[ntennd0nt]

to all the fic writers who make mark grayson so sweet and subby and fucking disgusting THANK YOU

[slutla]

ROLLED UP ‘N RUINED !┊MARK GRAYSON

warnings: 18+, nsfw, usage of weed, masturbation (m), cunnilingus, fem reader, gendered terms, unrealistic pussy eating, mark tries weed but it doesn’t affect him, mark is kinda subby. friends w benefits. whimpering.

summary: you try to teach your friend how to smoke a blunt—instead, you learn something entirely different. wc: 3.1k

an: minors dni. this may not be the best description of a good high + idc idc mark a d1 eater, literally nothing could convince me otherwise.

“Does weed even do anything to Viltrumites?” You don’t look at him when you ask, your fingers working the paper, the grind of leaf and resin between your fingertips. A familiar ritual. The room is thick with the scent of it. Though, the air between you is heavier with something else.

Mark shifts on the couch, the leather creaking beneath him. “Not sure,” he says, voice easy. He waits, sprawled like a cat in the sun, his hands loose at his sides. You stride over to him ignoring the mess on the table, scattered lighters, empty glasses, a book neither of you had finished, and hold the thing out to him. His fingers brush yours when he takes it.

“Well,” you murmur, striking the lighter, its flame leaping up, carving out the planes of his face in gold and shadow. “Let’s find out.”

The flame kisses the tip, a slow burn. He inhales—too fast, too much—and then it hits him all at once. A sharp cough tears out of his chest, then another, his whole body jerking forward like he’s been punched from the inside. You watch, amused, arms crossed as he fights against his own lungs.

A small laugh escapes you, light and sharp. “You’re not supposed to rush,” you chide, reaching for the blunt, plucking it from his fingers before he can protest. “Here, let me show you.” Smooth, practiced, you bring it to your lips, inhale slow, let the smoke curl inside you like a secret before exhaling in a soft, languid breath.

Mark glares, still half-choking, half-annoyed. “You could’ve started with that first,” he mutters, eyes red-rimmed, voice caught between confusion and irritation.

“’S not even my fault,” you scoff, sinking back into the couch. “Didn’t know you were gonna try ‘n inhale the thing like its air.”

Mark opens his mouth, then shuts it again, because—yeah. Fair point. He takes the blunt when you pass it back, more careful this time, dragging slow like he’s mimicking you. The smoke unfurls from his lips in thin ribbons, dissipating into the dim light of the room.

He exhales, waits a beat. “I don’t feel anything,” he says, flat, like he’s waiting for the universe to prove him wrong.

You roll your eyes so hard it nearly hurts. He cannot be serious. “No shit,” you mutter. The fact that he doesn’t know how weed works is honestly embarrassing. You would’ve thought Amber—Who’s often at party scenes—might have taught him at some point, but apparently not.

“It’s not gonna work instantly,” you say, settling deeper into the couch. “Well—actually, I don’t even know if it’s gonna work at all, considering you’re basically, like, half alien.” Mark looks at you, head tilting just slightly, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. Then that small, lopsided smirk appears. “You say it like it’s an insult.”

You huff, rolling your eyes, but there’s a twitch at the corner of your lips. “Maybe it is,” you tease, watching the ember glow between his fingers. “Maybe it’s not.”

He takes another drag, the ember burning low, and you shift closer without really thinking about it. Your bare knees brush against his, the fabric of his sweats soft against your skin. It’s a small touch, barely anything, but it feels like something.

Mark glances at you, eyes lidded, curious. You hold his gaze longer than you mean to. You’ve never really looked at him before—not like this. He’s handsome. Not in the obvious way, not in the way that makes people stop and stare, but in a way that sneaks up on you. The way his black hair falls over his forehead, just a couple strays stand out of place. The way the dim light catches the sharp lines of his face.

And he smells good. Even through the thick haze of weed, his scent lingers—earthy, fresh, something clean that sticks in your lungs longer than the smoke does.

“Stop hogging it,” you say, voice edged with faux annoyance. “Just ’cause I’m teaching you doesn’t mean you get to smoke the whole thing yourself.”

Mark chuckles, a low but sweet sound, it settles somewhere deep in your chest. Instead of handing it back, he lifts the blunt to your lips himself, holding it there like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You hesitate—just for a second—before leaning in, letting your lips part as you take a slow drag. The heat of the smoke curls in your lungs, thick and heavy, but you’re barely paying attention to that. You’re too aware of the way his fingers hover near your mouth, the way his gaze lingers, watching.

Maybe it’s the weed settling into your bloodstream, slow and syrup-thick, or maybe it’s just plain curiosity—but the thought creeps in before you can stop it.

You know he’s not a virgin. That much is obvious. But has he ever eaten pussy? Like, really eaten it? The kind that isn’t just half-hearted, obligatory foreplay, but something done with intent? With enthusiasm? You’d take him for the type.

The idea lingers, unexpected and distracting. You steal a glance at him—his lips slightly parted, still damp from the last drag, his expression relaxed, almost careless.

“Mark, have you ever eaten pussy?”The words slip out before you even think to stop them.

Mark freezes, eyes wide like you just asked him to solve a math equation with a gun to his head. It’s almost comical—the way his entire body tenses, the way his brain visibly lags trying to process if he really just heard what he thinks he heard.

“What—?” His voice cracks, just a little. “Why—why would you even ask me that?”

You almost lose it right then and there, laughter bubbling up at the sheer horror on his face. Like the thought has never even occurred to him before. Like you’ve just introduced a concept so foreign, so absurd, that his brain is rejecting it outright.

You bite down on your laughter, pressing your lips together to keep it from slipping out. “We’ve been friends for a long time, I’m just curious,” you say, trying to sound casual, like this is a completely normal topic of conversation.

Mark blinks at you, still looking like he’s in the middle of a mental blue screen. He shifts slightly, running a hand through his hair, clearly debating whether he should actually answer or just pretend this never happened.

A few moments of silence pass, thick and heavy between you. Then Mark exhales, sinking back into the couch, his body relaxing again—except for the telltale flush creeping up his ears.

“No,” he admits, voice low, almost begrudging. “I haven’t.”

You hum, nodding like you already knew. Like it makes perfect sense. You pluck the blunt from his fingers, bringing it to your lips with an easy inhale. “See,” you murmur through the smoke, exhaling slowly. “That wasn’t so hard.”

Another beat of silence, the kind that feels like it’s waiting to be broken. And, maybe because you’re high, or maybe because you just can’t help yourself, you push further. “Why not?” You glance at him, head tilting slightly. “You’ve had, what, two girlfriends? And you never ate it?”

Mark groans, tilting his head back against the couch like he wants to sink into it and disappear. “Why are you so invested in this?” You smirk, tapping ash off the blunt. “I’m just saying, statistically, it doesn’t add up.”

“I mean,” he starts, still staring at the ceiling like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the room, “I just never really got the chance, I guess.” You blink at him. Never got the chance? How does someone not get the chance? It’s not like his exes would’ve stopped him—if anything, they probably wanted him to. And then you realize.

He’s a superhero. He barely had time to show up to his own girlfriend’s charity drive or whatever that was, let alone explore his sex life. Between saving the world and getting his ass kicked, there was probably never a moment where things could slow down enough for something like that.

You laugh. You don’t even know why you’re laughing, but it bubbles out of you anyway, light and uncontrollable. Maybe it’s the weed, maybe it’s the ridiculousness of the conversation, or maybe it’s just him.

And then—before your brain can catch up to your mouth—you say it.

“If you ever want to, you could always practice on me.”

The second the words leave your lips, your whole body seizes with horror. Your once relaxed position vanishes as you jolt upright, hands suddenly restless, fumbling over themselves like they can physically rewind time.

“I meant—like, I meant it—” you stammer, face burning, voice pitching slightly higher. “It was supposed to be comforting!”

Mark finally looks at you, wide-eyed, lips slightly parted like his brain just short-circuited. For a long, agonizing second, he doesn’t say anything. And that somehow makes it so much worse.

Your face is on fire. Actually burning. You can feel the heat creeping up your neck, settling hot behind your ears. And then you make the mistake of looking at Mark—his face, usually so composed, is tinted pink, eyes slightly wide, lips parted like he’s still buffering.

Neither of you say anything.

The silence is unbearable. Suffocating. The kind that stretches so long it starts to feel like a tangible weight pressing down on you. You shift awkwardly, hands gripping your knees, mind running a thousand miles an hour trying to figure out how to backpedal—how to undo whatever the fuck this is.

Will you ever recover from this? Can you?

You consider just getting up and leaving. Walking out of the room, out of the apartment, out of the entire city if you have to. Maybe start a new life. Change your name. Forget this ever happened.

Mark’s head is spinning. Racing. In a thousand years, he’s never—never—thought about you like that.

Sure, you’re beautiful. That was always obvious. The kind of beauty that turns heads without you even trying. But he’s never let his mind go there before. Not with you.

You were carefree, nonchalant, always teasing but never crossing that line. Never someone he associated with anything lewd. But now? Now you’re sitting there, flustered and squirming all pretty, looking at him with wide, nervous eyes like you just realized what you said. Like you’re feeling the weight of it at the same time he is.

And fuck—now it’s in his head.

Mark jerks his head to the side, eyes locked on anything but you. The wall, the cluttered coffee table, the faint swirl of smoke in the air—anywhere that isn’t your face, because if he looks at you now, he knows something reckless is going to slip out.

Something he won’t be able to take back.

And then, because his brain is already working against him, because the weight of your words is pressing down on him harder than he can ignore, he hears himself say—“Is—Is that something you’d like?” The second it’s out, he wants to die.

Because now? Now the silence between you isn’t just awkward. It’s charged. Hanging heavy in the air, thick and hot, impossible to ignore. He can’t see your face, but he feels your reaction. The way your body shifts. The way your breath hitches, just slightly.

Your mind is a mess. A tangled knot of confusion, nerves, and something else—something warmer, heavier, something pooling low in your stomach.

And maybe it’s the weed. Maybe it’s the fact that Mark looks too good right now, all flushed and fidgety, broad shoulders tense like he’s fighting a war inside his own head. Maybe it’s the tension, thick and humming between you, pressing into your skin like static electricity.

Either way, your body reacts before your brain can catch up—nipples tightening under your shirt, thighs pressing together, heat coiling deep in your core. And at this point? It’s probably too late to walk it back.

“I wouldn’t mind.”

The words slip out, smooth and easy, but your heart is pounding. Mark finally looks at you, eyes dark, searching. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you like he’s waiting for you to take it back. You don’t.

You take a deep breath, then exhale, slow and steady. And for some reason, it’s relieving. Like you just confessed something you didn’t even know you needed to get off your chest.

Your body loosens, the tension in your shoulders easing as you sink back into the couch—only now realizing you had been sitting upright, practically perched on the edge, like your body had been trying to flee before your mind even decided.

Mark moves toward you, his face still flushed, that pretty pink creeping down his neck. He hesitates for a second, shifting awkwardly, then clears his throat—but his voice cracks slightly when he speaks.

“Uh—I’m not sure how this works, so… can you guide me?” He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes for a moment before glancing back at you. “Or, like, tell me if you don’t like it?”

There’s something endearing about it. The way he’s so earnest, so unsure despite everything else he’s capable of. Mark has fought villains, saved lives, survived things most people couldn’t even fathom, but this? This is what makes him nervous. You should be teasing him for it. You want to. But the way he’s looking at you, waiting, wanting to do this right—it makes your heart squeeze a little.

Honestly, you didn’t think he would do it. Despite your frantic panic, you thought after the initial shock that he’d laugh it off, make some awkward joke, maybe shake his head and change the subject. But here he is—kneeling between your legs, eyes flickering between your face and the space between you, his hands hesitating but steady on your thighs.

He drags your shorts off, discarding them aside like shed skin, and there’s your pretty, plush cunt laid bare before him. It’s not his first time glimpsing such a sight, but never this up close. His breath hitches, and he stares. You’re confused—does he not know what to do? Why is he just sitting there, staring? You’re on the verge of speaking when he edges nearer, parting your lips with a slow, deliberate nudge—strings of slick arousal gleaming between them.

You twitch as he eases in, his warm tongue sliding slow and deliberate between your folds, lapping at your pussy with a lazy, filthy drag, savoring every slick drop that clings to you. You’re sweet on his tongue—warm, slick. Maybe it’s too soon to admit, but he already knows he could get addicted to this. Just the taste of you’s got his dick throbbing and hard and his mind all hazy.

You tip your head back into the couch cushion, legs falling wider as he keeps licking at your sloppy pussy like some dog, all messy and eager. He glances up at you, and the sight alone makes him whimper against your slick, swollen pussy. Your head tilted back, lips parted, and glossy, soft little moans spilling from your throat—each one sinking into his skin, making his cock ache.

“You can use your fingers too… if you’d like,” you murmur, intending it as advice, but it comes out more like a command—breathless, needy. He obeys without hesitation, sliding two thick fingers inside you, eager to make you feel good. The way you squeeze around him, warm and wet, makes his breath hitch. He watches, mesmerized, as he pumps them in and out, each withdrawal leaving them glistening with your slick.

“Fuck, ‘s good, you’re doing so good,” you moan, voice breathy and sweet, and Mark swears he could cum in his pants just from that alone. The way you praise him, all soft and desperate, makes his cock throb, aching for relief. He zeroes in on your clit, licking over it before grazing it lightly with his teeth, earning a sharp gasp from you. His thick, calloused fingers follow, circling the sensitive bud with slow, deliberate motions. You’re soaked—coated in his spit, in your own slick—and the weed coursing through your system makes every touch feel twice as intense, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.

It’s filthy—the way he’s practically making out with your pussy, sloppy and desperate, like he never wants you to leave his mouth. His tongue flicks and drags, lips sealing around your clit with wet, hungry sucks, and when your hips buck against him, grinding down for more, he just moans into you. His jaw and nose are drenched, slick dripping down his chin, but he doesn’t stop—if anything, he dives in deeper, like he wants to drown in you.

“Tastes so fuckin’ good,” he whines against you, voice muffled by the mess of your pussy. His fingers are still buried deep, pumping into you with a steady, obscene rhythm, while his other hand is stuffed between his legs, rubbing over the aching bulge in his pants. He’s desperate—humping into his own palm like he can’t help himself, like just eating you out is enough to get him off.

“Fuck—” His words are slurred, muffled by the slick between you. “Tastes like you were made for me.”

It’s messy, shameless—the way he devours you, like he never wants to come up for air. His jaw aches, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, just pulls you closer, as if he could disappear into you completely. You grind against his face, chasing the sharp coil tightening low in your belly, and he only urges you on, gripping your thighs, moaning as he lets you use him.

Your moans spill into the thick air, breath hitching as your back arches. “‘M—‘m cummin’,” you mewl, voice high, trembling. The pleasure crashes over you in waves, thighs shaking around his head as you unravel, coating his tongue with your release.

Mark doesn’t stop—not yet. He groans against you, drinking in every last drop, licking and sucking like he’s starved, like he wants to commit your taste to memory. His breath is heavy, uneven, and when he finally pulls back, his lips and chin glisten with you.

His own hand moves frantically, pumping his cock through his pants, desperate, chasing the high that’s been building since he first had you on his tongue. The sounds of your pleasure—the broken whimpers, the way you shake, the way you’ve completely let go for him—send him over the edge. With a sharp, shuddering groan, his hips jerk, and he spills hot and thick into his pants, moaning through it, chest rising and falling in time with yours.

For a moment, the only sound between you is your ragged breaths, the faint hum of satisfaction settling between you both.

That night proved two things: first, that weed clearly has no effect on Viltrumites; and second, that Mark, without a doubt, eats pussy like a starved man.

[slutla]

“A” 4 EFFORT !┊MARK GRAYSON

warnings: 18+. nsfw. mdni. nerd ! mark grayson, bimbo! bully! reader. boob job, blow job. marks a virgin. usage of puppy. spit. indecency in a storage room. whimpering. he cries. fem reader. college au. pet names, corny nick names but it’s used in a degrading way. praise. obvi ooc

summary: mark, smart and far too soft-hearted, made the mistake of doing one too many assignments for you. a bully in heels, you’ve taken a liking to him in the worst way possible. wc: 4.0k-ish

Mark is hiding—yes, literally hiding—curled up like some sad, oversized hermit crab shoved into the mildew-scented dark of the campus storage closet. Knees pulled to his chest, hoodie bunched over his head, the flickering overhead light doing nothing but throwing sad little shadows across his hunched spine. He’s tucked into himself like if he folds small enough, maybe you won’t find him. Maybe you’ll just assume he’s dead and move on.

He did your assignment again. Like always. Like clockwork. Like the stupid little pet you keep on a leash of guilt and half-smiles and flirty threats. But this time? He tanked it. On purpose. Slipped in the wrong citations, fudged the formatting, “forgot” a conclusion. Got you a solid C-minus. Barely scraped the bottom of passable. And now he’s sitting here marinating in dread, picturing your reaction—the dramatic sigh, the tilt of your head, the sharp, sweet twist of your mouth when you’re disappointed. Or worse, unamused.

He’d tried to convince himself it was a smart move. A soft rebellion. Maybe if you bomb once, you’ll stop throwing your workload into his lap like it’s part of his tuition. Maybe you’ll get the message without him having to look you in the eye and say no.

But now he’s here, heart doing that ugly fluttery thing like it’s trying to crawl up his throat, every footstep outside the door sounding like you in your usual stormcloud mood. Sharp clacking shoes. Soft voice. That sugary venom in your tone when you call his name like you own it. His phone buzzes. A small sound, pathetic even, but it might as well have been a gunshot for the way it ricochets through the cramped silence.

Mark jumps, a sharp, startled twitch of limbs against concrete and metal shelving, knocking into a box of dusty paper towels with a soft thud. His heart nearly claws its way out of his ribcage, frantic and feathered, wings beating uselessly against bone. With a hand that barely feels like his, fingers cold and trembling, he drags the phone out of his pocket. Screen cracked, brightness low. It lights up his face like an omen. One message. From you.

“I will find you.” That’s it. No smiley face, no punctuation. Just four words, typed clean and sharp like a promise. His blood turns into static. Because he knows you. Knows the games you play, the way you turn hide-and-seek into warfare. This isn’t a bluff. You will find him. You’ll crawl through every hallway, knock on every door, whisper his name down every corridor until he’s backed into a corner with no exit and no excuse. He swallows hard, breath caught halfway in his throat.

The knob fumbles. A weak, clumsy twist. Mark freezes, every nerve pulled taut like snapped violin strings and watches it turn in slow, gut-wrenching motion. And then you’re there. Grinning like you already won. Framed in the doorway like sin incarnate, all legs and ruined decency.

Your skirt’s a joke, barely there, riding high enough that he catches soft glimpses of plush skin, the smooth curve of your thighs glowing beneath the low hallway light. Your top’s slouched off one shoulder, bra strap peeking out. Lips glossy. Shameless. Entirely too much. Mark feels his soul leave his body. He should’ve picked somewhere with a lock. A church, maybe. A different continent.

“Well, well,” you laugh real pretty, like this is a game and you’ve already decided the ending. He wants to crawl into the mop bucket.

“Why do you look so scared, Marky?” Your voice is syrupy sweet, sticky with fake concern. A pout on your lips, mock-sincere, but your eyes give you away, glinting, bright, sharp like broken glass.

Mark flinches again, visibly, like the nickname itself has claws. He hates that name. You know he does. He’s told you, multiple times, in that tight, awkward voice like he’s trying not to snap. And still, there you go, dragging it out like gum on the sidewalk.

His skin prickles, goosebumps crawling up his arms like your words live beneath them. “I don’t bite,” you add, stepping forward, one slow click of heel against floor after another. But you do. You bite and chew and leave bruises just from talking, and he’s not sure what’s worse, the way your words twist around his spine or the way his traitorous heart jumps every time you say his name like it belongs to you. He doesn’t answer. Can’t. His mouth’s too dry.

He stands up. God knows where he finds the nerve, maybe somewhere between survival instinct and dumb luck but he pushes off the stack of old textbooks and stands on shaky legs, spine straightening like a man preparing for war.

Too late. You’re already on him. The door clicks shut behind you, soft but final, like the last nail in a coffin. You don’t even give him room to breathe, step right into him, cut off his air, your chest pressed flush against his. He feels everything. The soft weight of your tits against his ribs, the heat of your skin soaking through his hoodie, the sweet, toxic scent of your perfume curling into his lungs.

There’s nowhere to look. Nowhere to run. And God, he wishes he wasn’t so aware of the way his heart’s pounding like it’s trying to punch through his sternum.

“L-look…” His voice cracks halfway through, eyes darting to the dusty shelves, the light fixture, anywhere but you. “I’m really sorry… I didn’t do it on purpose.” A lie. Such a bad, obvious, choking lie. It clings to the back of his throat like smoke, bitter and foul. He can feel your smirk before he even sees it

Your face hovers just inches from his, the space between you nothing but shared breath and tension so thick it could choke. Your plum-glossed lips linger just over his, not quite touching like a threat, like a dare. You’re pretty. Pretty in a way that feels curated, intentional. Glossy and shallow like a magazine ad come to life. It makes his ears burn, dusted pink at the tips. He looks like he wants to disappear into the wall. You look like you’d pin him to it for fun.

“Awe, Marky, you’re being so mean to me, you know that, right?” Your voice dips low, not soft, not gentle, but lush and poisoned, the kind of sweetness that sticks in your teeth and leaves a burn going down.

You pout like you’re heartbroken, big eyes all shiny, lips pushed out in that perfect little curve, and jab a single manicured finger into his chest, firm and unforgiving. He doesn’t move. Can’t. It’s like you’ve nailed him to the floor, body locked up, breath hitched.

Your long nail presses into the fabric of his hoodie, right over the solid thrum of his heartbeat. He’s trembling under you, not visibly, not like a coward, but in that subtle way only you notice. The kind of tremble that starts in the hands and climbs up the neck. The kind that comes from being caught.

“I trusted you,” you add, voice dropping just a little more, breathy and laced with mock hurt. “And you went ‘n sabotaged me? After I've been soo nice to you?”

He gulps. Loud and shaky, Adam’s apple bobbing like it’s trying to make a run for it. Poor thing.

“Sweet puppy’s grown a backbone now, has he?” you coo, tilting your head, voice dipped in amusement that’s just short of cruel. You don’t pull away. Of course you don’t, instead, that impossible closeness tightening like a noose.

His shoulders hit the shelf behind him with a soft thud. He can’t back away any further. Your chest presses against his, soft curves molded against hard muscle, and you feel it—feel everything. The way his breath stutters. The way his hands twitch at his sides like he’s trying not to grab you.

And lower, the real betrayal. He’s half-hard, thick and aching, tenting his pants like a loaded secret he can’t tuck away. You smile, slow and lazy, eyes flicking downward, then back to his face.

“Cute,” you murmur, almost fond. He wants the ground to swallow him whole.

You slide a hand down. Deliberate. Slow. Like you’ve got all the time in the world to ruin him. Fingers trail over the thick line in his pants, heat trapped beneath the fabric, swollen and straining—and you wrap your hand around it through the material, squeezing just enough to make him suck in a breath. His hips twitch. His jaw clenches.

He’s trembling now, a little, but it’s there. A ripple under your palm. You look him right in the eyes, eyes wide and glinting with something unholy. Your thumb strokes once. Soft. Cruel.

“Did me callin’ you a puppy make you hard?” Your voice is low, a velvet drawl, wrapped around mockery like it’s a love song.

“You’re, uhh… too close…” He whispers it. Barely. Like maybe if he says it soft enough, the words won’t count. His whole body is stiff, locked up, trying not to think about your hand wrapped firm around his bulge, the heat of your palm, the way your thumb had moved.

But it’s impossible. You’re too close. Too close. You’re all over him, heat and scent and lips a breath away, voice curling into his ear like silk and fire. And his brain? It’s white noise. He swallows hard, again, like maybe that’ll push the shame back down. Like maybe it’ll kill the way his dick pulses helplessly under your grip. But it doesn’t. Nothing helps.

You can feel it too, the way his body betrays him, twitching under your hand like he’s trying so hard to behave, to not give in. It’s adorable, You think.

You half-smile, head tilted, lip gloss catching the light like temptation bottled up. “Let’s make a deal,” you hum, voice flat and casual, like you’re discussing lunch plans, not unhinged propositions. “I’ll suck your dick, and you do my work properly.”

He chokes. Not metaphorically, he literally chokes, breath catching mid-gasp like his lungs betrayed him. His face flushes immediately, that soft, pale pink crawling up his neck to the tips of his ears.

“W-what… what do you—” His voice breaks, small and high and strangled, as if saying it out loud would summon lightning. You roll your eyes so hard it’s almost theatrical, exasperation oozing off you like perfume. “What’re you actin’ dumb for?” you snap, grip tightening just a little around his cock, enough to make his hips twitch again.

“You’re already hard.” Your words hit him square in the gut, shame blooming behind his eyes, his mouth working silently like he wants to say something, protest, maybe—but all he manages is a sound. A low, broken exhale that sounds suspiciously like surrender.

He’s not pulling away. And he’s not saying no. You notice. And he’s cute, you think so now. In a nerdy, helpless, needy kinda way. The flushed ears. The twitchy hands. The stutter in his voice like he’s not used to being handled. It’s charming. Pathetic. A little funny.

So really, it’s a win-win. He gets to feel the touch of a woman—maybe for the first time, if you had to guess, and you get guaranteed grades for life. Straight A’s and a warm mouthful of praise every time you strut past your professors. Everyone’s happy.

You lean in, your nose brushing his, lips brushing the shell of his ear now, soft enough to be dangerous. “You gonna be good for me, Marky?” you whisper, voice sticky and slow.

“I’m a real good fuck, actually,” you say, so breezy, so matter-of-fact it’s almost cruel. Your smile’s all teeth and glittering pride as your knees bend, thighs spreading just a touch as they kiss the cold linoleum floor. He looks down at you, eyes blown wide and lips parted like he’s watching a dream and a nightmare crawl into his lap at the same time. You tilt your head, all smug satisfaction and sweet venom.

“You got lucky,” you hum, palms sliding up the inside of his thighs now, thumbs hooking the waistband of his pants like a promise. And he knows it. Knows he’s in over his head. Knows you’ve got him right where you want him.

You make a show of it. Fingers slow and precise, unbuttoning him like you’re unwrapping a present you already know you’ll like. The zipper drags down with a lazy hum, and his breath stutters. He clenches the fabric of his hoodie like it might anchor him.

You tug his pants down just far enough, and then the boxers. He twitches when the cold air hits him, body jerking like he wasn’t ready, like he should’ve been, but wasn’t. And yeah. He’s big. Your lashes flutter. A slow, lazy grin curls on your lips like sin itself is stretching out to get comfortable. It’s better than you expected—thick, flushed dark, heavy where it hangs, and already leaking like his body’s ahead of his brain. Small pearls of pre ooze from his slit, leaving a slimy trail all the way down to his heavy balls and a light dusting of hair.

You glance up, just to watch his expression twist, poor boy, caught somewhere between pride and terror. His mouth parts like he might say something, but nothing comes. You look back down and press a soft kiss to the tip, soft and sweet. The mess sticks to your gloss, shines faintly when you pull back just an inch.

He whispers something—barely, like even his voice is too embarrassed to say it out loud. But your hand’s already moving, slow and deliberate, working him up with lazy strokes that make his legs twitch. You tilt your head, smile playing soft on your lips like you don’t know he’s on the verge of breaking.

“What’dya want, baby?” You purr it, like honey slipping off your tongue, like he has any real say in the matter. A mercy, letting him speak at all. He stutters, Red all the way down his neck now, lip caught between his teeth as his voice cracks.

“Y-your tits…” A breathless pause. “Wanna… feel them.” His hands hover, fingers twitching mid-air like he’s too scared to ask properly, like he’s afraid you’ll laugh.

You blink once, then laugh anyway—not mocking, more amused, indulgent. You lean forward just enough for your chest to brush against him, soft and warm through the thin fabric of your top.

“You wanna feel these?” Your voice drips slow, the words curling at the edges, soft like something wicked in silk. He nods before you’ve even finished the sentence—frantic, desperate, practically drooling like a mutt starved for affection. It’s pathetic. It’s adorable. It’s everything.

You bat your lashes, long and thick, gaze dipped half-lidded as your fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt. You tug it up slow, just to watch the hunger flicker in his eyes, then reach behind your back, a quick flick, and the bra slips off like it was never really meant to stay on.

They bounce free, soft and full, skin warm and glowing under the harsh closet light, and his breath catches so sharp you swear he might choke on it. You cup them lightly, just enough to make them spill between your fingers, teasing him without saying a word. Then, voice dropping lower, sweeter, with a tenderness that makes it sting:

“You wanna feel ’em with your dick… or your hands, puppy?” You watch his brain short-circuit, like he doesn’t know what’ll kill him faster. He doesn’t answer —can’t. His mouth opens like he wants to speak, but no sound comes out. Just a shaky breath and a helpless look, red-faced and wide-eyed, every ounce of his nerve short-circuiting all at once.

So you make the choice for him. You lean in, slow and deliberate, gaze fixed on his like you’re daring him to look away. One hand slips between your tits, the other trailing down with intention, You press your breasts together again, as his leaky ‘n throbbing cock slides in between them.

His knees nearly buckle. His breath comes in short, desperate little bursts, hands twitching at his sides like he doesn’t know where to touch, if he even can.

You tilt your head. “Feels good, huh?” Voice velvet-soft now, syrupy and slow. “Bet you’ve never had anything close to this.” And he hasn’t, And he knows it. Your slick, glistening breasts slide along his throbbing cock, coated in his warm precum. As you glide them up and down, your tongue flicks deliberately at his sensitive tip, teasing with slow, hungry licks. Mark’s body trembles, his muscles clenching with every shuddering breath. He ruts eagerly against your soft, yielding tits, like a dog in heat lost in the overwhelming pleasure. Nothing he’s ever fucked—his hand, a pillow, a toy—comes close to the wet, enveloping warmth of your breasts and mouth.

Your tongue swirls and laps at his pulsing cock, wet slurps and soft gags echoing through the room, mingling with the rhythmic slap of his balls against your slick, heaving tits. Mark’s groans are deep, guttural, his chest rumbling as you gently squeeze his balls, sending a jolt through his trembling frame. “You’re pretty big,” you coo, voice dripping with praise, “such a shame it’s attached to a dork who doesn’t even know how to use it.”

Mark lets out a desperate whine as you guide his throbbing shaft into the tight, wet warmth of your throat, deepthroating the length not already enveloped by the soft, plush fat of your tits. His cock throbs with every bob of your head, slick and warm in your throat. Mark’s in bliss, thinking if he died now, he’d go out happy, his dick devoured by such a pretty girl. Your soft pants, warm puffs of air teasing his sensitive tip, push him closer to the edge. His balls tighten, hips jerking as he feels the surge building, ready to unleash his pent-up load across your face and dripping tits.

“Hah—‘m gonna cum,” Mark chokes out, voice shattered, breathless, like he’s unraveling at the seams, pleasure swallowing him whole. You hum, low and smug, a wicked edge to it, and double down. Your head bobs faster, throat clenching around his pulsing cock, gurgling slurps and wet gags filling the air—loud, obscene, a filthy symphony just for him. Your tits, slick with spit and precum, squeeze his shaft tight, a perfect, plush vise. His dick’s buried in heaven, warm, wet, yours to ruin.

His legs quake, thighs trembling like they might give out. Head thrown back, it thumps against the wall, his only anchor as he falls apart. You catch the way his fingers claw at nothing, fists white-knuckled, and that pathetic, broken whimper slipping from his lips? It’s fucking music. His balls tighten, hips jerking erratic, desperate. He’s a mess, sweat-slick, eyes glassy, whimpering like he’s never been touched before.

“Poor Marky,” you say with a pop, voice dripping with mockery, using your hand to finish him off. “Thought you could handle me. Big cock, no clue how to use it.” Your pace doesn’t falter, lips slick, hand relentless, tits bouncing with every move. “Gonna blow already? Such a shame.”

And with that little remark, that teasing curl of your lips, that tone too smug to be anything but wicked, he falls apart. All messy ‘n sloppy, big fat load creating a warm and wet mess all over your breasts and dirtying your pretty face. A few stray droplets kiss your cheek, cling to your lashes. You blink slow, licking your lips like it’s nothing. Like this happens all the time.

You blink slow, all lazy-lidded and smug, the corners of your mouth twitching like you’re holding back more laughter—the kind that would make him shrink even further if he had anywhere left to run. But he doesn’t. He’s stuck there, looking absolutely devastated by his own body, like his soul left him mid-spill and hasn’t come back yet.

“Tears?” you croon, voice dipped in honey and mockery. “You cryin’ over this? Oh, baby.”

You reach up and swipe your thumb across the corner of his eye, not gently. It’s teasing, purposeful, like you want to see if the contact will shatter him completely. And it nearly does. His breath hitches and his eyes flutter closed like even that’s too much. His lashes are damp. His cheeks hot. He’s blushing so hard it looks painful. Shame clinging to him like a second skin.

“Don’t tell me that was your first time gettin’ off with someone watchin’,” you murmur, tilting your head, lips twitching again. “God, that’s actually so cute. I could eat you alive.”

And he doesn’t answer—just stands there, stiff and red and broken open in the prettiest way. You lean in close, your voice a whisper now. “Bet you’ll do anything I ask now, won’t you?”

He nods, slow and small like he’s ashamed of it — like even that’s a surrender too humiliating to admit out loud. But it’s there. Clear as day. He’s yours now. All soft eyes and trembling hands and a brain melted to mush. You smile, bright and sweet like you didn’t just break him down into dust.

Your fingers trace lazy circles on his bicep—featherlight, affectionate, like you’re rewarding a pet after a trick well done. And your tone? Cheerful. Too cheerful. Like you’ve moved on already.

“Great!” you chirp, lips popping on the G. “You can resubmit that assignment for me.” He stares, chest still rising and falling like he ran a marathon, lips parted like he wants to protest—like he’s got dignity left in some corner of his soul. But he doesn’t speak. Just swallows hard and looks away.

“Don’t look so gloomy, Marky,” you purr, already turning to adjust your skirt, unfazed. “You came, I smiled, we both got something outta it. Now go on. I want that A.”

You wink over your shoulder. He’s still standing there, stunned, pants around his thighs, wondering how the hell he ended up in this situation when he was trying to get out of it the first time.

[arieswritez]

writing chap 5 of puppy love but i can't stop thinking about how good of a listener mr. alt!mark grayson is!!

he's so sweet and comforting. he doesn't chime in or interrupt because he's actually listening to understand, not to respond.

he clings onto your every word, eye contact and all, and the attention makes you jittery. it makes your heart warm and your stomach does summersaults whenever his eyes stray down to your lips just to watch them move.

he's an amazing listener.

at least that's what he wants you to believe.

in reality, mark is waiting until you've dropped something juicy. something dark and defining. something that's molded you into the person you are today. for better or for worse.

you almost say it.

an off-handed comment. something that's not you. a sentence tinged with self-loathing, invisible to anyone who isn't watching closely.

but mark is.

he can spot it in the way your lower lip wobbles. in the way your eyes glaze over, that far off look, the gleam of your tears before you look away and awkwardly change the topic in an attempt to regain your composure.

the closer the two of you get, the more comfortable you become. mark shows up at your front door with a box of liquor and a triumphant smile, disarming you just enough to get you loose and talkative.

he lets you spill your guts, your drunken/tipsy slurring makes his heart race.

and finally, he catches something useful, something that makes his eyes light up.

you aren't sure if it's concern or pity.

it's none of those.

it's triumph.

because now he has something he can hang over your head and use against you in an argument. or whenever you find out who he really is and why you should keep him far, far away from you.

he'll use your trauma to keep you there with him.

you're damaged goods.

you think anyone will love you?

you have no one else but me.

but for now, he's just putting it in his back pocket for the perfect moment 🫶🏾🫶🏾

[ntennd0nt]

whats it called when i wanna get my face licked by a pretty boy…

[no-droids]

Mercy, Sabotage, and Dead Space

(gif credit to @redwyyne-archive)

Part One of The Bet series

Pairing: Poe Dameron/Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 12.7K

Summary:

1. No sex.

2. No touching yourself.

3. No orgasms.

Warnings/Tags: DUBCON/NONCON elements, fuckboy Poe (OOC), Enemies to Lovers, degradation/humiliation, mentions of oral sex, SMUUUTTTTTTTT also I’m not sorry for what I did but you’re not allowed to read if you’re gonna get mad at me okay byeeee

***

This.

This shit, right here.

If the question was ever, “What’s the stupidest fucking thing you’ve ever let Poe Dameron somehow talk you into doing?” then the answer is this stupid shit, right the fuck here.  This is like.  You remember that one game, Mercy?  The one where you’d dig your nails in and twist arms and just needlessly inflict pain on each other as children until one of you cried uncle because someone somewhere once decided to turn torture into a matter of pride?

You always thought those games were fucking ridiculous.  Who can hold their breath the longest, who can handle a lit deathstick against their flesh the longest, who can take the hardest punch—who cares?  It’s child’s play.  It’s self-inflicted agony for the sake of bragging rights and even as a youngling, you refused to fall for it.

But then you met… fucking Dameron.

Keep reading

[no-droids]

Rumors, Freebies, and a Race for Last Place

Part Two of The Bet series

Pairing: Poe Dameron/Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 22.5K DONT say shit alright just don’t

Warnings: Okay. There is degradation in this, some name calling and heated interactions. There is a LOT of smut, dirty talk and rough sex. If these things offend you, please do not continue reading.

***

It’s recommended to read part one first.

***

Getting into the x-wings is always fun.

It actually might be your favorite part.  Granted, alarm bells ringing and thousands of jumpsuits scrambling in all directions is never typically a good thing, but there’s also an inherent rush about it, a thrill in launching up the metal paneling as quick as you can and suiting up to provide aid.  It’s a side-effect of camaraderie, of being surrounded by like-minded individuals willing to do everything they can to help.  You never feel like you’re going to your death, even though that’s often the grim reality for at least one of you on a good day.  There’s always a roaring in your ears while you do it, adrenaline sharpening your senses and preparing yourself for conflict, not thinking anything beyond gogogogogo—

But getting out of the x-wing is… not great.  At least for you.  It’s sluggish.  Your body is always completely drained and you never come out of it feeling the same way you went in.  Even in times of victory, there’s a somberness inside you after battle.  As much as you tell yourself you’re fighting for good, for prosperity against an evil machine hellbent on enslaving the galaxy, there’s only so many explosions lighting up in front of your eyes and screams cutting out through your comms you can take before winning just doesn’t really feel like winning anymore.  Most pilots are able to handle it better than you are, but since you joined the Resistance, you’ve never truly felt the desire to celebrate.  Not even when you serve a massive, glaring defeat to the other side.  There’ll always be at least one missing x-wing, one empty seat at the table, one person not here to celebrate with you.

You came back in one piece this time.  Barely.

Keep reading

[toruuholic]

18+ hubby can’t get the job done ? don’t worry, your very fertile ex!toji will take care of you !

゛⸝⸝ ⋆ req ; cheating

you’re sprawled on the couch in the living room of the too-big house your husband bought last year, legs kicked up on the coffee table, staring at the ceiling like it holds the solution to your problem.

the pregnancy test from this morning is still sitting on the bathroom counter— negative, again—and the doctor’s words keep looping in your head. “low motility. we’ve tried everything.” your husband had patted your hand like it was a business deal that just fell through, then kissed your forehead and jetted off to tokyo for a week-long conference.

“we’ll figure it out when i get back, honey.”

figure it out. right.

at least you wait until the third day of his absence to scroll through your contacts until you find the name you swore you’d never text again. toji fushiguro. the little green activity dot next to it mocks you.

he’s probably in some dive bar right now, betting his last paycheck on a horse race or charming some poor waitress out of her tips.

but the man is annoyingly, stupidly fertile. you know that firsthand from the two years you spent with him before you wised up and married someone “stable.” he had two children, that you knew of, though he didn’t seem to have any interest in them despite their mothers demanding child support at his door every month.

your thumb hovers. then you type.

you laugh out loud in the empty house, a sharp, ridiculous sound. of course he’d say that. of course you’re already throbbing just reading it.

twenty minutes later the front door creaks open. toji steps in like he still owns the place—black compression shirt stretched across that ridiculous chest, gray sweatpants doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he’s already half-hard just from the idea. his scar tugs at the corner of his mouth when he spots you on the couch, legs crossed, trying to look casual and failing.

“missed me?” he drawls, kicking the door shut behind him.

“like i’d miss a root canal,” you shoot back, but you’re already standing, already walking straight into his space like muscle memory never forgot.

he stops you by the waist, big hands warm and calloused, and hauls you up against him. “liar. you’re practically dripping on my shoes.” his nose brushes your temple, making a show of inhaling your scent. “smells like sweet sweet desperation.”

you shove at his chest, but there’s no real force behind it. “shut up before i change my mind, fushiguro.”

thankfully, he does shut up, occupying his mouth with yours instead. it’s far from soft, just as you remember. messy, greedy, tongue sliding against yours like he’s trying to remind you exactly who taught you how to kiss like this. you fist the front of his shirt and yank yourself closer, and he laughs into your mouth, low and smug.

“still bossy,” he mutters, walking you backward until your ass hits the kitchen island. “husband know you get this hot n’ bothered for your ex?”

“don’t talk about him right now,” you warn, even as he’s setting you on the counter and spreading your thighs so he can step between them.

toji’s grin is all teeth. “why? afraid it’ll make you wetter?” his hand slides up your thigh, under the oversized tee—your husband’s, you realise belatedly—and he groans when he finds you bare.

“don’t flatter yourself too much,” you say, voice already breathy. “you just happen to have the best swimmers i could think of.”

he sinks two thick fingers into you without warning, curling them just right, and your head falls back with a gasp. “brat,” he chuckles, thumb circling your clit like he’s got all night. “still so fucking tight. how’s the suit-and-tie not knocking you up? guy must be shooting blanks and water.”

you rock against his hand, chasing the stretch. “he’s not you.”

“damn right he’s not.” he leans in, mouth on your neck, sucking a mark you’ll have to hide later. “i’m gonna fill you up till you’re leaking me for days. you want that? want me to put a baby in you while your husband’s out playing big shot?”

“yes,” you hiss, nails digging into his shoulders. “shut up and do it already.”

“patience is a virtue, dollface.”

that shit-eating grin stays on his face the whole time he keeps his meaty fingers plunging in and out of you. the way he does it feels like he never forgot how to make you fall apart for him, fingers crooked just right. when he knows you’re close, his thumb presses down on your nub firmly, teeth sinking into your neck, and it’s enough to get your to fall apart on the spot.

he keeps his fingers working you through the aftershocks, not pulling them free until you were shoving him away.

“gonna fuck you in your bed,” he says after a minute, voice rough. “then the shower. then maybe the couch if you’re still walking straight. hm, then maybe that nice car you got outside too.”

you smack his shoulder, biting back a smile. “you’re ridiculous.”

“yeah, but you called me.” he nips your bottom lip. “admit it. you missed this.”

you sigh, boneless and warm and begrudgingly happy in the worst way. “nope. not at all.”

he smirks, scoops you off the counter like you weigh nothing, and starts carrying you toward the bedroom with the help of your lazy gesturing. “liar. you missed me wrecking you like this. maybe i should’ve done this years ago.”

you wrap your arms around his neck and hide your grin in his shoulder. “just shut up and keep fucking me, fushiguro. we’ve got five more days before my husband gets back.”

you’re still catching your breath when he tosses you onto the bed like you weigh nothing. the mattress dips under his weight as he crawls over you, that stupidly smug grin stretching across his face, scar pulling tight at the corner of his mouth.

“five days?” he echoes, voice low and rough like gravel, cock pressing against your thigh insistently. “baby, i’m gonna have you pregnant by morning light.”

he leans down to kiss you one more time before sitting up again, yanks your shirt and then his off one-handed, and you get the full view—scars, abs, that frustratingly perfect v-line disappearing into gray sweats. your mouth practically waters at the sight. he shoves the sweats down just enough to free his cock. it stands tall and thick, curved . god, you missed this.

he strokes himself slowly, eyes locked on your face before flickering down to your spread thighs. “still the prettiest pussy i’ve ever seen. spread wider f’me, baby. let me see where i’m putting my kid.”

you do, shameless, heels resting on the edge of the mattress. humming appreciatively, he lines up and pushes in slow, one long stroke that has you both groaning. the stretch burns so good you forget how to breathe for a second.

“shiiit, still fits like you were made for me,” he grits out, forehead against yours. “missed this tight little cunt, the way you squeeze me when you’re trying not to moan my name.”

you whimper, shaky and breathless, and roll your hips. “move, asshole.”

the first thrust punches the air out of you, but it soon slows into lazy rolls of his hips. every drag of his cock drags against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl.

he pants against your ear. “gonna pump you so deep you’ll be waddling by the time hubby gets home. you’ll tell him it’s his, right? little white lie while my kid grows in you.”

“shut up,” you moan, but you’re clenching around him at the words, thighs shaking.

he laughs, dark and delighted.

“you love it. love being my little breeding slut again.” he hooks your legs over his arms, folding you open wider, and the new angle has you seeing stars. “say it. say you want my baby.”

“i want your baby,” you gasp, nails raking down his back. “toji—fuck— please.”

“hah, that’s it,” toji mutters, grinding his hips in a slow circle. “your cunt’s already so sloppy, practically a swamp in 'ere. greedy little hole’s sucking me riiight back in.”

your back arches off the bed. “toji— shit—”

“yeah? you like hearing how nasty you are?” he pulls out almost all the way, just the fat head stretching your entrance. you feel him throb as he glances down at just how big he looks resting against your cunt, then slams back in hard enough to make the headboard smack the wall. “husband’s been trying for months and nothing, but one night with me and you’re already creaming around my dick like a bitch in heat. ain’t that right, honey?”

he sets a brutal rhythm again, hips snapping forward. every thrust forces little gushes slick and his pre out around his cock, dripping down your ass and soaking the sheets. you can feel it—hot and sticky—every time he drives deep.

“f-fuck!” you cry out and grab at his shoulders, nails digging in. “harder… don’t hold back.”

deciding to listen, he throws your knees over his shoulders, using them as leverage to push his weight onto you and practically bending you in two. the angle has his cock dragging right against that spongy spot inside you with every stroke, practically memorized. your eyes roll back.

“like this?” he growls, satisfied, pounding into you so hard the bed creaks. “want me to ruin this married pussy? willing to cheat on your boring husband just to get knocked up?”

“yes—fuck—yesyesyes!” you’re moaning loud enough that the neighbors might hear, but you don’t care. not when he’s splitting you open so perfectly.

leaning down, his mouth latches onto one of your tits, sucking hard enough to leave marks you’ll have a hard time explaining. his teeth graze your nipple and you keen, clenching around him. he pulls off with a wet pop, spit stringing from his lips to your skin.

“look at these pretty tits,” he says, voice muffled against your chest as he switches sides, giving the freed one a light slap of his hand. “they’ll get so fucking big n’ swollen when they’re full of milk. bet your husband won’t even know what to do with them. guess i’ll have to come by when he’s at work n’ suck ‘em dry, make sure they don’t get too full, hm?”

the image makes you tighten around him again. you reach between your bodies and rub your clit frantically before you can stop yourself, chasing another orgasm. but he notices and bats your hand away, replacing it with his own thick thumb.

“nuh-uh. that’s mine tonight. you just lay there and take this dick like the dirty slut you are.”

he rubs tight, mean circles on your clit while his cock keeps hammering into you. the pressure builds fast—too fast—and you cum with a broken cry, walls spasming and gushing around him. it doesnt slow him down though. if anything, he fucks you harder through it, chasing his own release.

“fuck yeah, squeeze me just like that.”

he buries himself to the hilt and releases once more with a low, guttural groan, hips stuttering as he pumps rope after rope of thick cum deep inside you. you can feel every pulse, every hot spurt painting your insides.

but he’s not done. not even close.

toji pulls out with a wet pop, and a flood of his cum leaks out of your stretched hole. he watches it with dark, hungry eyes, then scoops two fingers through the mess and shoves them back inside you.

“can’t waste any, this shit would cost you a fortune at any clinic,” he says, voice rough. he finger-fucks his own cum back into you, curling his fingers against your g-spot again until you’re twitching and whimpering. “gotta keep you plugged up. keep my seed where it belongs—right up against your cervix.”

you’re a mess by then, all sweaty, trembling, cum dripping everywhere—but the heat in your belly is already building again, which he notices with the way your hips start rolling against his hand. the quiet life of being married to a man that barely lasts ten minutes has really left you unsatiated, as far as toji can tell.

“still not satisfied?” he teases, pulling his fingers free only to land a heavy smack right on your swollen clit, making you jolt. “greedy slut, he must be really boring. fine. get on your hands and knees. ass up.”

it takes a moment before you can move, limbs shaky and voice coming out as a whimper, and present yourself to him like an offering. he groans at the sight. your folds puffy and gaping already, his cum still leaking out in thick white globs.

“yeah, that’s pretty.” he spreads your ass cheeks with both hands, thumbs pulling your hole open so he can watch more of his load drip out. then he leans in and spits right on your asshole.

“wait—” you start, but he’s already circling your tight hole with a cum-slicked thumb.

“relax. i’m not fucking your ass, i know you don’t like that shit too much.” he pushes it in anyway, just until the first knuckle, slow and teasing, mostly for you to feel that tingling stretch while his cock nudges back into your dripping pussy. “just playing with both holes, the way you’ve always liked. want you stuffed everywhere.”

you whimper, pushing back against him. the double sensation is filthy and overwhelming and so fucking good all at once. his thumb works shallow little circles inside your ass while his thick length drags in and out of your sopping cunt, pushing his earlier load deeper with every thrust.

“o-oh—” your voice cracks. “you’re disgusting.”

“take a look around and down at that nice big rock on your finger, baby. you’re really not much better.” he spits again, letting it drip down to where his thumb is stretching you. “feel that? both your holes getting used like the needy girl you are. husband ever play with your ass like this? bet he doesn’t. bet he fucks you missionary with the lights off, maybe a candle or two lit, and calls it making love.”

you moan louder, rocking back to take him deeper. somewhere deep inside you, deeper than where he’s pushing into at least, you do hate yourself for doing this. and even more so for knowing how right he is, how much you’re enjoying it. but now all you can do is lay there and take it, whining and twisting your fingers into the pristine white sheets as he hits that spot inside you over and over, so fucking deep you know he’s luging through your tummy with every thrust, stretching you in a way your stable and kinda husband never managed to.

he chuckles, low and mean, and starts pounding into you again. the wet, obscene sounds fill the room—skin slapping and your desperate little whimpers mixing with his grunts somewhere in between. his thumb pushes deeper, matching the rhythm of his cock, and the fullness makes your thighs tremble.

when his heavy forearm pushes on the small of your back to make you arch deeper, you bury your face in the pillow to muffle your screams, but he soon yanks a handful of your hair, pulling your head back.

“don’t hide that pretty voice. i wanna hear you beg for my cum.”

“please,” you gasp, pushing back to meet his thrusts. “fill me again—please, want it so bad! want your baby so fucking bad—”

his grip on your hips tightens, fingers digging in hard enough to leave little crescent indents as his pace turns fast and bruising, heavy balls slapping against your clit with every stroke. for a moment you think he’s got superhuman stamina.

“hm, what’s that? you close again?” he reaches around and pinches your clit, rolling it between his fingers. “god, you’ve always been so easy f’me. go on, you know what to do.”

you spasm and finish hard, vision spotting as your cunt clamps down on him like it’s trying to suck the life straight out of his tip. he curses and follows a few moments after, flooding you with another thick load as he drops his forehead between your shoulder blades. this time when he pulls out, he doesn’t let you close your legs. he pushes your face down into the mattress and keeps your ass tilted up high, on display for his greedy eyes, pupils blown wide.

“beautiful,” he says, almost sounding a little emotional at the sight of his release oozing out. he uses his cock to smear the leaking cum all over your pussy and ass, then slaps his heavy dick against your hole a few times just to tease. “so fucking nasty. wonder what he’ll think when he finds out his wife’s such a slut.”

you’re panting, boneless, but you still manage to shoot him a shaky grin over your shoulder. “big talk for a deadbeat who’s only good for one thing.”

toji pulls away and finally collapses beside you, deciding to take a brief intermission and pulling you against his chest. his hand rests possessively over your lower stomach, rubbing slow circles like he’s already imagining it swelling.

“think it worked?” he murmurs against your hair, voice sleepy but still smug.

you snort, too exhausted to push away from him. “if it didn’t, you’re staying another week, fushiguro.”

he laughs, low and warm, and presses a surprisingly soft kiss to your temple. “deal. now get some sleep, need to be rested well for round… what number are we on now?”

you don’t answer. you just smile against his skin and let yourself drift off, feeling his cum still leaking out of you, his heartbeat steady under your cheek, and the ridiculous, undeniable electricity crackling between you like it never left.

five days.

plenty of time to make sure it sticks.

PSA — do NOT do this, also do NOT expect men to be finishing at the same time this many times consecutively it’s very unlikely

why am i getting so many breeding requests does everyone have a breeding/impregnation kink now 😭🙏 anyways wow they be fucking like bunnies

kinda struggled with this one tbh so i resorted to the basic front to back sloppy seconds action and apologies for any mistakes i kinda wrote this in one sitting so pls enjoy

[queen-of-gotham]

Anything

(Ex-Bf!Rex Sloan & Mark Grayson x F!reader)

🖤💖26/31 for Kinktober💖🖤

Word Count: 1,800

Debrief: Rex cheated on you… again. You want him to understand the pain.

Warnings: SMUT, MDNI - 18+, cuckoldry, cnc with Rex, p in v with mark

You let him in because you already know he’ll come. You both know the ritual: a text, a desperate arrival, the same apology tangled in the same tired voice. Tonight the hallway smells like rain and something faintly of his cologne; an afterthought he thinks will soften the edges of hurt. It’s worked on you before, after all.

Rex on your doorstep looks smaller than he ever used to. Maybe that’s on you; maybe he’s always been that size and you just never saw it. He drops the excuses that you could already recite before he crosses the threshold, scattering them like confetti that you don’t bother catching anymore.

“I’d do anything,” he says before his feet have quite decided where to stand. The words are raw with a kind of pleading that used to make you soft and compliant. Tonight they do nothing. You watch his hands; the little tremor when he thinks you’ll take him back— and you remember every night you sat on the wrong side of the bed mending him… yet you stay broken. Because two weeks ago he cheated. Again.

“Anything?” you echo. You don’t move from the kitchen island. The light pools across the floorboards, warm and unbothered, just like your resolve. You’re calm, and that calm is the one thing Rex adored about you. Even if it was nerve wracking now.

Rex swallows, “Anything, babe, I’ll— God, I’ll—” He flashes between sincerity and scriptedness, the way a man who’s been given too many opportunities too often, learns how to pray when he doesn’t deserve another.

Before he can invent another promise, the doorbell rings. You watch his face shift—curiosity, annoyance, then a thin, but surprised look as you answer it.

Mark stands there with a small bouquet you didn’t ask for and the exact kind of quiet that perks Rex’s attention. He’s the opposite of Rex in ways Rex hates but can’t name: steady, careful, unshowy. He steps inside like he’s been invited to a private joke only you and Mark understand.

“Hey,” Mark says, and his voice is soft in the way that does not demand attention but does command respect. He looks at you first, like checking the weather; then he looks at Rex, eyes steady and appraising in a way that reads the room and refuses to participate in chaos.

Rex attempts a smile that collapses under Mark’s silence. You motion for Mark to sit across from you, thanking him for the flowers. Leaving the two of them in your living room for a moment to put the bouquet up.

You don’t explain to Rex what’s going on. Mark sits. He folds his hands, and the ordinary, small movement feels like a lesson in how to be composed.

When you come back, You set the rules without drama, “You wanted to do anything,” you say, looking at Rex. “So I’m taking you at your word. There’s no shouting, no begging. You’ll Just watch.”

Rex’s jaw works, his eyes narrowing as he looks between you and the guy he considers a friend, “What— what is this?”

“You said you’d do anything to get me back,” you say, your voice a bit cold, forced as you look at him, “I want you to know how it felt to know you’ve been out sleeping with whoever.”

Mark’s smile is almost apologetic— gentle, a little amused. He reaches for your hand and squeezes it once, reverently, like he’s affirming a fact, not stealing anything. You’re all friends, but you know how to push Rex’s buttons.

Rex’s breath hitches, “You can’t— this is humiliating.”

“Just like it was humiliating to me to find out you slept with someone else behind my back… again?” you ask simply before adding, “You made this bed.”

Mark starts talking to you in that low, deliberate way that makes conversation feel like shelter. He remembers small things: the way you liked coffee with two sugars and how you always tucked your hair behind your left ear when you were nervous. He praises the way you handled the meeting you had last week, the quiet steadiness with which you make decisions with the team and with other heroes. The praise is intimate because it is precise, polar opposite to Rex.

“You’re brilliant,” Mark says, and he doesn’t flirt. He names qualities, and every syllable is a clean mirror to you at your soul, “You don’t need saving. You’re patient and fierce in equal measure and you forgive more than anyone should…” before he gives a pointed look to Rex, who shifts under Mark’s gaze and rolls his eyes.

His praise lands on you like sunlight— gentle, warm. Mark wasn’t saying these things in a tone that sounds like love, because that’s not what this is. It’s not about swapping one man for another in your book either. It’s about demonstrating what it looks like when someone sees you fully. You needed to make a point to your ex boyfriend.

Rex flinches at each detail. At Mark’s mention of the way you hold your coffee cup, at his recall of your nervous habit. You can see the old arrogance that Rex uses as armor, crack because he recognizes what Mark’s offering: attention without manipulation. It’s attention he can’t buy with apologies.

“You hear that?” you ask, and your voice is careful, almost clinical, “Do you hear how cares?”

Rex’s hands ball into fists at his sides, “I never meant—”

“You never meant to hurt me, sure,” you cut in, knowing the same, tired, old lines he uses, “That’s what was so convenient. Your intentions were tidy; the consequences weren’t. You meant to have your cake, and that I’d clean the crumbs. That was the plan.”

Mark’s hand tightens on yours— not to possess, but to anchor. He meets Rex’s eye and, for the first time since he walked in, says something that’s not a balm, part provocation and truth, as he gently tugs you over to his lap, which you go, purposefully and intentionally.

“You made her choose forgiveness over herself too many times,” Mark says, his large hands settling on your hips, “That not nobility, Rex. It’s you doing damage control.”

It’s the kind of sentence that leaves the room reverberating. Rex looks like he’s been struck in the chest, watching the way you so comfortably settle into the Viltrumites lap.

“And what the hell would you call this, huh!?” Rex snaps back and the way you look over your shoulder at him has Rex shrinking once more.

“Payback.” You say firmly, “and if you want any chance of me taking you back, you’ll sit there and watch.”

And before he can argue, your lips are on Mark’s, hips rocking in his lap, either from your doing or Mark guiding you, Rex really can’t tell.

His face is hot, some weird mixture of pain, jealousy, and lust swirled together in his chest. Rex’s eyes stare at the rock of your hips, the way your ass is grinding in Mark’s lap makes him shift on the opposing couch, adjusting his cock in his pants casually.

Then he hears you moan, that sweet, needy sound Rex is used to making you make. Only now it’s Mark, one of his strong hands gripping into the fat of your ass through those shorts you’re wearing.

Rex watches, helpless, part of him wanting to intervene as he watches your pretty acrylics drag down marks chest, listening to the soft way you sigh when Marks lips start dragging across your jawline and down your neck.

He shouldn’t be getting hard from this, from watching his girl being touched by his friend, but he can feel his cock starting to strain against his pants, especially when Mark curses when he pulls your shirt off.

Rex can’t blame him, he knows just how hot you are, and he swallows when your gaze lands on his. You’re checking his reactions, and weird enough, Rex doesn’t want to let you win. He’ll do what he has to get you back, but he knows you’ll back down before this goes too far with Mark.

At least that’s what he thought. Silly him.

Because Mark’s got you fully undressed now, laid back on the couch, dragging his huge cock through your soaked folds, watching you gasp at the feeling.

Mark had already gotten you off on his tongue and his fingers a few times, making sure he could comfortably fuck three of them into you before even attempting that monster he calls a cock. The sight of it alone was making Rex feel very inferior.

Rex, while confused about how turned on he was watching this whole situation, trembled in his seat, deciding he couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t take the way you praised him, and moaned Mark’s name, “alright, babe. That’s enough. I get it okay?”

His voice pulls you out of the daze, your pupils blown and cheeks completely flushed as your head lulls his direction, unamused at the interruption at first, until you catch the way tears are brimming in his pretty green eyes. He’s obviously crushed, and hurting, having to witness this in real time.

For a moment, Rex thinks he’s won but then you frown, not satisfied with his punishment yet, you lean up and press your lips to Mark’s again, whispering a soft “Fuck me”

The whimper Rex let out was just pathetic, shifting back against the couch again, as he watched the way your back arched off the couch, Mark’s cock gently splitting you open.

Hearing the way you moan at the way Mark’s cock fills you up has Rex shaking, his hand moving to palm himself through his pants, feeling heat coil in his stomach watching Mark ruin you with every thrust of his hips.

Your nails drag down marks bag, cock-drunk, completely lost at the feeling of marks length bullying your cervix, the sounds of sex filling the room. Your went cunt is squelching and marks moaning, rambling about how good you feel, talking it up a bit for the sole purpose of getting under Rex’s skin.

“Shit— you like that huh? Can tell by the— nngh— way that pretty pussy is squeezing me.”

Rex’s breathing is heavy, his heart racing like it’s him the one fucking you, he doesn’t even notice the tears slip down his face as his hand slides into his pants to fist himself at the same rhythm mark is fucking you at.

He doesn’t know how long he watches this hot-ass torture for, but right as Rex was on the cusp of cumming, Mark pulls out of you, spilling his hot load all over your stomach as you cum around nothing… and suddenly Rex’s hand and shirt are covered in his own release.

🪐Invincible Masterlist🪐 🦇Return To The Batcave🦇

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[crucifihx]

𝐑𝐄𝐃, 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐍, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄

&&&. perv!roommate!dick grayson

❪ W. COUNT! ❫ — 1.5k

❪ C. WARNINGS! ❫ — dick is a pervert! reader wears panties, solo, panty-stealing, musk / body scent k-nk, non-con filming, dick's set up a camera in reader's room, pantyfucking

❪ A. NOTE! ❫ — i've no excuse. i just like writing pervy grayson

this blog makes content for 20+ audiences only. please proceed with caution.

Dick really shouldn’t be doing this.

You’d just left your shared apartment for a night out with your friends after heading to the gym. Your dirty clothes are in the hamper, including the used pair of panties from earlier.

Well, he shouldn’t be creeping around in your bedroom in the first place but he just loves the way you smell. It’s not like he does it that often anyway. He doesn’t want to raise suspicion, that’s why he’s installed a tiny camera in the corner of your room facing your bed. He’d have the perfect view of everything.

The dark red pair is practically calling his name, lined with white lace trimmings along the waistband. It’s such an adorable piece actually. It has tiny little strawberries printed across the cotton, and he can’t help but wonder if you’ve worn this pair with him around before. His thoughts stray further down a darker path, wondering if you’ve ever touched yourself while wearing this pair of panties?

Unable to resist the temptation, he snatches your used panties from the hamper.

Your shared apartment is so quiet without you around. His sock-clad feet pad lightly on the floor as he closes the door to your room. He makes his way into his room, not even bothering to close his door fully when his cock is already half-hard.

He brings the gusset of your panties to his nose and inhales deeply.

There’s no other descriptor for the way you smell other than divine.

Dick picks up traces of your body wash amongst the tang of your natural musk. He takes another inhale, absolutely intoxicated with your scent like he’s taking a hit of weed.

“Fuck.” His voice is low and gravelly from disuse since he’s been in his room fixing up his Nightwing suit the whole day. He hadn’t spoken to anyone, you included, and part of him regrets not catching you before you left.

He settles down on his bed, back propped up against the headboard. He’s such an absolute loser for getting hard over sniffing his roommate’s dirty panties but honestly, he could care less.

He grabs his phone with his free hand and looks through his phone gallery. Just a couple of clicks and an entire folder full of videos appear. They all feature his favourite star: you. He has videos of you dancing in your bedroom in nothing but a pair of panties and a tight shirt, videos of you reading in bed while you lie down on your stomach, ass in perfect view for him, and his most carnal ones; videos of you touching yourself.

Dick has a few favourites. One of them is of you riding a four-inch dildo, but you’re facing away from the camera. It’s his usual go-to, but right now, he wants to see your face.

He finds a clip of you lying down on your back, legs spread apart while your hands tease your naked body. There are countless attempts where he’s tried to “accidentally” catch you when you’re in various states of undress, but he doesn’t want to come off as a complete creep to you.

Your name falls from his lips in a low groan when he hears you moan—the faintest ghost of a moan—in the video. You’ve always been loud. No matter how much you try to tamp down your volume, Dick knows exactly when you’re touching yourself at night. Sometimes it’s the reason why he’s the last to arrive at group patrols.

He imagines being the one to tease you instead of your hands. He watches you with rapt attention, picturing him with you instead. He’d start slow and tease you, learn of the different spots that’ll make you moan for him.

He lifts his hips and pushes his grey sweatpants and boxers just enough for his semi-hard erection to pop free. He wraps your panties around his cock, sandwiching the fabric between himself and his large hand. A soft sigh escapes him as he starts to stroke himself while his eyes remain glued to his phone screen.

Hearing your moans is so addictive to him. You sound so sweet and pliant and he just wonders what are the kinds of sounds you’ll make just for his ears. He pictures himself palming your chest, mouth wrapped around your nipples, teasing you until your hips are lifting off the mattress, begging for more.

How would you react if he nibbled gently around your pert buds, Dick wonders. He watches as you toy with your chest, his own fingers itching to replace yours. The grip he has on his phone tightens by a fraction as he starts to stroke himself a little faster, heat pooling in his gut.

His mind is already going down the path of lust, painting lewd photos of you bending over on the bed just for him while he buries his face into your soaked, panty-clad core. Fuck. He pictures you using his face and mouth for your own pleasure, whining and whimpering above him while you struggle to formulate sentences. He’d be so sweet for you, teasing you until you’re absolutely dripping before he shoves his tongue into your waiting hole.

It’s a different feeling altogether for you, he thinks, with the thin cotton wrapped around his tongue while he laps at your insides. A soft groan of your name escapes his lips as he tips his head back against the wall, phone discarded onto the pillow next to him. He’s pumped up the volume just enough to hear your moans echo in his ears. You wouldn’t be home for hours—he has the whole apartment to himself.

With his eyes fluttered shut, he pictures you, grinding yourself against his bare erection, throbbing and sensitive for you. He wants to feel your full weight on him, guide your hips to grind down on him until he’s shaking with barely-held restraint. He wants to flip you over and push your cheek into the pillow, slide your panties to the side and slide himself into you.

Dick’s hand tightens around his cock as he fucks his fist to the thought of you. The fabric of your panties give him such a delicious friction as he imagines just how tight you’d feel around him. Would you like it if he toys with your most sensitive spots? You’re quite small and meek compared to him since he works out and keeps a more lean yet bulky build. He could easily pick you up and flip you around if he wanted to.

A guttural groan escapes him, your name barely caught at the back of his throat while increasing the tempo of his fist. This is what he can do for now—your panties and his hand—until he gets the courage to work towards the real thing.

Would he reach your favourite spots easily? How deep could he go? He’d fold you in half underneath him, with your knees to your chest while he mounts you like an animal, pounding so deep into you until you’re clawing at his back for mercy. Fuck, he’d love that so fucking much.  He’d grind his hips teasingly every time he slams deep inside of you, until your eyes roll back, until you go limp underneath him—you’d take his cock so fucking well.

Fuck, he’s a lot closer than he likes. His abs are constricting with every short, laboured pant that escapes him. There’s a damp spot forming on your gusset where his mushroomy tip is, leaking precum into the fabric and he moans at the sight. Heat rushes to his cheeks as he struggles to hold his own orgasm back.

He times his thrusts at the same speed that your fingers are going, your saccharine moans going straight to his painfully hard cock.

“Fuck, I’m so close, baby,” he grunts. His forearm strains and aches from the effort but he doesn’t care. He can tell you’re close from how your breaths are coming in quick bursts, whining while your hips buck upwards. He tightens his grip around himself by a fraction in hopes it stimulates just how it’d feel to have your warm walls suck him in greedily when you’re about to cum. “C’mon, pretty. Gonna cum for me, make a mess on my fat cock, won’t you?”

He’s watched this video enough times to know when you cum, and he tries to match your pace, but he ends up chasing his own pleasure instead. He fucks his fist to the sound of your lewd moans until you’re squeaking. His balls tighten up, stomach squeezing as his own orgasm rocks through him.

Hot, thick spurts of his cum paint the red fabric of your panties white while he chants your name like a forbidden mantra, his hips stuttering and thighs shaking as he cums all over. He feels some of it land on his stomach but thankfully most of it is caught in his fist and your panties.

Beads of sweat line his forehead as he takes in slow, deep breaths to regulate himself.

Did he really fucking do that?

As he stares down at the mess he’s made in his hand and all over his abdomen, Dick can’t help but think to himself; you’ve got so many pairs of underwear, surely you wouldn’t notice if a couple go missing, right?

© 𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘩𝘹 2025

[cumtoru-deactivated20260110]

18+

pornstar!dick, whose reputation precedes him. the viral videos. the fan edits. the fake audios from girls moaning his name on twitter. you pretend you haven’t seen them. pretend you didn’t watch “she cried on his dick... twice” at 2am with your hand between your thighs. pretend you didn’t google “how big is dick grayson actually.” you’re not fooling anyone.

pornstar!dick, who shakes your hand when you meet and says “i’m dick—fitting, right?” and then laughs like it’s a real joke. like he’s not 6’1 with the prettiest face you’ve ever seen and a dick that looks like it should have its own sag card.

pornstar!dick, who flirts without pressure. teases without expectation. “you’re cuter than your test footage,” he says, tugging gently at your robe string. “nervous?” you nod. “don’t be. just think of it as a really sexy team sport.”

pornstar!dick, who stays gentle until the cameras roll. all warm hands and soft touches, checking in every step of the way—this okay? you good, sweetheart? need anything?—but once the director calls action, he flips like a switch. chokes you with one hand and spreads you with the other, hips grinding deep, voice low and breathy: “you love this, huh? being my little toy on camera?”

pornstar!dick, who doesn’t act like a porn star when he’s inside you. not really. there’s no ego. no rush. no forced noises. he takes his time. rolls his hips slow, talks in that low rasp by your ear like you’re the only thing that matters—“there we go, that’s it, god you’re perfect—gonna cum like this, baby?”

pornstar!dick, who makes you forget there’s a camera at all. who holds your leg up with one hand while his other sneaks down between you, thumbing your clit with practiced pressure until your moans go high and your thighs start to shake. “yeah, that’s the shot. right there. come for me.”

pornstar!dick, who makes the creampie look like art. he always finishes with a groan—head tipped back, abs flexed, voice hoarse when he moans your name. keeps you cockdrunk and twitching while he spills inside, hips twitching, then pulls out slow to let it drip. money shot, he winks, watching your cunt flutter.

pornstar!dick, who wraps you in a towel after. gives you water. strokes your back and asks if you’re okay while makeup removes your lashes. “you killed it,” he says, grinning like it’s not even about the shoot anymore.

pornstar!dick, who texts you later like: “hey. just rewatched our scene. accidentally nutted to it. twice. you free friday? i’ll bring food. and lube. whichever you want first.”

written by rawkuna do not plagiarize.

[cumtoru-deactivated20260110]

18+

roommate!dick who always knocks—even if your door’s cracked open, even if you called his name. he’s polite, almost too polite, like he’s afraid of crossing a line, even though you’ve known for weeks now that he looks at your mouth too long when you’re talking and his eyes always drop to your thighs when you’re wearing those tiny little sleep shorts.

roommate!dick who makes you tea at night without asking. his voice is sleepy when he passes you the mug—barely more than a mumble. “this one helps with cramps, right?” he says, like he hasn’t memorized your whole cycle just from the days you get extra quiet and hug your knees on the couch.

roommate!dick who accidentally folds your underwear when doing the laundry and immediately goes red when he realizes it. “i didn’t look—i mean, i wasn’t trying to—shit, i just threw it in with the rest—” he looks so flustered, and you almost believe he’s innocent until you catch him glancing at your panties again the next week with that same look in his eye.

roommate!dick who gets too used to sharing space. too used to hearing you moan softly through the wall when you think you’re alone. too used to the sound of your bed creaking at night, to the soft gasps you try to muffle into your pillow. he jerks off to it once. maybe twice. then hates himself for it, swearing it won’t happen again.

but it does. he can’t help it—your voice drives him crazy. you sound so pretty when you think no one’s listening. and maybe he’s gotten bolder now. maybe he listens with his forehead pressed to the wall, hand stroking his cock slow while he imagines it’s his name you’re whispering into the dark.

roommate!dick who catches you bent over the bathroom sink in just your towel and loses his mind a little. he doesn’t mean to stare, but god—your thighs, the curve of your ass, the way water droplets trace down the dip of your back—he’s hard in seconds, trying to bite back a groan before he slips out and locks himself in his room to handle it.

and when roommate!dick finally gets his hands on you, he’s gentle the first time. you climb into his bed after a rough day, and it starts with soft touches—his hand on your hip, your face buried in his neck, your fingers bunching the fabric of his t-shirt.

it doesn’t stay innocent for very long.

his voice is hoarse when he asks, “you sure?” and when you nod, he exhales shakily, rolling you beneath him and hovering on top of you like you're his prey. turns out your roommate isn't as innocent as you thought.

written by rawkuna do not plagiarize.

[l1p3k4]

Save a horse ride a cowboy etc

Sketch comms are open

[whats-her-quirk]

Secret Oath Chapter 7

last || m.list

➷➷➷➷➷

marco bott x fem!reader

18+ mdni

word count: 3.1k

chapter warnings: explicit smut, dry humping, oral, praise, a touch of corruption, first times, they're in love your honor

a/n: it's chapter 7 but its been just over 2 years since I started this fic so I think that qualifies as slow burn

♪ good old fashioned lover boy by queen ♪ you and I by lady gaga

➷➷➷➷➷

When you drag yourself out of bed for wake-up duty the next morning, Marco is waiting on the deck with coffee in his red thermos. He holds it out to you.

“Two sugars. I only have one travel mug, but I figured we could share. If you want.”

You’re in no position to turn down caffeine, but it’s more than that. You hadn’t asked him to do rounds with you, but here he is: eyes bright like he’s been awake for a while, holding a mug of coffee sweetened the way you like when he usually takes his black. This man might be in love with you.

Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. Considering he might be inside you later, you decide you might as well get used to kissing spontaneously. He rests a hand on your waist, tongue brushing yours in a way that crosses from sweet to steamy.

After a long, heady look into his sable eyes, you gratefully reach for the thermos and take a long sip. “Thank you. I owe you my life.”

“How about just one more kiss instead?”

You couldn’t possibly resist.

-

Almost as soon as you arrive at arts and crafts with your group and Ymir’s, Moblit puts you to work. He can’t know that you told Marco your secret; it must be cosmic punishment. While Mobs shows the campers how to make leaf rubbings, you get down to business peeling the paper off of at least a hundred crayons. Ymir grumbles beside you, her fingernails too short to get under the labels. Now’s your chance, and you need to take it.

“Hey, wingwoman.”

Ymir scoffs. “Are you addressing me?”

“Yes.”

“Well, well, well…”

“You should be glad that I’m asking you for a favor.”

“Historia owes me so much money.”

“What?”

“I knew you’d come crawling to me. She didn’t believe me. But I have a sixth sense.” Ymir taps her head.

“Ok, seriously. I need the cabin to myself during free time today. Can you make sure everybody has somewhere else to be?”

Ymir considers this, her bottom lip jutting out in thought. “Well, Hisu goes where I go. If Hitch and Mikasa aren’t already occupied with a Jaeger each, I can probably convince them to go for a hike. Or better, a drive. With the AC on full blast.”

You throw your arms around Ymir and squeeze. “You rock.”

She pushes you off. “You’re just now realizing that? Some friend you are.” She picks at another crayon. “Do you need me to come up with an alibi or should I just tell everyone you’re having clumsy sex with the resident virgin?”

“He could be a sex god. You don’t know.”

“Fat chance.”

“I guess I’ll have to let you know. In excruciating detail.”

“Fuck no you won’t.”

–

Marco meets you on the steps outside your cabin, hands deep in the pocket of his red hoodie. True to her word, Ymir made Historia invite Mikasa and Eren to drive to town with them to buy soda at the convenience store. Hitch said she already had plans and not to wait up.

“What about the rest of the guys?” you ask.

Marco rubs the back of his neck. “All at the pool. Apparently they put up a net and I’m missing a grand volleyball tournament with the Galliards. I told them I had something else to do.”

You give him a sly smile. “Shame.”

Grateful for the privacy, you nudge Marco on the shoulder and lead him inside. After flipping the latch on the door and turning on a small lamp in the corner, you sit down on your bunk and pat the space next to you. “Take off your shoes and stay a while.”

Marco chuckles, cheeks reddening, but does as you say. He lays his hand on top of yours. “I’ll be honest. I’m kind of freaking out right now.”

“If you’re not ready, you’re allowed to change your mind.”

“I’m less worried about stopping than I am about getting started.” He leans in, his forehead touching yours. Quieter, he asks, “Can you take the lead?”

“Mmhmm.” You slide both hands up his neck, thumbs coming to rest at the corners of his jaw. “Kiss me a little first and see if you feel better.”

You don’t need to ask twice. Marco rolls on top of you like he’s been waiting for the chance, hands on your waist as he presses you into the bed. His mouth finds yours hungrily, his breath toothpaste-fresh. He prepped for this.

His tongue dips into your mouth, kissing you deeper. You rake your fingers through his hair, behind his ears, down his back. He’s folded over the edge of the bed, toes on the floor. Slowly, you drag one foot up the length of his leg, arching into the next kiss.

Marco gathers you in his arms as your body rolls.

Your hips seek his own. Now that you’ve had a little taste, all you can think about is getting closer to him. You can’t help yourself: you want to feel his skin, his breath, his body heat. You want it to smother you.

But as badly as you want him, you know you need to take this one step at a time. Today is about enjoying it: his first time, and your first time with him.

As gently as you can, you tug the hem of his hoodie up toward his chest with your fingertips. His t-shirt rides with it, a swath of his tanned-bronze skin meeting your stomach. You nudge inside his shirt, hands meeting his warm back, teasing him for more access bit by bit.

Marco finds your hip and slides a hand up under your top. He’s timid at first, but when you sigh and bend to his touch, he ventures on, hesitating only when he brushes the edge of your bra. With a slight tremble, he cups your breast in his palm.

He inhales sharply, then with a little, almost imperceptible hum, he melts. You feel him start to let go of it all: the fear, the hesitation, the self-consciousness. With another deep breath, he gives an experimental squeeze.

You break the kiss long enough to pull your shirt off over your head. You feel a flash of shyness and cover your bare stomach with your arms as Marco looks down at you with reverence. His pupils dilate, making his irises look almost black as he unfolds, standing to remove his hoodie and shirt in one motion. You expect him to drop them on the floor but giggle when he drapes them carefully over the rail on Historia’s nearby bunk.

“Sorry.” He blushes.

“Don’t be.” You pull your legs up on the bed and stretch out. “Come here.”

Marco drops into your open arms, lips finding yours before he crawls onto his hands and knees on top of you.

“You’re beautiful,” he mumbles through a messy kiss.

You cup his jaw, bringing him closer. “So are you,” you try to say, but he swallows your words.

Your eyes flutter closed and your hands wander, stroking down the planes of his strong neck, his broad shoulders, his sun-speckled chest. There’s so much of him to explore, so much of his body yet untouched. You can’t get enough.

The ambient creaking of the cabin and the rustling of wind outside are punctuated by the slick sounds of kisses as you pore over each other. Marco’s mouth drops to the bend of your neck, drawing heat to the spot. He tangles his legs with yours and rolls you both onto your sides. Arching, you slide your hands around the small of his back and push your hips forward. Dizzy stars burst behind your eyelids as his erection twitches against your lower stomach through his running shorts.

With a little moan, you wrap a thigh around his waist for leverage and grind. Marco jerks his hips forward, head thrown back against your pillow with a hushed, “Fuck.” You drink it in, savoring the sound like the last sip of wine at the bottom of the bottle.

Your leg holds Marco against you, right where he should be, as you set a rhythm, rolling your hips up and down his body. Every few strokes, your clit catches against his clothed cock with delicious friction. When you moan, he moans.

Marco’s breath lands heavily against your face as he tilts his chin down, forehead against your own, to focus on the motion. He watches as you dry-hump against his bulge. Even without being skin to skin, it’s filthy. His hands grip your ass and everything begins to speed up.

Yes. Yes. This is finally happening.

Marco grips your hips and rolls over, balancing his weight above you on his elbows. His breaths come heavy, his body crashing over yours again and again like waves. Plunging your hand between you, you reach for his cock. He moans and humps into your hand like he can’t stop. God, it’s so big, straining against his shorts, and sensitive, throbbing in your grip.

You pant, quick and shallow, thinking about having him inside you, how full you’re going to be. It’s hard to stay calm when the anticipation burns so brightly.

When you let go of his shaft, Marco whines at the loss. You lock eyes as you brush his waistband with just your fingertips. “Ok?” you ask.

He nods desperately. “Please.”

Together, you push the elastic down until he kicks his shorts off behind him along with his underwear. Needy but defenseless, he babbles, “I’m sorry if it’s too much, if you don’t want to—”

You wrap your hand around him, lightheaded at the girth. “Marco, you’re perfect.”

He groans in his throat and rocks into your hand, a man possessed.

With a hand to his side, you guide Marco onto his back. Puffing, he rests while you take off the rest of your clothes. His arm falls across his eyes. “Oh my god.”

He pulls it away to watch as you kneel between his legs and press a kiss to the head of his cock. His muscles tense at your first few kitten licks before you wrap your lips around him. With your fist around his base, you run your tongue back and forth over his frenulum. When you come up for air, you give a few more wet strokes over his tip before Marco reaches for you.

“Please, it feels so good, but I’m gonna cum instantly if you keep doing that.” His laugh comes out more like a breath, but his smile is in his eyes.

Smirking, you crawl up to his middle. Your legs have to spread so wide just to straddle him, but fuck if your hips hurt later. The pain will be sweet. He’s worth it. He’s worth anything.

Marco paws at your arms, pulling you closer. “You don’t have to kiss me after I blow you,” you offer. “I know it bothers some people.”

Marco shakes his head and drags you to him with his hands to the back of your neck. “I don’t care, I want to,” he pants. “I need to kiss you right now.”

Messy kisses string between you, deep, hungry caresses against your tongue. “How do I—” he mumbles into your mouth, “How do I get you ready?”

“You can touch me,” you sigh.

“God,” he moans, reaching between your thighs. “Show me?”

Head hanging over your bent neck, you guide him by the wrist until two of his fingers press over your clit. You show him where to rub the little circles you like, wetting his fingers with your dew. Bracing two hands on either side of his head, you leave him to it, closing your eyes to focus on the repeated motion while you breathe into each other’s mouths.

You hold yourself together until your legs start to tremble. A rush of heat spreads from your face down your neck, flowing between your legs with an irresistible tingle. The words come out clipped and sharp. “You can put a finger in. Please.”

Marco fumbles a little at first but spreads you like a pro once he gets his bearings. One finger dips inside, and it’s both a relief and a lightning strike to your core. “Yes,” you can’t help but hiss.

It’s not like he knows nothing—Marco presses and curls his knuckle, and it makes you whine with pleasure. “Two, please.”

He adds another finger, and the heel of his hand brushes your clit with every flex. Heat builds until it skyrockets, your legs and hips jerking above him as you find a little peak. As the pulses dull around his fingers, your muscles release and your head swims with pleasure. You had no idea how badly you needed that.

You open your eyes to Marco staring in awe. “Did I really make you cum?”

You tap his arm so he knows to pull his fingers out. “Yeah. It was really good.” On wobbly thighs, you climb out of his lap and rest on your knees beside him. “Please tell me you remembered the condoms.”

Marco twists to his side. “Yeah, in my hoodie pocket.”

“I got it.” Slippery between your legs, you retrieve the condom and reach for the bottle of lube you know Historia keeps under her bunk while you’re there.

“Is that—”

“Yeah. It’s been a little while, and I might need it. Trust me, you’ll like it. Want me to put the condom on?” Your hands shake, eagerness making your movements sharp and clumsy. If he’s ready, you don’t want to wait another second.

“Sure.” Marco pushes up onto his elbows while you tear open the gold foil. He did the right thing buying the bigger size. “How do you want to… what’s going to be most comfortable for you?” He sighs as you roll the condom down his length, holding it in place at the tip. Your mouth practically waters as you squeeze out a few drops of lube and spread it on.

“If it’s ok with you, I think it’ll be easiest if I’m on top. At least for the first time, it’ll be better if I can control the angle and the speed.”

Marco lies back, exhaling heavily. You straddle him again, and his hands slide up your thighs. You can tell he’s steadying himself. Swallowing thickly, he asks, “You sure you’ll be ok? Is it going to fit?”

Your chest clenches. At a time like this, he’s thinking about you. Above all the emotions swirling inside you—excitement, lust, nervousness, all of it—you feel safe and important. You couldn’t be more grateful to be with someone like Marco. You hope this thing between the two of you can turn into something that lasts.

You kiss him deep and slow, rekindling the fire between you and topping it off with a sweet peck to his forehead. “Yes. I want you.”

His hands slide to your waist. “I want you too.”

With one more kiss, you reach below you, positioning him at your entrance, and sink down. As the first few inches slip in, your eyes widen and Marco’s hands clamp down tight. “Fuck,” you both curse at almost the same time.

He’s so thick. It’s all you can think about as you work him inside you, pulling out before pushing further down with each rock of your body. He’s filling you up. He’s splitting you open. It’s incredible.

You moan as your cunt sucks him in, and before you really know it, you’re as fully seated as you can be. There might be an inch or so that you just can’t fit, not today. It doesn’t matter—he feels fucking perfect for you.

Clenching involuntarily, you hold yourself in place as you acclimate to the stretch. Your hips prickle with heat, and you can only hope you’ll feel this tomorrow and be reminded of how it felt to be this full—to remember the absolute pleasure of being the first one to ever be filled by him.

Marco’s jaw drops as he rubs your hips, the tops of your thighs, anywhere he can reach. “You doing ok?” you pant.

Marco groans and nods. Words come huskily. “Am I hurting you?”

“No, feels good.”

His lashes flutter. “Can you move?”

“Mmhmm.” Pacing yourself, you grind up and down, tucking your hips to guide him to your sweet spot with each thrust. Overcome with the need to be as close as possible, you fold, pressing yourself closer to his chest.

With his hot hands guiding you, Marco huffs in your ear, and you ride. Finding your rhythm and steadily increasing it, he arches to meet you as he rolls your hips down. Intensity crescendos, passion breaking over you in waves and weeks of longing pouring over your bodies until it reaches its climax. You move as one until you hit critical mass and Marco takes the lead.

Moaning low and shallow, Marco slams into you over and over, driving you to the edge with a sharp cry, and you snap. It hits you in surges, your prolonged pulses dragging pathetic moans from your throat until you finally clamp down and force Marco to the other side with you. He whines until he chokes on it, his cock throbbing until he’s spent.

As much as you just want to collapse on top of him, your hips are screaming, so you carefully pull him out before curling into his side. You lie together, Marco’s arms around you, pulling you close in the crinkly twin bed. Between breaths, he kisses your lips, your cheeks, your neck before tucking your head under his chin, holding you in the still and quiet after the storm.

You trace constellations in the freckles on his chest. “So. How was it?”

“Worth it,” he whispers into your hair, pressing a kiss to your crown.

–

That night, around the campfire late in the evening, no one mentions it when you show up wearing Marco’s big red hoodie. Nobody asks where you were during free time or questions why you couldn’t keep your eyes off each other during the free-throw competition after dinner. The most you get is a wink and finger gun from Ymir, but she keeps her big mouth shut, and you love her for it. Everyone probably knows, or at least suspects, and maybe they’ll tease you for it later, but for tonight, they grant you peace.

After making you each a s’more, Marco wraps the both of you in his blanket. Despite your sticky smiles, you lean your head on his shoulder, one hand to his chest to feel his heartbeat under it.

➷➷➷➷➷

last || m.list

[selunefae]

Pervert roommate!reiner who steals your panties | +18 MDNI

a/n: inspired by @threevowsdeep nsfw reiner headcanons.

Masterlist | Rules

Reiner didn’t mean to end up in this situation. 

He knows what he’s doing is wrong. Completely, irrevocably and utterly wrong.

And yet, with the thin piece of fabric just oh so close to his face, he can’t stop himself.

It all started this morning. Your laundry hamper had been sitting all week at the foot of your bed, overflowing with crumpled shirts and mismatched socks. When you heard Reiner walk past your room with his own laundry in his hands, you poked your head out, eyes still half-lidded from sleep, and gave him that look – the one you know he can’t resist.

“Heeey, Rei~,” you started, exaggeratedly batting your eyelashes with a big smile on your face.  “Can you take care of mine too? Just this once?”

And of course, he said yes.

Reiner always says yes to you.

You didn’t even wait for him to say something else. You just beamed, blew him a kiss, and disappeared back into your room, leaving your door cracked open and your scent lingering faintly in the air.

Now here he is, kneeling in front of the washer with all your clothes sprawled out on his feet. He only meant to sort your clothes to not mix colors and whites, nothing more.

But then he sees them. Plain as day just for him.

It was a gorgeous pair. White cotton, with a tiny pink bow in the front. And so fucking small in his hands.

Reiner’s brain just… shuts off. He picks them up like he’s in a trance, thick fingers brushing over the soft fabric until he notices the wet spot in the center. Millions of scenarios start flooding his mind. You wore these. You wore these, right against your pussy. Maybe slept in them and touched yourself through them, soaking the fabric with your juices, imagining his thick fingers thrusting in and out of you, working you open while you came.

“Fuck…” he mutters, jaw clenched tight, trying to swallow down the gasp rising in his throat.

He can already feel himself swelling in his pants, thick and aching just from the thought of the soft white cotton hugging your folds. The same ones he’s been dreaming about for weeks now.

Without even realizing it, he brings the panties closer. And the second he catches your scent, he gives in.

Sniff.

This is so fucking wrong. You’re just his roommate, you trust him, and he’s throwing that away because he can only think with his cock.

But the way your scent clings to the fabric… it only makes him harder.

Just a little more, he thinks, already palming his cock through his sweats, slow and heavy strokes that make his head tilt back with a groan. He pictures the face you’d make once he’s between your thighs, lips wrapped around your clit, tongue working you over you as your legs lock around his neck, drowning him with your juices.

Click.

The sound of the door opening jerks him back to reality.

In one quick motion, he stuffs your panties into one of his pockets and yanks his hoodie down to cover his bulge. He turns fast, facing the opposite wall just as the voice comes through the door.

He’ll save them for later.

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[lluvrss]

i love his big ass nose

[1oveyouhoney]

cockwarming reiner is always an experience.

some days, you’re both content to just lay there with eyes closed, heartbeats matched in pace. his breathing is even, even as he's rock hard inside you. the usual crease between his brows is missing, replaced by a serene expression not a lot of people get to see. the stretch and heft of him inside you is almost soothing at times like these. he could be spooning you or be on top of you, either way his lips are always pressed to your neck, unmoving. at least until he murmurs soft i love yous, so quiet you wouldn’t hear it if you weren’t so close.

sometimes he gets you begging; circling a thick finger over your clit as he hushes and coos at you to stay still and stop trying to fuck yourself on his cock when he’s already making you feel good. to stop being greedy unless you want him to stop. sticks his fingers from his other hand into your mouth when you start running it until only the slick sounds of his touch on your clit and his groans as he feels you tighten around him can be heard.

and other times, you get him to beg. sitting yourself on his lap and kissing him slow and deep. running your hands over his stomach, his broad chest, up and down before they go up to the back of his neck, playing with his hair. you let him do the same—let him paw at your soft bits until his breathing is labored. but it's when your lips and tongue move down to his neck that he starts getting real needy; bucking his hips and gripping yours to try to bounce you on his cock. then it's your turn to hush and coo at him to stop moving and keep his hands to himself. he obeys, of course. it's instinctual for him to give you what you want, even at his expense.

he tries to talk you into it, though. "let me lay you down, princess. i’ll do all the work, i promise. just— just please let me move. please. i’ll make us feel so good."

you pout at him, caressing the side of his face. "doesn’t this already feel good?" punctuating your sentence with a teasing swivel of your hips that stirs his cock inside you.

he groans, head falling back as he pants, skin shiny with sweat as he strains to keep himself from flipping you over and fucking you until you're both shaking.

you trail a finger down his stomach, his abs flexing at your touch. you look down at where you're connected, clenching around him as you notice your slick wetting the dark blond hair at his base. you're not as unaffected as you're trying to project; you never are. even now, a part of you wants to let him just take what he needs. you take a bit of mercy on him at that.

"just a bit longer, okay?" you thumb at his cheek, skin rasping against his stubble.

he nods, lips red and eyes dazed. "can i at least get a kiss?"

you smile. "of course. anything for my beautiful man."

he spurts a bit of cum inside you at that.