#(i don't know the name of the other guy sorry)

[cosmic-dust-poltergeist]

Pt 4 of forever teen Danny adopted JJ Tim and Red Hood Jason. Sorry if you're a Batman or Nightwing fan, I'm not nice to them in this one.

[Pt3: Here][pt5: coming soon]

The last 4 years have been a riot. Danny has 2 wonderful and slightly unhinged boys that he stole from the Bats. They've gotten in so many shenanigans, between normal vigilante shit, the Bats and/or ghost/supernatural hunters trying to bag them, and them just fucking around.

It's the most fun he's had in a while. They're good kids, but they, of course, have started branching out. They're 19 (Jason) and 17(Tim) now and don't necessarily want their dad following them around. So Danny gave them his personal summons just in case and made them promise to stay close together, the two of them are good at covering for the other's weaknesses. Like how Tim only being Liminal, he can take more hits from the ghost hunters that will clock Jason as a Revenant or Jason's supernatural strength taking out the bigger assholes that target Tim for his small size or Joker mannerisms.

So he tries not to worry, simply going to work and trusting them to either deal with any trouble themselves or summon him. And for 3 months they don't need to summon him once. But at the end of month 3, he feels it.

"Hey, Eddy! I got to go! My kids are in trouble!" Danny calls to his boss, already moving to somewhere there's less witnesses to see him poof.

"Okay! See ya! ...Wait, you have kids?" Danny doesn't answer, letting the summons take ahold and pull him through the fabric of reality.

A fun side effect of being summoned is that he always ends up in his High King form. The form is humanoid in the vaguest of sense. It's also just stars and the void of space. His eyes are giant stars and his mouth is too wide and full of rows and rows of needle-like teeth. A crown of ice smokes like dry ice on his head and the ring of rage is simple stripe of neon green on his right hand's middle finger (he thought it'd be funny to flip people off with it). All in all, he's terrifying for mortals to see unprepared.

And the cussing around him tells the people hassling his sons are NOT prepared.

"HOW THE FUCK DID YOU SUMMON THE GHOST KING???" A very distraught British man shrieks. Danny would feel bad, but this idiot is standing near the Bat and Nightwing AND Danny's sons are tied up in front of them.

"DAaaaAD!" Tim whines, flopping over to look at him. "They're trying to excorise Hoodie!"

"Are they now?" Danny hisses. His voice sounds like glaciers crashing together.

"Bats! What the fuck??? You didn't tell me THAT WAS THEIR DAD!" British man sounds on the brink of a mental breakdown.

"We've never seen this entity." Batman frowns.

"Yeah! They've been calling a ghost kid dad this whole time!" Nightwing defends. "How were we supposed to know they could summon this guy??"

"What...what did you say the "kid"'s name was?" British dude asks faintly.

"We didn't." Batman says.

"Weeell, Johnny-boy!" Jason sounds like he has a shit eating grin. "What they didn't tell you is our sweet ol' adoptive father is called Phantom~!"

"Oh goodie! We're so dead..." "Johnny" says and starts chugging his flask of probably alcohol. It suddenly clicks that this is the fabled John Constantine.

"You should know better than to take a job half-assed, John Constantine." Danny grins with teeth.

"Oh good, he knows my name.." Constantine mumbles to himself.

"Give me one good reason to not kill you all for trying to kill my son and kidnap the other." Danny waves a hand and slices his sons' bindings. "I have only been so patient with you bats because my sons are fond of you, but my patience is running out."

"Tim belongs with us! He needs help and healing!" Nightwing proclaims.

"I talk to a licensed therapist twice a week and take my meds every day! Try again, Big Birdie!!" Tim snarls. "Just because I'm not what you want me to be doesn't mean I'm a broken doll in need of saving!"

"Besides, don't you have a new bird to destroy?" Jason asks with a head tilt. "The second birdie died, the third got mentally fucked, the four died... I think we can count birdie #1 as mentally fucked up, meaning if we follow the pattern, birdie #5 will be mentally fucked by the time he flies the nest."

"How do you know so much about us, Red Hood?" Batman demands with a scowl.

"He doesn't have to tell you anything!" Tim steps in front of Jason and glares.

"I'm still waiting on a reason to not kill you." Danny reminds them. The bats look towards Constantine.

"Don't look at me, mates. That's head bitch of all head bitches. The fact he's letting you plead your case after threatening what he deems as his is a step up huge from most overpowered dead guys. From what I heard, the last guy would have just killed us the moment he was summoned and then destroyed the whole dimension afterwards. This guy beat that guy in single combat." Constantine pulls out a cigarette before addressing Danny, "Your Majesty, I had no idea these were your kids. I was just told a Revenant had kidnapped and "brainwashed" the ex-Robin. Clearly, I wasn't told accurate information."

Nightwing sputters, "What Do You Mean?? Clearly Tim has been brainwashed or something!!"

Constantine whips around to Nightwing, "Oh shut up, you big blue twit! King Phantom DESPISES mind control! Which means your ex-bird is with these two completely willingly."

"There's n-" Nightwing tries, but Constantine bulldozes on.

"I don't know what you did to the kid, nor do I care. But he's considered ROYALTY to the dead and undead now. He doesn't have to have ANYTHING to do with you. If you take him away from his new and apparently accepting family, that's considered an interdimensional crime, and no magician or supernatural or even god-like being will help you." Constantine takes a long drag of his cigarette. "I suggest you apologize, make your excuses, then leave them the fuck alone. Besides, chas been at a record low in Gotham from what I hear. Let them do what they want. "

"That's because Red Hood keeps killing the Rouges!" Nightwing protests. "Who gives him the right to be judge, jury, and executioner???"

Constantine points to Danny and says flatly. "The ruler of basically everything, that's who."

Danny grins at him, his ghost half is very pleased with the man. "I shall spare you, magic man."

Constantine looks like he's going to faint from relief, moving to park himself by the door. "Just fucking apologize and leave them be, Bats."

"But!" Nightwing looks like he's going to cry. He turns his teary eyes to Tim. "Why can't you just come home, Timmy?"

"What home?" Tim stares down his nose at Nightwing, anger clear in his voice. "The Manor was Never my home. I was simply the stand in for your and B's grief for a boy you both pushed to his death. Phantom showed me what family really was. And that was AFTER I was too broken for you to accept. I was NOT Joker Junior then or now. I'm my own fucking person and I'm staying with the family that accepts me for ALL my oddities."

"You tried to put him in Arkham when he tried to go to you." Red Hood growls. "He wanted your support and help and you were going to lock him up and throw away the key."

"We were n-"

"YOU WERE!" Tim starts to trembling in hurt and rage. "You couldn't even look at me! I wanted you so badly to help me and you were going to put me in there right next to Harley! I wanted you to be my family, but I've only ever been a tool to you!"

"You weren't-" Danny doesn't like how the Bats seem ready to jump at his kids, so he freezes the Bats' feet to the floor.

"Shut up, Dickwing." Jason snarls, pulling Tim into a hug. "You lost your chance to be his brother 4 years ago. Go pretend to care about the new cannon fodder. We don't want to hear it."

"Hood." Batman finally speaks. "Who are you?"

"Who do you think, old man?" Jason takes his hood off for the first time ever in front of the Bats. They visibly startle, recognizing him despite all the changes.

"Ja-" The Bat starts.

"Shut up." Jason glares. "You were a shit dad and brother to me in life. I found the BEST family in death."

Danny picks up his boys, deciding to let them decide on the severity of the Bats' punishment. "Maiming or death?"

"... I say maim, but only because I know the newest bird and want him to stay out of the death cult his mother's in." Jason says softly. The Bats sqawk as they Just realize Danny froze their feet to the floor. Mortal tools and fire can't break/melt his ice, but it's amusing to watch the bats try.

Tim is quiet for nearly 3 whole minutes, locked in some sort of internal battle, before he answers. "Maim in a, at least mostly, healable way. Gotham needs Batman, even if we don't."

"Hmm." Danny ignores the Bats' protests to think about what he should do. "Ah! I know exactly what to do!"

He unfreezes their feet and gently forces both to the ground and processes to break both of Nightwing's legs and both of Batman's arms. He pulls one of their coms off and hands it to Tim, he's the only one that sounds normal on normal tech. Jason hasn't been able to use normal tech since Danny fixed his ecto, so Danny modifies anything he or Jason use.

"Hi, Agent A! Batgirl!" Tim's cheerful tone barely hides his seething rage. "You should send a pick up for Dickiebird and B-man! They need medical attention! Ba-bye~!"

Danny can hear the shouting over the com, but Tim simply yeets it towards the Bats instead of listening to whatever they have to say.

"I have a reason for the injuries I picked." Danny informs the room. Jason and Tim look intrigued, Constantine looks exhausted and slightly guilty about the Bats getting hurt on his watch, and the Bats themselves look dazed and in pain, so who knows if they'll remember his reasonings. "Nightwing is an acrobat and truly a bird, so grounding him is cruel, but hopefully he feels as small and helpless as you both did. Grounding him will give him time to think on his actions and their consequences."

Danny's sons look curiously at the grounded Nightwing before looking back to him.

"I broke Batman's arms so that he's forced to ask for help and communicate. He's far too old for his shitty behavior." Danny frowns. "They both need therapy, but I doubt the flying furries will actually get the help they need."

Tim suddenly cackles in delight. "Maybe THEY should check THEMSELVES into Arkham! Ya know! Since they think I, the one ACTUALLY getting help, should be in there!"

Jason starts cackling alongside his brother while Danny chuckles.

"I shall take my children home now, good day." Danny says while wrapping his sons in his invisibility and intangibility and takes them home. A cozy 3 bedroom apartment on the top floor of a building Jason owns as Red Hood.

[dark-skin-fem]

Kay so, I am saying black women were not saved by white suffragettes, abandoned by many of them, actually. You're playing defense for a movement that doesn't love you, they ally with people who hate women of color.

And white men stepped in to help, yes? White suffragettes abandoned black women, but white men didn't? White women ally with people who hate women of colour, but white men don't?

If white men and women are both racist, which affects me, and one of them is also misogynistic, which also affects me, I'm to let the misogyny slide because they pretend it's targeted at someone who is racist?

WITHOUT HESITATION. I'm sorry, I'm never grouping with a racist, I disavow them immediately, idc how trans affirming they are.

And I'm grouping with racists by saying men hide their misogyny by pretending they're talking about only white women? How does this even make sense in the context of this conversation? Is there a racist white woman somewhere in this thread that I validated?

Or are you saying that by recognising that white women suffer misogyny from progressive men, I'm also defending the racists among them?

I'm also VERY sure that since you're a terf all the racist nonsense terf white women say didn't include you, just those minorities that defend the transes. Fuck those guys! "Kingsley shacklebolt" was a fictional name one of the white saviors coined, right?

I don't know how TRAs make it to adulthood without understanding that people can hold 2 (or more!) opinions at once, and you can agree with one and not the other, and it doesn't say anything on what you think of the person as a whole. That I agree with some right wing, racist, or otherwise disagreeable women on the topic of transgenderism, and that I recognise how often leftist men use them as ideological punching bags, does not in any way mean I think I'm exempt from their racism. I know I'm not. I also know that I'm not exempt from the misogyny leftist men display which they veil with progressive language. So if you expect me not to "group" with racists, why would I group with misogynistic male TRAs? Why should I group with people who validate my blackness but denigrate my womanhood?

Bonus: I don't use "cis white women" to be misogynistic, if you scroll, i didn't use cis at all.

And yet here you are shilling for those who do. Have a cookie 🍪

Misogynoir is transcendent of conception of gender.

Misogynoir is based on race and sex. No one has ever claimed gender as a concept has any bearing on it. Sex isn't a concept, it's a material reality. No matter how one choose to present herself, sex is part of oppression as a black woman.

It is insane to me how we have literally made negative progress on civil rights, but trans people have been hit a few times and that seems good enough.

This can only make sense if you believe that transgenderism isn't hurting anyone's rights. Trans inclusion, especially of men in women's spaces have led to women actually getting hurt, raped, killed and harassed, our right to single sex spaces eroded, our womanhood being diluted. Transgenderism is sexist in and of itself, and on top of that we have men in women's prisons, sports, having access to women's sex based protections. Idgaf what progress or lack of is made on trans rights, but their encroachment into women's spaces is absolutely harming our own rights.

As a black woman the more radleaning I go the more I realise how much leftist men and libfems hide their misogyny by putting "cis white" in front of woman.

[sunsburns]

track 10 — mark grayson (invincible) !

⟢ synopsis. you totally don't have a thing for mark, that would be crazy ... unless

⟢ contains. 18+, mark grayson x afab reader, nsfw, oral (m & f receiving), cunnilingus. mark is kinda subby, friends with benefits but they like each other, reader is so down bad it's embarassing, and mark isn't any better, gets a little nasty when it comes to cum, mark is a proud moaner, mentions of porn, both mark and reader are lowkey pervs.

⟢ wc: 15k+

⟢ author’s note. mark is an eater, sue me. there's stupid jokes thrown in here, just a long written work of me pushing the casual sex with mark idea. i also like the idea of having an alien boyfriend and making mark more alien than human. a lot of it was inspired by this work from ao3!

You’re such a pervert.

At least, that’s what Mark and William would call you if they saw the way your eyes trailed, lingered, on the way fingers slipped into the holes of bowling balls, your gaze locked on the flex of forearm muscle tightening beneath warm, sandy skin. Veins rising just under the surface. The smooth way wrists rolled as they brought the ball up, perfectly casual, totally unaware.

You exhaled slowly through your nose. The warmth in your stomach was beginning to simmer into something heavier, something you refused to name in the middle of a public bowling alley, under neon lights and the scent of cheap nachos.

Mark would turn scarlet if he caught you. You knew the exact look—eyebrows shooting up, eyes wide and blinking, stammering over his own breath like a shy bastard. And William? God, he’d never let you live it down. He’d smirk like the devil himself, a wicked grin twisting on his face as he realized you’re not so different from him, seconds away from pointing across the lane with an audible gasp like he’s scandalized.

You huffed and slouched deeper into the worn leather seat, folding your arms across your chest like it might shield you from the shame of your own libido. Or at least from the sight of Mark, now lining up his shot.

Why did you even agree to this again?

Third-wheeling William and Rick’s bowling date for the millionth time had officially become the sad little cherry on top of your tragic sundae. You were no longer just the single friend. You were the perpetually single friend. The “don’t worry, you’ll find someone eventually” friend. It made you want to tear your hair out of your head.

Worse still was when Amber and her new boyfriend showed up. You’d run out of excuses not to come by then—tried “midterms,” “period,” even “funeral” once, which William did not find funny. (You still do.)

Maybe that was an exaggeration because you know how competitive William and Amber get so there wouldn’t be much love to go around if the game was close, but still!

And maybe it wasn’t always like this. Maybe they didn’t completely leave you out. They included you in the group cheers, the trash talk, and even the occasional victory dance when one of you got a lucky strike. You weren’t invisible. Just… orbiting. A little too aware of the way everyone else had someone to orbit with.

But tonight was different.

Because Mark Grayson was here.

You hadn’t expected it—had already accepted your fate as the designated third wheel, again—but when William pulled up and you opened the car door, there he was. Sitting in the back seat. Tugging at the sleeves of his sweater. That stupid, kinda cute grin on his face when he saw the shock on yours.

Mark Grayson. The best friend turned part-time cryptid. A guy you maybe saw once every other week if the planets aligned and there wasn’t a kaiju climbing out of Lake Michigan. These days, he showed up in the group chat typing out things like “Sorry I’ve been MIA, was in space lol” or “brb gotta swim in a volcano for endurance training :(” like it was completely normal and not the kind of thing that made you feel a weird cocktail of secondhand stress and... butterflies.

He was still the same guy who sent you videos of raccoons screaming into bird feeders at 2 a.m. Still remembered to say “hi” to your mom over text. Still promised you he wasn’t dead every now and then. But sitting beside him in the car—seeing his knee bouncing, his jaw shifting with a soft grin like nothing had changed—it hit you just how much had.

He looked… older. And maybe you looked older too but it was like he’d seen things and hadn’t told anyone. His eyes had that faraway shine he got when he was lost in thought, and even with the quiet hum of William and Rick’s shitty playlist and the greasy scent of drive-thru fries between you all, you could feel the shift in the air. A little quieter. A little heavier.

You had to play it cool. Pretend your entire body hadn’t immediately started sparking like faulty wiring the second he said your name and nudged your knee with his. You had to stop smiling so hard that your cheeks hurt.

You had to act like this was any other night. Like he wasn’t the reason your stomach had butterflies and your thighs had opinions.

You leaned your head against the window, hiding your face, hoping the dark would swallow the flush climbing your neck. You muttered something sarcastic about “the prodigal son returning,” and Mark just chuckled, that same warm, dorky sound that always made your stomach twist.

He said, “You act like I’ve been gone for five years. It’s only been, like, two weeks.”

You gave him a flat look. “You missed two birthdays, Mark.”

He winced. “Okay, technically I was there for William’s. You just couldn’t see me.”

“Yeah,” William piped up from the front seat, smirking. “Because you were in orbit.”

Mark shrugged with a guilty laugh and you were smiling the whole car ride.

Not because he was saying anything particularly funny—though he did, at one point, launch into a truly terrible pun about black holes and bowling balls—but just because he was there. And you wouldn’t have to sit alone all night, nursing a soda while Rick and William played footsie over the ball return.

By the time you all reached the bowling alley, cheap neon lights flickering overhead, you were already white-knuckling it through the evening. The floors stuck just a little to your soles, gum-slick and soda-stained, the way only old alleys could be. It felt like someone turned the heater up to just uncomfortable, and you were nearly sweating through your shirt despite the chill of your drink between your hands.

You’re trying your best not to blare your teeth because neither Rick nor Mark would understand how badly you need to sink them into something. And the last thing you need is William playing Cupid again. If he catches even a whiff of this (and he will, the man could sniff out sexual frustration like a fucking bloodhound) you’ll spend the rest of the night dodging his attempts to set you up with someone’s cousin. Or sibling. Or roommate. Or ex.

So instead, you cross your legs, pressing your thighs together like a lifeline, grateful for the thick fabric of your jeans creating friction, if nothing else. You chew furiously on the nachos Rick ordered for the table, salt and fake cheese mixing with the lingering taste of your own desperation, pretending to be invested in the score.

You tried to have a little shame with the way you were staring—really, you tried. But your casual glances across the lanes kept narrowing, funnelling, zeroing in on one person. And the way Mark moved tonight was ridiculous.

You were practically biting your fist, hating how much you loved the way his shoulders shifted under that stupid sweater—the very same one he used to wear in high school. Still threadbare in places. Still soft-looking. Still familiar. Except now, it clung a little tighter to the broader frame he’d grown into, hugging his chest and upper arms like a secret he hadn’t meant to keep from you.

You don’t even think that yellow button-up he used to pair it with would fit anymore. Not unless he wanted to pop a few buttons and really give you something to talk about in therapy.

Mark had filled out in ways you didn’t quite expect—broader shoulders, a thicker chest, and maybe, just maybe, he’d gotten taller too. It was subtle at first, the kind of change that didn’t register until he handed you his old, beloved Seance Dog t-shirt one afternoon like it was nothing. You remembered how the sleeves used to sag on him, how the shirt had always hung a little loose, and yet it had fit obscenely tight the last time he wore it. The fabric had clung to his torso like a second skin, sleeves straining around his biceps, the hem inching up every time he moved, flashing bare slivers of skin that had no right being that distracting.

You still kept that shirt. Obviously. You told yourself it was sentimental value.

But he looked good tonight. Unfairly so. Maybe he’d always looked good and you were just blind before. Or maybe being away from him for so long had cracked something wide open. Or, worst-case scenario: your hormones were finally staging a mutiny.

Mark kept adjusting the sleeves of his sweater, rolling them up to his elbows like he didn’t know what he was doing. As if the sight of his forearms—tan and veined, the muscles shifting under his skin—wasn’t actively short-circuiting your brain.

You tried to be normal about the way you watched him walk over to the ball return, fingers ghosting across the slick surfaces like he was reading them in braille. You watched his hand pause on the biggest ball available, the one no one else bothered with, and he lifted it like it was made of foam. You felt your pulse stutter at the way his fingers—pointer, middle, thumb—slid into the holes like they belonged there, like they knew what they were doing. His forearm flexed, slow and subtle, and something deep in your stomach clenched in a way that made you feel both ashamed and violently alive.

His skin barely shifted from the strain. Just a soft pull. A ripple. The gentlest whisper of effort. But you admired it all the same. The slight dip of muscle at his elbow. The veins running up his arm. The quiet strength of his grip.

You tried not to imagine Mark’s hands on your hips. Or in your hair. Or in your mouth. Or worse—inside you. You tried not to think about what kind of sounds he might make. Was he a moaner or does he just groan? Would he whimper? Would he say your name like it meant something?

Would Amber tell you if you asked her?

She probably would. She’d smirk, hand you a drink, and tell you to stop being a pussy and go find out yourself.

You shift in your seat again, squeezing your thighs tighter, desperate for relief, for control, for anything other than this maddening ache.

Mark throws the ball. It gutters. Again.

He looks back at you immediately, face scrunching like he’s trying to play it off, but you catch the flicker of embarrassment behind it. You give him two exaggerated thumbs up, all supportive sarcasm. He returns the gesture with just as much sass, which makes you laugh, which makes your heart thump, which makes everything worse.

God, he really does hate bowling. He’s terrible at it. And somehow that only makes you want him more.

If you had a dick, you’re sure you’d be dealing with a painfully obvious hard-on by now. Instead, you’re left to wonder how wet your jeans are getting and whether the people around you will just assume your nipples are hard from the cold. (You wore a bra tonight. Thank God for small mercies.)

You shouldn't be thinking about one of your friends like this. Not someone you barely get to see anymore. You don’t want to ruin this with whatever’s going on in your head. But it’s too late, isn’t it? You’re already undressing him in your mind, mouth full of nachos, pupils blown wide.

You take another bite, chewing mindlessly, trying to remember when exactly this started. When Mark became more than just your high school buddy. When the sight of him made your lungs forget how to work. When you stopped seeing him as just Mark—and started seeing him as something else. Someone else. Someone you wanted.

“I suck.”

You hear Mark huff as he comes back from the floor. His frown is apologetic and self-deprecating as he drags his feet.

“And blow.” William snickers, rising from his spot next to Rick for his turn. His teasing tone is sharp and playful, drawing laughter from you and Rick alike.

“Fuck off,” Mark retorts, his irritation softening the moment—and then, like it’s nothing, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, Mark makes his way to you. And it’s stupid, the way your breath stills just a little. Just a second.

His face shifts when he gets close, softer now. “Hey,” he says, with that quiet little smile of his.

“Hi.” You try not to sound breathless.

“I suck at bowling,” he says again, collapsing into the seat beside you.

Now, being close enough to catch even the faintest trace of his cologne—the familiar scent that you and Debbie painstakingly chose for his birthday last year. You remember that bottle, both of you debating over what “smelled like Mark.” This one had lingered on your coat for days after he hugged you once. Reminds you that some parts of him have not changed at all.

Mark reaches for the biggest nacho on the plate, of course, he does, and he ignores your reminder that the centre nacho was meant to be saved for last.

“Too late,” he says, crunching into it, unbothered.

Your eyes dart over to the flickering scoreboard. There, Mid-game Mark is branded with a lowly score of twenty-five—a number so absurd it makes you laugh at his expense.

“Jesus,” you snort, trying to hide your smile behind your hand. “How does that even happen? I thought you had powers or something.”

“Doesn’t matter if I do. William knows I’m shit at bowling.”

That makes you smile, and you tease, “And you’re still here.”

“Where else would I be?” Mark shrugs, his tone light, but then he adds, “Besides, I’ve missed you.”

Your stomach does a sharp little flip.

“Have you?” You arch an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he says, without hesitation. His eyes don’t leave yours.

Then Rick laughs at something William shouts from the lane, and Mark seems to remember where he is. The spell breaks. He coughs, awkwardly. “I mean—I’ve missed all of you guys. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” you echo, smiling despite yourself.

And god, maybe it’s not a big deal. Maybe it’s nothing. But maybe it’s also everything. Like the way he always used to wait for you to catch up in the hallways. Like how he still texts you song lyrics when he can’t sleep. Like how he sat next to you without even asking.

To try to muster up all your courage, hoping you do not sound like a loser.

“If you’ve missed me so much,” you tease, bumping your knee against his, “we could’ve just gone out ourselves, you know. I wouldn’t make you suffer like this.”

Mark looks at you then. Really looks at you.

“Are you free tomorrow by any chance?”

Your heart stutters. You pretend not to notice. “I don’t know.”

His face falls, just a bit. The corners of his mouth twitch like maybe he’s bracing for a punch. “Seriously?”

You shrug with a stupid grin that threatens to betray every thought swirling beneath the surface, and you almost feel bad—but not really. “I might have to move a few things around. Very demanding schedule, you know.”

“Right,” he says, eyes flicking upward in that way you remember so well, a glint of playful hope that sends your stomach into a flip. “If you push doom scrolling till after seven, do you think we could get lunch and boba? There’s a new store that opened up near my place.”

You pretend to think, tapping your chin. “That might work.”

“My treat.”

“Would you look at that,” you breathe, smiling so wide it aches. “My entire day just cleared up.”

He grins, “Uh-huh. Cheap ass.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What was that?”

“I don’t know,” Mark says with a shrug that’s far too casual to be innocent, looking anywhere but at you. “Must’ve been the wind.”

It takes everything in you not to laugh. God, you’re hopeless. Every time he looks at you like that—like there’s some inside joke only the two of you share—it hits something soft and dangerous inside your chest. It shouldn’t feel this personal. He’s always like this with you. Right?

Before you can fire back something smug or clever, William calls your name like he’s been waiting for the perfect moment to interrupt. You roll your eyes but the irritation’s fake—your bark never really had any bite when it came to Mark, not when he looks at you like that. Not when he smells like that. Not when you’re sitting so close, you’re painfully aware of just how wet your panties are from… from what? A smile? A little eye contact? Pathetic.

Still, you’re smiling like an idiot when you hop off the bench and head to the lane. The energy in your chest is all fizzy and too much, too fast, but you try to channel it into something, anything else.

You take the ball and accidentally hit a strike. A perfect one.

You blink. “Holy shit.”

Laughter and chaos erupt behind you, and Mark shouts, “You fucking cheated!”

────────────

You don’t have a crush on Mark. You really don’t.

Because if you did, you probably would’ve told Amber not to go out with him after she asked if you were cool with it.

If you had a thing for Mark, you definitely would’ve wallowed in self-pity with your sad Spotify playlist and your arms elbow-deep in a bag of chips that one night he posted a photo with Eve in the middle of the jungle or wherever.

If you liked Mark—even a little bit—you probably would've pulled your hair out strand by strand when you found out he started dating Eve for real.

But that didn’t happen. So. You don’t have a crush on him. Obviously.

Totally.

And whatever weird, fluttery, buzzy feeling that’s dancing through your chest and your stomach right now? It’s definitely just the boba. Or something they put in the syrup. Maybe the taro’s gone off. Definitely not the way Mark’s eyes crinkle when he’s smiling at you. Not the way he showed up to your little lunch date(?) wearing that stupid shirt you always teased him for owning five of. Or how he paid without even asking, the casual kind of chivalry that makes your heart thud and your brain scream (even if he already told you it was his treat).

Your relationship with Mark has never been anything extraordinary. It’s… simple.

As simple as being friends with a half-alien can be.

You’ve always loved Mark’s company, though. You love the way he talks about all the dorky, nerdy shit that made him a bit of a loner in high school—the same stuff he still brings up now with zero shame. You like listening to him talk about it, even when you don’t understand half the words. Even when you know you’ll never, ever watch that weird Super Dog cartoon he keeps insisting would change your life. Not until he finally watches that limited-run K-drama you’ve been begging him to get through since last summer, anyway.

But anyway, you enjoy those moments you get with Mark—even if they’re rare. You enjoy spending time with him, catching up, listening to his stories, and then trying to make your own mundane ones sound even half as cool. You know you’ll never top the time he went to Mars. That story lives in a league of its own. But you still love the way his voice softens when he talks about spending a quiet afternoon with his mom, or the way he lights up when Oliver does something new—like picking up skateboarding or learning a dumb trick that’s only impressive because he’s small and determined.

Mark tends to set the bar pretty high without even trying.

And not just with stories. With everything. With how he lives, how he treats people. Without ever meaning to, Mark’s somehow managed to ruin dating for you. He’s set your standards insanely high. You’ve caught yourself comparing people to him—his kindness, his loyalty, his dumb sense of humour. You still wince when you remember William’s reaction to the last guy you matched with on Tinder.

“He’s like… a whiter version of Mark.”

You haven’t opened Tinder since.

“You okay?”

Mark’s voice cuts through your spiral, pulling you back. You blink like you’ve just come up for air.

“Sorry, yeah,” you say too quickly, shifting in your seat like that might shake the embarrassment off. You meet his eye for just a second—he’s already looking at you, head tilted, brows pulled together in quiet concern.

Your fingers tighten around your cup, the condensation beading under your skin. It’s cold. Which is helpful. Because you’re warm. Too warm. For no good reason. Definitely not because of how intently he’s looking at you, like he’s trying to read between your pauses.

You clear your throat. “Wait—so Cecil had you training on the moon?”

There’s a tiny hitch in his rhythm, just for a beat. You think he might’ve been expecting you to actually answer him, to say what’s on your mind. But Mark lets it slide. He shifts in his seat a little and starts talking again, picking up the thread of his story like it’s no big deal.

And you try to listen. You do.

You don’t get many chances like this—just you and him, no one else around. No William. No supervillain attack halfway through a sentence. Just… a booth, a couple of half-finished drinks, and him.

You want to soak up every second. But he makes it so damn hard for you.

You catch bits of the story—something about the new suit being way more annoying to get on, something else about Oliver cracking the concrete trying to ollie down the front steps—but you’re barely keeping up. Your brain is foggy and not in a cute, dreamy way. You’re kind of just… watching him.

The way he talks with his hands. The way he smiles halfway through a sentence, like he already knows the punchline’s only funny to him but he’s gonna say it anyway. The way he leans in a little when he’s excited, like he’s trying to make you feel the moment with him.

You laugh when he laughs, even if you miss the joke.

Because as long as he keeps talking, you don’t have to say anything.

You just get to sit there. And pretend like this is enough.

The thing was, Mark has always technically been an attractive guy. Tall, kind of annoyingly fit, with that sharp jawline that only got better with age. Charming in a way he didn’t even realize. At least you’d always known it. But you never thought you’d live to see the day (or the week… okay, the past few months—maybe even the year) where you’d start to see him that way.

Like, really see him. In that oh no kind of way.

You’d brushed it off for a while—blamed it on nostalgia, on hormones, on whatever. But bowling last night had been a bit of a breaking point. Something about the sleeves pushed up his forearms, the way he leaned over to aim, that boyish little grin when he finally knocked a pin down—it undid you. And you hadn’t exactly been subtle about the way you were gawking.

Still, it didn’t really hit you until this morning. When you woke up a little dazed, sheets tangled between your legs, and the ghost of a dream clinging to your skin. His voice had echoed in your head, low and warm and familiar. His touch—blurry, but undeniably his—lingered along your shoulder, your back. Your neck.

You’d jolted up like someone caught you.

So. Yeah. Maybe you had the hots for your best friend. Maybe your body wanted something more than side hugs and occasional shoulder touches and the familiar comfort of leaning into him during movies. But that didn’t mean you had a crush or anything. Right?

…Right.

So what if you’d taken a little longer getting ready today? Or if you picked a nicer perfume—the one you usually saved for special occasions—and spritzed a little extra behind your ears, just in case. Not because of him. Just… because. And if you fixed your hair in the mirror three separate times before leaving? Totally normal.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything.

Except it’s really hard to hold onto that thought when he’s sitting across from you looking like that.

His hair’s messier than usual, the curls a little looser like he ran his fingers through it instead of brushing it out. His light blue shirt clings in all the right places and you’re seriously starting to wonder if any of his clothes still fit him properly or if he just enjoys tormenting you. His biceps look like they’re threatening the seams and you hate how aware of it you are.

He's rambling about something now—probably a mission, or a weird encounter with a reporter who keeps calling him the “hot one.” He laughs, wide and open-mouthed, and you try to focus on his words but you’re too busy watching how his lips move. How easily that laugh bubbles out of him. How pretty his eyes are when they squint at you like this, catching you staring.

You should say something. Anything.

“You’re, uh—” you blurt out, then immediately regret it. He glances up, curious. You clear your throat and gesture vaguely at him. “You look nice. That’s a good shirt on you.”

He blinks. “Oh. Thanks,” he says, smiling like it’s no big deal, but his ears go pink. “Didn’t even realize—kind of just threw it on this morning.”

Of course he did. Of course he looks like this with zero effort. Meanwhile, you were practically putting on war paint to get your eyeliner even.

“It’s a good colour on you,” you add, a little quieter. Your fingers pick at the sleeve of your own jacket, trying to act like you’re not slowly disintegrating under the weight of your own thoughts.

There’s a beat. You feel his gaze again—steadier this time. Like he’s trying to see through the cracks.

“You got all dressed up too,” he says casually, elbow on the table, chin resting on his palm. “Special occasion?”

You scoff. “What, like I can’t look decent unless it’s for something?”

“I mean,” he teases, lips twitching, “you’re usually in sweats when we hang out.”

“That’s because you’ve seen me in every stage of human degeneration. There’s no mystery left.”

Mark laughs, deep and genuine. “There’s still a little mystery.”

You’re not going to ask what he means. You’re not.

Instead, you take a sip of your drink to hide the flush in your cheeks. You focus on the way the cold clings to your fingers, grounding you. Because if you let yourself keep staring, you’re going to do something stupid. Like, ask him if he wants to come back to yours. Or kiss him right here across the table.

You sneak another glance at him. He’s already looking at you. Again.

You want him so bad it’s physically painful.

And yeah, sure—maybe you’ve imagined what it’d be like if you were just a little bit closer. Not just physically. Closer in a way that means good morning kisses and bad jokes whispered into collarbones and brushing your teeth side by side, sleep-crinkled eyes and soft Sunday smiles. All those tiny, stupid, quiet things that make you feel like you belong to someone.

And if you let yourself feel it for just one second longer—you know exactly who you want to belong to.

You hope that whoever glances your way in this too-cute, hipster boba café thinks you’re on a date. God, you hope so. The way the two of you are sitting, drinks in hand, talking in that soft, familiar rhythm of long-time friends—it has to read as a date. Right?

Some unhinged voice in the back of your head keeps whispering that it is one, even if you never officially said it. Even if you didn’t dare call it that aloud.

You tried to drown that thought out while getting ready. Told yourself over and over—it’s just lunch. Just boba. With Mark. Your friend. One of your best friends. Who you’ve known since middle school. Who’s saved your life and seen you ugly cry at three in the morning. Who also happens to be alarmingly hot and stupidly nice and smiles at you like you’re some secret he’s been keeping warm in his pocket.

And who, to your absolute horror, you’ve recently started thinking about in ways you should not think about Mark Grayson.

He was already seated by the window when you got there. The sunlight poured in softly, and his forearms rested on the table. He was already sipping something dark with brown sugar pearls stuck to the side of the cup and scrolling on his phone, brow furrowed just a little.

You cringed remembering the way you froze at the entrance. Really froze. Long enough for a group of teenagers behind you to shuffle awkwardly around and brush past with a few muttered “excuse me”s and half-laughs. Embarrassing.

When you finally slid into the booth in front of him, Mark looked up and smiled, “Hey.”

And damn it if that stupid word didn’t do something to you.

“Hey,” you said, trying to sound normal. “You beat me here.”

“I was excited,” he said, with that casual, open honesty that always got you. “Sue me.”

He then pushed a drink toward you. You hadn’t even realized he ordered for you—but it was your usual.

“Thanks. You remembered?”

“Course I did.” He shrugged like it was nothing. “Not that hard to remember the most annoying boba order in existence.”

You kicked him under the table. “Bitch.”

He grinned, totally unfazed. “Affectionately.”

You bring your forearms up to rest on the table, leaning in just slightly. The move feels natural—too natural—and you let your head tilt as you look at him, willing yourself to snap out of the storm in your head and focus. Present moment, please. Now would be nice.

The sunlight through the window catches the edge of his jaw, carving golden light into soft angles. His lashes cast shadows. His fingers tap lightly against his cup, unhurried. Your own drink is already gone—sucked down while you tried not to have a crisis about whether or not this felt like a date. Because it does. It really, really does. It feels like one in the quietest, scariest, most electric kind of way.

You’re trying not to jump across the table. God, what the fuck is wrong with you?

You’re insane, that voice in your head shrieks. Clinically. Emotionally. Hormonally.

Your eyes fall—again, helplessly—to his lips. And it hits you that this might be the first time you’ve ever really stared at them, but it also feels like you’ve always known them. You could probably sketch the shape from memory: the soft dip of his top lip, the way the corners twitch up just before he smiles, the slightly darker flush of colour when he bites down to keep from laughing.

You know them the way you know your favourite songs—effortlessly, intimately, over and over.

And it’s only then, maybe a little too late, that you realize his mouth isn’t moving.

Shit. What was the last thing he said?

You snap back to his eyes, expecting to find a look of confusion, maybe amusement. Maybe even irritation. You’d deserve it. You’ve been undressing him with your eyes the entire afternoon.

But you’re surprised when you find a peculiar, absent look on his face.

Mark’s face is distant. Still. His brown eyes are half-focused like he’s listening to something very far away. His hand continues tapping slowly on the side of his cup, but he’s not drinking it. Hasn’t drank from it in a while, actually. Probably because he’s been talking this whole time and you’ve been too busy losing your mind to pay attention.

“Mark?” you say, softly.

He doesn’t react.

Which is strange. Because you know how sharp his senses are, superhearing and all, he could probably hear a raindrop land five cities over if he tried. But right now, he’s staring so intently, so deliberately, that for a split second, you actually worry something might be wrong.

Until you shift. Just a little. Barely an inch.

And his gaze follows the movement, dragging downward like it’s magnetized.

You glance down.

Oh.

Right. The neckline. You forgot you picked this shirt. Or at least, you forgot what it might look like sitting across from someone like Mark.

Your stomach twists with something that’s equal parts heat and embarrassment. You want to roll your eyes—of course this is what’s got him so distracted. For all his superhero nonsense, you’re still friends with a guy.

“Mark,” you say again, this time with a little more bite, trying not to smile.

His eyes flick up from your chest, blinking rapidly. His mouth opens in a small “oh,” a hum catching in the back of his throat as he scrambles to respond, but doesn’t quite manage it in time. A second later, the realization hits, and his entire face ignites. His cheeks go so red you almost feel bad for him. But you find it sort of adorable.

He coughs, clearly trying to recover. His hand rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“Sorry,” He says, smiling meekly at you. His hand drops back to the table. “You just— I mean, I— You look really... goob. I mean boob. Good. I mean good. You look good.”

A shy grin splits your face open as your skin starts to warm. “Thanks. You look goob, too.”

He lets out a breathy laugh, groaning, biting down on his straw. “Fuck off. I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, no,” you say, waving him off with a laugh. “I’ll allow it. That was... actually kinda sweet.”

He smiles at you, all shy and embarrassed. A little crooked. Like he knows what he just did and has no idea what to do with himself now. You’re pretty sure your heart is about to explode into a thousand glittering pieces right there on the table.

You sit there, breath caught somewhere between your ribs, watching him as he ducks his head, and chews on the boba pearls like they hold the secret to surviving this moment. And all you can think—loud, panicked, impossibly clear—is:

You want to kiss him.

And not just kiss him. You want him in a way that’s full-bodied and reckless. You want him with the force of every stupid dream you’ve ever had. You want him in that dizzy, hands-in-hair, clothes-on-the-floor kind of way. You want to ruin this whole perfectly lovely friendship in the worst possible way.

And maybe it’s the way he’s still not meeting your eyes. Or maybe it’s how warm your skin feels. Or how the sunlight is pouring in too golden and soft and romantic and cruel.

“Mark,” you say.

He looks up at you, eyes wide and mouth disgustingly full. “Yeah?”

“I think we should fuck.”

He chokes. Immediately. You watch in real-time as he sucks his drink the wrong way and practically launches into a coughing fit. A splash of tapioca pearls and brown sugar milk flies out of his nose and hits the table.

“Oh my god—” you mutter, reaching across to grab a stack of napkins.

Mark is flailing. Coughing, sputtering, waving a hand like he’s trying to say something but also very much trying not to die. His face is bright red. He’s laughing and coughing at the same time. It’s a mess. A scene. People are staring.

“I’m fine,” he wheezes, between hacks. “I’m—you—what?”

You try to smile, a little nervous. “I said I want to have sex with you.”

Mark goes absolutely still.

He stares at you, wide-eyed, stunned into silence. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. You watch his gaze dip—just barely. Lower. Lips. Throat. Chest. Then back up again.

“You—what—where is this coming from?” he finally blurts.

“I don’t know,” you say honestly, fingers playing with your straw wrapper. “It just sort of... fell out of me.”

“Fell out of you?” he repeats, completely scandalized.

“I... I've been thinking about it for a while now...” You're starting to feel dread sink into your stomach, thick and slow like honey, but bitter like poison... or puke. What the fuck have you just done?

Your words hang there, dangling over the edge of a cliff you just shoved both of you off of. You can’t look at him. Not properly. Not when your face is on fire and your chest is tight and the booth feels too small. Not when the air feels heavier with every second he doesn’t say anything.

You’re seconds away from bolting. Or vomiting. Or both.

“It's been driving me crazy, believe me,” you manage, voice thinner now. “But uh, if you want to say no, say no."

“Oh my god. You’re serious.”

“...Yeah.”

“Like you want—”

“Yes.”

“Me?”

“Yes, Mark, you.”

He leans back slightly in the booth, and he looks away for a split second—at the window, the floor, anywhere that isn’t your face—but it doesn’t last. His eyes are back on you before you can even blink. “I just...” he starts but then trails off again.

“Can you just... like, reject me?” you finally puff out, cheeks burning. It comes out too quickly like you’re trying to outrun the silence. Your voice is too casual to be convincing, but you try anyway, like saying it first makes it sting less.

“Reject you?”

“I’m... I’m sorry I just threw this on you. I wasn’t thinking.”

“You want me to reject you?” His voice is quiet now, but not confused. There’s something else in it.

“So I can like, move on. Change my name. Move to a different state, maybe.”

The joke lands like a dying leaf. Your laugh is brittle. Empty. It’s all just armour at this point.

But Mark huffs a soft laugh of his own,

“I’m not... I’m. not gonna reject you.”

"You're not?"

He shakes his head slowly like he's still trying to believe this is real. His eyes meet yours, and this time he holds it. Locked in. No flinching. No looking away. All that stunned awkwardness melts into something steadier, something careful. Measured. Wanting. Like he’s finally letting himself consider what it would mean to say yes.

“No,” he says. “That would be stupid. And William would never let me live it down.”

The tension cracks just slightly, pulling a small, breathy laugh from you—something trembling and alive. Your pulse spikes. Your throat’s dry. You're still not sure you're breathing right.

“So... you want to—?”

“Yeah,” he says. Quick. Blunt. No room for misinterpretation.

Then again, softer. Like he’s scared of how much he means it.

“Yeah.”

Internally, you’re both reeling—because that “yeah” didn’t sound like a joke. It didn’t sound like some impulsive sure why not. It sounded like he meant it. All of it.

Mark glances down at his hands like he needs something to look at besides you. “I’ve been thinking about it too. Just didn’t think you were—y’know, thinking about it.”

“Well, I was. I am,” you admit, heart pounding. “And it was... getting really hard to just not say anything.”

He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice lower now. This is no longer a conversation for public ears.

“So what... we just do this?” he asks.

“We could... just try it. See if it works.”

His eyes flick to your mouth again, and it makes your stomach flip.

“Like, casual?” he asks, but there’s a quiet tension under the word. Like he’s testing it out on his tongue and it doesn’t quite fit.

“Sure. Casual. For now.” It comes out a little breathless.

Mark smiles, but it’s not a smug one. It’s nervous. Small. “Right. For now just friends. Who, uh... sleep together.”

You nod, mirroring that same small, nervous grin. “Exactly.”

“But we’re still friends,” he says.

“Of course.”

“And more if we like it.”

“Definitely.”

“So I can take you on a real date if all goes well?”

“Please, do.”

He nods. “So, for now, we can still hang out. And do stupid shit. And eat takeout and talk about movies and—”

“—and maybe also make out sometimes,” you add, trying for lightness, though your voice wavers with the weight of wanting.

Mark pauses. “And definitely do more than make out.”

You blink. “You’re getting bold all of a sudden.”

He shrugs, but his eyes are glued to you now. “I just... don’t want to mess this up. But I also really don’t want to go home without kissing you.”

You inhale sharply.

“Well,” you say, grabbing your drink as an excuse to hide your grin, “your place is closer than mine.”

His expression flickers—first surprise, then realization. “Oh, so like... now? We’re doing this right now?”

You nod, trying to act like it’s nothing, like your insides aren’t vibrating with panic and anticipation. He stands before you do, waiting like he’s afraid you might change your mind if he moves too fast.

When you join him, you don’t touch—but your whole body is practically leaning toward him, every nerve tuned into his orbit. You leave the shop like that: side by side, hearts hammering, skin buzzing, still pretending this isn’t happening. But it is. Oh, it is.

The short walk to your car is deceptively casual on the outside, but inside, you’re spiralling. Spiralling and floating all at once. You’re aware of every breath, every step. A storm of want and nerves and what-ifs spinning in your stomach.

By the time you’re seated behind the wheel, your hands are trembling slightly on your thighs. You try to be subtle about it. Meanwhile, Mark slides into the passenger seat with a blush high on his cheeks—bashful, like he’s already guilty of something. Like the thought alone is enough to make him flustered.

He fiddles with his phone, plugging it in like it’s the most important task of the century. He scrolls through songs like his life depends on picking just the right vibe, and maybe it does. You pretend not to watch him, even though you feel like you're burning a hole through the corner of your eye. He’s acting like everything’s totally normal, like the two of you didn’t just agree—very plainly—to have sex. And god, that boyish fake-casual routine of his is so unfair.

Your breath hitches when the music finally starts. Some song you barely recognize filters through the speakers, but you barely process it. Your fingers twitch around the wheel.

You’d started the engine but never shifted into gear.

Mark glances at you.

Fuck.

That’s it. That’s your last straw.

Because he’s looking at you like he’s waiting. Like he’s curious and soft and a little bit shy, and it cracks something open in your chest. You’ve seen this man punch meteors. You’ve seen him dent walls and bleed for people he loves. And right now, he looks like he’d melt if you so much as leaned in a little closer.

So you do.

You lean (jump, really) across the center console, breath shallow, no hesitation left in you, and press your mouth to his—hot, urgent, not the least bit gentle (you could’ve broken your nose against his steel skin).

He lets out a muffled, surprised sound that you feel more than hear. But he kisses you back immediately, like his body was already on the edge, just waiting for the signal to move. His hands come up to your sides, cradling your ribs so carefully it hurts, like he thinks he’ll crush if he squeezes too hard (he can).

He leans into it fast. His nose bumps yours, and there’s a soft gasp when your lips part. It’s messy. Desperate. Hungry. You sigh into his mouth, tilting your head, and his fingers twitch against your waist. Then his lips part wider, and that’s your cue—your tongue finds the seam of his mouth, dragging across his lower lip before slipping in.

He groans.

Low, breathy, and real.

One of his hands slides lower, skimming the hem of your shirt, the very edge of his pinky brushing against the exposed skin of your side. It makes you tremble. He’s so gentle, like he doesn’t quite trust himself with you yet. Like he’s holding something precious.

You don’t know how long it goes on—seconds, minutes. But the car rocks faintly when he shifts in his seat, and that’s when you start to pull away. Slowly. Breathlessly.

You look at him—his lips parted, eyes still shut, like he’s chasing the kiss even as it slips from him. And god, you’ve seen that look before, but you never let yourself believe it was real. Now you can’t deny it.

Mark blinks at you. Once. Twice.

Then he leans in and kisses you again.

It’s different this time. Short. Sweet. A soft press of lips. Like punctuation at the end of a sentence you’ve both been trying to say for months. It tastes like sugar and burns fire.

He leans back into his seat, finally, hands settling awkwardly over his lap. You notice the way his fingers twitch—nervous, restrained. You could scream. From the heat in your blood. From relief. From how right it all feels.

“Sorry,” you say, even though you’re not. Not at all. You’re still tasting him on your lips. Still humming with the knowledge that he wants you—wants you—the same way you want him.

The way your voice lilts upward, a little smug, is what makes him scoff, eyes rolling.

“Yeah, sure,” he mumbles, shifting in his seat. “Just couldn’t wait, could you?”

You roll your eyes right back at him, grinning as you finally pull the car out of the parking lot. “Yeah, yeah. Fuck you. You said you didn’t want to go home without kissing me, so—I did you a favour.”

“Oh, did you?” he fires back, all sass, and the way he says it makes your stomach flutter.

You scoff, but it’s affectionate. And even though you’re driving now, even though the moment has passed, you can still feel it, thick in the air between you—the tension, the promise, the want.

“Yeah,” you say again, quieter now. A little breathless. “Yeah, I did.”

You park in front of his house and kill the engine.

Neither of you move.

“…So,” Mark says, finally.

“So.”

His head tilts toward you, a slow grin tugging at his lips. “Race you inside.”

“What?”

You don’t get the chance to say more before he’s already yanking open the door, half-tripping over himself in his rush to get out. You watch him scramble up the walkway, basically vaulting over the three porch steps. You just blink, mildly stunned—and vaguely reminded that he could’ve flown the two of you back to his house if he hadn’t insisted on you driving. Your car sits quietly behind you, utterly abandoned, as you step out and lock it with a flat expression.

He’s waiting for you at the front door, breathless and smug.

“I win.”

“You cheated,” you mutter, strolling up behind him.

“Nuh-uh.”

His hands fumble with the keys, like he’s suddenly forgotten how locks work. You wait behind him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his back, the way his shoulders tense slightly when you’re that near. It makes something in your chest squeeze, soft and wild.

The lock finally clicks. He pushes the door open and steps aside dramatically, gesturing for you to go in. “Milady.”

You roll your eyes but smile as you pass him.

Inside, it’s quiet. Familiar. You’ve been here a million times. Your gaze flicks around automatically. Debbie must’ve gotten a new carpet recently—soft beige with delicate lines you don’t remember from the last time you came over. You hum softly under your breath, grounding yourself in the domestic detail. Always a little surprised, somehow, by the size of this place. It’s modern and clean, tastefully decorated. It smells like laundry detergent and something faintly citrusy. It smells like him.

You turn around and he’s right there. Looking at you like you hung the stars and accidentally knocked one loose when you kissed him in the car.

And then he kisses you again.

No hesitation this time. Just Mark, pulling you in by the waist, cupping your face and his mouth finds yours with a kind of aching slowness—soft, cautious, almost reverent.

You melt into him instantly. Your fingers fist into the front of his shirt, knuckles brushing his chest as you pull him closer, grounding yourself in the warmth of him. He lets out a sound—a mix between a sigh and a groan—and it sinks low into your belly, heat blooming there with terrifying ease. He kisses you deeper, more sure now, like he’s already memorized the shape of your mouth.

His hands slide down your back, warm and soothing.

“Mom’s out with Oliver,” Mark murmurs against your lips like he knows you were about to ask. His voice is low, rough from disuse and want. “Won’t be back for a while.”

“Lucky us,” you mumble, and you barely finish the words before he kisses you again, harder this time, lips parting yours with such gentle insistence that your knees almost give.

He makes this delightful little sound, hands shifting to cradle your head gently, fingers threading through your hair like he’s been waiting a lifetime for the chance.

“So lucky,” He agrees, regretfully breaking away when your body tenses in a silent request for air. You’re disappointed too. Who needs breathing, anyway?

“Did you wanna watch a movie first?”

He’s not even out of breath.

“Not really,” you reply with a breathless laugh, cheeks already sore from grinning so much. Your hands are still resting against his chest, fingertips twitching with the need to keep touching him. He grins back, nodding once, and starts guiding you backwards through the house.

He’s careful with you. You’re walking blind, caught in the middle of another kiss when he gently redirects you away from a stray shoe, his hand tightening briefly around your waist to steer you around Oliver’s skateboard left smack in the middle of the foyer. You barely notice it. All you can focus on is his mouth, trailing kisses to the curve of your neck, the press of his lips to the slope of your shoulder. You shiver when his teeth graze your skin.

He doesn’t stop.

Not until you’re pressed up against the wall at the bottom of the staircase, both of you panting between kisses that grow hotter, messier. His hands bracket your hips, thumbs stroking small circles that send sparks crawling up your spine. He groans when your hips roll forward again his, instinctive, your body reacting before your brain can catch up.

You think you hear him whisper your name.

You’re tugging at the hem of his shirt, desperate to feel more skin, and when your fingers slide beneath it and skim along his stomach, he freezes. Not with fear—but like he’s overwhelmed. Like he’s trying not to fall apart from something as simple as your touch.

And then, in a breathless pause, he pulls back just enough to speak. His forehead leans into yours, eyes fluttering closed as he exhales shakily.

“I imagined this being sweeter,” he pants. “I’m sorry.”

You nearly melt on the spot.

Because the way he says it—it’s not embarrassed. It’s earnest. Vulnerable. It takes everything in you not to scream with joy.

God, if he knew how often you’d imagined this too—how many nights you’d curled up thinking of how it might feel to kiss him, touch him, have him like this—he’d probably panic and fly halfway across the city.

Instead, all you manage is a broken little whimper as your fingers twist in his shirt, dragging him closer. “God, Mark, that’s so hot.”

His eyes blink open, stunned. “It is?”

“Yeah,” you say, breathless.

And that’s all it takes.

You don’t even remember deciding to move, but suddenly you’re being rushed up the stairs, feet stumbling as Mark pulls you with him. Your shoes get kicked off somewhere mid-way, lost in the blur of hands and mouths and shared laughter.

He’s hovering, quite literally gliding over the ground, but he seems to barely notice. His feet skim the steps, weightless with something that appears like joy.

Mark fumbles the doorknob twice before finally swinging the door open. Since he’s still kissing you, still pushing you gently forward, you almost tumble inside. He catches you easily, a strong arm firm around your waist, the other bracing himself against the doorframe.

He doesn’t even seem like he notices all that much, floating upwards for a moment before he’s kissing you silly all over again. It’s hot and wet and when he opens his mouth slightly, you follow, your lips parting just enough for your tongues to meet.

Your body fits against his like it was made for it, warm and pliant, your cheek brushing against his as he angles his head and deepens the kiss. You think you never want to stop kissing him. It’s addicting. He’s a drug and you’re hooked, irrevocably. 

You think you might be trembling, just a little.

You decide, boldly, to shove him backwards.

He lets you.

He trips over something in the mess of his room—could be a book, a shoe, or a part of his suit. You don’t get the chance to look. He stumbles until his back hits the wall beside his closet, half-collapsing against the old Seance Dog poster, and you swear he grins against your mouth.

You pull back just enough to breathe, just enough to look at him. Mark’s lips are kiss-swollen and flushed pink, cheeks dusted a deep red. His eyes are heavy-lidded, pupils botched wide with want. He chases your mouth again, barely containing a whine when you press your hands a little harder against his chest to keep him in place.

“Oh, Mark,” you murmur, lips brushing the corner of his mouth before trailing down to his jaw, then his throat. You press a hot, open-mouthed kiss beneath his ear and feel him shiver. “You’re so fucking pretty.”

“I—” The breath he exhales is ragged, shaky. You feel the way his pulse jumps strangely beneath your tongue as you mouth at the delicate skin of his neck. The slight scrape of your teeth draws out a sound you could get drunk on.

The afternoon sun floods into the room in slats, casting golden stripes across his skin. Everything smells like him. The colour of his t-shirt matches his walls, and the thought makes you smile stupidly as you glance up at him again. He’s smiling too. It’s infectious.

You can still feel the strength of the heat rolling off of his skin. “No one’s ever called me pretty before,” he mumbles against your mouth.

You pull back, eyebrows furrowed. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not…”

A frown tugs at your lips as your hands drop to the hem of his shirt with a wordless plea. He pulls it off obediently, albeit somewhat distractedly. “That’s fucking criminal.”

Where it lands doesn’t even matter—your eyes are fixed on his chest. His bare chest that you’ve been given permission to properly ogle at. You swear you feel your mouth salivate a bit. 

“I feel like I should’ve known sooner,” he teases, breathless.

You blink up at him. “Known what?”

“That you liked me. I mean—look at you.” He gestures toward your face with a sheepish grin. “You’re drooling.”

“I’m not drooling,” you huff, making a face even though your cheeks are warm. “I’m admiring. Big difference.”

Mark quirks an eyebrow at you.

“And yeah,” you say, fingers dancing along the waistband of his jeans now, just teasing. “You’re pretty stupid for not knowing sooner.”

He scoffs, but the look in his eyes is warm and soft and maybe a little reverent. You don’t let him say anything else.

“Stupidly pretty,” you murmur, crashing back into him, pressing your mouth to his again with more heat than before. You lick into his mouth, then drag your lips along the column of his throat, down to that same aching spot on his neck. You feel his hands tighten on your waist, and he exhales a shaky, desperate breath like it’s the first one he’s had in minutes.

Your hands roam more freely now, gliding across the newly exposed skin like you’ve earned the right. You’ve seen Mark shirtless before—countless times, actually—but never like this. Not with your breath catching in your throat and your hands trembling just slightly with want. Not with your mouth practically watering as you finally get to touch him like you’ve always wanted to.

Well… unless that one time you helped him put sunscreen on his back last summer counts.

Because this is different.

This time, he’s letting you feel. Explore. He lets you be a little mean and even tug at the trail of hair leading under his pants.

He’s warm in the way fresh sunlight is; comforting, radiant, and magnetic. Your fingers trail down the groove between his pecs, slowly. You knew his body is obviously muscled since his Invincible suit doesn’t leave too much to the imagination, but it’s different feeling warm, sculpted skin than the cool spandex (or whatever it’s made out of.) You trace the faint outline of each muscle, letting your hands dip lower until you reach the ridges of his abs.

And just beneath them—your hand pauses.

You feel it. A soft, rhythmic thrum under your palm. Not quite a heartbeat. Not quite human. It’s steadier than a pulse, more like a hum—like something alive and electric and ancient ticking in the hollow of his chest. It makes your breath hitch.

How alien is he? You wonder.

But the thought doesn’t scare you. If anything, it makes your stomach swoop. You press your hand flat against the faint, vibrating sensation, mesmerized.

Mark watches you, breathing a little heavier now. His hands are wandering too—palms gliding down your sides with more confidence than before. You gasp when he gropes your ass, hard, the pressure unexpected and firm. He pulls you flush against him, and you yelp, catching yourself on his chest with a small, surprised laugh.

His chuckle is low, rumbling beneath your cheek as you bury your face in his skin. It’s so warm. You want to wrap yourself in it.

Then his lips are back—just behind your ear, kissing that soft spot that makes your thoughts short-circuit. You feel yourself sway forward, dizzy with heat and hunger.

Your mind flickers between two options: Pull your shirt off or pull him to the bed.

Instead, your knees hit the carpet before your brain can stop you.

His hands dart forward to pull you back up, brows furrowed with concern, but you’re already reaching for his belt.

“Oh,” he sighs, startled and wide-eyed. “You don’t have to—”

“I wanna,” you murmur, voice dripping with intention as your hand palms him over his jeans. “Please let me.”

You press your cheek against the bulge, coddling it like it’s already yours, your breath catching as you drag your nose slowly along its length. You mouth at the fabric, teasing him with slow, open kisses, and then you look up, eyes wide and sparkling and pleading.

“Please, Mark.”

His knees nearly buckle.

“Yeah,” he exhales, voice hoarse. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”

He looks stunned, dazed, like he’s dreaming something too good to be real. His hands cradle your face so gently it makes your stomach flip, thumbs brushing your jaw.

He’s like a furnace, radiating heat in waves. Like a lantern in the dark. Bright and alive and everything in you aches to touch him more.

You kiss his clothed cock again, slower this time, almost reverent, and he shudders. You can hear the faint rasp in his breath, the catch in his throat as your fingers finally undo his belt and tug his jeans down.

He steps out of them awkwardly, kicking them to the side—and that’s when you notice the blur of colours on his boxers. You blink. Then squint.

And laugh.

“Is that…” You grin, tugging the elastic waistband back with a finger to get a better look. “Seance Dog?”

Tiny cartoon super dogs dance across the fabric, all in different poses—one in a wizard hat, a few riding on yellow stars. You let the waistband snap back against his skin with a cheeky pop.

Mark’s ears go red.

“It was laundry day,” he mumbles, flustered and pink.

“I think it’s cute,” you giggle, ducking forward and pressing a kiss right above the stupid little dogs. “So stupidly cute.”

He tries to say something in return, but you’re giggling all over his very real, very hard dick, kissing at the shape of it, and whatever excuse he was about to make dies a quick death.

“Whatever,” he mutters under his breath, trying and failing to glare at you.

You flash him an innocent look, resting your chin on his hip. “I swear, it’s cute.”

“You’re just saying that because you have me half-naked.”

“Maybe,” you smirk, batting your lashes. Then: “Are you gonna let me suck your dick, or…?”

He groans. His hand flies to his face to hide the actual whimper that comes out, and when he peeks between his fingers at you—grinning like you’re the devil—he can’t help but laugh. A breathless, half-embarrassed noise that melts into the warm air between you.

“Are you gonna stop teasing me, or what?”

You decide to be nice. Because honestly, you're not sure if you'll ever get the chance to be here again. A jagged breath escapes Mark’s lips when you finally tug his boxers down and free his cock from the cotton confines. He’s flushed deep and aching, and the heat low in your stomach tightens at the sight of him. He basically springs out, and you actually flinch a little as it bounces against his stomach. Hard, red, and glistening at the tip with precum.

You blink. Wow.

Okay. Wow.

He's pretty everywhere, but this is... a lot. In the best way. Surpasses all of your expectations. 10/10.

It twitches in front of your face and you feel the warmth radiating off him like a space heater turned up too high. Your hand hovers—hesitant for just a second—before you wrap your palm around him, slowly, carefully, like you’re holding something precious.

He twitches again.

The muscles in his stomach tense, flexing like a ripple under his skin, and you can’t help it—you smirk. Have you mentioned how insanely good he looks right now? That gorgeous, pink-tinged flush creeping down his chest, all the way to the tip of his cock?

Your brain short-circuits. Just pretty boy, pretty boy, pretty boy playing on repeat in your head like a broken record.

Mark exhales a shuddering sigh, and it punches straight through you. “Warm…” he whispers, dazed, eyes hazy and half-lidded. He looks drunk off you already.

“William wasn't kidding,” you mutter, half to yourself as you breathe again.

Mark blinks. “What?”

“He said you had a big dick.”

Mark chokes. “William—he’s never—what?”

“Said you guys used to stand side by side and measure them.”

“Fuck off—he did not say that—”

“Is it true you used them as lightsabers?”

“Oh my god—” Mark groans. He sounds like he’s dying. You don’t know if it’s the secondhand embarrassment or the way your thumb brushes right across his tip.

Maybe both.

“Shut the fuck up, asshole,” he mutters, playfully pushing at your face. You bite your lip, triumphant.

Without thinking, you tighten your grip. Just a little. Just enough to make him keen.

His laugh dissolves into a broken sound, somewhere between a moan and a whimper, and the hand that had pushed your face away now finds a new home buried in your hair.

You lean in and press a soft, teasing kiss to the flushed tip. His cock twitches again.

Mark’s breath catches in his throat.

Your hand never stops moving, a slow up-and-down that has him trembling. You kiss him again, right on the slit, and feel the heat pulsing against your lips. You run your tongue up the underside of his cock, tracing that thick vein from base to tip, and Mark makes a strangled, broken sound—like he’s holding on for dear life.

You push back his foreskin with your thumb and swirl your tongue in a lazy circle around the head. A droplet of precum smears across your lips and you hum against him, taking your time.

You glance up at Mark, checking back in.

“That’s good,” He affirms, voice breathy. “That’s really fucking good.”

Every sound he makes engraves itself into your brain.

You trail kisses down his shaft, your tongue learning every ridge, every pulse, every twitch like you’re memorizing him. Your pace is slow and calculated, and Mark is panting now, legs tense, body twitching under your every touch. You glance up—and fuck—he’s flushed all the way to his ears, lips parted, eyes glassy.

You wrap your lips around the head and sink down.

“Fuuuck,” he whispers, throwing his head back, and staring at the ceiling. His hips jolt upward, pushing deeper into your mouth. It’s a messy rhythm at first, but you welcome it, the way he shivers and gasps when he hits the back of your throat.

You work what you can with your mouth and use your hand on the rest, pumping steadily in time with the bob of your head. Your spit slicks his cock as you move faster, drool dripping down your chin and his shaft.

His thighs are shaking, abs tensing with every gasp. You can feel his restraint fraying—see it in the way his fists clutch the cushions, how his hips start jerking forward, chasing more of the heat and wetness of your mouth.

His cock pulses, thick and hot on your tongue, and he’s babbling now—words half-formed and strangled:

“F-fuck- shit, shit, shit—I’m gonna—ah, fuck me, yeah, f-fuck, I’m— wait shit—”

He pulls your head off at the last second, the hand in your hair tugging, gentle but frantic. You let him, breath caught in your throat, barely registering it until he’s panting and his cock twitches one more time before he cums.

Hot, white ropes spill across your face.

The first hits your cheek, thick and warm. Another lands across your nose, streaking upward toward your brow. It catches on your lip—your open mouth still parted. You blink in surprise but stay still, a little stunned by how hot your skin suddenly feels under each drop.

His moans taper off into little whines, his breath catching in his throat as he watches—eyes wide, pupils blown out wider and darker than you’ve ever seen eyes do before. It’s a strange feeling when you’re reminded that Mark isn’t fully human, even though he mostly looks like it.

You watch his pupils shrink back to normal size and he shakes his head like he’s trying to focus. And his voice cracks. His thumb brushes along your jaw, then dips lower, gently dragging through the mess he left on your chin like he's trying to process the sight of you. Like he can’t believe what he’s done to you.

“Holy shit,” he gasps, blinking down at you. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to—I should’ve warned you—sorry.”

You look up at him, breathless, heart thudding loud in your ears. A grin starts to creep onto your face before you can stop it. You try to fight it—you should be playing it cool—but you can’t help it. Your smile is slow and sweet and so telling. You fucking freak.

“That was…”

“Gross. I know. I’m sorry.” he interrupts, still flushed red and clearly panicking a little.

“I was gonna say hot,” you murmur.

Mark exhales hard, something unsteady and relieved loosening in his shoulders as he leans down to pull you up. You don’t complain when your knees sting, don’t comment on the ache blooming in your thighs. You barely notice it.

His hand comes to cradle your face, and you brace for a kiss—maybe something soft and grateful. Instead, Mark kisses you like he’s starving. Tongue sliding against yours, mouth open and frantic, tasting you, tasting himself. He licks your teeth, then your lips—wet and shining—and then your cheek, dragging his tongue through his own cum, whimpering into your mouth when he tastes it again.

Get a load of this fucking freak, Jesus Christ.

He doesn’t stop. Licks across your skin with deliberate, dirty reverence. Over your chin, your cheekbone, even the curve of your nose—slow and deliberate, like he’s savouring it. His cum. Your skin. You.

He whimpers. Literally whimpers. God. And then he moans. Loud.

You just laugh, soft and dreamy, trying to stay grounded even as every nerve ending in your body feels like it’s sparking to life, flames consuming you. You’re still dressed, and yet you’ve never felt more bare. More downed.

Mark steps out of his boxers and pants, bunched around his ankles. His skin is slick with sweat, flushed with exertion, and glowing with something golden. You’ve never seen anyone look more gorgeous in your life. You realize, with a quiet sort of devastation, that you’d do anything to stay in this moment.

He leans in again, kissing you hard, both of you ignoring the sticky trail still clinging to your face. Your mouth, your skin—it’s all his. And he kisses like he knows it.

You kiss him back like you need him to know it’s mutual.

The ache between your thighs throbs now, sharp and insistent, but you almost forget it when Mark groans—a deep, low sound that vibrates in your chest. He cradles your jaw in both hands, pulling back just far enough to whisper, “Keep kissing me. Don’t ever stop.”

You nod, dazed, breathless. “I won’t.”

You kiss him again. His lips. His cheek. His nose. His forehead. He shivers under each one. You want to kiss him until your lips go numb, until time forgets the two of you ever existed as anything other than this.

And then—without warning—Mark starts to float again.

You feel it before you see it: the weightlessness, the subtle lift of his frame. His hands never leave your face, but his body hovers, high enough that you have to crane your neck to meet his lips. He laughs breathlessly, as though he forgot he could even do this, and he takes you with him—gently, almost reverently.

Your back hits the bed seconds later, soft and warm, and you sprawl out beneath him. Mark hovers above, eyes shining with something deep and giddy and overwhelming. His smile is wide and blinding.

Your heart thrums beneath your ribs, loud and full and dizzy, and you grin back up at him, dazed, knowing he can hear it.

You reach down, fumbling with the button on your jeans. Your fingers are clumsy, adrenaline and nerves making them tremble, and you curse under your breath. Mark dips down to help, but he’s no better—his hands fumble too, and the both of you dissolve into breathless, giggling laughter. His body presses into yours as he tries again, lips brushing yours between chuckles, and eventually, together, you manage to get them off.

He tosses them behind him with a careless flick—there’s a loud crash as something topples off your nightstand. You both flinch, wide-eyed.

You glance toward the sound but don’t move. “What was that?”

Mark snorts against your lips. “Lamp. Maybe.”

Neither of you moves to check. Not when his weight settles over you again. Not when his hands find your waist and slide beneath the hem of your shirt, warm and certain. His touch is steady now, smoothing up your sides, slipping along the curves of your ribs like he’s mapping out every part of you.

He pulls away just enough to look at you, a funny-looking grin on his face as he watches his hands ruck up your shirt gently. When he lifts the top higher, the fabric bunching at your ribs, you raise your arms to help, and for one breathless second, your hands meet midair—yours and his, tangled in the cotton.

Mark yanks it off with a breathless little laugh and lets it fall off the edge of the bed.

His gaze drops. His smile fades.

There’s a beat of stillness where he just looks at you. Really looks. His eyes drag over your chest—mismatched bra and all—and he blinks slow, like he’s committing it to memory. You swear he stops breathing.

His thumb lifts, brushing along the strap of your bra where it sits on your shoulder. He plucks at it gently, eyes fixed on the way the fabric moves beneath his touch. He does it again, slower this time, dragging the pad of his thumb over the edge of the cup. The way he stares—it’s not even lust, not exactly. It’s something softer.

The intensity of his gaze makes you want to shy away for just a second. You sit up and jab his side.

He jerks with a yelp, eyes flying back to yours.

You raise a brow, fighting your smug grin. “Who’s drooling now?”

Mark rolls his eyes, mock offended, but the flush on his cheeks betrays him. He opens his mouth to respond, and you swipe your thumb across the corner of his lips like you’re wiping something away. Annoyed, he groans loudly.

“Yeah, yeah. I get it.”

He catches your fingers in his hand. Brings them to his mouth. Nips at them playfully. You squeal, and then he kisses your knuckles so soft it makes your stomach swoop.

And suddenly, the teasing slips out of you like air from a balloon.

You lie back without thinking. Just melt into the bed. Mark follows you down, still holding your hand. He kneels between your legs, gaze pinned to you like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. When he finally lets go of your hand, it’s only to cradle your face in one palm, thumb brushing along your cheekbone like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

“You’re so beautiful.”

The words are quiet. Like a secret. Like he doesn’t even mean to say them aloud.

You flush hard, suddenly self-conscious in your bra and underwear—the colours don’t match, the cut’s nothing special, there might be a stain if he looks hard enough—but Mark’s eyes don’t so much as flinch.

You swallow, trying to think of something to say. “Says you,” you manage, reaching up to tug him down. “You were wearing Seance Dog boxers not five minutes ago. And I still almost cried from how good you look.”

He lets out a breath of a laugh, forehead bumping yours.

And then you kiss him sweetly. His lips press to yours like he’s trying to say something through it, like he’s trying to give you all the things he doesn’t have words for. One of his hands roams lower, down your side, curving around the bend of your thigh. He hooks your knee up and around his waist like it’s instinct, fingers digging into the plush skin just beneath your ass, and pulls you closer so he can grope your ass and do some other decidedly not-so-sweet things.

He discovers you’re wet under his palm through the rough fabric of your panties. No surprise there for you, you’ve been wet for a while now, but a deep sound tear from the back of his throat, so far that it almost sounds like a growl. It’s hard to separate your thoughts from him. Kissing him, sweet and warm, blazing and getting hotter.

You barely have time to think of anything else but your beautiful friend who happens to be an alien superhero. Your head’s too full of him to do anything but gasp when he moves again.

A ghost of a touch—just one finger dragging down the centre of your panties, light enough to drive you insane—pulls a small, breathy sound from your lips. And then he’s doing it again, tracing over your clit, featherlight and teasing. You’re not sure if your face simmers from embarrassment or sheer eagerness, but it’s hot either way. Your breath stutters. Your hips twitch, helplessly.

“Y’like that?” Mark mutters against your mouth, voice thick and a little rough, and you nod against his lips without hesitation, a soft whimper slipping past them.

“Good,” he breathes. “Good… lemme know if I’m doing this wrong.”

The words hit you like sunlight breaking through clouds—so warm and sweet it makes your chest ache like a cavity. That twist of pleasure low in your stomach tightens a little more, and you have to resist the instinct to roll your hips against his hand. He’s being so careful, and it just makes you want him even more.

“I don’t think there’s anything you could do wrong, Mark,” you sigh, and he kisses you again, deeper this time, his tongue brushing yours in a way that makes your toes curl.

You pull away on a light, breathless hum, licking your kiss-swollen lips as you blink up at him. There’s the tiniest flicker of disappointment on his face, quickly replaced when your hands slide up to the straps of your bra.

“Take this off?” Phrased like a question, secretly a plea, a demand wrapped in velvet and you’re verging on begging. Mark huffs, pretty lips curving upwards.

His hand slips away from between your thighs, trailing heat across your skin as he reaches behind you to unclasp your bra. The second the strap loosens, he watches you slide it off, his gaze dropping like gravity’s pulling it down.

His pupils dilate in that weird, telltale alien way they do as he takes in the sight of your tits.

A warm palm comes up to cup one breast, his touch tender, adoring—and then he leans in and bites. Not hard, just enough to make you hiss and gasp, the shock of it sparking in your chest. Your nipples peak to attention. His mouth is everywhere all at once, licking, sucking... marking you. You barely recognize the sounds leaving your throat, broken and wanting.

You’d caught a glimpse of yourself in his mirror earlier—faint love bites trailing across your neck, purpling and pretty—and now you can feel him adding more. You wonder idly if he’ll wear the ones you gave him too, or if his body will heal them away before sunset.

Mark drifts lower, slow and steady. You sink your fingers into his hair, threading through soft, inky black strands, and he rewards you with a kiss pressed just beneath your breast. Then your ribs. Then the centre of your belly, nose bumping your navel as he licks slow, warm stripes up and down your skin, teasing just along the underside of your boobs again.

It’s almost too much. You’re breathless from how soft he’s being. From how much he clearly wants you. From how he’s taking his time.

You look down at him, chest rising and falling. He’s already looking at you—of course he is. You follow the line of his nose, the curve of his jaw, the soft arch of his eyebrows. There’s this little furrow at the corners of his eyes you know is from years of smiling, and your heart just about splits open at the sight of him.

You have it so bad for him that your hips jerk up instinctively, needing more contact—needing him—just because his eyes catch yours and hold.

Mark presses a soft, sweet kiss to your knee. “I’m so excited I think I might pass out,” he mumbles, voice thick and a little shaky, the words dragging warmly over your skin. The tip of his nose nudges along the inside of your leg, tracing a slow, lazy path downward—knee to thigh—his breath fanning across sensitive skin.

Then his mouth finds you.

One gentle kiss through the thin fabric of your panties, right against your cunt. You twitch, a sweet noise pushing past your lips. 

He follows with a slow lick, dragging his tongue in a teasing stripe over you, the wet, thin barrier of your underwear doing nothing to dull the pressure. You huff breathlessly, your brows drawing together as he hums low against your clit.

The duvet crinkles beneath you as you sigh and sink into it. There’s a low throb curling deep in your gut, spreading like wildfire.

“Mark,” you sigh his name like it’s a prayer. 

He hums again, this time lower, rougher. His fingers dip beneath the elastic of your panties, warm and tentative, but he doesn’t pull them down just yet. His mouth moves lower, nose pressing in just right, and it steals the air from your lungs, your exhale lilted with a moan.

“I feel like we should have music playing,” he murmurs.

“Music?” you echo, half-dazed, raising an eyebrow you’re pretty sure he can’t see. His only answer is the smirk you feel more than see, pressed right into your skin.

And then he moves the gusset of your panties aside.

He groans—an actual, full-bodied moan—like the sight of you just knocked the breath out of him. He dips a finger into his mouth, wetting it, and mutters something under his breath about giving you a heads-up, that he’s not exactly an expert and most of it comes from the porn he watches (those homemade ones, the amateur videos couples post on Twitter which he swears are genuine clips of what sex is like).

You almost laugh—almost. You're about to tell him not to worry, that you probably know even less—but then his finger presses against you, tentative but eager, and slowly, carefully, he sinks in and you can’t help the soft groan that burns through you.

“Fuck, Mark,” you gasp, the words catching somewhere in your throat. He withdraws immediately, eyes flicking up to yours in question, and sucks his newly wet digit finger into his mouth.

“Good?” he asks.

You nod frantically. “S’good. So good.”

“Fuck—can I?” He asks, and you nod. You don’t know why he’s asking, you gave him a green light ages ago, but your hips lift to help him anyway as he hooks his fingers in your panties and pulls them down. “Y’taste so good,”

Mark leans down and puts his mouth on your hot cunt again. Every slow, willful stroke of his is timed perfectly to the beat pulsing through you. His hands hook under your thighs and pull your legs apart wider, his mouth slanting over you in a way that makes your back arch off the bed.

Your hand tangles in his dark, inky hair and tightens reflexively when he finds your clit again. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t slow, even when you tug. His tongue moves with growing confidence, and the velvet heat of his mouth spreads slick across you, every pass making you ache harder.

A breeze from the window flutters the curtains, the only sign the outside world still exists. But in here, everything is warm and golden and humming—all soft sheets and quiet gasps, all Mark Grayson.

If the tug hurts, Mark doesn’t show it. He hums again, deep and greedy, and your hips rock helplessly against the slope of his nose. Your fingers tighten, your eyes squeeze shut.

“Oh god,” You whine prettily. “That’s— uh— fuck, that’s really good.” 

Between your thighs, you hear and feel the moan Mark gives back. Your thighs twitch, caught in that impossible pull whether to close around his head and warm his ears or keep them open just to feel more. Your hips continue to move instinctively, helpless rolls up into his face. And he takes it appreciatively.

His tongue drags down your folds, and he sucks and slurps, slow and purposeful before flicking at your fluttering entrance. It makes you squeal, a sound you barely recognize as yours.

“Fuck,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to speak. His voice is hoarse, soaked in arousal. “You’re so wet.”

You can only blink, dazed, caught somewhere between disbelief and bliss. Mark sounds like he’s in heaven, like this is as good for him as it is for you—maybe even better. And god, if he keeps talking like that, you’ll never recover.

His chin and lips are slick, shining in the low light. You don’t know if he’s been talking to you the whole time, but you can’t dwell. Not when he’s back on you, plush lips locking around your clit and lavishing across the length of your slit. He moans into you, tongue dipping deep, greedy and soft and insistent.

The pressure in your core coils tighter, the pleasure winding up like a string pulled taut. Your chest rises and falls in sharp, shallow breaths. Your voice dissolves into a string of high, breathy little “yes, yes, yes,”s and Mark’s name, over and over, like a mantra.

He mutters something again, something messy and mumbled into your cunt. It takes you a second to realize he’s tapping at your hand where it’s buried in his hair. You lace your fingers with his, and he sighs like you just gave him oxygen.

“Please,” he says into your skin, almost frantically, “please cum on my face. Please, please, s’only fair.”

Your mouth parts, breath catching. He’s so beautiful—messy hair, flushed cheeks, his lips swollen and wet, eyes dark and heavy with lust. He glances up at you, and for a second, his eyes meet yours. But then his lids flutter shut, a shiver rolling down his spine as he moans again into your pussy.

“Fuck,” you swear.

“Yeah?” Mark hums before slowly sinking a finger inside you again. It’s slow, precise. Intentional Pumping the digit in and out of you with ease.

“Yeah, yeah,” you whisper.

“On my face?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Pinky promise?”

“Fuck yes, Mark,” you snap, voice rising. “I’ll cum on your fucking face—shut up!”

You see it then—that look on his face. A smug, delighted one. The same one he wore last night at the bowling alley when he finally knocked down a pin after guttering every ball. But now, it’s laced with morale, more self-satisfied, delighted, proud. Like he knew what you’d say. Like this was always going to happen.

And he just wanted to piss you off.

“Fuck you,” you mutter.

Mark chuckles, wicked and low—and then he adds a second finger.

A pressure builds low in your belly—slow at first, like a ripple pulling tight across your core, until it's urgent, searing, and impossible to ignore. Every movement Mark makes intensifies it, the flick of his tongue, the curl of his fingers inside you, the way his mouth works your clit. It’s not subtle anymore. It’s all-consuming. Flickers of starlight burst behind your closed eyelids, and you feel like you’re floating—no, caught, tethered to the sheets by his arm locked firmly over your hips.

“…Just like that,” you whisper, breath hitching. The words spill out instinctively, barely more than air. But they light him up—you can feel the way he doubles down, how he hones in on every sweet spot with sharper focus. “Keep going. ‘M close… so close, Mark. Please, don’t stop. Please just—”

Your mouth drops open. Not a sound escapes. Not even air. You go still, caught in that heart-stopping moment where everything tightens—every nerve pulled taut.

Then it rocks through you like lightning—white-hot and blinding. Your whole body jerks, legs trembling as the orgasm washes over you with no restraint. A whimper bursts from your throat, then another, and then it’s just breathless moans and helpless groans as you claw for something—anything. One foot presses into Mark’s back, anchoring you. Your fingers tangle in his hair again, desperate. The sheets twist beneath your spine,

Mark moans into you, a sound that hums right through your bones. He doesn’t let up—he licks you through it with soft, steady strokes, like he knows exactly what your body needs. Gentle. Sure. So fucking sweet.

When you finally manage to push him away, trembling and spent, he pulls back slowly—like he hates to leave you. He drags his fingers out of you, and plants a soft, lingering kiss to your swollen clit. A farewell, like he’s grateful for it. When he lifts his head, his face is shining with slick, lips pink, eyes dark and dazed.

His grin is crooked, eyes sparkling. “I think I did good.”

“Could be better...”

He rolls his eyes and leans in slow, almost shy. Like he’s giving you the chance to pull away. You don’t. You kiss him back eagerly, tasting yourself on his lips.

“You should sit on my face and suck me off next time,” he says, his voice low and serious. “After our date. Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

The idea of a date and a possible next time sends a thrill right through you, low and giddy and a little unhinged.

“I wanna fuck you first,” you murmur, your breath still uneven, chest rising and falling against his. The words come out raw and honest, no hesitation, and it sends a shiver down Mark’s spine. You feel it, the way he literally trembles.

He groans softly, tucking himself into your side, arms curling around your waist like it’s the most normal thing to do. “Maybe next time,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the curve of your neck. His eyes are shut tight, and he clings to you like your words rewired something inside him.

“You need a minute?” you ask, fingers stroking along his back.

“Just a minute… You?”

“…Yeah.”

“Okay, good. I don’t have condoms anyway.”

You snort, eyelids heavy as you nuzzle into him. “When’s your mom getting home?”

“Probably not for another couple hours.”

You glance at him, still breathless, still kind of high off him. “Wanna fly to the store and get some? Pick up takeout on the way?”

He groans dramatically. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You grin. “We can plan out our date after, too. I’ll even read an issue of Seance Dog.”

Mark grins back, a lazy, cocky tilt to his mouth. “Fuck yes. Can I pick the takeout?”

“Sure, you’re paying anyways.”

[mountquokka]

100 follower special: You can’t go up

Woosan X fem!reader

Word count: 3,883

Warnings: Co-CEO husbands woosan, dom San, switch Wooyoung, sub reader, jealous receptionist, threesome, mxm, oral (f and m receiving), degradation (slut, cockslut), nicknames (princess, baby, babyboy, love), daddy kink, sir kink, spit roasting, sucking cum off fingers, dirty talk, swallowing/cum eating, face riding, mentions of double penetration, woo getting fucked from both sides at once, woo gets needy and desperate, face fucking, choking, begging, facial, some hair pulling, let me know if I missed any

Summary: What will happen when you get denied entry for the way you dress to visit your husbands and they show you how wrong she was?

Notes: I keep switching between Woo and Wooyoung because I kept getting lazy to type out his name 😭 Also definitely the longest fic I’ve ever written so far🤭

Taglist <3: @hongjoongtime117 @lee-sang1625 @wontini

You had walked into your husbands' company excited to surprise them. You decide to be comfortable and wear San’s hoodie and the sweatpants Wooyoung loves much. You walk up to the front desk wondering why the normal receptionist wasn't there. Then you remember that she had recently had a baby and was on maternity leave. You walk to the desk and noticed the new receptionist side eye you. You ignore it and continue what you were doing.

"Hi I'm Y/n and I'm here to see San and Wooyoung" the receptionist scoffs and replies "do you have an appointment?" "no I don't, I usu-"

"Then I'm sorry, you can't go up. MR. Choi and MR. Jung only take appointments. You see they are very busy men" You were caught off guard by her response and tried to explain. "I know they only take appointments but they know me and Nayoung knows and just lets me up."

"Yeah sure. I totally believe that they know you. There's no way such successful men like them would know someone like you" "what do you mean someone like me?" The receptionist laughs "oh honey have you looked at yourself? You’re in a business dressed like that? No one would ever take you seriously"

You started getting annoyed with her attitude and responded "you aren't understanding, I'm with them." There was a slight pause. Then she starts laughing harder. "YOU?! With them?! That's fucking hilarious. Like they would ever be with a bum like you. They would want someone more sophisticated, like me" you were beyond pissed now. Not only did she just insult you, she said she'd be a better fit for them. You walk away from the desk and pull out your phone. You open your group chat with the guys and send a message:

You: can one of you come down to get me from the lobby? The receptionist won't let me up😒 Woo🖤🐈‍⬛: oh you’re here?🤩 Woo🖤🐈‍⬛: wait why not?🤨 You: yeah I was trying to surprise you You: because "I don't have an appointment" and some other shit I'll talk about when we get back up to your office San⛰️💜: I'll come get you princess You: thank you Sannie 😘 San⛰️💜: of course ❤️

You walk back to the desk and smirk at the receptionist. She gave a stank face and asked "what are you smiling about?" "about how fucked you are" Her face changed to one of confusion "what are you taking ab-" Before she could finish her question, the elevator dinged and San walked out. He was dressed in his signature black suit, looking as sexy as ever.

"So what's going on here? Why won't you let her up?" the receptionist heard the slight aggressiveness in his voice and tries to answer innocently "because she doesn't have an appointment sir, I was told not to let anyone up if they don't have an appointment." she tried to give some sort of puppy dog face to get him to not be mad at her. "She doesn't need an appointment and I would like you to make note of that from now on. Am I clear?" San declares completely ignoring her pouty face. The receptionist was completely shock and you smile at the look. "But sir- " "AM I clear?" he asks more sternly. She nods and glares back at you. You go over to San and grab his hand and he interlocks your fingers together. You turn around to see the look on her face and it was exactly what you expected. Complete disbelief. You chuckle and turn back towards the elevator. Of course you reach up to kiss San on the cheek before going in to really piss her off.

When you got to their office on the top floor of the building, you go over to Wooyoung and give him a kiss on the cheek. "So what happened?"

You take your seat on Wooyoung’s lap and start explaining. "so basically she said I can't go up cause I don't have an appointment AND that I didn't belong because of how I was dressed. I tried to explain that I'm with you two and she just laughed at me saying that successful men like you wouldn't be with ‘someone like me’”

San was pissed at what he was hearing and goes to his phone on his desk. "Sannie what are you doing?" you asked. He didn't answer and dialed a number. “hey Yuri? Can you pull out the list of hires for the temporary receptionist position… No you can hold them I'll come pick it up... Thank you" he hangs up the phone. "That bitch is gone" "that was kinda hot " Woo say chuckling, while playfully biting his lip. "San did you just?” he nods "no one talks to our wife that way and gets away with it"

You go over to him and gives him a kiss. You pull away and smile lovingly at him. "Thank you Sannie. I love you." He smiles and kisses her forehead "I love you too Princess” Their moment was interrupted by a throat clearing. "And I love you Woo" He smiles and replies "I love you too baby" you go back over to him and take your spot on his lap and kiss him as well so he's not left out.

You make yourself comfortable while the men work. You just casually play on your phone with Wooyoung occasionally kissing your cheek and forehead. Then the words popped into your head that the receptionist said to you.

"They would want someone more sophisticated, like me"

You then got a major wave of possessiveness and cuddle closer to Wooyoung. You bury your face into his neck and start giving light kisses. Wooyoung noticed your change in behavior but didn't say anything and let it happen.

The subtle kisses started to turn to kisses, bites and licks. Wooyoung started to let out quiet groans but tried his best to ignore and keep working. Until you full on bite his neck; knowing he's weak to bites. "Fuck" Wooyoung groans "baby I'm trying to work, can't you wait just a little longer? It's almost lunch." You get off his lap and move to straddle his thighs. You look at him with big doe eyes and a pout "please sir? I want you"

Wooyoung groans at your little begs and really tries to refuse but you just look so cute he can't say no. "Fine baby. But only for a little bit I really need to finish this report" Wooyoung moves his chair away from his desk and squeezes your ass. "Did you wear these just for me?" you nod. He smirks and continues to squeeze them. You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into a kiss. The kiss quickly deepens and you both let out soft groans into each others mouth.

Wooyoung pulls away from your lips and starts kissing down your jaw and to your neck. You let out soft whines as he leaves a trail of kisses. He removes a hand from your ass and slides it up underneath the hoodie and squeezes your breast and plays with your nipple. He hums as you moan softly at the action and switches to the other. Then he slides his hand down into your sweatpants and make direct contact with your dripping wet core. "No bra or panties? So bold of you. You naughty little slut” you moan a little louder at his words as he starts moving his fingers against your slippery folds. "Please Woo I want your fingers. Please?” "what's my name baby?" he asked as he starts to rub your bundle of nerves. "Fuck please sir" he smirks and takes one of his fingers and slowly pushes it into your heat. You slowly start grinding against the finger and let out little whimpers. Wooyoung watches you fuck yourself against his finger with darkening lust filled eyes, slowly adding a second finger. You moan a little too loud and Wooyoung grabs your throat pulling you to his lips in a sloppy kiss "you have to stay quiet baby or do you want the whole floor to hear how much of a slut you are for me?" “Fuck I'm sorry sir. it just feels so good" he bites his lip as you move your hips faster.

San is fully aware of what's going on. But he has such good self control, he keeps working, even though he's twitching constantly due to all the sounds happening right next to him. He tries to subtly adjust his pants but it doesn't go unnoticed by Wooyoung. "Do you want to join Sannie? That looks a little painful" "you know I can't… as much as I really want to." Wooyoung starts thrusting his fingers faster them pulls them out of you causing you to whine from the emptiness.

"Oh come on Sannie, just look how much she's dripping for us” he knows he shouldn't look because he'd give in but he does anyway. He instantly groans at Wooyoung's glistening fingers, all self control gone. He goes over to Wooyoung’s chair and pulls the fingers into his mouth, sucking off your arousal. You whine at the action in front of you.

“Fuck, you know I can never pass up a chance to taste our princess” His eyes are filled with lust as he grabs you by your throat and pulls you into a desperate kiss. Wooyoung continues to squeeze your ass and play with your nipples causing you to moan against San’s mouth. You both pull away to catch your breath. “Please daddy, sir please?” “Please what princess?” San asks stroking your cheek gently with his thumb. You whine “I want you both” Both of the guys smirk at your response. San pulls you off Wooyoung’s lap and turn you so your back is to his chest. He moves your legs to hang over Woo’s and gets onto his knees. He starts pulling your sweatpants off “It’s a good thing you’re here baby. It’s lunchtime and I seem to have forgotten my lunch today. You wouldn’t want your poor Sannie to be hungry now would you?” You shake your head and bite your lip. He smirks and lowers his head to your dripping core. You moan at the contact and your hands instantly goes to his hair. Wooyoung leaves kisses and bites on your neck as his hands go up and down your body. He removes your hoodie, leaving you completely naked in their presence. He plays with your nipples before going to your clit.

You whine at the stimulation arching your back off wooyoung’s chest. "does Daddy's tongue feel good baby?" San groans at Wooyoung calling him daddy "y-yes it feel s-so good. Fuck~" he smirks and rubs your clit faster. You almost scream as you get closer to your high. “I'm so close. Fuck~" Wooyoung looks down over your shoulder at San who is looking back at him and subtly nods. "cum for us baby. Drown Sannie in you sweetness" you moan at his words and release into san’s mouth. San lapped up everything and pulls away, face glistening. Wooyoung takes the fingers that was rubbing your clit and sucks off your arousal groaning at the taste. You whimper as you come down from your high.

San gets up from the floor and goes to Wooyoung. He pulls him into a deep passionate kiss, groaning into each other's mouth as they savor your taste on San's tongue. After completely coming down from your high, you take in the scene going on next to you and whine. You reach to both of their prominent bulges in their suit pants and palm at them. They both groan in each other’s mouths and pull away from the kiss, a string of saliva still connecting their lips together. "someone's really needy today, aren't you princess?" you whimper and continue to palm at their twitching lengths. "please. I wanna feel you both”

San moves to the side and Woo taps your thigh for you to get up. You land on the ground on shaky legs. San held you against him so you don’t fall. Woo stands and stretches before going to the couch in the opposite corner of the office space. He makes himself comfortable leaning up against the arm of the couch. He starts to unbuckle his belt and you whine at the bulge in his suit pants, barely being contained behind the zipper.

San carries you over to the couch and places you between Woo’s legs. You paw and the waistband of his pants, waiting for him to keep going. Woo smirks at you and slowly undoes his button. You start to get impatient and decide to take matters into your own hands. You make yourself level with his constrained member and start mouthing at it over his pants. Woo’s eyes widen and groans at the feeling. He tries to push your head away but it felt so good finally getting attention that he just lets it happen. But San wasn’t having it.

He pulls you away by your hair and Woo whines at the loss of your warm mouth. “Relax, you’ll have cock in you soon. Be patient” He lets go of your hair and Woo pulls his pants down to finally release his member and your mouth waters. The tip glistening with precum just asking to be devoured. You decide to not waste anymore time and take it into your mouth. Both you and Wooyoung moaning in unison. You take him in inch by inch until your nose hit his pelvic bone. Woo reveling in the long awaited feeling of your deliciously warm mouth.

San watches as you take Wooyoung deep in your throat. He grinds his boxer covered member against your ass. “My needy babies” he moans as his grinds turn into soft thrust, imagining you gripping his cock. As they started to speed up, you beginning to meet his thrust. “You want it princess?” You moan around Woo’s member and release with a pop. “Please daddy, please fuck me” San slaps your ass as he pulls down his boxers. He glides his throbbing cock against you, the tip grazing your sensitive clit. You whine again against Woo and he moans at the vibration.

San lines himself up and slowly pushes in. He groans at how tight you are, despite taking them both just last night. He starts off slow with his thrust, savoring in the warmth. He feels you clench as you gag on Woo’s dick and starts to speed up his thrusts. He continues to thrust into you as you keeping choking and gagging on Wooyoung. “Fuck~ I’m gonna cum keep going baby” Woo groans as the tightness in his lower stomach was close to snapping. San speeds up to an inhumane speed causing you to take Wooyoung deep in your throat as he releases with a whiny groan. You don’t hesitate to swallow all of it.

The sound Woo makes, along with the sound of you dripping core, push San over the edge. He cums deep into you causing you to cum as well. Milking his cock with every clench of your spasming pussy. “Your pussy feels amazing as always princess” you moan at the dirty praise. San pulls you up so your back meets his chest and kisses you. His tongue entering your mouth, tasting the remnants of Wooyoung’s cum. “You should saved some cum for me. Greedy girl.”

Your make out session was once again interrupted but this time by a whine. Both you and San look at Wooyoung, catching your breaths. “I’m still here too” San chuckles at his pouty husband. “Aww does my babyboy feel left out? Hm?” Wooyoung blushes at the nickname and pout “maybe I do” “come here love”

You and Wooyoung switch places so that he’s in front of San. San takes his chin in between his thumb and index finger and pulls him into a passionate kiss. San licks his bottom lip, asking for entrance which Woo immediately accepts.

They pull away after a while to catch their breath. “Why don’t you clean princess’s juices off my dick” Woo wastes no time getting on his knees on the floor in front of the couch. San sits on the couch and Wooyoung takes his place between his open legs. He admired San's glistening cock and licks his lips. He licks a strip up from his balls to the tip, moaning at the taste of your sweet juices.

He takes San deep into his throat, rolling his eyes back as he gags. “Good boy. You like being daddy’s little cockslut don’t you” Woo pulls off his dick with a pop and looks at him with lustful eyes. “Yes, yes I love it so much daddy, please fuck my face” San grabs Woo by his hair and pushes him back onto his cock. He moans feeling the tightness of Woo’s throat around his tip. San starts his thrusts slow then picks up knowing he can take it. Nothing could be heard except for gags and groans from the two men.

The guys stop for a moment when they hear little whines coming from the side of them. They look over at you, you’re slowly rubbing your swollen clit as your cum filled hole leaks out San's cum. They both groan at the sight. Woo gets up from the floor and back onto the couch. “Sit on my face baby. We can’t let that delicious cum go to waste”

You take your place, hovering over Woo’s face on shaky legs. He pulls you down, your pussy making direct contact with his tongue. He wastes no time sticking his tongue inside and licking out the cum San left behind.

As Woo shows you no mercy, San settles between his legs and takes a freshly lubed fingers and teases Woo’s hole. Wooyoung whimpers into your pussy as he slides 2 fingers into him. He stretches him open as Woo continues to eat you out. When San deemed him stretched enough, he lines himself up and thrust into him all at once, know he loves the pain.

Your moans start to get louder and San pulls you into a kiss to quiet you down. He pulls away and wraps his hand around your neck. “Didn’t Woo tell you to be quiet? If you do that again, I'm telling Woo to stop and I know you both don’t want that.” “Fuck~ no please I’m sorry~! His tongue feels so fucking good please don’t make him stop” He hums at your begs and tightens his grip on your throat “Then shut the fuck up and take it” He pulls you back into a kiss as he speeds up his thrusts into Wooyoung. The office was filled with the sounds of slurping from Wooyoung’s mouth and San’s balls hitting Woo’s ass.

“I’m s-s-so close!” You whine and Woo suddenly stops right before you could reach your peak. You whimper as your high starts to fade. “No no why’d you stop” Woo moves you from his face, panting “I want to feel you cum on my cock. Please baby? I wanna feel you clench me as you cum” you moan at the thought and move off the couch, barely keeping balance. San pulls out briefly so he can flip Woo onto his stomach. You lay on your back on the couch and Woo lines himself up to your pussy. He pushes in with no hesitation and starts thrusting slowly. San lines himself back up to Woo’s hole. Pushing him down so you’re both chest to chest as he begins to thrust into Woo, causing him to thrust into you. You both moan in unison, beginning to make out to keep each other quiet.

San's thrusts pick up, thrusting faster and harder. Woo’s cock hitting deeper into you, kissing your cervix. Both San and Wooyoung’s names leave your mouth at the wonderful pleasure you’re feeling right now. Woo’s own moans and whimpers leave his tongue as well, being in his favorite position. In between the two people he loves more than anything in the world.

“Aww does it feel good Woo? Does it feel good getting attention from both sides?” Wooyoung couldn’t even speak anymore, only whines so he nods instead. “Yeah? I know it feels good cause you’re clenching the fuck out of my dick right now. Mmm such a good boy. My good boy. I know you’re close to cumming, cum for me babyboy.” Woo releases into you with a almost pornographic moan. San pulls out and Woo slows his thrusts starting to feel the overstimulation. “Don’t stop now love, our princess still has to cum” San explains as he slowly strokes himself.

Wooyoung whimpers as he continues to thrust into you, trying his best to fight the sensitivity. You whimper his name as you started to get close again, begging him to go faster. “Please sir I’m so close. Please go fas-” Wooyoung grabs you by your throat again and pounds into you at an inhumane speed. “I’m gonna cum! I’m gonna-” “cum for us baby” you cum hard, Wooyoung following right behind you.

You lay there catching your breath as your highs die down. “You both were so good for me. I think I should give you a reward. On your knees now” you both immediately get to the floor, knowing what was coming (it’s San btw 🤭). He stands facing the both of you and strokes his leaking cock in your faces. You and Woo open your mouth and stick out your tongues with desperate looks, wordlessly asking for San’s cum. He groans as he releases onto both of your faces, some landing into your mouths and you both hum in satisfaction.

When San came down from his high, Wooyoung was the first to start licking your face clean of the sticky liquid. You return the favor. Then Wooyoung pulls you into a kiss passing the cum back and forth between your mouths. “Alright that’s enough. I don’t have energy for another round. Not when I haven’t had food.” San chuckles at his lovers.

You all get cleaned up and back into your clothes. San grabs the folder with the list of potential temporary receptionists and you all head down to the lobby. You walk up to the desk, shit eating grin on your face and your husband right behind you.

“Time to pack up your stuff bitch. You’re done.” The look of shock on her face at your words was priceless. “You both are just going to let her say that to me?” They both shrugged with emotionless faces. “I’d just do what she says, before we have security escort you out.” Wooyoung said sternly. “This is bullshit, I fucking quit” “well you were getting fired anyway so that makes my life easier” San said unamused. She then storms off after grabbing her stuff.

“Ok can we go get food now? I actually did forget my lunch at home and I’d like to eat it” both you and Wooyoung laugh at Sans’s pouty face.

“Ok Sannie let’s go get you some food”

[mylovesstuffs]

OT13 reaction to a masc-presenting s/o who's soft and feminine deep down

Request: ahh~~ ive been binging your writings and i love them all!!

i was wondering how ot13 svt would react with a f!reader who’s really masculine (masc clothes, short hair, muscular, often gets mistaken for a guy), but her personality and interests are very feminine (cutesy things, bedroom is entirely pink and stuffed animals)!!

sorry if this is really specific!! no worries if you don’t want to do this one >o< so much love to you!!!

Seungcheol: “Wait… am I the girlfriend here?” Loves your muscles, shows you off like, “She can bench-press me AND picks out plushies for me.” Becomes your biggest enabler at Sanrio stores.

Jeonghan: Thinks you’re the funniest and cutest thing on earth. Calls you “my pretty boy” just to mess with you. Smirks whenever he gets the reaction out of you and lets it play out for drama, but finds it extremely hot how your appearance is a contrast to your personality. “They don’t know you cried because your teddy bear's ribbon got wrinkled.”

Joshua: Thinks you’re dream girl material. He’s totally into the contrast. “You look like you’d punch someone for looking at me, but you also collect scented lip balms?” He will 100% knit you a pink shirt, and make cute little bracelets for you. He loves how you look and thinks it's very sexy of you.

Jun: Our Junhui is absolutely obsessed and in love. “I thought you were gonna beat me at arm wrestling and now you're asking me to help you brush your My Melody plush’s hair?” Constantly says, “You’re so cool. And also so precious. How??” He'll coo at you all the time but also want you to seduce him [which you do].

Hoshi: His reaction is just: “HYBRID POWER COUPLE??” Will copy your style, ask to borrow your button-ups, then get flustered seeing your all-pink, fairy light-filled room. He'll make sure his horangi plush is also on your bed with the million others that you already have. Also, he's a sucker for your hair...

Wonwoo: You’re his favorite contradiction. Finds your aesthetic fascinating. He always stares the first time you walk in with short hair and a tough outfit—then sees your pink room and just says, “This suits you, too.” He’ll start gifting you pastel things too... pastel things that nobody will see other than him e.g. lingeries.

Woozi: When you lift heavy stuff for him in a muscle tee, he’s all business, but the second you pull out a strawberry-scented hand cream, he glitches. “You… you like this stuff too?” Becomes very protective of your softness. You both are like a very power couple sort—both having muscles and extremely hot.

Dokyeom: His brain short circuits every time you switch from tough girlfriend to soft babie. He thinks it’s the best thing ever. Always hugging your strong arms and naming your plushies with you. But don't get me wrong, he has a dominant side, so he will put you in your place while also coo-ing on the side. Both of you are contrasting to eachother's external and internal personality lmao.

Mingyu: Absolutely down bad, like, on the floor bad. He shows you off like, “Look at her style. And these arms. AND she owns three pink humidifiers.” Offers to decorate your place with you but ends up buying everything you like. “Do you want more sparkly shelves for your perfumes?” Will also ask for your opinion about him hairstyle, clothes, cologne etc because you have the best sense of style. He infact finds you extremely hot for this.

Minghao: My man, respects the duality with his whole heart. He’ll match your vibe—black suit outside, lace and velvet inside. “I love how you defy expectations. That’s real art.” Will style your hair masculine one day, then help you hang pastel garlands the next. You know how Jeonghan is? He's so masculine one day and the other is a softie babygirl? That's exactly you but your your softie babygirl persona can only be seen by your close people.

Seungkwan: Screams the first time he walks into your room. “EXCUSE ME—YOU LIVE IN A STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE EPISODE?!” He’s soooooooooo dramatic about it, but also takes selfies with your plushies and from that day, he buys you matching robes. “I thought you were gonna arm-wrestle me, but you knit flower coasters???” He's shocked but finds this so damn attractive to the point he just want you to sjkjksksdf.

Vernon: He’s into it, all of it. “You dress like a skater boy but your room looks like a K-pop idol’s Vlive backdrop?” He loves your energy and goes, “You’re like… the main character in five genres at once.” He knows it because he watches lots of movies. He just finds you so cool, like really cool. And the contrast is a very big turn on for him!

Dino: Mentally high-fives himself every time he looks at you lmao. You look like you’d break someone’s knees, but then again, you have sparkly lip glosses organized by color—that leaves him impressed all the time. Tries to act chill but is obsessed with how you balance it all.

[howisthepope]

I’m sorry, someone sold the papacy?? Was it a pope? Or someone near to the pope or??? (Catholic history is FASCINATING)

Oh yes it was the Pope!

Imagine this, the year is 1032... you've already had 5 popes in the family including the last two, who were your uncles. You're 20 years old and your dad bribes some guys so you get elected.

Great. You're now a 20 year old pope. You used to be named Theophylactus of Tusculum but now you're Pope Benedict IX.

People were not happy with him. Ferdinand Gregorovius wrote: It seemed as if a demon from hell, in the disguise of a priest, occupied the chair of Peter and profaned the sacred mysteries of religion by his insolent courses.

Colourful. Apparently he raped, murdered and did 'other unspeakable acts of violence and sodomy'. There was political unrest so we need to take these accusations with a grain of salt but it's clear that they were not happy with him.

So he was removed from Rome in 1036. 24 years old. Thankfully the Emperor (Conrad II) brought him back.

Rumours get worse. Worse you said? Yes. By 1044 they've added accusations of bestiality and sponsoring orgies. He is removed from Rome once again and Sylvester III becomes Pope

He comes back in 1045. He expells his rival and resumes being pope. Buuut then he changes his mind because it's kind of tough to keep his position and he wants to marry his cousin. So, a month after he returned (a month!) he fucking resigns.

So he consults with his godfther the 'pious' priest John Gratian about resigning and says he can be pope buuut I am going to need to be reimbursed for my expenses. By John Gratian paying him, Benedict effectively sells the papacy. John Gratian becomes Pope Gregory VI

You think that would be the end of it, right? Wrong!

He changes his mind again and comes back, taking the throne but Gregory VI is still considered the true pope and Sylvester III also still claims he is pope. That's 3 popes!!!

In December of 1046, they asked the Emperor Henry III to cross the Alps to come deal with this mess. Henry deposed of Benedict IX and Sylvester III and then told Gregory VI to resign because he bought the papacy and that's not quite right. No popes! So they choose this German guy Clement II. Unproblematic, wants to reform.

Good, right? No! Clement II dies in October 1047, less than a year after he became pope. Well... Benedict thought what a good opportunity to become pope AGAIN. I've certainly lost count.

He was removed by the Germans in July 1048. They elected Damasus II as pope, who died in August of the same year but Benedict did not make another return. Leo IX became pope.

Benedict was excommunicated in 1049. We don't know much about his further life but it is said he felt remorse. He was buried in 1056.

[chaoticbasicallyuselessbisexual]

Your Miracle brought you to me, but it is my Faith that'll make you stay

based on this post by @colorlessjay

the third and final part finallyyy (can I get a wahoo)

(you can find the previous two parts here)

as per usual, I have no one to beta read, so there probably will be some mistakes (a lot), either way - I don't respect the english language enough to care, sooo yea

anyway, go nuts

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"Excuse me, but what the fuck are you doing with my dog?"

Dean had to pry his eyes off of Miracle, which was honestly a herculean fear, and looked back at the very attractive and still very pissed off guy.

"Hi, umm, sorry about this," the guy started explaining himself while still sitting on his ass on Castiel's porch with Castiel's dog in his lap, "I lost Miracle here a few weeks back, and I've been looking for her since and well-"

"If you lost her, then you don't deserve her in the first place. Give her back."

Hearing this, Dean started getting defensive.

"Wha- listen, I know I should've made sure she couldn't haul ass, but hear me out here man-"

"No. I will not be hearing anything that you have to say for yourself. You come here with your loud car and this big leather jacket, storm my porch, and just expect me to hand you over my dog? Not happening."

"Dude, be reasonable. You've had her for what, a few weeks, maybe? This dog has been my best friend for years-"

"Which is exactly why you don't deserve her. I've had Faith for a few weeks, and I know if anything were to happen to her, I'd kill the person responsible and then myself."

"Faith? You named her Faith? Seriously?"

"How is that any different from you naming her Miracle?!"

It was at this point that both men started raising their voices.

"Because she clearly looks like a Miracle!"

"That doesn't even make any sense!"

"I don't need your opinion on the name of my fucking dog!"

"Your dog my ass! She's staying with me and that's it!"

"Hell no! She's coming back with me!"

"Fuck that, she stays here!"

"She's coming-"

"She's staying!"

"I've had her-"

"I don't give two flying fucks how long you've had her-"

"She was mine first!"

"And chose to run away from you!"

Dean was about this close (and the space between the imaginary fingers was smaller than Castiel would've thought) to pulling out his gun and just shooting the infuriating guy in front of him.

"That's it. We're leaving, Miracle."

"You just try that. I legally adopted her. You try running with her, I'm calling the cops."

Dean considered his chances.

"I am not leaving her here with someone who doesn't even look like he can care for an artificial plant!"

"Well, too bad. She's mine, so hand her over and get the fuck off my porch!"

Dean considered his options. Again.

Option no.1: run to his car, carefully lay Miracle on the backseat, jump in the car and drive away as fast as possible, all while praying he'll outrun the cops and that the mean dude didn't already try to remember his plate.

Option no.2: once again, try to talk things out with the guy (who was currently staring daggers at him) and work out something that would hopefully be okay with both of them (shared custody?)

Option no.3: glue himself to Miracle so that the guy wouldn't have any other option but to let him leave with her and never. ever. come back.

Dean opted for a sober version of option no.3

(He didn't have any glue currently on him, which was a mistake he would never make again.)

"I'm not leaving without her!"

"She's not going anywhere!"

"Guess I'll just have to move in here then!"

"Fine!"

There was a beat of silence, and then a small

"what"

as Dean tried his best to process what the (insanely) hot guy just said to him.

Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose as if he were trying to handle a conversation with a particularly stupid five-year-old.

"That dog is the source of my will to live. If I have to keep you to keep her, I'll live."

For the first time in a very long time, Dean felt truly speechless. Castiel waited a few small moments for a reaction, but he didn't get any. So with another old man sigh, he continued.

"Look, don't lash out at me now, but you seriously look like you live in that car anyway. If I'm wrong, then by all means, you are very welcome to get the fuck out of here and leave the dog here, but if I'm right, hell, just stay here dude. I really don't have the energy to sort this out with you right now, and I hate having to make calls, much less to the police. So if you're so set on not leaving this dog here with me, just stay here."

Castiel half expected the man to bolt, scream, yell, point a gun at him, and call him weird and god knows what else, but to his surprise, none of that happened.

"Okay."

"Okay? That's it?"

"Dude, I'm not leaving Miracle-"

"Faith."

"- whatever, here with you. I almost went crazy when I lost her. I'm not leaving her side ever again."

Plus, you're kinda cute, Dean thought, but never really said.

"Alright then, come on in."

The last thing the neighbours heard was a muffled 'Hold up, what do you mean I look like I live in that car?'

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if you've got this far, I'm honestly surprised. good job.

a big thank you to anyone who enjoyed this and to @colorlessjay for the idea, and to my dear friend who bullied me into finishing this one

any interaction is welcome!

thank you for reading

(bonus - Dean's pov)

[luciaintheskyainthi]

HI HOW ARE YOU, i promised i would be here, i come from "An even keel"

I love this, I could read a thousand chapters and one from each family member, it never happened (i said that fine? English its still difficult, sorry for some wrong sentences here, 😞) to me that they could be even more sincere about loving each other from another perspective, the unconscious gestures and jayyy (pookie)

I found it so much fun that dick had such different ideas of who Jason is, it reminded me of what i think its the last chapter of ecm when he believes his brother could turn Peter into a weapon, and its when jay replies that dick thinks it's like he sees his brother for the first time. And I was also offended at the same second as Jason, man, how can you believe that about him? You're DEAF??? But its okay, its fictional, i have to calm down, HAHA, no

Don't you see the whole point that Jason has always tried to make? I was also a little stubborn when I saw that he don't find Peter attractive, and i agree with steph of his painful heterosexuality, BUT MAN-

I want to believe he thinks that it's because peter was just starting to feed himself, taking shape, deep into the trauma, I remember that near this range of chapters he was described emaciated and thin, so I want to forgive dick that Peter has nothing particularly special, but I'm glad when I remember that also in this range of chapters and later, Jason always sees nice things in Peter, deer eyes, freckles, and I know, I don't remember exactly the words or the exact chapter, but I put my hands in the fire and swear that Jason described Peter's physique as well as empathically (from seeing him malnourished) noticed and called him openly attractive, still denying any feeling or directly disregarding it yet, and still, seeing Peter with good eyes, and burying me with that idea. After all, I imagine Jason saying, "I have to like him, not you."

And i am here fighting with dick and you are the author HAHA but i continue

Also, i am not saying that dick its bad or something, i am just a team jason, anyways

And dick comparing Peter to artemis and the other girls, that was an amazing detail in dick's character, i continue arguing, HOW DARE YOU DICK GRAYSON-

He literally said "that powerful goddess artemis, and, this guy, this creature" sounds so STRAIGHT, and it also made me laugh

I think thats all(? But i'll probably come back 🦅

I thought about commenting on this in the fic on ao3, but i started to write more and more, and i want to share this with you here

Have a good day 💗 (i hope k have fed the muse haha)

I'm not gonna lie, your outrage at Dick not finding Peter attractive has made me cackle for a while now. 🤭 But as you say, it's Jason that's gotta like Pete, not Dick hehe

I think the chapter you're referring might be chapter 15? The cuddle chapter:

Jason pulled back so Peter did too, offering Jason a sleepy smile before looking out at the city. The night hugged the slowly refilling contours of his cheeks and his long, thick lashes. The expression in his dark eyes was unreadable, but Jason’s gut swooped at the sight. Beautiful, a traitorous voice offered. He looked away and focused on Peter’s slowly warming weight in his lap.

Augh I loved that scene ☠️ Fun fact, the original chapter name for that chapter was "Don't think about the eyes don't think about the eyes don't think about the-- shit". Then I wrote the additional scene to the chapter (the one at the start) and the chapter name changed to fit hehe.

Thank-you for your lovely ask, you have indeed fed the muse well 💖💖💖🍽️

[confusedmothboy]

Pleak,,,, I beg of thee,,,,, soft Jackie and Eddie art,,,, or,,,, if you’re feeling generous,,,, headcanons on Jackie and Eddie’s relationship in an au where Jackie lives,,,, I think they’d be a powerful duo in and out of the wilderness despite their awful parents,,,

theyre such a boyloser girlfailure duo theyre mlm wlw rivals theyre haters theyre so stupid i love them quite a lot

headcanons and writing under the cut

jackie hits eddie a lot. like a lot a lot. usually she just slaps him on the arm or over the back of the head, but the sweet fragile vibe that she has with the rest of the team evaporates whenever eddie acts up (breathes)

eddie hates jeff with a passion because one time jeff tried to mansplain something he learned about world war one (except he stole the information from a movie on world war two and eddie is highly abnormal about history). jackie hates all the girls eddie's dated not because he has bad taste but because even before she knew he was gay, she could tell that he was only dating them for gifts (cigarettes, cassettes, collectibles). jackie is so neutral on travis she had to ask "who" after spending two months out in the wilderness with everybody.

jackie's much closer to their parents than eddie is. ever since he was outed to them in 1993, they refuse to kick him out but also refuse to treat him normally. jackie doesn't know much about what goes on at home because shes usually out at practice, parties, studying, or up in her room with jeff.

eddie kept all the old cassettes that jackie wanted to throw out even though jackie swears up and down that she doesnt listen to "old" artists like madonna anymore (she still sings along when she hears him playing her music)

if jackie were to live (no crash au), eddie's life probably wouldnt go all that different, minus the fact that eddie would be living on the west coast (no fear of planes). one of my friends has an oc that he pairs up with jackie so im sorry jackieshauna truthers but she ends up with him instead. eddie's the uncle with the job you dont understand until youre around 13 or 14 whos always doing something to spoil his nieces/nephews. look at my oc hes lowkey just a chill guy /ref

--- doomcoming (the fun part) drabble ---

“She can’t even fit into her dress.” Jackie muttered under her breath. Eddie looked across the clearing to see Shauna swaying to the acapella music awkwardly. He snorted.

“And whose fault is that?” He mumbled the snide comment, leaning in closer to Jackie so no one could hear them. “Sure as hell isn’t yours that she's trashy. Or that she chose that God-awful dress.” He sipped his berry wine, the taste growing on him.

“Ugh. Don't make me think about it.” Jackie sighed.

“You want me to request a song from the DJs?” Eddie pointed with his pinky over to Crystal, Akilah, Gen, and Melissa, who were all harmonizing Hotel California -by Crystal's instruction- as the others danced. 

“What song?” Jackie asked tiredly. 

“Trust me, its one of your favorites.” Eddie lied. Jackie smiled, allowing it.

Eddie walked over to the choir group, past Javi, who was trying to convince Travis that he should be allowed to drink the berry wine. Travis relented right as Eddie whispered the song name in Crystal’s ear. She nodded and brought the song to an end - there wasn't much in the way of instrumentals and the portion with lyrics had already been sung. Crystal conferred with the rest of the group as Eddie took his place next to Jackie. They started humming the opening to the song, and it took a second for Jackie to realize what Eddie had chosen. She looked up at him. 

“No- no, I’m not doing it.” She couldn't hide the amused grin on her face. 

“See that girl, watch that scene,” 

“You don't have a choice, sorry Jacks, rules are rules.” Eddie shrugged, smiling wide.

“-digging the dancing queen…”

“C’mon, I’ll embarrass myself too.” Eddie pulled her by the hand onto the ‘dance floor’. They had a routine for that song that Eddie knew she still remembered. Jackie stumbled over the first few steps, but eventually started to dance side by side with Eddie, laughing. It was corny, it was dorky, it was evenings after the dust from their arguments would settle, and he and Jackie would watch movies and have dance-offs together. Eddie almost tripped over a branch, and glanced up at Travis, who was smiling at them. 

“Anybody could be that guy…” 

Jackie twirled Eddie around, a move that was clearly intended for a time when Eddie was significantly shorter than her. A few others started joining in. Tai and Van were giggling like crazy as they danced with each other. Mari pulled Akilah from the singer's group for a moment to join her. 

Eddie remembered exactly when they had last danced to that song. He had been about twelve, Jackie fifteen, and it came on the speakers at some family friend’s wedding. He and Jackie had stolen the show, and by that he meant they had danced horribly and everyone had laughed at their performance. That was good. That was the point.

Out of breath, the song winding down, Eddie stumbled out of the dance clearing to sit next to Travis on his log ‘bench’. As the girls started to hum the beginning to Heat Of The Moment, Travis placed a quick peck on Eddie’s cheek. Eddie turned to glance at him, both of their faces red. They weren't exactly trying to hide what was going on anymore, especially not after the celebration that Tai and Van’s kiss had earned. But Eddie still felt giddy at the fact that they didn't have to hide anything. He saw Javi at the other side of the clearing, a cup full of berry wine, looking back and forth at his brother and Eddie, confused, before shrugging and taking a swig. 

“You gonna keep him from a lifetime of alcoholism?” Eddie nudged Travis, who laughed. 

“Ah- who the hell cares anymore?” Travis tilted his head as he watched the rest of the group dance and sing their hearts out. “End of the world, and all.”

--- thank you for reading!!! ---

[thatswhatsushesaid]

what if the whole jianghu was on grindr actually

[rt3nenbaum]

mikey finally posted the selfie!! 🫂

[a-most-beloved-fool]

For the writing prompts;

19. For luck - Rom and Leeta

"And then," Bashir was saying - though in truth, Rom was paying only half attention, far too busy thinking about Leeta - "she came right up to me, and kissed me on the lips!"

"Oh, she did, did she?" Chief O'Brien said, scoffing good-naturedly.

"It's true!" Bashir insisted, though he didn't look insulted by the Chief's doubt. He was smiling into his glass, seeming quite delighted by the disbelieving frown on O'Brien's face.

Rom didn't quite understand what was supposed to be so 'unbelievable' about the story. In fact - "It seems pretty believable to me," he said. "Doctor Bashir's always kissing beautiful women." (Including, at one point, Leeta - though not anymore, Rom thought with some pleasure.)

"Yes, but this one was out of his league," the Chief said, batting his hand playfully across the table.

Bashir just smiled bashfully, ignoring the swipe. "Ah, well. You're right about that. She wasn't really interested in me after all. Turns out, she'd just misconstrued the human concept of a 'good luck kiss'".

"Ohh! A 'good luck kiss'!" Rom said eagerly. Then, after a pause, "Uh, what's a 'good luck kiss'?"

The Chief sat back, idly crossing his arms. "Well, it's pretty much exactly what it sounds like. It's a kiss that you give someone to wish them luck."

"Oh," Rom said, considering that. Luck was always a good thing to have. Perhaps... "Oh! Leeta!" He stood, sending his chair clattering backwards. "I'll be back!" he shouted, then raced from Quark's bar, ignoring his brother's parting shout out dismay.

He needed to find Leeta.

--

"Leeta! Waaaait!" Rom hollered, shuffling through the crowded promenade as quickly as he could manage, chasing after her familiar voice. "Leeta! I need to give you something!"

This would be easier, he thought, if Bajorans could hear as well as Ferengi could.

But, at last, Leeta stopped, turning to find him. "Rom? Rom, what's the matt-"

The rest of her sentence trailed off into a hum as Rom reached up, pulling her down to plant a kiss square on her lips. One of her hands cupped Rom's cheek, soft. Rom didn't really know how long a 'good luck kiss' was supposed to last for - he really should have gotten more details before running off (for example, does it need tongue? Bashir never specified.) - but he thought that this should satisfy it.

He pulled away, grinning toothily up at his wife. "Hi, Leeta," he said.

She smiled down at him, cheeks flushed and lovely as always. "Hi, Rom. What was that for?" she asked, looking bemused and delighted.

"It's a kiss," Rom said, perhaps unnecessarily. "For luck," he added. "It's a hoo-man tradition!"

"For luck? Rom," she asked, laughing, "what are you wishing me luck for?"

Rom blinked. "Uhhh... For your day?"

Leeta beamed at him, and then leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Well, I think it worked. I do feel pretty lucky now."

Rom grinned. "Me, too."

--

(also if anyone else wants to make a request, the ask game is here. i can't promise they'll get done as quick or be as long as this one is, though!)

[barananduen-blog]

"GUARDIANS OF THE DAFENG" - EP.32

"What is the meaning of life?" "What is the meaning of love?" "What is the meaning of work?" "Wait right here. I'm dying again. We'll continue [our conversation] in my next life"

"hAvE yOu MaDe DoUyInS?"

[chaoticgoodcaptain]

today, i've heard "best friend" by juice wrld and it makes me so happy that patrick stump sounds so happy on that song like i know he loves music but before the fob tour he sounded professional yet there was just this slight hint of apathy, now i swear he's living his best life truly enjoying his work

[just-wublrful]

not to be obnoxious on main but classic literature is not global literature. it's western literature at best

[feline-evil]

Dick or no dick confirmation Pickles was always going to be trans to me anyways; if he's swingin' somethin that's phallo babes, if he's not then his t-dick fat. What's not to get.