#Invincible x ofc

[thesoggyraincloud]

Treasonous

Omni-Man ( Nolan Grayson) x OFC / Cecil Stedman x OFC (Platonic)

Oneshot- What if a rebellious half Viltrumite arrived on earth?

---------------------

He's coming

The relentless onslaught of wind and rain slashed across her skin, drowned out only by the roaring sound thundering through her head. Desperately reaching out for anything solid, her flailing arms threw her off balance, sending her into an uncontrollable spin. A scream cutting into the vast unknown as she was thrown in circles, sending blood rushing through her skull. Agony re-awaked in her chest at the force of entry on the small planet, quickly subduing to panic and fear.

Gripping desperatly onto control, her eyes wildly searching for the impending ground. The air ripped at her, sending her hair in a flurry and blocking her vision. Her stomch flipped over, jaw gritting down to stop the vomiting rising in her throat. Buildings materialized from the gray haze inch by inch as she spun towards land, attempting to vear towards the moonlit river. Until...

SMASH.

She hated proving herself right sometimes.

Forcing the last of her power into keeping herself afloat aganst gravity's pull, energy which she didnt have to spare in her weakened state. Tension in her stomach muscles flexed around at the metal lodged in her side. She vomited red blood. Splattering it over her stained sleeve.

“I’ll fucking kill you, Tiran!” Her voice, hoarse and barely audible above the raging storm, echoed into the abyss.

“You need to come home,” The sound cut through the tempest, sending agony through the ache in her side.

“I will not!” Her voice screamed, fear repleninshing her lost gusto. She threw herself backward into him with a sick thud as the metal debris cut futher in.

Slamming her head into his jaw, she grasped at him desperately, pulling his bloody arm into her grip and twisting it with all her might. Flesh pulling and spewing through her long fingers like fresh dough; She felt tendons give way, muscle tearing away from bone. The force sent him backward, leaving his limp arm in her hand, cartilage lodged into her fingers from the pressure she gripped it with.

He faced her, the hole in his shoulder trickling blood down into the abyss. And in that moment he was like any other being from any other world. Weak, vulnerable and maybe for the first time in her life an equal. A body made of blood and meat, susceptible to being torn apart. Years of instinct, of preditory history, training and violence siezed her body in apprehention.

“You. Will. Come. Home,” Tiran gasped out, straghtening himself up. Flying closer toward her with each word.

The two collided in a fury. He ripped at her side like a rapid dog, widening the gaping hole in her chest until his fingers gripped the piece of metal debris.

She screamed, arching away from his grip, stabbing him with the exposed bone of his departed arm. Undeterred, he pushed the metal further, ripping through her lungs, stealing her breath.

The bloodied woman freed her twisted arm from its usless defense against his assult, allowing him to continue his massacre unrestained. They grappled in a gory embrace, giving her the opportunity to free his severed appendage of its sopping flesh, degloving it in a swift motion.

Distracted with beating her breaking body, he didn't seem to notice her lift the makeshift weapon into the air. His eyes glazing over before any realization what she had done, the bone already launched deep inside his ear, reaching the brain with a small pop and release as it broke through the thick plate of skull. His weight went limp in her hands and she pushed them togther, tighter and harder until the feeling gave way to a pop and crack under the pressure, before giving out in a wet slap.

She let him fall, watching his body shrink down to a dot and land in a broken heap on the concrete, concaving it under him like cracked glass.

The sight made her feel warm, humming in approval at the victory. Attempting to breathe back in, she filled her lungs with blood, a sensation of molten steel thickening in her chest. It weighed her down until she found herself falling once again, following her dead companion to the forgin ground.

------------------

"Jesus fucking Christ."

Cecil had just arrived home. A dead alien and another on the brink of was not part of his evening plans today, but certainly not the most unusual interruption in his line of work.

"Sir, there's more." Donald's voice wavered, the silence filtering through the background noises of agents bustling about.

"What is it?"

"It's awake, sir."

Cecil didnt wait any longer, slamming his hand down on the watch wrapped around his wrist. Teleporting to Donald in a snap of light before the sentence concluded. Perhaps tonight might be worth leaving the ‘comfort’ of his home. 

"Have we contacted The Guardians?" He should've asked on the phone, God knows they took their damn time.

Donald acknowledged the taller man as he approached, both looking into the fortified room containing the mysterious extraterrestrial. Nurses and doctors filtered in and out, covered in the beings blood. 

"I'm not sure we need to."

Cecil noted the unease in the mans demeanour, motioning for him to continue.

"It says it came here for protection. She wants to speak to Nolan."

Cecil looked up, these kind of nights kept this job fun he mused, plus he liked a mystery.

"How does she know who Nolan is?" He placed a hand to his face in mock annoyance, each question bringing more uncertainty.

"She won't answer. Well except to say she's not here to hurt anyone. And that she insists on speaking only to Nolan." Cecil nodded- it was an intriguing request.

"Get him on the line. Now."

------

A/n: I've never done anything for this fandom before but I just rewatched watched the show and oh my fuck I cannot believe it took me so long to find it. I watched a 7 hour youtube video deep dive on the comic book lore recently and its only feeding my obsession so enjoy the result of this brainrot.

[starliteonearth]

The only thing I want for Mark and Eve going forward is more fun, trivial conversations. Since season 1, most of their moments are spent giving each other rundowns of what's going on in their lives and sharing advice, which is great, but I'd love to see them chat about something completely trivial. Let them have things beyond superheroing or family drama.

[frostkittenz]

All that art and love for the alternate mark variants but not an ounce of appreciation for the man who brought them to us in the first place

I have to do everything around here myself *kisses him*

[vinnyvamppp]

Lord almighty save me, my brain has been spiraling ever since I read Viltrumite Mark going into heat. 🩷🩷🩷 Now I’m picturing all the variants having a heat cycle (separately with reader ofc [unless— 👀 reader would break, I fear in the best way though]). Any chance I can request other versions of it, like with No Goggles, MoHawk, Sinister, Omni-Mark or Shiesty? 👀👀👀

𝐁𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐌𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐓𝐨𝐨

A/N: Every main, side, and popular variant is in this bitch.

Warnings: Smut, Knotting, Overstimulation, Breeding Kink, Pheromone Play, Power Dynamics, Sub/Dom Dynamics, Heat Cycles, Rough Sex, Penetrative Sex, Cum-Eating, Anal Sex, and etc.

Synopsis: Each version of Mark Grayson— bratty kings, calculating monsters, broken gods— crave the same thing: your body, your loyalty, your soul. You’re a cure and a weakness they crave to keep. Consume him.

⭐: Lensless, Sinister, Variant #17, Shiesty/Hooded, Mohawk, Masked, Main Mark, Omni-Mark (Teasers): Gangbang, Thragg, Nolan, Atom Eve, Rex, and Rae. (Viltrum Marks Ver: Here.)

Viltrumite Heat Cycles x Fem!Reader

Word Count: (.... sigh.)

Sinister Mark

Sinister Mark didn’t fall apart. He broke others—physically, mentally, and existentially. The very idea of something breaking him was absurd. The usual cocky demeanor with smiles that spoke false promises had been replaced with an expression of strife.

So when the heat started… he ignored it. Thought he could power through it like a broken rib. Pain meant nothing to him. Weakness didn’t exist in his vocabulary. This couldn’t be happening to him. The Invincible, utterly devoid of humanity, felt his knees go weak.

Then he smelled you.

And suddenly, he was falling.

It hit him in the middle of a mission, screams drowned beneath the crackles of fire, blood coating his knuckles, a ruined building behind him, and eyes amusedly watching survivors scramble to hide. He should have flown home. Instead, he flew to you.

Now you stood in front of him in your apartment, lips parted, wearing that tank top he’d already imagined ripping off in more than one intrusive fantasy. “Mark?” you asked, voice cautious. “You look… flushed.” He didn’t respond at first—just stepped inside, eyes tracking every inch of you like a predator finally locking on prey it had been hunting for weeks.

“I told myself I wouldn’t do this,” he muttered, the door clicking shut behind him. “That I could outlast it.” The red haze behind his eyes had intensified, pupils blown, chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths. His jaw clenched, muscles tensing as he fought the last shreds of restraint. He couldn’t seem to explain what was happening, but rather how it felt. The arousal that trumped the blood pumping through his veins.

“But then I thought about you,” he said slowly. “About how you’d feel under me. How you’d sound.”

His smile was humorless. “That’s all it took to lose control.”

He crossed the room in a blink. One hand slammed against the wall beside your head, and the other gripped your waist tight enough to bruise. He inhaled deeply, his nose brushing your neck. You drove him insane in ways other women could only dream of.

“You smell unreal.” Like temptation, like trouble, like a nuisance he’d love to carry. 

“Mark, what is thi—” you whispered, but he cut you off with his mouth.

His lips crashed into yours with desperate precision. There was no hesitation. Just raw hunger and the desire to conquer. Tongue, teeth, bruising kisses that left you gasping, head spinning. Rigged ends of teeth clacking against yours clumsily as he sought to taste every inch. His hands roamed up your sides, under your shirt, gripping tight and possessive like he needed to anchor himself or he'd combust. He expected you to say something sweet, something submissive like you usually would. One thing he loved about you was your ability to manipulate, to bite back until you had your way. Your fingers twist in his hair, yanking just enough to make him groan. Ichor from his blood-stained hands coated your waist. 

“You already know how it ends. I’m not gentle,” he growled, pulling back only long enough to tear the tank top from your body in one swift motion. “And right now? I’m not asking.” 

His mouth was back on your throat, your collarbone, devouring the skin there with heat-fueled fervor. Your fingers tangled in his hair, and he groaned, grinding against your hips, the strength of his body completely caging you against the wall.

“This heat—it’s made me insane for you,” he hissed. “I see you in my dreams. I wake up hard and furious that you’re not next to me.”

You shivered. “Then make it real.”

That’s all it took. He lifted you without effort, his mouth claiming yours again as he carried you toward the bedroom like a man on the edge. You felt the heat radiating from him, burning into your skin, his muscles twitching beneath the spandex of his suit.

Mark wasn’t the type to surrender to anything.

But tonight? He surrendered to you. His lips steal yours like it’s an afterthought—like you are the inevitable conclusion to every version of his day. Slow at first, almost mocking, like he’s daring you to push him away again. But you don’t. You can’t. The kiss deepens with a quiet growl caught in his throat, teeth grazing your bottom lip just enough to sting. His hand curls around your jaw, possessive and guiding, like he already owns every inch of you. His breath ghosts over your face momentarily as you're dropped onto the mattress before diving in like he's starving and you’re the only thing keeping him sane. It’s slow, but not sweet. He peels your clothes off like he’s unwrapping a weapon. There’s amusement in his eyes, even as his hands slide beneath your shirt, brushing your ribs. He wants you aware. Wants your anticipation to build. His hands already roaming your body, tracing the curves that had haunted his dreams. You could feel the sweat glistening on his skin, his body trembling with a mix of lust and desperation. Your palms press against the mattress, knees spread just wide enough to keep your balance, but not wide enough for him. You feel the bed dip behind you, the soft creak of the frame under his weight as Mark settles in—close, looming, warm, and suffocating, like he’s carved from every part of your body that craves domination. His fingers dig into your flesh, leaving marks that would bloom into bruises. You felt his breath against your neck—hot, hungry, almost shaking with restraint. His chest pressed into your back, the heat rolling off him in waves so intense it made your skin prickle. You shivered, not from cold, but from the raw ferocity behind the way his hands gripped you. Not like he wanted your body. Like he needed to devour it. “You’re so wet I could drown in you,” he growled into your ear, his voice curling like smoke. “Maybe I should.” His hand traced a deliberate path down your spine, dragging heat and chills in equal measure, until he reached the curve of your hips. His thumbs tease the waistband of your pants, pulling them just below your hips, letting them cling there for a beat before they fall. He paused there, worshipful, possessive—before curling a finger beneath the band of your bottoms. They split at the seams with one vicious tug. He leaves your underwear for last—thumbs dragging over the fabric with a hum before he finally slides them off and lets his eyes drink you in. “So worth the wait,” he murmurs.

He didn’t break eye contact with your reflection in the mirror. His nose twitched, inhaling sharply. “You love this. Don’t lie to me. I can smell you.” Before you could scoff, his teeth sank into your shoulder—hard. A startled cry left you, but it melted fast into a moan as pleasure flared hot in your belly. His hips ground against your ass, his cock pressed thick and heavy between your thighs. His body trembled, the control cracking. His nose twitched as if to pluck the damp scent of arousal that lingered. It was unnecessary but made him feel powerful in a time his body wouldn't obey. “You love this. Don’t lie. I can feel your body begging me to ruin it.” And you pushed back against him—grinding slow, deliberate, a smile tugging at your lips. “Go ahead,” you whispered. “Show me how weak you really are.” His low groan was feral. “Still so mouthy,” he hissed, voice ragged. “Fine.”

There was no warning, no teasing. Just one deep, brutal thrust—his cock stretching you open, hot and unrelenting. A gasp tore from your throat, your hands scrabbling for the bed frame as your back arched into him. He held you there, chest flush to your back, shaking from the effort not to rut like an animal. “Fuck, you feel perfect,” he muttered, voice breaking. “You always do.”

You bit down on his shoulder until he hissed. Dragged your nails down his side until his hips bucked and the bed shuddered beneath you both. He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. His body was on autopilot, driven by instinct and craving, pounding into you until your vision blurred and your body locked up around him.

His heat didn’t just fuel him—it destroyed him. Turned need into worship. Pleasure into something darker. He didn’t want to fuck you. He wanted to imprint himself into your nervous system. His need is ruthless. Its ownership turned poetic. Mark doesn’t just want to fuck you—he wants to infect you. With his scent. His power. His presence. Viltrumite heat strips away his control, and he loves the chaos it leaves behind. You're not a weakness; you're a catalyst. Not just a partner—but the reason he's still sane. He wants every gasp of yours to come from him. Every soft whimper to bear his name. He'll fuck you slow and cruel, just to watch how long it takes before you're begging. And afterward? He’ll kiss you sweetly, because that’s the worst part—how completely you undo him. And how much he lives for it. It's a craving so deep it rewires your instincts. Pain feels good. Pleasure feels like war. His eyes rolled into his skull at the sight of your ass bouncing against his pelvis, the sheer force rocking you back into him. “Look at you—pathetic. So easy once I start fucking you right.” The heat was overwhelming, and the sound of his strangled whimpers danced in your ears. “Just squirming for me. So much for that sharp mouth.” The words held no bite as a sudden heave caused him to deflate. He could feel his dick nearly going limp on him, but with every draw of his hips, he was pulled back in like a magnet. But he didn't stop. He couldn't. His body was a machine, driven by a primal need that overrode all else. He pounded into you, his breaths coming in ragged gasps, his body slick with sweat. His orgasm building sends him a flurry of twitches down his spine, hips erratically matching the rattling of his heartbeat. It was deep, his swollen tip catching against your cervix opening. He makes you wait for it. Tongue first—tracing your nape, teasing the curve like he’s memorizing you. When he finally bites, it’s mean. Not just claiming—you feel it throb down your whole body. He wants you marked. Bruised. Maybe even bleeding. You couldn’t tell through the combined haze. You weren’t a weakness. You were a religion. And this? This was how he prayed. And when you came? Screaming his name, body convulsing, your voice cracked and raw? He sobbed. Not loud. Just a quiet, shattered sound against your ear.

Because you’d won. Again. And he secretly wanted it that way. The night was far from over, his balls heavy with another load, and you seemed to notice. Because as he stared up at you, eyes wild, watching as you straddled him for yet another round, he murmured. “Please. Please ride me. I’ll shut up. I’ll be so quiet.” The scent of scorched cedar filled your nostrils. It clings to your flesh. Fills your lungs. Makes your head spin. You breathe it in and feel hunted—and weirdly, wanted. It was a thick, stretching, commanding your body to stay open for him as he sinks all the way in and locks into place. You feel it pulse, slow and confident, as he groans through gritted teeth. His head drops to your neck, and his fingers curl under your jaw. He doesn’t panic. He planned this. He pushes you down onto him harder when it starts swelling. “I don’t want fast. I want slow torture. Let me feel every single inch… again.”

Omni Mark

He hadn’t planned to see you tonight.

Omni-Mark had half the galaxy kneeling at his feet, another third begging for mercy, and the rest daring to defy him. That should’ve occupied his attention.

But the heat came early.

Violent. Vicious. Unforgiving. He fought it at first—of course he did. Viltrumites were above their biology. But this wasn’t a subtle ache or dull need. This was a burning, a low snarl in his blood that turned every thought into you. Your voice. Your body. Your scent.

So now, here he stood, in your doorway, fists clenched so hard his gloves tore, sweat beading on his forehead despite the icy chill in the air. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he warned, voice low, reverberating like thunder in a canyon. “I am not like the others.”

You raised an eyebrow, only half-dressed in a sleep shirt. “I never asked for anything. I want you to let go, Mark.”

That made something snap in him.

In an instant, he was on you, hands around your waist, slamming the door shut with the other. His mouth met yours in a passionate but bruising kiss that pulled the air from your lungs. His lips were soft, molding easily with yours as his tongue gently caressed yours. You barely registered the way your feet left the ground, his grip tightening possessively. He pulled away, his face nuzzling into the crook of your neck momentarily before—“You’re“ soft… too soft.” His eyelids fluttered as if to snap him from the trance you transfixed him in.

“You think I haven’t dreamed about this?” He growled, lips against your ear. “You think I haven’t imagined burying myself in you while the universe burns around us?”

You clawed at the armor along his arms, gasping as he bit down on your neck—hard, but not enough to break skin. Just enough to tease where he’d be marking you. You felt the growl in his chest, the way his whole body vibrated with restraint.

“You’re my weakness,” he confessed between fevered kisses. “I should’ve destroyed you when I realized what you meant to me.”

“But you didn’t,” you whispered.

“I couldn’t,” he admitted.

He dropped you on the bed like a king offering you to the flames. His armor peeled away in pieces, every inch of exposed skin rippling with tension, with the kind of power that could level continents. You reached for him, but he caught your wrists, pinning them above your head.

“Don’t.” His voice was trembling. “If you touch me right now, I won’t be able to stop.”

“Maybe I want to be ruined,” you whispered, your words like honey as they blessed his ears.

That broke him.

He crashed down on you like a storm, kissing you with reverence and fury all at once. His mouth mapped every inch of you like a man on borrowed time. His lips held a slight tremble as he pressed forward; an unfamiliar greed lingered in his touch. His hands explored, gripped, and claimed—no hesitation, no mercy. 

“You’re mine,” he murmured into your mouth, over and over like a mantra. “You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.” His voice cracked, that calm and collected demeanor distorted and showing the boy he once was.

Omni-Mark didn’t believe in surrender. But with you under him, gasping his name, begging for more? He didn’t need to. He kisses like a storm given shape—like someone who was never taught softness, only possession. When his mouth meets yours, it’s not tentative. There’s no gentle testing of the waters. It’s formed from hunger and desperation, devouring you in one go like he’s terrified of being pulled apart from your mouth again. His hands cup your jaw too tight. His body cages you in like a wall of muscle and need, heat rolling off him in sweltering droves. 

He watches the way your knees buckle when he pulls away, panting, red-eyed, drunk on the taste of you. “You call that a kiss?” he’ll rasp, lips already slick with yours, pupils blown wide. “Try again. Put your back into it.” You felt the shift instantly. His hand curled around the back of your neck, firm but not rough, holding you there as his tongue pushed deeper into your mouth. The kiss went sloppy, fast, breathless, and messy, his breath catching every time your hips brushed. He walked you backward without breaking the connection, steps deliberate as your thighs met the edge of the bed frame. His hand dragged down your side, palming the curve of your ass like he was checking to make sure you were real.

And when your nails scraped gently up the back of his neck?

He moaned into your mouth—quiet, raw, nearly ashamed of how much it affected him. His cock was already hard, already pressing against the fabric of his pants, grinding into your hip like a need he couldn’t reason with anymore. He unwraps you like you’re a relic unearthed in some war-ravaged city. Something precious and divine buried beneath fabric that offends him for hiding you. His fingers curl around the hem of your shirt—but he doesn’t yank. He peels it. Inches at a time. Eyes locked on the way your breath shudders as your skin is exposed.

When he gets to your underwear, his hand lingers. Not because he’s hesitant. But because he’s reeling. His thumb rubs over it like he’s trying to memorize it before he diligently undresses you. His eyes glazed over like a man about to feast. You're already seated in his lap when it happens—when the snap beneath his skin finally breaks open, and all that restraint dies with it. His scent growing sharp and sticky with the smell of rain on dry earth.

His arms come around you from behind, forearms like iron bars across your stomach as you rock against him. You can feel every inch of him beneath you: his cock, heavy and flushed, already pressed between your slick folds. His head bows low, lips dragging from your shoulder to the shell of your ear. “You’re shaking,” he mutters darkly, voice frayed with strain. “Is it the heat... or me?” You don’t answer. Not with words. Instead, you press your hips back deliberately—grinding into him slowly, cruelly. He shudders and bites back a moan like it’s a betrayal. He’s not ready to slide into you—not yet. He wants to make you feel it first. Wants you gasping from the pressure of him against your entrance. From the way his teeth sink into your nape like he’s starving, his tongue dragging after, soothing the sting only to suck the skin back into his mouth. “This isn’t about power—it’s about you letting me have it all,” he whispers against your neck, every word wet and sick with hunger. He wanted to ruin you both so gently that you’d fall deeper in love. “Tell me to stop. Just say it. Please.” It was his final warning.

But the moment you grind down harder—once, twice, teasing your entrance just enough to let him slip—it’s over. He snarls, the sound inhuman, and thrusts up in one brutal, seamless motion. Your body gives with a lurch, eyes fluttering shut as the air punches out of your lungs. He bottoms out instantly—thick, hot, throbbing deep inside you—and doesn’t move. “No? Then take it,” he whispers. But his voice cracks halfway through. “Take all of it.”

“I warned you.”

He’s gritting his teeth, biting back whines through them. The kind of whine that burns in his throat because he knows better—but it’s too late. His forehead is slick against the back of your neck, lips brushing your skin like a prayer. “I’ll be gentle—then I’ll break you. And you’ll thank me.” Your body pressed flush against his, the cool air in the room doing nothing to temper the heat rolling off his skin. Omni-Mark’s breath was steady at first—controlled, like everything he did. Even now, with you seated in his lap, his cock buried deep inside you, he held himself like a soldier at war. His palms smoothed over your waist, thumbs stroking reverently at the dip of your hips. Almost as if he was trying to memorize how you felt under his hands.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he murmured into your shoulder. “You were supposed to make me stronger. Not… this.”

His thrusts were slow. Intentional. Deep. Every movement pressed you forward just enough for his pelvis to grind against the base of your clit, the friction exquisite in its precision. He wasn’t rutting—he was studying you. Each drag of his cock a deliberate question: Will this make you break first?

But you didn’t. Instead, you sank your hips back a little harder, rolled your spine, and moaned. Like you knew what it did to him. You caught his gaze over your shoulder, lips curved in a smile that wasn’t soft—it was sharp. His fingers flexed against your hips, the illusion of dominance slipping.

“Quiet?” you teased through heavy breaths, glancing back with a tilt of your head. “Is that focus… or fear?” He said nothing. Just growled low in his throat, his hands clenching around your thighs as he pulled you closer, forcing you to sit flush—his cock nudging even deeper. His breathing hitched.

His hand slipped between your thighs, two fingers pressing firmly against your clit, stroking in tight, slow circles that matched the rhythm of his thrusts. Your eye twitched at the sudden stimulation as your hands grasped at his knees. “You speak so boldly,” he said softly, lips grazing your ear. “But I can feel how badly you need me. I can’t go slow anymore. I need to feel you splintering around me.”

The pressure against your clit sends sparks up your spine. His free hand moved to your breasts, squeezing and kneading them, his thumbs circling your nipples until they hardened. His whole body is trembling, thighs shuddering under you as he ruts up into your soaked cunt like a man possessed. He cuts off with a long, broken groan. His hips stutter. His chest heaves. The moan he lets out next sounds like he’s in pain—as if just the feel of your combined heat wrapped around him is too much. His hands clamped down around your thighs, grinding you back down onto him with force now, pelvis slapping hard against your ass, each thrust angled to bruise. The controlled rhythm devolved into something brutal—still calculated, still precise—but laced with hunger. You gasped again as he spread your legs wider, one hand gripping your inner thigh to keep you open while the other rolled tight, maddening circles on your clit. Your nerves were screaming, pleasure spiraling up through you in electric bursts. You clenched around him, and the breath ripped out of his lungs. That’s when he does it. His breath fans hot over your skin as he exhales as if waiting for centuries for this moment. Someone to mate with, that is. He’s starving for the one thing his body was carved to claim. And when his teeth sink in? It's not sharp—it’s crushing. A deep, anchoring pressure that makes your knees buckle. There’s no fluttery graze. Just the exquisite reality that he’s chosen you—and now you’ll never be clean of him again.

Your blood hums under his tongue. His growl rips through his chest like a man undone, all restraint shredded the moment you gasp. And when he pulls away, your neck is left throbbing as you learn that was his vow to you.

He stilled for a second, like he was bracing himself.

And then—he came. Hard. The muscles of his dick contracted, visibly straining as thick ropes of cum swam inside you.

His hips bucked forward once, twice—body trembling as he emptied inside you with a broken gasp that sounded like your name carved from stone. You could feel the heat flooding your cunt, his breath ragged as he pressed his chest to your back, lips parted against your shoulder. The knot swells suddenly. Sharply. You both gasp. He stays buried to the hilt, arms wrapped around your body like a shield, his forehead pressed to yours as the knot locks in place, thick and full and immovable. But he didn’t slow. He didn’t even pause. “We’re not done,” he murmured against your skin, his voice raw. “I’ve made you cum before. Again. And again. And tonight’s no different.”

Full Masked Mark

He didn’t knock. You found him in your room, standing in the dark, half-shadowed beneath the blue light leaking in from the city. He hadn’t removed the mask—just hovered there, tense, breathing too hard.

“Mark?”

He didn’t respond. You took a step forward, and he flinched—his hand tightening into a fist so hard his knuckles cracked beneath the glove. “I shouldn’t be here,” he said finally, his voice hoarse, cracking like old porcelain. “I—I can’t trust myself.” You stopped moving. “It’s happening, isn’t it?”

He nodded once.

“The heat. I felt it coming for days. Thought I could outrun it.” His head tilted, his voice almost breaking. “I ran here.” You didn’t question it. Not the fact that he trusted you with this—something he clearly didn’t understand, something that made him feel wrong. You stepped close enough for him to see the softness in your eyes.

“You’re not going to hurt me, Mark.” His brows furrowed, his body suddenly becoming tense. But the way his body ached for you, the way his strength spasmed as he imagined fucking you raw with the memory of countless nights fucking his fist in your bed… he couldn’t tell.

His breath hitched audibly behind the mask. “You don’t know that. I’m not like the others. I—I think about you too much. I dream about you. And in those dreams, I—” His voice cut off with a choked gasp.

“I miss her,” he whispered. “She’d know what to do.”

Your heart broke. He was burning up inside, trembling with unspent want, haunted by grief and biology and years of holding himself together with cracked pieces of identity. You stepped closer. “Let me help you,” you whispered, hands gently brushing the hem of his mask. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

He didn’t move as you slid it off.

Underneath, his face was flushed, wet with tears he hadn’t realized he was crying. His jaw was clenched like he was fighting himself from the inside out. And then you touched his face—just a thumb across his cheek—and the dam burst.

He surged forward, mouth on yours in a desperate, needy kiss. There was no dominance, no force—just raw emotion and trembling urgency. His hands gripped your waist like you were the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely.

“I’ve wanted this,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours. “Wanted you. But it never felt fair.”

“It’s not about fair, Mark,” you whispered, unzipping his suit slowly. “It’s about what we want.”

His lips found your throat, reverent and shaky, like he was worshipping every inch of you he touched. His fingers trembled against your skin as he helped you undress, his breath stuttering every time you made a sound. When he finally lowered you onto the bed, it was with a gentleness that felt sacred. He was devoted, yours until you grew sick of him.

“You’re so warm,” he whispered, nuzzling your chest, arms wrapped tightly around your waist. “You feel like home.” You pulled him in, let him bury himself in your arms and your body, and let him feel safe while the storm inside him raged and broke.

“Don’t let go,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder. “Even if I fall apart.”

You kissed him back, holding him through the fire. “I won’t.”

And he didn’t fall apart.

He broke open—in the best possible way. And then he kisses you like it's the only thing keeping him from falling apart. It’s wet and trembling, like he’s trying not to let his body take over too fast. His hands shake where they touch you, fingers curling into your shirt as if you might disappear if he lets go. “M-missed you,” he stammers into your mouth, kissing again before you can reply. He chases your lips, nose bumping clumsily against yours, and sighs when your hands pull him closer. “Let me stay... just a little longer.” Like being wrapped in something wet and hot and too much. His scent is thick with desperation. It pulses with each pant from his lips. The longer he holds back, the heavier it becomes—need turned physical. A pheromone so raw it drips off him like sweat. It smells of molten amber and pine sap. The type that fogs up mirrors, clings to your sheets, and fills your mouth. It says, He’s not fucking for pleasure—he’s fucking to survive. And only you can keep him sane. His bones ache, every cell in his body screaming to break his restraints, but he can’t help but treat you gently. You could tell his usual gentleness and restraint were bursting at the seams. Almost like he was still deciding if he should even be touching you at all. But then you made a sound—soft, breathy, inviting—and it destroyed whatever hesitation he had left.

The scent of you had soaked between your thighs, a dizzying blend of heat and arousal that made his chest rise with ragged restraint. His jaw clenched. His eyes devoured you, shoulders heaving, hands trembling with the effort of not lunging. The suit remained half on, his skin flushed and damp beneath the edges of his armor. But even while he stayed dressed, he made sure you weren’t.

Because in heat, Mark didn’t want just access to your body—he wanted your vulnerability. All of it. And before you knew it, your back was against the mattress. His cock is thick—not monstrous, but unmistakable—and it fits him perfectly. Hard, flushed, curved slightly upward, the tip already slick with need. It twitches when you look at it, eager, the kind of erection that speaks more of obsession than pride. And when he finally presses himself against you, it’s not just hunger—it’s worship in motion. His body trembled as he positioned himself between your legs, jaw clenched so tight it ached. His skin burned under the mask, damp with sweat, heart pounding out of rhythm like it was trying to crawl from his chest. The heat coiled in his gut like a second heartbeat—violent, possessive, undeniable. His cock throbbed with every shallow breath he took, already leaking against your thigh, twitching with the need to bury itself deep.

He entered you slowly, almost reverently, but it was clear from the start: this wasn’t about control anymore. Not that he had any. Your folds are slick, swollen, already glistening with arousal; he's too far gone to pretend not to notice. His wildest instincts flared against his reddened skin. His breath hitched the moment you tightened around him, the heat inside him flaring like a wildfire fanned by gasoline. “I didn’t know it could feel like this. I didn’t know you would feel like this,” he said, through a lump of saliva stuck in his throat. You two have had sex before, but this was a transcendence of normal sensations. Like an aphrodisiac had poisoned his every being, only craving to have you. Every inch he gave you sent a tremor through his spine. His hands gripped your thighs too hard, fingers digging into the plush of your skin as if anchoring himself to reality—to you. Choked gasps echoed from you as pain mingled with pleasure. 

His hips rocked with shallow, fluid thrusts, but his body betrayed him. Sweat dripped down his temples. His thighs flexed beneath you. The very fat of his lips felt suffocating now, his groans catching behind it, as if he were trying to bite down every sound—but the whines slipped through. Small, needy. Devastated.

When his mouth found your neck, it wasn’t a kiss. It was a branding. His teeth grazed your skin, his tongue darting out to soothe the sting, only to repeat the ritual again and again. You felt the tremor in his chest every time he breathed you in. With every nip, your body jolted against him, clamping down as you curled into him. He was trying to restrain himself, to stay present. To worship you. Your skin curved upward as shaky gasps left your fingers clawing at his shoulder blades before you barely grazed his shoulder with your fangs, and he gasps—a full-body jolt that ends with him moaning your name. “Ah—wha—fuck, do it again—please, I—I like that, I really like that—” His hips buck into yours without rhythm, lost in the sensation.

But his body pulsed with hunger, and your scent had soaked into his bones like poison. He was hard—too hard—the kind of painful pressure that fogged his brain and turned every thought into a raw, burning need to come. He didn’t last long before instinct buckled his knees. Suddenly, he surged forward, hips snapping into yours with more force, more desperation. “Can you feel how deep I am? I need to be deeper.” His body moved on its own—sharp, ragged thrusts as if chasing relief he already knew wouldn’t come easy. He whimpered against your collarbone, low and broken, like it hurt to need you this much. Like, if he came, it wouldn’t be enough. He tried to slow down again, pulling his hips back to regain control, but the second your body clenched around him in reply—he lost it.

He flipped you onto him without thinking, your chest sliding against his sweat-slicked torso. His hands ghosted over your back like you were made of glass, but his eyes? Glazed. Wild. You sank down on him again, and he cried out—not loud, but breathless. Helpless. “It’s okay, Mark… I’ll take it from here.”

You started to ride him, each movement smooth and sensual, and it shattered what little composure he had left. Gooseflesh peppered across your skin as your vision blurred, moving absentmindedly through groans. His hands clawed at your hips, desperate for something to hold. His thighs trembled beneath you, every muscle pulled taut like a man bracing for impact. You were moving too good, too slow, too deep—and the look on your face drove him mad.

“Mark… oh, f—fuck, Mark.” His name on your lips was like a spell. “Say my name again… please, I need to hear it when you touch me.” You leaned down and nipped at his chest, your tongue tracing the contours of his body, and he arched into you so sharply it bordered on pain. The groan that left him was guttural—shameful—his cock twitching so hard inside you it made your stomach flip. He was trying to last. You could see it in how hard his jaw clenched, how his fingers trembled where they held you, and how his entire body was one breath away from breaking.

You rolled your hips faster, and his head fell back against the pillows, mouth parted in a gasp that never fully came. His release hit like a landslide, thighs spasming, chest heaving beneath you. He spilled inside you with a full-body jolt, his fingers digging into your skin like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. His hips kept moving—just barely—like his body hadn’t realized it was over. Like it didn’t want it to be.

His hips roughly buck upwards, the dominance within battling with his personality. He swells, his pelvis pressing into you as it forces every obsessive emotion out of him. And even as he lay there, breathless, unraveling beneath you, he didn’t let go. One hand slid up your back. The other held your hip still, his cock still twitching inside you. His body was still burning. Because it wasn’t over. Not even close. It wasn’t his choice; he tried to fight it. He wants to hold back. But when he finally gives in and marks you, the bite is sloppy—messy with saliva and a low, broken whine in your ear. He bites twice. Just to feel it again. His knot slowly forms as he clings to you, speech slurring as he becomes barely coherent. You feel his whole body tense as his teeth graze, then dig in. The second bite is deeper—so sudden you yelp. His grip tightens. “I—I’m sorry, I just—I needed you to know you’re mine.”

Main Mark Grayson

You didn’t expect him to show up at your place at two in the morning—especially not looking like that. Hair wild, eyes glowing faintly gold, his shirt drenched in sweat and clinging to his chest. His hands were shaking and his voice frantic.

“Hey—hi—uh, this might be crazy, but I think I’m, like… dying?”

You blinked. “Mark… what?”

He paced your living room, tugging at his clothes, cheeks flushed. “Yeah, so, um—my dad kind of warned me this might happen one day? Something about Viltrumite biology and… a heat cycle?” Your heart stuttered. Oh. Oh. Suddenly, you were very intrigued. He froze mid-ramble, turning to you, eyes wide and full of panic. “I smelled you, okay? On the way home. I was flying, and then boom—your scent hit me like a truck, and now I’m like—" He gestured down to his very obvious, very painful erection. “THIS.”

You bit your lip, trying to stay calm while your thighs absolutely clenched. “Mark, sit.”

He obeyed immediately, flopping onto your couch like a broken marionette, head falling into his hands. “I swear I’m not a creep. I just—God, you smell so good—”

You crossed the room slowly and sat next to him. He tensed like a live wire.

You touched his knee, and he whimpered. The poor boy almost looked embarrassed before his jaw clenched to bite back another sound. It was subtle, but his head tilted as his nose flexed, inhaling your scent like the sweetest dessert as heat broke his skin into a red flush.

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “It hurts. It aches, and all I can think about is you. How soft your skin is. How you taste when I kiss you—God, I’ve imagined it so many times—” You took his face gently in your hands, turning him to look at you. “Mark,” you said softly. “Do you want this? With me?”

He nodded so fast it almost looked painful. “Yes. Yes, I do. I’ve wanted this—but not like this. I didn’t want to scare you. But now I’m losing it, and I need you. Please.”

You kissed him before he could spiral further. He gasped, then melted into it, grabbing your hips like they were the last stable thing in his universe. His mouth was hot, desperate, already starting to shake as the heat flared stronger.

You slid your hands under his shirt, feeling the sweat-slick heat of his skin. He shivered, grinding up against you with a needy groan. “I feel like I’m going to explode,” he whispered against your neck. “Like I could fly through the moon just from touching you.”

You tugged the cloth off, eyes roaming his flushed, muscular form. Within seconds, a familiar musk perspired from his pores. It was warm. An after-battle scent that's adrenaline-laced with sweat-slicked sandalwood and a subtle sweetness of red apple skin. The smell of his cologne clashed as if he had tried grounding himself before arriving. The kind of scent that clings to your sheets and drives you crazy when he’s gone. Suddenly, you felt vertiginous with a mixture of lust and reason clashing within your veins. It was so easy to relinquish control to whatever temptation awaited.

“…Are you mad? Or are you gonna kiss me before I combust?” He said nervously, brows furrowing upwards.

You blinked, surprised—then realized he’d mistaken your stunned silence, the way your breath caught, and your hands hesitated for doubt. Not awe. You straddled his lap, gently guiding his trembling hands to your hips, grounding him now.

“Mark,” you said softly, pulling his mouth back to yours, “I’m not scared. I want this. I want you.”

He groaned into your kiss—relieved, wrecked, like the words unraveled something in him. And when he kissed you back? It was like he was learning it all for the first time, like you’re teaching him with every sigh. But the moment his hips shift against yours, instinct takes over. He groans into your mouth, the kiss going from nervous to needy in seconds. His fingers curl into your thighs, pulling you closer with soft pants between kisses. Again and again, faster, deeper, like he's afraid of what happens if he pulls away. “You make it worse. Being this close—I just—please… let me have this.” And when you nod, he kisses you like it’s a thank you and a promise in one.

He didn’t hold anything back. His hands found your waist, your thighs, your chest, everywhere at once, guided by instinct and passion. His breath caught as you guided his hands, his hips, and his rhythm. Mark Grayson didn’t know what he was doing, but he learned fast.

You barely got your shirt off before his mouth was on your throat again. Not kissing. Breathing, tasting even. He was fumbling at your clothes like he couldn’t figure out if he wanted to take them off or just fuck you through them. He doesn’t mean to be messy—but his heat is driving him crazy.

Inhaling your scent like it soothed the ache in his chest. His hands trembled at your waist, thumbs brushing bare skin like he was trying to remember how to be gentle, how to be Mark—but the heat was too much.

He's been aching for hours. His cock started reacting before he even knew why—just the sound of your laugh, or the memory of how your hand felt the night before, was enough to make him twitch. Like a magnetic force building pressure in his chest and groin that no amount of willpower can settle. His heart beats faster when you’re close, but not because he’s nervous. But from burying his face in your skin and rutting like an animal. The instinctive, all-consuming need to bury himself deep and never leave—to feel your cunt pulse around him until he doesn’t know where you end and he begins. He wants to merge with you in every way imaginable. Every inch of skin feels like it's starving to the point where sex might not be enough. His nervous system feels alight, all senses searching for yours, like that's their purpose.

His calloused fingers slid your panties down your thighs, soaked through, his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might snap. His hips lifted, hand palmed at his soiled erection before yanking down the fabric. Veins ran the length of his cock, the usual pink tip was an irritated red, and heavy as it smacked against his abdomen. He jumped, bucking into the air as cold precum bubbled from his tip.

Too impatient to fully undress, he let you take the reins, legs wrapping around his waist. His breath hitched like you’d struck him. You settled into his cross-legged lap, chests pressed together, skin to skin, cockslick hot between your folds—and he froze. Not from hesitation. But because his entire body short-circuited. He entered you slowly, like he was trying to feel every second of it. Your walls stretched around him, wet and pulsing, and he moaned—deep, wrecked, like he hadn’t even meant to. You clutched around him, and his head dropped to your shoulder, arms wrapping tight around your back as your bodies fully sealed together. Every bulging vein was caressed, arousal threatening to erupt.

He rocked his hips, slow and intense. Grinding into you like it was the only thing keeping him conscious. Then came the whisper. Low. Ragged. Right against your throat. “Mine…” His hips rolled with it. You gasped. “Mine,” again, softer, needier, as his cock dragged in slow circles inside you, the pressure growing unbearable.

He buried his face in your neck like it would keep him grounded, hips moving with desperate rhythm—not pounding, but grinding, searching for friction, pleasure, and closeness. Like your body was his whole world. He shook. A full-body tremor that told you he was losing it. Your legs tightened around him, head tilted towards the ceiling as strobe lights clouded your vision from his thrusting.

Through hitching breaths, you stammered, “That’s it. Just like that. You feel it too, don’t you?” You gulped, his lips tracing over your bobbing throat. “I can’t think, I can’t—God, you feel so good.” He heaved, tongue running over your clavicle as he sought every drop of sweat. “You’re squeezing me so hard—are you trying to kill me?” His tongue tickling you sent shivers down your spine, causing his arms to wrap tighter, feeding off every vibration.

And then he fell forward. Not collapsing—just pressing you back onto the mattress, hips never leaving yours. Still buried inside you, still grinding as he held you like his anchor. His mouth found yours, kissing you hard, hand at your lower back dragging your hips forward, trying to keep you pressed to his cock even as his muscles gave out. “Harder. Please. I can take it,” you gasped, fingers clawing at the couch material. “God, you make me lose control. I can’t stop—not when you sound like that.” A whimper and deep groan rumbled in his chest as he nearly doubled over, his hips pushing forward as your head collided with the armrest.

When he finally came—deep, groaning, clinging—his thrusts didn’t stop. He just rode through it, fucked through it, face against your chest, body shaking. And when the wave passed? He shifted you both gently, his body still connected to yours, curling behind you like a second skin. You stared wide-eyed; his eyes were glazed over, and he whispered uncharacteristically in your ear. “I’m gonna keep going until your legs won’t close without me between them.” He’s not cruel. He’s possessed. He wants to wreck you because he loves you—and it terrifies him how much he needs it. “ I just need you so bad,” he pants. “God, you’re beautiful.”

Your knees bent as he nudged closer, cock sliding back inside you from behind—spooning now, softer, deeper, but no less desperate. He kissed your shoulder. His hand found your thigh and pulled it up. His cock dragged in slow, aching thrusts that felt like a secret. But the moment your hips shifted—even the slightest grind back against him—he whimpered. His hips rolled forward on reflex, just enough for you to feel how he was still thick, still twitching inside you, still needing.

He started moving. Small thrusts. Like he was trying to be good, to hold back. But every slow drag of his cock inside you made his breath catch, made his arm around your waist tighten. Your body was still so wet, so warm, so welcoming. It pulled the heat right back to the surface—he pummeled into you now, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder, hips snapping forward in slow, aching rolls that never left you empty. Every inch of him throbbed with restraint. His body buzzed with heat and urgency—but you could feel the emotion under it.

He was fucking you like he meant it. Like your body answered a question he hadn’t realized he was asking. His hand slid over your thigh, palm dragging up your slick skin until he reached your chest. He gripped it—not hard, just possessively. Like if he held you tight enough, he could force the ache in his stomach to ease. Like the way your breath hitched made it bearable.

Your ass rocked back against him now, unconsciously meeting every rut of his hips, and he gasped—quiet, but cracked open with it. His pace faltered, and then—he grinded.

A long, deep press of his cock, slow enough for you to feel every vein, every throb as he pulsed inside you. You clenched. He whimpered again, mouth open against your nape like he couldn’t breathe without you. “Oh, fuck, Mark.” Your voice cut through his thoughts like a knife; a deep groan vibrated in your throat as an impending orgasm washed over you.

He’s trying to be gentle—he swears he is. But the second you cry out his name, the dam breaks. He groans low in his throat, body trembling as he leans over you, breath hot against your skin. “Fuck—I need to…” He presses his lips to the base of your neck first, shaky, reverent—then you feel the slow pressure of his teeth. He bites down harder than he intended, and your back arches. His heat-maddened body needs you claimed. Mark shudders, lips wet as he pulls back just enough to whisper, “You’re mine. Sorry—I couldn’t—I couldn’t stop.” His hand flies over your mouth to quiet the pain and pleasured grunts. He couldn't handle it. Until you bit into the web between his thumb and pointer finger.

He yelps—then moans, breathless, like you just knocked all the air out of him. His face flushes red all the way to his ears, hips stuttering against you. “D-don’t stop doing that,” he begs, voice cracking. You feel him start to swell, and he panics—eyes wide, voice stuttering, body tense. He tries to stop moving, but it only makes the pressure worse, and suddenly he’s knotting inside you with a choked groan.

“Can we do this again? And again? And—fuck, I’m not done.”

And he wasn’t pulling out. Not until you whispered that he was yours. And not even then.

Mohawk Mark

Didn’t move. He was already in your apartment when you walked in—standing dead center in the living room, like he owned the place.

Shoulders squared, jaw tight, fists flexing at his sides like he was trying to decide if he wanted to grab something or break it in half. His nostrils flared as he exhaled slowly through his nose, teeth catching his bottom lip. Not angry. Not quite.

Something worse. Something hungry.

“Fuck,” he muttered, running his tongue over his teeth like he could taste you in the air. “You always leave the door unlocked like that? Or just for me?” He almost sounded flattered. You cocked a brow. “You broke my window last time. I figured this was safer.” That almost made him grin. Almost.

Instead, he tilted his head and stared at you like he was trying to figure out how loud you'd scream if he pinned you to the wall right now. “You smell that?” He mutters, eyes narrowing. “That’s me. Going fucking crazy.”

“This what you wanted?” he asked, voice low and sharp. “Parading around like that, all soft and smug? You get off on teasing me while I’m like this?” You glanced down at yourself—shorts, tank top, nothing special—but his eyes were molten.

“Are you teased, Mark?”

He let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Shit, you’re— mm…” He grimaced to himself.

His hands twitched again, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to cross his arms or slam them on either side of your head. You stepped closer. He didn’t flinch—just watched, jaw ticking, eyes following your every move like a predator holding himself back by a thread.

“I expected more restraint,” you murmured. “Didn’t think you'd lose control this fast.” He’s mentioned these heats before, almost braggadocious in an excessive way. He was a sexual deviant, skilled within his own right, and you knew that very well… but you don't recall him seeming so… lewd during these ruts.

He scoffed. “Restraint’s for people who aren’t boiling inside their own goddamn skin. You ever felt that? Like your bones are gonna split open if you don’t fuck something?” You inhaled slowly, thighs clenching. “Sounds intense.”

“It is.” His eyes flicked to your mouth. “You drive me fucking insane.”

“You sure you don’t like it?”

He finally moved—just a step, but it was heavy, purposeful, his chest rising and falling like he was trying to hold back a war. His voice dropped into a growl. “I like watching you squirm when you pretend you’re not dying for it too.” You smirked. “I’m not pretending.”

His pupils blown, and he heaved as if sick.

Another step.

“You should’ve stayed away tonight,” he said. “You don’t know what I’ll do to you if you let me.” You closed the space, lifting your chin. “Then show me.” The moment cracked like lightning.

He grabbed your waist hard enough to bruise, spinning you, pressing you against the nearest table with his hips grinding into yours. One hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back, the other sliding under your shirt with zero patience. You gasped, nails digging into his arms. “I’ll be gentle when you stop making it fun,” he hissed in your ear. “You want it rough?” His eyes peered into yours with an intensity that made your heart thrum. He could hear it. “Good,” he growled. “Let me ruin that attitude while you still remember your name.”

He doesn’t ask for a kiss. He leans in like he’s about to win something—eyes sharp, mouth already curled in that half-smirk that makes you want to slap it off or bite it. There’s heat in his stare, but it’s not desperate. It’s deliberate. Like he’s letting you know what’s about to happen without saying a word. And when he finally does kiss you? It’s firm, demanding, but not cruel. The kind of kiss that says, “I see you. I respect you. Now shut up and let me in.”

His hand’s usually on your jaw, thumb under your chin, tilting your face just how he likes it. He likes a little resistance—loves when you kiss back with a bite, when your teeth graze his lip just enough to make him growl. Your hands wrap around the width of his shoulders, feet shuffling beneath you as his teeth attack your lips. You're barely able to reciprocate the usual energy. He laughs into your mouth. A low, cocky rumble, like he’s already planning his next move. He kisses like a dare—like he wants to know how much you can take before you start pulling his hair and grinding back. But there’s tenderness under the heat. A kind of quiet reverence in the way he pulls back just slightly to breathe against your lips before diving in again, slower this time, almost careful. Like he doesn’t say the soft stuff out loud—but he lets you taste it. He’s panting, flushed, pupils blown wide. Smirking like he didn’t just almost lose his mind. His tongue flicks over his lips, the cold metal ball of his piercing just teasing you of what could be. His teeth now bite at your bra strap just enough to make it snap. Your pants come off mid-makeout, fingers fumbling until he just rips them at the seams. “Oops,” he grins, not sorry at all. He doesn’t slow down, his hands linger on your thighs, his mouth hot against your neck. “Shit, you should see how wet you are for me. You feel that?”

He makes a mental note to “kidnap you.” It's about time you lived with him; having to travel so far ticks his gears. You’d assimilate perfectly, having been adorned with a matching mohawk. His thoughts are interrupted the second your nails scratched up his chest, just hard enough to leave a faint trail over the curve of his pecs. He stopped smiling. His jaw flexed. His hands slid down your waist. Then lower.

You hopped back onto the edge of the bed like you’d done it before—and you had. With him. Because with Mark, it was always the same deal: you push, he pushes back harder. You spit fire; he kisses it into your throat.

Your legs were already bending when he grabbed them, hauling your thighs up until your ass slid into his lap and your weight tilted. You dropped forward to the floor, hands planting flat against it as your body stretched into that long, open line. It wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t supposed to be. You didn’t need to be told what he wanted. He didn’t need to say it. His cock slid against your ass—thick, hot, already leaking—and your mouth curled into a smirk. You arched purposefully. A little taunt, a little “you can take it, right?” attitude radiating off you, even as your thighs trembled from the stretch. He grunted, lips quirking in response. And then he pressed into the sweet nectar that dripped from your cunt. It was dizzying each time, but today especially. The sight of it alone causes him to pant. His scent is overwhelming. Makes the air taste heavy. It forces submission from the inside out as you feel your stomach twisting. The smell sticks to your sweat, resembling charred sugarcane and gasoline.

You felt the give, the pressure blooming in your gut as his cock breached you, thick and unforgiving. He guided your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft skin just above your knees, using your legs to tilt your body into the angle he liked best—deep. He didn’t thrust. He carved. Mark grunted—low, sharp, shocked by how tight you were. You squeezed him hard, involuntarily, and he twitched so violently his hips nearly stuttered out of rhythm.

His hips pummeled forward, nearly knocking you off balance, your fingertips digging into wooden floors. The rocking presses him against every ridge inside of you. “Fuck, you’re tighter than I thought… knew you’d be trouble.” He was thick, his cock pulsing with heat and slick from his own need, and the sensation of being filled that way had your vision going white around the edges. Every thrust after that was short, deep, grinding. You were being taken. And he was barely holding himself together at the seams. Your pelvic muscles tightened every time he reared back, his fingers gripping you with such vigor that his hands went numb. His gaze purely focused on your ass, the sight alone nearly busting his balls as he gritted. Peering over your shoulder, you watch as he whispers to himself, hand nudging himself deeper with every stroke. Planting your feet against the sheets, you began to bounce back against him; loud pops echo in the room in tandem with your moans. “You’re gonna ride me like I’m nothing, huh? Fucking do it.” You almost make it look easy, his toes spreading from the pleasure being your encouragement. “I'm gonna fill you til' it leaks out of your nose, babe. You ready for that kind of damage?” His hand against the small of your back, head lolling backwards as unfiltered groans left him. His voice cracking occasionally, fingers ripping at the sheets, the hairs of his mohawk becoming slick to his scalp. One hand against his chest, the other gripping his jaw as his whole body convulsed under you—chest arching, hips jerking up in desperate, erratic thrusts even after he spilled inside you. And even when it was over—when he’d emptied himself with a full-body tremble and a cracked moan—he didn’t stop moving.

His hands slid weakly down your back, nails dragging across sweat-slick skin like he didn’t know how to stop touching. His breath came in short, broken gasps—mouth open, throat dry, eyes glassy with disbelief. “Still hard—how the fuck am I still hard?” His spine curved forward as he continued to bounce you against his cock, his jaw slack. “You feel so good, I’ll die here, I don’t care.”

His body twitched under yours, overwhelmed but addicted—his cock still twitching inside you, trying to stay hard even as overstimulation set in. He whined when you clenched. Actually whined. His thighs trembled, head turned to the side, face flushed and lips parted in a half-smile, half-wrecked expression that made it impossible to take him seriously—except he was so serious. He slipped out of your pussy with a wet, audible drag, the sudden emptiness making you gasp. He was breathing heavily—shakily, even—as he pulled you up like you weighed nothing. His hands framed your thighs, one arm cradling your back as he stood with you wrapped around him.

Your cunt was already dripping from being stretched—slick enough that when he used the arousal to lube your ass, it was an immediate, obscene slide. The angle—chest to chest, your back hitting the wall—meant he could slam up into you, balls smacking your ass with every thrust. The shift from vaginal to anal only made it more intense—your walls fluttered around him from sheer overstimulation, gripping his cock like your body didn’t want to let him go again.

It was instinct and control, primal and practiced, each movement slamming forward with just enough mercy to keep it beautiful. The sound of your skin meeting his hips echoed in the room—wet, filthy, rhythmic.

He reached down and grabbed the back of your neck, not to choke—just to feel your pulse as you took it. You barely had time to turn before he lifted you. One arm behind your back, the other under your thigh. His mouth slammed into yours again—sloppy, hot, teeth and spit and praise held between clenched teeth. He licks into your mouth like he’s chasing something—dominance, control, maybe a bit of sanity he left behind two cities ago.

You clawed at his shoulders. Bit his bottom lip. His cock was slick, messy from the first round, pressing against your slick folds as he walked you toward the wall like a man on a mission.

You clung to him, legs wrapping around his waist, and he fucked you standing—hard, deep, devastating. But still precise. Still so goddamn good it made your knees shake even while they were off the ground. He whispered something against your cheek—nothing coherent, just the sound of someone wrecked and reverent. The stretch? Sharp. Intense. His knot leaves you gasping, trying to squirm, but he holds you down, ramming his knot deeper with each thrust until it pops inside and locks you together. You can feel it throbbing, almost bruising, and he loves the way you twitch around him. He grinds through the swelling, making it worse for both of you—and better. “Too much? That’s the point.” There’s no warning. Just a cocky snarl, his hand locking in your hair and shoving your head to the side. “You ready, sweetheart?” You don’t get the chance to respond—he sinks in hard. Deep enough to bruise. You scream, and he laughs, moaning into the skin. “God, that’s hot. Fuck, keep squirming.” Annoyance floods your veins as you crane your neck. You sink your teeth into his collarbone, and he shouts, hips snapping. “FUCK—oh, that’s what you’re on? You wanna bite now?” He’s panting, pale, flushed, eyes wild. “Bite harder. C’mon, make me bleed, I dare you.” You clench around him, “Yeah, make me your little toy. I’m built for it.”

Lensless Invinicble

He hasn’t said a word for over an hour.

Which, for No Goggles Mark, is basically a war crime.

He’s sprawled out on the couch like he’s been shot, one arm flung over his face, the other dangerously close to palming himself through his sweats—and you know he’s doing it on purpose. That self-sabotaging little shit. He’s so obviously in heat it’s comical. Sweat slicks his collarbone, his jaw clenched tight, his shirt lifted over his abs like a mating call, a flush rising from his chest to the tips of his ears. And still?

Nothing. Not a single word.

So you break first.

“You good?”

His fingers twitch. His mouth moves like he might respond. Then, silence again. Of course.

You walk over, stand above him, arms crossed. “Mark.”

He groans, dragging his arm off his face to reveal bloodshot eyes and a crooked grin. “Dude,” he breathes, voice hoarse. “I was wondering how long it’d take you to cave.”

“Cave?” you echo, raising a brow.

He smirks, shifting slightly, letting his hips roll just enough for you to see the outline of him pressing hard against his pants. “Yeah, cave. I mean, I’ve been lying here like a Victorian heroine in heat, and you didn’t even check my temperature.” He bites his lip. “Rude.”

“You’re actually insane.”

“Little bit,” he chirps, breath catching as his thighs tense. “Dude, like, on a scale from 1 to melting down in your lap? I’m somewhere around… please slap me, choke me, tell me to shut the fuck up—and I’ll still get hard.”

Your face twitches, and that’s when he knows he’s got you.

“You like this, huh?” He taunts, grinning through a low, shaky breath. “Me all pathetic and wrecked. Just lying here, trying so hard not to hump the fucking couch. You gonna be a hero and save me, or… just watch me lose my mind?”

You kneel beside him. He twitches.

“God, I love when you do that,” he mutters. “All serious and controlled while I’m three seconds away from grinding myself into a puddle.” You glance down at his flushed neck, already marked up from earlier in the week. Old hickeys, faint bruises—like trophies. Your trophies.

“You are so lucky I have bad taste in men.” You sigh, feigning annoyance as you two share knowing glances. “If I touch you, will you stop talking… or just moan louder?”

“Okay, rude again, but also… accurate. Now come here. Get on me,” he says, voice deepening on the last word. His breath hitches again, and for a moment, he shudders—hands fisting in the cushion, thighs shaking.

You lean close, your lips brushing his ear. “You could’ve said something.”

“No fun in that,” he pants, finally reaching for you. “Wanted to see how long I could suffer. I always ruin the fun too fast. Mark me. Scratch me. I’ll wear it like a fucking badge, babe.”

He rolls over, yanking you into his lap, lips ghosting along your jaw. “C’mon. Don’t make me beg.”

“You already are.”

“…Shit. That’s hot.” His heat ruins him. He’s unhinged, usually pacing the walls of your shared home like a caged animal, trying not to wake you, but failing. His brain short-circuits with the memory of your mouth, your voice, and your bite. It's self-inflicted torture—he delays touching you just to feel the high of suffering. And when he finally breaks? It’s like watching a dam explode. You’re not just his girl—you’re his goddess, his favorite kind of punishment. And this need? It’s sacred, in the dirtiest way possible. For a loose cannon with unparalleled brutality, you’ve got him on a leash. His hands hovered at the hem of your shirt, fingers twitching like he was trying not to break apart mid-touch. “Dude, I can’t—I need—fuck, just lemme, please—”

You didn’t even answer. Just raised your arms, and that was all it took. He yanked the shirt over your head, tearing it in the process, and shifted you beneath him with a groan, mouth already dragging over your stomach like he didn’t know where to start. Your bra went next—half-bitten, half-torn—and when your chest spilled free, he just stared. Wide-eyed. That smirk curled at the corner of his mouth, slow and sinful, but his eyes were already glassy—like he was drunk off the tension and starving for your skin. It was a smile like he knew a secret and you were the punchline. All teeth and dark promise.

His tongue found your sternum, teeth grazing as he mouthed down one side, up the other, breath shaking against your skin. “I’m gonna say the worst shit if you let me keep going. Like, really bad. I’m so fucking gone for you.”

Ten minutes passed, and he still hadn’t made it past your ribs—just kissing, licking, groaning, hands dragging up your thighs like a prayer with no end. You knew he was struggling, his sweat pebbling against your thighs. It was sudden, your fingers curling just below his jaw and yanking him upward. The sound he let out was between a groan and a chortle. He looked at you like you were the final scene in a movie he’d watched a thousand times—obsessed, twitchy, reverent… and just a little off. It was unhealthy. He was in love. His smile didn’t match the heat in his eyes; it was crooked, teasing, like he was holding in something far worse than words. His fingers ghosted along your thigh, warm and slow, but there was nothing calm about the way they twitched—like he was barely holding back from sinking them in. It was dangerous. Like if you stopped now, he wouldn’t ask you to stay. He’d make you. And still, you didn’t move. You didn’t flinch. You let him worship you like the pretty little problem you are.

And so, with shaking fingers, he shoved his slacks down like they offended him, groaning when his cock sprang free—already flushed, already wet at the tip. The air hit him, and he trembled, panting through his teeth as if just being exposed was enough to short-circuit his control.

Your hand snapped up to his throat—tight, deliberate—and the moan that tore from him was instant, filthy, a cracked whimper that vibrated against your palm. You pressed him back into the cushions, straddling him with one thigh slotted between his twitching legs. His hands found your hips, but they were too unsteady to hold you down—more like he was asking permission with every touch.

You kissed him mid-moan—sloppy, messy, mouths colliding with teeth and spit and breath you didn’t care to control. His lips chased yours like he needed them to stay grounded, like losing contact for even a second would break him. His tongue was desperate. Uncoordinated. He whimpered every time your hips rolled. You reached down between your bodies, guided him to your entrance, and sank down.

He groaned. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a pathetic little sound trapped in the back of his throat as your warmth surrounded him—tight, slick, all-consuming. His head hit the back of the couch, and his mouth hung open in disbelief, fingers digging into your thighs before thrusting upward. A thick, wet sound of arousal coated flesh echoed between walls, his lip catching between his teeth. As you set the pace, his hand clasped the width of your ass as he forced you to swallow him whole. That’s all it took for your fingers to tremble, for your grasp to slip, “You hear that? That slick sound when I push in? That’s what I do to you. That’s mine now. Say it.” Words refused to form, only a disgruntled sigh escaping in its place. “Shaking already?” He taunted. “C’mon, baby, you like when I talk like this. Look at you—gripping me like you want me meaner.” Finally, your gaze shifted towards him as your hand cracked across his face once more. Your body leaned forward as you pressed weight against his windpipe. Head bowing to catch him off guard, biting his shoulder, the muscle jumping beneath your teeth as a stinging pain filled his side. He stops moving, his breath catching. He gasped for air, rasping beneath your palm, “Dude. Holy shit—okay, okay, that was—fuck.” He’s grinning like he’s about to explode. He was a whore. Your whore, and he loved every second of it. Each roll of your hips dragged a strangled noise from his throat. His hands flew to your waist but didn’t guide—just held. Clung. Like you were the only thing tethering him to earth. His cock twitched inside you every time your walls clenched, and his abdomen jumped with every bounce of your hips. “Oh my god, that’s not fair. That’s—you’re cheating; this isn’t normal. No one’s supposed to feel this good.” His toes curled into the couch foam, unable to tell if he was cumming or unprecedented amounts of precum were coating his cock. You leaned down, lips ghosting his cheek, your chest brushing his as your breath fanned across his ear. And while staring him in the eyes, while he was mid-moan, you spit into his mouth before delivering a final slap. 

And that was it. His grip faltered. His hips jerked. He started to move—just a little—shallow, instinctive thrusts as he gasped beneath you. His eyes widened between delight and surprise. You could feel the sweat pooling at his lower back, the way his thighs flexed beneath you with every slow grind of your core against his pelvis.

Then you pulled off—just to tease, but not before you were flipped around and impaled once more; your ass nuzzled against his pelvis. He made a noise like he’d been stabbed, both hands flying to your hips as you sank back down onto him in reverse cowgirl. Shivers crawled down your skin as heat from an impending orgasm made your vision blotch. You took all of him at once, and his reaction was feral. His head rolled back, a curse strangled in his throat, and his legs shook like he was trying not to thrust up blindly.

Your ass smacked against his abdomen as you rode him—harder now, rougher—and you reached between his legs to cup his balls. They were already tight, already twitching, the heat and overstimulation building to an unbearable edge. You rolled them in your palm, gentle but precise, and he nearly screamed through his teeth, hips jerking up so hard it lifted you both. His hips unrelenting as he fucked up into you, “You ride me like that again and I’m gonna black out. I’m gonna fucking die. Keep going.” “Shut the fuck up, Mark. Just take it. I don’t want soft.” And with that he just lunges, no warning, no restraint, sinking his teeth into the nape of your neck like it’s all that’s keeping him tethered to reality. He moans like biting you is better than cumming. He didn’t speak for a brief pause, and that's when it became sickly. His scent is of bruised plum and metal. It's strongest when he’s holding it in—when he won’t speak, won’t beg, won’t stop. When his heartbeats migrated to his dick. Then he keeps biting. Little ones. Bruising ones. Like he’s chasing the high of your yelps. “Dude, It hurts so good. I don’t even know if I’m still hard or if I’m just that fucked up. Keep going. Keep going.” Your fingertips curl into his calf muscle. 

His entire body convulsed beneath you.

One hand fisted in the couch cushion. The other grabbed your ass like he was trying to ground himself—but failed. You felt his cock pulse inside you, hot and overwhelming, as he came hard, breath leaving him in broken, unbelieving bursts. He twitched beneath you, thighs quivering uncontrollably, soft curses tumbling between panting moans. He’s rutting even though he knows it makes it worse. He’s overstimulated and absolutely getting off on it. You reach back to touch him, and he moans, full-body shaking, begging you to keep going until he breaks again.

So, you don’t stop. Neither does he, because he’s having too much fun. 

“C’mon let's go again. Don’t start whining now—you’re the one who started this.” His knot swells too fast, too hard, and he’s already trembling before it locks in. Hips stuttering as he tries to pull out and realizes—he can’t. And the look on his face? “Oh my god—dude—I’m stuck. I’m literally stuck in you. This is—holy shit—this is the best day of my life.”

Shiesty/Hooded Mark

You found him leaning against the counter in the kitchen like nothing was wrong—like he wasn’t actively in the middle of a full-blown heat spiral. Shirtless, hair matted with blood, bandage hanging off one shoulder like he forgot it existed. His hood was pushed back, and his mask hung low around his neck, revealing a face too calm for someone whose chest was visibly heaving.

“Stop staring,” he muttered without looking up, a crooked smirk playing at his lips. “Unless you’re planning to help.”

“You look like shit,” you deadpanned. He rolled his neck slowly, eyes finally meeting yours. Glowing with that sick, golden hue. Sweaty. Raw. “I look like someone who just took down three versions of myself and came home hard as fuck. Same thing.”

You squinted. “You’re such an asshole.”

“And you love that about me.” He pushed off the counter and stalked toward you, hands flexing at his sides like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to pin you or put them through a wall. “You know what this is, don’t you? I can smell your damn skin, and it’s driving me crazy.”

You crossed your arms. “So suffer.”

“Oh, I am,” he breathed. “But not for long.”

He backed you against the fridge, slow and heavy, heat radiating off him like a furnace. His mouth hovered at your neck, not kissing, just breathing in deep like he could swallow you through scent alone.

You shoved him—pointless, really, but instinctual.

He grinned.

“Still so fucking defiant,” he muttered, grabbing your wrists and slamming them up against the cold metal behind you. “God, I missed this mouth. Say something cruel.”

You stared him down. “You whine more than a virgin.”

“Fuck yes,” he groaned, eyes fluttering like you’d praised him. “Do that again. Be mean to me.”

“You’re a freak.”

“And yet you’re the one who’s been riding me for months,” he said through a tight grin. “Guess that makes you my freak.” His voice came out in a rasp. He loved how cold you could be; it made it all the more fun to ruin you, to watch you fuck yourself on his cock until you went limp. Usually by now you’d be bent over before finishing your sentence, yet he couldn't bear to. Not with his body practically vibrating, completely feral for you.

You grit your teeth. “You’re bleeding on me.”

“Guess you shouldn’t have waited so long to come home.” He buried his nose against your pulse. “Didn’t wanna admit I was in heat. You’d gloat.”

“Am gloating.”

He growled low in his throat, hips rutting into yours with zero finesse. “Yeah? Let’s see how smug you are when I’ve got you shaking.” You narrowed your eyes. “Is that a promise or another Mark-level bluff?”

He licked the corner of your jaw—slow and deliberate. “I’m starving and you’re wet. Bite me, babe.”

So you did. Your teeth dig into his throat, and he groans, head tipping back. “Oh, fuck yes, there’s my girl.” He’s panting now, grinning. “Shit. You like hurting me, don’t you?” He grabs your hips hard, pulling you closer. “Do it again. I want bruises.” His adams apple bobbed. Usually he wasn’t a masochist; if anything, he would be overly dominant in bed, but his inhibitions were loosened. Breaking even, as his eyes held a different reality than his words. It was only to taunt, as when your tongue flicked over your lips, preparing for another taste— His lips crashed into yours as if he’s just lost a fight and this is his prize. His mouth drags against yours with a growl in his chest, blood still on his tongue, and the weight of battle clinging to his skin. He’s cocky even here, biting at your lips between each kiss like he’s testing how far he can push before you snap. When your nails dig into his biceps, he laughs against your mouth. You roll your eyes as he smirks against your lips, already dragging his teeth across your bottom one just to be annoying. “Careful,” you murmur, gripping the front of his suit. “Do it,” he mutters, voice low and gleeful. Oh, how he loved when you pretended to be in control. His hand grabs your thigh, lifts, and pins you to the wall without warning—your lips barely parted before he’s back on you, kissing you like he’s got something to prove. You break the kiss just long enough to breathe, panting against his mouth. “You really think this is working?”

“Oh, it’s working. You’re already grinding on my thigh.”

“Because you put me there.”

He kisses you again—deeper this time, slower, like he wants to make you forget what you were about to say. His tongue flicks against yours in a rhythm that’s just a little too practiced. You pull back, eyes narrowed.

“You kiss all your enemies like this?”

“Only the hot ones.” He does it mid-banter, almost annoyed by your clothes. One second you’re snarking back, the next—rip. The seam of your shirt tears in his hands. He chuckles when you glare at him, lips grazing your ear. “Buy you another one,” he breathes, before kissing down your spine. Pants? Gone in a blur. Underwear? Teased off with one finger and a smirk. “You always taste better when you’re pissed at me.” He sat back on the bed with that infuriating grin still tugging at his lips, watching you crawl toward him with that glint in your eye—the one that said you were going to cause problems on purpose.

You slid to his right instead, shoulder brushing his thigh, your eyes locked on his cock as it twitched between his legs. You placed one hand on his knee, lips parted, and then slowly bent forward until your head rested just above his lap. His breath hitched.

And then your mouth wrapped around him.

He groaned, head tipping back, but he didn’t get to stay passive for long. You shifted slightly, lifting your hips, giving him just enough of a view to see how wet you already were. Your legs bent at the knee as your back arched, ass high, ready to be touched—and he got the message.

His hand slid down the curve of your spine, lingering just above your ass like a threat, before diving between your thighs. His fingers met slick heat, and his cock twitched inside your mouth.

Two fingers pushed in slowly—testing—before curling like he already knew exactly what spot made you twitch. You gasped around him, and he moaned in reply, free hand tangling in your hair as your hips rocked into his touch.

Every time he thrust his fingers deeper, you sucked harder, like a trade-off. Every time you moaned? He pressed deeper into you, fingers soaked, knuckles dripping as your body clenched around him like it was begging. Your thighs quivered against his ribs. Your spit dripped onto his lap. His abs tensed every time you swallowed. You were both losing it. His fingers caress every ridge, pads searching for that gummy spot that makes you keen. The strokes are long, ending at the tip of his fingers before plunging in once more, your own cum coating your insides as it glues his fingers together. It took everything in him to not bring his digits to his tongue and swirl your arousal across his tongue. His taste buds ached as his mouth swelled with saliva. He could imagine it now. The faint tang of sweat, sweet like molasses and burnt herbal. Your mouth worked over him like you were daring him to come too fast—lips swollen, throat taking him deeper each time you sank down, tongue dragging slow and purposeful. His cock twitched between your lips, and you felt it—every pulse, every subtle tremble of restraint breaking. “Fuck… that’s it.” He whispered, head spinning.

And he felt you, too. The way your body clenched around his fingers, soaked and twitching as his hand pumped between your thighs with growing intensity. Your hips rocked against his wrist, heels kicking air each time his fingertips curled just right. You choked just slightly, his cock hitting the back of your throat as your body jerked—but he didn’t stop. His palm slapped wetly against your ass, the obscene sound of his fingers fucking into you barely audible over the slurp of your mouth and the low, guttural whimpers pouring from his chest.

His voice was tight. Right on the edge. But your pussy was shaking, your thighs trying to close, your back arching in that telltale way—and he felt it coming. You moaned around his cock. A deep, muffled sound—vibrating against his length—his legs jerking in response.

His fingers slammed deep. Curled sharp. You gasped—mouth full, throat convulsing—and then everything snapped. You squirted all over his hand with a cry you couldn’t hold back, legs shaking, ass twitching in the air. Your arousal spilled down his fingers, soaked his wrist, dripped onto the sheets.

And the second you spasmed like that around him? His hips stuttered, his breath hitched, and a low, fucked-out growl rumbled in his chest as his cock throbbed inside your mouth. You felt the first warm spurt hit the back of your throat, followed by another—and another—as he came hard, one hand yanking your head down to bury himself deep, the other still stuffed inside you, his fingers riding out the pulses of your orgasm.

His thighs flexed. His stomach clenched. His voice cracked with a half-moan, half-laugh that sounded just a little too close to worship. You swallowed it all. Deliberately.

Then let him slip from your lips with a slick pop, breath ragged, sweat cooling on your back as his hand finally slid from between your thighs, fingers shiny and trembling. He looked down at you like you were divine punishment. Still twitching from overstimulation, breathing like he’d fought a war—but grinning like he’d die to do it again.

His chest heaved like he couldn’t get enough air, jaw slack, lips parted around a breathless whine. You could still see the way his muscles jumped—little tremors of pleasure his brain had no control over. Temptation overtook him as his hand shot up—twitchy and instinctual. He couldn't speak. He just leaned forward, lips brushing your fingertips, and licked your arousal clean. Each drag was shaky, mouth hot and eager, licking the mess he'd made like it was sacred. His lashes fluttered as his tongue circled your knuckle, the sound of his breath catching every time your taste hit his tongue. He whimpered—soft, broken—like it hurt to keep going, but he couldn't stop. Every noise he made was involuntary. Every twitch in his hips, every stutter in his breath, every faint jerk of his cock against his thigh—it was pure overstimulation. His body was wrung out, undone, and still begging. And when he pulled your fingers from his mouth, licking the corners of his lips like a man starved? You knew he wasn’t done. To him, heat feels like madness dressed in power. Everything is louder—your heartbeat, your scent, the memory of your lips. He's a god in a cage, and you're the only key. You’re the one thing he doesn’t need to conquer—he wants you willingly, but if you fight? He aches harder. Every roll of your hips, every defiant glare, only sharpens his focus. He’ll fuck you like he’s trying to outrun the heat clawing at his brain—but the truth? He doesn't want it to end. Mating with you isn’t about reproduction. It’s absolution.

“It’s consuming me,” he spits, breathless. “I can feel it in every goddamn nerve.” You touch his shoulder. He grabs your wrist instead, shoving it to his chest. It hits like tension in a dim room—quiet, deliberate, intoxicating. The kind of scent that makes your breath catch before your thoughts do. There’s intimacy in it. One that thickens as your taste is savored on his tongue. The smell is of black tea and a faint rosewood… perhaps ink stained leather. He grabs your chin, drags his tongue along your neck, then bites down slowly. It’s deep. Controlled. Like he’s branding you. His chest rumbled, almost pridefully. He didn’t need to speak—you felt it in the way his hands gripped your hips, steady and possessive. You pushed up onto your hands, spine arched, thighs trembling as your knees left the bed. The tension in your core burned as he slid his hands beneath your pelvis and lifted. Your body tipped forward, thighs locking tight around his waist, ankles crossed at his back as his cock pressed flush against your slick folds—heavy, aching, ready.

He adjusted his grip, one hand under each thigh, supporting the weight of your lower half as your toes dangled uselessly in the air, legs trembling from the position. The angle was unnatural, perfect—your arms still grounded you, your pussy tilted toward him like an open mouth begging to be filled. Your thighs tightened with every breath he took, every twitch of his cock as he positioned himself. And he pushed in all at once. “I can feel your heartbeat around my cock.” His voice had a gritted rasp. Your mouth dropped open in a soundless gasp, your head tilting back, arms shaking beneath you as your cunt clenched around him from the sudden fullness. You could feel every inch of him—every throb, every twitch—so deep it felt like he’d never leave your body again. Your legs locked tighter. Arms strained to keep balance while your body pulsed around him, helpless to anything but the slow, punishing drag of his hips. And he moved. Just a steady, ruthless rhythm—rocking you forward with every thrust, forcing your body to take him in angles that made your stomach tremble. “Don’t pass out yet—I’m not done proving I’m stronger than you.” “Oh, fuck off. You’re disgu-” His heart nearly swelled. Fuck off? He’s influenced you. “Call me disgusting again. Go on. I’ll moan your name while I keep ruining you.” It was sudden; the knot started swelling so fast it pulled a ragged sound out of him—a half-moan, half-growl, teeth clenched like it hurt to feel this good. He's trembling, addicted, and pulsing around the knot that won't let go. He's fighting for his life. You clenched down at his words, heels nudging him deeper as his knee nearly buckled. “You’re mine, mouth and all. So shut the fuck up, or I’ll make it worse. Just tell me I’m your bitch. I’ll wear it like a crown. I can take more. Sit on my face again, like last time—I’ll breathe later. Tie me down and fuck me dumb; make me useless. That’s what you want, right?” It all spilled out in broken fragments like a truth serum. “We’ll see.”

Variant #17 (I wouldn't even keep you as a slave in my Empire!)

You come home to silence.

Which is odd. Because Variant 17 is never quiet. He likes to remind you he’s there—pacing, hovering, teasing, demanding attention even when he doesn’t need it. Especially when he doesn’t need it.

The apartment looks fine. No signs of a fight. But something buzzes under your skin the second you shut the door behind you. That strange, oppressive heat in the air… You round the corner to the bedroom and stop short.

He’s already there.

Sitting on the edge of the bed in just his boxers, elbows on his knees, breathing like he just ran a marathon. His skin’s flushed. His pupils were blown. And the second he sees you—he grins.

“Finally,” he says, voice low, gravelly with strain. “I was wondering how long you’d make me wait.” Your eyes flick to his throat—bitten and bruised from the last time he’d thrown you against the wall. The marks still haven’t faded. Just like yours. “Oh no,” you mutter. “Again?”

His smile sharpens. “You say that like I planned this.”

He stands—slow, almost lazy, despite the twitch in his jaw—and stalks toward you. His suit’s on the floor. His knuckles are bruised. He smells like sweat, ozone, and you. You backpedal, but he doesn’t chase.

Just says, “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You scoff. “Because you’ve been humping the couch like a damn dog in heat—”

“—Because I am,” he snaps. “And you left me here. Suffering.”

You try to shove him. He grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head. “Still so stubborn,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your pulse point. “Fine. I’ll fuck the resistance out of you.”

He doesn’t kiss your mouth. Not yet. Just watches you. That cool, calculated expression is gone now, burned out by the haze of his heat. He’s not just attempting to be dominant—he’s deranged with it. Shaking slightly as he presses himself harder into you.

“You’re lucky,” he mutters, voice strained. “Before you, I had an ex that resisted too. You know what I did?” His eyes narrow. “I fucked her until she cried and then begged me to make her a queen.”

“You’re disgusting.”

He just smirks. “You say that now.”

He knows you don’t mean it, and if you did, you're now stained by his very presence, defiled by his wants. The desperation takes over. His hips rut against yours shamelessly, teeth dragging across your jaw, fingers digging into your thighs as he hoists you higher. You gasp, grabbing his shoulders for balance, but it only makes him hungrier.

“I was gonna be patient. Was gonna convince you.”

You can feel how hard he is. How wet the spot between you is becoming. “But this—this is your fault,” he growls. “You made me wait. You let me suffer. And now you think I’m gonna stop before you’re begging me to stay?” The slick from his precum, smearing against your bottoms. He was feral, utterly 

He doesn’t give you the opportunity to chide, “How many orgasms does it take to turn a little rebel into a queen?” His authority is being questioned with every action. He walks like he owns you—talks like he’s already won. His words are sharp, cocky, laced with superiority and amusement, like he’s just entertaining you until you break. But his body? His body tells the truth. He kisses you like every second your lips aren't on his is a personal insult. The moment your mouths meet, his hands slide into your hair, tilting your head back with a quiet, commanding growl. It's slow at first—controlling. But when your hands fist in his shirt, tugging, he loses it. He bites your lip and moans into the kiss. His hips rock into you, and he groans like he hates how good you feel. He pants, licking into your mouth again like he's ready to devour the last of your resistance.

His fingers twitch at his sides when you don’t move fast enough towards the bed. The way he breathes through his nose to keep it even—calm, cold—while his pupils are already blown wide from scenting your skin. The clench in his jaw when you lean in close, and he doesn’t flinch, but he stops blinking. He says he’s in control. He says he’s patient. But his hands shake when they finally touch you. Every article of clothing is gone. There’s no grace—just hunger. He strips you like you’re the only cure, moaning when your thighs press together. You’re left as his equal, in lust and in the nude as his damp cock presses against you within the confines of his boxers. The second the fabric left your skin, he changed.

What started as cocky hands pulling your underwear aside—slow, smug, practiced—turned frantic. The moment your bodies were bare, he hesitated. Just for a second. Like the sight of you finally being exposed knocked the breath clean out of his chest.

His cock twitched, and his jaw clenched. He groaned—low, guttural, like his body betrayed him by reacting before he had the chance to mock you for it. He didn't speak. Otherwise, the words would've come out shaken, and his pride couldn’t handle that. 

Instead, he flipped you onto your back, hooked his arms under your knees, and folded you in half—knees tucked high to your chest, back arched off the mattress. Your hands instinctively gripped behind your thighs, holding them there, perfectly presented.

Then he moved over you. Toes digging into the sheets, body hovering just enough to control the angle—forty degrees of domination, cock aligned with brutal precision as he pressed forward with an unsteady breath. The slide-in was deep. His composure crumbled almost immediately as he realized you held the very power he attempted to steal. Completely open and vulnerable to him, and yet his nerves felt alight. You watched his expression twist—eyebrows pinched, mouth parted, pupils blown—as the sensation rocked through him. He moved hard from the first thrust—hips slamming into yours with rhythmic force, his abs tightening with every movement. But for all his aggression, it wasn’t anger—it was panic masquerading as power. He was unraveling too fast. Your walls fluttered around him, and he twitched, thrusts faltering.

He tried to hold it together. Tried to go faster, deeper, rougher—tried to dominate. But his face gave him away. “You’re not as untouchable as you pretend to be, Mark.” You mused, although through choked sobs. The air leaving your lungs came in short bursts, unable to breathe as he pummeled into you, your body curling into itself. You open your mouth to taunt, only for his face to close in, breath fanning your face. “Say it. Say you’re not mine. I dare you.”

His brows knit tighter. His mouth hung open. A trembling gasp escaped when your body clenched just right. His hands—once firm on your thighs—now gripped like he was afraid of being pushed out. And when your legs shook in his hands, when your slick dripped down to his balls with every brutal thrust? He lost it. “I’m supposed to be building an empire, and instead I’m here—drenched in you, shaking, because my body thinks I’ll die if I don’t fuck you.”

You felt him stutter—hips stalling, jaw slack, his body shaking from the effort to keep control. His cock throbbed deep inside you, his breath turned ragged, and still, he fucked into you like you were the only anchor he had left. Then suddenly… he remembered who the fuck he was. Sure, he could be a brat, even doing this for the sake of vengeance. He persevered regardless. He pulled out in one slow, wet slide—watching the way your body clenched and twitched at the loss. His back arched inwards, and he looked down at you—ruined, smug, triumphant—and for a moment? He just stared. His hands were everywhere now—pushing your legs apart wider, guiding your hips into the perfect angle, dragging your ass back into place. You tried to shift. He didn’t let you. His grip was unyielding, fingers sinking into your flesh with possessive finality.

It was different, one fluid jerk. Buried to the hilt, grinding slowly, deliberately—just to feel your walls flutter. His body rolled against yours like a machine built for precision destruction. Each thrust carried weight. Rhythm. A punishment laced with adoration. He felt it. Felt your legs twitch, your walls tighten, your breath catch. And instead of slowing, he slammed forward, chasing your peak like it was his right to feel you come around him again—and again—until your moans weren't pretty anymore. “You live with me. You sleep in my bed. And you still act like you’re not mine?” He was falling apart. And you never said a word. He could throw a fit if he wanted to, but your defiance is what drove him mad. Because this was his undoing— Not the position. Not the pleasure, but you. The way you let him think he was in charge… until he wasn't. And when your body clenched around him, slow and deliberate? He moaned—not cocky. Not cruel. Just ruined. His knee momentarily bent into the plush mattress as his thighs shook. It was like you’d stolen something from him. And he was grateful. His hips continued to piston as if to punish you. But every word is backed by panic. Just this involuntary drive to make you stay. To make you need him back. Because underneath all that power, Variant 17 is terrified that if he lets up—just once—you’ll walk away. And that thought derails him. So he fucks you like he’s proving something. And every time you moan his name, every time you whimper, or beg, or tease him? His heart races. He’s more addicted to you than he’ll ever admit. And that’s why he dominates. Because if he doesn’t stay on top, he’ll fall apart. “You’re lucky I even let you touch me like this. You’d be a wreck if I left right now.” Your cunt squeezed, causing him to slam deeper, earning a yelp to crawl from your throat. His ego and god complex nearly shattered upon hearing. His dick was twitching, muscles jumping beneath his skin as he grimaced in pleasure. Burned sugar, sandalwood, scorched velvet, and ash. That’s his scent. It’s infuriatingly addictive. Sweet in a toxic way, like cotton candy laced with smoke. It doesn’t feel like comfort—it feels like compulsion. You hate how much you like it. It clings to the back of your tongue, gets stuck in your hair, and when he’s inside you? It’s everywhere. He leans down, nose nuzzling into your scalp as he inhales it like a drug fix. He reeks of dominance slipping into madness. Dipping his head slightly, he bites into your clavicle with no mercy. A sound between a snarl and a moan leaps from his throat. The unrelenting pounding of his hips caused his teeth to grind slightly. If he doesn't claim you now, he’d lose himself. Not like you two had a choice, as he came without warning, a strangled groan being the only indication as your insides spasmed around him. He murmured into your collarbone, “Tell me I’m yours. Say it. Even if you don’t mean it, lie to me.” You obliged, the words barely coherent but enough to make his ears ring. A pained and pleasured whine left you; no amount of tensing his abdomen withheld the flood he released, dick bulging side of you as the knot formed. Your insides practically latching onto him. With bated breath, he leaned back, staring proudly at his work before he sighed, frustrated. “I was winning, and then you made that noise—fuck.” A quiet whine echoed in his voice. “All that attitude and you still came first. Typical.” Your eyes finally focused, narrowing on his gaze. “Don’t… don’t fucking look at me like that. I meant to last longer.” His eyes scanned over the marking, almost like his name was carved into it. Suddenly leaning up, you clamp down on his chest with your teeth, and he freezes mid-thrust, then growls. “Ohhh, so that’s how you want it?” His breath is ragged now. “You little fucking traitor. You think biting me’s gonna save you?” But his hips rut harder. “Do it again. Prove you’re mine too. You’re coming into my empire anyway.”

Truthfully, you didn’t mind. But he had finally earned you. TEASERSSSS (Part 3, if requested. Congratulations, reader!!) MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.

@ploiigee

(Photo stitching made by me!)

[brain4stew]

Sooo, I don’t write much for forsaken x reader, but a silly idea here from me, to other writers (possibly).

A reader that’s either sleepy 24/7 or could sleep 24/7, like a fucking hibernating bear.

• (In my case, it’d be both, so let me write for that rq.), (Only idea related, I guess??)

• If you’re a survivor, then damn, either you’re lucky to be the last one remaining, and the killer leaving you alone to win, due to you either sleeping, or being too sleepy to even stand. Or you could be unlucky as hell, and end up dead first, spotted first or attacked first.

• Other survivors worry about you dying first, or dying in general in rounds. (Especially Elliot, that guy gets some sort of heart attack.)

• Either you’re with a survivor you spawn together with, or you’re just, going to a corner of the map and just, either sitting there and wait the timer out, or you’re sleeping in the said corner.

• God forbid the killer is C00lkidd… He’ll probably go for you first, to “Get your energy back!” As he says it.

• On another note, if it is Mafioso, he’ll just scare and chase you in the dreamscapes… So you’ll basically have a nightmare of that.

• Thankfully, Jason, 1x1x1x1, John Doe, Azure, Noli and the other killers leave you be. (Maybe not 1x4 but… It’s possible they’ll leave you be.)

• If you’re a killer, then you’ll just be an event killer. You’ll spawn with another killer, and you’ll be able to either stand where you spawned, or sleep where you spawned. You’ll also be invincible for around 40 seconds within the start of the round. It could come back, but only if the killer companion of yours is close by you for 5 seconds.

• (It gives your fellow killer companion 20 more stamina, and gives survivors drowsiness 1 for the duration of the rounds you’re in it. Drowsiness means that the survivors visions will be outlined with a bit of black “smoke”, obscuring their visions. Not only that, but occasionally they will “blink” and yawn, which will be a problem for the survivors. If the survivor tends to yawn loudly, then your killer companion will be notified of the survivor.)

• Now, Mafioso paired with you, might be a very hard challenge for the survivors. For if you’re sleeping, or just staying by the killer spawn and probably fall asleep standing, Mafioso can actually get to where you are rather quickly. Thanks to the dreamscapes. (There’s a cooldown ofc, of 60 seconds.)

• Each survivor and killer have different opinions on you, whether you’re a killer or a survivor yourself. It varies on how it is to be around you, how you act and all of that.

• I have a feeling that the survivors do NOT trust you to be asleep, or even remotely close to Two Time, due to their past, and all that. The survivors might have a debate on whether they’ll allow 007n7 to be close to you or not however, due to his past actions.

• The killers all agree that 1x4, Mafioso and C00lkidd should NOT be near you. If you’re sleeping or not. Mainly because, 1x4 literally hates anyone and everything? Mafioso… Due to the dreamscapes and all of that… C00lkidd is pretty self explanatory. Hyper little kid.

• Jason, Azure and I think Guest 666 will be able to be around you, even if you’re asleep or just sleepy in general. Mainly because they won’t be too loud around you, and because they don’t do much, unless they’re in a round. (Jason legit can’t talk.)

• Out of every survivor, I’d assume that Taph, Dusekkar, Elliot, Guest 1337, Builderman and Noob will be the safest around you. Mainly Guest 1337 though, as he’s got quite high senses due to his past, and because he had to be on high alert for any enemies from war.

• Dusekkar would probably just put a noise canceling shield on you, so you’d be able to sleep without too much noise. Taph is naturally quiet, they only speak with emoji’s, so it’d probably be sign language. They’d also hold back on testing their subspace trip mine when you’re nearby.

• Noob would just be grateful that you even trust them enough to be sleepy, or even sleep near them. They feel like they have a “objective” to help you sleep. Elliot is also just glad you trust him enough to be sleepy or sleep around him, it also eases down his own stress levels.

• Builderman would make sure that you’re REALLY protected when you’re sleeping. He’d even build a sleeping dispenser nearby for you, quietly of course, just so you’ll get some ambience and fairly “fresh” air.

[invincibledc]

Now that I have ur permission to request, I was wondering if it could be a batfam/invincible x magical boy reader (magical boys are just magical girls but dudes) it can be headcanons or a small drabble, doesn't matter!

(Anyway I'll be waiting in the basement 🕶🦯)

𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐚𝐦/𝐢��𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐱 𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

A/N: doing both because I love them both!

BATFAMILY—

If reader/you were to say the spells out loud, the family would try to see if you can try to do them some other way for your safety. If it’s not possible, than maybe how about you say the spells softly low

Your own batfamily suit is so cool! It has back up weapon that holds your magic incase your magical weapon snaps and have it regenerate, so it’s a win win that Bruce is considerate 

Bruce, the man himself sees you as a son. So of course expect a little bit of bossiness and control about where you go, what you eat, and how your performance is with missons

Although, Bruce is amazed by your abilities, especially your spells. He’ll test how much you know about your spells and analyze what each can do be helpful during serious things.

Lastly, he’s a good guy that makes sure you also have a good “normal” life outside of your magical business.

Jason is the type of guy to ask for you do a magic trick, and it literally the most classic “magic” trick in the world as you make an apple disappear or maybe pull a bunny out of no where.

Course zatanna and you are best friends! You both are different kind of magic users but are still powerful. Zatanna is mostly shocked that you are.. a magical boy.. cause like she never heard of that before so of course she is interested in you (platonic ofc)

And Raven? She’s chill about it! You could be doing something by her as you hum whilst she meditates to keep her powers in control

If you were the kind of magical boy to be like “i honestly wants this shit to be done” with a quick transformation of your outfit and immediately one shooting an enemy.. any one around the radius would be shocked to see that

Dick is literally the same as Jason, “do a magic trick!” He exclaims as he sits on the couch and watches you sighed in an annoyance as you pulled a quarter from his ear out of pity

He fakes shock before clapping his hands as he just kept that stupid grin on his face. But other than that, he at least supports of you if you do wanna be a at a kid’s party to show off your own tricks.

Dick always shows you designs of his own about your magical boy outfit, honestly is your number one supporter

Tim side eyes you everytime you transform cause it’s so dramatic, like bro is holding his staff as he just stares at the glowing light blinding his eyes. But either wise, he would just use that blinding light to “STRIKEE!!” a hoe when the foe is stricken by your glowing body

Tim using you as a glow stick, or maybe your wand as you run up and smack his head as he uses it during a power outage

You and tim are an odd duo that don’t be around each other as much, but always make things work with duo combos

Damian pitys you due to how he sees your whole being as pathetic, that was til you hit killer croc with the hardest beaming blast of his life

Soon he magically clings to you like a black cat that doesn’t like anyone but you, he literally tugs on your clothing to show you some drawings of you in a sparkling aura having your magical weapon

Shows Jon you, and Jon starts to fanboy over you whilst you have two young child just gushing over how cool you are to them now.

It’s a shocker really

INVINCIBLE—

Honestly, you’re in teen team, there’s so many coool people with such cool powers! And then there’s you in your “magical” outfit as Rex makes fun of you. Saying how “girlish” you seem whilst Eve and mark try to comfort you.

Rex was soon turned into a frog, smirking as he croaks in distress.

Rex never doubted you again, but after the whole shot in the head gig happened, he was one of the dudes that just got along with you. “Oh that guy? Yeah he can make you shit sparkles, watch out.”

If you had a magical weapon that helps along with your magical boy persona, you can bet mark is swooping in as you yelled in anger about your broken weapon that will have to regenerate in 24 hours now

Mark and the others, mostly mark, scolds you for relying on some “stupid” staff

Eve being your best girl friend as you both hang out, mark is a great guy. He would always make sure you’re okay, and always see what kinda other spells you can do.

If your magical boy transformation changed your whole appearance like hair, eyes, or just like height, the team will be shocked when you’re out of your appearance and look so… normal.

You’re more of a support than on the team, sure you can fight and handle battles with those deadly or passive attack spells, but you’re on the sideline of things

Debbie wasn’t sure about some magic boy in her house, but seeing how Oliver likes you and mark loves you around. She invites you at any chance for dinner

Meanwhile Cecil has plans for if you turn against him, of course if you went rouge and not just “hey, I quit.” Type of against him ofc

Either way. You and Oliver are such gremlins

“Can you turn mark into a frog?” Is what Oliver asked you the first moment you told him how you turned rex into one.

Chasing mark with Oliver was fun!

Eve finds it so funny when you turn any guy trying to harass her into a horse , just to actually call them a horse face.

Imagine mark watching your transformation and just clapping supportively as you flex off your new “hero” costume

The variants, they stare at you weird. You don’t exist in any of their worlds. You’re an anomaly, something that shouldn’t be alive, something that shouldn’t even breathe when you blast one variant from you with a beam that actually hurts him. And he’s supposed to be… invincible.

THANKS FOR READING!!

[selfshipping-madness]

Allen x Human!Fem! Reader

Summary: Just some overall relationship headcanons revolving around the version of Allen from the Invincible show. Idk anything about the comics, lol.

Genre: Fluff

Met you during a visit to Earth to hang out with Invincible.

You were just passing by, and, man, you were the most gorgeous creature he'd ever seen.

He starts coming to Earth more often in hopes of seeing you (not that he'd ever admit that is his motive, lol).

Takes him a few visits to work up the nerve to talk to you. Ik he's not the overly anxious or shy type, he's actually fairly social, but he still gets a little bit nervous at the thought of talking to you.

When he does, he's very blunt yet sincere with how he thinks you're beautiful.

"Um, hi. I'm Allen, an alien if you can't tell, which I'm sure you could. Anyway, I kinda wanted to let you know that you're very pretty. Hope that isn't too forward."

The two of you get to talking after that, which then leads to a nice friendship, which then leads to more visits from Allen.

All this leads up to when he asks you out on a proper date.

"So, we've been hanging out a lot, and I really enjoy your company. I was wondering if you and I could go on a date. I don't know this planet all that well, so you'd probably have to pick the spot. But, yeah. What do you say?"

He's an absolute gentleman on your date together.

He studied human customs just for this.

While he wants to tell you how he feels at the end of your first date, he's worried that might be too fast for you. He heard humans often like to take relationships slow, so he waits for a few more dates before telling.

It's a very simple confession, of course. Allen is the furthest thing from a flashy guy.

"Hey, can I tell you something? I think you're the most beautiful person ever and I love your personality. And, well, I like you. In a "more than friends" kind of way. Just wanted to get that off my chest. I hope you feel the same, but, obviously, you don't have to."

Now, Allen is an amazing boyfriend.

You want cuddles? He's down. Wanna talk? Ofc. Want kisses? You want, you got it.

Isn't overly against very casual pda.

Just the usually holding hands, cute kisses, and stuff like that.

Will gladly princess carry you without a second thought.

All you have to do is mention your feet hurt or that you're tired simply as a passing comment, and the next thing you know, you're in his arms.

Any place, any time.

He's not necessarily even doing it to be romantic. He's just doing it to be considerate and because he cares.

Will definitely take you flying with him if you want to.

He's just overall a very sweet boyfriend.

Is very blunt with telling you how he feels about you /pos.

I will say, he definitely isn't afraid of some playful teasing.

Just a few playful remarks or comebacks.

Also loves to give you teasing kisses/nuzzles. More when the two of you are alone but isn't against doing them in public.

And you'll get to occasionally flirt. Nothing over the top. Just simple stuff.

[aphroditesmoon]

heyy for the clarisse head cannons, maybe a enemies to lovers w clarisse

enemies to lovers hcs with clarisse

clarisse la rue x fem!reader

warnings: fighting, mild violence, kissing.

- I feel like you would probably be in athena cabin or hermes, (or whichever ur prefer)

- clarisse has a lot of people who hate her, but no one brave enough to challenge he, until she met you.

- the two of you match eachother's skills, and it's frustrating for clarisse to admit that you're actually good.

- "you really think you're all that, don't you?"

- "of course not, we both know no ones better than you, clarisse."

- you probably meant it literally, but everyone watching laughs anyway.

- everytime you spar with her, its not because you want to humiliate her but simply because you're intrigued by clarisse.

she was an angry, violent girl, and you wondered deep down if that was the only side of her that existed.

- she doesn't know that ofc.

- she thinks everytime you try to be funny or nice to her, you're just being patronizing.

- for example, when you tell her she's not that bad or try to help her up after you win she's sure that you meant it in a mocking way.

- that was until she got beef with the new kid percy jackson and he broke her spear 💀

- when you found her alone in the ares cabin while everyone's eating dinner, you tried to comfort her. she doesn't appreciate the notion.

- "you shouldn't have went after him, clarisse." you told her.

- "how was I supposed to know he was a son of the big three?" she snapped back, refusing to look anywhere else but atnthe spear.

- the cabin was sileny for a moment before yoi spoke again, "maybe you could give it over to the haphaestus kids, they could fix it."

- "this is a magical spear, not a normal one." she answers back.

- she assumed you came to gloat, to tell her she deserved it, to call her a bully like everyone else did, but she was weirdly comforted by your presence instead. she didn't have to lie or pretend to be strong in front of you, something she learned of after a few months in of sparring with you is that you wouldn't hit someone during their weakest.

- "I remember the first gift my mom/dad gave me when I first got here. a knife, It meant so much to me, but I didn't know that it wasn't invincible, I broke it while trying to pull it out of a tree after I accidentally staked it into."

- clarisse was quiet for a moment before turning to you with a frown and said: "that's so stupid."

- you smiled at her and nodded your head. "yeah it was." she smiled back at you and shook her head. "I can't believe thats the same person who beat my ass last week."

- your eyes widened. "I can't believe you're actually admitting that I've beat your ass." she scoffed at that.

- "how did it end up in the tree anyways?" She asked. you blinked for a few times and reluctantly responded, "I tried to carve my name onto the tree." you could tell clarisse was so baffled by it that she wanted to laugh, but instead she just stared at you with her mouth wide open.

- "thats-" "stupid, yeah, you already said that."

- "carving your name on a tree? really? what, were you 10 years old or something?"

- you were 10. "I was 10 actually." "oh." her face relaxed, all of it finally making sense.

- "anyways, what I mean is, at least your spear went out in a fight. I'm sure your father must be really proud of you."

- clarisse looked away immediately, as if the idea of her father at all, hurted her.

- "you know nothing about my father."

- you shrugged and sat next to her on her bed. "I don't, but I know you. and I'd say you did pretty damn well.".

- you expected her to snap at you again, that was her thing, confronted by kindness or any kind of empathy, fight or flight. but instead she smiled sadly at you. "you think so?"

- you answered yes and inched closer to her. "everyone at camp is either scared of you, or they respect you. that respect didn't come out of nowhere."

- clarisse nodded her head, staring back down at the spear on her lap. "do you really think they can fix it?"

- "it's worth a try." you told her.

- the next time you see her was the following day after she and the other cabin leaders were gathered together for Percy to choose for his quest.

- you noticed she still tries ti act cold with you, but she was less meaner than before.

- "chiron gathered the best of the best to join the quest." she had told you when you asked her where she went.

- "and he asked you to be there?"

- "what, you don't think im good all of the sudden?" she asks, glaring at you.

- you rolled your eyes at her. "I know you're good, but I also know that you tried to kill Percy yesterday, not exactly team spirit is it?"

- she considered it for a moment and shrugged. "who cares, at least that punk will be gone for a while. everything can go back to normal." you follow her as she walked out of the cabin with a normal spear.

- "normal as in?"

- "normal as in, I'm going to kick your ass."

- the two of you sparred for an hour and a half, you wont say that you were holding back today, but you weren't exactly giving her your all. you liked to see the eay she smiled everytime she won, even if it was annoyingly smug.

- that same night, rumors were going around that clarisse was going soft. breaking her infamous spear, befriending her nemesis.

- "we're not friends," she told her cabin siblings. "It's not my fault she's obsessed with me."

- when word got out about what she said, you decided that maybe trying to get to know clarisse was a bad idea. not really being the confrontational kind of person, you just stopped talkiing to her.

- it was a few days later when she went out of her way to find you. all the cabins were in disarray. they were all choosing sides between zeus and poseidon after the news broke that the two powerful gods we're against eachother.

- uncharacteristically, clarisse aided with poseidon. she weighed her choices as cabin leader and daughter of ares and decided it was the best option

- (if you're a daughter of athena) then, you sided with zeus. athena is known to having feud with the god poseidon, and you would side your mother.

- (if you're in the other cabins), then you just use the feud as an excuse to not talk to her, claiming that all kinds of provocative interaction should be kept om a liminal time.

- clarisse found you in the bathroom and tried to get you to listen to her.

- "you're saying that this feud bothers you so much that you've just completely stopped talking to me?"

- "I think, that I'd like to stop being so obsessed with you, considering it was you who said that you wanted me out of your hair."

- she chased after you as you walked out of the bathroom and pulled you to the side.

- " I didn't mean it that way." she was lying and you both knew that.

- "you know what your problem is clarisse? you care so much of what other people think of you, what their perception of you is like. people who wouldn't blink twice if you were in danger. but what about the people who do care about you? the people who want to keep caring about you?"

- your words caught her off guard, she knew it was her fault but she didn't think as far as you had said.

- "I care about you too." she says honestly.

- "you don't hurt people you care about." and she knew that. she knew what it felt like to be scorned and hated by the person you love. and clarisse la rue, will not be like her father.

- "give me one chance to make it up to you, let us start over again." she pleaded.

- you might resent her for what she had done, but that doesn't mean you're immune to her wishes. "one chance."

- "one chance." she agreed.

- the next day, while everyone was out practising, she finda you helping a younger girl in your camp with her stance in fighting and called you to the side.

- "I got something for you." she said.

- the two of you walked a bit further away from other people but she stopped and pull out something from her pocket.

- "the haphaestus kids couldn't fix my spear, but I did get them to work out something new for you."

- it was a knife, similar to your old on2, but the engraved heart shape on the black holder was different. The holder was made if rubbee, easier to grip, and the tip was sharper than anything you've seen.

- "this is for me?" she nodded and placed it into your right palm.

- "it's not magical, but it'll be useful."

- you did not hesitate to pull her by the back of her head to lean down and meet your lips halfway.

- and she did not hesitate to wrap her own arms around your nwck and waist to kiss you back just as strongly.

- "I'm gonna get laughed at for this aren't I?" she muttered against your lips as she pulls away slightly.

- "not something you can't handle." you decided with a small smile on your lips.

- "right, definitely not something I can't handle." she agreed.

[cassayeee]

'It was like pure static, the feeling of Death’s knife pressing closer and closer to the flesh of your neck. Like holding too tightly onto an electric fence, fingers wound taut against the wire, locked into place. Even if you wanted to let go, your body was rigid, the currents forcing your nerves to tense irregularly, mimicking signals that should be stemming from your mind. You knew this was the end. You could feel it in the way your bones aired themselves into hollow poles and your blood stilled into a lukewarm glass of water.

What else was there to do than lay down and accept your fate? To hope the inevitable comes swift and painless? Well, it’s not like you could move even if you wanted to. With the hundreds of pounds of building matter currently atop your legs, all you could do was close your eyes within the clouds of smoke and dust and wonder.

Wonder what you had done to deserve this. Wonder how things had so quickly changed. And wonder if you would truly see your life condensed into a seven-minute montage before your brain finally shut down.

Grief struck you hard and fast for the life you were losing and the friends and family you would never see again. It was hard letting go, but there was no other choice given to you. The universe had shifted you sideways and sent you on a path not of your own creation. Dangling your life in front of you like a worm on a hook – baiting, baiting, baiting, until you had no other choice but to wrap your lips around the metallic pincer and bite.

Blood oozed from your mouth as you forced your eyelids apart, desperate to see anything other than the darkness within the closure. But instead of the condensed particles of earth and concrete you expected, you were surprised to see the overcast had been shifted away, blown by some stronger, opposing force. You never even felt the breeze.

Curious about the cause, you slowly tilted your head to the right, allowing gravity to rest your cheek against the hot ground. Staying alive was becoming a chore, and you could barely keep your eyes open, but the sight before you would haunt you for whatever life you had left.

A man hidden in a yellow and blue superhero suit – I know him – standing atop rubble and viscera – is that Invincible? – body shaking from the labor of simply breathing – what’s that in his hand? – a human limb, other than his own – my bracelet, why does that arm have my bracelet? – the man slowly turning in his own destruction – no, not mine – tears welling in his eyes, shining through the pieces of broken goggles – why is he holding my brother’s hand? – head downturned toward the pool of blood beneath him with no face to greet him back - - - -

Did Mark Grayson kill my family?'

foaming at the mouth to get this finished, but I wanted to get a little "sneak peak" (so to speak) of the sinister mark x reader fic I have cooking currently. reader is kinda going through a powerplex storyline, but I crave angst, so ofc she's going to be bestie's with mark before this all goes down (and then, subsequently, the invincible war arc). since this is going to be specifically for sinister mark, I was lowkey thinking of playing around with the themes of cannibalism but idk if that's too much to drop after a year-long hiatus LMAO. then again, fuck it

[winchesterdefender]

And Then There Were Three | Winchester Sister I

Summary - A baby shows up on the Winchester's doorstep, and their entire lives change.

Pairings/characters - John Winchester, Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Meg Winchester (OFC), Sam & Dean Winchester x little sister, John Winchester x daughter

Warnings - very mild cursing, John Winchester

Language - English (British)

Word Count - 3,096

Notes - This is the first instalment of the Winchester Sister series featuring my OFC Meg Winchester! Please be kind <3

Credits - dividers by the lovely @firefly-graphics

UPDATE - I have moved my writing to @winniewritesstories to make my writing easier to find than on this mess of a blog! I won't be taking this down but all future writing (for Meg and reader inserts) will be there!

Dean Winchester was strong. He was brave, and fierce. He fought monsters - has done his whole life, as long as he can remember. He liked to think he was unbreakable, invincible. The hits kept coming, and he kept taking them. Fear, pain, worry - he pushed it all down, kept it locked away. In some ways, he had a heart of ice. He never broke.

Dean Winchester was strong.

And then one day, just before he turned nineteen, a baby appeared on a motel doorstep. A baby who wasn't his, but was. Would always be. A baby in a pram, with a note addressed to John Winchester, a note that eased the fears this baby was his, but it would be his, really. John Winchester was never a father. Not to him, not to Sam, and therefore not to this baby.

It was early October, and already Maine was cold. Dean's breath clouded in front of him in the cool, dark night. A glance around the parking lot revealed nobody, no cars, nothing to indicate where this baby had come from. His first instinct was to bring the baby in from the cold, and he did, careful to fix the salt line the wheels of the pram disturbed.

The first thing that struck Dean was that this kid was definitely a Winchester. They were a carbon copy of baby Sammy, same little button nose and eyes, barely any hair gracing their head. A memory tugged at the corners of his mind, four years old and holding Sammy for the first time, his mom supporting Sam's head while dad took a picture. Still a kid with two parents but keenly aware of his responsibility, of how his centre of gravity had shifted from himself to his baby brother.

But his mom wasn't here now and Dean would have to support this baby's head on his own. And his dad hadn't taken pictures of his kids since Mary died. So his centre of gravity shifted again to the baby in the pram. Another of John Winchester's kids for Dean to raise. Part of him was angry, part of him defeated. Sammy was fourteen, able to look after himself now. Dean didn't have to worry about him in the same way - Sam fed himself, did his homework, all that crap. Dean had almost been free.

But he couldn't blame the baby. He didn't. It didn't ask for this. Didn't understand anything. Dean reached a hand down, pulled the little yellow blanket away from their face. It was small, smaller than Sammy had been, and not just because Dean was grown now and over six foot. Small in a way that told him this baby was young. Small in a way that put fear into him. Small in a way that made him desperate to protect them from the horrors and cruelty of their world.

He felt sick knowing he could never protect them from that. From their lives. This baby was a Winchester, which basically meant it was fucked.

The bathroom door opened, and Sam walked out.

"What is that?" he asks, damp hair curling against his forehead.

"A baby," Dean replies, still looking down at them.

"A what?" Sam asks incredulously, crossing the room to stand by his brother. He looked down and saw there was, in fact, a baby. "The hell did this come from?"

"Was on the doorstep. Came with this." Dean said, handing Sam the unopened letter addressed to their father.

"It's dad's?" Sam was having a hard time digesting all this. He had to admit, his first thought was it was Dean's. "Where even is he?"

"Bar, I think. Reckon he knows about it?"

"If he knew he had another kid out there, don't ya think he would've mentioned it?"

"Yeah, 'cos Dad's a real open book." Dean replied. Sam turned the envelope over and made to open. "What're you doing? Don't do that, is addressed to Dad."

"Figured this might give us some answers. Maybe a name for the mystery baby."

Dean snatched the letter from his brother. "We ain't reading this til Dad has."

"Is Dad dating anyone?" Sam asked. "He's never mentioned anyone."

Dean shrugged a shoulder. "Doubt Dad dates. Probably a one time thing."

"And after he gave me the safe sex talk. Hypocrite." Sam said. Dean shot him a pointed look but didn't say anything. After all, Sam wasn't wrong. Dean'd received the John Winchester safe sex talk, too (an uncomfortable memory).

As if summoned, the rumble of the Impala's engine and the beams of her headlights signalled their father's arrival. The brothers exchanged a look, knowing that a mystery baby showing up on their doorstep would not go down well with John Winchester. Dean didn’t know why, but he positioned himself in front of the pram, standing between the baby and the door John would walk through. Sam copied him.

The door opened and John walked in, stepping over the salt line. He nodded his head towards his sons, locking the door and shrugging off his leather jacket. He turned around; neither Sam nor Dean had moved, or even said anything.

"What?" he asked gruffly.

"Um, so something kinda... turned up. For you." Dean started. John cocked an eyebrow.

"This ain't exactly our forwarding address. What is it and how'd it get here?" John asked, heading to the fridge for a beer.

"Well... it's..." Dean figured it was easier to just show him, so he stepped to the side and motioned for Sam to do the same.

John nearly dropped his beer. He immediately fixed his gaze on Dean.

"What did you do?" he asked. Dean sighed. Why'd everyone assume it was his?

"It's yours," Sam said bluntly, taking the letter from Dean's hand and holding it out for him. "Showed up on the doorstep with this."

This time John did drop his beer.

The bottle smashed on the floor, glass and alcohol flying everywhere. The sudden noise startled the baby awake, and they promptly burst out crying. John reached for the letter, Sam for a broom, which left Dean with the baby.

He gently lifted them out of the pram, careful of their head. The yellow blanket fell away slightly, revealing a light pink romper underneath. Presumably a girl then. A little sister. Dean rocked them gently, the way he remembers his mother doing with Sam, quietly shushing to calm her down.

In his arms, he was again struck by how small she was. He held her easily in just two hands, one under her head, the other on her back. She opened her eyes then, wide and blue like all babies, taking in the motel room around them before settling on Dean's face.

"Hello, you," he whispered, unable to keep the smile off his face. "I'm your big brother." His heart clenched in his chest as he held her.

"What's the letter say?" Sam asks, knelt on the floor to pick up the glass. John was staring intently at the letter in his hands.

"It's from her mother. Says she can't look after a baby. Too young."

"Jesus, Dad. How young?" Sam asks. Dean groans inwardly. Not the time for this, Sam.

"What the hell are you trying to ask?" John fired back. "She was early twenties. Drinking age, anyway. I don't know why the hell she'd think I'm any more capable of this than she would be. How the hell'd she even find us?" Sam and Dean both shrugged. How were they to know?

"What's her name?" Dean asked, still swaying gently back and forth.

"Amanda something. Don't really remember, to be honest. It was two nights. The sex was alright, nothing special. Didn't exchange numbers."

Sam and Dean cringed. They did not need details.

"I meant the baby, Dad." Dean replied. John at least had the decency to look a little embarrassed.

"Right, of course. Says here..." He scanned the letter. "Margaret." Dean screwed up his nose. That's an old lady name. His little sister was going to be cool, and that couldn't happen with a name like Margaret.

"That's a terrible name for a baby," Dean said aloud, looking down at her. "She doesn't look like a Margaret."

"Meg March was actually a Margaret," Sam said. John and Dean looked at him, perplexed. "Little Women? Louisa May Alcott?" More blank stares. Sam just rolled his eyes.

"Meg." Dean repeats, squinting his eyes at the baby. It fit. "Meg Winchester."

"It doesn't matter what she's called," John said. "We ain't keeping it." Dean's head snapped up.

"What?" Dean asked incredulously.

"How the hell are we going to look after a baby, Dean?" John asked. "We don't have a house, or any baby supplies. We're always on the move. We're hunters, not nannies. I spent two nights with a woman a year ago and then a baby appears. Kid's probably not even mine anyway. We'll take her to a fire station or something."

Dean couldn't believe what he was hearing. They'd managed before. Sammy had been but six months old when they started hunting, and Dean - though he tried - hadn't been able to help out as much as he could now. This baby was family. Family is everything to the Winchester's.

"Course she's yours, Dad, look at her! She's a spitting image of Sammy as a baby. Besides, Sam was a baby and we raised him on the road. You can't just abandon her." Dean cried out.

"Maybe Dad is right, Dean. She'd be better off with a family - "

"We're her family! The three of us."

"A real family, with a mom, a dad, a house. She'd be normal, Dean, safe. We can't give her any of that!" Sam replied. True, he was projecting his own dreams onto a baby, but he had a valid point, or so he thought. All Dean heard, however, was that Sam didn't believe they were a real family.

"We are a real family, Sam. Just because we don't have a white picket fence, don't mean we ain't a real family. Besides, you really want this kid growing up in the system? Anything could happen to her!"

"Anything could happen to her here, Dean! All it takes is - is a spirit, or a pissed off monster out for revenge, and she-"

"But we can protect her from that. You think some civilian family would keep her safe if a monster decided to get revenge, Sammy? You have know idea what happens in the foster system. She could be abused, or trafficked, or-"

"Enough!" John snapped loudly, startling the baby again. He couldn't hear himself think. And he did need to think, long and hard, about what was best for them, and for the baby. Sam made a good point, of course, and God knows John's not equipped to look after a baby. But Dean was right, too. Anything could happen to her out there. "Sam, get me a beer."

Sam sighed but did as he was told. John walked over to Dean, who was gently rocking the baby to settle her after John's outburst. He looked at the baby for the first time, really looked at her. Dean was right; she was a carbon copy of baby Sam. And she was cute, too. Dean, admittedly, had been a funny looking baby, especially as a newborn, a squished face and large head he eventually grew into. But this baby - Meg, he reminded himself - was sweet looking, almost doll-like, with her pouty pink lips and button nose.

He and Mary had never talked about more kids - Sam had only been a baby when she died - but he'd always imagined them having one or two more, and he'd always wanted a little girl. Mary had, too, he had no doubt.

But Mary wasn't here, and this wasn't her baby. Part of him felt guilty, as though he'd been unfaithful, despite the fact she'd been dead almost fifteen years. John thought of his own father then, Henry, who'd taken off when John was only four, leaving him and his mother on their own. Even all these years later, he still felt bitter about it - bitter and hurt. Of course it hurt, knowing your own father didn't want you and took off into the night. And that's what he was about to do to this little girl. Her mother had already bailed. John was all she had left.

John, and his boys. Sam had kept his distance, almost wary of the baby in Dean's arms, but Dean - he was whipped. That was the only word for it. He was smiling softly down at her, cooing gently to soothe her. Deep down, John knew Dean would end up doing more for this baby than he ever could. But maybe that was a good thing. Dean wouldn't make the mistakes John did. Wouldn't leave her alone like he did, leave her to raise herself.

The guilt twisted in his gut like a knife, but he knew what he had to do.

"We'll keep her. It'll be safest for her. We'll... we'll make it work somehow. We'll have to." John said, placing a large, calloused hand gently on his daughter's head. Dean looked up at him with Mary's green eyes, raw hope etched onto his face.

"Yeah?" He asked softly. John nodded once, clapping his eldest son gently on the shoulder. Sam handed him a beer, then stood on Dean's other side.

"Can I hold her?" Sam asked. Dean looked reluctant to let her go.

"Be careful. She's really small and can't hold her head up on her own yet, so make sure you support it. Don't drop her, for God's sake." Dean rambled on as he gently shifted the infant into Sam's open arms, already fretting like a mother hen. John smiled softly at his children - all three of them.

Sam smiled at the baby, rocking her gently the way Dean had. "Hi, Meg. I'm gonna be your favourite big brother." He said. Dean rolled his eyes.

"No way, Sammy. I'm already her favourite."

"That's crap, she doesn't speak, can't even smile. You don't know that."

"Sure she can, she smiled at me just now."

"Yeah, that was gas, Dean. She farted on you." Sam replied, and Dean's smile faltered.

"Speaking of," Dean said, changing the conversation abruptly. "We're gonna need supplies. Diapers, a car seat, formula."

John nodded, moving to the pram that Meg had turned up in. There was a bag in the basket underneath the bassinet. John leafed through it quickly. "There's some stuff here," he said, holding up a muslin cloth and some diapers. "Enough for tonight, at least. We'll find somewhere in town tomorrow that sells baby stuff. Maybe pick up a book, too."

"A baby book?" Sam asked. "Why'd you need that?"

"It's been a long time since I did any of this, Sammy. Besides, I didn't do it on my own before, I was working a lot. Your mom... your mom looked after you guys most. Did all the hard stuff." John admitted quietly. The room fell into reverent silence the way it always did when someone brought up Mary. Sam didn't point out that he'd still been a baby when she died, and John had raised him for most of life alone. It didn't seem like the time. But a book seemed overboard, in Sam's opinion. How hard could a baby be?

Only a minute or so later, Sam's question was answered. Meg began fussing in his arms, quietly at first, but getting louder despite Sam's gentle shushing and swaying. When her cries turned to wails, he looked up at his father and brother, panic in his eyes. "I think I broke her."

It was Dean that stepped forward, plucking the baby from his arms. "You didn't break her," he assured Sam. John stepped up too, looking down at the infant whose fist she was trying to squeeze into her mouth.

"See how she's sucking her hand?" John spoke quietly. "Mean's she's hungry. C'mon Sam, I'll show you how to make a bottle. If I can work it out, that is."

Sam and John stepped away to prepare the formula. Dean watched them as he swayed the baby. "It's okay, princess. Daddy and Sammy will get you some food."

Dean watched his father, usually so confident and self assured in everything he did, falter at almost every step. Checking the instructions on the formula, then checking again. Rinsing a bottle and filling it with hot water. Hands hesitant, unsure of what they were doing. Hands that could assemble a shot gun in under a minute, but seemed to tremble as he shook the bottle. Testing the temperature on his palm, his wrist, then his wrist again. He had no idea how warm it should be.

Although it was strange to see John so unsteady, Dean found it strangely... comforting. Humanising, perhaps. He pictured briefly John doing the same thing for him as a baby, the unsure hands of a first time father. Pictured his mom along side, walking him through each step.

John handed the formula to Dean. "You gonna do it?" he asked. Dean nodded. He didn't want to relinquish the baby, even though John hadn't even held her yet. Although, he'd made no move to hold her either. John talked him through it, how to hold the bottle, at what angle, as best he could remember.

Dean paced slowly around the small living space of their motel room with his sister in his arms. Sam had pulled out some homework, John writing something in his journal, beer in hand. But for Dean, it was just him and his sister in the world. Hell, his sister was his world now.

Dean Winchester was strong.

But he could feel his heart thawing out for the baby in his arms. He knew he needed to be strong for her, yet he'd never felt so weak. The fear of what could happen to her, the need to keep her safe, was almost overwhelming. Was this parenthood?

The love, too, he supposed was overwhelming. The kind that made his heart clench, made him want to fix the world for her and burn it down at the same time. The kind he'd kill and die for.

And somehow, despite everything he'd seen and done in only eighteen years, this was the scariest thing he'd encountered to date. He kept it together for her. He was strong. He had to be.

He's Dean Winchester.

[omgfangirlland]

Just finished rereading the Invincible comics

1. HOLY SHIT I FORGOT WHAT A ROLLERCOASTER OF DUMASSERY AND STRESS IT WAS

2. Half of that ain't gonna happen. I'm of the strong belief that a x reader that somehow follows a timeline should have an impact and change said timeline, and considering this is a yandere timeline, most of the stuff will change quickly.

Also-

1. How do y'all feel about hoe/hoephase!reader? of age ofc, because I feel like reader saying "I fucked slade willingly, he was a nice guy, more attentive than any of you were all my life" will give the bat fam the additional mental anguish they deserve. Also, image looking Nolan or Mark in the eyes and saying, "I let Thragg/Immortal/Conquest ruin me on your bed." If he annoys the batsis, they'll be in the same boat with the batfam mentally.

2. How do y'all feel about the Canon couples? Monster girl and Robot, Immortal and Duplikate(man was she kinda of a bitch in the comics, she was right most of the time tho, he was more chill in the comics but ngl i kinda like him feral), I kinda already have a plan for Bruce&Selina and Nolan&Debbie -

3. Without spoiling the whole comic issue, there is a universe where the guardians survive due to Nolan becoming a softie quickly, he will for reader, duh, is that what y'all want to happen or do you want the guardians dead like in the canon timeline?

4. Constantine will be in the middle of everything, I like traumatizing him with other people's bs, and you'll have to pry that from my cold, dead hands. He, however, will find some peaceful moments. Maybe. Still debating.

[xjulixred45x]

Hello :3 can I request a story or one shot about an evil invincible(prefer sinister makr) try to kidnap reader from the mainstream dimension, bc the reader of their dimensions dead :3 (platonic yandere ofc)

Sorry if this long, I just have this scenario in my head for days and I need someone to write it 😭🙏🙏

Take your time, and your work is amazing 💟💟💟

Hun, the Requests are Closed, but honestly? I can do this just bc My obsesión with Invincible isn't over yet(and will LAST) and honestly i NEED to write something (just the nex time wait until the Requests are Open again thank You very much)

This would be more a Drabble, aaaand i decide to use Mohawk Mark(1- i already have a work of Yandere Sinister Mark with a Sibiling and GOD i wanted to use this idea for so long 😭)

Platonic Yandere Mohawk Mark Grayson/Invincible x Sibiling Reader: You..

Mark had to take a second look as he passed by them.

Being surrounded by chaos, hurt people, buildings burning and falling down, he could only focus on them.

that was reader.

Mark knew that they were not His reader, not only because of the clear physical differences (his reader would have to be bigger, less soft and not even that small) but because he knew that in his universe there was no longer a reader who would wait for him back.

He had taken care of that himself.

It was when he began to question everything, when he accepted that he was part of the Viltrumite empire, that he realized that he could not bring his Sibiling with him. They were too weak for the empire, Nolan said.

Mark didn't want to see how they conquered the only being that made him feel genuinely happy, genuinely understood, he didn't want reader to live to be afraid of him, to hate him.

so he took the only measure that he thought would be the most merciful.

It was easy to put sedatives in Reader's food, they trusted him so easily, even after everything that was happening at that moment, what he had already done, Reader felt safe with him. Mark loved them so much.

which made what he had to do next even more painful.

reader fell asleep in a matter of minutes, leaning on him while they watched something, he doesn't remember what. Mark moved to rest their head where they were, mentally preparing himself for what he was going to do.

And he did.

a quick turn of their head and reader was gone.

quickly, while they slept, without pain. without knowing it was him. it was perfect.

Except it wasn't.

When they were making preparations for a funeral for his sibiling (they were one of the children of the new Viltrumite emperor after all), a quick analysis determined that Reader, like Mark, was just a late bloomer.

reader was about to awaken their powers. of being a complete viltrumite. they were not human, they could have been saved from seeing the horrors of the planet.

and Mark killed them.

and the feeling that remained in him was the only thing he felt since then. pure, agonizing and desperate Guilt.

Mark couldn't bring himself to try to replace the void Reader left like he had done with Eve, he just couldn't even think about it. It felt like tarnishing their memory, taking away the weight of what he had done.

It was as if the image of his sibiling now resonated both to give him comfort and to reproach him for all the horrible acts he committed.

So seeing that face that tormented him again, that face that in a way kept him alive, was creepy, but he needed more.

Mark caught up with them very quickly, as he got closer, he saw the similarities that this reader had with his own. someone young, inexperienced, fearful, weak...

But he was not prepared for what happened when he approached them. God, after so many years without them, with the guilt of what he did to them, Mark just wanted to hug them and ask for their forgiveness, he had the opportunity.

But the closer he got to the reader, the more they retreated, and then he realized that, indeed, one of his greatest insecurities had been fulfilled, even in another universe.

reader was afraid of him.

But I could tell I didn't hate him. His gestures, his blood pressure, the way he spoke to him so as not to have to fight, everything indicated a certain familiarity despite the tension in the atmosphere. This reader was like a blank slate from its original version.

a second chance. He could do things right with this reader, protect him properly, give him the opportunity he deserved within the empire, have his sibiling back...

but it would be very difficult to do that with this good-natured Mark on his heels every time he was around reader. Mark saw RED every time reader showed the closeness he had with said alternative version of him (which to make matters worse, it seemed like they were from the same universe).

Well, if this Mark is so good and heroic, he wouldn't mind handing over his sibiling willingly, right?

Even if not, Mohawk doesn't mind going over him to get to the reader, even if he scares then, even if they hates him, he won't lose sight of them anymore, he won't lose them again.

They're going home together, whether they like it or not.

Shares, reblogs and comments are very welcome!

[meganx]

Just One Weekend // Lando Norris x OFC

Summary: Alice has been a Formula One fan all her life. When the opportunity came up to enter a competition that could mean attending an actual race, she pounced on it. When the news finally came that she had won, she was cautiously optimistic about what the experience would hold. Lando, on the other hand, would rather eat fish than spend an entire weekend entertaining a stranger.

Part Three

Series Masterlist

Alice checked the time on her phone for the fifth time since she arrived. Only 7:56 a.m. She sighed and tucked it back into the pocket of her jeans.

She stood just inside the paddock gates, waiting for a member of the PR team to meet her. Crew members from different teams zipped past her carrying crates, cables, tires, and so many things she couldn’t identify.

The buildings and the pathways between them were absolutely buzzing with energy, and she could hear the sound of engines buzzing to life somewhere deep in the maze before her. There was so much to take in and she had no idea where to start.

Her fingers gripped the lanyard Oscar had given her the night before. The ‘all access pass’ lay against her chest and shifted every time she forced herself to take another deep breath. She caught movement in her peripheral and her grip on the pass tightened slightly, tethering her to reality.

Over and over she reminded herself that this was real. That she was really here.

She had been mentally preparing herself to shadow Lando for the weekend. A man who had barely looked at her during the team dinner and radiated the energy of someone who would rather be literally anywhere else.

‘It’s fine.’ She thought, ‘You’ve been through worse. Like high school. And losing your suitcase. And that one time Rory convinced you to cut bangs.’

She spotted Eloise - a member of the PR team she had met at the dinner and clicked with immediately. Eloise waved her over with an excited smile.

“You made it,” she said and reached towards Alice for a hug. Alice didn’t usually like hugs but she allowed it. Eloise continued, “You look alert. Barely.”

“The hotel coffee is not as strong as it needs to be.”

Eloise nodded in agreement. “Okay let’s get you settled for the day. You’ll be trailing Lando for most of the day. Morning debrief, track walk, a media thing around midday.”

Alice nodded along, radiating nervousness. Eloise just chuckled and said, “Don’t worry. Nobody expects you to know what you’re doing or where you’re going. Just follow Lando like a loyal duckling.”

“Is quacking optional?”

“Optional. But strongly encouraged,” Eloise chuckled.

They weaved through the crowds, and Alice focused on her shoes, doing her best not to trip. Massive motorhomes lined both sides of the walkway, all sleek and futuristic-looking. Photographers milled around the edges, catching shots of the drivers, staff, and guests.

Alice kept her head down and did her best not to look at anyone for too long. Even doing her best to be invincible, she could feel the stares. The silent recognition that an outsider was in the paddock. Someone who didn't belong.

Eloise stopped just in front of the McLaren hospitality unit and pointed towards the stairs. "He's inside. Try not to let his brooding throw you off. He's like that all the time lately."

Alice paused for just a moment while Eloise walked away. There was something about everyone's reaction to Lando's mood that rubbed her the wrong way. Everyone was too happy to admit that he wasn't acting like his usual self, but it didn't seem like anyone was particularly invested in finding out why.

She climbed the steps slowly. Part of her was still hyper-focused on not falling, especially when so many cameras lingered around. The hospitality suite was loud and buzzing with energy. Everyone was excited to be at the historic track.

Lando stood to the side, away from the crowd, leaning against a wall. He was already dressed in his race suit, with the top unzipped and tied around his waist. His head was slightly tilted down as he studied something on the tablet in his hand.

As if he could sense his presence, he looked up before she reached him and watched as she took the final few steps. Their eyes met. Lando was wearing the same unreadable expression from last night. A look that said he was bored and somehow intrigued at the same time.

"Morning," Alice muttered. She tried her best to sound casual, but social interactions had never been her strong suit.

"You're early," he replied in a matter-of-fact tone. "Didn't expect that."

"I'm not usually late. Plus, I was afraid I'd get lost in a sea of tires and content creators that have no idea what's going on."

There was silence for a moment. Then a small, barely-there smirk. "That's fair."

She moved to stand next to him, catching a glimpse of something on the tablet before he quickly locked it. "So, what's first?"

"Right now, we're heading to one of the meeting rooms for a debrief." He started walking, and she quickly jumped into step behind him. "Then the track walk." He stopped walking for a second and looked straight at her. "Don't wander."

"Understood. Good thing my wandering shoes are in the suitcase that never arrived."

She could've sworn she saw a flicker of amusement in his eyes, but it was gone in an instant, and he was walking again.

Her nerves fluttered. This was her first real step into the world that she had dreamed about for years. And she was there, whether or not Lando wanted her to be.

__________

Lando always found the briefing room to be too cold and the bright white lights too sterile. The air-conditioning hummed in the background, and he could hear the clicks and taps of engineers pulling up different data, telemetry, and potential strategies like second nature.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and mind focused on the screen in front of him. Sort of.

Alice sat on a chair in the corner of the room in her McLaren gear. She was sitting between two members of the PR team whom he didn't know very well. He expected her to be taking photos or recording, but instead, she sat just watching. His eyes dropped to look at her shirt again.

He tore his gaze away and returned his attention to the screen. Or at least he tried to. She didn't look the way he expected a fangirl to, and for some reason, that really threw him off. She was watching the entire meeting like she truly wanted to understand. Like she was decoding every piece of information that was given. When the head of strategy brought up an issue with tire degradation, her brows furrowed in the way people do when they're really focused. Focused like he was supposed to be.

He made a few quick notes of things to look out for while he was driving. Sectors where his throttle response looked tighter and others where he needed to pay more attention. Be better.

His eyes drifted again to the shirt Alice was wearing. It frustrated him to no end that he kept thinking about that shirt. But it was obviously too big for her. And it had a big '81' printed on it.

Of course, Oscar had stepped in when he heard about the lost luggage. Of course, he had charmed himself into being her hero.

He clenched his pen just a little tighter.

Alice hadn't spoken. Not even once during the entire debrief. But when someone mentioned the possibility of rain during FP2 later that day and again during qualifying the next day, her expression changed. She tilted her head, clearly interested in whatever was being said. He could practically see the gears in her head turning.

He reminded himself that he shouldn't care what she was thinking. But he really wanted to know. For a moment, he thought she was going to speak up, but she squeezed her lips tightly together and leaned back into her seat.

Oscar immediately walked to her when the meeting ended. "You did well. Even looked like you understood some of what was going on."

Lando's jaw clenched. Why was Oscar watching her instead of focusing on the meeting?

He called across to her before she could reply. "Let's go. Time for track walk."

She shot Oscar an apologetic smile and rushed to Lando's side. His chest puffed up ever so slightly.

__________

Alice followed quietly behind Lando as he led her onto the track. A few engineers and other members of the team were already waiting for them when they arrived. Lando walked straight passed them, already analysing the track.

The air around them was already warm. At least, warmer than expected, given it was meant to rain in a few hours. The scent of rubber, oil, and something sharper, maybe adrenaline, hung in the air.

She kept a few paces behind Lando. Like a shadow. Her hands were in her pockets, and she did her best to look confident, like she belonged. Could all these people tell she was overthinking every step?

Lando was quiet. Which was normal, she supposed. It didn't surprise her at all.

What did surprise her was that he hadn't once asked her to leave or give him space. He hadn't even said anything remotely offensive. He just looked back at her every now and then as if to make sure she was still following.

He stopped occasionally to point out certain things to the engineers still around them. She wasn't sure if she was supposed to be listening, but she did. Intently.

One turn had a slight incline she wouldn't have noticed while watching at home on television. Another turn had less grip. Another turn caused Lando to grimace. A turn where he had nearly lost control in the wet a few years ago. She remembered watching that race.

He looked over his shoulder at her. "Are you keeping up?"

"Not exactly. I think my legs might file a formal complaint."

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, but it was gone quickly. For a second, she wondered if he ever truly smiled anymore.

They came to a stop at the last corner. The crew moved ahead, but Lando lingered, waiting for Alice to step next to him. She crouched down, running her hand over the surface of the track.

"This is incredible," she whispered.

"It is."

"Do you ever get used to it?"

Lando shook his head slightly. "You adapt. But it never feels normal. That's why I love it the way I do."

Alice stood next to him, dusting her hands off. "I think I'd be terrified."

"You should be." He glanced at her before turning back to the track, studying. "If you're not, you're not paying enough attention."

He started walking again. This time Alice stayed by his side. They walked together in silence for a while, their footsteps against the tarmac creating a rhythm of sorts.

"Why did you agree to this?" she asked softly.

"To what?"

She paused her walking, and he stopped to look back at her. "To me, being here." She considered her words before adding, "You don't seem like the type who would volunteer for a PR stunt."

"I didn't volunteer."

She waited, thinking he'd say more, but he just walked ahead slightly. She huffed a breath, but then he came to a halt again.

"I didn't say yes. Not at first. But I've been avoiding as much PR as I can. Then the team made the call, and honestly, I didn't have the energy to argue."

She raised her eyebrows slightly. "So I'm a punishment?" she asked, voice harsher than intended.

"I didn't say that."

"But you did think it."

There was another full pause before Lando spoke again. "I thought you'd be a distraction. Another challenge I'd have to manage."

"Am I?"

He looked at her then, really looked at her. "No. You haven't asked for anything, for any favours. You barely speak. Just watch and listen. Most people talk too much when they're nervous."

"I am nervous."

"I know."

She didn't reply. But she felt as a shiver licked its way up her spine under the weight of his gaze.

They walked down the final straight, the finish line shimmering just ahead of them. A few crew members were still lingering around. Waiting with water bottles in hand and speaking over the radios.

"Are you watching from the garage tomorrow?" he asked.

Alice nodded. "Yeah. Although Imogene said I could watch from Oscar's as well."

There was a slight tick in his jaw, and Alice felt an overwhelming need to clarify. "I would love to watch from your side, though. If that's okay with you?"

He huffed out a breath. "It's okay."

She felt a sense of relief when they walked back into the garage. Like maybe he didn't hate her as much as she thought.

She walked over to the back of the garage, where she felt the most out of the way. Lando was digging around in some kind of locker, searching for something.

The next thing she knew, he shoved a McLaren polo into her hands. It was very similar to the one she currently wore, except that it was her size. And, right there on the front, was the number '4'.

"Change."

__________

[vinnyvamppp]

Hi!! Could I please get a smut fic of a plus size reader x Mark (invincible) however you want to do it!

Head Game

Note: THE TITLE IS SO CORNY LMFAOOO but ofc! did I wake up at 6 am to eagerly type this up before class, yes, yes I did. Enjoy! Synopsis: He's been distant lately but he's willing to do anything to make it up to you... he couldn’t resist you, even if he tried.

Warnings: Dom/Sub Dynamics, Oral (Male receiving), Pussy Eating, Switch!Mark Grayson (I will die on this hill), Switch!Reader, Clitoral Stimulation, 69, Bodily Praise, Based on Comics (he loved chubby Atom Eve), Plot changes for convenience, Munch activities, Porn w a Plot, etc.

Mark Grayson x Plus Sized Reader (he just like me fr) Word Count: 1,413

He was a beautiful disaster, a man undone by the weight of the world yet somehow still standing. Every fight, every failed relationship, and every argument built upon his shoulders as a burden. His personal issues ruined your moments alone, collapsing beside you on the rooftop where you once watched the sunrise in peaceful silence. You should’ve felt guilty, your fingers carving the sorrow on his face as he melted within your grasp. In the quaint, sun-kissed streets of Mark’s neighborhood, you were left unoccupied in his room. He had made an excuse of needing to leave; a pang of disappointment lingered at the supposed “study session” you two were having.

Just where did he leave to? This was becoming a concern of yours hearing as his friend, William, absentmindedly reeled on about his past relationships failing due to his absences. Surely, he was trying to help, but the banter did little to ease your worries than it did to cause laughter.

Unbeknownst to you, he soared through the sky like a bat out of hell; he was eager to return to you, to rest against the soft warmth of your body. He couldn’t care less about body rolls, he enjoyed the contrast between his hardened muscles and the plushness of your figure. Nights like those could be better than sex; his mind would claim innocence as he buried his growing erection into the blankets. His body revealed everything his mouth could barely mutter. Even now, your image, scent, and taste filled his mind. A sweet kiss could melt his problems, yes.

That was until he stumbled through his window to see you adorned in one of his spandex costumes.

Standing in front of the mirror, your fingers prodded at the material. It was snug, snapping to adjust to your body like a glove. Something about it was elegant and supple as it carved out the soft rolls of your skin, shaping you like the Greek Goddess Aphrodite. If you had known this sooner, maybe you would’ve sought a lab to grant you powers. Who were those geniuses he was constantly fighting? The Mauler Twins, right? Hearing an abrupt crash, your head turned to meet the winded frame of your boyfriend.

“Mark… does this suit make my butt look bigger?” You asked, as you continued to observe him. His surprise turned into a grin as he slowly approached you, his fingers pulling the mask from his face as messy tussles of hair fell into view. “No, no, it just makes it look… even better.” He replied, his eyes absorbing the sight in front of him. You smiled gingerly, rolling your eyes at his enthusiasm. “Really? Are you sure you’re not saying that to make me feel better—?” The minute the words left your lips, he was already behind you with his fingers tapping against your hips. “I mean it! Seriously, I’m not in any rush for you to lose weight. You look great.” He admitted, clearly he loved his women with curvature.

Planting a gentle kiss on your cheek, he gently spun you around as your lips met, a grin etching across his face. The kiss was soft and subtle, yet filled with tender affection. Your lips, warm and inviting, brushed against his, sending shivers down his spine. The gentle pressure caused the sweetest sigh to bubble from his throat. Like the horny, high-libido man you knew, a firm bulge caressed your thigh. The contact itself made him groan. Pulling you towards the bed, you two chuckled as you clumsily landed. “I’ve thought about this all day… You have no idea.” He murmured, watching as you began to undress. “Well, Mark Grayson, you’ll have to make it up to me for being late.” You replied, both of your hands working to get him out of that tight contraption of a suit.

Once his costume was pried off, he didn't waste any time removing yours. The sight of you nearly making him short circuit. “I wanna try something.” He interjected, flopping himself against the bed; he guided you to turn and straddle him. “Could… could you sit on my face?” He asked gingerly. “What…?” You asked, turning to face him, more surprised than anything. “I mean, not if you don’t want to, but I would really like it if you could. You’re so so sososo sexy to me—and this is my, uhm, attempt at making it up to you?” He rambled as you laughed, “Well, what are you waiting for?” You said rhetorically to feel a pair of strong hands yank you backwards. He usually handled you with such grace, not this time, not when your pussy was practically calling out to him.

The fat of your ass and thighs smothered him; he groaned with gratification, the sound vibrating against your sensitive flesh as he leaned in. Breathing? He didnt need to. Your weight? He couldn’t care less. His first lick is slow and deliberate, starting at your entrance and trailing down to your clit. You gasp at the sensation, your hips bucking up to meet his mouth. He takes his time, exploring every inch of your pussy with his tongue. He circles your clit, flicking it with the tip before sucking it between his lips. His hands slide up to grip your ass, pulling you tighter against his face as he feasts on you. You moaned loudly, your hands fisting in the sheets as he worked you over with his talented tongue.

Just as you could feel yourself growing closer, his sounds grew nearly deafening. He sounded starved, greedy even, as your juices coated his lips. The wet smacks of him absolutely ravaging you between his own moans were plentiful. Truly, your pleasure was also his, especially when you’ve confidently declared you could handle his strength; he would bully you with his tongue. Staring just below you, you notice beads of precum weeping from his tip. Without warning, your thumb swipes over the head, earning a strangled hiss from behind. Pressing a gentle kiss around his tip, you engulfed him inside of your mouth without caution. His cock already tapping against your uvula as it twitched.

The amount of pre-cum was overwhelming, the lubrication allowing your mouth to glide with ease. Just as you added the perfect amount of teeth into the mix to caress the sensitive veins of his dick, his hips attempted to pull away as a measly whine echoed. Your hands held him in place. “Ss– shit…! Wait, wait,” he pleaded, not because he didn’t feel good but because he was worried he’d cum too quickly. “What the fffuuuuck? When did you get so good at this?” An absentminded rasp left him as he grunted. Your head continued to bob; when you tried to respond, the vibration made him jolt. “D-Dont do that!” He said, making you chuckle. That wasn’t nice.

This time, he doesn't hold back. His tongue delves deep inside you, lapping up your juices as he tongue-fucks you hard and fast. Your combined moans fill the room, growing louder and more desperate with each passing second. It felt like a competition of sorts, one you both would lose. His toes curled slightly as he grew taut. The grip on you tightens as his body threatens to manhandle you, only stopping as the welcoming canal of your throat glides against him.

Bringing two fingers to your cunt, his fingers rapidly rub over the bundle of nerves, his tongue unrelenting as your mouth is filled to the hilt. “Oooh… shit, mmph–.” It was sudden, your hips lifting as your orgasm approached. “Nononono, c-come back, princess.” He nearly sounded cocky as he chased after you. His hips bucked into your mouth as your hands massaged his balls, and holy shit, he was getting dizzy. That's when, in a moment of retaliation, his teeth gently scrape against your clit, causing an unfamiliar spark to snap within your core. You both cried in unison, you going limp as he recovered like it was nothing, his appearance frazzled. "Did I do good?" he asks, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

You grin up at him, your eyes sparkling with satisfaction. "You did more than good," you purr. "Now get up here and fuck me already." He chuckles, his hardness pressing against your thigh as he positions himself at your entrance. "You’re gonna be the death of me."

Guys, should I do some more fics where the reader isn't human? y'know Grayson men looove their alien gfs.

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[violetswritingg]

Main Masterlist

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Imagines

Coming soon!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Series

Twisters

Thunderstruck

Tyler Owens x OFC!

Description: When cowgirl meets cowboy after a year of no-contact and chaos ensues during storm season!

Rating: M (Mentions of blood and death in Tornadoes and storms alike, angst and loss of loved ones, car accidents, Tornado aftermath, and injury to characters, slight age gap (5 years))

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 17 (Coming soon)

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Young Justice

Canary Cry

Robin/Nightwing (Dick Grayson) x OFC!

Description: Her violence was silent. Until it wasn't.

"I'm fine."

"Fine is just another word for drowning."

Rating T-M (mentions of blood, child abuse, mental health, cannon situations of violence and the like. Loss of parents, hard of hearing/deaf character, poorly written fight scenes lol)

Act-One

0: Creation

1: He Left

2: Birthday's and Nightmares

3: Drop-Zone A

4: Drop-Zone B

5: Disappointment

6: School'd

7: Trash Go Boom

8: Home

9: Infiltrator

10: Outfiltrated

11: Truces and Text messages

12: Denial

13: Downtime

Act two

14: Bereft

15: Mortal Wounds

16: Home Invasion

17: Alpha Male pt.1

18: Alpha Male pt.2

19: Plant Subterfuge

20: Revelation

21: To be determined

22: To be determined

23: To be determined

24: To be determined

25: To be determined

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Titans

Only in Darkness

Jason Todd x OFC!

Description:

"Only in Darkness can you see the stars."

Or

Marlowe Knight stumbling upon a girl prophesied to end the world and going on the adventure of a life time.

Rating: M (Blood, cannon typical violence, sibling rivalry, scars, torture, trauma, angsttttt)

0.5

1: A New Chapter

2: Crime Scenes and Cafés

3: Dodged Calls

4: Cop Killer

5: To The Rescue

6: Blueberry Pancakes and Rooftop Memories

7: Phone Calls

8: Panic and Motel Conversations

9: Old Friends

10: Second Chances

11: Leaving

12: Nuclear Family Drama

13: On Edge

14: Different Places

15: On The Move

16: Training Season

17: Seriously? These Guys Again?

18: Chicago, She-cago

19: The Three Musketeers

20: Jason Todd

21: TBD

22: TBD

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Peacemaker

Stargazer

Adrian Chase x OFC!

Description:

Back in 1939 the Court of Owls set out to create the first Talon, they called this initiative the Ghost protocol. Their product? everything they ever wanted in a solider for their nefarious schemes to keep their power over Gotham City.

Roberta Harris, Bobbie if you don't want to get shot somewhere important, never wanted this life. A 'criminal' to the world and a legend in the world of spy shit and black ops project's. The bomb in her head keeps her compliant with Waller's demands until Project Starfish wins her her freedom. What will she do now?

Or

A world in which an elderly lady moves to a small town in Washington state to get away from the superhero bullshit only to get pulled back in against her will. Growing along the way as a result.

Rating: M (For obvious reasons, it's Peacemaker)

1: Freedom

2: TBD

3: TBD

4: TBD

5: TBD

6: TBD

7: TBD

8: TBD

9: TBD

10: TBD

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Invincible

Valkyrie

Mark Grayson x OFC!

Description: In which two superpowered teens meet and fall in love amongst blood, death, and betrayal

Rating: M (Canon typical violence, betrayal, mental health issues, abandonment issues, child neglect, angsttttt)

Too Good To Be True

Carnage

Aftermath

Attacked From All Sides

Outer space

Nightmare

Burial Plot

Compromise

Shit Show

Shit Show pt.2

TBD

TBD

TBD

TBD

TBD

---------------------------------------------------------------

More coming soon!

[agirlsawalittlerose]

This is Me Trying

ModernAU!Aegon x OFC

Fresh out of rehab, Aegon Targaryen is looking for a way back into music when he meets Victoria, a talented but stubborn singer-songwriter who wants nothing to do with his family’s record label. Reluctantly thrown together, they form an unexpected creative partnership, finding common ground in music and shared struggles.

TW: Alcoholism, Addiction, Sexism

MASTERLIST

CHAPTER 18: Aurora

There was a quiet excitement in the way Aemond’s leg was bouncing, a movement he only realized was counterproductive when he abruptly stopped, adjusting his posture to project composure and control.

Every muscle in his back, shoulders, neck, and jaw was tight with that restrained excitement.

He hadn’t exactly meant to meddle in his brother’s business, but that morning—after a freezing shower and three black coffees—he had walked into Allen’s office with the attitude of someone who knew that, in the end, Aegon owed him.

A little pressure, a slight push to make sure things went the way they should, to allow him to do his job properly. It wasn’t like he had bad intentions—he simply wanted someone to finally handle things with real attention and care, instead of their father’s usual blend of competition and narcissism.

Aegon owed him.

Because Aemond would never forget that night.

That idiot Leon, who, thankfully, had called him—panicked, desperate to keep their parents from finding out what had happened.

Like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

At first, Aemond had thought it was some routine disaster, one of the usual messes Aegon had a habit of creating. Maybe a bar fight, maybe a club bouncer refusing to let him back in, maybe some girl crying because she’d realized too late that he wasn’t a fairy tale prince but just another tragic fuck-up with a pretty face.

Then Leon’s voice had cracked on the phone, telling him he had to come. Now.

And Aemond had known.

He hadn’t even changed out of his dress shirt—just grabbed his keys and coat and left.

It had been raining in Soho, the kind of cold, dirty rain that smeared the city in streaks of light and filth. The streets had been loud, even past midnight, with music bleeding from doorways, the distant wail of sirens, the drunken shouts of people who still had the luxury of feeling invincible.

Leon had texted him an address, but by the time Aemond reached it, the bastard was gone.

Of course, he was.

And instead, outside some ridiculous sex shop, there had been a crying, wailing mess of bare legs and, at most, three functioning brain cells, screeching that she had finally remembered the emergency number—like she had needed to justify herself to him.

She had been sitting on the pavement.

And next to her—

Aegon.

Unconscious. Eyes half-open. Foam at his mouth in a sickening quantity.

His body wracked with convulsions, his face scraping against the cold, rough asphalt.

For a few terrible seconds, Aemond had been frozen, his mind struggling to process what his body was already reacting to.

Then everything had snapped into place.

He had shoved the girl aside without a word—she had let out a choked sob, but he hadn’t cared.

Aegon had been seizing. His hands twitching, his head jerking in short, violent spasms, his lips turning a shade of blue that had made something cold and primal grip Aemond’s stomach.

He had forced himself to focus.

Checked his breathing—shallow, erratic. His pulse—too fast, then skipping, then too slow.

He had turned him onto his side, clearing his airway, wiping the foam from his mouth with his sleeve, tilting his head just enough to keep him from choking. Aegon’s body had felt wrong—clammy and rigid all at once, his skin damp with sweat despite the freezing rain.

He had asked the girl what Aegon had taken.

She had stammered through her tears, saying she didn’t know. They had been drinking, and then he had wanted something to keep going. She had guessed coke—maybe pills—maybe something Leon had given him—she hadn’t been sure.

Aemond had clenched his teeth so hard his jaw had ached.

He had grabbed his phone, but before he could dial, distant blue lights had flickered against the rain-slick pavement.

Someone must have already called the ambulance.

Aegon had still been trembling, his fingers twitching like his body couldn’t decide whether to keep fighting or to give up entirely.

Aemond had gripped his brother’s hand, pressing his knuckles into Aegon’s palm, hard.

He had refused to let him slip away.

The girl had kept crying. Aemond had ignored her.

He had barely noticed the flashing lights growing closer, the screech of tires, the paramedics shouting as they rushed toward them. He had been distantly aware of being pulled back, of his hands being pried away from Aegon’s body as they had taken over.

There had been shouting—someone asking for his name, asking if he had known what drugs had been taken. Aemond had answered in a voice that hadn’t sounded like his own.

Then—

Aegon’s body had lurched.

A choked, gasping noise had forced its way out of his throat.

He had still been convulsing, but then—his chest had stuttered, his breath had stopped—

The paramedics had moved fast. Naloxone. Oxygen mask. Orders barked over the radio.

Aemond had watched, his stomach twisting into something unrecognizable.

Then—

A ragged inhale.

A cough.

Aegon’s body had jerked, then slumped.

Still breathing. Barely.

Aemond’s own breath had shuddered in his chest.

They had loaded him onto the stretcher, and Aemond had been moving before he had realized it, climbing into the ambulance without waiting for permission.

Someone had protested, but Aemond had silenced them with a look.

His hands had been trembling. He had clenched them into fists.

Aegon’s face had been slack, his lashes dark against his pale skin. The oxygen mask had covered most of his features, but even then, he had looked—

Young.

Stupid.

Breakable.

Aemond had looked away.

The sirens had screamed as they had pulled onto the road.

And he had let himself feel nothing.

That night, he convinced himself—once and for all—that this was how things had to be: if anything was going to run smoothly, he had to be the one to handle it. To make sure everything stayed under control. To contain his brother’s stupid, impulsive decisions.

His mother had refused to be comforted.

His father hadn’t so much as acknowledged his quick thinking.

And so, once again, the certainty that the world only kept turning because he was pushing it had to be shoved into a corner of his mind.

The same corner where he had buried his ambition.

“That’s a lot of money,” Allen warned, taking a drag from his vape and exhaling a cloud of minty vapor that dissipated just as quickly as Aemond’s stray thoughts.

“Well, you said it yourself—it’s a solid investment,” Aemond countered confidently, taking another sip of what was now his fourth coffee of the day, courtesy of Allen’s overly accommodating secretary. He never took his eyes off his current opponent.

Allen studied him for a moment, raising an eyebrow before scrawling his signature across the stack of documents in front of Aemond—without so much as pulling them closer, without even bothering to read them.

Aemond smirked, satisfied.

“I’ll send over the countersigned copy soon,” he said, self-assured.

“If I know that crazy old man of yours, it’ll take at least a month. But I trust your word,” Allen replied, holding his gaze.

A shiver of satisfaction ran down Aemond’s spine like a fresh surge of adrenaline.

“You should,” he answered, cold as ice.

Still riding that same quiet excitement, even locking himself in the mix room with Aegon that morning felt easy.

He didn’t care about the fresh hickey at the base of Aegon’s neck—though it was irritatingly obvious. He didn’t care that Aegon had insisted on redoing the take for Track 4’s verse six times because he thought his voice sounded shot (poor fool—it was shot). He didn’t care that they had wasted half an hour eating sausage rolls and talking about some band Aegon and Vic had seen in a shitty garage in Hackney.

What mattered was the thrill of finally being recognized. Finally being seen as a real player on the board.

“…The guy just started playing the theremin—completely out of nowhere. I swear, he might’ve even built it himself,” Aegon was saying, gesturing wildly as he brushed stray pastry flakes off his shirt.

Cole let out a short laugh, shaking his head.

Aemond, still sprawled on the couch, let himself smirk. What an idiot.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard a theremin live,” Cole mused.

“Yeah, well, you haven’t lived, mate,” Aegon declared. “This guy was a genius. He wasn’t even playing it, he was just, like—” He waved his hands vaguely. “Making magic.”

Cole snorted. “You were high, weren’t you?”

Aegon scoffed, mock-offended. “Rude.”

Aemond rolled his eyes. “You can’t blame him for asking”

Aegon pointed a finger at him. “For the record, I was perfectly sober.” Then he paused. “Well. Vic and I did split a whiskey coke, but that barely counts.”

Aemond hummed noncommittally, watching as Aegon finally leaned forward, glancing at the screen in front of them.

“…So I figured if we bring up Vic’s harmonies a bit, they’ll stand out more, and when the melody kicks in, it’ll feel stronger,” Aegon said.

That caught Aemond’s attention.

Cole looked intrigued. “Mmm. Yeah. Could work.”

Aemond, strangely enough, thought so too.

He hadn’t really considered the way Vic’s harmonies blended with the rest of the track—hadn’t even noticed them much before. But now that Aegon mentioned it, the way she layered over his voice did something to the song.

Aemond frowned, a thought pushing at the edges of his mind.

Harmony isn’t just about notes sitting right together—it’s about tension. It’s about what happens between them.

A memory flickered—Vic, half-distracted, absently tapping a rhythm against her thigh while talking about some obscure jazz singer, explaining why two clashing notes could be more powerful than a perfect blend.

Tension.

Contrast.

Balance.

Aemond’s fingers twitched.

“Makes sense. Wanna try it?” Cole asked, turning to him.

Aemond smirked and pushed himself up, heading toward the booth.

He didn’t react to the obnoxious pat on the shoulder Aegon gave him on his way out, nor to the graceless way Aegon collapsed onto the couch right after.

Even when he sat at the piano, searching for the right notes in Vic’s harmony, his leg wouldn’t stop bouncing.

That quiet excitement was still there, humming in his bones.

Because nothing—not even Aegon’s damn album—would happen without his push.

*****

Vic had just finished mopping the pub’s entrance when the door swung open, and in walked Aegon—soaked from the rain, a box of donuts in hand, and muddy footprints immediately undoing all her hard work.

Rhys ran a hand down his face, already exasperated.

“Good afternoon, friends!” Aegon announced cheerfully, clapping Roger on the shoulder as the man tried, in vain, to read his newspaper in peace.

Vic lit up despite the mess, leaning over the bar to press a quick kiss to Aegon’s lips as he settled onto the stool in front of the taps.

“Donuts for the hottest person in the pub,” Aegon declared, popping open the box.

Vic shook her head, unimpressed, especially when he immediately grabbed one for himself, taking a bite with a smug grin.

“… And for my girl, obviously,” he added, holding one out to her.

She swatted him on the back of the head, laughing.

“You’re a menace, Aegon. I just mopped,” she scolded, but still took a bite, handing him the rest before turning back to restock two bottles of gin on the shelf.

“Sorry, love, but I’m way too hyped to care—I have big news,” Aegon said, licking the leftover glaze from his fingers. 

Vic raised an eyebrow and turned to look at him, curious. He kept chewing, waiting for her to ask.

“Well?”

Aegon glanced around, caught Rhys’s unimpressed stare, then motioned for her to come closer.

“I know I wasn’t supposed to…” he started, pausing just long enough to run his fingers along Vic’s chin, like he couldn’t help himself.

“… But Aemond left his phone on the console while he was talking to Cole, and I may have taken a peek,” he admitted.

Vic laughed, and Aegon immediately decided he’d commit as many petty crimes as necessary if it meant making her laugh like that again. He brushed her bangs out of her eyes, wanting to catch every bit of her expression.

“That’s terrible. I should call the police,” she teased.

“Wait—listen. It was an email. From Stevie Nicks’s manager. About her spring shows,” he said, pausing just long enough for dramatic effect.

As expected, Vic lit up, hands flying to her mouth in shock.

“Tell me you got us PIT tickets,” she practically begged, barely containing her excitement.

“PIT, backstage—whatever you think is best for getting a ton of videos of me when I open for her.”

He dropped the bomb with perfect timing. A true storytelling genius.

“You’re taking the piss,” she said, stunned, before letting out a scream that had half the pub turning their heads.

Aegon shook his head, grinning. “They want All You Wanted. Apparently, they listened to some of the other songs too and want to talk setlists.”

Vic didn’t even hesitate—she darted out from behind the bar and launched herself at him. Aegon caught her easily, lifting her off the ground and kissing her all over her face.

“This is insane,” she said between kisses, unable to pull away.

“NO MAKING OUT ON THE COUNTER,” Sara shouted as she walked past, just coming back from the stockroom.

Aegon, ever the menace, locked eyes with her and casually set Vic down on a barstool.

“What about making out on the stool?” he shot back.

Vic burst out laughing.

And as far as Aegon was concerned, he never wanted to hear anything else.

“This is incredible, Aegon. I can’t wait,” Vic said, pulling him in by the waist and pressing another kiss to his lips.

Aegon hesitated for a moment, his expression turning serious.

“I know All You Wanted is your song. You wrote it, and from the start, the deal was that your music belongs to you…” he started, struggling to meet her eyes, guilt creeping in.

“It’s yours,” she cut him off.

He looked at her, surprised.

Just like that, he fell in love with her all over again.

“All You Wanted is yours. I wrote it for you, after all,” she added, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

“Are you sure?” he asked, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, his fingers trailing down to cup her cheek.

“Absolutely.” Her answer was spoken against his lips.

Aegon felt stupid, reckless, completely drunk on her. He wondered what the people at rehab would say if they knew he had surrendered to this—a dependency even more consuming, more dangerous, more impossible to control.

Then, suddenly, she pulled back.

“And holy shit, this means Stevie Nicks, STEVIE NICKS, thinks my song is amazing,” she said, gazing dreamily at some random spot on the ceiling.

“Well, it is amazing. You are amazing. Talented, brilliant, gorgeous, and my absolute ray of sunshine. You know that, right?” he said, pulling her back into him.

“And you are the hottest person in this pub,” she replied, echoing his words from earlier, grabbing him by the shirt for another kiss.

Rhys cleared his throat—again. This time, after being ignored at least ten times, it was a clear signal that PDA Hour was officially over.

Damn shame.

Vic hopped off the stool and slipped back behind the bar.

“I’m taking you out to dinner to celebrate,” Aegon announced, shrugging his jacket on.

“I want the greasiest, nastiest kebab drowning in hot sauce,” she demanded, grinning.

“Then I’ll get you the greasiest, nastiest kebab in all of London. Fair trade. You staying over tonight?”

“I can’t, I have the gym tomorrow,” Vic said casually, pouring a pint of Moretti for Terence at the far end of the bar.

“You always have the gym,” Aegon whined, pouting dramatically.

“What can I say? I’ve been into it lately,” she replied with a shrug, her smile easy and content. “But… I guess I can make an exception,” she added, sealing the deal with a clink of the pint against the counter.

“Perfect. I’ll give you some cardio myself,” he smirked.

“Aegon! Gross,” Sara called from the other side of the bar, sticking out her tongue in disgust.

“Not my fault!” he defended himself before turning back to Vic. “And you—tell your tits to stop staring at me!”

*****

That night, Vic and Aegon were sitting on the curb outside some questionable-looking kebab shop, stuffing their faces like two starving animals.

The rain had finally stopped, but the city still glistened, damp and humming with life. Neon lights flickered in the puddles at their feet, casting strange, jagged reflections. The air smelled like wet pavement, cigarette smoke, and whatever unholy mix of spices the kebab guy used to make their dinner so insanely good.

Vic took a massive bite, groaning. “This is disgusting.” She wiped at the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. “I love it.”

Aegon grinned, leaning back on his palms. “Nothing beats a nasty kebab at midnight. It’s, like, a fundamental truth of the universe.”

Vic hummed in agreement, barely pausing before going in for another bite. “I swear, I can feel my arteries clogging.”

“Sexy.”

She elbowed him, nearly making him drop his food. “Shut up.”

“I mean it! Hot girls covered in grease and shame? My type exactly.”

She rolled her eyes, too busy chewing to respond, which Aegon clearly took as an opportunity to steal a bite from her kebab.

“Hey!” she protested, swatting at him. “You have your own!”

“Yeah, but yours looks better.”

“They’re literally the same thing!”

Aegon shrugged, smug. “Stolen food always tastes better. Again, fundamental truth of the universe.”

Vic shook her head, smiling.

Then Aegon said, “You look happy.”

Vic turned, mid-chew, her eyes flicking over to him. His voice had softened, quieter than before.

She swallowed and tilted her head. “So do you.”

Aegon chewed thoughtfully, then gave a small, almost self-conscious shrug. “Yeah. I think I am.”

She smiled at that. Not a smirk, not a teasing grin—just an easy, content smile.

The best part was that she didn’t need to ask him why.

She’d spent years trying to decode a man’s happiness, twisting herself into shapes she thought would make her enough. And no matter what she did—no matter how much love she gave, how much of herself she offered—it had never been enough. 

Those days felt like another life.

“Good,” she murmured, nudging his knee with hers.

Aegon smiled, but then Vic noticed the shift—his gaze flickering away, his fingers tightening around the crumpled wrapper in his lap.

He hesitated for a long moment before saying, “You remember how we said we’d always be honest?”

Lately, he’d been saying that a lot. Like he needed her permission to tell her what he really thought.

Vic nodded, setting aside what was now just a sad, shapeless mass of meat and vegetables.

Aegon took a deep breath, then turned back to her.

“It scares me,” he admitted, voice steady but quiet. “How much of this happiness depends on you.”

Vic blinked.

She hadn’t been expecting that.

She studied him, the way he was watching her—like he’d just handed her a loaded gun and was waiting to see what she’d do with it.

“If this is about the song,” she started carefully, “I meant it. I wrote it for you and—”

Aegon let out a short, almost bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Fuck, Vic. Why are you such an idiot sometimes?”

But he wasn’t smiling anymore.

Ah, fuck.

He wasn’t talking about the song.

He was talking about them.

Yeah, she was an idiot.

Then Vic sighed, shifting closer, reaching up to tuck a strand of his messy blonde hair behind his ear.

“Well, technically…” she murmured, her fingers trailing down to rest against his jaw, “everything I feel for you is your fault.”

Aegon turned to look at her like she’d just discovered gravity.

But Vic had seen that look before.

She’d always noticed it, even when he didn’t say anything at all.

The way his expression would flicker, just for a second, when she showed him kindness, like he didn’t quite know what to do with it. The way he always seemed to hesitate before letting himself be happy, like he was waiting for someone to tell him he wasn’t allowed. Like he didn’t trust it to last.

She understood it.

Because she had spent years trying to make someone happy—trying to be enough—only to end up wondering why she was so fucking easy to leave.

Aegon had never told her, not outright, that he’d spent his whole life searching for something that felt like love.

He didn’t have to.

Vic had seen it in his eyes.

Just like she could see it now.

She huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Don’t even try to pin this on me,” she said, voice barely more than a breath against his lips.

Aegon swallowed, his throat working around words he didn’t say.

They really were pathetic.

And that was just fine.

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of it settling between them, folding into their bones.

Then Aegon ruined it.

“So, about earlier…” He took another bite of his kebab, speaking through his full mouth. “I am the hottest person in the pub, right?”

Vic groaned, throwing a piece of lettuce at him. “Oh my god. Let it go.”

“I just think we should make it official. Get, like, a plaque or something.”

“Fine. I’ll get a plaque made—‘Aegon Targaryen, Sexiest Man Alive and Also the Most Humble.’”

“I’d hang that shit in the pub.”

“I know you would.”

He grinned, triumphant, chewing obnoxiously.

And then, without thinking, she reached over and wiped a smudge of sauce off his cheek with her thumb.

It was stupid, really. Such a small thing.

But for some reason, it made her chest go tight.

“I think I’ve fallen in love with you,” she muttered, like she was just stating a fact.

Aegon’s grin froze.

For a second, he didn’t even breathe.

Then he swallowed, hard, and something flickered in his expression—something helpless and incredulous and too much.

Vic just smiled, taking another bite of her kebab like she hadn’t just shattered his entire fucking world.

Aegon exhaled, shaking his head. She just knew heart was doing something stupid and reckless in his chest, like her heart was doing in hers.

“Me too.”