains why the vigilante came to you worn out and tired beyond belief. He nearly gave you a heart attack when you entered your apartment. He was just standing in the darkness, leaning against the kitchen counter with his iconic red metallic helmet in his hands. The lighting didn’t help, as it cast his large, imposing silhouette like a child standing over their sleeping mother. You thought your time was up and validly let out a screech, only to hear a laugh slice through it.

Realizing who it was, you sighed in relief; your fight-or-flight instincts diminished as Jason pulled you into one of his hugs. You should’ve expected who it was by now. Your apartment was practically Jason’s home, an upgrade from the various safehouses scattered across Gotham—though he was careful not to draw attention to you unless he wanted one of his enemies to target you.

But you didn’t have any worries, believing fully in Jason’s abilities—especially his stealth, which made you wonder about the safety of your home if the vigilante could easily break in undetected. Nobody was gonna touch a single hair on your body without feeling his wrath, and because only he can touch your body.

Your tense, aching bodies relaxed and melted into each other. You could feel the vigilante’s warm, heavily muscled body molding against yours, defined and sculpted by years of grueling training and resurrection that brought him back. He pressed kisses on your forehead before moving down to your lips, pulling you into a heated dance as your lips moved with rhythm and intent. You could feel Jason’s calloused hands running underneath your shirt, pulling and squeezing your skin as he grinds his crotch—rubbing his tight, clothed bulge on yours.

“Let’s go to sleep,” Jason said, pulling back with a teasing smirk plastered on his face. You frown, whining under your breath as you wanted to go further, but that quickly vanished when Jason stripped himself of his clothing, leaving nothing but his underwear on. You unconsciously licked your lips, not shying away from ogling the manly tank in front of you. He gestured for you to follow his lead—you did so without hesitation.

That was last night, your naked bodies snuggled underneath the thick, cozy blankets. You switched between being the big and small spoon. Jason’s large arms wrapped around you, encircling you as he pulled you closer whenever he felt you were too far. You felt his soft breathing blowing on your nape, and his forehead pressed against your shoulders. That didn’t last forever.

The blare of your alarm woke you up. The annoying, piercing sound assaults your ears as it tells its time to get up. You groaned and begrudgingly dragged yourself out of bed, which was a hefty task with your body tangled with Jason in an amalgamation of limbs. The vigilante held onto you like a koala with a death grip. After some twisting and turning, you were freed from the man’s grasp.

Jason groaned in his sleep, turning over onto his backside, the sheets sliding off to reveal his chiseled, muscular body—one arm over his head and the other resting on his stomach. Even in his sleep, he was effortlessly stunning. He looked like one of those men’s magazine models you’d find at the store and bring home to masturbate to when the internet was still newly available to the public. And he was all yours.

You groaned as you arched your back, stretching the muscles as you propped your hands behind your head, rolling your shoulders backwards. You could hear stiff bones popping and cracking from the pressure. Once the stiffness and tension in your body were alleviated, you planned to make a hearty breakfast for you and Jason to enjoy before his usual routine during the daylight hours—a breakfast burger sounded perfect.

But something caught your attention. You didn’t notice beforehand, but it couldn’t be ignored once you made eye contact. The thick blankets covering Jason’s body slipped below his waistline, revealing his basic underwear and his massive dick resting on his thick, meaty thighs. Your jaw dropped. The massive thing must have slipped through the fly while he slept—it was lying flaccid on his right thigh. How did you not feel that pressing against your ass? You would’ve noticed immediately.

But it was there: Jason’s massive dick in all its glory. As if it couldn’t get any better, the massive thing was gradually lengthening. You watched as the flaccid cock rose to prominence, throbbing and jumping against the vigilante’s clean-cut abdomen. That’s when you heard choked grunts and moans, Jason thrusting his hips into the air—he was having a wet dream. The hand resting on his stomach moved to grip the sheets, his brows twitching as he gritted his teeth.

A burning sensation rushed across your face as you idly stood on the side of the bed, watching Jason have a vivid dream—most likely about you. The more you watched, the more you wanted that massive thing filling your mouth—feeling the heavyweight on your tongue and the thickness filling every inch as you try to take as much as you can. Your dick was tenting in your underwear at the mere thought of giving the vigilante head while he slept, and he continued having his wet dream.

Surely he wouldn’t mind? You remembered a while back, he brought up the idea of sucking him while he slept—it was random, something you weren’t expecting from him. It was after a particularly stressful patrol that left Jason irritated and on the verge of killing someone or breaking the nearest object within reach. He was still irritated, but it somewhat dissipated by the time he broke into your apartment. He came behind you and started peppering kisses on your nape while he kneaded your body with his rough hands, grabbing your hips and grinding them against his crotch.

After the deed was done, Jason lay back with you nuzzled into his body—panting and sweating. That was when he randomly brought up a proposal and gave you his full consent to use his dick while he slept. You never thought of or had the chance, but you couldn’t pass up this opportunity—given to you on a silver platter. He wouldn’t mind you messing with his morning wood.

You climbed onto the bed and crawled to Jason’s side—getting between his legs. You took a deep breath and wrapped your hands around it—it felt warm and heavy in your palm, and you barely managed to fit the thick shaft in your grip. You could feel the veins and ridges pressing against your tight grasp. Jason’s dick still manages to be impressive in length and girth despite sucking and holding it multiple times. There was something about it that made you immediately fall to your knees and beg the vigilante to give it to you.

“Ngh…” Jason’s breath hitched as he let out a soft moan, his body shuddering from your cold hand touching his dick. You smiled, slowly started to pump it up and down—you could feel it expanding in your hand, if that was even possible. As you stroked the massive thing, your warm breathing brushed against it, causing Jason to grunt and shudder.

The vigilante unconsciously started rolling his hips, aggressively thrusting into your hands—he was dreaming about fucking you on a rooftop during patrol, not caring who witnessed the love between two men. To Jason, this dream felt oddly realistic, given how warm and tight the sensation was, but he wasn’t protesting—not at all.

You gave a couple of long, shallow strokes before delivering a deep—Jason responding well to the technique. You wanted more, though. You were particularly salivating, mouth wide open, as you intended to take it. You started kissing the massive pole all the way to the spongy cockhead, licking and swirling your tongue around it before devouring the head, locking your lips around the thickness. You hear Jason sigh with relief, and peering up, you see his pectorals moving.

Smiling with a dick in your mouth, you went to town and started slurping—focusing on the cockhead by flicking the tip of your tongue into the slit, tasting the first beads of precum. You weren’t paying attention anymore as you were completely hypnotized—noises muffled except for Jason’s grunts and you slobbering on the man’s dick. Lust had a tight, restrictive control over your being. You moved to take more, swallowing as much as you can, inch by inch.

“Mmmm…” you whined, struggling to take the remaining inches, so you opted to use your hands. You bobbed your head and stroked the rest, slowly taking more as you relaxed your throat and ignored the gag reflex. You huffed and puffed through your nostrils until a hand rested on your head. You froze and pulled back, Jason’s dick plopping out of your mouth with a wet pop.

“I… uh,” you didn’t know what to say as another rush of heat flooded your cheeks.

“I didn’t say stop, did I?” Jason spoke, his voice deep and raspy after just waking up. There was a lustful glint in his eyes, something that you were all too familiar with. You felt the grip on your head tighten. The vigilante fixed his position, sitting upright before spearing your mouth back onto his massive dick.

Your eyes widen as the massive shaft abruptly fills your mouth. Jason’s fingers dug into your hair as he was determined to push all of his cock down your throat. Tears pierced your eyes, your lungs were burning from the sudden lack of oxygen, and your jaw ached. It didn’t stop until your nose was buried in Jason’s underwear waistband and your chin was resting on his clothed sack.

“Breath through your nose.” Jason grunts, holding your head in place. You followed the advice, relaxing your throat to accommodate the vigilante’s dick and breathing through your nose so you wouldn’t suffocate. “Yeah… just like that.” Another bellowing grunt and groan left his mouth, his head tilting back onto the headboard as you clenched your throat around him—the cherry on top was you stimulating his sensitive cockhead.

Jason controlled the pace, one hand gripping your head as he moved you up and down on his cock. He bounced you like a basketball, using your warm, velvety, tight throat as a personal fleshlight. There was a combination of Jason’s feral grunts and the sound of you slobbering on him—you imagined his dick being generously coated with saliva.

You had your back arched, your ass perfectly on display. Your hole was twitching, clenching, and begging—it was hungry and needed to be satiated, but you had a feeling you were going to get the proper treatment soon.

“That’s enough,” Jason said, pulling you off his cock. You whined, but that was squashed when Jason got out of bed and slung you onto his shoulder like a sack of potatoes—effortlessly.

“Where are we going?” you asked, looking back to see where Jason was taking you.

“To the bathroom. Need a shower.” Jason replied, as you could see, the familiar interior design was coming into view. You were then hoisted back onto the floor, Jason holding you with an iron grip. “C’mere.”

Jason tilted your head and locked his lips with yours, pulling you into a rhythmic dance of dominance. Your tongues are tied together as he humps and grinds his massive, saliva-coated dick against your clothed tent—smearing your already precum-stained underwear. You can feel his rough, meaty hands move towards your underwear, groping your cheek through the thin clothing, before you hear the sound of fabric tearing and Jason’s hands touching your skin.

“Hey! You could’ve just slid them down!” You complained, pulling back and huffing as the fabric continued to tear until it was ripped in two. Your throbbing dick popped out, grinding against Jason’s dick.

“I’ll buy more, I just really need you. You have me riled up here.” Jason grumbled, squeezing your ass cheeks before slapping the fat mounds. You yelped, your dick twitching as more beads of precum leaked from the slit. Jason took the opportunity to tangle his tongue with yours, swapping saliva and deepening the makeout session—drool seeped through the tiny cracks in your lips and dribbled down your chin.

A heavy, low whine vibrated in your throat, your eyes rolling back from Jason sucking the living soul out of you, and his rough hands having their way with your cheeks—gripping the mounds and thrusting you against him, your moans drowned out.

While Jason enjoyed and toyed with your ass, kneading it like a baker preparing dough. You indulged in his upper body. You greedily squeezed and groped the vigilante’s pectorals like how he was treating your ass—there were subtle, drowned-out grunts, a taste of his own medicine. You were amazed by the rock-hard firmness, yet how squishy they were in your palms. This was most likely a result of your actions, feeding him too well and stuffing him with any junk food he wanted.

You flicked, pinched, and pulled his nipples, feeling the nubs harden between your fingertips. It seemed his dick approved of your ministrations, throbbing against your dick as more guttural growls were further drawn out by the feral, hungry man.

Jason retaliated, pulling your cheeks apart to expose your puckered entrance like Moses parting the Red Sea. You pulled back, a gasp and moan choked out—thick strings of slobber connecting your mouths as the cold air travelled through the valley between your cheeks, brushing against the tight, warm ring of muscle. Whines and whimpers choked out your throat, your mouth ajar as Jason’s thick finger probed your entrance—circling his fingertip around the small ring.

You were in a haze, but your body moved on its own. As Jason teased your puckered hole, the nerves sent signals through your body—straight to your brain, whatever was salvageable. It sensed something thick and long, and your hips instinctively bucked backwards—desperate rolling movements as it tried to grip and drag the vigilante’s finger into the tight, warm depths of your hot ass.

“You want this, sweetheart?” Jason growled, his jaw locking as he watched how eager and desperate you’ve become. There was nothing behind your eyes except a lustful and needy glint.

“Yes! Please, I need it so badly,” you begged and babbled, rolling and bucking your hips as you held onto Jason’s behemoth body—your fingers digging into his pectorals.

“Get in the shower.” Jason bluntly says, moving to open the walk-in shower’s glass door. He still had a grip on your hips and dragged you into the small, confined space. The door closed and locked. The vigilante turned the knob, and the shower overhead burst to life. Warm water sprinkled from above, enveloping and cascading down your bodies. Jason’s thick, wavy hair matted down on his forehead.

The water flowed through every cove and ridge of Jason’s body, highlighting his defined muscles—watching it flow like a river between his pectorals, as if they were mountains shielding a valley. You were knocked out of your gaze by Jason slamming your body against the slippery, soaked wall with one leg hooked on his broad shoulder. The side of your face and hands pressed against the wet tiled walls.

“Ain’t this a beautiful sight?” Jason purrs, smirking—watching you scramble to hold onto the nearest surface for support, but he has you secure, his beefy arm locked and gripping your knee/leg. What was more eye-catching was the water soaking your already disheveled body, your dick throbbing, and your puckered hole, which was throbbing and trying to buck backwards to capture his dick.

He continued to be amused by your attempts to tempt him or push back. The flowing water couldn’t muffle the sound of your frustrated grunts and whines. Deciding to toy with you, he grabbed and positioned his massive dick against your puckered hole, teasing the tight ring by rubbing circles and almost penetrating—the cockhead pushing past the rim before pulling out. He hears your hitched gasps and cries, your body squirming to take what it wants, but is readily denied.

“Jay, p-please…” You whined.

As much as Jason wanted to continue his teasing rampage, his dick wasn’t going to last; it needed to feel the signature warmth and tightness. Precum drooled from the slit, and his shaft throbbed excessively. Your pathetic whining and cries for him weren’t helping either.

With a savage grunt, he once again positioned his dick against your sphincter and pressed forward. The confined space of the shower was filled with groans. You bit your bottom lip as the pressure grew against your rim. Jason gritted his teeth, and his face tightened.

“Fucking take it.” Jason groans as he plunges his dick completely inside your hole, his heavy balls and abdomen resting on the underside of your cheeks—your thighs. Your ass greedily swallowed every inch, massaging and clenching around the massive thing as your mouth spewed moans and cries of satisfaction.

Your chest tightened and heaved, the new angle was undeniably rearranging your guts—he was so deep inside your stomach that you could practically taste it in the back of your throat.

Just from feeling the tight embrace of your ass, Jason gave up rational thinking and became a hungry, feral man—spurred on by you.

“J-Jay… nghh… s-so… g-good!” you moaned, holding onto the tiled wall. Your breathing was harsh as Jason rammed his massive dick, your puckered hole stretching to its limits. His pace was brutal enough to collapse the tiled wall and push you into the next apartment. You can hear his heavy balls slapping against your thigh and the clapping of your cheeks, and the faint sprinkling of water from above.

“Fucking hell,” Jason growls, his heavy-lidded eyes notice a tummy bulge forming every time he thrusts—the size ranged from a tummy bump to his cockhead sprouting out. He managed to choke out a low chuckle, moving his free hand over the bulge to feel it. With each brutal thrust, he could feel his cockhead through your skin. “You feel that, sweetheart? That’s me.”

You slowly and shakily peered down to see what the vigilante was talking about, and there it was; your mind was melting, and your vision was rainbows, but you could see the bulge and the faint outline of Jason’s massive dick thrusting into your body.

“J-Jay… J-Jay… please…” Your brain was scrambled, your speech reduced to incoherent babbling and pleas for Jason. Your hoarse throat is pushing the limits. With some momentum, you reluctantly let one hand from the tiled wall. Jason removed his hand, letting you feel the bulge in your stomach. Your mouth stuttered open, marvelling at the feeling. A tightness starts to knot itself, spreading slowly throughout your lower section.

You couldn’t give Jason a warning before your body spasmed and your asshole clenched around the man’s dick with a vice-like grip. Your ear picked up the guttural groans from the vigilante—feeling his dick being suffocated or being snapped off. Your dick throbbed and spurted thick ropes of hot cum, your moans bounced off the walls—the water washing your load down the drain.

“Fuck, sweetheart… s-squeezing my dick. Y-you feel so fucking good. So tight when you cum for me.” Jason moans, his muscular body shuddering, almost pained. He couldn’t move his dick; it was lodged completely inside you, and your greedy ass refused to let go. It wasn’t long before he reached his climax.

Garnering his strength, he pulled out slowly, dragging his massive shaft against your walls before slamming back—all you can do is whimper and drool as he fucked you past your orgasm and into overstimulation.

He didn’t last long. He let out a bellowing groan and growl, giving one more thrust to the hilt—his dick and balls twitched before unloading deep inside your ass, filling you to the brim with his hot, thick seed. Your fleshy insides were painted white; you felt the massive shaft throbbing, followed by a flood.

The shower fell silent apart from the labored panting and desperate intake of air, and the water cascading down your bodies. Every part of your being trembled from the intense orgasm; everything was foggy and blurry, and your gaze travelled to the bump in your stomach—you looked pregnant… did Jason really cum that much? It's been a week since you both had sex…

Your mind continued to reel and repair the damage until Jason spoke.

“We should do that again!”

The end

Author’s note — Hello, my strawberries! I hope this was good! I’m popping these fics out like Queen Anne. More food is coming.

Special thanks to my proofreader — @sagethegaywitch

“I wanna have sex.”

Those four words slipped out of your mouth, directly stating what you want from your boyfriend. You rolled over from your current position, nuzzling and resting on Miguel’s side and arms, to straddle his thick thighs; your hands resting on his expansive, hairy pectorals.

The bed groaned and squeaked under the newly added weight, a soft grunt escaping Miguel’s lips—his large hands instinctively jumping to hold your thighs. Your ass was pressing and grinding on his clothed bulge.

«¿En serio, amor? I thought you wanted to rest? Pero no me importa».” Miguel chuckles, rubbing circles into your thighs with his thumbs and rolling his hips in response to your grinding—pushing his growing bulge in between your cheeks; letting you feel what was coming.

Searing heat flooded your face, prickling underneath the layer of skin; a soft moan escaped your lips, gasping from feeling the once soft, flaccid cock slowly hardening into a massive thing. You couldn’t help but arch your back, your plump ass pushing outward—increasing the friction between your bodies.

Your dick was hardened, already throbbing and sensitive from the mere interaction. It was chubbing in your underwear when you begged Miguel to come to bed with you. That was when you deemed it was time to give your sacred virginity to the man. There was an uneasy feeling, a tight knot in your stomach, but it was overshadowed by the anticipation building up and your dick.

A part of you expected Miguel to grumble something about staying glued to his monitors, observing the wide multiverse and calculating his next moves—waiting for any threats that would throw everything off balance. To your satisfaction, he agreed, saying that he’ll pass the workload onto one of the other Spider-Mans or LYLA. You eagerly watched the man peel off what little clothing he had—leering at his massive, hulking physique.

Everything about Miguel was massive. His broad shoulders and back tapering sharply down to his taut, coiled waist; hefty pectorals that looked like they needed a bra to be supported; and two massive, hairy thighs that could crush a watermelon.

And you couldn’t forget about his impressive equipment. You'd never seen it, maybe heard some rumors from the other Spider-Men about how massive and thick it was. You never saw it, given that he was the only Spider-Man to possess a hard-light hologram instead of the traditional fabrics. Now, you had an idea of what it was—the massive, thick piece of meat grinding against your ass, pushing your cheeks apart. Soft whimpers under your breath as the realization was setting in, but it made your hole twitch—aching to have your cherry popped by Miguel’s massive, thick cock.

“Yeah, I did say that, but I wanted to take initiative. I want you to be the one,” you whined, biting your bottom lip and nail digging into the flesh of Miguel’s pectorals. The Mexican man is aware that you’re a virgin, keeping your cherry unplucked for a man worthy enough. He felt his pride swell from the declaration—a bright bloom in his stomach. He was going to make sure you enjoyed your first time. Give you the taste and feel the throes and ecstasy of sex and pleasure.

Plus his dick cheered and jumped, pumping with blood to full erection from the thought of being the one to take your virginity.

“I’m honored, mi príncipe.” Miguel purrs, moving his hands to your hips, gripping the flesh before grounding you on his crotch—halting your needy grinding and teasing. Soft grunts and moans filled the space. You could feel the Mexican man’s meaty, rough hand groping and pulling at your hips, then transitioning to kneading your plump cheeks.

“Let’s begin, mi príncipe.”

Lesson one — Blowjob

Your knees dug into the carpet-covered floor with Miguel sitting on the edge of the bed. Miguel’s meaty, thick thighs spread open, giving entrance and space between them. Your eyes zeroed in on the prize, a massive one at that. Your breathing deepened, hitching and choking. You could see the massive thing twitching underneath the soft fabric—you noticed a dampened spot near the front. Your dick and hole twitched; this was it.

“Go on, mi príncipe. Es todo tuyo.” Miguel spoke, cupping your cheek and lifting your head to face him. You nuzzled your head into his palm, whining softly as he pulled away. You gulped, grabbing onto the waistband, slowly pulling the drawls down—Miguel lifting himself off the mattress. The moment you’ve been waiting for happened, ever since you announced that you were dating the leader of the Spider-Society. Your eyes widened, and your pupils dilated, expanding like the smile spreading across your face.

Miguel’s massive, thick cock and heavy balls that looked egg-shaped plopped out of their imprisonment. As mentioned before, everything about Miguel is massive. You surmised the meaty piece of flesh to be nine inches—the immense shaft standing tall and proud. The thickness made your mouth dry. You could see veins pulsating and pumping on the sides and undersides. The flustered, pink cockhead peeked through the foreskin guarding the head.

You were practically salivating at the sight; your mouth felt empty and needed filling. The massive shaft twitched, the vein pumping. A heady, overwhelming scent invaded your nose, clouding your train of thought. It was rich and intoxicating—you were getting drunk off the musky scent. Was this what other men enjoyed and experienced? You read books and watched videos, but never understood the buzz—now you do. Yet, you were still intimidated.

“No tengas miedo, mi príncipe. Go slow, and I’ll guide you.” Miguel said with a soft voice, gliding his hand through strands of your hair.

You nodded, inching closer to the massive, intimidating shaft. The musky scent was getting stronger and more potent, further shutting down and fogging your head with lust. You reluctantly touched it, wrapping your fingers around the massive, thick shaft. Your fingers barely touched each other, a testament to the thickness. Miguel’s dick felt heavy in your palm, almost like someone lifting weights for the first time.

“¡D-dios mío…!” Miguel moaned, stuttering and choking as he felt the warmth of your palm wrapping around his sensitive dick. His hips involuntarily thrusted, eager for more, but he grounded himself. It's been weeks since he’s last relieved himself; his dick throbbed and ached for an immediate climax.

The heat in your cheeks grew as you slowly started to stroke, gently gripping the heavy, thick shaft—starting at the top, you moved Miguel’s foreskin up and down, exposing the flustered, pink cockhead. Thick strings and beads of precum gathered at the slit. Miguel gave his approval with low grunts and groans, tilting his head back. You could not help yourself and buried your nose in the area between the base and sack, inhaling the overwhelming, masculine scent straight from the source.

Then, you pressed your tongue against the massive dick, starting at the base and tracing it towards the pink cockhead. The flavors hit your taste buds as you licked the cockhead and foreskin. It was salty and bitter, but rich—uniquely Miguel. You paired your flicking tongue and stroking together, moving with rhythm to impress the Mexican man.

“Eso es, cariño. Keep it up,” Miguel says, letting out throaty moans. His hand stroking your head as he feels your tongue flicking and licking his sensitive cockhead, toying the spongy tip like it was candy. Your hand gently stroking the remaining inches. Your dick oozed more precum from the praise. A warm feeling flooded your body from hearing Miguel’s praise and approval. This is what you wanted, and you need more of it.

Taking a deep breath and internally coaching yourself, you took the throbbing cockhead into your mouth. Your lips widened and tightened around the cockhead, securing it in your mouth. You slowly and nervously bobbed your head, only sucking the tip. Your tongue continued to toy with the sensitive thing, swirling and flicking—even playing with Miguel’s foreskin. Your soft whine and moans muffled, but added further stimulation—earning muttered grumbles and praises.

“¡Ah, carajo!” Miguel screeched, his grip on your head tightening. His teeth clenched with a pained expression.

Your teeth accidentally grazed and bit down; the sensitive head sent pain signals through Miguel’s body, causing him to shudder and yelp in pain. You pulled back; a wet pop echoed. Globs and strings of saliva and precum combined to make a web, connecting your mouth to the tip. You looked up to see Miguel panting, eyebrows furrowed, and nose wrinkled—his heavily muscular body glistening in the low light from the sweat accumulating.

“Sorry about that…” You mumbled, embarrassed for the mishap. You proceeded to use two hands to lather the rest of Miguel’s cock with your saliva and precum. It could be interpreted as a sorry for accidentally biting his dick. Your wrist moved in a circular motion, moving up and down until every crevice was covered.

“It's okay, amor. Just watch your teeth next time, okay? You can do that for me?” Miguel replied, reassuring you, which calmed the embarrassment and anxiety filling your nerves. He patted your head, playing with the strands of hair, his fingers dancing and prancing through your scalp. Not hearing any opposition, you continued to stroke—spitting and lathering, repeating this pattern until Miguel’s massive dick was shining. With each spit, the squelching noise became more prominent.

Testing another technique, you flattened one hand with the other continuing to stroke the rest. You rubbed your flattened palm on the sensitive tip, swishing it back and forward. Miguel gave praise with choked groans and grunts, his eyes rolled back and mouth agape from the sensation. Where did you learn this from? Probably from the internet and its various sites. You had Miguel digging his claws into the mattress, tearing through the thin layer and into the plush filling. He needs to feel the warm, wet velvety interior of your mouth.

“Necesito esa boca otra vez, amor. Why not try taking more? Go slowly, take what you can. Don’t forget to breathe through your nose.” Miguel advised, his breathing heavy and chipped, failing to mask his needy desire to have your mouth wrapped around his cock.

You removed your palm from the glistening pink tip, resting it on Miguel’s thick, muscular thigh. With some guidance, your lips returned to the tip. The taste of precum was more prominent than before—most likely because you smeared and coated the spongy tip with the fluid. The bitter, salty taste triggered another muffled moan. Your lips widened to accommodate the massive dick entering, taking as much as you could—with each inch swallowed, Miguel’s throaty growls got louder. You were huffing and puffing, stuttering breath as you stopped halfway.

Stilling your movements and tightening your lips around the desired point, you let the heavy piece of meat rest on your tongue. Doing well so far, your teeth hadn’t scratched the sensitive head or veins running across the massive thing.

“Lo estás haciendo genial, cariño.” Miguel moans. With the words of encouragement, you slowly started to bob your head up and down—soft and slow deepthroat, taking a few more inches with each swallow. “Relax your throat… yeah, just like that, cariño.” The Mexican man’s groans grew more audible, both of his hands holding your head—pushing you softly on his dick. You started to incorporate your tongue, bobbing up and down and flicking the appendage—teasing the spongy head, tracing the veins, and swirling around the massive thickness.

There were a few hiccups, gagging and choking as the cockhead rammed into your gag reflex. Tears prickled your eyes from the sudden ramming, Miguel gently pulling your head back to let you breathe and recuperate. After a couple, you returned to servicing the massive dick—now delightful and eager to have it in your mouth, slurping and slobbering all over it. You could see thick globs of precum and saliva accumulating around the base with some bubbles littering the length.

“T-that’s it, cariño. Don’t forget my balls.” Miguel says, letting out guttural groan after groan. You didn’t hesitate to follow, pulling back and latching onto his heavy, hanging sack. They were hefty, filled with weeks worth of cum sloshing around in them. You gargled and slurped on both sacks while stroking the shaft—switching between the two roles with ease. “You deserve a reward.”

Your ears perked at the mention of a reward. Your head was gently pulled back and turned to face Miguel. His ruby red eyes met yours, satisfaction and adoration mixed with lust while you were in a daze—eyes half-lidded as you waited for more. Your breathing was soft and hitched, saliva coating your mouth. Your hair was disheveled, messy strands sticking to your sweaty forehead.

There wasn’t any resistance when Miguel manhandled you, picking you up from the scratchy carpet and laying you on the bed once again—displaying every part of your body to him. Your knees ached and cracked from the sudden lift, and your dick flopped as if in the wind. Soft breaths escaped as your body melded with the plush mattress and fluffy sheets—nuzzling and cozying into them. Your eyes, once again, met the same polished, ruby red eyes—this time, he was positioned between your legs, your dick lying on his sharp cheekbone. There was something in his eyes, but you didn’t have time to think.

“Your turn,” Miguel purred, a smile stretched across his face before taking your dick into his mouth.

This was your first blowjob and it had your back arched, hands desperately holding the sheets or running through Miguel’s slicked-back hair. Your thighs clapped around Miguel’s head—burying him between your plush flesh. A slew of cries and moans slipped out, your body spasming and shaking from the sensation, but it felt euphoric.

It felt like the oxygen and soul were being sucked out of your being. Your eyes widened, shuddering panting oozed from your lips as Miguel’s warm, wet mouth swallowed your dick—deep throating and taking every inch without a sweat; no gagging. His tongue focused on your tip, pressing the appendage into the tiny slit. Your dick was a throbbing mess, gushing precum like it was a fountain, and Miguel drank every drop.

“M-Miguel…” You whined. The burning heat that started in your groin swiftly spread to every corner of your being—thanks to Miguel. This electricity is flowing through every vein and flooding your brain.

“Shhh, cariño. This is all for you. Has sido un niño muy bueno, mi amor. You deserve this.” Your dick plopped out of Miguel’s mouth, letting the man speak. You whimpered and whined at the loss of the moist warmth. Your dick twitched from the brushes of air gliding on it. You watched as Miguel tapped the tip against his tongue—repeating this while stroking your saliva-coated shaft, making direct eye contact.

With this being your first, you didn’t expect it to last long, especially since it looked like Miguel wasn’t stopping anytime. He continued to slurp and slobber, adding another stimulant by fondling your balls with his hand—rubbing his thumb into them and gently massaging them. The edge came not long after, your breath heavy and body shaking with the force of an earthquake. Your dick throbbed and your balls pulled back before spurting its load into Miguel’s mouth—gushing a wave as the Mexican man eagerly sucked and drained every drop of your seed down his gullet. He gulped it like it was precious nectar.

You were left drained, dozing off, staring at the ceiling. Miguel released your dick, licking off any remaining cum from the tip and his lips. The once squelching, slobbering, noise-filled room was reduced to soft panting and quiet creaks.

“Sabes a gloria, mi amor. Hasta la última gota.” Miguel moaned, his lips pressed against your thighs, leaving a trail of wet kisses, slowly moving up your body. He gave your dick a few kisses, then on your pubic region and chest until he halted at your neck. Your body tingled from the ministrations.

Miguel’s overly massive body overshadowed you, his hands now pinning you down on the mattress as he rested on top of you. The hard, defined planes and crevices pressed against yours as he littered your neck with bites, hickies, and marks. His sharp canines dug into your skin, drawing some blood to seep through the puncture wounds—he eagerly lapped up the thick, metallic substance.

He made sure not to inject you with his venom. That was for later down the line if you were up for it.

Everything felt hot in a good way. You yelped every time Miguel sank his teeth into your flesh, your arms coming to wrap around his neck, authorizing and encouraging him to continue. The screams and cries of pleasure muted to soft panting again. Your dick was flaccid but was chubbing from the various markings.

“I got this from here, mi amor. Let me show you what you’ve been missing out on. Just lay here.”

Lesson two — foreplay and sex.

You withered away in the comfort of yours and Miguel’s bed. The Mexican man repositioned himself to the side, pulling you closer to him as he dealt his magic. He lathered three thick, long fingers with his saliva and moved them to the tight ring of your sphincter. Choked gasps slipped past your lips, your back arching as you felt them teasing the rim—circling the tight muscles and teasingly pretending to penetrate. Your flaccid, chubbing dick shot back to an erection as shaky moans and whines escaped from the sudden intrusion of Miguel’s thick fingers pushing past the tight rim.

“You’re so tight, boy. Sucking my fingers deep into your ass.” Miguel groans, his hot breathing brushing against your shoulder blades. He didn’t move far to bite your earlobes, letting you hear his throaty growls and groans. There was some resistance; your ass spasmed and clenched around the intruders, attempting to push it out but instead pulled the thick fingers deeper. The pain spread shivers down your spine and body, but the saliva alleviated the discomfort.

Your jaw remained dropped as two more fingers pushed in, filling your crowded hole with more thick appendages. At the same time, Miguel latched his mouth onto your pectoral, sucking and nibbling—using the same tactics he used to drain your dick of cum. Loud moans and cries of pleasure filled the room as the three fingers worked in unison—drawing out more shaky noises from probing a sensitive bundle of nerves in your ass—and Miguel devoured your nipple.

The squelching sound coming from your ass and the slobbering, sucking sound mixed with your moans to create a symphony of sex and lust. This was more intense than you anticipated, but your dick was bobbing and leaking another flood of precum from the tip. Your head tilted back, your body trembling from the sensation—hips thrusting into the air and ass clenching around the thick fingers.

“That’s it, mi amor. I think you’re ready, are you?” Miguel asks, pulling back from your pectoral with an audible, wet pop. He pulled his three fingers out of your stretched, prepared ass. Soft whines left your lips from the emptiness that was left behind—the hunger to experience and feel the real thing was becoming unbearable. Some doubts and fears filled your guts, like how were you gonna take that massive thing? Would it even fit?

“Yes, yes, I am.” You replied. There was an undertone of hesitation and fear—wanting to flake out at the last minute. There was still lust in your eyes, but it masked the growing hesitation. The reality was setting in. Miguel picked up on this; of course, he would.

“We can stop here, if you want—”

“N-no, I’m ready!”

“Are you 100%?” You nodded in confirmation, biting your bottom lip. “Okay, tell me when to stop or if it hurts too much,” Miguel said, flipping you over onto your stomach. Your plush, plump rear was on full display for him—Miguel licking his lips at the sight, a delectable meal.

You grabbed the nearest pillow, gripping the fluffy thing with an iron grip and biting down on it—your saliva soaking the sheet. Your dick ground against the mattress before you arched your back to give Miguel a better vantage, presenting yourself to the hungry man who was gonna pop your cherry—your dick throbbed in anticipation, ready to feel the real deal. A shaky gasp slipped out as Miguel’s large, calloused hand pulled your cheek apart, exposing the tight bud that was buried. His massive dick twitched from seeing the rose bud winking at him.

Grabbing his dick and positioning it towards your entrance, Miguel slowly pushed forward. The Mexican man snarled, gritting his teeth as your hole was putting up resistance. You clenched the pillow tighter as whimpers filled the space. The hyper tension and blunt force pressing against the rim was sending pain signals throughout your body, the searing electricity coursing through your veins.

A symphony of moans and throaty grunts bounced off the walls as Miguel’s dick pierced the rim—officially popping your cherry. The blunt cockhead pressed deeper, slowly dragging along your inner, tight walls. The pillow muffled your moans and twinges of pain. Miguel gripped your hips, throwing his head back and letting out guttural groans as he felt your warm, tight ass clenching—almost suffocating his dick like it was about to be ripped off.

You were squeezing too tight.

«¿Estás bien, cariño? Do you need me to stop?” Miguel inquired, his breathing heavy and hitched as he halted his movement, not wanting to bring you harm or ruin your first experience. His massive dick wasn’t halfway in.

“Y-yes, please.” You replied, whimpering and holding the pillow tighter. Your hips faltered and collapsed back to the mattress, squishing your throbbing dick in the process.

“Okay, cariño. Take deep breaths and relax. Tell me when I can continue.” Miguel said, leaning down to litter kisses and soothe the pain.

Following Miguel’s advice, you breathed in and out, calming your muscles and releasing the tension. The pain was still there, but it was quickly subsiding, and Miguel could feel your muscles relaxing—the chokehold on his dick being lifted. Taking a few minutes of recollection and breathing, you gave Miguel consent to push forward.

Hushed moans and grunts grew louder with each inch. Your ass was being split open and filled to the brim with cock. You could feel the various veins rubbing against your walls, the cockhead hitting depths you didn’t think would be met. It wasn’t long until Miguel’s massive dick rested fully inside you—his pelvis pressed against your cheeks and heavy balls mashed against yours.

“So deep… cariño. So tight.” Miguel groans, collapsing and squishing you underneath his massive body—his sweaty torso melded against your back.

You let out small whimpers, trying to get used to the feeling of Miguel’s dick. Your walls clamp around the massive thing, massaging and sucking it. You could feel everything, especially Miguel’s dick twitching and oozing precum—the veins pulsating like it was alive. Pleasure shoots up your spine as your dick twitched underneath, already on the verge of a second climax. Miguel allowed you to adjust appropriately.

After another period of readjustment, Miguel started pulling his hips back, dragging his massive dick out before gently thrusting back into your tight warmth. It was a slow pace, one to ease you into the sex escapades of the future.

Everything in your body was turning into mush. Your body trembled underneath, and a flurry of moans drowned out Miguel’s own groans. Miguel’s heavy balls clapped against yours, and the wet, squelching noise mixed with skin slamming against skin.

“So good… So beautiful for me, cariño… todo esto para mí,” Miguel groans into your ear, nibbling the lobe. “Let me hear your voice.” You sense the desire and hunger in his tone, a man turning feral over his boyfriend. The pillow you were clenching was tossed aside and replaced with Miguel’s hands intertwining with yours—his hands tightening.

Without your pillow, more pathetic whimpers and moans were pulled out. Your hands gripped Miguel’s tighter as the man’s cockhead rammed into the same bundle of nerves—the same one his fingers assaulted.

Your eyes rolled back, jaw hung open, as that was the tipping point. It was obvious to Miguel that your orgasm was fast approaching. The way your body was trembling and your ass clenching and unclenching around his massive dick were clear signs.

“Cum for me, cariño,” Miguel commands, sucking on your skin. Your dick grinding against the bed, combined with your prostate being toyed, and Miguel sucked on that special spot, caused it to spurt. You choked out cries of pleasure as hot, thick ropes of cum painted the sheets and your abdomen—Miguel’s thrusts causing it to smear and stain. Your balls churned and throbbed until every drop was squirted out.

Miguel continued his pace, but it was becoming sloppy as he was reaching the end of his rope. Your body went lax and surrendered. He continued to rut into your ass sloppily. His heavy balls mashed and clapped against your ass, but they were pulling back as a massive load was flowing to the tip.

“I-I’m cumming, cariño!” Miguel says with a low moan. You couldn’t respond, stuck in a post-orgasm haze—only with a hushed whine. After thrusting for the last time, Miguel slams completely inside you. His body shuddered, and his teeth sank into your flesh—blocking his guttural growl. Your ass tightened from the sudden flood.

Miguel’s massive dick throbbed and painted your insides white, unleashing a week’s worth of cum like it was a biblical flood. Your moans and his groans mixed. Extreme amounts of euphoria and adrenaline flooded Miguel’s system as he pumped more cum until you were filled to the brim with his seed.

You could feel every twitch and pulse, the massive thing throbbing as it unloaded its contents deep inside your ass. You could feel the thick warmth filling your bowels, feel the cockhead’s slit opening to gush. So much cum was dumped that it started to seep around Miguel’s dick, plugging your entrance and sliding down to your balls.

“You were amazing, cariño,” Miguel said breathlessly, pulling his teeth from your skin. You were out of it—acknowledging what he said by squeezing his hands. He smiled, tilting your head to face him before pressing his lips against yours. What an experience. You definitely wanted more, but your body was screaming to rest and sleep.

THE END

Author’s note: Hello, my strawberries! First fic for Pride Month! I hope this was good, and my birthday is approaching soon… turning 20 (dying on the inside).

Special thanks to my proofreader — @sagethegaywitch

The silence that rang loudest, however? Their sovereignty. Unlike the other clans—the ones who flaunted their power in an effort to gain others’ favor, such as the Zen’in Clan—, the Gojo Clan ruled over the Jujutsu world with quiet control, holding everyone by a leash.

It was uncommon for Gojo Clan’s leaders to lose their tempers. They wouldn’t engage in extreme political battles until they deemed the situation necessary, which was very unlikely. They had a habit of letting a situation simmer until they could swoop in and take what they wanted; they’d release curses and their strongest sorcerers—their strongest. No one wanted to waste their time for a futile thing. No one wanted to waste their time trying to rebel against them. Why would they? Even the most vile of humanity valued their lives far too much for any brutal death the clan could offer.

It was concerning, to say the least. The idea that a single clan could hold so much authority over those who considered themselves on the same level wasn’t one people could easily wrap their heads around. Being treated like animals wasn’t something those fools could comprehend.

You were only a kid when you entered the clan; to them, you had the potential to be a lovely, devoteful servant. To be led along like a lamb to the slaughter and serve.

Maybe that’s what made you easy. You were a child: naive and ignorant. You didn’t know what it meant when they dragged you by a chain into the melancholy clan. You just obeyed, and the clan liked that. If only…

Oh, well. Your compliance is what led you here—a simple servant among the Gojo family—, and you’d rather have a purpose here than none. The Gojo Clan didn’t take lightly to slackers working for them. You carried your weight and then some.

You were a servant. A lesser-being in the presence of deities.

And you were content with that.

It was monotonous, of course. Why wouldn’t it be? You woke up, got dressed, groomed yourself (and bathed yourself, if you were lucky), and went along with your daily chores. You’d occasionally chat with your colleagues about mundane things such as the weather before the conversation slowly fizzled out. But this life was better than nothing. They told you that. You believed it. They gave you no reason to believe otherwise.

As much as you’d hate to admit it, the clan probably saved you from a mundane, agonizing life filled with sorrow. At least here, you were worth something.

You are worth something.

Years went by. You weren’t the same naive seven-year-old boy who never questioned why all the ‘games’ you played with the adults were bowing to the elders and sweeping floors. Now, you are aware of your purpose. You are okay with it.

You are.

“Servant.”

You perked up at the call. No one knows the names of the servants, so why would they know yours? It was always the people beckoning ‘servant’, and the nearest one would respond.

You’re alone here.

Politely, oh-so-politely, you bowed in the direction of the voice, your hands tucked down. Looking up isn’t allowed, as it’s disrespectful. “Yes?” You question, your voice laced with an exhaustion that was noticed in every servant.

“The audience hall needs attending,” they respond. The voice was stern and gravelly, yet weary and stoic. It’s definitely Nakano. Only his voice is so distinct and defined. “Second floor.”

“Right away.” You don’t lift your body from the bow until you hear him walk past you, his footsteps thudding against the wooden floorboards until you can’t distinguish them with the occasional creaks of the walls.

Taking a deep breath, you lifted yourself with a straight back.

Your steps were even and measured as you walked to the audience hall. This hall was a small one, though you heard from murmurs that there was a gathering occurring in that room. You weren’t too concerned, however. If you blend into the background, then no one would care for your presence.

Your hands adjusted the mask on your head, ensuring it wouldn’t slip off as you went through with your duties. All servants adorned them on their faces to keep anonymity. You never questioned why the servants would need to retain their anonymous personas as servants. It’s not like they were ever needed. Still, you wore it without complaints. It was a standard protocol, you told yourself. Part of the uniform.

The masks of all the servants were wooden and painted white. From a distance, one could mistake a servant for a cryptid under the guise of a human. You couldn’t blame them. You thought so, too. When you were younger, the other servants who took care of you also wore them. Their masks made them appear sickly and pale. You imagined their faces underneath to be the same: hollowed cheeks with drooping eyes and no emotion. With the masks, you could never read how they were feeling. Their body language was limited except for the stiff bow and polite nod given to authority figures as they passed through the halls.

How ironic that you do the same. Maybe that’s why they wore them.

So no one would know what they were thinking. Why would they need to know?

You reached the audience hall.

With tentative hands, you opened the doors with intricate designs, slipping inside and closing it behind you. You took in your surroundings immediately. It’s a habit you’ve gained over the years. You wouldn’t want to interrupt something important, would you? That’s not befitting of a servant. Especially one of your status amongst them.

A few important figures of the clan’s leadership were standing in an organized manner around the elevated portion of the stage. A figure was on the elevated floor, speaking while sitting languidly on a pillow. You didn’t spare him a second glance, but his voice was loud and clear. He sounds arrogant, you thought, though you quickly pushed the thought away. You can’t think of such things towards people above you. It’s rude and, frankly, out of character for you.

Still, you couldn’t deny how… demeaning he was. You were barely listening, as you didn’t have any right to, but occasional words and phrases slipped through your wooden mask. Trashy, he said. Stupid, old, idiots, selfish, weak…

He was right, of course. Most of the people here are manipulative for their own personal gain, but why would everyone bother listening to someone like him? He’s just insulting everyone.

You decided you didn’t care enough to think about it any longer.

‘Attending,’ Nakano said. Honestly, you didn’t know what that entailed. But by the looks of the few other servants offering snacks to the crowd, you had a feeling ‘attending’ was synonymous with ‘serve’.

Or ‘deal with’.

Being as calm as you could be, you walked to the back of the room. The sound of the man talking was muffled. Your mask blocked out a majority of the noise around you except for the sound of your soft breathing hitting the wood. You were calm. There were trays of food in the back, each placed with intent. Too perfect and symmetrical. Mimicking a few of the other servants, you gathered a tray with a few appetizers.

Your footsteps felt heavy. You were unsure as to why you felt so nervous. You’ve done this before. But the atmosphere was too tense and heavy for a regular meeting. The way the figure on the stage was talking, the way the nobles in the crowd looked angry yet refused to do anything, simply clutching their fists…

You were calm.

You maneuvered through different people in the crowd, arms stretched out to offer with your head bowed to display your humility. You’d occasionally stop by a person. Either they’d pluck a morsel from the tray and eat it without sparing a glance, or they’d pretend like they didn’t see you, focusing on the figure on stage, leaving you to wait like a dog for their attention before walking away when realizing it was futile, your tail tucked between your legs.

How embarrassing.

You continued this until the man on the stage stopped talking. When he sighed dramatically, everyone took it as a sign to leave. Some muttered curses under their breath, others blatantly insulted the speaker’s crass language. Maybe they didn’t want to be here.

The moment the last person left, the servants—you included—relaxed their arms, letting the trays drop to their waist-level. Everyone felt limp and dead.

The other servants walked back to set the trays down and clear everything out. It was time to clear the room for its next use. The tablecloths needed to be folded, the tables needed to be moved and rearranged to their proper spots. Some were already clearing off empty trays with only crumbles.

You took a step, ready to do the same. After all, you’ve spent years climbing the ranks to become head servant. It’s best to set a good example for the new people who only joined—

“Hey, servant.”

The voice was casual. Teasing, almost, if you really strained your ear.

A few of the other servants turned to the call. You did, too. Instinct. Like dogs trained for years. How pathetic.

Through the holes of your white mask, you could see him: the speaker.

White hair was the first thing you noticed. It was stark against the rich brown takamakura he rested his head on—white hair was an unnatural color, even in a place as marvelous as the Gojo Clan. He was sprawled flat on his back, one leg propped up.

His teeth were bared in a smile. Lazy and sly like a fox.

“Yeah, you. C’mere.” He barely lifted his hand from the ground to beckon you forward.

Oh, he was referring to you specifically. How interesting.

You were nothing but obedient. Rearranging the tray on your body, you stepped closer. Your shadow cast against his pale, smooth skin. He had no blemishes, which wasn’t entirely uncommon among people the Gojo Clan considered worth protecting more than others. While some of the sorcerers had prominent scarring on their bodies, a testament to their power, others looked like porcelain dolls without a crack. Shielded more than others, you supposed. Important.

“Feed me,” he commanded, his eyes narrowing. His smile never wavered. “I want those sweet tarts on your tray.”

He was just as impolite as before.

But oh, his eyes.

They held the ocean inside of them. You were grateful for the mask resting upon your face. You looked foolish, with your own eyes wide in awe, your lips pulled apart in a quiet gasp that was a disgrace to your station.

They were vibrant and full of a life you wish you could’ve had. The waves of the East Sea crashed against his pupils like the tide giving the shore a fleeting kiss before receding with haunting memories of something far too important. The clouds swirled like watercolor’s white; an angel’s wings glowing uncomfortably bright, overwhelming yet not nearly enough.

He was beautiful.

And you just openly stared.

Foolish.

“I ain’t got all day. I get it, I’m pretty, but multitask.”

You blinked and shook your head slightly. Ah, he was still waiting. Right. You need to do your job. As intended. As your purpose. Despite how weird the request was. Especially despite how weird his request was.

He was definitely around your age, perhaps a bit older. You’ve only fed children, not arrogant brats like him.

You sighed internally. You really needed to get yourself together.

Gently, you set the tray down next to his head and crouched down, your knees popping. Your body ached, and your muscles were sore, but you’d be able to rest soon. Or so you’ve been told many times before. You let yourself believe it like an idiot every time.

Your legs relaxed against the wooden floor when they finally had support. You don’t sit on the elevated part of the floor; that’s forbidden for servants. You’re beneath him, and you should show it in every way possible, when possible. (Not if possible, because it’s always possible.)

You plucked a tart from the tray and held it out, letting it hover over his mouth. He didn’t open it at first, just stared at the sweet treat above him, observing it. Then he opened his mouth wide.

You placed the tart into his mouth and pulled it away.

He closed. Chewed deliberately. Paused, as if contemplating whether or not the tarts were worth his time. Then opened his mouth again. I want another one, he seemed to say silently, looking at you expectantly. Like hesitating for a second was outrageous behavior when it came to feeding him like a cat.

How rude.

Both of you continued this for a while. It was a peculiar scene. You’d grab a treat, hold it above his mouth, and he’d eventually open his mouth and let you plop it in. He’d chew—this time with more haste, as now he knew they were to his liking—and open his mouth wide again.

His eyes were always on you. It was unnerving to say the least, but you did your job nonetheless until the tray was empty.

He didn’t notice at first, just staring at you without blinking. Then he processed that you weren’t feeding him and glanced at the now-empty tray, his head lifting barely.

“Get more,” he ordered, his neck relaxing again.

You looked around. The other servants from earlier were still there, cleaning the room. They hadn’t glanced towards the two of you: the head servant feeding an important figure of the Gojo Clan. But the tension felt high for some reason. It always was in the clan.

Some more platters were still on the table, but there weren’t any of the same sweets you fed him earlier. They were already cleared out by the other servants, and this was the last tray you grabbed.

You turned back to the figure and shook your head.

He huffed. “Hah?” His eyebrows furrowed slightly, and you could tell he was starting to get annoyed. “I said get more, or are ya’ pretending to be deaf?” His lips jutted out slightly in a pout, and you couldn’t keep a grin from creeping onto your face. You caught yourself and pursed them. What are you doing, smiling at his reaction?

You weren’t permitted to speak. You haven’t spoken more than a few words in three days. So you just shook your head again, pointed to the tray, pointed to the table at the far end of the room, and shook your head again.

He still didn’t get it. You could tell with the way his head angled more towards you, the way he squinted as if that’d help him figure out your signals. He muttered, “god, do I still have to do this?” under his breath, agitated. He cleared his throat too loudly. “Speak,” he commanded, but it sounded more like a request. Like you were given a choice. But you know better.

“There aren’t any of the same sweets you wanted at the table,” you answered immediately, clearing your throat as well. You needed water. Your voice was hoarse. “Would you like me to request the kitchen to make you more?” you offered. It was a common rule in the daimyo castle: don’t refuse without offering an alternative solution.

He stuck his tongue out childishly and made a “blah” sound as he waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t bother. ‘S too much effort.” You already felt like you had an idea on what this guy was like. Lazy, arrogant, cocky, and got everything in life on a platter. Sweets included.

Just like everyone else here.

You nodded. You were finished talking.

Now you just need him to dismiss—

“You a guy?”

You focused on him again. Huh?

“Most of the servants here are girls,” he commented casually, his eyes still on you. How long has he been staring? Has he even blinked? “Not many guys, considering the patriarchy.”

“Oh.” You hummed. He was making conversation? “Yes, I’m a guy.”

“Weird.”

No shame.

“You’re pretty lame,” he observed, his eyes travelling up and down your body with a calculating gaze, yet his mouth kept that lazy grin. “And quiet.”

You didn’t respond. You weren’t allowed to. You were earlier, but not now.

He waited a few seconds, the quiet enveloping the two of you before he groaned, lifting his arms to rub his face. “You can talk, geez. I don’t want to keep repeating that command over and over again like some record.”

This was… new.

“Forgive me.” You bowed your head.

He groaned again. “Stop apologizing. It’s making you more lame.”

You opened your mouth to apologize. Then closed it. Hm.

Sighing dramatically, he used his arms to push himself upright. Your gaze followed his face, which was contorted into what can only be described as boredom. “How boring…” he mumbled, proving your earlier thought. His slender hands reached and rubbed his eyes. He looked agitated.

You were still sitting on the floor, your knees aching against the wood, waiting for him to dismiss you.

“Massage my head.”

You didn’t sigh. You wished you could. But you couldn’t. And you wouldn’t.

Instead of pondering on what you would do later, your thoughts traveled to how to approach the command given to you. You’re not permitted on the elevated portion of the room, yet that’s where he is.

Perhaps you were thinking too long, because he groaned, albeit this time louder in a way meant to grab attention. He liked attention, you assumed, even if you knew you weren’t supposed to assume. “Are you slow? What’s the holdup?”

“I’m not allowed on that portion of the room—“

“I don’t care. Get up here and massage my head.”

You did as you were told. You always do.

As you crawled onto the higher floor, he sat up and swatted the takamakura away, letting it slide and clatter before bumping into a wall. It was expensive; he doesn’t have to worry about money, you concluded.

You sat behind him, your legs pressed together neatly. He was tall, even when he leaned back with his arms propping himself upright. Just massage him even if it’s weird, you told yourself. Just massage—

He pulled his arms back and plopped his head into your lap.

Well.

“Mm…” he whined and nuzzled into your thigh, and for the second time, your breathing hitched, and you let yourself freeze instead of listening to the commands given to you. “You’re oddly warm. It’s usually freezing here.”

“U-Uhm…” you stammered. Actually stammered instead of giving a straight answer. You hesitated. You’re not supposed to hesitate.

You took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the mask’s old wood. “I have been told I have a naturally warm body temperature.” You spoke without adding anything meaningful to the exchange. It’s unlike you. It’s strange. It’s not normal. Why are you talking?

But he just laughed and sighed with content. Too comfortable, resting his head on a servant’s lap in the Gojo Clan—a man, no less. “Massage, please,” he asked again, but he didn’t sound upset with having to repeat himself. “Scalp,” he clarified.

Your hands, rough with calluses—all from chores and housework—began to work themselves through his hair, scratching the crown before working downwards. His hair felt like the silk many adorned themselves with. The position was awkward for your hands, but you could work with it. You always do.

He sighed, a faint smile slowly growing on his face. It was a bit embarrassing, actually. A few of the remaining servants barely glanced at the scene; the masks made it hard to tell, thank goodness. But if they were looking, you know they’d be uncomfortable with the situation. Not that they’d voice it out loud.

“Your hands’re… good at this,” he slurred. His eyes that held the sky closed. He was relaxed. His speech was still informal, you noticed. It’s been like that throughout the entire interaction, but you found yourself focusing on it more than you should’ve. More than what was appropriate.

“More,” he begged. Begged. Maybe he was begging. But why would anyone beg for something from you? Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe his words were just getting to you.

The heat underneath the mask was unbearable. Were you seriously this flushed over a man finding your massage good?

You’ve massaged others before when you were still training under the other servants. They were considered lower-class assignments, often given to the inexperienced ones; seniority still applied among servants (because the irony was bitter, how unimportant figures could continue to divide themselves). You shouldn’t be this affected by someone saying your massage was good, not mentioning the fact that he shouldn’t be complimenting you in the first place.

Maybe he wanted you to be offended because this task was supposed to be given to new servants. Maybe that’s why.

But god, you really didn’t feel offended. That’s probably worse.

His eyes snapped open, yanking you out of your curiosity regarding his demeanor, and he seemed to stare through your mask. He grinned, like he could see how flustered you were through the pale wood that concealed everything it was meant to conceal. “Why don’t you do this more often?” He questioned. “Your hands are great for this.”

You didn’t respond. Not because you weren’t told to. He said you could talk whenever.

No, you just didn’t know how.

At your prolonged silence—that was entirely out of character, considering all servants should respond when spoken to—, he laughed again. It was unguarded and unfiltered: just a light chuckle that sounded like the clouds. “So good… perfect.” The way he purred the last word was filthy.

Your hands never stopped moving. You wouldn’t let them. Because you were ordered to, you told yourself. No ulterior motive. Not because the praise made you feel something you haven’t felt in years.

It was strange how the world seemed to have come to this. First, Nakano ordered you to serve small platters to a few people. Now you were massaging a man’s head while he whined and furrowed his head into your lap. He was definitely messing with you.

“You can stop now.”

You pulled away like his snow-white hair burned you.

He didn’t get off your lap, though. Just stared at your mask. He was observing you. “You should take it off,” he said, a slender finger pointing to your mask, and you could’ve sworn his fingertips brushed the grainy texture. “I don’t like it.”

You faltered. “That’s not allowed,” you said calmly. Your heart rang like a caged dove. “I would be punished.” You instinctively reached and adjusted your mask against your face.

“Are you ugly?” Too blunt.

“That’s an opinion; I don’t know.”

“That is—“ he finally poked the mask, right where your forehead would be— “what an ugly person would say.” No one’s ever touched you so brazenly before, even if it was just your mask.

Then again, this guy is resting his head on your lap.

“I suppose so,” you replied. What else was there to say?

The man pouted, and suddenly his beauty evaporated once more into a sort of cute childishness. Cute. Him. Man, you must’ve been losing your mind. But his lips looked so… soft. Fragile.

But he didn’t get the chance to respond, as the doors to the audience hall opened abruptly.

Speak of the devil, it’s Nakano.

“Satoru,” he snapped, walking over to the stage with a presence that every servant in the vicinity noticed. They bowed.

You couldn’t stand up and do the same. You felt ashamed.

The man on your lap huffed, rolling his eyes with disrespect staining his skin. Nakano pretended not to notice, but his eyes twitched with irritation. “The elders have been looking for you. They wanted to… discuss the attitude you gave during your meeting.”

“More like scold me for being honest,” the man complained. Or Satoru, apparently. “I already know what they’ll say, so can I skip it?”

Nanako didn’t respond. Instead, his gaze traveled to you. You immediately bowed your head to ensure your eyes didn’t meet his. In an instant, you were aware of everything: the way Satoru’s head rested upon your lap—to intimately—, the way you were on the stage reserved for those of higher status, the way—

“And you, servant,” Nanako announced, his gaze pinning you to the wall like knives, “are bold to be sitting there, touching him so intimately.” It’s as if he knew what you were thinking. “Know your place, and get the hell—“

“Leave him,” Satoru said leisurely, his voice too calm for the tension. “I asked him to be here.”

“The servants shouldn’t touch you unless they’re bathing or grooming you.”

“He was massaging my hair,” Satoru argued, though the smile on his face showed that he didn’t really care about defending your actions. “That’s grooming, right?”

“It’s inappropriate,” Nanako continued, ignoring Satoru’s refute. “Especially in public where anyone could enter and see. The elders are already irritated with your behavior today; they’ll be furious.” For a second, you could’ve sworn Nanako’s voice softened at the end.

“Cease this immediately,” Nanako finished. “You’re already on thin ice.”

“Whatever,” Satoru grumbled, though he didn’t get off of you. It’s surprising to you that this Satoru hasn’t lost his head with his attitude.

“Get off.” Nanako’s definitely referring to you. “Leave to your quarters.”

You scrambled back to your feet, wincing when Satoru’s head hit the floor suddenly. He sat up and rubbed his head, but you were already scurrying out of the room in a hurry; an apology was the last thing you had in mind. The other servants could manage clearing the room. You just needed to leave.

You felt hot.

And all you could’ve focused on was the way he shifted on your lap.

God, you were fucked.

You pushed the memory out.

It was the safer option. You didn’t want to think about it.

Praise was a luxury. You don’t need it. You didn’t need it right now.

You want it, but you don’t need it.

It doesn’t mean much to you, anyways. Satoru probably forgot about you at this point. There’s no point in dwelling on the subject.

…How pitiful.

But despite what you told yourself, you put it upon yourself to do research. Not because you cared, heavens no—why would you care? The praise was nothing to you—, but because the whole interaction was too strange to ignore, even if you were above such things: a man so cocky and arrogant being allowed to give a speech saying how worthless everyone was? And they were forced to listen without complaining midway? Not only that, but he was clearly important. With the way he spoke to Nakano as if he were beneath him. And you weren’t punished on a whim when you got on the elevated floor and touched Satoru. If it were a regular day, you would’ve been struck immediately and left with bruises for days. Such instances have happened before when you were still learning. Yet Nakano left you unharmed. You had a feeling it was because of him, but you didn’t have proof.

You’d find proof.

Because you were curious. Nothing else at all. It was not because of the way he talked to you, his voice grating, yet the way he spoke—his praise—was like water against the shore. It wasn’t because his eyes were warm yet mirrored the ice that froze on rooftops during winter, a living paradox of the soul.

Of course not.

Curiosity. That’s it.

Being the head servant, you had a few privileges. That included cleaning places others can’t. ‘An honor,’ they said, but you knew what it was. Just another way to make you quiet while cleaning. Still, you never complained. You never complained when they showed you the vast library in the daimyo castle, ordering you to clean ‘every last bookshelf until this place is brand new’. Or when they led you to the basement full of rotting bodies and mold to polish up, as the smell was starting to become unbearable above.

You never complained. Not once.

In fact, right now? You were grateful.

The Archives were a series of rooms that were interconnected between themselves. Each section contained varying information, whether it be mundane objects or cursed artifacts, whether it be figures from previous bloodlines that have then since vanished, including those who have served and those who have killed. It even contained those from the Heian Era, which most considered overkill. Why would a clan as powerful as the Gojo Clan need records on members from eons ago? It was simple, really.

This is why the Gojo Clan was so powerful: one could compare different bloodlines and branches of the clan and trace lineages back before their time. It was for tactics, for strategy, for safety.

But it was restricted to everyone except for the elders of the clan.

And except you.

Lucky boy.

You waited patiently over the next few weeks. You did your duties as you were told, you bowed for three seconds before standing up when elders and nobility passed you, you washed your hands every other hour, so no one would have the right to say you were too disgusting to touch them. You did your job as you were always expected to. From the moment you were brought into the clan. You’re nothing but obedient.

Then someone asked you to clean.

You’re nothing but obedient.

Your hands trailed along the dusty paper, feeling the edges graze the pad of your fingers, as if teasing you with the mockery of a paper cut against your skin. The shelves towered over you, casting blocky shadows against the wooden floorboards. You took it all in.

The earth outside was raging in agony. The clouds’ tears plummeted down against the daimyo castle’s roofs, each echoing in the large room. Your breath was hot as it hit your face—a courtesy of the mask—, making the already stuffy room a bit hotter than before. But you’d have to bear with it.

Despite being in use for generations, they were arranged methodically to this day. The elders refused to let anything out of order, including files from before their great-grandparents were born. The top of the shelves held names lost to the passage of time from previous eras, and the names near the bottom were more recent. Left to right they were arranged alphabetically, down to the last letter.

Judging how Satoru’s name was constantly said with irritation, it was safe to assume his name wasn’t lost to the passage of time.

Walking along the edges of the shelves, you occasionally checked the first file in the row, peeling back the stained paper until you reached the ‘S’ section.

You were lucky his name started with ‘Sa’: those were in the front few, so it was an easy search from there.

You plucked his pages out. There were a lot more than you’d think. By the time you fished them all out, there were a good twenty pages. They seemed quite recent in updates compared to the others, whose papers were already starting to gain foxing stains from their old age. No doubt the elders kept track of his whereabouts more methodically, as the paper was organized with dates and notes scrawled in the margins.

You merely skimmed the pages, really, confirming that this was, in fact, Satoru Gojo.

You didn’t think he’d be much.

But, oh, he was so much more.

Full Name: Satoru Gojo

Title: Heir to Gojo Clan

Cursed Technique[s]: Six Eyes, Limitless, Lapse—

You dropped the pages, letting them scatter across the floorboards in a terrible mess like waves over the ocean’s surface; order had been broken.

First, your brain was silent, processing everything. Slowly and carefully, not missing a single detail. Letting them sink into your veins.

Then it hit you.

Oh, dear. You thought the heir to the Gojo Clan was a brat. Multiple times.

It made a lot more sense now, annoyingly so. The way everyone bowed to him out of obligation rather than respect? The way they sat through meetings and took every insult?

He was the first Six Eyes user in centuries. His presence demanded respect. He was glory sculpted from flesh and marble.

He was god.

Swallowing back your fear (and saliva), you gained enough courage to crouch—your legs were shaky, and you almost collapsed right there in the middle of the Archives—and picked the first page you could see in your view. With your trembling hands, you grasped it and held it to the dim candlelight on the walls. The light made everything clear. You needed to know.

Unable to find suitable maiden, seems uninterested

Has voiced recent intrigue in servant #19—

“Hah? Isn’t this place restricted?”

You swiveled around.

Hair as white as snow.

You stood up and bowed.

“Forgive me,” you said, feeling out of breath. The adrenaline was getting to you. He was getting to you. “I was ordered to clean this area.” He was getting into your head.

“More like snoop,” he retorted, chuckling. You could picture his irritating smile. Though, he didn’t sound upset despite you obviously looking through things you shouldn’t have been. “Those’re my files,” he commented, and you knew his gaze was taking in the scattered papers across the wooden floorboards.

Your grip on the single paper tightened. The crinkles from its weariness drowned out the patter of rain outside, awfully loud in the claustrophobic atmosphere. “Yes,” you muttered. Your mask was suffocating. “I was curious of who you were.” You cleared your throat. “Forgive me,” you begged again.

“Could’ve asked me ‘bout who I am.” Satoru smiled. You could hear it in his voice. “Instead, you’re sneaking around like a mouse.”

You didn’t argue and say you were told to clean, which was the truth, albeit stretched. You didn’t let an easy lie slip from between your cracked lips, saying the papers fell onto the floor, and you were picking them up. You’ve spoken too much. You’ve done too much.

He walked closer. His footsteps were soft against the wood. Only their creaking signaled his movement towards you. Towards you.

“I don’t know much about you, though,” he mused. “Seems unfair, huh, stalker?”

Stalker?

You broke your bow and stood up straight again. He loomed over you, just as the shelves that beckoned you closer with every wisp of paper. “I’m not a stalker,” you whispered. Trying to convince yourself.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he purred. “Especially with how you're looking at me right now.” And now you knew he could see you. All of you.

“It’s polite to make eye contact while talking to someone.” The excuse falls flat to even your ears. Because you both know servants aren’t supposed to stare, they aren’t supposed to look, they aren’t supposed to think. But here you are, staring at the sky in his eyes, looking at all of him, thinking about him.

He could’ve called out your deflection right then and there, could’ve punished you severely.

But he just smiled his aggravating smile. “Maybe.” He leaned down close. Closer than what should’ve been. His eyes glowed in the dim light of the room, grabbing everything’s attention. Your attention. “But maybe not.”

The mask was suffocating. Your breath was too hot. Too hot for comfort in this stuffy, stupid—

“Concentrate on me.”

Satoru was a bold, bold man.

He took another step closer, pushing you farther and farther backwards until—

Thud!

Your back was up against the shelf. The wood groaned in protest, threatening to fall onto you. You wish it would. The shelves pushed back at you.

The devil danced in his gorgeous eyes. “For a fan, you’re a bit too scared.”

You didn’t trust yourself to say anything. You’re definitely scared.

“I-I’m not a fan—“

“Wanna massage my hair again?” He asked abruptly, changing the subject just like that. Because he controlled this conversation. He leaned down closer. Closer, closer, and closer. “I’m afraid my hair’s a bit greasy, and it could use some help.” He paused for a second. “Maybe you could bathe me?” Closer. Like he wanted to see your eyes through the holes of your mask. “Dry my hair?”

“I-I don’t—“

It’s too hot down here in the Archives.

“Your fingers were just so good on me,” he drawled. Then he laughed. Mischievous. “I couldn’t stop thinking about them.”

You swallowed. Your face is hot.

“Oh, you like it when I say that?”

Damn him and his Six Eyes. Damn every Six Eyes user there was.

His arms were pinning you against the shelf. When did they get there?

“This is…” you trailed off. You didn’t know what else to say. “…wrong,” you finally finished. You didn't know what was wrong. Only that this was wrong. It was wrong, and you told him that. Even if you were just a servant to him.

His eyes narrowed. Not angrily, like you were something he needed to break. With something else in his eyes, like you were something he wanted to break up and observe. You tilted your head down to stare at the ground rather than his illuminating irises, noting the color of his kimono in the poor lighting: a color that reminded you of the moon.

His arms enclosed around you before gently resting his elbows on your shoulders, wrapped loosely around your neck. Forcing you closer to him.

Closer, closer, closer.

It was lazy, almost. The way his fingers played with your hair, mock-twirling it around his finger before grasping onto a lock and tugging it. You squeaked—embarrassingly so—before he tugged harder and forced you to look at him.

Bright eyes, you thought. That was always your first thought, even through the mask’s limited gaze. The next was beautiful.

“Do you like it when I tug here?” He questioned, his breath hitting the top of your head. He tugged again.

You whined. It was breathy against your mask.

“Good.”

THUD!

The shelves screamed again, full of torment.

You pried your eyes away from his eyes and looked up. Through the holes on your mask, you could see boxes and boxes of files tumbling down. They descended closer and closer and——

You closed your eyes and looked down, your arms—which were earlier stagnant—wrapping around your head as if to protect yourself. Satoru’s file, earlier gripped in your hand, glided across the floor to reunite with the others.

The boxes clattered around aimlessly, the sound echoing through the room.

They never hit you.

The warmth of arms was around you. It enveloped you. You felt lighter, even. Like you could feel everything and nothing at the same time. Like you were being pulled apart yet pushed together.

Satoru’s arms were warm. They enveloped you.

He snickered. “Wow, things just fall around you, huh?” His arms fell away from you, and the pulled-pushed feeling drifted with him. “You cursed or something?”

Oh god, you messed up badly. This was a violation in every sense, every rule book, every statement.

The patter of footsteps finally hit you, and barged in a few servants, no doubt drawn in by the noise. “What happened?!” one screamed, seemingly out of breath. They ran, you concluded, though you did notice their lack of respect.

You couldn’t be talking.

Satoru smiled so charmingly, you could’ve sworn they almost ignored the state of the Archives. “Just a small accident,” he declared. “We’re okay.”

You were breathing heavily, and the awful dread was slowly settling on your shoulders, just like his arms earlier. You didn’t have words that could describe all you’ve done. You lied, you snooped, and you’ve made a total mess of the—

“What happened to the Archives?!”

—the Archives.

Satoru chuckled, his teeth bared out in a way that felt comforting yet threatening. Like he was taking up too much space with his charisma. “I just said what it was: an accident.” He didn’t even bother facing the servants; that’s beneath him. However, he faced you the entire time, his eyes narrowing in your direction—a silent ‘shut up’ left unspoken between you two. His hand reached and grasped your shoulder, making you flinch, standing straighter despite the pain in your back. “He was just cleaning, and a bunch of boxes fell.” The lie was easy from his lips. You wished you did that earlier. “I came and checked if he was okay.” If you lied, you wouldn’t be here right now.

But you were here. So you nodded. You didn’t speak.

Satoru’s hand stayed on your shoulder.

The servants surveyed the damage to its full extent: there were boxes everywhere, papers everywhere, and both you and Satoru were in the center of it all like a symbolic ritual. It was hard to believe Satoru, really.

“Well…” the servant trailed off. But could they really afford to not believe him?

“Clean it up,” Satoru ordered, cutting off any chance the servants had of disobeying. The servants didn’t hesitate. Their doubt wouldn’t lead to their demise, they wouldn’t allow it.

It was pure instinct that you went to do the same—that you pulled away from Satoru with the intent of crouching to pick up the papers, to organize them in the fallen boxes, to fix your mistake from your insolence—, as that’s how you were raised since the beginning of your pitiful life, but the Six Eyes user tightened his grasp on your shoulder, his fingers wrinkling your smoothed kimono.

“Not you,” he drawled out, grinning. Sharp teeth, you noticed. “No, you still seem a bit… shaken.”

You swallowed. “Forgive me for—“

“Ah-ah-ah,” he tutted, though adjustment danced in his gaze. “What’d I say about the apologizing?” His tone was mocking, yet playful. Too informal. You’re not used to this.

And God, you hated how he mentioned that apologizing. You wished he would never mention that day. That’s why you’re in this situation.

“Let’s go elsewhere,” Satoru suggested, his hand falling from your shoulder for his finger to trail down your arm, tracing the faint patterns in the fabric. When his hand reached your wrist, his fingers encircled it. Not harshly like the other members of the Gojo clan when you disobeyed as a child. No, this was a loose grasp of only two fingers, the kind that lovers used when begging the other to stay. The kind that was clearly not intended to make you stay, but to make you want to stay.

But you felt more trapped than you’ve ever been in your entire life.

“You still look so stressed,” he noted. He leaned down, his face too close to yours. “That must’ve been scary, right?” Great, now he was baby-talking to you.

“I-I’m fine, sir,” you choked out. The mask was still too hot, too suffocating. “I’d like to help after my mistakes.” You bow stiffly; your hand is raised because he’s still holding it. You shouldn’t move your hand away because that’s not what servants do. Servants take it.

There’s the crinkle and rustle of paper that echoed in the room. The servants were cleaning up. You should’ve been cleaning up. But you weren’t.

Because Satoru wouldn’t let you leave. He just smiled at you while you remained bowing, waiting for a dismissal that would never arrive.

“I said let’s go,” he repeated, and you had a feeling he hated saying something twice. You weren’t even looking at him through your mask’s holes, but you felt afraid. Fear was a normal emotion in the Gojo Clan, but this time felt different. Like your stomach was being ripped out and torn to bits, leaving a vacant hole filled with dread.

You’re a servant; you obey.

“Of course.”

“You can rise.”

You looked up. He was still smiling. Satoru’s one hand still kept a grip on your wrist. His other hand traced along your jaw before grabbing your chin.

“My hair’s greasy. Let’s go wash it.” It was strange for him to say, as he looked at you with such endearing eyes—there was no way he meant it. You weren’t that naive.

“Let’s go.” He tugged you along, and you didn’t resist. When you and him exited the Archives, Satoru closed the doors behind him, leaving the other servants in the dark.

The bathing chambers weren’t rooms you entered often.

On the rare occasions that you were assigned to the bathing chambers, it was always for mundane things: gather items for those that refused to leave the calming water, cater to their very needs and desires before they had to ask you twice, ensure that the area was clean afterwards when everyone retired for the day.

Not to mention you’ve never even entered private bathing chambers, as they were reserved for those of the highest levels in the hierarchy and, therefore, not seen as often in the daimyo castle. Not only that, but many who did have private bath chambers in the first place had their own bathing attendants to take care of their every need. The attendants would wash their skin with the utmost care, would ensure the water was just right, and would ensure everything was perfect for someone of their status.

Head servants such as yourself did more of the organizing, the ordering, the catering and fulfilling of less personal tasks. You ensured that the servants under your section were where they were meant to be, when they were meant to be there. You took attendance of everyone, you reported servants who disobeyed and didn’t flinch when they were punished in front of you—how ironic, considering your current situation, entangled with a Six Eyes user.

You weren’t a bathing attendant. You did not wash anyone’s skin.

You weren’t Satoru’s bathing attendant. You did not wash Satoru’s skin.

You shouldn’t even be in his presence.

Yet…

After the episode in the Archives, he led you to his private bathing chamber as requested, his hand still grasping your wrist lightly like it was a leash—which it practically was, as he’d tug on it every once in a while as you both wandered the hallways, like urging you to focus on him silently. He told you to sit near the door and wait patiently. “Like a good boy,” he said before he changed into his robe and gathered his favorite oils for his bath that you would be attending. Because you had to wash his hair specifically. According to who, exactly? To him. And you were okay with it you’re nothing but obedient.

You complained internally that he was always in your head before the Archives. Now? You preferred it when he was just in your head. He was making things too complicated, making you feel things you never thought you’d be able to feel before. He was making you feel too much. That was a problem

That was a problem.

And when he called for you to enter—there was a cheerful glint to his voice, almost like he won something—, he was already seated in the tub, his body on display and surrounded by steam and water: something meant to be worshipped.

You cursed yourself for the thought. But you let it linger like a parasite.

Your footsteps were soft against the cedar floors as you made your way to the table residing beside the tub, which was already filled with varying bottles that many would kill to have a waft of.

You’ve massaged people in the past, yes, but you’ve never bathed anyone; this was unfamiliar territory for you. Your eyes moved between different vials and containers with a sense of urgency, as Satoru was waiting for you, trying to analyze each shape and color, trying to figure out which was which and what was what. Some had labels that did little to help—they had extravagant names, like “sweet sunshine” and whatnot, making you question where they were from—, others had none at all, and some that did were engraved in its glass (and only visible when the light hit just right).

“Use that purple one for my hair,” Satoru said, noting how long your hand would hover over each vial with indecision. “The others are for the water to smell nice. There are some soaps there, too: bars and liquid.”

You looked at him. Nervous. You never had anyone correct you without there being a physical punishment. Or at the very least, a scolding. Your hands shook, as if preparing to cover your face from a slap. “I—”

“Apo—logizing,” he drawled, looking at you intently. The grin wasn’t there. That scared you. You wouldn’t tell him that because your emotions were none of his concern.

You cleared your throat before turning back to the vials. You grabbed a pink vial and a purple bottle. “Thank you,” you settled on.

He chuckled. His eyes crinkled at the corners. You looked away. Why were you noticing such simple characteristics? Since when did you?

When has anyone looked at you like that?

You stood behind him, his fluffy hair facing you. You set the vials down carefully on a small stool at your feet before untying your kimono to let it pool onto the floor, leaving you in your cream hadajuban. You spent so much money to get a good kimono, and you wouldn’t want any residue on it, would you? That would be a shame.

Satoru turned his head back to look at you once more, his gaze running up and down your body. You felt exposed. “What’re you doing? This is my bath.”

You squeaked and adjusted your mask. It was a simple habit you’ve gained over the years: adjusting your mask under the scrutiny of others. You did your best to refrain from doing so, but old habits die harder than others. “I, um… didn’t want to get my kimono wet.” You spoke informally. What’s wrong with you?

But he smiled. “It was a joke.” He shouldn’t be joking with you.

You didn’t respond.

He faced in front of him once more, and you let yourself listen to the noises around you, as many as you could focus on: servants moving outside of the doors, the sloshing of water against his skin and tub, and wood against wood as you moved a chair behind him.

It was always too quiet, eerily so.

You grabbed a bucket from the floor and filled it halfway with water from the constant stream leading into the tub. Were you doing this right? You didn’t know. But Satoru leaned forward with his eyes closed as you gently poured the water to drench his hair, so you must be doing something right.

The water cascaded down his body, contouring his skin with the rain’s gentle kiss. Why did you notice such a thing? You were losing your mind.

You were losing your fucking mind.

After setting the bucket down, you perched onto the chair and reached down to grasp the purple vial. You opened and poured it onto your hand, watching intensely as it slathered over your palm. You set the glass bottle onto the stool with a clink! before rubbing your hands together, letting it spread evenly across your skin. You hesitated—you shouldn’t make this a habit, seriously—before reaching to touch his hair.

Tentatively, you began to work through the locks. His hair was a shock against your skin, making the world around you seem suddenly colorful when put against the colorless-color of Satoru’s hair.

His shoulders, defined with muscles that spoke of intense training as a weapon, relaxed under your touch. He let out a breathy sigh before chuckling, the sound sweet and smooth.

“Your fingers are so good.” He sighed again. He paused. Then turned his head slightly; it wasn’t enough to face you, but it was enough to show he was talking to you directly. “Why aren’t you anyone’s personal attendant, huh? Surely they’d want you, right?”

You swallowed. Why did he always say that about your fingers?

“I am the head servant of the—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know that.” Satoru leaned back. You never stopped moving your fingers.

Fingers.

For some reason that you’d rather not know, Satoru loved your fingers.

You didn’t wonder why. It’s safer.

“It was a rhetorical question.”

The water sloshed onto the floor as he stretched his legs out in front of him, propping them up on the wooden edges of the tub. “Do you know what a rhetorical question is?”

“Yes,” you responded. “I did have a basic education. I understand concepts.”

“Wow.” Satoru hummed. “I didn’t know they gave servants an education.”

“They don’t,” you replied.

Satoru was quiet. Then he hummed. “Alright,” he said, and the conversation was finished, you assumed. And servants never start conversations.

The bathing chamber grew quiet, filled only with the sound of you scrubbing down Satoru’s hair. Your mind eventually tuned out everything, your hands moving on autopilot as your mind wandered.

It shouldn’t have wandered in the first place. You were meant to be focused on the current situation. You were meant to give your master all of your attention to ensure they were cared for with the utmost detail. Being distracted wasn’t something you could afford to do, not when you’ve spent so long climbing the ranks. Not when it cost you years of your life to get where you were today.

Everything went haywire the moment Nanako ordered you to attend that damned audience hall. If you were anywhere else in the building, you never would’ve met Satoru Gojo. You would’ve been doing your duties with no hesitation. There would’ve been no confusion.

But his praise.

Your saliva felt too thick to swallow.

When your fingers started to prune, it was only then, with the uncomfortable texture of your fingertips, that you realized how long you’ve been sitting, doing nothing but massaging Satoru’s hair like before.

Right. You were washing Satoru’s hair.

“May you lift your head? I need to wash the soap out of your hair.”

“Why can’t you massage it more?”

Your hands left his hair. His head leaned back to chase them, and you indulged. Your hands went back to his hair, not massaging, but present. “I am… done. Your hair is washed.” Water slid down your wrists and down your forearms.

“But why can’t you massage it more?”

“It isn’t good to overwash hair. I don’t want to damage it.”

“I work out a lot.” He leaned forward, slightly hunched, and turned his head to the side to look at you. Your hands hovered where he used to be before you let them rest against the edge of the tub. “I’m sure you could wash it more.” He was adamant.

“I still need to—”

“I don’t care.” He didn’t look angry at you per se, rather annoyed at your attempted refusals.

Refusals.

Refusals? Since when did you start refusing?

You didn’t respond immediately. “I still need to bathe the rest of you.”

He paused. His eyes flicked down at the tub, then to you. Then he grinned. That seemed to do the trick, as he didn’t argue any longer.

“Right,” he acknowledged. “I almost forgot about that.”

He turned back around. He leaned back. His hair almost grazed your mask. But you didn’t lean away from him; he didn’t permit it.

You grabbed the pink vial from the stool and popped it open. You let it pour out into the water before it disappeared with the steam.

“Please lean forward slightly,” you said, and he listened like it mattered. You grabbed the same bucket from before and filled it with water. You stood up and let it pour out, watching—with a rapt attention that you’d rather die than admit—how the water cascaded down his back.

The droplets slid down his fair skin like sweat, clinging onto him as they glided down to the water drowning the bottom portion of his body.

You tensed and set the bucket down with more force than necessary, the noise too loud to be comfortable. Get it together.

“Please wait here,” you said, as if he’d stand up and leave because he felt like it, dripping with water and not properly bathed. You were stupid, but you couldn’t shove words back into your mouth.

Along the walls were long tables, each with drawers and cabinets containing everything an attendant would require to bathe a member of the clan. There were more oils (with oddly specific names), tools for scrubbing dead skin and making it smooth, stones meant to be heated for the water, pastes and rice to whiten the skin. You didn’t know what the rest of the tools were meant for, but at least you weren’t entirely clueless.

Still, you weren’t aware of Satoru’s preferences when it came to bathing. You didn’t have the chance to ask his real attendants for advice, as Satoru made a beeline when dragging you here after the two of you left the Archives in the care of the other servants. Like he wanted you for himself only.

You hated that thought. You hated that you didn’t mind the thought.

You reached under your mask to rub your face, trying to wipe off steam and sweat that caught itself underneath. The hot water basins littered around were getting to you. That must’ve been the reason.

Your nimble fingers grasped and pulled open a drawer, revealing itself to your limited gaze. They landed on a tenugui: a flat cloth of cotton, good for absorbing water, perfect for drying up. You swung it over your shoulder; you’d use this when drying Satoru’s hair after the bath.

You closed the drawer, letting the echo fill the room. It was awfully loud. It filled the space between you and Satoru like a barrier he was desperate to claw at, to tease you with the thought of letting him close to you.

You walked along the edge, and you had a sense of deja vu—this was just like when you were walking along the shelves of the Archives. Both times you were doing it for Satoru. You walked into the Archives and risked everything you worked for out of curiosity regarding him. You were walking along the edges of a private bathing hall to find the appropriate tools for Satoru, to serve him.

Satoru.

Satoru Satoru Satoru.

He was already in your head. It was too late to debate it. You needed to get him out.

You didn’t want his praise. You didn’t want his sultry words. You didn’t want them. You swore under your breath. Nauseous.

You grabbed the nearest clean tawashi that lingered on the edges of the table. You returned to Satoru’s side.

“You took forever,” he groaned, slumping back in the water so he was almost submerged. Not that it would work, considering he was huge and barely fit in the tub while sitting upright, but he didn’t seem to mind.

You bit your tongue. He didn’t want you apologizing. He reiterated that many times, and you’d rather stay on his good side.

“Which soap would you prefer?” you asked, your fingers grazing over the many assorted bottles on the cart. You tried and kept your language formal, even if his was… less than formal.

“Whichever smells the best.”

You hated it when people did this.

“I trust your judgement, stalker.”

You didn’t make decisions for others. You executed their orders with precision. You listened and obeyed.

You didn’t think. You’re a servant.

“Forgive me, but I cannot smell these without taking off my mask.” You grabbed a few bottles and shook them, gauging how much product was really inside. “I could hold them out to you, perhaps, and you could tell me which you prefer.” You always provided and offered alternative options.

“Take off your mask, then.” Satoru turned to you. Lazily, with his arms slung off the wooden tub. “I don’t want to smell them.”

Your grip tightened. You needed to control yourself. You couldn’t be having this conversation again. It was inappropriate between a servant and their ward. “I am not permitted—”

“You said the same thing ‘bout being on the stage,” he reminded. “When I asked you to feed me.” He laughed heartily at the memory, then he looked up at you for once. Like the hierarchy of the Gojo Clan was beneath him, like looking up at a servant wasn’t an issue. “But you did it when I asked.” Amusement was the ocean-blue of his eyes, and you were drowning. “I think you enjoyed it, too.”

You quickly averted your gaze, ashamed of yourself. Just like you were when you scurried out of the audience hall, your breath warm and wet against your mask.

Just like you were after you ran to your quarters and took off your clothes because of the heat his words ignited inside of you. Just like you were when your hand drifted lower, even if you didn’t know what you were doing.

Just like you were when you were murmuring praises out loud against your arm.

You were only human when you touched yourself. Now you felt like something less than man because you couldn’t control yourself.

His praise.

“And—” he continued— “you know you’re not allowed in here. But here you are.”

“You ordered me to do both.” I’m not arguing, you told yourself. I’m above that. “I’m meant to serve.”

“I’m giving you the chance to refuse. I’m not forcing you to do anything.” He was lying. He had to have been. Because if you could refuse, then you would—you were. “I’m offering you a solution. Unless you WANT me to order you: take off your mask. Would that be better?” He pouted like this conversation was hurting him more than it was making you uncomfortable. “Don’t make me the bad guy.”

Vulnerable.

That’s what you felt.

Exposed.

In a way you haven’t felt until he rested his head on your lap with no such innocence.

And Satoru? He was not vulnerable. He wasn’t exposed in a way that made him feel anything but pleasure from your torment.

“I would be punished.”

“I won’t let them.”

“I don’t trust that.” You were disobeying. Refusing. Trying to find a flaw in his logic.

“I’m Satoru Gojo.” He announced his name like it held meaning—it did. “I can do whatever the hell I want.” He tilted his head like a puppy, but you felt like the inferior mutt under his penetrating gaze. “Even protect cute servants like you.”

“You don’t know what I look like,” you whispered. Since when have you talked so informally? No, you shouldn’t have. You should’ve been referring to him as ‘sir’. As ‘Gojo-Sama’ or not using his name at all, as his title shouldn’t bless your lips. You shouldn’t have been arguing with his very demands. He was above you.

“Then show me by taking off your mask.”

Your fingers twitched. What if you did want to show him your face?

The tawashi dropped to the floor a long time ago, and it barely made a sound through the tense air.

You didn’t respond, even when you lifted your gaze to meet his own once more through the holes of your mask. You didn’t respond, even when he looked at you with his piercing gaze that consumed you from the inside.

“I think you’re confused,” he commented. He thought you were stupid, no doubt about it. “I have the Six Eyes. I already know what you look like.” He leaned against the tub, his arms hanging out carelessly. Water was dripping off of him and onto the floorboards, but all of his attention was on you.

You weren’t used to this feeling. You weren’t sure if you hated it. You should’ve hated it.

“I just want to know what you look like without a piece of wood between us.” His teeth were bared out in a smirk. It was hideously-beautiful. “Skin looks different to me with materials between. There’s nothing for you to hide at this point, servant.”

You didn’t respond.

He raised his hand. His fingers were long and slender, foul and gorgeous. Pale as the rest of him with faint red.

He beckoned you towards him with a single finger.

Your feet moved on their own. There was no point in him using his cursed technique. Your feet moved on their own.

Your legs—shaky, weak, unsure, and hesitant—collapsed onto the floor. You caught yourself in such an unrefined position and mentally cursed yourself out; your discomfort shouldn’t cause your standards for yourself to lower. You pushed your knees together in a proper seiza with your hands in your lap. You were numb, but you were a servant.

His face was right in front of you, yet you couldn’t see him at all. He could see all of you.

The water from his hands dripped onto your hadajuban, darkening the cloth. Thank goodness you removed your kimono earlier.

His finger, earlier alluring as they pulled you towards him, reached to touch your mask. He didn’t remove it from your face, not yet.

Not yet.

No, his finger hooked underneath the mask before tracing its edges, contouring your face in the process. His skin brushed yours ever so slightly—a fleeting kiss of the body’s barrier—, and you gasped lightly. He was touching you. Not the other way around, where you’d massage him or wash him. He was touching you.

His infinity was off. And he knew you wouldn’t dare try anything.

The look in his eyes made it seem like he wanted you to try something, but that would be absurd.

“You’re such a good boy,” he murmured, his gaze remaining on you. You squeezed your legs tighter together; you felt hot. “I can see your eyes from here. It’s good, right?” You’re hot. You could see his sharp teeth. “Not being at a distance.”

You should’ve remained at a distance.

“I’m asking you to speak.”

He was asking you. He wasn’t demanding you. He was asking you. He was making you feel safe. Safer than you should’ve felt.

He didn’t bother waiting for you to answer. “You’re so soft.” Yet he was barely touching you. Just tracing your mask as if it were your face. As if he could pretend and imagine what your face felt like. As if he could dig his fingers in and feel your flesh before he tore it out. “So utterly beautiful.”

“Th—thank you,” you stammered, feeling compelled to respond after your prolonged silence. And he gave you permission earlier.

“You’re so much prettier on your knees.”

Your throat dried up.

“I was tempted to shove you down there in the Archives when I saw you.” He snickered. “Would’ve been funny, huh? Especially when the servants ran in.”

“I—“

“Would you like that? Or are you not into that type of stuff?”

“No.” You were too direct. Everything was wrong.

His finger trailed down the mask, his nail tracing the grooves of wood before he grasped your chin. “Good boy, answering me properly.” He wasn’t upset with your answer. You didn’t know someone like him could be so… okay with someone like you. Someone just like everyone else.

He hummed. “You like being called that, huh? Stop trying to hide it.”

You tensed.

“You seem uncomfortable.”

“Go—Gojo-Sama—“

“You got something to hide?” His grip on you tightened as he looked shamelessly at your legs. “You’re this turned on?”

Your hands didn’t move to cover yourself. The stayed rested against your thighs, even if your fingers were itching to claw at the thin fabric of your hadajuban.

You cleared your throat. “I…” you trailed off immediately, your mouth zipping shut. It was pointless to respond, as your arousal was clearly noticeable.

Damn it.

“No, no.” His fingers—once around your chin—slipped under the mask. You didn’t dare to move a muscle under his touch, to flinch from the smooth skin that dared to defy the hierarchy and kiss your face. “I wanted you to answer me.”

His fingertips grazed your lips, and you grew subconscious about their current state: chapped and cracked with a lack of moisture. Water was a luxury for servants, even those with a high sub-status among their class.

He didn’t say anything, though. He just leaned over the tub, water dripping down his body and onto the floor—as if mocking you with moisture—as his fingers slowly wiggled into the expanse of your mouth.

At first, you resisted, pressing your lips together tightly, but then he laughed.

“Don’t be shy, baby. Open wide.” His voice.

You obeyed.

His fingers shoved forward, and you choked. Coughed as his fingers coated themselves in your saliva.

“Daw, don’t choke,” he cooed. You were clearly an adorable sight to him, and that confused you.

What confused you more is that you were liking this; you wouldn’t say it out loud. He already knew.

“Suck,” he commanded.

You obeyed.

Best you could; you were too eager.

You whined against his fingers. When you heard yourself—your voice echoed against the mask and vibrated around his fingers—, you jerked back out of sheer mortification. But his fingers followed you back, never letting you retreat from your service. “Don’t back out now,” he said. “You can moan. I won’t judge.” He paused, his lips pursed while thinking. Then he smiled again. “I like hearing you.”

You were wary, but you continued to suck his fingers, your whimpers slowly growing louder each time. You were getting bolder. You let your eyes droop. Why did you enjoy this? You have no idea.

But throughout everything, you didn’t dare touch yourself.

Satoru, however, had no problems with that.

First you heard the muffled moans. They were drowned out by the squelching of your saliva coating his digits, the way you slobbered like a dog just because he ordered you to. But then your eyes snapped open when a surge of water cascaded out of the wooden tub: an immediate reaction to the jerk of his hips.

You saw the crease of his eyebrows, the way his dazed, cloudy eyes were focused on you—even with the mask concealing you, his Six Eyes was ignorant to the idea of privacy.

“Fuck—“ he muttered.

His other hand was below the water. He was fucking into his fist.

Because of you.

That made you feel good.

Freak.

Your nails dug into your skin through the fabric. You needed to touch yourself, you needed to be good. He didn’t give you permission yet. Squeezing your thighs together did nothing. You needed friction.

“So good—“ he whispered, breathy and broken with grunts, his eyes half-lidded and focused on you. Water sloshed out of the tub, dampening the wooden floors, but no one could pay attention. He certainly couldn’t, and your mouth was too busy.

“Good boy, such a good boy,” he praised, and you moaned again, your eyes rolling back. “So pretty sucking on these. You wanna suck on something else, huh?”

Tears pricked in the corner of your eyes; you felt disgusting, getting off on from a superior’s words. It’s all because of the praise, you told yourself. The praise—

“If you stay this good, I’ll give you such a good treat,” he offered, panting with a lazy grin on his face. “Because your mouth is just as good as your fingers. Need it on s’mthin’ else.”

You needed to please him. You were pleasing him. It felt great—amazing.

“Such a pretty mouth. You need to talk more.”

His fingers pulled out, saliva coating them in a thin layer, a string connecting them and your mouth before it broke.

Your hands moved up to wipe your mouth. He felt good.

“P-please—“

“Shit, just keep talking—“ he was getting off on your voice.”

You stared at your thighs. “I-I want to please you,” you choked out. “Please, let me serve you—” you let out a sob. Disgusting. But you loved it so much, it was killing you. You’ve never wanted something this much before; you felt loved.

And painfully horny.

“I—I’ll be a good boy, Gojo-Sama,” you whispered, the nickname unfamiliar on your hung tongue. “I’ll be good, I swear—”

Satoru let out a drawled moan, and you looked up: the most beautiful noise you’ve ever heard, the way he looked picturesque when he reached his climax, his eyes closed in bliss with his back arched.

Silence except for the water.

He panted, his tongue sticking out as he caught his breath. He slumped over the tub’s side, hair still damp from the water.

His gaze trailed up your knees to your… noticeable problem.

He smirked. But other than that, he didn’t acknowledge it. But he acknowledged it nonetheless.

“You were so cute,” he said, slowly recovering his breath. He reached out—the same hand that touched his cock—and poked your mask. Then gently traced the contour of your face with the back of his hand. So gently that you almost didn’t notice or care for his fingers grasping the edge of your mask and slowly peeling it off—

You snatched it and held it in place despite knowing his strength was superior. “Sir—“

“I jerked off to you,” he recalled bluntly, his eyes narrowing. “You got off to this. My fingers were in your mouth.”

Your hands shook. He was right, of course. The whole time you’ve been trying to convince yourself that you were still the ‘good servant’ who obeyed and never questioned. That ‘one head servant’ who executed his tasks with precision and never faltered.

Yet here you were. In a bathroom with Satoru. And the dread—the realization that you were in an intimate situation with the heir of the clan—began to settle in your chest.

“I think I’ve earned the right to see you WITHOUT the whole…” he gestured to his face, referring to the mask with a hint of disgust. “…mask.”

“I—I can’t do that.”

“Again. I jerked off to you.” You flinched at his crass wording despite his honesty.

You could feel the judgement radiating off of his wet skin. He was dissecting every part of you, every layer of flesh until he reached your core.

He sighed wearily. It was tired. Exasperated, even.

Dramatic.

“Listen, baby boy,” he started. Good, that nickname itself was making you so—

“You don’t like this whole… intimate thing because you like the idea of yourself being good.” He looked you over once before glancing up to your eyes through the mask—the thing he wanted to rip off.

“But I don’t care, and really, you shouldn’t either. You already fucked up so many times: you snuck into the Archives, you’re bathing me, you’re…” he trailed off, pondering for a moment. Then he smiled. “Well, you essentially helped me jerk off.”

You squeaked. God, could he be any more shameless?

You started to stammer a protest—to deny, deny, deny—, but he kept talking. “Truth is, you’re a pretty shitty person who gets off on this praise.”

Your mouth slammed shut.

“That’s the only reason you haven’t left yet: you like this. You like being what I’m thinking about when I’m fisting my cock, right?” His laugh echoed in your mask.

“Do you really care if I see what you look like?” he wondered out loud. “Or are you just scared to reveal how much you want this, too?”

Your ragged breathing slowly drowned out his words. Tears were spilling from your face; you liked this too much. You freak.

You loved this too much.

You freak.

You were hard. You were untouched. You wanted to be touched.

But he didn’t give you permission yet.

You were listening to him. Even after anything. Why were you doing that?

“Such a pretty boy,” he whispered adoringly.

You freak.

You finished bathing him in silence.

You finished drying him in silence.

Both times, you focused on your breathing. On the smell of the mask pressed against your face. On the singular grooves carved into the wooden planks by nature herself.

Not on your bare skin on his wet body. Not on the dips of his body, on the muscles of his defined back, on the strength in his legs.

Not at all. You were right in the head.

Painfully hard while caressing his hands, scrubbing off dirt, wondering what he would feel like on you.

As if he read your mind—after he was dressed in robes and you dried his hair (which is softer than you thought)—, he offered to take you somewhere.

Stupidly, you didn’t think much of it. If anything, you thought this was your punishment. Maybe he’d report you for sexual harassment, and he’d get away with it despite initiating it—though, you should’ve refused him harder, yet it’s not in your nature. The situation was a living paradox. Were you meant to refuse him and go against the unspoken motto of servants, or were you to obey him and fracture every code of conduct in the Gojo Clan? Hard to say at this point, but the damage has already been done.

Maybe you’d be demoted for good, and all those years you spent training would be futile. Maybe they’d execute you. Or worse, banish you without a name for yourself, leaving you to rot until the maggots had their way with you.

He saw right through you. He saw how you reacted to his praise with that look in his eyes. He saw how you reacted to anything positive, every degrading nickname that made you feel too much.

But no, there was no meeting with the elders. There wasn’t a chamber full of decaying bodies waiting for you. There weren’t clan members restraining you before they killed you in front of everyone as a lesson.

He led you to his private chambers.

Out of the hundred head servants. Out of the thousands of servants as a whole.

He led you to his private chambers.

He led you to his private chambers.

The doors were irritatingly extravagant. Dyed colors, soft and muted, bleeding on the door’s material as they slid open at Satoru’s push.

His hand was on your kimono. He tugged, and you followed his lead.

He shoved you inside and closed the doors behind him, letting you scramble to recompose yourself. Your hands, pruned from the water in the bathing chambers, shakily smoothed out the nonexistent wrinkles in your kimono—Satoru insisted on helping you put on because you seemed “too out of it” to dress yourself. Whatever that meant, though you believed him anyway. It didn’t matter how you shivered from his cold touch.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he reassured, though his gaze on you was anything but. “It’ll be torn off, anyways.”

You gasped. Huh?

He took a step closer to you before his hands grazed your waist, encircling around your body. You tensed when he pulled you close.

You were still… awfully hard.

The bastard knew it, too. The way he was rolling his hips against yours, watching with a lidded gaze as you arched your back. Watching the way you threw your head back with a slight hitch in your breathing, revealing a sliver of your real face and a tantalizing view of your throat.

“G-Gojo—“

“It’s Satoru, baby boy.” Satoru fell into temptation, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to the column of your throat. You choked and tried to pull away, your hands pushing at his chest, but he kissed again… and again…

It felt good. Better than that. You’ve never been kissed before.

When did you stop resisting?

More importantly, when did the hands pushing him away slowly grip onto his hair? Almost like you wanted to keep him close. How absurd.

His lips were cold and delicate, but warmth blossomed against your neck. It was a God’s kiss; there was nothing human in the way the opposing temperatures clashed.

The sheer wrongness of it—the difference in status, the intimacy shared before and in the present—melted away, embarrassingly easy. Like it never mattered in the first place.

He never stopped grinding against you, and you never stopped whining.

You’ve only touched yourself a few times before; you never had time to indulge in such pleasures, doing so when the emotions clouding your head were too strong and bothersome. And, well, including the time after you massaged Satoru. It was simply a lapse in judgment.

You’ve never had someone to do it with. Was Satoru… going to be your first?

You couldn’t think of anything else, because Satoru nibbled on your throat, moaning against the skin—the vibrations were, strangely enough, soft and gentle—as he sucked on it, cherishing your skin as he slowly worked his way down. The movement of his hips slowed, his attention strictly on your body underneath his lips. His hair teased your neck, caressing while his fingers trailed up the side of your body to your kimono. He peeled it back, then your hadajuban, and your bare skin met the room’s soft light.

A startled gasp strangled past your lips when Satoru’s teeth clamped down on your shoulder. Pearly white and sharp as bones.

His hands grasped your waist again, tighter as his teeth stayed on that spot. You winced and tried to pull him off, but his hands remained.

He slowly started to grind his clothed cock against yours once more, drawing the moment out.

“Agh—.. fuck—“ you mumbled before letting out an embarrassing, cracked moan. Why was he going faster?

Satoru didn’t care when your hands started to tighten their grasp on his hair; he seemed to enjoy it, letting his eyes roll back as his jaw released its hold on your skin. He licked it with care before sealing it with a kiss: a bow to a gift.

His head furrowed in your shoulder as he just rutted into you, letting your voice ring out in the room while he let his own vibrate against your body, quiet prayers of lust. His arms hugged you close, pulling you deeper into the abyss of desire.

“God,” he mumbled, “you’re perfect.”

You didn’t respond; you were too busy trying to grind against him in time with his own.

“You like that?” He nuzzled against your cheek before letting go of your waist and grabbing your hair. “I think you liked this last time, too.” He tugged lightly, smiling against your shoulder when your movements faltered. “I got permission, baby?” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

“It’ll be like a fucking leash, huh?” He chuckled.

When he yanked your head back, your mouth slipped out a strangle moan of pain. Satoru—he wasn’t just in your head; he was in front of you, teasing you—laughed with a glint of adoration in his eyes.

Adoration? Couldn’t be.

“Get on your knees, pretty?”

You’re a servant.

You’re nothing but obedient.

It was stupid, how fast you fell to your knees with your kimono mostly undone. A servant shouldn’t have been doing this with someone like him, shouldn’t have been so messy and unrefined in the presence of a superior, but you were so eager. And duty was thrown out the window the moment you touched yourself with his image in mind.

Clearly, Satoru enjoyed this just as much as you did.

His hands cupped your face best he could with the mask, slipping underneath it. “You’ll pleasure me.” He didn’t ask you, yet the command was sweet. You nodded dumbly. “Good boy.”

You need to cum. You need to cum so bad.

Satoru’s fingers were slender and long, teasing your covered face with another glimpse of his body. You needed to worship him like a statue.

You let yourself think something sacrilegious: you hated the mask right now, and you wanted to see Satoru without it. You wanted to see his true beauty despite everything.

His body, now dry and clean, was revealed to be more on display until it slipped down entirely. His undergarments were peeled off with little haste, but you pushed back the impatience. Your eyes were blown wide with curiosity and arousal as he teased you with unhurried motions. Until his slender hands pulled everything down, and…

He was… big.

You didn’t know what defined a big cock. You’ve only ever seen yours.

But he was big.

God… were you drooling? So stupid.

“Ever jerked off?” Satoru asked, tilting his head down at you. You looked up, and felt like he enjoyed the view of looking down on you. He was before, considering his status was much higher than yours, but something about the look in his eyes said he preferred this much more.

You nodded despite your embarrassment concealed by the mask, and he laughed. It was dangerous and low. “I doubt you’ve done it with anyone else.” You shook your head. “Ever had sex at all?” You paused, hesitant. You shook your head.

He hummed and pondered, though you doubted he was thinking anything meaningful. “Well, virgins are always cuter,” he commented; you were right. It wasn’t anything meaningful.

You were still turned on nonetheless.

It was a bit lithe with a few veins. It was a bit hard, but not too much considering that he jerked off not too long ago. It was hardening—because of you? Ha, you love that thought. The color: a bit pink, a bit pale. Pretty with a bit of cum spilling out.

“You’ve jerked yourself off,” he said. “Just do the same with me.”

It sounded simple enough, but it didn’t feel that way. It felt like a daunting task you didn’t know how to approach.

You’d do it the same way you did with yourself. And you’d pray it was good enough to please him, because that’s your job as his personal…

…servant?

Your hands raised until they brushed against his cock. You could feel Satoru shiver from your feathery touch, and the idea that you were pleasuring him made you feel accomplished. You were being good. Good for him.

You took a deep breath before wrapping your hands around it entirely. He shuddered and let his back arch slightly, his hips pushing towards your touch. If his body wanted more, then at least you were doing something right at least.

It felt cold from the shower, uncomfortable. But you didn’t mind; you wouldn’t mind.

“Ha…” you breathed out softly, in awe of how he was reacting to you. You leaned closer, your hands tightening before sliding down to his base. He grunted, and his hips thrusted in your hands. This was dirty of you.

Doesn’t mean you would stop. You would serve him.

Without really noticing, as all your attention was on worshiping his body and cock like he wanted you to, you started rolling your hips on the ground. You were chasing the same pleasure you were giving him—how scandalous! As you’re a servant, and servants aren’t meant to get the same treatment they give their superiors. Then again, you’re currently—

Let’s not think about it.

Satoru’s moans didn’t echo in the room, yet the undeniable pleasure and lust coming from his mouth was trapped in your mask. Your hands never stopped moving against the skin; when they did, Satoru’s hands would cover your own and force them to move.

“Don’t stop,” he said, his voice cracked. You obeyed, your hands resuming their movements eagerly.

You let him thrust into your hands, and you let yourself grope and worship his cock with your hands. You let yourself forget about your status just for a moment.

“A—Am I doing this right, Gojo-Sama?” You asked tentatively, barely raising your voice above the squelching noise of Satoru’s cock and his cum slowly coating it.

“Fu—uck,” he drawled out, his head tossed back just like earlier. “You’re being so good,” he muttered. “Just like that…” he trailed off, then laughed lightly. “You’re such a fast learner.”

You whined and stroked harder. You were being good for him. You were being so good.

One hand of yours let go of him, letting you put it on your own torturously clothed cock. Your hips stuttered their own movement at your sudden contact; even you were surprised at your own motion. Especially since Satoru didn’t give you permission. But he was right. You’ve already broken so many rules, there was no harm in pleasuring yourself when you were doing so for Satoru! Right?

But you were meant to put all of your attention on him, and him alone.

But you needed to cum so badly.

Maybe Satoru noticed and pretended not to care. Maybe that’s why you could’ve sworn he laughed lightly under his moans and grunts. But you didn’t bother trying to distinguish between what was your fault and what was his. You were just palming yourself through your kimono while the hand around Satoru’s cock stuttered. Your servant-mind wanted to do two things at once: pleasure yourself and pleasure Satoru.

You could feel his hand on your wrist, guiding your motions along his length. It was a calming presence, the firm grasp he held on you. “Don’t falter,” he murmured between his delicious moans. You didn’t listen, your movements stiff when your other hand squeezed at your erection. You needed to cum; you would die if you waited a second longer. You threw your head back when you felt you were close.

He groaned before his hands trailed up your arms. Then your shoulders…

You squeaked when his fingers tousled your hair.

The gesture was out of character, even more so for the intimate situation you found yourself in with him. Still, regardless of what was going on in his head, you leaned into his touch. It reminded you of when the elder servants would praise you for your accomplishments when you were younger, their touch cold. Satoru was warm with heat.

“So cute,” he cooed. “Baby.”

Your hands slowly stroked his cock, caught up in the sensation of his touch and your own pleasure. Too slow for him, apparently, because—

YANK!

You let out a strangled moan of pleasure swirled with pain. “I never said stop, did I?” He asked sweetly, pulling your hair back, forcing you to confront his gaze. It was cold; it was attention.

You stammered. “I-I’m so sorry—“

“We need to get rid of that habit of yours, baby.”

Fuck. You apologized.

He sighed before his hands came to the one on his cock and pulled them off. You whined, letting both of your hands meet at your own hard length. It felt so good; his gaze made you feel terrible.

“You’re so disappointing,” he said, and you let out a choked sob. Your hands never stopped moving against yourself. Maybe it was because you were so painfully hard that you needed to release yourself. Maybe it was because Satoru looked at you with a hunger that made you feel seen and a distaste that you needed to fix. That was your job. You needed to please him, you needed to please yourself.

He crouched down, and the rest of his undone kimono fell to the ground around him like a shadow. His irritation faded into a soft look of—you don’t know. His hand, still in your hair, slithered down to cup your chin underneath your mask. “Here’s a deal. Make me cum, then we can deal with that…” he trailed off, his eyes darting down to your own hands before darting back to the holes of your mask, seeing right through it and into your eyes. “...problem of yours.”

You’re a servant.

You’re nothing but obedient.

I am so sorry if the smut wasn't to your standard! this is my first time writing content like that, and I had nowhere to start except for looking at other writers (ᵕ—ᴗ—). i'm also sorry it took me so long to update this! I had a really busy month- nonetheless, I hope you enjoyed!

I will probably make this a series thing. i'm not too sure about how that will go, but I will definitely try! and I will DEFINITELY make a better smut scene! if you... have any tips on how to write smut scenes, it will be greatly appreciated-

Tonight, the wind feels chillier than usual on your walk back home from the bus stop.

As such, you feel yourself shivering more than you usually do.

Granted, the walk back to your shitty, pathetic excuse of an apartment building in the middle of bumfuck nowhere isn’t ever exactly like those moonlit and effervescently fantastical and beautiful fairytale art pieces you used to see as a little boy dressed in rags in that long-gone antique shop your dad brought you to whenever he had something to sell to make barely enough to fill your stomachs.

Nah, the 10-minute walk from the bus stop that was weathered down by time and with torn-up fast-food bags at its feet instead of flowers, to your trashy and thankfully cheap-to-rent, because God does it look the part, apartment building is always the same.

But the chill in the wind tonight, something about it makes the goosebumps on your skin feel even more present.

Almost every night, when you finish your night shift at your god-awful and life-siphoning minimum wage job at the diner back in the backwater town you’re forced to call home, the dying, flickering streetlights guide you back home, the voices of crickets, stray animals, and local druggies sleeping in the bushes remind you you’re not alone (for better or for worse), and the sight of the shithole you call your home in the distance reminds you just how fucking dead inside and dead tired you are since you just got off work at motherfucking 3 AM.

Shit.

You. Need. To. Fucking. Sleep.

And when you fall asleep tonight, maybe your overworked and exhausted self will rest eternally this time.

…

No.

As pessimistic as you are about your life, that was taking it a bit too far.

You didn’t mean it because…

As much as life, from the day you were born, has been beating you down every goddamn day, month, and year, you will never let down your late father by giving up on your life.

Not when he literally worked himself to death by dumpster diving to keep you barely fed, and in his last days, selling anything he found (or stole) just to be able to afford you your first month of rent in the shitty apartment you live in that you got only because your landlord was tired of him begging on his knees.

Your life is full-on dog shit, no doubt about that.

… But if it wasn’t for your father’s unwavering love for a son that he didn’t even mean to have (He wouldn’t stop telling you that whenever he had too much to drink from the half-finished bottles he found in the alleys), you could’ve still been living in that tent deep in the dark forest that he made out of discarded sleeping bags and ropes that you spent your childhood and adolescence in.

Thank God the officials in your town don’t give a fuck about anything or anyone, and they didn’t order it torn down.

Despite him being anything but the ideal provider, despite him wishing the worst of fates on your mother, who ran away the day you were born, like a morning prayer, and despite him bringing you into this everyday battle called life because he got drunk and didn’t use fucking protection, he somehow loved you more than anything.

Despite your shitty situation, he never yelled at you for eating his share of food for the night, he stole books from the local library to read you bedtime stories when you were little, and hell, he didn’t beat you when you accidentally said you had a crush on the boy in the soccer field at the school you couldn’t go to when you were ten.

His love is the reason you keep on going.

And his final words, which he spoke in that tent, his trembling and weakening hand holding yours, his body falling apart because of the hard life he had lived, are what play in your head like a comforting and warm hug when your head is pounding from a lack of sleep.

“Don’t be a worthless piece of shit like me, you hear me, boy?”

Pfft.

It wasn’t anything graceful, but your dad was anything but a gentleman, so it suited him perfectly.

And frankly, his final words always somehow make you laugh even when your body is sore from standing all day on sticky diner tiles.

…

It’s been a few years since he passed away.

The tent you both lived in is long gone; you found it torn apart when you last checked out the spot where it was, probably rambunctious teens.

But that’s okay, all you need as a reminder of your one and only supporter is what’s hugging you and protecting you from the chilly wind.

Your dad’s signature windbreaker.

His “best steal,” he would call it.

It’s what he wore when he needed to sell something for pennies.

He said it’s all he had if he wanted to look presentable enough not to be kicked out of buildings. 

You wear it everywhere because it makes you feel like he’s still with you and cracking jokes jovially as if your lives weren’t shit.

You did have to wash it somewhat… religiously to get the scent of cigs and beer off of it, but it’s staying with you for life.

…

Life is hard.

But for him, you will be a successful man.

For him, you will live a good life.

And for him, you somehow got a scholarship at the local community college in the hopes of becoming a man that your father can be proud of.

He told you he was already proud of you for surviving the hells of poverty, but now he can be proud of you for being on the journey towards something greater.

And maybe for him, you can find someone to love one day as well.

Heh, if only money wasn’t a goddamn issue every second of your life.

…

You’re not sure why you went down memory lane on your walk home.

Maybe it’s because you just needed something to comfort you while the leaves rustled and the wind whistled a bit louder than usual.

In any case, it worked, and just like that, you find yourself approaching your beaten-up and graffiti-covered apartment door.

God, it’s a hideous sight.

But… It’s nice to have a home to come to, shitty as it is.

Having lived in street alleys and dark forest floors for your childhood and adolescence, it’s still surreal and comforting, even after a few years, to finally have a door to come back to every night.

Well, thank God you have a day off tomorrow. 

At least you’ll be able to, maybe, catch up on 7 days of sleep.

That is, if your only neighbour in this shithole doesn’t…

No, no.

Don’t manifest it.

If you don’t think of your neighbour’s nightly… ahem, noises, perhaps you’ll be lucky and have a rare night of uninterrupted sleep.

With a very long sigh, you pick up your step.

You’re a bit too exhausted to think of showering, or brushing your teeth, or even jerking off, you wanna shut your eyes and worry about the aches in your body later.

You’ll walk in, hang your father’s jacket on the nearby coat hanger, and plop on your bed-

BOOM BOOM BOOM

But unfortunately for you, your tired mind sealed your fate and caused you to make a fatal mistake.

Living in a lawless town such as this, your father gave one piece of advice that you always held close to your heart… but ended up forgetting in your exhausted haze.

Never walk, always run.

It happens instantly.

The reason you felt chills throughout your walk home was that you were being watched.

You were being followed.

…

No, you were being hunted.

The reason why you felt a bit more on edge tonight as you walked back home, stomped up behind you, shoved you against the apartment door right next to yours, and gripped your neck with one of his rough hands to make you look into his eyes.

And unfortunately for you, his face is a familiar one, and his voice-

“Hey, I’ve been wanting to talk to you…”

-is familiar as well.

When you first moved into your apartment, and with your father’s life savings and a shower to use instead of the pond near your raggedy tent, the first thing you ever did was head to the drugstore and buy the cheapest shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and body lotion you could afford, and cleanse yourself of the rough years you lived.

Then, a few weeks later, when you were trying to get your high school credentials as an adult at the local university through their Access Pathways program, that’s where you learned that maybe your dad wasn’t lying when he said that the only good thing he gave you was his handsome looks.

Who knew that having a home and good hygiene does a lot to make a man look good?

At the school and at your job, you’ve had plenty of people look at you appreciatively.

You’ve even had a few boyfriends as well, but… You weren’t at a point yet in your life where you feel like you could be a partner that a boyfriend could introduce to his parents with pride…

All of this is to say, you’ve learned that you’re apparently quite the looker.

And that comes with its… vices.

Case in point, the man pinning you against your neighbour’s door and looking down at you like your body was for him to rip apart and feast on.

“You shouldn’t have fucking ignored me tonight, MC… Especially not when I was trying to be so nice to you…”

He’s a regular at the diner you work at, and he’s a fucking creep.

It’s been a few months since he started showing up, but ever since the very first night you gave him service, he has made it very clear that he wants nothing more than to make you his property.

When you first took his order and turned around to head to the kitchen, you caught him looking at your ass in the reflection of the kitchen door windows.

A few days later, after that first interaction, he asked you if you had a boyfriend, and it showed in his face that he was pissed when you said you did.

Then the next day, he wrapped his smelly arm around your waist while you took his order, smiling like he wasn't doing anything weird.

Then… he began groping you, smacking your ass whenever you turned around, and even rubbing your head whenever he was leaving.

Frankly, he scares you. He terrifies you. But more than anything, he disgusts you.

The way he looks at you is as if you’re a meal.

The way he disrespects you in public and touches you inappropriately just because he wants you.

But you could never defend yourself or cause a scene… because what if you lost your job?

You tried telling your boss what this creep was doing to you, but what did he say?

“So? He pays well, so keep using your good looks, alright? They’re all you have going for you.”

Again, this is a lawless and dark town.

No one cares for anyone.

Humanity is useless.

Only money matters.

If only your father were still here, he would’ve lit that place on fire for what happens to you there every night.

But unfortunately for you, making enough money to pay rent had to be more important than protecting your body and standing up for yourself, so you had to learn to deal with the daily disrespect and inhumane treatment if you didn’t want to end up homeless once more.

If only that diner job wasn’t the most accessible one for you…

You had to learn how to navigate around the man’s inappropriate touches.

You tried talking to him as little as possible, and hell, you even began working in the kitchen just so you didn’t have to see him.

It worked well, and thankfully, you knew how to make good food, so your boss didn’t have a reason to take you out of the kitchen despite the man’s growing complaints about not seeing you on the floor as much anymore.

…

But you should’ve known he’d cross the line one day.

And here he is now… looking at you with this crazed look in his eyes, grinning with his yellow and rotting teeth, and gripping your neck with a bit too much strength.

Though his grip hurts and your voice is a bit tired from talking to customers and shouting orders to the kitchen staff all day, you still have enough fight in your exhausted body to finally speak your mind to this creep, especially now that you’re out of the diner.

“D-don’t- COUGH” Fuck, his grip hurts. “Don’t touch me, you fucking creep!!”

You’ve never spoken to him in that manner before, having to hold your tongue at work for fear of losing your only source of income.

It feels good to yell at him.

But, he doesn’t let go; in fact, the glimmer in his crazed eyes makes it look like he liked hearing you fight back for once.

“Oh, that’s no way to talk to me, sweet pea.” He traces his hand that wasn’t gripping your neck on your hipbones under your jacket. “Especially not when I give you all those gracious tips for looking as sexy as you do… I’m just here to claim what’s owed to me because of how well I treat you…”

He never touched you like this before.

The worst he’s done to you before tonight now was touch your bulge under your apron and try to unzip your pants when you were taking his order.

But now, he’s being full-on rough and self-indulgent.

“Fuck off! If you’re gonna follow me to my goddamn home like the disgusting creep you are, I’ll speak to you however I want!!!” You yell, trying to pry his fingers off your neck. “L-let me go! It hurts!! A-AH!” As much as you want to continue yelling at him, his dirty nails digging into your skin pains you greatly.

“Oh, my little prince…” He says in a disgustingly fake and sugary tone. “Hurting you hurts me more than it hurts you, trust me.” Liar, his eyes look terrifyingly jovial and alive. “I don’t want to make you cry, but you need to treat me better. If you just let me into your place and allow you to make right the disrespect you showed me by ignoring me, things won’t have to be like this…”

“I disrespected you?!?!” You scream as loud as you can with a constricted windpipe. “I’ve had to hold my tongue and be nice to you even when you grope my ass like the disgusting and vile pervert you are-

SLAP

AAGH-”

You didn’t even get to finish your words before he slapped the everliving fuck out of you.

The remnant noise of his slap echoes in the dark expanse around you two.

And tears immediately form in your eyes, but you try even harder to pry his fingers from your neck as his grip on your neck tightens, the pain far worse than what you’re feeling on your left cheek.

You can’t even sob; no sound will come through.

Even now, he doesn’t look angry. 

No, he’s grinning like the evil maniac he is.

He likes the fight you’re showing.

It’ll make tearing into you and claiming you as his all the more delicious and worth it.

“I’m so sorry for hitting you like that, my boy…” His breathy and terrifying laughs tell you he’s not sorry at all. In fact, you bet he’d love to hit you even harder. “But you deserved it. How could you talk like that to the man who shows you nothing but love and worship almost every night…”

You can’t even fight back anymore, the lack of oxygen getting rid of what little fight your exhausted body could muster.

…

You didn’t even get to say all that you wanted to him…

“But again, you can make things up to me…” He begins rummaging through your jacket pockets to look for the key to your apartment. “Just let me into your home, let me do what I want… and I’ll treat you how you deserve to be treated.”

What… what’s he going to do to you?

“Actually… I don’t need your permission. Hah! I don’t even need you to be awake!!!”

He manages to find your key and holds it in front of your face, your blurred vision barely able to register the sight.

“You and I are going to have a fun night, MC…” His voice begins to sound like it’s coming from the end of a tunnel. “Tonight is when all my wildest dreams will come true… I can’t promise that you’ll live to see tomorrow, but hey, maybe you should’ve treated me better, handsome~.”

…

Your heart breaks.

It shatters into a million pieces.

But not because of what’s about to happen to you.

You’ve been through hell and back on the streets, and you’re sure you’ve been through worse.

But your heart breaks because this isn’t what your father worked himself to the grave for.

You were supposed to make him proud.

You were supposed to one day rake in millions, live in a penthouse, and make the world a better place, even for just one person, all in his honour.

You were supposed to give him a proper resting spot and not the pond your distraught 18-year-old self left his body in because you had nowhere else to leave him.

…

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

…

If he were here, he would’ve murdered this man.

Your dad was as malnourished and frail as you’d expect any man who barely had enough to eat to look, but he’d fight to the death if it meant keeping you as unharmed as you could be.

As always, in your worst times, the thought of him comforts you even when you feel your consciousness leaving.

He was a disgusting street urchin to others, but to you, he was your hero.

And that’s why in your final moment, you find yourself wanting to be saved.

But life was never kind to you.

No matter how much you fought for better days, maybe this was always how it was going to go.

A tragic start, a tragic end.

But maybe it won’t be too bad if you could see him once more and never have to suffer agai-

SLAM

The door you were pressed up against suddenly opens, and you find your back pressed up against something strong, warm, and firm yet soft.

“The fuck is going on here?”

A deep voice booms.

And you recognize it. He’s the only person other than you who lives in this wretched building.

And you only know his voice because of the groans and dirty talk you hear almost every night as he fucks someone into oblivion.

And you know his name. 

Not because you ever talked to him. Hell, you’ve never even seen the man since he’s most likely never home during the day.

No, you know his name because it’s what every person he fucks screams like a worshipping prayer until the sun comes up as you writhe in bed from the never-ending rumbling and screaming coming from the suite next to you.

Toji.

Your next-door neighbour.

This past week has been shit.

Work has been shit.

Life has been shit.

His bank account looks like shit.

His sleep schedule looks like shit.

And the worst part of it all, it’s been way too goddamn long since he busted a hot, fat nut in some random bitch’s hole.

Toji’s a simple guy living a simple life in bumfuck nowhere.

He works the odd job that needs a guy of his build, makes enough money to buy cheap food and lube, and he spends free time by getting fucked up at the local bar and bringing the most willing whore (Boy, are there plenty) to his place so he can fuck away the built-up tension in his body… and God, isn’t he just full of it always…

His life isn’t anything glamorous.

And honestly, for a man in his late 30s, he’s sure many people think he’s a pathetic excuse who’s wasting himself away.

But eh, he’s fine with where he’s at, he’d say.

Kids? Fuck that shit. Just trying not to get evicted from his place siphons enough out of his soul already.

Marriage? Don’t make him laugh. His bosses nag him enough; he doesn’t need a whore asking him to take her out on dates or whatever the fuck it is that cunts want to do.

He just fucks men because they just wanna get down and dirty without the sappy shit.

It’s gay as all fuck, but eh, nothing beats a hole that he can fuck all he wants and shoot his load into and not worry about a devil spawning out of it.

Fucking hell, pregnancy is disgusting.

But all of this is to say, life ain’t so bad for him.

Sure, he hasn’t fucked a bitch into his mattress in a week, something that barely ever happens.

Sure, he lost one of his jobs because he punched his boss after he got called some racist shit.

And sure! He might’ve blown all his money on online gambling and got nothing in return…

But still, life ain’t so bad…

THUD

That is, that’s how he felt before a few minutes ago, until he was startled awake by something crashing into his goddamn door at fucking three in the morning.

“... the fuck?”

In his half-awake daze, he first thought it might have been a brain-dead deer or something that bumped headfirst into his door.

He tried going back to sleep until he started hearing voices.

Alright, druggies hanging outside of his place isn’t anything new, and he’s willing to let his being startled awake slide since he’s so goddamn fucking tired and beaten down from working construction today.

But when Toji closed his eyes a second time and opened them once more at the sound of yelling, that’s when he threw his blankets off him, put on a discarded pair of loose, old, and low-hanging sweatpants, and began stomping furiously to the entrance of his apartment.

“Holy shit, I’m gonna butcher these worthless idiots.” He mutters under his breath, not sure what to expect, but definitely sure that he’ll be throwing some choice words at the people responsible for waking him up in the dead of night.

His hand reaches his doorknob, and just as he’s about to open the door, he hears a scratchy and gross voice and an afraid yet softer voice going back and forth.

Curious as to what’s exactly happening outside his home, he stands in place trying to gather context clues.

 “Don’t touch me, you fucking creep!!”

“Oh, that’s no way to talk to me, sweet pea.”

“Oh, my little prince…”

“It hurts!!!”

Seriously????

He got woken up by a bunch of sissy ass queers?

He got woken up not just by some relationship drama but by some loudmouth cocksucker drama?

You cannot be fucking for reallllll right now.

Sure, he fucks men because they don’t annoy him and whine as bitches do, but FUCK, he hates how sissy those gay pansies can be.

God, fuck his life. 

He doesn’t need this shit.

And sure, it sounds like someone’s doing some creepy shit, but honestly, he doesn't give a fuck about anyone’s safety in his sleep-deprived state.

He’s gonna open this door, beat the shit out of these fucking fa-

SLAP

Damn, maybe he doesn’t need to beat anyone up; shit’s already hit the fan.

Nah, he’s itching to hurt someone.

If he can’t fuck the night away, he’s sure as hell gonna sleep the remainder of it away, and to do that, he’s gonna open the door, beat these sissies hopefully into real men, and then dream about life on a beach with tight holes to fuck and endless bowls of ramen… hah, maybe he should strive for more in life…

Anyways, he notices that the afraid voice has stopped fighting back, and Toji, not wanting to deal with a dead body in front of his home (a beaten up person is fine, not a dead one though), opens the door, and immediately feels a warm body land on him, the back of a guy’s head landing on top of his chest.

“The fuck is going on here?” He grumbles agitatedly, his voice deep and husky from sleep.

The words leave his mouth before he can think about it.

And immediately, he assesses the situation.

First, and unfortunately for his corneas, he sees probably the ugliest man he’s ever seen in his life, and that’s saying something considering the dumpster bin of a town he lives in.

Yellow teeth, bloodshot eyes, a hideous bald spot, and the most trashy of clothes, this guy offends Toji by just existing.

Sure, Toji isn’t the most luxurious of men either, but at least he can say he’s hot as fuck considering the number of people that wanna have sex with him.

… This was the guy saying shit like “Oh, my little prince”?

…

Disgusted shivers that Toji tries to ignore go through his body.

Not expecting much from the guy that’s straight up resting his head on his fuckin’ tits, he looks down so he can at least not look at Jabba the Hut in human form in front of him.

And damn! Colour him surprised.

He didn’t think guys this pretty lived in this cesspool of a town.

And you know what, he only ever saw other guys as holes to fill, but this guy… Toji might, for once, consider himself attracted.

Though he’s sure this guy, who’s certainly younger than him, would look much better naked on his bed instead of heaving for air with tears gliding down his face.

But wait a minute, he swears that soft hair and worn-out windbreaker look familiar…

…Right… This guy is his next-door neighbour.

Hm.

He’s never seen his face before, since the only time he sees him is when he sees the back of this guy's head every morning by the window as he runs to presumably the bus stop nearby.

Damn, he didn’t know he had a pretty boy living next to him all this time.

Well, he initially didn’t give two shits about beating up some pansies as long as he could sleep, but… things are different now upon visual examination.

…

An idea crosses his mind.

And if he plays his cards right, maybe he can kill multiple birds with one stone tonight…

Maybe it’ll work, but there’s only one way to find out.

With one arm, he protectively wraps it around your chest from behind, and with his other hand, he easily pries the man’s fingers away from your neck.

And with his plan in motion, he looks at the hideous freak of nature with vengeful eyes and darkens his voice.

“What the hell are you doing to my boyfriend?”

…

?

???

For a few seconds, all that can be heard in the dead of the night is the buzz of the old lightbulbs, the rustling of the leaves, and the wind kicking up dust on the gravelly road.

Uh. What?

Despite being exhausted from your definitely illegal 15-hour shift, despite having been almost choked to death, despite you currently heaving for air, and despite you still recovering from the fact that horrible things could’ve been done to your almost dead body, the main thing you’re feeling right now is straight-up confusion.

You’ve never spoken to him, and matter of fact, this is your first time actually interacting with Toji in person, but he’s… hugging you and calling you his boyfriend?

What?!

All you know about this man is that he’s just as much in the shits as you are if he’s living in this dumpster and that he’s goddamn manwhore supreme!

How is a guy supposed to think clearly when he was almost choked to death and is now being hugged by what feels like a behemoth of muscle who’s calling you his boyfriend?

But you don’t get too deep in your thoughts as the creep who followed you home shrieks disgustingly at what he heard.

“WHAT?! What do you mean by ‘boyfriend’?! I’ve been stalking and following MC for months. What do you mean you’re in a relationship with him?! I’ve never seen you in my life!”

…

This isn’t the only time he’s been following you…?

Fuck, you must have been too busy with work, assignments, and finishing your assignments at work to notice him… and you mean BUSY busy, because you should have been able to smell his disgusting scent from miles away…

Feeling the way you shiver uncomfortably in his embrace, Toji pushes the man away from you quite easily, making a disgusted face when he sees spit flying out of his mouth.

“God, you’re fucking disgusting,” Toji says with a grimace. “I should fucking paint this building red with your blood and innards for the shit you’ve been doing to my boy… But stalking and slapping him right in front of our goddamn home!?” 

The way his deep voice booms around the area as he yells makes you flinch.

“Hah! Looking at him was your first mistake, but slapping him? My boyfriend? That will be your last.” He says angrily.

…

After hearing Toji speak and feeling the way his fingers pat you reassuringly, you find yourself connecting the dots and realizing exactly what it is he’s trying to do.

He’s trying to save you and protect you from this lowlife pervert by pretending to be your boyfriend.

…

Once that realization comes to pass, all the built-up tension in your body leaves, and you feel your body finally relaxing in his protective and warm embrace.

You… truly know nothing about Toji other than that he’s a slut, but he doesn’t realize just how much his saving you meant when the world has been nothing but cruel to your life.

“Baby…” Toji says, turning you around in his embrace so you can face him and turning his back to the man so he can act as a wall to keep you safe. “Baby, please be honest. Why didn’t you tell me you were being stalked? You know that getting rid of him wouldn’t be a problem for me…” His calloused hands hold your face gently, something you’ve never felt in your life before, even by your actual past boyfriends.

And it’s in this moment that a barely functioning lightbulb shines down on Toji’s face, letting you finally see the face not just of your next-door neighbour, but also your hero.

You don’t know where to start or where to focus, but your eyes naturally gravitate to his showstoppingly handsome face.

Your only reference for what a handsome man should look like is the magazines you see in the gas station when all you can afford to eat is a shitty hot dog, but Toji is in a league of his own.

Straight mid-length black hair, a handsome face with Japanese features and a jawline carved by the gods, green eyes that remind you of the forest you once called your home, and a charming scar on his lip that indicates he’s no man to mess with, Toji is a man in a league of his own and you can’t help but wonder why he’s in this shitstain town on Earth when he could on the big screen or on magazines…

And why stop at his face when his body is just as much a marvel in its own right?

Wearing nothing but low-hanging sweats that leave nothing to the imagination, you can see that Toji is a very active and hard-working man, considering the muscular and statuesque form he wears.

He’s carved and proportioned to perfection with clear-cut 8-pack abs you grind your cock on, meaty and plush pectorals to rest your face on as he bucks up into your from below, broad shoulders to rest your head or legs on he sucks your dick or eats your ass out, and biceps he could choke you with as plows you from behind… he’s male perfection in it’s most raw, primal, and natural form…

…

If your rapidly vivid thoughts that dance in your head as you check out his face and body are anything to go by, it makes sense why you hear him having wall-cracking sex almost every night…

If only he really could be your boyfriend…

…

Shit!

Right!

You have an act to go along with…

God, how did you go from almost meeting your dad in the afterlife to thirsting and marvelling over your neighbour who literally just saved your life!?!?

“I-I’m so sorry, Toji, I just… I know how stressed you’ve been with work and with how tight money’s been.” If there's one thing your dad taught you about survival, it’s that white lies are one of the greatest tools out there. So, going along with Toji’s act comes pretty naturally to you. “I just didn’t want to burden you… I’m so sorry, honey…”

“Babe… thank you for worrying about me, but what if I wasn’t home tonight? He was gonna fucking kill you!” He grips your shoulders angrily. “Fuck burdens and all that shit, if you’re gone then I have nothing to live for in this goddamn shithole!”

Toji is mentally patting himself on the back for paying attention to those shitty romance movies that sometimes played in the bar as he finished his drinks when there wasn’t anyone interesting enough to pay attention to, they’re giving him good dialogue to come up with.

“I-I know… y-you’re right. I can’t say anything other than that I’m sorry…” You know it’s all an act, but having such warm words directed at you makes you feel… good.

“No, honey, you never needed to apologize. None of this is your fault…” He says sweetly before turning around menacingly to the creep who listened to two and is getting increasingly and very noticeably enraged that Toji is allowed to talk to you so warmly and touch you so intimately when he can’t. “If anyone should apologize and make things right by slitting his wrists and throat right in front of us, it’s this waste of life.”

Toji squeezes your hand comfortingly before he steps up to the man, trying to keep a straight face and not vomit as the creep’s stench enters his nose.

“The shit I fucking deal with for some good ass…” He grumbles in his mind.

But he says something different outside.

“Listen here, and listen well, you worthless, hideous, disgusting, and deserving of death dipshit.” He says with a terrifyingly stoic tone. “I want to kill you. In fact, I probably will in the near future. And I will make sure your death is the most long-lasting and painful killing imaginable. But, the only reason I’ll give you the chance to run away is that I don’t wanna traumatize my boyfriend by turning you into a gorefest. So leave. Leave and enjoy the last days of your worthless life because I will find you. I can promise that.”

…

You can’t be certain if he’s acting or not.

But his warrior’s body and terrifyingly deep and threatening face make you think that… he might really do something vengeful to this man.

But someway, somehow, rather than scaring him into running away, Toji’s words only make the creep more enraged, and he begins to shriek like a banshee and stomp on the ground.

“N-N-N-NOOOOOO!!!!” He screams, fisting what hair he has left with whitening knuckles. “I REFUSE TO BELIEVE IT! I KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT MC! YOU CAN’T BE HIS BOYFRIEND! THERE IS NO FUCKING WAYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!”

His screams and shrieks actually make you cover your eyes because he genuinely sounds like a pterodactyl being crushed by a hydraulic press.

But somehow, Toji remains still and unbothered.

“I’m gonna have to get my ears checked after this…” He thinks in his head, trying and somehow succeeding in maintaining a straight face.

“YOU’RE NOT HIS BOYFRIEND! THIS IS ALL FAKE! HE’S MINE! I FOUND HIM FIRST! YOU’RE JUST SOME RANDOM YELLOW BITC-”

“Pfft.” Toji scoffs. “I’m not his boyfriend, you said? That’s fucking hilarious, considering MC’s in my arms all the time in our place…”

Toji will not mention that he only learned your name because of the pervert just now screeching it out.

“Cute name though,” he thinks to himself.

“BULLSHIT! IF THAT WAS TRUE, I WOULD HAVE FUCKING SEEN YOU! FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK HE’S MY BOYFRIEND! HE’S MY PRINCE! HE’S MY BABY! HE’S MY FUCKTOY!”

Something about hearing this swine call you such things as if he owned you pissed Toji for some reason, and he found himself cracking his knuckles at the man’s tantrum.

“Keep calling him yours, and I might have to show just how pathetically wrong you are.” He says, taking note of how you’re actually shivering from how disturbed you are from this creep’s increasing display of insanity.

“Ifitwasn’tforyoui’dhavealreadybeenballsdeepinhissweetandlooseanddeadthroatandi’dbefillinghiscorpsetothebrimwithmysemen…”

But once the man’s ear-piercing shouting turns into fast whispers of the most disgusting things a monster could say, and once Toji feels you clench onto the waistband of his sweatpants in fear, that’s when he’s done with the nonsense.

“Alright then, man.” Toji sounds both smug and annoyed as he grabs from behind, and just like the man did to you before, but noticeably more gently, he shoves you against his door. “Let me show you just how wrong you are, and that MC belongs to me and me only.”

…

What could he possibly mean by that?

“T-Toji?”

Your voice is faint, both from the abuse your throat endured earlier and from the fact that you were about to start sobbing in fear.

“What are you…-”

But you’re silenced when Toji brings his lips close to your ear and whispers something only for you to hear.

And it’s funny.

Despite the man’s never-ending and disgusting rambles as he actually crumples onto the ground from rage and jealousy, all you can hear is Toji’s deep and luscious rasp.

“Fucking work with me here, yeah?”

“W-wait, what do you mea- M-mm!”

Just like that, your world stops. But not his. You didn’t even finish your sentence because of him.

Because once his lips met yours, you once again lost your breath, but in a different way this time.

But he doesn’t stop or even give you the time to process just what the hell he’s doing to you.

Toji isn’t just kissing you; he isn’t planting soft kisses or giving you little chaste pecks that your past boyfriends gave to you on your first dates, fuck, with the way he’s kissing you, anyone would be crazy to think that you two aren’t ravenous lovers.

One wouldn’t think this man is trying to sell an act.

No.

He’s full-on devouring you on the spot, making out with you like a man starved to near death, but also a man who wants to make his lover moan brainlessly to the stars above.

“M-mmm… H-hah… Mngh-~”

He’s so good at what he does that the moans and gasps just leave your mouth with your systems not even allowing you to even think of holding them back.

Yours and his personal bubble is laden with the sound of wet and slippery smooches, his bare skin brushing up roughly against your clothes, and the deliciously contrasting duet of your two pleasured voices.

“Mmm… that’s right, babyboy…” He says as he deliciously pushes his weight against you on the door as he kisses you. Unlike with the other guy, Toji’s huge and muscular form, forcing you against a hard surface, is sinfully luxurious. “That’s my boy… that’s how we do it… so good… all for me…”

Fuck, your night has gone from one extreme situation to another, but from what was happening before… Shit, maybe your dad was right… maybe guardian angels do exist…

While devouring and exploring the inside of your mouth, his tongue, hot, squishy, wet, and big, dances across all your inner parts.

Claiming the roof of your mouth, your teeth, the inside of your cheeks, and your own tongue, Toji kisses like a predator that just caught its prey.

It’s messy, and it’s borderline animalistic, and it lacks grace and classic sensuality, but the primal and hungry nature of his kisses might drive you to blissful insanity.

It’s not like you're a virgin or anything, but your past experiences might as well have never even happened.

The way Toji grips your hair and chest as he eats you up easily overshadows the last dick you took, no contest.

And as much as you kind of hated your next-door neighbour for being responsible for so many of your sleepless nights and the dark circles around your eyes… You can’t blame his past hook-ups for moaning and screaming the way they did.

The sounds you make are unlike anything you’ve ever made before, and you don’t even have the opportunity to feel embarrassed because of how burning blue the pleasure you feel is.

But nothing perfect lasts forever because as the words he speaks get dirtier, as his kisses get messy to the point of the bottom halves of your faces getting slick and wet, as his hands were about to unzip your pants and jacket, and as your cock was about to splurt hot white cum in your boxers because of how hard and fast he was grinding your clothed dicks against each other… 

Your spectator finally reached his boiling point.

“GYAHHHHHHH!!!!! NONONONONONONOONNOONONONONONONONONONONONONO!!!! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU BOTHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!”

And in a fit of maniacal rage, the pig throws himself at Toji and begins to slam his fists on his back like the trash he is.

“DIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIE!”

He easily overexerts himself as he tries, to no avail, to beat Toji up for touching you the way he is, and it’s frankly such a pathetic sight that would make the nicest saint ever roll their eyes.

Obviously enough, Toji barely feels anything.

His blue-collar built body can handle most anything, especially the weak yet disgusting punches of a human swine, but on the inside, he is fucking enraged.

It’s one thing to hit Toji; it’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with from his racist or abusive or racist and abusive bosses, coworkers, or customers.

And anyways, he’d just match their energy if he deems the paycheque isn’t worth the abuse, and then he’ll fuck the night away and move on with his life.

But to get in the way of him trying to devour this delectable piece of meat in front of him?

When he was already sleep-deprived and horned-up beyond comparison at that?

To desecrate his skin with such vile and putrid hands while he was getting his own hands travel all up on the prettiest thing he’ll ever see in this forsaken town?

To get in the way of him trying fuck some ass…

That’s grounds for execution.

And Toji revs up the chainsaw and rains hell like a madman.

With a furious and disgusted snarl, Toji pushes you into the apartment roughly, but not hard enough to actually hurt you, thankfully, considering the abuse you already went through earlier.

Next, he doesn’t even give you a reassuring look; he just swiftly turns around as he wordlessly yet violently charges towards the disgraceful monster like a bull eager to kill.

And eager to kill, he is.

Before the man can even react, Toji pulls his fist back before landing a meteor mash of a punch to the center of the man’s face.

And you don’t know what noise made you recoil more.

Maybe it was the chilling sound of the man’s nose cracking into a million shattered pieces in just a second.

Maybe it was the pained howls of a man who sounds like he’s getting tortured in the 9th circle of Hell.

… God, it was probably both.

But the man didn’t even get the chance to fall to the ground in unbearable pain.

Because Toji, when held back from what he desires most, is a ruthless man with the speed of a cold-hearted killer.

Right when the man’s nose breaks, Toji then circles the man and lands a kick that could break a building into the center of the man’s spine, making the sound of another crack, sending uncomfortable shivers all over your skin.

And the strength of Toji’s kick was so strong that it sent the man, despite his surely snapped spine, hurtling into the wall of the apartment building, making him crash face-first into the hard wall.

And you hope you’ll never have to experience crashing into a wall with a broken nose because the garbled up and tortured noises of the man are haunting.

With bones shattered, teeth falling, a brain garbled up beyond repair, and most likely newly acquired life-ruining paralysis, the man wordlessly slides face-first down the wall, leaving behind a grisly trail of red as he descends.

It wasn’t like in those action movie scenes that you saw on the TVs behind the windows in the shops downtown when you were a child.

There was no intense music, there were no over-the-top sound effects, and there weren’t any exaggerated VFX.

This was a real-life killing.

All that was heard was fist and foot meeting body, the exerted huffs and puffs of the scar-lipped man, and the bloody and bubbly gurgles of the man responsible for this whole fiasco.

It’s terrifying.

You’re shaking like a terrified child as your fists clench the material of your jacket.

It’s not like you haven’t seen people get beaten to death before when you were homeless, but the switch in Toji’s demeanour was truly something.

But beneath the terror you feel, there’s something else.

Something so rare that you genuinely have to question if you're truly feeling the emotion right now.

Relief. For once, you’ve been saved.

After your father passed away, you either had to run away or outsmart someone if you wanted to guarantee your survival.

But finally, you can feel relief as someone defends you for once.

Life in this town is fucked-up.

And that is further exemplified by how your relief feels even more euphoric when Toji forces the almost-lifeless man onto his feet, and you see the bloody and irrecoverable mess that the face of your assaulter has become.

Surely, you will never have to worry about this disgusting waste of space harassing you at work anymore, and surely, you won’t have to worry about him trying to kill and have his way with your corpse anymore.

Uncaring if the man is even conscious enough to register the words he’s about to say, Toji speaks heartlessly, cruelly, and most of all, triumphantly.

“How does it feel knowing that no one will cry when you die?” He says, with a smug lilt to his words. “How does it feel knowing that instead, people will be relieved when your body is discovered? How embarrassing does it feel knowing that you lived such a pathetic life only for it to end in such a debasing way?”

The man doesn’t respond to the heart-stabbing line of questioning.

He probably can’t, if the way his eyes roll back into his head is any indication of how conscious he is.

“Well, it’s a good thing you aren’t answering. Hearing your shrieks was more painful than the beating I gave you. Trust me on that.”

The dark chuckle Toji lets out makes you shiver in fear… but also… in awe. In reverence. In attraction.

“I guess all that’s left to do is to give you the burial you deserve, yeah?” Toji says in a mockingly sad voice. “Any last words?”

…

The man’s body goes limp. He says nothing. For he cannot.

“Good. See you in hell, pig. I’ll beat you even worse there, for all of eternity.”

And with a gleeful grin, Toji puts a good amount of strength in his arms and thighs, flexing greatly as he lifts the man up high and throws the limp body through the window of the empty apartment next to him, the sounds of glass shattering and the body landing on the carpet floor next door letting it into sink your soul that everything that just happened was in fact, very real.

You just watched a killing in real time.

And through the fear, you feel relief and gratitude for the next-door neighbour you once hated.

In this shitty backwater splotch on the planet, Toji saved you from what could have been a grisly and dehumanizing fate, a death that probably no one would have noticed.

And for that reason, your heart races and you feel light and fuzzy from the gratitude you feel for the man who walks back into his apartment and approaches you, face stoic yet breathing heavily from exertion.

A man who just killed someone walking towards you should be a terrifying thing, and it is! Yet… rather than racing from fear, your hearts from various colours of excitement.

Gratitude, relief, appreciation, and… attraction are amongst the emotions you feel in this moment.

And that’s why, when Toji’s just a footstep away from you after slamming his door shut, you finally speak words to him that don’t come from a script being written in real time.

“Toji, thank you so mu-”

But before you can even say the words you desperately wanna say…

“GUH-”

He once again roughly shoves you against one of the walls of his dark apartment and forces his weight on you once more.

“Shut up.”

He says darkly as he gets back to letting his hands pervertedly dance all over and claim your body… as if he didn’t just brutally beat someone to death.

But still, the pleasure coming to you once more doesn’t hold back your shock at him telling you to shut up when you just wanted to say thank you.

“H-hah!~ S-sorry?” You ask breathlessly after having a moan forced out of you once more.

To that, he just sighs annoyedly as he plants kisses and marks on your neck. “Whatever you wanna say, keep it. I don’t give a fuck. I’m just here to take my payment for saving your gay ass.”

You gasp harshly when he roughly shoves his hands under your pants and boxes to cup your ass, squeezing your cheeks so hard that he’ll definitely leave bruises. “Ngh! I just wanted to say thank you for saving me-”

He cuts you off once more after he takes one of his hands out from under your clothes to SMACK your ass to shut you up.

He then grabs your hair with a hand and forces the back of your head to the wall, making you look deep into his vibrantly green yet… heart-stoppingly intense gaze.

 “Save you?” He says almost incredulously. “Pfft, I guess you could say I did do that. But believe me… if you weren’t as hot as you’re lucky enough to be, then that loser wouldn’t have been the only dead body next door…”

…

And just like that, your heart stops.

But his hands do not.

Neither do his words, despite your shocked speechlessness at his unashamed disregard for others.

“I went through a bullshit week with nothing but work and no ass, and all I wanted tonight was to at least catch up on sleep. But fuck that, right? Of course, I had to be woken up. And not by some animal crashing into my door. No.” He leans even closer to you, his nose almost touching yours. “It was just a bunch of faggots taking their stupid drama to my door, of all places.”

The slur makes you flinch since he was clearly referring to you.

“T-That wasn’t drama, he-”

You tried explaining what happened. Not that you needed to. The guy literally admitted to stalking you.

But your desperate attempt to explain was cut short once again, as Toji literally covers your mouth with his big hand, one of the hands that just played a crucial role in murdering someone just a few minutes ago.

“Clearly I don’t care what actually happened, yeah?” He says with a harsh sneer. “All that matters to me is that a bunch of pansies were getting in the way of me trying to at least get one hour of rest. Believe me, you would’ve gotten the same beating that bitch got if you didn’t have a cute face and a nice ass.”

Your heart stops, and the warm and fuzzy feelings of gratitude you were feeling just a few minutes ago are gone in an instant.

The moonlight coming in from the window that once made him look like a knight in shining armour now made him look like a heartless predator.

“You wanna know why I did all of this, MC?” He says with a proud and hungry smirk. “It wasn’t because I cared for you as another human, nah. I saved you for the sole purpose of being able to fuck you myself.”

You breathe heavily through your nose, which thankfully isn’t covered by his hand.

“I was livid that there wasn’t any hot ass at the bar tonight, but thankfully a sexy piece of ass got delivered ri~ght to my doorstep.” He says, grinding his clothed erection into your clothed thigh. “Be thankful, kid. That face of yours saved you from a real bad time. And hey, you don’t have anything to be afraid of… This is me being nice.”

It’s at this moment that you learned something.

Toji might have saved you, but he’s not a good man.

He might have saved you, but he’s no different from the countless other heartless souls in this town.

He might have saved you, but not for the purpose of saving you, but rather to save your ass.

He only killed that man because he wanted to be the one to fuck you.

You thought you had finally found another maybe kind soul in this lawless land, but Toji, just like everyone else here, is just another man with ulterior motives.

He genuinely could have cared less if you died and got violated if he wasn’t attracted to you.

And for that reason, you feel tears from your eyes and glide down your cheeks and fall in between where the skin of his hand and the skin of your face meet.

But he doesn’t apologize for being honest. No. In fact, he likes seeing you cry. It makes his boner throb harder than before.

“What is it, kid?” He says almost mockingly. “You’re sad that the man who saved you isn’t the hero you thought he was? Is that it?”

He wears a gleeful grin that doesn’t suit the situation you’re in.

“You’re sad that I would’ve beaten the life out of you if I didn’t wanna shove my cock deep in your ass?”

Your heart’s pounding like a drum.

“Well, if you ask me, and as much as I just wanna lick them up, you’re wasting your tears.” He says, blowing air on your eyes. “What even is there to cry about? I saved your life, and now I wanna give you the railing of a lifetime. Sounds like a good deal to me…”

He isn’t a good man.

“Besides, I’d say you owe me this…”

He isn’t a hero.

“And hey, I know you’re a cocksucker. I mean, if your boner I felt while we were grinding up on each other earlier is anything to go off, at least.”

He would’ve left you for dead.

“You wouldn’t dream of telling me no… would you, MC?”

… No. You wouldn’t.

Honestly, despite the valiant and chivalrous image that you constructed of him just because he saved you has all been shattered and spat on… You truly cannot deny the rush that you feel in your veins alongside the painful tugs you feel in your heart.