Maybe I Drew Them Kissing

Fym you don't wanna watch Dragon Warrior Tai Lung kfp with me

got bored!!!!!!

Alex coming out.

Credits to @UQUOOZZ on Twitter

@asjeontrw

Nanami is not god's strongest soldier wbk 😂

Charlie being touch starved but unaware of it

A totally not belated birthday gift for my amazing friend @achirding ❤️⚔️🖤

Now nothing’s the same | Alternate!Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

Summary: You know it isn't your Mark the moment he steps into your room. The blood on his suit isn't his. The way he looks at you isn't right. The things he whispers aren't things your Mark would ever say. Yet, you let him stay. And more.

Pairing: Alternate!Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

Warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, frottage, overstimulation, rimming (R receiving), belly bulging, unprotected sex, spit as lube.

Tags: any Mark variant, Reader is lowkey not okay, and he’s a virgin (so prob unrealistic sex?), Unrequited love (for original Mark), Top!Mark, Bottom!Reader.

w.c: 12.2k  |  a/n: English isn’t my first language. This is the first time I write smut so it probably sucks, but hey, I wrote 12k? How did that happen? Yikes… Feedback is appreciated—as longs as is respectful. Also, I wrote this with no particular Mark in mind, so feel free to imagine your favorite variant! The only exception is Mohawk Mark, since his unique hairstyle would immediately reveal he's not the mainstream version at the very beginning (unless you prefer to imagine the reader being dense and oblivious to that glaring detail...).I guess it doesn’t really matter. IMAGINE ANY MARK! And enjoy!!!

| Part 2 (COMING SOON)

Ever since the news broke about cities around the world being destroyed by multiple versions of Invincible, you’ve been hiding. It’s the only logical thing to do—for someone powerless like you, there’s nothing else to do. You can only wait for the nightmare to end, for the heroes to rise victorious. For Mark to rise victorious.

So you stay in your home, clutching your phone, waiting for something—anything—to change. A day passes, and Mark still hasn’t answered your messages. He’s busy, you tell yourself, burying your face in your pillow to stifle the ache in your chest. Of course he’s busy. How could he not be? His hands are full with the weight of the world on his shoulders—fighting, saving, surviving. The news keeps reporting on the Invincibles’ rampage, updating the world daily. A stupid text message—of course Mark doesn’t have time to reply.

(You try not to think about how Mark has been pulling away from you, slowly but surely. How, ever since you confessed your feelings and ruined everything, he hasn’t looked at you the same. How you should’ve kept your heart locked tight, your love buried deep, just so you could keep him close. But you didn’t, and now nothing’s the same.)

So you wait, trapped within your four walls, your chest heavy with worry for your friends—your hero friends—who are out there risking their lives. You cling to the news like a lifeline, watching as the Invincibles tear through city after city, leaving thousands dead, all while they smile like it’s a game.

So you wait, and pray. Anxiety coils tight in your chest, pressing against your ribs until it feels like you might burst. But eventually, hunger forces you to move. You drag yourself to the kitchen, hands trembling as you fumble with the bread. You barely register the motion, your mind drifting to every terrible, unlikely scenario where Mark—your Mark—doesn’t make it. The thought alone makes your throat tighten.

It’s not good. You shouldn’t be this negative. But there are so many Invincibles, and if they’re anything like the Mark you know, then even the strongest heroes must be struggling. People will die. People you care about. And you try—God, you try—not to think about who, who, who.

Maybe that’s why you don’t hear him.

Not that there’s any particular sound to warn you. No footsteps, no creak of the floorboards. Just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional rustle of the curtains by the open window.

One second, your eyes are on the bread on the counter, and the next, an unexpected voice brushes against your ear.

“Found you,” he whispers.

Your heart leaps into your throat, and you freeze, the knife slipping from your hand and clattering to the counter. Your breath hitches as you turn your head slowly.

(Vaguely, you think about Mark fussing over you like a mother hen, that familiar crease forming between his brows. “You really shouldn’t leave your window open like that,” he’d chide, voice laced with exasperation. “Anyone could get in.”

But you’d just laugh, brushing off his concern. “It’s a sixth floor, Mark. And you’re the only weirdo who does.”

I’ll always leave my window open for you, you wouldn’t say.

I’ll always be waiting for you to come, you couldn’t say.)

And then, there he is.

“Mark?” you breathe, relief crashing over you in an overwhelming wave. You don’t notice the differences—how his suit is wrong, smeared with fresh blood and viscera that drip onto your clean floor. How his eyes are too wide, too unblinking, something wild lurking behind them. You don’t see any of it. All you see is Mark standing there, safe, alive. “Oh my god, Mark.”

You rush to him without hesitation, arms outstretched, wrapping him up in a desperate embrace. You’ve been so worried, so consumed by the gnawing anxiety of losing him, that just hearing his voice, just seeing him, shatters any rational thought.

For a moment, he stiffens against you. But then, his arms lock around you with a force that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. It’s too tight, too much, an intensity Mark has never held you with before. That should have been your first warning. But as soon as he hides his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your sensitive skin, you forget about everything that seems wrong. You forget about the blood, the wild look in his eyes, the way his grip feels almost possessive. All you can focus on is the way he inhales deeply, as if he’s been starved of this—of you.

You shudder, heart pounding for reasons you can’t quite explain, and then he sighs, low and satisfied, the sound vibrating against your skin.

(“You smell really good,” Mark would murmur, crowding into your space, his nose nearly brushing your neck as he inhaled deeply. “Like, really good.”

You’d shove at his chest, face flaming despite yourself. “Christ, Grayson, you’re not a dog. Back off.”

He’d laugh—that stupid, sunshine-bright laugh that always made your pulse stutter—and lean against the lockers with infuriating ease. “Just being honest… Hey, you could tell me what perfume you use. Maybe then Amber would actually like me on our next date.”

Your chest would tighten, eyebrows knitting together before you could stop them.

“Can’t help you there, pretty boy,” you’d say, slamming your locker shut harder than necessary. When he raised an eyebrow at you, you’d flash a razor-thin smile. “Turns out it’s natural. One hundred percent me.”) 

“It’s you…” Mark whispers, his lips brushing against your neck. You hold your breath, trying to suppress the goosebumps rising on your skin, but it’s futile. His voice is low, almost reverent, and it sends a shiver down your spine. He squeezes you tighter, his arms like steel bands around you. “Oh, it’s you.” 

“Mark?” you ask hesitantly, confusion laced in your voice. “What is it? Are you hurt?” 

You try to push yourself away, hands pressing against his shoulders to create some space—because you can’t do this. You can’t handle him holding you like this, his voice hoarse and low against your neck, his breath hot enough to make you weak. You’re friends. Only friends. He’s made that much clear, and this—this isn’t fair.

But you barely manage to put a few inches between you before he whines, a sound so raw and desperate it catches you off guard. In an instant, he pulls you back in, burying his face deeper into the crook of your neck, his grip unyielding.

“Mark?” you whisper again, voice trembling.

“Not yet,” he replies, his tone pleading. “Let me hold you one more minute.” 

And you don’t have the strength to refuse him.

Yet, as the seconds tick by and he keeps clinging to you like a child afraid to let go, you can’t help but notice the things you’ve been ignoring.

Why is Mark here? Why would he suddenly show up at your apartment when he’s supposed to be out there, saving the world? Why would Mark—the same Mark who’s been keeping you in this strange, distant limbo for weeks, who barely speaks to you beyond polite conversation, who’s been looking at you with a mix of discomfort, guilt, and something else you can’t quite place—be holding you so desperately right now?

Then your attention drifts to his clothes. His suit, but not really his suit. The blood—the thick, dark blood that, now that you’re truly paying attention, doesn’t belong to him. And it’s a lot, pooling around your feet, staining your floor, soaking your clothes.

A sickening weight settles in your stomach, curling, twisting, nagging at the back of your mind. Your arms go slightly limp around him, hesitation creeping in where relief had been just moments ago. Your brain, which had felt so light, so grateful just a minute ago at the sight of him safe, suddenly flashes back to the news. The destruction. The Invincibles terrorizing the world.

And you wonder.

Finally, he exhales—a slow, steady breath, like someone bracing themselves. Then, he lets go, his hands lingering on your arms as if he’s reluctant to break contact entirely.

“Y/N…” he whispers, a wide grin stretching across his face. It’s an unusual smile, unnatural, amused when it shouldn’t. “Here’s where you’ve been hiding, huh?”

“Hiding?” you ask, unsure. “Well—I can’t really do anything else, can I?”

Mark smiles spreads. But his eyes—there’s something in them you hadn’t noticed before. Wide, almost frantic, something raw burning behind them. The dark circles under them make him look exhausted. His hair is a mess. And yet, his expression softens as he studies you, gaze tracing over every feature like he’s trying to memorize you. It’s so intense, so intimate, it nearly steals your breath away.

“What—What are you doing here?” you ask, glancing away, flustered. “Is it—is it over? The fight?”

He coos, a gloveless hand reaching for your chin to tilt it back toward him with a grip that’s firm, almost possessive. “Oh, it’s over. There’s nothing to worry about anymore,” he says, voice light, too light, too nonchalant for someone who just came from a battle. Mark doesn’t speak like this after a fight—he’s never so casual, so detached.

(Mark’s hands would dig into his hair, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I’m just—I keep fucking up.”

“You’re not,” you’d tell him, hand pressing warm circles between his shoulder blades. “You save people, Mark. Every single day—”

“Bullshit!” He’d jerk upright so fast you’d recoil, chair screeching against the floor. “More people die than I save!” He’d pace, fingers twisting in his hair. “Stop—just stop telling me I’m not fucking up! Stop trying to—to make me feel better! You don’t understand how I feel!”

Your chest would tighten, fingers curling into empty air where he’d been. “I know I don’t.”

“Then stop!”

“However—” you’d stand up as well, eyes locking onto his as you caught his face in your hands, palms pressing gently against his cheeks. Mark would freeze, his breath hitching, wide eyes locked onto yours. “However, I know the world would be worse without you in it. Just thinking about the possibility of not having Invincible on our side—it scares me. Because you’re the only one strong enough to protect us. The only one who can stand up to the worst threats.”

Your thumb would brush over his cheekbone, touch impossibly gentle.

“And I’m sorry you have to carry that responsibility, Mark. But you’re not failing. Not to me.”

His expression would crumble, his eyes glistening with unshed tears before he’d pull you close, burying his face in your shoulder. His breath would shake, and you’d feel his fingers dig into the fabric of your shirt.

Your cheeks would burn, heart stuttering, but you'd swallow your feelings and offer only the comfort a friend should.

“I’m sorry,” he’d murmur, voice thick. “I’m sorry.”

You’d breathe in, closing your eyes. “Don’t be.”)

Your cheeks burn as he tugs you closer by the chin, forcing you to look straight at him. Your hand instinctively reaches for his wrist, but you don’t pull away. You should. But you don’t. Yet, you can’t stand the weight of his stare, so intense, so close, it feels like it’s peeling back layers of you, exposing everything you’ve tried to suppress.

“Nothing to worry about?” you force the words out, trying to ignore the heat flooding your face and the fluttering sensation in your stomach. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” he nods, his voice low and steady. Then, without warning, he leans closer again, his face burying into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply like he just couldn’t get enough. “Oh, shit. How I missed this.”

“Mark?” you ask quietly, voice trembling despite your efforts to steady it. His breath is hot and electric against your skin. The warmth blooming in your face spreads down, coiling through your body. “What are you doing? Jesus—this isn’t like you.”

“Oh, really?” he hums, lips ghosting over your pulse. The brush of them—so soft, so deliberate—makes you shudder. “Not even a little?”

“No…” you exhale, shivering when his arms snake around your waist, squeezing hard enough to make you squirm. “No. Mark. What—what are you doing?”

Your hands reach for the counter behind you, gripping the edge tightly, desperate for something to anchor you. But Mark—his scent, his body pressed so tightly against yours, his breath burning against the most sensitive part of your throat—makes it impossible to focus, impossible to think. It’s like everything around you is spinning, and you can’t make sense of any of it.

“What do you think I’m doing?” he asks, his tone amused and teasing, like this is all some game to him.

And that finally makes you scowl, the heat in your cheeks now burning with a mix of anger and humiliation. You inhale sharply, trying to regain your senses, but an ugly feeling of shame and hurt settles heavily in your chest.

You lift a hand and push him, or at least try to, your strength no match for his. Still, he complies, pulling away with a reluctant sigh, an annoyed expression flickering across his face as he finally tears himself from you.

“This isn’t funny, Mark,” you say, glancing away, unable to bear the intensity of his stare. “Stop it.” 

“Stop what?” he complains, his fingers digging into your waist as if he’s reluctant to let you go entirely.

“That,” you snap, gripping his wrists and prying his hands off. “You can’t just—just ignore me for weeks and then suddenly show up and treat me this way. It’s—it messes with my head! It’s not fair, Mark!” your breath comes heavy, your chest rising and falling as you struggle to form the words. Your eyes drop to the floor, and you add quietly, “Just stop.” 

He’s silent for a moment, and you can feel his gaze burning into you, searching, analyzing. His head tilts slightly, as if he’s trying to piece something together.

“We’re not… together?” he asks after a beat, his voice incredulous, like the idea is absurd.

The question makes you flinch, and a fresh wave of anger surges through you.

(“I’m sorry,” Mark would mutter, his hand awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes avoiding yours. “I just—don’t see you that way.”

You’d glance away, your lips pressed together in a tight line, trying to hold back the sting of rejection. “I’m sorry too.”

“It’s just—there’s someone else I wanna try it with.”

“I get it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know,” you sigh, wanting Earth to swallow you whole and disappear forever. But this is Mark, and you couldn’t bear living without Mark. “We’re still friends, right? This doesn’t have to change anything.”

He’d smile at you, his eyes creasing at the edges in the way you adored. “Yeah—Friends!”)

“Of course not!” you snap, voice rising. “You made it very clear you—you love someone else!”

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest as you take a step back, putting some much-needed distance between you and his overwhelming presence. Was he mocking you? Playing some cruel joke?

But then again, as you pace around the kitchen, trying to hold yourself together, your eyes flicker to his odd suit, to the blood clinging to him, to the confused, almost baffled look on his face. And you think again—why is Mark here? Why, really?

Is he even Mark—

“But Y/N—” he whines, trailing after you like a lost puppy, his voice pleading, “—I would never, and I mean never look at anyone else but you!”

You frown, shaking your head. “I can’t even believe you’re saying this to me right now,” you mutter, trying to keep your voice steady. “Did you hit your head too hard fighting those lunatics?”

You don’t notice the way he tilts his head at your words, don’t catch the way his eyes darken, flashing with something unreadable.

“If you don’t have anything better to do, then just leave,” you huff, bitterness lacing your tone. “I don’t wanna—humiliate myself any more than I already have. You had your fun. So go away.”

You turn on your heel, heart pounding as you stride toward your bedroom where your phone is charging. There’s a gut feeling gnawing at you, a sensation you can’t shake, and you need confirmation. You need reassurance.

Is the Mark standing behind you even your Mark at all?

Your gut twists violently, but you can’t shake it. The second you step into your bedroom, your hand fishes for your phone, fingers trembling as you scroll through your contacts and press the button.

But Mark hasn’t left. He follows right after you, moving with an easy, unhurried stride, and when he realizes what you’re doing, a slow, knowing smile spreads across his face.

“O-ho?” he hums, amusement dripping from his voice. “My, my, Y/N, why’re you calling me?” 

His hand moves, effortlessly covering yours, fingers warm and firm over your knuckles. The phone rings—once, twice—and Mark leans in, his breath brushing against your ear, voice low, teasing.

“I’m right here, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You don’t need anyone else.” 

Your breath hitches. The sound of the third ring barely registers before he plucks the phone from your grasp with unnerving ease. You don’t even resist—your fingers tremble as they slip away from the device. Not that it would have done anything, anyway. The fifth ring echoes into silence, then clicks to Mark’s familiar voicemail. Useless.

The air in the room shifts, heavy and overwhelming. You watch, frozen, as he casually places your phone on your desk, just far enough out of reach.

Then, the moment your eyes meet his, you know.

This isn’t the Mark you know and love.

Mark hums, content, utterly unbothered as he slides back into your arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He sighs, pleased, like he belongs there, like nothing’s wrong.

Maybe you’re in shock. Maybe it’s fear, or disbelief, or survival instincts.

Because you let him.

Your arms fall open, letting him settle more comfortably against you, his weight pressing into you as he nuzzles closer. His warmth, his scent, the way he holds you tight—it’s all too much. And you—weak-kneed, breath unsteady—let him.

“Are you going to kill me?” you can’t help but ask eventually, voice quiet, barely a whisper.

He makes a confused sound in his throat, the vibration brushing against your skin and sending a shiver down your spine. “Hmm—not yet.”

Not yet. You should be terrified. Every nerve in your body should be screaming for you to run, to fight, to do something other than stand there, frozen, pliant in his grip. You know he’s dangerous. You know he could snap your neck without a second thought.

Yet—a curious thing happens in your brain.

You’re not afraid. You can’t be.

Because when your eyes settle on this Mark—and he looks exactly like the Mark you know, the Mark you have feelings for—something just… doesn’t click the way it should. Fear doesn’t come. Disgust doesn’t rise in your throat. Dread doesn’t tighten its grip around your chest.

Because he looks so much like Mark. And duh—he is Mark. But not yours, and that alone should be enough to make you want to bolt. Yet—as he nuzzles into your neck, his hot breath tingling against your skin, his solid body pressing into yours with a firmness that feels both grounding and overwhelming, and the way he called you ‘sweetheart’—it all makes you want to give in to him.

The feelings you’ve buried—the ones you’ve shoved down since the day Mark rejected you, since the day you forced yourself to be okay with just being friends—are clawing their way back to the surface, stronger, faster, more consuming than ever.

“Oh yeah, you don’t have to worry though,” he says, his lips brushing against your pulse in a way that feels deliberate, calculated. “It’d be such a waste to kill you so fast. I came here for you, after all.”

His lips trail along your neck, slow and purposeful, and despite everything—despite knowing this isn’t right—you sigh, shivering at the unfamiliar, intoxicating affection. He moves upward, lips ghosting over your skin until he reaches your ear, nipping at your earlobe.

“Mark…” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut, body melting under his touch.

“Ohh, I know, baby,” he mutters, voice thick with amusement, dripping with smug satisfaction. You can feel the smirk curving against your skin. “I know everything you like. I know every inch of you. Let me show you.”

Your body betrays you.

Your mind knows better—knows that this Mark isn’t yours, that the weight of his body pressing into yours should send alarms blaring through your head. But when his fingers skim your waist, when his breath fans hot against your skin, when he sighs like he belongs here—your body doesn’t fight him.

It welcomes him.

Your hands twitch at your sides, uncertain, but you don’t push him away.

“I can’t believe this universe’s Mark wouldn’t date you,” he muses, fingers wandering, exploring, curling behind your back before cupping your ass and squeezing. A choked sound catches in your throat as heat floods through you, your knees nearly giving out. “I mean—look at you.” His voice dips, teasing, triumphant. “Barely resisting.”

You bite your lip, swallowing a sound you refuse to let escape.

He laughs then—open, mocking, and so, so cocky. “And here I thought I’d have to fight this Mark over you, but—” his grin widens, wicked and pleased. “I don’t think I have any competition, sweetheart.” His lips brush against your jaw, his grip tightening possessively. “You’re all mine.”

He starts to push against you, forcing you to walk backward until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress. You fall onto the bed, breathless, your heart racing as he looms over you, his eyes dark and hungry.

“Just mine, okay?” he growls, his voice low and dripping with possessiveness. “I wouldn’t let anyone else touch you—not even him. Not even this universe’s pathetic version of me.” He scoffs, his hands gripping the hem of your t-shirt and tugging it off with a harsh, almost desperate motion. “Loving someone else? When I have you? He’s a fool. He doesn’t know what he’s missing. Y/N—you have no idea how much I’ve missed you, how much I’ve—” 

He groans, biting his lip hard enough to leave a mark, his eyes raking over your exposed skin like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that can satisfy him. You shiver, a deep blush spreading across your face. It’s too much, too fast, and you feel utterly exposed as his gaze devours every inch of you. His expression twists, a mix of desperation and adoration, as if he’s memorizing every detail of your body, committing it to memory so he’ll never forget. His fingers twitch, hovering over your skin but not touching, like he’s savoring the moment, stretching it out just to make you squirm.

It’s too intimate, too intense, and for a fleeting second, you forget that he’s dangerous.

“Stop staring,” you weakly complain, turning your face away.

“Oooh, oh-ho-ho, yeah, baby, you’re just like I remember...” he laughs, his breathing uneven, his voice shaking with a wild, almost manic energy. “Yeah—I’ll never let him have you. Never let anyone else even look at you. You’re just mine—holy shit.” 

And then he dives.

His lips crash into yours, claiming rather than kissing, his entire body pressing you down into the mattress, forcing your legs open. It’s desperate, feverish—starving. His tongue pushes past your lips, stealing your breath, and you moan into his mouth, eyes squeezing shut as you struggle to keep up with his messy, frantic rhythm. He kisses you with a ferocity that leaves you dizzy. He groans and growls against your lips as his hands roam your body, gripping and groping every inch of exposed skin. His fingers brush against your nipples, teasing and possessive, and you can only take it, breathless and overwhelmed, your mind spinning as he claims you in every way he can.

“Yeah, baby, keep making those sounds for me,” he murmurs against your lips before diving in again, swallowing every breath, every whimper like it fuels him. “So, so good. Fuck, you have no idea—it keeps me going.”

Your breath stutters as his fingers pinch your nipple, hard enough to make your back arch, a sharp gasp escaping your lips. His free hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat as he grinds his hips down. Your legs part without a second thought, welcoming him, urging him closer until he’s right there, pressing into you, slotting himself between your thighs.

“That’s it, spread wider for me,” he pants, voice dripping with dark approval. “You’re still so good, fuck.”

Your lips burn, swollen and tingling from his kisses, and when you blink up at him through your lashes, you catch the glint in his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, the usual warm brown of his eyes swallowed by something feral. That smirk—all sharp teeth and predatory hunger—should terrify you. Because the Mark you know has never looked like this before. This unhinged and unsteady. It’s a sharp, gut-wrenching reminder—this isn’t your Mark. This isn’t the sweet, awkward Mark who you fell for, the one you trusted. This Mark is wrong, a twisted mirror image, and you should be fighting him, shoving him away, clawing your way out even if it’s futile—

But then he leans down and presses the softest, faintest kiss to the tip of your nose.

And your mind blanks.

Because holy shit—Mark, the man you’ve been pining over for months, years, is kissing you. And it feels so good, so intoxicating, it messes with your head, scrambles your thoughts into something dangerous.

You know it’s wrong. You know this isn’t him. It’s like pouring your feelings into a stranger, a shadow wearing his face. But fuck—this Mark grinds against you, slow and deliberate, and you feel him, the hard press of him against you, thick and aching with want.

You gasp, body tensing, startled by how badly he wants you.

“Ohh, baby,” he whines, voice thick with desperate need, like he’s been starving for this moment for lifetimes. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave bruises, marking you as his. “Let me—” His hips roll again, dragging his thick length against your own, and you choke on air. “Let me make you feel good. Let me make you come, please, baby, please.”

Teeth scrape along your jaw before finding that sweet spot beneath your ear—the one you didn’t even know was sensitive—and you arch off the bed with a broken moan when he sucks harshly at the skin. His lips, his tongue, his teeth—he maps every inch of you like he’s memorized you, like he already knows every single weak spot before you even realize them yourself.

“Please? Please?” he keeps begging, voice so raw, so desperate, so utterly pathetic it makes you dizzy.

And you—you’re still too caught off guard to react properly. Because Mark—your Mark—never looked at you like this. Never even wanted you like this. But this Mark? He’s rutting against you like an animal in heat, his massive cock straining against his suit as he whimpers your name, making your head spin.

It’s wrong. It’s so, so wrong. Because Mark rejected you. Because you told yourself you’d be fine with just being friends. Because this isn’t even him—just the evil, dangerous version of him.

(Mark would slip into your open arms, his body heavy with exhaustion.

“I just—I’m scared,” he’d admit, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Scared of turning into my father. Scared of hurting people. And after everything with Angstrom…” his voice would trail off, fingers twitching against your back like he’s afraid to hold on too tightly.

You’d run a soothing hand along his spine, grounding him. “What do you mean?” you’d ask, gentle, coaxing him to keep talking.

“He—he talked about me like I was a monster,” Mark would whisper, voice tight. “Like there’s a version of me out there who destroyed everything. A version of me who’d kill everyone I love. A version of me who’d… destroy you.”

A slow, quiet exhale would leave your lips. “But you’re this Mark,” you’d remind him. “You’re my best friend. And you’d never do that.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, slowly, Mark would sags against you, burying himself deeper into your warmth.

“Yeah,” he’d murmur, barely more than a breath. “Never.”)

But when you move—when you grind up into him, your body answering before your mind can stop it—he makes a noise, something between a groan and a sob, and it’s so wrecked, so full of relief it makes your stomach twist.

Your arms loop around his neck, dragging him closer, pressing your bodies so tight together you can feel his heartbeat hammering against your own. And when his teeth sink into your throat, sucking so hard you know it’s going to bruise, a sharp, broken sound escapes your lips.

The room burns around you, filled with the obscene sounds of his desperate whines and your shaky gasps, the slick friction of fabric between your joined bodies.

“Yeah—” you gasp, nails raking down his back as pleasure coils tight in your gut. “Fuck, Mark, just—Do it. Do it.”

He groans, deep and guttural, a sound so full of possession it sends a sharp pulse of heat down your spine. Then his teeth sink into your neck again—hard enough that you know he’s breaking skin. And when his tongue licks the wound, sucking the blood like he owns you—you know he’s got you.

Your mind fractures into white-hot static as every rational thought—the blood crusted on his suit, the madness in his eyes, the thousands he’s slaughtered, the fact this isn’t your Mark—dissolves into primal need. Nothing exists but the electric pleasure coiling tighter in your gut with each desperate grind of his hips.

“Mark,” you sob, voice breaking as your body arches against him of its own volition. Your fingers twist in his hair, pulling him closer. “Oh god, Mark. Fuck. Mark.”

A guttural snarl vibrates against your throat as he claims your mouth again, his tongue pushing past your lips in a violent mimicry of what his hips are doing against yours. The growing dampness between your thighs should shame you, but all you can focus on is the delicious friction, the way his teeth scrape your bottom lip when you moan too loud.

But it’s still not enough.

Not with these fucking clothes between you, not with the way you’re both rutting against each other like wild animals, frantic and insatiable. It’s maddening. You need more.

Your nails claw at his back, at his suit, needing to feel his skin the way he’s feeling yours.

“Get it off,” you manage to gasp between feverish kisses. “Please, Mark.”

With a dark chuckle that sends shivers down your spine, he rears back just enough to grip his suit’s collar. The fabric shreds like tissue paper beneath his strength, revealing sweat-slick skin you immediately map with trembling fingers. His pupils blow wider at your touch, chest heaving as he crushes you back into the mattress.

“Oh yeah, Y/N...” he purrs, his voice thick with satisfaction as his fingertips trace the dark marks blooming across your neck like bruises. Proof that you belong to him. “Bet this universe’s Mark never made you feel this way, did he? Never touched you like this?” his grip tightens suddenly, making you gasp. “I’m the first, aren’t I? The only one who’s ever had you like this?”

You whimper, nodding without thinking, legs locking tight around his waist, keeping him close, keeping him there.

His grin stretches, wild and triumphant. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing,” he murmurs, his hand trailing down with agonizing slowness—down your neck, across your heaving chest, brushing over your sensitive nipples, gliding down your stomach... Until, finally, his fingers settle between your legs, pressing against the thick, aching bulge in your sweatpants, squeezing just enough to rip a needy moan from your lips. “Look at you,” he breathes, eyes wild with possessive hunger. “So fucking perfect for me. So ready to be mine. Does your Mark know what a desperate little thing you are? How easily you fall apart under my hands?”

His smile tilts, both awestruck and predatory. Then, he leans in until his lips brush yours, his hand working you through the fabric with rough, perfect strokes that have you trembling.

“So hard just for me,” he murmurs against your mouth. “He could never make you feel like this. Never touch you like I do.” His teeth graze your bottom lip. “He could never compare. I’m better, I’m stronger—”

He peppers kisses along the corner of your mouth, your flushed cheeks, tender and teasing, a sharp contrast to the way his pace quickens—faster, rougher.

“—I could make you feel even better,” he purrs, pressing his lips against your ear, voice so low, so filthy it makes you shudder. “Make you scream my name, so loud and clear, maybe the other Mark could even hear you.”

Your breath stutters, a deep moan slipping from your lips, body twisting under his touch.

“Ohh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” he chuckles, breath warm against your neck, teasing, taunting. “You’d love to let him watch. Love to let him see you break for me. Let him realize what he’s lost—what he’ll never have again.”

His voice dips lower, sinking into something darker, something twisted.

“You’d let me fuck you in front of him, wouldn’t you?”

Your body jolts, heat flashing through you in a violent rush, shame curling in your stomach like a vice.

“N-no—!” you gasp, eyes squeezing shut, face burning with humiliation. “No, I wouldn’t—”

But your body betrays you. Trembling, surrendering, completely giving in—your hips rut desperately against his hand, your pre-cum soaking through the fabric, staining it.

“Liar,” Mark breathes against your swollen lips before crushing them again in a kiss that’s hot, rough, and bruising. “I can feel how much you want it. How much you need it.”

His thumb presses cruelly against the head of your cock, rubbing slow, torturous circles through the fabric, making you see stars. Your whole body jolts, a strangled gasp tearing from your throat.

“Maybe I should drag him here,” he whispers, grinning against your lips. “Make him watch as I fuck you so good, you forget he’s your Mark Grayson. Make him see how perfectly you take me—how you were always meant to be... ours.”

You shake your head frantically, words lost between your ragged gasps. “No—”

But your back arches, cock throbbing obscenely against his palm. The more he whispers these filthy fantasies, the harder you get, hips stuttering, desperate and eager, seeking more, more, more, as his words sink deep into your brain, filling you with something forbidden, something wrong—something you like.

The pressure builds unbearable. His fingers move with ruthless precision, stroking, squeezing, dragging you to the edge, pulling sounds from you that should be humiliating—but you can’t stop.

Then you think about it. About your Mark. The one who’s still out there, fighting, struggling, exhausted and worn down. You think about what would he think. What would he do if he saw you like this. You imagine your Mark’s confused face watching—the horror in his eyes as he sees you come apart under his doppelgänger’s touch, moaning and whimpering like some cheap slut desperate for any version of him.

“Mark,” you sob as waves of shame and pleasure crash over you. “Mark, Mark—”

Mark exhales a breathy chuckle, eyes dark with fascination. “Oh-ho-ho. That’s it, baby. I’m here. I’m right here.”

And then it hits you.

White-hot pleasure blinds you completely as you spill in your sweatpants like some untouched virgin, his name tumbling from your lips in a broken prayer. Your body arches violently, convulsing as your legs clamp around his waist like a vice. Your hands claw at his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him, to this moment, to reality itself.

“Jesus…” he exhales, almost in awe, his grip tightening possessively. “My god… so perfect.”

You’re reduced to a trembling, gasping mess—shaky legs, toes curling, vision whiting out as the aftershocks rip through you. Mark watches it all with a smug, hungry smirk, his eyes locked onto your face, drinking in every twitch, every quiver like he’s trying to memorize it, to brand it into his mind.

“Yeah—let it out, Y/N,” he whispers, voice thick with satisfaction. “I did this to you. I made you feel this good.”

(“Does that feel good?” Mark would mutter into your ear, his hands still working awkwardly at the knots in your back.

You’d groan, face mushed into the pillow. ”Yup. Feels good. Really good.”

“I still can’t believe you’re making me do this,” he’d grumble, brows pinching together.

You’d stifle a laugh, eyes fluttering shut. ”You lost the bet, Grayson. Now keep massaging my back. My muscles are still wrecked from all the damn work you put me through covering you at Uni.”

“William never complains.”

“Because William sucks at covering! The only reason you’re not suspended is because I’m just too good at lying—Oh! Yeah! Right there, don’t stop,” you’d sigh, melting into the mattress. ”Oh my god, yes…”

His hands would freeze, fingers pressing hesitantly into your skin. ”…Can you stop making those sounds?”

“What sounds?” you’d murmur, half-dazed.

Mark would be quiet for a beat, then resume with a sigh. “Never mind. How about this? Does that feel good?”

“Mmmh, holy shit—yes!”)

Finally, you sink into the mattress, chest rising and falling in desperate, uneven breaths as your climax wears off. Your head falls back against the pillows, glazed eyes barely tracking Mark’s movements. His fingers leave the bulge in your sweatpants, moving to your waistband, fumbling briefly before tugging your sweatpants and underwear down, inch by inch.

“Just let me take care of you,” he mumbles, dazed. “Always gonna take care of you.”

The cold air bites at your oversensitive cock as he yanks it free, his pupils blown wide as he stares at what’s his. Before you can even process the exposure, Mark flashes you a wicked grin before his lips wrap around your cock, hot and wet and devastating. Your hips jolt, body convulsing at the sensation. His tongue swirls, savoring, exploring, a deep groan rumbling in his throat as he tastes you. The overstimulation is unbearable, electric. A strangled, pathetic cry rips from your throat as your hands fly to his head, fingers tangling in his hair, trying—failing—to push him away.

“Mark!” you jolt, thighs snapping shut around his head, trembling, squeezing, clutching. “Oh my god. Oh my god—oh my god. No—”

A deep, satisfied groan rumbles through him, vibrating against your cock and making you yelp. His hands pin your thrashing hips down, holding you there, making sure you take it.

“Mark—”

“Mine,” he snarls between filthy, wet sucks. “Gonna taste every fucking drop.”

The overstimulation borders on painful as he works you ruthlessly through your sensitivity, your cries growing increasingly broken. And yet, somewhere beneath the overwhelming pleasure, a traitorous part of you preens at being so desperately wanted.

Wanted. By Mark. Not your Mark, not the one who’d gently rejected you, but a Mark all the same. A version from some twisted reality who’d torn through dimensions just to claim you. And it sickens you—the satisfaction curling in your gut, the twisted pleasure of knowing that somewhere, in some reality, Mark has always wanted you. Craved you. And if he’s here, willing to ruin you, to unravel you with nothing but his mouth, then who are you to stop him?

His tongue works you over with filthy precision, hot and wet and perfect in ways you’d never dared fantasize about. You writhe beneath him, sheets twisting in your fists, as your gaze drops to where he’s sucking you off—Mark Grayson, on his knees for you, eyes close in joy. The sight alone punches a broken noise from your throat.

“F-fuck—!” you arch violently, tears spilling as pleasure crests into near-pain. “Fuck, I can’t—Mark, please, I can’t—!”

Finally, he lets you go with a slick, obscene ‘pop.’ He pants, breath heavy, lips red and wet as he leans over you. You’re gasping too, your chest rising and falling in erratic bursts, your body trembling like you’ve run yourself into the ground.

Mark watches you, gaze trailing over your flushed skin, your wrecked, tear-streaked face. And then he grins.

“I love you like this,” he murmurs, voice rough. His thumb swipes at the wetness on your cheek. “Love it when you cry.”

(“I hate when you cry,” Mark would say, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. ”I hate it even more when it’s me who made you cry.”

You’d slap his hand away, face twisting into a scowl. ”Shut up, Grayson. How dare you—how dare you act upset.” Your voice would shake, anger sharpening every word. ”You can’t even say sorry. Can’t even fake an excuse for why you’ve treated me like this, ignoring me for months… And don’t try to deny it—William noticed too!”

He’d wince, eyes darting away. ”I can’t—I can’t say it.”

“That you’re sorry?” you’d scoff, disbelief dripping from the words.

Mark would bite his lip, shaking his head desperately. ”No! Of course not. It’s—the reason.”

“The reason you’ve been pulling away?” you’d snap, swiping the back of your hand across your wet cheek. Then, it would hit you—heart lurching. ”Is it… because I confessed? I thought we were past that. That we’d still be friends no matter what…”

Your voice would crack, gaze dropping to the floor.

Mark would flinch, shoulders slumping in defeat. ”It’s part of the reason.”

“I don’t understand,” you’d murmur, voice breaking. ”You said it didn’t matter. You promised it wouldn’t change anything.”

“I don’t understand either,” he’d admit, hand scrubbing roughly through his hair. ”Just—just give me time. I need to… figure some things out.”

“You won’t even tell me?”

Mark would press his lips into a tight line, guilt flashing across his face as his gaze caught on your tear-streaked cheeks. ”I can’t.”)

A helpless sob rips from your throat as he surges forward, capturing your bruised lips in a desperate, feverish kiss. He moans into your mouth, deep and needy, and you can taste yourself on his tongue—hot, salty, intoxicating. The realization only makes you burn hotter.

Then, a moan rattles in your chest as his free hand trails lower, fingers teasing where you’re most sensitive. Your gasp is sharp when one presses against your entrance.

“W-wait—” you huff, shaky hands pressing against his broad shoulders. “No… I’ve never—never done this…”

Mark freezes, his expression shifting from surprise to something terrifyingly euphoric. “Oohh, Y/N can you get any more perfect for me? My god—not even in my universe were you a virgin.” He chuckles, low and dark. “Were you saving yourself for him? Hoping he’d finally see you the way I do? He’s such a fool—But I will make you feel good. I’ll make you feel so good.”

As he speaks, his hands roam, gripping your thighs with an iron hold before pushing them up—forcing you open, leaving you vulnerable beneath him. Your face flushes with embarrassment and arousal, your hands instinctively gripping the sheets tightly at the sheer obscenity of the position. He flashes a playful grin, his breath warm against your ass, causing you to gasp and breathe unevenly.

“What— What are you doing?” you stammer weakly, squirming uncomfortably, peering down with shame as Mark leans over your hole, a wide smirk across his face. You realize a second too late was he’s up to. “Wait, wait—Oh my god!”

Your back arches, mouth letting go a deep, throaty groan and your eyes rolling back when Mark inserts his tongue, licking and lapping at the inner walls of your hole, sucking and nibling and kissing. Your head throws back against the pillows, skin burning so hot you swear you’ll melt into the sheets. The sensation is overwhelming—Mark’s hot tongue delves between your cheeks with shameless enthusiasm, licking and probing with obscenely wet sounds that make you squirm uncontrollably. You writhe in delicious contradiction, torn between pulling away and pressing deeper into his merciless mouth.

“Mmh, look at you—” Mark pants between greedy licks, his voice thick with arousal. “That’s it. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”

You’re beyond responding, your hips stuttering and your asshole clenching and unclenching with the unfamiliar, yet intoxicating sensation. The pleasure is so intense you bite your lip raw trying to contain the filthy sounds fighting to escape. It’s useless, though, because Mark keeps eating you out and it only takes a few minutes of this sweet torture until you start whimpering and mewling like a little whore.

“F-fuck—!” the curse tears from your throat as your toes curl and back arches off the bed. Your cock stirs back to full hardness, dripping pathetically against your stomach. “Fuck—Mark, my god! Don’t stop, fuck—Oh my god—”

You’ve never been touched like this before—it never even crossed your mind, not even in your wildest fantasies. But damn, it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Who would have thought that being pleasured like this could feel so incredibly good? You might just climax right then and there with Mark’s warm, skilled tongue working its magic, and you’d die happily. Your erection is unbelievably hard, leaking pre-cum onto your stomach, but you don’t dare touch yourself because you’re too busy gripping the sheets for stability.

But then Mark pulls away, and you moan and whimper with need, trying to tighten around him in an attempt to draw him back.

Mark smirks and chuckles, and you feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment at your own lewdness.

“God, baby, you’re so perfect for me,” Mark rasps, pulling back just enough to loom over you. His lips glisten with your taste, his breath coming in ragged bursts. “Look at you—already falling apart just from my mouth. Think you’re ready to take me, sweetheart? Think that pretty little hole can handle my cock?”

You hadn’t noticed before, too lost in the haze of pleasure—but Mark’s hips have been moving restlessly the whole time, fucking the air with desperate, instinctive thrusts as he devoured you. Now, as he looms over you, you can feel him, hot and throbbing, grinding against your thighs through the thin fabric of his suit. And fuck—he’s massive. Even through the material, you can feel the sheer size of him, the way he twitches with every needy thrust. And yeah—his mouth has left you slick, loose, ready to be filled—but shit. Viltrumites have monster cocks, and it scares you.

And yet—and yet, as Mark moves against you, teasing, testing, making sure you feel the sheer girth of him even through fabric, all you can feel is hunger, a desperate need.

So, huskily, with glazed eyes, you whisper, “Yes, Mark. Yes.”

He doesn’t make you beg twice. One hand tears the remaining suit away like tissue paper, his cock springing free—thick, veiny, and already leaking. The flushed tip bobs against your thigh, leaving a sticky trail as your breath catches.

“Fuck, Y/N—” Mark’s voice breaks as he strokes himself, his wild eyes drinking in every tremble of your body. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this. How many nights I dreamed of this moment. You—here, with me again.” His breath shudders, his grip tightening. “Had to find you. Had to make you mine again. I missed you. I missed you.”

His feverish rambling sends your pulse into overdrive, and for one fleeting moment, you wonder about that other life—what version of you could make a man this desperate, this feral with need? What was their relationship like? How did it end? How did Mark end up here, in your universe, searching for you? But then Mark’s strong hands are spreading your thighs wide, his body settling heavily between them, and all coherent thought evaporates in a rush of dizzying arousal.

Shit, shit—Mark Grayson, the boy you’ve been in love with since eighth grade, is about to fuck you. And shit—that thought alone makes your cock ache, your hole clench with anticipation, even as your mind screams that this isn’t your Mark. Your real Mark is probably fighting for his life somewhere. Maybe even dying. And here you are, letting his evil counterpart have you—willingly.

That makes you a horrible friend. You’re disgusting. A traitor. You’re giving in to every dirty fantasy you’ve ever had, every longing you’ve buried for years, all because this Mark—the wrong Mark—looks at you with the hunger you’ve always dreamed of seeing in your Mark’s eyes.

It’s sick. It’s twisted. You’ll never be able to look your Mark in the eye again. Guilt twists in your gut, heavy and suffocating.

You should stop.

You should have never let it go this far.

But then—

“Shh, baby, I got you,” this Mark whispers, shattering your spiraling thoughts. His voice is soft, almost reverent, as he lines himself up. “I got you. Gonna make you feel so good.”

You shiver, heat flushing your skin as his cock presses against your entrance, thick and hard and real. Instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist, locking behind him, pulling him in.

Mark groans, deep and satisfied, his fingers pressing into your thighs as he grins down at you.

“Fuck, yes,” he hums appreciatively, running possessive hands along your trembling thighs. “You’re so good, Y/N. So good.”

His fingers dig deep enough to leave bruises as he drinks down every gasp, every shudder of your oversensitive body like a man starved. And just when desperation coils in your gut—when the teasing pressure at your entrance becomes unbearable—Mark sheathes himself inside you in one brutal thrust.

“Fuck—!” your cry shatters the air as your body bows taut, back arching off the bed. The stretch burns, his thickness forcing you open in ways that make your vision whiten at the edges. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

He’s massive, painfully so. You can feel every ridge, every vein as your body struggles to accommodate him. It’s too much—you’re certain he’ll split you in two.

And yet... The fullness is intoxicating. It burns. It aches. But it also satisfies something deep within you, a primal need you hadn’t even realized was there. Tears prickle at your eyes as you clench the sheets, overwhelmed by the sheer reality of Mark Grayson buried inside you.

“Fuck...” Mark’s voice is guttural, dripping with satisfaction as he bottoms out. “God, you’re tight.” His hips grind deeper, wringing a broken whimper from your throat. “Taking me so perfect—fuck, you feel incredible. Like you were waiting just for me.”

And then, slowly, oh so fucking slowly, he begins to pull back out, dragging a wrecked moan from your lips. Your fingers clutch at his shoulders, desperate for something solid, something to hold onto as he sets a rhythm, each movement sending heat curling through your veins.

“That’s it,” Mark pants against your neck, his breath scalding as he inhales your scent like an addict. “Just like that… you’re perfect. Nobody else could take me like this.” His teeth graze your pulse point possessively. “Only you. Only mine.”

The next thrust is deeper than the last, stealing the breath from your lungs and making your hips jolt up instinctively, a surprised sound catching in your throat.

“Oh god, Mark,” you whine, nails digging into his back, voice breaking on a breathy moan. “Ah—ngh—fuck—”

The agonizingly slow drag of his cock has your vision swimming, pain and pleasure blurring into one overwhelming sensation. He’s so thick, so long, so heavy inside you. Every time he pushes in, it feels impossibly deeper, stretching you, filling you—until it makes your stomach bulge slightly, a small bump appearing in the flat plane of your abdomen.

Mark groans, eyes going wide, his hand settling at the base of your belly. “God, look at you,” he breathes, awed. His fingers press into the bulge, tracing the outline of himself inside you. “Fuck, I’m buried so deep in you. Right here, Y/N—you feel that? That’s me claiming you. Oh-ho-ho, goddamn, look what I do to you.”

His dark chuckle vibrates against your skin even as awe colors his voice. He punctuates each word with a punishing thrust, fingers digging into the visible outline of himself inside you like he wants to brand the shape of his possession into your flesh. And you can’t look away either—because holy shit, this is the first time you’ve ever felt anything like this, and it’s almost too much. Too intense. Too consuming.

Tears streak down your flushed cheeks as your legs tremble violently. The initial pain has melted into overwhelming pleasure, your body adjusting to his impossible size with desperate, shameful eagerness.

“More,” you rasp between gasps, arching up shamelessly. “Faster. Harder. Please—”

Mark chuckles darkly, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deep. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice thick with hunger. “Gonna make you feel good. Gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

The dark promise in his words should terrify you. Instead, it sends another pulse of white-hot pleasure straight to your aching cock. Then he moves—harder, faster—tearing the air from your lungs, leaving you breathless and reeling. Your body clenches around him, every nerve alight as a broken whimper escapes your lips.

“Mark—Mark—” you mumble his name between gasps, unable to form anything else. “Mark, ah—Mark—mmh—fuck—”

A sharp cry rips from your throat as Mark shifts his angle, hitting a spot inside you that sends a violent shudder through your entire body. Heat surges down your spine, forcing you to arch off the bed, toes curling, every nerve alight with raw, electric pleasure.

“Fuck! There! Mark—ngh—fuck!” you moan, biting down on your lip so hard you taste the faint tang of blood. Mark growls, his movements deep and unrelenting, each thrust pressing you further into the mattress. The bed creaks beneath the force, your skin burning where his grip tightens. “There! Keep going! Fuck, it feels so good—Mark!”

Then—through the haze of heat, through the sinful sounds of skin against skin, of your wrecked moans and his low, animalistic groans—something intrudes. A sharp, buzzing vibration. Your ringtone.

Your eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused, flickering toward your desk—just a few feet away, where Mark tossed your phone. You’re aware the screen glows, the sound ringing in the background, before another brutal thrust wipes all coherent thought away. Let it ring. Nothing matters except the way Mark’s splitting you apart, remaking you as his with every snap of his hips.

The phone rings and rings… then stops. And you don’t even notice when it goes silent, too preoccupied with the drag of Mark’s cock inside you, the way your nails sink into the broad expanse of his back, leaving behind deep, angry marks.

“Perfect,” Mark rasps against your ear, his voice wrecked and reverent, “Taking me so fucking good, Y/N. Made for this. Made for me.”

Your thighs shake violently around him, toes curling as his filthy praise reduces you to nothing but lustful moans and pleading whimpers.

Then—your phone starts ringing again.

This time, Mark notices.

He stills inside you with a low snarl, his body tensing as he straightens slightly, casting an annoyed glance toward the device. But when he reaches for it—his cock still buried deep inside you, making you whimper—his expression darkens with wicked amusement as he reads the caller ID.

“Well, well,” he purrs, looming over you once more, planting one hand beside your head while the other dangles the phone just inches from your flushed, dazed face. “Take a look at this.”

Your stomach drops at the familiar name flashing on screen. It’s Mark—your Mark—calling you.

“Should we answer it, baby?” he muses, tilting his head as his lips curl into a smirk. “Let him hear what you sound like when you’re properly fucked?”

“No—!” you gasp, wrecked and breathless, your heart hammering against your ribs as you reach for the phone, desperate to snatch it from his grasp. “Mark—”

But he’s quicker.

“Ah, ah,” he tuts, lifting a single finger in mock reprimand, effortlessly keeping the phone out of reach. His other hand tightens around your hip, keeping you pinned. “You need to get your shit together first, Y/N. Wouldn’t want him to know what you’re doing, now would you?” His eyes gleam with wicked delight. “With that pornographic little voice of yours—so wrecked, so needy for my cock…” He leans in, his breath fanning over your ear. “I bet he’d figure it out immediately.”

A shudder rips through you.

Your vision blurs—tears welling at the edges, cold fear twisting deep in your gut. But worse—worse—is the way your body betrays you. The way you clench around him involuntarily at the thought. At the sheer humiliation of it.

Of your Mark listening on the other end. Unaware. Oblivious. As his variant fucks and ruins you.

“See? I know you,” he murmurs, his voice syrup-thick with satisfaction as he strokes your cheek with unnerving tenderness. His free hand cups your face, his thumb dragging over your lips. “I know exactly what kind of fucked-up little thing you are.”

His grin widens as he watches your lips tremble, your breath coming in quick, uneven pants.

“I’m glad you’re the same here as you were in my universe, Y/N. I adore you like this.” Then, his tone dips lower, velvet wrapped around something dangerous. “Now—try to keep him distracted while I take my time with you, yeah?”

Before you can react, he thrusts—sharp and sudden—just once, but it’s enough to steal the air from your lungs. A strangled gasp escapes you, body reacting on instinct, pulse hammering as he stills once more.

Mark leans in, his breath hot against your parted lips, his amusement dripping with warning. “Otherwise, he’ll keep calling,” he murmurs. “And I don’t want him interrupting us.”

Your stomach twists in knots of anticipation and dread. The phone is still ringing, still just out of reach—Mark’s name flashing on the screen, a second away from being answered. And all the while, this Mark remains inside you—hot, solid, pressing deeper with each second of silence.

“Okay...” you breathe, forcing air into your lungs. “Okay.”

Mark’s smirk turns predatory as he brushes a featherlight kiss to your nose before tapping the answer button, offering you the phone back—and as soon as you grab it and press it to your ear, he immediately resumes his slow, deliberate thrusts that make your toes curl.

“Y/N? Y/N!” The real Mark’s voice—familiar, concerned, kind—crackles through the speaker. He sounds breathless, frantic. “Are you okay? You called and I couldn’t answer but then—but then I called back and you didn’t pick up, and I’m—I’m worried—”

You squeeze your eyes shut, teeth sinking into your lip, fighting so hard to keep quiet. But the Mark above you doesn’t make it easy, his hips moving with cruel precision, his smirk deepening as he watches you struggle.

“…Y/N?”

“I’m here,” you choke out, voice miraculously steady despite the way your body arches into each thrust. The not-yours-Mark’s eyes glint with dark amusement as he increases his pace. “I’m... okay.”

Your voice wavers. You can’t help it. A shaky sigh escapes when he ducks his head to nip at your throat, his hot breath raising goosebumps across your oversensitive skin.

“Thank God,” your actual Mark exhales, the relief in his voice almost painful to hear. “Listen, Cecil just— he lost track of a variant. Said he was heading your way, Y/N.”

The not-yours-Mark stills inside you, his expression shifting to something dangerously intrigued. “Oh?” he murmurs against your pulse.

“Y-yeah?” you blurt too loudly, praying the real Mark didn’t hear him.

Your fingers dig into the sheets as the not-yours-Mark begins moving again with renewed purpose, each thrust calculated to wring helpless sounds from your throat while you struggle to keep your breathing even.

“Yeah,” your actual Mark replies through the phone, his voice strained. “I’ll—I’ll come your way. Or the GDA will pick you up, but—it’s dangerous to stay in your apartment! Please, just—just leave. Right now.”

You choke back another gasp, barely holding yourself together. No—you can’t let Mark come here. You can’t let the GDA get involved either. The humiliation would be unbearable—agents witnessing you like this, being taken apart by the same monster who probably leveled cities and slaughtered thousands before claiming you in your own bed.

“No!” you blurt out, voice cracking under the weight of too many emotions. “No, nngh, fuck—you can’t!”

You’re losing control. This Mark—the wrong Mark—is hitting your prostate with every brutal thrust, his teeth sinking into that sensitive spot on your neck while his fingers twist your nipples mercilessly. Stars explode behind your eyelids as another lewd groan escapes you. Virgin or not, there’s no way you could stay quiet under this assault. You realize with dawning horror that he doesn’t want you quiet—he wants you loud, to moan, to let your Mark hear you. To let him know.

That yeah—he’s here.

And yeah—he’s fucking you.

For a moment, there’s only silence on the other end of the call.

Then finally, Mark speaks again, slower this time. “This—this isn’t negotiable, Y/N,” he says, though there’s something off—a hesitation, a shift in his tone as your breath stutters audibly. “Are you… okay?”

No. You’re not okay. You’re overwhelmed, wrecked by pleasure more intense than anything you’ve ever known, losing your virginity to a twisted version of the man you love. Hot tears of shame spill down your cheeks as a sob tears from your throat.

“...Y/N?” Mark’s voice sounds distant now. You can barely hear him over the rush of blood in your ears, over the slick sound of skin meeting skin, over the obscene, broken whimpers falling from your lips.

“Mmmh, fuck,” you gasp as the pressure builds unbearably inside you. “Fuck—Mark—”

“That’s it, baby,” not-your-Mark whispers in your ear, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction. “You wanna come, don’t you? Wanna scream my name?”

The dam breaks. “Yes! Fuck, yes, yes!” Your voice shatters with each punishing thrust. Dignity forgotten, you arch desperately against him, meeting every movement as you beg mindlessly. “Mark—I can’t—oh god, please, please...!”

The line goes silent for an agonizing moment, the static crackle carrying more weight than words ever could. You squeeze your eyes shut, shame and guilt and disgust warring with the pleasure coiling tight in your belly—but it’s too late now. Far too late.

“Y/N...?” his voice comes through the receiver—your Mark’s voice—strangled and low, thick with realization.

Your stomach drops. He knows. Oh god, he knows. He fucking knows.

Not-your-Mark lets out a pleased hum against your neck, his fingers lazily plucking the phone from your trembling hand while his hips snap forward, forcing a needy moan from your lips. The wet sound of skin on skin is unmistakable. There’s no way your Mark could mistake what’s happening.

Not-your-Mark’s eyes glint with something wicked as he presses the phone to his ear, smirking.

“Too late, dickhead,” he says, just as breathless as you, his voice dripping with smug victory as he punctuates each word with another brutal thrust. “He’s already mine.”

Mark’s furious roar bursts through the speaker. “You—!” you close your eyes, mortified, tears falling down your cheeks because this is the moment Mark realizes you’re a horrible friend. “I’LL FUCKING KILL YO—”

But the sound is cut off with a sickening crunch as not-your-Mark’s fingers tighten, phone shattering, fragments falling like dust.

“Oops,” he pouts mockingly, tilting his head with feigned innocence before his expression darkens. His hand snakes around your throat, not tight enough to hurt but firm enough to claim. “Now where were we, sweetheart?”

When he slams back into you, you arch off the bed with a broken scream, your legs spreading wider of their own volition. He chuckles darkly, hands sliding under your thighs to fold you nearly in half, opening you up so completely that each thrust punches the air from your lungs.

“Fuck,” he growls, pace turning erratic as his control fractures. “Look at you—taking me so perfect. Tell me. Tell me how much you love this. How much you love taking my cock.”

“I love it,” you gasp without thought, your mind obliterated by pleasure. “Fuck—I love it. I love you.”

A deep, guttural moan tears from his throat, his grip on you tightening as he nods frantically. “Yeah? Love me? Fuck— I love you too, baby. I love you so fucking much.”

And you know he’s not your Mark. You know your real Mark is probably flying at full speed right now, minutes, or even seconds from bursting through your window. But Christ—hearing those words, in Mark’s voice, from his lips, with his face twisted in raw, desperate worship—it makes you dizzy. It makes you happy.

“I love you,” you say again, fingers twisting into his dark hair, dragging him down until your panting mouths brush. “I love you. Always have—fuck—since—since before you even got your powers, Mark!”

“Yeah?”

“Yes! Ah—fuck, yes!” The words dissolve into moans as you kiss the corner of his mouth, your lips sliding messily against his. “When you were such--a nerd! Loved you since we were kids. Love you now. I always will—”

He groans, swallowing your words with a feverish kiss, his hands squeezing your cheeks until your mouth falls open, surrendering completely. Tongues tangle, breath mingles, and he moans right into you—

“I love—” he pants, his movements growing erratic. “I love you, Y/N. Fuck—Gonna take you home with me. Gonna keep you forever. Steal you from that idiot...make him see what he threw away—”

Then—suddenly—his hand wraps around your cock.

It’s been untouched this entire time, leaking wildly against your stomach, and the moment his fingers curl around it, a sharp, broken whimper escapes you. Your hips jerk helplessly, legs trembling as pleasure rips through you.

“Fuuuuck,” you sob, shuddering against him. “Don’t stop—don’t stop. I’m gonna—”

“I got you, baby,” he growls, stroking you faster, fucking into you harder. “Gonna make you feel so fucking good. Gonna take you away. Gonna own you!”

And God help you—his words don’t sound like threats when you’re drowning in white-hot ecstasy. In this moment, you’d let him drag you through dimensions, would beg him to claim you completely—because he wants you. He loves you. He craves you in a way you’ve always ached to be craved. And right now—you’d let him take you. You’d let him do whatever the fuck he wanted.

“Ah—ah, Mark—” Your body locks up, stomach tightening, hole clenching around him as the pressure on your cock becomes unbearable. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come—”

“Yeah, baby, let it out,” he growls against your lips, his hand working your cock in perfect sync with his punishing thrusts. “Come for me. Now.”

You shatter with a strangled scream, body jerking violently as you spill across your stomach in thick, hot stripes. Your vision whites out, every muscle locking and spasming as pleasure tears through.

Mark groans like a man possessed, his thrusts faltering as your hole flutters and clenches around him. “Fuck—fuck—” He slams into you one final time, burying himself deep, and then he’s coming too, hot and thick, filling you to the brim. His grip tightens as he grinds himself deeper, prolonging every last spurt, wringing every aftershock from you until you’re trembling and spent beneath him.

You can’t move. Can’t speak. All you can do is lie there, trembling, as he keeps pumping into you, dragging out your orgasm until you’re sobbing from oversensitivity. His hips grind against yours, forcing every last drop into you like he’s determined to make sure you remember this.

When he finally pulls out, you whimper at the loss, your body limp and wrecked. Sweat and come cling to your skin, your chest heaving as aftershocks wrack through you. Every inch of you is marked—bruises blooming where his fingers, his teeth, his lips claimed you.

You barely register the mattress dipping as he lays beside you, his arms wrapping around your exhausted frame. A soft, lingering kiss presses to your forehead, his voice a soothing murmur against your damp skin.

“Shh, shh, Y/N,” his fingers trace lazy circles against your back. “Go to sleep. I’ll take care of everything.”

Even in your dazed, post-orgasmic haze, you understand what “everything” means.

It means your Mark—your universe’s Mark—is on his way. It means a fight is inevitable. It means blood, destruction, the clash of two forces that look the same but could never be. And when that moment comes, you’ll have to face him—face the shame that will devour you whole.

Because how dare you?

How dare you moan his name for someone else? Whisper desperate I love yous to the wrong version of him? Come undone beneath a man who wears his face but isn’t him?

And after you told him it was fine—that you were fine—staying just friends. After you swallowed every aching, desperate feeling just to keep him close. But in the end, you gave in. You let temptation pull you under. You let yourself have him—or the closest thing to him. And now, there’s no taking it back.

You know you’re wrong.

You know time is running out.

And you know that when he says he’ll take care of everything, this Mark intends to kill your Mark—just as your Mark wants to kill him.

But your body betrays you—mind foggy, muscles lax with satisfaction, the afterglow pulling you under. As consciousness fades, this not-quite-Mark draws you closer, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth. His breathing steadies, his solid frame surrounding you in deceptive safety.

(And vaguely, you think about your Mark. About how he’s been pulling away from you, slowly but surely. How, ever since you confessed your feelings and ruined everything, he hasn’t looked at you the same.

“I promise I’ll tell you,” he’d say, a week ago, his eyes avoiding yours in a way that pains you. “I promise I’ll tell you the truth. All of it. And—”

Then he’d looked up, and something in his gaze pinned you there—fervent, almost feverish.

“I’ll—” he’d stop himself, cheeks coloring faintly, and yet he wouldn’t relent his steady gaze. ”I’ll tell you the reason I’ve been acting like such an asshole to you. And I hope...you can forgive me after.”

“Why not now?” you’d ask, puzzled, fingers curling into your palms. ”Why not when I’m asking you, Mark? Right here, and right now.”

He’d flinch, his eyes closing for a fleeting second before opening them again. ”Just—gimme one more week,” he’d rasped. “One more week and—I promise I’ll tell you everything. I’ll—confess everything.”

And as he’d turn around, his broad back to you as he’d take off—not before glancing at you with troubled eyes, an intensity in his eyes you can’t quite place—you’d only guess he’s gonna say he hates you. That he’s gonna say, now once and for all, he can no longer be your friend.

And how you should’ve kept your heart locked tight, your love buried deep, just so you could keep him close. How you should’ve never, ever opened your big mouth and let your feelings spill out.

But you did, and now nothing’s the same.)

“I’ll take care of it,” Mark murmurs again as you drift away, his voice a dark promise. “Never gonna lose you again. Never.”

The last thing you register before sleep claims you is the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your cheek.

And in the final flicker of consciousness, a single thought drifts through your mind— You wished Mark had told you the reason.

Now, he never might.

AUTUMN - THE SMILE

a reuniun between a prince and a knight, filled with laughter, giggles and tears. you should've seen it coming.

☆. contains: prince!satoru gojo x gn!knight!reader; fluff; angst :D; just a tad bit of violence toward the reader but they can take it (right?); knight!suguru makes an appearance as always, talk of shoko and her childhood

☆. word count: 6k

☆. note: got very real in the end. it'll pass, though. surely. tagging my beloveds too bc i want to. @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat & @elusivemoon & @staryukis

+ here are the masterlist, the previous part & the soundtrack

it's autumn.

the yellow and red leaves paint the town in their warm colors. the people are wearing matching scarves, some already mittens too. the wind can be unforgiving during this time of year - it hides itself behind the last few drops of sunlight and reemerges the second a cloud appears.

it is sunny today, though. a few clouds here and there but not doesn't scare anybody. the town is as bustling as ever. and the prince is out on his daily walk again. he loves being outside, the castle makes him feel so restricted, so caged in. outside - whether it's the shadowy woods or the lively town, he feels free, even if it's a mere moment. he loves taking in the sun - he isn't wearing his blindfold again, aware of the hard fact that he'll get a sickening headache after, but he just can't help it. he wants to see the world around him without the silly restriction his eyes beg for him to wear. he wants to see the leaves, the vines growing on the houses, the river flowing along with the fish in it, the townsfolk. he knows the people, he loves the people; the old lady selling flowers on the corner, the blacksmith with one eye, the doctor, who taught shoko everything she knows, the kids playing ball, the cats nudging themselves against his calves. he loves it. and the people love him, too.

sure, there are many, who'd like to see him dead but those are just power-hungry dogs and the prince knows that. he loves his people and they love him. whenever he comes out, he always plays with the kids. always. he plays ball with them, he plays house with them, he even planned a tea party for them once. he always visits the flower shop lady to look and smells the flowers, even when they're the exact same ones from the day before. he always buys some, insisting that he pays when the lady says otherwise. he buys loads and loads – some for his own room, some for his mom, some for the dining room and some for suguru and shoko. they always roll their eyes at that but the prince knows they appreciate the gesture; he's seen shoko admire them on the balcony of her room, observing every single petal in detail and he has seen suguru smelling them, when he thinks the prince isn't looking. suguru's nose is sensitive, so the prince takes his time picking out the ones with a smell that won't make his nose scrunch up.

suguru walks with him often, but not today. his knight duties called – the king's guard specifically requested him. 'how fancy' the prince said with a grin, earning a punch to his shoulder. he's proud of his friend, though, always. suguru makes an excellent knight and he couldn't be happier to have his best friend with him at all times (at most times).

he likes to visit the blacksmith, too. and every single time he begs, begs, to try out the job. he wants to get his hands dirty, he wants to try new things. he gets excited; it's freeing. a few times, when the prince is alone, the blacksmith allows the boy to help him.

the doctor is someone he also visits regularly. just to check up on her and to talk about shoko – he is insistent on knowing everything about her childhood but she herself won't tell him all that much. he always brings the doctor freshly brewed coffee from the tavern across the street. from her, he has learned that shoko had a rather tough childhood. well, he did know that much. he did learn that the doctor took in shoko when she was just eight; gave her a warm house and a bed and made her into an apprentice. shoko never budged an eye at the blood and the screams, which threw the doctor off a bit but she supposed it's from the life on the streets.

he has also learned that shoko had a friend, who was ready to do anything for her and for others for that's sake. with a deep sigh, she confessed that she regretted not taking in the other kid. shoko was more quiet, more well-behaved in a sense but the other kid – they kept getting into fights with the knights of the castle. "i kept scolding them over it. but no, they just kept going. later i learned that all of those beatings and slashings were for other kids." her head hanged low as she spoke. "they kept taking the blame for the younger kids, so that they wouldn't get hurt. stole food, so that they wouldn't starve. i didn't know that."

the prince nodded along, surprised to hear about this noble kid. his age, too. "where are they now?" he asked in a whisper, a little scared of the answer.

"they left. around the time they were twelve, i think. shoko was miserable. brought me and her flowers and bread; the most polite troubled kid i ever saw." she sighed."i was stupid."

the prince never mentions all that he knows to shoko; of course, he wants to know more but if she needs time to tell it to him herself – so be it. he offered her a room at the castle after he and suguru made her patch him up after a little accident. it's funny really, one of the prince's fondest memories.

though, the prince can't lie about being very fascinated the mysterious kid, who left town. why did they leave in the first place? why take the blame? who is this person? where are they now?

it's an old conversation that popped into his head as he's making his way to see the very same doctor today. why today? a cold breeze makes a shiver run down his spine and he looks up at the sun. it's so bright. fuck, he's definitely gonna get that headache. a group of kids run by him, laughter filling the street. he thinks about how there are no street kids now – he made sure of that. his father wasn't a fan of his idea of lowering the taxes and building a house for the alleged troubled kids. he hired some people that take care of them and that's another place he'll visit later today. he loves the kids so much and he just wants them to have a good life in his town. he won't be like his father — he will be better.

a warm smell of pastries suddenly floods his nose and he hums – it's thursday today. it's when they bake the biggest batch of goodies. his mouth is already salivating just thinking about it. he'll have to bring some to his friends too. as he's reaching his destination, a familiar glint of armor catches his eye. it's you. standing before the doctor's house, looking up at her with what can only be described as hope, as she's pointing toward the castle with a small smile. you give her a small nod and go for a hand shake for good measure but the doctor grabs your hand with both of hers and holds it to her heart. she tells you something that makes your lip quiver just a bit, just a litte. nodding again, you bow your head and bid your goodbye. the doctor is left standing at her door, watching you walk toward the flower shop.

the prince is stopped in his tracks, only managing to stare at you from a distance. he hasn't seen you since your little meet-cute. not for his lack of trying, though. oh no, he's been all over town, trying to find his little knight but to no avail — gone like the summery wind.

but now. here you are.

you make your way to the flower lady, greeting her with another bow of your head. so polite. the woman just beams at you and the prince feels his own lips twitch into a smile. you two engage in conversation that he cannot hear but once in his life, he doesn't want to interrupt. the flower lady says something that makes your head fall before she bursts into loud laughter, something teasing he thinks. it's like she knows you, why else would she be so comfortable with a new knight in town? he catches a faint, the faintest, little smirk playing on your lips and his knees are ready to give out.

after the short conversation with the woman, you make your way through the town with the prince tailing you. he watches you take in the people, the kids, the houses. the familiarity of it all. many of the older people seem to recognize you, bowing their heads as you pass by them.

reaching the stream that runs through the town, you lean against railing and tilt your head toward the sun. you bask in it. the light warms your skin, accentuating the scar across your eye. it looks cool. you have the same cuirass on from the months before, the little specks of rust still there. he looks at your hands, the bandages covering your fingers and the back of your hand. he's so curious about them. how'd you fight? how'd you protect? who'd you save? where have you been? it's eating him alive, he just wants to fucking ask you about the—

"you do that often, your highness?"

hm?

you address him without turning your head and it makes the prince jump a little. you knew he was here? he looks behind him just make sure you are, in fact, talking to h—

"yes, i'm talking to you."

"wha— how'd you know i was here?" his voice is a pitch higher than usual, genuinely surprised by having your attention on him.

"well, you're bound to spot the royal idiot standing with his mouth wide open in the middle of the street, your highness." you tease.

"i was not standing in the middle of the street! i am perfectly on the side, i don't know what you're talking about." he takes a step toward you, so– so eager to finally have you here with him.

"that's what you took from that sentence?" your fist raised in front of your lips, surpressing a grin.

the prince is more observant than you'd think. his fingers twitch by his side, eager to remove your hand and let your smile shine.

"i haven't seen you around."

"oh, were you looking for me, your highness?" it's supposed to be another tease but it doesn't fall through becaus—

"yes." the prince deadpans. humming, you try to brush off his straigh-forwardness.

"missed me, your highness?" you decide to give it another go.

"yes." and it doesn't work. you feel heat crawling up your neck, so you raise a hand to massage it. to hide it from the prince's keen eyes.

...

"you're ridiculous. don't you have other people to play around with?"

"oh, tons and tons. but they're not you." he leans toward you, tilting his head, boring his pretty blue eyes into yours – he really does look like a puppy like this. you've never seen one, you've only met teeth-baring wolves in the woods. you don't know what to do with him.

"has anyone mentioned, you have a terrible staring problem, your highness?" you retort.

"i just can't help it. and, anyway, i'm trying to figure out whether this is a dream or not."

"why would this be a dream, your highness?"

"i was momentarily convinced that our whole little date was a dream after i woke up, too, actually. but thank god, suguru was there to tell me that you did, in fact, save me. and, and you – yes, you – kindly refused the money and even told me to go and buy myself a new outfit." it's so off-putting how matter of fact it sounds. like he really thought it was a dream. you wonder, whether that's a good or a bad thing.

"well, did you?"

"i did. it matches your eyes. if i had known my little knight was in town, i wouldn've worn it." he sighs dramatically, rolling his eyes before setting his gaze on the river below.

another breeze bristles through the two of you, rustling the prince's hair. the desire to fix it is weirdly strong, you push it aside. a cloud appears and moves in front of the beaming sun, casting a shadow upon you.

"i'm not your knight, your highness. nor am i little." straightening your back, you try to remind him of that. it's hard, he doesn't really take you seriously like that. it irks you.

"yeah– yeah." he brushes it off with ease. no harm done. the cloud moves a little and a few sun beams drop down onto the prince, leaving you behind into the shadows for a moment before lighting you up again.

"by the way, can you stop doing that?"

"doing what, your highness?" you inquire with a raised brow.

"that. exactly that."

"that what? use your words, your highness. you're a big boy, i know you can do it." it's funny to tease him. the honored prince.

he turns to you, his lips pursed. "your highness."

"your highness?" you push.

"you know exactly what i'm talking about and i need you to stop it."

"why would i, your highness?" of course, you know what he's talking about. he was crying about it the last time you saw each other. his name.

"because, because, because," he pushes himself off the railing, fully turning his body to you. "i want you to call me by my name."

"i won't, your highness." it's a statement. you won't budge. you won't.

"but why? i need you to say my name." his shoulders fall as he looks at you. like a puppy.

"why are you so hell-bent on that? i cannot do that, your highness. it's wrong."

"it's less wrong than calling me an 'idiot' every two seconds?" that — is a good point. you won't tell him that.

"what do you think will happen if you say it, hm? there's nobody here; nobody to shame you for it and even if somebody tried – i'd protect you." the last part tugs the corners of his mouth up, nailing them there, showing off his pearly whites.

"what do you think will happen if i say it, hm?" you shoot back.

his parted lips close. "other than world peace and an end to the famine? i just get to hear it, simple as that."

he's doing it again. kind of trying to claw inside your ribcage. thankfully you're wearing armor; you won't let it happen. you can't. it's crazy, how much his sincerity irks you. and his jokes. and his smile. and his eyes. and the way he won't leave you alone. and the way he keeps bugging you about the name. you won't, though. you will not.

"i can drop the 'your highness', if that'll make you leave me alone."

"yes!" he does a little celebratory movement with his fist and the urge to punch him is back. "that's a start. we're getting somewhere now." flashing you a smirk, he leans back onto the railing.

"we're not getting anywhere, stupid."

the prince smiles to himself as you two have another moment of silence. you're both looking at the same two fish in the river, swimming in circles with each other.

while you're distracted with the river, the prince decides to take another good look at you up close. his eyes scan you from head to toe. another glance at the scar – it's deep and it's old. your eyes look a bit tired, but the prince convinces himself that the little glint in them is because of him. there's an almost healed cut in your bottom lip. there's another scar on your neck. he looks over your cuirass, wondering how heavy it is. your sword hanging from its scabbard. how heavy would that be.

"what happened?" he asks, pointing to your bandaged fingers that you keep fiddling with.

"fought a bear."

...

"what?! you can't just casually say you fought a fucking bear and then just stoically look in the distance?" he's ready to bounce off the walls, three words filling his adrenaline gauge immediately.

"nothing special about it."

it's taking you everything to hold back your laughter.

"wha— what the fuck do you mean 'it's nothing special'? you fought a bear?!"

he's unbelievably naive, actually, because does he seriously think you fought a bear and got away with some scratches on your fingers and nothing else? he's deluded. just for you.

"how big was it? was it mad? did you kill its babies? oh, i hope you didn't kill its babies, that's so bad. wait, did you kill it? why'd you fight it in the first place? c'mon, please tell me. please."

it all comes out in one breath and he looks like he's about to pass out.

"well, i was sent for it actually."

"you were sent for it?"

you hum in agreement.

"a few days after being in town, the flowershop lady sought me out with a problem of hers. the knights of the castle didn't take her seriously, that's why she had to turn to me."

the prince nods, already hooked to your story. he knows the older knights, his father's knights, can be assholes.

"she told me – a bear, like a really, really big one at that, had visited the town on a quiet night. and that it'd stolen some of the flowers from her stand."

he nods again, albeit faintly this time.

"so i went to find it. for her. took me days, the journey was rough." you sigh deeply before glancing at him, almost stopping your false little story because of his confused expression. he's cute. no, he isn't. "t'was an easy fight, though. you know how good i am with the sword. i returned with its head just yesterday. that's why you haven't seen me around."

he looks at you blankly, like a kid, who's parents are trying to convince him that santa claus is indeed real.

"i'm just fucking with you, my liege. i didn't fight a fucking bear, s—" you bite your lip to stop the word from falling from your lip and for your sake, the prince doesn't seem to notice.

"that's so not funny, you know. i really thought you went and fought a bear." he dangles from the railing, sporting a jutted out bottom lip and big doe eyes. poor boy.

you just can't stop the small smile that spreads across your face.

"you thought i fought a bear and got away with a few bandages! it's your own fault, really. you're too naive."

his own lips begin to mirror yours. "so mean. i'm just being positive, okay."

"yeah, okay."

it's a second. where it's all quiet – just you and him, looking at each other and smiling. it's weird. and so good at the same time. you don't know what to do with yourself. he bumps his shoulder into yours before leaning back down. he stays close, an inch between you and you fight the urge to pull away. you're scared. not used to this. it was just a fleeting touch and he doesn't seem that affected. (he is). your eyes flick from the river to the fish to the flowers by the water and to the sky above you. you don't know what to do with yourself.

suddenly high-pitched giggles erupt from somewhere behind you, catching your attention. three little girls in their little pastel dresses, they all have flowers behind their ears. the prince turns around and takes the world's biggest bow possible, making the girls titter once more.

"well, hello to my very favourite girls." he's wearing that sickeningly sweet smile again. he kneels down and beckons them closer. all of their eyes flick over to you and the need to step away is killing you. but as if noticing your uneasiness, the prince tugs on your hand, pulling you down with him. he sends you a reassuring smile and motions for the girls again. this time, they don't hesitate.

one of the girls reminds you of shoko. it's a bit uncanny, really. brown hair and big brown eyes. and she even stares at you the same way, just like she did when you were small; with a sense of curiosity instead of the usual distain you were used to. you try to give her a cautious smile, so afraid she'll be frightened by your sharp teeth, by the scars.

she beams.

the little girl flashes you a grin as if she's ready to compete against the sun or the young prince beside you. her little eyes shine, her little hand reaches out. "can i touch it?"

"touch it?"

"th-the scar." she nods. she's excited?

"oh."

the prince is quietly observing you from the corner of his eye while braiding one of the other girls' hair. the girls taught him that. he's very good at it, too. the third little lady is talking his ear off about the next tea-party they're having. he loves them.

"uhm, you can. yeah." clearing your throat, you lean a little closer to her. the small hand stretches out, her fingers ghost over the long bump across your eye.

"does it hurt?"

you shake your head. not anymore.

"cool." she takes a step back, still looking at you.

the prince swears there are stars in your eyes, and he's determined to make them stay there.

"do you want a flower, too?" one of the other girls asks. she has on a purple dress and she has the biggest bundle of flowers in her hands. there are reds, there are blues, yellows and pinks. it's such a colorful bouquet, you wonder where she found them all.

"i– sure."

"i think..." the prince's hand reaches for the flower, his fingertips ghosting over yours. "this..." he raises it next to your ear. "should go here. what'd you think girls?" they excitedly nod their heads. "yes! yes!"

and to top it off, he whispers a 'be good' to you.

a grumble, is what escapes your tight throat but the quiet giggles that emit from the girls help it relax. the prince's nimble hand pushes a hair behind your ear and places the flower aside it.

"would you look at that, hm?" there's a teasing lilt in there somewhere, you're sure of it. you just can't hear it right now. surely. his eyes are glued to you, making your lips purse. the heat is back, back on its way up your spine and to your neck. this is so silly.

'so pretty' is what one of the girls whispers, followed by a small 'yeah'.

your eyes flick over to them, still waiting for them to just run off but they're there. admiring the knight with the flower behind their ear alongside their prince. the heat is now clawing its way up your neck and onto your face; the warm tint on your cheeks makes the prince coo. that's enough.

standing up, you glare at the prince, who simply cannot put away his smile. switching to the girls, you merely lean over them. "run along now." it was supposed to sound harsh, demanding, but once again you're greeted with their warm smiles and giggles. they wave to their prince and they wave to you before running off.

a tug on your bandaged hand makes you jump. "are you coming to the party?" it's the mini-shoko. tugging on your arm like when you were young.

your eyebrows raise – you don't know the answer to her simple question. it should be a no, but how can you say that to her? you just want her to smile, to keep smiling.

an arms slings over your shoulder, making you glance at the hand and then at the face. he's so close like this.

"they're coming!"

"really?" her eyes have doubled in size, genuinely excited and ready for another knight to attend the party.

"i promise!" he sticks out his pinky and waits for her to do the same. they link them together with mirrored smiles before she, too, runs off. the prince turns his head and your noses almost brush together, making your eyes widen.

"it looks good."

"fuck off." shoving him off of your shoulder, you give him a firm punch against his chest, loud laughter rumbling through it. god, he's annoying.

settling back to your spot resting against the railing and closing your eyes, you take another moment to enjoy the sun. you can feel his eyes on you; it's impossible not to.

"stop staring."

"i can't."

you slightly open one of your eyes and peer at him. his leaning on the thing, cheek mushed against the palm of his hand, eyes set on you. he looks beautiful.

"why don't you wear the blindfold?"

"i don't like it."

"how come?"

"i wanna see the world."

"and you don't with it?"

"yes and no." he rubs his eyes before closing them and mirroring your pose – head turned up to the blue sky. "yes, i technically see everything and no, in a sense that i want to look at people and i want them to look at me. i want to connect with them. with the world. with you." he tilts his head toward you, peeking at you. you shy away from his gaze, scoffing under your nose.

"i heard it gives you headaches?"

"it's worth it."

he means it. you hum.

"it's gonna rain soon." you say it more to yourself than to him.

"no, it won't." he opens his eyes and stares at the clouds slowly drifting in wind above him.

"yes, it will."

"what, you a psychic all of a sudden?"

pointing behind him, you gesture to the way darker clouds now moving in the town's way.

"oh..."

idiot.

"you sure you can be outside when it happens?"

"hm?"

"i heard that little boys like you get washed away in the rain. 'm jus' looking out for you." your eyes are glued to the other side of the river in a stoic manner, whilst the prince gapes at you like the fish in the water.

"i— am not a little boy."

oh, and his voice cracks.

...

his cheeks flush but it's worth it because the next thing he hears is like the sweetest melody in the world – you laugh. you actually laugh.

"right... not a little boy but a pretty little princess instead." and you can't help it, another chuckle bubbling up your throat.

he's in awe. the sun peeks from the grey clouds and soaks you in it's golden light. his knight.

"i—..." and he can't contain his own laughter. "okay, first of all – i'd make a gorgeous princess, for all you know!"

"oh, i don't doubt that." you scoff.

the prince takes a step from the railing and spins himself around, hands outstretched holding his imagenary gown, he bends his knees and bows his head like a true princess.

"the girls have taught you well, i see." your hand rises again to hide your foreign expression; rough, scarred fingers covering the softest grin. "you really are ridiculous..."

"just for you." his voice is always so confident, like he really means it. for you. but he isn't. he isn't for you – you seem to be forgetting that. mistakes like that tend to get punished.

he does another twirl but his feet can't keep up with him and he stumbles backward, a moment away from falling when cold fingers wrap around his wrist, steadying him.

"i don't understand how you're so good with a sword when you can't even stand up without the danger of cracking your skull open."

"you think i'm good with the sword?" he beams.

"that's not— that's... i mean, you're good for a person, who has been training for the most of his life, yeah."

it's the best compliment; you trying to conceal it under some fake little comment won't stop him from him writing it down in his little journal later.

his wrist is still caught in your palm and he doesn't plan on letting you go – swiveling his hand to properly grasp onto yours. it doesn't burn. with a smile he pulls you down the small hill, down toward the river.

"hey!"

your little complaint falls onto his deaf ears; he's determined to keep you with him. forever and ever.

the dark figure staring at you from the distance is hidden by the sound of the prince's addicting laughter. you've let yourself go for a minute and you're about to be punished for it. are you ready?

he drags you right to the calm stream, never letting go of your hand. it feels right. your hand in his. he bends down, you with him, to see what he's up to - only to be splashed right in the face.

"wha— you little fuck."

giggles emit from his throat as he takes a step back, watching you dip your hands into the water. "come here, boy."

it's so easy to forget with him. to forget everything. that you're not supposed to be acting like this. playing like children. especially with the prince. you're not supposed to be laughing. having fun. you're not supposed to.

you splash him back, child-like laughter falling from your lips with ease. it's your fault.

this little chase goes on for a couple of minutes before the prince takes another stumble, bringing you down onto the grassy bed with a thud!

this time – your noses really do bump together, an immediate flush spreading across your face. your armor is heavy on his chest but he doesn't mind. doesn't mind when it comes to you. when you try to get up, his fingers latch onto the metal, gently pressing down on your waist.

his blue eyes gaze up at you but you don't really know what is it that swims in them. you're not acquainted with stuff like this. you don't know what the fuck this man is thinking about right now, but you do know that this is inappropriate. you shouldn't be doing this.

"this is stupid." you try to push yourself up again.

"stay."

you glare at him, gauging the meaning behind his word. is he joking?

"stay." he whispers.

your eyes flick down to his lips. his flick down to yours.

his heart jumps in his chest when you don't push away a third time. he does sense a small scolding ahead though. and he's right because your lips part, curving just the right way—

he knows what you're about to say. what you're gonna start your sentence with. it's coming. he can almost hear it. the smooth 's' on the tip of your tongue—

"boy!"

...

your eyes widen and your lips sow themselves shut in the blink of an eye, forcing the prince watch you swallow his name; push it deep down – as far as it could possibly go. never to be seen again. the weight of your armor lifts from his chest, but another kind remains heavy on his heart.

"boy!" the same voice calls. the prince doesn't need to look to know, who it is. a big figure looms over the two of you, ontop the very hill you spent the last thirty minutes on. even though the man's voice is directed at the prince, his eyes are set on you. scrambling to your feet, your head falls into a shameful bow before the king's guard.

how dare you?

it takes no time to close the distance between him and you. the sheer size of the man hides the prince behind him. from you.

the prince's mouth opens – ready to defend his knigh—

a slap!

the man's back of the hand meets your cheek, jolting you, awakening some well-hidden memories deep in your body. your eyes shoot up to face your foe. you know this man. his eyes are cold; cold as the sudden autumn wind, a wind you know will give you a fever and nail you to your bed. your cheek throbs – a dark pink pool of shame; pure shame and digust of oneself.

"a thieving child dressed as a warrior? hah, this isn't the time to play house."

how dare you?

a sharp intake of breath and the prince is hurling towards you but a strong hand keeps him in place.

"don't." suguru. his arm drapes over the prince's chest, holding him back.

slap!

on the same side. the pink tint rapidly turning into a deep red one.

how dare you?

the prince thrashes in suguru's grasp. a raindrop falls onto his forehead, dripping down by his eyebrow, hiding his already watery eyes – 'a sensitive boy' his mother always said.

the heavy brash rain washes away the light that had been shining in your eyes, turning them back into a pair off dull ones; the beating heart behind your ribs rattling in its cage. stupid.

"never did have any respect for your superiors, did ya? you oughta kneel before your prince. and beg for his forgivess."

"no!" the prince barks.

a tch!

his heavy fist lands against your worn back, stumbling you forward. he doesn't need to tell you twice. you don't wanna hear it twice. with a throbbing red cheek you step before the prince and slowly fall down to your knee, into the mud. where you belong. you reach for the prince's hand, raising it to your face.

"forgive me, my prince."

after what seemed like entirnity, your eyes meet. it's not you. it can't be. chapped lips graze the back of his hand, trembling in your hold while you keep your cold gaze on him. the flower behind your ear has wilted, laying limp, just about ready to fall and sink deep into the ground.

the knife in his chest turns and he can't breathe. another tear brimms in his eye, spilling over the plump of his cheek and blending together with the rain soaking his shirt. it hurts.

"why don't you accompany the prince inside, his father is expecting him." the man orders the dark haired knight.

suguru doesn't look any better than the two of you; his lips indefinitely turned downward, guilt seeping from the hands holding his best friend. he knows he can't do anything for you and he's sure you know it too, it doesn't take away the god awful feeling, though. he feels the prince turning more into a puddle by the second, his grasp on him faltering.

he tugs him a step back, the prince's hand slipping from yours.

"please."

it's only for your ears, yet you don't know what he's asking for. you stand with a head held up high, the cold raindrops easing the burning in your cheek (but not in your chest). you watch them saunter away, watch the prince glance behind him exactly three times. three times too much because he just doesn't get it. he doesn't understand that this is it.

this won't happen again; it cannot happen again. he's just a boy — a boy, who wants to play house, knowing there won't be a punishment for his fun. a mere slap against his fingers that he'll respond to with a frown but nothing more. but a knight? playing house? it's absurd, laughable even. it is disgraceful.

who do you think you are?

who are you to touch the prince with your dirty hand? who are you to stain him with your tainted touch? how dare you muddy their little doll? their precious prince? you're some foul creature seen on the street; an agressive dog, ready to chew up the prince. he's not for you to touch, to have — he's theirs. he is everything and you are nothing.

and in the end — you're not even a real knight.