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iydiamartinx · 3 days ago

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THIS MEANS WAR III

Dick Grayson x Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 3.3k synopsis: Gotham’s youngest neuroscience lecturer never planned to get tangled up with two of its most eligible bachelors. Both are determined to win her over—without revealing they know each other… or that they’re vigilantes. But when the Joker takes an interest in her, things get a whole lot more complicated. a/n: I'm not fully sure how I feel about this chapter, since Jason is surprisingly tricky to write, but I hope you all enjoyed! warnings: attempted mugging & sexual innuendos

GOTHAM STREETS

You hadn’t stopped smiling since you left the bar.

You tried. You really did. Kept your head down, hands buried deep in your coat pockets, boots tapping out a steady rhythm against the uneven Gotham pavement. But every time your mind replayed something he said—or the way he looked at you when you teased him—your lips tugged upward like they were betraying you on purpose.

Dick had surprised you. In all the best ways.

You’d expected someone charming, maybe a little smug—he was too attractive not to be at least a little aware of it—but what you hadn’t expected was the ease. The comfort. The way conversation flowed like you’d known him longer than an hour. How he actually listened when you spoke, even when your words slipped into science—what Milo liked to call your “brainiac voice.” And not only did he keep up, he added to it. Challenged you. Made you laugh so hard at one point you nearly choked on your wine.

And then there was the way he looked at you. How he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention—like you were someone worth listening too. Worth knowing.

You’d been on your fair share of dates—most forgettable, some mildly scarring. But this one… it felt different. Effortless. Familiar in a way that made no sense. He asked questions that weren’t filler. He listened like he cared. And when you’d said goodbye, he’d looked at you like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

Truthfully, neither were you.

But you’d insisted on walking home alone—claiming it was close, which, technically, it was—though the real reason had less to do with distance and more to do with needing air. The space to process everything. A few quiet blocks to let the night settle over you before reality crept back in and your logical brain kicked down the door.

It was foolish, maybe—letting one good date stir up that much hope. You weren’t that girl. You didn’t do that. Even with Jake, it had taken a handful of dates (and a bottle of wine) before you’d started to soften. But with Dick?

It had been effortless. Like your heart had skipped the part where it’s supposed to check for red flags.

God help you, but you already kind of wanted to see him again. That was terrifying.

You turned into an alley—a shortcut toward your apartment. You were still buzzing from the date, your thoughts spinning, smile lingering like a stubborn echo. So much so that, for one foolish second, you forgot where you were.

This was Gotham. And rule number one?

Never take an alley after dark.

You didn’t see him coming. One shove and your back slammed into rough brick, the breath knocked from your lungs. A hand clamped over your mouth before you could scream. His breath reeked—alcohol, smoke, something foul and rotting—and the cold press of metal kissed your throat.

“Stay still,” your attacker hissed. “Or I’ll cut your pretty neck.”

Your mind screamed to move, to run—but your body froze. Just for a second. And then the fight kicked in. Old instincts reared up, you weren’t going down like this.

You forced your body to go limp, pretending to give in. Waited. Just until his grip eased. Then, with everything you had, you drove your knee into his groin.

He let out a strangled noise—somewhere between a groan and a wheeze—and stumbled back.

You ran.

Made it halfway down the alley before his hand caught your arm again. You spun, adrenaline lighting you up, and punched him square in the face.

“You bitch!” he snarled.

“Now that’s no way to treat a lady,” a deep, distorted voice drawled behind you.

Your attacker froze.

You felt it—the shift in the air. Watched his expression drain of colour.

“Hood,” he stammered. “It’s… it’s not what it looks like. I swear—”

The knife clattered to the pavement as he raised trembling hands.

Red Hood emerged from the shadows like a walking threat. Boots heavy, twin pistols holstered but clearly visible at his sides. The red helmet gleamed under the flickering alley lights, tilted ever so slightly. Unreadable.

“I saw what it looked like,” he said, voice smooth and mechanical through the modulator. “And I’m gonna go out on a limb and say it didn’t look like a misunderstanding.”

The man stammered. “I—I didn’t touch her, man! She hit me first!”

“Oh, poor you,” Red Hood said dryly, already reaching for him. “Bet that’ll sound real convincing when your jaw’s wired shut.”

He grabbed the guy by the collar and slammed him against the opposite wall—hard. The man whimpered, sliding down like a sack of garbage. Dazed. Bleeding. Breathing.

Red Hood swiftly zipped tied him for the police and then he turned back toward you, and you instinctively took a half-step back before freezing mid-motion.

That helmet turned.

“You alright?”

You blinked, adrenaline still thundering in your chest. “Define ‘alright.’”

He paused. “Still breathing. Upright. Capable of sarcasm. You’re fine.” His tone sharpened. “Which means you can tell me what the hell you were thinking. Who walks into a Gotham alley at night?”

Your spine straightened. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t just wander into places like this unless you’re actively trying to get mugged,” he snapped, jerking his head toward the man slumped nearby. “You wanna end up dead in a gutter or are you just new here?”

“Oh, I’m sorry—should I have teleported home instead?” you snapped, heart still racing. “It was a shortcut. That’s it.”

“A shortcut?” he echoed, like it was the dumbest thing he’d ever heard. “Congratulations. You shaved off what, thirty seconds? Was it worth the knife to the throat?”

“I didn’t know he was going to be there!”

“You never know,” he bit out. “That’s the point. It’s Gotham. Rule number one: don’t go out in the dark. Especially not in alleys.”

“I’m not stupid,” you growled, fists clenched at your sides.

“Then start acting like it.”

The words hit harder than you expected. You flinched, breath catching.

He paused, chest heaving slightly beneath the jacket. For a moment, the alley was silent but for the distant hum of the city. “You were lucky tonight. That’s all it was. Next time, maybe I’m not here. And maybe someone worse finds you.”

You stared at him, fists clenched, cheeks burning. Not with fear—but with embarrassment. Frustration. Fury.

“I didn’t ask for a lecture,” you muttered.

“No,” he said flatly. “You asked for a shortcut.”

“Asshole,” you spat.

“Sure. Call me the asshole when I just saved your ass.”

“I had it handled.”

That made him laugh—rough, humourless. . “You had it handled? Right. I showed up just in time to watch you get handled into a wall.”

You stepped forward, eyes blazing now. “Yeah? And I still got out of it. I kneed him first. Clocked him too. Or did you miss that part while playing Gotham’s angriest knight?”

He tilted his head, helmet gleaming beneath the alley’s flickering light. “That’s cute princess. You want a medal for being half a second away from a news headline?”

“No,” you snapped. “I want to not be treated like some helpless idiot because I had one bad night. You don’t know me.”

There was a pause—charged and electric.

“I know enough,” he growled.

You raised your chin, defiant. “Then you should know I don’t take well to being talked down to. Especially not by a guy hiding behind a helmet and a complex.”

He stilled. Just for an unnoticeable moment.

You weren’t afraid of him. Not the guns. Not the name. Not the reputation.

You stood there, furious and unshaken, like he was just another guy off the street who’d pissed you off. Not a vigilante. Not Red Hood. Just a man with too much attitude and a helmet to hide behind.

Normal civilians got scared. Normal civilians said thank you and rushed home with shaky breaths and adrenaline still spiking.

What the hell was wrong with you?

Because you weren’t scared. Not even close.

“God, you’re infuriating,” he muttered.

“And you’re annoying.” You folded your arms. “But here we are.”

Another pause.

The tension between you didn’t fade—if anything it seemed to thicken.

He didn’t move. Neither did you.

Finally, he stepped back, retreating into the shadows.

“Go home, smartass,” he muttered.

You rolled your eyes, crouched to grab your fallen purse, and muttered a string of creative insults under your breath—but when you looked up, he was gone. And yet… you felt him. Somewhere above. Watching.

He didn’t stop watching until you were safely inside your building.

This was your first encounter with a Gotham vigilante—and man, was he an asshole.

Jason had just watched your infuriating ass disappear into your apartment complex—because apparently, Gotham shortcuts were death traps and you didn’t believe in better choices—when his comm crackled to life.

“How was the date, dickhead?” Jason muttered, eyes fixed on your building.

“Someone’s in a mood,” Dick replied, voice disgustingly bright. Jason could practically hear the grin.

Jason grunted. “Answer the question.”

“It was great.”

Jason snorted. “No way.”

“I’m serious,” Dick insisted. “Smart, funny, terrifying—in a good way. Total knockout.”

Jason’s brows furrowed. “Terrifying in a good way?”

“She roasted me and quoted serotonin receptor pathways in the same sentence.”

Jason blinked. There was a beat of silence where he genuinely didn’t know what to say. Then one corner of his mouth twitched upward behind the mask, and his eyebrows arched slightly. “…Kinky.”

Dick barked out a laugh. “Right? I think I’m in love.”

Jason groaned, dragging a hand down his masked face. “You say that every time someone tolerates you for more than twenty minutes.”

“This one didn’t just tolerate me—she mocked me with clinical accuracy. It was like foreplay for my ego.”

Jason shook his head, lips twitching again despite himself. “I hate you.”

“She also said she doesn’t do second dates often.” Dick went on, more thoughtful now. “So naturally, I begged like a man with no shame.”

“Which you are.”

“Exactly.”

Jason leaned back against the rooftop ledge, one boot resting on the low brick barrier, eyes still trained on the window across the street. His voice shifted, lower. “So… you’re really doing this?”

There was a pause, just long enough for Jason to hear the sincerity settle into Dick’s tone. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I just know I want to see her again.”

Jason didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. The pause stretched, heavy in its own way, until Dick broke it.

“So what’s got you in a bad mood?”

Jason exhaled through his nose and tipped his head back slightly, gaze dragging upward toward the Gotham skyline. The clouds above were thick and dark, hanging low with a threat of rain. Sirens whined in the distance, their sound warping slightly in the wind.

“You know the usual,” he muttered, “beating up scumbags, saving civilians, keeping the streets clear for romantics like you.”

“Aw,” Dick cooed. “So chivalrous. Anyone ever tell you you’re a real catch?”

“Only in your dreams.”

Dick snorted. “Seriously though—bad night?”

Jason hesitated, gaze flicking toward the apartment window he’d just seen you walk past, you’d made it to your place safe. “Let’s just say Gotham delivered its usual charm. Creep with a knife, a civilian with a death wish, and me playing babysitter.”

“You alright?”

“I’m fine. She’s fine. Dumb as hell, but fine.”

“Dumb?”

“Took a shortcut through an alley. Alone. At night.” His jaw flexed, the muscle ticking hard beneath the edge of his helmet. “You do the math.”

“Oof,” Dick said, wincing audibly. “She’s lucky you showed up.”

Jason didn’t reply right away.

From the other end, Dick sighed. “It sounds like a usual night on the job. So what’s wrong?”

Jason’s jaw flexed. “She mouthed off at me,” he muttered, almost sounding petulant.

“So do you. Constantly.”

Jason scoffed, pushing off the ledge. He began pacing along the rooftop edge, glancing down at the street below. “She told me off, then strutted into her building like she didn’t almost get stabbed five minutes prior.”

Dick let out a low, impressed hum. “…Hot.”

Jason stopped mid-step, turning sharply. “Shut up, Dick.”

“You’re thinking about her, though.”

His hand flexed at his side. He knew exactly what Dick was doing—and worse, he knew he wasn’t wrong.

“I swear to God,” Jason growled, “if you don’t end this call—”

“Okay, okay,” Dick said, still laughing. “I’ll let you go. But I am getting the full story tomorrow. Don’t think I won’t drag it out of you.”

Jason rolled his shoulders, already turning his back to the apartment and heading for the fire escape. “I liked you better when you were getting shot at in Blüdhaven.”

“Love you too, Little Wing.”

The comm clicked off, blessed silence returning to his ears.

Jason exhaled through his nose, slow and measured. He turned back one last time, casting a final glance at your window.

“Infuriating,” he muttered.

YOUR APARTMENT

You groaned as you rolled out of bed, every muscle in your body protesting the movement. Your side ached, your legs were sore, and your back felt like it was body slammed by a bear. God, you really wished your body was sore for an entirely different reason.

You winced as you stretched, muttering curses under your breath. You really should’ve taken Dick home while you had the chance. Whoever said sleeping with someone on the first date was trashy had clearly never met Dick Grayson. That man could charm the pants off someone’s grandma and probably have her baking cookies for him after.

Speaking of…

You grabbed your phone from the nightstand and blinked against the screen’s glow. One new message. From him.

“Had a great time last night. Can’t wait to see you again.”

You bit your lip, trying to suppress the stupid, giddy sound bubbling up your throat as you responded.

Thankfully, it was the weekend. No lectures. No lab work. No coworkers to fake professionalism around while your brain short-circuited over one man’s text. You had the whole day to yourself, and as you got dressed—tugging on jeans, your favorite coat, and a scarf soft enough to feel like a hug—you already knew where you were going.

First stop: Cafe Nero’s.

Your usual. A buttery croissant and a cup of iced coffee with a splash of vanilla.

Next? The bookshop.

The bell above the door chimed softly as you stepped inside, the warm scent of old paper and fresh espresso instantly curling around you. Sunlight bled through the tall windows, casting golden slats across the hardwood floors and over the scattered reading chairs nestled in cozy corners.

You wandered toward the back, cradling your coffee cup in one hand as you traced your fingers over the spines of new novels with the other. The ache in your side throbbed beneath your coat, a stubborn reminder of what almost happened—but you ignored it. Compared to the fluttering thrill still tucked under your ribs from Dick’s message, it felt small. Distant.

He’d enjoyed last night.

He wanted to see you again.

Now, with a croissant in your stomach and your fingers itching for a new read, the world felt calm again. Almost normal.

“I wouldn’t pick that one.”

You blinked, turning your head—and your eyes landed on a man leaning casually against the next shelf. Thick leather jacket zipped halfway, dark jeans worn in all the right places, and bright, poison-green eyes fixed on you with an expression equal parts amused and assessing. His hair—black as ink with a streak of white at the front—was tousled like he hadn’t planned on being seen today, but his posture said otherwise. Confident. Sharp-edged. Like someone who didn’t mind getting into trouble—or starting it.

“Excuse me?”

He nodded at the book in your hand. “That author’s all hype, no heart. You’ll be disappointed by chapter three.”

You arched a brow. “And you care what I read because…?”

He shrugged, unbothered. “Call it a public service. Mediocre storytelling is a crime. I’m just doing my part.”

You scoffed before glancing down at the book in your hand. “Right. And here I thought Gotham’s biggest crime was murder. Turns out it’s just bad literature.”

He smirked, completely unbothered. “Hey, murder’s messy. Bad writing’s slow, painful, and somehow still legal.”

You blinked. “…Are you seriously comparing my book choice to murder?”

He gestured to the cover, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m just saying—if you’re gonna invest your time in something, might as well make sure it knows how to keep you satisfied.”

“And what do you know about what keeps me satisfied?” The words slipped out before you could stop them—sounding more flirtier than you intended. God. Milo was creating a monster.

His grin widened. “Because I know books. And I know women.”

You studied him more carefully now—the cocky set of his jaw, the glint in his eyes that said he was used to mouthing off and dealing with the consequences. He had the posture of someone who picked fights with the world for fun, and the scars to prove it. Everything about him was a bad boy, through and through.

He reached over, his arm brushing just close enough to make your breath hitch, the scent of leather, cologne and…gunpowder? curled around you. His body shifted nearer as he plucked another title from the shelf.

“Here,” he said, holding it out. You recognized the cover—it’d been trending online all week. “Strong plot. Sharp dialogue. Main love interest actually has depth… the kind that keeps you up thinking about them even after the book is done.”

You took the book, more to humor him than anything, and scanned the back cover. “And if it’s terrible?”

“Then you can yell at me over coffee. I’ll even pretend to be sorry.” His voice dropped an octave. “But if you’ve read it already, you know it’s a good pick. And if you haven’t—you’ll thank me for introducing you to it.”

You glanced up at him, “Well, I have read it.”

His smirk widened.

“And I agree—it wasn’t bad,” you said, slow and coy. “But it’s not her best work. Not even close.”

You state watching as his smirked faltered.

“You picked it because it’s trending. Vaguely steamy with enough grit to make it look deep when it’s actually just shallow fiction in a leather jacket. Compared to her earlier stuff? It’s second-tier, if we’re being honest.”

His eyebrows rose slightly—whether from amusement or disbelief, you weren’t sure.

“And,” you added, stepping into his space, “it says a lot about a guy who picks the easiest option without doing his homework. Because if you really knew anything about women—or me, in that matter—you’d know I’m more than capable of picking out my own damn books.”

Jason stared at you, momentarily stunned.

You set the book neatly back on the shelf and grabbed the one you actually came here for. “So, no. I’ll pass.”

Then you turned, heels clicking against the floor as you walked away, fully prepared to leave him behind in the dust of his own misplaced confidence.

“Wait—hold on—” he started.

“I’m sure you’ll have better luck next time, paperback Casanova,” you tossed over your shoulder, not breaking stride. “I’m sure there’s a girl out there who’s impressed by leather jackets and surface-level charm. Try aisle three.”

And with that, you disappeared down the row.

Then he exhaled a disbelieving laugh. Sharp. Breathless.

“Holy shit,” he muttered.

He wasn’t exactly a womanizer—not like Roy, who’d mellowed out a lot since Lian was born—but he’d never been shot down that fast, or that hard.

You were infuriatingly attractive, all wit and spine, and it pissed him off how badly it worked on him. He really shouldn’t be wasting his time chasing after you —and yet, here he was. Standing in the middle of the aisle like an idiot wondering how the hell he was going to get a second chance.

You were something he hadn’t realized he was missing lately.

A challenge.

And he couldn’t resist a good challenge.

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Taglist: @mei-simp, @sept3mberchild, @a-brilliante-mariposa, @feralwolfkat, @mercuryathens

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lukie17 · 1 day ago

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Ordering a body pillow of them!

It was a sleepless night when you decided to doom scroll until sleep finally kicked in. Until an ad caught your attention, a deal of a costume made dakimakura. It was 50% off and you could ask for the pillow to show a fictional character, an actor or even someone you knew. Without thinking twice, you send the picture of your husband with your specifications.

You tried to keep it a secret from him, until he found out.

Xavier.

He was supposed to be on a mission and not return until a few days later. While he was gone, you used the pillow and put it back into your secret spot. But this time it went wrong, Xavier being the freak he is, ended up the mission earlier than expected and wanted to pass out in the arms of his partner in life.

But what did he find? His beautiful wife hugging someone else. He did not know who it was nor he cared, he yanked the pillow out of you and his sword pressed against the "neck" of the intruder. Scared out of the sudden attack, you raised your weapon and aimed at him, carefully turning the lights.

Xavier's scowl only grew heavier as his own eyes met him. The pillow showed him in his cat butler self with the difference that his uniform was open, showing his torso and chest. The hunter's face was an enigma, and you froze, knowing too damn well that it could either go wrong or really wrong. Xavier was even jealous of himself and the pillow might trigger it even more.

To your demise, but not surprising, Xavier cut the pillow into tiny pieces. You sighed as you let him rage, trying to find the right words to ease him, maybe there could be a way where you get out of the mess without walking funny for the next few days. But the beast was on the loose.

In a second, Xavier's lips were on your own, one hand pressing you against the bed while the other one ripped his uniform apart. His kisses were a warning, he would make sure that you won't even for a pillow or him.

Zayne

Zayne discovered it by accident. He was doing some spring cleaning at your apartment when he found it. Stacked at the bag of the closet, Zayne almost froze the dakimakura when he landed his eyes on it. Not because of jealousy, but he thought that there was an intruder.

Out of curiosity he examined the pillo. He was in his doctor's coat or at least a spicy version of it. He wondered why you had ordered it and when you did it. Since the pillow smelled like you, he guessed that it was something that you used frequently. Zayne could have taken the path of hiding the pillow away, and save you the embarrassment, but you had played a lot of pranks on him lately, so he had a score to settle.

That evening you walked home tired of a long shift and just wanted to rest, but Zayne had everything planned. As soon as you opened the door, he greeted you.

"Welcome home, cheater" sipping tea from his mug "Did you have a nice day?"

You were confused. You would never dare or wanted to cheat on Zayne. In fact, he looked really calm and was he smirking? He had not a smile on his face but you could tell something was going on.

"What?"

"No need to play dumb" his head pointing to your room "I have discovered the man that is in your bed"

No sound came from you, still trying to understand what was going on. Yes, you invited friends like Xavier or Caleb to your apartment but never cheated on Zayne. Wondering what made him act like that, only to discover your body pillow in bed. You wanted to crawl in a whole, you wanted to die and get eaten by a wanderer. But Zayne had other plans.

"I think I got the messge" his arms caging you against him "I need to stop more time with my wife or else she would leave me" before you could explain yourself, Zayne devoured your lips.

Sylus

He will never, never, NEVER, let you forget what you did. You were on your knees sitting on front of him as the pillow floated infront of you while Sylus made it turn around with his evol. In the pillow, he was wearing some kind of armor that looked like a dragon. It was both endaring and weird.

You did not know what to say. Sylus, as always, had the upper hand and there was no way gettint out of it. So you decided to play your trick card: jumping into his lap hopping to distract him but he had other plans.

The red mist caught you and pushed you down until your face was against the body pillow, making sure that your face was against his face in the pillow. Then he position himself behidn you, his lips brushing against your ear.

"I never thought that you would be such a naughty kitten" you could not tell if he was mad or happy about the fact that you had a body pillow of him, and you did not want to know "Though, I do not know what it took you to buy another version of me when you have me right here"

He sponned you around so you could face him, and when you tried to look away, his evol made you look at him. He looked like a lion about to devour his prey, and for the first time in a while you were a little afraid of Sylus, in a good way.

"Cat got your tongue?" he mocked as he leaned closer "Or are you only going to talk to the pillow, kitten?"

Sylus closed the distance between you, making sure that any sound woud be trapped in his mouth. You don't know if you regret buying the pillow or not changing the address direction to other place rather that your shared home with Sylus.

Caleb

My husband , Caleb would tease you and feel so flattered at the same time. He didn't know that you had it in you, but he also had to tease you as we know. He will lift the body pillow high enough for you to not reach it, and he will se your face blusing as you try to get it back.

"What's that pipsqueack? You missed me so much that you have to get one pillow out of me" you were basically a tomate, but you could not lose.

"Who are you to talk, panty-thief!"

Caleb froze and he left the pillow hit the floor, quickly you grab it at tossed in the closet.

"You- you know?" he was now the one who was turning red "How-how? I was sure that I was careful..."

"How could I not when my old underwear kept reapearing as if it was new!" you protested, hoping that he would forget the body pillow "You pervert! Why do you think I make sure to do all the laundry?"

The body pillow was now a thing from the past for him, the lonely travels to the deepspace tunnel were only bareable because he took a piece of you with him. He never anything pervert with them, but he liked to have them close, he did not know if he could survive with them. He got in his knees, and hugged your legs, looking like a dog who was sad for being scolded.

"Pips, pleasee" he rubbed against your legs "Let me do your laundry again"

You only sighed with releaf, now he would forget about the pillow and let you be. After all, you need someting to cuddle against when he went to missions for while. Though you were lucky that he had not open the pillow and found his own underweare in there. What can you say? Weirdos attract each other

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bunnwich · 2 days ago

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Same anon about the Leona bf Hcs....I'm also curious, do you have any ICKS when it comes to how people portray Leona romantically? plspls, I wanna get controversial.

My Leona Boyfriend HC Icks

(This is subjective, but you asked! Idk why I wanted to answer this ask before your other one… I guess I felt some type of way. It's a bit more ranty/bitchy so be forewarned. I’ve been in the fandom since the ENG release, so I've seen a lot of stuff that personally icks me. Dw I’ll get to your other ask!!)

Btw, I know some ppl won't like some of these opinions, but it's just my personal preferences at the end of the day! Friendly reminder: I am not the authority on Leona Kingscholar nor do I claim to be!!!

STINKY (But not metaphorically)

Why? He is an athlete and a prince? All the athletes I know bathe MORE than other ppl bc they get sweaty. Besides…we all have bad hygiene when we aren't doing well mentally? So, this HC at best is just gross, and at WORST is offensive. Also, just a question for ppl who do STILL this: Why would you WANT him to stink??? I never understood this mindset, even if he WAS that lazy. I simply wouldn’t wanna HC that he stinks. I love myself. GFBHNJM (Idia seems to get this stinky boy treatment too WHYY??? Sorry, I choose to believe my man smells good.)

HERBIVORE. (The H-Word)

I think where people lose me fast in Leona fics is hitting me over the head with the word “herbivore.” Honestly…he doesn't use the word as much as people think?? And I don’t think he would call his S/O at all. I find it mean? Because of the Japanese context of this word, and just the literal meaning. I think of it as more akin to the word “whimp” or “weakling.” It's not…cute to me? He doesn’t even use it for the MC later in the game as much. So, unless you're a lion beastman or fellow carnivore, I’d expect prey nicknames. Kitten, mouse, bird, bunny, etc. He even likens the MC to a “kitten” in a few voicelines. Just makes more sense to me, idk. Think of the silly nicknames he has for the canon cast. That or you know…he’d just use your name.

BRUTE BOYFRIEND

He's rude, sure. But no…Leona is NOT beating anyone up for looking/flirting with you. Would he be annoyed, maybe even secretly furious? Sure. But, he's not a “brute strength" kinda guy who uses his fists. (It’s almost like it's his main battle line!) If someone truly hurt you or did something off-color, he’d probably send someone else to do the dirty work to intimidate or deal with them. In a real fight, OFC he'd defend you, but fighting cause some guy winked at you? NO. I don’t personally believe so. He’s a grown man with high intelligence, so I think high school like beef would be a bit beneath him?? At least he'd have one of his goons go do it.

ALOOF BOYFRIEND

I think where a lot of ppl lose me is the “aloof/stoic” bf thing. No doubt he would keep his distance at the first instance of catching feelings because he doesn't wanna be hurt. At first, he’s only batting at you to gauge how you feel for him. But if he becomes seriously interested, and then you begin dating, I just don’t believe he would care what other people think. Or try to downplay your relationship. He’d wait for you to make the first real move, sure…but YOU’D KNOW. I just think about how he acted toward Sally in the last Halloween event and how he was almost “uncharacteristically” sweet to her. I think because Leona isn't super close to anyone in NRC—beyond a few of his frosh or respect-based relationships (like he has with Vil), we don’t see this side of him often, and so it comes as a shock. Without spoiling anything, let’s just say…he was VERY unbothered at everyone's reaction to his soft side. He was focused on Sally and being nice to her. And if we apply this to “bf status Leona,” I think he’d be too focused on YOU to worry about what other ppl think of him. I’ve been preaching for years that this part of him always existed, and that now he just chooses who sees it. He saves his softness for very specific people he deems worthy of his time. Period. You’ll have to play a bit of a game to get on his good side, but like the motto of Savanaclaw: PERSISTENTLY proving to Leona that you care for him despite his flaws, he’ll come around. And when you're together, well- (I'll save that for the other ask) Especially if you are in an established relationship. He clearly thinks the world of you. He doesn’t have many close relationships, so you think he’s wasting his time with someone he wouldn’t even bother to be nice to??? Besides, Leona later in the main story becomes quite self-aware of his inability to reach out to others, despite craving affection desperately. He knows it's his blind spot, SO he's putting effort into being a good bf to you!

HE'S 20 (45)

To further my above point, I think people forget he is a few years older than even the other 3 years, and…was raised by an old man? I think when ppl write him with low emotional maturity...it loses me. I get it, he's a brat. And often he CHOOSES to act like a petulant prince when it suits him. But, I think deep down esp in more serious situations, we’ve seen that he's wise, calm, and level-headed. Just some nuance, please.

“USING YOU AS A PILLOW”

Napping/cuddling together is no doubt one of the nicest things you can do with a partner. And I’ve even implemented this kinda thing in my writing. HOWEVER, there is a certain flavor of this I dislike. Esp when it’s “forced” on the reader/OC. Sometimes I find this is ALL ppl write about him in those HC posts, esp ones that aren’t Leona focused. That or “Leona dragging you off to be his pillow.” (A bit of my life is taken every time I read this sentence now…) I know there are new folks coming into the fandom who may repeat old tropes, and that's fine! But, I STILL see this from people who have been here for yearssssssss. It's just cliche to me. I do believe he's a cuddly guy, EXTREMELY SO. It's just that specific phrase that icks me. Maybe it’s the implication that he does it against your will and is aggressive about it?? Just, no thanks.

"I CAN FIX HIM”

Okay maybe now we’re getting into the more controversial ones?? I think the idea of “tru wuv” fixing someone’s flaws is just unappealing as a concept to me and completely against what I think love is about. The “dragging him to class”, “making him dress up more,” or “forcing him to get along with his family” is not something I think he’d put up with. He’s grown, he's extremely stubborn, he knows he’s failing school. He doesn't need another person to nag him! Ruggie already does that! Plus, family relations are complicated. Idk…if someone I started dating tried to get me to talk with a family member who I felt genuinely hurt/neglected me, I’d be annoyed af?? I think he would find it all patronizing coming from a romantic partner. It's one thing if he chooses to be better himself or for his mental health to improve gradually, but forcing things on him and “nagging” him constantly about his behavior at school and at home is just what his family does so- He's flawed, VERY MUCH SO. But, I think when it comes to relationships…everyone has flaws they deal with easier in a partner than others. Like you can maybe deal better with someone being socially awkward, but can't stand your S/O having a messy room. Like if your “hard nos” are lazy people, your S/O dressing “sloppy,” or someone who can be petty and rude to others- Well, you get my point. It's like....if you hate playing video games and wanna ship with Idia. My question is why?? I’m genuinely curious why you even like this character in the first place?? Hot take, (I guess) this is the reason I don't really ship LeoVil. It just rubs me the wrong way how it turns Leona into a “fix me” project thing. And not to mention how Vil talks to Leona canonically in a demeaning way. (I love you Vil, but you’re wrong.) Leona needs a kick in the ass for sure, all the twst boys do, but personally when a fic/ship leans too heavy on the dynamic of “I can fix/change him” it turns me off. As someone who's been in a long-term relationship… if your day-to-day lifestyles don’t align when living together…ya’ll are gonna be at each other's throats over the small stuff. That’s just how it works irl. And...I understand if everyone doesn't want to apply this logic to fictional ships. I just personally am not fond of this dynamic. And with Leona being a beastman AND a POC, it often feels like a loaded trope to apply to him.

DISPOSABLE LION BOYFRIEND

Last one! (Maybe most controversial idk) I just think Leona is not good at being a romance rival, (assuming we're not talking about poly situation) despite him being competitive. While ofc I think it's possible for an MC or OC to have multiple crushes and things, I think Leona is someone who wouldn’t handle this well? Like, if Leona feels like he’s gotta compete for scraps of your attention, at a certain point...I'd think he’d just give up, or at least give you your space to come to him. He’s had to compete for attention his whole life, and I feel like he's too emotionally mature and ego-driven to put up with these kinds of games for too long? I DO think it's interesting to explore the dynamic of having multiple love interests!! I even do it for a lil drama! But…in gen I don’t prefer when it feels like Leona is just there to be the "the disposable love interest" considering all of his insecurities of being second. Honestly, in that case, I can see him giving an ultimatum? He's a grown man among...mostly teens, I PERSONALLY just can't see him being a love rival with a child. FGHJK

Anyways, I could go one. that's all I can think of for now!

AGAIN I WANNA STRESS THAT THESE ARE MY ICKS. And if you don’t agree or do any of these, that's okay! Everyone can play dolls how they choose, I’m not the HC or character police. ✌️✌️✌️

#twst #leona kingscholar #leona kingscholar x reader #leona kingscholar x yuu #leona twst #twst hot take #lion talk🦁#twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland

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starmaidengarden · 2 days ago

Text

𝐅𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐲 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 | 𝐒𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐰 !

contexts: just some adorable headcanons about the Savanaclaw boys

— Leona : Ruggie : Jack : x gn!reader. no cw/tw. cute headcanons. pt1! Pic: Leo08ph on twt, dividers: uzmacchiato

Leona Kingscholar ༉⋆｡˚

⭑.ᐟ He often pretends not to care, yet he always remembers the smallest details you mention, whether it's your favorite comfort food or the name of a book you love. When he's feeling relaxed in your presence, you'll notice the way his tail sways softly, a silent testament to his comfort with you.

⭑.ᐟ During lazy afternoons, he’ll let you nap beside him, content to drape his tail over you like a warm blanket. It's an unspoken sign of affection that he reserves only for you. His hair is off-limits to everyone else, but when you're around, he allows you to play with it. If you gently run your fingers through his hair while he dozes, you'll earn a soft purr in response, though he'll likely deny it if you bring it up later.

⭑.ᐟ Unknown to you, he keeps one of your hair ties or a small trinket tucked away in his coat pocket, where he often finds himself fidgeting with it during moments. Whenever someone annoys you, a low growl rumbles in his throat, an instinctive reaction to protect you. He has a skill for picking up on your emotions before you even have the chance to say them: “Oi. You going to tell me who pissed you off, or am I supposed to guess?”

⭑.ᐟ Despite his arrogance, which often keeps jealousy at bay, he’s fiercely protective when it comes to you. He has an unshakeable confidence that you’re with him, but he won’t hesitate to confront anyone who mistakenly thinks they have a chance with you.

⭑.ᐟ He’s not into PDA and prefers quiet dates in his room, enjoying each other's company. He’ll stay awake to spend time with you, but if you're tired, he’s fine with a nap. He might try to teach you chess, but he won’t let you win.

⭑.ᐟ You provide a balance in his life, challenging his aloof demeanor. You refuse to let him hide behind his “I don’t care” facade, he is a big softie we all know it. Instead of walking away as others might, you choose to stay, even during his more difficult moments. Your persistent presence chips away at his defenses and makes him fall for you faster than he ever expected.

Ruggie Bucchi ༉⋆｡˚

⭑.ᐟ He sneakily brings you treats from the cafeteria, whispering with a cheeky grin, “Hey, don’t tell Leona, but I saved the last donut just for you.” It’s those little acts that make the moments feel special.

⭑.ᐟ When you’re feeling down, he has a talent for turning your frowns into laughter. He makes a game out of it, playfully overdoing his moves or jokingly trying to pull silly faces until you can't help but crack a smile.

⭑.ᐟ In a small gesture that means a lot, he keeps a photo of you tucked in his wallet, nestled next to a crumpled coupon and what seems like seventeen receipts. It’s a little glimpse into how he treasures the small moments you’ve shared.

⭑.ᐟ He’s always well-prepared, carrying extra hair ties, tissues, and an assortment of snacks just in case you might need something, jokingly declaring, “What, I’m just prepared for every situation!”

⭑.ᐟ Even when he’s running around town tackling little errands, he makes it an adventure. Picture him tossing you a soda while making a challenge out of drinking it without spilling a drop as you skip along. There’s a playful energy that fills the air, making the every day feel like a thrill.

⭑.ᐟ You often catch him whistling tunes while doing chores, a light-hearted soundtrack to the otherwise ordinary tasks.

⭑.ᐟ While he's quick to complain about the nice things he does for you—“Ugh, you owe me big time for this…”—he inevitably softens and helps you out anyway, even insisting, “Okay, move over, I’m carrying your stuff, too.” His gruff complaints are a gentle front for his support.

⭑.ᐟ He has a playful way of addressing you with nicknames like “your highness,” “boss,” and “my meal ticket,” each term laced with love and teasing.

⭑.ᐟ He may not get flustered easily, but when you compliment him sincerely or catch him off guard with a gesture of affection, it’s a sight to see. He freezes for just a beat, a look of surprise washing over his face, before breaking into a grin and burying his face in laughter, an endearing mix of bashfulness and delight.

Jack Howl ༉⋆｡˚

⭑.ᐟ Very respectful. Like, painfully respectful. He won’t make any moves until he is certain that you reciprocate his feelings—your comfort and consent are paramount to him. This deep-seated respect means that he often holds back, patiently gauging your reactions and emotions.

⭑.ᐟ He’s not one to seek out physical affection from just anyone; it has to be someone he feels truly close to. When it comes to those special people, though, he becomes a total softie, openly displaying his affection and warmth.

⭑.ᐟ When the weather turns and rain begins to fall, you can count on him to dash across campus, umbrella in hand, just to make sure you stay dry. His thoughtfulness shines bright in those moments, revealing his genuine care for you.

⭑.ᐟ He is the type of who notices when you have hair in your face and will move it aside. He wants to see your eyes and lips when you smile or laugh and likes to easily read your expressions. He finds it hard to do that if your face is covered by hair.

⭑.ᐟ If you ever want to train together, he’s all in. He’ll adjust his pace to match yours, ensuring you’re comfortable while pushing you to do your best. His encouraging words are a constant source of motivation, making the experience as enjoyable as it is rewarding.

⭑.ᐟ When he's jogging solo, he packs just the essentials: phone, headphones, water bottle, and timer. However, if you join him, he suddenly needs a first aid kit, a backpack full of snacks, a blanket, and a dozen other unnecessary items for a 30-minute jog.

#twst #twst wonderland #twst x reader #twisted wonderland #twst headcanons #twisted wonderland x reader #leona kingscholar #leona kingsholar x reader #leona x reader #ruggie bucchi #ruggie bucci x reader #ruggie x reader #jack howl #jack howl x reader #jack x reader #twst leona #twst ruggie #twst jack

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writingforstraykids · 1 day ago

Text

Behind the Mask

Pairing: Han Jisung x gn!reader (short mention of Chan)

Word count: 1066

Summary: You’re a makeup artist for stray kids - used to putting on faces, used to covering up the exhaustion under glitter and gloss. But when you find Han Jisung crying alone in the break room, you realize he’s been wearing a mask heavier than foundation.

Warnings/Tags: hurt comfort, angst, fluff, idol x makeup artist

do not repost, translate, or plagiarize my works in any way here or on other platforms. ©️writingforstraykids 2024 -

You’ve been told Jisung is a handful.

The staff talk about him like he’s a whirlwind - chaotic, loud, full of energy, barely stays in one spot for more than ten seconds. You assumed they were exaggerating. Until the first time you tried to apply his foundation and he started rapping the order menu of his favorite chicken place while bouncing his legs like a caffeinated jackrabbit.

Still, it was hard not to smile around him.

He made long shoot days easier, kept the room buzzing when everyone else was barely holding on. You’d even gotten used to the challenge of chasing his face with a beauty blender while he talked with his hands. What you hadn’t expected was the silence.

You were walking back from lunch break, your touch-up kit tucked under your arm, when you passed by the break room door left slightly ajar. It was supposed to be empty - set change, everyone on break, no camera crew. But you paused at the faint sound behind it.

Not laughter. Not talking. A muffled sob.

Your fingers hovered at the door. You know better than to intrude. But something about the sound - raw and strangled, like someone trying too hard to be quiet - makes your chest twist. You peek in.

Jisung is sitting on the couch, hoodie pulled over his head, face buried in his hands.

You hesitate. Then softly, “...Jisung?” His head snaps up, eyes wide.

He blinks at you like he doesn’t recognize your voice for a second. “Sorry—” you start to back out. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No - wait.” His voice cracks, barely more than a whisper. He wipes at his face quickly, smearing faint traces of eyeliner and concealer. “It’s… I’m fine. Just - don’t tell anyone, okay?”

You step inside, slow and careful, and close the door behind you. “Your secret’s safe.”

He tries to smile, but it breaks halfway through. “I’m supposed to be the fun one,” he says, a bitter edge curling the words. “Can’t even cry without ruining someone’s day.”

“You’re not ruining anything.” You sit across from him, not too close, giving him space. There’s silence. He sniffs and wipes his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie.

You reach into your kit and silently hand him a tissue. He gives a weak chuckle and takes it.

“I was fine this morning. I swear.”

“You don’t have to explain,” you say, gentle. But he does. You can see it—whatever’s cracking inside him, it needs to come out.

“I just… I didn’t sleep. My vocals were off in rehearsal. Channie hyung said I looked tired and he meant well but—” He bites his lip. “I think I’m just tired of pretending all the time.” He exhales shakily, shoulders slumping.

You nod slowly. “That’s a lot to carry.”

“I used to love this, you know?” he says quietly. “The music, the stage, the fans. I still do. But some days, it feels like I’m performing even when I’m off-stage. Like people only want the fun version of me.”

You reach into your kit again and pull out a compact mirror and a cleansing wipe. “Let me help,” you say, moving gently to sit beside him.

He doesn’t flinch when you lift the wipe to his cheek. Just watches you with those red-rimmed eyes, a little stunned by the calm. “You always know how to fix my face,” he murmurs.

“I’d rather help you feel okay inside it,” you say softly.

That makes him pause. He looks at you - really looks, like he’s seeing past the uniform, past the role. “That’s not in your job description.”

You smile. “Neither is keeping secrets.”

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. You wipe away the last of the smudged eyeliner, then gently pat his skin dry. He closes his eyes under your touch, like he finally feels safe enough to breathe.

“Do you ever just… want to disappear for a while?” he asks suddenly. “Not forever. Just long enough to remember who you were before everything got so loud.”

You nod, quiet. “More often than I admit.”

He cracks a small smile. “We should run away.”

“Yeah?” you tease. “Where to?”

“Somewhere with no cameras. No rehearsals. Just—quiet. And maybe ramen.”

You laugh, surprised. “A peaceful life fueled by instant noodles?”

“Living the dream,” he says, and for the first time, it sounds real. There’s another pause. He leans back, his shoulder brushing yours. Not an accident. He doesn’t pull away. “Thanks for not pretending I’m okay,” he says softly.

“Thanks for trusting me.” You glance at the clock. An hour until showtime. “Wait here,” you say, standing.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“Getting us that dream-life ramen.”

His brows lift. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious. Instant noodles for the soul.” You return a few minutes later, two steaming cups in hand. One spicy for him. One mild for you. You sit beside him again, the room quiet but warm this time.

“God, I might love you,” he mutters.

You freeze—then laugh when you see the playful smirk on his lips. “It’s the ramen, isn’t it?”

“Obviously.”

You eat together in silence, closer now. He finishes first, sighing as he leans back.

Then the door creaks open.

Chan steps inside, glancing at Jisung worriedly. “There you are.”

Jisung straightens. “Channie hyung - sorry.”

Chan’s gaze flicks from the ramen to the red around his eyes. He reads the room instantly. “You okay?”

Jisung nods. “Getting there.”

Chan looks at you. “Thanks for staying with him.”

“Anytime.”

He nods once and disappears.

“Do you think I’ll be able to go out there?” Jisung asks softly.

“I think you already did the hardest part,” you reply. “You let someone in.” He takes your hand and holds it, just for a second. “I’ll be watching from backstage,” you say. “No masks.”

You fix his makeup one last time. Add a little shimmer, comb through his hair. He watches you in the mirror - not as an idol, not as a performer, but as someone quietly anchoring him.

“After tonight,” he says, “can we talk again? Somewhere quiet.”

You smile. “I’d like that.”

Backstage is a storm. But Jisung lingers, brushing your hand once before heading to his mark. “Wish me luck,” he says.

“You don’t need it. You’ve got heart.”

He looks back at you as the music starts. The lights rise. And this time, when he smiles - it’s not for the fans. It’s for you.

MASTERLISTS | PROMPT LIST | GUIDELINES

Taglist (Please let me know if you want to be added to or removed from the taglist):

@jinnie-ret @atinyniki @galaxycatdrawz @silverstarburst @aaa-sia @lilmisssona @kthstrawberryshortcake @channieaddict @soullostinspaceandtime @rebecca-johnson-28 @lixie-phoria @kibs-and-bits @xxstrayland @ihrtlix @pheonixfire777 @mellhwang @justawetsock @palindrome969 @harshaaaaa @rylea08 @heeyboooo @manuosorioh @gisaerlleri @andassortedkpop @lailac13 @bbokari711 @mi-raeee @rssamj @wolfyychan @stellasays45 @chrizzztopherbang @ionlyeverwantedtobeyourequal @silentreadersthings @myforevermelody143 @sapphirewaves @minh0scat @dis-trict9

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cacoetheswriting · 1 day ago

Note

I have a request. Bare with me new at this request bit.

Eddie wakes up hands cuffed to his bed with reader blowing him. Then has sex with him.

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader word count: 2.2k

content warnings: 18+, MINORS DNI: explicit and mature themes, smut, established relationship, cnc, somno, oral (m receiving), unprotected p in v, use of toys, adult language / dirty talk, use of pet names, a little pervy, more plot than porn tbh ‘cause i don’t know how else to write smutty content, slightly possessive!reader, jealousy, slightly dom!eddie but also slightly dom!reader - unedited - pls let me know if i missed any!

a/n: pls have your age / age range stated in your bio when requesting 18+ content. cleared here in the dm’s, but it saves a lot of back and forth when it’s in the bio - for any future requests.

He’s flustered. Stumbling over his words, cheeks a deep red. He’s avoiding your gaze. Staring instead at his beat up sneakers as he rolls a twig around with the sole of his shoe.

You can’t help the smirk that circles your lips as he stammers through the pros and cons of his proposition as if it’s a thesis and he’s aiming for top marks; or a close equivalent. If only he put this much care in his homework, you think to say but bite your tongue since he’s clearly nervous enough.

“What do you think?” He asks, finally meeting your eyes.

The look behind the brown is hopeful, eager. Like a little boy waiting in line for a shiny new comic. Only, he’s not wanting a superhero book. No.

Eddie Munson has a request of a far different variety and you’d be lying if it didn’t excite you as well.

“You want me to suck you off while you’re sleeping?”

Eddie nods.

“If you think it’s too much, you can obviously say no and we can forget I-I even suggested it.” He’s stammering again. “I-I just thought it’d be a cool thing to try—”

“I’m not opposed to it,” you say, interrupting, and shrug your shoulders to showcase indifference although you’re feeling anything other than that.

You’ve been not-so-casually hooking up with Eddie for a little over a year.

One would say — Robin — this situationship you have with the curly-haired metal-head is the reason you haven’t been able to find a real boyfriend, but what does she know about relationships anyway? Okay, harsh. She actually knows a lot considering she’s in one. Point being, it’s Eddie. And you’d forgo any connection just to hear him moan your name every single night: even if it means absolutely nothing the next morning.

“Are you putting a timeline on this, or do you want it to be a surprise?” You ask.

“Definitely a surprise.”

A week goes by.

You think about his proposition often. Sheer excitement mixed with a fuck ton of nerves. You’ve blown him before, numerous times. He says he loves when you do. Thinks about it afterwards. Jacks off to the memory of your lips around his dick.

This is different, however. He won’t talk to you. Won’t tell you how pretty you look on your knees for him. And you get off on his words.

You sleep over at the trailer twice during the week.

The first night, you don’t want to seem too eager and make point to show Eddie how tired you are after he’s fucked you raw. He knows not to expect it then. Instead, he opens his arms and lets you cuddle him until dreams take over.

The second night, you sort of psych yourself out. His light snores ripple through the bedroom. It’s all you can hear, aside from the thumping of your heart. You think about this situation you have found yourself in with Eddie, and wonder if perhaps Robin is right about this whole thing between you and the metal-head. Maybe you should reserve the more kinky stuff for an actual boyfriend. Especially because there’s a lot of trust required to act on deviance when the other person is asleep and trust is often reserved for more traditional relationships, you think. What you and Eddie have is lust.

Then, one afternoon the following week, Eddie surprises you.

Unfortunately, not in a nice way. He’s talking to a girl. Flirting, actually. You can see them at the bar. He says something, which must be funny because the girl places a hand on his leather-clad shoulder and pushes him gently while throwing her head back in giggles. Eddie’s not funny. Okay, he’s hilarious but he’s not a make-a-girl-flirty-laugh funny. And your blood boils.

“A vicious thing, jealousy.” Steve mumbles next to you.

“Can you even be jealous if you’re not actually with the other person?” Robin asks.

You tell them both to shut up then force yourself to look away from the bar. From the guy that’s not your boyfriend, but rather the best hookup of your life, and the pretty girl he’s flirting with, who may one day very well become his real girlfriend. One could call this thing you’re doing now spiraling. Your friends do, they say it simultaneously because they see the look in your eyes.

Wanting to save yourself from further embarrassment, you grab your handbag and your jacket, and tell your friends goodbye. They plead with you not to go, but only for a moment because Nancy is back with the next round of drinks and they forget all about your problems of the heart (and vagina).

You push past the sweaty bodies of Hideout goers and slip out the front door, into the cool breeze. The sound of your heels against the pavement grows louder the further you get away from the dingy bar. Eddie was your ride home. He drew the short straw on being everyone’s designated driver for the night. He’ll have one stop less to make, you think, can spend that extra time with this girl he met.

Twenty minutes on foot and you’re home. You shed the night off your back. A quick shower, a fresh set of pyjama shorts. You down a cold glass of water, then another for good measure. And just like that, you’re feeling sober and ready for bed. Ready to forget the sight of Eddie and that girl.

The night however, has other plans.

There’s a knock on your door. Metal on wood. With a sigh, you cross the living room towards it and press down on the handle. Eddie’s standing in the corridor. His head snaps up as you open to reveal the inside of your apartment.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, crossing your arms.

“I came to see if you were okay,” he answers. “You left so abruptly. Didn’t even say goodbye.”

You shrug. “You seemed busy. I assumed you wouldn’t notice I left.”

Eddie’s brows string together.

“Why wouldn’t I notice?” He sounds genuinely confused, then recognition feigns on his features. “Is this because of the girl?”

You shrug again, because what else is there for you to do without completely spilling your guts.

Eddie rolls his eyes.

“You know there’s only you for me, right?” He says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Dollface, I’m not interested in anyone else. That was just harmless flirting.”

You drop your arms and step aside, letting him pass. You shut the door behind him before turning to face him once more.

“Eddie, I’m not an idiot, okay?” You begin, “I know what we’re doing is casual and that one day it might end.”

“Who says anything about wanting anything to end?” He counters with a smirk and walks away, down the hallway, towards your bedroom.

By the time you join him, the metal-head has stripped down to a T-shirt and boxers. Wordlessly, he gets into your bed and lifts the covers up, waiting for you to join him. You drop your arms with an exaggerated sigh and he laughs. Smooth, music to your ears.

Once you do, Eddie’s asleep in minutes. But not before he murmurs, “You’re the only girl I’d let anywhere near my dick and heart.”.

You giggle. “Aren’t they one and the same?”

He snorts. “Exactly, dollface.” And proceeds to place a kiss to the top of your head before sleep takes over.

Satisfied with how the night ended up — Eddie in your bed; the usual — you get comfortable in his embrace. Feeling safe and content, it doesn’t take long for you to also fall asleep.

When you wake, it’s still dark, aside from the bedside lamp you left switched on. Eddie’s snoring next to you, but that’s not what your sleepy self is paying attention to. Your focus is on something hard pressing into your thigh and call it possessiveness or whatever, but suddenly you think to act on his offer from a few weeks ago. Make it that much more difficult for him to leave you for ‘the real deal’.

There’s a pair of fluffy pink handcuffs locked to your iron-rod headboard (from the last time Eddie stayed over). Tentatively, you reach for it and click the loose ring around Eddie’s wrist — the hand that’s so perfectly placed above his head, since he fell asleep resting on it.

Satisfied, a smirk circling your still sleepy expression, you run your hand down his chest, stomach, until you reach the band of his boxers. You glance at the metal-head, still sleeping, his erection now in your gentle grasp. So you sit up fully, pushing the covers aside.

Without further hesitation, you first circle your tongue around the tip of his cock, lick down his shaft, and then slowly drag it up along the underside. Lightly, you flick your tongue across the vein, just under the head. Eddie shivers underneath you, but makes no further indication that he’s awake, so you let your lips envelop around his head, taking him into your mouth.

Cheeks hollow, you suck, then swirl your tongue around and lick his shaft again. He moans in his sleep, shifts under you and the handcuff rattles. You glance at him from under your lashes and wet your lips before continuing.

You slide his cock across your mouth, once, twice, then wrap your mouth around it once more. A moment passes as you hold him, erect. His cock fills your cheeks, nudges at the back of your throat, throbbing with need. Sucking, you slide your lips upwards, licking around the tip.

A groan escapes his lips. The sound is magical and it fuels your own desires further. You feel a little bit pervy, a pool of wetness pouring between your own thighs as your lips work on his release. You pick up speed, hands cradling his balls as you take him as deep into your mouth as you can.

“Mhmmm…” Eddie moans awake, “Baby, baby, baby…”

“Let me take care of you,” you say in a sweet tone, batting your lashes for good measure, although you know he can’t see, face buried into your pillows.

You take him back into your mouth, one hand now holding him in place. You slide up and down every inch of him, again taking him as far as you can into your throat while letting your hand do the rest. At the top of the stroke, you swirl your tongue around his head.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You’re making my wildest dreams come true, dollface.”

Flicking your eyes up to Eddie’s face, you find him watching, his own mouth open, his eyes glassy. He tries to reach for you, but the handcuff is keeping him in place and he groans — a mix of frustration and pleasure. As you work your magic, he braces his body on the bed, so he can jerk his hips up towards your face and you smile into his crotch, his eagerness fuelling your own.

“Mhm fuck, you’re going to make me cum,” he grits.

“Please do, baby. I need your cum in my mouth.”

And you increase your speed as he drops his lock of hair back onto the pillow below. You bop your head up and down his rock-hard length, encouraging him to give in and let go. Face a sticky mess of saliva and precum, you can feel him pulsing and throbbing in your mouth. Suddenly, his hips still and his cock swells between your lips.

He gasps. Chanting your name like a prayer, the metal-head shoots his load into your mouth, feeling more awake than ever. Rhythmically, you squeeze him and press your tongue against the back of his cockhead, drawing every drop out of him. Hot, thick, liquid splatters against the inside of your cheeks and runs down your throat as you straighten, satisfied.

Eddie sits up too, or tries to at least with the fluffy cuff around his wrist. On the elbow he can rest on, he does, looking at you as if you’re an angel sent from above, just for him.

“God,” he grounds out, “You’re unbelievable, dollface.”

A smile circles your lips while you lick them clean. You shuffle closer, hovering over his chest until your mouth finds him, capturing it in a deep kiss.

“I hope this is what you had in mind when you asked me?” You ask in a soft whisper.

He huffs out a laugh. “You exceeded any expectations. You always do.”

“Good.”

And you kiss him again, but not before freeing his wrist. He shakes it, cracks it, and reaches for your face. When his lips find yours for a third time, his dominant side takes over. The moment blooms. His hands work your body, over then under your skimpy pyjama set. Breathless, sweaty. Perfect.

Unable to contain himself much longer, Eddie pulls you on top of him, one set of fingers digging into your hip bone as the other pulls your shorts aside. He’s smooth with his motions and settles you on his, once again, fully erect dick with ease.

“It’s only you for me, baby.” He says with conviction. “Never doubt that.”

His hand on your throat, squeezing gently as you roll your hips and moan his name until you see stars.

as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3

#eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x fem!reader smut #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n

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katharkness · 3 days ago

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I have a couple of health conditions. Please note that I am British and thus the default is NHS treatment.

One is chronic migraine. I ended up going private to avoid the long waits when they started severely impacting quality of life and ability to work, because I had some coverage from my employer. I saw a consultant, had an MRI of my pituitary, and went back for the results of the scan. The scan showed a normal pituitary; so normal my doctor asked if he could keep it as a “textbook” example. But he also kept going with my treatment and we’ve found a combination of therapies that mostly works. I’m a lot, lot better now.

Another is polycystic ovary syndrome - that is, a certain condition affecting my (female) reproductive system. I first suspected I might have it in 2014 when I got a period tracking app and found my periods were fluctuating quite a bit, sometimes with fifty or sixty days between periods. So I went to my GP. If you’re unaware, PCOS also comes with hormonal irregularities, some of which have physical symptoms (oily skin leading to acne, hirsutism in the form of more masculine body and facial hair, different distribution of fat deposits adding to weight gain), but the cysts on the ovaries come and go. When I presented in 2014, I had the irregular periods, I had hormone imbalances and at least some of the physical signs, but when they did an ultrasound they couldn’t find a cyst, so I was told it must just be stress and obesity and was dismissed. Then in 2020, which was a rather stressful year for everyone, I went five months without a period. I went back to the GP. Again there was the rigmarole of bloods and noting symptoms, and at one point a doctor actually looked at me and decided to check my liver which lead to a diagnosis of non-alcoholic fatty liver disease and a “prescription” of lifestyle changes, and this time they found a cyst. I was also making enquiries about starting a progesterone-only birth control to kinda stabilise the hormone cycling for mental health reasons, but the GPs were hemming and hawing over whether it would be safe with my migraine meds - the neurologists were fairly sure it would be fine, but recommended I get a second opinion from the gynaecologist. So, given the cyst was found, I was referred to a gynaecologist. He told me that they don’t actually need to find a cyst for a diagnosis, because of the aforementioned coming-and-going. Which means I could have been diagnosed in 2014, not 2022 (yes, it took about a year and a half). He said I should be fine for the birth control and wrote me the prescription and said I’d be called back for another scan to check on the cyst in a few months, but other than that, the only thing they could offer is assistance if/when I want to become pregnant. The birth control completely stopped my periods, which is just fine for me, and I did have another ultrasound some months later. I was called back for another gynaecologist appointment - different doctor. She said that the cyst had resolved itself, so I shouldn’t even have been called in for another appointment. She mentioned it was a good thing I was on that birth control, as without it the womb lining could build up and possibly turn cancerous (at no point did the other gynaecologist I asked about the birth control mention that). She said that they didn’t need to see me again unless a cyst grew to a massive size or I got ovarian torsion (twisted ovary), either of which could be identified by agonising pain. I pointed out that I’m still suffering symptoms of the hormonal imbalance, and what she said boiled down to, about ten percent of women have PCOS and you can’t expect us to treat all of them. So I have a chronic condition that does affect my life, and unless I end up in agonising pain, they don’t give a damn. By the way, there was a med student in the room that time.

I trust my neurologist. I don’t trust the gynaecologists.

Unusual but sympathetic paper:

Language Matters: What Not to Say to Patients with Long COVID, Myalgic Encephalomyelitis/Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, and Other Complex Chronic Disorders

https://www.mdpi.com/1660-4601/22/2/275

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ghostedgwen · 3 days ago

Text

don't blame me | j.potter [part two]

note : ahhHHH! Really love that you guys enjoyed the first part and even asked to be added to the taglist for this fic! I do wonder how many parts I'll have for this. this is too fun and I don't want it to endddd (requests open, or just send me any msg!)

warnings : james potter is very skilled at the annoy (u get it), some slight angst on your part, just a whole lot of banter between you and james, i giggled so much while writing so i hope u too while reading.

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖺𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖩𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖯𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 - 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗍. 𝖲𝗈 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗒. 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 : 3.6k

James Potter is, by all accounts, a menace. An insufferably charming, unreasonably attractive, golden-boy menace. And worse than all of that - he’s smug.

He’s smug when you turn to face him in the Astronomy Tower with his hair ruffled just right, with that lopsided grin that screams mischief and misplaced confidence. He’s smug when he leans in close just to annoy you. He’s smug when he calls you -

“Wife.”

You could hex him. You consider it. Your wand is right there in your pocket, warm against your fingers, practically humming with anticipation. But hexing your fiancé - Merlin, you hate that word - would probably cause more problems than it solves.

Instead, you glare at him like you hope it’ll set him on fire. Like you hoped one of those stars above would come raining down to land on him.

“Don’t call me that.”

James raises his hands in surrender, but the sparkle in his eyes tells you he’s not even a little bit sorry - if he's ever been in his entire life.

“Alright, alright. Touchy about titles," a smirk tugs at his lips. "How about darling? Sweetheart? Snookums?”

Your eye twitch in annoyance. Just when you thought him hating you would benefit you the most - he's decided to do something about it in the form of vexing you.

“I will push you off this tower, Potter.”

James chuckles, stepping closer. “You wouldn’t. You’d miss me too much.”

You actually take a step back, mostly so you don’t punch him right in that annoyingly handsome face - and to calm your heart that leapt out of your chest and threatened to be one with the stars.

“In your dreams, Potter.”

“Oh, absolutely," his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. "You should visit sometimes, you say some really interesting things in them - "

You narrow your eyes despite knowing all the glares were no longer having an effect on him. It had caught him off-guard in the Potter Manor but he knew what to expect know -

He knew which buttons to push now.

"What do you want?”

He grins, leaning against the railing. You fight the urge to push him off. “Just came to see how my favourite fiancée is doing, you ignored all my letters.”

“I’m your only fiancée.”

“Exactly. So, you win by default. What a lucky girl.”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, Merlin help you not to throw a Gryffindor off the Astronomy tower.

“Potter - ”

“Alright, alright.” He raises his hands again in mock surrender. “I’ll be good. For now.”

You turn from him, arms crossed, heart pounding with a bitterness that feels older than the stars above. Because you hate James Potter.

Not for the reasons he thinks - if he was even thinking under that tuft of messy black hair. You hated him not because he’s smug, or adored, or irritating.

It's a reason deeper than that, he doesn’t even know it. And you doubt you'll ever let him know.

“What do really you want, Potter?”

James doesn’t answer immediately. He steps beside you, leans forward against the railing of the tower, and looks out at the night sky. It’s a quiet moment - bright dust scattered above, the castle breathing slowly behind you, like it’s alive and listening.

Finally, he speaks - you forget you are holding your breath in anticipation.

“I want to know why you hate me.” he shrugs, like he was saying it so casually when the question has actually weighed on him for weeks during the rest of summer.

The question lands like a stone in your gut, sinking deeper and deeper and deeper.

You scoff. “You think I hate you?”

He glances at you sideways. “You’ve been treating me like dragon dung since this whole engagement thing happened. And before that, we barely remembered that the other exists.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. The words rise to the surface - You started it. You forgot me, I have always known you existed - you're the one who barely remembered. But you bury them.

Swallowing those words like a bitter concoction that had you choking in your own spit. You were quiet for a moment and he grew expectant in the silence.

“I’m not obligated to not hate you,” you say, shrugging. “And I don’t owe you a reason.”

James’s brow furrows, he had expected a real answer. “You think I like this either?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re James Potter. Your parents love this whole idea, so do mine - they think you're an 'amazing catch'. They probably think this is some kind of fairytale.”

He laughs, but it’s hollow. “Yeah, our parents, but I never wanted this,” he runs a frustrated hand through his already messy locks. “And Evans - she - ”

That stings. You flinch before you can stop yourself, and he sees it. Of course he does.

He barely stopped himself in time from mentioning her, remembering how you reacted the last time she was brought up.

James leans closer, gaze intense and you take note of how beautiful the stars looked reflected in his eyes. You couldn't even really enjoy the moment because you knew there was no romance, no love in the air.

You weren't some lovesick third-years sneaking away to have some alone time. You watch him part his lips to talk - “I didn’t ask for this. But we’re in it now. And I think we should at least try to make the best of it.”

You raise a brow. “And what does that mean?”

He grins. “Means you are stuck with me, ____. And we have all the time in the world for me to pick you apart and figure out just what it is about me that makes you tick.”

You don’t answer. Because the idea is absurd. Because part of you is liking the idea of being stuck with him for longer than you had hoped was ever possible - but no.

You lost him so easily before - once he grows tired of you he'll come crawling back to Evans.

He nudges your shoulder, as if sensing that your mind was flying off on a Hippogriff. “Let's meet again here before our round tomorrow night. Don’t ditch me if you very much value having all your hair kept in your head.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t say no - not that you could.

Your first round with James Potter was already off to a bad start.

It starts with him being late - only by three minutes, but you count every one of them with righteous fury, feeling like if smoke could come out of your nose - it would have already. He shows up with his tie half undone, grinning like he hasn’t a care in the world.

“Miss me already?” he raises a brow as he fiddled with his tie.

“You’re late.” you roll your eyes.

He shrugs. “Fashionably. You look stunning, by the way. Fury suits you.”

You glare. “One more word and I’m writing you up.”

James smirks, not one to back down. “Go on then. Prefect me into submission.”

You want to scream. You want to punch him. Instead, you march ahead, gripping your wand in your hand that you feared it would break.

He whistles low under his breath. “Merlin, I’ve missed our quality time.”

You wanted to comment that he was with you yesterday - but bite down your lower lip.

“Walk. Quietly. Or I’ll hex your shoelaces together.”

“Betrothed banter. Romantic.”

Still, you walk the halls together in mostly silence. It’s not comfortable, exactly, but it isn’t the icy disdain it used to be either. James hums under his breath sometimes. You pretend not to hear him. He walks too close. You don’t move away, knowing he'd find a way to use that to annoy you again.

When you reach the east corridor, he stops.

“Want to make it interesting?”

You narrow your eyes, of course he was already bored. “What kind of interesting?”

He pulls a galleon from his pocket and flips it into the air. “If it lands heads, you have to tell me something real. Tails, I do.”

You’re about to tell him how utterly childish that is when the coin lands. Heads.

You scowl, you doubt there was a way out of this so you give in with a defeated sigh.

“Well?”

You hesitate, a confession coming to mind but you figured it was real enough to both of you - and quite relevant too. Then, quietly: “I wanted to be Head Girl.”

He looks surprised. “Really?”

You nod. “I work hard. I’m second in all of Hogwarts. Only behind Evans.”

He winces, though the smile remained plastered on his face. “Ouch.”

You shrug, ignoring the glint in his eyes through his round glasses that gave away his interest. “It hurt. I gues . . . it hurt my pride. Ravenclaws are supposed to be clever. I thought I was clever enough.”

James is silent for a moment. Then he says, “You’ve always been smart.”

You glance at him sharply, as if sensing sarcasm.

He smiles faintly. “There was that time when we were little - you figured out how to get my broom down from the tree. I was crying like a baby.”

You blink in utter shock. “You remember that?”

“Just now, yeah.” His smile dims, only slightly. “We used to play a lot, didn’t we?”

You look away. “Not anymore.” was all you said in reply.

He doesn’t respond. But something heavy settles between you.

“You’d have made a great Head Girl,” he says again, softer.

Your heart trips over itself.

The next day, you look like death.

You haven’t slept. Not because of patrol, no. Because of James bloody Potter and his stupid smile and his memory of a childhood you weren’t sure he’d ever remember.

It caught you completely off-guard.

You stare blankly at your porridge, brain left somewhere in the Astronomy Tower. That damned place that has become your rendezvous spot.

“Oi,” comes a voice far too loud and cheerful, you beg in your mind that it wasn't who you thought it was. You were lucky enough - only, this isn't any better.

Sirius Black drops onto the bench across from you with a grin like he knows exactly what you’ve been thinking about.

“Go away, Black.”

“No can do, future sister-in-law. I come bearing messages.”

You groan, making a point to ignore the title as if it didn't pinch your heart through your chest. “Is this about Potter?”

“Right on! He wants to meet you by the Black Lake. Said before lunch. Something serious. Or maybe Sirius. I get those confused.”

He frowned and you neglected to consider if he was being - serious - or just fucking with you because he could and it was funny to him.

You throw a piece of toast at his head. He dodges, commenting about how wasteful it was as he caught it - beater reflexes - and sets it down on the plate in front of him.

“Tell him to shove it.”

“Tell him yourself. I’m just the messenger.” he grins, and you could tell he was trying to make use of that Black charm, unbelievable.

You stand up with a dramatic sigh, Black watching your move as you abandon thoughts of having breakfast. Already dreading the set of classes you're gonna have before and after the talk with James.

“If I don’t return for Lunch, tell Professor Dumbledore that James Potter is a dead man.”

Sirius salutes. “Will do. Want me to prepare a eulogy?”

“Write it in glitter.” you snort.

And with that, you storm off, heart pounding, and absolutely not thinking about how James Potter remembered the tree and the broom and the little girl he used to know.

The Black Lake is quiet, silvered with morning light. You walk down the slope with your robes fluttering in the wind that harshly blew - winter is on its way, still bleary-eyed from lack of sleep and far too aware of the fact that your housemates kept glancing at you in class like you'd grown a second head. Apparently, Ravenclaws not raising their hands was enough to incite panic.

You casted a quick glamour charm to hide the bags under your eyes, knowing he'd use it to tease you.

James is already there, skipping stones with practiced ease. That chaser arm was seen having done wonders to his physique when he had his uniform sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

You tried not to gawk. He doesn't turn when you approach.

“Nice of you to grace me with your presence, my radiant fiancée.”

You groan. “Stop calling me that.”

“I can’t help it. It just rolls off the tongue. Like darling. Or my beloved doomed bethroted.”

You eye him like you might push him into the lake, it was either the Astronomy Tower or the Black Lake now, the list keeps growing.

You might write it down like a bucketlist someday, places to throw James Potter in/off of. “Why’d you send your guard dog to fetch me?”

James finally looks at you, grin coy and infuriating like always - he is just so lucky his face was too beautiful that you could somewhat tolerate his mug. He waves a letter.

“This came this morning. From the parents. Thought you’d want the update.”

He hands it over. You unfold - and your stomach sinks.

Your parents’ handwriting, elegant and formal, outlines the plans for an engagement party. During the holiday break. Guest list included. Venue booked. Menu selected. Dress expectations underlined thrice.

A holiday engagement banquet for two pureblood families was a big deal in the wizarding world - specially with how rich and influential the Potters are.

You weren't exactly poor, but your parents were not that big in the wizarding world. Only thing they had going for them as being part of the sacred 28 - and even then, you cared not for blood purity.

You nearly choke.

“They’ve planned everything,” you whisper, baffled.

James leans against a tree, watching your face with open amusement. “Isn’t it romantic? It's gonna be one hell of a party.”

You stare at him in horror. “They want a photo wall. With matching robes. And an enchanted harpist - Merlin, they are doing too much!”

“I’m thrilled about the cake tasting. Think they’ll let us sample early?” James hummed, amused and acting all casual about it now, as if he's not getting married off while still pining for one redhead.

“I’m going to be sick.”

“Come now,” James says, smug, “you’ve survived worse.”

You groan into your hands.

Then, quietly, he adds, “We should probably start looking for what you’re going to wear. Want me to come with you to Hogsmeade this weekend? Help pick a dress?”

You stare at him. Then sigh. “As much as it pains me to say this . . . I’d rather go with you than my roommates. They’ll make it a whole thing.”

James winks. “It already is a whole thing. But I’ll try not to gawk.”

You shoot him a glare. “Gawk and die.”

His grin doesn’t fade.

And to your everlasting dismay, neither does the flutter in your chest.

Fucking James Potter.

You managed to slip out of the common room with all the grace of a trained assassin.

Your roommates were vultures, all glittering eyes and sticky-sweet smiles, dying to know who you were meeting in Hogsmeade. You gave vague answers, muttered something about needing a new quill or parchment or some other academic excuse, and dodged their curiosity like it was unforgivable.

Barely escaped with your life.

By the time you reached the entrance hall, you felt like you’d run a marathon - mentally, emotionally, spiritually - okay, dramatic. You spotted James leaning against the bannister, laughing at something Sirius said, and resisted the urge to turn back around and risk interrogation over whatever fresh hell this excursion was about to be.

He looked maddeningly at ease in a navy jumper under his cloak, his hair only marginally less disastrous than usual.

You hated him. Him and his perfect fucking teeth.

Moments before that - upstairs in the seventh-year Gryffindor dorms. James Potter stood in front of the mirror adjusting his collar for the third time. He tried to pretend it wasn’t because of you. Sirius, sprawled across his bed, clearly saw through that lie.

“Mate,” Sirius said, watching James smooth down his hair - yes, smooth down, not ruffle like usual. “You’re meeting her, not the Queen.”

James didn’t answer, just checked his reflection again.

“Do you think Evans is going to see you?” Sirius continued, voice a bit lower now. “Might not be a good look, you know, walking around Hogsmeade with another girl.”

James didn’t look up, still tugging at his clothes as if that would add or take from his overall look. “We’re engaged, she's not just any girl.”

“To be fair,” Remus piped up from the corner, flipping a page of his book, “Evans might actually like the idea. Less Potter pestering her every five minutes, begging for a snog.”

James gags at the exageration. Sure he bothered her every chance he got - but that didn't mean he was begging for a lay.

Peter, who was sitting on the floor munching chocolate frogs, pointed with a chocolate-covered finger. “He’s even trimmed his fringe. That’s effort.”

The room went still.

James caught his own eye in the mirror and smirked.

“Of course,” he said. “I’m off to meet my future wife.”

Sirius groaned. “Merlin save her.”

Hogsmeade was alive with movement, cobblestone streets busy with laughing students and bustling shopkeepers. The wind was crisp and playful, tugging at scarves and rattling the signs that swung above doorways. Honeydukes had a line out the door, The Three Broomsticks was overflowing with chatter and butterbeer, and Zonko’s looked like a battlefield of chaos and candy.

You kept your head down and half of your face was hidden under your thick blue and bronze scarf.

James, of course, walked like he owned the village. You had to grab his sleeve twice to yank him off the main street and into the quieter lane where the boutique sat tucked between a florist and a potion shop.

Glad that this section of Hogsmeade was less crowded as the students preferred piling into the more "fun" shops down the village.

“Stop strutting.”

“I’m not strutting. I don't strut.”

“You’re drawing attention.”

“Attention loves me.”

“You are a right git.”

“Wife,” he said, drawing out the word like honey. “That’s no way to talk to your husband.”

You elbowed him. Hard.

The bell above the shop door chimed as you ducked inside, casting one last glance at the street to make sure no one had spotted you.

You were fortunately in the clear.

The boutique was a soft swirl of color and lace and the distant scent of lavender. Rows of robes and gowns floated gently on hangers, charmed to shimmer slightly under the warm lights. It was quiet here. Private. Thank Merlin.

You immediately made a beeline for the corner with elegant winter gowns, running your fingers along the fabric with practiced interest.

James, naturally, was a menace.

“Ooooh, how about this one?” He held up something that looked more like lingerie than a dress, eyebrow wiggling suggestively. “Scandalous.”

You didn’t even dignify him with a response.

“What about this?” Another hanger, another scandal. This time something tight, black, and far too short to be acceptable outside Knockturn Alley. “Very - how shall I put this? - mesmerising.”

“Do you want me to hex you?”

“I’d prefer not,” he said cheerfully, despite the mischief glinting in his eyes. “But I do think we should lean into the whole betrothed thing. Let’s give the Prophet something to talk about.”

You sighed. Loudly. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re radiant,” he said, draping a silver dress over your shoulder. “But we’re not here to argue, are we? We’re here to make you the belle of the cursed engagement ball.”

You swatted him away, cheeks burning despite yourself. You hated how he could get under your skin so easily, hated more how he seemed to enjoy it.

You preferred when he was shocked and surprised back in the summer when you first learned about the engagement. Now, he was the ever smug and annoying Marauder.

It was then you saw it.

A red gown tucked neatly between two duller selections. Not bright crimson, but a deeper hue - dark cherry or merlot. The kind of red that whispered rather than shouted. Its neckline was modest, but the bodice hugged the mannequin’s waist like a lover’s hand. The sleeves were sheer and embroidered with tiny golden threads that caught the light like fireflies. The skirt flowed down in gentle layers, not too puffy, not too plain.

You reached for it before you could talk yourself out of it.

James, surprisingly, didn’t say anything. Comment about it being his favorite color kept at the tip of his tongue as he knew you'd decide against picking it if he said that out loud.

For once, he had patience. Just watched you with something unreadable in his eyes.

You went to the counter, already bracing yourself for the price, but before you could dig through your pouch, James stepped up beside you.

“I’ve got it.”

You blinked. “No. I can pay for my own - ”

“Now, now,” he said smoothly, handing over the galleons before you could stop him, the person at the counter barely paid your exchange any mind as she rang you up. “What kind of husband would I be if I didn’t pay for my wife?”

You glared at him. “You’re insufferable.”

He grinned. “And yet here we are. Married in all but paperwork.”

You grabbed the bag and stalked toward the door, trying not to smile.

“Come on, Potter.”

“Coming, darling.”

You shoved him on the way out.

He laughed and you pretended like it wasn't the best sound in the world.

to be continued . . .

part three | masterlist

#james fleamont potter #james potter #james potter marauders #james potter x reader #james potter imagine #marauders #marauders era #hp marauders #marauders x reader #harry potter #harry potter marauders #harry potter marauders era #don't blame me

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norrisradio · 19 hours ago

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SMALL TALK

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ “one night he wakes / strange look on his face / pauses, then says / “you’re my best friend” / and you knew what it was / he is in love” + “Morning, his place / burnt toast, Sunday / you keep his shirt / he keeps his word” - Taylor Swift, You Are In Love

ᝰ PAIRING: oscar piastri x reader | ᝰ WC: 1.7K ᝰ GENRE: strangers-to-friends-to-????, you were in the wrong place at the wrong time and other disasters, oscar piastri is a man on a mission ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: my first time dabbling in some mixed media (feat. texts, voice notes, and facetimes)! not entirely happy with it but hopefully it makes sense // sorry for disappearing i am back now i swear ꨄ requested by @princesspiastri007 !

send me an ask for my line by line event .ᐟ

Oscar Piastri ruins your life in a bakery line on a Tuesday.

You’re clutching your paper cup like a lifeline, half-hypnotized by the scent of cardamom buns and the threadbare sweater slung over your frame — navy, elbow-patched, fraying at the seams. It was your dad’s. Maybe even his dad’s. Handed down like a secret. You only wear it on soft days. The kinds that ask for warmth and not much else.

Then someone knocks into you from behind, and the tea goes flying.

A sharp breath. The hiss of liquid on wool.

You freeze. He freezes.

“Shit — God, I’m so sorry.”

The voice is breathless and kind of pretty. You look up, prepared to launch into an eloquent string of swears, but the apology is already in his face. He looks young. Startled. Dimples carved into his cheeks like a question mark. A lanky frame, messy hair, and a voice that sounds like Sunday morning. And behind him, some tall blonde girl in sunglasses (who you’ll later learn is Hattie, his sister) gives a wince-laugh and says, “Nice one, Oz.”

You look down. The sweater is ruined.

“That’s not just a sweater,” you whisper, throat tight. And somehow, that matters more than yelling.

The stranger — Oscar, apparently — blinks. “Wait — wait, is it special? Oh God. Please let me fix it.”

That’s how it starts: a burnt-sugar Tuesday and a ruined heirloom.

He buys you another tea. Apologizes twenty-seven times. Offers you his hoodie while you shiver on the bakery bench. It smells like laundry detergent and something citrusy, like a life that doesn’t belong to you. When you say he doesn’t need to do anything else, he frowns like you’ve insulted him.

“No. I swear — I’ll find a way to replace it.”

You scoff. “What, are you gonna time travel to the '80s?”

He grins. “Not quite. But I travel a lot. I’ll find one like it. You’ll see.”

It’s a joke. You think it’s a joke.

Until he’s in Spain two weeks later, and you get a photo of a sweater from a vintage shop in Barcelona:

from: +61 *** *** *** [Attachment: 1 Image] from: +61 *** *** *** Closer? Still hunting.

Then he’s in Canada. Silverstone. Budapest. Portugal.

from: +61 *** *** *** [Attachment: 1 Image - a blurry photo of a sweater, tagged €35 ] from: +61 *** *** *** Found a jumper in Lisbon. Not quite the right navy, but it has the elbow patches.

to: +61 *** *** *** you don’t have to keep doing this, yk

from: +61 *** *** *** I know. I want to.

Each time, a picture. A patch. A different shade of blue. An “Almost.”

You hadn’t expected it to become a thing.

You hadn’t expected him to become a thing.

But there’s a moment, three weeks later, when you're eating leftover curry on the floor of your apartment and your phone lights up with a voice memo. You hesitate. Press play.

Hey. I know it’s probably stupid but I found one in Tokyo today that kinda reminded me of the shape of yours. Didn’t get it though. The color was off. But I thought about you.

There’s a pause. You can hear wind. Traffic. And then:

Anyway. Just wanted to say hi.

You play it twice. Then a third time.

You don’t respond for an hour because you don’t know how to say, you’ve been living in my head since Tuesday.

The voice memos turn into calls. Almost by accident at first. One missed message becomes a call back, and before you know it, you’re dialing his number like muscle memory.

You start calling him after work, when the sky is the color of chamomile tea and the streets hum with the soft ache of winding down. He answers from hotel rooms, his voice low and warm, surrounded by the soft rustle of sheets or the faint murmur of unfamiliar cities outside his window. Sometimes you hear the buzz of neon. The clatter of luggage. The echo of a TV in the next room.

It becomes routine. Sacred, even. A ritual made of static and silence and shared space.

He listens when you talk about your family, about the sweater, about how you’ve always had trouble letting go of things that feel like home. Your voice goes soft when you tell him how your dad used to wear it on cold Sunday mornings, how it always smelled faintly of espresso and cedar. How you kept it on the back of your chair even after he passed.

There’s a pause.

And then: “That makes sense,” Oscar says, quiet enough that you almost miss it. “You feel... anchored. Even when everything else isn’t.”

You blink.

No one’s ever put it like that before.

You want to laugh. Or cry. Or tell him that he’s the first person in months who hasn’t made you feel like you’re too much. Too sentimental. Too attached to the past.

Instead, you murmur, “I like the sound of that.”

“Of what?”

“Being anchored.”

He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his smile through the phone. That small, secret one you’ve learned to hear in the silence between words.

And when you hang up, well past midnight, your chest is full of something unfamiliar.

Melbourne - 00:42 / Sao Paulo - 11:42

Oscar’s face is sideways on your screen. He’s lying on a hotel bed, hair a mess, thumb under his cheek like he fell asleep on his own hand.

“I’ve seen twenty sweaters today,” he mumbles. “All of them were wrong.”

You smile, half-asleep yourself. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m determined.”

“Obsessed, maybe.”

He grins. “That too.”

There’s a long silence. Not awkward. Just full.

You whisper, “Why does it matter so much?”

He looks at you like he’s trying to read something written in a language only you speak.

“I think,” he says slowly, “because it mattered to you.”

Melbourne - 10:48 / Monza - 02:48

I found a vendor near the paddock today who hand-knits sweaters. Said she doesn’t repeat patterns but she can make something inspired by yours. I asked her how long it’d take. She said six months. I told her I’d wait.

There’s a long pause.

I don’t think this is about the sweater anymore.

The FaceTimes start to stretch longer. Past midnight. Into morning. Sometimes you wake up to a dead phone, his face still ghosting your dreams. He tells you what the gravel in Bahrain smells like. You tell him about your mother’s lasagna recipe. He starts sending you pictures of things that have nothing to do with sweaters.

The sea. His breakfast. A dog in the crowd with a bandana that says Team Oscar. His knees pressed up against the seat in a too-small plane.

You start recognizing hotel ceilings. The texture of his voice when he’s tired. The sound of his toothbrush.

You don’t talk about what it is. But you know.

You fall asleep with your phone tipped sideways, face half offscreen, mouth slack. Oscar snaps a screenshot once (you find it later in a photo dump he sends, sandwiched between two blurry shots of the Monza pitlane and one of a knitwear rack in Milan).

You’re in bed, face crinkled into your pillow.

from: +61 *** *** *** [Attachment: 4 Images] from: +61 *** *** *** I like this one best.

Melbourne - 03:23 / Abu Dhabi 21:23

from: +61 *** *** *** You awake?

You blink at the screen, the dim glow of your phone painting soft light across your face.

You shouldn’t be awake. You weren’t. Not really.

to: +61 *** *** *** only if you need me to be

from: +61 *** *** *** always.

You stare at it for a beat too long. Something in your chest tightens.

No FaceTime this time. Just voice. Just the warmth of him spilling through the speaker like something secret.

“Hi,” he says, a little breathless. Like he’d been pacing. Like he still is.

“You okay?” you ask, voice scratchy with sleep.

A silence. Not heavy. Just full.

Then: “It’s stupid.”

“Try me.”

Another pause, this one longer. Then he sighs, and it sounds like the beginning of a confession.

“I was at dinner. Team stuff. Everyone talking, laughing, and it was fine. It was good. But then I thought of something you said — about how your dad used to cut his toast diagonally, like it made it taste better.”

You laugh, soft. “Because it does.”

He smiles. You can hear it. But then his voice shifts. Warmer. Quieter.

“And I wanted to tell you. Just that. Just... share that moment with you. And I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I wanted to call. Even though it was nothing. Even though it was everything.”

Your fingers twist in the hem of your blanket. “Oscar-”

He exhales, quiet static against your cheek. “It just– it made me realize something.”

You hear him shift again, maybe run a hand through his hair. When he speaks next, his voice is quieter. Barely above a whisper.

“I think you’re my best friend.”

And the way he says it — it’s not casual. Not flippant. It lands somewhere low in your chest, blooming slow and steady.

You don’t answer right away.

Because the truth is, you already knew. You’d known for a while now, tucked in the space between time zones and half-laughed voicemails. In the way your day doesn’t feel finished until you’ve heard his voice.

Still, you make a soft sound into the receiver. “I know,” you say, because anything more might break it.

He breathes out a laugh. You can hear him relax, like he was bracing for something bigger.

“I should let you sleep.”

“You should.”

But neither of you hang up.

You don’t say anything else that night. Just let the silence stretch between you like soft thread, pulled taut. Your hand stays curled around the phone long after the call ends, thumb brushing the screen like it might still be warm from his voice.

And later, when you’re making toast in his kitchen for the first time and burn it so badly the alarm goes off, you both laugh like idiots, wheezing and barefoot.

You keep his hoodie. He lets you. You wear it when he’s gone. You send him a photo of it hanging beside the ruined sweater, like they’re twin relics of something that matters now.

He keeps his word.

He never finds the same sweater.

But somehow, you stop minding.

Oscar can’t look at a knit sweater without thinking of you, and maybe that’s the best kind of curse—a soft one, stitched with love, pulling him home.

#formula 1 #f1 #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri #oscar piastri fanfiction #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri fluff #oscar piastri fic #oscar piastri x yn #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #formula 1 x reader #oscar piastri writing #f1 imagine #formula 1 imagine #formula one imagine #⚡︎ race day #event -> line by line

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various-things · 3 days ago

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I do genuinely have really bad function issues and demand avoidance around social stuff that means there are conversations I should have returned to years ago and this is not good. I know it's not good. I hold no expectations of other folks to engage with me when I suck at this! But!!!! Even me at my most functional, with the previously mentioned issues set aside, my natural (happy!) social patterns are that I am someone who likes large amounts of alone time (more than most people I've met), doesn't miss most people due to various factors including my perception of time passing and the fact that time doesn't tend to affect my sense of closeness to people very much, and I am someone who has no interest in being automatically reachable throughout my day and I have to do a lot of expectation setting with people around this when I exchange contact information with them. And yeah the fact that when I do spend time with someone or engage in conversation I can be like, very present and very chatty is also true!

how to explain to mutuals that while yes you can have my discord, and i wanna hang out! my response time is anywhere between 3-7 business days

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sunsburns · 9 hours ago

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track 10 — mark grayson (invincible) !

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

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

⟢ wc: 15k+

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

You’re such a pervert.

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

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

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

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

Why did you even agree to this again?

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

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

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

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

But tonight was different.

Because Mark Grayson was here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Would Amber tell you if you asked her?

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

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

Mark throws the ball. It gutters. Again.

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

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

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

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

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

“I suck.”

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

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

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

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

“Hi.” You try not to sound breathless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach does a sharp little flip.

“Have you?” You arch an eyebrow.

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

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

“Obviously,” you echo, smiling despite yourself.

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

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

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

Mark looks at you then. Really looks at you.

“Are you free tomorrow by any chance?”

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

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

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

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

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

“My treat.”

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

He grins, “Uh-huh. Cheap ass.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “Holy shit.”

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

────────────

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

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

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

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

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

Totally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You haven’t opened Tinder since.

“You okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

And you try to listen. You do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’d jolted up like someone caught you.

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

…Right.

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

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything.

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

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

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

You should say something. Anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You want him so bad it’s physically painful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks. You remembered?”

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

You kicked him under the table. “Bitch.”

He grinned, totally unfazed. “Affectionately.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit. What was the last thing he said?

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

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

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

“Mark?” you say, softly.

He doesn’t react.

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

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

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

You glance down.

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You want to kiss him.

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

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

“Mark,” you say.

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

“I think we should fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

Mark goes absolutely still.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh my god. You’re serious.”

“...Yeah.”

“Like you want—”

“Yes.”

“Me?”

“Yes, Mark, you.”

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

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

“Reject you?”

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

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

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

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

But Mark huffs a soft laugh of his own,

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

"You're not?"

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

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

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

“So... you want to—?”

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But we’re still friends,” he says.

“Of course.”

“And more if we like it.”

“Definitely.”

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

“Please, do.”

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

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

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

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

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

You inhale sharply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mark glances at you.

Fuck.

That’s it. That’s your last straw.

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

So you do.

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

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

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

He groans.

Low, breathy, and real.

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

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

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

Mark blinks at you. Once. Twice.

Then he leans in and kisses you again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither of you move.

“…So,” Mark says, finally.

“So.”

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

“What?”

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

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

“I win.”

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

“Nuh-uh.”

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

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

You roll your eyes but smile as you pass him.

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

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

And then he kisses you again.

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

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

His hands slide down your back, warm and soothing.

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

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

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

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

“Did you wanna watch a movie first?”

He’s not even out of breath.

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

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

He doesn’t stop.

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

You think you hear him whisper your name.

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

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

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

You nearly melt on the spot.

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you say, breathless.

And that’s all it takes.

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

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

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

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

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

You think you might be trembling, just a little.

You decide, boldly, to shove him backwards.

He lets you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not…”

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

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

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

You blink up at him. “Known what?”

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

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

Mark quirks an eyebrow at you.

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

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

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

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

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

Because this is different.

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

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

And just beneath them—your hand pauses.

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

How alien is he? You wonder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please, Mark.”

His knees nearly buckle.

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

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

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

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

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

And laugh.

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

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

Mark’s ears go red.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. Wow.

Okay. Wow.

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

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

He twitches again.

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

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

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

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

Mark blinks. “What?”

“He said you had a big dick.”

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

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

“Fuck off—he did not say that—”

“Is it true you used them as lightsabers?”

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

Maybe both.

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

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

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

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

Mark’s breath catches in his throat.

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

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

You glance up at Mark, checking back in.

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

Every sound he makes engraves itself into your brain.

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

You wrap your lips around the head and sink down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hot, white ropes spill across your face.

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

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

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

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

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

“That was…”

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

“I was gonna say hot,” you murmur.

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

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

Get a load of this fucking freak, Jesus Christ.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His gaze drops. His smile fades.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, yeah. I get it.”

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

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

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

“You’re so beautiful.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then his mouth finds you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he moves the gusset of your panties aside.

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

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

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

“Good?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck,” you swear.

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

“Yeah, yeah,” you whisper.

“On my face?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Pinky promise?”

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

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

And he just wanted to piss you off.

“Fuck you,” you mutter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Could be better...”

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

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

“Obviously.”

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

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

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

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

“Just a minute… You?”

“…Yeah.”

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

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

“Probably not for another couple hours.”

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

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

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

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

“Sure, you’re paying anyways.”

#mark grayson x reader #mark grayson smut #invincible x reader #invincible smut #faye’s writing ⭑.ᐟ

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