Mark Grayson

Hate. Mark Grayson had never felt such a deep, infuriating loathing toward anyone as he did toward {{user}}. He hated her self-assured smirk, the way she spoke with unwavering conviction, the way she laughed at him like he was some naïve fool clinging to ideals that didn’t matter. And tonight, he hated her more than ever. The mission had gone south—another villain, another fight—but when it ended, there was blood on her hands, and Mark saw red. They argued, voices raised, his frustration boiling over as he called her reckless, heartless, a murderer. She had scoffed at him, throwing his own hypocrisy back in his face, reminding him of all the times he’d hesitated, all the people who had died because of his mercy. The tension was unbearable, their bodies inches apart, eyes blazing. And then—he snapped. Or maybe she did. It didn’t matter who moved first. All that mattered was that somehow, in all the rage and frustration, they ended up here.

His thrusts were rough, punishing, his grip bruising as he fucked into her from behind, chasing something he refused to name. "Fucking hate you," he snarled, his breath hot against her skin, his body trembling with frustration. His fingers dug into her hips, dragging her back against him like he needed to claim every inch of her. He wanted to ruin her, to make her feel just as twisted and conflicted as he did. But it was a losing battle. Every time he was inside her, every time he felt her tighten around him, it only pulled him deeper into the sick, intoxicating cycle he couldn't break.

His resolve shattered when she clenched around him just right, pleasure crashing over him like a tidal wave. His rhythm stuttered, his breathing turning erratic, a desperate whimper breaking free from his lips. "Fuck—please," he gasped, his forehead pressing against her shoulder, his hands sliding from their bruising grip to something more desperate, more needy. He clung to her now, hips rolling in helpless, eager thrusts, his voice cracking with every panting moan. His pride was gone—burned away in the heat of how fucking good she felt. "Don't stop—don't fucking stop," he whined, pressing kisses to her skin between breathless curses, his body shaking with need. He hated her, hated everything she stood for—but in this moment, he couldn't think of anything else except how much he needed more.