#thragg x reader smut | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vinnyvamppp · 4 days ago

Note

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

I'm not doing this its too much fucking wo—

Bite Me Back Too

A/N: Every main, side, and popular variant is in this bitch. I apologize for the scrolling you’re about to do, I’m low-key overfeeding y'all. I said two days, so I delivered.

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

Synopsis: Each version of Mark Grayson— bratty kings, calculating monsters, broken gods— crave the same thing: your body, your loyalty, your soul. You’re a cure and a weakness they crave to keep. He’s in heat, SO GO GIVE HIM SOME SUGAR!

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

Viltrumite Heat Cycles x Fem!Reader

Word Count: (.... sigh. Buckle up.)

Sinister Mark

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

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

Then he smelled you.

And suddenly, he was falling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shivered. “Then make it real.”

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

Mark wasn’t the type to surrender to anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Omni Mark

He hadn’t planned to see you tonight.

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

But the heat came early.

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

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

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

That made something snap in him.

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

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

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

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

“But you didn’t,” you whispered.

“I couldn’t,” he admitted.

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

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

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

That broke him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I warned you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Full Masked Mark

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

“Mark?”

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

He nodded once.

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t move as you slid it off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he didn’t fall apart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Main Mark Grayson

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

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

You blinked. “Mark… what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mohawk Mark

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

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

Something worse. Something hungry.

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

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

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

“Are you teased, Mark?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You sure you don’t like it?”

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

His pupils blown, and he heaved as if sick.

Another step.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lensless Invinicble

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

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

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

Nothing. Not a single word.

So you break first.

“You good?”

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

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

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

“Cave?” you echo, raising a brow.

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

“You’re actually insane.”

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

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

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

You kneel beside him. He twitches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You already are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His entire body convulsed beneath you.

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

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

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

Shiesty/Hooded Mark

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

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

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

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

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

You crossed your arms. “So suffer.”

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

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

You shoved him—pointless, really, but instinctual.

He grinned.

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

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

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

“You’re a freak.”

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

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

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

“Am gloating.”

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

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

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

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

“Because you put me there.”

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

“You kiss all your enemies like this?”

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

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

And then your mouth wrapped around him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You come home to silence.

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

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

He’s already there.

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

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

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

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

Just says, “You’ve been avoiding me.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re disgusting.”

He just smirks. “You say that now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

@ploiigee

(Photo stitching made by me!)

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