Archive of Our Own

The Wilkins' home was too quiet tonight. Feeling miserable, Eve came through the front door after classes to the sharp, oily aroma of fish frying—something her father must have picked up on the way home. The scent hit her so hard she had to grip the doorframe. Her stomach lurching violently, saliva flooding her mouth in that awful pre-vomit way.

Her mother curiously looked up from the stove, spatula in hand, and her father's expression shifted immediately from neutral to suspicious at the dinner table. The abrasiveness creeping into his voice when he asked if something was wrong with dinner, like her reaction was a personal insult—probably already irritated from his own long day and looking for a reason to make it someone else's problem.

Eve, who would normally bite back or just leave without explanation, felt something unfamiliar twist around. Vertigo, maybe, or just the desire to avoid conflict when her body already felt like it was falling apart. So she pressed her hand against her stomach where a deep, rolling cramp was building, and quietly apologized, telling him her period was hitting her hard this month, which wasn't technically a lie since there was pain coming directly from somewhere down there, even if she couldn't quite remember when her last one had been.

Adam grunted, visibly repulsed. Eve escaped down the hallway to the bathroom, locking the door behind her and bracing herself against the sink. She breathed through her mouth until the nausea passed enough for her to look down and see the thin streak of blood trailing down the inner thigh of her shorts.

Later, after some cleaning up, Eve sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop balanced on her knees, spreadsheet glowing in the dim light. There were business insurance claims from the Invincible War she didn't know how to approach by herself yet. Invoices for reconstruction materials she'd have to manually adjust since her powers made things like that much less costly. And most troublingly, there was also a proposal from Cecil she'd been avoiding for three days.

Her head throbbed. Not quite a headache, more like pressure building behind her eyes, the kind that made colors seem too vivid, sounds too sharp. She closed the laptop.

Her phone sat face-down on the cushion beside her. She'd checked it four minutes ago. Nothing new.

Mark was in Europe, or maybe more specifically Monaco by now—she'd lost track. He was lending his strength toward rehabilitation efforts, he'd said. From what Conquest had brutalized and what the other Marks had destroyed, though Mark wouldn't phrase it that way. He'd been careful with his words since the war, hyper-aware of how the world was watching him now after leaving them to fend for themselves while he tended to her—the obligation extended for her sake since she lamented her agency being taken away then. He felt the pressure from everyone measuring him against every broken building, every civilian casualty.

He was trying to prove himself, and Eve understood it. She just missed him.

Her skin felt too warm, making her restless. She'd felt like this for about a week now—wired, distracted, like she was burning through energy faster than she could replenish it. Her constructs had been unreliable lately, falling apart seconds too soon or holding shapes she hadn't quite intended. She'd largely chalked it up to stress; Cecil's medical examinations of her body after her spontaneous rebirth showed it functioning as normal, or even better in some ways. He called it another miracle, seeing as her innate human biology knowledge wasn't as refined. Managing Invincible Inc. while beginning her degree wasn't exactly relaxing, and Cecil's increasingly pointed questions about her "power optimization" since witnessing the true potential of it weren't helping.

She picked up her phone. Still nothing.

She opened their text thread anyway, scrolling up through the last few days. The exchanges consisted of perfunctory superhero updates, mostly. The project got delayed. Might be late today; Meeting with relief coordinators ran long; I miss you, baby.

That last one had come at three AM her time, so she'd been asleep. If they were in the same timezone, she wasn't naive enough to think Mark wasn't trying to meet up for some much needed "stress relief".

Eve's thumb hovered over the keyboard. She should let him focus. He was doing important work, and she had her own responsibilities. They were both adults so they could handle a few weeks primarily apart, only having very little time and energy for chaste breaks to bask in each other's presence—like they were an old married couple instead of the young adults the world liked to remind them so much of being.

Her fingers moved. "I can't stop thinking about you," she hit send before she could second-guess it.

The message sat there, delivered, unread. Eve set the phone down and pressed her palms against her eyes. What was wrong with her? She wasn't usually like this—clingy, desperate for attention, but lately, every time she thought about Mark, her whole body seemed to light up from the inside, a restless ache that wouldn't settle.

Her phone buzzed. "Yeah?"

Eve's heart jolted. She typed faster than she meant to. "Yeah, all day. It's been distracting."

Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. "Distracting how?"

She bit her lip. Their relationship was still fresh enough that every boundary they crossed felt significant, but the frustration of missing him after finally having him, of wanting him and not being able to be with him, was building into something she couldn't quite contain. She typed, "Like I keep losing focus in the middle of things. Making stupid mistakes. Earlier, I turned a pile of rubble into roses instead of rebar."

"Roses?"

"Don't laugh at me."

"I'm not laughing. That's actually kind of—" He was typing for a long time. Eve waited, pulse quickening. "—really hot, actually. You distracted thinking about me."

Heat flooded through her. She shifted on the bed, a fever settling into a subtle sweat. "Maybe."

"What were you thinking about?"

Eve stared at the question. This was definitely new territory, but something about the distance, the screen between them, made her brave. "Your hands. The way you touch me when you haven't seen me in a while."

The response was immediate. "Eve."

"What?" She replied coyly, a smirking emoji accompanying it.

"I'm in the middle of a training session... with Oliver and the Guardians."

"Then stop reading your texts."

"Can't. Tell me more."

Eve's breath caught. She could picture him now—probably in some warehouse or open field, suit famously tattered in all those beautiful places exposing just enough skin, his right arm and left leg still encased in those bronze casts to heal in proper place. His phone in hand, trying to look casual while his mind was clearly elsewhere.

"I keep remembering that night before you left. In your room. How you... you know." She paused, editing herself, trying to find the line between suggestive and explicit.

"How I what?"

"How you made me forget why I was frustrated that time with our business. The way you would look at me like I'm the most precious thing in the world. How you didn't let me think about anything but you that night." Feeling bolder, she added, "Sometimes I can touch my lips and still feel you there."

"Damn it, Eve."

"Problem?"

"I have to spar with this guy in like two minutes and—yeah. There's a problem."

She smiled, feeling so powerful so suddenly it was intoxicating. "I'd apologize, but I'm not sorry."

"When I get back, baby." He said, adding the pet name she knew he mostly used when he was turned on.

She imagined him getting called away, having to shove his phone in his pocket and pretend to focus while his mind was still on her. Good.

She set the phone aside and tried to return to work, but the heat under her skin wouldn't fade. If anything, it was worse now—a low, steady burn that made it hard to sit still. She created a small construct in her palm, just to test, and watched it shimmer and fade too quickly, like she couldn't quite hold her concentration. The leftover atoms ran through her gut in a burst of queasiness.

Something was definitely off, but right now, she couldn't bring herself to dwell.

Mark landed on the roof of the Buckingham palace harder than he meant to, cracking concrete. He winced, glancing around to make sure no one had noticed. The metal cast on his arm and leg made it a bit odd to maneuver himself, throwing his sense of balance off, so he couldn't wait to get them removed finally. The training session had been a disaster—he'd been too distracted, too in his own head, or more accurately, too focused on Eve and what she'd been saying and what he actually wanted to say back.

His phone burned in his pocket, so he pulled it out. "Sometimes I can touch my lips and still feel you there." He read it again and again.

In the text box, he hadn't sent the thoughts that flashed through his mind when Eve had treaded into new, sultry realms, "I need you so badly, I might start losing it."

He'd tried to send different versions of that sentence three times and deleted it each time. Everything he wanted to say felt too raw, too honest, and far too much. They'd been together for a good two months now, but this felt similar to how it's started feeling between them since their battle with Conquest—more potent, more consuming. Maybe it was the distance, or maybe it was everything else; the violence, the constant scrutiny, and the weight of trying to prove he was still a hero worth trusting.

Or maybe it was just her.

As much as he wanted to do right by the world because of the undeniable, constant guilt of what the destruction meant for him, Mark also couldn't ignore the aching pull towards his girlfriend. She proved herself to always be there when she needed him, which made her prioritization so clearly important to him now too. He typed carefully, "When I get back, I'm not leaving your side for at least a week."

Her response came fast. "Really? That might not be the best idea, Mark. Not after what you've decided that day in the hospital. Remember?"

He hesitated at the implication, refusing the rush of regret. "It is, trust me. Everyone's been doing a good job in the reconstruction and they don't even need my help a lot of times. So, yeah."

"You and me?"

"You and me." Mark could almost see her smile. The thought made his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with his since-healed ribs.

"How much longer?" Eve sent.

Mark looked at his schedule—meetings, relief efforts, training sessions, public appearances designed to rehabilitate his image. Two more weeks minimum. Maybe three. "Too long."

"That's not an answer."

"I know."

A pause. Then: "I miss you. Like, physically miss you. It's actually kind of ridiculous."

Mark leaned against the roof access door, reading that message four times. "Not ridiculous. I feel it too. Like I can't quite settle."

"Exactly. Like I'm wound too tight and the only thing that would help is—you know."

Mark's imagination filled in the gaps, and he had to take a deliberate breath, forcing himself to focus. "Is everything okay with you? You know, other than your powers being weird." He sent her that with genuine concern. Now that he actually thought about it, Eve was far more of a professional than he was. Her turn into almost reckless seduction was as sudden as it was thrilling.

"Yeah. Why?"

"You seem... I don't know, different lately."

"Different how?"

"More intense. Not bad. Just—I want to make sure you're okay."

There was a longer pause this time. "I'm fine. Just stressed and a little sick. My period started and I've really been missing you which I think is normal given everything. And maybe my powers are being weird, but Cecil's always suspicious about things like that anyway, so it's probably nothing that won't clear up anytime soon. I'll deal with it."

Mark frowned. Eve was sick? On top of that, her powers were usually perfectly controlled and consistently reliable. One of the things he loved about watching her work was the precision of it. Making herself a cup of tea and conjuring some Tylenol all without getting up from her bed to properly recover. To him, it meant she was helpless as she was, wherever she was. "Where are you? Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes, Mom. Stop worrying."

"I can't help it. I'm sorry."

"I know. It's one of your more annoying qualities."

"You love my annoying qualities."

"Sometimes."

"Only sometimes?"

"Okay, fine. Most of the time, when you're here. They're significantly less charming when you're thousands of miles away."

"I'll make it up to you."

"How?"

Mark smiled. "However you want."

The texts continued like that for days—careful escalation, testing boundaries, building something between them that felt more urgent with each exchange. Eve found herself checking her phone constantly, waiting for his messages, crafting responses that were braver than she'd normally be in person.

"If you were here right now, what would you do?" She'd sent that one at midnight, lying in bed, unable to sleep. Her whole body wracked with fatigue and nausea she was powering through.

His response took five minutes. She pictured him waking up, checking his phone, trying to decide how honest to be. "I'd make you forget why you couldn't sleep."

"That's not an answer."

"Yes, it is."

"Details, Invincible."

Another long pause. "I'd start with your neck. That spot right below your ear that makes you stop talking."

Eve's breath hitched. "Keep going."

"Then your feet. You carry so much tension there. I'd work it out slowly. Make you relax."

"Just my feet?"

"For a while, yes. I'd take my time, we're always rushing. I'd make you slow down."

"And then?"

"Then I'd work my way up and see how many times I could make you come. I'd make you cry out my name a bunch before I'd have to shut you up so my mom doesn't suspect anything."

Eve stared at the message, heat flooding through her. Her construct—a simple sphere she'd been absently maintaining—flickered and dissolved. "That's a bold claim."

"Not a claim. A promise."

Unconsciously, she trailed some fingers up her shirt, settling over her breast in a ghost of a touch. "I keep thinking about your hands. How you know exactly where to touch me. Like you've memorized every part of my body."

"I have. I think about it all the time. The way you react when I take my time with you. When I make you wait even though you're already desperate."

"I hate when you do that."

"No, you don't."

"...okay, fine. I don't. But it's torture."

"Good torture, though?" Mark asked.

"The best kind... When?" Eve eagerly pressed.

"Soon."

"That's not specific enough."

"I know. I'm working on it."

She believed him. Mark had been pushing himself even harder lately, trying to finish everything faster by being more efficient, to prove he could handle it all. It was admirable and frustrating in equal measure. "Don't burn yourself out before you get back to me."

"I won't. You're excellent motivation."

"Just excellent?"

"Extraordinary. Perfect. The only thing keeping me sane right now."

Eve smiled, something warm and soft coiling in her gut alongside the fiery desire. She placed a hand over it. "I love you."

"I love you too. So much. I'll be home soon, I promise."

Early in the morning, Mark was in downtown Chicago this time, thankfully close, using his strength to clear debris from collapsed buildings—the kind of grunt work that didn't require much thought, which meant his mind kept drifting to Eve only a few states away. During his break, perched on a half-destroyed rooftop with water and protein bars he didn't really want, he pulled out his phone with the same helpless compulsion he'd been fighting all week, her proximity somehow making the temptation worse instead of better, like knowing she was within flying distance but still untouchable was its own special kind of torment. "I can't stop thinking about the sounds you make."

"Mark," she replied.

"What? It's true. That little gasp when I first touch you. The way you say my name when you're close."

"You're not playing fair."

"I'm being honest. You're the one who wanted details."

"I did. I do. Keep going."

"I think about how responsive you are. How I barely have to touch you and you're already... you know..."

"Already what?"

"You know what."

"Say it."

"Ready for me, wanting me. Already so perfect. So wet." He sent, and he could feel her heat before him, her phantom scent lingering. He took a deep inhale.

The day stretched on, relief coordinators needing one more meeting, one more signature, one more goddamn thing before he could leave. Mark sat in the restroom stall in another self-appointed break from the tedium, finally alone, staring at his phone.

His last message to Eve had gone unanswered for some hours, only receiving a heart reaction as a response. He wondered if he'd pushed too far, if she'd gotten embarrassed and backed off.

Then his phone buzzed. It wasn't a text this time, but a photo.

Mark's thumb hesitated over the notification before he opened it, and then his breath stopped entirely.

Eve was in what he recognized as her treehouse based on the familiar bohemian backdrop behind her. She'd angled the camera down her body—sports bra pushed up to expose the curve of her breasts, one hand cupping herself, nipple barely visible between her fingers. Her other hand disappeared into the waistband of cotton shorts that sat low on her hips, the outline of her fingers visible through the fabric. Her face wasn't in frame, just her neck tilted back, the angle suggesting she was looking down at herself, at what she was doing. The photo was slightly blurry, like her hands had been shaking when she took it even though she'd clearly used her powers instead.

"Fuck," Mark breathed, sitting heavily on the toilet seat.

Another message: "You said you think about how responsive I am. I'm thinking about you too."

Mark's hands were moving before his brain caught up, pulling off the top half of his supersuit, angling his phone's camera. He'd never done this before—sent a photo like this—but the thought of her all alone at her place, looking at her phone, waiting for his response, made the decision easy. He took the photo standing, one hand wrapped around himself through his bottoms where he was already half-hard just from her image, the other holding the phone angled down his torso. Shirtless, the lines of his stomach visible, the clear outline of his arousal, his face cut off at the jaw.

He sent it before he could second-guess.

Three dots appeared immediately, disappeared, appeared again. "Mark."

Just his name, but he could hear the breathlessness in it even through text.

"Can't stop looking at it," she sent. "I keep imagining..."

"Imagining what?"

A longer pause this time. Then another photo—this one closer, just her hand inside her shorts, the fabric pulled taut, the clear shadow of her fingers moving. A small wet spot darkening the material.

Mark made a sound low in his throat, his hand moving to actually touch himself now, pulling his cock free. "Jesus Christ, Eve."

"Your turn."

He didn't hesitate this time. He took the photo from the same angle but without any fabric in the way now, his hand wrapped around himself, already fully hard, the head flushed and slick, then sent it.

Her response was immediate: a voice message.

Mark's thumb hovered over the play button for half a second before drastically lowering the volume to reduce the echo, pressing play, and then Eve's breathy voice filled his ears—barely above a whisper, like she was afraid too of being overheard even though she was alone.

"Mark—I can't—that's not fair, you can't just—" A shaky inhale. "I'm so—God, I wish you were here, I wish you could—" The unmistakable sound of fabric rustling, her breath catching. "I miss you so much—" Her voice broke off into a soft moan that made every hair on his body stand up.

The message was only fifteen seconds but Mark played it three times, his hand working himself slowly, showing restraint since he didn't want to feel like too much of a creep given his more vulnerable position.

He recorded his own voice message, keeping his voice low: "Eve, you're killing me. I need you to know—when I get back, the first thing I'm doing is making you come until you forget your own name." He paused, his breath unsteady. "Keep touching yourself. I want you to come thinking about me."

He sent it, then another live photo—this time with his hand moving, the angle showing the motion, showing exactly how hard she'd made him.

Her response was another voice message, longer this time. Her breath was ragged now, punctuated by small sounds that made it clear what she was doing. "I keep thinking about—the way you—the spot below my ear, and then lower, and—Mark, I'm so close, I can't—" Another moan, louder this time, less controlled. She'd obviously reached her climax. One of them had to.

He sat there afterward, trying to steady his breathing since his "break" was supposed to be ending any minute now, his phone still in his hand showing her last message. A text had come through while he was recovering: "I can't believe we just did that."

Mark huffed out a laugh. "I can't wait to see you."

"Me too. Now I'm just going to be thinking about that until you get here."

"Good. That was the point."

A pause. Then: "I love you. Come home soon."

"I love you too... Eve?"

"Yeah?"

"Keep those photos. I want to remember how you looked like waiting for me."

"Only if you keep yours. I'm going to need them when you're gone again."

"Deal."

Mark set his phone down, thought about his grandfather naked, then stood, beginning to dress himself. He rinsed his face with some very cold tap water.

After that last exchange, Mark's thoughts were constantly pulled to Eve no matter his efforts of pointed overcompensation at work. He wanted to chance meeting her at her place, at her treehouse as a surprise. It was late evening by the time Mark was relieved of his duties, and Eve was amazingly asleep early into the night when he'd made it back to her. He couldn't be too upset, she was going through just as much as he was right now. Yet, because he couldn't regret it, Mark thought it would've been much more preferable if what had happened earlier wasn't so fresh on his mind. Pouting in disappointment, he'd barely made it to bed before exhaustion won, falling into a deep slumber as he studied her restful face—unable to form even an iota of resentment at the peaceful girl before him, content to just be able to live in her aroma again.

In the middle of the night, Mark woke gasping, Eve's name half-formed on his lips.

The treehouse was dark except for the pale glow of moonlight through the abode. Eve was still asleep beside him, curled on her side, still in her suit—pink and rose fabric rising and falling with each steady breath. He was in his too, the black and blue spandex tight across his chest. His heart was racing, adrenaline spiking like he'd just taken a hit. He pressed the palm of his hand against his sternum, trying to slow his breathing, trying to shake the image burned into his mind.

A girl—maybe five, maybe six. Her black hair caught light like his, falling in waves like Eve's. Eyes the same warm brown as his own, but shaped differently—softer, rounder. She had his nose, Eve's smile, bright and unreserved, the kind that made his chest ache. She'd been reaching for him, small hand outstretched, saying something he couldn't hear over the roar of—

The black hole.

Gravity so immense it bent space around it, and he'd been caught on the wrong side. A thousand Viltrumites pulling him backward, his father's hands firmly grasping him at the end of it, their combined strength dragging him away while she was pulled forward, disappearing into that crushing dark.

He'd fought, but it wasn't enough. It was never enough.

Mark ran both hands through his hair, gripping hard enough to hurt. It was just a dream, his brain processing stress. That's all it was. Except... it didn't feel like just a dream.

He looked at Eve again. She'd shifted slightly, one hand tucked under her cheek, expression peaceful in a way she rarely managed when awake lately. He'd noticed the tension she carried in her back, the way her powers flickered when she got distracted, the dark circles she tried to hide. She was exhausted—they both were.

Mark carefully extracted himself from the bed, moving slowly so he wouldn't wake her. His body protested—bruises from training, the constant low-level ache that was just part of existing now. He ignored it.

The treehouse was scattered with Eve's unintended constructs. She'd sneeze from her perpetual cold and flowers blossomed mostly. Roses in impossible shades of white and gold, suspended mid-air or blooming from nothing on every surface. One had taken root on the coffee table, petals luminescent in the dark.

He touched one gently. It held solid under his fingers, warmer than it should be, like it was alive in a way her constructs normally weren't.

Something was wrong with her powers. She'd said as much, but seeing it like this—these perhaps permanent, beautiful things she was creating without meaning to—made it real in a way that worried him.

Mark glanced back at Eve. He wasn't going to tell her about the dream. What would he even say? I had a nightmare about a daughter we don't have being torn away from me? That would just stress her, add to the weight she was already carrying. It was nothing; stress and exhaustion manifesting as something his subconscious invented to torture him with. He could handle his own nightmares.

Mark moved back to the bed, settling carefully beside Eve again. She stirred slightly, unconsciously shifting closer, and he wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her against his chest. She fit there perfectly, like she always had. She was unusually warm, but her breathing evened out again immediately, her body relaxing into his.

He buried his face in her hair and closed his eyes.

Just a dream. Nothing more.

He'd promised her a week of nothing but this—no missions or emergencies they couldn't deal with together, side by side. He wasn't going to let a nightmare ruin it.

Mark forced himself to breathe slowly, matching Eve's rhythm, letting the familiarity of her against him ground him back in reality. The little girl's face was already fading, details blurring. By morning, he probably wouldn't remember it clearly at all.

That would be better.

He held Eve tighter and willed himself back toward sleep.

Eve woke to sunlight cutting through the treehouse. It was late morning by the angle of it and the humble loft looked as usual. The mattress still held the shape and presence of Mark's body that laid beside her—he'd been there minutes ago, maybe less, probably stepping out to give her space to sleep. She smiled without opening her eyes, rolling into his spot and pressing her face into the pillow that smelled like him.

That specific combination of his mother's fabric softener and also something distinctly Mark—suddenly, inexplicably, tears were burning hot behind her eyelids and spilling over before she could stop them. She was sobbing into his pillow for no reason she could name, chest heaving with the kind of crying that felt ripped out of her, and she didn't understand it—didn't understand why relief or happiness or whatever this was had twisted so sharply into grief. Or why her breasts ached when she pressed her arm against them, or why everything felt simultaneously too much and not enough. Then, just as suddenly, the tears stopped and she was laughing instead, breathless and slightly unhinged, because her body had decided that what she actually needed right now was him again, that restless heat flooding back through her like it had never left, libido spiking as it did last night. Her hand moved without permission, sliding down her stomach and past the waistband of her underwear, Mark's name already forming on her lips.

"Hey, Eve," Mark answered her call in a low, groggy tone, sending a shiver up her spine. "Good morning. Sorry I couldn't say it in person. Cecil wanted me back in London today two hours ago."

"It's okay. Where are you right now?"

"I'm flying over the pacific."

"Nice, nice... I touched myself again thinking about you this morning."

There was a pregnant pause, the sound of splashing water in the background ceasing. "Jesus, Eve."

"What? You're always asking what I'm thinking about."

"I do. Fuck." He hissed, voice thickening, and Eve sighed with a pleasured ego. "What were you thinking about specifically this time?"

"That night in your room. Your mouth, your hands. The way you—" She giggled, "I can't say it, it's too much."

Mark breathed deeply through the speaker, his tone dark, "Try."

"The way you made me beg," Eve playfully exaggerated.

"I would never make you beg."

"You did. You knew exactly what you were doing."

Eve could swear she felt the chuckle he gave in her own chest, butterflies in her stomach. He said, "Maybe. Did it work for you?"

"What do you think?" Eve asked, leading.

"I think you liked it."

"I did. I do. I want you to do it again."

"I will. Soon, I promise. When I get back, you're not leaving that bed for days."

"Soon" turned out to be eleven more days. Eve counted them. She tried not to, tried to focus on her work, on her classes, on the constant demands of keeping Invincible Inc. running, but she counted anyway. Eleven days of texts that got progressively more charged, more honest, more desperate. Eleven days of falling asleep alone and waking up wanting. Eleven days of her powers acting stranger—constructs emerging into unexpected shapes, colors bleeding together, her control slipping at odd moments.

Cecil had noticed. He'd cornered her after a local reconstruction project, all concern and clinical curiosity. "Your molecular manipulation seems less stable," he'd said. "Have you considered—"

"I'm fine," Eve had cut him off in staunch loyalty to her boyfriend. "Just tired."

Yet, she wasn't sure that was true. She felt exhausted and agitated simultaneously, like her body couldn't decide what it needed. Her appetite was weird and her sleep schedule was worse; the constant, nagging heat under her skin wouldn't fade, no matter what she did, hypersensitive to subtle temperature changes. She didn't feel like herself.

She'd started to wonder if she should see a doctor after all her years of effectively treating herself of the rare illness she'd unluckily, occasionally contract, but that felt like admitting something was wrong, and she wasn't ready to do that yet. With her powers acting this way, she'd started to wonder where parts of herself revolving them started and where they ended. Where her sense of self-worth resided. The lines were blurred for as long as she could remember, and she was beginning to worry on what could be done about it.

On day twelve, Mark texted her at three PM. "I'm coming home."

Eve's heart jumped. "When?"

"Now. I'm already in the air, so I'll be there in about four hours. I have some things I need to attend to before though."

"I thought you had another week?"

"Finished early. Couldn't wait anymore."

"I'm at my treehouse."

"Don't go anywhere. I'm coming to you."

Eve looked around the loft—it had evolved to become their shared space away from home. The place where they'd spent so many nights talking and not talking but never actually doing what was recently promised and unexpectedly coming to fruition finally. Where everything between them had awkwardly started to shift from a year-long friendship into something more. She was there to get some calm after a long week and was amazed at the convenient timing of his message. "Okay," she sent him.

"Okay?"

"I'll be here."

"Good. Don't move. Just—wait for me."

"I've been waiting for weeks."

"I know, baby. Not anymore."

Eve tried to focus on school. She managed approximately ten minutes before giving up, closing her laptop, and pacing the treehouse like a caged animal. Four hours. Actually, less now. Three hours and fifty minutes.

She should probably deatomize, change her clothes. She should make herself look less desperate. Yet, she couldn't actually do anything, mind racing.

Her phone buzzed. "Three hours, fifty minutes."

"I can do math, Mark."

"Just wanted to make sure you were still there."

"Where else would I be?"

"I don't know. Good. Stay there," Mark sent her.

"Bossy."

"You like it."

She did. She wouldn't admit it over text, but she did.

Two hours.

Eve sat in the middle of her bed as she tried creating a simple construct—basic geometry, something easy. Unexpectedly, or rather expectedly by now, a flower bloomed in her palm, petals too vivid, stem too sturdy, lasting longer than she'd intended. She let it dissolve and pressed her hands up against her cheeks.

Something was definitely wrong with her powers, but right now, with Mark finally coming home, she couldn't let herself care too much.

One hour.

She checked her reflection in the mirror. Dark circles under her eyes. Hair messier than usual. She looked bloated and redder with a permanent flush, her stomach tight with something nasty in it.

With a sharp surge, her powers flashed over her body to fix her unkempt appearance the best she could. Freshened up.

Thirty minutes.

"Almost there."

Her heart was racing now, anticipation coiling tight in her chest, in her stomach, everywhere. She might actually, finally throw up like her body had threatened to in all her weeks of waiting, but it never quite allowing her to. "Alright."

"You okay?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. Just get here."

"Two minutes."

Eve stood in the middle of the treehouse, hands clenched, trying to breathe normally. This was ridiculous. She'd seen Mark a thousand times but it had been weeks since they had proper time alone together, she reminded herself. They'd been building to this and her whole body felt like it might come apart if she had to wait one more second.

She heard him before she saw him—the distinctive sound of someone moving fast through air, then landing on the platform lighter than usual, controlled.

Mark stood there, still in his suit, looking like his signature beaten down self and just absolutely perfect. He pulled off his mask and his eyes found hers immediately. His expression shifted to relief, want and recognition all at once. "Hi," he said, waving innocently with the beginning of sunset in the secluded forest as his backdrop.

Eve crossed the space between them in three steps. She didn't plan it or thought about it. Her hands found his face, his jaw, the familiar shape of him, and then she was kissing him like she'd been drowning and he was air.

Mark made a sound—surprise, then pleasure—and caught her, arms wrapping tight around her waist, lifting her feet off the floor slightly. He kissed her back with the same desperate intensity, weeks of wanting compressed into this single moment.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Mark pressed his forehead against hers. "I missed you so much," he said, voice rough.

"I noticed." She looked down mischievously.

"I mean it. Eve, I—" He pulled back just enough to look at her properly, one hand coming up to cup her face. "I couldn't focus on anything. I just kept thinking about getting back to you."

"Good." She kissed him again, softer this time. "You're here now."

"Yeah, I am. Thank God."

"For how long?"

"As long as you want. I cleared my schedule. I told you, nothing for the next week except you."

Something in Eve's chest unwound at that—the persistent tension she'd been carrying finally releasing. Unshed tears in her eyes. "Just me?"

"Just you." Mark's thumb traced her cheekbone, lifting up to wipe at her eye, his expression soft and serious. "I know I've been gone too much lately. I'm sorry. I was trying to—"

"I know what you were trying to do," Eve interrupted. "You don't have to explain. I was doing the same. We're both superheroes, remember?"

"Still. You matter more than any of it. I should've—"

She kissed him quiet. "Stop apologizing, Mark."

Mark smiled against her mouth. "Yes, ma'am."

He motioned for her to jump up onto him, and she wrapped her legs tightly around his waist. With a snicker, he shuffled them over and fell back onto the cloudy bed, bringing a yelping Eve down with him—but the laughter caught in her throat when his hands gripped her hips, holding her firmly against him. They wrestled for control, all breathless giggles and wandering hands, Eve trying to pin his wrists while Mark easily reversed their positions, rolling her beneath him. Her fingers found his ribs, that spot that always made him flinch, and he caught her wrists in retaliation, pressing them into the mattress above her head. The playfulness was still there but something unchaste bled through—the way his breathing had changed, the heat in his eyes, how her legs were still wrapped around him and neither of them was moving to change that. Eve's laughter faded into something softer, more wanting, and when Mark leaned down to kiss her again, it wasn't playful anymore, but hungry. They settled down on the bed, lying face to face, close enough that their noses nearly touched, expressions tender but charged with barely restrained need.

Eve was suddenly hyperaware of how small the space was, how alone they were, and most enormously how damn long it'd been. Mark seemed to notice the same thing. His hands on her waist, strong and warm. His voice dropped low, "So... Those messages."

She didn't think her already present blush could darken anymore, but it did. "What about them?"

"Were you serious?"

"About which part?"

"All of it." He inched closer, "About not being able to stop thinking about me. About being distracted. Your fantasies and what you do about them. About wanting—"

"Yes." She didn't let him finish. "All of it. I meant all of it."

Something shifted in his expression—he became more focused, more intense. "Good."

"Yeah?"

"I meant everything I said too." His hands slid up her sides, slowly, deliberately, eyes darkening. "About making you forget why you were stressed. About taking my time..."

Eve pulled him into another kiss, deeper this time, less controlled. Mark responded immediately, one hand tangling in her hair, the other pressing firm against her lower back. He smoothed his hand up, feeling for her bra band. "Is this okay?" he murmured against her mouth.

"Mark, if you stop touching me right now, I will actually kill you."

He playfully scoffed, "Obviously."

His mouth moved to her neck—that spot below her ear he'd mentioned, the one that made coherent thought difficult. Eve's breath caught, her hands finding his shoulders, his back, trying to pull him closer. She pulled off her shirt within a heartbeat, immediately going for his.

"Relax," Mark said softly. "We have time."

"Don't want to relax. I've wanted you for weeks."

"I know. Me too." He flipped her onto her stomach, straddling her as he degloved himself. His hands found her lower back again and instantly relieved the tautness she hadn't realized had build there. He was patient, careful and methodical, especially with one hand completely covered in hard metal, working out the stress in her body like he'd promised even as his mouth traced patterns against her spine that made her forget why she'd been frenzied in the first place. "This'll be worth the wait."

Eve wanted to argue, but then his hands moved even lower, and his mouth found hers again, and thinking became substantially harder.

She felt his hands move underneath her, fingers brushing against the sensitive skin just above her mound, and the contact sent such a sharp rush of heat through her that she gasped—only to realize with a mixture of frustration and disappointment that he was only unclasping her pant buttons. He pulled the fabric down past her hips with agonizing slowness, pausing when she lifted her hips in a slow shimmy; his breath catching audibly, and they maintained deliberate eye contact as he exposed more of her skin inch by inch—the curve of her hip bones, the soft plane of her lower stomach, and finally the matching lace white underwear that made his hands pause on her thighs, thumbs pressing into the hollow where leg met pelvis making her arch involuntarily.

"You're incredible," Mark breathed, voice deeper than she'd ever heard it, and she could feel the restraint it took for him to pull his hands away and toss her pants aside instead of just touching her where she really wanted him to. He returned his hands to her back, his metal arm warm to the touch, kneading the muscles along her sides before working his way down to the middle of her lower back again, and when he finally moved to cup her rear—hands full and possessive, fingers digging in just enough to make her gasp—she felt the first real wave of relief, his palms circling in solid, steady motions that sent indirect pressure to her center. Absolutely maddening because it wasn't quite enough. She bit her lip, hard, toes curling against the mattress, fists clenching in the sheets, and when she glanced back she saw him smirking. He knew exactly what he was doing to her.

His hands shifted down just below the curve of her ass, the web between his thumb and forefinger pressing into the sensitive crease where thigh met cheek, and her hips rolled in pleasure. He rubbed slow half-circles before widening the motion to reach her outer thighs—firm, grounding pressure—then ghosting his fingers up her inner thighs with barely-there touches, and a whimper escaped her throat despite herself. He kept repeating the pattern until she was making these helpless little groans every time his hands swept higher on the inside, coming so close to where she was wet and aching for him that she considered just begging him to stop teasing. But he moved on before she could, smoothing his hands to just above the back of her knees and rubbing there with just the right amount of pressure, then doing the same to the areas below her knees, and by the time he was getting down to her shins—long, firm strokes that made her entire body melt into the mattress—she released a heady moan that was louder than she'd intended, crude and wanton and utterly beyond her control.

When he finally reached her feet as he said he would some time ago, fingers pressing into the arch with exactly the right amount of pressure, Eve couldn't suppress the cry that tore from her gut—half-pleasure, half-gratification, her entire body going liquid as she unwound all at once under his thumbs. He worked generously, finding every knot and pressure point like he'd studied for this, and she was breathless and completely undone by the time he released her, the loss of contact making her whimper in objection. That was when he pulled off his shirt in a smooth motion, almost tossing it aside had one sleeve not gotten caught on his metal arm brace, and the sight of him—bare-chested, eyes dark, that satisfied smile on his face like he'd earned this view of her falling apart—had her realizing this was a reward for her patience, for letting him take his time when all she wanted was for him to touch her properly.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

"Eve, I—" Mark started, glancing down at his shirt dangling from the one encased arm like he'd forgotten what he was doing with it, but his expression suggested he had something else entirely on his mind that he struggled to articulate. Eve rolled onto her back in one fluid motion, legs falling open to frame him between them, and she lifted a single finger—her powers flashing pink across his body as his uniform shimmered away like water evaporating, shirt and pants and boots all deatomizing at once before reforming folded and neat, floating down to settle beside the bed in a perfect stack and leaving him only in his boxer briefs. "Thanks," he managed, voice slightly strangled.

"No problem. I'm just surprised that actually worked—I've been so useless with my powers lately." She said it with a grin touching her mouth, eyes hooded and dark with desire, her red hair fanned out across the white pillowcase like spilled wine, and she looked like something out of a painting he'd seen once in a museum—all soft curves and rosy skin and that particular expression that made his chest feel too tight. She fixed her eyes on his, pupils blown wide, and the weight of her gaze communicated everything she couldn't say out loud until Mark finally snapped out of his trance and moved on top of her, pressing his body flush against hers in a way that made her gasp at the sudden heat of skin on skin. His mouth found hers immediately, hungry and insatiable, and her hands were already moving—one combing through his hair where it had been slicked back with sweat, the other sprawling across his broad back, nails dragging lightly enough to make him shiver.

Eve opened her mouth wider, rolling her tongue over his in that way she knew drove him crazy, and she tried to wrap her legs around his waist to pull him closer, to create friction where she ached for it, her hips rolling up against his in a rhythm that matched the slide of her tongue—but Mark kept pulling his hips back, keeping that horrific distance between them even as his mouth worked against hers. She stilled finally, hands remaining tangled in his hair and pressed against his back, but her expression shifted to something between confusion and impatience. "What?" she breathed against his mouth.

Mark pulled back just enough to look at her, huffing out something between a laugh and a groan. "I said we're not rushing anything—"

"Oh, bullshit, Mark!" Eve interrupted, and there was real exasperation growing in her voice now, the kind that came from weeks of wanting and waiting and finally having him here but still not getting what she needed. "You're going to kiss me all over agonizingly slow with special attention to my breasts—which, by the way, feel absolutely horrible right now—and then you're going to take your sweet time giving me head, and honestly..." She hesitated, and he watched her flush grow, spreading down her neck and chest. "I don't know how, but I think I might be developing an infection or something, so I'm not feeling too confident about any of this already—"

"Eve, let me—wait, an infection?" Mark repeated, concern cutting through the haze of arousal. "You—" He paused, then deliberately lowered his head and took an assessing breath near her stomach, which mortified Eve so completely that she tried to shove his face away, embarrassed beyond belief that she was going through with this at all when her body felt so wrong and unfamiliar. Her need for him had apparently superseded any majorly rational, self-respecting thoughts she might have had about stopping until she figured out what was wrong with her. "You smell perfect, Eve. Sweeter than usual, even."

She whined like she was in physical pain, and covered her face with both hands. "I haven't been feeling great down there, okay! I've been reading some stuff online and it's not a perfect match... but I don't know what's going on with my body right now."

Mark gave a soft, comforting chuckle that rumbled through his chest, and surprisingly it did make Eve feel less awkward about her traitorous body. "You're not a doctor, baby. It could be something else entirely, something way less serious than what you're thinking."

"Or worse," Eve countered darkly, still not uncovering her face.

Mark nodded, conceding the point even though she couldn't see it. "Alright, well, until you get this checked out by an actual medical professional, I guess I can't touch my favorite parts of your body except your butt, which is—let's be honest—a distant third on my list of favorite Eve body parts. I don't even know if we can have sex without you getting hurt or if it'll make things worse. Hell, I probably can't even go down on you for as long as I would like to because you're so turned off by your own body." He paused, letting the silence stretch. "Thanks a lot, Eve. Great mood killer. Now I have to work twice as hard to convince you you’re amazing just the way you are."

"Did you hear what I just said?" Eve finally uncovered her face to glare at him. "I'm telling you something might actually be wrong—"

"I can't get sick." Mark interrupted her this time, and now there was actual frustration in his voice too, but it was the kind born from wanting to help and being denied. "Viltrumite immune system. My white blood cells could probably fight off the plague while I'm sleeping. So, let me take care of you. Please."

"Oh—oh, yeah. Right..." Eve blinked, processing, then rolled her eyes at herself. "You're right, that's... I wasn't thinking clearly. But still—"

"When were you going to tell me? When I was already inside you?" He tittered.

"I—I was going to—" she yelped as Mark was already moving down her body before she could finish, fingers hooking into the waistband of her panties to see what she was so worried about. When she struggled, trying to keep her legs closed and her hands pushing weakly at his shoulders, he simply held her legs down with one hand—his Viltrumite strength making her resistance essentially meaningless—while he rolled down her underwear with the other hand, bunching the fabric and tossing it away to join the rest of their clothes on the floor. He opened her legs carefully, looking down at the smooth expanse of what he'd always considered his own personal nirvana, but it did look different—redder than the last time he'd seen her like this, more flushed and swollen, like she was already more aroused than he'd ever seen her. She looked different overall, actually—redder everywhere, warmer and more filled out in her breasts and hips in a way that he absolutely didn't mind because she was still Eve, still perfect, still the only person he wanted. So he ducked his head toward her center, already anticipating the taste of her.

Eve sheepishly pulled away with all her strength, finally managing to close her legs and trap his head between her thighs. "Wait! What if it doesn't taste—"

"You'll always taste amazing," Mark affirmed, and he meant it with every fiber of his being. He thought everything about her was magical—her constructs, her ideas, the way she looked at him like he mattered more than anything—and he was pretty sure she'd been subconsciously, maybe, changing her taste to be sweeter most times they did this. Making herself taste like candy or whatever she decided was optimal, so why wouldn't today be any different from all those other times? "Please, Eve. I'll stop if you really want me to, but please don't make me," he said, voice dripping with need, and was pleased when she reluctantly nodded her head, taking a deep breath in an attempt to relax.

He grabbed the underside of her thighs with both hands and pulled her warmth even closer to his face with determination, burying himself deep in her heat with a rumbling moan that vibrated against her sensitive flesh and made her cry out despite all her self-consciousness.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

She did taste differently than he remembered—like a richer honey mixed with something he couldn't quite name—but it was far from wrong. If anything, it made him want more of her. He sunk deeper, tongue working with purpose as her thighs trembled against his ears as she moaned with abandon. The way her body reacted to him—every tremor, every soft sound she tried and failed to hold back—rooted him there, made him acutely aware of how much trust she was giving him in this moment. His hands tightened slightly on her thighs, not to restrain her, but to steady her, grounding both of them as her breath fractured and she arched instinctively toward the sensation she'd been craving.

Eve pressed a hand over her mouth, eyes squeezed shut, overwhelmed by the intensity of it—the way her body felt hypersensitive, like every nerve had been turned up too high. The treehouse creaked softly around them as he kept going, the distant sounds of the forest filtering in through the open space, and the contrast between the quiet world outside and the storm inside her made her feel dizzy in the best, worst way.

"Mark," she breathed, his name slipping out like a confession.

He hummed softly in response, the sound reverberating through her in a way that made her toes curl. One of his hands slid upward, thumb brushing gentle, reassuring arcs into her skin—intentionally avoiding her breasts. A silent reminder that he was there, that he wasn't going anywhere, that she was safe even as everything inside her felt wildly, beautifully out of control.

She tangled her fingers in his black hair. To anchor herself to something solid while the rest of her seemed determined to come apart under his attention. Her breaths came in shallow pulls now, chest rising and falling rapidly, every sensation landing deeper than it should have, more overwhelming in a way she couldn't explain.

Mark finally lifted his head just enough to look at her, searching her face for any sign of hesitation. When she met his gaze—flushed, breathless, pupils blown wide with need—something in his expression softened, reverence cutting through the yearning.

Eve nodded, a shaky, earnest motion, her hand tightening in his hair. "Yeah," she whispered. "Don't stop."

Mark held her gaze for one more heartbeat, and she watched something shift in his expression—resolve mixed with tenderness—before he lowered his head again, this time with renewed focus, sliding two fingers into her, matching his tongue's continued deliberation. His mouth found her with precision, lips moving in slow, dragging patterns that made her entire body go taut. The hand on her thigh slid higher, thumb pressing into unexpected, sensitive creases, applying just enough pressure to drive her a bit insane while his other hand splayed across her lower stomach, holding her steady when her hips tried to roll up instinctively.

Eve's head fell back against the pillow, the hand over her mouth dropping away as a broken sound escaped her throat—half-gasp, half-moan—and she stopped trying to contain herself. The room felt too fervid suddenly, the air thick and charged, and she could feel sweat beginning to bead along her temples, between her breasts, everywhere her skin touched his.

"Mark—" His name came out strangled, needy, and she felt him respond immediately, adjusting the angle, the pressure, reading her body like he'd memorized every response—because he did. The sensation built rapidly, climbing higher than she expected, faster than it usually did, and some distant part of her brain registered that as strange but she couldn't hold onto the thought long enough to examine it because everything was sensation now—heat and pressure and the steady, relentless attention of his mouth and fingers.

One hand fisted in the sheets, knuckles white, and she was making sounds she'd be embarrassed about later but couldn't control now—whimpers and gasps and his name over and over like a prayer. The tension coiled tighter in her core, that familiar edge approaching but somehow more intense, more consuming than she remembered it being.

"I can't—Mark, I'm—" She couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't find words for what was happening. She could only feel as her legs began quivering uncontrollably, her entire body drawn tight as a bowstring.

His tongue, his fingers maintaining that perfect, maddening rhythm, and then his eyes flicked up to meet hers—dark and focused and full of something that looked like devotion—and that was what finally broke her.

The climax hit like a wave cresting, her back arching off the mattress as she released a guttural moan—louder than she meant, raw and unfiltered. Her powers surged without permission, pink light flashing across the room in a sudden bloom of energy, and flowers erupted into existence around them—roses and lilies and things that didn't have names, petals in ridiculous color patterns, suspended mid-air like frozen fireworks. Her creations should have dissolved immediately, should have flickered out the moment her concentration broke, but they held, shining softly in the dimming evening light, more solid and permanent than anything she'd created in weeks.

Mark worked her through it, gentler now, easing her down from that peak until she was gasping, oversensitive to the point of feeling raw, her hand weakly pushing at his head in a silent plea for mercy. He pressed one last kiss to her inner thigh before pulling back, chin slick, breathing hard himself, looking at her like she'd just performed a miracle.

Eve lay there trembling, chest heaving hot breaths, staring up with knitted brows at the ceiling now covered in floating flowers, and for a moment she couldn't speak, couldn't think, could only exist in the aftermath of sensation. She combed through her hair, wiping away at the sweat. When she finally found her voice, it came out hoarse and wondering. "What the hell just happened?"

Mark crawled up her body slowly, careful not to crush her, settling his weight on his forearms as he hovered above her. His expression was equal parts smug and awed. "I think," he said, "that was you letting go."

She blinked up at him, still dazed, and then her gaze drifted to the flowers floating around them, to the way they stirred like living things, warm and alive in a way her creations usually never were. "They're not dissolving," she whispered.

"I noticed." He looked up mischievously.

"Mark, they're not dissolving." There was an edge of panic creeping into her voice now, the post-orgasm haze clearing enough for concern to filter through. "They should have—the second I lost focus, they should have—"

"Hey." He cupped her face gently, drawing her attention back to him. "It's okay. They're beautiful. You're beautiful." He kissed her softly, and she could taste herself on his mouth—that unfamiliar sweetness he'd mentioned her having before—and something about that made her breath catch all over again.

When he pulled back, she was staring at him with something complicated in her expression—satisfaction and confusion and a lingering unease she couldn't quite shake. Her powers were worrying. Her body felt different now, especially in the aftermath, but maybe not bad different. Just... different. Fuller somehow. Like something inside her had shifted and settled into a new configuration she didn't quite recognize.

"You okay?" Mark asked quietly, thumb brushing her cheekbone.

Eve nodded, though she wasn't entirely sure it was true. "Yeah. I just... that was intense."

"Good intense?"

"Really good intense." She managed a small smile, her hand coming up to cover his where it rested against her face. "Intense enough that I apparently redecorated the place without meaning to."

Mark glanced around at the floating garden she'd created, his expression softening into something fond. "I don't mind. Kind of romantic, actually."

Eve huffed out a breathless laugh, some of the anxiety easing from her shoulders. The flowers still glowed around them, casting everything in a soft, warm atmosphere, and despite the strangeness of it—despite the way her body still felt wrong in ways she couldn't articulate—she felt safe here, with him, in this moment.

Mark's expression melted into something so tender it made her chest ache. He kissed her again, and she could feel him hard against her thigh through his boxer briefs, a reminder that they weren't done yet, that he'd been patient and giving and now it was his turn. She let herself exist in the gentle respite, surrounded by the strange state of her powers and the boy she loved, trying to stay present.

Mark drew back enough to look at her properly—flustered and disheveled and perfect—before his hands moved to his underwear, fingers hooking into the waistband. Eve's breath caught as he pushed it down and off, kicking it aside, and suddenly he was completely bare before her, hard and ready and looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered in the entire world. Her eyes traced down his body, lingering, and when her gaze met his again there was a fire settling in his stomach, making it clench.

"Your turn," he said softly.

Eve sat up slightly, reaching behind her back for the clasp of her bra—the last barrier between them—but her hands were trembling from the aftermath of her orgasm, fingers fumbling with the hooks. Mark's hands covered hers, gentle and steady, and together they unclasped it, the fabric falling away and leaving her completely exposed. He took a moment just to look at her, drinking in every detail—the curve of her breasts, rounder than he remembered, the way her skin had a near permanent shade of red in all her most sensitive places almost as a map of where to touch, the slight sheen of sweat that made her glisten in the soft contrast of her floating constructs.

"You're so... amazing," he breathed.

Eve's response was to lift one finger, powers flashing pink between them, and suddenly there was something manifesting in her palm—very thin and translucent and unmistakably a condom, the same pink color as her usual constructs, delicate-looking but he knew from experience it would hold. She'd been making these for them since their first time, her powers creating something safer than anything they could buy, perfectly fitted from memory.

"That still works too, I guess," she said with a small, breathless laugh, holding it out to him.

Mark took it, rolled it on with practiced ease, and then they were moving—Eve beginning to straddle him properly on the bed, her thighs bracketing his hips as she positioned herself above him. She hesitated for just a moment, one hand braced on his chest, the other reaching between them to guide him, and then she was sinking down slowly, taking him in inch by inch, and the sensation made them both gasp.

"Fuck," Mark breathed, hands flying to her hips to steady her, to ground himself in the snug fit. "Eve—"

"I know," she managed, voice strained, and she was moving so slowly, almost tentatively, like she was testing her own limits. She felt different—tighter, warmer (God, was she warm), more slick, more raw—and from the way her face contorted, pleasure mixed with something close to discomfort, he could tell she felt it too.

She settled fully onto him, both of them breathing hard, and for a long moment neither of them moved, just adjusting to the sensation of being completely joined. Eve's hands splayed across his chest, manicured nails digging in slightly, and Mark could see her working through it—the insanely satisfying fullness, the lingering sensitivity, the way her body was still trembling from her first climax.

"You okay?" he asked quietly, thumbs rubbing small circles into her hip bones.

"Yeah," she breathed, eyes fluttering closed. "Just... give me a second."

Mark watched her face as she adjusted, the way her expression shifted from overwhelmed to something softer, more comfortable, and only when she opened her eyes again—pupils still blown wide but focused now—did he let himself relax slightly into the mattress beneath them. She started moving then, slow experimental rolls of her hips that made them both gasp, finding a rhythm that worked for her, and Mark forced himself to stay still, to let her control the pace, to just lay beneath her and let her take what she needed.

And, wow, was she was stunning like this—her hair falling around her face in waves, her body moving above him among the delicateness of her flowers, her breasts swaying slightly with each movement, her expression caught somewhere between concentration and bliss. He could watch her like this forever, he thought. Could spend the rest of his life memorizing the way she looked when she was falling apart on top of him.

"That's it," he murmured, voice low and encouraging. "Take your time, baby. We've got all night."

Eve made a soft sound—half-laugh, half-moan—and adjusted slightly, shifting the angle in a way that made her breath catch sharply. "Feels so good," she managed, voice breaking on the last word, and Mark's hands tightened on her hips in response. Eve could feel every inch of him, the stretch almost excruciating in the best way. Her thighs burned from the angle but she didn't care, chasing sensation, connection, chasing him.

"You feel incredible," he told her, needing her to know it. "Look at you, taking me so perfectly. You're so fucking beautiful like this, Eve."

She whimpered at that, the dirty talk affecting her the way he knew it would, and her movements became slightly less controlled, more desperate. He could feel her tightening around him periodically, little aftershocks from her earlier orgasm still rippling through her, and it was taking everything in him not to just flip her over and chase his own release because she felt too good, too perfect, and he wanted this to last.

"Mark," she gasped, one hand leaving his chest to brace on the mattress beside his head for better leverage, and the new angle let her grind down against him in a way that made them both moan. "I can't—it's too much—"

"You can," he assured her, one hand sliding up from her hip to cup her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple to make her cry out from both pain and pleasure. "You're doing so good, baby."

The praise seemed to undo something in her, her movements becoming more erratic, more focused on finding relief than maintaining any kind of rhythm, and Mark could tell she was building toward something again. In her telltale signs, her thighs were trembling against his hips, her breathing ragged, and every time she sank down onto him fully she made these small, desperate sounds that were driving him absolutely insane.

"Touch yourself," he told her, voice rough with command and want. "Show me how good it feels."

Eve's eyes flew open, meeting his, and for a moment he thought she might refuse, but then her hand was moving, sliding down between them, and he felt the moment her fingers found herself because she gasped sharply and her whole body shuddered. The sight of her touching herself while riding him, her face contorted in pleasure, her movements becoming more frenetic—it was almost too much. He had to close his eyes, had to focus on anything else just to keep himself from coming right then because he needed her to get there first, needed to feel her fall apart around him.

"That's my girl," he murmured, forcing his eyes open again because he couldn't miss this, couldn't miss watching her chase her pleasure. "You're so desperate for it. You gonna come for me again, baby? Gonna show me how good I make you feel?"

"Yes," she gasped, the word barely intelligible, and her hand was moving faster now, circling and pressing in ways he knew drove her crazy, and her inner walls were fluttering around him to signal she was close, so close. "Mark, I'm—oh God, I'm—"

"Come for me," he pled, sitting up so he could wrap one arm around her waist, holding her against him, and his other hand tangled in her hair, pulling her down for a bruising kiss that swallowed her cry as she shattered.

Her second orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, her entire body going rigid before she collapsed forward onto his chest, trembling and gasping and making these small, overwhelmed sounds against his neck. Mark wrapped both arms around her, holding her close as she came down, and he was painfully hard inside her still but he didn't move, didn't chase his own release, just let her recover while stroking one hand up and down her spine in soothing motions.

The flowers around them pulsed, brighter for a moment before dimming again, and Mark felt her laugh weakly against his shoulder.

"I can't believe that just happened twice, so soon," she mumbled into his neck.

Mark huffed out a laugh, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I can. You're incredible."

"I'm exhausted," she countered, but there was no real complaint in her voice, just wonder and residual pleasure.

"I know." He shifted slightly, still buried deep inside her, and she made a small sound that might have been protest. "You okay? Need to stop?"

"No," she said immediately, pulling back just enough to look at him, and despite the exhaustion clear in her face there was determination there too. "No, I want—you didn't—"

"I'm fine," he assured her, even though he was absolutely not fine, was in fact so wound up he thought he might lose his mind if he didn't move soon. "We can just—"

"Mark." She cupped his face, forcing him to meet her eyes. "I want you to feel good too. I want—" She bit her lip, searching for words. "Just... wait? And then we can—"

He kissed her before she could finish, pouring everything he felt into it—gratitude, desire and profound affection—and when he pulled back they were both breathing hard again. "Okay," he agreed. "But let me—I have an idea."

Eve looked at him curiously as his hands moved to her thighs, guiding her to unbend her legs from around his waist. "Cross them behind me," he instructed, helping her move until her ankles were locked behind his back, her thighs spread wide over his lap, his own legs crossed themselves, their bodies still connected but in a new position that had them facing each other more directly, more intimately. "There. That better?"

She nodded, testing the position, and Mark watched her face as she realized what this meant—that he could move now, could lift her and pull her down, could control the pace while she stayed close enough to kiss, to touch, to watch. Her hands found his shoulders, nails digging in, and she gave him a look that was equal parts nervous and eager.

"Ready?" he asked softly.

"Yeah," she breathed. "Show me."

Mark started moving then, lifting her and pulling her back down in slow, deliberate motions that had them both gasping. The new angle was sharper, more intense, and he could feel every flutter and squeeze of her around him, could see every reaction play out across her face. He started slow, mindful of how sensitive she still was, but gradually built up speed as her breathing picked up again, as her nails dug harder into his shoulders, as small sounds of pleasure started escaping her throat again despite the exhaustion he knew she was feeling.

"Look at me," he said, and her eyes—which had started to drift closed—snapped open, locking with his. "That's it. Want to see you. I want to watch you fall apart for me again."

"I can't," she protested weakly, but her body was already responding, was already building toward something despite how wrung out she must be. "Mark, I can't—too much—"

"You can," he insisted, movements becoming more purposeful, angling his hips so he was hitting that spot inside her that made her see stars. "You're so perfect, Eve. So fucking perfect. The way you take me, the way you sound—God, I could do this forever."

She whimpered, her head falling forward to rest against his shoulder, and Mark could feel her starting to tighten around him again, her body preparing for another climax despite her protests. His own release was building rapidly now, coiling tight in his gut, and he knew he couldn't hold out much longer—not with the way she felt, not with the sounds she was making, not with weeks of wanting finally culminating in this moment.

His thrusts became harder, less controlled, and he felt her responding to it, felt her starting to unravel again. The treehouse creaked around them—louder than before, more insistent—and some distant part of his brain registered that he needed to be careful, needed to control his strength, but it was getting harder to focus on anything except the mounting pleasure of his balls drenched and bouncing under the girl of his dreams in his arms. He was balancing on a knife's edge, using just enough force to make her feel it without hurting her, and the mental effort of that restraint was actually helping him last longer even as everything in him screamed to just let go.

"Mark," Eve gasped against his shoulder, her voice breaking, and he could feel her trembling all over now, could feel her inner walls starting to flutter. "I'm—oh God, I'm—again—"

"I know, baby, I know," he groaned, his movements becoming almost frantic now as his own orgasm approached. "Come with me. Want to feel you—need to feel you—"

The treehouse gave an ominous crack, louder than anything before, and Mark's hips stuttered for a moment in alarm before the sensation overwhelmed any concern. Eve was crying out against him, her third climax ripping through her with an intensity that seemed to surprise even her, and the feeling of her tightening around him combined with her lewd sounds and the sloshing of him pounding away shattered the last of his control. He buried himself as deep as he could go and came with a guttural moan, his whole body going rigid as release crashed over him in waves, and in that moment he lost his grip on his strength entirely—his hands digging into her thighs hard enough to bruise, his hips jerking against her, and worst of all, the force of it radiating outward into the structure around them because no matter what, he absolutely could not bring himself to direct any of that power toward her, could never risk truly hurting her.

The treehouse gave one final, decisive crack and then started collapsing around them—wood splintering, supports giving way, the whole structure tilting at a dangerous angle. Mark's eyes flew open in alarm and his arms immediately wrapped around Eve, pulling her tight against his chest in a protective embrace even as his body was still shaking from the aftershocks of his own orgasm. He saw the pink flash of her powers activating as the bed gave out beneath them, felt the sudden barrier of her signature bubble forming around them just before debris would have rained down on them, and then they were floating—somehow still connected, her arms and legs still wrapped around him, his hands still gripping her thighs as they hovered in the air surrounded by the ruins of what used to be her treehouse.

For a moment there was only silence except for their harsh breathing, and then—because the situation was so absurd, because they were literally floating naked mid-air surrounded by wreckage with him still inside her—they both started laughing. Breathless, slightly hysterical laughter that shook both their bodies.

"Oh my God," Eve managed between giggles, her face buried in his neck. "Mark. Mark, we just destroyed my treehouse."

"I know," he wheezed, his own laughter making his whole body shake. "I'm so sorry, I just—I couldn't—"

"You literally fucked my treehouse into pieces," she continued, pulling back to look at him with wild eyes and a grin that was half-amazement, half-disbelief. "How are we going to explain this to anyone?"

"We're not," Mark said firmly, still laughing despite the horror of what they'd just done. "We are absolutely never telling anyone about this."

Eve's bubble blinked out of existence as her laughter redoubled, but Mark caught them immediately, shifting to support her properly—one arm under her thighs, the other around her waist, still buried inside her as he held them both aloft in the darkening sky. The sun had fully set now, stars beginning to appear overhead, and in the dim light he could see some extent of the damage below them. The treehouse was a complete disaster. Wood and Eve's things scattered everywhere, the platform split almost in half, and he felt a fresh wave of horror and amusement wash over him.

"Your dad is going to kill me," he said, the laughter finally subsiding into something closer to panic.

"My dad doesn't care about this place," Eve reminded him, but her own amusement was fading as the reality of the situation set in. She pulled back enough to look around properly, surveying the damage, and Mark watched her expression shift from amused to concerned to determined. "Okay. Okay, let me—hold on."

Her powers flashed again and suddenly they were both dressed—her in comfortable athletic shorts pushed to one side and a cropped tank top with her hair tied up in a messy bun, him in sweatpants pulled halfway down his ass and a plain white tee—the sensation of fabric appearing between them combined with the shift in position as he gently pulled out of her made them both wince slightly. Mark lowered them carefully to what remained of the platform, making sure it would hold their weight before releasing her and flying down to the ground. Eve immediately started walking around the perimeter, hands glowing pink as she assessed the damage.

"Is anyone hurt?" she asked, voice taking on that authoritative quality she got when using her powers for community service. "Any hikers nearby, any animals—"

"No," Mark confirmed, picking up on nothing in the immediate area except normal forest sounds. "We're alone. It's just property damage."

"Just property damage," Eve repeated with a sardonic laugh, but her hands were already moving to telepathically grab pieces of wood, to reinforce broken supports, to begin the painstaking process of putting everything back together. Flying back up to her, Mark watched in fascination as she worked, noting that her powers seemed to be functioning normally now—precise, controlled, nothing like the wild, uncontrolled blooms from her orgasms. She was frowning in concentration, lips moving slightly like she was talking herself through it, and piece by piece the treehouse began to reform around them.

"Your powers are working fine," he observed, trying to be helpful and supportive while also staying out of her way.

"I noticed," she muttered, not looking at him, too focused on making sure a support beam was properly attached. "Which makes no sense because half an hour ago I couldn't make a simple sphere without it dissolving and now I'm reconstructing an entire—"

She cut herself off abruptly as the lights she'd just manifested—simple orbs meant to illuminate the workspace—suddenly exploded outward in a burst of pink energy, transforming mid-air into thick vines that slithered out through the gaps in the walls, wrapping around tree trunks and railings with a life of their own. Eve stared at them in horror, hands dropping to her sides, and Mark couldn't help it—he started laughing again.

"It's not funny!" Eve protested, glaring at him even as her own lips twitched with suppressed amusement. "I just—I was trying to make lights and instead I made—what the hell?"

"They're beautiful," Mark assured her, walking over to wrap his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. The vines had settled now, creating an almost decorative pattern around the reconstructed treehouse, and in the starlight they looked intentional, artistic even. "Very you."

"Very out of control, you mean," she grumbled, but she was leaning back into his embrace, some of the tension easing from her shoulders.

"Hey." He turned her around to face him, hands cupping her face gently. "Your powers have been weird for a while now. Maybe you just need to..." He paused, searching for the right words. "Practice? Experiment? Figure out what's different?"

Eve looked up at him, understanding dawning in her expression—understanding mixed with apprehension and something that looked like exhausted resignation. "You mean use them a lot more than I normally do without giving up until I figure out what's going on."

"Yeah," Mark agreed, and then because he couldn't help himself—because she was looking at him with those wide eyes and her lips were slightly parted and they were alone in the forest with the stars overhead and he'd just had the best sex of his life with her—he pulled her in for a searing kiss. Deep and thorough and full of promise for later, for tomorrow, for the whole week he'd promised her.

When he pulled back, they were both breathing hard again, and Eve was looking at him with heat in her eyes that suggested she wasn't as exhausted as she'd seemed minutes ago. "Experimentation," she repeated slowly, a smile curving her lips. "I think I can work with that."

Mark grinned, pulling her closer. "Good. Because I have some ideas."

The vines around them pulsed with soft pink light—whether in response to Eve's emotional state or just random power fluctuation, neither of them knew—and as they stood there wrapped in each other's arms, completely surrounded by her essence, by whatever these unintended manifestations meant, Eve thought that maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay.

Even if they had accidentally destroyed her sanctuary in the process, they could work with that.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Afterward, the treehouse was quiet except for their labored breaths. It was late into the evening by then, much past midnight.

Mark had shifted them at some point—Eve tucked against his side, his arm around her shoulders, both of them lazily sprawled naked on the couch in comfortable, exhausted silence. The nighttime light filtered through the open-concept.

Eve felt calmer. Properly settled in a way she hadn't been for weeks. Mark's fingers traced idle patterns on her shoulder. "You okay?"

"Yeah." She snuggled closer.

"Good." He kissed the top of her head. "I love you."

"Love you too."

They stayed like that for a long time, not talking, just existing together. Eve felt herself starting to drift, the exhaustion catching up to her all at once.

Mark's voice pulled her back. "Eve?"

"Mm?"

"Your powers."

She opened her eyes, looking around. There were even more unintended constructs scattered across the treehouse still among the intended ones used during the rest of their time together for... obvious reasons. She frowned at a particularly vibrant rose suspended in her cone of vision. "It's easy for you to say I just have to practice more. My mind and body are so out of sync, it's frustrating."

"Could you explain that?"

"It's just... unpredictable. I can't quite control my powers the way I usually do. Like they're responding to something else." She created another small construct in her palm experimentally—a simple sphere. It held steady, floating up, glowing pink faintly. "Cecil thinks I should run more tests... Start training with him..."

He paused, contemplating. "Maybe you should."

Eve stilled, looking at him in surprise at the sudden growth, construct bursting above.

Mark shrugged. "I still don't trust the man but I think you can handle him. No matter what I have to say about his questionable ways, he's..." He sucked in a prideful breath, "—good at his job. And, you've been dealing with him for much longer, you've seen what he's capable of already."

She settled back into him. "...Maybe, but not tonight."

"No. Definitely not tonight." Mark's breathing was already evening out, exhaustion winning. Conjuring a blanket over the both of them, Eve stayed awake a little longer, listening to his heartbeat, relishing in his naked form by her side.

Something was different. Frustratingly, even after all this time, she still couldn't put her finger on it—not the powers, not the constant warmth under her skin, not the way her body felt simultaneously satisfied and unsettled. And even if he acted as the much needed, temporary distraction to her problem that kept building by the day, right now, with Mark finally home, finally here, she still couldn't make herself worry about it. Not tonight.

She manifested and enlarged another translucent construct made from thin air in her hand, changing the color to a light baby blue without meaning to—a small, perfect sphere that hung in the air above them, glowing in the moonlight and casting soft shadows. It stayed, steady and bright, like something permanent taking root.

Eve watched it for a long moment, then closed her eyes and let herself sleep.