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clownprincesshq · 2 days ago

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(FINALE) Chapter 10 Part 3: Inevitable Ends

"Born in blood, both of us, Angstrom was right. I thought I could change what I am, keep my family safe. But it doesn't matter what I do, what I choose. I'm what's wrong. This is fate."

Main!Mark Grayson x Psychic! Reader

warnings: SMUTSMUTSMUT, death, angst, mark is so supportive, mentions of childbirth, violence, blood

w/c: 14.9k

a/n: i have so many thoughts about this. i love all of you guys, thank you so much for your support <3

It takes you a second.

But then

“Oliver?”

He comes inside gingerly, one hand still grasping the edge of the door.

He’s taller now.

Older.

He looks approximately seven, give or take. But the sharpness in his gaze is evident. He’s observing everything. The machines. Your expression. Mark’s stance. Debbie’s hand on your arm. He’s taking it all in.

He looks more like Nolan than ever, but the tenderness in his expression? That’s Debbie. That’s every gentle minute she put into him while no one else was looking.

Mark turns toward the door.

“Hey, buddy.”

Oliver lights up. Not with a grin. Just wide-eyed happiness, like he’s been keeping it in so hard, and suddenly he can’t anymore.

He jumps across the room and bumps against Mark’s legs, locking his arms around them as tight as he can.

Mark brushes his hair involuntarily, his mouth quirking into something that’s not quite a grin, more like relief.“You got taller.”

“I grew,” Oliver whispers triumphantly, muffled against his brother’s pants. “And I didn’t cry this time.”

Mark crouches and pulls him in for a nice hug. “Good. That’s rough stuff.”

“I still missed you,” Oliver says, softly.

“I missed you too, little man.”

You’re watching the whole thing with your heart in your throat.

Oliver glances to you after a minute, eyes a bit apprehensive.

“Is she okay now?”

Mark follows his eyes.

You meet the kid’s eyes and smile.

“I’m okay,” you say quietly. “Still tired. But okay.”

Oliver nods, as if that’s enough, and strides up to the bed like he belongs there. He lays a hand gingerly on the side of your arm, where there are no bandages or bruises.

His palm is tiny. But warm.

“You were sleeping for ages,” he informs you. “I drew pictures and told you stories every week. Did you hear them?”

You attempt to chuckle, it comes out more like a gasp. “I think so. One of them had a robot built of pasta?”

“That one was my favorite,” he says proudly.

Debbie sits back on the chair near the bed, arms folded gently, smiling warmly at all of you. “He made them memorize your schedule. Wednesdays were storytime. Sundays he drew you something new. He said you needed something exciting to dream about.”

You swallow hard.

“Thank you,” you murmur to him.

Oliver shrugs. “You’re my family too.”

And that’s it.

The room collapses into something still. Not hefty. Not tense.

Just... full.

Like something has snapped back into place.

You’re here.

Mark is here.

Debbie. Oliver. All of you. In one room.

Alive.

Together.

You lay back against the cushions, your hand still resting over your stomach, Mark’s fingers curled softly around yours again.

And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you feel this timeline could be worth maintaining.

The silence doesn’t stay long.

There’s another tap at the door, this one harsher, more authoritative. You don’t flinch, but Mark glances up from where he’s sat next to you, hand still intertwined with yours beneath the blanket. He sighs.

“Bet you anything it’s Cecil,” he mutters, already straightening his back.

Sure enough, the door glides open with a faint hiss, and in steps William, looking like he’s hardly slept, followed closely by Rex, who looks like he hasn’t changed his clothing since the war, and then last, Cecil Stedman.

Cecil enters the room the way he usually does, with a presence. Not loud. Not aggressive. Just that same deliberate, calculated calm. The room moves a bit, the way it usually does when someone with too many secrets enters into a space packed with others who’ve been broken by them.

“Look who’s finally awake,” Rex says, stepping in with his typical swagger but without the passion behind it. “Took you long enough. I was starting to believe Mark here was gonna lose his mind.”

You smirk slightly. “He already did. Came back with a little bit of facial hair and new emotional depth.”

William gives out a strangled laugh. “Still got it. Jesus, it’s great to see you.” He stares at you like he’s not sure whether he’s permitted to come too close like you could disappear again if he does. “You had us scared.”

Mark stands alongside the bed, smiling at William before gazing back at you. “They’ve been hovering outside the GDA for the last week.”

“Technically I was hovering,” Rex mutters. “Will was stress-baking.”

“First of all,” William responds, “it’s called coping. Secondly, not all of us can punch skyscrapers when we’re worried.”

Cecil hasn’t spoken yet. He stands at the entrance, quiet, unreadable. His hands are in his coat pockets, his posture deceptively calm, yet you can sense the anxiety in him, the silent weight of everything he wants to say but knows he can’t say in front of the others.

That’s when he clears his throat.

“Boys. Clear the room.”

Mark turns to him, eyes narrowing. “Come on. She just woke up. Can’t this wait?”

Cecil doesn’t even blink. “Mark.”

That’s all he says.

And somehow, that’s enough.

Mark sighs through his nose. “You better not piss her off.”

“She’ll be fine.”

Rex and William gaze at each other, then back at you.

“You good?” William asks, a bit more seriously this time.

You nod. “Yeah. Go on.”

They depart without issue, Rex throwing you a two-fingered salute on his way out. Mark hesitates at the door, peering over his shoulder like he wants to remain, like he knows this is something he doesn’t want to be left out of.

But he respects you.

So he leaves.

The door hisses shut behind them.

And now it’s just you and Cecil.

The hush is longer now.

Deeper.

He approaches near the foot of your bed and stops, his gaze roving slowly across your vitals, your face, the gentle glow still remaining faintly beneath your skin like embers in ash.

He exhales.

“Good to see you upright.”

You study him.

“Didn’t think I’d make it?”

He doesn’t grin. Doesn’t flinch.

“I didn’t know what the hell to think. You’ve always been unexpected. But after what you did out there-”

He stops.

Starts again.

“I’ve seen a lot of powerful people in my life. You’re not just powerful.. You’re...”

“Uncontainable?” you offer, voice rough yet steady.

Cecil’s face changes slightly. Not a smile. Just acknowledgment.

“You terrify half of the GDA,” he acknowledges. “The other half thinks you should be running it.”

You don’t react.

He steps closer. Slowly.

“I wanted to be the one to tell you this, and I didn’t want it to be filtered through Mark. Or Debbie. Or anyone else. I wanted to say it myself.”

You blink, waiting.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

Your chest tightens.

Cecil Stedman doesn’t say sorry.

Not ever.

Not until it costs him something. “I should’ve protected you better,” he continues. “Back then. When we found you. When we studied you. We tried to label you, contain you, use you. And you were just a kid.” You say nothing.

Because you remember.

You recall the icy flooring, the faint murmurs behind glass, the voices that only called you by your subject number.

“I thought I was doing what was best,” he adds. “For the world. For the mission. But the reality is, I didn’t see you. I saw a weapon. And you proved me wrong.”

You gaze at him.

And for the first time, ever, you see it.

Not weakness.

Not guilt.

Respect.

“After everything,” he says, “you still saved that city. You could’ve walked away. You could’ve burnt it all down. But you didn’t.”

You speak, eventually.

“I didn’t do it for you.”

He nods. “I know. That’s why it mattered.”

The stillness hangs between you for a little longer.

Then Cecil clears his throat and straightens his tie.

“There’s no handbook for what you are now. No protocol. Frankly, I’m not even convinced the GDA has the right to supervise you anymore.”

You raise a brow.

“So what? You gonna cut me loose?”

He meets your gaze. Steady. Clear.

“You’re free.”

The words strike harder than they should.

“I’m not asking you to disappear,” he emphasizes. “I’m not asking you to work for us, either. If you want to go off-grid, vanish for a bit, raise that kid in solitude, you can. If you want to stay, help protect people, we’ll give you every tool you need.”

You gaze at him, shocked.

Cecil takes a slow breath.

“You don’t answer to us anymore. You never actually did. I see that now.”

He turns, going toward the door.

And just before he reaches it, he pauses.

“One more thing.”

You wait.

He glances back at you.

“Whatever you decide… don’t do it alone.”

You nod.

And for the first time in a very, very long time

You believe him.

The door hisses open.

Cecil steps out.

And the future?

The one that used to terrify you?

It finally feels like it belongs to you.

The door hisses open again not even five minutes after Cecil departs.

This time, Mark’s the first one back in.

He doesn’t say anything right away, simply strides in like he’s holding his breath, eyes searching your face as if Cecil might’ve broken something that hadn’t completed mending. His shoulders are stiff. That small wrinkle develops between his brows again, the one that only shows up when he’s overthinking and pretending not to.

But you meet his stare. And you grin.

And he exhales.

A second later, the rest follow.

Rex strolls in with a half-eaten granola bar, William following him, and Oliver jumping forward like the seven-year-old he is, trying very hard to appear like he wasn’t listening the entire time. “Still alive?” Rex says, leaning on the wall with all the grace of a brick. “That’s good. I was about to start drafting your memorial. I had ‘most terrifying badass I’ve ever met’ on the opening line.” William gives him a glance. “Jesus, Rex, it’s been a day.”

“I said she’s alive! That’s positive.”

“I’m alive,” you croak. “Not deaf.”

They all settle in around you like they’re trying not to crowd you but they’re terrible at it. Rex lies at the foot of the bed, Oliver slides up into the chair nearest to your side, and William stands awkwardly with a bouquet of very clearly last-minute flowers.

“They didn’t have a card,” he replies, presenting them meekly. “I was gonna write something, but I forgot I don’t have your last name.”

You blink. “You’ve known me for months.”

“I thought you were just Ace. Like Cher.”

“I thought it was a code name,” Rex mutters.

“It is a code name.” You laugh, before speaking your name. Your real one.

“I thought you were a dream, honestly,” Oliver adds, dangling his legs off the chair.

Mark sighs. “Her last name is hers. Let her tell you if she wants to.”

You raise an eyebrow at him.

“Not that she has to,” he adds hastily. “I’m just saying, never mind.”

They’re ludicrous.

And you adore them.

The room moves again. Not hefty. Not intense.

Just full.

They converse for a while. William informs you about a new movie you apparently have to see the second you’re out of the hospital. Rex complains about Robot making him register every tiny disagreement in the Coalition’s new danger database. Oliver talks about school, how he’s too smart for the new online curriculum and Mark won’t let him skip a grade because “you still act like a six-year-old when someone eats your snacks.”

It’s so commonplace it nearly aches.

Eventually, a nurse comes in to check your vitals and suggests, gently, that you should relax. That you’ll probably be discharged in the next forty-eight hours, maybe less. The regeneration indicators are off the charts. You’re recovering quicker than any basic human should be.

She doesn’t say it explicitly, but she looks at you like she knows something changed in your DNA. That whatever you did to delete Angstrom and reconstruct a city left something new behind in you.

You don’t refute it.

She exits after another scan, and the group starts to break apart.

William embraces you gently and promises to bring something substantial to eat next time. Rex warns, “You better not disappear again or I’ll make Mark cry in public.” Oliver hugs you hard, closer than you think, and says, “I’m glad you’re here,” before running off to join up with Debbie, who’s waiting in the corridor.

When the door closes again, it��s just you and Mark.

The lights fade slowly.

You move to sit up a bit further, and he helps you, one hand braced behind your back.

“You okay?” he says quietly.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

He nods too, staring at the blanket bunched about your waist.

“I’ve been thinking about something.”

You wait.

And for once, he doesn’t stall. Doesn’t stutter.

“I want you to move in with me.”

You blink.

Not because you’re startled he wants it but because of how he says it. Direct. No buildup. No dancing around it.

Just Mark.

“I mean,” he continues, massaging the back of his neck, “I want you with me. Not just visiting. Not just when things go to shit. I want us to live together.”

You look at him, heart thudding.

“There’s space,” he says. “It’s not much, but I’ve been working on it. It’s a bit messy. I didn’t think I’d ever be sharing it with anyone but, uh-”

“Mark.”

He stops.

You smile.

“I want that too.”

His mouth expands slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The stress pours out of him like someone switched a switch.

His shoulders slump. His breath eases.

You grip his hand.

“I want a home,” you say. “Not just a safehouse. Not a hospital. Not a bunker. Just… something we make together.”

He nods, swallowing hard.

“We can get extra stuff for the baby. Whatever you want. I’ll paint the walls. I don’t care if it’s pink or blue or, I don’t even care if we live in the city. We can move to the coast. Or space. Or-”

You tug on his hand gently.

“Mark?”

“Yeah?”

You smile.

“Let’s just start with one room.”

He laughs, actually laughs, for the first time in what feels like months.

You close your eyes, listening to it.

Letting it wrap across your chest like a blanket.

When you drift off again, it’s slower this time. Easier.

Because when you wake up next

You won’t be alone.

They dismiss you discreetly.

No cameras. No headlines. No armed GDA escort.

Just a quick talk, a computerized clipboard signed with a quivering hand, and a nurse giving you a look that says, You terrified us. She doesn’t say it out loud. She doesn’t need to. You see it in the way she checks your vitals twice, even after the monitors affirm you’re steady. You notice it in the way she avoids eye contact as she unhooks your IV and clears the equipment off your side.

She’s terrified of you.

But she’s also appreciative.

Everyone is.

And that’s a type of silence you’re still learning how to sit with.

Mark helps you get dressed. He doesn’t ask whether you want help, he simply knows. He turns around as you change into the comfortable sweater and sweatpants they supplied for you, but his eyes never travel far. His motions are subtle. Gentle. Careful. Like you’re made of something irreplaceable now.

You assume you are.

When you slide your feet into your shoes, slowly, still a touch sore, Mark crouches to knot the laces. You don’t say anything. You merely place a hand on his shoulder while he knots them, steadying yourself, resting yourself in the warmth of him.

Then he stands, holds out your coat.

You let him help you into it.

And for the first time in a month, you walk out of that hospital room alive.

Debbie and Oliver are waiting just outside.

She’s resting against the wall, arms crossed, sipping from a coffee cup she probably hasn’t replenished in hours. Her smile brightens up the second she sees you, warmth pouring across her features, sweet and honest and proud.

Oliver?

He races toward you like a bullet while calling your name loudly.

You hardly have time to brace before he collides with your legs, arms clamping tight around your waist. He clings like you could disappear again if he lets go.

You giggle gently, cringing just a bit from the abrupt touch. “Easy, buddy.”

“No!” he declares forcefully. “You were asleep forever. You’re not leaving again.”

Mark lifts an eyebrow. “Oliver, she’s literally right here.”

“She might leave! Like poof! You don’t know!”

“I mean, technically she could,” Mark mutters, half-joking. “She did bend reality once-ow, okay, okay-”

You pinch his arm.

Debbie chuckles behind her coffee cup. “He’s been wound up since we got here. He drew you four drawings this morning.”

“They’re all cats,” Oliver exclaims proudly. “Because cats never die in stories. They just come back.”

You stoop gently, resting your hand on top of his head.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “I missed you.”

He hugs tighter.

Mark bends down and delicately pries him off you, only a little, and slings a duffel bag over his shoulder. “Alright. Let’s bring her home.”

You blink.

Home.

The word still seems too huge in your mouth.

Too real.

The car trip is silent.

You sit in the rear, huddled in your coat with the window open just a bit to let in the breeze. Oliver refuses to sit in the third row. He slips himself between you and Mark, head resting against your arm, legs folded up. He’s old enough to not need to be babied anymore. But he’s still clutching, like contact is the only way to be sure this isn’t another dream.

You allowed him.

You don’t notice until halfway back that Debbie’s letting Mark drive her car.

You gaze up in the rearview mirror, catching her eyes.

She grins.

She knows.

The city outside is normal. Buses. Streetlights. People crossing at crossings. Nothing looks like it was disintegrating a month ago. Nothing looks like it was wiped and redone by someone who died and came back with something else living in their blood.

No one knows what you did.

But you remember.

And they remember for you.

Mark’s place isn’t huge.

But it seems natural.

Warm. Lived-in. A touch untidy, with a pile of clothes on a chair near the window and an unopened pack of diapers tucked into the corner next a stack of books. The couch has a ding in it. There’s a seance dog blanket hanging over the arm.

You step in and it strikes you like a wave.

This is yours now.

Not just his.

Yours.

Oliver pulls off his shoes and beelines into the living room. “I’m picking the movie!” he shouts. “She needs a comfort movie!”

Mark shrugs. “Can’t argue with that.”

Debbie remains at the door, observing the two of you softly.

You stride approach her.

“I don’t know what happens next,” you reply gently.

She nods, sliding a strand of hair behind your ear. “None of us do. But you’re not alone.”

You hug her before she can hug you first.

She clings on closely.

Then, with a kiss to your temple, she’s gone. Back to her own space. Her own recovery.

Leaving only the three of you.

Mark comes up behind you a little later, arms wrapping around your waist. You lean back into him.

“I meant what I said,” he whispers. “This place is yours too. You can put your stuff anywhere. Move the sofa. Steal the blanket. Take the bed.”

You turn your head toward him. “Where are you sleeping, then?”

He shrugs. “Wherever you are.”

You kiss him.

Not hard. Not urgent.

Just home.

Oliver shouts from the other room, “You guys better not be kissing again!”

Mark laughs against your mouth.

You pull back with a smile. “Guess that means movie time.”

And for the first time in a long time

You let yourself be small again.

Not a goddess.

Not a weapon.

Just someone nestled on a couch between the man she loves and the younger brother who refuses to quit clinging to her arm.

The living room is dim, bathed in the soothing blue glow of the television. The movie is one you’ve all seen before, Seance Dog 3: Grave Mistakes, which means no one’s actually paying attention. The volume’s a tad too low. The popcorn bowl is already half-empty. And Oliver is laying sprawled out across both you and Mark like a human blanket, his head in your lap, feet kicked up on Mark’s thighs, hogging the throw blanket like he paid rent here.

You don’t mind.

Mark doesn’t either.

You’re both too busy taking up the moment. It’s the first time in weeks, maybe months, that life feels like it may be okay. You’re not in a clean white hospital bed. You’re not fighting for your life. No one is asking you to fix the world.

You’re just here.

Soft hoodie. Warm sofa. Mark’s arm thrown over your shoulder, his fingertips drawing lazy circles on the back of your neck. Oliver partially asleep, moaning about how Seance Dog’s sidekick doesn’t get enough screen time.

It’s perfect.

Until it’s not.

Halfway through a scene when Seance Dog banishes a haunting mirror using nothing but sass and theatrical gestures, Oliver stretches and yawns, then blurts out

“So how are you having a baby if you and Mark never kissed before you were in the hospital?”

The room goes silent.

Your body stiffens.

Mark chokes so forcefully on his drink that it sprays over the blanket, his hand slamming against his chest like he’s been shot.

“WHAT?!”

Oliver raises his head slightly, frowning. “What? I’m seven, not dumb. People keep talking about it. Mom made that funny face when the nurse said she was stable and still pregnant, and William said something about miracles, and Rex said Mark ‘got lucky’ and then started laughing like a maniac.”

You gaze down at him, eyes wide.

Mark is still coughing into his elbow.

The TV plays on in the background as if your life hasn’t just erupted in the midst of your living room.

“I…uh-” Mark tries, gasping. “That’s…okay. That’s not…how could…what did Rex say?”

Oliver blinks. “That you two ‘couldn’t keep it in your pants,’ but then he said ‘oh god don’t repeat that’ and walked into a wall.”

You hide your face with both hands.

Mark moans and leans forward like he might pass out.

“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay, yeah, alright. So that’s…that’s a thing that’s happening now.”

Oliver squints at you. “So... how?”

“How what?” you say, voice barely a whisper.

“How are you having a baby? You’re not even married!”

“That's not-” Mark starts, then pauses. “That’s not a requirement.”

“Says who?”

“Everyone in the modern world!”

Oliver shrugs. “In health class they said two people have to love each other a lot and then they-”

“NOPE,” Mark shouts loudly, grabbing a pillow and flinging it over his face. “Nope nope nope-”

You’re laughing now.

You can’t help it.

It starts as a little chuckle but swells fast, flowing out of you in waves while Oliver frowns in total astonishment, and Mark is face-down on the sofa muttering something about requiring time travel and noise-canceling walls.

Eventually, you gather your breath enough to speak.

“Oliver,” you say softly, pushing his hair back, “we didn’t mean to surprise anyone. It just… happened. Sometimes people love each other, and they don’t always plan things, but they choose to stay anyway.”

Mark peeks out from behind the pillow. “Yeah. We, uh... really love each other. Like, a lot.”

You flash him a glance.

He shrugs hopelessly. “What? I’m trying.”

Oliver pauses for a bit, then slowly nods.

“Okay,” he says. “But I get to name it.”

You blink. “What?”

“The baby. I get to name it. I’ve had a list since last month.”

“Why…why would you have a list-”

He sits up, absolutely serious. “Okay so top tier options include, Mecha, Darkblade, Turbo, and... Corn.”

Mark blinks. “Corn?”

“It’s strong and unpredictable.”

You’re laughing again, tears pricking your eyes.

Mark gives you a look like ‘this is your fault.’

You shake your head. “We’re not naming the baby Corn.”

Oliver flops back down spectacularly. “Fine. But middle name?”

Mark leans closer, speaking just loud enough for you to hear “We’re definitely not naming our kid after a vegetable.”

The three of you melt into laughing again, wrapped in a mound of blanket and chaos and love.

The movie plays on. The spirits are vanquished. Seance dog rescues the world again.

And somewhere between scenes, between laughs, between breaths

Mark kisses your temple.

Soft.

Careful.

Like a vow made in the middle of a sofa, with a kid between you and a world still gathering its breath.

You lean into him.

Oliver snores quietly on your shoulder.

And for the first time in forever, you believe in after.

The movie concludes softly.

The titles play over a soothing piano tune while Seance Dog gives a final, poignant monologue about legacy and love, standing atop a haunting mountain as the sun rises behind him.

Mark snores once, loudly.

You nudge him.

“I’m awake,” he mutters, eyes still closed. “I’m just appreciating the…um, the cinematic framing.”

Oliver grins into your shoulder.

You stretch gently beneath the covers, every joint stiff yet functioning. You’re still exhausted. Your muscles still hurt. But there’s something steadier in your limbs now. A warmth that didn’t exist back in that hospital bed.

Maybe it’s the sofa.

Maybe it’s the company.

There’s a knock at the door before it creaks open, and Debbie peers in, holding her keys in one hand, already half-prepared for the protest she knows is coming.

“Alright, Oliver. Time to come home, buddy.”

Oliver moans. “Noooo.”

You watch him deflate, the dramatic droop of his limbs, the way his small face crumples at the corners.

Debbie steps in, eyebrows lifted in that mom face that screams ‘don’t start’, yet her mouth is soft. She’s trying to keep it mild. “We’ve got to get you home. School in the morning. You know the rules.”

“I don’t care,” he mumbles, digging deeper into your side. “I want to stay here.”

You touch his back softly, your voice warm and quiet. “I know, little star.”

Oliver lifts his head, his bottom lip twitching. “What if she goes away again?”

His voice cracks at the end.

Mark sits up straighter. “Hey, hey…it’s not gonna be like that.”

Oliver rubs at his eyes but he’s weeping now, full and silent, the type of tears that don’t come with wailing but simply happen, like his heart’s been waiting for the room to slow down enough for it to be honest.

“I waited forever,” he continues, voice trembling. “You were gone forever, and I kept talking to you and drawing pictures and it didn’t work, and I thought maybe you were gone like Dad, but I didn’t say it out loud because I didn’t want it to be true-”

You reach for him instinctively, arms wrapping over his shoulders and drawing him in close, burying his head beneath your chin. His small hands grip at your hoodie like it’s the only thing preventing him from plummeting through the floor.

You rock softly, your fingers stroking through his hair.

“I’m not gone,” you mumble. “I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He sniffles heavily. “But what if…what if something happens again? What if-”

“Then I’ll fight like hell to come back,” you reply, gently yet forceful. “Just like I did this time. Just like I’ll always do.”

Oliver cries a little harder into your chest.

Debbie stands calmly beside the entrance, one palm placed to her mouth, eyes sparkling. Mark doesn’t say anything, he simply observes, teeth tight, the muscles in his arms stiff like he wants to do something but knows this isn’t his moment.

“I’ll come see you tomorrow,” you assure Oliver softly. “Okay? I’ll come over first thing. You and me. All day.”

He sniffles again, pushing back slightly. “Really?”

“Really. Because we’ve got plans.”

He blinks. “Plans?”

“Oh yeah. Big plans. We’ve need to start looking for baby clothes. And a crib. And a tiny toy with stars and planets on it. You think I can do all that without my best helper?”

He shakes his head swiftly, eyes wide. “No. You need my expert opinion.”

“Exactly,” you say. “So tomorrow? You and me. We’ll go shopping, we’ll pick stuff out, and we’ll eat too many snacks and ignore every budget.”

Mark lifts an eyebrow. “I mean, within reason-”

You wave a hand. “Shush.”

Oliver eventually grins, little and crooked and still tear-glossed, but real. He nods, pushing his sleeve to his nose, then looks up at Debbie like ‘please don’t destroy this’.

Debbie comes over gently and crouches beside him.

She combs his bangs back. “You can bring one stuffed animal. Just one.”

He grins and wraps his arms around her neck.

They stand together, and she holds him for a long minute before gently moving him toward the door.

He doesn’t fight it this time.

But before they depart, he doubles back to you. One last hug. Tight.

You cling on just as passionately.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” you mumble.

He nods against your neck. “Don’t be late.”

When he lets go, he leaves a little painting on the coffee table, a doodle of you carrying a luminous baby, Mark standing alongside you in his hero outfit, Oliver flying above you with a cape.

The label written in all uppercase reads ‘TEAM FAMILY.’

Mark walks them out.

You stay on the couch, still nestled under the blanket, your chest both full and aching. The type of aching that only occurs as love starts to settle into something real.

The door clicks shut behind Debbie and Oliver, a soft metallic whisper as the latch catches. You watch Mark lock it, his fingers hesitating for a moment on the deadbolt before he turns, a shadow of something unreadable in his eyes. Tired, maybe. Or nervous. He always looks that way lately like he’s balancing too much in his hands and expecting the whole world to drop at any second. But then he looks at you.

And that flicker of worry breaks, like clouds tearing apart to make room for sun. It isn’t bright, not totally, Mark Grayson isn’t bright these days. He’s bruised and burnt out, stitched together with duty and regret. But when he looks at you, some of that darkness slips. It always does.

“You okay?” he asks, quietly, as if the room might break if he says it louder.

The apartment is quiet now, finally. Debbie has fussed over you until your bones ached in the hospital, from pretending you aren’t exhausted, and Oliver is, well, Oliver. Four months pregnant and still managing to make it through an hour of Grayson family chaos without snapping is practically heroic. But you do it. You always do.

You shift your weight on the couch, hand reflexively sliding over the soft swell of your belly. Four months. It still doesn’t feel real. Not even with the weight of it under your skin, not even with the nausea, the dreams, the shifts in your body that make you feel like a stranger in your own clothes. But the way Mark looks at you now, carefully, like you’re something he has to relearn every day, that is real. “I’m okay now,” you say, and mean it.

His eyes drift to your stomach. You catch the subtle clench in his jaw, he does that every time. Like some part of him doesn’t think he deserves this. Like he still expects to wake up and find all of it gone. You stand slowly. The soreness from your recovery is still there, but it doesn’t matter. You cross the room to him and reach up, letting your fingers graze the stubble on his cheek. Mark’s hands come up automatically, one brushing your hip, the other curling at your back. You lean into him, just enough to feel his warmth, his presence.

“You don’t have to ask if I’m okay every time you look at me,” you say, voice low.

He exhales through his nose, a wry half-laugh, like he knows he’s guilty but can’t stop himself. “Can’t help it.”

“Try.”

You close the distance between you, lips pressing to his before he can answer. Soft, at first, testing the moment, tasting the quiet. He stills for half a heartbeat, but then his mouth opens under yours, the kind of kiss that drags breath out of both of you. Mark kisses like a man afraid of losing time. Always has. Like he’s holding on for dear life, like if he kisses hard enough he can fix everything broken between you.

Your fingers tangle in his shirt, clutching it, tugging him closer. He doesn’t resist. You feel his hands slide lower, one splaying wide over your back, the other careful at your waist. Always careful now. Like he’s scared of hurting you.

You pull back just enough to whisper, “You don’t have to treat me like glass.”

His brows pull together,“You just got out of the hospital.”

You kiss him again before he can finish the thought, harder this time, until you feel his restraint crack beneath the surface. He makes a sound low in his throat, something hungry and quiet and aching. His hands tighten on your body.

“Still me,” you murmur against his lips.

Mark’s breath hitches. You see the way his pupils darken, blown wide, the blue of his eyes swallowed by want. “You’re four months pregnant,” he says, but it’s already unraveling in his voice. “And still me,” you repeat, pressing your hips into him.

His hands finally move like they used to, possessive, certain, roaming your back and your sides and pulling you against him like gravity is just a suggestion. You feel him hardening already, the heat between you both burning off the hesitations. He kisses you again, and this time there’s nothing gentle about it. His mouth devours yours, tongue sliding past your lips, hands gripping your ass through the thin fabric of your pajama pants.

You moan softly into him, and he groans in response like he’s been holding his breath for weeks and you’ve just cracked his ribs open to let the air in. His hand slides under your shirt, up the curve of your side, fingers skimming the underside of your breast before he hesitates again.

“Mark,” you say, voice raw, “touch me. Really touch me.”

He looks at you like you’ve just given him permission to breathe.

Then he picks you up. Just like that. Like you weigh nothing. He still has Viltrumite strength, after all. You yelp and laugh into his shoulder as he carries you toward the bedroom, kissing you between every few steps. Short, hungry things. As if he’s starved for this, starved for you.

The bedroom is dim, lit only by the blue spill of moonlight pushing past the blinds. Mark kicks the door shut with his heel, never pulling his mouth from yours, and you barely notice. You’re too wrapped in the heat of him, his hands firm on your back, the scent of him in your nose, the familiar weight of his body pressing into yours like a home you haven’t realized you’ve missed until you’re back in it. He kisses like he’s making up for lost time. For the hospital days, for the quiet silences when you were watching the movie, for all the ways he’s looked at you lately, gentle, too gentle, like you might break if he even breathes the wrong way. But this… this isn’t gentle.

This is Mark.

And you cling to it. Cling to him. To his warmth, the press of his chest, the scratch of his jaw along your throat as he breaks from your mouth and trails kisses down your neck.

He groans softly against your skin, hands spreading over your hips like he’s mapping familiar territory, though even you know your body isn’t the same. You’re not big yet, not even showing under clothes unless someone knows what to look for, but you know. You feel it. The tightness. The weight. The way your shirts hug differently now, the slight change in the slope of your waist, the tender spots that haven’t been there before.

And for a moment… as Mark kisses the soft skin beneath your jaw, his mouth warm and wanting, you freeze just a little inside.

He feels it. You know he does. He pulls back a fraction, just enough to meet your eyes, his brow knitting.

“What?” he asks, voice low, still breathless.

You shake your head. It’s instinct. Lie first. Explain later.

But he doesn’t let you. He leans his forehead against yours, and you feel that familiar ache behind his voice when he says, “Talk to me.”

You hesitate, fingers still curled around his muscular biceps. He’s solid under your touch, heat and muscle, all the strength he barely lets himself use anymore. You look at him, the sharp line of his jaw, the mess of dark hair falling across his forehead, the bright look of his azure eyes, and something twists tight in your chest.

“I just… I don’t look the same,” you admit. Quiet. Barely louder than a breath.

He stills.

Your hands drop from his arms. “I’m not big yet, but I can feel it. Everything’s changing. And I don’t-”

Mark kisses you hard. No warning, no pause. Just his mouth on yours again like he needs to shut you up with the truth, like words aren’t good enough anymore. He breaks the kiss just long enough to whisper, “You’re beautiful. You know that, right?”

You swallow.

“Even if you don’t see it yet,” he adds, and then, God, he smiles a little, the kind of rare, crooked grin that reaches all the way to his eyes. “I do.”

And before you can say anything, before you can fall too deep into whatever spiral your brain is trying to build out of hormones and fear and post-hospital trauma, Mark drops to his knees. Right in front of you.

Your breath hitches.

His hands come to your hips again, reverent now, as he presses his cheek lightly against your stomach. He doesn’t say anything for a long second. Just closes his eyes and breathes you in. The heat of his skin soaks through your shirt.

You touch his hair, tentative at first. Your fingers thread through the dark strands automatically, and his hands slowly slide down, gripping your thighs, steadying you. When he looks up, his eyes are darker than they were a moment ago. Focused. Hungry.

“Let me take care of you,” he murmurs.

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The way you stand there, half shaking, heart pounding, shirt clinging to your chest from your own heat, that’s answer enough.

Mark’s hands curl into the waistband of your pajama pants. You lift your hips for him, slow and steady, and he peels them down along with your underwear. The air hits you first, cool on skin that feels overheated, soaked in want. He moves like he’s unwrapping something sacred, something breakable but his. When the fabric hits your knees, he leans in and kisses the soft skin of your lower belly then lower still, lips trailing just above your mound, hot breath ghosting across your clit.

You twitch. You can’t help it.

Then he kisses you there, right there, his mouth closing around your clit in a slow, obscene suck that pulls a choked sound straight out of your throat. It’s not polite, not soft. It’s hungry. A low growl vibrates against your cunt as his tongue slides out and circles you, wide and deliberate.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your knees nearly buckling. Mark grabs your thighs and spreads them wider, anchoring you to the bed. His grip is firm, a little rough, fingers digging in just enough to remind you what it feels like to be wanted without apology.

He groans into you again, like the taste is doing something to him, wrecking him. His tongue licks up your slit, slow and hot, collecting slick like he’s savoring every drop. Then he flattens it against your clit and just stays there, sucking and lapping until your hips are grinding into his mouth, chasing it. No teasing. No hesitation. Just pressure and rhythm and filthy, focused worship.

“God, Mark-” you whimper, hands clutching his hair like you’re afraid he might stop.

He doesn’t. He goes deeper, tongue dipping down to fuck into you, slow at first, then faster, fucking you with his mouth like he wants you to fall apart right there on his face. His nose bumps your clit, jaw working between your thighs, and the mess of it, his spit, your slick, the obscene sounds, makes you burn with it, humiliated and high on it all at once.

You glance down, his face buried in your pussy, eyes half-lidded and drunk on you, his hands stroking your thighs like he’s taming something wild, and the pressure coils sharp and unbearable in your stomach.

“Mark…fuck, I’m gonna-”

He moans like he wants you to. Like he’s waiting for it. And when he pulls back just enough to spit on your clit and suck it back into his mouth, you break. Your orgasm slams into you with no grace, no warning, your thighs shake, your whole body clenches, and your moan rips raw from your throat as everything inside you spills over.

He holds you through it, mouth still on you, tongue dragging every aftershock out like he’s milking you for more. You sob his name. He groans in reply, licking you through every twitch, every tremble, like he needs this as much as you do.

Only when your body finally goes limp does he pull back, lips wet, chin shining with you. He looks up at you from between your legs, chest rising, eyes burning.

“Still think you’re not fucking perfect?” he rasps, voice thick with lust and something softer beneath it.

You laugh through the haze, wrecked and ruined. “Shut the fuck up.”

He grins like a man starved.

And he stands.

Not done.

Not even close.

Your thighs are still spread wide, your cunt glistening, flushed and messy with slick. Mark’s between them again, kneeling at the edge of the bed, jeans pushed low on his hips, shirt long since forgotten. His chest rises and falls like he just ran a marathon, but his eyes, those wide, dark, awe-drunk blue eyes, stay locked between your legs.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters, his voice rasped raw. “You’re still dripping. Still soaked.”

His fingers brush your inner thigh, smearing through the slick that’s smeared all over your skin. He stares like you’ve completely short-circuited him, jaw slack, lips parted. “Did I do that?” he murmurs, almost not even asking, more like wondering out loud if he actually gets to take credit for the mess between your legs.

You nod, breath shaky, cunt pulsing around nothing.

“Yeah,” you pant. “All you.”

And fuck, that does something to him. He bites his bottom lip like he’s trying to keep himself from shaking. But his fingers, those strong, careful hands, are already moving, sliding back up between your thighs, and this time he doesn’t hesitate. His fingertips glide over your slit, parting you gently, then dragging up to your clit in one long, slick stroke.

Your body jolts like you’ve been hit with live wire.

Mark groans deep, watching his fingers stroke you, watching your body react. “You’re fucking soaking my hand,” he says, more breath than voice. “I can feel you throbbing, fuck, I’m not even inside yet and you’re already fucking begging for it.”

He rubs your clit with slow, deliberate circles, watching your hips twitch upward, your cunt flexing, leaking more slick with every pass of his hand. Then, like he can’t take one more second, he shifts closer and pushes two fingers deep inside you without warning.

You cry out loud, gutturalc and he moans right with you, like the way your walls clamp down on him is too much, too fucking good.

“Holy shit, holy shit,” Mark pants, jaw tight, fingers buried to the knuckle. “You’re tight as fuck, fucking sucking me in.”

He starts moving his hand, fucking you slow at first, deliberate, each thrust slick and obscene, his knuckles slicked with how much you’re dripping. He watches like he’s hypnotized, like every little sound your pussy makes when he curls his fingers inside you is rewiring his brain.

Your cunt clenches around him again and he groans, eyes fluttering. “You feel that? You’re fucking pulsing, I can feel your pussy clenching around my fingers like it’s trying to milk them.”

His thumb finds your clit again and he presses down, starts rubbing tight, dirty circles as his fingers fuck deeper. The rhythm’s building now wet, messy, filthy, and the sounds are loud, your breathless gasps, your pussy squelching with every thrust, the bed creaking as your hips grind down into his palm.

“Mark…fuck-”

Your voice breaks and it wrecks him. He leans in, close, mouth hovering over your stomach, your tits, your neck but he doesn’t kiss. He’s breathing too hard, sweating, trembling like he’s barely hanging on.

“Come on, baby,” he groans, voice thick. “Let me feel you come. I need it. Fucking drown my hand, come on, show me how messy this little pussy can get.”

You feel the orgasm coil tight in your gut, every muscle pulling taut, your cunt squeezing around his fingers like it knows what’s coming. You grab at the sheets, nails clawing at the fabric, legs starting to shake.

“Mark! I’m gonna-”

He thrusts his fingers deeper, rougher, grinding his thumb down on your clit like he wants to force it out of you. And it works.

You break.

The orgasm rips through you, brutal and blinding. You scream his name as your body convulses, your pussy clamping down hard around his fingers as you come, slick squirting out around his hand, soaking his wrist, dripping onto the sheets.

Mark groans like he’s coming from it himself. “Fuck yes, fuck, look at that…God, baby, fuck-”

He keeps moving his fingers as you ride it out, slowing only when your hips jerk away from him, too sensitive, too raw. You’re twitching, legs trembling, body wrecked, and he finally eases his fingers out, soaked and glistening.

He stares at them like he’s just been baptized.

Then he brings them to his mouth.

And sucks them clean.

His eyes close. He moans deep in his chest, licking every drop off like he needs it.

And you’re still spread for him, cunt wrecked and leaking, body pulsing in the afterglow.

And then he looks down at you, completely wrecked, still breathing heavy, your legs spread for him, your body hot and ready, and whispered, “You ready for me now?”

You catch his gaze and nod.

Mark bends down again, kissing you tenderly once, then deep, tongue tracing your lower lip before he draws back, lines himself up with you again, and starts to press inside.

Mark pushes into you slow, agonizingly slow, the thick head of his cock splitting you open inch by inch. The stretch is brutal, sweet, the kind of pain that makes your toes curl and your mouth fall open in a gasp. He groans loud at the first squeeze of your cunt around him, fingers digging into the sheets like he’s trying not to lose it already.

“Fuck… fuck, you’re tight,” he chokes out, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Holy shit, you’re gripping me.”

You grab at him, shoulders, back, arms, anything solid to keep you grounded as he sinks deeper. It feels like he’s everywhere, thick and hot and hard as steel, the pressure building as your walls stretch around him, slick and pulsing. You’re soaked for him, and he feels it, he moans at the obscene wet sound of your pussy swallowing him whole.

Every inch he gives you is fire, and you take it like you’re starved, hips rolling up to meet him, greedy, desperate. Your body clenches, and he gasps again, voice cracking. He’s trembling above you, arms taut, sweat slicking his chest as he fights every instinct telling him to thrust.

“I-fuck, I can’t-” he groans. “You feel too fucking good. I’m barely in and I already wanna come.”

You turn your head, lips brushing the shell of his ear, voice a rasp. “You don’t have to hold back.”

He lifts his head, looking down at you, his hair hanging in his face, blue eyes blown wide with something close to panic. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You lock your legs around his waist, arching into him, cunt flexing around the thick base of his cock. “Then don’t. Just fuck me.”

And that breaks him.

He pulls back, just enough for the stretch to hit again, then slams forward, burying himself to the base with a sharp, wet slap. You cry out, eyes rolling back as your walls clamp down hard. He groans like he’s dying, hips jerking once, then again, harder, rougher.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groans, gripping your hips, slamming into you again. “You’re so fucking wet, so full, you’re taking it. God, baby, you’re taking this cock like you fucking need it-”

And you do. Your whole body is tuned to him, to the drag of his cock along your walls, the sting of every deep thrust. He pounds into you like he’s making up for lost time, weeks of wanting, of holding back, of not being able to touch you the way he needed to. It’s all crashing down now.

The bed rocks under you, frame creaking, the slap of skin-on-skin brutal and constant. Mark fucks you with everything, hips snapping, muscles straining, teeth gritted as he watches your tits bounce with every thrust. His voice is wrecked, raw.

“Look at you,” he moans, driving in deep. “You love this, don’t you? Love how deep I get? How hard I fuck you?”

You moan, high and helpless, cunt fluttering around him. “Yes, fuck, yes—don’t stop—don’t you fucking dare—”

His hands are everywhere, your waist, your throat, your thighs, holding you open, pressing you down, gripping like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. He leans in, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping from his temple as he fucks into you harder, rougher, his cock pistoning in and out of your soaked cunt with filthy, relentless rhythm.

You’re soaked, dripping, loud and messy. The air smells like sweat, sex, like him. The heat between your bodies is suffocating.

“Gonna fill you up,” Mark grits, voice shaking. “Gonna fucking breed this pussy—watch it drip out after—watch it leak down your thighs—fuck—you want that? You want my cum inside you?” “Yes—God, yes—give it to me, please—”

Your orgasm hits with no warning, just a violent, overwhelming wave. Your body seizes, back arching off the mattress as you scream, pussy clenching hard around his cock, milking him. You soak the sheets beneath you, your cunt spasming, gushing around him.

Mark snaps.

He slams in one last time, deep as he can get, and stays there, grinding his hips as he empties himself, cock twitching, thick ropes of cum spilling inside you with each pulsing throb. He gasps your name, over and over, forehead pressed to yours, his whole body shuddering with the force of it.

And he stays. Buried in your cunt, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his skin to yours. He’s still hard, still thick, his cum already starting to leak out around the base of his cock where your pussy refuses to let him go.

He kisses you. Messy. Open-mouthed. Desperate.

Then softer. Softer still.

“You okay?” he whispers, voice frayed, breath catching.

You smile, lips brushing his. “I’m so fucking perfect right now.”

And for once, Mark Grayson isn’t holding up the universe.

Mark stays inside you, still buried deep, breath ragged against your mouth, his forehead pressed to yours. His chest is slick with sweat, his heart pounding like a drum against your ribs. You feel him twitch inside you, softening slowly, but not completely, not even close. Your cunt clenches reflexively, like your body’s refusing to let him go.

There’s cum leaking out of you already, hot and thick, drooling around where he’s still stuffed full inside. You’re sore and used and aching in the best way, legs still wrapped tight around his waist, fingers dragging through the sweat on his back.

He doesn’t say anything for a long second. Just breathes. Heavy. Shaky. Holding you like the second he moves, he’s going to fall apart.

You turn your face slightly and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “We’re not done yet, are we?”

He exhales, lets out this wrecked laugh that’s almost a gasp, and looks at you. His eyes are blown wide. Not scared now, just undone. You can see it in him, the way he’s gripping you like he’s still catching up to the fact that he gets to have you again.

“I… I don’t think I can be,” he says quietly. “I’ve been trying to do the right thing. Give you space. Be careful. And now that I’ve got you like this, now that I’m… in you-” He shakes his head, voice going rough. “God, I don’t want to stop.”

He buries his face in your neck and groans low when you shift beneath him. Your pussy clenches down again, and he groans, the sound muffled against your skin.

“You feel…Jesus, you still feel so good.”

He’s getting hard again. You feel it. The stretch returns gradually, your cunt welcoming the thickening length inside like it never wanted him to leave. You reach between you, wrap your hand around him where your bodies are joined, slick, warm, soaked in his cum, and you feel the way he swells against your palm.

You murmur into his ear, “We’ve got months to make up for. So go ahead, Mark. Take me again.”

He lifts his head and stares down at you. His face is flushed, eyes intense, jaw tight.

“You sure?” he asks. “I mean… I’m already kind of going again, but if you’re not okay-”

“I’m not breaking,” you tell him. “You need me? Then take me.”

That’s it.

He kisses you, hard. No hesitation. Just tongue and heat and need, like he can’t decide what part of you to grab first. His hips pull back, cock dragging out of you slow, heavy with slick, then he thrusts back in. Deeper. Harder. His breath leaves him in a shudder.

“Shit,” he gasps. “Okay. Okay.”

Mark starts to move faster, thrusting with no hesitation now, no restraint. The bed creaks under the rhythm of it, your body pushed into the mattress with every thrust. He doesn’t pull back far, he stays close, keeps you tight to his chest, one hand gripping your thigh, the other buried in your hair, holding you to his mouth like he needs every inch of you pressed to him to stay sane.

“I missed this,” he says into your skin, voice shaking. “I missed you. I missed being this close. Missed the sounds you make. Missed how your body feels wrapped around me. I just… I didn’t know how much I needed it until right now.”

You moan, loud, legs tightening around his hips. Your nails dig into his back, your cunt fluttering around him, hot and soaked and aching.

“You feel so good,” he says again, groaning as he thrusts deep. “Every part of you.”

Your body is already tensing, your clit dragging against his pelvis every time he drives in deep. Your breath catches. Your thighs shake.

“You close?” he murmurs into your neck. “You’re squeezing me. I can feel it. You gonna come again?”

You nod fast, panting, unable to even get the words out.

He kisses you, sloppy, breathless, and starts to fuck you harder, thrusts sharper, less controlled. His voice breaks again. “Come on. Let go. I wanna feel you. I wanna feel you all over me.”

It only takes a few more thrusts before you’re falling apart under him, your orgasm slamming through you like a freight train. You gasp his name, back arching, pussy gripping his cock tight as the world narrows to nothing but Mark and the heat inside you.

Mark groans loud, hips stuttering as he buries himself to the hilt. “Oh God. Oh fuck-”

You feel him come again, cock twitching, spilling deep. His whole body shakes with it, his breath coming in sharp bursts against your cheek. He presses into you, still inside, still pulsing, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if there’s even an inch of space between you.

Neither of you speak for a while. Just breathing. Bodies tangled. Skin slick. Hearts pounding against each other.

Eventually, he lifts his head just enough to kiss your cheek, then your lips, and finally your forehead.

“I can’t believe I made myself wait this long,” he says softly. “That I convinced myself it was better to stay away from you.”

You smile, your fingers trailing down his sweat-slick back. “You were scared.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Still am.”

“Well,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, your legs still hooked around his waist, “keep fucking me like that, and I’ll help you forget.”

You feel it. The slow pulse. The twitch.

Mark meets your eyes, his grin crooked, face wrecked and flushed.

Your body is still pulsing around him, slow and deep, every lazy flutter of your cunt refusing to let him go. You’re soaked, skin slick, thighs trembling, your hair plastered to your forehead with sweat. The room reeks of sex and heat and the mess of him inside you, thick and warm and still leaking out in heavy, wet drips. His cum is everywhere, smearing between your thighs, pooling beneath your ass, slicking your folds where he’s still buried to the hilt in you.

You don’t move. You’re too full, too sensitive, and honestly? You don’t want to. You’re locked in his lap, straddling his hips, your legs barely able to hold their own weight. Your pussy is aching, used, stretched open and stuffed full of him and you still feel greedy for more.

Mark leans back against the headboard, still panting. His chest rises hard under yours, and his heart’s beating wild, pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to crawl into your skin. His arms are tight around your waist, one hand still spread wide at the small of your back like he’s afraid you’ll float off if he lets go. But you’re not going anywhere.

You shift, just a little. Just enough to feel the thick slide of his cock inside you. He twitches. Both of you groan, his from the overstimulation, yours from the raw friction across swollen, overstretched walls. You gasp softly. He winces like the sound physically hits him.

He’s still inside you. Still hot. Still thick. You can feel him getting harder again, his cock swelling back to full inside your soaked, cum-stuffed cunt. Your body reacts instantly. Your walls flutter, clench, tighten around him like a reflex you don’t even control.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

His hair is a mess, wild and damp, hanging over his forehead. His face is flushed, lips parted, jaw tight like he’s barely holding himself together. His pupils are blown so wide you can barely see the blue anymore. But it’s the look in his eyes that gets you.

That raw, open need. That helpless hunger. Like he wants to ask if it’s okay to touch you again but doesn’t trust himself not to just do it.

“Still with me?” you ask, breathless, voice wrecked but light.

Mark just stares at you like he’s not sure if you’re real. His voice is hoarse when it finally comes out, and it’s low, honest, unfiltered. “Yeah. I… I’m here. I just…” His breath catches. “I don’t think I’ve ever needed anything like I need you right now.”

You kiss him, slow, deep, mouths open and heavy with the taste of sweat and breath. As your hips start to grind, you feel his cock pulse hard inside you, and you both moan, him from the friction, you from the delicious pressure of him dragging along your raw inner walls. Your body welcomes the weight, the heat, the slow, building stretch.

It’s different now. No tight snap, no sting. Just the deep, aching fullness of being fucked open and used and still wanting more.

You roll your hips forward, dragging your clit against the base of his cock, and feel his whole body shudder. His head falls back against the headboard, jaw clenched, breath hissing through his teeth.

“You’re seriously gonna kill me,” he mutters, voice ragged.

“Not planning on it,” you murmur back, hot against his throat. “Lie back.”

He shifts down the bed, moving slow, careful not to slide out. You feel every inch of him stay deep as he settles. You brace your hands on his chest, solid and warm beneath your palms, heart still pounding fast, and start to move.

Just a little. Just enough.

Your hips grind forward, then roll back, keeping him inside, making him feel every soaked ridge of your cunt, dragging his cock through slick and heat and the slow throb of your body. Your thighs tremble from the effort, but you like the ache. You like the stretch. The soreness. The way you can still feel his cum leaking out with every motion.

Mark’s hands slide up from your hips, slow, reverent, like he’s relearning your body all over again. He palms your waist, your ribs, thumbs brushing the swell of your breasts but not groping, just holding. His eyes don’t leave the place where your body’s taking him again, where your cunt splits open to swallow him whole.

“I missed this,” he says, voice low and rough. “Not just the sex. I missed you. Missed the way you look on top of me.”

You move faster.

You start to bounce, slow but deeper, rising until just his tip sits inside you, then dropping back down and taking him all the way, the slick sound of it echoing off the walls. You both groan, loud and raw, breathless.

The pace builds. Your thighs start to slap against his, harder with each bounce. His cock grinds deep, bottoming out in you again and again. Your clit drags against his pelvis with every thrust, sending sharp bursts of pleasure through your spine.

“Faster,” he breathes. “Please—just—ride me. I need it. I need you.”

You obey.

Your hips slap down, bouncing harder, faster, the sound of it loud and messy and perfect. Mark groans under you, head tipped back, voice gone ragged.

You lean forward again, grab his face in both hands, press your forehead to his. “Look at me,” you whisper, your breath catching. “I’m gonna come again. I want you to watch.”

His eyes snap to yours. “I’m right here,” he says. “I’ve got you. Always.”

You come.

It hits hard, your back arches, your voice breaks, your cunt clamps down around him in tight, shuddering waves. You cry out, grinding down on him, feeling your slick flood around his cock as your whole body seizes up, trembling through the crash.

And Mark falls with you.

His hands grip your waist hard, and he fucks up into you from below, wild, desperate, thrusting as deep as he can go. His voice tears out of him.

“I’m coming—fuck—I’m coming, baby, fuck—”

He slams into you one last time and holds himself there, cock pulsing inside you as he fills you again, thick and hot and endless. You feel it pour into you, the pressure building as his cum spills past his cock and runs down your thighs.

You collapse against his chest, both of you gasping. He wraps his arms around you, tighter than before, face pressed into your neck like he needs to hide in your skin.

Neither of you moves.

You’re both soaked. Still joined. His cock still hard inside your fluttering, raw cunt.

Mark’s arms lingered around you, his hold just strong enough to make you feel confined in the greatest way, like you were something delicate, something precious he couldn’t bear to let go of. His chest was still rising fast against yours, pulse hammering into your face, and you could feel the weight of all three of your orgasms, his, heavy and deep inside you, yours, pulsating and still reverberating through your limbs, settling over the room like heat trapped under the covers.

The air smells like sex. The headboard’s left small dents in the drywall. Your thighs are a mess, and so is the bed. And still, neither of you moves.

You adjust your hips just slightly and grimace at the oversensitive glide of his cock still buried deep inside you. Mark kisses your temple quickly, catching the glimmer of agony in your breath. “You okay?” he asks, gentler now. Like he’s coming back down to earth.

“Yeah,” you murmur, leaning your forehead to his jaw. “Just… really full. And really sore.”

He lets out a breath of a chuckle, nuzzling into your hair. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” You smile. “I wanted it.”

“I think you’re gonna be feeling it all day tomorrow,” he mutters, tracing a hand slowly down your back, fingertips just brushing your spine. You shiver. His cock has softened now, but it’s still thick and warm inside you, tethering you together. He’s not in a rush to move, and neither are you.

The calm stretches. Your cheek rests in the hollow of his throat, eyes fluttering closed. His fingers wander at your waist, up your ribs, not teasing, just present, like he needs the contact to stay grounded. Like you’re his anchor.

It feels nice. Too nice. Like the rest of the world doesn’t exist beyond the rim of the mattress.

But it still does.

“Tomorrow,” you whisper, voice low and warm in the hush.

He hums. “Yeah.”

“We’re picking up Oliver, remember? Gotta take him to the baby shop in the city.” You grin, part amused, part already exhausted. “We promised.”

Mark moans under his breath, not annoyed just resigned. “He’s gonna touch everything.”

“He’s excited,” you say, lazily tracing a circle on his chest. “It’s a big deal for him too.”

Mark nods, his hand slowing on your back. “He keeps asking if it’s gonna have powers. Like there’s a test we can do or something.”

You laugh, quiet and breathless. “What’d you tell him?”

“I said we won’t know ‘til he throws something across the room.” He grins into your hair. “Or punches through a wall.”

You breathe against his skin, and for a minute, you both just lie there, wrapped in the afterglow, tangled in the wreckage of want. The day ahead lingers at the edges. Baby things. Oliver. Appointments. Names. Exhaustion.

Mark’s hand slides down your thigh, where it’s still draped over his hip. “We need a car seat.”

“And a bassinet.”

“And diapers. And bottles. And those… what are they called, the swinging chairs that play that weird carnival music?”

You moan into his chest. “Mark. We’re gonna be in that store for hours.”

He grins, mouth grazing your neck. “You’ll have to stop me from impulse-buying everything cute I see.”

You shift just enough to look at him, his eyes half-lidded, cheeks pink, hair stuck to his forehead. He looks young. Tired. But light. Like some pressure’s finally eased off his ribs. Like you’ve given him breath again.

You lean down and kiss him, soft and slow, lips barely brushing.

“We’re gonna be okay,” you whisper.

He kisses you back, hand settling over your belly, warm, steady.

“We already are.”

The next day starts with a knock.

Just a soft, familiar rhythm on the doorframe, yet it makes both of you pause like kids caught doing something they shouldn’t. For a second, your brain blanks, no ideas, no psychic impressions, just the raw, instinctive scrambling of someone who is both emotionally and physically destroyed and not ready to see anybody.

Mark moans low into your shoulder. He doesn’t move his head from where it's been buried for the previous twenty minutes. His arms are still wrapped around your waist like they’d rather stay there for the rest of time, your naked legs tangled together under the blankets, the air thick with the silent, lingering aroma of last night.

“Do we have to get up?” His voice is hoarse. Sleep-rough and damaged and definitely Mark.

You sigh, pushing your face against his temple. “That sounded like a Debbie knock.”

Another set of taps, more persistent this time.

Mark growls softly beneath his breath and pulls away just enough to peek toward the door, eyes still hazy, hair a disarray. “I forgot we said they could come by.”

You blink up at the ceiling and sigh. “I forgot people exist.”

There’s something absurdly vulnerable about this morning. Not just the fact that you’re both still fully nude and only now realize how painful your thighs are, or how your lips are puffy from the sheer amount of kissing you performed before, during, and after. It’s the emotional hangover. The weight of having grabbed each other like lifelines last night, trying to tell yourselves that you were still real, still here, still living after everything.

After hospitals and near-deaths and muttered apologies between shared breaths.

Now you’re here. Pregnant, four months in. In Mark’s bed. In Mark’s life.

And beyond that door is the boy who’s latched onto you like a newborn duckling since the minute you returned from the hospital, and the lady who looks at you with something like cautious optimism and careful devotion, like she’s still trying to trust you’re not going to disappear again.

You pull the blanket up over your chest and nudge Mark. “You have two options. Get the door and face the music, or pretend to be dead.”

He slumps back down alongside you dramatically. “Option three. Cuddle you until they give up and leave.”

There’s another knock, followed by a voice this time.

“Mark? It’s us. We brought breakfast!”

You wince. “They brought food. We’re screwed.”

Mark groans softly like a savage animal trapped in a net, wiping his hands over his face before forcing himself upright, the sheet dropping down his stomach. You try not to look, but you fail terribly. His back muscles flex as he sits up on the side of the bed, running a hand through his wavy hair, and you realize your heart rate has not, in fact, recovered from last night.

You draw the cover tightly about yourself as he puts on a sweater and sweatpants in record time, feet still bare. Before he goes out, he turns to you, his demeanor softening as he leans down and plants a long kiss to your temple.

“Stay right here. I’ll try to stall them.”

You offer him a weary grin. “Tell Oliver I’m sleeping. Maybe he’ll panic and be quiet for the rest of the morning.”

Mark grins despite himself and slips out the door.

You can hear the muted chorus from the living room, Oliver’s high-pitched voice yelling “MARK!” with frantic delight, followed by the sound of Debbie greeting him and some shuffling that sounds like luggage being deposited on the kitchen counter. The fragrance of something warm and delicious wafts down the corridor, and your stomach rumbles automatically.

Your legs feel heavy as you swing them out from the blankets. The room is dim, bathed in gentle light pouring through the curtains, and you’re still aching in ways you didn’t know were conceivable. But it’s a nice sore. A reminder of yesterday night’s urgency. Of how Mark held you like he needed to memorize the contour of you. How frantic and sloppy and serious he was when he touched you, whispering I missed you, I missed you so much between kisses like the words were sacrosanct.

You put on one of his old shirts off the floor, soft, and slightly smelling of him, and pad your way toward the door just in time to hear Debbie’s voice, calm and softly amused.

“You both look like you got hit by a truck.”

Mark snorts. “Thanks, Mom.”

Oliver’s voice rips through: “Where is she? Did she sleep over? Is she here? Is the baby okay?”

There’s a pause. Then a smaller voice, more hesitant “She didn’t leave again, right?”

That’s enough to make you move faster.

You stroll out into the hallway, and Oliver’s face brightens up the second he sees you. He abandons whatever donut he was carrying and races across the room to slam into you at full speed. You kneel reflexively and grab him, arms closing around the small tornado of a child who’s strangely much more bonded to you after your hospital stay than before.

“I missed you,” he whispers against your shoulder. “I had a dream you turned into a ghost and flew away.”

You swallow hard, softly caressing his back. “I’m not going anywhere, little star.”

Mark looks across at you from the kitchen, eyes heated with something thick and ineffable. His voice is softer now. “She’s staying.”

Debbie watches the whole conversation with a particular gentleness. Her lips are twisted in a knowing smile, yet there’s a spark of something in her eyes, relief, maybe. Or thankfulness. Or both.

You suppose she saw straight through both of you last night when she departed. She’s known Mark since birth. She must’ve noticed the shift. The unsaid connection that settled between the two of you when you sat together on that couch, when you didn’t let go of each other’s hands even after Oliver climbed into your lap.

Now she nods toward the table. “We brought pancakes. Oliver asked if he buy the ones with the blueberries inside.”

Mark rolls his eyes. “He said they were brain food.”

“They are,” Oliver maintains. “She needs them because her brain is psychic. So it’s extra.”

You grin. “Can’t argue with that logic.”

The four of you sit down together, and for a short time, it’s surprisingly normal. Warm food. Casual discussion. Oliver asks a million questions about how the baby eats and whether it can hear him yet and if it will be able to fly.

But behind it all, there’s a delicate, flickering peace. A moment suspended in time.

Mark’s foot touches yours under the table.

You peek over at him. He looks fatigued but grounded in a manner you haven’t seen in a long time. Like last night pulled something out of him and filled it with something better.

He’s not simply surviving anymore. He’s starting to live again. With you.

You lean into his side as he puts an arm around your shoulder, and as Oliver chatters about naming the kid "Laser Arm" and Debbie conceals her giggle behind her coffee cup, you let yourself breathe.

In this small apartment that smells like sugar and second chances, you are protected.

You are adored.

You are home.

Mark insists on assisting you into the passenger seat like you’re glass.

It’s not that you can’t open your own stupid car door, you remind him of that regularly, especially now that you’re four months pregnant and not, in fact, made of porcelain, but he does it nonetheless, every time. And maybe you’re secretly starting to like it. The way his hand creeps over your lower back, delicate and steady. The way he always waits for you to settle before shutting the door, like he’s making sure you don’t vanish again when he blinks.

“Seatbelt,” he whispers as he leans into your open window, voice sweet and seductive.

“You say that like I haven’t been buckling myself in since I was five.”

He bends forward and kisses your cheek anyhow. “Old habits. And I appreciate having excuses to go this close.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile is tough to disguise.

He jogs around the front of the car and jumps into the driver’s seat, and you watch him through the glass as he runs a hand through his curls, sunshine catching in the strands. He looks like himself today. No blood. No bruises. No weight of the world on his shoulders, at least not overtly.

The rear door snaps open and slams shut with an echoing thump, followed by Oliver’s high-pitched voice.

“I get the seat behind her!”

Mark pauses halfway through adjusting the mirror. “Wait, what? I thought you said I’m your favorite.”

“No,” Oliver says matter-of-factly, as if he’s rattling out scientific realities. “She’s is my favorite. You’re noisy and you fly weird.”

Your snort is badly veiled. Mark gives you a betrayed expression.

“Excuse me?” Mark turns in his seat, brows arched. “I do not fly weird.”

“You do! You go like whoosh-” Oliver shows by thrashing his arms like a fish gasping for air mid-air, his face a concentrated chaos of sound effects and fluttering sleeves. “It’s all zig-zaggy. It makes my tummy feel funny when you carry me.”

“That’s called evasive maneuvering!” Mark protests. “It’s for safety!”

“Yeah, well, she floats. She makes the air all quiet and fluffy like a marshmallow.”

You raise your eyebrows, turning to peek at Mark. “He’s got a point.”

Mark throws his hands up. “Unbelievable. Mutiny.”

Oliver pushes forward between the chairs, rubbing his chin against your shoulder like a small dog. “Can I sit behind you?”

You gaze at Mark with mock earnestness. “Are you okay relinquishing your throne?”

Mark grumbles as he starts the car. “It’s fine. I’m just the superhero. Go ahead and steal my family.”

Oliver jumps back into the middle seat with all the assurance of a monarch in a booster seat. He clicks his belt with a triumphant grunt and kicks his small legs gleefully. “Can we play music? But not Mark’s music. He listens to old stuff.”

Mark lifts a hand like he’s swearing an oath. “It’s classic rock, thank you.”

“You’re classic. Like a fossil.”

Mark glances at you, wide-eyed. “You hear this? You hear the hatred in my own car?”

You rest your head against the cool glass of the window, smirking. “I don’t know, babe. The fossil’s got a point. We should play something fun.”

“You’re all against me,” he groans, despondent, as he taps at the console. “What do the kids want these days?”

Oliver hops in his seat and suggests a childish song.

And so you spend the next seven minutes going to the store with a cartoon boy singing about friendship and portals booming through the speakers while Mark looks like he wants to crash the car into oncoming traffic just to escape the chorus. Oliver is yelling the words at the top of his lungs, throwing in theatrical hand motions for emphasis, while you grin behind your palm and try not to allow your own pleasure grow too evident.

But you’re happy. Genuinely. Not in the way you sometimes pretend to be, not in the way you feel when you’re shoving feelings to the side to focus on surviving, no, this is different. This is warm, and lively, and whole.

Mark glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking. He does that sometimes. Like he still can’t believe you’re here. Like he’s expecting to wake up and find himself alone in that apartment again, snuggled up in bed with nothing but your pillow and the ghost of your laugh ringing in the quiet.

When you catch his gaze this time, he grins. Soft. Real.

“Hey,” he says, above Oliver’s manic karaoke performance. “You good?”

You nod. “Better than good.”

And he leans over, squeezes your hand once before letting go.

When you arrive to the store, it’s quite cool. No fans, no pandemonium, no aliens invading mid-shopping expedition. Mark manages to park without accidently hitting anything, a miracle in itself, and Oliver scrambles out of the car like he’s ready to embark on the biggest quest of his life.

“Can I push the cart?” he begs, hopping in place.

Mark lifts an eyebrow. “You can’t even see over the handle.”

“I can if I stand on the little bar!”

You giggle and slip your arm around Mark’s. “Maybe we can both help. It’s your nephew’s cart now, after all.”

“Nephew,” Oliver repeats, testing the word in his tongue like it’s completely new. He glances at your stomach with strained brows. “That makes me important, right?”

“Very,” you remark, pressing your palm to your bump. “The baby’s gonna need you.”

Oliver moves closer, eyes wide with somber duty. “Hey, baby. I’m your uncle. I’m going teach you how to punch evil dudes and eat cereal.”

Mark makes a strangled noise next you, and you elbow him softly in the ribs.

Inside the shop, things are slower. Domestic. You hold the list, Mark pulls the cart (with Oliver supervising), and aisle after aisle, you pick out the parts of your future. Blankets. A nursery set you both keep going back to even though you act like you're not already in love with it.

Mark continues stealing peeks at you when you handle the baby clothing. He never says anything, but his hand always finds yours, grounded, warm. It’s as if he's terrified you'll weep, or vanish, or both. But you don't. Not today.

And maybe it's ridiculous. Maybe it's simply a usual morning. But after everything, all you've gone through, everything you're still suffering from, it feels like something sacred.

The calm delight of simply being.

Of being liked.

Of belonging.

And as Oliver hurls a pack of glow-in-the-dark pacifiers into the cart with a triumphant cry, Mark merely exhales a chuckle and throws an arm around your waist.

“This,” he breathes, chin stroking your temple, “is exactly what I wanted.”

You don’t say anything.

You simply lean in closer.

Because you want it too.

The nursery takes shape slowly. Not all at once, not in some picture-perfect montage of paint-splattered laughter and pristine Pinterest layouts, but in pieces, real, imperfect, human ones. It starts with you sitting on the floor with your legs crossed, sorting through tiny clothes while Mark struggles to assemble the crib. He’s muttering curses under his breath as wooden slats and metal screws betray him for the third time in a row, his hoodie speckled with lilac paint, his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat.

“You’re holding the instructions upside down,” you say without looking up.

He pauses. Then flips the manual in his hands with a sheepish grunt. “Still think we should’ve just hired someone.”

“I told you I could’ve done it with my powers.”

“And I told you I’d rather you not accidentally bend the crib into a pretzel and send it through a wall.”

You smirk, folding a baby onesie with a cute message in blocky letters. “Only happened once.”

“And we’re still missing that bookshelf.”

It’s slow. It’s messy. There are days when Mark has to leave mid-screwdriver twist because a monsters crawling through downtown or the Guardians need him, and he comes home with dirt on his boots and an apology in his eyes. But he always finishes what he starts. And over time, the room transforms.

Oliver helps too. Or tries to.

He draws a crude “Welcome Nephew” sign and tapes it proudly to the nursery door, complete with sparkles, questionable spelling, and what you think might be a rocket ship but could also be a toaster. You keep it anyway. You frame it. He insists on picking out stuffed animals and ends up with a collection of the weirdest things you’ve ever seen, a glow-in-the-dark octopus, a grumpy-looking bat, a sloth wearing a cape.

“Every baby needs weird stuff,” he says. “That’s how you grow strong.”

Months pass like water.

You feel your son long before you meet him. He kicks. He stirs. He shifts under your ribs like he’s dancing to music only he can hear. Mark talks to your belly every night, reading comics and giving dramatic voices to every character, even the side ones. Sometimes he’ll rest his hand over your bump and just go quiet. Not because he’s out of things to say, but because he’s overwhelmed by how much he wants to say.

And Oliver, he grows faster than you can keep up with.

Twelve years old comes too fast. He’s taller, leaner, all limbs and opinions, and his voice cracks when he talks too fast. His hair won’t stay down no matter what Debbie does, and he still manages to look both awkward and heroic at the same time when he tries to help you carry groceries or watches over you like a hawk whenever you get too quiet.

He still insists on being involved in everything.

He pokes his head into the nursery one evening, watching Mark finish putting up the mobile, little plush planets and rocket ships. “So when do I get to teach him stuff?”

Mark smirks. “Like what?”

Oliver leans against the doorframe like he’s been rehearsing this. “Like how to throw a punch and how to hide cookies under your bed without anyone noticing.”

You raise a brow. “Anything else?”

“And… how to take care of people,” Oliver says a little quieter, looking at you now. “I’ll be his uncle. That’s important.”

It lands heavier than you expect. The way he says it. Like he’s giving himself a job. Like this baby already means something sacred to him.

And it does.

The day of the birth is nothing like the movies.

There’s no soft filter over your vision, no ethereal glow or peaceful pushing. There is pain. Unrelenting, blinding pain. There is screaming. And most of it is yours.

Mark has been holding your hand since the contractions started, at home, in the car, all the way into the hospital, but now that it’s real, now that you’re mid-labor with the lights too bright and the nurse asking you to breathe, you turn your fury on him.

“I HATE YOU!”

Mark blinks, wide-eyed, caught between trying to be supportive and trying not to cry. “Okay. Yeah. Totally valid. That’s fair-”

“This is YOUR fault!” you scream through another contraction, gripping his hand with strength that could crush stone. “You did this to me, Markus Grayson!”

“I did. I one hundred percent did,” he says, nodding so fast it’s almost a blur. “And I will never stop apologizing. Ever.”

The nurse suppresses a smile and gestures to Mark. “Keep talking to her. She’s doing great.”

“Doing great?” you snarl, panting. “I’m DYING!”

“No, no, no, you're doing amazing, babe-seriously, you’re like a warrior or, OW, okay, yep, that’s my hand-”

You don’t even hear him. Not really. You’re locked in. Focused on pushing. Breathing. Surviving.

Everything burns. Everything hurts. You feel like you’re being torn in half and sewn back together in the same breath. You scream through the next push like you’re exorcising a demon.

And then

A cry.

Shrill. Piercing. Alive.

Your world narrows to that sound. That single, miraculous scream.

You collapse back onto the hospital bed, sweat-soaked, shaking, sobbing in relief. You don’t even realize you’re crying until Mark’s hands are on your face, his lips on your forehead.

“He’s here,” he whispers. His voice cracks. “He’s really here.”

You can barely breathe. “Is he-?”

“He’s perfect.” Mark laughs, breathless and wet-eyed. “God, he’s perfect.”

They place your son on your chest and the world stops.

He’s tiny. Wrinkled. Absolutely furious about being born. But he’s real. And warm. And his little fist curls against your collarbone like he’s anchoring himself to the sound of your heartbeat. Mark’s touching him like he’s afraid to break him, his thumb brushing along the edge of your son’s damp black hair.

“Hey, buddy,” he whispers. “I’m your dad. Sorry about the dramatic entrance.”

You don’t even have the strength to speak. You just look at them, your son, and Mark, kneeling beside you like he can’t believe this is real. And maybe you can’t either.

There’s a knock at the door. A familiar head peeks in.

“Can I come in?” Oliver asks, voice cracking halfway through. He’s holding a plush dinosaur under one arm and looks like he ran here at full speed. “Is he here? Is my nephew-?”

Mark waves him in with one arm still around your shoulders.

Oliver edges toward the bed, his eyes wide. “Whoa. He’s so small.”

“He’s got lungs,” you croak, voice hoarse from yelling. “And very dramatic opinions.”

Oliver smiles, a little stunned. “Can I say hi?”

You nod.

Oliver steps closer and leans down, placing the stuffed dino on the edge of the blanket.

“Hey, little guy,” he murmurs. “I’m your uncle. Which means I get to teach you all the best stuff. Like how to fake sick to get out of school, and how to pretend to sleep through your parents kissing.”

Mark shoots him a look. “You don’t even go to school anymore.”

Oliver grins. “Doesn’t mean I don’t know the hacks.”

You laugh, genuinely laugh, even though your whole body feels like it’s been hit by a truck, and you look down at your son.

Your son.

Everything that’s ever happened, every scar, every loss, every breathless night and haunted morning, led to this.

To him.

To family.

To love.

#invincible #invincible x reader #invincible fanfic #invincible season 3 #invincible angst #invincible x you #mark grayson x reader #invincible smut #reader insert #invincible x fem! reader #invincible variants #invincible x fem!reader #emperor mark yummy gimme dat cookie #mark variants #sinister mark #mark grayson x you #mark grayson smut #mark grayson

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manmuncher777 · 14 hours ago

Text

You didn’t even think twice when you sent the picture to Ino — something a little bratty, a little teasing, just enough skin to make him crazy.

It was harmless, right?

Wrong.

Because he’s storming through the door not even an hour later, keys clattering to the floor, jaw tight and fists clenching at his sides as he stares at you across the room like you’re a meal he’s about to tear apart

“That’s how you wanna play it, huh?” he mutters, voice low, strained like he’s trying to hold himself together — and failing. He’s already crowding you against the wall, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip so tight you gasp.

“You know what you do to me, sweetheart? You know what sending shit like that does to me when I’m trying to work?” His mouth is right by your ear now, hot breath making you shiver. “I couldn’t think straight all goddamn day. Could barely keep my hands off myself because of you. Nanami sent me home early because I was so fucked”

Your teasing smile falters when you feel how hard he is, already grinding against your thigh like he can’t stand a single inch of space between you.

“You want attention so bad, huh?” Ino murmurs, almost mockingly sweet. His hand slides up your thigh, slow and deliberate, making you squirm. “S’that it? Needed me so bad you had to act out like a little brat?”

He huffs a breath — frustrated, needy — and nips your jaw as he rocks his hips against you harder.

“I’ll give you what you want, baby. I’ll give you everything.” His voice cracks a little at the end, all that need slipping through, even though he’s still pretending he’s in control. “But you’re not gonna walk right for days after this. You hear me?”

And when he finally drags you to the bedroom, he’s half-groaning, half-muttering under his breath about how you’re gonna be the death of him — while he ruins you like he’s the one begging for it.

He doesn’t even make it to the bed properly — you’re still half-stumbling backward when Ino grabs you, tossing you onto the mattress like you weigh nothing. His shirt’s already halfway off, hair a messy halo around his face, his chest heaving like he’s just run a marathon chasing you.

“You wanna be a fuckin’ tease, baby?” he grunts, hands already tugging your bottoms down. He’s rough but careful, manhandling you like he can’t decide if he wants to wreck you or worship you. “This what you wanted all day? To drive me crazy till I couldn’t think straight?”

You barely get out a breathy “yes” before he’s diving between your thighs, dragging his tongue along your already-dripping heat with a low, guttural groan.

“God, you’re so fuckin’ wet,” he growls, almost angry about it. “S’this all for me? Huh, sweetheart?”

You can only whimper, clenching the sheets as he eats you like he’s starving — messy, desperate, insatiable. Every roll of his tongue feels like he’s trying to make up for the hours he spent at work frustrated and hard because of you.

He pulls back just enough to smirk up at you, mouth shiny.

“You better be ready, baby.’

He’s stripping his pants off in a rush, cock springing free — thick, leaking, angry red at the tip. You don’t even get a second to catch your breath before he’s dragging you down the bed, lifting your hips up and lining himself against your entrance with a low, shuddery moan.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he mutters, voice cracking again from how desperate he is. He pushes in slow, almost reverently, but once he’s buried to the hilt inside you, all bets are off.

He fucks into you hard, relentless, every thrust punching soft little gasps from your lips.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he groans, biting down on your shoulder like he has to ground himself somehow. “You were made for me, baby. Made to be fucked like this. Shit.”

You’re babbling now, clutching at his shoulders, eyes rolling back with how deep he’s hitting.

“Yeah? S’that what you wanted?” he pants, thrusts getting rougher, more erratic. “Wanted me to come home and ruin you? Wanted me so bad you couldn’t behave, huh?”

“Y-Yeah,” you cry out, tears brimming from the intensity of it all.

“Fuck, I know, baby, I know,” he coos mockingly, licking a stripe up your neck. “Poor thing, just needed me so bad.”

His hand slips between your bodies, rubbing messy, fast circles over your clit, drawing high-pitched whines from your throat.

“Come for me, sweetheart. Come all over my cock like a good fuckin’ girl,” he demands, voice low and wrecked.

You shatter with a scream, back arching off the bed, squeezing him so tight he almost sobs. He fucks you through it, chasing his own high, until he’s spilling inside you with a broken, desperate moan, thrusting a few more times just to feel you cling to him.

When he finally collapses over you, both of you a sweaty, trembling mess, he’s still pressing soft kisses to your temple.

“Gonna have to start sending me more pictures, baby,” he breathes out, a lazy, satisfied smirk on his lips. “Fuckin’ love it when you act up like that.”

#jjk #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #jjk fanfic #ino takuma #ino jjk #ino takuma smut #ino smut #ino fluff #takuma ino x reader #jjk takuma #takuma ino smut

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whateverisbeautiful · 3 days ago

Note

I’ve seen some people say lately that Michonne deserves better than Rick. I obviously don’t agree, but just wanted your thoughts on this.

I honestly think the only one who could love Michonne more than Rick Grimes would be God Almighty. Like Rick is beating out every single human being in a Michonne stan competition. The only one’s who could even give him a run for his money is their children…and Rick is still taking home that trophy if I had to bet lol.

Michonne absolutely deserves the world. And the way I see it, she’s married to the exact man determined to give her the world. 🌎 Rick and Michonne are soulmates. And they’re equals. Which means being equally perfect for each other.

Thanks for inquiring about this. 😊 I wrote out more below⬇️🩷:

When people say that Michonne deserved better than Rick, I wonder what’s the reasoning and if they are able to specify what type of different partner they’re envisioning for her. Because whoever that man is, he’d have to be pretty much infallible to be “better.” And even then I still think Rick would be the best match for Michonne, flaws and all, because Michonne has never demanded perfection from others and especially Rick - whose vulnerable humanness is part of what really endeared her to him in the first place.

Now, there has certainly been treatment that Rick gave Michonne that she deserved better from - like him pushing her away throughout ep 4 of TOWL to name an example. But even as I try to think of what in TWD/TOWL might make someone argue that now Rick is an inferior partner for Michonne, I come up short. Yes, he was the more flawed one in the relationship and he’s definitely been hurtful to her before. I just also think about the saying I often mention in posts - all versions of Rick love Michonne.

So even when he’s being Grieving Rick, Savage Rick, and even Dead Rick he’s still so motivated to be the best protector and partner he can be to Michonne - it just takes on some forms that weren’t the healthiest at times, but never from a lack of love or care.

I was even just thinking the other day about Episode 4 (as I so often do 😋) and it re-hit me that there’s now a scene that exists of Rick basically telling Michonne he would give his life and limbs for her. And from Richonne’s pre-canon bond to their TOWL marriage, that level of devotion and protectiveness and love is so evident from Rick toward Michonne.

Rick is definitely right to feel lucky to call a beautiful rare gem of a woman like Michonne his wife. He’s got a goddess of a woman and he knows it and he behaves as such. And the thing is, Michonne loves the way Rick loves. She believes Rick is a true gift to her too. She meant it when she said it could only be him for her. Rick is the only one she wants and the man she most loves, respects, and feels safe with. So whatever ups and downs they’ve been through would never make Michonne think Rick is now any less of the right one for her. 👌🏽

#richonne #reflecting on richonne #asks & answers

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endlessapples · 17 hours ago

Text

When the Dawn Hesitates, the Light Trembles | Oneshot

shen xinghui | xavier x reader

synopsis:

Despite growing up as close companions from childhood, you've always been attuned to the difference in status that separates you and the prince. And yet, as rational as your mind is, your heart on the other hand is an unruly beast that you cannot fully control. With his wedding and departure to a foreign kingdom looming on the horizon, the question still remains on how you'll let go of your feelings and live in a future without him. And if he's willing to do the same.

tags: childhoodfriends!au, royalty!au, mild? angst with a fluffy ending (this is probs the fluffiest/non-dark themes this blog will ever see), unrequited love that's actually requited, prince!xavier x knight!reader

word count: 6.5k

a/n: thank you everyone for the support for the first chapter of my caleb fic! here's a oneshot that was actually written for my friend's bday as evidence that I also write for the other LIs hehe and a throwback to my days writing royalty!aus on tumblr! :> as always, please feel free to send in asks/request!!

You had encountered the prince for the first time as a little girl. He was quiet with the maturity of an adult, despite only being a year older than you. Your mama was his wet nurse. It was only natural for her to introduce you to him.

You remember that your first thought was that he was beautiful—the light of the early spring sun had casted his hair silver, and his eyes were the shade of blue you had heard about only in the fairytales your mama had whispered to you before you fell asleep. He looked exactly like the young prince in the one book your older sister had pointed out when you had passed the bookstore in the square.

You remember pointing at his hair and shouting, “Look, his hair glows like light!”

His gaze, which had looked uninterested, suddenly turned to look at you. Those blue eyes came to life then, and something had shown in them that you, back then, had viewed as mockery rather than amusement. “Is it always your first instinct for you to comment on others’ appearances?”

With a burning heat to your face, you had realized that he was teasing you. You had glowered at him then, and in a fit of childish immaturity, you grabbed a fistful of dirt from the ground and flung it straight onto him. Not your best moment.

Now, many years later, you don’t really remember how your mama spanked your butt red that night and how you had sobbed and said you’d never do it again and how she had forced you to kneel and apologize to the prince and then reverently express gratitude when he had just shrugged it off, when really he had the right to kill of your entire family.

But you do remember how his skin had turned red in his fluster, how his hair still glowed despite the dirt, and how his lips had twitched in agitation. You remember how his eyes had still dazzled you then—emotion, even if it was surprise, had made them a startling azure. These were all things you would always remember, for however long time would pass.

You wouldn’t ever dare say any of these words aloud to anyone. No, these were memories that only you were the keeper of, that you were certain of.

🌙✨

“Haven’t you heard? The King has sent out a declaration that Prince Xavier is getting married!” a maid clamored, as she rushed down the hallway with her friend.

“To who?” her friend gasped.

“To the princess of the neighboring Lucis Kingdom. Oh, I heard she’s a beauty! A perfect match for our prince! He deserves it, after he won over those hordes of wanderers at our border and made a glorious return!”

Her friend tittered in response. “My, perfect might be too strong a word! I bet even a fair princess would have difficulty trying to enthrall our unfeeling prince! I doubt he knows anything beyond the sword.”

She was the first to turn the corner of a hallway, when she collided into a force. “I’m so sorry—,” she was in the middle of her words when she looked up. Her mouth fell open, and her face flushed a bright red.

You had the unfortunate pleasure of being the wall that the maid had bumped into. And, as she probed your face to determine whether you had heard what she had just said (which you had), you opened up your mouth and slowly spoke, “I would be cautious of the words we say aloud in the palace, just as much as we are to be careful while turning the corners.”

The maid looked like she was cowering. But really, you thought, for what reason?

Yes, it was true that you were infamous in the palace for your quickness to anger, especially when it came to the prince. When the royal seamstress had said that Prince Xavier looked less flattering in red, you had threatened to use the blunt edge of your sword and destroy her supplies. But in all honesty, with how calm you had sounded, there really was no reason for her to be looking at you like you were some smoke-breathing dragon.

The maid quickly bobbed her head up and down in agreement. And then her gaze fell to the person behind you, and her face paled white like a sheet. “G-greetings, Y-Your Highness!” she jolted straight up before quickly falling into a bow, and her friend quickly followed her.

You peered around your shoulder, and when you saw a familiar presence lurking behind you, your mouth flattened into a straight line. “Your Highness,” you said flatly, bowing your head down.

He held your gaze, firmly. Your mouth felt dry all of a sudden, and you felt your face redden. This damn temper of yours! And he overheard it all!

But the two of you grew up together. He must’ve been used to your bouts of anger, even now. You don’t even know why you felt heat crawling up your neck. You turned your head away in indignation.

His eyes travelled beyond you to the two maids, and he nodded once. “You may go.” His tone was disinterested, and the maids hastily bowed again before scurrying away past him.

When they left, it was just the two of you left in the hallway. It was tense, and you felt yourself ready to run away, right behind the maids. You tipped your head and was about to turn away when-.

“I didn’t know you still defended me.” His voice was softer this time, unlike the more frigid tone he had used with the maids. “Are we still friends then, I presume?”

Your lips pursed. Memories of last night flooded through your head. You downing the pint of ale. You furiously pointing a finger at him and shouting at him how he could have been so foolish to have thrown himself at you to push you out of the way during battle and get hurt by the sword of the wanderer when it should have been you protecting him and not the other way around. Him yelling back at you—though, what he said and what happened after, your mind could barely remember over the jumble of your brain buzzing with alcohol and anger. You just remember waking up the next day, head pounding and vowing to never drink again.

And here he went again, with that cursed word. Friends. How could you ever be friends? He was a prince, and you were just some lowly ranked girl whose only luck was that her mother had raised him at her bosom. Other than that, you were nothing. You had only your knight title. Nothing like the precious princess of a wealthy kingdom.

You were about to bite out a vicious comment that reflected something along those lines, but something stopped you from spewing out the first vowel.

He would be leaving soon after his wedding. He didn’t have to stay in this kingdom, not when his older brother was already set to sit on the throne. And you wouldn’t follow, not when it would tear you apart to see them together, to keep seeking above your station when you knew it was unfeasible. So friend, that horrible ill-fitting term, you would hold onto until you couldn’t. You felt yourself wilt in response, and you were certain he had picked up that something was odd about you today.

So you sucked in a deep breath and nodded. “Friends, if you can say that, Your Highness.”

The corners of his lips tugged up in amusement. “So you’ll stop calling me Your Highness then? You know my name. Use it.”

Your mouth was dry all over again, and you felt like you were going to heave all over the floor. It must’ve been the leftover ale brewing in your stomach. It must’ve.

You forced a smile. It probably looked menacing. “People will overhear, and it’s not good for someone like me to be calling you by your name when you’ll be mar-.”

His gaze remained steady.

You swallowed. Fuck.

“Is it an order?” you murmured. Your rude tone, if the head palace maid had heard you, would have sent you straight to a flogging. But Prince Xavier, aside from when you had thrown dirt on his head as a little girl and...and last night, was magnanimous. Nothing could unsettle him, well...maybe except for you.

You did remember that time one of the other knights-in-trainings had been spewing insults about your background and yes, you maybe thought then about swinging your sword down on him (blunt or non-blunt side unconfirmed) but you wouldn’t have done it, not when it would have put your own position as a trainee at risk and left you unable to stay by Xavier’s side.

Xavier had been different though. He had challenged that knight-in-training in a duel during practice and left him black-and-blue. And then that trainee had somehow been removed from the ranks and ended up leaving back to his hometown.

But maybe that was all just wishful thinking on your part.

Hearing no response, your eyes shifted back to him briefly. He just stood there, looking almost pitiful. And it seemed like he had turned slightly so that the bandaged part of his arm was even more obvious to you. A prince? Pitiful? You could guffaw in amusement.

You let out a long sigh.

“Xavier,” your voice was barely above a hush.

He gave you one of those rare smiles of his, the kind that had you breathless as a little girl and breathless even now. On days when he did smile at you, you could never fall asleep. Whenever you closed your eyes, you would see his smile and the way his blue eyes had shone. Oh, tonight would be no different.

You needed fresh air.

You swiftly turned on your heel and headed out towards the pathway to the gardens. His footsteps sounded after you, even as you quickened your pace. But let him follow you—it wasn’t any of your business what he was up to in his free time. And honestly, you didn’t even have a destination in mind.

As the sun warmed up your skin and the smell of flowers sweetened the air, you felt yourself reminiscing. These days would be long gone soon. It was already against propriety for the two of you to still be this close, especially after both of you had come of age. Maybe, maybe it would be good for you to leave all of this behind when Xavier left. So that you didn’t spend the rest of your days an old bitter hag surrounded by reminders of the past.

You were lost in your thoughts as you ambled your way. You were about to take a step forward when you felt a tug at your sleeve, and suddenly, you were falling back. Your back hit a firm chest, and you winced at the collision.

“Ow! What’d you do that for?” you grumbled. You turned your head back, about to bite out another complaint, but your mouth hinged open when you realized that your face was much tooclose to his. You could see the flecks of light blue in his eyes, the way his light-colored eyelashes were trembling, and the slight reddening tint to his skin. He was somehow warmer than the spring air, his body heat seeping against your back. And he smelled like soap and something deeper that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

You turned and pushed him away by the chest, stumbling back and crashing right into the trunk of a tree.

As you swore under your breath, you heard the sound of laughter. You looked over, irritated. He had his finger raised, pointing right behind you. His other hand attempted to cover his face but you could catch a glimpse of his smile.

“You were about to bump into a tree. I was trying to,” he huffed in a shaky breath, “to stop you from falling.”

Your mouth opened in protest, and you swiftly clamped it shut. Some knight you were. You could take down wanderers of any size and difficulty, but a mere tree was apparently your biggest opponent.

And suddenly you were laughing now too. All the anger, resentment, and bitterness from earlier seemed to fade away. You didn’t think of the past. You didn’t think of the future, of him wedding a beautiful princess and raising heirs with his silver hair and her colored eyes, of you never seeing him again for the rest of your lifetimes. All you thought that it felt good to be standing here with him.

🌙✨

The queen was a beautiful woman. With her long silver hair coiled up in an intricate hairdo and her silver eyes, she looked like a celestial beauty that had fallen onto earth in a gown of deep blue. You could see that Xavier had gotten his looks from her. But while Xavier had the mild temperament of the King underneath his seemingly cold exterior, the Queen was all fire and ice.

“Your Majesty,” you kneeled down onto a knee in a deep bow. She was silent for a long time, taking a long sip of tea from her cup. It was one of the petty tricks that she often played when she was displeased. But you were a knight—what was kneeling on a plush carpet for a little bit compared to sleeping on the cold ground of a forest, unable to rest properly in case a wanderer appeared?

After a seemingly endless time passed, you heard her set down her cup. Her voice tinkled out like bells. “Rise, Dame.”

You rose to your feet. You kept your head bowed.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten a good look at you,” she spoke, “Raise your head.”

You tilted your head up but kept your gaze lowered. She hummed out. You could hear the bracelets that adorned her wrists clinking together as she tapped a finger thoughtfully onto her bottom lip.

“You’ve become more beautiful these years. One wouldn’t expect you to be born from a mere commoner. Even unwomanly duties such as knighthood have not tarnished you.”

“This lowly servant is not worthy of Your Majesty’s praise,” you spoke, as you lowered your head again. You felt unsettled. Compliments from the Queen always had another purpose.

“Hush, child. I can see why even my son has softened towards you.” She hummed, her voice light and airy. “You see, when I married His Majesty, I was a year younger than you are now. I had lived as the princess of a small kingdom, so when his proposal came, there was no choice for me other than to agree. But I tried anyways.”

You remained silent.

“You see, the foolish me of my youth had loved a knight then and wanted to elope with him.” She laughed. “But when I tried to run away with him, my father caught me and had the knight stripped of his titles, tortured, and banished. All those years he had spent in service of our kingdom, and look what he threw away for a fleeting passion.” You felt her gaze fall back onto you. It felt sharp, like a blade.

“You understand my meaning, don’t you? Xavier is set to wed a princess. A political alliance with the Lucis Kingdom will be beneficial for everyone’s sake. A commoner like you.” She paused to laugh again. “Well, I am pleased that you have been able to make a knight of yourself. But make no mistake, that’s as high as you can climb up.”

She gestured a hand out, and you saw a wooden chest enter your periphery. “This is more than enough money to support you and any other ambitions you may have. You’d never have the opportunity to get your lowly hands on this much money. Take this money, and leave. Leave the palace as soon as you can, before the end of this season, so that Xavier does not hesitate in his upcoming nuptials with Lucis’s Princess.”

You raised your head to make direct eye contact with her then. Your eyes were fierce as you sternly shook your head. “Your Majesty, this lowly servant is well aware of her own station and does not dare to go beyond it. This lowly servant is not worthy of your noble gift, for her lowly hands would tarnish its value.” You dipped into a bow again before swiftly turning on your heel and marching out of the room.

You heard the crash of her cup hitting the wall from behind you, but you kept marching forward. Though you felt pity for the maids who would have to deal with her wrath, you knew that it would not have done you any good to have accepted her money.

You had been truthful with the Queen. You did know your station, and you also knew that you would never be able to go beyond it.

Your decision had been made long before you stepped into the room. In fact, it had been made even before you had heard news of Xavier’s nuptials.

It was final then. You would leave on your own terms, using your own money.

🌙✨

You knew you couldn’t stay in the capital. Linkon was a place full of reminders. If you peeked close enough, you could see the alleyways where you and Xavier had snuck bags of toasted walnuts when he was still young and still looked sweet enough to hide his stubbornness—though now, this sweetness had melted into a mildness that still hid his stubbornness well. You could remember the place Xavier had gifted you a small flower pin from the day you were admitted to knight training. And you could remember on one of those excursions where your cape had gone loose and he had reached out to tie it—the brush of his fingers against your lapel and the way your head had swelled up in a rush of blood...How could you stay in a place with all these reminders?

Sure, your family would miss you a little, but after your parents passed away and your siblings grew up, they were more worried about making a living and taking care of their own families. And besides, you could always visit them some time in the distant future.

No, you wanted to go somewhere peaceful and isolated, where nothing from the past could affect you.

As Linkon prepared to send its prince off to a wedding, you spent your time preparing for your own plans. When you weren’t training or taking on missions to take down wanderers, you found yourself perusing over a map that you had bought off a passing merchant.

The nearby city was too close, barely a day’s ride away by horse.

The region to the East looked good on paper, but you knew the noble families that had their territories there had close ties with the Queen. It wouldn’t be good for you to stay in a place where it would be easy for her to keep tabs on you. After all, you wanted to leave for the sake of your own freedom away from any royal’s influence.

Your pointer finger skimmed towards a small town to the West. It was about a week’s ride from the capital, 6 days if you pushed your horse, and near the border, so it was often experiencing unrest from stray wanderers. You could keep making some money there by going on small missions. And with the wages you had saved up and the money you could get from pawning off the uselessly luxurious gifts Xavier had given you over the years, even when you were old and unable to make money off of fighting wanderers, you could still live quite comfortably.

When you made your final decision, you quickly sprung into action. But when you asked Xavier for some time off, he had peered over his documents and looked at you skeptically. You could see why he saw it odd—you hadn’t taken a day off the moment you had entered knight’s training. But with the issue at the border contained, you were able to convince him that it was for the sake of spending some time traveling to get your head back on right. With reluctance, he stamped his seal of approval on your request.

You set off the following day. You didn’t need to prepare much—just enough money for food and your lodgings. But you felt odd as you went from city to city and then eventually from city to town.

It felt like someone was tailing you. The feeling started the moment you had left the gates of the capital, and even when you were deep into the crowds of an inn, you still felt a gaze on you. But whenever you looked, you would see the faint white of a cloak before it vanished.

It must’ve been one of the Queen’s people. So when you were about to reach your next town, only a day’s travel away from your intended destination, you decided to veer off course. Instead of going straight through the main road, you sharply turned off into the woods and urged your horse deep into the undergrowth. You then quickly dismounted and let your horse stray.

By the time the person following you entered the woods and saw your horse by itself, it was too late. You swung them off their horse, shoving them right into the dirt, and pressed your blade against their throat.

“Did the Queen send y-?” You hissed, reaching out to yank the hood down. The rest of the words you were about to say died in your throat as you squinted down at the familiar face. “Xavier?”

He looked at you with the firm steady look in his eyes, as if that was enough to convince you of whatever lie he had spun. But his ears flushed red—a clear giveaway. “What a coincidence...I was planning on checking the state of the borders, and we happen to be headed the same way.”

You laughed dryly. “Certainly, Xavier. Then you don’t mind if we part ways at the next town. I’m planning on taking a restful and slow vacation, and you must be in a hurry to get to the border then.”

He shamelessly shook his head. “I mean, the issue at the border is settled and wouldn’t change in less than a fortnight. They don’t need to see me there that urgently.” His lips curled up faintly at the corner.

You scowled. This prince! He was lying right to your face, and he didn’t seem like he had an ounce of guilt about it. “Well, what would other people think about us then? Only a married couple would be traveling together. Do you want people to presume about our relationship, Your Highness?” You threw your hands up. “And what about your safety? There isn’t a single other knight here from the squad!”

He shrugged his shoulders lightly. “Well, that’s for them to assume. And if you call me by my name, then no one would know who I am, and I wouldn’t be in danger. Besides, I don’t need other knights either. We’re already a good team, aren’t we, Partner?”

You huffed and spun around on your heel, about to start your search for your horse. There was no winning with him. As you found your mare and hoisted yourself up onto her, you squinted down at Xavier, who still looked idle.

“And where’s your horse?” you crossed your arms.

He looked around for a second and then looked back up at you. “It looks like it left. You don’t mind me riding with you, right? Besides...,” his voice softened, and his eyes looked sleepy all of a sudden, “Sleeping these past nights haven’t been too restful for me. I worried that I’d wake up and you would be already gone. I can catch up on some sleep if we ride together.”

Before you could protest, he had already settled himself behind you. His arms looped around your waist. When you turned around to gape at him, flabbergasted, he already had his head tilted down and his eyes closed.

You turned back and grabbed the reins, urging your mare back to the main road. When you were certain that he was actually asleep, you let yourself relax for a bit. You’d drop him off at the next inn and send a carrier back to the palace. By the time he woke up the next morning (or noon, with how his sleeping schedule was), you’d already be almost to your destination.

You were lost in thought and didn’t notice his grip around you tense a bit, not until you heard his voice murmur from behind you. “What did you mean about my mother? I heard she had forced you to meet with her as of late...What did she do?” Despite its softness, you could hear a slight edge to his voice.

You bit your bottom lip, trying to decide what to say to him. “She didn’t say or do anything. Just that, you know...she helped me realize that it would be good for me to start thinking about my future, beyond the castle.”

There was a pause.

“And how are you planning on doing that?”

You cleared your throat. “I mean...I only became a knight because it was a good way for me to help the kingdom and to stay by your side. Now that you’re getting married and leaving, I...I can’t say I know what my next steps are. But it’d be good for me to see more of the world, beyond fighting wanderers and...and as much as I enjoyed it...beyond being your childhood friend.”

After all, you had naively thought you could have stayed by his side forever. How naive of you.

It was silent. Seconds and then minutes and then more passed. You assumed then that he had fallen asleep.

But even as the ride was quiet, both of you slightly swaying with the movement of your horse and his eyes were closed, you didn’t even notice that his fingers were trembling.

🌙✨

The next town was exceptionally quaint. The two of you had reached it right after when the sky was almost beginning to dim and the heat of the sweltering sun had finally dissipated. There was the smoky smell of meat grilling, and groups of children ran past the two of you laughing and pushing each other around. You could hear string music just ahead, and a crowd was gathered around a skit.

Xavier and you talked little as the two of you traversed the space. Only when you had been planning on buying a skewer of lamb had he gently nudged your fingers away from your coin pouch and placed his own coins down. “Allow me,” he hummed. The two of you walked in silence as you nibbled on the meat—even though it originally came from a more rough cut, the way the vendor had cooked it had made it tender and fragrant.

As you scanned the trinkets of the vendor, your fingers lingered on a small hairpin. It was a white flower with a blue gem in the middle, the same shade of blue as Xavier’s eyes, attached to a fragile silver stick. You thought about purchasing it then. A little trinket, that you could carry around as a memory of the night.

Your fingers flexed, as if to grab hold of it.

And then you dropped them. No, it wouldn’t be good for you to carry around all these reminders. You gave an apologetic smile to the vendor and turned away, carrying on to the next stall.

“Why didn’t you buy it?”

You turned around at the sound of Xavier’s voice and bumped into him. You knew he had been following you, but you didn’t know when he had gotten so close—maybe it was the crowd jostling the two of you together. But, as you scanned the surroundings, most of the crowd had already wandered off to gather around a stage where a play was taking place.

“I just,” you felt flustered at having been caught. “It’s not the most fitting for me. It just seems-,” you swallowed dryly, “like it’s beyond my station.”

The two of you had stepped off into a small quiet corner. Despite how dim the lighting was, you could still see the flecks of light in his eyes. He was quiet for a moment before pulling out something from his pocket.

When you saw the glint of blue, you sputtered out, “W-what! Xavier, you shouldn’t have!”

He tilted his head to look down at you, in a way that made every nerve of yours prickle. His gaze was intense. He reached out with a hesitant hand and placed it tenderly against the side of your head. “May I?” his voice was low.

You relented, nodding.

He nudged your head so that it would turn. With quick nimble fingers, he coiled your hair and slid the hairpin through. But even when he was done, his hand hadn’t left you. It instead slid down so that it was cupping your chin.

“I just remembered how you used to wear the flower pin all the time. But then one day you stopped.”

His thumb softly brushed against your skin. God, your throat was dry again.

“Why?” his voice was searching.

Of course, you knew why. You loved that pin. You still love that pin. And even when you had gone on wanderer excursions you had kept it on you still, tucked under your clothes. But the day you had heard news of his engagement, you had thrown it away.

But you couldn’t say that. Instead, you shrugged your shoulders and reached up to push his hand off you. You couldn’t look straight at him.

“I...I don’t know. It just...fell out of use.”

He hummed out a sound that sounded like disappointment. “Is that like us? Do you think we fell out of use too?”

You jolted and looked at him. “No...Xavier, I’m...I’m not someone who deserves to be close to you. You’re...”

“I’m what?” He sounded almost desperate now. But he couldn’t have been desperate about you, could he?

And you didn’t know what to say, but you knew what you wanted to say: You’re getting married. You’re leaving. You can’t keep giving me false hope that I’m special.

But you didn’t say anything of that. And maybe what you said next was worst than all of those statements combined. You just looked at him, with something that you were certain was akin to anguish in your eyes.

“I love you, Xavier.” And when you started, you couldn’t stop. “I have loved you since the moment I saw you. But...you’re...You’re not mine, Xavier. And you’ll never be.”

The moment you registered what you said, you were horrified. Your hands flew to your mouth and before you knew what you were doing, you had turned and started sprinting.

Your mind was spinning. Screw the waiting until the next morning. You couldn’t keep seeing him any longer. Now that you said everything that you shouldn’t have. You didn’t even look at where you were going but you knew you just had to be away, to gather your thoughts and dignity that the next time you saw him again, you could laugh and pretend that it was just the sips of ale that you had taken earlier and you were actually talking about a different Xavier.

Before you could fully slip away, you felt hands wrap around your shoulder and pull you back. You turned sharply, just in time to miss colliding with a group of kids that had tumbled out of seemingly nowhere.

“You can’t just,” Xavier’s fingers were firm, but you could feel them trembling around your skin, “say that and leave.”

Your eyes darted around your surroundings. God, the play had ended and the crowd was already dispersing. You didn’t want to attract any more attention, but you were frantic with distress. You let him pull you away from the crowd and set you down to a seat, staying silent until you were certain there were no other eyes on you.

“I’m, I, I just can’t,” you were shaking now too. Or had you already been shaking? “Can you just forget it, everything I said?”

He laughed. It sounded sarcastic. “Like I was meant to forget what you had said that night when you were drunk, how you said you would never leave my side for the rest of your life.” His voice softened then. “And how I was meant to forget that you had kissed me.”

You buried your face into your hands and let out a groan. “I’m...I did that? Of course, I said something foolish like that.”

And then you registered his second sentence. You bolted up to a standing position. “I kissed you?!”

He seemed calm, but you knew every detail about him—his ears were flushed red, and you could see that his face was hazy with a soft pink. Oh, how foolish were you?

“My sincerest apologies!” you blurted out. “I should have never, I would have never. I said that? I did that?!”

You were hysterical now. Perhaps you should grab your sword now and stab yourself through the heart with it. Your hand was about to reach for your sheath when a hand stopped you.

“If you had not decided to run away before you could listen, to hear my response to your promise,” he spoke firmly, “you would have known that I have shared the same feelings as you.”

You stopped.

“The moment we met, the moment I saw that girl and had her fling dirt on me and how even when she apologized for doing so there was a fire in her that showed that she didn’t think what she did was any wrong,” he laughed. His hands moved up, until they rested on your waist, “I have to admit that I have been hopelessly captured by her. The way she smiles when she finds the dishes she likes and frowns when they aren’t up to par, the way she falls asleep deeply in a second with her mouth wide open, the way she never hesitates to rush in to defend someone with her sword.”

His hands then dragged up until they were once again cupping your face.

“And how I have never been courageous enough to tell her all of these things. That behind it all, when it comes to her I am just a cowardly man. That I get anxious when she doesn’t talk to me, when she decides to do something she’s never done, to such an extent that I become a foolish man who can’t even say a word out of fear of losing her. Because to me, she is my most beloved.”

He swiped his thumb against your bottom lip. His face was getting closer to you. You didn’t push him away.

The kiss was soft and gentle. It felt like sunlight brushing against your lips. You melted under his touch. Prickles of heat surged underneath your skin.

When you finally parted, he asked, his voice slightly strained, “Will you forget about this too?”

You hadn’t even registered that you were tearing up until you felt him brush away the first drop as it hit your cheek. “I -I must. You are engaged. You will marry another.”

He shook his head. “And in doing so, lose my beloved? Those were all rumors that the Queen had made to force me into this engagement, because she recognized that I love another. That I love you. That I would only marry one, if she would have me.”

You wanted to implore more then. To ask more questions about what it meant for you to say yes and whether it was truly moral for you to allow your Prince to cast aside his duty for you and would it even be worth it.

But you had spent a long time overthinking and asking yourself all sorts of questions. You didn’t want to worry about the future, about the consequences, and what it meant for you to fully defy the Queen’s orders.

All you thought about was how, out of all the questions you have ever had, he had answered the first one.

That memory of the first time you met, he too was a keeper of them. The feelings of those simpler days, when the two of you were young and not quite aware of the difference in status between you and you had kept watch for the head tutors when he would skip his classes to sleep under the great tree but found your own eyes slipping back to him, surged through you.

And to you, that was enough to let you close your eyes and pull him in for another kiss.

Whatever came tomorrow came tomorrow. If you chose to stay, if you chose to leave, rather than uncertainty plaguing you like it had before, you felt certain that this warmth would never leave your side.

✨Extra✨:

He had been careful to not spoil the surprise. It was the day that you would finally start knight training, and he had spent the last couple of days carefully stitching each petal together onto the hairpin.

He had always acquired skills easily, but even though the tutor had complimented his work, he still felt a little embarrassed of the quality. Sure, you would look beautiful in it because you looked beautiful in anything. But was it good enough for you? Would you like that it came from him?

He felt the pin in his pocket again. Should he wait for you to be done? Where should he wait for you?

You had found him the second you were done, your skin flushed and glowing with sweat. His mouth felt a little dry then as you beamed at him.

“We just started training to boost our stamina but pretty soon I’ll have the sword in hand and we’ll be defeating wanderers left and right!” you motioned a sword with your arms. “But training is pretty intense, as you can remember, Sir Head Knight. I won’t be able to come find you like I usually do.”

He didn’t remember how he got to presenting to you with the pin, but as he placed it in your hands, he remembered his mind went blank and suddenly he spoke: “I bought it just now. It’s not the best quality, so if you don’t wear it, it’s alright.”

You had already snatched the pin from his hands and was already working it into your hair. When you were done, you gestured wildly at it and grinned. “A gift for your future accomplice?”

He swallowed again. You really did look even more beautiful than he could have imagined.

Before he knew it, he had come closer. A thick strand of your hair had fallen out of the hairstyle, and he had it in his clutch, pressing a soft kiss on it. Your smile went stiff.

“No, it’s a gift for my future partner.”

A/N: let me know your thoughts! fics are always unedited so if any grammar mistakes or run-on sentences catch your eye...uhhhh no they didn't! and as always, my inbox is open!

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #xavier x reader #love and deepspace xavier #lads xavier #xavier lads #lads #lads x reader #lnds #lnds xavier #lnds x reader

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pinkaditty · 22 hours ago

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Love Type (Tokyo Debunker Ghouls)

hey me again i said id be back quickly and i did mean that.

this will have been queued for an hour at least by the time u see it. rn as i type this im debating using the taglist. i think ill use it. sorry 4 so many tags in a day, i bet ur sick of me

anyways! i had this idea while i was writing the perv!sho x reader thing. i thought about the differences between the ghouls and how they all love differently. at first i wasn't gonna post this, but then my brain wouldn't stop thinking about it so now this exists. its not meant 2 be a useful organization tool 4 the ghouls it's just something i had a little bit of fun with.

note that not every single ghoul is going 2 match the category he was put in exactly. for example, ghouls like luca, yuri, romeo, and even haru could probably fit in more than one of these categories, but i put them in the ones i thought suited them best. wanna discuss? leave a comment or an ask! ill be happy 2 talk it through with u <3.

yes i DID put in hcs about how long they last sexually. no i do NOT regret it. im speaking my TRUTH!!!

The Lover Boys:

Haku, Haru, Sho, Luca, Zenji, Rui

do not last long but recover fast and can go multiple rounds

prefer switching up their roles (dom→sub, sub→dom) more often

they love like it's an incurable chronic terminal disease. it's never leaving them.

all-consuming, takes up most their time, they're drowning and falling and losing their minds 4 u

You like to tell yourself you're prepared, but is that ever really true? No, not really. The way his voice drops several octaves into a low purr just from seeing you should've been warning enough as to what you were in for. You didn't expect the all-consuming, suffocating love he'd trapped you in, but were you really complaining? As far as you were concerned, you were also convinced it was meant to be, and if he was a little crazy about it, that was a small price to pay. Of course, you eventually learn why he's crazy about it - he's never had it. The truest feeling of connection, the ability to just let it all go in one person's presence, the time to really feel another person. It's eluded him for so long, and now he has it, but it's threatened by a curse, something he cannot control. It's frightening, and though he tried not to, he ultimately buries you in his love, trying to find a way to make it last. It's okay though. As the threat wanes, so will his suffocation. The love will always be intense, but he will learn how to do it right.

The Lost Boys:

Towa, Taiga, Jiro, Ed

they last so unbelievably long u don't know how they do it

love in more subtle ways bc 2 them, true love is quiet

they will do loud and bold professions of it, but the real love is displayed quietly

prefer 2 stick 2 one role (either dom or sub), not super flexible

The occasional huge flower bouquet, expensive jewelry set, or new bag were thoughtful, but mostly just for show. He reveled in the attention, the jealous stares, the sucking of teeth, the eye rolls - all of it. Because he had you, not them. But that, of course, isn't all there is to it. While he may be relatively distant in public despite the extravagant gifts, he's rather sweet and attentive in private. He hides it better than a LoverBoy, but in truth, his heart bleeds just like theirs, and he feels the need to consistently strive to win your affections. You're amongst great people, after all. How can he make sure he stands out, all the time, just for you? You understand this, of course, and you're always quick to reassure him. He will give and give and give and give, in so many ways. You almost think he's bottomless, what with how much of himself he offers up, nearly all the time. But it's alright. He will learn to remind himself that he need not give himself away to bits simply to keep your attention, especially when he's already the apple of your eye. The gifts never stop though, and neither does his obvious enjoyment in the attention it gets you. He will never stop showing you off.

The Tragic Boys:

Leo, Subaru, Ren, Kaito, Yuri

love fluctuates. intense then quiet, hot then cold, all-consuming then insignificant

very transparent ghouls with few layers. what u see is what u get.

often don't last long and take longer to recover

a little more flexible with role changing, but do have solid preferences

You are never, ever prepared. He's like a pendulum, swaying back and forth between endless, bountiful devotion and a cold shoulder the following day. He's not sure how to handle this love he has for you. It's unfamiliar, it's big, it's loud, it's petrifying. He's scared he'll do something wrong, and on those days when the fear eats him alive, he closes up, rejecting your presence. But then, he sees how down you are, and knows that wasn't right, so the following day he's at your beck and call. He'll do whatever you ask, just say the word and it's done, for you. His fatal flaw is that he never communicates his deep-seated fears, instead choosing to let them rumble in his gut and disrupt your relationship as a consequence. He wants you, though, and he never wants you to doubt that. He'll communicate eventually, the words spilling out before he can think much of them, apologies and desperate sobs with them. He won't shut down anymore after this, choosing to remain like an open book for you to read at any time. He will learn to hold you the right way, without clamming up nervously when you tell him he's perfect.

The Silent Boys:

Tohma, Romeo, Ritsu, Lyca, Alan, Jin

their love is consistent

never changes, always with immense depth, but never readily apparent

love is like a pretty serene waterfall with unseen strong currents capable of killing someone

like to switch it up every now and again (mayyybe dom→sub, sub→dom yk)

last moderately. some might finish fast, some might take a while.

His attitude and demeanor towards you hardly change. He loves you, and he's serious about it, but that won't mean special treatment, extra gifts, or public displays of love. He will love you exactly as he always has, and sees nothing wrong with it. His love is in how he looks out for you, how he worries for you despite himself, how he may allow himself a small smile when you approach, or a sigh heavy laden with devotion, after you wrap your arms around him, and before he pushes you off of him. It's okay because you know how his heart beats erratically in his chest when you approach, which he's strangely good at hiding. You know how his breath hitches in his throat every time he sees you, his eyes glazing over like you're a vision to be committed to memory. You know how he treasures you, his love hidden under his vast sea of responsibilities. Peel the layers back and you'll see he's yours in all ways that matter, but he also knows he can't let that get in the way of his daily life. Once he has the time, and is no longer bearing the weight of prying eyes and overwhelming expectations, he'll build his life around you, to make sure you feel centered in his life, as he does in yours.

well if nobody really likes these at least i had fun. amen!

no blurb 2 put here except that i have a ren fic incoming soon bc my regular [🐟] anon went crazy in my inbox about that boy and his damn collarbones.

y'all have a wonderful day im so tired.

taglist: @cupcakesmoothie @aayakashii @sunskosh @despairingy-obsessed @glamorousspoon @mmy-meow @dailyvahine @diluxama @obscuarysghoulnextdoor @disassociationdive

want 2 join or be removed from the tkdb taglist? let me know!

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callsign-rogueone · 1 day ago

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a fair trade

aaric graycastle / cam tauri x reader (sunny!!!!) words: 1.2k 🏷: progressing through the beginning of IF! this one has a lot of transitions and jumps between scenes, which is my least favorite thing ever, and a major reason why it took so long, but I wanted to show these two interacting every day and slowly becoming friends, so here ya go! the next chapter will be so much better and much longer, I promise 🥺

It’s incredibly strange to be standing in this corner of the gym again, in the same spot where Nadine had died, and Violet nearly had too, avenging her. You’d never seen that much blood before in your life – but now it’s gone without a trace. Had someone knelt there last night and scrubbed it away, or had it been erased with magic? Which option is worse?

Aaric appears at your side, speaking softly so as not to startle you. “You’re fast, and you’re smart, but at some point you’re going to have to throw some punches,” he prods.

That’s fair. You’re the only one of the group who hadn’t made any offensive moves in your assessment match, and the last to find a partner to fight with today.

“Yeah,” you say after a moment. “I’ve been dreading that part, honestly.”

“Let’s see what you’ve got. Just a basic stance, first.”

You nod, settling into a position that looks something like what you’d seen Imogen do earlier — she’s probably a good bet to copy.

He shakes his head. “Your feet need to be farther apart. And if you tuck your thumb in like that, you’re going to break it. Here.”

He steps forward and adjusts your fist — not missing your inhale of discomfort as his thumb presses against the swollen joint of your ring finger. He pulls back immediately, offering an apology and adjusting the technique. “Sorry. You should be fine to just keep it loose like that, as long as you adjust the impact point — what part of your fist is going to hit your target."

Another nod.

"If you just do... this," he explains, carefully reaching out to rotate your wrist to the side, careful not to put any pressure on the bandage there, "then you can make an impact with your pointer and middle finger. It won't be as effective, but it'll work until your hand heals."

Realistically, it won't — it hasn't shown much improvement since March, and the burn doesn’t help things either — but he doesn't need to know that.

"Don't worry about it too much," he offers, sensing your apprehension. "You’ve got more strength in your legs, anyway.”

———

Being assigned breakfast duty means fewer hours of sleep, but you’re used to being up this early, anyway – you’d be going to bed at this hour, if you’d stayed in Calldyr City, just dragging yourself into the bathing chambers to hose off the sticky feeling of the ale you’d been serving, and the unwanted attention you’d been paid.

Someone is waiting for you outside the girls’ dorms; Aaric. He looks a little shy, shifting his weight awkwardly as he speaks – at a whisper, considerate of those who have been afforded the precious extra time to rest. “I saw you got breakfast duty, too, so…”

You give him a warm smile. “Glad to have a familiar face around. Do you have any idea where we’re going?”

It’s evident that he hadn’t thought this part through. “No, actually. But it can’t be far from the mess hall, right?”

You just hum in reply, nodding down the hallway. “Good place to start.”

He’s right – there’s a little door you hadn’t noticed by the serving line, propped open for you. You can already smell the bread baking, hear the pleasant bustle of a fully staffed kitchen. Not too different from home.

....

You turn to grab another potato, your eyes catching on the one Aaric is holding -- it's mangled, cut in odd places, yet somehow still holding onto half of its skin despite him having hacked at it for a good two minutes.

So there is one thing Aaric Graycastle doesn't excel at, after all -- one thing you could help him with. But you’ve never been the type to offer unsolicited advice.

Aaric is nice, though, and he’d given you so much advice on fighting, so he probably won’t be offended if you return the favor. It's a fair trade, or close to it. Still, you choose your words carefully. “Have you ever peeled a potato before?”

“Once,” he answers, a slight blush on his cheeks.

You cross over to his side of the table, grabbing one yourself along with a short knife. “You’re digging in too hard, and taking the meat along with it. You need to hold it more flat, and scrape, to take off just the skin. Like that,” you say with a smile, finishing yours and adding it to the bowl.

“How are you so good at this?”

“Years of practice,” you answer. “My best friend is — was — a kitchen maid. I used to sneak downstairs to help her sometimes.”

“For once you’re done with those,” the cook announces, dropping a crate onto the end of the table with a thud. “Cored and quartered.”

“Whoa.”

“That is a lot of strawberries,” he agrees.

“It must have cost a fortune.”

His head tilts. There had always been strawberries, and a variety of other fruit laid out for every breakfast, more than they’d ever eat, but he’d never considered the cost, or what became of the leftovers.

Thankfully you continue the conversation for him, a fondness in your eyes. “We bought a whole pound of them for my birthday once. We were going to try to make them last, but they were gone by dinnertime.”

He just offers you a smile and a soft laugh, returning his attention to the vegetables.

———

“I am a god among men,” Ridoc announces, grinning from ear to ear from where he kneels over Sawyer, the executive officer pinned underneath him in what looks like a very uncomfortable position.

“Yeah, and I’m the next queen of Navarre,” you quip over your shoulder. “Saying it doesn’t make it true.”

Aaric’s heart nearly stops. He can’t help but imagine you dressed in the fine silks of the royal court, bejeweled and shining, crowned in gold, seated beside him and Halden at his father’s dinner table — a beautiful but miserable existence.

This is better. This feels right, seeing you in the sleek black of the rider’s quadrant instead of yards of stiff brocade, being able to hear you laugh and joke like this rather than sitting quietly for the rest of your days like an ornamental vase.

Your boot connecting with his stomach and his back hitting the floor snap him out of his daydream, and knock the breath from his lungs.

Your eyes widen as you realize what you’ve done. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he wheezes, cheeks reddening as he takes your outstretched hands and lets you haul him to his feet — it takes a considerable amount of strength. “That was good.”

You can’t help but smile a little about your small victory, the only time you’ve bested anyone in combat, though you know he was definitely going easy on you. “Maybe one of these days, I’ll really win,” you laugh.

He sounds considerably less winded as he speaks again. “We’ll get you there.”

You blink at the words he chose – not you’ll get there, but we. He’s invested in your success. That’s the squad mentality, you suppose. It’s odd, but not unpleasant.

———

“I didn’t even know I had muscles in some of these places,” you groan, folding your arms on the table and resting your head on them.

Visia pats your shoulder gently. “That’s good – it means they’re growing.”

Your response is muffled, but universally understood by the rest of the group, who are all similarly exhausted after a full week of Rhiannon’s extra training sessions.

All except Aaric. “Eat,” he encourages. “It’ll help.”

#locked the fuck in last night and this morning during my break !!!#fourth wing #fourth wing x reader #mine #aaric and sunny #aaric graycastle #cam tauri #cam tauri x reader #aaric graycastle x reader

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bradleysass · 2 days ago

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baby - @black-brothers-microfic - wc: 460

James Potter has never met a nickname he didn’t like.

He throws them around like confetti—mate, bud, sunshine, twat—but lately, ever since he and Regulus started… whatever the hell this is, the names have taken a turn. A sickening, sugar-coated, romance-novel turn.

“Morning, love,” James says cheerfully, dropping a mug of black coffee on the table in front of Regulus, who’s scrolling through the news like the world personally offended him.

Regulus doesn’t look up. “Don’t call me that.”

James slides into the booth across from him with the smuggest grin known to mankind. “What, ‘love’? Thought it fit. You’re a real vision in existential dread.”

“Try it again and I’ll pour this coffee into your lap.”

James leans forward, unbothered, eyes bright behind his glasses. “Darling, that’s not very nice.”

Regulus slams the mug down so hard it sloshes over the rim. “I swear to Merlin, Potter.”

“Oh, we’re back to surnames?” James pouts theatrically. “Thought we were past that, baby.”

Regulus flinches. Not visibly. Hopefully. He sets the mug down more gently this time and stares at James like he’s trying to manifest spontaneous combustion.

“Don’t call me that either.”

“What, ‘baby’?” James says it again. Innocent. Sweet. Like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

Regulus presses his knees together under the table. Fuck.

James’s grin shifts. Becomes something sharp and knowing.

“Oh,” he says softly. “Oh.”

“Shut up,” Regulus mutters, eyes back on the news, the words on the screen a meaningless blur.

“Wait—wait—is this why you get so twitchy whenever I say baby?”

“No.”

James leans in, elbows on the table, voice dropping. “So it doesn’t… do something to you?”

Regulus’s eye twitches. “James.”

“Doesn’t make your voice all clipped and angry like you’re trying to hide something? Doesn’t make you squirm a little in your overpriced trousers?”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’m right,” James says, now full-blown beaming, basking in the glow of this newfound power like a plant in sunlight. “Godric’s tits, this is brilliant.”

“I will end you.”

“I bet if I whispered it—like, right in your ear—you’d melt.”

Regulus clenches his fists, trying not to think about exactly that scenario. “You’re not going to do that.”

“Baby.”

His legs twitch.

James smirks like he’s just won the World Cup.

Regulus bolts up from the booth. “I’m leaving.”

“No, come on, don’t be like that—”

“I’ll see you never, Potter.”

“Later, baby!”

Regulus flips him off on the way out, which would’ve been more effective if he hadn’t tripped slightly over his own feet.

James leans back in the booth, sips his coffee, and sighs contentedly. He knows Regulus will be back. He always comes back.

He’s definitely going to say it again.

#marauders #black brothers microfic #jegulus #sunchaser #starseeker #james potter #regulus black #microfic

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tinaascended · 2 days ago

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⋆˚꩜｡ I'm tired of using technology, why don't you sit down on top of me

Sam Winchester x Female reader

featuring: nsfw content, lil into, phone sex, fluff at the end :)

Got the idea today, when my nail tech played 50 cent's n Justin Timberlake's- Ayo technology at the nail salon :D

English isn't my first language

The bathroom door locked hurriedly behind Sam, trying to bind his time before his brother noticed his absence among the other chicks he invited over the table, the company being both unsettling and uncomfortable for Sam.

He quickly took his phone out of his back pocket, finding your contact and sending a text with his somewhat trembling fingers.

"hey, are you awake?"

It didn't take long for you to respond, sprawled out on your bed, doing nothing but thinking about him.

"awake and thinking about you."

The second he read that, he smiled like an idiot, replying instantly.

"I was just thinking about you too." "are you alright? I know it's late I'm sorry."

"I'm okay." "how are you? everything okay?"

"I'm alright." "Just been busy. I wish I could be with you though."

And you were smiling like an idiot too.

"I miss you."

You meant it.

The perks of having a boyfriend who hunts supernatural creatures for a "living"- you only get to see him 3-4 days a month if you're lucky. There was a time he managed to stay for a week and you were the happiest girl to walk on earth.

"I miss you too. and I love you. so much." "I want to be next to you right now. to hold you in my arms."

It was hard at first. The lack of quality time, his whispered compliments and words about how much he loves you, bouquets of your favorite flowers, his fingers caressing your cheeks or washing your hair in the shower in such gentle moves that made you feel like a porcelain doll.

The lack of sex.

Like it or not, it affected your relationship. But luckily, the modern technology was working in your favor.

In times when you were missing him too much or you were getting frustrated too much, His voice at the other end of the telephone was all you needed to fall back into a placid state.

"I've been thinking about you all day."

He knew what it meant. He just wished his time wasn't so limited and that he could call you right now.

"I've been thinking about you too, baby."

And the second he hit send, he heard loud banging on the bathroom door, snapping him back into reality with a flinch.

"Sammy, did you fall in the goddamn toilet?" Dean.

He gritted his teeth, a heavy exhale leaving his nose.

"honey I have to go. I'll call you when I'm alone later alright? I love you."

About an hour later he got back to the motel, locking the door behind him and kicking his shoes off in a weary manner. He quickly dropped his heavy body on the bed, running a hand through his hair.

Once he was sure in his mind that Dean wouldn't come back to the motel and spend his night at a chick's place, he grabbed his phone and called you.

It's not like you were asleep. You were up the whole night desperately whimpering in your bed and he knew that. Knew that you needed to hear his voice.

"Hey, It's so late I was getting worried." you spoke, your tone dangerously soft and gentle.

A smile appeared on his face in an instant, hearing your voice. "Hey hun... did I keep you waiting long?"

"way too long."

a small chuckle escaped his lips at your words. "I'm sorry baby, but i'm glad I got to hear your sweet voice."

Your hand trailed up to your shirt, his shirt, playing at the hem of it. "I missed you." you said in a low tone, the tone that always got you what you wanted, the tone that always drove him crazy.

"I missed you too," He could never say that enough "why aren't you sleeping?"

"The thoughts about your fingers in me got me frustrated and worked up. "

"Couldn't sleep. I was lying in bed thinking about you." you sighed.

He knew what this sigh meant, what your words meant, what your tone meant.

"Bet you look real pretty in your bed."

"Yeah, real pretty in your shirt."

He inhaled through his gritted teeth, the thought of you lying in bed in his shirt, thinking about him, touching yourself at the thought of him...

"Wish I could see you right now..."

"It smells like you, makes me miss you more..." you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper, every word sending a shiver down his spine.

"Yeah?" He said with a smile, feeling his heartbeat increase.

"mhm" you bit the inside of your cheek, shifting on the bed slightly, "you get me all worked up..."

"Oh, really?" He asked, with a growing grin. His voice was a whisper, but it was deep. Low and slow. "Want me to do anything about it..?"

A small huff escaped your mouth, licking your lips, the heat suddenly traveling everywhere throughout your body. You pushed the covers off yourself by your feet, the faint shuffling of the sheets being heard by Sam.

"Don't get all shy on me now," He whispered, his grin evident in the way he spoke "do you want me to help you?"

"Yeah." You almost moaned out. It was crazy that he could get you soaked in a second with just his voice.

"Good girl..." He whispered again, a small groan leaving his dry lips "God, I haven't stopped thinking about you all night..."

"Me too. I got myself all worked up earlier..." you admitted "I really needed you on the phone with me."

And the thought about it alone was enough for his jeans to suddenly feel too tight around him.

He chuckled under his breath, his free hand reaching to his belt, unbuckling it. "Sorry baby. I'm here now, so don't you worry," he said, palming himself through his boxers, "Why don't you take off your pants for me."

"I'm... not wearing any. Just your shirt." you almost whispered, your words followed by a heavy breath.

A soft groan escaped his lips "God baby you're killing me here."

Your small giggle followed his words, "spread your legs a little and touch yourself for me, princess, c'mon."

He could tell the exact moment you did so, the soft moan that escaped your lips sending a shiver down his spine and his hand inside his boxers.

How he wished he was with you right now, his head between your thighs, his fingers deep inside you reaching spots you could never, drawing each and every moan from your pretty lips.

Or how he wished it was your fingers wrapping around his throbbing dick instead of his, your pretty lips wrapping around his tip, taking him whole. Maybe if he got a bit selfish in his thoughts, he'd imagine you gagging on him, saliva and his semen dripping from your lips.

"That soft voice of yours got me so hard" He spoke with a groan, his palm working in a rhythm on his dick.

"Really?" That tone of yours again.

"Yeah baby. Can't help it, you drive me crazy."

"Fuck- keep talking." You barely managed to speak between the raggedy breaths leaving your mouth.

He cursed under his breath at your words, it was a miracle his dick didn't drip cum right then and there. "Yeah? You like my voice that much, honey?"

A hum and a moaned out "please" is all you could manage.

"I can't wait till I have you again," He spoke, his own breathing becoming heavier and heavier each second, "You sound so desperate f'me, don't you?"

"Yeah."

"Go on, princess, you're doing so well."

And those words alone was enough for you to feel that familiar knot in your stomach.

"Fuck- Sam..." You whispered in the phone and he understood what it meant in a second.

"C'mon baby, let me hear ya" He said with his eyes closed, his head dropping back in the mattress.

And you did as Sam asked. Your whimpers, his moaned out name and desperate breaths echoing through the phone, making it so easy for him to finish himself, his semen dripping down his dick.

"That's my girl." he spoke with a smile of victory, lying down comfortably with a small groan.

Heavy breaths were still leaving your lips, your orgasm-taken-over body finally falling back into a calm state, all your frustration leaving. "You're always so quiet when you finish, I hate that." You spoke in almost a whisper.

Sam chuckled at that, shaking his head slightly. "Sorry, force of habit. Wish I could've been there to see your pretty face tho..." He said in a low and a caring tone, "God I miss you."

A pause followed his question, biting the inside of your cheek "I miss you too..."

He sighed, feeling his chest get heavier, "I'll come back to you soon, princess, I promise. You think you can handle couple days without me?" He asked, a small chuckle leaving his lips.

"I think so." You spoke with a small smile.

"That's my girl" Sam smirked, even though he was so desperate to have you in his arms in that moment, caressing your cheeks and your hair before you fell asleep in his embrace.

"What did you and Dean do today?"

"We killed a ghost actually," He spoke into the phone with a smile, "then we went to a bar. Dean called a couple bimbos over to flirt with him."

"Oh my god..."

"Yeah... I told him I missed you and he told me to leave the bar."

A tired laugh escaped your lips, shaking your head at the thought of the scene.

He could tell you were getting sleepy, your voice becoming more and more quiet, the thought making him smile.

"Do you wanna go to sleep?"

"I don't like going to sleep without you next to me..."

He felt his heart clench. "I know, honey."

"I'm sorry if I'm making you feel bad, I just miss you." You spoke in a low tone, sighing and turning over to your side.

"No- no, baby" He smiled at your words "I get it. I miss you so much too. I can't sleep without you by me."

"When are you coming back?"

"I'm not sure honey. But I'm gonna make sure I come back to you, okay?"

And those words and his gentle tone were enough for all your bad thoughts to vanish completely.

"Okay." You said softly, a small smile tugging at the end of your lips.

"Get some sleep, darling. I'll call you in the morning." He spoke in the most gentle tone.

"I love you."

"I love you more angel. Don't have any bad dreams."

With his every word, every action, he showed you that it was worth fighting for, worth waiting for, if it meant that these kind of words would be whispered in your ear every night.

"Goodnight Sammy."

Made this so tired instead of uni work, goodnight y'all. 💔💔💔💔

Lmao. Sorry...

#sam winchester #supernatural #jared padalecki #sam winchester x reader #spn fanfic #sam x reader #spn #supernatural fic #sam winchester smut #sam winchester fic #tinaascended

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graciescott27 · 19 hours ago

Text

call an uber on your way out! - o. aiku

cw: Oliver Aiku x uptight Head of PR! reader, pet names (sweetheart, doll, pretty, baby), alcohol use, language, smut, p in v, fingering, mocking, boob play, dub-con possibly? (she’s drunk and he’s barely tipsy)

this got way too long and I’m gonna cry if it does bad (new to writing smut)

mdni!

wc: 3.8k

The first thing you learned when you became the head of PR for the Ubers football club was that trying to make a bunch of weird guys look good in the media was hard. The second thing you learned was that Oliver Aiku was a slut.

He was by far your most problematic player, even with Barou on the team. Sure, Aiku was at least was charismatic and outgoing, but that didn’t do much to make your job easier. He just did some weird shit. After all of the leaked text chats and cheating scandals you had to cover up, you were getting tired of his nonsense. At least Barou kept to himself. Granted, that was why keeping up his image was difficult, but Aiku’s charm did the same.

The worst part of the whole affair? He thought that he could actually win you over. Niko had “warned” you about this whole bet he had with Sendo over whether or not he’d be able to sleep with you by the end of the season. Could he seriously make your job any harder?

When you were briefing the team on sponsorship updates, his eyes never left you. It was growing obnoxious, and maybe even just a bit unnerving.

“Okay, Sendou, I’m working on finalizing your Nike campaign, but it should be finalized by the end of the week and the shoot should be somewhere between next Tuesday and Friday. I’ll get dates to you as soon as possible,” you directed, reading back over the notes you had written down about their sponsorships. “Aryu, the hair care ad has been doing well so far, I’ll send over statistics. Aiku, I went ahead and turned down the Calvin Klein offer. Knew that wouldn’t be something you’d be into.”

He raised a brow, holding in a snort. “Seriously?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you scrambled to find a fake apology, an exaggerated frown on your lips. “Would you have wanted to do that?”

He shook his head, an amused grin on his face. At least he was amused. “If you think that’s what’s best.”

You scoffed and turned away from him. You still had ten minutes left to finish your briefing. That was enough time. You ran through the rest of your notes as quickly as you could, and dismissed everyone once you were done.

The universe apparently didn’t want to let you off that easy, though, because Aiku began to walk toward you just as you were packing up your papers.

“Hey, hey. Sweetheart. I have a question,” he began. He still had that annoying, cocky grin on his lips. The amused glint in his eyes didn’t help much, either.

“Sweetheart? In the 21st century?” you scoffed. No way in hell were you going to let him see you crack from a few small compliments. If Nikko was right — which he normally was when it came to something stupid his teammates were doing — then you weren’t going to make it easy for Aiku.

He gives you an unimpressed stare. He was still smiling, though. That was no good. You needed him to at least fake a pout and walk away to be satisfied.

So, you continued your mocking. “Which war did you fight in, again?”

“Okay,” he nodded, holding his hands up in surrender, “be nice.”

You scoffed. “Being nice is for lame people who like their jobs.”

“Oh, so you don’t like being around a hot guy all day?” he snorted.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve heard someone call Barou hot before, but yeah, I guess he-“

“Doll,” he gave a teasing pout. Now you were one step closer to getting him to leave you alone. “Come on. I know that you know I was talking about myself.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’ve heard anyone call you hot, either,” you shook your head, a small, faux innocent smile on your face. Trying to maintain appearances might have been the only reason you hadn’t snapped on him yet.

“Wow. You’re a lot meaner today than normal.”

“Well, I just started tolerating you this week and you’re treading on very thin ice right now,” you tsk-ed.

Nikko groaned from across the room. “You started to like him after the bet?”

“Shut up,” you scoffed and rolled your eyes.

Aiku raised a brow. “Oh? After the bet, huh?”

So it *was* real. It wasn’t like you doubted Nikko that much, or that you had enough faith in Aiku’s character to think that he wouldn’t do something like that, you just found it… odd. He was so adamant on something that you clearly weren’t going to allow. His determination was admirable, sure, but it was idiotic.

“Gross,” you crinkled your nose at the thought. “No, that’s not what I meant.”

“You’ve thought it at least once, though.”

Oh, God. His smirk had returned. That wasn’t good for your case at all. If he was enjoying himself, there was no way he was going to let go of the topic.

“Absolutely not,” you argued.

“So you wouldn’t be interested in getting drinks with me and Sendou tonight?”

Your arms were crossed by that point. “I don’t drink.”

“I saw you drinking straight from a wine bottle in your office three weeks ago.”

Maybe the fact that you had actually done that made matters just a bit worse for you.

“I ran out of clean water bottles,” you scoffed internally at yourself for the lame excuse.

He looked so cocky at that and you knew he was trying not to laugh. “So you used an empty wine bottle as a replacement?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you even have an empty wine bottle on hand if you don’t drink?” he raised a brow.

And that was how you got coerced into going to a bar with Aiku and Sendou.

It took you about five minutes to regret your decision. The first mishap of the night happened before you even got to the bar. Work ended much later for you than normal, and Aiku was in such a rush that he wouldn’t let you go home to change before heading out. So you were left to sit on a sticky bartop stool in your nice pencil skirt, rolling up the sleeve to your button up so you weren’t completely suffocated.

The second mishap led to you attempting to run off and find wherever Sendou had wandered off to. You spotted one of your more recent ex hookups stumbling through the bar. You had met him through a mutual friend, and that friend had informed you not too long ago that he was still broken up over you “forgetting” to call him back. It wasn’t like you had been planning on starting anything with him. He worked a minimum wage job, and you could access a professional athlete with ease (not like you would want to, though). Why would you go for someone so uninteresting when you could have someone else who was miles better by comparison?

The third mishap of the night happened when you were walking away from the bartop and he noticed you. He recognized you, despite how clearly drunk he was (which you found more disturbing than flattering) and he made a beeline in your direction. Deviating from your original plan to just find Sendou, you rushed to the bathroom and settled for hiding in the line. Aiku had been sitting next to you earlier, but after just a few minutes he was gone. At the time, you had been thrilled that he decided to leave you alone. Now, though, you were starting to think that it would have saved you some worry to have him beside you still: at least he would scare off all of the other guys trying to make passes at you — or in the current circumstance, hunting you down and following you.

You waited in line for the bathroom for seven minutes, despite not actually needing to go. Aiku truly knew how to pick a popular place. The moment you saw him again, you were going to tell him that you were getting a cab back to your apartment. You could still find it in yourself to be courteous enough to warn him before you abandoned ship. Unfortunately, that time never came because of mishap number four.

You had figured that wasting that much time in line was enough to get your ex off of your back. It was a bit horrifying to be tracked by a man whose name you had already forgotten. You tried to find your previous seat again, only to learn that it had been taken by some blonde girl wearing a dress that barely covered anything. Gross. Now you had to turn around and find somewhere in the overcrowded bar to sit down for five minutes. You probably would have been better off in the bathroom.

You tripped over someone’s foot and stumbled back into another person. Quickly regaining your balance, you turned around, giving a small, apologetic smile. You didn’t look up at the person’s face. “Sorry, sorry. Excuse me.”

Whoever you ran into nodded. “Don’t worry about it.”

Fuuuuuck.

You recognized that voice. You had been avoiding that voice all night, actually. Before you could back away or say anything else, though, your casual-hookup-turned-stalker spoke again.

“Never thought I’d catch you at a bar after-”

And all of a sudden, you were yanked back into someone else’s chest. You didn’t have to look up to know who it was that time.

“Don’t think she’s that into drunk guys,” Aiku gave a dry laugh to the other man.

He laughed back. “Didn’t think that I was flirting.”

“Does it really matter?” You knew Oliver. You knew that he still had a carefree smirk on his face despite the situation. You knew that he had absolutely no idea who he was talking to. That should have worried you.

Finally, you looked up and saw the cold, not quite lucid look in your ex’s eyes. “I’ve been seeing her.”

“I would’ve heard about you if she was actually seeing you,” Aiku responded, his voice as smooth and casual as ever. What a cocky bastard.

“Who are you?” the other man asked. You were still blanking on his name.

“A friend.” You could practically feel him shrug. He still kept you held close to his chest, and it wasn’t as horrific of a feeling as you would have expected.

After a few more seconds of drunken processing, your hookup-turned-stalker rolled his eyes and walked off.

You turned to Aiku at last, eyes settling on his smirk. “Is there a story behind that?”

“Absolutely not,” you scoffed.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He chuckled, nodding slowly. “Sendou’s in a booth somewhere if you wanna join us.”

The only reason you followed him was because of the mention of Sendou. If there was a third party involved, maybe you would be safe from having to file a harassment claim with HR. Unfortunately for you, though, you forgot that the third-party being Sendou meant that he was probably already drunk on some cocktail with a stupid name.

After three minutes, both of them were making you beg for a cab ride home.

Aiku was on the outside of the semicircle booth, and Sendou was on the inside. That left you in the middle, being completely crushed by both of them. To deal with their obnoxious jokes and stupid drunk laughing, you started chugging straight from the bottle of Brandy sitting on the table in front of you. It seemed to drain your senses just a bit too well, though, and mishap number four happened.

You were in Oliver Aiku’s apartment.

Even in the moment, you didn’t remember much about how you agreed to it. He had offered you a ride — despite the fact that he had also been drinking — but you assumed that he would be talking you back to your actual house, not his. On top of that, you figured that the offer wouldn’t include being slammed against a door and kissed.

Not that you’d complain, though. You’d just have to live with the regret when you were back to being sober.

Within seconds, his lips had moved from yours to your neck. One of his hands was on the back of your head, tangling in your hair while the other roamed over your body. He alternated between palming at your tit and rubbing over your waist and your hip. You were unsure where to put your hands still. It had been so long since you had hooked up with anyone that you barely remembered how it was supposed to go. You were focused on your job, you didn’t have time for a relationship, and that should’ve been it. But Oliver Aiku had wildly different plans.

He gave a quick bite to the column of your throat before moving back to your lips. Aiku was practically trying to swallow you whole, messily pushing his tongue past your lips. The way he began to unbutton your shirt was too rushed and eager for you to know how to react. By then your hand had found his messy hair, tangling it even further. When he started to push your button-up off of your shoulders, your hands slipped under his shirt. He grinned into your mouth at the feeling of cold fingers lingering barely over the waistband of his pants. You had been almost too dizzy to stand just minutes earlier, but that feeling seemed to vanish when Aiku started tugging on your arm and leading you to his bedroom.

Normally when you stepped foot in someone’s room for the first time, you wanted to take in as many details as possible. You could learn a lot about a person strictly based on how they decorated. Aiku clearly didn’t know about this habit, though, because you had just one minute of air before he pushed you into his bed. You landed on your back, letting out a small noise of surprise, and he crawled on top of you. He started at your neck again, alternating between kissing, bitting, and sucking on a pattern that only he understood.

He trailed further and further down, going from your shoulder to your collarbone, to the tiny amount of tit popping out of the top of your bra, to your naval, and then finally…

Bullseye.

“You gonna let me take this cute lil’ skirt off of ya, pretty?” he smirked up at you, heterochrome eyed sparkling in delight.

Your mouth hung open in either awe or surprise, and all you could do was nod weakly. Your lungs weren’t working well enough for anything other than tiny gasps.

He huffed out a laugh, a single large land finding the zipper at the side of your hip. “Can’t think of a comeback anymore?”

Your hand came up to cover your eyes out of embarrassment. All you could manage was a weak, “Shut up.”

You could feel him grin without even seeing it. “There we go. Keep the attitude, doll. Best you can, okay?”

Here wasn’t even time for you to ask why before your pencil skirl was discarded somewhere in the floor of Aiku’s room. And he nearly laughed when he finally saw your panty-clad pussy.

“What?” you shot up, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden because of Oliver Aiku. God, you were pathetic.

He just placed a hand on your stomach and pushed you into your back again, holding you down. “Nothin’. I can just see how wet you are. ‘S cute.”

“It is not ‘cute’,” you scoffed.

“It is,” he argued, no real malice behind his words. “Look at ‘er. She’s pretty.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“I am.”

He ran the knuckle of his index finger over the wet patch growing right in the center of your baby blue panties. You despised the small jump in your thigh at the feeling. You knew that he noticed.

“Yeah?” he mocked, looking up at you through his lashes. “That too much already?”

His smirk only widened at your lack of a response, and he began to carefully peel your underwear off your body. He tossed them somewhere near your skirt and moved back up between your thighs. And he watched. Oliver sat there, staring at your glistening, weeping cunt, at total peace with the world. You let out the smallest, most pathetic whine, your pussy clenching at just his gaze.

“It’s been a while, huh?” he teased, continuing to watch every reaction you made. When you tried to close your legs, he just pried them back open.

“It hasn’t,” you scoffed, a feeble attempt at a lie.

“Mhm, sure.”

With zero warning, his middle finger was just barely pressing into your entrance. You fought your urge to push yourself into him to get more than that. He waiting for a minute, eyes focused on your face, and finally pushed all the way in.

Oliver prodded a bit, trying to gauge how much room he had. It wasn’t much. You were tight, and twitching, and all too clenched to have fucked someone within the past few months. It was cute, in a way. Getting someone so uptight — so untouchable — so worked up over him with just a few simple touches? It was the highest honor he could’ve been given. He would have to thank Sendou for getting that bottle of Brandy.

“Aww, baby,” he cooed, slowly pumping his finger in and out of you, curling slightly. “Do you not touch yourself ever? So tense…”

You whined, only realizing then just how pent up you were. You never had the time. The rest of your PR team was incompetent and you had to do their work for them half of the time. With so much going on at once, you never even thought about masturbation.

So you shook your head.

And Aiku clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Do I really make your job that hard, baby?”

You gave a second weak nod as he curled his finger again.

“Guess I have to make it easier for you now, huh? Can’t have such a pretty thing suffering in silence.”

He slipped his ring finger inside of you, stretching you out just a bit more. Still pumping and curling, he slid a hand underneath you to snap the hook of your bra (which was the same baby blue as your panties). Of course someone like him was able to do it with a single hand. He tugged on the straps as casually as ever — his fingers still ruining your gummy insides — and pulled your bra offs his other hand occupied itself with massaging one of your boobs, his thumb running over your nipple in lazy circles.

It was getting difficult for you to ignore the squelching coming from between your thighs. It was obscene and disgusting, and Aiku was all too calm doing it. You were going to lose your mind. That was if you could gain your rationality back.

His fingers moved faster, now scissoring into you to prep you for his cock. He continued to watch you, soaking up every pant and moan that left your parted lips. And just when you gasped out his name—

He pulled his fingers out of you completely.

“What was that?” he hummed, pushing his slick-covered fingers past your lips so you couldn’t reply. You groaned around his fingers, earning a grin from him. “I’ll help you out, baby, don’t worry.”

He pulled away just enough to be able to sit up and strip himself of his pants and boxers. With how many girls he brought over in a month, you had assumed that he’d be big. You never spent much time thinking about it, though. Now, sitting face to face with his cock, it was almost a bit intimidating. It was thick, heavy, and already dripping with pre-cum. Your thighs began to close subconsciously as you just stared into Aiku’s eyes, and he smirked, moving back towards you.

“You already gettin’ scared, pretty? Haven’t even put it in yet,” he chuckled. He gripped the base of his dick, running his tip up and down your folds, delighting in the way your legs twitched. “I’ll be nice. Gonna take this nice and slow, okay?”

You gave him a meek nod.

“If you’re really that worried, though, I can double check,” he shrugs, moving back just enough so he could slide his dick up through your folds — tip catching on the hood of your clit intentionally — and onto your stomach. He was fucking measuring. His tip ended up just a centimeter or two below your belly button. “Might be a little tight, huh?”

You wanted to scoff, maybe even hit him, but he was already pushing in. He was slow at first, waiting until he bottomed out to pick up the pace. Once he was there, though, he pressed his hand onto your stomach and felt the barely visible bulge. “See? Exactly where I thought I’d be.”

And immediately, he pulled out almost all the way, and thrusted back in. You let out a cry, the feeling foreign by now. That just encouraged him to keep going. He rolled his hips against you a few times as you tried to cover your mouth with your hand, and you immediately traded that for clawing at his shoulders.

Quickly, he found a rough, deep pace, never moving his hand away from your stomach. After the work he had already done with his hands, you were starting to feel that knot in your stomach after barely any time.

“‘S too much, too much,” you moshed, arching up into him. He would have been lucky if his back wasn’t littered in scratch marks by the morning.

He leaned down into your neck, planting a small kiss. “You’re takin’ it just fine, baby.”

His thrusts sped up a bit more, and you knew what was coming. Clearly he did, too, considered he moved his free hand from your stomach down to your clit, working it with his thumb.

“You gonna cum?” he grinned, eyes never leaving your face. He would die a happy man if the last thing he ever saw was your fucked-out expression.

You just nodded, moaning and whining like a total idiot.

“Don’t fight it off. Come on. Right around my cock. You got it.”

And you did. Your back arched off of the bed straight into his chest, and your thighs trembled around him. He continued to fuck you through it, trying to hold his own orgasm off as your cunt spasmed around him. Once you were drained of everything, he pulling out, spilling all over your stomach.

You didn’t remember much else after that the next morning. What you did know, though, was that you woke up in Oliver Aiku’s bed with him no longer beside you, and your phone was on the nightstand beside you with a few fresh texts from Sendou.

I hate you.

You just cost me 5 grand.

Please get STD testing.

@graciescott27

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