jasontoddswhitestreak

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

Tags: [mlw][mdni][exbf!Rex][semi-public][handjob][cum eating][attempted murder][choking for non-sexual purposes][pining][semi-blowjob][facesitting][oral (f! receiving)][missionary][condom][mating press][cowgirl][nipple sucking][i am probably missing quite a few in my taglist but it's 4am and i lost the note that had all my rex people on so :3 my bad][spitting]

"She's his emergency contact."

"Mark, you can't just call a stranger. How— how'd you even know his password?"

"It's just 8-0-0-8-5. It's not that complicated."

"What even is that?"

"It's 'boobs'."

The whispers hush down into a silence as you step into the GDA hospital room, your shoes are soft thuds on the tiled floors. The hospital smells sterile. A mixture of Life Buoy soap and hand sanitizer that makes your throat and lungs tingle and you stuff your hands into the pocket of your hoodie.

Brows scrunched into a frown as you stand beside Rex's bedside.

Your expression is the image of solemnity.

Eyes soft, lashes drooping and pouty lips tugged down into a little frown, your fingers clutching and picking at the loose threads in your pocket.

And a voice is quiet.

"I'm... Uh.. I know this isn't the time but what lipgloss is that?"

Rae's voice is quiet, bespectacled eyes focused on you and that stupidly magnificent gloss on your lips.

"It's... Uhm... 'Coochie Juice'." You internally cringe. "And I took a lipliner that's just a bit darker than my lipline."

"And how did you—"

"Overline just the Cupid's bow, and the curve of your bottom lip. Blur it out just a little, but don't fill in the corners. And then put on the lipgloss."

"Okay, thank you so much."

You go back to staring down at Rex. You never thought you'd see him like this.

Eyes fluttered shut, his head wrapped with blood soaked bandages and an IV drip feeding him fluids. His heartbeat is steady, vitals linked up to the screen beside him and you feel your expression crumple, your hands moving to cover your face.

Choked sobs slip from you and you hear the quiet 'we'll leave you two alone', before the others slip out of the hospital room.

And you swallow, inhaling sharply.

And by natural instinct, your gaze drifts towards where the plug of the ventilator remained stuffed into a wall socket and your glossy lips purse. And you reach for the head of the plug, fingers grasping snugly and you contemplate.

Is it worth it?

He's a hero.

He cheated on you with Eve.

He's a person.

He cheated on you with Eve.

This counts as murder.

He cheated on you with Eve.

Is this what you really want?

That last question stumps you and your hand slips from the plug, and you instead, plant yourself in the seat at his bedside, your eyes teary and your lashes becoming wet with each blink.

"I wanna kill you so bad." Your voice is tiny, cracking as you bring your hands up to rest on him, fisting at the hospital blankets and your vision becomes even blearier.

"You fucking asshole." You sob. "I hope you die. I hope you see the fucking light at the end of the tunnel, before you're dragged to Hell. Kratos style."

Your heart's clenching and you're resting your head on his belly, feeling the way each breath he takes makes those washboard abs constrict and flex. And somewhere, shame's lost on you and you're lifting his hospital gown.

Staring at his abs and the way his muscular hips form that delicious V shape and you let out a low, unattractive sob.

"Why didn't you get ugly?"

You think you're convincing yourself when you see the way the corners of his lips quirk weakly, dimples making a faint appearance in his chiselled cheeks and Rex takes a breath.

"Because..... I could never be ugh—" Rex is cut off, a sharp gasp ringing from him when your hands wrap around his neck.

That tinge of sadness leaves you, and the sound of his voice irks you in a way that's downright demonic, and Rex gasps. His vitals are spiking, and your eyes are narrowing.

"Die, you cheating bast— oh, ewwww."

You grimace at the tent beneath the blankets, lips tugged into a disgusted frown as you glare at him, and emerald eyes peer at you from beneath long lashes. Long, brag-worthy eyelashes that flutter and curl perfectly.

And Rex grins. Cocky and so fucking full of himself.

"Good to know it still works."

And he grasps at your hand, calloused fingers brushing over the soft flesh of your palm, tracing the lines before he looks at you. And God, you lose all respect for yourself at the way your heart stutters, breath caught in your lungs and he sighs.

Soft and sweet.

"Baby..." He murmurs softly. "What happened?"

"You got shot, I think. I wasn't really paying attention after they said you're hospitalized. I blew up a balloon and it made it difficult to listen. But..." You swallow. "In your head. Like, the back."

Rex lets a little laugh bubble from his cracked lips, before he glances at you.

"Why're so you mad at me? What... What year is it?"

His voice is soft, and your lungs constrict.

Before you remember who it is.

"Don't bullshit me." You huff, tugging your hand out of his grasp. "I know you don't have amnesia."

"Ah... Shit." Rex grunts before shifting, resting against the cushiony pillows. "Almost had you though, huh?"

The grin is charming, glinting even and he raises one of those perfect brows as he waits for your answer. But all that leaves you, is a low, annoyed groan. Before you push yourself up from your seat.

"I'm gonna go tell your friends you're—"

"Wait." Rex reaches for your arm and if you wanted to delude yourself, you'd say that you could see desperation flickering behind those emerald pools.

"I— uh..." He swallows hard, and your gaze moves towards where the monitor is showcasing his racing heart. "When I'm out, can we talk?"

You really wanna say no. But...

"...no."

Rex stares at you, a dead stare on his face like he wasn't expecting that.

"I'll just come over anyway."

Your glossy lips part for an argument but Rex looks pathetic enough right now. Tubed up, bruised and beaten.

"Fine." You grumble. "You dick."

And he grins. Dimples showcased in chiselled cheeks and his tongue runs across his bottom lip in an attempt to soothe the cracks and dryness.

"Speaking of dick..." His gaze flits towards the tent in the sheets.

"No."

"Please." Rex begs. "My team can't see me like this."

"Most of your team has seen you like this."

There's a dead quiet in the room, because you're right. Most of the team has seen Rex's dick, if not taken a ride on it.

"Please." Rex breathes out. "Help me out. It's been a week."

You drop back into your seat, rolling up your sleeve dramatically and you let out an annoyed huff.

"You're giving me a handjob, not cleaning a horse's dick." Rex grunts.

"Basically the same thing." You grunt, your hand slipping underneath the covers as you scooch your chair closer.

"So... What I'm hearing is—"

"You're hearing wrong."

"—that you think I've got a horse cock."

You let out a low, annoyed groan, your hand tucking itself beneath Rex's hospital gown, and your hand wraps around the thick base of him. Your eyes shut tightly, and you begin to tug.

Not even sexy stroking, just tugging.

"Ow— open your eyes— ow, shit. What are you doing?" Rex shifts uncomfortably, brows scrunching with each pinch of pain and he glares at you. Your eyes are still squeezed tightly shut, brows furrowed and glossy lips pressed into a thin line.

"Pretending you're Marlon Brando in A Streetcar named Desire." You grumble out and Rex huffs, swatting away your hand.

"Well, he'd never want you if that's how you give a handjob." Rex grunts, shifting uncomfortably and he palms himself through the scratchy blankets of the GDA hospital, his lips tugged into a frown.

"He's dead." You remind.

"Yeah," he scoffs, "and it's cause you can't give a decent handjob."

You purse your lips because you don't wanna laugh at one of Rex's jokes. You need to internally remind yourself that you don't think he's funny and that you hate him, as you cross your arms over your chest, giving Rex a lazy glance.

Watching as he, very dramatically, gathers his bearings.

"So, can you get off your high horse, and give me a proper tug job?" Rex scoffs and you suck on your teeth.

"I don't owe you anything, Rex."

Your brows furrow into a frown and you watch the way Rex stares at you, bringing a fisted hand up to his mouth and he coughs. He coughs like a toddler forcing a cough.

"But I'm sick." He whines softly and you let out a peeved groan.

"You're not sick, you've been shot."

You're griping, complaining but you're shifting, spitting into your palm and sliding your hand back beneath the sheets and Rex's brows furrow, body going slack against the piled up pillows and he shifts.

"Fuck, just like that." He breathes out, hands moving to shift at the covers, his head tipping back when he feels the way your manicured and soft fingertips trail over that leaky divot, his cock pulsing in your hand. And Rex groans softly.

"Missed your tiny racoon hands." He murmurs, and you snort, pressing your face into the nearest pillow, as your shoulders shake with laughter.

And God, Rex would be lying if he said hearing the sound of your laughter wasn't something so refreshingly familiar.

The cadence of your snorts, wheezes that manage to slip from glossy lips and he watches as you straighten up again, swallowing away all evidence of giggling and Rex raises a hand. Moving it to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing along the apple of your cheek.

Your heart begins to pound, the only sound in the room being the ever increasing beeping of his heart monitor, and your eyes flick towards the screen. The beats increase steadily. And you swallow hard.

"Shit, I really wanna kiss you." Rex breathes out. "Can I?"

"No, you're not putting your community lips on me." You scoff, with a snort of laughter and he groans, head tipping back.

"Fuck, why're you so mean?" He rasps out a laugh, his hips bucking into your fist and his eyes squeeze shut.

"Because you cheated." "Ow. Ow. Ow. Loosen the hand, Juggernaut." Rex breathes out, his hand curling around your wrist and his movements stutter when he presses calloused fingers against the warm flesh of your wrist.

Feeling your pulse thrum just beneath his digits, feeling the heat of your skin against his and his dick twitches in your grasp.

Hazy green eyes watch you, heavy lashes fluttering and you take in the bruising on his face. A swollen eye, a cut on his lips, a broken nose. He looks fucked up.

"You know," you lick your bottom lip, "I always thought that seeing you look like shit would bring me closure. But... Looking at you now..." Your eyes soft, your thumb brushing against his sensitive tip and Rex moans quietly.

"Mhm?" He sighs, chest heaving.

"I realise I need to watch you die."

Your voice is eerily steady but it's not enough to make Rex's cock soften, in fact. Calloused fingers dig into your wrist and he looks at you, full lips parted to let out pants.

You know he's just so... Pliable now that he's under a crazy amount of painkillers, but still enough for him to be coherent.

And he's so pretty too. With his pretty emerald eyes, and gingery strands that poke out from where his head's wrapped in gauze.

"Just suck the tip, please." He whimpers.

"No!" You hiss. "I'm not fucking blowing you."

And he whines, letting out an obnoxiously loud cough.

"But I'm sick."

You grit your teeth, eyes flickering towards the door of his room and you let out a huff, standing up abruptly. Your sneakers make thuds across the tiled floor, and your movements are aggressive as you yank the curtains shut.

"I really fucking hate you, Rex." You grit out, plopping back in your seat and the legs of the chairs scrape against the linoleum as you scooch closer, lifting his hospital blankets and you stare at his cock.

Beads of precum rolling down the length, prominent veins protruding from behind the tanned skin and he twitches under your scrutinizing gaze.

"I know baby, and I'm sorry." He pants, shifting with excitement when he sees the way you lean forward, and your glossy lips wrap around his flushed tip.

"Fuck, m'so sorry for cheating." Rex's hands fist the sheets, his head falling back against his propped up pillows and he feels the way your tongue swirls, tracing the veins and your eyes flick towards him.

And that has him coming undone like a fucking ball of yarn.

The way your lashes flutter, the way your lipgloss leaves the prettiest ring around his cock and the way your eyes soften just a bit when his hand comes to rest on the crown of your head.

All of that, has Rex spilling into your mouth. Sweet cum painting your tongue in velvety ribbons and he groans. Low and breathy, and he frowns when you pull away with a pop, your cheeks puffed and filled.

He watches, his breaths bated as you swallow, licking the corner of your mouth before you lift yourself from your seat, stuffing your hands into the pockets of your hoodie.

"I'm gonna go tell your friends you're awake."

⋆⭒˚.⋆🌿🌿⋆⭒˚.⋆

"What are you doing here, Rex?" You fold your arms across your chest, resting your forearms on the windowsill as you stare down at Rex, booted feet planted firmly on your grass.

"And how the fuck do you even know where I live?"

"I used the GDA resources." He calls back, before reaching into his car window, turning up the volume and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. Instead, leaning out of the window, eyes glued on Rex.

He healed up pretty nicely in just a week. The only evidence being a scar that bisects his otherwise perfect eyebrows. Voluminous gingerish strands remain pulled back into a bun, his undercut fresh and his trusty face framing pieces remain doing their job.

"I'll stand here every night for the rest of my fuckin' life to prove that I want you back." Rex calls to you, emerald gaze fixed on your form. On the way your pendant dangles, on the way your lips purse. Before he speaks up again.

"Well... Maybe not every night. I got shit to do. But every night this week?" He scoffs. "I'll do that shit."

You try not to snort at the sound of Seal, biting down on your plump bottom lip, as Rex stands with his arms outstretched. Powder blue Henley snug against his physique.

"BABY! I COMPARE YOU TO A KISS FROM A ROSE ON THE GREY!"

He begins to fumble the words, and you can see the frustration on his features, brows furrowing and you snort.

"You don't know the words." You snort, resting your chin in the palm of your hand and Rex huffs.

"Okay, fine." He folds his arms across his broad chest and it's kind of hard to take him seriously with Seal as his soundtrack.

"Of course I fuckin' don't. I'm not a sixty and my dick still works. But you know the words." Rex licks his bottom lip.

"I'm— okay, I know I'm a piece of shit but I'm a reformed piece of shit. I don't wanna die a cheating dick." And he shifts on his feet. "I'm new and improved."

And you huff.

"Yeah, this time you won't get caught."

And Rex glares at you.

"I won't go to prison if I knock the shit out of you." He seethes.

And he lets out a huff.

"Okay, I'm not entirely changed. But I'll make it up to you. I swear on my life, your life—"

"Bitch, leave my life alone."

"Well, I don't want it to be only on my life. You know that's shit's pretty worthless."

And there's a silence between you.

"I swear on Mark and Eve's collective lives."

And you snicker.

Before chewing on the inside of your cheek, watching as Rex shifts around on your lawn and you let out a breath. Heavy and your cheeks puff out when you do.

"Please." His voice is quiet, gaze lowered. "I know I'm," he huffs, "like.... A dick, or manipulative or a serial cheater and like, self-serving, judgemental and I—"

"You're ruining the moment, Rex."

And he sighs.

"I just," he swallows hard, "I don't wanna fuck up again. Not with you."

There's the softest silence between you, and you watch him. He looks so pathetic. Maybe your closure was needing him to beg, needing him to play Silk Shirt R&B loud enough for your neighbours' porch lights to flicker to life.

"Park your car in my driveway." You speak softly, before shutting the window and you don't need to look to know that shit-eating grin's plastered on his face. Dimples in sunkissed cheeks and you hear the slam of his car door.

⋆⭒˚.⋆🌿⋆⭒˚.⋆

"Yeah, m'sorry." Rex groans, his arms hooked around your thighs, your knees dimpling the pillow beneath his head and your hands clutch at the headboard like your life depends on it.

Rex's tongue drags along your slippery cunt, a mixture of spit and slick making it glossy as his nose bumps against your clit. The friction just enough to make your hips move, wriggling and writhing on his face, your forehead braced on the hand holding the headboard while your other sinks into his hair.

And he groans, lashes fluttering, cock straining against his jeans and he feels the fabric strain even tighter than it usually is.

You're coating his face in your mess, whining when he sucks your folds into his mouth, your hand fisting at his hair.

"Shit, keep doing tha—" Your hips lift just a bit and Rex groans under his breath, forcing you closer and his words are slurred as he speaks.

"Fucking sit." He breathes out. "Lemme show you how sorry I am."

He pushes his tongue past your puffy lips, the intrusion makes you buck, toes curling in your socks and you shiver. It's a sensation that makes your body buzz, electricity crackling just behind your skin and Rex is content.

So, so very content.

The warmth of your plush thighs on either side of his head, you're sitting on his face and riding his nose like it'll earn you a prize. His hands grip your fleshy thighs, and he's trying to touch everything, palming the fatty mounds of your ass when he circles your clit.

The messy and whiny mewls leave your glossy lips, your head lolling and your brows bunching into the cutest little face he's ever seen. Especially with the way your pretty lips part and your thighs shake.

"Fuck, Rex, I'm—"

"Shhh, just give it to me." He tuts you.

And your body convulses, nails scraping along his scalp while your other hand grips for dear life, a whimper slipping from your lips and you nearly shriek when he keeps sucking on your clit, teasing the sensitive bud before lapping at your cunt. Savouring the taste of you before dragging his tongue up, all the way up to your swollen clit.

Rex has you on your back quicker than you can blink, your thighs spread and his calloused thumbs part your plush and glossy lips, watching the way your cunt flutters and he stares at you.

Watching you eagerly.

One hand reaches over his shoulder, grabbing the fabric of his shirt and he pulls it over his head, tossing it aside and he's even more glorious.

Sculpted pecs, razor sharp abs and golden skin. Dog tags hang just below his clavicle, catching the low light of your bedroom.

And his tongue drags over his teeth, his, canine poking into the wet muscle and you watch through half-lidded eyes as his hand unbuckles his belt while the other reaches into his back pocket.

Pulling out a condom and he bites down onto the ribbed foil edge while he discards his jeans and briefs.

"Do you just keep— like, carrying condoms with you?" You question, your chest heaving as you watch him, and your heart clenches at the way his grin widens, as he rips the condom with his teeth.

"Nah." He hums. "Only when I think I'll get lucky."

You watch the way he slides the condom onto his length, pinching the latex at the tip before his hands move to your thighs, calloused thumbs pressing circles into the flesh.

"And you thought you were gonna get lucky?" You cock a brow.

"I knew I was gonna get lucky." He abruptly tugs you closer to him, your thighs strewn lazily across his and he leans forward, veiny hand wrapping around his thick base. Watching the way your belly dips inward when he taps his latex-coated tip against your sloppy folds and he nudges himself at your entrance.

Pressing a kiss against the curve of your jaw as he pushes into you.

"Real fucking lucky."

You feel the way your breath leaves your lungs, your saliva pooling in the back of your throat, gummy walls fluttering around him. Your belly caves, it feels like your stomach touches your spine and he sighs when he feels the way your fingers rake through his hair.

Nails scraping against his scalp before he lifts himself up, hands moving to cradle your hips, palming the fat there with an adoring expression.

Before he swallows.

"Spread that pretty pussy." He coos sweetly, and the huskiness of his voice does something to your self respect.

It makes it disappear.

And your fingers are spreading your pussy, sensitive and glossy tissue exposed to the slight chill in your room and Rex spits onto your clit, his eyes on yours and he makes a sound in the back of his throat when he sees the way your brows twitch. Your cunt clenching just a bit more.

"How many inches are you taking, baby?" He breathes out, hand moving to rest on your waist instead, savouring the softness of your skin beneath his palms.

And you shudder. "Five..."

Rex's expression falls. And his eyes narrow, emerald gaze hardening and you watch the way his tongue pokes at his cheek, the slight bump visible.

"You think you're real fucking funny, huh?" He huffs, grabbing two of your pillows and he wedges them beneath your ass, manhandling you like it's his job.

"Yeah, I'm funn— holy f-f-fuck...—!" The wind's knocked out of you when Rex begins to pummel into that gooey spot that he found with damn near godly ease.

Your hands are pushing at his lower belly, nails leaving streaks down the tawny skin, pulled taut over sculpted abs and you're whining. Writing and trying to get him to slow down.

Because it's just too deep.

Too much.

And your brain fizzles with an idea to at least score yourself a few seconds to gather your pearls.

And you poke him in the belly button.

And Rex pulls out, brows knitted into a glare as he stares at you. Bewildered, hands moving to protect his navel and he just stares.

His brain short-circuiting and you let out a breath.

"What the actual fuck was that?" He can't even laugh as he stares at you.

"It was too much." You breathe out, winded and you lift yourself, resting back on your elbows as you stare at Rex, eyes narrowed and your body far too overheated for just a few thrusts.

And Rex's brows raise.

"Oh... Shit, you haven't been fucking?" And he blows out a breath, resting his palm on your mound and you feel the way your airways constrict when his thumb nestles between your folds. Sweet circles pressing onto your clit and you swallow.

"No, I've been busy." You hiss back, lashes fluttering and your head tips back, lips parting. And Rex coos.

"It's okay, baby." He sighs, carding his free hand through his hair, before gently pushing your thighs further apart.

"You just couldn't find someone to replicate my stroke game."

And you huff when you feel him slowly push his cock into you, guiding your leg onto his shoulder and he kisses the arch of your foot. Sweet and so, so reverent in his actions.

"Mhm." You hum. "I couldn't find someone to disappoint me the way you did."

"Don't make me choke you with this condom." Rex scowls, before pushing into you, brows knitting at the way your cunt squeezes at him, the lewd squelch makes his heart pound, and the annoyance at your biting remarks melts into nothingness when your hand rests on the nape of his neck.

And he swallows, guiding your other leg to his shoulder and Rex has you folded in half.

One veiny hand grasping the headboard, the other keeping your hips anchored to the bed as he slowly pulls out. Inch by inch leaving you until only his tip remains in your spasming cunt, and Rex sighs, pushing back into you.

"S'it good?" He questions you quietly. "No pain?"

"No pain." You nod.

And then he begins fucking you into the mattress.

The backs of your knees remain caught in the crooks of his elbows, warm hands gripping your hips and pressing you into the soft, puffy sheets, his hips smacking against yours in a way that's brutally unforgiving.

You watch through hazy eyes, nails digging into his bulging biceps, gaze flickering between his ecstasy-ridden face and where he's splitting you in half.

"Yeah," Rex groans softly, "keep watching."

He pants out a moan, head lolling and you watch the way his Adam's apple bobs.

"Watch me bust this pretty pussy open."

And he spits down your clit, the warm saliva making your belly clench as the glob trickles down your sloppy folds.

And Rex grins, his jaw clenching and he bites down on his bottom lip, watching with lovey-dovey eyes as your hand finds its way between your thighs, fingers sloppily teasing your clit. And he breathes out a laugh, chest heaving and dog tags bouncing off his toned chest.

"DJ Bean-Flick's in the booth, huh?" He snorts, the sound of his laughter echoes in the quiet of your room, turning into a whine when he feels the rhythmic spasms of your cunt. Milking him while your legs shake, your orgasm ripping through you like some kind of tidal wave.

Pussy gushing around him, glistening in the dim light and he groans, pulling out of you and he manhandles you.

Aggressively, roughly forcing you to sit up and he rests back against your headboard, lounging, and he pulls you onto him, guiding you to straddle him. And he watches the way you sink down onto him, inches disappearing into you and he moans at the sight.

Your hands move to rest on his broad chest, your hips lifting slowly, before you slam back down, and Rex tuts you.

"Lean back, baby." He huffs. "And on your feet."

And you groan, following his instructions with petulance.

"You sound like an expert." You breathe out. "You have a —hah— confession, Rex?"

And he snorts, hands move to grasp the headboard, you watch the way his biceps flex and he snickers.

"Why would you wanna hurt your feelings like that?"

Your face falls and your eyes narrow, arms moving to cross over your chest, lips pressing into a thin line.

"This is your audition back into my life, by the way." You frown at him. "Just in case you didn't know."

And Rex grins, a laugh slipping past his perfect lips and he rocks his hips up into you, the action so abrupt that your hands immediately move to his chest to support yourself.

"That's what you get when you try to start shit with me." Rex brags. "You mess with the bull, you get the horns. You taught me that."

You scoff. "Well, I taught you wrong. It's, 'you mess with the bull, you get covered in bullshit'."

There's a silence between you and Rex stares up at you.

"Please don't shit on me. I know I've got a strong stomach but—"

"I won't shit on you." Your laughter bubbles so easily from you, lips curling and your cheeks flushing deeper. Your dainty hands splay on his chest, your hips rolling against his, face hovering just above his and you let out a wistful sigh.

"I can't do it on command anyway." You add and Rex laughs. Loudly.

Dimples deep in his honeyed cheeks, hands gripping the headboard tighter because your hips keep rolling against him in that was that has him pressing against the plug of your womb, and you have the nerve to make him laugh too.

"There's something fucking wrong with you." He breathes out, before his arms move to wrap around your waist, bringing you closer to his torso and Rex's feet find purchase on your bed, his lips pressing against your pulse.

Before trailing lower and lower, until he finds the neckline of your shirt and he huffs.

"Take this shit off."

There's something so lovely about watching the way the muscles in your arms move as you pull your shirt overhead, and his eyes catch on a pretty pendant.

Not the one you've been wearing so boldly, no, one you've kept hidden so neatly underneath your clothing.

A pretty, cursive 'R' that dangles lower than your other necklace, and Rex's gaze flicks up to yours, his throat tightening and his belly blazing with warmth and a feeling that might make him come faster if he acknowledges it for too long.

"You still wear this?" Rex hums softly, bringing up a hand to brush his thumb over the letter.

And you purse your lips, "Fuck you."

"I didn't even do shit." He snorts before pressing a kiss over your collarbone, nipping at the skin before he hums.

"Grab the headboard."

Rex doesn't wait for you to have a steady grip before he's fucking up into you, bruising your cervix and grinding your swollen clit against his gingery happy trail.

Lips wrapping around one of your pert nipples, hot and wet muscle dragging against the nub and your brain turns to mush.

Coherence and any thought of self-respect leaking out of your mouth in broken moans and a cacophony of mewls as you're kept in place. Unable to do anything but take everything Rex gives you, taking every thrust, every suck and every 'fuck' that's breathed against your skin in a steamy puff.

And Rex swallows hard.

Teeth tugging on your other nipple, and he just loves the way you look.

Fucked out, your tongue lolling and your eyes finding permanent residence staring at your brain with the way they're rolling back and Rex feels his orgasm approaching faster than ever.

The burn just below his navel, the tightening of heavy balls and he whines.

"Fuck, m'gonna nut—"

He pants, like a dog, burying his face in your neck once he's deemed your nipples swollen enough and his teeth sinks into your shoulder. You feel so good.

He can feel every ridge of your gummy walls, he can feel the way your slick cunt milks and spasms around him like it's got a personal vendetta against him.

And Rex ruts into you.

Chasing that elusive dragon of an orgasm, the warmth of your body seems so much more intense than it did at first and Rex's heart pounds.

And when he feels that dam burst, his hands are bracketing your hips and he's lifting you off him, pearly cum spraying across your cunt, a shredded condom around his shaft and you're whining at the warmth.

Hips twitching and your face pressed into the curve of Rex's neck, inhaling that smoky musk, your brain a puddle.

"D—did the condom break...?" You sigh, and he nods, swallowing audibly.

"At least now I know I can't use two year old condoms." Rex sighs, lowering you back down onto his body, his still-hard cock resting in the crease of your ass and it takes you a while to register his words.

Your head raises and your eyes narrow.

"Was that condom expired?"

"Pfft. No." Rex huffs. "It expires next month."

⊹🌷♡taglist♡🌷⊹

@lucky-beheaded ; @jasontoddswhitestreak ; @queen-of-gotham ; @tamaranblaze ; @enchantedstarfish ; @sophsthebest ; @supersecretxreadersideblog ; @feral010 ; @keeeenbeeaan ; @strawbiemilk420 ; @l1zard-l3ague ; @coldvirginbitch ; @allycat4458 ; @couldeatthatgirlforlunch ; @heavenequals ; @blckbarbiedoll ; @custardpuddingprincess

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

I drew a lot of jasons muehehhe

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼wc. 1943🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆

“College break doesn’t start until Monday.” Debbie chirps, eyes following the way William so easily navigates his way through the kitchen, three mugs lining the kitchen counter.

“Gotham U’s aware of the crime rates. So, they give you a year planner with the curriculum and they give you the semester’s topics and stuff.” William hums, continuing to carefully dust cinnamon across the top of frothy white foam.

“And if you finish your tasks prematurely, you get to go home afterwards.” You explain, before plugging the vacuum cleaner into the wall, glossy lips pursed in concentration as a soft silence fills the lounge.

Nobody’s ready to address the elephant in the room. The fact that it’s been months since you’ve spoken to Mark, having saved his name as Gotye in a clever and sleep-deprived haze because he was, in fact, somebody that you used to know.

William places Debbie’s mug in her awaiting palms, a plate of pastries in her lap before he hums softly, lips pursed.

“Are the gutters clean?” He questions and Debbie shakes her head. “Mark didn’t get around to it before he left for college.”

And William lets out a sound, like a huff but he makes no comment.

“Like Eve’s vagina is amazing enough to neglect your mother.” The low hum of the vacuum acts as the sweetest ambience, Debbie’s attention on the book in her grasp as you continue to quietly seethe about Mark and his stupid, stupid choices.

“I don’t know. She’s got like… a whole feminine hygiene label named after her.” William shrugs his shoulders, standing on one of the kitchen stools to clean as he begins to dust at the light fixtures, gloved hands carefully unscrewing at the cover.

“What?” Your brows scrunch.

“Summer’s Eve.” William answers and there’s a quiet silence, only filled by the bubbly and airy laughter that slips from Debbie, her face obscured by the hard cover of what you can only assume, looks deviously innocent.

“Man, fuck you.” You huff, but the corners of your mouth twitch with amusement.

And before Debbie can reprimand you, you’re already sliding a dollar into the swear jar in the centre of the coffee table.

“It looks empty.” You hum softly.

“You two stopped coming around as much and after Nolan…” Debbie trails off. “Safe to say, no one cusses much anymore.”

There’s a sad silence that fills the once warm home, and you swallow, the corners of your mouth tugging downwards just a bit before you inhale.

“I’m… Sorry about Mr Nola—”

“He can suck a dick.” William slides a dollar into the jar. “I never trusted him. He’s got a porn stache.”

You cup your mouth, trying to stifle your giggles.

“Dollar.” Debbie points at the jar. Pretty, peeling flowers painted by cheap acrylic, and you make a mental note to fix it.

“I didn’t swear twice.” William defends.

“You said ‘pornography’.” Debbie hums.

“I didn’t say ‘pornography’, I said ‘porn’.”

“We can’t say ‘porn’?” You question.

“No. And a dollar.”

And you purse your lips, before sliding a 20 dollar bill into the jar, gaze averted.

And Debbie grimaces.

“Why have you spoken about pornography 20 separate times?”

“Miss Debbie, I don’t know why I speak about half of the things I do.”

Debbie let’s out what can only be called a low groan, a headache brewing but for the first time in a long time, she doesn’t feel like she’s out of her depth with a teenager.

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆

“Eve, you’ve met my mom.”

Mark ushers Eve into the lounge, their shoes swapped out for the slippers that sit comfortably at the door and Debbie gives Eve a sweet smile, crinkles at the corners of her eyes.

“It’s nice to see you, Eve.”

Mark glances towards the jar on the coffee table, brows scrunching in confusion at the cash that nearly spills over the edge, stuffed haphazardly and he stares towards the blossoms. Freshly painted baby pink peonies and snowy tulips, staring back at him. Almost menacingly and he glances back at Debbie. Eyes narrowing.

Watching her and Eve before he hums. Almost offhandedly.

“M’gonna go shower.”

Mark trudges up the staircase, speedy steps as he makes his way towards his room and he feels almost��� nostalgic.

All of this, all of the easiness was before it all happened.

Before he felt what it’s like to choke on your own blood, to see his father’s fists stained red and that… Crazed, empty look in his father’s eyes.

Before it all when to shit. And he takes a breath.

Walls littered with Seance Dog posters, shelves stuffed with comic books and figurines, a small mirror on the wall, and Mark hates the way his gaze lingers on your features, pretty face encapsulated by film and stuck on his mirror. Cheeks sucked inwards, glossy lips pouting cutely and a bedazzled cowboy hat on your head. He remembers the way the three of you clamoured into that tiny, crammed photo booth.

And much to his dismay, he had found himself on William’s lap, despite the fact that he really, really wanted to have you on his lap instead.

“Why do I have to sit on William’s lap?”

Mark grumbles, arms folded across his chest, brows knitted into a frown as he watches you readjust your bearings. Both of them, making sure you’ve got just the right amount of cleavage for the picture. He makes an active effort not to stare.

And you gasp. “Is it because he’s gay?”

And Mark groans.

“It’s because he has a dick.”

He tries to bite back that memory, as well as the painful burn behind his eyes and he runs his tongue along his plump bottom lip, before hopping onto his bed. Face planted into the pillow and he takes a heavy breath.

“Fuck me.”

Your smell is strong on his pillows, his bedding. And he almost feels stupid that it took him so long to smell that sweet scent that he’s basically had a lungful for all of his life. The smell that clung to his clothing so comfortably. And his heart clenches, hands moving out of their own accord and he pulls one of his pillows towards him, wrapping muscular arms around the cushion before letting out a breath.

You’re everywhere.

His walls: “This colour would look really good. It’s in Séance Dog’s palette, so nothing should ever clash.”

His floors: “You fucking animal. Why do you even have coffee stains on your floor?”

His ceiling: “Maybe we should put a mobile up there. Since you’re such a giant baby.”

Fuck, even his shelves were lined with things that reminded him of you. Paper crafts, those stupid little seashells and turtles that would line your For You page, framed pictures of you and William. Comic Cons, fan signs and even a stupid talent show.

“You guys look gay.” You snicker, hands tucked into pockets of your fuzzy onesie, the black dot on your nose and drawn on whiskers made it obvious you were a cat.

“Fuck you. Magic’s cool.” William defends and Mark nods. “Yeah! Besides, what are you even supposed to be doing?”

“An interpretive dance, duh.”

A laugh slips past Mark’s lips when he recalls the hesitant applause that came from your performance.

You basically just sat in the centre of the stage, contemporary music playing from the speakers and you licked your leg. Mimicking a cat washing itself.

He thinks of the way you had to defend him and William from bullies because magic is, in fact, pretty gay. Especially with the amount of glitter on William’s cape and his waistcoat.

Mark takes a deep, shaky breath to steady himself.

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆

Biting down on his bottom lip, Mark rifles through his drawers in the dead of the night. Muscles flexing, body tense and so, so wound up and he’s downright embarrassed by the way his body loosens at the sight of cotton.

A flash of violet, accompanied by lavender lace and Mark fists the fabric, veins raising on the backs of his hand because of his iron clutch and he glances towards the tent in his boxers.

Shuffling back to his bed, Mark props himself up on his pillows, before he lowers his waistband.

His cock leaks copiously, translucent trickles down onto his tightly toned belly, abs flexing with each breath as he brings the cloth to his nose, taking a deep whiff.

He used your fabric softener. So the smell of you clings to it but not in the way he wants, not in the way he needs.

He needs to smell your cunt after a long day, he needs to lick a stripe up your slit before pressing down on your clit, all while his eyes are on yours. Watching, learning what you like. Before he gives it to you. God, the way he’d give it to you.

Mark fists his cock, beads of precum running down the length of his cock, pooling in the crook of his thumb, before he swipes the pudgy digit along the edge of his flared tip. A stuttering breath slipping past his lips and his brows furrow in an attempt to keep quiet.

His room is dark but fuck, the moonlight soaks his bedroom, his window open and whispers of icy wind makes his skin prickle and he’s just so fucking sensitive.

He misses you. Bad.

He misses the way his cock would nestle in the crease of your ass when you spooned, separate by layers of fabric that did fucking nothing to hide how warm you actually are. He misses his nose being buried in the curve of your neck, the way he’d subconsciously push your tits up when he wrapped his arms around your body, pushing them up just a bit. And he likes how you never noticed his peeking.

Mark thumbs at his flushed tip, brushing just along that divot and he stuffs your panties into his mouth.

He really doesn’t wanna get caught by his mom and his teammate with his best friend’s panties in his mouth.

And motion in the corner of his eye catches his attention, and Mark’s head whips at the sight of you walking past your window, before doing a fucking double take.

A double take and your gaze meets his.

And Mark’s fucking expression crumples, but not with sadness. No….

Mark’s eyes roll back, drool soaking through the fabric of your panties and he knows that you watch the way pearly cum shoots out of him, lazy ribbons coating his chest and abs.

Mark’s panicking through his pleasure-filled haze, especially at the way your mouth is agape and the corners of your mouth twitch upward. A wide ass, open mouthed smile. You’re looking at him like you’re about to call him a dirty dog and slap his arm.

“Uhhh…”

He doesn’t know why he gets up, but he hates himself for it when he does, his cock still hard and glistening and it’s actually in your eyeline, your hand moving to cover your mouth, your head turning away and fuck, that flash of vibrant satin on your head makes his cock twitch.

“Shit, shit, shit.” He breathes out, panicked as he grabs his sheets, fumbling to wrap them around his waist.

His chest is heaving, his cheeks are flushed and raven strands are tousled. He hope the Earth swallows him.

But he also wishes you’d swallow him too. The way your tongue would rove over his skin, and the way you’d clean it up.

And yet another ribbon shoots from him, this time, all the way up to his jaw.

“Mark! Stop cumming!”

“I’m trying!”

T🌼A🌼G🌼L🌼I🌼S🌼T

@lucky-beheaded ; @queen-of-gotham ; @coldvirginbitch ; @wittyjasontodd ; @a-n-a-n-a1 ; @dearlyya ; @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha ; @jasontoddswhitestreak ; @daydreams-and-peace ; @misstyy12 ; @fruticake ; @httpstes ; @waterflowersblog ; @glowinthedarkjellyfish ; @vm4879bb-blog ; @monaekelis ; @radlovesfics ; @allycat4458 ; @bigbodycity ; @feral010 ; @anesthesia-4rizzle ; @princesstrunkz ; @blackfox774 ; @sh1d0uryus31 ; @your-lovely-rose26 ; @slugstarzz ; @ripcolel0l ; @strawbiemilk420 ; @verysynical ; @kikiiguess ; @missam ; @luvvfromme ; @luvvcharxo ; @alma-ru3 ; @mxvoid26 ; @urfriendlyfrog ; @the-good-kooshe ; @troublesome-nara ; @secretaccountlol ; @syubseokie; @atanukileaf ; @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere ; @i-love-frensh-fries ; @love3vivian ; @boyofroyo1 ; @tamaranblaze ; @supersecretxreadersideblog ; @etphonehome0623 ; @markgraysonlover ; @icanmeltanigloo ; @itzmeme ; @buckturd

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼 wc. 1705 🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆

You’re not really sure when things start to go south. If it’s after the death of the Guardians, or when Mark joined a stupid team of teenage heroes.

But the inseparable trio slowly grew into a duo.

“Well, uh… Kiddo, Mark’s… meeting new people. People with… Abilities and such. And he’s… apart of a team. Of heroes. And you might not see him… As much.”

Nolan’s voice is quiet, fingers laced and brilliant blue eyes lowered to the spinning turbines, windmills that pierce the fluffy clouds above and you nod your head. Gaze fixed on the rolling hills, fresh meadows and pasture fields as far as the eye can see.

“Mr Nolan, are you telling me that Mark’s outgrowing me?” You cock a brow. “I’m not a snowflake, I can take the bad news in stride.”

“He’s outgrowing his human age group.”

And you let out a low, bellowing whine. “My Shayla.”

Before a snort of laughter breaks the façade of heartache, and Nolan scoffs, rolling his eyes at your dramaticism. Before bumping his shoulder against yours, glancing down his nose at you, watching as you continue to nibble on some stupidly sugary treat.

“You okay, sport?” Nolan raises a brow and you hum. “No.” You answer. Honest and transparent, before bringing up one of your fingers, a manicured and glittery nail scratching at the bridge of your nose. “But it’s fine’s. It’s not that deep.”

Nolan’s face tugs into a frown, your expression of nonchalance faltering just a little bit as you continue to try to occupy yourself with your treat. Trying to ignore the sting in your eyes, as well as the lump In your throat and the heavy pit in your belly.

“You’ll still have Debbie. And William. And you know, normal people.”

“Mr Nolan, you’re not very good at trying to make me feel better.”

“Well, we don’t… on Viltrum, we don’t deal with things like these.” Nolan hums softly.

And there‘s a silence between the two of you before you break it.

“I know you killed the Guardians.” And you glance towards Nolan, taking another bite of your ice cream sandwich. And he lets out a sound from the back of his throat. Before letting out a breath. “You probably had a good reason though, right?”

You stare up at Nolan from beneath your lashes, brows scrunching and he lets out a breath.

This makes him feel a little bit guilty.

Nolan thinks back to Mark’s baseball game. Barely to his hip, tiny legs carrying him on the wind, sunshine beating down on everyone.

But Nolan particularly thinks of the way he scooped Mark up into his arms. The moment his humanity grew.

“Did you see, Dad? Did you see?” Mark chirps with excitement, toothy grin plastered on his chubby face as he stares up at Nolan, feeling as he sets him down on the soft, emerald hued blades of grass.

“Sure did, champ.” Nolan beams, meaty fingers ruffling Mark’s hair before the seven year old trudges towards you, bouncing on his feet as he stands in front of you. Just a few inches shorter than you.

“Did you see? Did you see me run?” Mark cheers, voice bubbly with excitement, dimples in his cheeks and you nod, enthusiasm oozing from you.

“You ran like a motherfucker, Mark!” “Hey!” Debbie’s ears burn with embarrassment, Nolan’s brows raise. “No cursing, young lady.”

“But Mark did run like a motherfucker.”

“Yeah, I ran like a motherfucker!”

“SHHHH!”

Nolan remembers the way Debbie stressed, trying to keep your foul mouth shut with incessant ‘shushing’. But parents’ head still turned in your direction.

Your excitement was contagious if anything. Especially when you whooped.

“Marky ran like a motherfucker!”

Nolan presses his lips against the crown of your head, heart clenching as he hums.

“Yeah, kiddo.” Nolan nods. “A good reason.”

There’s a soft silence, comfortable but it belies more to come. Worse to come. And you swallow, eyes staring ahead at the emptiness of the pasture fields, green grass and bright turbines and windmills that break the horizon.

“Mr Nolan?”

“Hm?”

“Can you run like a motherfucker”

“Yeah.” Nolan snorts. “I can run like a motherfucker.”

⋆⑅˚₊୨🥀🌼🌺୧₊˚⑅⋆

You never really expect yourself to get caught in the middle of villain attacks. But you’re eternally unlucky.

Except now.

“Any last words, girl?” The Mauler twins gleam at you, meaty blue arms crossed over broad chests before a stupidly large gun is pointed at your forehead.

And the dread mixes with a twisted sense of ‘they mad sexy’, all in the pit of your belly, and you think. Long and hard as to what you’d what scrawled on your tombstone.

“B-O-A-F.” You spell. “Boaf.”

Your eyes squeeze shut when a chunky digit rests over the trigger, readying itself as deep, burly chuckles echo around you. “Funny girl, aren’t you?”

The air around you whips.

“Can you ever be serious?”

Mark’s voice breaks the tension, and your body nearly melts, and you stare up at him. He flies effortlessly, easily gliding through the sky like he’s been doing it all his life. He's a flash of blue and yellow, a bold beacon in the shining afternoon Sun, and you can’t help your intrusive thoughts.

Reaching a hand up and you begin to flick at his earlobe. Teasingly and the giggles that slip from you annoy him a much as it makes him wanna smile. Mark bites the inside of his cheek to bite back a grin, craning his neck as far from you as he can without dropping you.

“Stop-stop it— hey—” he glares down at you from behind his goggles, “—stop it.”

But you can’t take Mark serious when the corners of his mouth are twitching, and his fingers flex as he looks down at you.

Just a bit frazzled, but what really catches his eye, is that Seance Dog T-shirt you’re wearing.

His.

“Klepto.” “Dork.”

Mark lets out a huff, shifting you in his grasp and he presses you tighter against his chest, your ear placed right over his beating heart. And you can hear that unsteady and rapid thumping.

But you just chalk it up to the adrenaline.

“Where do you want me to put you down?” Mark questions you, his gaze fixed on yours and all he can focus on his how fucking cool it’d be to kiss you at the top of the building his hovering right above.

A 50 story high corporate building. Not the Empire State, but meh. Make do with what you have.

“Anywhere you think is—"

“Invincible! I need you!”

A flurry of pink assaults your eyes and within a second, Mark’s setting you on the roof of the corporate building below you. “I’ll be back, promise.” He flies off, and you swallow.

Hard.

“She could’ve said something else…” You mumble to yourself, before settling down on the building, resting your chin on the banister that keep people from tripping over and you watch.

And watch.

And watch.

You even watch as Mark flies off, and your lips tug downwards into a frown.

Brows knitting, and you run your tongue along your bottom lip, taking a sharp breath to even out your voice as you fish your phone out of your pocket.

“What’s up, sport?” Nolan’s voice is just a bit staticky, the sounds of thrashing, followed by bone crushing as well as demonic gurgles.

“Are you busy, Mr Nolan?” Your voice is tiny.

“Never too busy. What do you need?”

You go quiet, teary gaze locked on the way the sin disappears behind the horizon, a golden and bronze glow emanating in the sky above you.

“Can you come get me, please?”

“Sure thing, kiddo. I’m on my way.” Nolan’s voice is considerably softer. “You want a happy meal?”

A teary laugh slips from you, and you sniffle, wiping at your nose with your sleeve.

“Yes, please.”

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆

You fiddle with the toy in your hand. Appropriately, it’s an Omni-Man action figure who karate chops. Never once have you seen him do it, but you’re not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth.

Especially when you fiddle with it, making it chop against your knee before you take a bite of your burger.

“I’m… sorry, kiddo.” Nolan whispers softly. “I’ll have a talk with—”

“It’s okay, Mr Nolan.” Your voice is soft, quiet as you chew, gaze lowered to where cars occupy the previously blocked off road, a construction team already at work where the twins had fucked around. “Atom Eve needed him.”

“You did too.” Nolan whispers. “You were at the top of a building for Christ’s sake.”

“I know.” Your voice cracks and there’s a heaviness in your heart that you didn’t have before. A pit in your belly that makes it hard to chew properly and the lump in your throat makes it hard to swallow. And your brows knit into a little frown, features scrunched and you wipe at your nose. “I know.”

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆

Your attention is firmly on the screen in front of you, your thumbs working at the controller in your hands, jaw clenching and your brows are knitted.

“Psst! Pssssst!”

Mark stares out of his window, hands braced on the pane as he waits for you to turn him.

Dorkish grin plastered on his face and when you face him, your grin doesn’t mimic his.

And the lack of your crinkling eyes, your rising cheeks makes his brows knit and he swallows.

“Hey, what’s wr—”

Your hands move to shut the window, shutting the curtains and effectively, ignoring Mark.

He swallows again. Hard.

Your face… it was so cold. No warmth, not a lick of kindness in the way your brows were knitted. No amusement. No offer to play alongside you. Mark’s throat tightens and there’s a lump there. So, so very heavy and he trudges out of his bedroom, eyes glossy and wet.

You haven’t closed your window in roughly 12 years.

Why now?

Mark steps down the stairs, his footsteps just a bit too slow to be normal and Debbie raises her gaze from the book in her hands, pristine brows furrowing in confusion.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“I— I don’t know, Mom…”

T🌼A🌼G🌼L🌼I🌼S🌼T

@lucky-beheaded ; @queen-of-gotham ; @coldvirginbitch ; @wittyjasontodd ; @a-n-a-n-a1 ; @dearlyya ; @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha ; @jasontoddswhitestreak ; @daydreams-and-peace ; @misstyy12 ; @fruticake ; @httpstes ; @waterflowersblog ; @glowinthedarkjellyfish ; @vm4879bb-blog ; @monaekelis ; @radlovesfics ; @allycat4458 ; @bigbodycity ; @feral010 ; @anesthesia-4rizzle ; @princesstrunkz ; @blackfox774 ; @sh1d0uryus31 ; @your-lovely-rose26 ; @slugstarzz ; @ripcolel0l ; @strawbiemilk420 ; @verysynical ; @kikiiguess ; @missam ; @luvvfromme ; @luvvcharxo ; @alma-ru3 ; @mxvoid26 ; @urfriendlyfrog ; @the-good-kooshe ; @troublesome-nara ; @secretaccountlol ; @syubseokie; @atanukileaf ; @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere ; @i-love-frensh-fries ; @love3vivian ; @boyofroyo1 ; @tamaranblaze ; @supersecretxreadersideblog ; @etphonehome0623 ; @markgraysonlover ; @icanmeltanigloo ; @itzmeme ; @buckturd

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

CLAIMED BY A VILTRUMITE — viltrum! mark grayson x reader

PART ONE

WARNINGS: mention of forced pregnancy, depression, child resentment, mention of SA

MINORS DNI

A year had passed, but to you, it felt like an eternity. The world around you had moved forward, yet you remained frozen—trapped in a nightmare you could never wake from.

The twins were only a few months old, but already, their differences were stark. Roselyna, your daughter, was Mark’s mirror image—dark hair, sharp eyes, the very embodiment of her father’s legacy. Looking at her made something inside you curl in disgust, a deep, gnawing resentment that you could never voice aloud. She was innocent, but she was also a reminder of everything you had lost.

Elijah, your son, was different. He was quieter, more fragile, and he looked like you. He clung to you desperately, crying whenever Mark tried to hold him, his tiny hands grasping for you as if he knew—as if he understood.

Mark didn’t force the issue. Not yet. He was patient, but you could see it in his eyes—he was waiting for the day Elijah would become like him. That day would come, he was certain.

You, however, had become a shadow of yourself. You barely ate, your body still recovering from childbirth, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Sleep eluded you, and when Mark reached for you—when he tried to touch you, kiss you—you turned away, silent tears slipping down your face. You didn’t fight him anymore. You had no strength left.

But you could still hate him.

You could still hate the life he had forced upon you.

And as you sat there, holding Elijah close while Roselyna lay in her cradle, you wondered if you would ever feel anything else again.

Mark watched you from across the room, his arms crossed as he observed the way you cradled Elijah, your body curled protectively around him. The baby had settled against your chest, his tiny hands gripping your clothing like you were the only thing in the world he trusted.

Meanwhile, Roselyna lay alone in her crib, her dark eyes staring up at the ceiling. She didn’t cry. She rarely did. Already, she had an eerie calmness about her—just like her father.

Mark’s jaw tensed as he took in the sight. “You ignore her,” he said finally, his voice unreadable. “Why?”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t even look at him. Mark stepped forward, closer to where you sat on the edge of the bed, and you stiffened. Elijah, sensing your distress, whimpered, pressing his face deeper into your chest. Mark’s gaze flickered to him, then back to you.

“She is your daughter,” he continued, his tone harder this time. “You act as if she doesn’t exist.”

A bitter laugh almost escaped you. She is your daughter, you wanted to say. Not mine. Instead, you kept your eyes trained on the floor, tightening your hold on Elijah. The silence between you stretched, suffocating, until Mark exhaled sharply.

“She will be strong,” he said, as if that was all that mattered. “I will ensure it.” That made you look up, your expression hollow. “Like you ensured I would be yours?” you whispered, voice hoarse from disuse.

Mark’s expression darkened, but you didn’t care. You turned away from him again, gently rocking Elijah as he began to fall asleep against you. Anything to avoid looking at Roselyna. Anything to forget the life you were trapped in.

Mark didn’t push further. Not yet. But you knew this wasn’t over. He would wait. He was patient. And that terrified you more than anything.

You gently laid Elijah down in his crib, his tiny fingers twitching in his sleep. He looked peaceful like this, unaware of the horrors of the world he had been born into. A part of you wished he would never wake up to it—never grow to understand what his father truly was.

Your legs felt heavy as you moved toward the bed. Every step was slow, deliberate, like you were walking through water. The exhaustion clung to you, deep in your bones, but sleep never truly came. When you did manage to drift off, nightmares took its place.

You lowered yourself onto the mattress, curling in on yourself. The room was cold, too big, too empty despite the presence of Mark and the twins. Your hands rested on your arms, feeling the raised scars of a body that no longer felt like yours.

Once, there had been mirrors in this room. You remembered the first time you had seen your reflection after the birth. The raw, broken woman staring back at you had sent you into a panic. You had sobbed until your throat burned, clawing at your own skin as if you could shed it like a disguise.

Mark had watched you break. And then, without a word, he had taken the mirrors away.

You weren’t sure if it was an act of mercy or control.

Now, you didn’t know what you looked like anymore. Maybe that was for the best.

A shift in the air told you Mark was moving. You didn’t have to look to know he was watching you. He always was.

“You need to eat,” he said. It was a command, not a request.

You said nothing.

A sigh. Then, movement.

You flinched when the bed dipped behind you. A strong arm slid over your waist, pulling you back against a firm, familiar chest. You tensed, your breath catching, but you didn’t fight him. You never did anymore.

Mark pressed his face into your hair, inhaling deeply. “You’re still recovering.” His voice was softer now, almost gentle. “You can’t waste away like this.”

You shut your eyes tightly, willing yourself to disappear.

His grip tightened around you, as if sensing your thoughts. “You’re mine,” he murmured, lips brushing against your temple. “I won’t let you break.” A silent tear slipped down your cheek. You weren’t sure if you were still breaking or if you were already broken.

Mark stood by the doorway, his suit pristine, the Viltrumite insignia emblazoned on his chest. He was ready to leave—off to conquer, to kill, to further the empire that had stolen your life. But before he left, he needed to remind you of your place.

“I’ll return soon,” he said, his voice firm. “You will take care of yourself while I’m gone.”

You didn’t respond, staring blankly at the floor.

His jaw clenched. He stepped forward, tilting your chin up with two fingers, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Did you hear me?”

You swallowed, hating the warmth of his touch. “Yes.”

His eyes searched yours, looking for defiance, for resistance. He found none. He hadn’t in a long time.

His grip softened, and his other hand brushed against your stomach—an old habit now, a silent acknowledgment of what you had given him. A son. A daughter. His legacy.

“Elijah is not the only child you have,” he said pointedly. “Roselyna is yours, too.”

Your breath hitched. He had noticed. Of course, he had. Mark leaned in closer, his lips grazing your temple, his voice barely above a whisper. “When I return, I expect you to act like their mother. Both of their mother.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, forcing back the instinct to recoil. His fingers trailed down your arm before he finally released you, stepping back toward the door. “Don’t make me regret giving you freedom while I’m gone,” he warned. And with that, he was gone. The silence he left behind felt heavier than his presence.

You shivered as the door shut behind him, the weight of his words pressing down on you like a crushing force.

Guilt gnawed at your insides, sharp and unrelenting. You knew you had been neglecting Roselyna. You could feel it in the way she barely reacted to you, in how she never reached for you the way Elijah did. But every time you looked at her, it was like staring into Mark’s eyes. The same piercing gaze, the same dark hair, the same sharp features that haunted your every waking moment.

It hurt to look at her.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, fingers gripping at the thin fabric of your clothes. It wasn’t her fault. She was just a baby. Innocent. She had done nothing wrong—nothing except exist.

A soft noise from the crib made you glance over. Elijah was still asleep, his tiny chest rising and falling peacefully. But Roselyna… she was awake, lying in her crib, staring at you in eerie silence.

Your throat tightened.

She didn’t cry. She rarely did.

You hesitated, your feet refusing to move. For months, you had kept your distance, only doing the bare minimum—feeding her, changing her, making sure she was cared for, but nothing more. No warmth. No affection. Nothing like what you gave her brother.

She’s your daughter too.

Mark’s words echoed in your head, and for the first time, you felt something else beneath the guilt.

Shame.

You took a shaky breath and forced yourself forward, each step feeling heavier than the last. When you reached the crib, you looked down at her.

Roselyna blinked up at you, her dark eyes unreadable. Waiting.

Your fingers hovered over the edge of the crib, hesitant. Then, slowly—hesitantly—you reached down and brushed your hand against her tiny fist. She didn’t pull away. She just stared. Your chest ached. You weren’t sure if you could ever love her. But for the first time, you tried.

The room had been filled with an unfamiliar warmth, something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

Roselyna was in your arms, staring at you with those deep, dark eyes, while Elijah curled against your side, his tiny hand gripping your sleeve. For once, you allowed yourself to breathe, to feel.

Roselyna didn’t resist when you traced your fingers along her chubby cheek, and Elijah nestled closer, as if sensing the shift in you. Maybe, just maybe, you could— The door slid open. A chill ran through you.

Anissa stepped inside, her presence instantly poisoning the air.

She looked around with mild disinterest, her sharp eyes landing on you and the twins. The quiet moment shattered as Elijah whimpered, his tiny body tensing before he let out a full cry.

You immediately reached for him, your arms tightening around Roselyna as you tried to comfort your son, but Anissa stepped in front of you, her towering figure blocking your path.

“I don’t know why Mark insisted on such a weak woman,” she said, her tone dripping with disdain. “I just hope it doesn’t affect his strong bloodline.”

Her words cut deep, but before you could respond, she barely lifted a hand and shoved you back—so effortlessly, so casually, yet your body gave out beneath you.

You stumbled, your weakened legs failing you completely as you crashed onto the floor. The impact sent a sharp jolt through you, your arms shaking as you struggled to push yourself up.

Elijah’s cries grew louder.

You clenched your teeth, forcing yourself upright, though your limbs trembled from exhaustion. “What do you want?” you hissed, voice strained.

Anissa crossed her arms, glancing at the infants once more. “I came to see how the children are developing myself.” She nodded, seemingly satisfied. “They look healthy, but…” Her eyes flicked back to you, cold and calculating.

“You are not.” Your breath hitched.

“If you hope to bear more children in the future, you need to take care of yourself,” Anissa continued smoothly, her voice carrying an edge of warning. “Otherwise, your purpose for being kept alive will cease, and soon—Mark will see that.”

She leaned in closer, as if savoring the way you trembled beneath her words. Her lips curled in amusement. “Take care of yourself,” she mocked before turning on her heel and leaving the room. The door slid shut behind her.

Your knees hit the floor, the weight of her words crashing down on you all at once. Your hands trembled violently, your breath coming in shallow gasps. Elijah was still crying. Roselyna, however, only stared.

You pulled both of them close, cradling Elijah against your chest while Roselyna rested in the crook of your arm. Elijah’s cries quieted slightly, soothed by your warmth, but Roselyna remained silent, only watching.

Your shoulders shook as silent tears slipped down your face. Would Mark kill me?

The thought had lingered in the back of your mind for so long, but Anissa’s words forced it to the surface, wrapping around you like chains. Mark had never explicitly threatened your life—he claimed you as his, treated you as his possession, but would he dispose of you if he deemed you useless?

You had already given him what he wanted. Two heirs. His bloodline continued through them. If you wasted away, if you withered into nothing—would he even care?

A choked sob caught in your throat, and you buried your face against Elijah’s tiny body. He was warm. Small. Fragile. Roselyna didn’t reach for you, didn’t curl into you the way her brother did, but she didn’t pull away either. She simply existed in your hold, her dark eyes watching your every movement.

You couldn’t keep doing this. Not for yourself. But for them. If you were gone, Mark would raise them alone. You knew what that meant.

Elijah would be forced to become what his father wanted him to be. Roselyna would be trained to be ruthless, to see only strength and power as things that mattered. If you let yourself waste away, there would be no one to protect them from that fate. You sniffled, wiping at your damp cheeks. You weren’t strong. You never had been. But you were all they had.

The next morning, you sat at the table, staring at the plate of food in front of you. For so long, eating had felt like a chore—something you only did when absolutely necessary, when your body screamed for it. But now…

You picked up the utensil with a shaky hand and took a bite. It was slow, hesitant, but you kept going. Bite after bite, until the plate was empty.

When you finished, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Your gaze drifted downward, to your hands resting against your stomach. The body you once had—the one that felt like yours—was gone. Pregnancy had changed you in ways you never expected. The softness that remained, the stretch marks, the lingering ache in your bones—it was a reminder of everything you had been through, everything that had been taken from you.

But if it meant keeping yourself alive, if it meant ensuring you would stay by your children’s side, then you would take care of yourself again.

You had to.

It would be hard. There would be days where you felt like giving up, where the weight of everything would pull you down again. But you wouldn’t let it consume you.

You weren’t strong like Mark. You weren’t ruthless like Anissa. But you could fight in your own way. For Elijah. For Roselyna. For yourself.

A week passed before Mark returned.

When he stepped into the room, his sharp eyes immediately scanned you, assessing. You knew what he was looking for—signs of improvement, of obedience, of purpose.

And he saw it. You weren’t healed, not by a long shot, but you looked better. The hollowness in your face had faded slightly. You had been eating, regaining some strength. You still felt weak, but not as fragile as before.

Mark didn’t say anything at first. He only watched, his gaze lingering on the way you held Elijah, how Roselyna sat beside you, her small hands grasping at your sleeve.

Then, finally, he spoke. “You’ve been taking care of yourself.” It wasn’t a question, but an observation.

You nodded, keeping your expression neutral. “Yes.” Something flickered in his eyes. Approval.

You tensed slightly when he stepped forward, expecting him to pull you into an embrace, to claim you the way he always did after returning from a mission. But he didn’t. Instead, he gave you space. It was subtle—barely noticeable—but it was there. You weren’t sure what to make of it.

Was this his version of rewarding you? Or was it something else? Either way, you didn’t question it. Not yet. Because for the first time in a long time, you had something to hold onto. Your future. Your children. And you weren’t going to let them go.

The morning air was cool as you carefully bundled the twins into their stroller. Elijah, always the lively one, babbled happily as you adjusted the blankets around him, his little hands grasping at the soft fabric, kicking his feet in excitement. His joyful noise filled the quiet room, and for a moment, it felt like everything could be normal—like you could pretend this was just another day.

Roselyna, on the other hand, was as quiet as ever, her tiny face fixed with an unreadable expression. She was still in your arms when you placed her beside Elijah, adjusting her blanket with gentle hands. She didn’t cry or fidget like her brother; she simply stared up at you, her dark eyes following every movement. It was almost eerie how still she could be.

You let out a breath, pushing the stroller with careful, deliberate movements. There was a sense of peace as you stepped outside, the sun warm on your skin, the breeze cool and comforting. For the first time in weeks, it felt like you could breathe—really breathe—without feeling like someone was always watching you, controlling you.

You pushed the stroller slowly, allowing yourself to take in the quiet of the garden as you walked. Elijah’s babbling continued, punctuated by occasional coos and giggles as he noticed the trees or the flowers swaying in the wind. Roselyna, however, was silent, her dark gaze focused ahead, never breaking from the path. It reminded you of how she always seemed to observe rather than participate—a constant reminder of Mark in the way she held herself.

As you walked, the sound of voices broke the tranquility, their words drifting through the air, unmistakable in their sharpness.

Mark’s voice.

You paused for a moment, your hand instinctively going to the stroller’s handle to stop its motion. The voices came closer, their words clearer.

“She is unfit to carry a heir,” Anissa’s voice rang out, cold and cutting.

Your heart dropped in your chest.

You knew who they were talking about.

Mark’s voice followed, firm, unyielding. “That will be for me to decide.”

You could almost hear the tension in his words, his voice low and controlled. Anissa scoffed. “Can she even carry one now?”

The implication was clear, and it twisted in your gut. You wanted to move—to run, to get away from their words—but your feet stayed rooted to the ground.

“She isn’t ready. She’s still recovering.” Mark’s tone was different this time, softer, as if trying to keep the peace. “She is still my wife, and you will treat her with respect. She did her duty and gave me not one, but two beautiful and strong heirs. If she can give more, it will not be any time soon.”

You felt something shift in your chest, something heavy and tight, like a knot you hadn’t even realized was there. Marks voice rang out again, harsher than before. “This discussion ends now. Don’t bring this up again. And don’t ever talk about her like that again.”

Your heart skipped a beat as Mark’s voice grew stern, full of anger. “She may not be a Viltrumite, but she is strong in ways you can’t even imagine.”

The finality in his words was enough to make your breath catch. He defended you. He stood up for you. The voices faded as you quietly turned the stroller around. You didn’t dare look back as you walked quickly toward your room, your chest tight with emotions you couldn’t quite name.

Once the door slid shut behind you, you barely registered the sound of Elijah’s continued babbling. You sat down slowly, the weight of Mark’s words washing over you. He thought you were strong.

You held your children close, feeling the warm weight of Elijah against you and the soft, still presence of Roselyna in your arms. Tears welled in your eyes before you could stop them, and they fell freely as you leaned down to rest your forehead against Elijah’s soft curls.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to feel—to let the words sink in. Maybe, just maybe, you were stronger than you thought.

You sat there for a long time, holding Elijah close while Roselyna remained quietly in your other arm, her tiny fingers clutching at your sleeve. Your heart still felt heavy, your thoughts swirling in a whirlwind of confusion and disbelief.

Mark defended me.

The realization felt like a weight lifting from your chest, though it didn’t change everything. There were still so many things that weren’t right—so many things you couldn’t control. But for the first time in a long while, you let yourself feel a spark of something that resembled hope.

You gently rocked the stroller back and forth, feeling the rhythmic motion as Elijah’s babbling slowed. He seemed content now, nestled securely in your arms, his small eyes fluttering as he yawned. Roselyna, too, seemed at peace, her calmness a contrast to her brother’s playful energy.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, but eventually, you let your head fall back, your tired eyes drifting to the ceiling. The weight of your children in your arms felt grounding, even as the uncertainty of your situation lingered in your mind.

You are their mother, you reminded yourself. And no matter what happens, you have to be strong for them. But the question lingered: How much longer can I do this?

Would Mark continue to protect you? Was this small victory just a fleeting moment, something temporary before the darkness returned? Or had something truly shifted between you and him?

You didn’t know. And that uncertainty was the hardest part to bear. A soft knock on the door broke the silence. You stiffened, instinctively pulling Elijah closer to your chest, your heart skipping a beat.

The door opened slightly, revealing Mark standing in the doorway. His expression was unreadable, his eyes dark but not unkind. He didn’t step inside immediately, just watched you for a moment.

“I see you’re taking care of them,” he said quietly, his voice softer than usual.

You nodded, unable to look at him fully. Mark stepped into the room, his gaze flicking down to the children, then back to you. He seemed to sense your unease, your guardedness, but he didn’t push.

“I know it’s hard,” he said, his tone almost gentle, though there was still the cold edge of authority behind it. “But you’re doing well. Don’t doubt that.”

Your heart clenched at his words, but you kept your gaze down. You didn’t trust yourself to speak, not when everything felt so fragile, so uncertain.

He approached you, kneeling down beside the stroller. You flinched instinctively as he reached out to touch Roselyna’s tiny hand, his fingers brushing against hers lightly.

For a moment, the room was quiet, the only sound being the soft breaths of your children and the faint rustling of Mark’s clothing.

Then, he looked at you, his gaze softening just a fraction. “I know you’re scared,” he said, his voice steady. “But you’re not alone in this. You have me, and you have them.” He motioned to the twins. “And I will protect you all.”

The words were hollow to your ears, but you heard the sincerity beneath them. You nodded, though your heart still ached with uncertainty.

As Mark stood up and stepped back, you couldn’t help but wonder if this was truly the beginning of something more—something different. Or if it was just another moment of fleeting kindness that would vanish once the weight of your existence became too much for him to bear again. But for now, you let the small moment of peace settle over you. For now, it was enough.

As the days passed, something shifted. It wasn’t a grand, sudden change, but it was there, subtle and unmistakable.

You didn’t pull away when Mark was near. At first, it had been out of instinct—fear, perhaps, or just the way his presence always seemed to dominate the space. But now? It was different. There was a quiet acceptance, something tentative yet growing, a small thread of trust beginning to form where there had been none.

You didn’t flinch when he reached out to touch you, his hand brushing against your arm as he passed by. You didn’t shrink when his gaze lingered on you a little longer than usual. There were still moments when you wanted to pull away, to remind yourself of how small your space had become, but you didn’t.

And that night, when Mark entered your room after a long day of work and mission reports, you didn’t move to the far side of the bed. You didn’t wrap your arms around yourself as if bracing against a storm.

You simply let him approach, your breath steadying when he sat beside you.

Mark didn’t say anything at first. His eyes scanned you for any signs of hesitation, any lingering fear that could send you retreating back into yourself. But there was none. You met his gaze with something close to calm, something close to acceptance, though you didn’t know what it meant yet.

“Is it okay?” he asked quietly, his voice soft, almost uncertain.

You nodded.

He didn’t need any more words. Slowly, carefully, he pulled you into his arms, and for the first time in a long time, you didn’t fight it. His body was warm, and his arms were strong around you, a strange comfort despite everything that had happened. You rested your head against his chest, hearing the steady beat of his heart.

The twins were asleep in their crib, the room quiet except for the soft rustle of fabric and the occasional creak of the bed.

Mark’s hand gently brushed through your hair as you settled into the embrace. His touch was tender, almost soothing, like he was trying to show you something you didn’t fully understand yet. His warmth enveloped you, and as the minutes passed, you found that you didn’t mind being here.

The fear, the tension—it was still there, but it wasn’t as overwhelming as before. You could breathe, you could feel. You were still you, and yet you weren’t the same.

He whispered your name, a soft murmur against the quiet of the night. “You’re safe.”

You closed your eyes, not sure if it was the truth, but for the first time in a long time, you allowed yourself to believe it—at least for tonight.

Mark held you as you fell asleep, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulling you into a fragile peace.

Tomorrow, you would face whatever came next. But for tonight, you let him hold you, and you let yourself be held.

As the weeks turned into months, things began to change in ways you hadn’t expected. The babies—Elijah and Roselyna—were growing, their once-small forms now more alert, more curious about the world around them. Elijah, ever the lively one, had started crawling, pulling himself up on anything he could find and babbling incessantly, as though he was always trying to tell you something important. Roselyna, though quieter, had started to giggle at simple things—like the way the sunlight filtered through the windows or the sound of your voice as you sang to them.

And you? You were healing. Your body, once broken and battered, was now stronger, more resilient. The aches and pains that had once felt like they would never fade had begun to dissolve, replaced with the steady energy of a mother who was learning to take care of herself for the first time in a long while.

You made it a point to eat regularly, to rest, to do whatever was necessary to regain some sense of control over your life. It wasn’t easy. Every day was a balancing act between taking care of your children and finding the time to care for yourself—but it was possible now. You felt the difference. The fog in your mind had lifted, and you could think clearly, even though the constant presence of Mark and the weight of your situation still hovered in the background.

Mark had noticed the changes.

He no longer had to push you to eat, or remind you to sleep, or tell you to take a break. He saw how you cared for the children with more confidence, how you moved with purpose and strength. He saw how you started to smile at them, not just out of duty, but because you wanted to.

And although there were still moments of tension, moments when your mind would spiral, wondering if you’d ever truly find freedom or if you were just a prisoner in your own home, you found yourself slowly leaning into the new reality. The children were a constant reminder of something worth living for, even if that something came from a place of pain.

One morning, as the sun poured into the nursery, you found yourself sitting on the floor next to the twins. Elijah had grabbed a toy and was struggling to lift it, his little face scrunched in concentration. Roselyna sat next to him, watching him with an almost too-adult gaze, her tiny hands resting on her lap.

You smiled to yourself, watching them interact. Elijah’s infectious energy was contagious, and even Roselyna seemed to be coming out of her shell more and more.

You could hear Mark’s footsteps outside the room, and though part of you still bristled at his presence, you had learned to tolerate it. When he entered, he paused at the doorway, his gaze falling on the children.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice softer than usual.

You didn’t look up immediately, but you could feel the weight of his stare on you, lingering there as though waiting for something. When you did glance up, your eyes met his for a brief moment. He looked…content, in a way that you hadn’t seen in a long time.

“You’re looking better,” he remarked, his eyes briefly flicking over your form. His tone wasn’t patronizing, just an observation.

You nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “I’m doing better. I…needed time.”

He said nothing for a long moment, but then he stepped into the room, his gaze shifting back to the children. “They’re growing quickly.”

“Yes,” you agreed, your voice a little lighter than it had been in months. “They are.”

Mark crouched down beside you, his large frame filling the space in a way that still made you feel small. He watched Elijah for a moment, the boy’s enthusiastic attempts to play drawing a quiet smile from him. Then he turned his attention back to you, his eyes softening slightly.

“I’ve seen the effort you’ve put in,” he said quietly. “You’re stronger than you think.”

For the first time in a long while, you allowed yourself to believe him. You didn’t respond right away, instead choosing to watch as Elijah reached for the toy again and successfully lifted it with a triumphant squeal. Roselyna, as usual, was quieter, but there was something in her gaze that seemed to acknowledge her brother’s victory.

“Maybe,” you said at last, your voice filled with a quiet honesty you hadn’t allowed yourself to express before. “Maybe I’m not as weak as I thought.”

Mark gave you a long look, his eyes unreadable for a moment. Then he nodded once, his jaw tightening slightly. “You’re not.”

You didn’t say anything else, and neither did he. But as the moments passed and the room settled into a comfortable silence, you realized that for once, you didn’t feel like a prisoner.

You were still his—still bound by the world you had been forced into. But as you watched Elijah giggling and Roselyna silently observing, you couldn’t help but feel a small flicker of hope. You were no longer just surviving. You were living. And for now, that was enough.

That night, the house was quiet. The twins had been fed, bathed, and were now sound asleep in their crib. The weight of the day, of motherhood, of everything, hung in the air, but there was something different in the way you felt. It was as though you had taken a small step forward, like the shell you’d been hiding inside was beginning to crack.

Mark had been quieter than usual that evening, his gaze lingering on you more than ever. You knew the tension between you both was still there, like a thin thread holding you together, but there was something else—something that wasn’t quite as heavy as it had been.

You found yourself in the living room after you’d tucked the children in, sitting on the couch, the silence of the house wrapping around you like a thick blanket. You had wanted to take a moment for yourself, but the stillness felt… wrong, somehow.

And then, without thinking, you stood up and walked toward the doorway of the bedroom. Mark was there, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. You didn’t stop yourself this time. You didn’t hesitate.

You walked to him, and before he could say anything, you reached up, your fingers brushing his chest, your heart pounding in your chest. For a long moment, you simply stared at each other, your emotions tangled—fear, longing, confusion, acceptance—but there was something else too. Something that you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel in a long time: a need to be close.

Without another thought, you closed the distance between you, rising on your tiptoes to kiss him. It was gentle at first—tentative—but Mark responded immediately, his lips pressing against yours with a quiet urgency that sent a shiver down your spine.

His hands, which had been so careful with you in the past, now cupped your face, pulling you deeper into the kiss, as though he’d been waiting for this moment as much as you had. His touch was different now—not forceful, not demanding, but soft, as if trying to show you something that had been hidden beneath the surface all this time.

You kissed him back, allowing yourself to feel his warmth, his strength, and, for the first time, something tender in the way he held you. It was as if he wasn’t just claiming you—he was cherishing you.

When you pulled away, gasping for air, Mark’s forehead rested against yours. His breath was heavy, and so was yours, but there was a connection now—something that had been missing for so long.

“You’re still my wife,” he said softly, his voice rough but genuine, “and I still want you, more than anything.” His hands slid down to your waist, and his fingers grazed the soft curve of your body. “But this… this is different, isn’t it?”

You nodded, your breath shaky. “Yes,” you whispered. “It is.”

Mark’s lips returned to your neck, kissing the sensitive skin there, and you let out a soft sigh, letting him love you in a way you hadn’t allowed before. The weight of everything, of your past, of the pain you’d endured, was still there, but it felt… lighter somehow. As though you had been allowed to step out of the darkness, just for a moment.

You kissed him again, more urgently this time, and when he moved you gently toward the bed, there was no hesitation in your actions.

This wasn’t just about the power he had over you anymore. This was about the softness that had been hidden beneath the surface.

You kissed him back with the same intensity he was showing you, matching the need in his movements. You were still his—still bound to him in ways you couldn’t escape—but for once, you let yourself feel something more than fear. You let yourself feel wanted.

As Mark guided you toward the bed, the intensity of the moment filled the space between you. There were no more words, just the quiet rush of breaths and the soft sounds of your hearts beating in sync. Everything felt different now—more intimate, more genuine.

You allowed him to undress you slowly, his hands gentle but firm as they moved over your skin. He seemed to savor each moment, as if testing to see if you would pull away. But you didn’t. You let him touch you, let him explore the connection that had been building between you for so long, and with each soft touch, your walls began to crumble just a little more.

You could feel the warmth of his body pressing against yours, the tension from all those months of distance now giving way to something deeper. His lips found yours again, this time with more urgency, as if he couldn’t get close enough. Your hands slid up to his chest, pulling him closer, needing him like you hadn’t realized you did before.

For a brief moment, you allowed yourself to be consumed by the sensation of it all—the connection, the intimacy, the sense that maybe, just maybe, things didn’t have to be as suffocating as they once seemed. Maybe there was something here between you that was more than just duty or fear.

When Mark finally pulled back slightly, his eyes searched yours, as though asking for permission. He wasn’t forcing himself on you, not this time. His touch was tender, his voice soft.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his words low, filled with both care and something deeper. “You don’t have to do this, not if you don’t want to.”

You could see the genuine concern in his eyes, and it made your heart twist. It wasn’t just about claiming you anymore. He was waiting for you to decide if you could truly embrace what was happening.

And for the first time in a long while, you realized that maybe you didn’t have to hold back. Maybe, just maybe, you could let yourself feel something real, despite everything.

“I’m sure,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. “I want this… I want you.”

Mark’s expression softened, and he kissed you again, this time with a gentleness that made your chest tighten. He moved over you, his body pressing you deeper into the sheets, and you let yourself surrender to the moment. It wasn’t perfect, but it felt real.

You could feel the weight of the last year—of everything you’d been through—slowly lifting as he made love to you with a tenderness that left you breathless. It wasn’t rushed, and it wasn’t the way it had been before. There was no domination, no cruelty. There was just connection—and that was something you had never allowed yourself to experience fully, not until now.

As you lay there, curled up against Mark’s chest, your mind was a whirlwind of emotions. His steady breathing beneath you, the warmth of his skin, the strong, protective embrace that held you close—it almost felt… safe. For a moment, you allowed yourself to wonder if happiness could actually be within reach. Could you feel joy after everything that had happened?

You had been taken, dragged into a life you never asked for. For over a year, you had fought against everything Mark stood for, against what he had forced upon you. He was powerful, ruthless—everything you hated, everything that scared you. But now, as you lay in his arms, you could feel the softness of the man he could be, if only for a fleeting moment.

The ache in your heart wouldn’t completely fade. The anger, the resentment of being stripped of your freedom, of being forced into a life with no choice—those feelings were still there. But as his lips brushed over your skin, as his fingers traced gentle paths across your body, something inside you stirred.

You wanted to be happy.

You had buried that desire so deep beneath the weight of your anger. But now, as Mark’s hands moved slowly down your back, his touch no longer the demanding, forceful kind, you couldn’t help but let your walls drop. Slowly. Tentatively. You allowed yourself to feel his warmth. You allowed yourself to feel what it was like to be desired by him—not out of obligation, but because there was something real between you now. The connection you’d tried so hard to deny.

As he kissed you, his mouth soft and lingering, you felt a slow burn coil in your stomach. It wasn’t the rough, overpowering touch of the man who had claimed you. This time, it was different. It was tender. Almost… loving. His fingers brushed your skin, sending sparks through your veins, and you found yourself responding, your body eager for more, even if you couldn’t fully understand why.

You moved your lips against his, hesitant at first but then growing bolder, your hands exploring his chest, his back. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. You wanted him. You needed him.

There was no denying it anymore. The distance, the walls you’d built, they were all starting to crumble as he touched you. Slowly. Relentlessly.

You didn’t want to fight anymore.

When he kissed you again, his touch turned deeper, more insistent, a hunger sparking between you. His hands slid down your body, gentle at first, as though he were waiting for your permission, but you weren’t pulling away this time. Your skin burned as he explored, his touch reverent, almost as if he were cherishing every inch of you.

“You’re beautiful” Mark’s voice rumbled against your lips, deep and husky. His eyes searched yours, dark with something you couldn’t quite name, but it felt like more than desire. It felt like something… real.

You nodded, breathless. “Please,” you whispered. “I want you.”

That was all it took. His lips found yours again, harder this time, more demanding. You responded eagerly, your body pressing against his, a quiet desperation to be as close as possible, to feel him as though nothing else in the world mattered.

His hands roamed over you, firm but gentle, as he kissed you deeper, guiding you back onto the bed. Everything else faded—the fear, the doubt, the anger. It was just him and you. His body moved over yours, a perfect rhythm of give and take, of pleasure and need. His lips moved from your mouth to your neck, sucking gently, his teeth grazing your skin, and your breath hitched. The sensation was overwhelming, intoxicating.

Every kiss, every touch, made you feel something you hadn’t let yourself feel in so long. His body against yours, his hands on your skin—it was real, and you could no longer deny that it felt right. This felt right.

You allowed yourself to fall into it, to lose yourself in the moment, to stop fighting the way your body reacted to his touch. You let go of everything, even the guilt that had held you back. It was just you and him now, and the heat between you was undeniable.

Mark’s hands slid lower, his touch searing your skin as he kissed you harder, more urgently. Every movement was calculated, every second spent with him felt like something you could never get back. And as you kissed him back, your hands roaming over his body, you realized that you didn’t want to be anywhere else.

When the tension finally broke, when you both came undone, it wasn’t just the physical release. It was the emotional one as well. You let yourself feel for the first time in what felt like forever. You allowed yourself to be vulnerable with him, to let him take you—take all of you—without reservation. His thrusts were slow, delicate. Different from before. You moaned giving in, rocking your body againist his own.

As you lay there afterward, your body pressed against his, you couldn’t stop the soft tears that slipped down your cheeks. It wasn’t just pleasure that had overcome you. It was something deeper, something you had been denying for too long. You had forgiven him. Not fully, not yet, but enough to let yourself feel, enough to let him love you in a way you couldn’t have imagined before.

As you lay there, your chest rising and falling with each deep breath, your mind swirled with the aftermath of what had just happened. The weight of the moment settled over you, leaving you both breathless and aching. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, and you couldn’t help but melt into him. It felt… different. Intimate. Tender. The way his body held you against his, the warmth of his skin, the way he whispered your name like it meant something more than just a command—it made everything feel real.

But as much as you wanted to let yourself bask in the euphoria of the moment, there was a part of you that recoiled. Was this real? Could you really be this vulnerable with him, after everything? Could you truly forgive him for all he had taken from you?

His lips brushed over your forehead as he held you tight, his breathing slowly returning to normal. “You’re safe with me,” he murmured softly, as though he could sense the storm still raging within you. “Always.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as his voice washed over you. You wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe that this tenderness, this connection, was real. That it wasn’t just a fleeting moment of weakness, but something more. Something that could be built upon.

But doubt lingered, like a shadow in the corner of your mind.

You shifted slightly, your fingers tracing the lines of his chest, finding comfort in the steady beat of his heart beneath your touch. “Mark…” You whispered, unsure of the words you needed to say. “What if this is just… temporary? What if I can’t ever let go of everything that’s happened?”

He pulled you closer, his lips grazing the top of your head, his voice calm and steady. “You don’t have to let go all at once. I’m not asking for you to forget what I’ve done. I’m not asking for forgiveness just yet. But I want you to know that you are important to me. And I’ll show you, every day, that I’m not the monster you think I am. You and the kids… you’re my world.”

A soft tremor ran through you, but it wasn’t fear this time. It was something else. Something softer. Hope. A fragile seed, buried deep within you, that was beginning to sprout. You couldn’t deny the warmth that spread through you, the way his words made your heart beat just a little faster.

His hand stroked your hair, his touch light but gentle, as if he were handling something precious. “You’ve come so far,” he whispered, his voice low, almost reverent. “I know it’s been hard, but I’ve seen the strength in you. The way you’ve cared for our children. The way you’ve fought to survive, to keep going.”

The truth of his words hit you, and for the first time, you didn’t push them away. You accepted them. You had fought—fought for your children, fought to reclaim some semblance of your own life amidst the chaos. And though the road ahead was still uncertain, you didn’t feel as hopeless as you once had.

You lifted your head, meeting his gaze, searching his eyes for any trace of the man you had once feared. But what you found was different now. His gaze was softer, more sincere. He wasn’t the same man who had kidnapped you and taken away your freedom. He was… someone else. Someone who, despite all his flaws, was trying. Trying to be better.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you said, your voice thick with emotion. “Not yet. But… I want to try. I want to find a way to move forward. For the kids. For me.”

Mark’s lips curled into a small, almost imperceptible smile. His hand brushed over your cheek, his touch gentle but full of conviction. “We’ll take it one step at a time. I’ll be patient. I’ll wait for you.”

And in that moment, with his words hanging in the air between you, you realized something. The past couldn’t be changed. The pain, the fear, it would always be there in some form. But the future—your future—was still yours to shape.

Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance to rebuild. To learn to trust him again, in your own time. To allow yourself to love, despite everything.

You weren’t ready to forgive everything yet. You might never be. But you were ready to try. Ready to give this new life with him a chance.

And that, in itself, was enough. For now.

The tears that had been threatening to fall finally spilled over, not from pain or fear, but from the release of everything you had been holding back. You let yourself cry in his arms, and for once, you didn’t feel ashamed. He didn’t pull away. He held you tighter, and his own breath hitched as he kissed your forehead.

You couldn’t say what the future would hold. You couldn’t say if things would ever truly be the way they were before. But for the first time in so long, you felt like you might have a chance to finally be something more than a prisoner of your circumstances.

You could feel it—deep inside—that you were starting to heal. That you were starting to forgive. Not just him, but yourself. And that, you realized, was the first step toward finding your peace.

The warmth of Mark’s body pressed against yours was the first thing you noticed when you woke, the sensation of his skin against yours oddly comforting despite everything. The faint light of dawn was creeping in through the window, casting a soft glow over the room, and for a brief moment, you felt a sense of peace that you hadn’t known in a long time.

Your body felt different, lighter in a way you hadn’t expected. The weight of your thoughts was still there, but somehow, it wasn’t as suffocating. Last night, you had given in, allowed yourself to feel something more than the fear and resentment that had ruled your life for so long. You had been vulnerable, and while it wasn’t easy, it had brought a strange kind of release.

You shifted slightly, becoming more aware of Mark’s arms wrapped around you, his body pressed against yours in a protective embrace. He was still asleep, his breathing steady, the rise and fall of his chest rhythmic. You could feel the strength in his arms, but this time, it didn’t make you feel trapped. It felt… safe. Almost like you belonged there.

It was hard to explain the mix of emotions swirling inside you. You had spent so long fighting him, hating him for everything he had done to you. Yet, in the quiet of this moment, you couldn’t deny the tenderness you felt. It was confusing, but it was real.

You took a slow, steady breath, feeling the warmth between you, your mind racing with the realization that last night had changed something. You had allowed yourself to be held, to be loved in a way that didn’t feel like it was out of obligation. There was a sense of connection now, something that went beyond just the physical.

As you lay there, you felt a pang of guilt, but it was different this time. It wasn’t the overwhelming, crushing guilt that had consumed you in the past. It was a quiet ache, a reminder of everything that had been lost, but also a reminder of what you were trying to rebuild. Slowly. In your own way.

You gently shifted again, trying not to disturb Mark as you propped yourself up slightly, your eyes trailing over his face. He was still asleep, his features soft in the dim light. For a moment, you simply watched him, trying to reconcile the man you had come to hate with the man who had held you last night with such care. Who was he really?

The answer wasn’t clear. You weren’t sure if it ever would be. But as you lay there, the stillness of the room wrapping around you like a comforting blanket, you realized that maybe you didn’t need to have all the answers right now. Maybe, just for today, you could just be.

You could let yourself heal. Let yourself grow.

With a quiet sigh, you let yourself relax back into his embrace, your body fitting naturally against his. There was no rush to figure everything out. Maybe you could simply allow yourself this small piece of peace.

You didn’t know what the future held. But you weren’t as afraid of it.

You gently cradled Elijah in your arms, his small hands reaching out toward the bottle in your hand. His cries had been more frequent lately, and as you looked at his face, you could just barely make out the small, sharp edges of teeth breaking through his gums. Your heart tugged at the sight, a quiet ache for your son. Teething, you thought, letting out a quiet sigh. You gently rocked him in your arms, trying to soothe him as best you could, the discomfort clear in his little whimpers.

The sounds of his cries filled the room, and you couldn’t help but feel a small pang of worry. You ran a finger lightly over his gums, feeling the sharp points emerging, and a frown tugged at your lips. He wasn’t the only one dealing with it. You turned your gaze to your daughter, Roselyna, who was peacefully sitting in her crib, seemingly unaffected by any of the discomfort Elijah was experiencing.

You watched her for a moment, a small furrow in your brow. It was strange how different the two of them were in their reactions. Elijah was fussing nonstop, his discomfort obvious in his crying, but Roselyna—she sat there, completely still, not a sound escaping her lips. She was always calm, almost unnervingly so, even in the face of pain. It was almost like she didn’t feel it. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but something about her always made your stomach tighten.

You shook your head, trying to push the worry away. Maybe it’s just a phase, you thought to yourself. Maybe she’s just stronger in her own way.

You stood up, gently putting Elijah back down in his crib before you walked over to Roselyna, placing a hand on her small, soft head. Her hair, a deep shade of black like Mark’s, was as smooth as silk, and for a moment, you let yourself breathe, feeling the familiar weight of motherhood settle over you.

But something didn’t sit right. The thought of how different she seemed from Elijah lingered in the back of your mind.

As you pulled your hand back, you heard soft footsteps behind you, and before you could turn around, a voice interrupted your thoughts.

“You look concerned.”

You froze for a second, recognizing the voice immediately. Mark was standing just behind you, his presence almost overpowering, yet he didn’t reach out. He didn’t touch you. His gaze flicked from Roselyna to Elijah, and then back to you, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“What’s going on?” he asked, his tone calm but with a hint of curiosity, a flicker of concern hidden beneath the usual assertiveness.

You turned slowly, your eyes meeting his. “Elijah’s teething, but… it seems like Roselyna’s fine,” you said softly, your voice betraying the unease you felt. “She’s not crying, not even reacting at all.”

Mark’s expression didn’t change. He stared at you for a long moment before stepping closer, his eyes scanning the two children. Then he looked back at you, his brow slightly furrowed.

“Roselyna is different,” he said simply, as if it were an obvious fact. “She’s always been different.”

You swallowed hard, your thoughts racing. What did that mean? Why was she so… cold? So quiet? You couldn’t help but feel a deep, unsettling pull in your chest, something you couldn’t shake.

Mark took another step toward Roselyna, his eyes softening just a little as he looked down at her. “She’s strong. She doesn’t show pain like others do.” He glanced back up at you, his voice low, “But don’t worry, she feels it. She just doesn’t show it. It’s in her nature.”

A chill ran down your spine, but you said nothing. You didn’t even know how to respond. The way Mark spoke about her, as if he knew exactly what was inside her—what she was capable of—made you feel like you were on the outside of something, as if there were pieces you couldn’t see.

You turned back toward Elijah, who was still fidgeting, his cries growing a little louder. Mark watched you for a moment before he stepped closer, his hand gently resting on your shoulder. You didn’t flinch, but you couldn’t help but feel an odd heaviness in his touch.

“Don’t worry about her,” Mark murmured, his voice softer now. “She’ll be fine. She’s as strong as me.”

You nodded slowly, but the unease in your chest didn’t fade. There was something about Roselyna—about the way she seemed so unaffected, so distant—that unsettled you more than you could explain. Was it her quietness? Her lack of response to pain? Or was it something deeper, something you didn’t understand yet?

Mark’s presence was a comfort, but his words only made the unease in your gut grow. You looked down at Elijah once more, his small face twisted in discomfort, and you sighed.

“I just hope she’s okay,” you whispered to yourself, your heart heavy with worry.

Mark’s voice cut through the silence again. “She is. She will be more than okay. You’ll see.”

You weren’t sure whether you believed him, but you nodded anyway, not knowing what else to say. For now, you had to trust that he knew better.

As Mark moved to stand beside you, his hand still resting gently on your shoulder, you found yourself hoping that he was right. But deep down, there was a part of you that couldn’t shake the feeling that Roselyna, with her calm demeanor and eerie composure, might be something entirely different. Something that neither you nor Mark could fully control.

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼wc. 2216🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆

“Really feel the pottery in your hands. Feel the clay as you shape it.”

The sound of the teacher is drowned out, your attention on Mark and literally, only Mark.

Your nipples are pebbled, charcoal pencil between your teeth as you watch the muscles of his forearms flex with each movement of his hands. His wet, messy hands that shape clay so sensually. God, your palms are already sweaty.

You’ve long abandoned your art project, your incomplete drawing remaining just that. Incomplete.

And you feel your belly dip inward when you watch his middle and ring finger push into the centre of where the hole of whatever pot he’s making. And you nearly moan when he shifts his position, his arm reaching into the pot to shape the inside.

You feel like a pervert. A creep. A weirdo.

Like if Mark didn’t know you, he’d move to walk on the side of the street furthest from you, because your thighs are pressing together with each gentle circle he makes to the outside of the pot, middle finger pressing into the malleable clay to form patterns.

And you cover your lips with your fingers, dragging them down your chin as you try to grab a hold of yourself.

Mark glances towards you, a snort falling from his lips before he motions to your mouth, and your brows knit. Before reaching into your pencil case, pulling out a compact mirror and you grimace.

Charcoal smeared like a fucking goatee.

You rifle through your bag, pulling out a small package of tissues before you wipe at your face, checking your reflection to make sure you’re getting all of it.

“Young lady,” the teacher’s voice breaks your concentration and she looks down at you, “less vanity, more drawing.” And she plucks the compact from your hand, before continuing to walk between the aisles of students.

Looking between their different projects and you feel the back of your neck burn with embarrassment as well as annoyance.

“Dirty old bitch.”

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“You weren’t there to stop me from making an ass of myself, you dildo.” You hiss, watching as William continues to clean away the barely perceptible streaks of charcoal from your chin.

“I told you to take welding.” He huffs. “Only way you can make an ass of yourself there is if you lose a finger.”

You glance towards your reflection in the bathroom mirror, only satisfied once you’ve reapplied your lip liner, as well as your gloss.

And William steps out of the bathroom first, before backtracking, turns to you. And he presses his palm against your mouth, smearing your lip combo across your face.

“Oh no. Guess we’ll have to stay here for a while longer. Shucks.” William sighs, dramatic and you seethe. “You asshole. What’s so—”

You poke your head out of the bathroom, your eyes widening.

“She’s literally never even acknowledged his existence unless he’s validating one of her stupid opinions!” You hiss. “The fuck does she want with him?”

Your hisses are whispered and William shrugs, wiping at your lips before reaching into your pocket, pulling out your lip combo.

“I don’t know but it’s probably just—”

“William, she’s touching his arm. Oh, God, the world is spinning and I’m smelling pennies.” You groan, leaning back against the cool frame of the door and your hand moves to clutch at your heart over your shirt.

“Someone took my bitch, Willy.” You whimper, bringing your fist up to your mouth, teeth digging into the flesh as you bite down on your knuckles.

“I’m gonna end up on Channel 5, I just know it.”

William watches Amber and Mark, seeing the way Mark smiles. All sweet and bubbly, watching the way Amber laughs and the hand on Mark’s shoulder gives a nice, lingering squeeze.

“No, no one’s taking your bitch. I promise. Look at me.” William reassures, before his hands move to cradle your face, forcing you to look at him.

“Look. At. Me.” He takes a breath. “That is your man. You’ve listened to Seance Dog lore for fucking hours. No one deserves to ride that… Awkward, socially anxious… Permanently stressed… nerdy pony more than you.”

“You’re really bad at— oh, Willy, she’s really close. Girl, I’m gonna crash out.”

And William huffs.

“Amber doesn’t have shit on you. So what if she’s pretty, and smart and she always smells like the Bahamas. Or actually like... More specifically a daiquiri I had when I was eight and my family went there for vacation. But listen to me."

William forces you to look deep into his eyes.

"She does not have shit on you."

And you glance back at Amber and Mark, your spirit crumbling like a cookie when you see the way she pats his chest, her hand lingering and sliding just a bit to ghost over his abs as she passes him. And you nearly throw up.

"William, is this what Beyoncé felt like?"

"Yes." William answers immediately. "But this is your Lemonade moment. Babe, look at me."

And William sighs, his tone almost sympathetic as he whispers to you, "We be all night."

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆

"Don't be an asshole. Get me a job here." Mark whines, brows knitted into a furrowing frown as he watches you weave between customerw and aisles, continuing to restock various shelves of comic books and paraphernalia.

"No, you're like, one of the biggest customers. Every time you buy a comic book, that's a dollar added to my end of year bonus." You cross your arm over one another, ignoring Mark as he trails behind you, plopping down in the chair near the register and he continues to nurse his Slurpee.

"What are you even gonna use the money for? My mom buys your groceries." Mark huffs and you whistle.

"Wow. First of all. The money my parents send me goes into my college fund, and secondly, your mom forcefully buys my shit. And thirdly, I pay her back." You defend.

"How?"

"I do her hair, I mow your lawn, I wash her car in jean shorts and a backwards baseball cap, not to mention, when she works from home, I'm her assistant."

And Mark scoffs. "You just bring her snacks and take her calls."

"Because her own son doesn't even wanna feed his loving mother."

Mark can barely muster a response, his jaw going slack at your retort and it takes him a few moments to recuperate. "How dare y—"

"I dare easily."

Mark rolls his eyes, pink lips wrapping around his straw once again as he watches you interact with customers. You've got the sweetest smile, pointing out which comic franchise each aisle is dedicated to. And his eyes fall to where your palms are braced on the glass counter, limited edition comics displayed underneath and he watches the way your manicured nails tap at the glass absentmindedly.

You've got pretty hands.

Nice fingers, well kept and the softest palms, and you always know how to accessorize without looking tacky.

And he clears his throat.

"You got that limited edition Seance Dog yet?"

"Yeah, but can you afford it?"

And Mark scoffs. "How much?"

"110." You raise a brow in amusement when you watch Mark swallow heavy, his Adam's apple bobbing. Before he purses his lips. "And you can't hold it for me?" And you shake your head, lips tugged downwards into a mock sympathy expression.

"You know, I can buy it for you. But then I need a favour." You lean forward, elbows braced on the counter and Mark's pretty sure his ears stop working because all he can focus on, is how that pretty pendant dangles from your neck, right above your cleavage. You're giving him the minimal view down your shirt, and he's acting like a damn dog.

"Uh huh?" He squeaks out.

"Everytime I change my sheets, I want you to put the fitted sheet on my mattress." You cross your arms over your chest. "No matter where you are, what you're doing, who you're with."

"Deal!"

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌻🌼🪻୧₊˚⑅⋆

"You spent... A hundred and ten dollars... On a picture book?" Debbie deadpans, eyes narrowing at you from behind cucumber slices, her hand in yours as you continue to file at her nails. She rests back in the recliner, her legs stretched out, foam separaters between her toes as she allows herself to be pampered.

"It's a Seance Dog comic." You hum. "It's got like... Extra panels as to how he became like... Seance Dog. I don't know why, but Mark seems to like it."

And she lets out a breath.

"What even—" "He's an anthropomorphic dog. And he's kinda based on Doctor Strange. Like, costume wise."

"Who?"

"It's a Marvel character. He's like, a wizard."

"Then why's he called 'doctor'?"

"Because he's a doctor."

"Then why is he still a wizard?"

"Because he's a surgeon and a wizard."

"Do his parents know he's running around in a cape?"

"I think his parents are dead, Miss Debbie."

And she winces. "Died of shame?"

"No..." You snort. "They don't really... Go into much detail about that. Or they do, I don't know. I'm not very into Marvel."

And Debbie lets out a quiet sigh, toes flexing and she lifts one of the slices from her eyes, glancing towards where you're busy with her nails.

"Could we try an almond shape? A little bit longer." You note the way it's hard for her to meet your gaze and you gasp.

"Miss Deborah, you dirty dog." You snicker. "Gel build?"

And she nods her head. "The nude pink."

"Can I expect Mark sleep—"

"Without a doubt."

"God—" Mark pants. "Are you just randomly helping people put up water towers?"

"No." Nolan hums, arms crossed over his chest as he watches Mark steady the metallic storage item. "However, these people needed help and you were in the area."

"You were too."

"Who's the hero and who's the rookie?"

And Mark huffs, arms crossed over his chest before his phone buzzes in his suit and Mark fishes the device out of his pocket.

Number 1⭐: 'your mom's gonna get her 🐱 ate'.

He stares at the text, his expression faltering before he stares at Nolan, his lips pressing into a thin line that slowly morphs into a grimace. The longer he stares at his father, the more his expression crumples.

And the more his expression crumples, the wider Nolan grins, already having a mild idea of what the text read.

"You know, you ought to marry a girl like that." Nolan hums. "Smart, funny, likeable."

"She's a massive dick." Mark huffs, sliding his phone back into his pocket before he crosses his arms over his chest. Lips tugged into a disgruntled frown.

"That falls under 'funny', son." Nolan states.

"Well, that's too bad. I've already got a girl I like. Her name's Amber and—"

"Can Amber fight, Mark?"

The question is abrupt and Mark's brows knit in confusion.

"Huh? I— I don't— I'm not sure."

"Cause Amber's gonna need to." Nolan states. "At some point... in the near future."

"Why would Amber need to know how to fight?"

"Because, Mark, one day, she'll need to." And he coughs. "One day soon."

"Soon?!"

"Well... Soon by Viltrumite standards."

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆

Mark spends yet another night in your company, his shoulder against yours as you both stare up at your ceiling. Phones on charge, the lights shut off and the only other light being the slivers of moonlight that creep through your curtains.

"You know, you never told me your hero name." You state softly, your voice just as quiet as the raindrops that patter down onto the grass outside, pelting against your window and Mark hums quietly.

His hair's damp from his shower, his broad shoulders stretching yet another of your shirts although this time, it's an 'I Heart GILFS' T-shirt.

"Invincible."

There's a quiet silence between you and Mark glances towards you, only to see you already looking at him. Your expression is blank, unreadable and he can't fight the laughter that bubbles from his lips when you turn your back to him.

Pulling the covers up to your chin.

"Oh come on, it's not bad!" Mark giggles, a muscular arm wrapping around your waist and he pulls you towards him.

And the room gets quiet for a wholenew reason.

The warmth of his body is intense, the way his breath fans across your neck and the way his fingertips press into the softness of your belly.

And he dips his head, lips ghosting over your jaw as he cranes to meet your gaze.

He's grinning, dimples in his cheeks and shadows playing on his features.

"You're just jealous."

"Jealous of what, Vincible?"

"Jealous of my aweso— man, fuck you."

T🌼A🌼G🌼L🌼I🌼S🌼T

@lucky-beheaded ; @queen-of-gotham ; @coldvirginbitch ; @wittyjasontodd ; @a-n-a-n-a1 ; @dearlyya ; @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha ; @jasontoddswhitestreak ; @daydreams-and-peace ; @misstyy12 ; @fruticake ; @httpstes ; @waterflowersblog ; @glowinthedarkjellyfish ; @vm4879bb-blog ; @monaekelis ; @radlovesfics ; @allycat4458 ; @bigbodycity ; @feral010 ; @anesthesia-4rizzle ; @princesstrunkz ; @blackfox774 ; @sh1d0uryus31 ; @your-lovely-rose26 ; @slugstarzz ; @ripcolel0l ; @strawbiemilk420 ; @verysynical ; @kikiiguess ; @missam ; @luvvfromme ; @luvvcharxo ; @alma-ru3 ; @mxvoid26 ; @urfriendlyfrog ; @the-good-kooshe ; @troublesome-nara ; @secretaccountlol ; @syubseokie; @atanukileaf ; @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere ; @i-love-frensh-fries ; @love3vivian ; @boyofroyo1 ; @tamaranblaze ; @supersecretxreadersideblog ; @etphonehome0623 ; @markgraysonlover ; @icanmeltanigloo ; @itzmeme ; @buckturd

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

SAME SIN

pairing | frank castle x reader

summary | in your darkest hour, matt doesn't answer the phone. but frank does.

warnings | blood, death, violence, attempted robbery, religious trauma, possible infidelity, matt's lowkey kind of a bitch in this but that's ok, probably deviates from canon at times but fuck it we ball, MDNI 18+

word count | 3.5k

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

Blood wept from your fingertips, dripping onto the asphalt.

It had soaked through the man’s shirt. Oozed from the scattered holes in his chest, pooling around his torso. His lungs breathed no air. His eyes didn’t blink, gazing sightless up towards the Heavens. 

Sickness hit in a crushing wave. 

You doubled over, clutching your stomach as bile surged up your throat, burning over your tongue. The gagging continued long after there was nothing left, saliva dribbling from your bottom lip. 

Then there was stillness. 

Not the stillness of calm, or peace. But punishment. Sentencing. The solemn gaze of an all-forgiving Father as he stands before you, stone in-hand.

[To kill is a violation of Faith—] 

{—You or them?} 

The gun had still been smoking when it’d clattered at your feet. 

Regret felt like a wet blanket on your shoulders, suffocating in its weight. You couldn’t stand it.

Couldn’t stand.

Asphalt dug into your knees, crumpling at the man's side. Your hands had been shaking as you grabbed his wrist, searching for a pulse, praying for it in the way a sinner prays for absolution.

You found none. 

No pulse. No absolution. 

Still, you tried. Locked your fingers over his chest—pressing and pressing, trying and trying. Until thick ribs cracked and caved, until your palms were drenched in warmth and death and–

Rain. 

It was raining. 

Little drops, softly pattering all throughout the alleyway. You watched, dazed, as they slid down the lit-up screen in your hands. 

You didn’t remember pulling out your phone, but you remembered making the call. 

Calls. 

In the Bible, the number seven is considered sacred. Symbolic of divine oaths and promises, of perfection in the purest, most angelic sense. 

Seven times you called the Devil. 

Seven times he didn’t answer. 

You tilted your head back. The rain fell faster, cool drops steady rolling down your cheeks. The sky was a yawning, starless expanse. In the past, you’d always said that’s why you hated the city. The lack of stars—veiled by pollution and human selfishness, replaced by a twinkling skyline made of artificial hope. 

But tonight was different. Tonight, you were glad for their absence. 

At least the stars hadn’t seen what you’d done. 

Blood smeared across the phone screen as you dialed your eighth call. A different tone than before; a number not saved but remembered. 

A number you’d promised Matt you’d never call again. 

{In case you ever need it—} 

[—I don’t trust him.] 

What is trust? 

Once, it felt like the comfort of sunlight pouring through stained glass windows. Sitting amidst the oaken pews with a man at your side—a soft man dressed in a sharp suit, his glasses tinted red and his heart pure gold. 

Now, trust felt like the relief of a call that rang only once. Of cold fear melting into the gruff warmth of another’s voice, heavy with concern as they answered: “You alright?” 

You almost laughed. 

No. Of course not—because why would you call Frank Castle if you were anything other than desperate? 

“Are you busy?” you asked, awkward and hesitant. 

In hindsight, the question felt stupid. There was a body lying in front of you, and certainly no amount of busyness took precedence over that. But then, Matt must’ve been busy. Playing dutiful layer or God’s lone soldier. That’s why he hadn’t answered. 

Unless… 

[Elektra’s just a friend—] 

{—That what we are?} 

On the other end of the line, Frank urged, “C’mon now, doll, you gotta answer me, alright?” Had he asked something? You hadn’t noticed. “Where’re you at?” 

“An alley.” 

A rough, humorless chuckle. “Little more specific, sweetheart.” 

Five blocks from Matt’s apartment, you thought. 

“Off West 51st,” you said. 

“Don’t move.” There was the sound of a door slamming, of boots pounding down a flight of stairs. “I’m on my way.” 

Panic thrashed in your veins, anticipating the sharp click of a call gone dead. “Wait!” A cry, a plea—but for what? You had no clue what to say next. 

You hadn’t told him about the man, or the gun, or the sin. 

And Frank hadn’t asked. You knew this was because the Why? for your call hadn’t mattered to him. 

Only that you had. 

{You call, I come—} 

[—Frank Castle is a murderer.] 

Your eyes squeezed shut. You went to rub them, then remembered the blood dripping from your hands. 

So am I, you thought. So am I. 

Frank said your name. Once, twice. 

Quietly, you asked, “Will you stay on the phone?” 

The sound of another door pushing open, a great whoosh! of air as the city unfolded around him: sirens screaming, traffic blaring. With your eyes closed, you could almost see—shoving from his apartment building, marching down darkened sidewalks with a determined clench in his jaw. 

It wasn’t a man coming to save you, nor a vigilante. 

It was a soldier. 

After drawing in a breath, Frank uttered, “‘Course.” 

Time dragged. 

Hell’s Kitchen droned around you. Occasionally, Frank would ask: You good? to which you replied: How far are you? At some point, you drifted further from the man’s body. Ended up sitting on the ground, your back pressed to a brick wall. 

Your emotions were still fuzzy, as dull as the blunt edge of a knife. But your nerves… those were razor sharp. 

You watched both ends of the alleyway. Vigilant, afraid. Your muscles tensed whenever a car door shut too loud, whenever a stranger passed beneath the distant, buzzing streetlights. 

What if someone noticed? 

Gunshots weren’t such a strange thing in the Kitchen. The Devil couldn’t be everywhere at once, and the cops were either too busy or too lazy to investigate every bang! in the night. 

But if someone noticed you like this—curled on the ground, a dead man at your feet and violent red on your skin… 

He started it, you reminded yourself. Self-defense is absolvable. 

[To a judge? Or to God?—] 

God doesn’t matter. 

[—Why didn’t you call 9-1-1?] 

Why didn’t you answer? 

Your grip tightened around the phone. “How far now?” 

“Check your nine.” In the second it took for you to envision a clock, Frank had already amended, “Left, sweetheart.” There was the barest hint of a smile in his voice. “Look left.” 

You did. 

Frank was little more than a formless figure approaching. He was dressed in all black, his hood up against the rain. You couldn’t see his face, but you didn’t need to. His presence was enough to ease the frantic beat of your pulse. 

When he was close enough to hear, you hung up the phone. Wiped your nose on your sleeve and sniffed, “Took you long enough.” 

Cool and calculating—two descriptors that fit Frank best as he scanned the scene. He took note of the discarded gun, the puddle of watered down blood, the man with three bullets in his chest. 

You were the last thing he noted, and the only one to put a crack in his stern exterior. 

“Smart enough to practice law,” Frank lightly joked, “but not to read a goddamn clock, huh?” 

A laugh sputtered past your lips, melding into a broken sob. 

“Paralegals don’t practice,” you argued, ignoring the tears wetting your cheeks. “And I can read a clock just fine, asshole.” 

There was a softness to his face, one brow raising. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” So long as it’s in front of you, and you’re telling time and not direction. 

Frank hummed, his knees popping as he crouched down beside you. “Well I ain’t got a watch,” he said, “so I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.” 

Another weak laugh faded into quiet. 

Then, more hesitant than you’d ever heard him before, Frank asked, “You wanna tell me what happened?” 

Something about the way he said it struck you as odd. Like it was a choice—that you didn’t have to explain. If you wanted, the secrets of tonight could remain just that: Secrets, known only by you and a man who had no voice to share them. 

[Do you remember Psalm 80:9?—] 

Even secret sins are exposed in His light. 

{—How do you deal with it? All Red’s Catholic bullshit?} 

By believing in it. 

Frank took your silence for an answer. Shifted as if he might reach out, offer comfort. Instead, his fingers curled into loose fists. 

“How ‘bout you go wait around the corner,” he offered, “and let me take care of all this?” 

You weren’t sure what Frank’s version of ‘taking care of this’ entailed, but you knew you were comfortable with never finding out. 

Frank followed suit as you pushed off the ground. His movements were precise and easy, while yours were graceless and weighted. Standing, the world seemed to shift beneath your feet. Your mind was still hazy, your bones tired. 

Existence had become an arduous task. 

“When you’re… done,” you managed, your arms curled tight around your waist, “what then?” 

You didn’t want to go home—or to Matt’s. 

You didn’t want to feel alone. 

As if he understood this, Frank simply answered, “I’ll take you back to my place. Get you cleaned up, let you rest awhile.” His head tilted slightly. “You like pizza?” 

The world was ending. 

And yet here stood Frank—no Bible quotes or Hail Mary’s, no judgement for the sin you’d committed or the mess he had to clean. He offered only calm, only patience—and pizza of all things. 

[What do you see in him?—] 

{—Let me take care of all this.} 

You nodded. 

Frank’s apartment was bleak. 

One room total—unless you counted the cramped shoebox of a bathroom, which you did not. The front door opened into a shoddy kitchenette, connected to a living room that clearly doubled as his bedroom. 

He owned minimal furnishings. There was a lumpy couch, a small table with one chair, an old doormat that read Stay Awhile! except the Awhile had been all but completely rubbed off. You assumed that’s why it was inside instead of out—because even indirectly, Frank Castle wasn’t the type to ask anyone to Stay. 

Behind you, Frank grunted as he kicked his boots off onto the mat. You wondered if you should do the same, but didn’t. 

It felt strange to be in Frank’s apartment. Not because it made you uncomfortable, but because it didn’t. You felt fine. Still shaken, still a little sick—but safe. 

Would Matt be able to tell? Would he smell the gunpowder and Old Spice clinging to your skin and know that you’d been with Frank? 

That’s how you knew when he’d been with Elektra. You didn’t need super senses to smell her perfume—a heady mix of cloves and something citrus, lingering on his shirts as plain as if it were lipstick on the collar. 

Unthinking, you said, “You should get a bird.” 

Frank chuckled. “Yeah? And why’s that?” 

You weren’t sure. It was just the first thing that had come to mind, a means of evicting Elektra from your thoughts. 

“It could liven the place up,” you suggested. Though, after taking another glance around, you realized that might be asking too much of one little bird. 

He’d need a flock. 

Frank slipped past you, warmth crawling up your spine at the slight brush of his hand against your back. You told yourself it was unintentional—no more intimate than someone scooting past you in a crowded bar or a grocery store aisle. 

Still, the warmth lingered. 

“Don’t think I’m much of a bird guy,” Frank admitted from the kitchenette. Then, nodding towards the couch, he added, “Sit.” 

You drifted that way and sank into the cushions. The springs were practically nonexistent, and the brown leather peeled like a bad sunburn—impossible not to pick at. 

“What kind of guy are you, then?” you asked, more interested in a distraction than his answer. 

Frank dug around in the cabinets, grabbed a plastic mixing bowl, and went to the sink. “I like dogs,” he told you, loud enough to be heard over the running water filling the bowl. 

You pretended not to hear him anyway. 

After starting at Nelson & Murdock, you’d planned to get a dog. It seemed like the right time. You had your own place, your own income—and you knew Foggy would love having something cute and furry around the office. But then you got closer to Matt, and the dream died before it ever began. 

Dogs were too much for Matt. Too many smells, too many sounds, too many textures. Back then, you’d thought it was a reasonable sacrifice. No dog in exchange for an incredible boyfriend. 

You knew better now. 

You should’ve picked the dog. 

Dragging the lone chair from the table, Frank settled in front of you with the bowl of steaming water and a thin cloth. His eyes went straight to your hand. You assumed it was because of the dried blood until he said, “You’re fucking up my couch.” 

You stopped picking, dusting the flakes of leather onto the floor. “It was already fucked,” you defended. 

“So you gotta make it worse?” 

You fixed him with a blank stare. “Nothing could make this couch worse.” Short of setting it on fire, that is. 

“That how we’re gonna play this?” Frank looked like he was holding in a laugh. “I let you in, offer you food—and you pay me back by talkin’ shit about my couch?” 

“It’s not just the couch,” you stated plainly. “It’s the whole apartment.” 

It reminded you of prison—a place that you, Foggy, and Matt had worked hard to keep Frank out of. Even if the trial hadn’t gone as expected, you hated the idea that all that fight had been for this: A peeling couch, a faded doormat, a lonely little chair. 

Frank deserved better than that. 

[Have you forgotten?—] 

[Castle was charged with 37 counts of murder] 

[—Why are you so attached to this case?] 

With the bowl balanced on top of his legs, Frank dipped the cloth in and wrung it out as he joked, “Guess I need that bird.” 

Your lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. 

“Guess so.” 

Frank held out an open palm. Without thinking, you laid your hand against his. 

The water was too hot. Not quite burning, but still uncomfortable as he pressed the cloth to your wrist. But you didn’t flinch, utterly motionless as he wiped in slow, circular motions. 

His touch was far lighter than you’d imagined. 

Not that you ever had imagined it. 

As the cloth moved down to your fingers, Frank’s focus grew more intent. He was meticulous in cleaning every line of your knuckles, the dried blood caked under your nails. 

Only when the water in the bowl had turned the color of rust, the cloth stained and your skin spotless, did Frank trade one of your hands for the other. 

Only then did you confess. 

“He had a knife.” 

Half a second—that’s how long Frank’s movements faltered before he kept on cleaning. You were thankful he didn’t try to look you in the eye. That he didn’t have to for you to know he was listening. 

“Foggy has a deposition in the morning,” you continued shakily. “He always forgets to print his motion, so I stopped by the office to do it for him and… I don’t know. On the way back home, I could just feel it, you know? That someone was there. That they were following me.” 

An understanding nod as Frank moved the cloth to your index finger. 

“I know it’s stupid,” you told him. “But I thought if I cut through the alley, got closer to Matt’s, then–” 

He’d hear it, if the worst happened. The Devil would come. Your boyfriend—if you could even still call him that—would save you. 

But that had been a stupid, childish thought. 

“I figured I could lose,” you said instead. “That I could turn the corner and just run in circles until he gave up. But he was fast. I wasn’t even halfway down the alley when he ran up behind me, when grabbed my shoulder and–” 

Your breath caught. Frank’s touch moved slower, gentler—a feat you wouldn’t have thought possible. His eyes caught yours in a concerned glance. Only then did you remember how to breathe. 

“It was just a knife, Frank. A knife—and I pulled out a gun!” A short, hollow laugh. “I should have let him rob me,” you rationalized. “At least a wallet can be replaced. But him, his life–” 

Frank cut you off. “How do you know?” 

Your brows furrowed in answer. 

His hand went still against yours, holding the cloth wrapped around your ring finger. “That that’s all he wanted,” Frank gruffly clarified. “To rob you.” 

“I don’t, but–” 

“You remember what I told you? When I taught you how to shoot?” 

{You or them?—}

Frustrated, you insisted, “It’s not that easy, Frank. It’s not my choice!” 

[—It’s up to God, who lives and who dies.] 

Frank shook his head. “That’s the Catholic in you,” he argued. 

“I’m not Catholic,” you snapped, low but harsh. Frank looked confused, and you fought to keep the shame from your voice as you muttered, “Not anymore.” 

Religion, you’ve learned, is a funny sort of thing. Even when you stop believing, it never truly goes away. God becomes a ghost under your skin, a divine haunting that borders on insanity. You will always think in terms of Sinners and Saints. You will always know that no amount of repentance will ever mold your soul into something more like the latter. 

Frank wasn’t the type to pry any further. 

Instead, he adjusted your hand. Carefully dragged the cloth along the curve of your fingernail. The water had cooled, now too cold where it was once too hot. 

“It doesn’t matter what he was going to do,” you decided. “It only matters that I killed him.” 

This time, it was Frank’s breath that hitched. 

“No you didn’t,” he said, and you had never heard someone tell a lie so matter-of-fact. 

“I did–” 

He looked up. A muscle feathered in his jaw, and when he spoke, it was with the steely resolve of a no nonsense Marine.  

“No. I did.” 

You blinked at him. 

“I gave you that gun,” he continued. “Gave you that goddamn advice, too. That no matter what, you always gotta pick you. And see, I don’t regret that shit either because all that? It kept you alive. Kept you breathing. And if some no-good prick’s gotta so you get to live? Fine. Good.” 

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but stare at him. 

“But if someone’s gotta bear the weight of that guy’s miserable life,” Frank told you, “then let it be me, alright?” His gaze fell, lingering on your lips a moment too long before he uttered, “‘Cause I ain’t gonna let it be you.” 

[You care about him—]

[—Don’t you?] 

Do you care about her? 

[Elektra’s just a friend—] 

… 

[—Can you say the same about Frank?] 

You studied the man before you. 

Frank Castle. The Punisher. 

The one you shouldn’t call, shouldn’t trust. A murderer and a felon, a crack in your already crumbling relationship. Someone you tried to stay away from, tried to forget. 

A number not saved, but remembered. 

No, you thought, and wondered if Matt already knew. I can’t. 

Swallowing, you looked down at your joined hands. The blood was almost all gone now, washed away by someone far more damned than you. 

“Okay,” you said. There was no need to say anything else, no need to keep bearing the crushing weight of your newly acquired sin—not when God was a ghost and the Devil had abandoned you, not when a Soldier was so willing to bear it for you. 

“You know,” you said, deftly changing the subject, “my brain’s a little hazy, but I’m pretty sure you promised me pizza.” 

Frank fought the subtle curve of his lips. “Did I?” 

You nodded, and he chuckled. 

“Fine–” he refocused, back to cleaning off the last of the blood–“but you’re placin’ the order.” 

You mocked him, Fine!, while sliding your phone from your pocket. The screen lit up with two missed calls and one text. 

Matthew: Sorry, got caught up with something. Everything OK? 

Your thumb hovered over the message. 

In the Bible, the number eight is symbolic of many things. Resurrection is one of them; something dead brought back into eternal life. Once, you would’ve seen Matt’s text—a string of eight words—and wondered if that meant something. If maybe there was something left of your love to be resurrected. 

Now, you stole a glance at Frank—your eighth call—and thought of new beginnings. Of choosing your own path. 

You cleared Matt’s message. 

Tapped on the Safari icon and asked, “Do you want somewhere specific?” 

“Ever been to Lombardi’s?” suggested Frank. 

You shook your head. “Is it good?” 

Frank cut you a look. “‘Course it’s good. But knowin’ you, you’ll probably shit talk it the same way you did my couch.” 

A smile tugged at your lips. “Keep it up,” you teased, already typing the restaurant into the search, “and your only company’s gonna be the couch and the bird.” 

He chuckled. “I ain’t gettin’ a bird.” 

You'd just pressed the phone to your ear, already listening to it ring when you built up the nerve to ask, "What about a dog?"

Frank set the cloth in the bowl. Gave your hand a gentle squeeze. 

“Maybe a dog.”

a/n - this has been sitting in my drafts literally since january. i can't decide if i like it or hate it, but i've gotten into too much of a habit of writing, overthinking, and then never posting---so, here it is! thank you to anyone who takes the time to read it <3

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

AND A KISS FOR GOOD LUCK !

i only have you. take care of yourself for me. i take care of myself for you.

cw: descriptions of scars/bleeding/wounds

Leaning closer to the mirror, Jason picks at the skin of his cheek until he feels that familiar dry sting on his face and the thin stickiness of blood under his nails. It elicits barely a wince, he’s so used to the feeling. He watches blood flood inside the abrasion, the flushing, half-healed pink turning to a watery red. 

He hears your footsteps approaching softly, but doesn’t look away from his reflection. He moves his attention to a fresh mark on his chin where the raised, jagged edges of the new scar have just started to scab— an undercover job; one where he had nothing but a thin layer of armor underneath his clothes, his helmet stashed away somewhere in the rafters. The skin is peeling at the corners, and he tugs at the bits of flesh. 

“Jay.”

He finally tears his eyes away from the mirror; you’re standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with crossed arms. Your lips droop into a frown, teeth biting on your bottom lip. 

“Hey,” he says. He focuses somewhere between your forehead and eyebrows.

“What are you doing?” Your voice is neutral, gentle.

“These fuckin’ cuts,” he mutters. “They’re itching like crazy.”

It’s a half-truth; yes, they do itch like crazy, and it does make him want to claw his skin off sometimes. But that’s not why he’s doing it.

It has become second nature for him, scratching and tearing and aggravating the wounds on his face. Something he does when he’s antsy, or idle, or deep in thought. Just as every other time you find him like this, you shuffle forward and place your hand over his.

Reflexively, he interlaces his fingers with yours, a small, guilty smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Can I help?” You ask, softly, while leaning against his side. You place a kiss on his shoulder, over the fabric of his sleeve; the shine of your lip balm leaves a mark.

“It’s nothin’ to worry about, baby. It’s almost midnight. I have to head out soon.” The back of his hand haphazardly wipes a single swipe across his cheek, but all it does is smear the blood over his face. His jaw tightens momentarily, and you can tell it burns. 

“Come here,” you say, sliding yourself between him and the wash basin. You cup his face between your hands, dragging your thumb along his chapped bottom lip.

“You chew on your lips too much, Jay.”

He exhales slowly, sagging into your hold. On another day, he’d chuckle or playfully roll his eyes with a kiss to the pad of your thumb. Tonight, he can’t even meet your eyes.

You hop up unto the bathroom counter and pull him close to stand between your legs. There’s a clean washcloth hanging from the towel hook, and you run it under warm water, then wring it out. Jason flinches slightly when you reach out to his face, but settles back into your touch without argument. With soft strokes, you wipe away the thin line of blood, then drag the cloth across the rest of his face, careful not to aggravate the fresh mark on his chin. He remains still the whole time, gaze fixed on the mirror behind you.

“Does it sting?” You ask. He shakes his head.

“Can you look at me?”

Reluctantly, he raises his eyes to yours.

He doesn’t say it, but his eyes say enough, say the harsh assault on himself that sits on his tongue, fighting to break through his teeth.

“You’re so beautiful, Jason.” You trace your fingers along the lines of his features.

“You don’t have to do that.” He turns his face to the wall, trying to hide the frustrated tears that threaten to spill over. It cracks your heart in two, seeing the loveliest person you know blind to his own beauty.

“Jason,” you whisper, voice filled with desperation for him to hear all the words he won’t let you say. “Baby.” It’s a wish; a plea.

He’s never been good with words like these, starving for kindness with a mangled stomach. You learned this the hard way, after trying to force-feed him the intensity of your affection, thinking it would help him when it only made him sick. Now you dole it out in silent, digestible amounts; a squeeze of his hand here, a kiss to the forehead there.

He says nothing, but turns his head back to you. For now, it’s enough.

“What’s that for?” He nods to the bottle of opaque white water you plucked from your side of the sink.

“Rice water. It’s good for your skin, especially if you’re marinating under a sweaty helmet for hours,” you tease.

He grumbles out something along the lines of it’s well-ventilated, but nonetheless, he places his hands on either side of you to lean down towards your eye-level. You rub the solution between your hands and massage it into his face. He always seems to relax when your hands are on him; his eyes flutter shut and his lips part with a relieved breath.

You can’t help yourself—he really is so beautiful—and you steal a kiss to his nose.

“What’s that for?” He opens his eyes at the sound of you unscrewing yet another bottle.

“Oil. For the scars,” you say, tentatively.

His fingers twitch against the counter, but after a moment, he nods. You dab some of the pink oil onto your fingers, and carefully rub it into the jagged marks that decorate his chin, his cheeks, his jaw. He stiffens when you make contact with them, and you’re not sure you hear him exhale until after you pull away.

The bottle is replaced by a small tube of lip balm, and Jason tilts his head. “More?” One of his hands rests on your thigh and strokes up and down.

You tsk at him. “Can you just trust me?” You don’t give him a chance to argue before squeezing the tube and spreading the balm across his lips. His protests are muffled behind his mouth, which he keeps shut so you can work.

“Now I’m done.” You hop down from the sink, and he trails after you into the hall; you know he needs to stop at a safe house before starting his patrol, so you don’t let him linger in the bathroom with his hands on you— similar situations have made him very late in the past, and you’re not interested in getting another earful from his team.

His duffel bag of weapons and gear is already on the living room floor, ready for him to grab and go. A familiar thread of nerves and lonely pining run through your body.

“Okay, I’ll be back in a few hours.” Jason lifts the bag with one hand, and pushes a stand of hair behind your ear with the other.

“You better.”

He leans in to peck your lips, but you throw yourself at him for a fiery, desperate kiss straight out of a Hollywood movie. It surprises him enough to make the bag hit the ground as he wraps his arms around your waist to kiss you back with matching fervor.

He’s panting when you release him, face burning red and chest rising rapidly. Try as he might, he can’t hide the shy, flustered grin stretching across his face. “And what was that for?”

You shrug. “For good luck. Obviously.”

He blows out a breath, shaking his head. “Obviously.”

You run your hand up his arm and squeeze on his bicep. “Stay safe. Please.”

He smiles, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

“I will.”

heyyyyy guys. so lots has happened. we hit 1k😱😱I feel like a real life influencer now. Hey what’s up you guys welcome back to my YouTube channel, today’s video we are going to be fantasizing about emotionally unavailable men!!! U should totally check my recent post and participate in the celebration

This is based on this ask , read it for some more background, and the quote is from gabriela mistral’s letters to Doris Dana 👍🙏also this was not proofread don’t judge me🙏🙏

Thee divider is by cafekitsune I don’t feel like finding the post to link it I’m SORRYYYYY

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼wc. 2085🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆

“What’re you doing here?”

Mark mumbles, brows knitting in confusion, tugging his goggles and tossing them onto the kitchen counter, watching as you tip your head back, emptying out your glass of water.

He shouldn’t be getting hard in this suit.

It’s skin tight. He’s surprised that there isn’t even much of a print. And he’s smart enough to know he’s not the problem.

So instead of watching the way your throat bobs as you swallow, he turns his attention towards the counter, admiring the natural detail as he taps his fingers on the surface, waiting for you to answer.

“I did your mom’s hair.” You answer, before taking a good long look at Mark’s suit, reaching for his wrist and you tug him out from behind the counter and you carefully examine his suit.

“Damn, no print?” You snort with laughter. “Guess you’re more human than I thought.”

Mark’s hands move to hide his crotch from your view, cheeks flushing a deep red and he scoffs.

“Fuck you, the suit just doesn’t show it.” Mark defends but he knows it’s pointless. You’d argue over anything and win. Even if the better half of your argument would be pure bullshit.

“Then how come your dad has a print?”

And Mark grimaces.

“Don’t look at my dad’s dick.”

“I’m not looking at your dad’s dick.”

“How do you know he has a print?”

“How DON’T you know?”

“Because I don’t look at my father’s penis!” Mark hisses and Nolan snorts as he walks into the kitchen, blue eyes lowered to his wrist as he clasps the Rolex into place.

“I hope not.” Before he places a muscular hand on Mark’s shoulder, giving his son an affectionate squeeze. “There’s no shame in being a grower, Mark. I was a grower when I was your age too.”

Mark’s lips curl into a disgusted frown, staring up at Nolan from beneath his brows.

“I hate this conversation. Please make it stop.”

Debbie’s heels click on the wooden floorboards, and Mark’s heart melts at the sight of his mother all dolled up. Long, black hair taken down from a and instead, framing her face with pretty curtain bangs and curled edges.

“How do I look?” Debbie shifts, tugging her dress into place.

“You look beautiful, Mom.” Mark coos, dimples deepening in his cheeks and you watch with soft eyes as Nolan presses a kiss against Debbie’s cheek. Lips brush against her ear as he whispers something intelligible and Mark groans.

“Dad, ew.” Mark gags. “Never say that again.”

“Your mother deserves to know I’m aroused, Mark. It’s how we show our love.”

Your nearly choke on your saliva, brows raised and you clear your throat. “So, this is where I leave.”

“I’m spending the night at your place.” Mark grunts. “I don’t need to hear any more than I’ve already heard.”

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Why would you give my mother curtain bangs? You know what they do to men.” Mark whines, as he steps out of your bathroom, a steamy mist following him out and you glance up from the screen of your phone.

Before staring at him.

“Damn it, Mark. You’re stretching out my shirt!”

Mark stands in the centre of your room, arms crossed over his broad chest, stretching out your cropped shirt. On you, it’s a sliver of belly. Not even your belly button is exposed.

But on Mark, it’s just below his belly button. Exposing that thin, dark strip of hair from his belly button, to where it disappears behind the waistband of your Powerpuff Girls nightpants.

“Don’t be selfish. You’ve got a shit ton of other shirts.” Mark huffs, glancing at himself in the full length mirror right beside your vanity, visibly checking himself out.

“And you could’ve picked any of them.” You frown before gasping. Mark raises his arms, flexing and you can hear the seams threaten to rip with each bulge of his muscles.

“Markus!” His neck snaps to face you so fast.

“Don’t fucking rip my shirt. I swear, I’ll tell your mom you nutted on your sheets in 7th grade and you came to wash them at my house because you were embarrassed. And then you made me wash them by hand because you wanted to be eco friendly.”

Mark’s eye narrow. “You wouldn’t.”

But his arms are lowering and it isn’t long until he’s crawling beneath your sheets, tossing an arm over your belly and resting his cheek against your shoulder. Sharp eyes focused on the screen of your phone, as you continue to scroll through your TikTok For You page.

“I wanna watch fidget board videos.” Mark mumbles, breath ghosting over the soft, creamy skin exposed by the wide neckline of your shirt and he pulls you closer, one of his thighs moving to slot between yours, his leg hooking around one of yours.

“Watch them on your own phone.” You grumble, but you’re already swiping, heading towards the search bar. “My phone’s charging.”

You don’t know how long you and Mark are staring at your screen, shrouded in darkness but you’re hyperaware of when his hand slides under your shirt, fingers tracing lazy patterns on the soft, sensitive skin of your belly. And you swallow. Before glancing at him.

He's not even paying attention.

Even breaths slip from his lips, enraptured by the way acrylic nails drag along beaded surfaces, open and close the caps of serums and Mark looks up at you through his lashes.

You watch as his pupils dilate, his puffy cheeks rosy with sleep and he’s fingers stop tracing those little infinities on your belly and he swallows. And you swallow. And he swallows. His eyes dart towards your lips and he takes a deep breath.

God.

Bad idea.

You’re in his lungs, you’re all he can feel, all he can smell and he’s so enamoured by you. And his hand shifts, fingertips dipping just past your waistband. And his fingers brush against the elastic trimming of your panties.

Mark thinks you’re so beautiful when you’re looking at him the way you are.

The pictures of your phone reflect off your pupil, and your pouty lips let out hot puffs of breath that fan over him just enough. And your pretty hair’s obscured by a bonnet. He can’t remember when you haven’t slept with them on and it’s like a part of you.

God, the way the light plays off the silk makes his brain fuzzy.

“You’re really pret—”

“Am I the asshole for having sex with my stepbrother at my dead grandmother’s wake?”

Your collective focus shifts back to the device, attention focused on the way Mahjong pieces are formed while you listen intently to whatever Reddit story you’ve found yourself on. Completely enthralled.

“That piece looks really pre— Wait, shit, did they get nut on the corpse?” Your eyes widen, and you shift just a bit.

“I don’t know, the subtitles cut off. Go back.” Mark instructs, his eyes focused and brows knitted.

“It doesn’t have that option.”

“Wha— what TikTok do you have?”

“Lite.”

And Mark groans.

“I’m embarrassed for you, you cheap ass.”

“I needed to save space, Mark.”

“But you’ve got all the megabytes of regular Pinterest, huh?”

“Pinterest is important. You know it helps me organise my wants and needs in life.”

“Gay.”

And you stare at Mark, eyes narrowing. But before your lips can even part to let out an insult, Mark’s phone beeps on the dresser and he glances towards the device.

“Bank robbery on 8th.” Mark’s already lifting himself, letting out an exhausted huff as he pulls the shirt overhead, and you watch, entranced by the way his muscles move beneath his skin. Rippling with each movement of his lips and your eyes follow the curve of his spine.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay?” Mark tugs on his suit, the elastic waistband of his boxers disappearing behind a flurry of blue and yellow, and he leans down, pressing a messy kiss against the side of your ace. “Don’t scroll too far. And check the doors!”

Mark’s disappearing out the window before you can say anything, wind whipping around him and you swallow.

He kissed you on the corner of your mouth.

And Mark only realises when he can taste the hint of coconut-flavoured lipbalm and his flight nearly falters.

And he grins. Dorky and so fucking adorably.

“Nothing can ruin my night.”

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌻🥀🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

Something did, in fact, ruin Mark’s night.

Mark sirs in your tub, hands obscuring his crotch from view as you pour yet another cup of baking soda in the hot water of his bath and he clears his throat. He’s hoping that this is the time the earth swallows him whole, his knees poking out the frothy surface of the water and his ears burn a bright, blushing red before he coughs.

“I didn’t know it was a skunk guy…” Mark murmurs quietly, and you don’t say anything, simply throwing in another cup for good measure.

“Mark, my house smells like the inside of a skunk’s asshole.” You huff and he flinches before glancing up at you.

Your brows knitting into a frown, your hand submerged beneath the water as you make the solution froth just a bit more. And you glare at Mark as you rise to your feet, your attention moving towards the porcelain basin instead. Where his suit is soaking in a mixture of hydrogen peroxide, baking soda and dish soap.

And you sit on the closed toilet lid, arms crossed over your chest as you lean back against the cistern, watching as Mark soaks even further into the water. And you let out a heavy sigh.

“Are you okay?”

And Mark’s lips curl at the corners, a cute, sheepish smile donning his face and he nods his head. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

You don’t wanna seem… Unhappy that he’s well and you know, ungrateful that he’s alive but you kinda wish he was slapped around a little bit.

And you let out a heavy sigh. No you don’t.

“Your goggles don’t smell.” You hum, drying the plastic with a fluffy towel before you slip them on, eyes narrowing and you examine the slight tint that they give the world around you. And your lips purse.

“So, these keep the wind out of your eyes?” You question, brows knitting because the tightness of the goggles feel a bit weird. But that’s probably because they’re made to fit his face.

“Uh…Uhm… Yeah, they k-keep the wind out my eyes.”

And Mark is CLUTCHING his shit.

Cheeks burning a rosy red that he hopes he can chalk up to the heat of the because goddamn, he’s so fucking painfully hard.

Just at the sight of you wearing his goggles and his mind is piecing together how you’d look in his suit.

“Uh— can you- Uhm… Can you leave? I need to pee.” Mark tries hard not to sputter over his words, but the way you look in his goggles is making his brain fuzzy. And he swallows, murmuring the softest ‘thank you’, when you get up, your footsteps quiet against the tiled floor before you shut the door behind you.

“Save me a cup!” You chirp and he groans. “Ew, you’re so gross!”

Mark swallows. Before looking around your bathroom, resting back against the edge of the tub and he lets out a heavy breath, glancing towards your ceiling.

“M’so fucked…” He groans quietly before glancing towards his lap, and he looks towards your laundry hamper. A pretty faux basket, plastic strips weaved and decorated with little plastic flowers.

And Mark’s brows knit into a little frown, a low moan leaving his lips.

“No… Mark, don’t do it…” He mumbles under his breath but he’s already leaning over the edge of the tub, reaching into your hamper and pulling out the first pair of panties he feels.

A pretty purple pair, lace trimmings and surprisingly wide gusset. But then again, he knows you’d never play with that pussy lip slip bullshit.

Mark swallows, staring down at the cotton and lace before he brings it to his nose, fisting his cock beneath the water.

“God, I’m disgusting.”

T🌼A🌼G🌼L🌼I🌼S🌼T

@lucky-beheaded ; @queen-of-gotham ; @coldvirginbitch ; @wittyjasontodd ; @a-n-a-n-a1 ; @dearlyya ; @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha ; @jasontoddswhitestreak ; @daydreams-and-peace ; @misstyy12 ; @fruticake ; @httpstes ; @waterflowersblog ; @glowinthedarkjellyfish ; @vm4879bb-blog ; @monaekelis ; @radlovesfics ; @allycat4458 ; @bigbodycity ; @feral010 ; @anesthesia-4rizzle ; @princesstrunkz ; @blackfox774 ; @sh1d0uryus31 ; @your-lovely-rose26 ; @slugstarzz ; @ripcolel0l ; @strawbiemilk420 ; @verysynical ; @kikiiguess ; @missam ; @luvvfromme ; @luvvcharxo ; @alma-ru3 ; @mxvoid26 ; @urfriendlyfrog ; @the-good-kooshe ; @troublesome-nara ; @secretaccountlol ; @syubseokie; @atanukileaf ; @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼wc. 2248🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

From a young age, you had the ability to absolutely ruin what would be a heartfelt moment.

“Mark… you’re half Viltrumite.”

“You’re half little girl too. Chicken.”

Nolan lets out a breath, blue eyes narrowing at your intrusion but he doesn’t have the heart to send you away. Not when you’re holding out a glass of orange juice, tiny hands clasped around the surface of the glass, so careful to not spill.

“So, is Mark gonna get deported?” Your tiny brows scrunch, lips tugged into a frown and Nolan snorts.

“He’s not that kind of alien.”

You think back on that conversation as you remain seated on the wooden deck, face turned towards the Sun, and you can barely make out the way Mark and Nolan’s figure stand out like sore thumbs in the endless blue.

And then, Mark’s getting too close to the ground. Too close, too fast and your heart nearly stops in your chest.

And with a flurry of dust, Mark leaves behind a crater where he hits the ground and you’re barely able to cough away the dust, hands having the sand away from your face before you watch as Nolan helps him up. Gloved hands dust the blades of grass and soil from his shoulders.

“You want a sip of my water?” You hold out your water bottle as an offer and Mark scrunches his nose, shaking his head. “I’m good.” He reassures you softly, before looking back towards Nolan and you can barely deny the fact that you’re crossing your legs over one another to relieve the tension in your thighs.

You feel like a sick freak.

A few scuffs on the backs of his arms, raven strands slightly tousled from his flight and you’re feeling every hole on your body clench. Mark looks so focused, jaw clenched as he hangs on Nolan’s every word, brows creased in concentration and you watch the way his tongue peeks out between his lips, wetting the plump bottom one and you watch the flesh pinken.

And you swallow.

But once you’re snapping out of your reverie, you’re already watching Mark curl up, clutching his chest ad your eyes widen, knees scuffing at the grass at the speed that you’re moving, kneeling at his side and rubbing his back.

“Stop coddling him.” Nolan instructs, jaw clenching at the way Mark’s body contorts, hiding his face in the soft pudginess of your belly. And your fingers card through his hair, lips tugging downwards into a concerned frown before you look up at Nolan.

“Mr Nolan, aren’t you maybe pushing him a bit too hard?”

“Are you telling me how to raise my son?” There’s a tinge of defensiveness in his voice and your lips press together in a thin line.

“No sir.” You nearly grit the words out, helping Mark to his knees instead, dusting the sand from his side, using the long sleeve of your T-shirt to wipe at the salty tears that brim at his lashline.

“I mean, I only kept a hamster with diagnosed anxiety alive for 10 years.”

“You hurt me…” Mark’s face damn near crumples, leaning against your side as he stares up at Nolan.

“I… didn’t mean to hit you that hard… I’m sorry.” Nolan helps Mark to his feet, and you dust at your knees as you come up, staring down at your soil-caked sneakers. Freshly cleaned converse, for nothing.

And Mark glances towards you, following your gaze to your feet. Scuffed sneakers and soil dusted socks.

“I’ll clean your shoes.” He reassures softly, before letting out a cough.

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆

“I don’t think you’re a loser.”

Your voice is quiet as you sit in the centre of Mark’s bed, feet tucked beneath your ass as you watch him move around his room, sock-covered feet padding across the carpet with unrest.

You try not to be a pervert.

But he looks a bit more muscular than you remember him being. Wide shoulders with the perfect amount of delves to showcase toned cords of muscle, a broad back lined with sinewy muscles and you curl your lips inward when you watch the flexing flesh shift beneath his skin. And you nearly bite your knuckles when he shrugs on a T-shirt, moving towards you and he plops down onto his bed.

His face pressed into your belly, arms limp at his sides and you let out a sigh, raking your fingers through his damp strands, feeling the way they slip from your grasp.

“I mean, I don’t think you’re any bigger of a loser than you were before you get your powers.” You correct and you feel the way his chest rumbles as he laughs, before peering up at you through his lashes.

“You’re such an asshole.” He snickers, before pressing his cheek against your diaphragm.

“I can hear your heartbeat.” Mark mumbles softly, fingertips pressing into your sides just a bit, as he tries to focus on the gentle thump.

But you’re sweating. Because now there’s pressure to calm down.

“Can you hear the shit that’s making it’s way through my colon?”

And Mark laughs loudly, dimples deepening in his cheeks and you catch a glimpse of pointy canines that glint in the dim light of the lamp on his nightstand.

“I was trying not to focus on it.” He jokes with a snort, before sitting up, hands moving to rest on the fat of your thighs, exposed by the cottony fabric of your nightshorts. And Mark glances at you, sharp brown eyes drinking in the sight of you slumped against his pillow, surrounded by his comforters and the smell of him is clinging to you.

Fuck, he can smell himself on your skin and it’s a heady combination.

And it’s like silence blankets you both.

Prolonged eye contact and you can feel the way his thumb trace indiscernible patterns on the soft skin of your thighs, his gaze never wavering from where your lashes flutter, and his eyes lower. Only for a second to your lips.

He thinks it’s unfair that he’s never felt them against his and Mark doesn’t know what possesses him, but he leans in.

Moonlight forms a halo on his hair, his hands shift to your hips and your breath nearly stutter.

And much like Mark does, he pussies out.

Instead, bringing a hand up to pick at an eyelash on your cheek. You know damn well there’s no fucking eyelash. But instead, you shift back, putting a bit of distance between the two of you.

And you swallow.

“I should probably head home. It’s like, what, 10?”

Mark’s brows furrow and like a switch in your brain, your hand lifts, your thumb smoothing out the crease between his brows

“I thought you were sleeping over?”

And you need to think of a quick lie.

“While you were in the shower, I found your bottle of lotion and your elbows are still dry. So, I don’t want you to be beating your dick while I’m under the same roof as you.”

You make relatively quick work of escaping from the space between him and his bed, planting your feet on the lush carpet and you stretch your arms overhead.

Mark tries to be respectful when your shirt raises a bit, exposing the cute dimples in your lower back and he bites the inside of his cheek, jaw tensing with the action before he quips back.

“What makes you think I haven’t done it in your house?”

“What makes you think I haven’t done it in yours?”

You’re quick with your words and it’s almost shameful how sweaty they make Mark’s palms, the image engraved into his mind before he can stop it.

The way you dainty fingers would circle your clit over your panties, hopefully that pretty pastel blue panties that he caught a glimpse of when you were rifling through your drawers last week. The way your gusset would darken and he can’t deny that he’d love to hear the way you breathe his name out.

But no.

It’s not like that. He thinks. He hopes.

“You’re sick.” He grumbles under his breath, and you’re not sure if he’s talking to you, or to himself. Especially with the way the corners of his mouth tug downwards.

“Maybe.” You shrug. “Or maybe William’s jerked off in your house. We’ll never know.”

And Mark grimaces.

“Go home.” A pause. “And text me when you get there.”

“I literally live next door.”

And Mark stares at you. Blank and unreadable.

“Text me. When you. Get home.”

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆

Mark takes a nice, deep breath, boxers lowered just enough and he glances towards the ceiling, mind working overtime to conjure up one of his nightly fantasies.

But Amber’s face is muddled in his memories and Mark’s heart starts to pound nervously when your features come to view in his mind’s eye, unwelcome like an intrusive thought.

And Mark lets out an exhausted groan when he feels a bead of precum roll onto his fist.

“No.” He huffs, eyes squeezed shut as he tries his utmost hardest to picture who he wants to. “Amber. Amber. Amber.”

But he slowly softens in his grasp and Mark takes a deep breath.

“Shit.”

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌻🌼🪻୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“You’re never here this early.” Mark hums, arms crossed over his chest as he watches you, arms raised over your head as you proceed to hang banners across the ceiling, William’s distracted hold on the ladder seems to be enough to keep you steady. “What’s the occasion?”

“Student body elections are coming up and I’m trying to get picked for something.” You answer. “I’m trying to incorporate crop tops into the football team’s official practice uniform.”

“God’s work.” William sighs before glancing down the hallway, a sharp intake of breath at the sight of Todd.

“Doesn’t look like Amber’s here to save you today, Grayson.” Todd’s voice causes you to tear your eyes away from the banner. Well, actually, it’s the sound of Mark being shoved against a metallic locker that makes you look.

And you let out a breath.

Reaching into your pocket, and you pull out the thick roll of duct tape, before throwing it at the back of Todd’s head. The burly hands that grasp the front of Mark’s sweater instead, move to cradle the back of his head before he glares at you.

And he shoves William out of the way, instead, grabbing the ladder and beginning to shake it.

Your fear of heights kick in rather quickly, but not as quick as Mark grabbing the back of Todd’s T-shirt, fist raised and you yelp.

“Mark, no!”

Your voice stuns him, but it’s enough for Todd’s hand to connect with Mark’s nose.

You know it doesn’t hurt, but the shock of it still makes Mark’s eyes tear up. That’s regular anatomy.

“Shit!”

And your eyes widen when you spot that tungsten and diamond skull ring on Todd’s middle finger.

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“I’m sorry for… You know, getting you punched.”

Mark hums softly, wincing when you press a cold cloth against his nose, clearing away the blood and he watches you carefully.

Your brows furrow in concentration, you chew at your bottom lip as you try to be as gentle as you can. And you’re just so pretty. Long lashes, big doe eyes and such soft lips, glossy with whatever smells so sickeningly sweet that it’s making his head hurt. And Mark looks up at you, one of your hands holding his chin to keep his head steady, while your hand cleans at his nose.

And his hand moves, resting on the fat of your thigh.

“You’ve got really pretty eyes…” Mark murmurs softly. “They’re like… something you’d find in nature.”

He swallows, his heart pounding when he feels the way your grip on his chin shifts, your cheeks heating up just enough for him to feel the change in your temperature.

“Uh… Thank you. You’ve got a really nice Cupid’s bow.” You respond, and damn it, you wish you didn’t.

Because your eyes glance down towards his lips without your consent, and you’re staring. And Mark can feel you staring.

But he’s staring too. Looking at your plump bottom lip, soft flesh raw bitten but so glossily inviting.

God. He hopes those aren’t the only pair of glossy lips on you.

And Mark’s fingers are digging into the flesh of your thighs, and he’s watching the sunlight dapple across your features and he thanks whoever decided on windows that face the door of the sick room.

His hand moves, and he’s about to cup the side of your face because he’s so painfully sure.

“Mark? Let’s go, buddy.”

Nolan’s intrusion makes Mark’s hand stop mid-air, his hand fisting just beside your face and he curls his lips inward, a deep pit of embarrassment and internal cringe forming in his belly and to save face, his knuckles brush against your cheek. And he makes a soft, explosion sound.

“See ya, kiddo.”

It’s affectionate and cute. But in a loser way.

Mark watches as you rise, pressing a kiss against his forehead and you smile up at Nolan, the man pressing a kiss against the crown of your head before looking at Mark.

“Uhhh.” Nolan snorts once you’re out of earshot. “Wanna tell me what that was?”

Mark cradles his head in his hands, body prickling with embarrassment and he is, in fact proved wrong about his belief that super-people don’t wanna crawl into holes.

“Just take me home, Dad.”

T🌼A🌼G🌼L🌼I🌼S🌼T

@lucky-beheaded ; @queen-of-gotham ; @coldvirginbitch ; @wittyjasontodd ; @a-n-a-n-a1 ; @dearlyya ; @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha ; @jasontoddswhitestreak ; @daydreams-and-peace ; @misstyy12 ; @fruticake ; @httpstes ; @waterflowersblog ; @glowinthedarkjellyfish ; @vm4879bb-blog ; @monaekelis ; @radlovesfics ; @allycat4458 ; @bigbodycity ; @feral010 ; @anesthesia-4rizzle ; @princesstrunkz ; @blackfox774 ; @sh1d0uryus31 ; @your-lovely-rose26 ; @slugstarzz ; @ripcolel0l ; @strawbiemilk420

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼 wc. 590 🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆

“You skipped school so you could hang out with my parents?”

Mark stands in the doorway of the kitchen, his expression a cross between bewilderment and betrayal, as pretty brown eyes remain fixated on where your flour-dusted hands continue to roll various clumps of dough, your expression purely unapologetic and he watches the crinkle appear at the corners of your eyes.

“We’re making bread.”

“Oh, you’re making bread?” Mark repeats after you, his tone mocking and he lets out a huff, upper lip curled in distaste as he shuffles into the kitchen, taking a seat on one of the stools, elbows rested on the granite countertops as he watches you move around his kitchen with ease.

“How was school, Mark?” Debbie presses a kiss against Mark’s cheek, her hands dusted with flour, the scent of yeast and dough clinging to her skin, alongside a floral perfume.

“It was fine.” He hums, gaze focused on your back, watching the way your shoulder blades move beneath the constricting fabric of your T-shirt. “Why’re you making bread?”

“Your mom found a recipe and she didn’t wanna try it alone.” You respond, glancing over your shoulder towards Mark who simply lets out another hum, before shifting in his seat.

“Where’s dad?” “Perfecting his bread in his study.” Debbie snorts. “She kept evil-eyeing the dough.”

“I wasn’t evil-eyeing the dough.” You huff, almost defensively. “I was just looking and he said I was ‘sucking the flavour out of the bread’.”

And Mark snorts.

“What kind of bread are you making?” He lifts himself from his seat, hands pushing the sleeves of his sweater up, coming to stand beside Debbie. His chin rests on her shoulder, and he watches the way her hands continue to knead at the dough.

“Uyu Sikppang.” She hums softly. “Your father’s making Dutch bread.”

And Mark glances towards where you’re sprinkling chocolate chips onto your dough, your eyes twinkling deviously and Mark doesn’t really enjoy the way his belly knots when he watches the way you catch his glance from the corner of your eye, your lashes fluttering and your lips curl so prettily at the corners.

“And you?”

“I’m freestyling it.” You state proudly. “Vanilla extract, a pinch of salt, sugar and a few other things. And before you can even say anything, I’ve got faith in this bread.”

And Mark snickers, moving away from his mother, instead, plopping in the seat beside you, and he looks up at you from beneath stupidly gorgeous lashes.

“Remember when you freestyled that Math test, had faith and still got a D?” Mark’s voice is low, almost conspiratorially so and you glare at him. But goddamn, that shit-eating grin looks so good on him. Lips curled, eyes crinkling at the corners, dimples in his cheeks.

“Better than failing an English listening comprehension because Amber’s wearing shorts.”

And Mark hisses.

“I told you that in confidence.”

“You should never do that.”

And heavy thudding steps travel down the stairs, and Mark glances towards where Nolan holds a tray, its contents obscured from eyes (most likely yours).

Blue eyes crease at the sight of Mark, a smile raising his full moustache.

“How was school, champ?”

“Same old, same old.” Mark moves towards his father, attempting to lift the bowl that obscures the dough and Nolan swats Mark’s hand away.

“Not in front of her.”

“Mr Grayson, I didn’t—”

“Silence, witch.” Nolan interjects. “I know what your people do. I’ve seen ‘Hocus Pocus’.”

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆

“Your bread’s just a giant cookie.”

“I know. Isn’t it beautiful?”

T🌼A🌼G🌼L🌼I🌼S🌼T

@lucky-beheaded ; @queen-of-gotham ; @coldvirginbitch ; @wittyjasontodd ; @a-n-a-n-a1 ; @dearlyya ; @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha ; @jasontoddswhitestreak ; @daydreams-and-peace ; @misstyy12 ; @fruticake ; @httpstes ; @waterflowersblog ; @glowinthedarkjellyfish ; @vm4879bb-blog ; @monaekelis ; @radlovesfics ; @allycat4458 ; @bigbodycity ; @feral010 ; @anesthesia-4rizzle ; @princesstrunkz ; @blackfox774 ; @sh1d0uryus31 ; @your-lovely-rose26 ; @slugstarzz ; @ripcolel0l ; @strawbiemilk420

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

Tags: [mdni][mlw][slight humiliation][praise][implied age gap][fingering][squirt mention][porn][clit play][drool][petnames][mdom][female orgasm]

"Ooh, what movie are we watching?"

Nolan watches as you glance towards the TV screen, cotton nightie brushing along your thighs, manicured feet padding across the carpeted floor and you crawl onto the bed, creeping beneath the covers.

Muscular thighs rest on either side of you, his chin resting on the crown of your head before Nolan presses a kiss to your tresses, a muscular arm wrapping around your midsection and pulling you closer. You're snugly pressed against his chest, your eyes trained on the screen of the TV and Nolan hums.

"It's called 'my wife's search history'."

He responds with a hum, lips brushing against the hollow of your temple and you're trying to wriggle free. But it's damn near impossible.

His bicep bulges, and Nolan's free hand continues to push at the buttons of the remote, your search history displayed on a 70 inch screen.

"Baby, no. This is—" You're interrupted when Nolan tuts you, the corners of his brilliant blue eyes crinkling with amusement at the way your cheeks begin to flush.

"I wanna know what kind of things you're into, sweetheart." He coos, before clearing his throat.

"Okay, first one, 'how to fold an origami chihuahua'." Nolan snorts. "Did you learn how to do it?"

He glances down at you, your lips pursed before you nod your head. Almost reluctantly and he hums, a low rumble of approvement in his broad, burly chest.

"My nimble fingered girl."

And he diverts his attention back to the screen. You're not even sure what to be more embarassed about.

Your trips to Oxford dictionary, your dawdling spent on Urban Dictionary or the stupid things you look up for on WikiHow.

"Ohhh... A Cosmo article." Nolan hums. "You wanna learn how to squirt?"

And your cheeks flare up, and you try to slide lower, but he's got one of those stupidly muscular arms tucked beneath your arms, and he's keeping you anchored.

"You know, everytime you come close, you start crying and make me feel bad." Nolan hums, mocking you and you let out a disgruntled whine.

"Literally, what's the point of you doing this?" You complain. "It's embarassing."

"Is it so wrong of me to wanna learn about my wife and her interests?" Nolan huffs, almost dramatic as he stares down at you, inky moustache raising with his grin as he spots the way your eyes narrow.

"Especially since, you know, I'm never really at home and you feel all," he lets out a heavy sigh, "neglected and all."

And your eyes widen.

"Were— were you eavesdropping on my conversation?" You question, brows scrunching into a frown and Nolan leans down, pressing a kiss against the crown of your head once again.

"Focus on the part that I'm improving my schedule." Nolan chides you gently and he gently uses the hand that's not wrapped around you, to guide your face back towards the TV.

You'd complain and gripe, if you weren't so acutely intune to the way he touches you. Almost reverently.

His hand splayed across the expanse of your belly, his thumb swiping gently at the soft skin just below your breast, tracing the flesh through the fabric of your nightie. And he's just so warm and burly. It feels like you're curled up against a furnace and you're not even mad about that.

"You looked at our house eighteen times on Google Earth."

The laughter in his voice isn't hidden, dimples appearing in his sculpted cheeks and full, dark brows raise in surprise at your next search.

"Omni-Man... Up cape?" He reads, mulling the words over before letting out a breath. "You are shameless."

"I'm plenty ashamed now." You argue and he snorts.

"You weren't ashamed when you were trying to find pictures of my ass on the internet."

The glow of the TV is the only light in the room, the door shut and the light of the ensuite is dimmed, the door slightly ajar. The covers are heavy, weighted blankets that make you feel just a bit more secure in Nolan's arms and his head dips occasionally, pressing ticklish kisses to the curve of your neck.

And he hums. Low and rumbly.

"What's this?" He muses, before scrolling further.

"You watch a lot of porn." He comments. "Like... A lot."

"I'm very particular." You defend, eyes downcast to where his muscular thighs press against yours on either side, bracketing you against his body and your chest heaves as you let out a breath.

"I'll bet." He mumbles. "Guess that's why you went to page 113."

And you press your face against Nolan's bicep, your cheeks burning and your ears tinge red when the screen goes down, a little arrow forming a circle appears for a brief moment before one of the videos show.

Showcasing the exact timestamp where you stopped.

"Hm..." He hums softly. "S'that where you came?"

His voice is so quiet, a husky sound that sends chills up your spine and you weakly nod your head, peeking at the screen and you're watching a girl get her back blown out. Eyes shut, brows furrowed and mouth parted to let out pitchy moans that seemed a bit too loud for your comfort right now.

Especially since it's on a huge ass TV.

Nolan's hand moves between your thighs and you open them willingly, shifting your legs until they're spread salaciously, suspended over his own, thickly corded legs. And he lets out an amused huff of laughter, fingers sliding over the swell of your folds, pressed so snugly against the cotton of your panties. You bite your bottom lip, tilting your head back enough to peer at Nolan through your lashes.

"Keep your eyes on the screen." He instructs you so gently, guiding your head back to focus on the screen of the TV, and he hums softly, dragging a calloused digit along your soaked gusset, tracing your slit. He narrowly dips his fingers into you, just to feel the way your panties cling to your slick, before they move back into place.

Before you breath can stutter, Nolan's ripping your panties at the sides with ease, pulling the fabric out from beneath you and discarding it to God knows where.

And he glances back towards the screen. Tight circles being rubbed around your clit, his blunt digit nestled between velvety folds and he listens to the way your heart pounds in your chest. Breathy sighs slipping past your lips and your brows scrunch in that way that makes his heart sputter just a bit, and he brushes his tongue along his bottom lip.

"That's it..." He whispers softly. "Just keep watching TV."

You keep your eyes glued on the screen. Not because you necessarily want to, but because you know Nolan's spiteful enough to pull away and ruin the orgasm that's creeping up your legs in that steady rhythm.

And you swallow.

"Does it feel good?" He coos softly and you nod weakly, muttering the sweetest 'uh-huh' as your eyes don't even move from the TV screen, lashes fluttering and cheeks flushing.

You look like the cutest thing right now.

A little doll in his lap.

You're just so pretty. Big, blown out eyes, plump lips that are parted to let out the sluttiest sighs and he feels the way your clit throbs beneath the pressure of his finger.

"You almost there, sweet girl?" He hums softly and you nod your head.

Biting down on your bottom lip and your brows scrunch.

Your belly dips inward and that tightly wound cord in your belly snaps.

You're coming at the soft, gentle stimulation so easily, your toes curling against the sheets and your legs attempting to close but his infallible thighs keep them from doing so.

Slick coats Nolan's fingers but he's not really paying too much attention to that, focused more on the way you shift and wriggle in his grasp, and the arm around you tightens it's grip.

One meaty finger pushes into your cunt, the squelch is lewd and your lips are parting in an 'o' shape that makes him dizzy.

Your head lolls and you feel like a whore when drool trickles down your bottom lip, swiped away by Nolan's thumb as his finger curls, pressing against that sweet, spongy spot that makes your vision dot.

Nolan feels the way your nails dig into his forearm, watches the way your brows knit and his head dips, tongue dragging along your pulse. Lingering just long enough to feel the thrumming hidden beneath the curve of your jaw, and he laps up the perspiration speckled across your skin.

"You gonna start clearing your cookies, sweetheart?" He teases you, slowly pushing another thick finger into your drooling pussy and your eyes nearly cross, head tipping back and you can feel the way your brain melts with each pump of his thick fingers.

You feel each callous, each knuckle, you feel the cool band of his wedding ring kissing your plump pussy with each pump.

And you nod weakly.

"Uh huh..." You're lying.

You both know you are and a large, powerful hand grasps your jaw, tilting your head to meet his gaze and Nolan presses his lips against yours.

The kiss is desperate, needy, his tongue dragging against yours, claiming each inch of your soft mouth, your lips slick with your drool and he swallows each of your moans. Each whine you let into his mouth, is an unforgiving thrust of his fingers.

When you're coming around his fingers, you melt into a pliable puddle in his grasp, and you feel the way he presses kisses to the side of your face, gently bringing you down from your high. He pushes your cum back into you, slick fingers dragging against your walls and he lets out a soft breath.

Handing you the remote.

"Pick the next video."

Taglist:

@lucky-beheaded 🌻

@anesthesia-4rizzle 🎀

@feral010 ✨

@blckbarbiedoll 🌷

@allycat4458 🪻

@jasontoddswhitestreak 🌸

@custardpuddingprincess ⭐

@couldeatthatgirlforlunch 🦄

@theamazkngskye 🍄

@titchx0 🦆

@starski 🌃

@5lxt4u 🎻

@pariahsparadise 🏝️

@ilove-nsfw 🖇️

@milkstrawburie 🥛

@squigglewigglewoo 🪴

@mcharris747 🌼

@hhjira 🌬️

@atanukileaf ☘️

@Calicocat-ina-tuxedo 🐱

@maliagurl 🐛

@munji-tunji 🦐

@ruu-bluu 💎

@coldvirginbitch 🌨️

@radriiot 🌋

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

Tags: [mlw][mdni][friends to more?][tw: forehead mention][rex is a girldad, prove me wrong][fingering][ex!fwb][spooning][lil' bit of a daddy kink][creaming][doggy style][spit][

"You know, that baby looks a lot like you." Mark hums softly, attention shifting between the toddler that stands between Rex's muscular thighs, chubby hands gripping the fabric of his sweatpants and green eyes stare up at him.

Rex's gaze lowers to meet Winnie's, wide eyes that mirror his own staring at the ice-cream cone in his hand, rosy lips wetting themselves with a pink tongue as she shifts on her tiny feet.

He does see the resemblance a bit. In her mannerisms, her appearance. Shit, even the way she instinctively shows Cecil her index finger whenever he walks into the room. Rex knows that's not the finger she wants to show.

"Nahh." Rex dismisses, lowering the treat just enough for Winnie's hand to grip at his wrist, unsteady legs keeping her up as she licks at the cone. "It's cause me and her mom are close. It's like when your cat start to look like you."

"Babies aren't cats, Rex." Mark deadpans, slender fingers tapping on his thigh as he stares at Winnie.

"Do you know who her dad is yet?"

Rex shakes his head, his pudgy thumb wiping away the smears of strawberry ice-cream before looking back towards Mark.

Before shrugging his broad shoulders.

"Doesn't matter. I'm basically her fun uncle." Rex boasts before looking down at Winnie, dimples deep in his honeyed cheeks, green eyes sparkling. "Ain't I, tubby?"

"Dlickwee!" Winnie giggles.

"Don't call me a dickweed, you dyslexic shit."

"Rex, she's a baby!" Mark defends, hands hooking underneath Winnie's chubby arms, tugging her up into the air before ultimately settling her on his thigh, chonky fists immediately moving to tug on the collar of his shirt.

"When are you gonna tell him?" Sam's voice is quiet, turning away from where Rex has Winnie cradled and she stares at you, shovelling spoonfuls of ice cream into your mouth.

"I kinda wanna watch him figure it out himself." You speak through a full mouth, before looking back towards Rex.

"He'd make such a good dad if he wasn't....you know..." "Slow?"

Kate interjects, gaze lifting from her book and you purse your lips, reluctantly nodding your head.

"So, are you like, around all the time?" Mark questions, attention divided between where Winnie toys with the chain around his neck, and where Rex is lounged, one muscular leg extended over the armrest of the sofa and the other foot planted on the carpeted floor.

"Mhm." Rex hums. "I basically live there. You know, cause the kid's dad's a fucking deadbeat."

And Mark scratches the back of his neck, almost awkwardly, gaze shifting.

"Yeah, well, you know, he might... Not know he has a kid." Mark mumbles and Rex shifts, green eyes regarding Mark with a scrutinizing gaze. Before looking between him and Winnie.

The way how she's always been so affectionate with Mark, excitedly clapping whenever she sees 'Unca Mar'. And Rex sucks on his teeth, brows furrowing with suspicion.

"Real fuckin weird thing to say. Defending a deadbeat." And Rex shifts, elbows resting on his knees and he leans forward.

"You got a confession, dickhead?"

"Wha— No. No. She's not my k— I've never even had sex with anyone other than Sam."

And Rex snorts.

"Real sad confession, buddy."

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨💥୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

There's no way to explain the demonic horniness that shrouds you like a thick mist when you see the way Rex gently brushes Winnie hair, bristles gentle against her soft strands and she simply keeps her gaze focused on the toy in her hands.

Beside him, lay an assortment of different hair accessories. Glittery hair ties, elastics, bows, and an assortment of clips, all decorated with various yellow things. Plastic gummy bears, bananas, stars, hearts. Everything that came from a superhero salary in her favourite colour.

"Okay, Pooh, what's the look for today?" Rex questions Winnie, brilliant green gaze focused on her, her small body settled between his muscular thighs, the sleeves of his T-shirt rolled up to the apex of forearm.

Veins bulge beneath the surface of the skin, scaling all the way up to wear the bunched fabric rests, wrists decorated with an assortment of jewellery. Namely black bands, brown beads and one very yellow friendship bracelet. Big, chunky beads that look jelly-ish, puffy letters that read 'WINNIE'.

Winnie babbles incoherently, pitch varying as her chubby hands continue to twist and turn the cube in her hands. Trying to assemble the colours in order.

"Hm.. s'thinking pigtails too. To minimise your mom's forehead genes." Rex snickers. "Dome headed."

And Rex divides the hair, carefully putting her hair in pretty pigtails like he's done many, many times before. Yellow decorates that gingery hair, green eyes obscured by yellow star-framed sunglasses and he waits until she lets out that squeal at her reflection before setting her down on the floor.

And she scrambles out of the room, excitedly, and Rex lets out a groan, arms stretching overhead before glancing towards you.

"Fuckin creep." He mocks, barely ducking the folded towel that's meant to collide with the back of his head.

"Fuck you. My forehead's normal sized." You defend, before shuffling properly into the bedroom, arms crossed over your chest and like clockwork, Rex's warm, warm hands move to grasp your hips, tugging you onto him unapologetically.

Your knees dig into the mattress on either side of him, your ass planted on his lower belly and your hands move towards bracing yourself on his chest. And Rex snorts.

"Muscle memory, huh?"

And you suck your teeth, rolling your eyes as you grab for the excess clips, sliding them into Rex's hair, your fingers carding through the tangerine strands, watching the way the silky tresses slip from your grasp with ease.

Rex swallows, gaze locked on your face. Taking in that wide eyed expression, perfect lips pursed in concentration as you continue to fuss with his hair, gorgeous eyes framed by the prettiest and longest lashes. And Rex's tongue brushes across his bottom lip, before he shifts beneath you.

And he just keeps staring.

Not only because you're just... So pretty to him, but he's looking. Really, really looking. He can see where Winnie gets her expressions. Pretty lashes with your eyes, that same... Thoughtless look behind them. God, it's like the lights are on but there's no one home.

His thumbs brush over your hip bones, the soft skin exposed by where your shirt rode up and Rex inhales sharply when he feels the way your thighs twitch at his sides.

And he's trying so hard to not look at your tits, pressed flush against the fabric of your shirt. God, pregnancy did you good.

"There's something we need to talk about later." Rex murmurs, swallowing down and he watches the way your movements halt, brows scrunching in confusion.

"Why can't we talk about it now?" You question.

"Because you might get mad and I don't wanna argue in front of the kid." Rex breathes out. "Not good for the developmental shit."

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨💥୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

Immediately when Winnie's with Mark and Sam, Rex is letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding and he's setting you down on the sofa.

Taking the seat across from you, and he crosses his arms over his chest, thick thighs spread and he leans back, doing the hip thing. You try to not focus on the bulge in the front of his sweatpants, and instead, on his face.

"What'd—"

"I wanna adopt Winnie."

It feels like a weight in your belly. Heavy, pointy edges poking into your intestines and you swallow, fingers fidgeting. And honestly, you don't know what's worse.

The fact that you'll have to admit the obvious truth, or the fact that either way, you'll be stuck with Rex indefinitely.

"I'm basically her dad already. I sleep here, I get her ready in the mornings, I feed her, I buy her that stupid Lab— what the fuck even is that?"

"It's a Labubu." "Well, it's La-expensive as fuck. Why can't she just play with socks like I did when I was a kid?" Rex huffs, and your brows raise.

"Was CPS ever called?"

"This isn't about me." And Rex inhales sharply. "I wanna... Officially co-parent Winnie. Like... As her dad and not her... fun uncle."

And you swallow.

"Rex... " You speak so softly, your fingers fiddling and you keep your gaze lowered.

"You remember... That one time in Cecil's office?"

"Which one? There were," He snorts, "quite a few times in Cecil's office."

"When... You were like, really depressed and you were kinda desperate, even though we were mad at each other. And like, you called me and I came and—"

"Oh, you came. You came three times." Rex boasts, before shifting in his seat. "But what about it?"

This is nerve wrecking. You'd think a former assassin would be a smart guy but no. Rex is dumber than a bag of rocks.

"Well... We didn't use a condom. And you didn't... Pull out either, because I didn't wanna make a mess and—"

And Rex's expression darkens. Brows form a deep frown, his jaw clenches and you're preparing for him to... Well, blow. Especially when you see that low, almost angelic glow beneath his skin and Rex takes a deep breath.

"I have a fucking kid and you didn't think to tell me?" Rex grits, blunt nails digging into his biceps as he tries to reign in the anger that's settling at the pit of his belly.

He's just mad that you didn't tell him.

"I thought you'd know by now." You murmur. "You sleep over a lot, she looks like you, she acts like you."

"I thought it's like fucking cats!" Rex groans, hands moving to card through his hair, muscular fingers tugging his hairtie off and he takes a deep breath.

"Rex, you haven't not been here, for the last two years. Are you even fucking?" You question.

"No, because— oh shit, I'm a dad." Rex mumbles, the reality sinking in. "...and I'm not beating her."

"I think you're still eligible for me to call CPS."

Rex doesn't really know how he didn't put it together as soon as Winnie popped out of you.

Literally.

He was in the delivery room, fingers laced with yours, wiping away the sweat from your hairline and making sure you didn't pass out from exertion.

He should've known when you tested her name out on your tongue, murmuring 'Winnie Sloan' as she nursed from you. And he definitely should've put two and two together when he found himself attending Daddy & Me classes.

Fuck. You'd even hummed 'she has your eyes' offhandedly as you fell asleep, in his arms.

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨💥୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

"I'm gonna watch a movie. You wanna watch?" Rex leans against the doorframe, arms folding across his chest, muscles bulge and green eyes watch you avidly as you pull a T-shirt over your head.

"What're you watching?" You question softly,

"The Mummy." Rex hums. "Brendan Frasier's one."

And it isn't even long before you're curled up, Rex's arms wrapped around your waist, his face pressed against the curve of your neck and his eyes are basically shut.

Even breaths leave him, his body warm against yours, your legs entangled and his palm remains splayed across the soft flesh of your belly, tucked away behind the fabric of your thin T-shirt.

"You want me to turn the movie off?" You ask softly, shifting a bit closer to Rex and he shakes his head.

"Hm-hm... m'listening, baby."

His voice is a low, sleepy rumble, body pressed so firmly against yours only for his lips to ghost the curve of your shoulder, the ball of his nose pressing against your pulse.

"..you smell good..." Rex mumbles lazily. "...really good."

And he shifts behind you, his free hand moving from being tucked beneath you, and instead, moving to your inner thigh. He guides your legs to part, calloused fingertips pressing into the soft flesh as he shifts your body, until your thigh's tossed over his legs.

And his hand nestles between your thighs, warm palm pressing against your even warmer cunt and he coos sleepily. Flimsy panties do nothing to tamper with your sensitivity, and Rex lets out a sleepy breath.

"I haven't had sex in two years."

Rex's voice is lazily, a sleepy murmur that's nearly drowned out by how fast the blood is rushing in your ears, your breaths just a bit uneven as his fingers press against your clit. Softly, gently. Circling the bud as his half-asleep brain pieces together the words.

And you nod your head, trying your hardest to keep your mind easy and clear, your chest heaving.

"You're gonna let me fuck you right?" Rex breathes out, pressing lazy kisses against the skin of your neck, his fingers tugging your soaked gusset aside, before dragging along your cunt. Slick fingers trace your slippery slit and he lets out a breath.

"Right, baby?" He murmurs softly. "You gonna let me fuck you nasty?"

And two fingers plunge into your cunt, warmth blossoming in your belly and if feels like electricity's crackling just behind your mound with each flutter of his fingers. And you nod your head, weakly.

"Uh huh?" Rex coos softly. "You gonna let me?"

There's nothing that's preparing you for the way that his fingers are fucking into you, curling against all the right spots while his other hand cups your chest, thumbing over your nipple until it pebbles beneath his thumb.

"Mhm... m'gonna let you..."

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨💥୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

And by God, do you let him.

Nothing prepares you for the way his cock bullies it's way into your cunt, your back arched like a fucking cat, cheek pressed against the pillow and your hands grip the sheets.

And Rex's hands move to palm the fleshy globes of your ass, spreading them just so he can watch your drooling pussy swallow him whole, inch by inch. Nothing separating you, and Rex's plump bottom lip is wedged between his pearly teeth as he watches that unexplored hole clench and flutter.

And he rolls his hips against yours, cock sloppily kissing your cervix and smearing precum against your walls, his gaze remaining locked on that pretty, furled target.

"God, you're so fuckin sexy..." Rex breathes out, hands moving to grasp your hips instead, pulling you back to meet each brutally slow thrust of his hips.

You're so warm, gooey walls fluttering around every inch and vein, slick oozing down your inner thighs and you're breathing heavy. Sounds muffled by the pillow, the fat of your ass bounces off his hips and he watches as one of your hands weakly attempts to reach behind you, fingertips ghosting over his lower belly to push him away.

"Rex...." You whine. "S'too deep.."

"Move your fucking hand." Rex grunts, one of his hands moving to pin your hand at the small of your back, and he watches your other hand move, reaching out towards the headboard instead.

And the glimpse of faint scratches against the headboard makes his head spin in that way that has him letting out a weak whine, leaning over you to grasp at the headboard. The muscles in his forearm flexes with his grip, his hips snapping unforgivingly against your ass until your cheeks burn red.

His other hand presses down in the centre of your back, forcing your back into an even deeper arch, listening to the way your moans are muffled.

Your cheeks are deeply flushed, skin glistening with a thin sheen and Rex pants, brows knitting into a frown when he feels your walls flutter and spasm, almost uncontrollably.

And he pulls back, until only his fat, mushroom-y tip remains buried in your warm cunt and your holes flutter when you feel the way he spits on your cunt, before pushing back inside.

And before you know it, you're coming around his cock, a frothy ring forming around the base of him, and he moans.

"That's it, baby. Come for daddy." Rex groans. "Be my nasty girl."

Rex has you in a fucking headlock before your brain's come down from your orgasm.

Your throat nestled in the crook of his elbow, bulging bicep against the side of your face and his weight is pressing you into the mattress, hips rutting wildly and his teeth are sinking into your shoulder.

And Rex is fucking you like an animal.

Groaning against your shoulder, weighing you down until your knees are weak and threatening to give out beneath you and he presses a kiss to that spot just behind your ear.

His voice low and just a bit hoarse.

"Let's see if I can make you remember..." He takes a deep breath, hips grinding against yours and you feel the way his cock twitches,

"who's your daddy."

Taglist:

@lucky-beheaded 🌻

@v1tale 🥀

@anesthesia-4rizzle 🎀

@feral010 ✨

@blckbarbiedoll 🌷

@allycat4458 🪻

@jasontoddswhitestreak 🌸

@custardpuddingprincess ⭐

@couldeatthatgirlforlunch 🦄

@theamazkngskye 🍄

@titchx0 🦆

@queen-of-gotham 🦇

@starski 🌃

@5lxt4u 🎻

@pariahsparadise 🏝️

@ilove-nsfw 🖇️

@milkstrawburie 🥛

@squigglewigglewoo 🪴

@hhjira 🌬️

@atanukileaf ☘️

@Calicocat-ina-tuxedo 🐱

@maliagurl 🐛

@munji-tunji 🦐

@ruu-bluu 💎

@slugstarzz ⭐

@ripcolel0l 🎧

@strawbiemilk420 💌

@coldvirginbitch 🩷

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

When I find a 10k+ words count, friends to lovers, where he fell first and harder, extra yearning, no smut, fluff + angst fic

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

no. 1 party anthem — clark kent (superman) ! ᢉ𐭩

⟢ synopsis. what was supposed to be a night for work takes an unexpected turn when you run into clark kent—alone at a restaurant, waiting for a date who seems to have no intention of showing up. poor guy.

⟢ contains. clark kent x reader, ots and lots of fluff! it is one of the more romantic things i have written, cute blind date, characters are dumb, set up date, lois is a mastermind, i do not know anything about journalism, pinning from both sides but too shy to do anything about it.

⟢ word count. 5.8k+

⟢ author’s note. i can’t get this man outta my head pls help me 😣 the voices!!! also feel free to imagine this as any clark (and i mean any i swear: comic book, adventures with superman, tom welling, david corenswet, henry cavill, or even reeve)

“Hey, you’re gonna hate me but I’m gonna be like 10 minutes late. You go ahead and check in and order. The table should be under my name. I’ll pay the bill. I’m so sorry!”

You weren’t exactly surprised when the message lit up your phone screen. You rolled your eyes, exhaling through your nose. If there was one thing you knew about Lois Lane, it was that urgency wasn’t always her strong suit—unless it involved an exclusive scoop or a headline-worthy disaster with Superman. Still, considering this was supposed to be a work-related meeting, you had half-expected her to arrive early, not leave you waiting.

You typed out a quick reply, telling her it was fine when it really wasn’t, telling her to take her time when you wished she wouldn’t. Then, slipping your phone back into your bag, you made your way toward the hostess stand.

“Table under the name Lane?” you asked, offering a polite smile.

The hostess nodded, flashing you a warm smile in return. “Right this way.”

As she led you through the restaurant, you took in your surroundings with subtle curiosity. The place was charming—exactly the kind of cozy, floral-accented spot Lois would dig up for an ‘informal work chat.’ The kind of place that felt like it had stories tucked between its soft candlelit tables and ivy-draped walls.

You tried to dress the part, too—professional but approachable. You weren’t here for a casual dinner, after all. This meeting was supposed to be a quick sit-down with a lawyer Lois had arranged, someone who could confirm a few key details for a piece you were both working on. A case involving a corporation and some shady legal maneuvering—Lois had the sources, but you were the one handling the research. You’d spent the past week buried in legal jargon, piecing together statements and contracts, and now you just needed a professional to verify what you suspected before the article could go to print.

By the time you reached your table, you were already running through the questions in your head, mentally preparing for the conversation. The restaurant wasn’t grand, but it was stunning in its own way. You admired the decor, taking in the quiet hum of conversation and the delicate clink of silverware.

At least if Lois was late, you had time to go over your notes one more time.

You ran your hands over your portfolio, smoothing the cover absentmindedly as you flipped through the pages. The neatly typed notes stared back at you, but none of the words really registered. All you could do was wait—for the lawyer, for Lois, for some sign that this wasn’t going to be a complete waste of time.

With a sigh, you reached for the glass of wine you ordered a few minutes ago, taking a slow sip before setting it back down. You had to pace yourself, or you’d drain the whole thing before anyone even showed up. You checked your phone, hoping for an update, but the screen remained frustratingly blank.

Disappointed, you rested your chin on your hand, eyes drifting across the restaurant. The warm glow of golden light reflected off polished wood and delicate floral centrepieces, the soft murmur of conversation blending with the occasional clink of silverware. Your waiter had already stopped by twice, politely offering more appetizers while you tried not to look as painfully alone as you felt. If they came by again, you weren’t sure if you’d accept out of politeness or embarrassment.

And then, just as you took another sip of wine, a familiar figure walked through the entrance.

Clark Kent.

You blinked, watching as the hostess led him inside, guiding him through the rows of neatly arranged tables. Even from where you sat, you recognized the way he carried himself—like he was constantly trying to shrink his presence, shoulders slightly hunched, movements careful and deliberate. It was ironic, really, considering how much space he naturally took up. Clark was tall, broad-shouldered, and impossible to miss, yet he carried himself like he didn’t want to be noticed.

You knew him, but not really.

Not as much as you want to.

You were office acquaintances at best—two reporters who shared the same workplace, desks across from each other, but rarely the same conversations. There had been moments, though. Fleeting ones. Catching his lingering glances during late nights at the Daily Planet, both of you working in near silence, save for the tapping of keyboards. A handful of polite exchanges over the coffee machine, his voice always gentle, soft-spoken. And then, of course, there were the times someone would call out "Hey, Smallville!" across the office, earning a sheepish smile from Clark as he adjusted his glasses and ducked his head.

He looked nice tonight. Not too different from his usual work attire, but more relaxed. A crisp button-up, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal a strong line of his forearms, dress pants fitted just right. He had forgone the tie, leaving the top button undone. Simple, but put-together. Effortless in a way that shouldn’t have been so charming, but somehow was.

And then you realized the hostess was leading him closer.

You quickly dropped your gaze, staring into your half-empty wine glass like it suddenly held the secrets of the universe. The last thing you wanted was to be caught staring, especially while sitting alone, nursing a drink, and very clearly sulking.

Maybe, just maybe, if you looked busy enough, you could avoid drawing any attention at all.

And for a moment, it worked.

You picked up your phone again, checking the time for what had to be the hundredth time that night. With a little too much urgency, you started to type out a message to Lois—something casual, something that wouldn’t sound desperate, something that would make it seem like you weren’t upset about currently sitting alone in a nice restaurant, swirling the last remnants of your wine waiting for her to get there. You were so focused on forming the perfect text that you almost missed it—

Your name.

Spoken softly, but clear. Familiar.

Your fingers hesitated over the keyboard. The voice had a weight to it, warm and steady, like someone genuinely surprised but pleased to see you. You swallowed and glanced up, feigning a search for the source before your gaze finally landed on Clark.

He wasn’t seated directly beside you but rather at the table across, angled just enough that you had to turn your head slightly to meet his eye. His lips curled into a sheepish smile, glasses slipping just a little down the bridge of his nose before he quickly pushed them back up again.

“Hi.”

That was all. Just hi. Simple, unassuming, but it made something settle in your chest, something you hadn’t even realized was tense.

You couldn’t bite back the smile forming on your own lips. “Hi, Clark.”

“Hey.”

A kind man with few words.

Though you’d heard him talk endlessly before, especially with Lois—deep in discussion, debating headlines, getting lost in conversations about ethics and reporting. But with you, it was always something short and sweet. A few words here and there. And yet, even the simplest conversations had a way of lingering. Would it be silly to admit that your brief, slightly awkward chats with Clark kind of made your day? Even when it was just him asking to borrow an extra pen?

God, you felt like a teenager again, having a crush on a classmate.

You watched as he rubbed at his cheek, the scruff there catching the soft glow of the restaurant lighting. His pointer finger rested idly at the seam of his lips, and you forced yourself to focus—not to stare at his mouth, not to let your gaze linger anywhere it shouldn’t.

He was your coworker, for fuck’s sake.

A really pretty one.

A really kind, really good-looking coworker.

You exhaled lightly, pressing your fingertips against the stem of your glass as if that might ground you. “It’s nice to see you.” The words came out before you could stop them, but they were true. It was nice.

It was almost like he perked up at that, his posture straightening just a little. “Yeah, great to see you too. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I... I could say the same.” Your cheeks were starting to hurt from how much you were smiling. You tried to temper it, but it was hard when Clark Kent was looking at you like that—all honey-eyed.

“Are you here for work?” he asked, casting a pointed look at the portfolio by your hands, stacked neatly beside your drink.

You glanced down at it as if you had momentarily forgotten it was there. “Um, yeah. I’m meeting with a source, so... they should be here any minute.”

Clark’s brows lifted slightly. “It’s your story on LexCorp, right?”

Your fingers, which had been absently tracing the condensation on your glass, paused. “Yeah, it is actually.” You blinked at him, a little surprised. “How’d you know?”

His smile was almost bashful, his hand brushing the back of his neck in that way he always did when he was being modest. “Oh, I just remember you mentioning it a few days ago. It’s a great story.”

Something in your chest tightened—not in a bad way, just in a way that made you feel warm all over. You hadn’t expected him to remember, let alone bring it up. The conversation you’d had at work had been so brief, just an offhand remark about how you were stepping outside your usual comfort zone. No one else had really asked you about it since.

“You think?” You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “I thought it was kind of a stretch. I mean, like—a stretch from what I usually write, you know? I don’t really deal with politics and corporate stuff and all that.”

Clark shook his head, that gentle, reassuring look in his eyes making it impossible not to believe him. “I’m sure it’ll be great. You’re an amazing writer.”

You were smiling even wider now. Compliments weren’t uncommon at the Daily Planet—people gave each other nods of approval, a “good job” here and there. But Clark said it like he meant it, like he had read your work, thought about it, believed in it.

It reminded you of the time he had quietly left a sticky note on your desk after an article of yours had been rushed to print. Really great work on this one! -CK. You’d found it hours later, after everyone had gone home. It had been such a small thing, but you’d kept the note tucked inside your notebook anyway.

You felt your cheeks warm. “Thanks, Clark. I think you’re a great writer too.”

He ducked his head slightly, smiling. “Thank you.”

There was a beat of silence, not awkward, just something familiar to the pauses between you two at the office. Expect this time you didn’t have any work to distract yourself with. You hesitated before finally breaking it.

“If you don’t mind me asking… what’re you doing here?”

“I, uh… I have a date, actually.”

“Oh.”

It wasn’t a big deal. It shouldn’t have been a big deal. But for some reason, you felt your stomach drop slightly, and you almost wanted to smack yourself in the head for not catching on sooner. Of course, he was here on a date, looking like that—all charming and shy.

He even smelled good, like fresh linen and something warm, something undeniably Clark.

“I know how it looks,” he started, and you noticed the way his shoulders began to hunch in on themselves like he was trying to make himself smaller. “Feels strange. I don’t think I’ve been dating since college.”

You let out a breath of amusement, nodding slowly. “Wow. Uh—good for you, though. I’m happy for you.”

“Yeah, I mean…” He hesitated, then glanced up at you, a little sheepish. “Can I be honest?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing. It’s a blind date, so I have no idea what this person looks like or who they are.”

You blinked. “You don’t know anything?”

“They’re a friend of Lois.” He exhaled lightly, shaking his head. “But that’s as much as I got.”

“Oh.” Your lips parted, then closed. “I’m sure you’ll do fine, Clark.” You shot him a small, hopefully reassuring smile. “I’ll be here for moral support.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “You’ve got your thing to worry about.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t help a friend out too.”

The words left your mouth before you had a chance to really think about them. Friend. You wondered if you could even call yourselves that. You were more acquaintances if anything—a friend of a friend. But Clark always did little favours for you, and he was always kind to you.

Like the time he had grabbed you a coffee when you’d been stuck in a seemingly endless editorial meeting, dropping it off at your desk without a word. Just a small smile, a quiet “figured you could use one.”

Or the time he’d helped you carry an entire box of research binders up three flights of stairs because the elevator was down. He had done it without hesitation, without you even asking, took it from your hands like it was weightless.

Then there was the time he had lent you his jacket when an assignment had left you stranded in the rain. It had been late, the Daily Planet nearly empty, and you had been standing by the windows, arms wrapped around yourself, shivering slightly as you tried to figure out how to make it home without getting completely drenched. Clark had passed by, paused, then shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders before you could protest. “Just give it back tomorrow,” he’d said.

But it wasn’t just him.

You had done things for him too.

The time you had stayed late to help him rework an article after an editor had torn through it with a red pen, sitting beside him as the newsroom emptied, tossing ideas back and forth until it finally felt right. He had looked at you then, something warm in his eyes, and said, “I owe you one.”

Or the time he had misplaced his glasses—how he had checked every possible spot, growing more and more flustered, only for you to walk over and pluck them from where they had been resting atop his head. You had laughed, shaking your head as you handed them back. He had gone pink in the ears, mumbling something about being forgetful, but the way he had smiled after made you think he didn’t mind the teasing.

Then there was the time you had covered for him when he had mysteriously disappeared right before a meeting. Lois had been looking for him, impatient and muttering about how he always seemed to vanish at the worst times. You had lied—just a small one. Said he had mentioned stepping out for a quick errand, and that he’d be back soon. You weren’t sure why you had done it.

Helping him out never hurt. So it shouldn’t hurt one more time.

Well, maybe it would. Just a little bit.

It might hurt your pride, mostly.

“Besides,” you continued, “I’ve been here for almost twenty minutes and no one’s showed up.”

“That’s... odd.”

“I know,” you muttered, glancing at your phone again, the screen glowing with no new notifications. You hesitated, thumb hovering over your messages before sighing and picking it up. “Can you excuse me for a second?”

“Of course,” Clark said, ever patient, though his brows knit together slightly in concern.

You slid out of your seat, weaving through the dimly lit restaurant. The warm hum of conversation filled the air, glasses clinking, silverware scraping against plates. A jazz melody played softly from the speakers, almost drowned out by the occasional burst of laughter from a nearby table. You stepped toward the front, near the entrance, where it was quieter, and pressed the phone to your ear.

Lois hadn’t answered your last two—three?—messages. You tried calling her once. The line rang and rang, then went to voicemail. You exhaled sharply and called again, tapping your fingers against the wooden counter near the hostess stand.

On the last ring, she finally picked up.

"Hello-?"

“Where are you?” You didn’t bother hiding the frustration in your voice, pacing a little near the door.

"I'm... on my way, I swear."

“You said that almost half an hour ago, Lois.”

"I know, I know—I’m sorry. I was just about to call—"

You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling through your teeth. “And the lawyer, do you know when they’ll get here?”

A pause.

"I… I don’t know."

Your stomach dropped. “You don’t know?”

"No… now that I think about it… I don’t think I confirmed a time."

“Lois,” you breathed, dragging a hand down your face.

"I’m sorry. Maybe we should rain check. I’ll leave them a message or something and we can do this another day."

You glanced back toward your table, then toward Clark, who was politely minding his own business, idly staring at his menu. Your eyes flickered to your untouched portfolio, the very reason you had come out tonight in the first place.

“I need the papers approved by Wednesday.”

"And it’s Saturday night. You have plenty of time."

“This is rich coming from you,” you deadpanned, rubbing your temple.

"I know, just… maybe it’s a sign you gotta take things slow. You know, focusing on yourself instead of work. Maybe you should go to a club or something."

You scoffed, barely biting back an incredulous laugh. “Lois… this fucking sucks.”

"I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s all my fault, okay? I’ll take you out tomorrow for brunch, swear on that. I promise. And I’ll transfer you for whatever you order tonight. Keep the receipt and give it to me."

You sighed, glancing down at your shoes. “I’m just gonna go home.”

"What? And waste a perfectly good night? You should stay out, meet new people, socialize with things that aren’t your laptop. Doesn’t that sound nice?"

You exhaled, staring blankly at the floor tiles. “I think a movie from my bed sounds really nice.”

"I’m not even gonna fight you on this."

“Bye, Lois.”

"Bye. Love you."

You ended the call with a quiet sigh, lingering in place for a moment, letting the frustration settle. You had spent the entire day mentally preparing for this meeting, running through questions, making sure every document was in order. Now, all of it felt like wasted energy.

With another steadying breath, you pushed off the pillar you had been leaning against, shoulders still tight with frustration, and made your way back to your table. The restaurant hadn’t gotten any quieter in your absence—if anything, the crowd had only grown as the night grew longer.

Clark glanced up as you returned, and the way his expression softened told you everything—he didn’t even need to ask how the call had gone. He just knew.

Still, before he could say anything, you beat him to it. “Your date’s not here yet?” You sank back into your seat, brushing a stray napkin aside as if the small action would help ground you.

Clark shook his head, and he didn’t seem too disappointed. “No, not yet.” He tilted his head slightly, studying you in that quiet, observant way of his. “Is everything alright?”

You blinked at him, still half in your own thoughts. “Hmm?”

“The phone call,” he clarified, “you seem… a little… annoyed.”

That was putting it lightly.

He hesitated, like he wasn’t sure if he should push further, then asked, voice gentle, “Do you want to talk about it?”

The simplicity of it—the way he just offered, no pressure, no expectations—unravelled some of the tension in your chest.

“I don’t wanna bother you about my stuff,” you said honestly.

“It’s no bother.”

You glanced up at him, at the unwavering patience in his expression. “You’re really sweet, Clark. You know that, right?”

A faint pink dusted the tips of his ears. “I wouldn’t say that…” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s in your nature?” you teased.

He let out a small, awkward laugh, shaking his head. “I definitely wouldn’t say that either.”

That made you smile—something small, something real.

“Well, it’s true,” you insisted. “Must’ve been the way you were raised.”

“Must’ve been.”

Before you could say anything else, a waiter arrived, carefully setting a starter plate and a drink down in front of Clark. He thanked her politely, offering a small nod before she walked away.

“I, uh…” He gestured to the plate. “I ordered some nachos if you want some.”

You raised a brow. “Shouldn’t those be for your date?”

He gave you an easy, lopsided smile. “They won’t have to know.”

A small chuckle slipped out before you could stop it. “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

The nachos were surprisingly good, crisp and warm under the layer of melted cheese, but you barely tasted them. Instead, your focus kept drifting—to Clark, to your phone, to the door.

At first, you thought about calling it a night. You could have told Clark you were heading home, and he probably would have understood, probably would have even offered to walk you to your car or wait with you for an Uber. But something stopped you.

Maybe it was the way he seemed at ease, talking to you like there wasn’t anywhere else he’d rather be. Maybe it was how easy it was to talk to him tonight, without work looming over you, without deadlines keeping your conversations clipped and efficient. Or maybe—maybe it was the nagging feeling in your gut that kept telling you he was waiting on someone who wasn’t going to show.

You hated that thought.

You didn’t say anything, though, not when another ten minutes passed, not when he checked his phone for the fourth—or was it fifth?—time. You just sat with him, keeping him company, even if you dreaded the moment someone else walked through those doors.

Clark kept insisting his date would be there soon. But every time he said it, the confidence in his voice waned.

By the time another twenty minutes passed, you were sitting with your phone open in your lap, ready to call an Uber. You should go home. It had been a long day, and you weren’t exactly in the mood to be out any more. But you hesitated when Clark spoke again.

“They should be here any minute now,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

You glanced up at him, watching the way his brows pinched slightly as he checked his phone again.

He had said that before. More than once.

You were starting to feel bad for him.

You couldn’t imagine what it felt like to get stood up for a date (work was something else you could get over by tonight but a date?)—to wait around, watching the minutes tick by, hoping that maybe, just maybe, the person you were waiting for was running late instead of ignoring you altogether. And worse, you were starting to get peeved. How could anyone ghost Clark Kent?

But you didn’t say anything. Because he didn’t seem upset.

Or maybe he was just pretending not to be.

Either way, you didn’t want to remind him of the rejection. If he was pushing through it, then so were you.

It wasn’t until another thirty minutes flew by—until the sky outside had fully darkened, the city lights reflecting off the windows—that you finally exhaled and set your phone down.

“My source isn’t coming.”

Clark blinked at you, pulling his gaze away from the door. “Oh?”

“Yeah, there was a mix-up with the times or something.” You waved it off like it was no big deal, even though frustration still sat heavy in your chest. You weren’t nearly as mad as you had been earlier, but you had still wasted your night on something that should have been simple.

Clark studied you for a moment, then gave a small, almost amused huff. “Looks like we’re both out of luck then.”

You watched as his gaze flickered back toward the entrance, and then, after a beat, he sighed.

“I don’t think my date’s coming either.”

Your stomach twisted.

“I’m sorry, Clark,” you said, and you meant it.

“Don’t be,” he told you, and before you could say anything else, he was already flagging down the waiter, asking for the bill. Then, as casually as if he were asking about the weather, he turned back to you and said, “Wanna get out of here?”

You blinked. “And go where?”

He shrugged, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Anywhere. I don’t mind.”

And somehow, that was how you ended up walking down the streets of Metropolis, shoulder to shoulder with Clark Kent.

The night air was crisp, cool enough that you tugged your coat tighter around yourself. The sidewalks were busy with people, cars rolling lazily through the streets, their headlights casting soft glows against the pavement.

You weren’t sure how you had gotten here—how a frustrating, dead-end night had turned into this. But you didn’t hate it.

In fact, you were enjoying every minute of it.

The streets of Metropolis buzzed with an early-night energy. Neon signs flickered, storefronts cast golden light onto the pavement, and the hum of conversation from passing pedestrians filled the air. You walked close to Clark, close enough that your arms brushed with every step.

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but there was something trusted about it—something new.

You risked a glance at him. He was looking straight ahead, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders relaxed. But when the light of a passing car swept over his face, you caught the way his jaw tensed slightly, like he was thinking about something.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” you asked.

He turned to you, his expression unreadable for a split second before softening into something reassuring. “Yeah. Why?”

You lifted a shoulder, tucking your hands into your coat pockets as you shrugged. “Just… getting stood up sucks. I figured you’d be at least a little upset.”

Clark exhaled a small huff of amusement. “I mean, yeah, I guess I could be. But I’d rather not waste my night sulking about it.”

You nodded, accepting his answer. But then, after a few seconds, you heard him add, quieter, “Besides… I’m having a nice time.”

Your stomach did an embarrassing little flip.

You kept your gaze forward, pretending like those words didn’t sink into you in a way that left you warm despite the cool night air.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Me too.”

The conversation lulled again, but this time, it felt different. More aware. More weighted.

And then Clark suddenly spoke.

“Can I show you something?”

You blinked at him, surprised by the shift. “Uh… sure?”

He smiled, but there was something almost shy about it, something hesitant like he was second-guessing himself. “It’s not far.”

Curious, you followed his lead, stepping off the main sidewalk as he turned down a quieter street, where the glow of streetlights gave way to something softer, something greener.

Within moments, you realized where you were headed.

The city park.

You’d been here plenty of times before—Metropolis had its fair share of green spaces, a welcome contrast to the steel and glass of the skyline—but Clark led you past the more well-known paths, past the benches where couples sat talking in hushed tones, past the fountain that usually served as a meeting place.

Eventually, he guided you toward a narrow, gated pathway, tucked between a stretch of trees. He reached for the gate, pausing before glancing back at you.

“It’s, uh… it’s kind of a secret spot.”

You tilted your head, grinning. “Secret?”

His lips quirked. “Sort of. I mean, it’s public, but not many people know about it.”

“Riiight... totally not a cheesy thing to say.”

“Just, come look.”

You watched as he pushed the gate open, stepping aside to let you through first.

You hesitated for only a second before slipping past him, your shoulder brushing lightly against his chest as you stepped inside.

And then you saw it.

A sheltered little garden.

It wasn’t grand, but it was beautiful. A small, enclosed space, with an arched trellis overhead wrapped in evergrowing vines. Flowers bloomed in neatly arranged clusters, their colours muted under the soft glow of the moon and city. A narrow stone pathway curved through the space, leading to a bench beneath another canopy of vines.

The whole thing felt… unreal. Quiet. Removed from the city entirely.

You turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. “This is…” You exhaled, searching for the right word. “Wow.”

Clark smiled, stepping further in behind you. “I found it by accident a while ago. It’s kind of nice, right?”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah. Kinda nice is an understatement, Smallville.”

The two of you lingered in the quiet, the city’s distant sounds muffled by the greenery around you. And when you looked at Clark again, you caught it—

That brief hesitation. That barely-there glance.

Something unreadable flickered across his face before he cleared his throat, looking away, suddenly busying himself with adjusting his glasses.

It was awkward. Endearing.

And for some reason, it made your heart beat just a little faster.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to break the silence. “So, what, you bring all your failed dates here?” you teased lightly.

Clark huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “No. Just you.”

His voice was light, teasing back—but something about it stuck with you.

Just you.

You had no idea what to say to that.

So instead, you just smiled. And hoped the darkness hid the warmth rising in your face.

Clark shifted beside you, tucking his hands deeper into his pockets, gaze flickering toward the night sky. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Just... don’t tell Lois about this place.”

You turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Or else it’ll be on the front cover of the Daily Planet and it won’t be so secret anymore.”

You snorted. “Figured.”

Then, almost immediately, your lips twisted into a frown. “Ugh, you know what? I’m still kinda pissed off with Lois.”

Clark’s eyebrows lifted. “Lois? What—why?”

You sighed, rubbing at your temple. “She was the one who arranged the whole meeting with the lawyer today. My source. She forgot to confirm or something and cancelled last minute. Can you believe it?”

Clark blinked. “Not really.”

“Yeah, me neither. She’s probably got caught up with Superman again or something—I don’t know.”

Clark’s head tilted slightly, brows drawing together. “Sorry? Superman?”

You waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, it’s just an inside joke between us and our friends. Since she’s so close with the guy, we joke that whenever she’s acting weird, it’s because of him.”

Clark let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Does she usually?”

“Not really. But we like to watch her squirm when we bring it up.” You smirked. “Anyway, I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She’s been acting weird all week.”

Clark hummed, his gaze thoughtful. “Yeah, I noticed that too. When she was telling me about this date, she just... wasn’t herself, I guess. Left a lot of things in the dark.”

Your steps faltered slightly, your brows knitting together as something in his words made your stomach twist. You turned to look at him, trying to piece together the implications of what he was saying.

“Wait—” You exhaled, mind racing. “Lois set you up?”

Clark slowed as well, blinking as if he’d only just realized you hadn’t put it together yet. “Uh… yeah?” He frowned slightly. “I did say my date was a friend of hers.”

“Right.” You blinked, mind catching up. “Sorry, I must’ve forgotten.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

The sounds of the city—distant honking, the chatter of pedestrians, the hum of neon signs—faded into a dull blur. It was as if the entire world had taken a collective breath and was holding it, waiting for the two of you to catch up.

Your lips parted, but no words came out. The pieces clicked together—Lois arranging your meeting, forgetting to confirm, being strangely vague about the details.

Oh.

Oh.

Your stomach flipped as realization crashed over you like a tidal wave.

Clark’s eyes widened just a fraction, his breath hitching. And then, almost at the same time—

“…No way.”

You exhaled a quiet, incredulous laugh, shaking your head as your mind reeled. Clark let out a chuckle of his own, one hand running through his hair, his fingers ruffling the strands at the back of his head. His ears—just barely visible under the glow of a nearby streetlight—had turned the faintest shade of pink again.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

You just looked at each other, as if confirming that, yes, this was real, and yes, Lois Lane had absolutely just played matchmaker.

“Well,” Clark finally said, voice warm, laced with amusement. “At least we won’t have to spend the whole night getting to know each other.”

You laughed, shaking your head in disbelief. “Yeah. Guess not.”

The tension in your shoulders, the nervous energy, the awkwardness of the night—it all melted into something else entirely. Something softer. Something that felt… kind of nice.

Clark was still smiling, his blue eyes bright behind his glasses, and you had to resist the urge to look away, to keep from giving away the way your heart had started beating just a little faster.

He shifted, his hands slipping into his pockets as he glanced down for a second before looking back up at you.

And then, with just the slightest hint of something almost timid in his voice, he asked—

“Can I be honest?”

You tilted your head. “Sure.”

“When Lois was telling me about the date... I was hoping it would be you.”

“…Really?”

Clark nodded, lips pressing together like he was debating whether he should keep going. But then, in a quieter voice, he admitted, “Yeah... It was the only reason I agreed. And when I saw you at the restaurant, I was really excited—until you told me you were there for work.”

You let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Sorry I let you down.”

His head snapped up. “No.” He shook his head, quickly, almost too quickly. “You didn’t.”

Your stomach flipped.

“I still had fun,” he added, a little sheepishly.

You chewed the inside of your cheek, heart beating faster than you’d like to admit. “You should’ve just said something.”

Clark exhaled a laugh, glancing down again. “I know. I just... I’m not really good at this stuff.”

You smiled, nudging him lightly with your shoulder. “You’re doing pretty good so far. Had me swept off my feet.”

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice just a little lower, a little softer.

“Oh yeah.”

A pause. A lingering look.

And then—

“We should do this again.” His lips curled, a little nervous but hopeful. “On purpose next time.”

You grinned widely, feeling warmth spread through you, from your chest to the very tips of your fingers.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “I’d like that a lot.”

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

Tags: [mlw][fluff][slight crack][i know it's late but goddammit, i will fulfill my promise][friends to more][little bit suggestive][michael's pining][and jealous][relatively one of more shorter ones][basically a drabble?][i'll complete as smut if it's wanted][platonic prone]

"Are you still mad that I wasn't your Valentine?"

You plop down beside Michael, feeling the way you sink into the ridiculously plush sofa, your manicured toes burrowing into the fluffy, deep blue rug and you glance up at him, his attention literally anywhere other than on you.

"Michael, Valentine's Day was like, 2 days ago. And I had a date."

"A date you're not even gonna call back." Michael huffs, muscular arms folding across his chest, the fabric of his sleeveless T-shirt is snug against his shredded torso, clinging to each dip and curve of his carved body. And his eyes narrow at you.

But it's hard to be intimidated by someone who has the kind of blue eyes country songs are about.

"He was rude to the server and he wore sandals to a restaurant. You know I'm not being seen in public with that kind of animal." You mutter under your breath, grimacing at the mere memory and Michael hums.

"How much did he tip?" He questions, glancing at your from the corner of his eye, from beneath long, dark lashes and he doesn't wanna admit, but he's somewhat invested in the story.

Michael revels in your unlucky lovelife.

Each bad date brings you closer to, as he likes to say, Big Dick Mike.

"Well, we tipped like, seve—"

"No no, how much did he tip?"

You purse your lips, averting your gaze.

"He gave the waitress life coach advice." It's hard to push those words from between your lips, and the laugh Michael lets out just drives in how shitty your date actually was.

"Ew!" He cackles, the corners of his eyes crinkling and his full lips spreading into a shit-eating grin. "Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. That's— not only is he stupidly comfortable having his toes out, he's disrespectful to restaurant staff, he thinks he's a life coach AND he's broke?"

Michael lets out another huff of a laugh.

"You lost so much aura for feeling comfortable enough to tell me that." He snickers. "This isn't a safe space, sweetheart. It's the Golden Barracuda Shark Den."

Michael's arms stretch over the back of the couch, and he grins down at you.

"Population, one. Booster. Gold." He hums. "Or as I like to say, fat sack Carter."

You grimace at the nickname. It gives you an ick that isn't serious enough to stop you from hanging out with him, but it's serious enough to make you wanna pop him in the eye.

"Everytime you say shit like that, it makes sense as to why no woman wants you." You stare up at Michael, eyes narrowing in distaste when you feel the way his arm slides down from the backrest of the sofa, resting in the nape of your neck before he flexes, your face nestled in the crook of his elbow, pulling you closer and his bicep bulges against your pulse.

"You poor, sweet, naive, stupid, brain-dead, slow—" "Michael, get to the point."

"I've got women, dollface. Plenty."

"Michael," you place a hand on his chest, and Michael's expression softens at the gentleness of your touch, "the women who pop up when you're watching movies illegally don't count. Karen, is in fact, not 5 miles away from you."

Michael should've known better than to expect anything other than an insult from you, and it isn't even long before he has you choked in the crook of his forearm, his weight pressing down into the curve of your spine and his breath fanning against the side of your face.

It's hot, minty and you can smell the faintest hint of that citrus-y candy he had earlier, and you squirm under his weight. And it feels like you have an anchor on your spine.

"Get your fat ass off me, you big backed bitch!" You groan, thrashing but it's hard to move too much when your throat's clutched against a human Ken doll's toned, tanned and sculpted muscles, his bicep pressing against the side of your head.

"At least I don't ditch my friends to go on a date with some sandal wearing slob." Michael argues.

"I didn't even ditch you! I was texting you the whole time!" You hiss back, your cheeks flushing slowly with the exertion and Michael shifts, his hot breaths brushing against your ear and Michael's lips purse.

He can't deny that you left him feeling too neglected.

You had still responded to his plethora of text messages, responding to each of his memes individually, and giving him the same amount of attention you'd give him in person.

But that was the problem.

You weren't with him in person.

Your body mist didn't fill his nose, the sound of your laugh didn't ring in his ears until the early hours of the morning. He didn't get to watch the way first rays of sunlight dance across your features as you fell asleep in the middle of the nth movie.

He didn't get to feel the way you wedge your icy feet between his muscular thighs, giving him that mischievous smile as you continued to mooch off his warmth.

"It's not the same." Michael huffs, flexing his bicep even more and you push at him, your back arching and you press against him, ass flush against his hips and you both still.

Michael's breaths stutter, and he chews on his plump bottom lip as he tries to come up with a joke to alleviate the tension that's settling in the air with the density of pollen in springtime.

"Maybe don't arch like that." He murmurs softly before his arm relaxes and he opts to loosen his grip around your neck, but the feel of your nails digging into his forearm, keeping him in place. And Michael swallows.

"You nasty ass—"

"Michael." You say his name so sternly.

"No, 'm sorry. Promise. Don't take this away from me. I will actually throw up."

Taglist:

@lucky-beheaded 🌻

@anesthesia-4rizzle 🎀

@feral010 ✨

@blckbarbiedoll 🌷

@allycat4458 🪻

@jasontoddswhitestreak 🌸

@custardpuddingprincess ⭐

@couldeatthatgirlforlunch 🦄

@theamazkngskye 🍄

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@starski 🌃

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

Tags: [mlw][mdni][established relationship][oral (f! receiving)][fingering][shower sex][wrongful use of water][wet t-shirt][temple kisses][i don't make the rules, but there's a lot of them][grinding but not where you thinkkk~][maybe food play, idk][just the tip][missionary][mating press]

Wally had a plan.

A good plan, relatively thorough, and romantic. All of which were crucial to whether or not this date would go good.

A good, sweet morning wrapped up in the loving embrace of your arms, paired with the sweet, tightness of your cunt cockwarming him while the sun rises from just below the horizon. With the feeling of your fingers carding through his hair, your lips ghosting over his jaw and murmurs of sweet 'I love you's in the air.

Then, you'd have breakfast that HE learnt how to make. Through numerous WikiHow articles and YouTube tutorials.

Then, you'd go about your day where flowers would be mailed to your job, and the two of you would have a nice lunch. Specifically, a picnic in the park and for dinner, you'd have take-out and the scallions in the soup would be shaped like cute hearts, because if your love is in soup, it's eternal.

But noooooooooooo.

The universe has a fucked up way of ruining the speedster's hopes and dreams.

The takeout place burns down, the flower company doesn't get his order, he oversleeps so he doesn't get to make you the whole, magical experience of cockwarming while he feeds you breakfast.

"I'm sorry." Wally murmurs softly. "I should've planned better."

Rain continues to soak through his shirt, the fabric getting heavier and clinging to his torso in the way that makes your eyes linger, a slow smile spreading on your face as you unabashedly watch the way the shirt sticks to his tightly toned belly. Abs on display in the most demure yet slutty way.

"It's okay."

You reassure softly, although your eyes don't move from where you can see his nipples through his shirt.

"Are you seriously staring at my nipples?" Wally let's out a choked laugh, dimples deepening in his cheeks as he looks down at you, gingery hair wet and clinging to the back of his neck, as well as his forehead.

Your outfit's less soaked than his.

Seeing as he made a makeshift gazebo with his windbreaker, using his speed to his advantage to tie the arms to the lowest hanging branches and tucking either of the ends between messy and spiky edges of the branches.

Too small to accomodate both of you but good enough to keep you from thoroughly soaking your plaid Chanel skirt and you shift, your boots scuffing against the wet grass.

"Yeah." You hum softly. "They're so cute and like, hard."

Reaching out, you press down one of his perky nipples and Wally snorts. "Freak."

"Come stand with me. You're gonna get a cold." You chide Wally with a huff, grabbing the front of his shirt and tugging him out of the rain, his body pressed against yours and strong, muscular hands move to bracket your hips, his thumbs brushing over the flesh your fluffy knit sweater fails to over and he looks down at you.

Fucking hearts in his eyes.

The moment seems perfect right now. Raindrops pelting around you, the sound of wet grass sloshing underneath your boots as you shift at the feel of nipping cold and a warm hand moves to cup your cheek as Wally leans down, his lips pressed against yours. It's so sweet.

He kisses you like it's the only slow thing he'll ever do. Lips moving against yours in a slow, synchronised motion that you both seem to fall into so flawlessly, his hand on your hip shifts and instead, his arm's wrapped around your waist while your own hands interlace at the nape of his neck.

You can barely hide the giggle that leaves you when you feel the way Wally's hand lowers, taking the sweet and romantic opportunity to slide his hand beneath your skirt. Damp digits paw at the fat of your ass and you pull away.

"Creep." You mock him, nipping at his bottom lip and you see the pretty twinkle of his eyes as he stares down at you, a grin on his face, freckles dusted over his rosy cheeks.

"Guilty." He hums softly, before leaning forward, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

"We should get out of the rain, yeah?" There's a low huskiness to his voice, a sweet yet sultry tone that hints that there's a lot more waiting for you at home than there was waiting for you at the park.

And you nod your head, bashful and adoring as you murmur a soft 'mhm'.

˚˖𓍢ִִ໋❤️་༘🎀˚˖𓍢ִ🌹˚.

Hot water sprays down on your skin, and you let out the softest sigh, frozen bones easing at the warmth before the shower door is abruptly opened and Wally stands in all his freckled glory.

Hair still damp from the rain, that shit-eating grin on his face.

"Scoot over." He instructs, but he's already stepping over the threshold of the shower, shutting the door behind him and readjusting the showerhead to spray more in his direction.

Wally's always been a bit of a selfish showerer.

His body nearly presses yours against the tiled walls as he soaks up the scalding water, letting out controlled breaths before meeting your narrowed gaze and he lets out the softest little breath. And he reaches towards the temperature dial, shifting and switching it, until the water's a pleasant, lukewarm temperature before he hums.

"Upsy-daisy." He lifts you with ease, your knees hooked over the crooks of his elbows, your back pressed against his chest and he presses a sloppy kiss against your temple.

"Wally, what are you— oh..." The gruff complaints die in your throat when Wally shifts your body towards the shower stream, your thighs spread obscenely wide as the solid stream of water pelts down against your clit, and you purse your lips, brows knitting at the pleasure that's not quite enough to get you anywhere but it's nice enough for you to not want it to stop.

Wally hums in pride, freckled cheeks splitting into a grin as you feel the muscles of his core flex absentmindedly, his cock twitching to life, hardening and pressing itself against your neglected cunt. And he presses the sweetest kiss against your cheek, loving and adoring before he breathes your name so sweetly.

"Help me out?" He coos softly. "Just the tip, though. I wanna make you feel good."

You nod your head, biting your bottom lip as you reach down between your thighs, grabbing a hold of his cock and you give his tip a few swipes of your thumb, feeling the way his breath hitches against your back before you ease his flushed tip into your hole.

Just the tip.

Wally can't help the way he sighs at the warmth of your cunt, wrapped so sweetly around his leaky tip as you spasm so subtly. And he clicks his tongue, his hips twitching and giving you the most shallow thrusts, all as he reaches for the showerhead, detaching it and bringing it closer.

"Wally, I don't think—"

Your opinion dies quicker than you'd like to admit because when the water pressure changes, and Wally's controlling the placement, you feel your head tip back against his broad chest. Your lashes flutter closed and faint moans leave your parted lips as your thighs tense and flex, although they're still kept in a long distance relationship.

"You look so pretty." Wally coos sweetly, cheeks flushed and his wet body feeling slightly cold at the breeze that creeps into the bathroom and he dips his head, pressing a soft kiss against your lips before asking you, so sweetly.

"How do you wanna come?"

That question has no business making your cunt drool, walls and nerve endings burning with that sickening desire to come as many times as you can and you swallow.

Sure, this feels great but nothing beats—

"Your tongue and fingers."

You sigh softly, bringing up one hand to curl in his wet hair, nails scratching at his scalp so affectionately.

"Nasty, greedy girl. Tongue and fingers?"

Wally teases you but he wastes no time in setting you on your feet, placing the showerhead back on its spot and kneeling in front of you.

The muscles in his thighs spread out, his core tensing and his cock twitching upwards at the water that pelts down onto the two of you. It's a comforting spray, warmer than before so Wally must've changed the temperature while you were trying to find your brain.

And he guides one of your thighs to rest over his shoulder, the heel of your foot bumping against his back and Wally presses a kiss against your inner thigh. And he places your hands on his head, before lowering his head.

He drags his flattened tongue over your cunt, tasting your slick and feeling you throb against his tongue and he groans softly. Your fingers tangle in his hair, head tipping back against the condensating tiles and you let out the softest sigh. Your tummy tenses when he swirls his tongue around your clit, just before he dips it into your cunt, only for a little bit.

He can taste himself just a bit, the taste of his precum has drastically improved since you've started seeing each other.

Maybe because instead of living off energy drinks and take out, Wally's seeing fruit on a daily basis, instead of treating it like a distant relative.

Two fingers plunge into your cunt at a speed that makes your belly dip inward and your hands fist his hair tighter, a low moan leaving your lips and Wally lets out a boyish giggle.

"Yeah. Does it feel good?" He coos softly, juniper gaze lifting to glance up at your face, seeing the way your brows scrunch in that adorable way, the way your lips part to let out whimpers and whines as his tongue rolls around your clit, suckling at the bud until you let out a pitched moan.

Wally hurls you at your oncoming orgasm with the strength and speed that a cat knocks a glass off the table. And you nearly scream, your knees giving out beneath you but Wally keeps you steady as you buck against his face, his tongue and fingers working in tandem to draw out your orgasm for as long as possible.

Because he loves watching the way you crumble against a damp, tiled wall. Hair clinging to your forehead, face ruddy and hot breaths mingling with the steam in the air and you look so fucking gorgeous when you look down at him through bleary eyes. Watching as his tongue cleans up the slick that paints your puffy pussy with glossiness, licking along your thighs before Wally rises, forearms braced on either side of your head before he smiles down at you, head cocked and he presses a kiss against your forehead.

"You good, pretty?"

You can barely nod your head as Wally's hands move to bracket your hips, thumbs brushing over the protruding bones as his head dips to press kisses along the curve of your neck. Before his hand shifts, to squeeze the fat of your ass, feeling the flesh in his calloused palms and he groans softly.

"Shit." He breathes out before swallowing. "Okay, we're gonna finish showering, then you're gonna order pizza while I get the room ready and then we're gonna... Fix this Valentine's Day, okay?"

This is the most instructions Wally's ever given you. Literally ever.

And you can't deny that it's kind of sexy.

˚˖𓍢ִִ໋❤️་༘🎀˚˖𓍢ִ🌹˚.

"Wally, I'm eat—" Your words are broken up in a gasp, cheese, sauce and doe tucked into either of your cheeks and you shift, letting out a slurred whine while Wally's hands pry your thighs apart.

"Don't be selfish." Wally hisses, his tongue curling against your overstimulated clit, sensitive bud peeking out from between your folds and he forces your legs apart, your plate resting on your belly, and Wally lays down on his stomach as he sucks your clit so sweetly, peeking up at you over the decorated porcelain rim of your plate. And you whine, completely unsure of which route to take.

You could keep eating.

Or Wally could keep eating.

"Just keep eating." Wally's nose bumps against your clit, his tongue tracing hearts over your cunt before he flicks it just right, and he rests his head against the flesh of your thigh.

And he doesn't even pretend that it's tedious.

Delightful hums leave his lips in the form of low, reverberating groans, his grip on your thighs borders on almost clingy as he paws at whatever flesh he can get to and his sock-covered feet kick. You don't even have the time to question why his socks has your pictures on it before he's tucking two fingers away in your gummy walls.

Gently curling them, sweetly coaxing you towards another orgasm that has your heels digging into his back, your eyes rolling back and your hand nearly dropping the cheesy slice. And you whimper.

"Wally... 's too much, too sensitive...—" You gasp with a whine, lashes fluttering and tears brimming at the corners of your mouth as his fast flicks and his eagerness make you see God.

Wally ignores you.

Blatantly.

Only lifting his head to scowl at you before ducking back down, his feet kicking and his hips occasionally grinding against the messy sheets, a perfect hill for him to rub against like an animal in heat.

Needy, whiny and so, so achingly hard.

He lets out a familiarly whiny groan, tears brimming on his lower lashline, green eyes becoming bleary as he sucks, nips, drags his tongue and circles. All in perfect movements and God, being a speed freak really had it's perks.

Including the fact that he had the uncanny ability to make you come whenever he wanted to.

A walking, talking vibrator.

Wally coaxes your third orgasm out of you, slick dribbling down his chin and his palm, before he lifts himself, carding his fingers through his hair and staring at you with a heated gaze.

His broad chest heaves, his carved abdomen tenses and flexes, and his hands rest on your thighs, warm palms easing the almost painful burn in your core, and your gaze lowers. Lowers all the way to below that gingery happy trail and you swallow.

"Wally, did you come?" You question softly, lips pursed as you try not to let out a snort of laughter as pearly beads continue to be pushed out with each twitch of his still-hard cock.

"I got really into it." He's not even embarassed, simply moving the messy sheets out of the way and guiding your thighs over his, and notching the flushed tip of his cock at your sopping, slick-soaked pussy.

And he pushes into you, hands grasping the sheets before he stops. Abruptly.

"I need to pull out." Wally announces and you wish you could say he was joking. But his expression doesn't say he's joking.

"Like, right now?"

"Literally right now. Please don't move. I'll lose so much aura, baby, please. Keep still."

Wally begs you, and like a normal woman, and a woman in love, you obviously start to clench and spasm around his leaky tip. And Wally whines.

"You're gonna make me come..." He whimpers, bringing his hand up to bracket your face, forcing you to look away from him.

Wally knows you'll never let it down if you see the way he looks. All red and flushed, weak and teary-eyed as he tries to keep his cool.

He doesn't get why now, of all times, his stamina's playing games with him but he does know one thing.

"Can I come inside?"

Taglist:

@lucky-beheaded 🌻

@jasontoddswhitestreak 🌸

@allycat4458 🪻

@anesthesia-4rizzle 🎀

@feral010 ✨

@blckbarbiedoll 🌷

@custardpuddingprincess ⭐

@couldeatthatgirlforlunch 🦄

@theamazkngskye 🍄

@sleepyinsomniac 🌙

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@titchx0 🦆

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