Sober Thoughts | Steve Rogers/Captain America X Stark!Male!Reader

Flirt | Tony Stark x Male!Reader

A/N: Omg a fanfic that isn't about Steve Rogers?!?! Hope you enjoy :) Also, school is starting soon but I will try to write as much as I can. I actually do find writing these enjoyable. Fanfic writing is different but fun. It's nice to use my English somewhere aside from just writing essays 🥹.

P.S. Listen to this song right now or I will hurt you:

Flirt

Word count: 2.8k

Summary: During a night out with his close friend, Y/N encounters Tony Stark and they immediately hit it off. Get that bag, Y/N!

Warnings: Alcohol use

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"Are you sure about this, Sal?" Y/N said, uncertainty laced in his voice.

"100% sure. You need to get your mind off of that cheating douchebag." Sal responded with no hesitation. A small sigh came from Y/N's mouth. He knew deep down that she was right.

After finding out his ex had been cheating on him, Y/N had rotted in his house for almost two weeks, completely isolating himself from the outside world. Only today, when his closest friend Sal practically broke his front door down, had he been freed from his lovelorn pitying.

Now, Sal was forcing Y/N out for a much-needed night out in town, determined to help him forget about his troubles, at least for just a couple of hours. The two were currently headed to one of the liveliest bars downtown, with the promise of copious amounts of alcohol and good company.

"Look, I know this might not be what you want right now," Sal said, giving Y/N a reaffirming pat on the shoulder. "But, just trust me. We're going to enjoy the night, the drinks and the people, and," Sal's head turned slightly, giving a Y/N a small smirk, "we might even find you a nice man there."

Y/N turned downward and began shaking his head to hide the smile forming on his face – he ultimately failed. "Yeah, yeah alright." While his very recent relationship's ending was abrupt and messy, the idea of finding someone new was very enticing. His previous boyfriend was, according to Sal, "hot trash", so he believed tonight could be the chance to find a truly suitable partner for him.

"That's the spirit," Sal grinned, tightly hugging Y/N's side. "Now let's go and make very questionable decisions."

Y/N chuckled despite himself, softly pushing Sal off of him. Maybe tonight would be when he'd truly move on.

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According to Y/N's inner monologue, the bar itself was quite lovely. It was a quaint, hole-in-the-wall establishment yet very populated. People occupied the bar's booths in large groups, their conversations filling the atmosphere with a nice volume. The warm and soft lighting gave the space a slight touch of intimacy. As he continued looking around, Y/N grimaced as he glanced toward a corner of the bar and saw a couple making out, their hands touching in places that were definitely inappropriate for a public space. However, despite seeing the touchy-feely pair, Y/N could tell tonight would be somewhat fun.

The two settled down on two barstools at the bar's front. Sal, being the more outgoing of the one, wasted no time waving down the bartender. "Two tequila shots, please," she said with a grin. It was a tradition for the two to begin a night out with tequila shots – a nice ritual that set the tone for the night.

The bartender slid two shot glasses filled to the brim with tequila. The two each grabbed a glass, Sal raising hers and toasting, "to a night of fun and forgetting."

Y/N raised his also, saying, "Cheers to whatever comes our way." The two smiled at each other, clinking their glasses before downing their drinks in one swift gulp.

Y/N's face scrunched in pain upon swallowing. The feeling of tequila was familiar to Y/N as he and Sal have spent multiple nights out together. However, he never grew as much of a tolerance as her for the throat-burning it caused when ingesting it. He coughed slightly, but laughed, a tingly feeling spreading throughout his chest.

Sal leaned over, slightly nudging Y/N's elbow. "So, what'll it be next for us? Should we try something strong or should steady ourselves for tonight?"

Y/N thought deeply for a moment before responding. "Let's try something different," he said, feeling bolder. "How about margaritas?"

Sal laughed. "Alright, margaritas it is. Don't blame me though for how shit-faced you might get."

Y/N rolled his eyes, but couldn't prevent the smile from forming on his face. "I guess we'll see," he replied, feeling the anticipation from what the night has to offer.

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Sal and Y/N had 3 margaritas and 4 tequila shots in each and were already a tad inebriated. Despite the bar being quite packed, their egregiously loud laughter carried around the room, causing people to look at them with slight annoyance.

Suddenly, Sal's eyes widened and she began choking on her drink. "Holy shit, bitch," she semi-yelled, catching Y/N's attention. "Don't look behind you, but Tony 'Richboy' Stark just came in with a really hot dude."

Y/N wasn't the type to listen to directions he was told – especially when inebriated – so despite Sal's warnings, he immediately looked. And Sal was correct. There, unmistakably, was Tony Stark clad in a simple tux with a black tie near the bar's entrance. Next to him was an equally attractive man, taller, with blonde hair and broad shoulders. Upon second glance, Y/N realized the other man was the Captain America.

Y/N's eyes had wandered on Tony while he was surveying the bar's interior. For a brief moment, their gazes met under the glow of the bar's warm lighting. Y/N quickly looked away. However, his curiosity got the better of him and he glanced once more. Tony's eyes were still on him, firm but with an undertone of curiosity. Y/N wanted to so desperately look away, but their stare lingered. The world seemed to fade during their intimate stare-off. A palpable tension was shared between them, and it wasn't until Tony flashed Y/N a small smile before heading to a vacant booth that it vanished.

A slight slap on Y/N's arm broke him from his trance. "Dude! I literally told you not to look and guess what you did? Look!" Y/N had to quiet down Sal's loud reprimanding voice, afraid a certain someone would hear her. She regained her composure after a few minutes of quiet yelling and continued drinking her third margarita. "Okay, but he was definitely checking you out," Sal slurred with a volume even a person outside the bar could hear.

A loud cough erupted from Y/N's mouth, an attempt to drown out Sal's voice. "He was absolutely not," he protested, taking a sip of his drink. "He was just checking out the place, and our eyes coincidentally met when he was looking at the front of the bar."

"Oh, Y/N," Sal said, slowly shaking her head. "I know you may be slow in the head–" Y/N was about to object before Sal put a finger to his lips, effectively shutting his mouth. "But you'd practically have to be blind to not notice him eyeing you like a piece of fine meat."

"Okay, but..." Y/N was at a loss for words, partly for the fact he was intoxicated but also because Tony Stark was definitely checking him out. Their stare-off lasted a little too long to be considered anything but friendly. "Wait, why were you looking at him I thought we weren't supposed to look?"

"Well, Y/N," Sal said, sloppily standing from the bar stool and grabbing her purse. "I will be going to the bathroom right now. I hope nothing significant will occur during my absence, like, say, a certain Avenger approaching you while you're sat here all alone." She winked, her gait wobbly from the alcohol.

Before Y/N could yell at her to return, she already turned the bar's corner into the restrooms. Y/N silently cursed, downing his margarita before ordering another one. His heart was beating fast, and he glanced towards where Tony was sitting. As if on cue, Tony looked up from his conversation with Captain America, catching his gaze. This time, Tony's smile widened, and he leaned in and whispered something to Steve. Y/N's pulse quickened. Then, Tony stood up from his booth and started towards Y/N. He quickly turned around, "fuck, fuck, fuck," he whispered under his breath.

Y/N could feel Tony's presence approaching. He radiated wealth, power, and overall playboy hubris with each step. As he drew closer, Y/N's anxiety reached a peak. He started drawing his focus away from the intimidating man, attempting to look very intently at the bar's collection of liquor. But Tony's sensation, magnetic as ever, couldn't be ignored by Y/N.

Tony sat on the barstool Sal was on before she left. Y/N felt his palms and the back of his knees becoming clammy, unsure if it was from the alcohol or the undeniably attractive billionaire beside him. It was probably the latter. Tony cleared his throat to catch the attention of the bartender. "I'll take a beer, please."

After Tony got his beer, an uncomfortable silence washed over the two men. Tony wasn't speaking and Y/N was too out of it to verbalize anything. Wasn't Tony – billionaire, playboy, philanthropist – Stark supposed to start their conversation, he silently thought. Suddenly getting very impatient, Y/N put the burden on himself to verbally approach Tony first. "I always thought you were a hard liquor person," Y/N's voice came out, evident in his speech that he was decently drunk.

Tony glanced at Y/N, a hint of amusement in his expression. "I've been trying to lay off the drinking for a while," he replied, taking a sip of his beer. "Only wimpy drinks for me tonight."

Y/N nodded, trying to focus on Tony's words despite his tipsiness. He could feel Tony's eyes on him, curious and unwavering. His gaze was intimidating but felt strangely warm at the same time.

Tony leaned in slightly, his tone teasing. "And what about you. I didn't peg you to be a margarita guy."

Y/N smiled, his confidence from the liquid courage abating his nerves. "I like to keep 'em guessing, Mr. Stark." He took another sip of his margarita. "Only the good ones."

Tony's grin widened slightly. "Does that make me one of the 'good ones'?"

"That depends on how you treat me tonight," Y/N replied, his voice flirtier than he expected it to be.

Another silence came after Y/N's words – a comfortable one, unlike the last time. Y/N sneaked a few glances towards Tony, finding him looking straight ahead bearing a small content smile.

"So what brings you here with" – Y/N gestured towards Steve – "that hunk of a man," Y/N asked, cutting through the quiet.

Tony set down his beer. "Well, I just got off a very important business meeting and decided to head here to unwind. Heard this place had some...interesting company." He then looked towards Y/N. "Capsicle's here as my plus one."

Y/N felt his cheeks go red. "'Interesting company,' huh?" he echoed, his nervousness returning again.

Tony nodded, his expression playful. "Very interesting," he reaffirmed. "And it seems," Tony picked up his beer, gesturing it towards Y/N. "I've made the right choice."

A sudden cough erupted from Y/N's mouth, elicited by Stark's notorious innate flirtiness. "You can't just say that, Tony. We just met and you don't even know my name."

Tony chuckled, clearly amused by Y/N's reaction. "You're right," he admitted, leaning back slightly. "But I don't need to know your name to recognize you're someone worth talking to." He took another quick sip of his beer. "Names are just a formality anyway. I'd rather know the person behind the name."

Y/N felt a mix of embarrassment and intrigue. Despite knowing of Tony's infamous charismatic boldness, it felt nerve-wracking being on the receiving end of it. It was a strange experience. "You surely know how to keep someone on their toes, Mr. Stark."

Tony smiled, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "So, whaddya say? Do I get your name or do I have to keep guessing for a little longer?"

Y/N hesitated briefly before deciding to play along with Tony's game. "Keep guessing, lover-boy."

Tony's eyebrows raised, clearly enjoying the challenge and the nickname. "Let's see..." he said, his face stern with faux concentration. "You strike me as a Jay. Or a Phil." He watched Y/N's expression closely, trying to see if there was any hint he was on the right track.

Y/N couldn't help but laugh. "Nice try, but you're way off. Guess again."

A small sigh came from Tony. "Dammit. I thought I almost had it," he said, feigning playful disappointment. "Okay, how about...Cameron? Or Mitchell?"

Y/N shook his head once more. "Nope. Not even close."

Tony leaned in closer, his smile turning into a small smirk. "Alright, I give up. What's your name, mystery man?"

Y/N also leaned in, relenting at Tony's surrender. "It's Y/N," he half-whispered. "But I did enjoy you guessing."

A genuine smile found itself on Tony's face. "Y/N, huh? I like it – it suits you." He raised his beer in a small toast. "To new friends, and to keeping things interesting."

Y/N clinked his margarita with Tony's brown beer bottle. "To new friends," he repeated.

"So," Tony said, taking another sip of his bottle. "Tell me more about yourself."

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Tony and Y/N talked for what seemed like hours, the passage of time becoming irrelevant to them. Y/N went on an extended rant about his ex-boyfriend, Tony listening intently, which Y/N very much appreciated. Tony in turn told Y/N about Avengers and Stark Industries business. Y/N tried hard to understand Tony's talks on logistics, all for the sake of how Tony's eyes lit up with interest when talking about the nitty-gritty of his company.

After I while, their conversation started dwindling down. The initial flirtiness settled down to a comfortable silence. The buzz from the alcohol had faded into a pleasant comfort that made Y/N feel warm inside. Y/N looked around the bar, noticing how the crowded place had thinned out. "Looks like we cleared the place out, huh?"

Tony set his beer bottle down, stretching his arms. "Guess we did. Time flies when you have fun. Or when you're with a cute person."

A warmth covered Y/N's face red. "It's been nice talking to you, Tony." He checked the time on his phone, eyes widening when he saw the time. "It's getting quite late. Me and Sal...where is that girl anyways?" Sal's entire existence completely slipped from Y/N's mind.

"Looks like Cap and your friend are hitting it off quite well." Y/N glanced towards the booth Steve was sitting in. There was very much indeed Sal chatting up a storm with Captain America. What surprised Y/N the most was that Steve actually enjoyed talking to her? He nodded, smile bright and charming as Sal's mouth moved continuously.

"Huh," Y/N mused. He looked towards Tony once more. Y/N wasn't quite sure how but Tony looked even more attractive since the last time he looked.

"I think it's time for us to call it a night, Y/N," Tony said, his voice slightly disappointed. Y/N also found himself unhappy as well. "Though, I'd like for us to see each other again. For margaritas or beer – or something stronger if you prefer." He pulled a sleek black business card from his pocket and handed it to Y/N.

"I'll take you up on that, Tony," Y/N replied, pocketing the card. Y/N stared softly at Tony, feeling a fluttery feeling in his chest. He noticed the closeness between them on the bar chairs.

Y/N hesitated for a brief moment, his mind racing with both excitement and nerves. The temptation to close the gap between them was overwhelming, and he could feel himself gravitating towards Tony.

Tony's gaze flickered towards Y/N's lips, seemingly understanding his intentions. Y/N felt a surge of confidence rush through him. He wanted this, and he knew damn well Tony did too. Without thinking further, Y/N closed the space between him and Tony, lips connecting in an intimate kiss.

Their lips started slowly at first – tentative as if testing the waters. But then Tony responded, pressing back with a gentle ferocity that made Y/N's stomach flutter. The kiss was slow and exploratory, full of curiosity and intrigue.

Y/N's eyes closed as he felt himself melt into Tony's touch. His hands found their way towards Tony's shoulders, linking them around and slightly grazing the fabric of his suit. Y/N could feel Tony's hands lightly caressing his waist, sending tingles around his entire body.

When they both pulled away, Y/N's eyes fluttered open and met Tony's, a mixture of surprise and fluster playing around both of their smiles.

"Wow," Y/N said, breathless. "That was unexpected."

"Yeah," Tony responded, sounding winded himself. "I definitely want to see you again now."

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Tony and Steve insisted on driving Y/N and Sal home, however, Y/N protested heavily against it. Sal was definitely on board with the idea but was drowned out by Y/N's persistent opposition.

After saying their goodbyes to the two Avengers, Y/N and Sal started on home. "So...," she began, sporting a toothy smile.

Y/N reciprocated her wide grin. "We'll debrief tomorrow."

FIN

A/N: Catch the Modern Family names 😼 Hope you enjoyed it!

(a realization about dialogue formatting, from a comic artist turned novelist.)

One of the first things a novice writer learns about speech tags is that they’re part of the “scaffolding” of prose. They should be largely invisible to the reader: use them when necessary, omit them when not, and be sparing in the application of verbs other than “said”. They serve only the function of clarifying who is speaking when it is necessary to do so.

Except:

Sometimes you might want to use a speech tag in spite of the redundancy. The fact that the reader’s eyes slide right over them is an exploitable property. By slicing a line of dialogue in half with a speech tag, you can force the reader to perceive a meaningful pause between two utterances—and the effect is much stronger than you might get out of an ellipsis or an em dash. Developing an intuition for when and how to do this is a huge part of learning to write dialogue, I think.

(And yes: if you ever wondered, this is exactly same the reason why comic artists sometimes “double bubble” their speech bubbles. Same end, different means!)

The Love Letter | Steve Rogers/Captain America x Male!Reader

A/N: Another Steve Rogers fanfic because he is a cutie. This one is way shorter than my first fic and not the best writing I've done admittedly. Anyways, enjoy!

P.S. Stream Short n' Sweet by Sabrina Carpenter 💋

The Love Letter

Word Count: 2.4k

Summary: Y/N, too afraid to verbally confess his feelings for Steve, gives him a love letter instead

Warnings: Sad

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Natasha stared bewildered at Y/N, aggressively punching the boxing dummy in the team's training room. With each continuous whack, growing strength with each successive hit, the dent in the dummy's torso grew larger. Natasha observed that he only acted this vehemently if something was bothering him. The last time this occurred was after a botched mission that resulted in numerous accidental deaths and tonnes of paperwork. As Y/N began winding down from his strenuous training, Natasha approached him, already having a slight idea for the cause of his trouble.

“It’s Steve isn’t it?” she abruptly asked. 

Y/N glanced towards her with a questioning look. “I’m sorry?”

“You like him, but you’re too scared to tell him.”

Y/N stared at her, trying to maintain a look that conveyed he was completely unsure as to what she was on about. However, he soon cracked under the pressure of her intense piercing gaze and gave her a resigned look. Sighing, he said, “Was I that obvious?”

"Y/N, we all see the way you ogle him." Y/N's jaw slightly clenched at his obliviousness to his obvious crushing. "The whole team knows, and I wouldn't be surprised if Steve himself did too."

Y/N let out a frustrated groan, running a hand through his hair. He always hated Natasha’s cunning observational skills. But he was aware this time his long-term crush was exposed at his fault. “I just don’t know how to tell him. I mean, what if he doesn’t feel the same?”

Natasha lightly placed her hand on Y/N’s shoulder. “You’re not going to ruin anything by telling him. There’s nothing wrong with being honest. Plus, there could be the chance he likes you also.”

Y/N’s head shook slightly. “I’m not sure how to tell him without completely embarrassing myself in front of him.”

Natasha’s expression turned deep with thought. Then, the metaphorical light bulb lit up in her head. "Maybe you should write him a letter. That way nothing you’ll say will be misconstrued. It's the most objective way to say your feelings for him, Y/N."

Y/N glanced towards Natasha, unaware if she was serious or saying everything in jest. "Wouldn't it be easier if I sent him a text message?"

Natasha shook her head. "Letters are more romantic. Plus, Steve is old-fashioned. I'm sure he'd appreciate it more than some lacklustre text."

As Natasha left the training grounds, Y/N began thinking deeply about her suggestion. He never imagined telling Steve about his feelings, let alone confessing through a handwritten letter. The worse that could occur, he thought, was that Steve would reject him and the entire trajectory of any friendship they had would completely change beyond recognition. However, the idea of Steve being whisked away by anyone else was enough to fill him with dread. He couldn't have a repeat of his emotions during Steve's brief fling with Sharon Carter. Tear-dampened tissues filled his room the week he heard the news – he reached a new low during that time. After his shower in the gym's adjacent locker room, Y/N began devising what he would say and how exactly he would say it.

Walking back to his room, Y/N made a brief detour to one of Tony's several printers scattered around the compound to grab several sheets of paper. He was already anticipating the inevitable drafts that would end up in his garbage bin. As he sat on his desk, cracking his knuckles before putting pen to paper, he hoped whatever monstrosity he would conjure would convey his feelings in a way that Steve would fully reciprocate them.

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After three hours and several tossed crumpled balls of paper in his garbage, Y/N finally created what he thought was the best thing he had ever written. Skimming through it again, he started thinking otherwise and that it was actually really bad. The letter read:

Steve,

I've been thinking a lot lately, and I finally decided I needed to air it out. Natasha suggested writing you a letter, and honestly, I was hesitant at first. But the more I considered it, I realised it was the only suitable option for this situation. I know you're not the type for overly grand gestures, so I'll keep it simple.

Ever since we met, I've been admiring you. Not just for the reason that you're Captain America, but also for what I've seen in who you are as a person. Your kindness, bravery, strength, and dedication amongst many more of your qualities are things I've come to deeply respect. Over time, these feelings I felt for you have grown from something more than admiration – something I never expected.

I've tried to hide it, but I'm not sure I can anymore. I like you, Steve. I really like you a lot, as more than a friend. I know you've been through a lot, so I don't want any of this to complicate you any further. I just needed to tell you how I feel. I value the friendship we have, and I don't want this to negatively change that.

I understand if you don't feel the same way. If you'd prefer it, we could both pretend I never wrote you this. But if there is a chance you feel the same, maybe we could both see where this goes. No pressure, no expectations – just honesty.

Y/N

After rereading it for the fifth time, Y/N decided this was the best it would get. If Steve hated it, then so be it. Y/N put the letter in a sleek dark brown envelope from a stationary set he bought earlier from a high-end arts and crafts store. Since it was for Steve, he had splurged on whatever he could in hopes it would convey the seriousness of his feelings.

As Y/N walked towards Steve’s room, a feeling of severe anxiety washed over him, causing him to fidget with the letter between his fingers. The outcomes of the letter-sending were so polar that he wasn’t sure if his feelings were worth the chance. On one hand, Steve would feel the same and both would live happily ever after. On the other, Steve would downright reject him, their friendship would be destroyed, and the awkwardness would find a way to infiltrate its way into the team, getting in the way of their world-saving. 

Steve’s door came into view, and the urge to turn around and leave became stronger for Y/N. Before Y/N could back down, he heard footsteps descending the hallway’s corner. After quickly slipping the letter under the door frame, Y/N ran in the opposite direction. Whatever was to ensue after was up in the hands of whichever deity was out there.

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The team assembled for dinner shortly after Y/N’s letter made it to Steve’s room. As he sat in his designated spot beside Natasha, his hands started becoming clammy, and his head became nauseous with worrying thoughts. Steve has yet to arrive at the table. Coughing lightly, Y/N turned towards Natasha. 

“I did it, Nat.” Y/N quivered softly. 

“Did what, Y/N/N?” She said in between her chewing.

“I sent him the letter. Earlier this evening, I sent him the letter. God, I can’t believe I listened to you.”

Natasha turned her head, eyes wide in disbelief. Before she could respond, Steve walked into the dining room. The team greeted him, including Y/N whose voice wavered slightly upon seeing the man he so recently confessed his feelings for. Steve’s eyes wandered around the table until they stopped on Y/N. The two looked at each other, and Y/N’s stomach churned. He tried to read Steve’s expression, but it was indistinguishable. As his heart pounded, his hands trembled under the table. 

Natasha slightly nudged Y/N with her elbow. “Relax, Y/NN. Just see how he acts.”

Y/N nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. As Steve approached the table, he pulled the chair directly in front of Y/N, sitting down with a small smile. “Hey, everyone,” Steve greeted, his voice soft and supple, smiling brightly at the team. 

Y/N managed to contort a crooked smile in return. “Hi, Steve.” His voice wavered once again and his cheeks blushed. He looked down towards his plate in hopes no one noticed.

As the team continued with their conversation – Bruce and Tony bantering about lab tech, Thor sharing a story about Asgard, and Clint making sarcastic remarks near the table’s end – Y/N kept glancing towards. Steve looked relaxed, but every so often, his eyes would also meet Y/N’s, and Y/N’s stomach would be sent into a spiral of front flips. 

At one point, Steve met Y/N’s gaze and held it for longer than usual. Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. He knew at that point that Steve must have read the letter. There was no other reason for the glances they shared with each other, and the slight glint of something in Steve’s eyes. He could already sense the inevitable conversation Steve was about to confront him with in the not-so-distant future.

Dinner continued, and eventually, the team started to disperse. As for Y/N, his heart sank as he remembered it was his turn to wash the dishes today. Today of all days. Even more troubling, Steve had volunteered behind to help with cleaning. Y/N already knew where this was going to lead. With one last glance at Natasha who offered him a reassuring smile, it was just Y/N and Steve left together.

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The kitchen was dead silent as the two men cleared the table, the clinking of dishes and the sound of running water from the sink being the only interruption. Y/N could feel Steve’s presence beside him – comforting and warm, but tonight it felt different. Heavy. He couldn’t conjure the courage to look at him, instead focusing on aggressively rubbing a stubborn stain on one of the plates.

Finally, after what like an eternity, Steve finally broke the silence. “Y/N,” he said, his voice carrying a certain softness that made Y/N’s heart beat faster. “About the letter…”

Y/N froze, squeezing the sponge in his hand hard. He knew this was bound to happen, but hearing Steve’s voice mention his letter still made him incredibly nervous. Slowly, he turned towards Steve, ready for whatever he was about to be hit with. “Yeah?” he managed to whisper, his voice barely managing to make it above a whisper.

Steve fully turned towards Y/N, setting down the dish he was currently drying and meeting his eyes. His expression was serious, and his blue eyes were holding a feeling Y/N couldn’t decipher – nervousness, maybe, or regret. “I read it,” he said quietly. “And I want you to know that I’m honoured that you trust me enough to share your feelings with me. I really am.”

Y/N’s heart clenched. He felt the impending doom through Steve’s tone. Y/N nodded slowly, attempting to keep his emotions in check. “But…?”

Steve took a deep breath, he turned away briefly before meeting Y/N’s eyes again. “But I don’t feel the same way,” he said, voice firm but soft. “I care about you a lot, Y/N, as a friend. I value our friendship and I don’t want to hurt you. But I don’t see you the same way as you see me.”

Y/N’s felt his heart shatter, the pieces were spiralling into a million jagged edges. The pain was worse than anything he experienced. It felt worse than any gunshot or stab wound he ever endured. “I understand,” he said. It was evident he was trying to hold back tears. “I just thought… maybe…”

Steve’s hand hovered above Y/N’s. He hesitated before retracting it, unsure if Y/N wanted to be touched or not. “I really am sorry, Y/N. I don’t want to make this awkward between us. I value our friendship too much for that.”

Y/N could only nod again. His chest swelled with a numbing feeling. He then realised what the glint was in Steve’s eyes. It was pity. “Yeah, no I totally understand,” he muttered. He stared at the soapy water. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I shouldn’t have said anything. It was stupid – I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” Steve said gently. “It was not stupid at all. You have every right to express your feelings. I’m just sorry I couldn’t give you the answer you were looking for, Y/N.”

Y/N could feel the tears pooling near the ducts of his eyes. The weight of the rejection fully settled on his shoulders. “Yeah well…thank you for being honest. I appreciate it, I guess,” he whispered, turning back to the dishes to hide the tears now streaming down his cheeks. He scrubbed at the plates more force than necessary, trying to channel to pain he was feeling towards his hands. 

Steve hesitated. It was clear he wanted to say more, but he could tell Y/N wanted him to leave. “I really am sorry, Y/N.”

Y/N couldn’t trust himself to speak again, afraid his voice would hint at the tears leaving his eyes. After a brief moment of silence, he could hear Steve’s footsteps retracting from the kitchen.

When he was sure Steve was gone, Y/N let out a shaky breath before letting his tears fall freely. He gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles turning white in an attempt to hold himself together. But it was to no avail. He slid down to the floor, back against the kitchen sink. The pain was too raw to hold in. As he buried his head in his hands, he sobbed and prayed that no one would walk in and see his miserable self.

He was fully prepared for the possibility of rejection. But everything in him was hoping Steve would feel the same. That the future he envisioned for both of them together would become real somehow. The heartache he felt was unbearable, and each breath he took was a struggle as he attempted to calm himself down. Was he not good enough for Steve? Was he not attractive enough? Y/N started internally beating himself, trying to find the reason he wasn’t desirable for the only person he could ever want.    

Minutes passed, maybe hours; Y/N wasn’t sure. Eventually, the tears started slowing down and his breathing became more shallow. He wiped his tears with the back of his hand, taking a few shaky breaths before standing up. He knew he had to pick himself up and move on. But for now, Y/N could let himself wallow in his grief. 

As he walked back to his room, he couldn’t help but think if he could ever face Steve without breaking all over again. 

FIN

A/N: Sorry! Hope you enjoyed! Next one will be cute as fuck I didn't enjoy writing this one that much actually it didn't fill me with happy giddy feelings.

HOW TO AO3

the difference between "orphaning" a fic and posting/making a fic under "anonymous" section.

orphaning a fic

once you've orphaned a fic, it means the work is no longer yours and there is no way you can "unorphan" the work once it has been orphaned. what does it mean? — it means your name will not be attached to the work, you cannot edit the work, you cannot delete the work and you cannot reclaim the work. you will lose the ownership of your work forever once you've orphaned it.

posting a fic under "anonymous" section

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if you don't want your name associated with some specific works you wrote, but at the same time still want to have ownership of them, I suggest you turn them "anonymous" instead of orphaning them.

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HI NEIGHBOR — PART TWO

• JASON TODD x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — you’re new to the neighborhood and find yourself becoming friends with the residential bad boy, Jason Todd. From his perspective, you seems like a outgoing guy yet there’s a mystery to you he couldn’t quite figure out.

WARNING! Suggestive Langauge. Swearing. Violence.

WORDS! 8.6k

AUTHOR’S NOTE! here we are with part two, I hope you enjoy!

NEXT PART! THREE

PREVIOUS PART! ONE

The atmosphere in your apartment was thick with tension, the air still sharp with the lingering scent of gunpowder and shattered glass. The dim, flickering light from the broken TV cast long shadows across the room as you stormed into your bedroom, moving with determined purpose.

Jason stood frozen near the doorway, still reeling from what he'd just witnessed. His mind raced, replaying the brutal, calculated way you'd taken down the League of Assassins operatives with a skill he'd never expected — not from you. Not from someone he thought he knew.

He followed after you, his boots crunching on broken glass. "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded, voice rough with frustration.

You didn't even look at him, your expression cold and unreadable as you yanked open your closet. Clothes were shoved aside with practiced efficiency until you reached the back wall where a large, worn duffle bag rested.

Jason's eyes narrowed as you pulled it out and threw it onto the bed, immediately unzipping it. His heart skipped when he saw what you packed — stacks of cash, a worn passport, and several other small pouches he couldn't immediately identify.

"Planning a trip?" Jason growled, stepping forward.

You shot him a glare but didn't stop moving. "Surviving," you corrected coldly, tossing in a compact utility knife, a small first aid kit, and another roll of cash from a hidden compartment in your dresser. "Staying here is a death sentence now."

Jason clenched his jaw, anger flaring despite the chaos swirling in his mind. "You knew this was coming."

You froze for half a second, your shoulders tensing before you zipped up the side pouch of the duffle. "I had a feeling," you admitted quietly. "But I was hoping I'd have more time."

Jason took another step closer, his voice low and dangerous. "Time for what? Who the hell are you?"

You slowly turned to face him, your expression still unreadable — cold but... tired. Like you were exhausted from keeping the truth buried.

"Who I was," you corrected softly, your voice tinged with something darker. "That person... doesn't exist anymore."

Jason's sharp eyes searched your face, anger and suspicion warring within him. "You fought like one of them. Like you were trained." He practically spat the word, his fists tightening at his sides. "Were you part of the League?"

Your jaw clenched. "I was never one of them," you bit out, venom in your tone. "But they sure as hell tried to make me."

Jason's breath hitched, his mind flashing back to the brutal efficiency of your fighting style — every move precise, lethal, and honed through relentless training. The League's signature.

"How?" he demanded, voice low.

You exhaled slowly, running a hand through your hair, as if grappling with how much to say. "I was... taken. Years ago." Your voice dropped, filled with quiet resentment. "They wanted another weapon. I didn't give them one."

Jason processed your words, every piece of the puzzle snapping into place far too easily — the way you'd fought like it was second nature, the way you always seemed on edge despite your laid-back facade. It all made sense now.

He stepped even closer, his voice deadly serious. "Why the hell didn't you tell me?"

Your eyes burned with frustration as you met his gaze. "Tell you what, Jason? That I was hunted by assassins from a global death cult?" You shook your head. "I left that life behind. I thought... hoped... they'd forgotten about me."

Jason's jaw clenched, knowing better than anyone that the past never really lets you go.

But then, your eyes flicked toward the twin pistols holstered on his thighs, still faintly gleaming under the dim light. His leather jacket was slightly torn from the fight, exposing familiar tactical gear beneath — armor reinforced with Kevlar, built for survival.

Your gaze sharpened, realization dawning.

"My turn," you said quietly, taking a slow step toward him. "Who the hell are you?"

Jason's expression hardened, his fingers brushing the grip of one of his pistols — not in threat, but out of instinct.

"You're not just some guy I met in the hallway," you pressed, your voice cutting through the heavy silence. "You show up with takeout and combat-grade instincts... You knew exactly what those assassins were the second they came through that window."

Jason's fists clenched. He hated how sharp your mind was, how fast you'd pieced it together — but there was no point in lying now.

"You don't want that answer," he growled.

"Try me," you shot back, taking another step forward until you were just inches apart. "You can't stand here demanding answers when you've been hiding just as much."

Jason's breath came in slow and measured. His eyes burned with intensity as he met your fierce, unyielding gaze — two people trapped in a web of half-truths and buried pasts.

Finally, he exhaled sharply, letting the tension bleed out of his shoulders.

"I'm Red Hood," he said quietly, his voice like steel.

Your breath hitched, recognition flashing across your face — you knew that name. Everyone in Gotham did.

"The vigilante..." you whispered, stunned.

Jason's lips twisted into something between a smirk and a grimace. "Depends who you ask."

The weight of the truth settled between you like a heavy storm ready to break.

Before either of you could say another word, the sound of shattering glass echoed. You could hear the faint, purposeful creak of boots against metal outside—someone approaching from the fire escape again.

Jason moved to the door, drawing his twin pistols, while you shifted into a defensive stance near the broken window, fingers brushing the hilt of a blade you'd grabbed from your duffle bag. Your breaths were steady, controlled, honed by years of survival. Whoever was coming wasn't going to get the drop on you this time.

The sound of the window frame creaking as something heavy landed just outside made both of you snap into action. Jason aimed his pistols toward the shattered glass while you prepared to lunge.

"Hold your fire, Todd," came a low, commanding voice from the shadows outside.

Jason cursed under his breath but lowered his guns ever so slightly, recognizing the voice immediately. "Damn it..."

Before you could process what was happening, three familiar figures emerged from the broken window and landed soundlessly inside your wrecked living room.

Batman. Nightwing. Red Robin.

Their presence was both menacing and commanding, even in the dim, shattered apartment. Batman's dark cape flowed behind him like a living shadow, his piercing, unreadable eyes locking onto you in an instant. Nightwing landed just behind him with practiced ease, scanning the room with a wary but curious expression, while Red Robin moved with sharp, tactical precision, already assessing the damage and possible exits.

Jason sighed, holstering one of his guns with a sharp click. "Could've knocked," he muttered bitterly.

Nightwing's eyebrows shot up as he took in the mess. "Looks like someone already did." His eyes flicked toward you, lingering for a second longer than necessary, curious and calculating.

Batman stepped forward, voice cold and commanding. "Jason. Report."

Jason gave you a quick glance, silently telling you to hold back—for now. "The League of Assassins showed up," he said shortly. "They weren't here to talk." His voice was sharp, his frustration barely held in check. "They were after him." He tilted his head toward you.

Red Robin narrowed his eyes. "Damian was right, wasn't he?" His voice was clipped, cautious but not accusing.

Jason clenched his jaw. "Technically, yeah." He let out a slow breath. "But it's... complicated."

You stiffened, every muscle ready to spring into action. Their eyes were all on you now—judging, calculating, and deciding whether you were a threat. You could feel Batman's cold, unyielding scrutiny weighing heavily on you, like he could see everything you'd ever done just by looking at you.

"Who is he?" Batman demanded, his deep, gravelly voice leaving no room for evasion.

Jason met his gaze head-on. "He's... one of us." His voice was firm, though uncertain in a way you'd never heard before. "But not the way you think."

Nightwing frowned, crossing his arms. "You're sure about that?"

Jason's jaw tightened. "I am now."

Their attention turned fully toward you—and you moved.

Without a single word, you lunged toward the shattered window, your instincts screaming that staying put would only get you killed—or worse, captured. Your feet hit the ledge with practiced grace as you dove into the dark, empty alley below, barely making a sound as you twisted mid-air and landed in a perfect crouch.

Jason's curse echoed faintly behind you, but you were already moving—ready to vanish into the night.

But as soon as your boots hit the wet pavement of the dark alleyway, you froze.

Figures emerged from the shadows — not just one or two, but an entire unit of League assassins, their gleaming blades reflecting the dim, hazy light from the streetlamp above. Their movements were silent, calculated, and far too familiar.

And then... she appeared.

Talia al Ghul.

Tall, graceful, and utterly lethal, she stepped out from the shadows as though she belonged to the night itself, her dark cloak billowing slightly in the cold Gotham breeze. Her piercing, calculating eyes locked onto you with chilling precision.

"Running, are we?" she said smoothly, her voice low and deadly, with just the faintest hint of amusement. "I would've expected better... from one of my creations."

Your blood ran cold, but you didn't let it show. You forced yourself to stand tall, your breath steady, fists clenched at your sides.

"Talia," you spat, voice hard as steel. "You should've stayed gone."

She smiled—a slow, dangerous thing that never reached her eyes. "You truly thought you could leave that life behind? Escape?" Her tone turned sharp. "No one escapes the League."

Behind her, the assassins silently drew their blades, stepping into position with terrifying precision. Their cold, unblinking eyes locked onto you.

Your heart pounded in your chest, but you shifted into a ready stance, muscles taut and prepared to fight—to survive.

"Tell your dogs to back off," you warned darkly. "Or I'll put them down too."

Talia tilted her head, studying you like a predator deciding how much effort it would take to crush its prey. "I taught you... everything. Do you really believe you can win?"

Before you could respond, the sharp, familiar click of a gun being cocked echoed from the rooftop above.

"I don't believe," Jason's voice drawled, sharp and dangerous, echoing down the alley like a death sentence. "I know."

From the ledge, Jason stood tall with his twin pistols aimed directly at Talia's head, his eyes blazing with fierce, protective determination.

A second later, Batman, Nightwing, and Red Robin silently appeared on the opposite end of the alley, cutting off the League's exit like an unspoken declaration of war.

Talia's cold smirk only deepened as she studied the standoff—but something dangerous and personal burned in her gaze when her eyes flicked back toward you.

"This... will be fun," she whispered, just before her assassins surged forward.

The fight was just beginning.

Soon the alleyway echoed with the clash of blades and the sharp crack of gunfire. Rain began to fall, making the worn pavement slick as shadows danced under the flickering streetlights. The League of Assassins swarmed like a wave of relentless predators, silent and deadly, their blades gleaming like fangs in the dark.

You, Jason, Batman, Nightwing, and Red Robin fought side by side in a brutal, chaotic rhythm. Every movement was precise, every strike calculated. Jason's twin pistols barked loudly, forcing assassins into defensive retreats. Batman moved like a dark specter, disarming enemies with brutal efficiency. Red Robin was a blur of staff strikes and gadget-based precision, while Nightwing's electrified escrima sticks cracked like thunder through the air.

But they just kept coming.

For every assassin you put down, two more seemed to take their place, emerging from the thick shadows like something unstoppable.

Breathing heavily, you drove your elbow into an assassin's jaw, sending them crashing into the alley wall. Another charged at you from the side, but you twisted mid-step, driving your knee into their chest and sending them sprawling.

Jason fired a well-placed shot at an advancing swordsman, barely glancing back as he shouted, "We can't hold this position much longer!"

Batman growled, blocking a pair of incoming blades with his armored gauntlets before disarming his attacker with a vicious twist. "We fall back together. Stay—alert!"

But as you staggered back into formation, you felt it.

That familiar pulse thrumming in your chest—the power you'd spent years suppressing, forcing down, pretending it didn't exist. It surged, burning beneath your skin like molten fire, begging to be unleashed.

Another wave of assassins advanced, eyes cold and deadly. Their relentless precision... their sheer numbers... you knew there was no escape without making a choice.

No more running.

You clenched your fists, gritting your teeth as the power surged through your veins—hot and demanding. The ground beneath your feet trembled faintly as energy began coiling around you, rising with intensity.

Jason noticed first. "What the hell—?" he muttered, glancing back at you with wide, confused eyes.

Then it happened.

Your eyes blazed a fierce, radiant yellow, glowing like molten embers in the dark. Your fists shimmered with the same golden light, illuminating the rain-soaked alley in a blazing, pulsing aura of energy.

The assassins hesitated, visibly faltering for the first time.

Batman's sharp gaze snapped toward you, his mind already assessing, calculating—but even he seemed momentarily taken aback.

Without another word, you moved.

The first assassin surged toward you with deadly intent, twin blades flashing. You met him head-on, driving a glowing fist into his chest with tremendous concussive force. The shockwave from the impact sent him flying backward like a ragdoll, crashing through a stack of metal crates with a deafening CRASH.

Another assassin lunged from behind—silent, precise—but you twisted sharply and let them hit you.

Steel met skin.

The assassin's katana came down hard against the back of your head—only to shatter against your glowing aura like brittle glass. You didn't even flinch.

Jason's mouth dropped open. "Holy—"

Before the shattered blade hit the ground, you spun on your heel, catching the stunned assassin by the collar. With inhuman strength, you hurled him over your shoulder, sending him skidding across the rain-slick pavement.

Three more assassins charged—but you were faster.

With fluid, precise agility, you flipped over them in one smooth, powerful motion, landing just behind their formation. Before they could react, you lashed out with rapid, thunderous punches, each strike powered by raw concussive force. One by one, they crumpled like broken marionettes, groaning in pain as they hit the ground.

"What the hell..." Red Robin breathed, eyes wide, staff lowered momentarily.

From the rooftop, another assassin hurled a cluster of throwing stars with deadly precision—but your glowing eyes tracked them easily.

Too slow.

You sidestepped effortlessly, dodging the projectiles with perfect precision before launching forward like a streak of lightning. With one explosive strike, you drove your glowing fist into the assassin's chest, sending them crashing through a rusted fire escape ladder, twisting the metal on impact.

Nightwing muttered under his breath, "I'm definitely not putting this in the report."

The last assassin standing hesitated, visibly shaken—but before they could retreat, Jason raised one of his pistols with cold, lethal intent. "Don't even think about it," he snarled.

The assassin wisely dropped his blade, collapsing to his knees in surrender.

For a long, tense moment, the alley fell into silence, broken only by the faint crackle of electricity still shimmering around your glowing fists. The faint pulse of your energy slowly dimmed, flickering out as your breath slowed.

Jason, Red Robin, and Nightwing stared, still processing what they'd just seen.

Batman's piercing gaze locked onto you—cold, analytical, and deadly serious. Whatever calculations he'd been running in his mind just shifted dramatically.

Then... the faintest rustle echoed from the far end of the alley.

You spun around—but Talia al Ghul was gone.

Vanished.

Only the faint outline of her form remained in the falling rain, swallowed by the shadows as if she'd never been there at all.

Your glowing fists dimmed completely as you exhaled slowly, wiping sweat from your brow—but the looks from the Bat-family remained.

Jason broke the silence first, his voice low and rough.

"...The hell... was that?"

Red Robin stepped forward, still stunned. "That's why they want you." His voice dropped with dawning understanding. "They weren't just after your skills... they were after that."

Nightwing crossed his arms, lips tightening as he processed what he'd seen. "You're not just some ex-League runaway." His eyes gleamed with something deeper—worry. "You're a weapon."

Batman's voice cut through the air like a blade—cold, calculating, dangerous.

"Start talking," he commanded, his gaze locked on yours. "What are you?"

You met their stares head-on, your voice steady despite the weight of what just happened.

"I'm not what they made me."

But even you weren't sure how much longer that would be true.

The Batcave was cold, vast, and dimly lit, illuminated only by the bluish glow of the massive Batcomputer and the low flicker of overhead work lights. The faint sound of dripping water echoed through the cavern's endless expanse, mingling with the distant hum of advanced technology. The sharp, metallic scent of the cave's reinforced platforms and tactical gear filled the air.

You stood in the center of the operations platform, arms crossed, refusing to sit despite Jason's earlier gruff suggestion. Tension crackled like static between you and the Bat-family surrounding you—watching, assessing, waiting.

Batman loomed near the Batcomputer, his imposing figure partially obscured by the shadows of his cape. Nightwing stood to his right, arms crossed, his piercing blue eyes unreadable but focused. Red Robin paced near the console, fingers lightly grazing the hilt of his staff as he processed what little information you'd shared. Jason—Red Hood—stood closest to you, his expression sharp, still radiating frustration but tempered by something else... something protective.

The weight of their stares pressed down on you, heavy and unrelenting. They wanted answers—but you weren't ready to give them.

"You need to start talking," Batman said, his deep, commanding voice cutting through the thick silence like a blade. His intense gaze locked onto yours, unreadable but calculating. "Who are you to the League?"

You clenched your jaw, refusing to flinch. "I'm no one to them. Not anymore."

Jason growled lowly, stepping forward. "They sent an army after you—Talia personally showed up. Don't stand there and act like you're nobody."

Before you could respond, a sharp, familiar voice rang out from the shadows near the far entrance.

"He's not 'nobody.'"

Everyone turned as Damian Wayne—Robin—strode toward the group, his green cape flowing behind him, his expression cold and unforgiving. His gloved hands were clenched, and there was something almost... triumphant in his piercing green eyes.

Batman's brow furrowed slightly. "Damian—"

"I know exactly who he is." Damian came to a stop a few feet away from you, his sharp gaze locking onto yours with something between contempt and twisted respect.

"His name... is Kai." His voice was low but cutting. "He was Ra's al Ghul's most guarded secret—a weapon the League tried to perfect but couldn't control."

Jason and Dick exchanged sharp, stunned glances. Red Robin's fingers tightened on his staff.

"What are you talking about?" Jason demanded.

Damian's lip curled faintly. "He was trained in the League's deepest sanctuaries—places even I wasn't allowed to enter. They called him the Chi Warden." His voice dripped with bitter acknowledgment. "The only student who ever mastered the forbidden teachings of Chi Manipulation."

Batman's gaze darkened. "Explain."

Damian's tone remained cold and clinical. "The League trained him to harness life energy itself—Chi." He gestured toward you with a sharp flick of his wrist. "He doesn't just fight—he amplifies his strength, speed, endurance... even his mind. Every punch he throws—every movement—is charged with devastating power."

Red Robin's eyes widened slightly. "That's... impossible." His voice was quiet but shaken.

Damian's expression remained harsh. "Not for him." His gaze narrowed further. "The assassins didn't come to kill him. They came to retrieve him—because he's their greatest asset."

Jason swore under his breath, his eyes burning with new understanding.

You stood rigid, your fists clenched at your sides. The truth was out—again. No more running. No more pretending.

"You didn't tell us this," Nightwing said quietly, disappointment flickering in his tone.

"I don't owe you anything," you shot back, your voice rough with pent-up frustration. "I'm not with them—I left!"

Damian took a threatening step closer. "The League doesn't just let people go. They'll hunt you until they get what they want."

Jason snapped, stepping between you and Damian with sudden, fiery intensity. "You're the reason they're here in the first place!" His voice was sharp with blame. "You couldn't leave this alone—you called them here!"

Damian's eyes flashed with defiance. "I was protecting Gotham."

Jason surged forward, his voice low and dangerous. "You unleashed a war on Gotham—all because you couldn't accept being wrong."

Before the situation could escalate, Batman's voice cut through like a thunderclap.

"Enough."

The room fell into tense silence.

Batman's gaze remained locked on Damian, his voice low and deadly calm. "Jason's right. You escalated this." His tone turned cold. "And now it's our responsibility to fix it."

Damian's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Batman turned to face you fully, his expression unreadable but final.

"From this point forward... you're under our protection."

Your eyes widened, and you bristled.

"I don't need your protection," you growled, your fists clenching. "I'm not some helpless target—"

"You are now," Batman interrupted harshly, his cape shifting as he stepped forward. "The League won't stop. They'll come at you again... and next time, they won't hold back."

You took a sharp step toward him, refusing to back down. "Let them try. I've survived worse."

Jason grabbed your arm, his voice rough but sincere. "You don't have to anymore."

You yanked your arm away, breathing heavily, feeling that familiar, burning power stir in your chest.

Nightwing's voice softened as he stepped closer. "You've been fighting this alone for too long." His eyes were steady but understanding. "Let us help."

You looked around, still tense—still not ready to trust—but you saw something in their faces that caught you off guard.

Belief.

Not fear. Not suspicion.

Just... belief.

After a long, heavy moment, you let out a slow, reluctant breath.

"I don't need you," you said quietly—but the fight had drained from your voice.

Jason smirked faintly, something softer in his sharp gaze. "Maybe not... but you've got us anyway."

The cavern fell silent, but this time... the tension felt different.

It felt... lighter.

The Batcave remained eerily quiet after the intense confrontation with the Bat-family. The faint hum of the Batcomputer's advanced systems echoed through the cavernous space, accompanied by the occasional drip of water from the towering stalactites. You stood near the massive central platform, still tense, still processing everything that had just happened — the fight, the truth about the League's pursuit, and the Bat-family's sudden decision to protect you, whether you liked it or not.

Jason hovered nearby, his sharp blue eyes constantly flicking toward you, watching for any sign of unease. Though he'd never admit it out loud, there was a hint of understanding in his gaze, tempered by the same guarded wariness you saw in all of them.

You crossed your arms, shifting uncomfortably as Batman, Nightwing, and Red Robin stood in a small formation a few feet away, speaking in low, urgent tones. Even from where you were standing, you could feel Batman's intense presence — unreadable, commanding, calculating. His cape hung like a shadow around him, making him seem larger, more imposing.

Nightwing broke from the conversation first, his sharp, perceptive eyes flicking toward you as he approached, arms relaxed but his posture still alert.

"You're gonna be staying here for now," he said smoothly, gesturing toward the massive stone staircase leading deeper into the Batcave. "It's... safer than anywhere else in Gotham."

Your eyebrows rose slightly, skepticism clear on your face. "You're just... letting me stay here? In your base?"

Jason snorted quietly. "Trust me, this wasn't a group vote." His sharp gaze cut toward Batman, whose attention remained fixed on the Batcomputer.

Nightwing offered a faint, knowing smirk. "Think of it as... protective custody. At least until we figure out what the League's next move is."

Red Robin joined the conversation, adjusting one of his gauntlets as he approached. "You're still a security risk," he admitted bluntly. "But if the League's after you... keeping you out there is a bigger one."

You exhaled slowly, still processing, still unsure if this was some kind of elaborate setup. Before you could respond, movement from the far side of the cave caught your attention.

An older, refined man in a crisp suit descended the stairs with a quiet grace, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. His presence was calm but commanding in a way that felt almost regal.

"Master Jason, Master Timothy," he greeted smoothly, his sharp eyes flicking toward you without missing a beat. "I see our guest is still in one piece."

Jason rolled his eyes. "Barely."

The older man turned toward you, offering a polite, knowing smile. "I am Alfred Pennyworth. Consider me... the caretaker of this establishment." His tone was precise but warm, holding the weight of someone used to commanding both respect and loyalty.

"...You're their butler?" you asked, still unsure how he fit into the picture.

Jason smirked. "He's a lot more than that."

Alfred nodded graciously. "I assure you, I've worn many hats in my time." His sharp gaze swept over you briefly, assessing in a way that reminded you far too much of Batman. "Follow me, if you would."

Before you could argue, Jason gestured for you to move. "Come on. We've got a room set up... temporarily," he added pointedly.

With no real option, you followed Alfred and Jason up the winding metal staircase that led out of the vast, intimidating cavern. The faint hum of the Batcomputer's systems faded into the distance, replaced by the subtle creaks of the old stone walls and distant echoes of water dripping far below. You were still struggling to wrap your head around everything—the fight with the League, Talia's pursuit, and now... this.

As you were walking, you noticed Jason glance at you sideways.

"...So," he said casually, his tone almost conversational, "figured out who he is yet?" He nodded toward the central platform, where Batman continued working at the Batcomputer.

You frowned. "Batman?"

Jason's smirk widened just a bit. "Bruce Wayne."

You stopped dead, processing the name like a bolt of lightning. Bruce Wayne. Billionaire. CEO of Wayne Enterprises. Gotham's most famous man.

"That—what?!" you hissed, your voice low but sharp.

Jason shrugged with practiced nonchalance. "Yeah. Not exactly subtle if you know what to look for."

Bruce Wayne is Batman.

The thought echoed in your mind, refusing to settle. You'd always known Gotham was built on shadows and secrets, but this? Gotham's richest, most untouchable billionaire secretly being its most feared vigilante... it felt unreal.

Jason walked ahead with a practiced ease, his broad shoulders relaxed, though his sharp eyes kept flicking back toward you. He was watching—not out of suspicion, but out of something else... maybe concern, though you doubted he'd admit it.

Alfred led the way with an air of calm efficiency, his polished shoes clicking softly against the stone steps as the three of you ascended toward Wayne Manor above. His posture was precise, his expression unreadable—but there was something almost protective about how he carried himself.

You finally reached a reinforced door at the top of the staircase, seamlessly blending into the stone wall. Alfred pressed a concealed panel, and with a soft hiss, the heavy door slid open, revealing the grand interior of Wayne Manor.

Warm light bathed the grand hall ahead, in stark contrast to the cold, mechanical glow of the Batcave. Polished wood floors gleamed under the soft glow of antique chandeliers. Ornate paintings lined the walls, framed in dark, rich mahogany. The air was warmer, almost comforting, with the faint scent of aged leather and something faintly floral lingering in the background.

You stepped through cautiously, still half-expecting something dark or dangerous—but instead, you were greeted by the quiet elegance of one of the grandest homes in Gotham.

Jason smirked faintly as he saw the way your eyes flicked across the lavish surroundings. "Weird, right?" he said casually. "Going from a death-trap cave to... this." He waved vaguely at the massive foyer. "Takes some getting used to."

You stayed quiet, still taking it all in as Alfred paused in the hall, turning back toward you with his usual calm precision.

"Your accommodations have already been prepared," he said smoothly, gesturing toward the grand staircase at the far end of the foyer. "If you would follow me..."

Jason shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "Welcome to Wayne Manor." His tone was light, but there was something deeper beneath it... something that felt like acceptance.

You hesitated for a moment before following them up the staircase, still uneasy but no longer fighting it.

The second floor of Wayne Manor was just as grand as the first—long hallways lined with intricate wood paneling, elegant carpets, and large, decorative windows that overlooked the expansive, moonlit estate grounds.

As you reached the top of the stairs, you spotted two familiar figures waiting near the far end of the hall—Nightwing and Red Robin.

Or rather... Dick Grayson and Tim Drake.

Dick was casually leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his signature easygoing grin already in place. Tim stood more rigidly, his sharp, calculating eyes flicking toward you with clear curiosity—but there was no hostility there... only analysis.

"Finally," Dick said with a mock sigh, pushing off the wall and striding toward you. "Took you guys long enough." He extended a hand, his grin widening. "Guess we skipped formal introductions down there. Dick Grayson."

You blinked, still processing as you slowly shook his hand. "Nightwing," you muttered under your breath.

Dick smirked. "Only on weekends."

Tim approached next, his demeanor more reserved but still respectful. He tugged back his hood, revealing sharp, intelligent features beneath dark, slightly tousled hair.

"Tim Drake," he introduced simply, his tone more serious. "Red Robin."

Before you could even begin processing that, Jason snorted from behind you. "Yeah, they're real subtle about the whole 'secret identity' thing."

You shot him a sharp look. "You live here. I figured you'd be more careful."

Jason shrugged with a faint smirk. "At this point? You're in the middle of the biggest secret in Gotham. Figured you'd put two and two together eventually."

Your head was still spinning. Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Tim Drake... Jason Todd. Gotham's wealthiest family... also its most dangerous protectors.

Tim's gaze lingered on you thoughtfully, as if calculating something. "We've trusted you this far," he said evenly. "Figured you should know who you're working with."

Before you could respond, Alfred smoothly gestured toward a door at the far end of the hall. "Your room is just through here." He unlocked the door with a quiet click and stepped aside.

Jason waved you forward. "Go on. Take a look."

You hesitated for a moment before stepping inside... and paused.

The room was... unexpected.

The space was large but not overwhelming, with tall windows framed by thick, heavy curtains that could be drawn shut for privacy. A sturdy, well-crafted bed sat against the far wall, its dark wood frame polished to perfection. A simple but elegant desk and chair rested near the window, accompanied by a fully stocked bookshelf filled with everything from classic novels to tactical manuals.

The room felt... lived-in somehow, like it wasn't just a place to sleep but somewhere to belong.

You turned back toward them, still processing. "This... is for me?"

Alfred inclined his head politely. "Temporarily, of course. Until the situation with the League is resolved." His voice softened slightly. "Though I assure you... you will be safe here."

Jason's expression flickered with something more serious for a brief moment. "It's better than whatever dump you were staying in before."

You looked at Jason with a raised eyebrow, “We live in the same apartment building.”

Jason couldn't argue with that.

Alfred offered a faint, approving smile. "I trust everything is... satisfactory?"

You nodded slowly, still overwhelmed. "It's... fine."

Dick chuckled softly. "You'll get used to it." He clapped Jason on the shoulder as he passed. "Try to be a decent roommate, huh?"

Jason rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah."

Before leaving, Alfred fixed you with a pointed, knowing look. "Trust... is earned," he said quietly. "From both sides."

With that, they left, leaving you alone in the quiet warmth of the room.

For the first time in... longer than you could remember... you felt something you thought you'd lost.

Safe.

The quiet stillness of Wayne Manor settled heavily over its grand halls, broken only by the occasional creak of the old wooden beams shifting with the wind. The moonlight filtered faintly through the large, arching windows, casting long, pale beams across the darkened corridors.

Jason wasn't the type to sleep easily—never had been. Restlessness was practically second nature after everything he'd been through. The night clung to him like an old, familiar coat, wrapping him in its dark embrace.

But tonight felt different.

His eyes snapped open, breath steady but sharp, instinct kicking in before his mind could fully process what woke him. He lay still for a moment, his senses on high alert, listening for anything wrong.

Nothing. No footsteps. No creaking doors. Just the faint rustling of wind against the large windows.

He exhaled slowly and ran a hand down his face, trying to push down the uneasy feeling crawling under his skin. Something about tonight didn't sit right.

His gaze drifted toward the glowing red numbers on the clock across the room: 2:47 AM.

"Damn it," he muttered, throwing off the blankets and sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees. He stared down at the worn scars on his calloused hands, trying to shake the unease that wouldn't let go.

It's fine, he told himself. He's fine.

But he couldn't convince himself.

Jason stood abruptly, pulling on a worn hoodie over his plain T-shirt. His boots barely made a sound against the polished wooden floors as he slipped into the dimly lit hallway, his sharp blue eyes flicking toward every dark corner out of old habit. His hand rested instinctively near the hidden knife holstered at his back—not because he expected trouble, but because... just in case.

He approached the door to your room at the far end of the second floor, pausing just outside. His fingers grazed the cold brass handle, hesitation tightening his chest.

He shouldn't check. You were probably asleep, and barging in like a paranoid guard dog would only make things worse.

But something felt... wrong.

Jason turned the handle quietly, easing the heavy wooden door open just far enough to peer inside—and froze.

The room was empty.

The bed was still neatly made, the blankets untouched. The soft glow from the distant moon spilled across the empty desk and darkened shelves, highlighting how utterly vacant the room was.

His breath hitched. His heartbeat kicked into overdrive.

"Damn it," Jason hissed, fully stepping inside, his sharp gaze scanning every inch of the room for any signs of struggle—or escape. But there was nothing.

He moved quickly, checking the adjoining bathroom and the walk-in closet—both empty.

Jason clenched his fists, his mind already racing with worst-case scenarios. He reached for the commlink in his ear instinctively—but stopped.

No... calling in the others would only make things worse if it turned out to be nothing.

But what if it wasn't?

Jason turned on his heel, already striding back toward the main hall, ready to scour the entire manor inch by inch if he had to—until—

"Looking for something, Master Jason?"

Jason spun toward the familiar, steady voice coming from the dimly lit corridor behind him.

Alfred stood calmly at the base of the grand staircase, perfectly composed despite the late hour. His sharp, discerning eyes flicked toward Jason with quiet understanding, arms neatly clasped behind his back as though this was all expected.

Jason exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand down his face. "Where the hell is he?" His voice was low but tense.

Alfred inclined his head toward the large windows at the end of the hall, where the faint glow of moonlight shimmered through the thin curtains.

"He's outside," Alfred said smoothly, his tone warm but firm. "I thought it best to let him be... considering the circumstances."

Jason's eyes narrowed. "Outside?" His voice edged with frustration. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Alfred arched a single, perfectly composed eyebrow. "You were... resting, Master Jason. I thought it best not to disturb you unnecessarily."

Jason opened his mouth to argue—but stopped himself. There was no use. Alfred always had the upper hand in these conversations, no matter how tense the situation.

Jason let out a slow breath, tension bleeding from his shoulders. "Where outside?"

Alfred's faint, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "The gardens. Near the old stone bench by the eastern courtyard."

Jason hesitated for a moment longer before nodding sharply and heading toward the nearest exit leading to the gardens. His boots clicked softly against the polished floor as he strode toward the back entrance, pushing open the heavy double doors with a quiet creak.

The cold night air hit Jason like a sharp, refreshing wake-up call. The quiet serenity of the gardens stretched out before him, bathed in pale moonlight. The old stone pathways wound through immaculately maintained flower beds and towering oak trees swaying gently in the cool breeze.

Jason's sharp gaze scanned the courtyard immediately, looking for any signs of movement—and then he saw you.

You sat on the edge of a weathered stone bench near a small reflecting pool, partially hidden beneath the sprawling branches of an old oak tree. The soft glow of moonlight bathed your face, highlighting the distant, contemplative expression in your eyes.

You sat perfectly still, elbows resting on your knees, fingers laced together as though lost in thought... or memory.

Jason exhaled slowly, his pulse finally steadying. You were fine.

He approached carefully, boots crunching softly over the gravel path. You didn't react at first, too deep in your own thoughts—until Jason's familiar voice cut through the quiet.

"Could've mentioned you were sneaking out," he said gruffly, though his tone lacked its usual edge.

You glanced up, blinking in faint surprise, but your expression softened slightly when you saw him.

"Couldn't sleep," you said quietly, your voice steady but distant. "Didn't want to... stay inside."

Jason slowly sat down on the opposite end of the bench, resting his forearms on his knees as he studied you carefully.

"...Didn't think you'd still be here," he admitted after a moment. "Figured you might've... run."

Your gaze dropped back to the still surface of the water. "I thought about it."

Jason nodded slowly, understanding. "But you didn't."

You sighed, the weight of everything still pressing down on your shoulders. "Where would I even go? They'll find me... no matter where I run."

Jason's sharp eyes softened just a fraction.

"They won't find you here," he said firmly. "We won't let them."

For the first time, you believed him—even if you weren't sure why.

And in the quiet stillness of the Wayne Manor gardens... the night finally felt calm, neither of you spoke. The tension stretched like a thin wire between you—charged and fragile.

Finally, you exhaled, breaking the heavy silence. "Why?"

Jason's brow furrowed slightly. "What?"

"Why do you care so much?" you asked again, your voice rough, tinged with frustration—but also... something more vulnerable. "You keep putting yourself in danger—for me. Why?"

Jason stiffened slightly, his shoulders tensing beneath his worn leather jacket. He opened his mouth, but you kept going, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

"You barely know me, Jason. You didn't have to help me—any of this. You could've walked away... but you didn't." You shook your head, frowning. "So... why? Why do you care?"

Jason's expression darkened for a moment, like he was fighting something inside himself. His jaw clenched, his fingers twitching like he wanted to do something—but he forced himself to stay still.

He took a slow, measured breath before finally speaking, his voice low and rough. "...Because I get it."

You blinked, momentarily thrown off by the quiet intensity in his voice.

Jason's gaze dropped to the ground, his hands flexing into tight fists. "I know what it's like... to be hunted. To feel like you're never safe." His voice turned sharper, edged with something raw and personal. "Like you're always looking over your shoulder... wondering how long you've got before someone finds you."

Your chest tightened, his words cutting deeper than you expected.

Jason lifted his head, his piercing blue eyes locking onto yours—intense, unwavering.

"I know what it's like... to think you're only worth what they made you. Like you'll never be anything but the weapon they tried to turn you into." His voice dropped lower, rough but sincere. "But you're wrong. You're more than that."

You stared at him, throat tight, unable to speak—but he wasn't done.

Jason scooted closer, his voice softer now—real, stripped of its usual sarcasm and bravado.

"You're not alone in this. You never have to be." His expression softened—not in pity, but in something far deeper. "I care, because... you're someone I want to fight for."

His voice dropped to a near whisper. "You're someone I... care about."

The words landed heavily between you, charged with something undeniable. No bravado. No lies. Just truth.

Your breath hitched, and for a long moment, you couldn't speak—couldn't move.

Jason's sharp eyes softened just a fraction, his expression still guarded—but there was hope there, too, hesitant but real.

The quiet between you felt like its own language—something shared in the stillness of the night.

Without thinking, without planning, you took a shift over, closing the small distance between you. Jason's breath hitched slightly, his eyes widening just a fraction—but he didn't pull away.

Slowly, carefully, you reached up, resting a hand against his chest, feeling the steady, strong rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your fingers.

And then... you kissed him.

It wasn't hurried or desperate—it was steady, deliberate... grounding. A silent acknowledgment of everything neither of you could put into words.

Jason inhaled sharply, his body stiffening for just a second—but then he melted into it, his hands hovering near your sides as though unsure if he was allowed to hold on—or if he even deserved to.

But he didn't pull away.

For a few long, perfect seconds... nothing else existed.

When you finally pulled back, your breath mingling in the cool air, Jason's eyes stayed locked on yours—stunned, soft, and... open.

You let your fingers linger on his chest for just a moment longer before leaning back, exhaling slowly as reality settled back in.

Jason's voice was rough, barely above a whisper. "...You didn't have to do that."

"I know," you said quietly, your voice steady but soft. "I wanted to."

His lips twitched faintly—almost a smile—but something deeper flickered in his intense gaze... something that meant more than words ever could.

Before either of you could say anything more, you stood up and took step back, turning toward the darkened path leading deeper into the gardens.

Jason's hand almost twitched toward you... but he let you go.

"Goodnight, Jason," you said softly, your voice steady—this time, without fear.

Jason sat there in the quiet stillness, watching you disappear into the shadows of the garden path—still feeling the lingering warmth of your touch and the weight of your words.

And for the first time in a long time... he let himself hope.

The grand dining room of Wayne Manor was bathed in soft morning light spilling through the tall, arched windows. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries drifted faintly through the air, though the table's occupants seemed far too tense to notice.

Bruce stood at the head of the long mahogany dining table, clad in his usual sharp, tailored suit. His commanding presence was as steady and immovable as ever, his intense, calculating gaze fixed on a holographic display projected from a slim tablet resting on the polished surface.

Jason sat a few seats down, leaning back with his arms crossed, his sharp blue eyes flicking between Bruce and the screen with thinly veiled impatience. His leather jacket was still slightly scuffed from the previous night's battle, though he didn't seem to care—or even notice.

Across from him, Tim sat with perfect posture, fingers steepled thoughtfully under his chin, his expression calm but deeply analytical. His mind was clearly already racing through the layers of Bruce's emerging strategy.

Damian stood near the window, his arms folded neatly across his chest, his sharp, calculating green eyes cold but focused. He listened in silence, but there was something guarded in his stance—as if he was waiting for the perfect moment to interject.

And then there was you.

You sat toward the center of the long table, still processing the events of the past few days—the brutal fight with the League, Talia's dark promise, and the revelation of your past as their so-called "Chi Warden." You could still feel the faint hum of power lingering beneath your skin—a constant reminder of what the League wanted you to be... and what you'd refused to become.

Your gaze drifted subtly toward Jason, catching the faint glimmer of something soft in his usually sharp, guarded eyes. His expression was neutral, but there was something there—a quiet, steady reassurance. An anchor.

You exhaled slowly and forced yourself to focus as Bruce cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention back to the projection.

"We can't eliminate the League as a threat," Bruce began, his deep, commanding voice echoing through the quiet room. "But we can sever their hold on you."

His eyes flicked toward you briefly—not cold, not calculating—just certain.

"They'll keep coming," he continued, adjusting the holographic interface. "But if we dismantle their current leadership structure... disrupt their resources... and cut off their intelligence networks—"

"Talia," Jason interrupted bluntly, his voice rough with frustration. "You mean we need to take her down."

Bruce's expression remained unreadable, though a faint flicker of acknowledgment passed through his sharp eyes. "Talia is the immediate threat... but removing her won't be enough." His voice dropped lower. "The League doesn't stop because one leader falls. They adapt."

Jason scowled, fists tightening against the polished table. "So what—you're saying this could take months? Years?"

Bruce's piercing gaze remained steady. "Yes."

His answer hit the room like a cold, sharp blade. The silence that followed was thick with tension.

Jason shook his head sharply, clearly fighting the urge to explode. "We don't have that kind of time, Bruce."

"We do," Bruce countered firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "But only if we're smart. If we make one wrong move... he pays the price." His gaze flicked toward you, and for a brief moment, you saw something deeper in his expression—responsibility, determination. "We will end this... but we have to do it right."

Jason bit back whatever retort was burning on his tongue, his jaw tightening—but he stayed quiet, for now.

Damian, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke, his voice cold and precise.

"...Attacking them directly won't work." His tone was sharp, clipped, almost begrudging. "They'll expect it. They'll want you to come after them."

All eyes turned toward him as he stepped closer to the table, his sharp green gaze locked firmly on the projection.

"They know how you operate," he continued, his voice low but steady. "My mother... she'll anticipate every tactic you try." His expression darkened. "She trained me... and she created him." He nodded toward you without even glancing in your direction.

Your jaw clenched slightly at his words, but you held his gaze, refusing to flinch.

Damian's voice lowered even further, quiet but deadly serious. "The only way to beat her... is to be unpredictable. Strike where she doesn't expect it."

Bruce's expression didn't change, though something faint shifted behind his eyes—consideration.

Jason let out a harsh breath, still visibly tense but... thoughtful now.

Tim nodded slowly, processing. "He's... right. If we follow the League's rules, we'll lose." His sharp gaze flicked toward Bruce. "We need to think... differently."

Bruce's mouth tightened slightly, though he didn't argue.

As the room fell back into tense, thoughtful silence, your gaze drifted back toward Jason again. His sharp features were still etched with frustration, his fists clenched against the table—but there was something... softer beneath the anger.

He felt you watching him and slowly lifted his eyes to meet yours—steady, unwavering.

For a long moment, the room, the tension, the plan—it all faded into the background.

His expression softened just slightly—only for you. It wasn't much... but it was enough.

You allowed yourself a small, faint breath—relief, trust.

And then Bruce's commanding voice cut through the air once again, grounding you both back into the mission.

Bruce turned toward you fully, his voice calm but firm. "Until we can neutralize their reach... you stay here. Under our protection."

You bristled immediately, sitting up straighter. "I don't need protection. I've survived this long without you."

Jason opened his mouth—ready to argue—but Bruce raised a hand, silencing him with a single sharp gesture.

"This isn't up for debate," Bruce said coldly, his piercing gaze locking onto yours. "You're not alone anymore. They will come for you... and this time, they won't stop."

Your fists clenched, power flickering faintly beneath your skin—a familiar, dangerous heat.

"I can fight," you growled, your voice rough but certain. "I'm not helpless."

Jason's voice cut through, rough but steady. "We know."

You turned toward him, caught off guard by the certainty in his tone.

Jason leaned forward, his sharp blue eyes burning with quiet determination. "But you don't have to fight this alone. Not anymore."

His words hit harder than you expected, cutting through your defenses like a blade. For the first time in years, you felt something you thought you'd lost—

Hope.

Now nothing’s the same PT. 2 | Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

Summary: It’s been two weeks, and you still can’t face Mark. Can’t hear his voice, can’t stand his face, can’t bear his touch—because everything about him reminds you of the things you’ll never have again. Of the lines you weren’t supposed to cross. Of all the things that will never be the same.

Pairing: Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

Warnings: 18+, very brief mention of SA (but it’s a misunderstanding), dry humping/frottage, oral (Mark receiving), anal sex, anal fingering, belly bulge.

Tags: There’s more plot than porn but there IS porn (eventually), so—Porn with Plot, Reader is highkey not okay, self-hatred, extreme guilt and shame, misunderstandings, light angst, fluff, getting together, morning sex, Top!Mark, Bottom!Reader.

w.c: 22.2k  |  a/n: English isn’t my first language, so sometimes the tenses might be a little inconsistent in the flashbacks! I got kind of lost in my own narrative style (why did I do this to myself? lol). Anyway, it’s finally here. 20k+, baby. I’m honestly a little nervous because a lot of people were waiting for this one, and I really hope it lives up to what you were expecting. Also, thank you for the comments, the likes, the reblogs—I see every single one and they mean the world to me. Enjoy!!!

Part 1 | You're here

By the time your phone’s ringtone cuts out for the tenth time this night, you’re left staring at the screen with a hollow numbness.

The notifications glare back at you—missed calls in angry red, all bearing the same name, each one a fresh stab of guilt. Below them, a flood of unread messages piles up. You won’t open them. Can’t open them.

Because you’ve done the worst thing imaginable.

You betrayed Mark.

Mark, your best friend since fifth grade. The one who, along with William, had pulled you into their duo like you’d always belonged there. The person who laughed with you, stood by you, trusted you.

And you betrayed him.

Now, the mere thought of Mark makes your stomach churn with nausea. The shame is suffocating, a filth you can’t wash away, sinking into your skin like a brand. You feel disgusting. A monster. Because that night with his variant—the one who was all darkness and hunger and twisted devotion—exposed the worst parts of you. The pathetic, desperate parts. You’d poured every unrequited longing into a warped imitation of the boy you loved, because you were starved for it. For the way he looked at you. For the way he wanted you.

And that’s what sickens you most. How easily you gave in. How badly you wanted it. How, for just a fleeting moment, you let yourself believe that Mark could ever lov—

Your fingers dig into your hair, breath hitching.

No. You can’t face him. Can’t even answer a simple phone call—to what end? To hear the disgust in his voice? To confirm just how much he hates you now? To witness the exact moment your friendship shatters beyond repair?

(Vaguely, you remember the shattered window, the jagged shards of glass dispersed across your floor, dust swirling thick in the air.

And then you, thinking, oh he’s going to die.

But in that moment—still half-dazed, aching, your body heavy with the lingering aftermath of sex—you don’t know if you meant him. Mark. Your Mark. Your best friend, the one who has always been nothing but good to you. Or him. The other Mark. The one who took you apart with a smirk, the one who claimed you as if you were already his.

You knew the fight was inevitable. Knew one of them would kill the other. Knew it would be like watching an immovable object meet an unstoppable force.

And when the dust cleared from Mark’s thunderous landing, when you saw his murderous expression mirroring the alternate’s, when their identical hatred burned through the tension—

For one terrifying heartbeat, you couldn’t tell which was which.)

You throw yourself onto the bed, yanking the covers over your head like they could smother the memories—or the shame.

But no amount of hiding could erase the evidence still etched into your skin. The bruises that just wouldn’t fade even after two weeks. Deep purple and stubborn, they mapped every place he had touched, bitten, kissed. There wasn’t a single inch he’d left untouched. Of course not—he’d been thorough, murmuring your name in desperate whispers, sucking marks into your neck like he wanted to devour you whole.

You flinch, shaking your head to dispel the thoughts. The replay. But you did this often—remembered the rasp of not-your-Mark’s voice, the way his hands had gripped you with possessive desperation.

Because you’d liked it.

God, you’d loved it.

It had been a fantasy ripped straight from your most secret thoughts, and the proof still lingered on your body, both exhilarating and humiliating. Worse still was how your skin prickled at the memory. How even now, just thinking about that night makes heat coil deep in your gut, no matter how much you want to suppress it.

(Cecil Stedman would stand over you, his expression unreadable, hands clasped behind his back.

“Are you hurt?” he’d ask, eyes flicking over you, assessing.

You’d freeze, blood draining from your face as you realized—your fingers were fumbling with the collar of your hoodie, tugging it up, up, up, instinctively trying to hide the bite marks beneath.

They wouldn’t know. They couldn’t know.

The GDA agents had swept into your apartment just minutes after Mark had thrown his variant through your shattered wall with a punch that shook the building. By then, you’d already be fully dressed, face burning with shame and self-loathing, hating the way your legs still trembled from the lingering aftershocks of pleasure.

There was no way Cecil could know what had happened. No way Mark would have told him on his way here.

And yet—still, you’d shrink into yourself, pulling at your collar, crossing your arms tightly over your chest, yanking your hoodie’s hood low over your face. You’d eye everyone with barely restrained panic, thoughts spiraling—they’ll know, they’ll see, they’ll realize— 

“Don’t worry,” Cecil would say, sensing your unease. “Despite our differences, I know Mark always gives his all to protect the people he loves.” 

You’d flinch. Close your eyes. Shrink even further inward.

“…I know,” you’d murmur, voice hoarse and raw.

Cecil would interpret your withdrawn attitude as a trauma response or shock. He wouldn’t know the truth—you wouldn’t tell him. And the others in his team could only guess, while you tugged at your collar again, desperately trying to conceal the bruises blooming on your neck, the tremor in your legs, the ache in your body—the stickiness still drying on your thighs.

“Mark will take care of it,” Cecil would assure you. “No one can hurt you anymore.”

Yet, guilt would seize you by the throat.

Because the truth would weigh heavy on your tongue—how you had arched into those cruel hands, how you had begged him to take you, how the tremble in your body wasn’t from fear, but from the awful, shameful wanting still thrumming under your skin.)

Your throat bobbed as your fingers drifted to the darkest bruise on your neck, pressing down just to feel the ache. The pain was sharp, immediate—a reminder that it had been real. That he had been real.

And that you’d let him.

And fuck—if it doesn’t make your body tingle, heat up, and freeze all at once. If it doesn’t make you a horrible friend all over again. That’s why you’ve been ignoring Mark’s calls. Why, as your phone buzzes in the silence of your room, you refuse to pick up. Refuse to hear his voice. Refuse to stand before him.

Because now you know.

You know the way Mark’s kisses taste like. Know the shape of his body, the flex of his muscles as he moves over you. Know the sounds he makes when overcome with desire—the quiet gasps, the low groans, the desperate moans. Know the way his cock feels, hot and heavy, buried deep inside you, making you see stars and stealing every last bit of air from your lungs. You know the way his hands grip your hips, how perfectly your bodies slot together, the pressure building and building, the obscene slap of skin on skin as he fucks you into the mattress—

Jesus.

Your fingers twist in the sheets, body shuddering as the memories surged back—vivid, hungry. This is why you can’t face him. Because he knows what you did. You both do. How the hell can you ever look at Mark in the eye again? Knowing that now—now—you can never suppress your feelings again, never shove them back into the corner of your heart where they belonged. How do you face him when every glance sends your pulse racing? When your body remembers what it’s like to be loved by him—even if it wasn’t really him?

Just thinking about it makes you lose your grip, heart hammering, body shivering. Because it remembers.

And there’s no way in hell you’ll ever be able to forget.

That’s why you grab your phone, Mark’s name flashing for the nth time, and finally power it off.

The silence that follows is deafening. But the noise in your head doesn’t stop—the endless, pounding thoughts reminding you that you don’t deserve Mark. Not his kindness. Not his forgiveness. Hell, maybe not even his anger. Not the sharp edge of his accusations, not the fury in his screams.

You deserve nothing from him.

(“Nothing,” you’d answer, avoiding his piercing gaze as he studies your body. “It’s really nothing, Mark.”

You’d try to ignore the way his breath comes in sharp pants, the blood staining his suit, how his eyes seem wild with something you can’t place.

Right then, he would remind you too much of the other Mark—who walked into your apartment with that razor-sharp smirk, who ruined you after. Ironic, how now your Mark looks just the same. Only this time, the blood belongs to that version.

The fight’s over.

Your Mark stands victorious.

And deep down, you knew this was always how it would end. You knew he’d be the one left standing.

Still, somewhere beneath it all, you’d try not to think about his variant, who had whispered your name like a prayer just hours ago, gripping you like he couldn’t bear to let go.

“Nothing?” Mark would repeat, voice raw and cracked from exhaustion and the tension hanging between you two. “Y/N, you’re—you’re hurt. You need to get checked out—”

He’d step forward, arms reaching for you. But you’d flinch, stepping back, desperate need to put distance between you, because you feel filthy, disgusting, and you can’t let him touch you like this.

He’d freeze, hands hovering awkwardly in the air, his expression faltering between hurt and disbelief. Then his eyes would flicker to the exposed skin on your neck, to the wound where not-your-Mark had bitten you hard enough to draw blood, then to your lips, swollen and tender from his kisses, and finally to your eyes—red-rimmed, glistening with unshed tears.

Mark’s expression would twist. Just the slightest. Just enough to reveal the anger beneath the exhaustion.

“I wasn’t hurt,” you’d whisper, voice quiet, weak, barely holding together. But the shame would force the words out anyway—force you to confess, to lay yourself bare, to make him hate you. And with your face burning, throat tight, you’d add, so, so quietly— “And you know it.”

Mark would go silent, his shoulders sagging, face falling as if the weight of everything had drained the life out of him. And you—God, you’d want him to hate you. To finally look at you with the disgust you’ve earned. Punch me, you’d think as the silence stretches. Yell at me. Scream at me. Hate me.

But after what feels like an eternity, all he’d say is, “...I don’t—I don’t understand. Why—”

“Kid,” Cecil would interrupt from down the hall, voice clipped and irritated. “The fight’s not over. We’ve still got at least ten Invincibles around the world. Stop the chitchat and get back to work.”

But Mark wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t budge. Even when you couldn’t meet his eyes, he’d stay rooted there, mouth forming words that won’t come—

“Kid,” Cecil would repeat, louder.

And this time, Mark would turn, his broad back facing you, his expression hidden from view.

It’d be his voice—deliberately measured, controlled—that’d betray just how much he was holding himself together, like he was speaking through clenched teeth. “We’ll talk, Y/N. Alright? We’ll talk… later.”

And then he’d be gone, launching into the sky, leaving you behind with the suffocating need to be hated.

Because if he hated you, if he was furious, if he despised you—then it’d be so much easier to just walk away.)

“Fuck…” you whisper, the familiar sting settling deep in your chest, a raw, aching pain that makes you sink further into your mattress, wanting to disappear. “I screwed everything up, didn’t I? Fuck…”

Now, with your phone dead, no calls ringing through, no texts demanding your attention, you’re left alone with nothing but the desperation of your own thoughts, drowning in self-loathing and shame. You can’t stop thinking about everything you wish you could change. All the things that will never be the same.

William has been trying to reach you, too, these past few days. You’ve seen his messages pile up—confused at first, then worried, then frustrated when you vanished completely. And you know it’s not fair to him, disappearing without a word, without an explanation. But you can’t face any of it—not the mistakes, not the consequences, not even your friends.

Not Mark.

Because the embarrassment is unbearable. Because the guilt is eating you alive.

Even here, tucked away in this borrowed apartment with its unfamiliar walls and cold silence, you can’t escape it. After that night—after Mark tore through the walls, shattered your window, with the only mission to kill the variant who dared touch like that—you had no choice but to move somewhere new. Somewhere Mark didn’t know. It’s the only reason he hasn’t shown up yet—hasn’t hovered in front of your window demanding that long-overdue conversation.

With a heavy sigh, you bury your face in the pillow. If you can’t escape your thoughts awake, maybe sleep will silence them. That’s the lie you tell yourself, when loneliness settles into your chest like a second skin, its weight overshadowed only by the remorse festering in your mind.

And as consciousness slips away, you wish—not for the first time—that you’d never fallen in love with Mark Grayson in the first place.

When you wake up hours later, sweat clinging to your brow from dreams you can’t recall, it’s not the sun that rouses you.

It’s the sound.

A soft, rhythmic tapping—knuckles against glass. Insistent. Steady.

Your heart skips a beat as you jolt upright, body tense, sheets tangling around your legs as drowsiness evaporates. You scan the room, blinking hard, trying to convince yourself you imagined it— 

But there it is again.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Your muscles go rigid. Because this is the twentieth floor. No one should be knocking through the window.

You glance at the clock on your nightstand. Nearly six in the morning. The sky outside is still draped in gray. Just who in the world—

And then it hits you, the realization sinking in like cold ice.

Who else could it be?

Who else but the one person in the world you’ve been trying so damn hard to avoid—who could casually knock on your outside window like this, despite the fact you’re hundreds of feet above the ground?

Mark.

It must be him. It’s always him. Right outside your window grinning like an idiot and ready to tell you all about his day like it was the most important thing in the world.

But that was before.

Now you doubt he’s here to talk about his day.

You sit frozen, breath shallow, heart pounding like it’s trying to escape your chest. How the hell did he even find you?

Cecil swore—

(“Please,” you’d beg, hands clenched into tight fists. “Don’t tell Mark.”

It would be the third day since the Invincibles’ invasion and destruction, and Mark would still be out there—fighting, barely holding on, while you cowered in GDA safehouses. You’d already demanded a new home, a new phone—now you just needed Cecil’s silence.

“I can’t. He’s threatened me more times than I can count this month alone,” Cecil would grumble, rubbing his temples. “You think I can hide his best friend without a way to trace you? He’s gonna lose his shit.”

You’d hug yourself tighter. “I know… but he’ll understand it’s me who doesn’t want to—” see the disgust in his eyes or hear the betrayal in his voice “—talk.”

“The answer’s still no, kid,” Cecil’s tone would brook no argument. “From the way he reacted when I told him about the rogue Invincible heading your way? I wouldn’t want to know what he’d be capable of doing if I kept this from him.”

Your heart would stutter then freeze—shame and longing and self-loathing and love crashing over you in nauseating waves.

“Then...” you’d swallow around the lump in your throat. You dreaded the moment the fighting stopped, the moment Mark came looking for you, demanding answers. “Then… give him my number. That should be enough, right? If he’s worried, I’ll answer. But don’t tell him where I’m living now.”

Cecil would study you for a beat too long. Just as panic starts creeping up your spine—

“Fine.”

You’d blink. “Really? You swear?”

He’d sigh, long and insufferable, like he was so done with all this. “I swear. Now get out. I still have important shit to do—like saving the world.”

You wouldn’t waste a second, already turning on your heel, heart racing now that you knew you could walk away from Mark without having to deal with the shitty thing you’d done. Without explaining. You could pretend it never happened. Let him hate you for it—that’d be easier.

“But—” Cecil’s voice would stop you cold. When you glanced back, his gaze was piercing as steel. “The second he thinks you’re in danger and wants anything to do with it… the deal’s off.”

You’d process the warning for a moment—but then, you’d think… there’s no way Mark wouldn’t hate you now. There’s no way Mark would want anything to do with you now.

So you’d nod, knowing you’d be safe.

Because after the Invincibles came Conquest, and the aftermath of their fight, and the countless deaths... and you’d know that Mark had enough shit to worry about to even spare you a single thought.)

Fucking Cecil—he sold you out. It’s barely been two weeks. How could you possibly be in danger?

And yet, the tapping continues—more urgent now, almost frantic. You don’t need to look to know it’s Mark. You feel it. The way your skin prickles, the way your pulse stutters, your body shuddering as if it remembers.

He came for you. And maybe… maybe you always knew he would, no matter how many times you convinced yourself he’d hate you enough to never look back.

Still, your body locks up, sitting bolt upright in bed, torn between throwing the window open or sitting there, pretending you’re not home, praying he gets bored and leaves.

But the moment your feet slide to the floor, the second you stand, legs carrying you forward—your body already knows the answer. Because if Cecil gave him your address, that means Mark’s worried. That means he won’t leave. And more than that—You want to see him. Despite everything. Despite the shame, the guilt, the dread curling in your stomach like a cold fist.

Because god, you missed him. You miss him.

Your palms start to sweat, knees unsteady beneath you. But you take a breath—a deep, uneven breath—and decide to just do it. Hear him out. Let him yell. Let him cut you off. Just… rip off the fucking band-aid and move on.

With a trembling hand, you draw the curtain aside— 

And with your breath caught in your throat, you finally see him.

Mark’s reaction is immediate. One moment, his fist is raised, his expression twisted in anxious concentration, frozen mid-motion to knock again at your window. But then—his eyes widen, brows lift in surprise as his mouth falls slightly open.

“Y/N—” his voice comes muffled through the glass, both palms pressing flat against it like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. “Y/N, oh my god. It’s really you. I’ve—” a ragged gasp cuts him off, breath fogging the window between you. “Are you—fuck, are you okay? I’ve been—God, we’ve all been—William and Eve and—and everyone. You just stopped answering your phone and William couldn’t—and the texts wouldn’t get through—I thought maybe you were—”

His rambling cuts off abruptly when you flip the window lock and slide it open.

The sudden lack of barrier leaves Mark statue-still, his eyes darting across your face with alarming intensity. You notice the slight sheen in his eyes, the way his lips tremble as they part and close, his shoulder raising and falling, fast and shallow.

“I’m okay,” you mumble, staring at your feet. The concern in his voice feels like a knife twist. After everything, he shouldn’t still care this much. “I’m sorry.”

The words seem to shatter whatever trance Mark was in, because the next thing you know, he’s crossing the gap between you in the blink of an eye. You’re forced to step back, a huff escaping your lips as his arms wrap around you in a desperate, tight embrace.

“Oh my god...” he mumbles, voice barely above a whisper as he buries his face into the curve of your shoulder. “I’m glad—so glad you’re okay.”

Despite his words, no matter how relieved he sounds, your body tenses against him. Your arms stay stiff by your sides, refusing to return the hug. Mark notices immediately—of course he does. You can feel him stiffen, too—his breath catching when he notices how your body freezes up, the way you seem to pull away from him without moving an inch. In a flash, he’s pulling back, hands flying up in surrender like he’s been burned.

“F-fuck—sorry! I know I shouldn’t—after what... after him—” he winces, eyes snapping shut in frustration, like he can’t stand himself. “I—I just... needed to see you were safe.”

He glances away now, his shoulders sagging, the tension in his posture dissolving into something sad and small. His lips twist downward into a pitiful frown, and when he speaks again, it’s quieter.

“I’ll go. I get it. You don’t wanna see me anymore.”

Shit.

This isn’t how it was supposed to go.

Where’s the anger? The betrayal? The screaming match you’d braced yourself for?

You’d imagined this moment a hundred times—Mark bursting in, furious, disgusted, finally giving you the hatred you deserve. Not this... this crumbled version of him, respecting boundaries you never knew were there, looking at you like he’s the one who did something wrong.

It’s not fair.

You were ready for anger. You could’ve handled anger.

But not this.

Not Mark, sad.

Your hand moves on instinct—snapping out, grasping his wrist before he can float off again, knuckles white from how tightly you hold on.

“Don’t—” you choke, the word catching on a breath you didn’t mean to let go. “Don’t go.”

His breath catches audibly when you stop him. You feel the shift in his posture as he turns back toward you, his pulse jumping under your fingertips. When you dare a glance up, his gaze burns into yours with an intensity that steals your breath.

And fuck—no, you can’t do this. Can’t look at him, can’t face him. You were right to keep your distance. So, without thinking, you quickly avert your gaze, feeling the heat rush to your face—shame, embarrassment, self-loathing… you don’t know what it is anymore, but it’s making you burn, your cheeks flushed in a way you wish you could stop.

“We need to talk, right?” you force the words out, voice dry, cracking a little. “Then let’s talk.”

Even though you really, really don’t want to. But you owe him this. You’ve been avoiding this conversation long enough, running from it like a coward.

“Right,” he whispers softly, voice barely audible. “Let’s… talk.”

Yet neither of you say anything. The silence stretches between you, awkward and thick and heavy. That’s when you realize—your hand is still on his wrist. You let go like it burns, flustered and flinching back as if caught doing something you shouldn’t.

That’s when you really look at him.

He’s not wearing his  suit, nor his goggles. Just Mark Grayson, in a sweater and jeans, standing in your tiny room like a regular boy. He didn’t come here as a hero, just as your best friend. And judging by the way his hair’s a mess and his eyes are rimmed with exhaustion, he probably rushed. Probably didn’t think twice before threatening Cecil into giving up your location. Probably didn’t even try to hide who he was, flying all the way to the outskirts of the city at dawn, with nothing shielding his identity.

Anyone could’ve seen him. Anyone could’ve guessed who he was. But still, he came. All of that… just to be here with you. To find you. To make sure you were okay.

The silence shatters when you blurt out, “Are you okay? I wasn’t there when—with Conquest—” your voice cracks. “God, I’m sorry.” Another reminder of what a shitty friend you are. “I’m so sorry.”

Mark rubs at his neck, a familiar nervous gesture. “Don’t worry about it. Honestly? I’m glad you weren’t there. You shouldn’t have to see me... like that.”

You hum in response, eyes darting everywhere but him—walls, floor, the curtain still fluttering from when you opened the window. God, the awkwardness is suffocating. Why can’t you cut through it?

Then, quietly, Mark continues. “About… whatever happened. That day.” His voice is tentative, like he’s afraid even saying it might make you crumble. “You don’t have to talk about it. I get it. You’re probably—” he swallows thickly “—traumatized.”

Traumatized?

Your eyes flick up at him, blinking in confusion. “What?”

His eyes stay fixed on the floor. “I’ll give you all the time you need. And if you can’t ever—” a shaky breath. “If seeing me is too hard, I get that too.”

“Mark,” you shake your head, confusion tightening your chest. “What do you mean?” And then, dread begins to settle deep in your bones, a cold fist wrapping around your heart. “What… what do you think happened?”

He recoils like you’ve struck him, nearly stumbling back through the window frame. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again—

“Don’t make me say it.”

You freeze.

Brows draw together, thoughts racing, flipping through every possible thing he could mean—until you see it. The guilt carved into his face. The way he’s carefully keeping his distance, like he’s afraid to spook you. His eyes flick, just for a second, to your neck—where faint marks still linger, bites and kisses pressed into skin that’s long since stopped feeling warm. His expression darkens.

And then it hits you.

(You’d read his messages after the battle was settled—after the smoke cleared and the city stopped screaming.

One after the other, each one hit like a blow to the chest. Guilt. Remorse. Regret soaked into every word.

Mark (2:03 AM): I’m sorry I wasnt there

Mark (2:04 AM): I’m sorry I let it happen

Mark (2:06 AM): I should’ve been faster

Should’ve gotten u somewhere safe the moment we knew

(Missed Call - Mark - 2:07 AM)

Mark (2:18 AM): im sorry

can u pick up the phone?

Mark (2:22 AM): y/n

Mark (2:25 AM): ples

Mark (2:25 AM): please

(Missed Call - Mark - 2:33 AM)

Mark (3:37 AM): I’m sorry. Im sorry. Cecil said u didnt want to talk

Mark (3:39 AM): I get it...

Mark (3:45 AM): im sorry

shouldve never let this happen to u

Mark (3:47 AM): im sorry)

Suddenly, horribly, you understand.

“Oh my god, Mark,” you exhale, dragging both hands over your face as the heat floods in—burning shame, disbelief, something sick and sour twisting in your gut. “God… I don’t—I wasn’t—whatever you think happened to me, you’re wrong.”

Mark frowns. His lips press into a thin line, his jaw tightening. “What do you mean I’m wrong?” he says, voice low, tight with frustration. “Y/N—you don’t have to… I mean, if you’re trying to comfort me, or spare me, or whatever—”

“I wanted it!” the words spill out before you can stop them—louder, sharper than you intended.

But you need to say it. Need him to see you for what you really are—a disgusting, traitorous, filthy human being who took advantage of the situation. Who let himself melt at the first touch of hands that weren’t Mark’s but carried his face, his voice, his warmth. A hypocrite who’d spent years pretending your feelings were platonic, only to come undone the second some twisted reflection of Mark offered you everything you’d ever craved.

God, so this is why there’s no yelling, no accusations thrown at you. Because Mark—your Mark—still sees you as someone worth trusting. Someone worth protecting. Someone who, in his mind, must have been tricked, coerced, hurt. Even after listening whatever happened that night—the sounds of skin meeting skin, the desperate need in your voice as you begged the other Mark to make you come, to unravel you in his touch—he still thinks you’re the victim.

Shit. Shit.

Your arms fall limp at your sides, exposing the damning evidence purpling your throat. “That’s what you’re not getting,” you whisper, tears blurring your vision as you stare at the floor between you. “He didn’t force me. I let him. I—” your voice cracks “—I begged.”

Mark doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

And you can’t stop.

“You should hate me,” you choke out, and god, your voice sounds wrecked. “The person you think I am? That’s not real. I mean, look at me—” A wet, shuddering breath. “God, look at me. After everything I said about still being friends? Pathetic. I’m not your friend. I’m can’t be your friend,” your shoulders shake. You wrap your arms around yourself. “Just—just hate me already.”

You still won’t look at him. Can’t bring yourself to. The silence stretches, broken only by the wind whistling through the open window, raising goosebumps on your skin. And that silence—it feels worse than yelling would’ve.

Hot, heavy tears slide down your cheeks, burning against your skin. Because maybe now he sees it—what you are, what you did, and what you, even now, can’t fully regret. Because fuck, it felt good. So good.

And because you can’t even lie to yourself and say you wish it hadn’t happened, is exactly why Mark should walk away.

Why he should look at you with disgust.

Why he should despise you.

That’s why—

A warm hand cups your cheek.

Mark’s touch is featherlight, his thumb brushing just beneath your eye, catching a tear as it falls. The softness of it, the quiet gentleness of him touching you like you haven’t just shattered everything between you—it steals the breath right out of your lungs.

When you look up, confusion clear on your face, he simply says, “You know I hate when you cry.”

Your lip trembles, and a weak sob escapes before you can stop it. Of course. Even now, after everything, he offers kindness you haven’t earned.

Then he’s moving—stepping into your room. Into your space. Into you. Without hesitation, he pulls you into his arms, slow but sure, like he’s done a hundred times before. He tucks your head against his shoulder, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other rubs slow circles between your shoulder blades.

You melt into him almost instinctively, breath hitching in ragged gasps—like you’ve been drowning, and only now are you finally breaking the surface. But then doubt creeps in—hesitation lingers because you’re not sure you should be this close to Mark, should allow yourself this comfort. But despite everything, you slowly bring your arms around him, unsure but needing him more than you’ve needed anything in the past two long, empty two weeks since you ruined everything.

Because fuck—Mark is everything you’ve been craving. Because this is the Mark you know and love. The Mark you fell for. Gentle, kind, steady. Warm in a way that feels like safety.

And when you bury your face in the crook of his neck, his scent hits you—familiar and grounding—and it makes your head spin. His body, solid and real, holds you like you’re still someone worth holding onto.

“Y/N,” Mark says, voice low and rough, vibrating against your ear. “I could never hate you.”

You shudder as tears well up again—hot and blinding—spilling over as you squeeze your eyes shut. He’s too good. Too gentle. And it hurts.

His embrace is everything the other Mark’s wasn’t—steady instead of desperate, grounding instead of possessive. He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll break, like he sees you, and it’s unbearable.

“I know,” you whisper, voice muffled against his shoulder. “But you should.”

He pulls you closer at that, impossibly close, until there’s no space left between you. And you try—God, you try—not to notice. Not the heat of his hands tracing soft circles on your back. Not the way his breath ghosts along your ear and neck. Not the matching rhythm of your breathing, your heartbeats thudding in sync, chest to chest. You try to ignore it all. Because it’s too intimate. Too soon. Too much to handle when your body still remembers the weight of his—his—naked body against yours. The slide of sweat-slick skin, the hitch of breath against your ear, all breathy moans and hushed gasps.

“No,” Mark blurts suddenly, voice tight, shaking with regret. His fingers fist into the back of your shirt like he’s terrified you’ll pull away. “You should hate me. I was a total asshole to you, Y/N. For weeks. Months, even. And you were right. I wasn’t being fair to you. I ignored you, pushed you away, treated you like crap, and I didn’t even have the guts to tell you why.”

He swallows hard, his next words coming quieter, more broken.

“And then, when it really mattered, I couldn’t protect you. I failed you. You should hate me,” he exhales, his arms tightening around you ever so slightly. Then, in a single, intimate whisper right against your ear, Mark adds, “I’m sorry.”

The words lodge in your chest, unexpected and disarming. That tight knot of guilt loosens just enough to let you breathe.

I’m sorry. The words come so suddenly, so softly, that you almost miss them. You were supposed to be the one asking for forgiveness, the one weighed down by guilt and regret—not Mark.

What Mark did—keep you in this strange, distant limbo for weeks, barely speaking to you beyond polite conversation, and looking at you with a mix of discomfort, guilt, and something else you can’t quite place ever since the day you confessed your feelings—was never something you could truly blame him for.

You were the one who couldn’t keep it in. The one who let your feelings spill out and ruin everything. The one who wanted to still be his friend, desperate to keep him in your life, clinging to any scrap of him you could get.

You were the one who promised yourself you’d move on, who told Mark as much.

And then you ruined everything again.

Because the moment someone with Mark’s voice, Mark’s smile, Mark’s face reached for you, you didn’t stop him. You let yourself fall into him like he was this Mark—as if that made it okay. You let him touch you, claim you, own you in ways this Mark never did, never agreed to—while all you could do was gasp and beg for more.

God. And Mark’s the one saying sorry?

“I forgive you,” you say, the words slipping out faster than you can stop them—too eager, too willing to let months of confusion and pain be wiped away with a single breath.

But as you speak, you feel the wrongness of this moment. You can still feel the heat in your cheeks, the way your skin tingles where it touches his, the dizzying familiarity of his scent flooding your senses. Your body remembers. It remembers. Every place he touched you, every mark he left, every kiss still lingering like a brand. And even if it wasn’t him—wasn’t your Mark—it doesn’t matter.

Because your body doesn’t know the difference.

And you know, with sudden clarity, that this has to end.

“I forgive you, Mark,” you repeat, quieter this time. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s in the past.”

Maybe he hears it—that slight shift in your tone. The edge of something final curling around your words. Because then his arms tighten around you—not restraining, just holding. Just keeping you close a little longer.

“That means we’re still friends, right?” the question comes out muffled against your shoulder. You don’t need to see his face to picture the crease between his brows, the hesitant frown you’ve known since fifth grade. “Y/N?” His voice cracks. “Because I forgive you too. Whatever happened that night—” his breath hitches “—it’s in the past for me too, alright?”

You open your eyes. The morning sun is rising outside your open window, spilling pale light through the fluttering curtains. A breeze slips through and brushes against your skin, drying the last of your tears. There’s an odd calm in your chest now, the quiet certainty of a decision made.

For one lingering moment, you let yourself stay—letting the warmth of his body soak into yours, letting yourself pretend—just for a heartbeat—that things could be simple. That they are simple.

Then, gently, you pull away, slipping from his arms with predictable ease. Because of course he lets you go. Of course his hands fall open the instant you retreat, always respecting your boundaries, even now.

Mark stands still as you step back, gaze dropping to the floor, unwilling to meet his eyes.

Mark shifts uneasily. “Y/N...?”

“No.” The word comes out steadier than you feel. “We can’t be friends.”

Mark doesn’t respond right away. You can feel the weight of his confusion, the way he’s trying to process your words, replaying them in his mind as if he might’ve misheard.

“What?” he breathes, voice small and cracked.

You swallow hard, nails digging into your palms. “I can’t do it. I can’t pretend everything’s fine. I can’t go back to what we were because—” you suck in a breath and let the truth crash out of you, unfiltered. “Because I can’t trust myself around you, Mark.”

Mark goes utterly still.

“Because when you hold me like that, I start remembering... things that weren’t real. Things I shouldn’t want.”

A beat.

Mark’s hands twitch—like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t dare. His mouth opens slightly, like he’s about to speak, but nothing comes out.

You don’t stop. You can’t stop. You have to tear through the illusion before it starts to wrap around you again—before you slip, before the memories seduce you back into longing.

“I know it wasn’t you,” you continue, forcing the words through the lump in your throat. “I know you don’t see me that way. And I know it’s not really your fault.”

You glance away, arms folding tight around your chest like a shield—an instinct born from shame and desperation, as if you could protect your body from betraying you all over again. Of remembering it.

(The way not-your-Mark would hold you, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise.

The unbearable pleasure coiling tighter and tighter.

The way he’d groan and growl against your lips as his hands roamed your body, gripping and groping every inch of exposed skin.

The way his lips would brush against yours, both of you panting, gasping for air, and still leaning in—still trying to kiss, to steal whatever breath the other had left.

The way his hips would move, his body joined with yours, each thrust hitting just right, so deep inside you.

“I love—” he’d pant, his rhythm faltering. “I love you, Y/N.”

And how do you recover from that?

How do you erase it?

How do you look Mark in the eye when your body still aches with memory?

You don’t.

You can’t.)

A traitorous shiver runs through you, heat blooming under your skin like fire.

“But I can’t unfeel it,” you rasp, voice hoarse and cracking. Your cheeks burn with the triple weight of shame, guilt, and something far more damning—arousal, thick and undeniable. “I can’t unknow what it felt like to be—” you hesitate, then force the word out “touched like that—by you.”

You take a step back. Then another. And another, putting precious distance between you.

“And I can’t go back to being just your friend like none of it ever happened, Mark,” you continue, breath hitching. “I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry. There, it’s your turn.

The words hang in the air, cold and final. This is the moment the fragile thing between you fractures beyond repair.

You can’t be his friend. Not when just looking at him sends your mind reeling with flashes of skin and heat, of whispered promises and breathless moans and the ache of being wanted. It plays behind your eyes in obscene, impossible detail every time you blink. And it’s not fair—not to Mark, who trusted you. Who never asked for this. Who deserves better than your traitorous body and its wretched, persistent wanting.

Let him hate you now. Let him recoil from the truth of how badly you’d craved it—how part of you still do. His hands. His mouth. His moans. The way he’d murmur I love yous like a prayer against your skin—

“What—what are you saying?” he asks, voice rough with disbelief. He takes a step forward, closing the distance you so carefully created. “That this is—it? Just goodbye? Don’t… Y/N, just—look at me.”

When you don’t, his fingers brush your chin, tilting your face up with a gentleness that undoes you. The tears on his lashes glint in the sunlight.

“You think I can just walk away?” he says, voice raw and aching. “Pretend like you’re not my friend anymore? Like I can forget you? Like—like I can hate you? When I—”

He breaks off, his brows drawing tight, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as frustration flickers across his face. For a heartbeat, he closes his eyes, as if bracing himself, before reopening them, locking onto yours with an intensity that nearly breaks you.

Then, softer, more vulnerable than before, he asks, “You remember I needed to tell you something? Before everything went to shit, before asshole versions of me started crashing through our world?”

Your eyes flicker over his face, confusion and turmoil knotting inside you. Still, you take a deep breath, slowly nodding. “You wanted to tell me the reason you’ve been pulling away,” you murmur, voice quiet. “You said it was because of my confession…” The words taste like ash. You exhale sharply, the ache in your chest blooming fresh as you take another step back. “God, Mark—just forget it. It doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t need an explanation. I know why you pulled away,” you swallow hard. “I ruined it. That’s on me.”

“No, no, Y/N,” he says urgently, voice desperate as he steps forward, closing the gap between you with stubborn, desperate steps. He’s now deep into your room—into your life, the way he always does. And you know, without him saying it, that he’s not leaving. “Just—just listen to me. Please.”

And then, as if he can’t bear to let you go, he does something that completely catches you off guard. His hands reach for your face, warm and steady as they cup your cheeks, rough fingers pressing against your skin. You freeze instinctively, breath catching in your throat.

He tilts your head gently, making sure your eyes meet his. And there it is. His gaze—warm, brown, familiar—pierces through the wall you’ve tried to build, melting the icy grip around your heart. There’s something there in his eyes, something that’s been there for months now, something you recognize but still don’t understand.

For some reason, your heart picks up its pace.

“The reason I’ve been pulling away is because I—I was confused,” Mark says, his voice cracking, thumbs tracing shaky circles on your cheeks. “Because I didn’t want to hurt you—or say the wrong thing. And I thought—I thought maybe if I kept my distance, if I just gave it time, it’d all go away. That you’d move on. That I’d be okay with it.” He lets out a shaky breath, jaw tightening. “But I’m not okay with it. I’m not okay with losing you—not now, not ever. Because every damn day since you told me, Y/N… I’ve been—”

He chokes on the rest, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly, calloused fingers trembling against your cheeks.

“Every day since you confessed, I’ve been wanting to—” a frustrated growl rumbles in his chest as the words get stuck in his throat as if they were physically painful to admit. “Fuck. I’ve wanted—”

The sentence dies on his lips again, but the way his gaze drops to your mouth says everything he can’t.

And suddenly, the air feels too thick, too tight. You can’t breathe. Not anymore.

You feel the heat of his stare, the way it burns through your skin, and the space between you grows impossibly smaller. It makes your chest tighten, heart hammering. Every inch of you is aware of how close he is, of how much he invades you. His touch, his presence, his warmth—all of it settles into you, tingling against your skin.

You want to step back. You want to create some distance, to breathe, to think—but his hand stays firm on your face, thumb gently brushing away the tear you didn’t even know had fallen. And God, it’s just like that other version of him, that hunger in his eyes—the need that burns too brightly for you to ignore.

“…Mark?” you ask, low and uncertain. “I don’t—I don’t understand.”

His eyes darken as they trace over your face, dipping to your lips in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. His breath hitches, just slightly, when you unconsciously lick your lips, an instinct you can’t control under his intense gaze.

“God, don’t make me say it,” he murmurs, voice rough. His forehead presses against yours, the heat of his breath mingling with yours, soft and shaky. “Y/N, I want—I need to—”

Whatever he’s about to say, he doesn’t. The words get caught again, but he doesn’t need to say anything more. Not when he answers in the only way you’ll believe him.

Mark leans in, closes the last bit of space between you, and kisses you.

Your eyes flutter shut unconsciously, a startled gasp catching in your throat as his lips meet yours.

The sensation—Mark’s lips, warm and firm and real against yours—obliterates all coherent thought, leaving you lightheaded and trembling. And then, one final thought cuts through the haze like lightning.

Mark Grayson—your Mark Grayson, the one you’ve known since fifth grade, the one you’ve been secretly in love with since eighth, the kind and good Mark—is kissing you.

The thought alone makes your knees buckle, your pulse roar in your ears, your breath come in shallow pants against his mouth.

“Mark…” you breathe, managing to pull back just enough to speak, your cheeks blazing. “What—”

But he doesn’t let you finish. He’s kissing you again, harder this time. Both hands cradle your face, pulling you in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

Your breath stutters, lost between his lips and your own racing heart. You don’t even realize he’s maneuvering you until your back meets the wall, his body pressing you there, surrounding you completely in his warmth, his scent, his safety.

When he finally breaks the kiss, it’s with a soft exhale that ghosts across your tingling lips. The sound is equal parts contentment and barely restrained hunger, as if he’s both savoring this and already aching for more. He rests his forehead against yours, breathing ragged. When his eyes open—dark and blown wide—they shine with something fragile and new and raw.

“Y/N…”  he whispers, voice hoarse and trembling. “Shit. I’ve wanted to tell you for so long, but I’ve been too much of a coward to say it. But, Y/N, I—” He pauses, his expression softening, brows furrowing in that way that always makes you ache, the slight pout of his mouth tugging at your heart. He inches closer, his breath warm against your lips, and in that breath, he whispers, “I’m in love with you.”

Your lips part, expression faltering as tears threaten to fall again, blurring your vision. The weight of his words, of his confession, pulls something tight in your chest, unraveling the last of your restraint.

Mark’s thumb gently brushes under your eyes, catching the tears falling, his gaze filled with a quiet regret. “I’ve loved you for so long. And I’m sorry it took me this long to figure it out. I guess—I guess I was so used to having you in my life that I didn’t even realize what I was feeling. And when I finally started to get it, I freaked out. I pushed you away because I was scared. Scared of—of what it could mean.”

A shaky inhale, both yours, his, it doesn’t matter.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he whispers again, leaning in closer, his breath mingling with yours, so close now you can feel the heat of him. “I love you. I love you. I love—”

You silence him with a kiss—partly because your racing heart can’t take another declaration, partly because you’ve dreamed of this moment for what feels like forever.

The heat of his mouth against yours sends fire through your veins, and suddenly you’re clinging to him, fingers twisting in his shirt as you melt into the embrace.

Mark groans against your mouth, his body pinning you to the wall with a delicious pressure that makes your head spin. But you don’t care—can’t care. Not when every inch of you is burning, not when all you can think about is the soft, urgent way his lips move against yours, like he’s been starving for this.

When you part your lips to deepen the kiss—greedy, desperate, aching to be closer—his tongue slides against yours in a slow, exploratory caress that draws a whimper from your throat. The sound seems to unravel him—his hands drop from your face to your waist, gripping hard as he pulls you flush against him. You can feel the wild hammering of his heart through his chest, its rhythm perfectly synced with yours.

“Shit—” he breathes against your swollen lips, his cheeks flushed deep pink. “I can’t get enough of you, Y/N. I can’t—”

You tangle your fingers in his hair, yanking him closer until your breaths are mingling, quick and desperate. “I get it,” you whisper, voice thick. “Mark—just—don’t stop. Keep kissing me.”

Mark does just that.

His arms tighten around you, and the small, needy noise he makes in the back of his throat sends a rush of heat through you. The solid warmth of him holds you steady when your knees threaten to give out, his presence completely consuming, anchoring you in the overwhelming feeling of being wanted, of being wanted by him. And when he nips at your lower lip, the sharp burst of pleasure-pain makes you arch into him with a broken moan.

Shit—shit.

Your body remembers too much, too vividly, and it doesn’t take more than Mark’s feverish kisses—all teeth and tongue and desperate, gasping breaths—for your skin to start buzzing with heat, for arousal to stir sharp and sudden in your pajama pants.

His hands roam with a nervous, almost clumsy urgency, shaking slightly as they slide along your body. You can feel his inexperience in the way he hesitates between touches, in the hitched breaths against your lips—and god help you, it only makes you harder, heat flooding your veins until you’re certain your blush stretches from your cheeks to your chest.

“Mark,” you murmur breathlessly between kisses, “Mmh—Mark…”

You try to say something—warn him, maybe—to tell him that maybe you should slow down, take a breath, but he kisses the words right out of your mouth. And damn, it’s embarrassing how quickly your body betrays you—how just the feel of him, warm and solid and real, reduces you to this trembling mess. He’s only kissing you, for Christ’s sake, yet it feels like he’s branding himself into your very bones.

Still, a coil of anxiety twists low in your stomach. You’re afraid he’ll notice. Afraid he’ll freeze and freak out. Because as far as you know, Mark’s never been with a man—never even kissed one. His alternate version, sure, seemed experienced, confident, knew exactly how to touch you and make you moan. But this—this is your Mark. And the way he kisses you—eager, almost awed, his breath catching like he’s afraid this might all be some kind of dream—it feels different. And if his confession earlier was true—if he’s spent months wrestling with his feelings—then Christ, this might be his first time doing any of this with another guy.

And shit—maybe this is going too fast. You’re getting so fucking turned on and don’t want to scare him off, but—

“Oh, fuck, Mark—” the whimper tears from your throat as he pulls you closer, almost desperately, like he wants to melt into you completely. And when his hips press against yours, the friction makes you jolt, breath catching in your throat.

Your dick is rock hard. You don’t need to look down to know this. And judging by the way Mark suddenly stops kissing you, breath heaving as he pulls back just enough to look at you, flushed and wide-eyed, you know he can feel it too.

The sight of him—messy hair, lips swollen, breath ragged—is so fucking hot you feel your cheeks burn even hotter, shame and desire twisting together in your gut.

“I’m—” you start, ready to pull away, to gather yourself, to put an end to this heated moment before you completely lose it. “I’m sorr—”

But Mark doesn’t let you finish. His hips snap against yours in a sharp, deliberate thrust, erasing every inch of space between you. A broken noise escapes you as you finally feel it—the hard, undeniable length of him straining against his jeans, big, just like you remember.

Mark whines, his breath hitching as he rolls his hips again, slow and experimental this time. The sound he makes is downright filthy, a shuddering sigh against your lips.

“Oh my god,” he gasps, forehead dropping to yours. He does it again, and this time you both moan, the vibration mingling between your mouths. His voice is wrecked, shaky with want. “Y/N—fuck—can I…? Please, can I…?”

You don’t even know what he’s asking, but it doesn’t matter. Not when he’s this hard, this needy, rutting against you like he’ll die if he stops. Not when every ragged breath, every desperate thrust, tells you he wants this just as badly as you do.

“Yes,” you choke out, hands fisting in his shirt to pull him closer. “God, yes—”

Suddenly, your feet lift off the ground. The world tilts as Mark lifts you with that effortless superhuman strength, his hands firm beneath your thighs, until your back meets the wall with a soft thud. Your legs lock around his waist instinctively, pulling him flush against you until every inch of your bodies align—chest to chest, hip to hip, the hard length of him grinding against yours in a way that makes your vision blur.

“Mark—”

His name spills from your lips in a breathless moan as you roll your hips, unable to stop the desperate friction.

It still doesn’t feel real—that after all these years of pining, of biting your tongue through every casual touch and forced smile, of convincing yourself it’s okay to be just friends, of him telling you he didn’t see you that way—he’s here, kissing you with the same frantic need burning through your veins.

So the words escape in a whisper, raw and shy with years of pent-up longing, “I love you.”

Mark’s groan vibrates through your chest, his grip tightening on your ass with barely restrained need. “Yes, yes—” his voice cracks, eyes blown wide with vulnerable sincerity when they meet yours. “I love you too. God, I love you.”

Something in you cracks at that, and you yank him forward, lips meeting in a messy clash of teeth and tongue. There’s no finesse—just frantic, open-mouthed kisses as your hips move in a desperate rhythm. Every roll of his hips sends electric shocks down your spine, pulling ragged gasps from your throat. You can feel everything—the thick drag of his cock against yours, the tremors in his fingertips where they dig into your skin, the wild hammering of his heart where your chests press together. The growing dampness between you only fuels the fire, fabric sticking uncomfortably as precum soaks through layers of clothing.

It’s overwhelming.

He’s overwhelming.

Mark nips at your lower lip with a broken whimper, and for one dizzying moment, you want more—more of his warmth, of his weight pressing you into the wall, of his hands gripping your skin hard enough to leave fingerprints, of his strength pinning you in place like he never wants to let you go. You want him to consume you, to claim you, just like—

Like—

Like his variant. The one you let touch you exactly like this just two weeks ago. The one who kissed you, ruined you, took everything you had to give simply because he looked like your Mark. Sounded like him. Moved like him. You let him in, let him leave his marks on your body—because you were desperate. Because you missed this Mark so damn much it hurt.

All at once, the heat evaporates and the fog of arousal clears. You’re acutely aware of the growing shame, the sudden weight of your guilt pressing down on you.

How dare you? How can you stand here, grinding against your Mark, kissing him as if you didn’t just betray him in the worst way? As if you didn’t let some twisted reflection of him fuck you senseless. As if you didn’t moan I love you to a monster wearing his face. As if the bruises have faded when they’re right there, purpling under your shirt where Mark’s fingers rest now.

Mark freezes the second your body goes rigid against his. His eyes flutter open—hazel gone dark with want, now clouded with confusion.

“Y/N...?” his voice is rough and uneven. “What’s—did I hurt you? Did I—fuck, was that too much?”

He slowly puts you down, feet safely back to the floor, although his hands hover over your waist, trembling—still touching, but not squeezing anymore. Like he’s afraid he crossed a line. Like he’s the one who should be ashamed.

And god, that just makes it worse.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you say, voice small and barely convincing. “I just—”

Your hand lifts before you can stop it, fingers brushing along the tender skin of your neck—right over the bruises and bites the other version of Mark left behind. Still there. Still vivid. Still haunting.

Even after your Mark killed him, that other Mark lingers. Clinging to your skin like a curse you can’t scrub away.

Mark’s gaze snaps to the movement, his eyes tracking your fingers with a focus that makes your pulse stutter. You see the exact moment his gaze changes. His pupils narrow, his jaw clenches. That barely-contained storm behind his eyes. You’ve seen it before, that look, and now recognized it for what it is. Jealousy, raw and unguarded, before he wrestles it back under control.

You look down quickly, heart sinking under the weight of shame. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, because what else can you say?

(You wished they had disappeared along with the alternate Mark.

Every time you’d look in the mirror, you’d wish those marks could vanish—make it easier to forget, to pretend it hadn’t really happened.

But no matter how many times you’d wash, how hard you’d scrub until your skin turned red and raw, they’d still be there.

Eventually, you’d give up, sinking into the hot stream like you could melt into it—like you could drown the guilt, the shame, and the hunger that still throbbed beneath your skin, embedded in every lingering kiss.

Then you’d shut your eyes, mistaking the heat for his touch, the steam for his breath. You’d press your fingers into the bruises he left, hard, like you could still feel him there.

And the heat—God, the heat—wouldn’t come from the water anymore. It’d rise from deep inside you, from the places he had touched, heat coiling low in your belly every time you touched them.)

“I’m sorry,” you say again, softer this time.

You feel like you’ve messed it up—again. Like any second now, Mark’s going to snap out of it, take one good look at you and regret all of it—regret the kissing, the grinding, the confession.

“Why are you sorry?” Mark asks instead, head tilting, that painfully familiar puppy-like confusion softening his features. Then his gaze drops back to your neck, to the bruises purpling your skin, and his expression twists—something between a pout and a grimace. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but it’s difficult for him to even ask. “Do you…” he hesitates, swallowing hard. “Do you want him more?”

“No!” you answer immediately, the idea so absurd it’s nearly offensive. “Of course not.”

Because it’s always been Mark. Always.

You’ve spent these last few days pretending it was him, after all. Imagining it was your Mark’s hands that touched you, his voice that whispered those filthy, obsessive promises against your skin. Dreaming it was your Mark who kissed and claimed you, fucking you so deep into the mattress you’d never forget it was him. Every time you closed your eyes, it was him. Even when you woke up shaking, sweaty, needy—it was always him.

Still, your fingers linger on your neck, shame and guilt twisting in your chest like a knife. The bruises feel like damning evidence of your betrayal—like they’re proof of something ugly, something that might disgust him.

You can’t help the question that slips out, barely above a whisper. “Do you want me less?”

Mark doesn’t hesitate.

“No,” he says, like it’s the simplest truth in the world.

And you just stare at him, torn between disbelief and overwhelming relief. It doesn’t make sense—none of this makes sense. Because—because why? Why would he forgive you? Why would he still want to want you?

Mark sees the doubt in your eyes before you even speak. His hand lifts slowly, hovering just for a moment—until it settles against your cheek, warm and gentle.

“I don’t want you less,” he says, firmer now, his gaze locked onto yours. “I just—” his thumb strokes your cheekbone, his voice dropping to a rough whisper “—hate that it wasn’t me.”

Your heart stutters.

“I hate that he touched you like that—that I wasn’t there to stop it. Or—” he falters, jaw tightening as if he’s choking on his own thoughts. His cheeks flush, matching the heat on yours. “Or—fuck—that it wasn’t me. The first to do it.”

Your breath catches, lips parting in a silent gasp. His thumb strokes your cheek absentmindedly, and you lean into it instinctively, like your body knows what your brain hasn’t caught up to yet. His breathing grows shaky, his gaze darting from your eyes to your lips to the marks on your neck—lingering there, his tongue swiping unconsciously over his lips while something hungry blooms in his gaze.

“I should’ve said something sooner,” Mark murmurs, almost to himself. “I should’ve been brave enough to tell you I loved you. That I wanted you. That—”

He cuts himself off, closing the distance between you in one decisive movement. His eyes darken, glassy with want as they flick between your lips and the bruises on your neck.

Then—slowly, so slowly—his hand trails from your cheek to your throat, his fingers skimming the marks with featherlight touch.

“Can I…?” Mark breathes, eyes flicking between your neck and your eyes, trembling at the edge of control. “Please?”

You shiver beneath his touch, voice catching in your throat. All you can manage is a small, trembling nod.

It’s all he needs.

Mark presses you back against the wall, his arms locking around your waist with a possessiveness that sends your pulse skittering. His face buries into the crook of your neck, breath coming in ragged, uneven bursts that raise goosebumps across your skin. His lips hover—barely touching, achingly tentative—and you can’t tell if he’s teasing or just being careful.

Either way, the anticipation is torture. It’s too intimate. Too much. Too not enough. You need more, more, more.

“Mark…” you breathe, voice impatient, eyes slipping shut as your fingers tremble behind his back, clinging to the fabric of his sweater like it’s the only thing anchoring you.

Finally—finally—Mark kisses you.

His soft, warm mouth finds a bruise. He lingers for a heartbeat, then deepens it, tongue sweeping over the purpled skin in slow, deliberate strokes. A sigh escapes you, your head tipping back to give him better access as your body goes pliant against his. Mark groans, low and full of approval, the vibration traveling straight to your dick. His tongue works harder now, sucking over every bruise like he’s trying to erase them, replace them. Like he’s marking you all over again but this time with his. Like he’s trying to say mine.

“Shit, Mark…” you groan, pressing closer, chasing the friction you both left behind just a minute ago, desperate to build the heat until it swallows you whole. “Mark…”

He answers your unspoken need without hesitation. His hips snap forward, meeting yours with a roughness that punches a groan from his lips and a moan from your throat. The sound seems to unravel him—his hands tighten on your waist, pinning you flush against the wall as he sets a relentless pace. You can’t move, can’t think, can only roll your hips in time with his, each thrust drawing out another broken sound.

And all the while, his mouth never leaves your neck—sucking, licking over the bruises like he’s determined to replace every one of them with his own. Bigger. Darker. His tongue branding you with every slow, hungry drag, possessive suck.

“Fuck—mmh, Mark…” you gasp, voice wrecked and breathless, your body trembling from how much you feel him—his cock pressed thick and heavy through your clothes, his tongue hot and wet against your neck, his fingers digging into your skin with a needy kind of desperation.

It’s all too much.

Your head’s spinning, floating, untethered. You’re not even sure this is real.

“Mark,” you whisper, hoarse and pleading, “kiss me. Please. Kiss me.”

Mark pulls back from your throat with a ragged gasp, lips flushed and slick, eyes dark and dazed. And then he’s on you again—hand twisting into your hair, dragging your mouth to his in a brutal, breathless kiss. It’s all teeth and tongue and heat, the kind of kiss that’s more collision than contact.

You moan into him, a fractured sound that melts right into his mouth. He swallows it greedily, groaning back with a breathy, needy sound of his own. Neither of you can breathe—it’s evident in the way your chests heave between frantic kisses, in the dizzying exchange of panting breaths, yet neither of you dares pull away. Neither of you even think about slowing down.

And it’s that—the burn in your lungs, the ache in your chest, the way your head spins from oxygen deprivation—that tells you this is real. God, it’s so real it hurts.

Mark Grayson is kissing you.

Not the maniac from another dimension. Not the twisted version of Invincible who destroyed cities and killed thousands before paying you a visit.

This is your Mark—your best friend who laughs too loud, who geeks out over comics. The boy who’s just as inexperienced as you are, yet kisses you with a determination that makes your knees weak.

This is the boy who’s a hero, not a monster.

It’s everything at once—the crushing weight of Mark pressed against you, the rough drag of his thick cock against yours through layers of fabric, the obscene wetness soaking both your pants as his hips roll in desperate, uneven thrusts— that does it. That coils the tension in your gut tighter until your legs shake violently under the weight of it. His moans vibrate against your lips, ragged and desperate, and when his hips stutter—once, twice—you break.

Your vision whites out, mouth falling open in a silent cry as you spill into your boxers, your entire body seizing around him. But Mark doesn’t stop—his thrusts grow faster, lost in the haze of pleasure, and the overstimulation wrings a choked sob from your throat—toes curling, thighs trembling as your oversensitive cock twitches helplessly. In a daze, you bite his lower lip hard enough to draw a startled whimper from him.

Then your head falls back against the wall with a wet gasp, a silver strand of spit still connecting your swollen lips.

“Ah— fuck, Mark…” you wheeze, vision swimming, the world tilting dangerously. “Fuck, fuck… I can’t—I’m gonna—”

Mark’s gaze sharpens, the lust clearing just enough for him to look—to take in the way your legs tremble around his hips, the obscene wet patch blooming across your thin pajama pants, the way your knees keep buckling from the aftershocks still rolling through you.

“Shit—” his voice cracks, hands flying to steady you. “Y/N—fuck, are you—? Did you just—?”

The raw awe in Mark’s voice makes your flush deepen unbearably. “Shut up, Grayson,” you mutter, eyes darting away.

“Oh,” he breathes, voice raspier now, fingers digging into your hips like he’s trying to ground himself. “Oh, that’s so hot.”

You groan, pressing your hands to his shoulders, squeezing hard as you squeeze your eyes shut, mortified. God. You just came from grinding against him, both of you still fully dressed, like some desperate teenager. The humiliation burns worse than the pleasure.

“Should we—” Mark starts, voice unsure, cracking a little as he swallows hard. “Should we stop?”

You blink slowly, catching your breath, heartbeat still loud in your ears. The high is fading enough for you to register how hard he still is—his jeans pulled tight around the obvious strain in them, and he looks like he’s suffering. You shift awkwardly, skin burning, but the answer is easy. No, you don’t want to stop. Not even close.

“I could,” you whisper, “suck you off.”

The second it leaves your mouth, your face goes up in flames. You want to bury yourself under a rock—but you don’t take it back. Not when Mark’s breath catches in his throat, when his grip on your waist tightens, and he stares at you like you just offered him the goddamn world.

“Huh?” he blurts, like his brain just short-circuited. “You mean—you don’t have to. I can—shit, I can just—”

You yank him down by his collar, cutting off his rambling with a firm kiss.

“Mark,” you murmur against his lips, “I want to. If... if you do.”

A bead of sweat trails down his temple as he nods, rapid and jerky. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, sure. Absolutely. Please.”

The eager, clumsy response pulls a laugh from you—soft and fond. God, this is your Mark. Awkward and earnest and perfect. And you love him exactly like this.

Then, you’re sinking to your knees—right there against the wall, with Mark still caging you in. Your pulse roars in your ears as you look up through your lashes, watching his reaction unfold in real time. His lips part on a silent gasp, eyes wide like he can’t quite believe what’s happening. Your heart races. His, too—you can see it in the rise and fall of his chest, the way he’s already breathing unevenly, fingers twitching at his sides before he braces them against the wall for balance.

You’re nervous—your hands tremble a little—but you mask it with a veil of confidence, your gaze steady as you reach for the waistband of his jeans. You’ve never done this before, not for anyone. But you’ve thought about it. Over and over. You’ve fantasized about this exact moment—him, always him—Mark in your mouth, groaning your name, falling apart for you.

And the thought alone has your mouth watering.

Your fingers fumble with the zipper, heat blooming in your cheeks as your mind races with possibilities. You picture him thick and heavy on your tongue, imagine the weight of him, the taste of him deep in your throat. Your lips part instinctively, anticipation pooling low in your stomach.

You glance up one last time.

Mark’s already leaning into the wall, palms flat against it like he’s afraid his knees might give out. His cheeks are flushed, pupils blown wide, chest heaving—and you haven’t even started yet.

A thrill licks up your spine, tugging a small smile to your lips as you watch him squirm.

Finally, you tug at the waistband of his jeans, peeling it down along with his boxers in one slow, deliberate motion. His cock springs free, already fully hard and trapped for so long that it curves upward eagerly, the dark flushed tip glistening with precum. You hear Mark’s breath hitch sharply, his abdomen flexing as his whole body tenses.

And damn... he’s big. Just as big as you remember from his variant. Thick, veiny, heavy—pure Viltrumite genes. But this time, the size doesn’t intimidate you. Not even a little. This time, you bite your bottom lip, pulse quickening with excitement. Then you wrap your fingers around the base of him, feeling the heat and weight in your hand. He groans, breath hitching, hips giving the tiniest, desperate jerk toward you like he didn’t mean to move but couldn’t stop himself.

You lean in slowly, breath warm against his sensitive cock, watching how it jumps under your touch. There’s a bead of precum glistening at the tip, catching the light, and your tongue flicks out—just a little closer, just a little more.

“Oh my god…” he breathes, voice cracking like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “You’re actually—you’re really gonna… oh my god—”

His words dissolve into a choked moan when you finally take him into your mouth, the taste flooding your senses—salty and musky and something uniquely Mark. You take him into your mouth slowly, tentatively, clumsy as you try to adjust to the stretch of him. Your lips drag awkwardly over his length, your jaw already aching, but you hum, determined, and take a little more, and feel his whole body jerk in response.

“S-shit! Shit, Y/N, that’s—” his hips stutter forward before he catches himself when you nearly choke, hands turning into fists against the wall. “S-sorry, I didn’t mean to—oh fuck, your mouth—”

One of his trembling hands finally finds your hair, fingers tangling gently at first before tightening unconsciously when you suck harder. The broken noise he makes goes straight to your own groin. Jesus. You’ll let him grab you however he wants if he keeps making those sounds.

“F-Fuck,” he whimpers. “Oh god, that feels—shit, it feels so good—oh my god—”

Every choked-off groan, every aborted thrust of Mark’s hips sends fresh heat coiling low in your belly. He’s falling apart just from this, just from you, and the power of it leaves you lightheaded. God, it’s better than you’d fantasized. The weight of him on your tongue, the way your lips strain around his girth, the salt-bitter taste of precum flooding your mouth—it’s overwhelming in the best way.

It’s messy, awkward even. Your jaw aches a little already, and your rhythm is more trial and error than skill—mouth bobbing up and down, hand working the base in shaky sync. You know it’s obvious you’ve never done this before. Maybe you’re not even doing it right. But from the way Mark reacts—thighs trembling, the punched-out whimpers spilling from his lips, the white-knuckled grip he has on the wall for balance—it’s clear you’re doing something right.

So you don’t stop.

You can’t stop.

You want this. You want him. Just like this.

Then, when you swirl your tongue along a thick vein on his cock, hollowing your cheeks with a deep suck, Mark shatters. His moan cracks through the room, raw and unfiltered, as his hips jerk forward on instinct. The sudden push sends him deeper than before, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat with a jolt that makes you gag. Your eyes water, throat clenching around him, lips stretched painfully wide. It hurts, it burns—but strangely, the stretch feels so good that heat flares, sharp and intense, straight to your own cock.

And then Mark’s yanking back, his cock slipping free with a wet sound. “Shit—sorry, fuck, I’m sorry,” he blurts out, voice cracking as he stares down at you in horror. His face is flushed and guilt-stricken, lips parted like he’s still catching his breath. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t mean to do that—God, are you okay?”

You catch your breath, lips parted as you pant unsteadily, chest rising and falling with effort. Your throat still burns, your eyes sting faintly, and your jaw aches—but none of it bothers you.

You lift one trembling thumb to the corner of your mouth, wiping away the mess of spit slicking your lips. When you glance up at Mark again, he looks wrecked, still flushed, still trembling with arousal—but his hands hover awkwardly, like he’s afraid to touch you now.

God, that hurt. The stretch in your throat was raw, intense, almost too much.

But it also felt so good.

“I’m okay,” you rasp, voice hoarse but sure. Your cheeks burn hot with your confession, but you don’t look away. “I—I don’t mind if you… lose control a little.”

Mark blinks, still breathing hard. “Huh?” he asks dumbly, his voice dazed. “No, that’s—I don’t—” His jaw tightens. “I don’t want to hurt you, Y/N…”

Despite his words, his hips betray him, twitching forward ever so slightly, like he’s already imagining it again.

You lick your lips, greedy and insatiable, the taste of him still lingering there. All you want is to feel that weight again—the ache, the stretch, the sting at the back of your throat. The way he made you feel full, like you couldn’t take another inch and still wanted to try.

“I don’t mind,” you whisper again, lashes fluttering as embarrassment bubbles up—but not enough to stop you. How do you even say this? How do you explain needing him like this? “I really…” a shaky breath, “want you to fuck my mouth. Please?”

Mark’s eyes go wide. His mouth parts in a soundless gasp, his whole face flushing deep crimson, like the words physically hit him. “Are you—” he stammers, swallowing thickly, “are you sure?”

You nod, resting one hand gently on his hip. With the other, you drag your thumb across the flushed tip of his cock, smearing the bead of precum there. He groans, low and broken, his eyes fluttering shut at the sensation.

“I’m sure,” you breathe, leaning in to press an open-mouthed kiss to the flushed head, tasting the salt and bitterness of him. “I’m so sure, Mark.”

Mark’s hips jerk violently when you take him back into your mouth—a little deeper this time, a little more confident—his cock twitching against your tongue.

“Fuck—” his voice cracks. “Y/N, I—”

But still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t let himself fall into the temptation, not fully. He holds himself back with a trembling restraint, biting his lip so hard it turns pale, brows drawn tight, sweat glistening on his forehead. A moan catches in his throat as you work him over—slow licks, teasing sucks, your tongue gliding along every ridge and vein, doing everything in your power to break him.

“Oh god—” he chokes out, eyes squeezing shut as his hips twitch forward, just slightly, sliding deeper into your mouth.

Even then, you feel the hesitation, the way Mark is fighting himself—desperate to lose control, to give in, but terrified of hurting you.

“You’re so—fuck—it’s too good—,” he sobs, voice high and tight with pleasure. “You’re so—my god—hot.”

The praise coils heat low in your belly.

You pull back until just the head rests on your tongue, savoring his choked whimper. Then—with a steadying breath—you sink down, lips stretching obscenely as you take him deeper than before. You don’t stop when it hurts. Not when the pressure burns. Not when your throat tightens and your gag reflex threatens to kick in the moment his cock hits the back of your throat.

You hum, the vibrations swallowed by the stretch in your throat, and your own arousal spikes sharply at the overwhelming fullness, the stinging pressure, the weight of him.

And Mark—Mark completely shatters.

He throws his head back with a strangled, guttural cry, the sound ripped straight from his chest. His grip on control slips. Hips twitch forward on instinct, not violently, but fast enough to force a gag out of you, your nose brushing against the base of him.

Mark gasps, eyes snapping open in panic the moment he realizes what he’s done. “Fuck, I’m sorry—”

But before he can pull away again, before his worry ruins the high building between you, you dig your fingers into his sweat-slick hips and drag him closer, taking him to the hilt, until you can feel him pulsing somewhere behind your tongue. The pressure is so deep it knocks the breath out of you and settles low in your core. Your eyes sting, tears welling, but you don’t let go. Not yet.

Mark chokes on a moan.

“Fuck! My god, fuck, mmh, Y/N—” he whines, voice cracking beautifully. His chest rises and falls in frantic, shallow bursts, his fists clenched so tightly on the wall that his knuckles turn bone white. “Y/N, ah, I can’t—that feels—oh, you feel—”

He can’t finish the sentence.

He just moans, dissolving into low, breathless curses and half-formed words. Nothing coherent. Just helpless sounds of pleasure as you swallow around him, hollow your cheeks, hum at the sheer power of making him fall apart like this.

Then, when he finally can’t resist anymore, his hands fall from the wall with a trembling lack of grace, letting his forehead drop against it with a dull thud. A second later, his fingers slide into your hair, rough and sure, gripping tight at the roots as his palm cups the back of your head. When he looks down at you, his eyes are glazed over—wild and unfocused—lips red and swollen from how hard he’s been biting them.

The sight alone sends electricity crackling down your spine, goosebumps breaking across your skin. You’re completely, helplessly caged now—trapped between Mark’s thick cock filling your mouth and the wall at your back, with his hands in your hair, keeping you there. And all you can do is look up at him through teary lashes, his cock still nestled on your tongue, and wait.

“Okay,” Mark whispers, voice thick with arousal, low and rough like it scrapes the inside of his throat. “Okay… If you want it that bad—then have it.”

You don’t even get a chance to savor the victory.

Mark’s hips snap forward without hesitation, sheathing himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Your throat convulses around him, tears springing to your eyes as he bottoms out—but the choked noise you make only seems to undo him further.

“Ah fuck…” he whimpers, head knocking back against the wall, his fingers fisting in your hair, dragging you in deeper as he rolls his hips. “Fuck—Y/N—Just like that. Just like—”

The words dissolve into a groan as he starts to move in earnest, his hips driving forward while his hands guide you deeper. Each thrust hits the back of your throat with perfect precision—that sweet spot where pain and pleasure blur into something heady and intoxicating.

You force your throat to relax around him, swallowing reflexively even as spit spills from your stretched lips in glistening strands. The burn is exquisite—the ache in your jaw, the stretch of your mouth, the tears pricking at your lashes— every sensation confirming how completely he’s using you.

“Fuck!” Mark’s groans above you, his thighs trembling. “God, you take me so well—” His thrusts turn erratic, the slick sounds of your mouth working him filling the room. “So fucking perfect like this—”

When you blink up at him—watery-eyed, lips swollen, chin glistening—Mark completely loses it.

His fingers tighten in your hair, pulling just enough to sting as his hips stutter. You feel the moment he tips over the edge—the way his cock swells, his breath coming in ragged bursts, his entire body tensing tighter and tighter.

“Oh fuck,” Mark chokes out, eyes squeezed shut, his hands shaking in your hair as his hips rhythm’s falter. “Y/N, I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You barely have time to brace yourself—your heart slamming against your ribs—before he falls apart.

With a shattered cry, Mark thrusts one final time, hard and deep and primal, burying himself so far in your throat that your nose brushes into the sweat-damp curls at his groin. His fingers tangle in your hair, gripping tight, pulling you flush against him until you’re choking.

Then you feel it.

There’s no warning, no chance to prepare, no space to breathe. His cock throbs, pulsing hard against your tongue as he comes, hot and thick, spilling straight down your throat in heavy spurts. You stifle a cough, eyes squeezing shut as tears well and spill, the pressure nearly too much, your throat clenching and flexing against the merciless intrusion.

“Fuck—fuck—!”

Mark groans, high and broken, giving one last desperate grind of his hips like he can’t help himself. The head of his cock nudges impossibly deeper with each twitch, his balls pressing against your chin as he rides out his orgasm. You gag around him but don’t pull away—can’t pull away—not with the way his hands are tangled tight in your hair, holding you there, not with how far he’s buried himself inside you. All you can do is swallow around the heavy spurts of cum, each twitch of his cock coating your tongue and sliding down your throat, leaving your eyes stinging and your lungs burning.

But it’s okay.

It’s perfect.

This is the sting you’d been chasing.

On your knees, mouth full, Mark’s musky scent thick in the air, the taste of his cum coating your tongue, sliding down your throat in slow, hot pulses. The ache in your jaw. The tears drying on your cheeks. The need to please him—and only him. The right Mark. The one who’s kind. The one who’s good.

When he finally pulls back, his cock slips free from your lips with a lewd, wet pop, leaving you dazed and panting. You let your head fall against one of his trembling thighs, lightheaded and dizzy as you catch your breath. Your throat aches in the best way, the burn sharp and satisfying as you swallow down the last of him with slow, heavy gulps.

“Oh my god—” Mark exhales, voice rough and breathless. “Y/N, I’m—god—I’m sorry…”

His hands are gentle as they haul you up, steadying you when your legs threaten to buckle. The guilt in his tone is almost comical—as if he could ever hurt you, as if this isn’t exactly what you wanted.

“Shit—I didn’t hurt you?” he asks, brows furrowed, eyes scanning your face like he’s afraid to find pain there. “You okay? I’m sorry—I should’ve—should’ve stopped before—”

You silence him with a kiss—deep and consuming, filled with heat and reassurance. Mark groans into it, tasting himself on your tongue, his hands sliding to your waist to grip you tightly like its reflex.

“You didn’t,” you murmur when you break apart, voice hoarse but sure. “I love you.”

Mark exhales shakily, eyes glassy and dazed, dark with something fragile.

“I love you too,” he breathes. “God—that was... so good. I—I love you so much, Y/N. Jesus… Are you sure you’re okay?”

To make his point, he gently wipes the corners of your eyes where tears still linger, his thumb soft against your skin, his expression faltering with concern.

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips as your hands settle on his shoulders. “I’m okay... Are you okay?” Your gaze drifts downward pointedly.

“Huh?” Mark blinks, still dazed, before following your line of sight. His cock, which had started to soften, now perks up once more, half-hard and rising again with a visible twitch. He flushes deep red, mortified. “Oh—shit. I’m sorry, I—I don’t know what’s—I mean—You were amazing and I already came, so I don’t know why—”

You laugh quietly, fondly, cutting him off with a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry, Mark,” you murmur, voice low and close to his ear. “We’re not done yet.”

He barely has time to register what you’ve said before you’re pressing on his shoulders, guiding him backwards. He stumbles with a startled yelp, his jeans and boxers still tangled around his knees, making him waddle back awkwardly like a penguin. And then—with a final push—he drops onto your bed, landing on his back with a bounce, eyes wide and stunned as he looks up at you from the mattress.

The sun’s just started to rise outside your window, casting long streaks of gold across the room. It catches the curve of his cheek, the red of his lips. And it catches yours too—the light spilling over the softness in your eyes, the affection so fierce it makes your chest ache.

Mark props himself up on his elbows, staring at you with flushed cheeks, red ears, and a sheen of sweat on his forehead. The sight is so endearingly vulnerable it coaxes a soft smile from you before you can stop it.

Then, wordlessly, you reach for the hem of your t-shirt. You pull it over your head in one fluid motion, revealing your bare chest to the growing warmth of the morning light. Before hesitation can creep in, you hook your thumbs under the waistband of your pajama pants and underwear, pushing them down, one knee after the other, until there’s nothing covering you.

Mark’s breath catches audibly as he takes you in. His pupils dilate, eyes raking over you, wide and reverent. He sees everything—all of you—and his gaze doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. If anything, it sharpens.

There are marks on your skin. Faint purple bruises. Bite imprints. The shadow of fingerprints where his variant had held you too tightly. Mark’s gaze darkens as he takes them all in. He follows every trace like he’s deciding where he’s going to start replacing them—where he’ll press his own fingerprints over those old ones, where he’ll bite to make new ones.

Your pulse thrums wildly at the thought, heat pooling low in your belly.

Still, the question slips out, quiet and uncertain. “Do you… still want me?”

Mark doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.” His voice cracks as his eyes drop lower, where your cock stands hard and aching. “God, yes. Yes. Always.”

The raw certainty in his voice sends your heart fluttering. You step forward until your knees bump the mattress, then climb toward him with deliberate slowness. Mark watches, transfixed, his breathing growing erratic—sharp inhales followed by shaky exhales, as if he’s forgotten how lungs work.

You can’t help the soft chuckle that slips from your lips as you straddle him, your knees settling on either side of his hips. Your fingers reach for the hem of his sweater, tugging gently, and Mark lifts his arms obediently, swallowing hard as you peel the fabric off him. As you do, he kicks the rest of his jeans off in an awkward scramble that makes you bite back another smile.

When Mark is finally bare beneath you, his chest rising and falling like he’s already worn out, he locks eyes with you. There’s nothing guarded in his gaze now—just raw, honest adoration.

You lean in and kiss him.

One hand trails across his chest, feeling the hard flex of muscle, the way his abs clench and shiver under your palm. Mark sighs against your mouth, melting into it.

His hands slide up your thighs, fingers squeezing, greedy, like he needs to memorize the shape of you. He groans low in his throat as they climb higher—until they curl around the swell of your ass, pulling you flush against him.

You gasp, startled and electric, just as his teeth graze your bottom lip in a teasing bite.

“Y/N…” Mark breathes, dazed and needy, his hips lifting instinctively, desperately, trying to grind against you—trying to chase just a little more friction between your cocks. “Please… come on, please…”

You swallow his plea with another kiss, languidly tangling your tongue with his before breaking apart. Beneath you, Mark looks utterly wrecked—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, panting in the heavy quiet. The room is thick with heat and want, the air nearly humming with it. But even with your own cock leaking against his, aching just as bad, you press a steady hand to his chest and push him back until his head meets the pillows in a soft bounce.

“Y/N?” he asks, brows knitting, a pout forming—but he doesn’t resist. He just looks at you, confused, a little breathless, waiting.

You pause for a moment, just taking him in.

That night with his variant, everything had been cloaked in shadows—his body, his face, his expression. And sure, it’s not like you didn’t know it was him—Mark, hero and all. But damn, your Mark is built like something out of a dream—broad shoulders, narrow waist, muscles shifting under your hands, chest rising fast with every breath. And now, in the soft glow of morning, Mark’s features aren’t shadowed, aren’t dark, aren’t animalistic.

Just sunlight slipping through your open window, catching in his hair, warm across his skin. His head sinks into your pillow, hair tousled, cheeks flushed, eyes locked on you like you’re something holy—eyes full of something close to worship. And fuck, he looks perfect.

You bite your bottom lip, anticipation thrumming through your veins, before reaching toward your bedside drawer. Your fingers wrap around the familiar shapes—lube and a condom—and when you pull them out, Mark’s eyes go wide.

His gaze darts from your face to your hands and back again, his chest rising quicker, excitement blooming across every inch of his skin.

“Oh my god, are we—” he swallows, eyes wide, voice barely above a whisper. “I mean, are you—are you sure?”

Your cheeks flush with heat, but you don’t look away. “I’m sure,” you murmur, voice quiet but steady. “Are you?”

“Yeah. Yes,” he breathes, voice thin and shaky, his fingers trembling right where they rest on your hips.

“Yeah?” you repeat, a little breathless yourself, as you flick open the lube cap with a quiet pop.

Mark nods, eyes fixed on you with laser focus, like he’s drinking in the sight of you—every movement, every breath. His lips part slightly, tongue flicking out unconsciously, and it makes your heart flip, your body hot all over.

The lube is cold when it hits your fingers, slick and slippery. You brace yourself, resting your free hand against Mark’s chest where his heart thunders beneath your palm, and lift yourself slightly on your knees. You try to block out the way his gaze clings to you, the way it makes your stomach twist with nerves and desire at once, and you slide your fingers lower, toward your entrance.

You swallow, breath catching, and with a soft gasp—one you don’t know whether it’s yours or his—you press a finger inside.

Mark jerks beneath you, his cock twitching, hips lifting off the bed slightly like his body is trying to follow yours. His grip on your waist tightens—not hurting, but holding, trembling, like he’s trying so hard not to lose control. You know you must look obscene like this, fucking yourself open on top of him, and it clearly does something to him. His fingers dig in, a low, choked noise leaving his throat.

But then—suddenly—he lets out a breath that sounds nearly pained, one hand snapping up to grab your wrist and still you.

You freeze, eyes flying open, confusion and a flicker of panic flooding through you.

“Mark?” your voice comes out small. “What’s wrong?”

But his eyes aren’t on yours. They’re locked on your leaking cock, on the way your body moves, his gaze so full of hunger it nearly knocks the air out of you.

His voice is shaky when he speaks. “Can I—” he breathes. “Can I do it?”

A shudder runs through you as you register his question, then you nod, dazed.

That’s all the permission Mark needs.

He reaches for the lube, coating his fingers with shaky hands, then lifts your hips with a care that makes your heart skip. You brace your arms behind you, palms resting against his knees, back arched in anticipation.

“Like—like this?” he asks, voice uncertain but eager, his slick fingers trailing toward your entrance, brushing lightly in a way that steals your breath.

“Yes,” you exhale, eyes half-lidded. “It’s okay… just push—”

He pushes in before you finish speaking, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips, body jerking at the intrusion. His fingers are thicker than your own, the stretch immediately noticeable.

“That’s fine?” he asks, already breathless.

“Fuck—yes,” you mutter, thighs trembling.

Mark watches, fascinated, as your hips twitch, silently begging for more. He complies eagerly, sinking deeper. “Oh shit,” he murmurs. “You—you feel so tight, so warm.”

You bite your lip as he begins moving experimentally, feeling your body gradually relax and accept him. Then he slides in a second finger.

Your head tilts back, a pant escaping your lips.

“Shit—” you groan, the tip of your cock leaking messily against your stomach, throbbing with the weight of your arousal. “Deeper, fuck, deeper, Mark. It’s fine. I can—ah—handle it.”

Mark’s breath hitches. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He pushes in a third finger.

It makes you jolt—your toes curl, your vision whitens, and a broken moan slips past your lips before you can even try to hold it back.

It’s different.

You never felt this way when you did it yourself.

You’d tried. Again and again, chasing the same fucking high from that first time—but it never came close.

(You’d jerk awake in the darkness of your new apartment from yet another haunting dream—sheets clinging to sweat-slick skin, body trembling.

You’d feel disgusting, guilty, and ashamed—because it was another dream of Mark doing things to you he’d never done before. Not your Mark, anyway.

In the darkness of your room, alone and overwhelmed by shame, you’d vividly remember the touch of not-your-Mark’s hands on you, his shuddering breaths against your ear, his possessive grip, his kisses down your throat, his groans and growls, the sheer size of him, buried so deep inside you that it jolted your entire body.

And when you’d finally come to, breath caught and sheets damp, you’d realize it wasn’t really the variant you were dreaming of. Because in the haze, his face would shift—when the sneering cruelty melted into your Mark’s tender expression, his touch gentling even as he fucked you deeper.

Your cock would throb against your pajamas, traitorous, and aching with a need that refused to be ignored.

You’d buy lube the next day like some shameful criminal, hoping to drown the thirst you couldn’t shake.

But deep into another restless night, jerking awake from a dream that left your body aching, Mark’s face seared into your mind like it had been burned into your eyelids—fingers buried knuckle-deep inside yourself—you’d realize something awful.

You can’t.

You can’t satisfy it. The need. The wanting. The hunger.

Mark’s variant had whispered it, during that heated moment, a filthy promise in your ear: Gonna ruin you for anyone else.

And he’d been right.)

But with Mark—

With Mark—

Fuck, it feels good. It feels right.

So good it melts your inhibitions, strips away your shame. You let every sound fall from your lips—gasps, moans, breathless cries—because he’s reaching places inside you that’ve ached ever since the day you learned what it felt like to be touched—to be wanted—by him.

“Fuck, Mark—fuck!” you cry out, biting your lip hard in a half-hearted attempt to stifle the filth spilling out. “Oh fuck, that’s it—that’s so good—”

Mark responds by pushing deeper, fingers curling just right. Your hips stutter, body trembling.

His mouth is parted, breathing shaky, eyes dark and full of reverent lust as he watches you unravel. He takes in every twitch, every sob, every buck of your hips, like he’s burning it into his memory—learning exactly what makes you gasp, what makes you writhe, what makes you lose control.

Then he twists his fingers just right, and your mouth falls open in a soundless moan.

Your toes curl, your arms nearly give out. “There—” you gasp, voice wrecked, “there, yeah, that’s—god—”

Mark can’t hold back any longer.

With a low, guttural growl, he props himself up—one arm curling tight around your waist, the other still working you open. You gasp, startled by the sudden movement, but your breath is stolen the moment his lips crash against yours. It’s fierce, bruising—desperate. You wrap your arms around his neck without thinking, pulling him closer. He moans into your mouth, swallowing every shaky breath, every whine, every broken sound that slips from you.

“Fuck—Y/N,” he pants between kisses, voice wrecked and trembling. “Let me—mmh—let me, please. Please.”

You know exactly what he’s asking.

You don’t need to ask.

You don’t need him to say it.

It’s written all over him—in the way his hips buck into the air, his cock flushed dark red and leaking steadily, twitching with need. In the way his muscles tense and flex with restraint he’s barely hanging onto. In the way his fingers keep fucking into you, wet and slick, the obscene sounds echoing in the quiet, sunlit room.

And god—you want it too.

You’ve wanted this. You’ve dreamed of this.

Over and over, the memory of that first time replayed in your head like a sweet nightmare, haunting you with something you never thought you’d feel again. Not with your Mark. Not after everything. Not if he hated you.

But shit. You were wrong.

He doesn’t hate you.

Mark wants you.

Despite everything. Despite what you did. Despite the marks someone else left on your skin. Despite the betrayal.

He still wants you.

And fuck, he wants you bad.

So you kiss him, tongue sliding against his, messy and desperate. You let him suck and lick into your mouth however he wants, because god, he seems starving for it. Like he’s been holding back for years. Then, you press a hand to his solid chest. He lets you, even though your strength is nothing compared to his—but Mark lets you guide him anyway. Lets you push him down, pull away from the kiss, lips swollen and glistening, a soft pout on his face and heat in his eyes, waiting eagerly.

His fingers slip out of you with an obscene, wet sound, and despite everything, a needy gasp escapes your lips at the sudden emptiness. But the thought of what’s coming—something thicker, fuller—makes your skin tingle with anticipation.

Mark’s head falls back onto your pillows, messy hair damp with sweat leaving faint prints in the fabric. There’s a giddy thrill in knowing that, even after this day, your sheets will carry the raw, distinct scent of Mark Grayson in them.

He watches you intently, eyes burning with anticipation, breathing shallow.

“It’s okay,” you murmur, grabbing the condom and tearing it open. Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “I’ll take care of you, Mark.”

Because today, you wanted to be the one to give him everything he craved—to make him feel good, to pleasure him. It was your weakest, most pathetic way of making up for letting another version of him touch you first. But it was all you had to offer.

You settle on his thighs, fingers curling around his thick, heavy cock, rolling the condom down his length with painstaking care. Mark’s eyes flutter shut, his head falling back into your pillow with a soft moan, sweat-damp hair clinging to his forehead.

“Y/N…” he breathes out, voice cracking around your name. “God—Y/N…”

You don’t stop, making sure the condom fits just right. Then you reach for the lube, slicking your fingers generously before wrapping them around his cock again. He jerks in your hand, hips twitching helplessly as you spread it evenly, coating him until he’s glistening and ready.

“Please—fuck—please…” Mark gasps, barely holding it together. His voice is raw, thick with need, and every broken sound he makes sends a fresh coil of heat twisting in your gut.

You swallow hard, the fire in your belly almost unbearable. “It’s okay,” you repeat, softer this time,  though you’re no longer sure who you’re reassuring—him or yourself.

Finally satisfied, you lift your hips—guiding his cock with a shaky breath toward your entrance. The swollen tip brushes against your rim, thick and fat, and it makes you flinch with anticipation. Mark’s head snaps up instantly, his eyes flying open, dazed and dilated, lips parting like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

“Oh my god—” he whispers, almost in awe.

You sink down slowly, just enough to take in the tip, and a gasp tears from your lips. Mark lets out a low groan, biting into his bottom lip as his brows knit tight with restraint. His fingers claw at the sheets beside him, knuckles white, trying so hard not to thrust up into you.

You look at him then.

Flushed, eyes half-lidded, his chest rising and falling in sharp, unsteady bursts. The sunlight filters across his face, casting him in a warm, golden glow, making him look like something unreal. Like something angelic and ethereal.

He’s nothing like the other version of himself.

This Mark isn’t looming over you with control. He’s underneath you, undone, baring his vulnerability like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

This isn’t the Mark who took; this is the Mark who gives, who lets you take the lead without hesitation.

And when he looks at you, it’s not with obsession or possessiveness. It’s with reverence.

Your Mark—all sunlight, warmth, kindness, the one you fell for, the one you never stopped aching for.

Your Mark, who meets your gaze with pouty lips, flushed cheeks, and aching despair when you don’t move.

You grin—soft and disbelieving. Your heart swells with something too big to name, affection blooming so wildly it nearly chokes you. You can’t believe this is real. That it’s not some dream clawing at your chest in the middle of the night, reminding you of what you could never have. Because it’s not.

You have it now.

You have him.

Your Mark.

Mark’s hips stutter upward with a whimper, his cock sliding just that fraction deeper inside you. When your eyes meet again, you make sure he sees it—knows it.

“I love you,” you say.

He freezes, then his eyes soften, wide with something so raw and tender it punches the air from your lungs. A shy, breathless smile tugs at his lips, and he murmurs. “I love you too.”

It’s enough to make you start rolling your hips—once, twice, three times—in slow, teasing circles over his tip. Your body heats under the friction, under the weight of his gaze. And when Mark exhales, a soft sigh slipping from his parted lips, that’s when you move.

You drop onto him in one smooth, determined motion, sheathing his cock fully inside you with a single thrust, helped by the slick glide of lube.

Mark’s reaction is immediate—head snapping back, mouth falling open as a guttural moan rips out of him, eyes fluttering shut, spine arching hard against the mattress. His hands shoot to your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise—bruises that, for sure, you’ll trace later with a breathless kind of  joy  instead of regret.

“Oh, fuck! Fuck!” he chokes out, hips jerking up instinctively, driving in deeper. “Fuck—Y/N, you’re—you’re so—” his voice splinters, breaking into a wrecked, almost-whimper, “—tight.”

You pant, head tipping back with a broken cry, your body twitching as Mark stretches you open. “Oh my god, Mark—”

His cock throbs inside you—thick, full, massive—just like you remembered. He’s forcing you open in a way you never thought you’d feel again. In a way it aches, burns, and hurts.

It’s too much—you know it is. You should’ve taken your time, let yourself adjust, eased into it. But god—god—you liked it. The overwhelming stretch, the raw, sudden fullness. The steady throb of Mark’s cock buried inside you.

You realized it that night—when Mark’s variant had pushed in without gentleness, without patience or shame—that you fucking loved being used like that.

He should’ve known, of course. Just like he knew everything else about you. That the fullness drove you mad. That the ache didn’t repel you, it fed something inside you—something primal, greedy, and starved. That no one could ever satisfy it but him.

Gonna ruin you for anyone else.

A shudder runs through you.

Yeah. Yeah.

No one but Mark.

No one.

“F-Fuck,” Mark stammers, his voice thick with heat, his expression crumpling in bliss. “Mmh—fuck—it’s so hot, it’s—god, it’s like I’m gonna melt.”

His hips roll deeper into you without thought, dragging a sharp, broken whimper from your lips. Your muscles tighten around him, a visceral reaction, and Mark chokes on a moan—half sound, half sob—as his fingers clamp harder into your skin.

“Mark—” you gasp, hands flying to his chest to steady yourself, nails digging into solid muscle as you tremble. “Nngh—how—how does it feel?”

“So good,” he chokes out, chest heaving. “God—it’s so good. You’re—fuck—you’re perfect. Just—”

His words dissolve into incoherence, his body trembling under yours. His chest is rising too fast, too shallow, his face flushed red and wrecked, lips parted in stunned, shivering gasps. He’s coming undone right beneath you, completely losing it, and you haven’t even started yet.

You watch, equal parts awed and concerned—because you need him here. Not spiraling. Not fading.

“Mark,” you whisper, cupping his flushed cheek, your thumb gently brushing over his heated skin. “I’m right here. Breathe.”

He sucks in a sharp breath, like your voice alone gave him permission to come back to earth.

“That’s it,” you soothe, grounding him, voice soft but firm. “That’s it, baby. Just breathe.”

Little by little, through shaky, shallow inhales, Mark’s eyes flutter open. You smile at him, tender and full of adoration, and reach up to wipe the tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. When his gaze finally lands on you—dazed and wide—his pupils are so blown they nearly swallow the brown of his eyes whole.

“My god—” he exhales, forehead slick with sweat, chest rising and falling slower now. “Oh my god, Y/N. Are you—are you okay? I’m not hurting you, am I?”

The question’s ridiculous, really—he was the one on the edge of passing out from forgetting to breathe.

You let out a soft chuckle. “I’m okay,” you reassure, stroking his cheek, then squeezing his cock with a deliberate clench. He gasps beneath you, twitching inside. “Are you, Mark?”

“Mhm,” he hums, nodding frantically as he swallows thickly, hips giving the smallest, involuntary jerk. “Peachy. Great. Never been better. Just—just a little… overwhelmed.”

“We can wait—”

“No. No!” he interrupts, voice pitched and desperate. His hands grab at your hips, dragging you down, sinking himself even deeper inside you. You gasp at the sharp, pulsing stretch—at the feel of every ridge, every thick inch of him. “Shit—sorry—fuck, I can’t wait,” he groans, breath hitching again. “I need you.”

Your cheeks burn, heart stuttering, desire coursing through your veins like wildfire—lighting you up from the inside out. Mark needs you. Holy shit. The words echo through your mind on an endless loop—sharp, breathless, haunting. Words you’ve longed to hear—to feel.

Your voice is barely a whisper, foggy with disbelief and affection. “Okay.”

Your hand drifts from his cheek to his chest, palm gliding over the warm, sweat-slicked skin, tracing the dips and ridges of his toned torso. Mark shivers beneath your touch, breath hitching, like your fingers alone are short-circuiting him. Then, slowly, you trail your hands down his arms, catching his wrists and guiding them lower—down, down—until his palms rest against the flat of your stomach.

Mark’s eyes widen instantly, a sharp breath tearing from his lips as his gaze snaps downward.

“You feel that?” you whisper, rolling your hips in the smallest motion, just enough to press his hand deeper into your abdomen. “That’s you.”

You already knew it’d be there—just like the first time. That small, firm bump rising from the flat plane of your stomach—where Mark’s cock is buried so deep, so thick and long and overwhelming, it carves a visible imprint against your abdomen.

Mark chokes on a sound that’s half-groan, half-growl. “Ah, shit…”

His eyes are blown wide, locked on the bulge beneath his hand, thumb slowly pressing into it like he can’t believe it’s real.

His voice comes out hoarse, wrecked with awe and arousal. “Shit—look at that. Look how deep I am. Fuck, Y/N…”

Mark thrusts up experimentally, a sudden jolt of his hips that punches a yelp from your throat. But your body responds before your mind can catch up—thighs trembling, you lift yourself just enough to drop back down, and the sharp rush of pleasure that crashes through you both is instant.

His eyes flutter, unfocused, locked on where your bodies meet—the slow shift of his cock inside you, how far he sinks in, how deep you let him go. Rearranging you. Filling you so completely he looks like he might lose his mind.

“Aw fuck—” Mark groans, voice cracking around the edges, head lolling back before snapping forward again, trying to keep watching. “Fuck—I’m inside—I’m so fucking deep—”

He proves it in the next moment—hips snapping upward at the exact moment you slam down. The impact draws twin cries from you both, his hands still pressing into your belly like he needs the tactile proof of just how deep he’s buried. You rock into him again, and again, the rhythm building into something messy, urgent, addictive.

“Yeah, Mark—” you pant, voice shaky, trembling with every word, “—yeah, nh—it’s you.”

“Fuck—” he breathes, brows knotting together in that beautifully wrecked way, lips parted, breath stuttering. “Mmh—fuck, it’s so hot. You’re so—shit—so fucking hot—”

His voice dissolves into broken sounds—soft whimpering breaths, helpless noises you never imagined you’d hear from him. And god, the way he’s falling apart under you makes something burn in your chest.

You reach for him again, hands finding his wrists, guiding his palms away from your belly, intertwining your fingers with his. You start moving in earnest—hips rolling, grinding, riding him with purpose now. You use his hands as leverage, keeping them pinned against your waist, making him hold you steady as you fuck yourself down onto his cock like you were made for it.

“Y/N—ah—Y/N—” Mark groans, his voice ragged, hips jerking up to meet you halfway. He’s trying, trying so hard to match your rhythm, to give you everything. “Fuck—ngh—Y/N—”

“Oh god, oh god—!” you cry out, head falling back as one especially deep thrust slams into that spot, sending white-hot sparks ripping up your spine. “Mark—fuck—there—oh my god, there—”

You slam down at the same moment Mark snaps his hips up, and his cock slams straight into your prostate so hard it sends a white-hot jolt through your body—your vision blurs, eyes nearly rolling back into your skull.

“Holy fuck—! Fuck, fuck, fuck—!” you gasp, your whole body arching into the pleasure. “Fuck, Mark—Mark—”

Your nails dig into his arms, clenching around him, pulsing and tight and desperate. You ride him with everything you have—up and down, again and again—chasing that perfect heat, that delicious pressure deep inside you, stretched full around the thick length of him. Your own cock leaks helplessly, slapping against the firmness of his stomach with every bounce, every thrust, adding sparks of stimulation that make your whole body twitch.

“Shit—Y/N—fuck, like this?” Mark pants, meeting your hips with frantic thrusts. His eyes are wide and dark with arousal but still so painfully earnest—always checking, always making sure. “Here? Feels good?”

“Yes!” you cry out, spine curving as you push down harder, grinding into him, pressing in deep, chasing more even when you’re already full to the brim. “Yes, yes—yes!”

Every nerve in your body lights up—your fingertips, your thighs, your cock, all buzzing with raw, electric heat. And when you angle your hips just a little lower, just right, Mark’s thick cock crashes into your prostate again—and again—and again, pounding that spot in a rough, perfect rhythm that steals the air from your lungs.

“Fuuuuck—” you gasp, voice catching in your throat as your eyes squeeze shut, pleasure burning hot and blinding. “Oh god—it feels so good—so fucking good—”

“Yeah?” Mark pants beneath you, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips, gripping you like he can’t get enough. He drives up into you, deeper, harder, and the greedy way he squeezes you makes your head spin. “Jesus—you feel amazing,” he groans, breath shaky. “You’re so fucking tight, I’m—I swear you’re gonna kill me—fuck—”

Your thighs are burning now, trembling from the strain. Your stomach coils, muscles seizing with effort.

“Ah—ngh—Mark—I can’t—” you whimper, voice breaking as you cling to him, nails dragging across his shoulders as your strength slips. You’re shaking all over, legs giving out, rhythm falling apart.

You can’t keep going. Even though your body wants to. Even though you’d give anything to ride him into oblivion. But your legs shake violently, threatening to give out entirely. The only thing keeping you moving is Mark—his strong hands lifting your hips, guiding you up and down on his cock.

“I can’t—Mark,” you sob, eyes brimming with overwhelmed tears. “Please—fuck me. Just fuck me—”

Mark growls—deep and guttural—and you barely have time to breathe before he shifts, rolling you to the side. The world tilts, everything spinning—and then you’re on your back, blinking up at him, caged beneath the weight of his arms on either side of your face.

And then he kisses you like he’s starving, swallowing your gasps as he devours your mouth with desperation. You cling to him, barely coherent, mind already melting as his body aligns with yours again, cock pulsing hot and heavy where it presses against your entrance.

Instinctively, your legs lock tight around his waist, arms looping around his neck. Mark thrusts back in with one smooth, deep stroke—your body taking him effortlessly, like it’s made to welcome him. Your toes curl at the stretch, at the sheer fullness of him, stars bursting behind your eyes as another desperate, broken moan rips from your throat—one that Mark swallows greedily between kisses, mouths moving feverishly against each other.

“Mmph—Mark,” you pant into his mouth, barely able to breathe, “I love—mmh—I love you.”

Mark pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes shining with unshed tears of pleasure that mirror your own. “Fuck, Y/N—” His voice cracks, hips stuttering. “I love you. So much. So much.”

You nod, dazed and floating. “Don’t stop. Please—keep going.”

And he does.

He fucks into you hard, desperate, the sound of skin meeting skin raw and constant. He now knows you can take it—knows you want it—and Christ, he wants it so bad too. Wants to lose himself inside you, feel every inch of you wrapped around him as his self-control frays and snaps, tension coiled so tight in his gut it’s barely manageable. You’re squeezing him perfectly, body clenching down like you need him, and every sound you make pulls another raw groan from his throat.

He wants to stay here forever. He wants to be inside you, part of you, one with you—if that were possible, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

“You like it?” he pants, voice cracking with another deep, sharp snap of his hips. “Y/N—fuck—you like it?”

“Fuck! Yes!” you arch off the bed, toes curling. “I love it—I love it—I love it—”

His teeth sink into his bottom lip, head spinning as your incoherent moans fill the room, every sound soaking into his skin like heat. You melt into him with every thrust, open and pliant and so fucking willing it nearly undoes him. God—and he’d run from this. From you. Too scared of what he felt. Too scared to face it, to own it.

Mark could’ve had this months ago. Could’ve heard these sounds, seen this look on your face, felt you tremble like this under him—if he hadn’t been such a goddamn coward.

“Good,” Mark growls, thrusting harder, more desperate now. “Good—because I’m not letting go.”

He presses a featherlight kiss to the tip of your nose before trailing lower, breath hot as it ghosts across your neck. Your breath stutters—your entire body tightens—when he lingers over the bruises. Fading now, but still there. The ones his variant left behind to claim you, to make sure you don’t forget him. To make sure your Mark didn’t either.

Mark’s jaw clenches.

Then he bites down.

A choked gasp rips from your throat, pulse pounding as his teeth sink into the bruised skin, right where it still aches.

“Oh god—” your eyes fluttering shut, voice breaking into a high whine. “Mark—”

He doesn’t stop—sucking dark new marks over the old ones, sweeping his tongue over each one like he’s rewriting them. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave their own bruises, his thrusts never losing their punishing pace. It’s overwhelming, the way he consumes you.

“Fuck, Mark—” you groan, head tilting back to give him more room. “Fuck, yes—”

A broken moan tears from your throat as Mark picks up pace, his hips slamming into you with a force that should hurt but only sends lightning up your spine. Each thrust punches deeper than you thought possible, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur at the edges. His breath scalds your neck—panting, uneven—and you feel the goosebumps erupt across your skin.

Then his hand wraps around your leaking cock, using your own precum to slick the way as he starts jerking you off with frantic, uncoordinated strokes.

You nearly black out.

“Fuck! Mark—!” your back arches off the mattress, nails biting into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. “Mark—Mark!”

It’s overwhelming—too much at once. His cock nailing your prostate with terrifying accuracy. His mouth hot and wet on your neck, teeth scraping just shy of breaking skin. His hand working your length with a roughness that borders on painful.

Mark’s everywhere. Around you, inside you, all over you. And you don’t stop him. You can’t. You love him. And love every second of it.

“Yes, yes, yes—” you babble, face scrunching in overwhelming pleasure, eyes rolling back. “Fuck, yes. Mark—ah—don’t stop, don’t stop—I’m gonna—”

Tears blur your vision, trailing down your cheeks as the sensations overwhelm you. Every thrust, every bite, every breathless groan Mark lets out sends you spiraling. You’re burning from the inside out, aching, and full and right at the edge.

“Mark—” you pant, voice wrecked, hips jerking to meet the strokes of his hand. You’re trying to warn him, trying to form words that make sense. “Mark—I’m gonna come—oh fuck, I’m so close—”

But then—just when it’s all building to an uncontrollable high—the frantic pace stutters.

Mark slows, pulling away from your neck. His forehead drops gently against yours, nose brushing nose, both of you panting, your breath mingling in the space between.

Everything slows down.

You stare at Mark through glassy, dazed eyes.

The sunlight hits just right, turning the brown in his eyes molten gold, his lashes casting soft shadows on his cheeks. His hair is damp and messy, clinging to his forehead, his face flushed and burning, lips swollen and parted with every heavy breath. His expression—open, yearning, achingly soft—melts straight through you.

Mark looks beautiful.

Mark looks yours.

And Mark whispers, “I got you.” Then softer, “I love you.”

And you believe him.

God, you believe him.

The kiss that follows steals what little breath you have left. Your body locks up—a lightning strike of pleasure that makes your thighs tremble violently around his hips. You come with a strangled sob, shaking apart in his arms. Your body clenches around him, cock twitching in his hand, hot release spilling across your stomach, over his fingers. Every jolt wracks through you like a wave, and Mark holds you through all of it—grunting softly into your mouth, matching the kiss with gentle rolls of his hips and firm strokes that push you through it.

He drinks in every gasp, every broken sound you make, kissing you slow and deep, teasing your lips between his, coaxing out every last drop like he wants to milk you dry.

“Mark,” you rasp, voice rough and awed. “Mark.”

“I’m here,” he breathes, voice just as wrecked, thumb brushing your cheekbone, wiping away tears you didn’t realize had fallen. “I’m right here.”

Tears spill over—not from the oversensitivity, not from the aftershocks still wracking your body—but because this is Mark. Your Mark. Not a dream. Not a cruel echo from another world. Not something twisted in the dark.

“I love you,” you sob into his mouth, clenching around him hard, desperate to hold onto him. “I love you so much, Mark.”

Mark makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat, his hips stuttering but still driving into you with that same relentless intensity that has you squirming beneath him from the overstimulation—but you take it.

“Love you too,” he breathes, voice cracking.

And then—Mark comes.

You feel it in the way he bottoms out with one final, shuddering thrust, so deep you can see the outline of him through your stomach. In the way his cock pulses inside you, spilling heat into the condom until it swells, pressing insistently against your tender walls. In the way his entire body locks up, then collapses against you with a broken whimper, his mouth desperately seeking yours even in the haze of it all.

You part your lips for him. Let him lick, let him breathe you in.

Then he finally slips his cock out, making you whimper into his kiss at the sudden emptiness. Your legs twitch, shaky, your body clenching instinctively around the absence. But Mark kisses you again—gentle, grounding, soft—and then collapses back onto you, chest to chest, skin to skin.

And finally—everything stills.

The only sounds left are your ragged, breathless gasps as the two of you try to come down, lungs working overtime to catch up. Mark buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, pressing soft, distracted kisses along your throat. You shudder, cheeks burning with flustered heat at the intimate display of affection—even after everything, even after just having sex with Mark, it makes you shy.

Jesus—you just had sex with Mark.

And there’s no guilt clawing at your chest. No remorse creeping up your throat. No shame curling in your gut like it wants to make you sick.

You had sex with Mark Grayson—and this time, it’s perfect.

You hum, low and content, arms sliding around his back, your nails lazily dragging over his skin in faint, aimless patterns. Mark shivers against you, arching slightly in reflex, his weight shifting more into you—pressing you deeper into the mattress, and into him.

“That tickles…” he mumbles against your ear, voice low and hoarse, rough in a way that makes your heart jump.

You chuckle softly. “Baby.”

He grumbles something incoherent, then nips playfully at your neck, just below your ear—exactly where he knows it’ll make you squirm. You flinch, breath catching, a sharp little jolt running through you.

“That tickles,” you echo, trying for mock annoyance, but the smile is already pulling across your lips.

Mark doesn’t need to see it—he hears it, the smile on your tone. He smiles back, the hint of mischief in his grin evident as his teeth graze your neck, sending another shiver through you.

Then he pulls back just enough to look at you, bracing his elbows on either side of your head. His eyes—soft and full of love—search yours with an intensity that makes your chest tighten.

“Hey,” Mark says shyly, cheeks tinged pink.

“Hey,” you whisper back, just as flustered.

“That was…” Mark exhales, his chest still heaving slightly. “That was amazing.”

Your cheeks burn, body still buzzing—soft and sore and tingling in all the right places. “Yeah,” you say, voice hoarse. “So good.”

He swallows hard, eyes flicking over your face like he still can’t believe you’re real, and here, and his. Then, like he can’t say it enough, Mark exhales. “I love you.” He buries his face in the crook of your neck, arms pulling you close as if he’s afraid to ever let go. “I love you. God, I love you. I’m never—never letting you go now. No one—” his voice drops to a low, dangerous whisper “—will take you away from me.”

You chuckle, warm and light, and wrap your arms around him in turn, holding him just as tightly. “Good. I love you too.”

It’s a promise.

It’s that simple.

In the quiet aftermath, Mark’s nose stays buried in the crook of your neck, breathing you in like he’s addicted to your scent, you feel something pressing insistently against your thigh.

You blink, stunned. “...Are you hard again?”

Mark whines—a high, embarrassed sound muffled against your skin—as he shakes his head violently. But his hips betray him with shallow, involuntary thrusts against your leg.

“My god,” you murmur, voice low and amused, affection lacing every word. You feel his hips twitch, his cock nudging insistently against your thigh. “Is this… is this a Viltrumite thing? Did I just condemn myself to your ridiculous alien stamina?”

He groans against your skin, lips brushing sensitive flesh as he mumbles, “…Maybe.” Then, quieter, with a smile curling into your collarbone, “Or maybe I just really fucking like you.”

Your cheeks heat, breath catching, your own body already stirring in response. Your cock—sticky and still sensitive—starts to throb faintly between you. “I guess... we're lucky the day just started.”

Mark lifts his head at that, and the sight alone knocks the air from your lungs—his grin wide and a little bashful, brown eyes gleaming gold in the sun, hair a mess, lips kiss-swollen, skin glowing with sweat and love.

The rays catch on the sweat still glistening between your bodies, on the marks you’ve left on each other—fading bruises, fresh bites, the ghost of fingertips pressed too hard. Little traces of everything that’s changed. Of all the things that will never be the same.

A/N: Okay, I’m honestly a little embarrassed by the ending, haha—I swear I wrote like three different versions and scrapped them all 😭 it gave me such a hard time... Anyway! I really hope you enjoyed it! this is the end of it!

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Thank you to everyone who got me to 50 likes!

The fuck is this

die with a smile ❤💛

Juno | Steve Rogers/Captain America x Male!Reader (SMUT😉)

A/N: Wow another Steve Rogers fic. Anyways this one is smut. Also this is my first ever attempt at writing smut so it's going to be really bad. So enjoy!

Title and plot (loosely) based off of Sabrina Carpenter's new song (stream the album btw or else):

Juno

Word count: 2.8k

Summary: I might let you make me Juno 😉

Warnings: Unprotected sex, oral sex

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“And then he said to me, ‘How about you change your dentures!’” A chorus of laughter erupted from around the table. Among the voices and chuckles was Y/N, sporting a fake laugh to hide the pain he was currently feeling on the inside. He so badly wanted to leave, thinking that laughing at whatever he was presented with would help pass the night. 

Y/N was an Avenger. He loved his job – no doubt. He loved being able to help people on a worldwide scale, and the overall idea of doing something that mattered. However, what Y/N didn’t realize was that the fine print of the Avenger’s contract included him forcefully being present at the annual U.S. Defence Symposium Convention, where diplomats and political leaders from around the globe gathered to discuss foreign affairs. While he never had to speak during these conventions, Y/N’s presence was required for Avengers PR reasons. Why it couldn’t be anyone else was a question he’d never find the answer to. Luckily for him, he wasn’t alone this year. Even better for him, he was with his lovely boyfriend.

Y/N glanced towards Steve at the other side of the circular table. Steve was already looking at him, wearing a similar bored expression. The two shared tired smiles. A positive that came with being Captain America’s boyfriend was intimate looks like these, shared across dinner tables, conference meetings, and other situations where they couldn’t be close. Looks and glances that made Y/N feel warm inside. No one else knew, even the team, of their clandestine relationship, afraid of the uproar that would come if it were to become public. The controversy that came with two of the United States’ defensive powerhouses dating – especially considering both were men – was something Y/N chose to think about rarely.

The senator continued his comedically-not-funny joke, and Y/N felt grey hairs growing. He knew he had to leave or he would’ve broken down in tears. As a guest speaker was about to be introduced, Y/N politely excused himself from the table and glanced towards Steve, his eyes already on him. He gave him a wink – a not-so-discrete signal they both came up with before arriving, loosely meaning, ‘I can’t handle this anymore and I need to get the fuck out of here – meet me in the bathroom.’ 

As he walked through the halls of the large venue, he marvelled at the grandness of the building where the convention was held. While he despised being there, he had to admit the building was architecturally and aesthetically pleasing, being more on the higher end of NYC establishments with its Art Deco-inspired assets. When Y/N made it to the bathroom, he checked beneath the stalls to see if anyone was present before letting out a loud groan. He knew he had to talk to Nick Fury later to discuss his supposedly mandatory attendance at the energy-draining convention. He couldn’t stand another second here. Leaning against the sink, he waited for Steve to arrive.

After about two minutes, the door to the washroom opened, and Y/N was met with Steve's presence. Steve raised his eyebrows, silently asking if anyone else was there, to which Y/N responded by shaking his head. “What did it, huh?” Steve asked, closing the door behind him.

“That geriatric senator, obviously – Senator Shortdick,” Y/N groaned. The senator’s name was actually in fact Dick – something Y/N’s immaturity found astoundingly hilarious. “His very long extended joke about…I don’t even know actually.” 

“He was talking about his son, Y/N,” Steve said, walking closer to the other man. “It was a nice story – very wholesome.” When Steve reached Y/N, he wrapped his arms around his waist before giving him a small peck. 

Y/N’s eyes met Steve’s, and they both gave each other reassuring smiles. They both desperately wanted to leave, but were aware they legally couldn’t.

“I don’t think I can handle this anymore, Steve,” Y/N’s voice whined, laying his head on Steve’s muscular chest, and caressing his sides. “I need something exciting.” Suddenly, as if he had an epiphany, Y/N conjured a devious idea to pass the time. Looking up at Steve, he gave him a half-lidded look, an action he did in jest whenever he wanted something from him. “We should fuck right now.” 

Steve only responded with a bewildered look, slowly shaking his head and reprimanding Y/N’s unsavoury suggestion. “We can’t, Y/N,” he said. “It’s too risky. Not to mention, distasteful – we’re in public.” Steve was the more rational person in their relationship, often taking Y/N’s outrageous ideas to heed.

“Why not, Stevie?” Y/N’s voice feigned softness and seductivity. “Isn’t it exciting,” he started, arms sliding up Steve’s clothed bicep. “The idea of getting caught here.” 

“Not really-.” Before Steve could continue, Y/N connected their lips. It started soft – short and sweet – before gradually getting more intense and feverish. Steve pushed the small of Y/N’s back closer, deepening the touch of their lips. Steve wanted Y/N badly, and Y/N was aware of that. He always knew that he had some type of figurative spell over Steve, causing him to be more acquiescent towards him than any other member of the team – even before they started dating. Steve was entirely bewitched by Y/N.

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

The two eventually locked themselves in one of the bathroom stalls, lips already connected and moving together hungrily. Both prayed no toilet would come beckoning some diplomat’s bladder amidst their carnal moment together. As they continued face-fucking each other, Y/N trailed his hands down towards Steve’s pantsuit. He palmed Steve’s already present bulge, rubbing it with the soles of his hand and causing a quiet whimper to leave Steve’s mouth. At hearing Steve’s sultry noise, Y/N felt his cock growing harder and heavier.

Y/N broke their lips’ ravenous movement and began unbuttoning Steve’s tux. “I saw you practically ogling me in there.” He bit one of Steve’s sensitive spots on his neck, eliciting a low groan from his throat. “It’s like you were begging to fuck me with your fuck-me eyes.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Steve panted in response. 

“Stay oblivious then, Stevie.” Y/N slipped Steve’s suit off, revealing his muscled buff chest. Not even a second later, Y/N’s mouth began trailing down Steve’s torso. He peppered kisses all over Steve’s chest, going further and further down until he was on his knees. Y/N came face-to-face with Steve’s growing bulge. He salivated, thinking about taking Steve’s entire cock in one go – the idea of hearing Steve’s whimpers made his dick even firmer.

Steve’s gaze was locked on Y/N. His eyes were half-closed, face flushed with both lust and pleasure. Y/N then unbuttoned Steve’s pants before taking them off which revealed Steve’s undergarments. Without sparing another moment, Y/N yanked Steve’s boxers off. Steve’s cock, upon being unclothed, sprung upwards and ached in the cold bathroom air. It begged for attention that Y/N’s mouth was more than willing to give. A slight droplet of precum was already at the slit which made Y/N even more aroused. Not wanting Steve to finish quickly (as if that is even a problem with his serum-induced stamina), Y/N started slow. He gave Steve’s shaft one long lick at the base, relishing the semi-salty taste. Y/N continued licking, throwing occasional glances towards Steve and how he was reacting. The quiet whimpering coming out of Steve’s mouth was evident he wanted – needed more. “Just please take it all, Y/N,” he quietly whined.

Y/N chuckled. He decided Steve had been good tonight and, sparing him from further punishment, took his entire cock in his mouth. A loud moan erupted from Steve to which he quickly clamped his hand over his mouth to silence. Y/N had to adjust to Steve’s size for a moment before doing anything further. Despite having done this several times, Y/N always thought Steve’s dick was maybe too big for him. This wasn’t that much of a problem for him as while he did struggle in throating it, it did make his ass feel good. And very sore afterwards. After a brief moment, Y/N began to slowly move his head up and down Steve’s cock. Steve struggled to quiet down his noises of pleasure as much as Y/N struggled trying not to choke. With each movement of Y/N’s head, Steve was hitting the back of his throat which sent a wave of pleasure down his spine. Steve, however, wanted much more.

To Y/N’s shock, Steve bundled his hands in his H/C locks and shoved him further down his throat. Y/N’s eyes went wide, gagging noises coming from his clogged mouth. Before Y/N could steady himself, Steve began ramming his throat at a rapid speed, his attempt to quiet himself vanishing as he prioritized quickly getting off with Y/N’s mouth. As Steve continued at his pace, he let out breathy moans that were amplified and reverbed by the bathroom’s walls. While Steve was in pure bliss at his cock being serviced, Y/N was not able to cope with the sudden change. His hands were placed on both of Steve’s thighs, trying to steady himself. Tears pricked near the corner of his eyes as his entire buccal cavity and throat continued being ransacked by Steve’s length. Each time Steve’s cock hit the rear of his throat, Steve shuddered and Y/N gagged loudly. As Steve began nearing his climax, he began to go even quicker than his initial speed, causing Y/N’s tears to freefall down his cheeks. With one loud grunt and a sloppy thrust, Steve came down Y/N’s throat. As Y/N felt the warm and salty fluid trail down his throat, Steve’s breaths became more shallow.

Steve leaned against the stall’s door, and a slick ‘pop’ sounded as he took his cock out of Y/N’s mouth. He was still recovering from his orgasm as Y/N quickly got up from his knees and roughly pushed his chest. “Dude!’ Y/N half-yelled. “What the fuck was that? You nearly killed me!”

Steve staggered slightly at Y/N’s hit. He looked at Y/N with a confused expression that quickly vanished upon seeing his tear-stained cheeks. An apologetic look promptly dawned. “Shit, Y/N, I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine it’s just,” Y/N said while wiping his face, “you have to warn me first before you do that.” 

“I’m really sorry, Y/N.” Steve did look remorseful. His face looked as if he had accidentally kicked a dog. “We should probably stop now.”

Y/N gave looked at him incredulously. “Are you kidding me?” He pointed sternly towards Steve, his voice coming out furious with a tinge of playfulness. “The only apology I’ll accept now is if you fuck me right here.”

“But, Y/N, I don’t have the…” Steve’s voice trailed off.

“The what, Steve?”

“You know,” Steve said, face slightly pink. “The wet thing and the rubber thing?”

An actual genuine look of bewilderment made its way onto Y/N’s face. “You mean condoms and lube?” Steve nodded shyly and Y/N began to laugh. “Steve, you just pounded my face in. Don’t give me any shit about you being too coy to say the words ‘condom’ and ‘lube’.” He then glanced down towards Steve’s penis which was already erect again. “Plus, your thing,” he continued, mocking Steve’s mannerisms, “still looks pretty wet from my spit. And as far as I remember, none of us have any diseases.” Y/N quickly looked towards Steve. “Right?” Steve nodded his head quickly, still too embarrassed to respond. Before Steve could do anything further, Y/N took his pants off alongside his underwear. “You’re already hard again, Steve. What are you gonna do 'bout it?”

Y/N’s teasing tone evoked Steve’s earlier confidence, leading to him hoisting Y/N around his waist, a quick yelp coming out of Y/N at the sudden movement. Before Y/N could say anything, Steve hastily prevented him by connecting their lips. Their tongues quickly tangled together, saliva combining and becoming indistinguishable from one another. “Steve, just put it in already, God.” Y/N’s voice came out breathy and unstable. Steve obeyed quicker than usual, seemingly eager to come a second time that night. Grabbing his cock with one hand and supporting Y/N with the other, he angled it towards Y/N's gaping hole. Without wasting any more time, Steve promptly thrust the entirety of his length inside of Y/N. A filthy ludicrous whine came from Y/N’s throat. His prostate was already being reached by Steve’s tip, causing his eyes to roll to the back of his head. He was euphoric and as Steve started moving, his speed matching that of earlier, Y/N felt like he ascended. 

Steve was usually gentle whenever they had sex, but he decided to spare no mercy tonight. His thrusts were aggressive, leaving Y/N unable to handle the surplus of pleasure he was feeling. With each graze felt by his prostate, he was sent further into the heavenly bliss he felt. “H-have you seen that one movie,” Y/N said in between heavy pants. “Juno?” He knew it was a stupid question, both in the situation he asked it in, and how he knew Steve had barely seen anything made in the 21st century.

Steve continued thrusting into Y/N, the sound of their skin slapping reverberating around the room. “No – fuck,” Steve’s voice came out breathless. “What is that?” His face was contorting into different variations of lewd expressions, making Y/N’s hard-on even stiffer. It was rare to see the Captain America in such a vulnerable state, and Y/N savoured the fact he was the only person who was able to see him like this. 

The pleasure Y/N felt inside of him was indescribable. Their fucking had never reached this level of catharsis. “Nothing – it doesn’t matter. Just keep going, Steve…please…” Y/N saw the little dribble of precum dripping from his cock. He was close. And Y/N knew Steve was too from how his pounds started becoming sloppier, and how his hands gripped his ass tighter. Their lips found each other again, and their tongues connected. Steve swallowed all of Y/N’s whimpers, biting his lower lip to prevent any would-be passersby from hearing his erotic gasps for air. 

“I’m gonna come, Y/N,” Steve breathlessly spoke. His pacing started to decline, and his entire body trembled. 

As Steve was about to endure another orgasm, Y/N saw him about to pull out. Suddenly, he protested with a hoarse sigh, “No, Steve, just finish inside me – it’s fine.” Steve nodded his head silently, not needing to be told twice. Their pants continued syncing together as Steve rode out his climax. Another load of his hot white cream exited him and filled Y/N to the brim. Shortly after Steve finished, Y/N felt his climax coming in. Steve continued floppily thrusting to aid in his release, soon releasing in thick ribbons that covered his and Steve’s chests. 

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

Steve gently collapsed both of their bodies on the ground. The pair were in a state of exhausted pleasure, their breaths still deep and frequent. It stayed this way for a few minutes – Steve and Y/N basking in the decline of their orgasms in a comfortable silence. Y/N glanced down towards his ass, a tad icked out by Steve’s jizz pouring out of him. “It’s kind of gross isn’t it,” he said to Steve. 

Steve was broken out of his euphoric trance upon hearing Y/N’s voice. “What is?” He said, still catching his breath.

“Look,” Y/N signalled to his downward area. “It looks really strange.” The pair’s eyes met and they both erupted in boisterous laughter. 

As they started quieting down from what they considered the funniest thing of that night, Steve suddenly remembered what Y/N asked earlier. “Hey, what was it with that movie you asked me about earlier.”

“Juno?” Y/N responded.

“Yeah, that one.”

“Oh, it was nothing,” Y/N said, getting uncharacteristically shy. “I just thought…it’d be nice if we have kids one day.” Y/N then realized what he said and began doubling down. “I mean, that is if you want any with me at all – children I mean. A family.”

Steve didn’t say anything. Instead, he smiled at Y/N, grabbing his hand and holding it tightly. Y/N responded by giving him a meek smile. They both were met with another silence, their love-laced gazes filling each other with a comforting warmth. 

“How are we gonna get out of here, Steve?” Y/N’s voice came out softly, too absorbed in the moment to genuinely care about where they were.

“Now that is the predicament, isn’t it?” Steve said, reciprocating Y/N’s blissful voice.

Fortunately, it was evident that luck was on their side that night as no one had entered the bathroom at any point in their love-making.

FIN

A/N: My Google searches are legit “Synonyms for ‘cock’ in fanfiction”, “Synonyms for ‘moaning’ in fanfiction”, “Synonyms of ‘cum’ in fanfiction”, and “How to write smut properly.” Anyways, hope you enjoyed whatever that mess was!

! URGENT HELP FOR 5 ADULTS & 2 KIDS 8/20/24 !

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