#what's better than the devil you don't know
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Hewoo againn (* ̄∇ ̄)ノ
I see that your requests are open today, although I don't know if you'll be able to answer if it's already bombarded (oof)
Butt... Hear me out: Reader trying out new lipstick shades and using their bllk boyfriend's face/skin 👀 as a canvas cause y'know, they wanna see what color looks great against their skin 🤭
Kindly requesting the itoshi brothers, shidou, kaiser, ness kunigami, karasu, gagamaru, and barou (as well as any other boys you'd wanna add <3)
Also, I was the one that sent the request for mmafighter!reader x bllk boys and I loved it! Your writing honestly makes my day and mwah! ( ^-^)ノ∠※。.:*:・'°☆💋
I suppose imma just refer to myself as your anonymous 💜 requester (?) (。•̀ᴗ-)✧
“𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐡 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐬”
a/n: literally just saved a cute pinterest pin of this (it was a sign)
also thank you so so so much! i ADORE your ideas, the mma fighter! reader was so much fun to write mwah mwah mwah 😚💋
also #2: if anyone has lip gloss recs or lip combo recs, PLEASE GIVE IT TO ME
ft. itoshi rin, itoshi sae, shidou ryusei, kaiser michael, ness alexis, kunigami rensuke, karasu tabito, gagamaru gin, barou shoei, isagi yoichi, nagi seishiro
itoshi rin
“why don’t you use your own arm?”
“because you’re my favorite canvas,” you reply sweetly, already uncapping the first lipstick.
sits like he’s being punished, arms crossed, refusing to meet your eyes as you start swatching a peachy nude on his cheekbone.
“stop smiling at me like that.”
“like what?” you grin, swatching a bright coral on his jaw next.
turns redder than the lipstick.
eventually sighs and mutters, “just finish your weird little art project.”
doesn't say a word when you give him a kiss on the nose with hot pink.
hours later, you find a selfie on his phone titled: coral test results - looks better on her 🫤.
itoshi sae
“princesa, that looks expensive. should you be testing it on a civilian?” says that while laying back on the couch like he’s on a spa retreat.
you straddle his lap with a whole row of lipstick tubes in hand like a scientist in her lab.
“seriously, i’m not sure your skin’s the right tone to match mine –”
“oh? and what tone is mine?” he teases. “hot? hotter?”
lets you swatch shades on his chest, his collarbones, even his lips, but insists on giving feedback like a beauty guru: “this one’s too tragic. this one screams tax season. this one? this one’s me in lipstick form.”
you: “you’re so full of it.”
him, with three lip marks on his abs: “full of style.”
shidou ryusei
“ohh, are we playing makeup? finally.”
no. he does not follow instructions.
you’re trying to test out neutral tones and he’s over here demanding you use “something demonic.”
“make it black. wait. black with glitter. give me devil lips.”
keeps sticking his tongue out so you accidentally swipe it.
“oops ~ guess you gotta kiss it better.”
ends up with full lips, two-tone cheeks, glitter on his neck, and not one regret.
takes mirror selfies while you’re still testing. sends them to his group chat. caption: my girl turned me into a fineass crayon box.
doesn’t wipe anything off. goes out to the store like that.
kaiser michael
you don’t even finish asking. “can i –”
“yes. of course. i have excellent bone structure for makeup swatches.”
poses like it’s vogue. tilts his face. offers his abs.
“this is the most efficient way to test high-pigment color on perfect skin.”
you: “whose perfect skin?”
“mine, schatz.”
makes dramatic gasps for every new shade like, “this one is bold, it screams money,” and “this shade is called kaiser’s girlfriend’s privilege.”
you try to do a neat row of swatches, but he keeps flexing and distracting you.
ends up looking like a lipstick picasso. loves it.
ness alexis
so cooperative it’s suspicious.
sits on the floor cross-legged while you perch above him on the couch like royalty.
“mmm, maybe the berry tone next? or the cinnamon glaze one?”
keeps his eyes wide and still while you apply it, like he’s in a professional makeup studio.
rates each one like a food critic: “this one feels luxurious. this one? cozy date night in fall.”
gently reminds you to blot if you forget. offers his arm for leftover swatches.
tells you which one makes your skin glow the most.
you end up cuddling with his neck covered in different kiss marks. he’s still smiling like it’s the best day of his life.
kunigami rensuke
“uh, are you sure this is okay?”
he looks so concerned, poor guy.
“yes,” you say, already smearing a nude tone along his jawline.
he sits like he’s at the dentist – rigid, confused, but obedient.
“don’t you have, like, swatch paper or something?”
“shhh. your face is way cuter.”
blushes so hard he starts sweating.
you kiss his forehead with a deep red and say, “final test.”
he almost passes out.
refuses to wipe it off and goes to the gym with a lipstick heart on his bicep like a love badge.
karasu tabito
“oh hell yeah. paint me like one of your fancy girls.”
reclines back dramatically with a throw pillow under his head.
lets you draw full swatches, then starts naming them stupid things: “this is ‘sexy betrayal.’ this one’s ‘tax evasion.’ this one? ‘midnight scandal’.”
you: “karasu, these are just pinks.”
him: “emotional pinks.”
halfway through he tries to kiss you with four different colors still on him. now you look like a disaster.
both of you look insane. both of you are in love.
gagamaru gin
doesn’t move a muscle. sits like a very obedient golden retriever.
“just tell me where.”
offers you his neck, shoulders, collarbone, whatever you need.
every time you say “wow, that shade pops,” he perks up like a puppy being praised.
tries to help by flexing when you do chest swatches. accidentally makes the lipstick smear.
“sorry.”
you giggle and kiss his nose. he doesn’t wipe it off for hours.
barou shoei
“you’re not touching me with that garbage.”
okay so you have to coax him into it.
eventually caves but makes you promise “nothing fruity.”
you swatch ONE dusty rose on his cheek and he’s like “too fruity. wipe it off.”
ends up letting you do a whole gradient on his arm instead.
glares at it the whole time like it offended his bloodline.
secretly keeps your kiss mark on his jaw and glares at anyone who looks at it too long.
isagi yoichi
“uhhh i’ve never been used as a color test before, but sure???”
kind of nervous but excited to help.
watches every swatch you put on him like it’s a math equation.
“this one’s warmer… oh, but that one’s more vibrant. maybe good for nighttime lighting?”
sweetly says “do the thing” and puckers up so you can test one directly with a kiss.
giggles when you say he looks like a valentine card.
takes a picture of your arm next to his cheek to compare tones. “science!”
keeps the one he likes best on until bedtime.
nagi seishiro
“ugh, do i have to move?”
lays there like a cat being groomed.
opens one eye to say “do the purple one” then goes back to half-napping.
doesn’t react to any of the swatches except to occasionally go “eh. that’s fine.”
you kiss his collarbone with a bold crimson and he finally reacts: “that one. wear that one forever.”
goes back to sleep with ten swatches and glitter on his chin.
you leave a sticky note on his forehead: best canvas award goes to you.
© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢
#blue lock#blue lock x reader#bllk#bllk x reader#blue lock headcanons#isagi yoichi x reader#yoichi isagi x reader#rin itoshi x reader#itoshi rin x reader#itoshi sae x reader#sae itoshi x reader#nagi seishiro x reader#seishiro nagi x reader#shidou ryusei x reader#ryusei shidou x reader#kaiser michael x reader#michael kaiser x reader#ness alexis x reader#alexis ness x reader#kunigami rensuke x reader#rensuke kunigami x reader#karasu tabito x reader#tabito karasu x reader#gagamaru gin x reader#gin gagamaru x reader#barou shoei x reader#shoei barou x reader#paint me like one of your french boys
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I didn't go find Markvart in my first playthrough, but I did in my second. And I have a lot of ramble-y thoughts.
Markvart makes the same points Istvan did, just, more calmly. He has more time, more patience to get across what he's saying.
War is bad. It's dangerous. innocent people die, and they die often. Istvan said the same thing, didn't he?
but what's striking me most is other things he said.
"I remember all the men I've killed. Don't you?"
No. No, I don't. (my) Henry walks around killing without remorse, bandits, guards, noblemen, Brabant, Istvan. Just not civilians. But Markvart is right; to pretend that's better, just because they don't have titles, or armor, or orders from the opposing army.... it doesn't make it better.
"how many fathers have you killed?"
Those dead people I've left - Henry has left - they're fathers, sons, wives, daughters. They have friends and family, just like Henry did. Just like Istvan did. Just like Markvart does. And they're dead.
There’s something .... beautiful? about a game making you confront the fact that those aren't supposed to be meat, but people. Human beings.
And standing there, having played an angry, hungry for revenge Henry, I see why that's wrong. Henry is wrong. Markvart is wrong. Capon, Devil, Zizka, Kubyenka, Markvart, Erik, Von Bergow, Istvan, they're all wrong. There is no RIGHT, here. Never has been. The only thing that makes a difference to either of them is which side they're on.
And what else gets me
- Give von Aulitz a dignified death
- Kill von Aulitz like a dog
- Let von Aulitz live
It's different than how it is with Istvan. I mean, Markvart is already dying, will be dead by morning, but the option not to kill him after that conversation is poignant. Maybe a small way to redeem yourself for the fathers, sons you've killed? It doesn't amount to much in the end, does it?
I chose to kill him with dignity. Henry - my Henry - has killed countless people, but, in his mind, this is a mercy. The last thing he can do for a man he was going to kill, anyway. He did the same for Istvan. Some tiny semblance of balance to the act of Murder? Some show of respect, a way to say he's better than they are? I don't know. both, maybe.
I think Markvart was waiting for it. I'm sure he's felt the same - I'm sure that, like Henry, like Erik and Istvan, like so many others, he's gotten his revenge. He hunted someone down to the ends of the Earth, and I think he knew he'd face the same, someday. He wasn't as arrogant and self-assured as Istvan, and not as angry as Erik; he knew it was coming, I think, and made peace with it long before that bolt hit his chest. Maybe he was glad Henry stayed to listen, to ask questions, to reflect, at least. But when he stood him up, and he pointed that dagger to his chest, and Markvart told him where to aim - he'd been at peace with that moment for a long time.
Is this Henry's future? A soldier; a killing machine. A man who, like Markvart, will face his own death at the end of a dagger wielded by a young man whose family he'd slaughtered for whatever cause it may have been? Will he have made peace with it? Or will he be angry, and think he's above it all?
I'd like to think he'll have some regret.
Anyway, I don't feel good about killing him. In fact, I feel more remorse than I already did at the actions I've taken this playthough. This game is so beautifully written... I cannot wait to play through again.
#kcd#kcd2#kingdom come deliverance#kingdom come deliverence 2#henry of skalitz#kcd henry#markvart von aulitz#markvart#von aulitz#kingdom come henry#istvan toth
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I'M FASCINATED WITH WHAT YOU WRITE, btw I'm the one who asked for puppy!kai... I didn't know you wrote gore... So here's a bit of a weird fantasy. Like Beomgyu or Kai, I don't have the exact vision yet, but being stalkers obsessed with you, like Joe from You but who do love you and aren't unfaithful? Lol, so the stalker does everything to be near you, moves into your same apartment to be neighbors and even transfers to the same university as you, spies on you and follows you EVERYWHERE, one day he leaves a gift on your door with a letter written full of blood (it's his by the way) saying that he loves you madly. And it all ends in masochistic sex🕯
1000 Followers Bash - Yandere Beomgyu
Devil's note: Thank you 🥰 And I accidentally strayed away from your thought, I just got inspiration and ran with it but it’s similar I hope you enjoy just as much!
nsfw/warnings: mention of blood and self-harm, yandere
You've been seeing this handsome man more and more in your life and you're not complaining. You're in college, attending numerous classes, and fun activities in and out of school, so you thought it would be normal to run into the same people every once in a while.
Then the handsome man, you found out named Beomgyu, moved into the apartment upstairs from you. You kinda wished he could've found a place closer, little did you know that he tried. Terrible thoughts fill Beomgyu's mind about how to get closer, but he puts those thoughts away because he's at least able to be above you 24/7.
Beomgyu also found ways to make the upstairs apartment work for his needs. He lays on the floor listening and learning what noises from your apartment mean. Soon he knows that sound of your alarm goes off at 6am, the creaking sound is the bathroom door, the swift slam is your bedroom door, and the same melody blaring is your favorite song. So obsessed he knows your menstrual cycle, with the constant creak of the bathroom door and the groceries he watches you buy. Beomgyu marks the date when you're going to have your period and gifts you treats. His favorite time is when you’re ovulating, he presses himself further to the floor listening to you touch yourself.
One night after, he had a full thoughtful conversation with you, you later rush him out. Beomgyu didn't like that, asking why, to get your reply that you have someone coming over tonight. He thinks he's crashing out, eye twitching when you smile at the thought of another man in your house. Beomgyu is burning, NO you’re his!
Leaves your apartment, but never goes back to his. He watches the other man go into your house. Beomgyu shakes his head, that bitch didn't get you flowers. Back upstairs he listens, he starts laughing, knowing that you sound more pleasured by your fingers than whatever this sick bastard is doing. Beomgyu can do better, he knows it. But your moan grows louder and louder, Beomgyu can only see red as he punches the wall. Blood runs down his arms as he watches the crimson fall on all the love letters he has made for you but never sent. He gets an idea.
A surprising knock on the door, you open it to find your neighbor, Beomgyu. A gasp slips from your lips when you see his face full of tears and scratches. Beomgyu's arms bloody and bruised, you rush him into your arms, “What happened!” You melt watching his puppy eyes tear up, you're quick to soothe him by petting his long hair.
Beomgyu’s finger shakes as he stretches it out. Following the direction the finger was pointing at was the half-naked man standing at your bedroom door. You shake your head astonished listening to Beomgyu's shaking voice, “H-he did this to me.”
You should’ve known this man was too perfect. Good job, great body, mediocre sex, you should’ve known he’d bully a fragile man like Beomgyu. “GET OUT!” You blurt out, you had no care for an explanation. The pain in your chest ached to see your neighbor, your friend, scarred up like this.
Beomgyu snuggles into your neck, soaking in your scent. “I tried y/n, I tried to get to you and warn you that he’s a bad man, but he did this to me.” His lips brush against your skin as he speaks lies.
“Aw thank you baby for trying to protect me." You say as you hold the poor man closer to you. Moments passed, and you two stayed in each other's arms, the blood from his limbs soaked into your robe. Beomgyu can feel you squirm, he doesn't want you to move, he doesn't want you out of his sight and touch. "Beom, I'm uncomfortable." You whine when you feel the man's grip on you tighten.
"How about we get you out of your robe and stay together in bed, forever," Beomgyu says passionately, fire glowing in his eyes. You chuckle not believing the serious undertones of his comment.
After that incident, no man was to talk to you, look at you, or even speak of you without facing the wrath of Beomgyu. His intention has become deeper, and slowly but surely his visits to your apartment become longer, staying overnight, then for days. Every morning Beomgyu didn't stay with you, you'd wake up with mail at your door, opening it to find a love letter written in suspicious red ink.
Grateful for my 1000 Demons,
TxT's Devil
#txt devil#txt imagines#txt x reader#txt x y/n#txt thoughts#beomgyu thoughts#beomgyu scenarios#beomgyu x reader#beomgyu angst#beomgyu au#txt fic
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V is still Vergil--he finds the response of 'I'm getting cheeseburgers' so mundane his first instinct is to go to find it pitiable. The whole world extended like a map and what -- cheeseburgers? Why cheeseburgers when you turned your sister's killer into your pet? Don't you yearn for more, for more power? But the initial impulse passes and V's lazy smiles turns into a laugh, shaking his head so low over his chest his bangs might brush his sternum. Of course it's cheeseburgers. Still I do not understand humanity. The laugh threatens to tear his flesh apart. He isn't laughing very hard at all, too quiet by nature to really laugh in the ways people like Dante and Nico do, but Vergil tried not to laugh at all / such a small, insignificant thing can shatter V's constitution. He stoops down to pick up a particularly interesting bit of crystal. Although he's not sure why, he gets the feeling Nico might be able to make something interesting out of it, maybe a new Devil Breaker for Nero or something. V straightens and pockets it.
"I've only ever had a cheeseburger... once in my life..." he admits, raising his head again. Half-truth. V has only had one cheeseburger. Vergil, of course, has had quite a few. But he wants to see how Cam will look at this confession and try not to laugh--again--over her imperceptible brow quirking at his words, the slight shift under her eyes, the cartoon-like question marks that might bubble above her head like they do in comics. "I'd like to have one again." Although he probably won't get the chance, what with the lingering in Red Grave and Urizen looming above them with his jaws salivating for that apple from Blake's poem. V loves Blake desperately but he wishes just as desperately his demonic half hadn't clung to the words too...really...how on the nose can you get? It feels awfully vaudevillian, but then again they as Vergil have always been like that, even if they pretended otherwise.
Which brings him to Cam's next sentiment. Dramatic kings. Yes, V has had enough of those too. His smile goes wry again, an expression much more suited on his features than his eager laugh had been. "I'm tired of them too." He hopes when he returns to his-self that Vergil will remember this exhaustion and turn it into something better. "Glad we are in agreement. You weren't taken from some other job to come to Red Grave... were you?" Of course Urizen isn't the only demon in the whole world, but this had been priority #1 for those in the area, so he offers a vague consolatory hope for the struggling people Vergil's selfishness may have ripped Cam away from so she can occupy herself with dealing with his suffering (again).
V--if you don't want to be dramatic anymore, I'm afraid you're going to have better luck stabbing yourself in the chest with Yamato a second time and making two more people. I mean, come on. Be serious. You're not any better than Vergil.
I know that...
No! You don't! Vergil never quoted poetry out loud! Do you hear yourself?
Cam obviously doesn't buy that he's always had his devils--She can only go off appearances and nothing about V's situation seems... Normal. So she's sure it's off slightly, her own estimations, his story, all of it. Luckily enough for V, in the same second she opens her mouth to ask, brows scrunched up beneath her bangs, she extends both her arms and Memento shoots from her wrists like wires at the heads of two devils peeling themselves out of the Qliphoth-rotted walls. The sharp hooked ends of each extension pierce the devils' heads and then she yanks back on both with her fingers so their skulls cave into soot and mush. Both go limp immediately and their bodies drop like sacks of potatoes. Crumbling dust in seconds. Memento retracts with a sharp zing through the air as if it was never summoned, amorphous around her wrists as both of the humans(?) continue on their path forward.
"Wha--?" Cam's head tilts, too, in the opposite direction of V's when she looks back his way. Curious or confused--Her expression could read as either when the smugness falls away. And now he's made her lose her train of thought. She sighs, put upon. Conversations shifting toward her as a topic are her worst enemy thank you very much. "Me? I don't know, what I always do probably." Work, sleep, get bad takeout, work some more. Isn't that what most people do? "If Dante doesn't come back, there'll be a huge opening in devil hunting. Someone will have to pick up the slack. Not sure what'll happen." As much as she's hoped in the past that Dante would leave and stay gone, Cam isn't sure she can anymore. They've known each other too long or something like that. He'll never know so it doesn't matter.
"Anyways--If the world doesn't end, I'm getting cheeseburgers. So..." She shuts her eyes again to see that image from Memento, the little wrinkles between her brows and at the corners of her eyes pulling as she focuses for a handful of moments, then she finishes the thought once she's sure they're getting close: "I guess--just don't get killed and you can have some too... Why are you asking?" Cam raises a brow at him as she stretches her arms over her head to limber up her wrists and then starts to shrug her leather jacket off. She hardly has to think entire thoughts to communicate with Memento now--Just the vague idea of consider how she should deal with the demons they'll find further and trying a move out is enough for the devil to jump to work. It immediately begins coating her right hand and hardening into obsidian, starting at the tips of her fingers as she speaks, crawling up her arm and over the sigils she's had tattooed across her shoulders and the back of her neck, most of which stay obscured beneath the curtain of her hair. "I'm not cut out for anything else, if that's what you mean." Her nose wrinkles when she barks a tiny, single hah. She flexes her fingers a few times, watching how the rock-like surface reflects the strange red light coming off the Qliphoth's bloody crystals above before glancing back up at him, "I've got plenty of other devils to kill after this tree heads back to Hell. Just tired of the dramatic king business." Anyone other than V would think she just means Mundus.
(She really can't fathom why V cares to ask; He doesn't seem like the type to make conversation often and Cam is hardly an interesting subject to practice on. If she knew anything about why he was asking, she might have to blow them both up with. A grenade or... something.)
#this might be a lotta internalization lmk if u need more.#spirestar#v: ic.#verse: i got longing (v).
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Last Line Tag!
Rules: in a new post, show the last line you wrote (or the last wip you drew) and tag as many people as there are words (or however many you like).
Tagged by the wonderful @totally-not-deacon <3 (and later @molliehaswords, thank you!!)
Uhh. Someone's monologuing and I wasn't sure where to cut him off. Not gonna tag for every word. But how about @bleumanouche, @twosides--samecoin, @wishbonemotel, @nomamonster, @thedomesticanthropologist, @peaches-n-screem, and @fayeriess if you'd like to share a line of whatever you wrote last! No worries if you'd rather not!
From Chapter 4 (title TBD) of Midnight Chimes (Astarion x Cursed!Tav).
“You thought the sunlight would burn it out of you. You thought your goddess could still save you. You’re on the road to Baldur’s Gate now with the hope, oh, the hope that the city will drown it out of you. Or, drown you for good. Which do you wish for more, I wonder?”
#what's better than the devil you don't know#I am still hoping to post a new chapter this week but it might get pushed to Monday#we shall see#megh fights the page#my writing#midnight chimes
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manifestation of my personal tadpole
#bg3#baldur's gate 3#raphael#i'd keysmash but i'm tired#what's better than the devil you don't know#the devil that keeps telling you horrifying fairy tales ofc duh#also heard a rumour about him being a very bad fisher
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One skull, two tenants and no solution in sight. I could fix it all, like that.
#can you hear it too?#the *snap*#because I can#i've heard to his discouse too many times#and i would hear it again#i love it#damn what a discourse!#i remember having goosebumps the first time i heard it#but anywaaayysss#What's better than a Devil you don't know?#a Devil you do#😉#raphael#bg3#baldurs gate#baldurs gate 3#baldur's gate 3#baldur's gate#raphael bg3#bg3 raphael#raphael baldur's gate 3#baldur's gate 3 raphael
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#daily dose of haarlep#bg3 haarlep#haarlep#haarlep bg3#incubus haarlep#haarlep the incubus#What's better than the Devil you know? - The incubus you don't#lost's shots#haarlep brainrot
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C. // @banefulbenevolence
( * VALENTINE’S DAY ALPHABET !
C : CHOCOLATE. does your muse like chocolate? which one is their favourite?
Raphael definitely likes chocolate, though he doesn't always indulge the craving.
When he does, he tends to favor dark chocolate, often with some other flavor like sea salt or cinnamon or raspberry or cranberry or mint or something thrown in, either to the chocolate mix or like truffle assortments.
He is, however, very, very picky about what chocolates he will eat.
He usually finds one particular candy shop in whatever particular city he's set up in at the time--Baldur's Gate, Waterdeep, et cetera--and that will be the only one he goes to when there.
When he is trying to determine which shop--or if there's a quality drop at the one he had chosen and he has to find another--he is not above buying some of their candy to test and simply throwing it away if it isn't satisfactory. Usually while making eye contact with the owner and tossing it in the trash with a look of utter disgust.
I do think, if pressed for his absolute favorite chocolate, he does have a particular fondness for dark chocolate and cinnamon.
He will also, however, as a sidenote, make sure that Haarlep has equally good chocolates, even if dark chocolate isn't their preference. Raphael can tolerate other types and flavors of chocolate, but not subpar chocolate. [ He does have to kiss that mouth, after all. ]
#|| ' what's better than a devil you don't know ? a devil you do . ' || { about // raphael }#|| ' raphael loves only himself . ' || { raphael & haarlep }#|| two halves of heart and soul || { raphael & ███ }
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Raphael, as I write him… // @raphaelapproves // Part One of ???
He is a highly charismatic and very clever—but not always very smart—individual. He is a being of contradictions and juxtaposition of seemingly impossible things.
He presents himself as a hero and a savior and as Better Than… He is self-centered and thinks he deserves the world… while simultaneously being rather harsh with himself within his own mind, constantly pushing to compete with an image of who he thinks he should be… all while doing his level best to live up to everything a devil should be.
He is honest but can be deceitful through misleading, not unlike the Fae.
He is vain and parades about as though he's the most Beautiful thing in existence and yet how many mirrors are in his House? As opposed to statues and paintings where he can look exactly as he wishes to look. Why is Haarlep not only a YOUNGER him, but an altered him, without the things he perceives as flaws—not that he would ever admit that.
He cares for no one… and yet collects misfits, and—depending on the verse and writer involved—holds varying degrees of tolerance/affection for Haarlep despite the fact that he must know his purpose. He accepts a child into his House despite having exactly zero use for him, and—in my own slightly AU canon created with a friend of mine I write with on discord who doesn't Tumblr™️/with anyone else who wants to play with the idea here—Raphael sees enough of himself in the boy's demeanor, circumstances, and overall character to take a keen interest, to even take him on as a protege.
Raphael rides an almost constant rollercoaster of euphoric highs and catastrophic lows. In the former he is an unstoppable force, making deals, composing poetry and music, barely sleeping, everything is on 20 [ very much what we would consider Manic ]. With the latter, he is erratic, moody, unstable, quick to anger, occasionally self-destructive and destructive of things like rooms in the House, and not easily soothed. Everything is wrong wrong wrong and it will never be right and he'll never be good enough and there's nothing he can do to fix this— Which will range from rage to utter despondency. He does not often throw prolonged tantrums—the ten year one with Mephistopheles was rare—but sometimes he simply loses his carefully crafted performances and his very intentionally maintained control.
He is clever and charismatic, witty, but in a way that is very practiced. Several instances he's seen as rehearsing or practicing an exchange before it happens, reciting poetry to himself to be certain he's memorized it because he certainly can't suffer failure. He is Perfection.
Raphael is, to my thinking, first and foremost a Bard… who took on a more combat-based role because being a Bard was unacceptable. He threw himself into studies of arcana, of making deals, of all sorts of things. He treats his poetry and music like just little things he does to amuse now, rather than what he pretty much lives for—pushing all else aside in favor of proving that he can be better than his father and do what he never could, after so long being mocked and mistreated as lesser.
He is entirely capable and even delights and excels in cruelty… yet seemingly only if provoked or crossed. He would much rather be reasonable and make a deal after all. Cruelty brings momentary joy and relief. But a soul or a contract or a debt? That is power.
He is an utter bastard… and yet one that most people can't quite entirely bring themselves to hate.
#|| ' what's better than a devil you don't know ? a devil you do . ' || { about // raphael }#// I will likely add more to this later#// or make another post but#// Part One I suppose
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my 10 holy grail pieces of writing advice for beginners
from an indie author who's published 4 books and written 20+, as well as 400k in fanfiction (who is also a professional beta reader who encounters the same issues in my clients' books over and over)
show don't tell is every bit as important as they say it is, no matter how sick you are of hearing about it. "the floor shifted beneath her feet" hits harder than "she felt sick with shock."
no head hopping. if you want to change pov mid scene, put a scene break. you can change it multiple times in the same scene! just put a break so your readers know you've changed pov.
if you have to infodump, do it through dialogue instead of exposition. your reader will feel like they're learning alongside the character, and it will flow naturally into your story.
never open your book with an exposition dump. instead, your opening scene should drop into the heart of the action with little to no context. raise questions to the reader and sprinkle in the answers bit by bit. let your reader discover the context slowly instead of holding their hand from the start. trust your reader; donn't overexplain the details. this is how you create a perfect hook.
every chapter should end on a cliffhanger. doesn't have to be major, can be as simple as ending a chapter mid conversation and picking it up immediately on the next one. tease your reader and make them need to turn the page.
every scene should subvert the character's expectations, as big as a plot twist or as small as a conversation having a surprising outcome. scenes that meet the character's expectations, such as a boring supply run, should be summarized.
arrive late and leave early to every scene. if you're character's at a party, open with them mid conversation instead of describing how they got dressed, left their house, arrived at the party, (because those things don't subvert their expectations). and when you're done with the reason for the scene is there, i.e. an important conversation, end it. once you've shown what you needed to show, get out, instead of describing your character commuting home (because it doesn't subvert expectations!)
epithets are the devil. "the blond man smiled--" you've lost me. use their name. use it often. don't be afraid of it. the reader won't get tired of it. it will serve you far better than epithets, especially if you have two people of the same pronouns interacting.
your character should always be working towards a goal, internal or external (i.e learning to love themself/killing the villain.) try to establish that goal as soon as possible in the reader's mind. the goal can change, the goal can evolve. as long as the reader knows the character isn't floating aimlessly through the world around them with no agency and no desire. that gets boring fast.
plan scenes that you know you'll have fun writing, instead of scenes that might seem cool in your head but you know you'll loathe every second of. besides the fact that your top priority in writing should be writing for only yourself and having fun, if you're just dragging through a scene you really hate, the scene will suffer for it, and readers can tell. the scenes i get the most praise on are always the scenes i had the most fun writing. an ideal outline shouldn't have parts that make you groan to look at. you'll thank yourself later.
happy writing :)
#writing#writeblr#writing advice#fantasy#original fiction#fantasy writing#indie author#writer advice
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hi! its me, mage. Im here as well! hello! i have information regarding what happened too, since Cole has seemed to say a LOT about me, and because I have information about Nico that perhaps should be known. After I was kicked out a friend group TWICE, I saw that Nico was needing someone to talk to- so I came up and asked if it was okay since I was still reeling from what happened initally. This was around october of 2023, and just could not find my groove. So, we met up again, they had no ill will towards me, boom, rekindled friendship. But my goodness, they had a lot to say. And I listened to a lot of their vents because I wanted to help. So, so badly. At one point, I had sent Nico $30 to go towards food. Real-life money I got from my job, all because I wanted to help my friend. I went out of my way on my OWN VOLITION to try and defend Nico, because from my point of view, it most certainly looked like Cole was the one in the wrong. I will not say if I believe this or not, but I do not have the information to properly create an opinion. I defended them because I really did care. This came at a cost. And that was a constant feeling of exhaustion concerning them. I was consistently there to sit and listen and listen and reassure them. I wanted to be the person always there for them. But y'know! What did i get!!!! oh thats right, a block!!!!!! Blues/Nico had blocked me entirely.
I had enough at one point within their server where I kept seeing the same pattern of begging and begging and sob stories and placing Nico at the very top of everything. When they were broken up with their ex who was aro, I remember that they would stalk and watch them and constantly talk about them. All the time. Every single message was about them. It just did not look healthy, and I told them. And so I separated myself from it all and just left, and so I don't know what happened afterwards. They would never compliment the work i did myself when I gave them all the appreciation I could muster. I made them art, I gave them my time and I got my friends together to help support them, too. And I am left with nothing but accusations and a block button on my face from someone I spent all my emotional energy and part of my paycheck from. There was never anything in return for anything I did. But uh. That's all i'd like to address here. I am not answering any questions, and I will not send any private messages here. I don't think the people who ARE here necessarily want to associate with me in the first place (despite the fact it's been an entire YEAR since everything concerning me happened), so take what I have.
(DO NOT HARRAS THIS PERSON, JUST IGNORE THEM. ALSO GARTIC PHONE THING WASN'T THEM)
Piacere, space, whatever you go by, you said you wouldn't mention anyone from this, or at least that was what the deal was, I hope you were told about it. We'd not mention you, as long as you wouldn't mention us. But you did, so a new callout post with new points, people defending you don't really do a good job. TLDR: they blame everything on mental health, takes little fault for hurting people because of said mental issues, vents to people decently younger than them constantly, and they demand boundaries, but get extremely upset when anyone asks for them to do so for them.
NOTE I didn't directly see any of this, I'm doing this to defend my friends because, no offense, they are kinda letting themselves get walked all over. If anything is wrong please tell me. Do not harass anyone in this situation, no one deserves it.
First up a recap on the first situation with a new moral because talking to your friend made it more obvious what the issue was, you blaming mental health. My friends silver and JJ banned someone from wheezle's easel for in their mind being toxic, the other mods including piacere and their friends didn't feel the person was that bad, but instead of voicing that they went on a rant at how they were never listened to. Even when given an opportunity to unban the person piacere went on about not being listened to while actively ignoring their attempts at giving them an input. They caused my friends to have anxiety attacks and cry, yes they apologized, but only after saying my friends were horrible people. I don't know how you go from that to sorry in a few days and mean that apology. Proof under this, and another situation and perspectives of other people on them.
Now for the new situation i heard of, they were in my friend's server, velon's, and they'd do their constant venting. They were asked to not mention suicide so often and got really upset. More stuff must have happened because like, everyone there says how they would make them super stressed out with how often they'd beg for attention and do things like make sex jokes with people who were uncomfortable with it. Here's people's opinions on it and also i'd check out Typhoonclade's post on them here for more opinions.
Generally they'd vent everywhere around like 16-18 year olds as an almost 20 year old. they'd constantly cry about not getting attention while they got a lot of attention from at least half the active members in our server. And also a lot of weird sexual stuff that granted is hearsay to me but tbhI don't care anymore, there's no way two unrelated people have similar stories. Here's some other stuff of them being mean about people and attention seek-y I have.



Piacere, you won't read this tbh, but just get off the internet, its clear you can't handle it, and you hurt people, for everyone's good, please just get offline. I know real life sucks for you, you'd say it a lot man, but its not an excuse to hurt people who aren't doing anything to you. Just, idk what you should do, other than leave the wider internet.
#to cole. btw. id just like if youd also consider that I am also capable of change#because damn for someone claiming they have matured would realize that the accusations towards me are very hypocritical#and that you were friends with me again at one point despite the facts you love to bring up when speaking of me? tsk tsk.#you're weaponizing those accusations to make me look far more terrible than I was to prove a point.#but honestly what am I doing. Everyone in the tags hates me already. i aint changing anyones mind.#thats all ive got. go on with your lives and leave me alone#they say the devil that you know is better than the devil that you don't /lyr
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I recently installed that one firefox extension that puts Mr. Beast in the thumbnails of every video on youtube (which is great if you've ever wanted to be plagued with visions of a grinning white devil) and it made me take a second to think about him and that one Polygon article about how he's subsumed everything he is to win at the content game.
I really appreciate how Mr. Beast is, like, a hollow shell of a person. I don't really like him or care for him, but I can admit to a grudging respect for a man who figured out how to play the content game better than pretty much anyone else.
But it just feels right, you know? He's the closest we'll probably ever get to a God of YouTube, and he lost what made him human along the road to divinity. He's the pinnacle of everything the internet has been leading to for the last few decades, the apex of the apex of those ceaseless, soulless engines of churning content.
He has everything and nothing. He who masters the algorithm cannot break it.
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track 10 — mark grayson (invincible) !



⟢ synopsis. you totally don't have a thing for mark, that would be crazy ... unless
⟢ contains. 18+, mark grayson x fem!reader, nsfw, oral (m & f receiving), cunnilingus. mark is kinda subby, friends with benefits but they like each other, reader is so down bad it's embarassing, and mark isn't any better, gets a little nasty when it comes to cum, mark is a proud moaner, mentions of porn, both mark and reader are lowkey pervs.
⟢ wc: 15k+
⟢ author’s note. mark is an eater, sue me. there's stupid jokes thrown in here, just a long written work of me pushing the casual sex with mark idea. i also like the idea of having an alien boyfriend and making mark more alien than human. a lot of it was inspired by this work from ao3!
You’re such a pervert.
At least, that’s what Mark and William would call you if they saw the way your eyes trailed, lingered, on the way fingers slipped into the holes of bowling balls, your gaze locked on the flex of forearm muscle tightening beneath warm, sandy skin. Veins rising just under the surface. The smooth way wrists rolled as they brought the ball up, perfectly casual, totally unaware.
You exhaled slowly through your nose. The warmth in your stomach was beginning to simmer into something heavier, something you refused to name in the middle of a public bowling alley, under neon lights and the scent of cheap nachos.
Mark would turn scarlet if he caught you. You knew the exact look—eyebrows shooting up, eyes wide and blinking, stammering over his own breath like a shy bastard. And William? God, he’d never let you live it down. He’d smirk like the devil himself, a wicked grin twisting on his face as he realized you’re not so different from him, seconds away from pointing across the lane with an audible gasp like he’s scandalized.
You huffed and slouched deeper into the worn leather seat, folding your arms across your chest like it might shield you from the shame of your own libido. Or at least from the sight of Mark, now lining up his shot.
Why did you even agree to this again?
Third-wheeling William and Rick’s bowling date for the millionth time had officially become the sad little cherry on top of your tragic sundae. You were no longer just the single friend. You were the perpetually single friend. The “don’t worry, you’ll find someone eventually” friend. It made you want to tear your hair out of your head.
Worse still was when Amber and her new boyfriend showed up. You’d run out of excuses not to come by then—tried “midterms,” “period,” even “funeral” once, which William did not find funny. (You still do.)
Maybe that was an exaggeration because you know how competitive William and Amber get so there wouldn’t be much love to go around if the game was close, but still!
And maybe it wasn’t always like this. Maybe they didn’t completely leave you out. They included you in the group cheers, the trash talk, and even the occasional victory dance when one of you got a lucky strike. You weren’t invisible. Just… orbiting. A little too aware of the way everyone else had someone to orbit with.
But tonight was different.
Because Mark Grayson was here.
You hadn’t expected it—had already accepted your fate as the designated third wheel, again—but when William pulled up and you opened the car door, there he was. Sitting in the back seat. Tugging at the sleeves of his sweater. That stupid, kinda cute grin on his face when he saw the shock on yours.
Mark Grayson. The best friend turned part-time cryptid. A guy you maybe saw once every other week if the planets aligned and there wasn’t a kaiju climbing out of Lake Michigan. These days, he showed up in the group chat typing out things like “Sorry I’ve been MIA, was in space lol” or “brb gotta swim in a volcano for endurance training :(” like it was completely normal and not the kind of thing that made you feel a weird cocktail of secondhand stress and... butterflies.
He was still the same guy who sent you videos of raccoons screaming into bird feeders at 2 a.m. Still remembered to say “hi” to your mom over text. Still promised you he wasn’t dead every now and then. But sitting beside him in the car—seeing his knee bouncing, his jaw shifting with a soft grin like nothing had changed—it hit you just how much had.
He looked… older. And maybe you looked older too but it was like he’d seen things and hadn’t told anyone. His eyes had that faraway shine he got when he was lost in thought, and even with the quiet hum of William and Rick’s shitty playlist and the greasy scent of drive-thru fries between you all, you could feel the shift in the air. A little quieter. A little heavier.
You had to play it cool. Pretend your entire body hadn’t immediately started sparking like faulty wiring the second he said your name and nudged your knee with his. You had to stop smiling so hard that your cheeks hurt.
You had to act like this was any other night. Like he wasn’t the reason your stomach had butterflies and your thighs had opinions.
You leaned your head against the window, hiding your face, hoping the dark would swallow the flush climbing your neck. You muttered something sarcastic about “the prodigal son returning,” and Mark just chuckled, that same warm, dorky sound that always made your stomach twist.
He said, “You act like I’ve been gone for five years. It’s only been, like, two weeks.”
You gave him a flat look. “You missed two birthdays, Mark.”
He winced. “Okay, technically I was there for William’s. You just couldn’t see me.”
“Yeah,” William piped up from the front seat, smirking. “Because you were in orbit.”
Mark shrugged with a guilty laugh and you were smiling the whole car ride.
Not because he was saying anything particularly funny—though he did, at one point, launch into a truly terrible pun about black holes and bowling balls—but just because he was there. And you wouldn’t have to sit alone all night, nursing a soda while Rick and William played footsie over the ball return.
By the time you all reached the bowling alley, cheap neon lights flickering overhead, you were already white-knuckling it through the evening. The floors stuck just a little to your soles, gum-slick and soda-stained, the way only old alleys could be. It felt like someone turned the heater up to just uncomfortable, and you were nearly sweating through your shirt despite the chill of your drink between your hands.
You’re trying your best not to blare your teeth because neither Rick nor Mark would understand how badly you need to sink them into something. And the last thing you need is William playing Cupid again. If he catches even a whiff of this (and he will, the man could sniff out sexual frustration like a fucking bloodhound) you’ll spend the rest of the night dodging his attempts to set you up with someone’s cousin. Or sibling. Or roommate. Or ex.
So instead, you cross your legs, pressing your thighs together like a lifeline, grateful for the thick fabric of your jeans creating friction, if nothing else. You chew furiously on the nachos Rick ordered for the table, salt and fake cheese mixing with the lingering taste of your own desperation, pretending to be invested in the score.
You tried to have a little shame with the way you were staring—really, you tried. But your casual glances across the lanes kept narrowing, funnelling, zeroing in on one person. And the way Mark moved tonight was ridiculous.
You were practically biting your fist, hating how much you loved the way his shoulders shifted under that stupid sweater—the very same one he used to wear in high school. Still threadbare in places. Still soft-looking. Still familiar. Except now, it clung a little tighter to the broader frame he’d grown into, hugging his chest and upper arms like a secret he hadn’t meant to keep from you.
You don’t even think that yellow button-up he used to pair it with would fit anymore. Not unless he wanted to pop a few buttons and really give you something to talk about in therapy.
Mark had filled out in ways you didn’t quite expect—broader shoulders, a thicker chest, and maybe, just maybe, he’d gotten taller too. It was subtle at first, the kind of change that didn’t register until he handed you his old, beloved Seance Dog t-shirt one afternoon like it was nothing. You remembered how the sleeves used to sag on him, how the shirt had always hung a little loose, and yet it had fit obscenely tight the last time he wore it. The fabric had clung to his torso like a second skin, sleeves straining around his biceps, the hem inching up every time he moved, flashing bare slivers of skin that had no right being that distracting.
You still kept that shirt. Obviously. You told yourself it was sentimental value.
But he looked good tonight. Unfairly so. Maybe he’d always looked good and you were just blind before. Or maybe being away from him for so long had cracked something wide open. Or, worst-case scenario: your hormones were finally staging a mutiny.
Mark kept adjusting the sleeves of his sweater, rolling them up to his elbows like he didn’t know what he was doing. As if the sight of his forearms—tan and veined, the muscles shifting under his skin—wasn’t actively short-circuiting your brain.
You tried to be normal about the way you watched him walk over to the ball return, fingers ghosting across the slick surfaces like he was reading them in braille. You watched his hand pause on the biggest ball available, the one no one else bothered with, and he lifted it like it was made of foam. You felt your pulse stutter at the way his fingers—pointer, middle, thumb—slid into the holes like they belonged there, like they knew what they were doing. His forearm flexed, slow and subtle, and something deep in your stomach clenched in a way that made you feel both ashamed and violently alive.
His skin barely shifted from the strain. Just a soft pull. A ripple. The gentlest whisper of effort. But you admired it all the same. The slight dip of muscle at his elbow. The veins running up his arm. The quiet strength of his grip.
You tried not to imagine Mark’s hands on your hips. Or in your hair. Or in your mouth. Or worse—inside you. You tried not to think about what kind of sounds he might make. Was he a moaner or does he just groan? Would he whimper? Would he say your name like it meant something?
Would Amber tell you if you asked her?
She probably would. She’d smirk, hand you a drink, and tell you to stop being a pussy and go find out yourself.
You shift in your seat again, squeezing your thighs tighter, desperate for relief, for control, for anything other than this maddening ache.
Mark throws the ball. It gutters. Again.
He looks back at you immediately, face scrunching like he’s trying to play it off, but you catch the flicker of embarrassment behind it. You give him two exaggerated thumbs up, all supportive sarcasm. He returns the gesture with just as much sass, which makes you laugh, which makes your heart thump, which makes everything worse.
God, he really does hate bowling. He’s terrible at it. And somehow that only makes you want him more.
If you had a dick, you’re sure you’d be dealing with a painfully obvious hard-on by now. Instead, you’re left to wonder how wet your jeans are getting and whether the people around you will just assume your nipples are hard from the cold. (You wore a bra tonight. Thank God for small mercies.)
You shouldn't be thinking about one of your friends like this. Not someone you barely get to see anymore. You don’t want to ruin this with whatever’s going on in your head. But it’s too late, isn’t it? You’re already undressing him in your mind, mouth full of nachos, pupils blown wide.
You take another bite, chewing mindlessly, trying to remember when exactly this started. When Mark became more than just your high school buddy. When the sight of him made your lungs forget how to work. When you stopped seeing him as just Mark—and started seeing him as something else. Someone else. Someone you wanted.
“I suck.”
You hear Mark huff as he comes back from the floor. His frown is apologetic and self-deprecating as he drags his feet.
“And blow.” William snickers, rising from his spot next to Rick for his turn. His teasing tone is sharp and playful, drawing laughter from you and Rick alike.
“Fuck off,” Mark retorts, his irritation softening the moment—and then, like it’s nothing, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, Mark makes his way to you. And it’s stupid, the way your breath stills just a little. Just a second.
His face shifts when he gets close, softer now. “Hey,” he says, with that quiet little smile of his.
“Hi.” You try not to sound breathless.
“I suck at bowling,” he says again, collapsing into the seat beside you.
Now, being close enough to catch even the faintest trace of his cologne—the familiar scent that you and Debbie painstakingly chose for his birthday last year. You remember that bottle, both of you debating over what “smelled like Mark.” This one had lingered on your coat for days after he hugged you once. Reminds you that some parts of him have not changed at all.
Mark reaches for the biggest nacho on the plate, of course, he does, and he ignores your reminder that the centre nacho was meant to be saved for last.
“Too late,” he says, crunching into it, unbothered.
Your eyes dart over to the flickering scoreboard. There, Mid-game Mark is branded with a lowly score of twenty-five—a number so absurd it makes you laugh at his expense.
“Jesus,” you snort, trying to hide your smile behind your hand. “How does that even happen? I thought you had powers or something.”
“Doesn’t matter if I do. William knows I’m shit at bowling.”
That makes you smile, and you tease, “And you’re still here.”
“Where else would I be?” Mark shrugs, his tone light, but then he adds, “Besides, I’ve missed you.”
Your stomach does a sharp little flip.
“Have you?” You arch an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” he says, without hesitation. His eyes don’t leave yours.
Then Rick laughs at something William shouts from the lane, and Mark seems to remember where he is. The spell breaks. He coughs, awkwardly. “I mean—I’ve missed all of you guys. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” you echo, smiling despite yourself.
And god, maybe it’s not a big deal. Maybe it’s nothing. But maybe it’s also everything. Like the way he always used to wait for you to catch up in the hallways. Like how he still texts you song lyrics when he can’t sleep. Like how he sat next to you without even asking.
To try to muster up all your courage, hoping you do not sound like a loser.
“If you’ve missed me so much,” you tease, bumping your knee against his, “we could’ve just gone out ourselves, you know. I wouldn’t make you suffer like this.”
Mark looks at you then. Really looks at you.
“Are you free tomorrow by any chance?”
Your heart stutters. You pretend not to notice. “I don’t know.”
His face falls, just a bit. The corners of his mouth twitch like maybe he’s bracing for a punch. “Seriously?”
You shrug with a stupid grin that threatens to betray every thought swirling beneath the surface, and you almost feel bad—but not really. “I might have to move a few things around. Very demanding schedule, you know.”
“Right,” he says, eyes flicking upward in that way you remember so well, a glint of playful hope that sends your stomach into a flip. “If you push doom scrolling till after seven, do you think we could get lunch and boba? There’s a new store that opened up near my place.”
You pretend to think, tapping your chin. “That might work.”
“My treat.”
“Would you look at that,” you breathe, smiling so wide it aches. “My entire day just cleared up.”
He grins, “Uh-huh. Cheap ass.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “What was that?”
“I don’t know,” Mark says with a shrug that’s far too casual to be innocent, looking anywhere but at you. “Must’ve been the wind.”
It takes everything in you not to laugh. God, you’re hopeless. Every time he looks at you like that—like there’s some inside joke only the two of you share—it hits something soft and dangerous inside your chest. It shouldn’t feel this personal. He’s always like this with you. Right?
Before you can fire back something smug or clever, William calls your name like he’s been waiting for the perfect moment to interrupt. You roll your eyes but the irritation’s fake—your bark never really had any bite when it came to Mark, not when he looks at you like that. Not when he smells like that. Not when you’re sitting so close, you’re painfully aware of just how wet your panties are from… from what? A smile? A little eye contact? Pathetic.
Still, you’re smiling like an idiot when you hop off the bench and head to the lane. The energy in your chest is all fizzy and too much, too fast, but you try to channel it into something, anything else.
You take the ball and accidentally hit a strike. A perfect one.
You blink. “Holy shit.”
Laughter and chaos erupt behind you, and Mark shouts, “You fucking cheated!”
────────────
You don’t have a crush on Mark. You really don’t.
Because if you did, you probably would’ve told Amber not to go out with him after she asked if you were cool with it.
If you had a thing for Mark, you definitely would’ve wallowed in self-pity with your sad Spotify playlist and your arms elbow-deep in a bag of chips that one night he posted a photo with Eve in the middle of the jungle or wherever.
If you liked Mark—even a little bit—you probably would've pulled your hair out strand by strand when you found out he started dating Eve for real.
But that didn’t happen. So. You don’t have a crush on him. Obviously.
Totally.
And whatever weird, fluttery, buzzy feeling that’s dancing through your chest and your stomach right now? It’s definitely just the boba. Or something they put in the syrup. Maybe the taro’s gone off. Definitely not the way Mark’s eyes crinkle when he’s smiling at you. Not the way he showed up to your little lunch date(?) wearing that stupid shirt you always teased him for owning five of. Or how he paid without even asking, the casual kind of chivalry that makes your heart thud and your brain scream (even if he already told you it was his treat).
Your relationship with Mark has never been anything extraordinary. It’s… simple.
As simple as being friends with a half-alien can be.
You’ve always loved Mark’s company, though. You love the way he talks about all the dorky, nerdy shit that made him a bit of a loner in high school—the same stuff he still brings up now with zero shame. You like listening to him talk about it, even when you don’t understand half the words. Even when you know you’ll never, ever watch that weird Super Dog cartoon he keeps insisting would change your life. Not until he finally watches that limited-run K-drama you’ve been begging him to get through since last summer, anyway.
But anyway, you enjoy those moments you get with Mark—even if they’re rare. You enjoy spending time with him, catching up, listening to his stories, and then trying to make your own mundane ones sound even half as cool. You know you’ll never top the time he went to Mars. That story lives in a league of its own. But you still love the way his voice softens when he talks about spending a quiet afternoon with his mom, or the way he lights up when Oliver does something new—like picking up skateboarding or learning a dumb trick that’s only impressive because he’s small and determined.
Mark tends to set the bar pretty high without even trying.
And not just with stories. With everything. With how he lives, how he treats people. Without ever meaning to, Mark’s somehow managed to ruin dating for you. He’s set your standards insanely high. You’ve caught yourself comparing people to him—his kindness, his loyalty, his dumb sense of humour. You still wince when you remember William’s reaction to the last guy you matched with on Tinder.
“He’s like… a whiter version of Mark.”
You haven’t opened Tinder since.
“You okay?”
Mark’s voice cuts through your spiral, pulling you back. You blink like you’ve just come up for air.
“Sorry, yeah,” you say too quickly, shifting in your seat like that might shake the embarrassment off. You meet his eye for just a second—he’s already looking at you, head tilted, brows pulled together in quiet concern.
Your fingers tighten around your cup, the condensation beading under your skin. It’s cold. Which is helpful. Because you’re warm. Too warm. For no good reason. Definitely not because of how intently he’s looking at you, like he’s trying to read between your pauses.
You clear your throat. “Wait—so Cecil had you training on the moon?”
There’s a tiny hitch in his rhythm, just for a beat. You think he might’ve been expecting you to actually answer him, to say what’s on your mind. But Mark lets it slide. He shifts in his seat a little and starts talking again, picking up the thread of his story like it’s no big deal.
And you try to listen. You do.
You don’t get many chances like this—just you and him, no one else around. No William. No supervillain attack halfway through a sentence. Just… a booth, a couple of half-finished drinks, and him.
You want to soak up every second. But he makes it so damn hard for you.
You catch bits of the story—something about the new suit being way more annoying to get on, something else about Oliver cracking the concrete trying to ollie down the front steps—but you’re barely keeping up. Your brain is foggy and not in a cute, dreamy way. You’re kind of just… watching him.
The way he talks with his hands. The way he smiles halfway through a sentence, like he already knows the punchline’s only funny to him but he’s gonna say it anyway. The way he leans in a little when he’s excited, like he’s trying to make you feel the moment with him.
You laugh when he laughs, even if you miss the joke.
Because as long as he keeps talking, you don’t have to say anything.
You just get to sit there. And pretend like this is enough.
The thing was, Mark has always technically been an attractive guy. Tall, kind of annoyingly fit, with that sharp jawline that only got better with age. Charming in a way he didn’t even realize. At least you’d always known it. But you never thought you’d live to see the day (or the week… okay, the past few months—maybe even the year) where you’d start to see him that way.
Like, really see him. In that oh no kind of way.
You’d brushed it off for a while—blamed it on nostalgia, on hormones, on whatever. But bowling last night had been a bit of a breaking point. Something about the sleeves pushed up his forearms, the way he leaned over to aim, that boyish little grin when he finally knocked a pin down—it undid you. And you hadn’t exactly been subtle about the way you were gawking.
Still, it didn’t really hit you until this morning. When you woke up a little dazed, sheets tangled between your legs, and the ghost of a dream clinging to your skin. His voice had echoed in your head, low and warm and familiar. His touch—blurry, but undeniably his—lingered along your shoulder, your back. Your neck.
You’d jolted up like someone caught you.
So. Yeah. Maybe you had the hots for your best friend. Maybe your body wanted something more than side hugs and occasional shoulder touches and the familiar comfort of leaning into him during movies. But that didn’t mean you had a crush or anything. Right?
…Right.
So what if you’d taken a little longer getting ready today? Or if you picked a nicer perfume—the one you usually saved for special occasions—and spritzed a little extra behind your ears, just in case. Not because of him. Just… because. And if you fixed your hair in the mirror three separate times before leaving? Totally normal.
You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything.
Except it’s really hard to hold onto that thought when he’s sitting across from you looking like that.
His hair’s messier than usual, the curls a little looser like he ran his fingers through it instead of brushing it out. His light blue shirt clings in all the right places and you’re seriously starting to wonder if any of his clothes still fit him properly or if he just enjoys tormenting you. His biceps look like they’re threatening the seams and you hate how aware of it you are.
He's rambling about something now—probably a mission, or a weird encounter with a reporter who keeps calling him the “hot one.” He laughs, wide and open-mouthed, and you try to focus on his words but you’re too busy watching how his lips move. How easily that laugh bubbles out of him. How pretty his eyes are when they squint at you like this, catching you staring.
You should say something. Anything.
“You’re, uh—” you blurt out, then immediately regret it. He glances up, curious. You clear your throat and gesture vaguely at him. “You look nice. That’s a good shirt on you.”
He blinks. “Oh. Thanks,” he says, smiling like it’s no big deal, but his ears go pink. “Didn’t even realize—kind of just threw it on this morning.”
Of course he did. Of course he looks like this with zero effort. Meanwhile, you were practically putting on war paint to get your eyeliner even.
“It’s a good colour on you,” you add, a little quieter. Your fingers pick at the sleeve of your own jacket, trying to act like you’re not slowly disintegrating under the weight of your own thoughts.
There’s a beat. You feel his gaze again—steadier this time. Like he’s trying to see through the cracks.
“You got all dressed up too,” he says casually, elbow on the table, chin resting on his palm. “Special occasion?”
You scoff. “What, like I can’t look decent unless it’s for something?”
“I mean,” he teases, lips twitching, “you’re usually in sweats when we hang out.”
“That’s because you’ve seen me in every stage of human degeneration. There’s no mystery left.”
Mark laughs, deep and genuine. “There’s still a little mystery.”
You’re not going to ask what he means. You’re not.
Instead, you take a sip of your drink to hide the flush in your cheeks. You focus on the way the cold clings to your fingers, grounding you. Because if you let yourself keep staring, you’re going to do something stupid. Like, ask him if he wants to come back to yours. Or kiss him right here across the table.
You sneak another glance at him. He’s already looking at you. Again.
You want him so bad it’s physically painful.
And yeah, sure—maybe you’ve imagined what it’d be like if you were just a little bit closer. Not just physically. Closer in a way that means good morning kisses and bad jokes whispered into collarbones and brushing your teeth side by side, sleep-crinkled eyes and soft Sunday smiles. All those tiny, stupid, quiet things that make you feel like you belong to someone.
And if you let yourself feel it for just one second longer—you know exactly who you want to belong to.
You hope that whoever glances your way in this too-cute, hipster boba café thinks you’re on a date. God, you hope so. The way the two of you are sitting, drinks in hand, talking in that soft, familiar rhythm of long-time friends—it has to read as a date. Right?
Some unhinged voice in the back of your head keeps whispering that it is one, even if you never officially said it. Even if you didn’t dare call it that aloud.
You tried to drown that thought out while getting ready. Told yourself over and over—it’s just lunch. Just boba. With Mark. Your friend. One of your best friends. Who you’ve known since middle school. Who’s saved your life and seen you ugly cry at three in the morning. Who also happens to be alarmingly hot and stupidly nice and smiles at you like you’re some secret he’s been keeping warm in his pocket.
And who, to your absolute horror, you’ve recently started thinking about in ways you should not think about Mark Grayson.
He was already seated by the window when you got there. The sunlight poured in softly, and his forearms rested on the table. He was already sipping something dark with brown sugar pearls stuck to the side of the cup and scrolling on his phone, brow furrowed just a little.
You cringed remembering the way you froze at the entrance. Really froze. Long enough for a group of teenagers behind you to shuffle awkwardly around and brush past with a few muttered “excuse me”s and half-laughs. Embarrassing.
When you finally slid into the booth in front of him, Mark looked up and smiled, “Hey.”
And damn it if that stupid word didn’t do something to you.
“Hey,” you said, trying to sound normal. “You beat me here.”
“I was excited,” he said, with that casual, open honesty that always got you. “Sue me.”
He then pushed a drink toward you. You hadn’t even realized he ordered for you—but it was your usual.
“Thanks. You remembered?”
“Course I did.” He shrugged like it was nothing. “Not that hard to remember the most annoying boba order in existence.”
You kicked him under the table. “Bitch.”
He grinned, totally unfazed. “Affectionately.”
You bring your forearms up to rest on the table, leaning in just slightly. The move feels natural—too natural—and you let your head tilt as you look at him, willing yourself to snap out of the storm in your head and focus. Present moment, please. Now would be nice.
The sunlight through the window catches the edge of his jaw, carving golden light into soft angles. His lashes cast shadows. His fingers tap lightly against his cup, unhurried. Your own drink is already gone—sucked down while you tried not to have a crisis about whether or not this felt like a date. Because it does. It really, really does. It feels like one in the quietest, scariest, most electric kind of way.
You’re trying not to jump across the table. God, what the fuck is wrong with you?
You’re insane, that voice in your head shrieks. Clinically. Emotionally. Hormonally.
Your eyes fall—again, helplessly—to his lips. And it hits you that this might be the first time you’ve ever really stared at them, but it also feels like you’ve always known them. You could probably sketch the shape from memory: the soft dip of his top lip, the way the corners twitch up just before he smiles, the slightly darker flush of colour when he bites down to keep from laughing.
You know them the way you know your favourite songs—effortlessly, intimately, over and over.
And it’s only then, maybe a little too late, that you realize his mouth isn’t moving.
Shit. What was the last thing he said?
You snap back to his eyes, expecting to find a look of confusion, maybe amusement. Maybe even irritation. You’d deserve it. You’ve been undressing him with your eyes the entire afternoon.
But you’re surprised when you find a peculiar, absent look on his face.
Mark’s face is distant. Still. His brown eyes are half-focused like he’s listening to something very far away. His hand continues tapping slowly on the side of his cup, but he’s not drinking it. Hasn’t drank from it in a while, actually. Probably because he’s been talking this whole time and you’ve been too busy losing your mind to pay attention.
“Mark?” you say, softly.
He doesn’t react.
Which is strange. Because you know how sharp his senses are, superhearing and all, he could probably hear a raindrop land five cities over if he tried. But right now, he’s staring so intently, so deliberately, that for a split second, you actually worry something might be wrong.
Until you shift. Just a little. Barely an inch.
And his gaze follows the movement, dragging downward like it’s magnetized.
You glance down.
Oh.
Right. The neckline. You forgot you picked this shirt. Or at least, you forgot what it might look like sitting across from someone like Mark.
Your stomach twists with something that’s equal parts heat and embarrassment. You want to roll your eyes—of course this is what’s got him so distracted. For all his superhero nonsense, you’re still friends with a guy.
“Mark,” you say again, this time with a little more bite, trying not to smile.
His eyes flick up from your chest, blinking rapidly. His mouth opens in a small “oh,” a hum catching in the back of his throat as he scrambles to respond, but doesn’t quite manage it in time. A second later, the realization hits, and his entire face ignites. His cheeks go so red you almost feel bad for him. But you find it sort of adorable.
He coughs, clearly trying to recover. His hand rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck.
“Sorry,” He says, smiling meekly at you. His hand drops back to the table. “You just— I mean, I— You look really... goob. I mean boob. Good. I mean good. You look good.”
A shy grin splits your face open as your skin starts to warm. “Thanks. You look goob, too.”
He lets out a breathy laugh, groaning, biting down on his straw. “Fuck off. I’m so sorry.”
“No, no, no,” you say, waving him off with a laugh. “I’ll allow it. That was... actually kinda sweet.”
He smiles at you, all shy and embarrassed. A little crooked. Like he knows what he just did and has no idea what to do with himself now. You’re pretty sure your heart is about to explode into a thousand glittering pieces right there on the table.
You sit there, breath caught somewhere between your ribs, watching him as he ducks his head, and chews on the boba pearls like they hold the secret to surviving this moment. And all you can think—loud, panicked, impossibly clear—is:
You want to kiss him.
And not just kiss him. You want him in a way that’s full-bodied and reckless. You want him with the force of every stupid dream you’ve ever had. You want him in that dizzy, hands-in-hair, clothes-on-the-floor kind of way. You want to ruin this whole perfectly lovely friendship in the worst possible way.
And maybe it’s the way he’s still not meeting your eyes. Or maybe it’s how warm your skin feels. Or how the sunlight is pouring in too golden and soft and romantic and cruel.
“Mark,” you say.
He looks up at you, eyes wide and mouth disgustingly full. “Yeah?”
“I think we should fuck.”
He chokes. Immediately. You watch in real-time as he sucks his drink the wrong way and practically launches into a coughing fit. A splash of tapioca pearls and brown sugar milk flies out of his nose and hits the table.
“Oh my god—” you mutter, reaching across to grab a stack of napkins.
Mark is flailing. Coughing, sputtering, waving a hand like he’s trying to say something but also very much trying not to die. His face is bright red. He’s laughing and coughing at the same time. It’s a mess. A scene. People are staring.
“I’m fine,” he wheezes, between hacks. “I’m—you—what?”
You try to smile, a little nervous. “I said I want to have sex with you.”
Mark goes absolutely still.
He stares at you, wide-eyed, stunned into silence. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. You watch his gaze dip—just barely. Lower. Lips. Throat. Chest. Then back up again.
“You—what—where is this coming from?” he finally blurts.
“I don’t know,” you say honestly, fingers playing with your straw wrapper. “It just sort of... fell out of me.”
“Fell out of you?” he repeats, completely scandalized.
“I... I've been thinking about it for a while now...” You're starting to feel dread sink into your stomach, thick and slow like honey, but bitter like poison... or puke. What the fuck have you just done?
Your words hang there, dangling over the edge of a cliff you just shoved both of you off of. You can’t look at him. Not properly. Not when your face is on fire and your chest is tight and the booth feels too small. Not when the air feels heavier with every second he doesn’t say anything.
You’re seconds away from bolting. Or vomiting. Or both.
“It's been driving me crazy, believe me,” you manage, voice thinner now. “But uh, if you want to say no, say no."
“Oh my god. You’re serious.”
“...Yeah.”
“Like you want—”
“Yes.”
“Me?”
“Yes, Mark, you.”
He leans back slightly in the booth, and he looks away for a split second—at the window, the floor, anywhere that isn’t your face—but it doesn’t last. His eyes are back on you before you can even blink. “I just...” he starts but then trails off again.
“Can you just... like, reject me?” you finally puff out, cheeks burning. It comes out too quickly like you’re trying to outrun the silence. Your voice is too casual to be convincing, but you try anyway, like saying it first makes it sting less.
“Reject you?”
“I’m... I’m sorry I just threw this on you. I wasn’t thinking.”
“You want me to reject you?” His voice is quiet now, but not confused. There’s something else in it.
“So I can like, move on. Change my name. Move to a different state, maybe.”
The joke lands like a dying leaf. Your laugh is brittle. Empty. It’s all just armour at this point.
But Mark huffs a soft laugh of his own,
“I’m not... I’m. not gonna reject you.”
"You're not?"
He shakes his head slowly like he's still trying to believe this is real. His eyes meet yours, and this time he holds it. Locked in. No flinching. No looking away. All that stunned awkwardness melts into something steadier, something careful. Measured. Wanting. Like he’s finally letting himself consider what it would mean to say yes.
“No,” he says. “That would be stupid. And William would never let me live it down.”
The tension cracks just slightly, pulling a small, breathy laugh from you—something trembling and alive. Your pulse spikes. Your throat’s dry. You're still not sure you're breathing right.
“So... you want to—?”
“Yeah,” he says. Quick. Blunt. No room for misinterpretation.
Then again, softer. Like he’s scared of how much he means it.
“Yeah.”
Internally, you’re both reeling—because that “yeah” didn’t sound like a joke. It didn’t sound like some impulsive sure why not. It sounded like he meant it. All of it.
Mark glances down at his hands like he needs something to look at besides you. “I’ve been thinking about it too. Just didn’t think you were—y’know, thinking about it.”
“Well, I was. I am,” you admit, heart pounding. “And it was... getting really hard to just not say anything.”
He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice lower now. This is no longer a conversation for public ears.
“So what... we just do this?” he asks.
“We could... just try it. See if it works.”
His eyes flick to your mouth again, and it makes your stomach flip.
“Like, casual?” he asks, but there’s a quiet tension under the word. Like he’s testing it out on his tongue and it doesn’t quite fit.
“Sure. Casual. For now.” It comes out a little breathless.
Mark smiles, but it’s not a smug one. It’s nervous. Small. “Right. For now just friends. Who, uh... sleep together.”
You nod, mirroring that same small, nervous grin. “Exactly.”
“But we’re still friends,” he says.
“Of course.”
“And more if we like it.”
“Definitely.”
“So I can take you on a real date if all goes well?”
“Please, do.”
He nods. “So, for now, we can still hang out. And do stupid shit. And eat takeout and talk about movies and—”
“—and maybe also make out sometimes,” you add, trying for lightness, though your voice wavers with the weight of wanting.
Mark pauses. “And definitely do more than make out.”
You blink. “You’re getting bold all of a sudden.”
He shrugs, but his eyes are glued to you now. “I just... don’t want to mess this up. But I also really don’t want to go home without kissing you.”
You inhale sharply.
“Well,” you say, grabbing your drink as an excuse to hide your grin, “your place is closer than mine.”
His expression flickers—first surprise, then realization. “Oh, so like... now? We’re doing this right now?”
You nod, trying to act like it’s nothing, like your insides aren’t vibrating with panic and anticipation. He stands before you do, waiting like he’s afraid you might change your mind if he moves too fast.
When you join him, you don’t touch—but your whole body is practically leaning toward him, every nerve tuned into his orbit. You leave the shop like that: side by side, hearts hammering, skin buzzing, still pretending this isn’t happening. But it is. Oh, it is.
The short walk to your car is deceptively casual on the outside, but inside, you’re spiralling. Spiralling and floating all at once. You’re aware of every breath, every step. A storm of want and nerves and what-ifs spinning in your stomach.
By the time you’re seated behind the wheel, your hands are trembling slightly on your thighs. You try to be subtle about it. Meanwhile, Mark slides into the passenger seat with a blush high on his cheeks—bashful, like he’s already guilty of something. Like the thought alone is enough to make him flustered.
He fiddles with his phone, plugging it in like it’s the most important task of the century. He scrolls through songs like his life depends on picking just the right vibe, and maybe it does. You pretend not to watch him, even though you feel like you're burning a hole through the corner of your eye. He’s acting like everything’s totally normal, like the two of you didn’t just agree—very plainly—to have sex. And god, that boyish fake-casual routine of his is so unfair.
Your breath hitches when the music finally starts. Some song you barely recognize filters through the speakers, but you barely process it. Your fingers twitch around the wheel.
You’d started the engine but never shifted into gear.
Mark glances at you.
Fuck.
That’s it. That’s your last straw.
Because he’s looking at you like he’s waiting. Like he’s curious and soft and a little bit shy, and it cracks something open in your chest. You’ve seen this man punch meteors. You’ve seen him dent walls and bleed for people he loves. And right now, he looks like he’d melt if you so much as leaned in a little closer.
So you do.
You lean (jump, really) across the center console, breath shallow, no hesitation left in you, and press your mouth to his—hot, urgent, not the least bit gentle (you could’ve broken your nose against his steel skin).
He lets out a muffled, surprised sound that you feel more than hear. But he kisses you back immediately, like his body was already on the edge, just waiting for the signal to move. His hands come up to your sides, cradling your ribs so carefully it hurts, like he thinks he’ll crush if he squeezes too hard (he can).
He leans into it fast. His nose bumps yours, and there’s a soft gasp when your lips part. It’s messy. Desperate. Hungry. You sigh into his mouth, tilting your head, and his fingers twitch against your waist. Then his lips part wider, and that’s your cue—your tongue finds the seam of his mouth, dragging across his lower lip before slipping in.
He groans.
Low, breathy, and real.
One of his hands slides lower, skimming the hem of your shirt, the very edge of his pinky brushing against the exposed skin of your side. It makes you tremble. He’s so gentle, like he doesn’t quite trust himself with you yet. Like he’s holding something precious.
You don’t know how long it goes on—seconds, minutes. But the car rocks faintly when he shifts in his seat, and that’s when you start to pull away. Slowly. Breathlessly.
You look at him—his lips parted, eyes still shut, like he’s chasing the kiss even as it slips from him. And god, you’ve seen that look before, but you never let yourself believe it was real. Now you can’t deny it.
Mark blinks at you. Once. Twice.
Then he leans in and kisses you again.
It’s different this time. Short. Sweet. A soft press of lips. Like punctuation at the end of a sentence you’ve both been trying to say for months. It tastes like sugar and burns fire.
He leans back into his seat, finally, hands settling awkwardly over his lap. You notice the way his fingers twitch—nervous, restrained. You could scream. From the heat in your blood. From relief. From how right it all feels.
“Sorry,” you say, even though you’re not. Not at all. You’re still tasting him on your lips. Still humming with the knowledge that he wants you—wants you—the same way you want him.
The way your voice lilts upward, a little smug, is what makes him scoff, eyes rolling.
“Yeah, sure,” he mumbles, shifting in his seat. “Just couldn’t wait, could you?”
You roll your eyes right back at him, grinning as you finally pull the car out of the parking lot. “Yeah, yeah. Fuck you. You said you didn’t want to go home without kissing me, so—I did you a favour.”
“Oh, did you?” he fires back, all sass, and the way he says it makes your stomach flutter.
You scoff, but it’s affectionate. And even though you’re driving now, even though the moment has passed, you can still feel it, thick in the air between you—the tension, the promise, the want.
“Yeah,” you say again, quieter now. A little breathless. “Yeah, I did.”
You park in front of his house and kill the engine.
Neither of you move.
“…So,” Mark says, finally.
“So.”
His head tilts toward you, a slow grin tugging at his lips. “Race you inside.”
“What?”
You don’t get the chance to say more before he’s already yanking open the door, half-tripping over himself in his rush to get out. You watch him scramble up the walkway, basically vaulting over the three porch steps. You just blink, mildly stunned—and vaguely reminded that he could’ve flown the two of you back to his house if he hadn’t insisted on you driving. Your car sits quietly behind you, utterly abandoned, as you step out and lock it with a flat expression.
He’s waiting for you at the front door, breathless and smug.
“I win.”
“You cheated,” you mutter, strolling up behind him.
“Nuh-uh.”
His hands fumble with the keys, like he’s suddenly forgotten how locks work. You wait behind him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his back, the way his shoulders tense slightly when you’re that near. It makes something in your chest squeeze, soft and wild.
The lock finally clicks. He pushes the door open and steps aside dramatically, gesturing for you to go in. “Milady.”
You roll your eyes but smile as you pass him.
Inside, it’s quiet. Familiar. You’ve been here a million times. Your gaze flicks around automatically. Debbie must’ve gotten a new carpet recently—soft beige with delicate lines you don’t remember from the last time you came over. You hum softly under your breath, grounding yourself in the domestic detail. Always a little surprised, somehow, by the size of this place. It’s modern and clean, tastefully decorated. It smells like laundry detergent and something faintly citrusy. It smells like him.
You turn around and he’s right there. Looking at you like you hung the stars and accidentally knocked one loose when you kissed him in the car.
And then he kisses you again.
No hesitation this time. Just Mark, pulling you in by the waist, cupping your face and his mouth finds yours with a kind of aching slowness—soft, cautious, almost reverent.
You melt into him instantly. Your fingers fist into the front of his shirt, knuckles brushing his chest as you pull him closer, grounding yourself in the warmth of him. He lets out a sound—a mix between a sigh and a groan—and it sinks low into your belly, heat blooming there with terrifying ease. He kisses you deeper, more sure now, like he’s already memorized the shape of your mouth.
His hands slide down your back, warm and soothing.
“Mom’s out with Oliver,” Mark murmurs against your lips like he knows you were about to ask. His voice is low, rough from disuse and want. “Won’t be back for a while.”
“Lucky us,” you mumble, and you barely finish the words before he kisses you again, harder this time, lips parting yours with such gentle insistence that your knees almost give.
He makes this delightful little sound, hands shifting to cradle your head gently, fingers threading through your hair like he’s been waiting a lifetime for the chance.
“So lucky,” He agrees, regretfully breaking away when your body tenses in a silent request for air. You’re disappointed too. Who needs breathing, anyway?
“Did you wanna watch a movie first?”
He’s not even out of breath.
“Not really,” you reply with a breathless laugh, cheeks already sore from grinning so much. Your hands are still resting against his chest, fingertips twitching with the need to keep touching him. He grins back, nodding once, and starts guiding you backwards through the house.
He’s careful with you. You’re walking blind, caught in the middle of another kiss when he gently redirects you away from a stray shoe, his hand tightening briefly around your waist to steer you around Oliver’s skateboard left smack in the middle of the foyer. You barely notice it. All you can focus on is his mouth, trailing kisses to the curve of your neck, the press of his lips to the slope of your shoulder. You shiver when his teeth graze your skin.
He doesn’t stop.
Not until you’re pressed up against the wall at the bottom of the staircase, both of you panting between kisses that grow hotter, messier. His hands bracket your hips, thumbs stroking small circles that send sparks crawling up your spine. He groans when your hips roll forward again his, instinctive, your body reacting before your brain can catch up.
You think you hear him whisper your name.
You’re tugging at the hem of his shirt, desperate to feel more skin, and when your fingers slide beneath it and skim along his stomach, he freezes. Not with fear—but like he’s overwhelmed. Like he’s trying not to fall apart from something as simple as your touch.
And then, in a breathless pause, he pulls back just enough to speak. His forehead leans into yours, eyes fluttering closed as he exhales shakily.
“I imagined this being sweeter,” he pants. “I’m sorry.”
You nearly melt on the spot.
Because the way he says it—it’s not embarrassed. It’s earnest. Vulnerable. It takes everything in you not to scream with joy.
God, if he knew how often you’d imagined this too—how many nights you’d curled up thinking of how it might feel to kiss him, touch him, have him like this—he’d probably panic and fly halfway across the city.
Instead, all you manage is a broken little whimper as your fingers twist in his shirt, dragging him closer. “God, Mark, that’s so hot.”
His eyes blink open, stunned. “It is?”
“Yeah,” you say, breathless.
And that’s all it takes.
You don’t even remember deciding to move, but suddenly you’re being rushed up the stairs, feet stumbling as Mark pulls you with him. Your shoes get kicked off somewhere mid-way, lost in the blur of hands and mouths and shared laughter.
He’s hovering, quite literally gliding over the ground, but he seems to barely notice. His feet skim the steps, weightless with something that appears like joy.
Mark fumbles the doorknob twice before finally swinging the door open. Since he’s still kissing you, still pushing you gently forward, you almost tumble inside. He catches you easily, a strong arm firm around your waist, the other bracing himself against the doorframe.
He doesn’t even seem like he notices all that much, floating upwards for a moment before he’s kissing you silly all over again. It’s hot and wet and when he opens his mouth slightly, you follow, your lips parting just enough for your tongues to meet.
Your body fits against his like it was made for it, warm and pliant, your cheek brushing against his as he angles his head and deepens the kiss. You think you never want to stop kissing him. It’s addicting. He’s a drug and you’re hooked, irrevocably.
You think you might be trembling, just a little.
You decide, boldly, to shove him backwards.
He lets you.
He trips over something in the mess of his room—could be a book, a shoe, or a part of his suit. You don’t get the chance to look. He stumbles until his back hits the wall beside his closet, half-collapsing against the old Seance Dog poster, and you swear he grins against your mouth.
You pull back just enough to breathe, just enough to look at him. Mark’s lips are kiss-swollen and flushed pink, cheeks dusted a deep red. His eyes are heavy-lidded, pupils botched wide with want. He chases your mouth again, barely containing a whine when you press your hands a little harder against his chest to keep him in place.
“Oh, Mark,” you murmur, lips brushing the corner of his mouth before trailing down to his jaw, then his throat. You press a hot, open-mouthed kiss beneath his ear and feel him shiver. “You’re so fucking pretty.”
“I—” The breath he exhales is ragged, shaky. You feel the way his pulse jumps strangely beneath your tongue as you mouth at the delicate skin of his neck. The slight scrape of your teeth draws out a sound you could get drunk on.
The afternoon sun floods into the room in slats, casting golden stripes across his skin. Everything smells like him. The colour of his t-shirt matches his walls, and the thought makes you smile stupidly as you glance up at him again. He’s smiling too. It’s infectious.
You can still feel the strength of the heat rolling off of his skin. “No one’s ever called me pretty before,” he mumbles against your mouth.
You pull back, eyebrows furrowed. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not…”
A frown tugs at your lips as your hands drop to the hem of his shirt with a wordless plea. He pulls it off obediently, albeit somewhat distractedly. “That’s fucking criminal.”
Where it lands doesn’t even matter—your eyes are fixed on his chest. His bare chest that you’ve been given permission to properly ogle at. You swear you feel your mouth salivate a bit.
“I feel like I should’ve known sooner,” he teases, breathless.
You blink up at him. “Known what?”
“That you liked me. I mean—look at you.” He gestures toward your face with a sheepish grin. “You’re drooling.”
“I’m not drooling,” you huff, making a face even though your cheeks are warm. “I’m admiring. Big difference.”
Mark quirks an eyebrow at you.
“And yeah,” you say, fingers dancing along the waistband of his jeans now, just teasing. “You’re pretty stupid for not knowing sooner.”
He scoffs, but the look in his eyes is warm and soft and maybe a little reverent. You don’t let him say anything else.
“Stupidly pretty,” you murmur, crashing back into him, pressing your mouth to his again with more heat than before. You lick into his mouth, then drag your lips along the column of his throat, down to that same aching spot on his neck. You feel his hands tighten on your waist, and he exhales a shaky, desperate breath like it’s the first one he’s had in minutes.
Your hands roam more freely now, gliding across the newly exposed skin like you’ve earned the right. You’ve seen Mark shirtless before—countless times, actually—but never like this. Not with your breath catching in your throat and your hands trembling just slightly with want. Not with your mouth practically watering as you finally get to touch him like you’ve always wanted to.
Well… unless that one time you helped him put sunscreen on his back last summer counts.
Because this is different.
This time, he’s letting you feel. Explore. He lets you be a little mean and even tug at the trail of hair leading under his pants.
He’s warm in the way fresh sunlight is; comforting, radiant, and magnetic. Your fingers trail down the groove between his pecs, slowly. You knew his body is obviously muscled since his Invincible suit doesn’t leave too much to the imagination, but it’s different feeling warm, sculpted skin than the cool spandex (or whatever it’s made out of.) You trace the faint outline of each muscle, letting your hands dip lower until you reach the ridges of his abs.
And just beneath them—your hand pauses.
You feel it. A soft, rhythmic thrum under your palm. Not quite a heartbeat. Not quite human. It’s steadier than a pulse, more like a hum—like something alive and electric and ancient ticking in the hollow of his chest. It makes your breath hitch.
How alien is he? You wonder.
But the thought doesn’t scare you. If anything, it makes your stomach swoop. You press your hand flat against the faint, vibrating sensation, mesmerized.
Mark watches you, breathing a little heavier now. His hands are wandering too—palms gliding down your sides with more confidence than before. You gasp when he gropes your ass, hard, the pressure unexpected and firm. He pulls you flush against him, and you yelp, catching yourself on his chest with a small, surprised laugh.
His chuckle is low, rumbling beneath your cheek as you bury your face in his skin. It’s so warm. You want to wrap yourself in it.
Then his lips are back—just behind your ear, kissing that soft spot that makes your thoughts short-circuit. You feel yourself sway forward, dizzy with heat and hunger.
Your mind flickers between two options: Pull your shirt off or pull him to the bed.
Instead, your knees hit the carpet before your brain can stop you.
His hands dart forward to pull you back up, brows furrowed with concern, but you’re already reaching for his belt.
“Oh,” he sighs, startled and wide-eyed. “You don’t have to—”
“I wanna,” you murmur, voice dripping with intention as your hand palms him over his jeans. “Please let me.”
You press your cheek against the bulge, coddling it like it’s already yours, your breath catching as you drag your nose slowly along its length. You mouth at the fabric, teasing him with slow, open kisses, and then you look up, eyes wide and sparkling and pleading.
“Please, Mark.”
His knees nearly buckle.
“Yeah,” he exhales, voice hoarse. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”
He looks stunned, dazed, like he’s dreaming something too good to be real. His hands cradle your face so gently it makes your stomach flip, thumbs brushing your jaw.
He’s like a furnace, radiating heat in waves. Like a lantern in the dark. Bright and alive and everything in you aches to touch him more.
You kiss his clothed cock again, slower this time, almost reverent, and he shudders. You can hear the faint rasp in his breath, the catch in his throat as your fingers finally undo his belt and tug his jeans down.
He steps out of them awkwardly, kicking them to the side—and that’s when you notice the blur of colours on his boxers. You blink. Then squint.
And laugh.
“Is that…” You grin, tugging the elastic waistband back with a finger to get a better look. “Seance Dog?”
Tiny cartoon super dogs dance across the fabric, all in different poses—one in a wizard hat, a few riding on yellow stars. You let the waistband snap back against his skin with a cheeky pop.
Mark’s ears go red.
“It was laundry day,” he mumbles, flustered and pink.
“I think it’s cute,” you giggle, ducking forward and pressing a kiss right above the stupid little dogs. “So stupidly cute.”
He tries to say something in return, but you’re giggling all over his very real, very hard dick, kissing at the shape of it, and whatever excuse he was about to make dies a quick death.
“Whatever,” he mutters under his breath, trying and failing to glare at you.
You flash him an innocent look, resting your chin on his hip. “I swear, it’s cute.”
“You’re just saying that because you have me half-naked.”
“Maybe,” you smirk, batting your lashes. Then: “Are you gonna let me suck your dick, or…?”
He groans. His hand flies to his face to hide the actual whimper that comes out, and when he peeks between his fingers at you—grinning like you’re the devil—he can’t help but laugh. A breathless, half-embarrassed noise that melts into the warm air between you.
“Are you gonna stop teasing me, or what?”
You decide to be nice. Because honestly, you're not sure if you'll ever get the chance to be here again. A jagged breath escapes Mark’s lips when you finally tug his boxers down and free his cock from the cotton confines. He’s flushed deep and aching, and the heat low in your stomach tightens at the sight of him. He basically springs out, and you actually flinch a little as it bounces against his stomach. Hard, red, and glistening at the tip with precum.
You blink. Wow.
Okay. Wow.
He's pretty everywhere, but this is... a lot. In the best way. Surpasses all of your expectations. 10/10.
It twitches in front of your face and you feel the warmth radiating off him like a space heater turned up too high. Your hand hovers—hesitant for just a second—before you wrap your palm around him, slowly, carefully, like you’re holding something precious.
He twitches again.
The muscles in his stomach tense, flexing like a ripple under his skin, and you can’t help it—you smirk. Have you mentioned how insanely good he looks right now? That gorgeous, pink-tinged flush creeping down his chest, all the way to the tip of his cock?
Your brain short-circuits. Just pretty boy, pretty boy, pretty boy playing on repeat in your head like a broken record.
Mark exhales a shuddering sigh, and it punches straight through you. “Warm…” he whispers, dazed, eyes hazy and half-lidded. He looks drunk off you already.
“William wasn't kidding,” you mutter, half to yourself as you breathe again.
Mark blinks. “What?”
“He said you had a big dick.”
Mark chokes. “William—he’s never—what?”
“Said you guys used to stand side by side and measure them.”
“Fuck off—he did not say that—”
“Is it true you used them as lightsabers?”
“Oh my god—” Mark groans. He sounds like he’s dying. You don’t know if it’s the secondhand embarrassment or the way your thumb brushes right across his tip.
Maybe both.
“Shut the fuck up, asshole,” he mutters, playfully pushing at your face. You bite your lip, triumphant.
Without thinking, you tighten your grip. Just a little. Just enough to make him keen.
His laugh dissolves into a broken sound, somewhere between a moan and a whimper, and the hand that had pushed your face away now finds a new home buried in your hair.
You lean in and press a soft, teasing kiss to the flushed tip. His cock twitches again.
Mark’s breath catches in his throat.
Your hand never stops moving, a slow up-and-down that has him trembling. You kiss him again, right on the slit, and feel the heat pulsing against your lips. You run your tongue up the underside of his cock, tracing that thick vein from base to tip, and Mark makes a strangled, broken sound—like he’s holding on for dear life.
You push back his foreskin with your thumb and swirl your tongue in a lazy circle around the head. A droplet of precum smears across your lips and you hum against him, taking your time.
You glance up at Mark, checking back in.
“That’s good,” He affirms, voice breathy. “That’s really fucking good.”
Every sound he makes engraves itself into your brain.
You trail kisses down his shaft, your tongue learning every ridge, every pulse, every twitch like you’re memorizing him. Your pace is slow and calculated, and Mark is panting now, legs tense, body twitching under your every touch. You glance up—and fuck—he’s flushed all the way to his ears, lips parted, eyes glassy.
You wrap your lips around the head and sink down.
“Fuuuck,” he whispers, throwing his head back, and staring at the ceiling. His hips jolt upward, pushing deeper into your mouth. It’s a messy rhythm at first, but you welcome it, the way he shivers and gasps when he hits the back of your throat.
You work what you can with your mouth and use your hand on the rest, pumping steadily in time with the bob of your head. Your spit slicks his cock as you move faster, drool dripping down your chin and his shaft.
His thighs are shaking, abs tensing with every gasp. You can feel his restraint fraying—see it in the way his fists clutch the cushions, how his hips start jerking forward, chasing more of the heat and wetness of your mouth.
His cock pulses, thick and hot on your tongue, and he’s babbling now—words half-formed and strangled:
“F-fuck- shit, shit, shit—I’m gonna—ah, fuck me, yeah, f-fuck, I’m— wait shit—”
He pulls your head off at the last second, the hand in your hair tugging, gentle but frantic. You let him, breath caught in your throat, barely registering it until he’s panting and his cock twitches one more time before he cums.
Hot, white ropes spill across your face.
The first hits your cheek, thick and warm. Another lands across your nose, streaking upward toward your brow. It catches on your lip—your open mouth still parted. You blink in surprise but stay still, a little stunned by how hot your skin suddenly feels under each drop.
His moans taper off into little whines, his breath catching in his throat as he watches—eyes wide, pupils blown out wider and darker than you’ve ever seen eyes do before. It’s a strange feeling when you’re reminded that Mark isn’t fully human, even though he mostly looks like it.
You watch his pupils shrink back to normal size and he shakes his head like he’s trying to focus. And his voice cracks. His thumb brushes along your jaw, then dips lower, gently dragging through the mess he left on your chin like he's trying to process the sight of you. Like he can’t believe what he’s done to you.
“Holy shit,” he gasps, blinking down at you. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to—I should’ve warned you—sorry.”
You look up at him, breathless, heart thudding loud in your ears. A grin starts to creep onto your face before you can stop it. You try to fight it—you should be playing it cool—but you can’t help it. Your smile is slow and sweet and so telling. You fucking freak.
“That was…”
“Gross. I know. I’m sorry.” he interrupts, still flushed red and clearly panicking a little.
“I was gonna say hot,” you murmur.
Mark exhales hard, something unsteady and relieved loosening in his shoulders as he leans down to pull you up. You don’t complain when your knees sting, don’t comment on the ache blooming in your thighs. You barely notice it.
His hand comes to cradle your face, and you brace for a kiss—maybe something soft and grateful. Instead, Mark kisses you like he’s starving. Tongue sliding against yours, mouth open and frantic, tasting you, tasting himself. He licks your teeth, then your lips—wet and shining—and then your cheek, dragging his tongue through his own cum, whimpering into your mouth when he tastes it again.
Get a load of this fucking freak, Jesus Christ.
He doesn’t stop. Licks across your skin with deliberate, dirty reverence. Over your chin, your cheekbone, even the curve of your nose—slow and deliberate, like he’s savouring it. His cum. Your skin. You.
He whimpers. Literally whimpers. God. And then he moans. Loud.
You just laugh, soft and dreamy, trying to stay grounded even as every nerve ending in your body feels like it’s sparking to life, flames consuming you. You’re still dressed, and yet you’ve never felt more bare. More downed.
Mark steps out of his boxers and pants, bunched around his ankles. His skin is slick with sweat, flushed with exertion, and glowing with something golden. You’ve never seen anyone look more gorgeous in your life. You realize, with a quiet sort of devastation, that you’d do anything to stay in this moment.
He leans in again, kissing you hard, both of you ignoring the sticky trail still clinging to your face. Your mouth, your skin—it’s all his. And he kisses like he knows it.
You kiss him back like you need him to know it’s mutual.
The ache between your thighs throbs now, sharp and insistent, but you almost forget it when Mark groans—a deep, low sound that vibrates in your chest. He cradles your jaw in both hands, pulling back just far enough to whisper, “Keep kissing me. Don’t ever stop.”
You nod, dazed, breathless. “I won’t.”
You kiss him again. His lips. His cheek. His nose. His forehead. He shivers under each one. You want to kiss him until your lips go numb, until time forgets the two of you ever existed as anything other than this.
And then—without warning—Mark starts to float again.
You feel it before you see it: the weightlessness, the subtle lift of his frame. His hands never leave your face, but his body hovers, high enough that you have to crane your neck to meet his lips. He laughs breathlessly, as though he forgot he could even do this, and he takes you with him—gently, almost reverently.
Your back hits the bed seconds later, soft and warm, and you sprawl out beneath him. Mark hovers above, eyes shining with something deep and giddy and overwhelming. His smile is wide and blinding.
Your heart thrums beneath your ribs, loud and full and dizzy, and you grin back up at him, dazed, knowing he can hear it.
You reach down, fumbling with the button on your jeans. Your fingers are clumsy, adrenaline and nerves making them tremble, and you curse under your breath. Mark dips down to help, but he’s no better—his hands fumble too, and the both of you dissolve into breathless, giggling laughter. His body presses into yours as he tries again, lips brushing yours between chuckles, and eventually, together, you manage to get them off.
He tosses them behind him with a careless flick—there’s a loud crash as something topples off your nightstand. You both flinch, wide-eyed.
You glance toward the sound but don’t move. “What was that?”
Mark snorts against your lips. “Lamp. Maybe.”
Neither of you moves to check. Not when his weight settles over you again. Not when his hands find your waist and slide beneath the hem of your shirt, warm and certain. His touch is steady now, smoothing up your sides, slipping along the curves of your ribs like he’s mapping out every part of you.
He pulls away just enough to look at you, a funny-looking grin on his face as he watches his hands ruck up your shirt gently. When he lifts the top higher, the fabric bunching at your ribs, you raise your arms to help, and for one breathless second, your hands meet midair—yours and his, tangled in the cotton.
Mark yanks it off with a breathless little laugh and lets it fall off the edge of the bed.
His gaze drops. His smile fades.
There’s a beat of stillness where he just looks at you. Really looks. His eyes drag over your chest—mismatched bra and all—and he blinks slow, like he’s committing it to memory. You swear he stops breathing.
His thumb lifts, brushing along the strap of your bra where it sits on your shoulder. He plucks at it gently, eyes fixed on the way the fabric moves beneath his touch. He does it again, slower this time, dragging the pad of his thumb over the edge of the cup. The way he stares—it’s not even lust, not exactly. It’s something softer.
The intensity of his gaze makes you want to shy away for just a second. You sit up and jab his side.
He jerks with a yelp, eyes flying back to yours.
You raise a brow, fighting your smug grin. “Who’s drooling now?”
Mark rolls his eyes, mock offended, but the flush on his cheeks betrays him. He opens his mouth to respond, and you swipe your thumb across the corner of his lips like you’re wiping something away. Annoyed, he groans loudly.
“Yeah, yeah. I get it.”
He catches your fingers in his hand. Brings them to his mouth. Nips at them playfully. You squeal, and then he kisses your knuckles so soft it makes your stomach swoop.
And suddenly, the teasing slips out of you like air from a balloon.
You lie back without thinking. Just melt into the bed. Mark follows you down, still holding your hand. He kneels between your legs, gaze pinned to you like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. When he finally lets go of your hand, it’s only to cradle your face in one palm, thumb brushing along your cheekbone like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.
“You’re so beautiful.”
The words are quiet. Like a secret. Like he doesn’t even mean to say them aloud.
You flush hard, suddenly self-conscious in your bra and underwear—the colours don’t match, the cut’s nothing special, there might be a stain if he looks hard enough—but Mark’s eyes don’t so much as flinch.
You swallow, trying to think of something to say. “Says you,” you manage, reaching up to tug him down. “You were wearing Seance Dog boxers not five minutes ago. And I still almost cried from how good you look.”
He lets out a breath of a laugh, forehead bumping yours.
And then you kiss him sweetly. His lips press to yours like he’s trying to say something through it, like he’s trying to give you all the things he doesn’t have words for. One of his hands roams lower, down your side, curving around the bend of your thigh. He hooks your knee up and around his waist like it’s instinct, fingers digging into the plush skin just beneath your ass, and pulls you closer so he can grope your ass and do some other decidedly not-so-sweet things.
He discovers you’re wet under his palm through the rough fabric of your panties. No surprise there for you, you’ve been wet for a while now, but a deep sound tear from the back of his throat, so far that it almost sounds like a growl. It’s hard to separate your thoughts from him. Kissing him, sweet and warm, blazing and getting hotter.
You barely have time to think of anything else but your beautiful friend who happens to be an alien superhero. Your head’s too full of him to do anything but gasp when he moves again.
A ghost of a touch—just one finger dragging down the centre of your panties, light enough to drive you insane—pulls a small, breathy sound from your lips. And then he’s doing it again, tracing over your clit, featherlight and teasing. You’re not sure if your face simmers from embarrassment or sheer eagerness, but it’s hot either way. Your breath stutters. Your hips twitch, helplessly.
“Y’like that?” Mark mutters against your mouth, voice thick and a little rough, and you nod against his lips without hesitation, a soft whimper slipping past them.
“Good,” he breathes. “Good… lemme know if I’m doing this wrong.”
The words hit you like sunlight breaking through clouds—so warm and sweet it makes your chest ache like a cavity. That twist of pleasure low in your stomach tightens a little more, and you have to resist the instinct to roll your hips against his hand. He’s being so careful, and it just makes you want him even more.
“I don’t think there’s anything you could do wrong, Mark,” you sigh, and he kisses you again, deeper this time, his tongue brushing yours in a way that makes your toes curl.
You pull away on a light, breathless hum, licking your kiss-swollen lips as you blink up at him. There’s the tiniest flicker of disappointment on his face, quickly replaced when your hands slide up to the straps of your bra.
“Take this off?” Phrased like a question, secretly a plea, a demand wrapped in velvet and you’re verging on begging. Mark huffs, pretty lips curving upwards.
His hand slips away from between your thighs, trailing heat across your skin as he reaches behind you to unclasp your bra. The second the strap loosens, he watches you slide it off, his gaze dropping like gravity’s pulling it down.
His pupils dilate in that weird, telltale alien way they do as he takes in the sight of your tits.
A warm palm comes up to cup one breast, his touch tender, adoring—and then he leans in and bites. Not hard, just enough to make you hiss and gasp, the shock of it sparking in your chest. Your nipples peak to attention. His mouth is everywhere all at once, licking, sucking... marking you. You barely recognize the sounds leaving your throat, broken and wanting.
You’d caught a glimpse of yourself in his mirror earlier—faint love bites trailing across your neck, purpling and pretty—and now you can feel him adding more. You wonder idly if he’ll wear the ones you gave him too, or if his body will heal them away before sunset.
Mark drifts lower, slow and steady. You sink your fingers into his hair, threading through soft, inky black strands, and he rewards you with a kiss pressed just beneath your breast. Then your ribs. Then the centre of your belly, nose bumping your navel as he licks slow, warm stripes up and down your skin, teasing just along the underside of your boobs again.
It’s almost too much. You’re breathless from how soft he’s being. From how much he clearly wants you. From how he’s taking his time.
You look down at him, chest rising and falling. He’s already looking at you—of course he is. You follow the line of his nose, the curve of his jaw, the soft arch of his eyebrows. There’s this little furrow at the corners of his eyes you know is from years of smiling, and your heart just about splits open at the sight of him.
You have it so bad for him that your hips jerk up instinctively, needing more contact—needing him—just because his eyes catch yours and hold.
Mark presses a soft, sweet kiss to your knee. “I’m so excited I think I might pass out,” he mumbles, voice thick and a little shaky, the words dragging warmly over your skin. The tip of his nose nudges along the inside of your leg, tracing a slow, lazy path downward—knee to thigh—his breath fanning across sensitive skin.
Then his mouth finds you.
One gentle kiss through the thin fabric of your panties, right against your cunt. You twitch, a sweet noise pushing past your lips.
He follows with a slow lick, dragging his tongue in a teasing stripe over you, the wet, thin barrier of your underwear doing nothing to dull the pressure. You huff breathlessly, your brows drawing together as he hums low against your clit.
The duvet crinkles beneath you as you sigh and sink into it. There’s a low throb curling deep in your gut, spreading like wildfire.
“Mark,” you sigh his name like it’s a prayer.
He hums again, this time lower, rougher. His fingers dip beneath the elastic of your panties, warm and tentative, but he doesn’t pull them down just yet. His mouth moves lower, nose pressing in just right, and it steals the air from your lungs, your exhale lilted with a moan.
“I feel like we should have music playing,” he murmurs.
“Music?” you echo, half-dazed, raising an eyebrow you’re pretty sure he can’t see. His only answer is the smirk you feel more than see, pressed right into your skin.
And then he moves the gusset of your panties aside.
He groans—an actual, full-bodied moan—like the sight of you just knocked the breath out of him. He dips a finger into his mouth, wetting it, and mutters something under his breath about giving you a heads-up, that he’s not exactly an expert and most of it comes from the porn he watches (those homemade ones, the amateur videos couples post on Twitter which he swears are genuine clips of what sex is like).
You almost laugh—almost. You're about to tell him not to worry, that you probably know even less—but then his finger presses against you, tentative but eager, and slowly, carefully, he sinks in and you can’t help the soft groan that burns through you.
“Fuck, Mark,” you gasp, the words catching somewhere in your throat. He withdraws immediately, eyes flicking up to yours in question, and sucks his newly wet digit finger into his mouth.
“Good?” he asks.
You nod frantically. “S’good. So good.”
“Fuck—can I?” He asks, and you nod. You don’t know why he’s asking, you gave him a green light ages ago, but your hips lift to help him anyway as he hooks his fingers in your panties and pulls them down. “Y’taste so good,”
Mark leans down and puts his mouth on your hot cunt again. Every slow, willful stroke of his is timed perfectly to the beat pulsing through you. His hands hook under your thighs and pull your legs apart wider, his mouth slanting over you in a way that makes your back arch off the bed.
Your hand tangles in his dark, inky hair and tightens reflexively when he finds your clit again. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t slow, even when you tug. His tongue moves with growing confidence, and the velvet heat of his mouth spreads slick across you, every pass making you ache harder.
A breeze from the window flutters the curtains, the only sign the outside world still exists. But in here, everything is warm and golden and humming—all soft sheets and quiet gasps, all Mark Grayson.
If the tug hurts, Mark doesn’t show it. He hums again, deep and greedy, and your hips rock helplessly against the slope of his nose. Your fingers tighten, your eyes squeeze shut.
“Oh god,” You whine prettily. “That’s— uh— fuck, that’s really good.”
Between your thighs, you hear and feel the moan Mark gives back. Your thighs twitch, caught in that impossible pull whether to close around his head and warm his ears or keep them open just to feel more. Your hips continue to move instinctively, helpless rolls up into his face. And he takes it appreciatively.
His tongue drags down your folds, and he sucks and slurps, slow and purposeful before flicking at your fluttering entrance. It makes you squeal, a sound you barely recognize as yours.
“Fuck,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to speak. His voice is hoarse, soaked in arousal. “You’re so wet.”
You can only blink, dazed, caught somewhere between disbelief and bliss. Mark sounds like he’s in heaven, like this is as good for him as it is for you—maybe even better. And god, if he keeps talking like that, you’ll never recover.
His chin and lips are slick, shining in the low light. You don’t know if he’s been talking to you the whole time, but you can’t dwell. Not when he’s back on you, plush lips locking around your clit and lavishing across the length of your slit. He moans into you, tongue dipping deep, greedy and soft and insistent.
The pressure in your core coils tighter, the pleasure winding up like a string pulled taut. Your chest rises and falls in sharp, shallow breaths. Your voice dissolves into a string of high, breathy little “yes, yes, yes,”s and Mark’s name, over and over, like a mantra.
He mutters something again, something messy and mumbled into your cunt. It takes you a second to realize he’s tapping at your hand where it’s buried in his hair. You lace your fingers with his, and he sighs like you just gave him oxygen.
“Please,” he says into your skin, almost frantically, “please cum on my face. Please, please, s’only fair.”
Your mouth parts, breath catching. He’s so beautiful—messy hair, flushed cheeks, his lips swollen and wet, eyes dark and heavy with lust. He glances up at you, and for a second, his eyes meet yours. But then his lids flutter shut, a shiver rolling down his spine as he moans again into your pussy.
“Fuck,” you swear.
“Yeah?” Mark hums before slowly sinking a finger inside you again. It’s slow, precise. Intentional Pumping the digit in and out of you with ease.
“Yeah, yeah,” you whisper.
“On my face?”
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
“Y-yeah.”
“Pinky promise?”
“Fuck yes, Mark,” you snap, voice rising. “I’ll cum on your fucking face—shut up!”
You see it then—that look on his face. A smug, delighted one. The same one he wore last night at the bowling alley when he finally knocked down a pin after guttering every ball. But now, it’s laced with morale, more self-satisfied, delighted, proud. Like he knew what you’d say. Like this was always going to happen.
And he just wanted to piss you off.
“Fuck you,” you mutter.
Mark chuckles, wicked and low—and then he adds a second finger.
A pressure builds low in your belly—slow at first, like a ripple pulling tight across your core, until it's urgent, searing, and impossible to ignore. Every movement Mark makes intensifies it, the flick of his tongue, the curl of his fingers inside you, the way his mouth works your clit. It’s not subtle anymore. It’s all-consuming. Flickers of starlight burst behind your closed eyelids, and you feel like you’re floating—no, caught, tethered to the sheets by his arm locked firmly over your hips.
“…Just like that,” you whisper, breath hitching. The words spill out instinctively, barely more than air. But they light him up—you can feel the way he doubles down, how he hones in on every sweet spot with sharper focus. “Keep going. ‘M close… so close, Mark. Please, don’t stop. Please just—”
Your mouth drops open. Not a sound escapes. Not even air. You go still, caught in that heart-stopping moment where everything tightens—every nerve pulled taut.
Then it rocks through you like lightning—white-hot and blinding. Your whole body jerks, legs trembling as the orgasm washes over you with no restraint. A whimper bursts from your throat, then another, and then it’s just breathless moans and helpless groans as you claw for something—anything. One foot presses into Mark’s back, anchoring you. Your fingers tangle in his hair again, desperate. The sheets twist beneath your spine,
Mark moans into you, a sound that hums right through your bones. He doesn’t let up—he licks you through it with soft, steady strokes, like he knows exactly what your body needs. Gentle. Sure. So fucking sweet.
When you finally manage to push him away, trembling and spent, he pulls back slowly—like he hates to leave you. He drags his fingers out of you, and plants a soft, lingering kiss to your swollen clit. A farewell, like he’s grateful for it. When he lifts his head, his face is shining with slick, lips pink, eyes dark and dazed.
His grin is crooked, eyes sparkling. “I think I did good.”
“Could be better...”
He rolls his eyes and leans in slow, almost shy. Like he’s giving you the chance to pull away. You don’t. You kiss him back eagerly, tasting yourself on his lips.
“You should sit on my face and suck me off next time,” he says, his voice low and serious. “After our date. Obviously.”
“Obviously.”
The idea of a date and a possible next time sends a thrill right through you, low and giddy and a little unhinged.
“I wanna fuck you first,” you murmur, your breath still uneven, chest rising and falling against his. The words come out raw and honest, no hesitation, and it sends a shiver down Mark’s spine. You feel it, the way he literally trembles.
He groans softly, tucking himself into your side, arms curling around your waist like it’s the most normal thing to do. “Maybe next time,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the curve of your neck. His eyes are shut tight, and he clings to you like your words rewired something inside him.
“You need a minute?” you ask, fingers stroking along his back.
“Just a minute… You?”
“…Yeah.”
“Okay, good. I don’t have condoms anyway.”
You snort, eyelids heavy as you nuzzle into him. “When’s your mom getting home?”
“Probably not for another couple hours.”
You glance at him, still breathless, still kind of high off him. “Wanna fly to the store and get some? Pick up takeout on the way?”
He groans dramatically. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You grin. “We can plan out our date after, too. I’ll even read an issue of Seance Dog.”
Mark grins back, a lazy, cocky tilt to his mouth. “Fuck yes. Can I pick the takeout?”
“Sure, you’re paying anyways.”
#mark grayson x reader#mark grayson smut#invincible x reader#invincible smut#faye’s writing ⭑.ᐟ#mark’s empire
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Everything I've Ever Written (on Tumblr)
I have been writing online since 2016. As a result, I have quite the few short stories listed below! They're all from different parts in my writing journey and I hope you enjoy.
If you'd like to read what I currently put out, please consider supporting me on Patreon (X)
Cinderella Doesn't Believe in Fairy Tales
Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3
Part 4 / Part 5 /Part 6
Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9
Destiny Universe
You Are the Demon King
The Hero and Hope (part 1) (part 2)
Being Villagers
Heroes and Villains
Therapist for Villains
Juniper and Discus
Self Destruct Villain (flash fiction)
Dandelion (A Villain Story)
You Help Kill Heroes
You are the Shark Hero
Mist into a Tempest
The Civilian and the Reluctant Hero
No Heroes Here
The Spoiler (humor, flash fiction)
You are Legacy
Hero in Title
Dark Lord's Former Coworker
One Minute
The Fae:
You Become Powerful
Your Friend Takes Your Name
Larkin and Yvette
Debt Must Be Repaid (humor flash fiction)
Going to the Hill
The Fae are Free
When They Don't Know (submitted to elsewhereuniversity)
The Chosen One
The Chosen One's Parents
Fate and Mercy and Dead Girls
Amulet to Save Her
Hero's Apprentice (Flash fiction)
The Aftermath of the Chosen One
Wizards Stole My Brother
You are the Chosen One's Knight
The Chosen One is a History Major
You are the Most Powerful Magic User
Time Restarts and She Remembers
Better the Witch than the Kid
Witches
It Was in a Name
The Good Witch of Hawthorne
Berthe the Green Witch
Cursed Mold (flash fiction)
Love isn't Enough
I Can't Believe it's not Proper Adjudication
Devil Deals
The Devil You Know
The Ritual
They Summoned Her on Halloween (flash fiction)
Fairytale Retellings
Ariel and Ursula (age appropriate)
The Gods
Zeus' Son
Faith in Technology
Sci-Fi
Six Red Bulls and Persistence
The Sound of Silence
Emmaline and the Apartment
Humans are Vengeful
Humans Know War (that's why we have diplomacy)
Criminals Forced to Live on as AI (flash fiction)
Misc Fantasy
Wind-Speaker
Wind-Speaker and Her Wife
You Will Become
The Sirens and Leona (flash fiction)
Eldritch Princess (flash fiction)
Princess Maria and the Dragon
Princess Maria is Kidnapped
Immortals are Afraid of Change
Fiona the Dragon
A Violently Won War
Meta Stories
An Abstract Concept
Narrative Town
Narrative Town: Uncle Ralph
Princess Phaedra Breaks
You are a Horror Movie Villain
Ghost Stories
Malevolent Spirits
Your House is Haunted by an Anime Pillow
Don't Open the Door
Grandma's House
Who Is? (flash fiction)
A Face (flash fiction)
Misc.
You Choose Your Fate in Hell
Time Paradox (flash fiction)
You are an Assassin
Multiple Dimension Serial Killer (flash fiction)
An Exercise in Mary Sue
She Comes Back from the Hospital (tw eating disorder)
Roses and Evil (mental health flash fiction)
Big Brother
A Conversation About Anger
Punching Depression
Two Sides (flash fiction)
Immortal Serial Killer in Prison
Theater Romance (flash fiction)
The Lady and the Knight (flash fiction)
Different (flash fiction)
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What's better than a devil you don't know? A devil you do.
#bg3#baldurs gate 3#my durge#astarion#dark urge#shadowheart#minthara#raphael bg3#tbh this is just my current party but realised they’re all evil
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