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vinnyvamppp · 1 month ago

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Commit To The Bit

Note: No one requested this, but this wonderful idea was bounced between @0bticeo and I, so thank them if you enjoy this as well. Now, let's see what we're working with...

Synopsis: You didn’t mean for it to happen like this. It was supposed to be a dare—something stupid to loosen Mark up after another brutal week of being the galaxy’s most reluctant savior. Just a strip tease. Just a joke. But Mark Grayson commits. To everything. Now, he's challengeing you to survive it.

Warnings: Smut, Mutual Pining, Oral (Male and Female recivieing), Mark Is a Messy Cummer, Fingering, Anal Play (F recieving), Position Changes, Dirty Talk, Light Power Play, Dom/Sub Dynamics, First Time, Switch!Reader, Switch!Mark Grayson, Strip Tease, Game Night Turned...

Mark Grayson x Fem!Reader

WC: ... 2.9k (I'M SORRY I GOT EXCITED)

You hadn’t expected to become part of Mark Grayson’s orbit.

You weren’t a Guardian. You didn’t wear a cape, have laser vision, or scream through the sky with sonic speed. You didn’t even have a power unless you counted being chronically online, emotionally intelligent, and just competent enough not to die during a superhuman incident—mostly from luck.

But Mark had saved your life one too many times—not out of obligation, but with this ridiculous, righteous fury in his eyes, like it personally offended him that you were ever in danger. And after the last near-apocalypse (there’d been three that year—you were starting to rank them like earthquakes), you became… tethered.

Not officially. Not in a superhero-has-a-sidekick kind of way. You were more like a ghost in his civilian life—always nearby, always grounding. The one who read him his Seance Dog comics when his hands were still red and rattled from battle, the one who stayed up all night patching his busted hoodie and pretending the sound of his knuckles cracking didn’t bother you.

He was fraying, and you saw it. Everyone saw it, but no one could tell him to stop. Not his mom. Not Eve. Not the Guardians. So you said, “If you won’t rest, you’re going to play.” He squinted. “Like, fetch?” You pause, lips curling excitedly. “Like games. Like dares. Like something dumb and reckless that doesn’t involve space warlords or mind-controlling aliens.” You meant it as a joke. Yet, two weeks later, you were at his place on a Friday night, watching Mark lose at an increasingly feral round of “Truth or Dare Jenga” that had been invented solely to get him to relax.

He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows, hair soft and messy from where he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. He’s glowing. Not in a superhero way—in a boy-who’s-smiling-for-real way. That glow? That was rare.

There are wrappers everywhere. Empty soda cans. Heat radiates off of him in waves, because Mark Grayson runs hot, body temperature just a little too intense even at rest—like a sun flaring under skin.

“Alright,” you say, plucking a block from the Jenga tower. It slides out with a whisper. On the underside, scrawled in black marker: DARE: Lose a piece of clothing.

You grin. “Mark.” He narrows his eyes, shoulders slouching. “No way.”

“You lost, my dude.”

“I’m not taking my pants off.”

“No one said pants! Could be socks, could be your watch. Could be your hoodie.”

“Pfft. Lame.”

He leans back, too cocky and boyish. “What if I make it interesting?” You raise an eyebrow. “Interesting how?” Mark’s grin falters—just for a second, nervousness creeps in—and then he returns, crooked and reckless. “What if I… y’know.” He gestures vaguely. “Did a little striptease instead.” You stare in a stunned silence, mouth agape in what could only be described as an expression caught between a grin and disbelief. He stares back, then laughs too fast and far too loud. “I’m kidding.” “Are you?” You don’t know why you say it. Maybe it’s the soda-sugar buzz in your blood. Maybe it’s the way his cheeks flush, hot pink all the way to the tips of his ears. Or maybe —definitely— it’s the way your brain short-circuits when you imagine it. The slow reveal. That ridiculous, ripped body under all the nerdy-cute layers. You’ve seen him in action. Fighting, bleeding, and almost dying. But this? This would be intimate in a whole new way. He opens his mouth, maybe to deflect. Maybe to say “What?! no!” But what comes out is, “Alright. Fine.” The lights are dim. Not dramatic—dim. Just lazy, golden, Friday-night-dim. A song buzzes from your speaker—some R&B tracks you’d been playing ironically earlier, and now it’s betraying you with slow, sensual bass. Mark stands and promptly freezes. “…Do I need a pole or something?” he mumbles. You cackle, leaning back against his bedframe. “Just your awkward ass and commitment.” He glares playfully, then closes his eyes for a second, like he’s mentally preparing for battle. The sweater comes off first—slow, theatrical, too much. It gets caught halfway over his head, and he swears—arms flailing as he almost knocks over the Jenga tower. You’re crying from laughter. Then he —somehow—recovers and hrugs out of the pullover like it owed him money. His t-shirt rides up as he moves, and you get a flash of abs. He notices your ever-drifting gaze and pauses.

Your lips curl into an absentminded smirk. Oh, he absolutely noticed.

Now he’s getting into it. A little hip roll and some wobbly attempt at body waves that makes you snort but also sends your brain into a blender. There’s a vein on his bicep that mocks you. His shirt rides up again, and he keeps it there. Teasing.

What the hell is happening? He peels it off—slower this time. Eyes locked on yours, breath shallow. Like, maybe this started as a joke, but now it’s something else. The tension is thick, and heavy like the altitudes changed.

You swallow thickly, “Are you…” Your voice cracks. “Are you actually good at this?” Mark drops the shirt and steps forward. Just once. Close enough that you have to tilt your head to meet his eyes. “I’m good at lots of things,” he says, low, quiet, like a quiet confession you’re certain you’ve heard in film many times over. Yet, it makes your blood run hot.

You break the tension with a joke. The moment stretches like heat-distorted glass—fragile, bending, on the verge of snapping. Mark stands above you, shirtless, flushed, breath light in his chest. His hands twitch at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them—touch you, maybe. Run them through his hair or hold on to something so he doesn’t fall. Because falling? That’s what this feels like.

You’re still sitting, half-curled on the floor with your knees up, looking at him. Really looking.

He isn’t chiseled perfection—not like those magazine-perfect, muscle-bound meatheads. He’s real. He’s boyish, golden brown skin glowing under the lamplight, jaw sharp when he clenches it like that. There’s a faint bruise across his ribs and a scattering of freckles over his shoulders that look like stars. You want to trace them like a constellation. He swallows hard. You do too, subconsciously mimicking.

“That’s your big striptease?” you say, voice wobbly with the high-wire tension. “You looked like a winded pelican trying to shimmy out of your shirt.”

Mark blinks before breaking into a disbelieving chortle. He doubles over a little, pressing a hand to his chest like it hurts to laugh that hard — and maybe it does. Maybe it’s the first real laugh he’s had in weeks. Maybe it’s too much to feel something this alive in a room that isn’t soaked in blood or guilt. “You’re such a dick,” he says through breathless chuckles. You grin. “But I’m right.” He rolls his eyes and drops beside you with a thump. His bare shoulder brushes yours. The skin-on-skin contact shoots straight down your spine like a live wire. Your body knows what your heart won’t say.

And Mark? He knows too. Because after the laughter fades, the silence left behind is thick. His smile lingers, but it’s softer now, much quieter. His thigh rests against yours, and he doesn’t move it. He shifts, just enough to look at you. And you know… You know without words that the game’s over, but something else has started.

“You really think I looked that bad?” he asks, mock hurt. “I think you surprised yourself more than me,” you reply, smiling to yourself. Mark tilts his head. His eyes—dark, warm, and wanting—scan your face. You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. His voice is lower now.

“I didn’t think I’d… get into it.”

There’s a pause. He looks down, hand flexing, resting against his knee. Its close to yours, nearly grazing. “You know what’s messed up?” he murmurs. “I wanted you to look away. I thought I did. But then you didn’t. And now…” Your breath catches. “… Now I can’t stop thinking about the way you looked at me.”

You say nothing; your hand simply finds his. Just fingertips at first—a brush and a question. He answers with stillness and a held breath. Not rejection, nor resistance, but rather waiting for what happens next.

It's not what he says; it's how he says it. Mark Grayson isn’t cool. Not like the heroes in the comics, not like Omni-Man pretended to be. He’s awkward and earnest. He fumbles through jokes and runs into danger headfirst and leaves pieces of himself behind every time. But right now? He’s sitting beside you shirtless, vulnerable, and so, so willing. And you can’t stop looking.

You reach out. Not dramatically, just like gravity’s doing it for you. Your fingers trace the curve of his shoulder and drag lightly down his chest. Over smooth skin, tight muscle. You feel him tense—just a flicker—but he doesn’t pull away. His chest rises too fast, still shallow, like his heart doesn't know when to settle.

He leans in, words a faint whisper. “I’m not gonna be able to walk this off, am I?” He says quietly, like it’s funny, but it isn’t. His voice wavers at the edges, threaded with something rougher, excited, and anxious. Lascivious. You hum, fingers dragging lower. “You were the one who committed to the bit.”

He huffs out a chuckle. “Yeah, and now I’m gonna commit a felony if you keep looking at me like that.” You glance up, his eyes already trained upon your face. Flickering between your mouth and your hand and back again. His lips are slightly parted, the flush creeping all the way down to his chest now. He's starving.

You drag your hand lower. His abs flex under your touch instinctively, almost defensive, like his body is reacting faster than his brain can control.

“Jesus,” he mutters. His eyes flutter shut for a second, then snap open.

“You’re not even doing anything.”

“Exactly.”

He makes a sound. It’s halfway between a groan and a laugh—embarrassed, aroused, and horrifically aware that he’s being undone with nothing but touch. But he doesn’t retreat. Instead, he leans toward you. Lips a breadth from yours. “I’m just saying,” he whispers, “if this ends in me blacking out from sheer thirst, I want it on record I was coerced.” “Oh?” you breathe.

“And what part of that was coercion?” His smile cracks crooked, and he gulps. “All of it. But I liked it.” Your hand drifts lower again, fingertips grazing just above his waistband. His abs contract hard, like they’re bracing for impact. Then, finally, finally, he moves. He reaches up, hand gentle on your jaw, and tilts your head just enough to look you full in the face. His thumb brushes the edge of your cheekbone, completely transfixed.

And the look in his eyes? It says everything. ‘I want you. I want this. I want to give in. But also—I want you to want it too.’ So you lean in, not for a kiss. Not yet.

Your lips brush his ear, and you whisper: “Finish the striptease, Grayson.”

You say it, and something breaks inside him. Mark sits frozen for half a second, like his brain has short-circuited. And then—slowly and deliberately—he pushes himself to his feet.

He’s shirtless already, but his joggers hang low on his hips, slung there like temptation incarnate. His body is a map of intention—broad chest still rising fast with every breath, flushed all the way down to the waistband. And when he hooks his thumbs into the sides, his eyes flick up to meet yours. Still awkward. Still him. But there’s heat behind that shy smirk now. Perhaps a promise.

“Didn’t realize the bit was that good,” he murmurs.

“You’re stalling.”

“I’m building suspense.”

He kicks off his socks with an undignified grunt—definitely not sexy—and you snort. The laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it, but it’s cut off fast when his fingers return to his waistband.

He doesn’t strip fast. He sinks into it. Rolls his hips just slightly, enough to tease. The joggers go low, and you swear you stop breathing. His thighs are carved like someone took Greek statue anatomy and gave it boyish charm. They’re strong and lean, and if you could, you’d trace the outlines with your tongue.

Underneath, he's wearing black boxer briefs that leave nothing to the imagination. The outline of him is thick, prominent, and barely contained. There’s a wet spot already forming where the fabric strains tight over his tip. And when his thumbs slip under the waistband of those, he actually hesitates. “Still time to back out,” he says, voice raspy, gaze flicking from your eyes to your mouth to the floor.

You shake your head. “Not a chance.” He exhales, shaky and disbelieving. Then drops them.

Mark now stands there, bare and completely reddened. Every muscle in his body is tense, like he’s waiting for judgment.

You rise to your knees where you sit on the floor, eyes trailing over him, devouring. His cock is perfect; thick, flushed, uncut, curving slightly toward his belly, the tip already beading precum. He’s trimmed but not too neat. It's raw, real, and hard as hell.

You reach for him slowly. Fingers light over the base, then wrapping around him with a gentle squeeze that makes his hips jolt. He gasps, “Shit—okay.”

“I haven’t even started yet,” you say sweetly.

“Don’t—” His voice cracks. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

You do. You really do. You press a kiss to his hipbone, then another down the line of his thigh. Your tongue then traces a wet warmth between the divots of his femoral muscle, just until you slowly venture to his groin, his cock nudging your nose. His breath hitches. When you glance up, his eyes are molten—wide and starving.

“Lie back,” you murmur.

He obeys without question. Collapses onto the bed, back to the headboard, legs splayed open and already trembling. There’s a small patch of scars along his side from some long-healed fight, and your hand ghosts over them before sliding back to his cock.

You stroke him slowly. Grip twisting, thumb teasing the slit until his thighs shake. Fingertips gliding down its veins, thumb caressing his frenulum before you take him into your mouth without warning.

Mark screams—chokes on a curse as his hand fists in the sheets. His hips lift without meaning to, and you press him back with a hand to his belly. He’s heavy on your tongue, warm, velvety skin stretched over thick hardness, the kind of weight that commands attention. Each inch you take fills your mouth with heat, the head of his cock slick with the salt-sweet tang of pre.

“Fuck— oh my god,” he gasps. “You’re—how the hell are you this good?” You hum around him, mouth full, tongue dragging along the underside of his shaft. You go slow, almost cruel. Letting spit drip from your lips as you work him, glancing up through your lashes to watch him fall apart. He’s panting, one hand pressed to his forehead like he’s trying to hang on to reality.

“Oh my fucking god,” he groans. “Your mouth—your mouth is—you’re gonna kill me.”

“You’re being dramatic,” you tease, pulling off with a soft pop. His cock twitches in your hand. “You haven’t even seen dramatic,” he pants. “Keep doing that and I’m gonna blow so hard I end up in orbit.”

You laugh, but it melts into a moan as he brushes your hair back, thumb dragging along your cheekbone, reverent. “You’re unreal,” he whispers. “Seriously. Like… I used to imagine this, but I never thought—fuck.”

You go down again, this time deeper, bobbing your head with a slow, steady rhythm. Your hand strokes the base, twisting, teasing. Every time you swallow around him, his hips twitch, and his voice crumbles into wrecked little sounds. Just to hear more, you go deep—too deep—and your throat clenches around him; his body jolts. He jerks his hips back instinctively, one hand flying to your shoulder. “Shit, shit, I—fuck, are you okay?” he rasps, panic flashing in his eyes. But when you look up at him, spit-slick and needy, and go again? He groans, his head knocking back to the headboard. “Jesus Christ, don’t do that unless you’re trying to kill me.”

You are. You swirl your tongue around the tip and suck hard, his abs seize under your palm, sharp lines flexing in a desperate attempt to hold still. He doesn’t speak. Mark is too stubborn for that. But you feel it in the way his breath hitches, in the shudder that travels from his ribs to his thighs, in the stifled grunt he bites into the back of his wrist like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

His forearms are locked, veined, and trembling as he grips the sheets so tightly they threaten to tear. His legs shift restlessly, heels dragging across the mattress, trying to ground himself against pleasure that’s pulling him apart thread by thread. His whole body feels like it's teetering on a wire strung over fire—and your mouth is the heat below.

His scent fills your lungs, soap and sweat and something sharp with adrenaline. There’s heat radiating off his skin in waves, his inner thighs trembling beneath your palms. You swear you can feel his pulse against your lips, racing, thick, and desperate. He’s letting you do this. Letting you see him like this. And Mark Grayson? Doesn’t give that to just anyone.

His thighs tense under your hands, and god, you feel it—the moment he surrenders, like you’ve cracked the sun open and let it melt down your throat. And all you can think is yes—this, this, this—let me give until I can’t speak, until he forgets his own name in my mouth. You’d watch him cum again and again just to chase the aftershock it sends down your spine. Just as you’re relishing in his squirming, his hands slide lower. Long arms reach out, wrapping around you. One arm across your back, anchoring. The other? It drifts. Your hips are raised—knees bent, ass up, pressed against his thigh. His fingers ghost over the curve of you—light, just exploring.

Then he spreads you gently. Thumb dragging down… and lower.

When his fingers stroke between your legs, you groan, his hands parting through the fabric of your shorts and panties.

“Wet already?” He breathes. “I didn’t even get to return the favor yet.” His words were nearly a whine.

You try to say something smart—snarky. But all that comes out is a gasp when two of his fingers slip in. He’s good at it—scissoring slowly, curling just right. The heel of his hand pressed against your clit with a maddening rhythm. “You’re so tight, baby,” he murmurs. “How are you this perfect?” Then you feel it. His other hand slides lower. Down your back, calloused fingers traveling between the fat of your ass, and you know what he’s doing.

His voice drops—filthy and sweet, but dangerous. “Too much?” he whispers, fingertip circling gently, slick with spit. “Not even close.” He chuckles, channeling whatever confidence he might have left. “Good.” Because then he slips his thumb in—just barely—while still curling two fingers inside you deep. The pressure is blinding, intimate, and overwhelming.

Your moan cracks into a whimper, and he feels it—loves it. “Oh my god, look at you,” he groans. “You’re gonna make me fucking lose it.” And you do. You ride his fingers like they’re the only thing keeping you tethered to earth, mouth hot around him as he starts to thrust gently into your lips, hips flexing—then you pull off with a pop, panting, eyes blown wide.

“Gonna come like this, Mark?” He grins, panting through trembling, weak breaths, “Only if I make you first.” His fingers go deeper. His thumb presses firmer, and you realize neither of you stands a chance.

He’s close and you know it. His cock twitches in your mouth, thighs tensing like coiled springs. He’s gasping now, mouth open, hips stuttering with each flick of your tongue, each twist of your wrist. “Fuck—I’m gonna—shit—I’m gonna come,” he gasps, voice cracking like a live wire.

But he doesn’t pull back. He grips the headboard with one hand, the other fisted in your hair, holding—not forcing, just anchoring. His body goes rigid, spine curving. “Oh—fuck, I—” His voice cracks in the middle of the moan as he comes hard, cock throbbing in your mouth. Hot, thick spurts spill onto your tongue, messy and uncontained. He curses again, hips twitching as the pleasure wrecks him, face flushed, jaw slack with disbelief, toes curling as his eyes are screwed shut.

You swallow as much as you can, some dripping down your chin, and the look he gives you? Absolutely ruined. “I—I didn’t mean to—shit, I couldn’t—” He pants, voice dazed. “Don’t worry,” you murmur, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “We’re not done.” Because while he’s still gasping, trying to catch his breath, your hips grind down into the bed, slick and aching. And he sees it, and being the stubborn man he is, snaps back into action.

He flips you before you can blink—grabs your thighs and pulls you onto the bed, mouth already between your legs before you can protest. Its ravenous. He slides down your body like it’s something sacred, nuzzling between your thighs with a soft groan like he’s relieved to be there. His big hands hook under your knees, pushing them wide until you’re spread open, dripping and flushed and glistening just for him.

“Oh my god,” he whispers—voice so raw with awe that it hurts. You nod, barely able to speak, but he’s not looking for words. He’s already licking his lips, fingers digging into your thighs as he lowers his face to you. The first lick is tentative. Experimental. A long, slow drag of his tongue from your opening to your clit, like he’s learning the map of you one swipe at a time. The groan he lets out after is devastating. Pure sugar coating tongue as he nudges that honey-woven pearl begging for his touch.

“You taste so good,” he mumbles into you, nose brushing your mound as he licks again, deeper, firmer this time, drinking from you like wine-filled gauntlet. “Jesus Christ, how are you real?”

His tongue works in messy circles—not perfectly skilled, not yet, but what he lacks in precision he makes up for with hunger. He eats you like he’s been fantasizing about this for months, and he has. You can feel the need in every flick, every groan, every desperate lap.

When his tongue finally finds your clit, your hips jerk. The sensation—hot, wet, pressure that’s just right—makes your back arch and a moan rip from your throat. Mark moans back, the vibration of it lighting you up like a fuse. “You like that?” he pants. “Tell me, baby. Tell me what you like.”

“Fuck, Mark—right there. Right there, just like that—” He nearly pauses, a muffled grunt settling in his throat, wrapping his arms under your thighs and dragging you closer until your pussy is pressed to his mouth. Held there, lips spread across his tongue.

You try to move, to buck up or pull away, but his grip is like iron. He keeps you right where he wants you, tongue flicking quick and firm over your clit while he moans like he’s the one being touched. “Fuck yes,” you gasp, one hand flying into his hair, your body trembling. “Just like that, holy shit—Mark, you’re so good, you’re so fucking good at this—”

He whimpers into your cunt like the praise feeds him. That smirk etching into your lips doesn’t miss him. “You gonna moan louder than me, Grayson? Or is this just you begging with your mouth full?” He breathes out a shaky moan into your cunt in response. His tongue dips lower again, licking into your entrance, then back up, sucking your clit between his lips, messy and hot and relentless.

You're grinding into his face now, shameless, and he takes it all. Lets you ride his mouth like he was made for it. He pants, chin soaked, lips swollen and smushed against your labia. “Come on, baby, I wanna feel it. Wanna taste all of it. Wanna make you scream.”

“Don’t stop now, don’t you dare fucking stop. I’m close—you look so pretty when you’re trying so hard.” Marks tongue gets sloppier, almost panting through the effort. He flattens his tongue and fucks you with it, then sucks your clit hard enough to send your mind reeling as you lurch forward, fingers bruising into your hips as he holds you down while you shatter. Your orgasm like fireworks against your nerves.

Every time he licks you, something coats his tongue that's so good it's obscene. That heady, sweet scent and everything he's ever fantasized about—has him rutting into the sheets without even thinking. Its humid, raw. His brain just shuts the fuck off the second your thighs tighten around his head.

You let out a guttural scream. His tongue works with a purpose, sloppy and greedy, groaning into your pussy like he’s starved. His fingers curl inside you again—those goddamn fingers, reaching that spot he’s already memorized. Calloused fingertips caressing the ridge of your walls, coated in cream with every drag.

Every twitch of your hips, every broken breath, wires into his nerves like lightning and he’s never needed anything more than the way you look when you’re about to come for him. He wants to drown in it, face buried, lungs empty, no god but the sound of you falling apart.

“You came for me,” he murmurs between licks. “Now I get to return the favor. Gonna make you fall apart, baby. Please. Gonna make you beg. It's gonna feel so good.”

He doesn’t stop until your thighs shake. Until your nails leave crescents in his shoulders. Until you come so hard around his fingers, your voice breaks in a sob of pleasure, your body curling in on itself like it can’t hold that kind of sensation. A slight, sheepish smirk etches into his lips as he watches you tremble and gasp. You scream his name, thighs shaking, hips trying to escape the overstimulation but he follows, licking you through it, sloppily, like he can’t stop tasting you.

He’s utterly lost. You gently pull his hair, raising his head to look at you. His face is flushed—slick ridden, eyes barely in focus, brows knitted upwards, and his tongue slowly traces the line of lips. His hips twitch against the mattress.

“Mmm, this is so much better than that magazine under your bed. Remember that one? With the brunette riding—” He choked at your words, daze fading into embarrassment as you guided him onto his back. His eyes and hands follow every shift, fingers twitching just a little too eagerly.

“Round two?” you tease, breathless. But before he can answer, a creak from the hallway. You both freeze. “… Was that—?”

“My mom,” Mark mouths silently, wide-eyed. You grin wickedly. “Bet you can’t stay quiet.” His jaw drops. “Are you kidding me right now?!” But you’re already lowering yourself onto him, the stretch making you groan as you sink all the way down until your thighs rest against his. His cock fills you perfectly, and the second he’s fully inside, you feel him twitch.

His hands clamp to your hips. He groans, quiet, and choked off. You rock once, he whimpers. “Stay quiet, Grayson.” He glares at you like he wants to fight it. But he doesn’t. Instead, he buries his face in your shoulder and lets you ride him. Slow at first, then faster. Deeper. His hips stutter up into yours, hands tight on your ass, flexing under you like he wants to take control, but he doesn’t.

Not yet. Not until you lean down and whisper, “Come for me again.”

Then he flips you. Pins you down. And fucks you so deep and hard the mattress creaks, your legs locked around his waist. Every thrust is an apology and a worship. He stays quiet with effort—sweat on his brow, biting his lip bloody—until you come again, groaning into the pillow. And when he finishes with a muffled moan into your neck, full body shaking, he’s whispering your name like it’s a prayer. A/N: Was this long as hell? Yes. Do I regret writing it? No. Let me know your opinion and suggestions, because.... my toes were curling while writing this. I'm not joking. (This was also based on how I'd believe Mark would use the dirty talk he's seen in porn, LMFAO.)

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

#invincible #x reader #invincible show #invincible comic #mark grayson #fem reader #mark grayson smut #mark grayson fanfic #mark grayson invincible #invincible mark grayson #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x you #invincible x reader #invincible x you #invincible smut #invincible season 3 #invincible x reader smut #invincible x y/n

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wholoveseggs · 28 days ago

Text

Face First

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

{Klaus Mikaelson x f!reader} A few late-night texts leads to a very unexpected house call. You’re on your period. Klaus doesn’t care.

♡♡ For my beautiful feral Klaus lovers ♡♡

1.7k words - Warnings: smutt, oral sex only, period sex, fingering, sexting, mild anal play, unsolicited house visits && {of course} Klaus being Klaus ...

You weren’t trying to start anything. Not really.

You were just bored. Horny in that aimless, restless way that came from too much scrolling and not enough serotonin. The sheets were soft. The night was quiet. You were freshly showered, wrapped in an oversized t-shirt, legs bare, your period cramps finally dulled to a distant throb. For whatever reason, your brain had decided Niklaus fucking Mikaelson was the problem and the solution all at once.

So you opened your messages and did something incredibly stupid. You pulled your shirt up and snapped a photo. Nothing too explicit. Just bare thighs, legs spread, the hem hitched high enough to hint at more. Just enough to drive him insane. You hit send, a little thrill of adrenaline spiking through you.

And then you waited. The response was almost instant. ~ Nik: thinking of me? ~

You laughed. You had been doing nothing of the sort. ~ You: i was bored ~

~ Nik: is that an invitation? ~

~ You: could be, what's in it for me? ~

You could hear the smirk in his voice as you read his next message. ~ Nik: anything. Name it, and I'll give it to you ~

A shiver rolled down your spine. A promise like that was a dangerous thing, coming from someone like him. ~ You: send me a picture ~

There was a long pause, and for a moment, you thought you might have gone too far. He was a possessive man. He didn't share, and he didn't like when people saw him vulnerable. You had pushed. Maybe you had pushed too much.

The ping of a new message made you jump. Your heart thudded in your chest, a rush of adrenaline and arousal spiking through you. The image was mostly a tease. Just the barest glimpse of the hard line of him beneath the soft fabric of his pajama pants, the outline of him thick and straining, the fabric tented and pulled tight. It was hot as fuck.

He sent a second message. ~ Nik: don't say i never gave you anything ~

You took another photo. A little bolder, this time. The shirt pushed up a bit further, your breasts on display for him.

~ Nik: touch yourself for me ~

~ You: you can't tell me what to do ~

He knew you were teasing. There was a part of you that loved when he got bossy, that loved the way he would grab you, force you down, pin you beneath him and take what he wanted. You could almost feel the ghost of his lips on your throat, the weight of him heavy between your thighs, the delicious ache of him filling you.

~ Nik: I'm coming over ~

You blinked at the screen. ~ You: No you're not ~

No response. ~ You: Nik i’m serious ~

Nothing. ~ You: do not show up here right now, I'm on my period... I'm not even joking, don't come over here ~

The bubbles stayed on delivered. Either he killed his read receipts, or he was already enroute. You sighed, dragged a blanket and your phone out to the living-room sofa, and snuggled deeper into the couch cushions. If he showed up, you would just not invite him in.

A knock at the door.

Shit.

You threw back the blanket, shoving your feet into the nearest pair of shoes. You grabbed your robe, throwing it over your shoulders. You took a deep breath, bracing yourself for the chill, and threw the door open.

Klaus stood in the threshold, eyebrow raised, an amused smirk curling his lips. You leaned against the doorframe, feigning boredom... never mind the way your pulse kicked at the sight of him.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" he asked, gaze roaming over you. He seemed... amused.

“Why?” you asked sweetly. “So you can ignore me again? Or maybe chat up another random blonde at Rousseau’s like you did last week?”

"That was a misunderstanding, love," he said, his tone low and smooth, the way he spoke when he wanted to talk his way out of trouble.

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Oh, really?"

"Let me make it up to you," he murmured. "You know how persuasive my tongue can be."

Your mouth went dry, but you kept your composure. "I'm on my period."

"Is that an excuse," he said, voice dropping low, "or a challenge?"

Klaus braced one palm flat against the doorframe, the other against the opposite side, boxing you in without crossing the invisible line. The threshold itself seemed to sizzle between you, the thin membrane of old magic keeping the monster at bay.

"Let me in," he said again, quieter this time. "Let me fix what I fucked up."

"You can’t fix it with sex."

"No," he agreed. "But I can start with my mouth. And darling..." His eyes dipped to your thighs, pupils blown wide. "If you think a little blood between your thighs makes me want you less, you’ve forgotten what I am."

Your breath caught, your cheeks on fire.

“Invite me in,” he murmured, nearly begging, finger-tips tapping the wood, knuckles whitening with restraint, every muscle coiled to leap the second permission fell.

One heartbeat. Two.

“Fine,” you breathed. “Come in. Lock the door behind you.”

The word come barely left your lips before the barrier snapped open. Klaus surged forward, slamming the door behind him and pulling you into his arms. His lips captured yours, biting at your bottom lip like he wanted to taste the need right off your mouth, then he tugged you towards your bedroom.

You fell back onto the mattress, legs sprawled. Your nightie rode up on its own, and you didn’t bother fixing it.

"Sweet fucking hell," he groaned, staring at the slick and dark-red sheen between your thighs.

He dropped to his knees, his gaze locked with yours, dark eyes full of reverence and desire. The moment his tongue touched you, a wave of relief rolled through your body, chasing away the lingering ache of cramps you'd been battling all day. You exhaled shakily, the tension in your muscles easing immediately under his touch.

The first lap of his tongue made you gasp, the second made your eyes roll back, and the third was nothing but a high-pitched moan as he latched his lips around your clit and sucked. You were so sensitive, and the way his tongue moved against you was too much and not enough, the wet, obscene noises of his lips working against you only making it better.

“Fuck, I missed this,” he muttered, voice rough and wet with need. His thumb teased at your entrance, and you bucked, hissing. He pressed his forearm across your hips, pinning you in place. “You’ve no idea what it does to me. How sweet you taste.”

You gasped, hands flying to his hair, fingers tangling in those curls and tugging hard. That only made him groan louder. He loved it and it spurred him on. Klaus was relentless. Tongue flattening and circling, then flicking just right, until your legs shook and your hips jolted with every stroke.

“Nik,” you cried, voice catching. “Please.”

He pulled back, lips slick with blood, eyes gleaming. “Please what, love? If you want something, you’ll need to ask properly.”

When all you could do was whimper, he smirked and pressed a kiss to your mound. Then slid two fingers inside your soaked cunt in one smooth, practiced motion. You jolted, hips lifting, the pleasure white-hot and searing, the pace he set making your toes curl.

“Ah. That, then.” He chuckled.

The pressure built fast. Too fast. Klaus didn’t slow. If anything, he got rougher, more focused. His mouth stayed messy and hot against you. His fingers never relented.

He looked up at you through his lashes, face slick, and smirked. “Come on, then. Show me how pretty you are when you break.”

You didn’t stand a chance. Your back arched as the orgasm hit, sharp and electric, tearing through you. Your thighs clamped around his head but he didn’t stop. Just groaned into your cunt, licking you through it like nothing else mattered.

“Nik, too much.”

He didn’t budge. Didn’t stop. He just kissed your clit again, harder this time, and slid a third finger in with a filthy sound. His other hand gripped your ass, spreading you open. His thumb circled the tight ring there with slow, steady pressure.

“Relax,” he said, and eased it in.

A moan fell from your lips. It didn't hurt. But the pressure was overwhelming, the feeling of being stretched and filled making you writhe. You whimpered, tugging his curls even harder. He moaned, deep and guttural, fingers driving into you with purpose. The second orgasm hit fast and brutal. You squirted around his hand, slick soaking everything, a strangled sob ripping from your throat.

“Fuck,” he snarled. “That’s it. Look at the mess you’re making.”

You trembled violently, body twitching through the aftershocks, unable to do anything but pant and take it. The sheets were a mess of red, and when you managed to open your eyes, his face was still buried between your thighs, his eyes black, the veins dark and stark beneath them. He groaned, licking a final slow stripe up your cunt.

You tried to scoot back, but his arm tightened.

"Too much, Nik." You whined, pushing his bloody face away. "Stoppp," you slurred, the syllables coming out all wrong.

He chuckled, and pulled away, his mouth and chin gleamed a dark crimson. But he didn’t wipe it; he looked proud of the mess. Then he crawled up your body, dragging hot kisses along your skin, up your stomach, your chest, your throat. Painting faint red smears everywhere his lips touched.

“You are so fucking smug,” you rasped, half out of your mind.

“Hard not to be, after tasting ambrosia.” He licked his lips, his mouth still stained and wet.

"Ew, go brush your teeth," you grumbled, and shoved him.

"I didn't hear a thank-you," he said, rolling his eyes. But he slid off the bed and sauntered towards the bathroom.

You smiled, rolling onto your side, watching him through the open doorway. He washed his face, then rinsed his mouth. He didn't bother closing the door, or turning the light off. He knew you were watching. Knew you liked seeing him. You didn't bother hiding it.

He returned with a warm, damp cloth, and cleaned you up, gentle and slow. You were nearly asleep by the time he was done, and he tossed the towel aside, climbed into bed beside you, and wrapped you in his arms.

"Does this mean I get another chance at taking you out?" he murmured, stroking your hair.

"Depends."

"On?"

"Whether or not I wake up alone."

He snorted, pressing a kiss to your temple. "That won't be a problem, love. Not a chance in hell."

#lissasmikaelsonweek #klaus mikaelson #the originals #the vampire diaries #vampire diaries #tvdu #klaus mikaelson smut #klaus mikaelson x reader #klaus mikaelson imagine #tvd #the vampire diaries x you #the vampire diaries x reader #the vampire diares imagine #the vampire diaries imagine #the originals imagine

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alive-gh0st · 2 months ago

Text

˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗

Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི

…..ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨..ـ...

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⛨ summary: you’re not sure what’s worse—his fake injuries or the way he keeps looking at you like he means it. like every visit is a reason to linger. like he wants you to see past the bruises and the bad lies and into something soft he’s trying to hide. he keeps showing up. you keep letting him. and eventually… one of you might break.

⛨ contains: sfw. slow burn tension at an all-time high. hospital flirting™. jealous glances. workplace drama. late-night phone calls. hand-hovering intimacy. emotional constipation (again). patch-up scene of doom. reader being flustered over a waist. mark being a tease. romantic yearning disguised as sarcasm. supply closet violations (almost). contact name crimes.

⛨ warnings: mild language. blood & injury treatment. bruises. longing. accidental touching. slow descent into horniness. future boyfriend antics. emotional walls. one almost-kiss. reader going feral over abs. mark’s v-line. reader’s vices.

⛨ wc: 4808

prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: i fear reader is down bad in ways that violate at least three hospital policies and one moral code. but like… have you seen mark’s waist? i wouldn’t have survived either. chapter four will be worse—stay safe out there.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You’ve seen a lot of stupid injuries.

People impaling themselves with forks. A guy who tried to ’karate kick’ a vending machine. That one time someone walked into the ER because he thought his left eyebrow felt ’possessed.’

But this?

This is getting ridiculous.

Because standing in front of you—again, for the third time in two weeks—is him.

Mark Grayson.

Wrist wrapped in a pitiful excuse for an ice pack, wearing a hoodie that probably used to be gray but now lives in that existential space between ‘charcoal’ and ‘regret.’

And offering you the same crooked, annoyingly charming grin you’re starting to see in your sleep.

He lifts the ice pack with a wince. “I think I sprained it.”

You blink.

Then you blink again—slower this time.

You don’t even respond at first—you just grab the chart, grab the gloves, and hope no one notices the way your jaw clenches so tight it could crack.

“Room four,” you say.

He follows you.

Of course he follows you.

“Doesn’t really hurt that much,” he says casually once you’re in the room, like that’ll make it better.

“I mean, I can still move it a little. Mostly came in to make sure it’s not, y’know, falling off or something.”

You give him a look that should legally count as malpractice.

He shrugs, sheepish. “Okay. Bad joke.”

You ignore him. You’re professional. Clinical. Efficient. The exact opposite of how your heart is acting right now—beating like it just clocked into overtime.

The glove snaps around your wrist with more force than necessary.

“Left wrist?” you ask flatly.

He nods, holding it out like a peace offering. You take it—gently, despite everything—and start checking for swelling, bone displacement, range of motion.

You do not notice how warm his skin is under your fingers.

You do not notice how his eyes are watching you the whole time, like he’s waiting for you to laugh at his pain or say something sarcastic.

You do not notice how close he is.

How human he looks. How normal he acts, even though every part of your gut screams that he’s something else entirely.

Still. You say nothing.

Instead—

“How’d it happen?”

Mark pauses.

Too long.

“Uh… tripped. Over a… rug. At a friend’s house.”

A beat.

You raise an eyebrow. “A rug.”

“Yeah. Big one.”

Your stare is surgical. “Right.”

He clears his throat. “You probably had to be there.”

You don’t laugh. Not even a smile.

But your lips twitch.

You hate him.

The chart says ’minor sprain.’

Your notes say ’watch for re-injury.’

Your brain says, he’s lying through his teeth.

You hand him the discharge slip and turn to leave, already planning your lunch break that will now include exactly two Tylenol and one existential crisis.

But then—

“Thanks, by the way.”

You pause. Glance over your shoulder.

Mark’s still sitting on the exam bed, eyes soft. Voice softer. “For not yelling at me this time.”

You look at him. Really look at him.

His smile is lopsided. Wrist still slightly swollen. Hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows like he’s trying to look more pathetic.

You exhale. “Next time, make it believable.”

He grins. “That a promise?”

You’re already walking away.

You don’t see it—but Mark watches you leave like he wants you to look back. Like he’s hoping one of these visits will make you stay just a second longer.

Maybe next time.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

It happens again.

And again.

At this point, your coworkers don’t even ask for his name. He walks in, waves a little, and someone—usually Nurse Carla, with a look that says you owe me lunch—just hands him a clipboard and sends him your way.

“Room nine,” she tells you one night, like it’s the weather forecast. “Your favorite repeat offender’s back.”

You don’t look up. “What is it this time? Terminal idiot disease?”

“He says shoulder strain. Won’t shut up about a ‘kitchen incident.’”

You sigh. Loudly. Aggressively.

And go.

“Let me guess,” you say before the door even finishes clicking shut behind you. “Rug attack again?”

Mark’s seated on the exam bed, hoodie sleeves rolled up, one hand gingerly rubbing at his shoulder. He perks up when he sees you.

“Oh, hey. Nah, kitchen accident this time.”

You squint at him. “Did the fridge try to fight back?”

“I slipped on a rogue piece of ice. Could’ve died.”

You stare.

He grins.

You want to throw a scalpel.

You don’t. Mostly because there’s paperwork involved. And prison.

Instead, you grab a pair of gloves and walk over like you’re not already halfway spiraling.

The diagnosis is, once again, technically valid. Nothing torn. Just overuse. Strain.

But the frequency is… suspicious.

Mark Grayson is either the most accident-prone civilian on the planet or—

No. You’re not going there.

You’re not paid enough to unravel the chaos behind that stupidly warm smile and suspiciously nice arms. You’re here to treat the shoulder and move on.

That’s it.

So you press a little harder on the muscle and maybe enjoy it a little when he winces.

“Sorry,” you say, not sounding sorry at all.

He hisses. “Revenge?”

You tilt your head. “For what?”

“For existing.”

You pause. “That’s not a denial.”

He smiles again. “If this is your version of flirting, it’s medically inadvisable.”

You blink.

And then you’re laughing—short, sharp, a little horrified.

He lights up like it’s the first time he’s ever made you laugh, and it’s Christmas morning.

That’s when it hits you.

He’s not coming back because he’s hurt.

He’s coming back because of you.

And that’s a problem.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

Everyone knows.

It’s not subtle. It’s not secret. It’s not even slightly professional.

Mark Grayson has been in this hospital more times than the janitorial staff this month, and everyone has noticed.

Receptionists wave at him like he’s a returning sitcom character.

Orderlies call him “Crash Boy” behind his back (and sometimes to his face).

The lab techs have started taking bets on what his next injury will be.

You don’t participate.

You’re above it. You’re focused. Clinical. Efficient.

Totally not spiraling.

Totally not hearing the group of nurses whispering near the vending machines with wide eyes and hushed giggles like they’re in a goddamn K-drama.

“She’s totally into him.”

“Did you see the way he smiled at her?”

“If that was my patient, I’d fake a fall too.”

You walk faster.

You’re fine.

You’re great.

You’re professionally ignoring it like any emotionally stable adult would.

Even Carla’s in on it.

And she doesn’t say a thing.

Just watches. With those all-knowing eyes. That judgmental smirk. The silence of someone who is absolutely clocking your entire life.

You’d honestly prefer if she just made fun of you. That would be less terrifying.

But the worst moment?

The moment that breaks you?

It happens at the nurse’s station on a Tuesday.

You’re just finishing up paperwork when he strolls in. Casual. Bright-eyed. Smiling like he belongs here.

He chats with a few nurses. One of them—you don’t know her name, she’s new, she’s probably still in school—laughs too hard at something he says.

Her hand lingers on his forearm. She tosses her hair. Her scrubs are—unfairly flattering.

You’re not looking.

You’re definitely not glaring.

Okay, maybe you are.

But then—she slips him a piece of paper. Probably with her number. In front of you.

You nearly rupture a blood vessel.

Mark looks confused at first. Then a little smug. And then—he looks over.

Sees your expression.

The twitch in your jaw. The vein in your forehead. The pure murder behind your eyes.

And he chuckles.

Chuckles.

Like some teenage fanboy who just realized you’re jealous.

You want to disappear. Or commit a minor crime. Or both.

You choose to dramatically slam a clipboard and walk away before you punch something.

You do not look back.

(You do.)

And he’s still watching you. Grinning like he just won a game you didn’t know you were playing.

You hate him.

So much.

(You don’t.)

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

Your day off is sacred.

It’s the only time you can collapse onto your couch, wear pajamas that should be considered a war crime, and pretend your job doesn’t exist.

So when your phone buzzes mid-coffee sip, you glance at the screen with the enthusiasm of a corpse.

✆ Unknown Number:

hey. quick q—how long is soreness supposed to last after a shoulder strain?

You blink.

Stare.

Frown.

Then sigh like you’ve just aged thirty years.

Because of course it’s him.

A few seconds later, another text follows.

it’s mark btw. grayson.

didn’t wanna bother you but i also don’t wanna die of arm failure sooo

You roll your eyes. Hard. So hard, your soul might’ve left your body for a second.

You type back.

That depends.

Did you slip on another ice cube or fight a blender this time?

There’s a pause. Then—

wow.

harsh.

i’ll have you know the blender and i are in a good place now.

You shake your head, but your fingers move before you can stop them.

ice it 20 mins on, 20 off. stretch it lightly.

if it starts throbbing, go in for imaging.

A pause.

so you do care

You close your eyes.

unfortunately.

That’s how it starts.

Little check-ins. Random questions. Half-medical, half-ridiculous.

✆ Unknown Number:

is it normal to be this tired after walking up stairs?

or am i dying

✆ Unknown Number:

asking for a friend—what happens if you take tylenol on an empty stomach but also 3 gummy worms

✆ Unknown Number:

totally unrelated but like

hypothetically

if someone wanted your coffee order

what would that be

You don’t save his number.

You don’t need to.

You know it now—by the rhythm of his texts, the way he never uses caps, how he spells “definitely” wrong every single time.

He’s just there.

Sitting quietly in your phone like a secret. A quiet, buzzing, annoying little constant.

And maybe…

Maybe you start looking forward to it.

Even when you pretend you don’t.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

It starts with a simple text.

✆ Unknown Number:

you up?

No context. No greeting. No injury.

Just that.

You stare at it for a long minute, thumb hovering, debating whether to throw your phone across the room or call 911.

Eventually, you settle for the less dramatic option.

You call him.

The line clicks. He answers on the first ring.

“Hey.”

His voice is soft. Like he didn’t expect you to actually call. Like he’d already braced for rejection and is now wildly unprepared.

You roll your eyes. “If this is about a medical emergency, I swear to God—”

“It’s not.” A pause.

“I just… couldn’t sleep.”

Your mouth opens, then closes again.

You’re in your kitchen. Hoodie. Slippers. Lights off. Phone pressed to your ear like a lifeline.

“What do you want, Grayson?”

He breathes a laugh. “Dunno. Talk? You don’t have to, obviously. I just—thought of you.”

Silence.

Then—“…You always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Say things like that. Like you’re not trying to ruin someone’s night on purpose.”

He chuckles. “Only yours.”

You’re going to kill him. Slowly. Lovingly. Maybe with a pillow.

Still—you don’t hang up.

You lean against the counter instead, phone wedged between your cheek and shoulder, arms crossed over your chest.

“What did you do today?” you ask, voice quieter than you want it to be.

He hums.

“Got yelled at by a coffee machine. Ate cereal with a fork. Thought about texting you like eight times before actually doing it.”

You snort.

“Your turn,” he says.

You shrug, even though he can’t see it.

“Saved some idiot’s leg. Again. Almost killed Carla with a clipboard. Avoided committing a felony.”

“Proud of you.”

A breath.

Then another.

You don’t talk for a while after that.

Just… exist. Two quiet people sharing the same silence. The same phone line. The same heartbeat pacing slow and low under your skin.

He breaks it first.

“You always sound tired,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

You close your eyes.

“You always sound like you’re hiding something,” you say back.

That shuts him up.

Not in a bad way. Just… in a way that says he wasn’t expecting that. That maybe you’re both too honest right now.

Or maybe not enough.

The next thing you know, your head’s on the pillow.

The phone’s still pressed to your ear.

His breathing is slow. Steady.

You don’t even realize you’ve fallen asleep until you wake up the next morning and see the call log.

Call ended: 4 hours, 57 minutes.

You stare at it.

Then lock your phone.

You don’t say anything.

But the next night?

He texts you again.

✆ Unknown Number:

up?

And somehow, it’s already part of the routine.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

You don’t see his name on the intake board.

Which would be great.

Except—he’s here anyway.

Mark Grayson. Not limping. Not bleeding. Not holding an ice pack or pretending to have an invisible concussion.

Just… standing.

In the waiting area.

Smiling at the front desk like he owns the place.

You spot him during a chart pickup and physically pause. Like your body’s buffering. Like your brain is trying to update to the latest version of What the Hell Is He Doing Here 2.0.

He catches your stare instantly and waves. A little too enthusiastically. Like this is a surprise party and not a professional workplace.

You approach slowly. Warily. Already drafting an internal HR complaint in your head.

“You’re not even bleeding this time,” you say by way of greeting.

Mark shrugs, like you’ve just asked him what he had for lunch.

“I was in the area. Thought I’d stop by. Y’know—check on my favorite doctor.”

You stare at him.

“This is a hospital,” you say flatly. “Not a Starbucks.”

He gasps. “Wow. You wound me.”

“I’ll do more than that if you don’t get out of my hallway.”

He grins.

You really hate him.

(You don’t.)

All you can try to do is simply ignore him.

Really, you try to do so.

But he’s too tall. Too warm. Too smug. He somehow makes the break room coffee smell good, which should be physically impossible.

He chats with a nurse his age. Then another.

You watch it unfold over the rim of your clipboard with all the restraint of a saint and the rage of a woman one bad laugh away from murder.

One nurse touches his arm.

Another giggles—like really giggles.

You swear one of them actually twirls her hair.

And that’s it.

You corner him in the supply closet six minutes later.

Mark blinks as you slam the door shut behind you.

“Okay,” he says slowly, “this is new.”

You don’t even let him finish.

“You can’t just hang around here like this is a date,” you hiss.

“A… date?”

You wave a hand at the closed door.

“Talking to people. Smiling. Giggling—God, someone giggled. Do you know how hard it is to get people to even smile around here?”

Mark blinks again.

Then says, “Are you… jealous?”

You short-circuit.

“No,” you say too quickly. “Obviously not. That would be insane.”

“Right. Totally insane.” He nods, mock-serious. “Because it’s not like you dragged me into a closet or anything.”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then try again.

“I’m trying to keep this professional.”

Mark takes a step forward.

You immediately take one back.

He keeps going.

Another step. Then another. Until your back hits the shelf and he’s right there. Not touching. Not crowding. But close.

Too close.

His arms cage around you—not touching, just braced on either side of your head. Heat radiates off him like a furnace.

His voice drops to something low. Steady.

“I didn’t come here for them.”

You don’t breathe.

His eyes scan your face, softer than you’ve ever seen them. “I’m only here for you.”

You want to say something.

Something scathing. Something sarcastic.

But the words fumble on your tongue and disappear altogether when his gaze drops to your mouth—just for a second.

Just long enough to make your pulse stutter.

You hate him.

So, so much.

(You don’t.)

This is completely unprofessional. Entirely against hospital policy.

And for some godawful reason?

You don’t want him to leave.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

Mark’s been a lot of things lately.

Tired. Sore. Bad at lying. Worse at staying away.

But mostly? He’s confused.

Because this—you—were never supposed to matter this much.

It started as curiosity. That’s what he tells himself.

Just some random hospital visit. He hadn’t been hurt, not really. Just enough to limp in as a civilian and sit through the fluorescent light misery like everyone else.

You’d been there.

Sharp. Efficient. Not a hint of softness in your tone. Told him to sit down and shut up like you hadn’t even noticed his face. Like you didn’t care.

He’d been hooked instantly.

You didn’t even blink.

And Mark couldn’t stop thinking about it.

So… yeah.

He came back.

The first fake injury had been dumb. He knows that now.

Sprained wrist, lame excuse. He’d tried to play it cool. He’d tried to be casual.

You didn’t buy it for a second.

But you also didn’t call him out. Not really.

You examined him like a puzzle piece you weren’t quite sure how to hold. Cold hands. Precise words. Steady fingers on his skin.

He’s never had to try this hard just to be noticed.

And it’s not even about the attention.

It’s about you.

He loves the way you frown at your clipboard. The way your voice drops when you’re tired. The way you say his name like you’re chewing on it, like you’re deciding whether it’s worth swallowing.

You think he doesn’t notice, but he does.

Every time your stare lingers.

Every time your fingers hover a little longer than they need to.

Every time your lips twitch when you’re pretending not to laugh.

It drives him crazy.

But there’s a problem.

You don’t know who he is.

You know Mark Grayson. College kid. Chronic klutz. Occasional insomniac.

You don’t know Invincible.

Not really.

Sure, you saw him twice—that version of him. But you hadn’t seen his face. You hadn’t put the pieces together. And he hadn’t given you a reason to.

Because if he tells you—

If he lets you in—

You might leave.

You might stop talking to him. You might look at him like everyone else does—too bright. Too strong. Too alien.

You might stop smiling at him like he’s just a guy.

And he loves that.

God, he loves that.

He loves being just a guy with you.

Not a hero. Not a name. Just a stupid, reckless twenty-something who texts you too much and doesn’t know how to say what he’s feeling without turning it into a joke.

He wants more.

He really does.

But he wants this even more—the late night calls. The sarcastic banter. The look on your face when you think he’s full of shit but don’t hate him for it.

So he waits.

And waits.

And waits some more.

Because maybe, one day, he’ll tell you everything.

But for now?

He just wants to hear you say his name again.

Just Mark.

Just yours.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

You don’t expect to hear your doorbell.

Not this late. Not on a night like this.

So when it rings—once, then again, a little longer—you groan from the couch, hoodie half-on, takeout half-eaten, dignity fully gone.

You don’t rush. Just shuffle toward the door like a zombie. Ready to murder whoever it is with a spoon.

But then you open it.

And—

Oh.

It’s him.

Mark.

He’s leaning against the frame, hood down, hair a mess. His face is pale. His lips are tight.

And there’s blood—real blood—trickling sluggishly down the side of his abdomen, soaking into his shirt.

“Hey,” he rasps, voice thin.

“Think I… might actually need medical attention this time.”

You stare at him.

Then blink.

Then stare harder.

“…What, no blender story?” you say automatically. Your tone is flat. A reflex. Something to hide the sudden weight in your throat.

He gives you a half-smile—weak, lopsided. “Didn’t wanna disrespect the blender.”

And then he sways.

You catch his arm before he can stumble. It’s instinct. It’s muscle memory. It’s terrifying.

“Jesus,” you mutter, hauling him inside. “You’re such a goddamn idiot.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, the faintest laugh. “But I’m your idiot, right?”

You don’t answer.

You just lock the door behind you. Lead him to the couch. Grab the med kit without thinking. Your hands are already in motion before your brain can catch up.

Because it’s not a joke this time. Not some bruised ego or imaginary fracture. It’s real.

He’s hurt.

And for some reason, that makes your chest ache more than it should.

You kneel in front of him, snapping on gloves with a sharp snap that sounds a lot more confident than you feel.

“Lift your shirt.”

Mark blinks. “Buy me dinner first.”

You glare.

He winces, lifts it anyway—slowly. Hesitantly.

And holy fuck.

It’s worse than you thought.

A deep gash across his side, jagged and angry and still bleeding sluggishly. Bruises blooming along his ribs in shades you don’t want to name. A few smaller cuts littered across his chest. There’s dried blood on his collarbone.

He exhales when your fingers ghost near the edge of the wound.

“Didn’t know where else to go,” he says quietly. “Didn’t want to go in. Not like this.”

You say nothing.

Because now? Now it’s not funny.

Not even a little.

You dip gauze in antiseptic, press it to the worst cut. He hisses.

“Sorry,” you murmur, but your voice sounds strange—tight.

Small.

Mark watches you. Watches your hands. The furrow in your brow. The tension in your jaw.

He doesn’t say a word.

You clean around the injury carefully. Work in silence. You try not to notice how warm his skin is.

How his breath stutters every time your hand brushes too close to his ribs.

You fail.

Utterly.

“You’re not the first moron to bleed in my hands,” you say after a long pause.

He huffs something like a laugh. “But your favorite, right?”

Your eyes flick up to meet his.

Mistake.

He’s looking at you—really looking at you.

His eyes burn into you like he’s memorizing you. Like he already has.

Something in your chest tugs.

You go back to patching him up like it’ll distract you. Like your hands aren’t shaking a little. Like your heart isn’t beating faster with every inch of exposed skin.

He closes his eyes briefly when your fingers graze a bruise. You feel his stomach twitch beneath your palm.

“Sorry,” you whisper again. Your voice is breathy this time. Too soft.

“You keep saying that,” he murmurs.

“You keep showing up like this.”

His lips tilt—not quite a smile. “Can’t help it. You make a damn good doctor.”

“Flattery won’t stop me from punching you.”

He opens one eye. “You’d patch me up after, though?”

You don’t answer.

You’re too busy staring at the cut. At the curve of his waist. At the way he breathes when you touch him.

You don’t mean to react. But God, he looks too good.

His waist—narrow and stupidly defined—tapers in like he was sculpted on purpose. Abs tight. Skin flushed. There’s blood, yes, and bruises, but all your traitorous brain can focus on is how good he looks like this.

Cut-up and pretty.

Which is horrifying.

You are a medical professional.

You are a grown woman.

You should not be getting distracted by the slope of some twenty-year-old’s V-line while he’s actively bleeding out in your living room.

But when his breath stutters under your touch, when his abdomen flinches ever-so-slightly with a soft, involuntary sound—

Yeah.

You absolute freak.

You try to focus. Really.

But your fingers keep brushing the edge of his hipbone, your eyes keep catching the way his chest rises and falls—and every time he winces, there’s a noise. Barely audible. Low and quiet and fuck, why is that attractive?

You press gauze harder than necessary.

He exhales sharply, jaw clenching. “You trying to kill me?”

“Stop making noises like that.”

“Like what?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Because now you’re flustered. Because now you’re too aware of the silence. The tension. The way your breath hitches in tandem with his. The fact that your hands won’t move away.

You’re not patching up just any idiot.

You’re patching him up.

And his voice? His waist? The heat rolling off his skin?

It’s all getting to you in ways it shouldn’t.

Not here.

Not like this

It’s too much.

Too quiet.

Too close.

Your hands still.

Your breath catches.

And suddenly, he’s looking at you again—like he’s about to say something. Like he’s about to do something.

The air goes heavy. Thick. Tense enough to cut with the scalpel you dropped ten minutes ago.

His eyes flicker down—to your mouth.

You feel it like a jolt. A pulse.

Your heart stutters.

You lean in—

He does too—

But just before your lips meet—

He pulls back.

So do you.

Silence.

You don’t know what to say.

Neither does he.

Mark exhales shakily. Pushes his shirt down. Winces when it brushes his side.

“I should go,” he says.

You nod. Even though part of you wants to scream don’t.

He stands. Slowly. Carefully. Walks to the door. But before he opens it, he turns back.

Eyes soft. Voice even softer.

“You always make it hard to leave.”

Then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him.

And you’re alone again.

You stare at the empty space where he stood. Unlock your phone. Open your messages. Type something out.

You okay? Text me when you’re—

Backspace.

Don’t be stupid next time—

Backspace.

I meant it. Don’t apologize—

Backspace.

You lock the screen.

Let it fall to the couch beside you.

And sit in the dark with your heart pounding, your hands still smelling like antiseptic and something else you can’t quite name.

Something you’re afraid to acknowledge.

And you know exactly what it is.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌He sees it by accident.

Sort of.

Mark’s at your place. Fifth time this week. You said you only allow it because he brings ACTUAL food. Does he care? No.

He would bring you anything and everything if you only asked.

Right now you’re tossing your phone between hands while half-asleep on the couch, scrolling aimlessly as you mumble about discharge paperwork and Nurse Carla’s espresso addiction.

He leans over to look at something—your screen lights up, message preview glowing.

“Unknown: you up?”

And it’s his message.

He blinks. Frowns. Stares at it like it’s personally betrayed him.

“Wait—hold on,” he says, sitting up. “You still have me saved as… Unknown?”

You glance at him, unfazed. “What else would I save you as?”

“I don’t know. Mark. Grayson. Hot guy who keeps bleeding in your ER. Something with a little dignity.”

You shrug. “Didn’t feel like changing it.”

He gapes. “Wow. Cold.”

You just smirk, stretch like a cat, and toss your phone aside as you get up to grab water.

And that?

That’s your mistake.

Because the second you’re out of the room—he pounces.

Grabs the phone. Unlocks it with terrifying ease. Scrolls straight to his contact entry like it’s a goddamn rescue mission.

’Unknown.’

Unacceptable.

He deletes it on instinct. Then pauses, thinking. Fingers hovering.

What would annoy you the most?

What would make you roll your eyes?

What would make your heart do that little stutter thing he’s started to notice, way too often?

He grins.

And types—

’Future Boyfriend’

He stares at it for a second.

Then adds a heart.

Then deletes the heart.

Too soft.

Then adds it back anyway.

Perfect.

He sets the phone down just as you return with a glass of water, eyeing him suspiciously.

“What did you do.”

Mark smiles. Innocent. Almost saintlike.

“Nothing.”

You squint. Then pick up your phone. Check your messages.

Pause.

Your brow furrows. And when you tap into the contact?

Your whole face goes still.

“…Are you kidding me?” you mutter.

He shrugs. “Thought it was more accurate.”

You glare.

He beams.

You shake your head. But then—you sigh. And your fingers curl around the phone like you’re not actually planning to change it back.

Your lips twitch.

Just barely.

But he sees it.

And when you don’t delete it—when you toss your phone back to the table like it’s nothing, like he’s nothing, even though your ears are a little warm—

Mark just leans back, smug as hell.

Victory tastes a lot like your name on his tongue. Like your laugh. Like the future he’s trying so hard not to beg for.

And he’s starving for more.

For you.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌ongoing TAGLIST: @pickledsoda @f3r4lfr0gg3r @bakugouswh0r3 @katkirishima @delusionalalien @bellelamoon @monaekelis @feminii @sketchlove @lilacoaks @cathuggnbear @forgotten-moon94 @lalana1703 @smikitty @barbare2 @sleepyzzz3 @sunspl0tionjuice @maki-rollsss @angelbelles @scarletdfox

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

taglist sign up: 𓉘here𓉝

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

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loganhowlettshousewife · 7 months ago

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just a thought for a logan prompt, what about reader with feral traits? it could be either feral!logan or not. i just like the thought of logan connecting with someone who could really understand his feral behavior! no pressure to write this if you dont want to, love your work! 💕

this gave me the idea of what if the reader in animal had a similar mutation as logan with feral traits? so here's a little drabble about it. (this drabble isn’t connected to the series, just kinda inspired by.)

your entire life you’ve had to hide your true self. as a very young child it was slightly more acceptable - you behaved strangely but surely you’d grow out of those strange habits. the problem came when you didn’t, when the growling and the biting and the scenting remained no matter how many years passed.

you were bullied and teased relentlessly, both by those who hated you and by those who claimed to be your friends. your parents were just as bad, telling you that if you wanted to act like an animal, they’d treat you like one. the only people who truly loved you were your grandparents, who had died a few years ago, leaving you to inherit their farm.

you’re much happier living in the middle of nowhere. it suits your nature, a wild part of you that cries out when you remain indoors for too long, when you’re stranded in concrete cities far from any natural wilderness.

you’re close enough to a town that you can go if you require anything, but far enough that no one will bother you under the pretense of ‘being neighbourly’. and the solitude means you don’t have to constantly worry about putting on a mask, a false personality that takes all of your energy to maintain.

everything changes the day you see a naked man running into your barn.

you tense at the sight, a growl escaping you at the thought of a stranger on your property, the hair on your arms raising as your fight or flight mode activates. your instincts win over the self-preservation that’s been drilled into you since birth, the voice in your head saying to lock the door and hide inside until the man hopefully leaves.

so you approach the barn, your steps expertly silent. despite this, he notices you immediately, growling at another presence in the barn in much the same way you had earlier. it almost makes you laugh, but then his claws come out, stealing the breath from your lungs.

he’s wild as he stares at you, not like the predator he should be but rather with a fear that reminds you of prey when they finally realise they’re being hunted. you can smell it in his scent, his desire to flee, and yet he doesn’t.

somehow you convince him to follow you inside. it’s certainly a terrible idea, and yet you can’t ignore the pull that you feel towards him, the way his mere presence feels like coming home in a way you’d never felt with anyone before. the word pack rattles around in your brain, an echo bouncing back no matter how much you try to push it away.

you feed him and help him bathe and offer him fresh clothes, and by the time the sun sets, he’s mostly recovered from his shock. you let him stay with you, and as he grows more comfortable around you, day after day, you start to notice it.

he subtly sniffs at things in the same way you’d trained yourself not to do. he growls and purrs and grunts, animal noises to express how he feels rather than human words. he’s horribly possessive over anything he considers as belonging to him. he’s aggressive, scratching and biting when he’s angry. he’s more gentle when he play fights, still biting but gentle, just nipping at your skin. he makes nests of blankets and pillows that he steals from your room, whimpering like a wounded puppy when you’d once tried to take one of your pillows back.

and in return, he notices the way you hold back in trying to do the same. the way you press your nose into the crook of his neck where his scent is strongest whenever you need comfort, the way you bite back growls when he takes something from you, the soft purring that escapes you when he scratches your scalp.

there’s a quiet understanding that forms, the knowledge that you’re the same. he doesn’t have to hide his animalistic traits with you and neither do you have to hide from him. it takes time to unlearn years of hiding, but with logan, you have all the time in the world.

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bleedingichorhearts · 3 months ago

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Hi, can I request some Sanguinius x reader smut where reader have her period and let Sanguinius help her but she was so delicious that the Great Angel overstimulated her almost to the unconscious state

“Ough, the best vampire of that universe. He shall get his meal, and you? Some well deserved rest.” - Ichor

TW // Smut, Oral, Period, Hint of Breeding.

|°𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕃𝕚𝕤𝕥°|

Whines leave your mouth as you grasp the Great Angel below you that was eating you out. Your hands tugging a bit harshly on his glorious hair that felt like silk between your shaking fingers and legs: body quaking in merciless overstimulation. Eyes unfocused, but stuck on the scene this Angel was putting you through.

His face was painted with your blood. Smeared across his soft cheeks and would be dripping down his chin if he didn’t lick it all up. You would have been disgusted, mostly in yourself for even allowing such a… messy session, but you couldn’t exactly deny your lovers hunger in his eyes. To see that flicker of something primal within them, and to feel on cloud 9 after he would pull you back down on his mouth for a more generous taste. His hands wrapping around your thighs and backside with ease, and pulling you right back into his mouth.

“S-Sanguinius!” You moan out his name for the first 100th time tonight, or you swear it was morning? Either way, he was eating you out for a long time. So long that you were losing your own breath, and couldn’t even feel your legs anymore. “Sanguinius, please.”

You’re not sure what had made him to become so… feral: eyes wandering quickly, tongue licking his teeth… Not that you were complaining too much, but… you don’t exactly have the physique of a damn Primarch; A vampire one especially. Your body was out of commission at around… what was it? 10-15 climax’s? You don’t remember, but you know it beats your original record. That would be nowhere near an Primarchs’ record.

“Stay Still.” His words sounds like he’s growling at you. Hands squeezing into the shivering flesh of your thighs. His eyes looking up at you, watching you with a certain, ravenous gleam that makes your spine shiver instead. The nerves in your body prickling with arousal and numbness. “Don’t want me to go hungry now, would you?”

Fuck, you certainly would if this is how he would express this hunger to you. You would want him to go hungry so he could have his fill of you and only you. To feel this primality again. Well, maybe when you can handle the Primarch and all of his glory, but that is hard given he keeps having to confine with planets that were lightyears away, and that he definitely is much more powerful than you in all aspects. Though, you suppose it’s a nice, filling stretch once you find yourself underneath him.

“Oh, but if you have all of me. You would have nothing left to savor.” You counter his words, feeling how your sensitive skin twitches. Groaning softly when he rolls his tongue once more inside of you before backing off to nuzzle against your thighs. Unable to feel the slick of juices, saliva and blood he had consumed and painted you with.

“Hmm, there is truth to your words.” He hums, kissing your left thigh. His fangs brushing over the buzzing flesh. “Can I not greed for the being that gives themselves so freely?”

“That’s not what I-” You sigh, trying to calm yourself as this seemed like that only time he would pause himself. “I greed for you just as you greed for me. Besides, if you kept eating me out. I would probably won’t have another weekly month to indulge you with, and I might pass out as I am… smaller than you.”

He seems to perk up at your words for a moment, mulling them over. His mouth opening as his tongue goes over his fangs like a canine. “You’re exquisite, love. Yet, I have another idea to keep your monthly troubles away.”

“Oh?” You breathe, raising up your head to look down at the Great Angel with an arched eyebrow. His own body crawling up to put you in his shadow as his hair becomes a curtain. Your legs wide for the Primarch to fit between them. His lips turning up into a smile before he descends upon you. Kissing you softly for a man that hungers for things unnatural.

“Though, do not mistake my hunger for you. That, is eternal.”

“@kit-williams, @egrets-not-regrets, @bispecsual, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @sleepyfan-blog.”

“+@c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @marcela2000, @passionofthesith, @insanity6666.” - Tagged

#🗡️ichors’ warhammer request’s #warhammer 40k #primarch #primarch x reader #sanguinius #sanguinius x reader #blood angel #third person pov #second person pov #tw: smut #tw: oral #tw: period

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cynthiav06 · 1 year ago

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Question. do you think Percy should have stayed Single? Or ended up with somebody other than Annabeth? I Really think he should have stayed Single. Because I personally don't Like Percabeth, I don't Ship Percabeth and I don't Like Annabeth at all because of the way the Shippers act, or The way the characters themselves in Canon Act, like how Percy just does whatever Annabeth says, or how Percy is scared of Annabeth, Or how fans make it seem like Percy would become an Emo Edge Lord if something happened to Annabeth, Or How much she Belittles and Degrades him (I hate the nickname Seaweed brain), Especially since she acts like Percy cant do anything without her That moment when She and Reyna were talking about how ("Percy Couldn't find his way out of a Paper Bag without you")Made me SO mad it made me Dislike Annabeth even more and Dislike the Percabeth Ship as a Whole, I even hated when she Pretty much Restricted percy of using his powers You Know? "The sea doesn't like to be Restrained" well here it is.. being restrained...Exactly what it hates, and I hate how the Fandom makes Percabeth a Godly Ship saying they are the "It Couple" which they aren't and how They treat anyone who doesn't like Percabeth or Ships Percy with someone else other then Annabeth, but the one thing I HATE the most is how they make EVERYTHING percy Does Romantic for Annabeth like she's the only person who matters to him (Percy Only Remembering Annabeth (a Girl he's Known for only a couple years) Instead of The woman Who RAISED him by a goddess who isn't even the goddess of Love Made me SO MAD and Even when Annabeth made Percy remember when he was in the River Styx when it should have been his Mom made me mad) which is why I mostly believe that Percy Should have just stayed Single (I'm all for an Aromantic Percy) or At least Give him a Love interest who he can be Comfortable around and doesn't have to Constantly walk on Eggshells around her (I wished he Dated Rachel) or Hell Even make him Gay i've saw characters who have Better chemistry with Percy then Annabeth IMO but this all just my opinion.

You honestly don't know how long I could rant on this exact subject.

It's partly Annabeth's fault, and it's partly Rick's fault.

Anyone and everyone who has read the Pjo and HoO series should have noticed how illogical Percy's personality change was.

Percy Jackson, the hero of Olympus and the strongest demigod to ever live, sassy as can be, laid back but scary beyond measure if you cross him and an absolute menace to his enemies and loyal to death.

That's who he is, and Rick remembered that initially, and even till Son of Neptune then he just forgot how Percy someone he himself wrote to be this way is.

It's like Percy has no identity of his own, and he is only significant if he is with Annabeth. Like hello, he's the main character people, is the Fandom seriously going to degrade the main character, especially when the said mc is Percy Jackson???

Percy, despite his own issues, is and will always be foremost in helping people. He would be the first person to help keep the seven together. He would be the first to try and make a bond. He wouldn't have some stupid and illogical and totally ooc beef with Jason. Instead, he would help Jason be more sure of himself to stand up to Jupiter and for himself.

He would help Leo personally to bring back Calypso and they would both shit talk Olympians and how fickle their oaths are.

He would literally do anything to save Nico. Like hello, are you telling me that the boy who at 14 took it upon himself to bear the Great Prophecy, which he thought who end up killing him just to save Nico from that fate????? He would go absolutely madly feral to save Nico from the Giants.

If Piper and Reyna had their screws all properly fit they would see that Annabeth and literally everyone else would be all left to die if it wasn't for Percy. Percy gets himself out of everything by his own efforts and his own strategies. (Annabeth's rarely work). It's time the Fandom acknowledges that the best strategist in the verse is Percy, no questions asked and finally give him due credit for all HIS efforts.

Percy would never ever leave Sally unless it was for a quest, especially not when she was pregnant and absolutely not to go to college, something he hates especially when it concerns New Rome.

Here's a thing about Percabeth shippers they care about Annabeth's plans and her dreams, not Percy's. It is literally so out of character for Percy to want to live in New Rome a place that invests in a child army, a place that despises his father and wouldn't even build him a decent temple, a place so extremely cut off from the sea.

If Percy wanted to live in peace and grow old, he would do it in a place of his choosing close to his mother, Paul and Estelle, and close to the sea. But here's the thing about Percy.

I don't think people get this, but Percy can't just up and leave, nor would he want to. His damned fatal flaw is LOYALTY. He would never ever leave demigods or anyone helpless by leaving Camp Half Blood. Sure he would take less quests on but he would ALWAYS stick around and Rick did him so dirty by making all his thoughts revolve around Annabeth and insinuating he would let others suffer just fine to be with Annabeth.

Percy gave up immortality because he took Sally's teaching to heart as she did so too when she denied Poseidon's offer. He did it for himself for demigods it didn't have shit to do with Annabeth, but of course, he would look at her because she represents his life as a demigod.

Rick making Percy see Annabeth near the Styx and making him remember Annabeth instead of Sally is just him bullshitting. We all know Percy is a mama's boy, and he would do right by Sally always, so him giving a girl who he has known for barely long enough has no basis to it.

And Percabeth stans literally can't take a mention of a single alternate Percy pairing that alone is the biggest red flag. Because they know their ship is toxic and that Annabeth is the root of it.

For the PEOPLE IN THE BACK aka toxic stans:

Annabeth's fatal flaw is HUBRIS, and she is by nature controlling and condescending, and her character had the chance to GROW and CHANGE, and it would have been the most epic character growth sequel but she did not and she is CONTROLLING, DISMISSIVE , DEMEANING.

The newest Read Riordan entry literally has Annabeth saying that she needs to catch up to Percy cause he scores a better grade than her in school (even there Percy is smarter folks there you have it) and she literally says if she doesn't catch up Percy might start calling her SEAWEED BRAIN. So it is a demeaning nickname she gives Percy and continues calling him that even after knowing how Gabe similarly verbally abused Percy.

This is the fandom's IT couple? Wow. Percy literally is going against his own nature of being free and unrestrained like the sea because of Annabeth's controlling nature.

The worst of her behavior is when she blames Percy for his disappearance when she dismissed him when he was talking about his trauma induced by Gabe, her beyond toxic treatment of Rachel, especially when she unreasonably asked Percy to supress the use of the very power that got them out alive (she is scared naturally but she cannot force her own fear on Percy when he did nothing wrong).

So yeah, Percy Jackson with anyone but Annabeth. I am all for aromantic Percy, but personally, I find Perachel to be more appealing.

Trust me, I could rant about this for hours, especially how Rick butchered Percy's personality and made it full of Annabeth, especially how he threw Percy's insecurities and trauma and PTSD out of the gutter post tartarus.

#pjo headcanons #smart percy jackson #percy jackson is a strategic genius and i won't stop talkinb about it till everyone gets that #percabeth is not it #perachel is the best percy ship hands down #percy and annabeth #anti annabeth chase #percy jackson supremacy #anti percabeth #sally and percy #jason and percy #leo and percy #Percy and Nico #son of neptune #heroes of olympus #percy jackson and the olympians

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ghostgirl-22 · 6 months ago

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Empty head pretty Princess art is always on my mind now… wearing his pretty lacy underwear under his normal clothes, a secret for just him and Patrick….. Patrick dragging him into the bathrooms and pushing him against the wall to hike up his shirt and touch him because hes going insane thinking about it and hes been half hard all day

Mmhm <33

CW: 18+ !NSFW!

Patrick makes him wear em all day. Picks out the prettiest pink lacy bra and matching panties. Fits him like a glove when he’s soft but he can’t stay soft when they’re on. He’s antsy. Squirming all morning — can’t sit still. Keeps rubbing at the bra no matter how many times Patrick nudges him to stop. He can’t adjust to the feeling of lace underneath his clothes. And he slowly starts losing himself in arousal.

He’s usually a know it all in history class but doesn’t raise his hand once to Professor Hassam’s surprise. By mid morning he needs Patrick. Can’t function without him. Needs Patrick to take notes for him while he’s chewing on his pen. Needs Patrick to guide him to his next class. Needs Patrick to tell him what to do. Keep track of all his stuff and tell him not to touch.

Patrick thinks he can handle it. Thinks it’ll be easy. But by lunch Art’s all giggly and flirty and playful. Doesn’t matter if it’s girls or boys and he’s flirting with girls and boys. By the end of lunch period, when they’re mostly alone he’s a total fucking mess, straddling the bench, barely hiding his arousal, licking greek yogurt off his spoon. Cheeks flushed, lips pink. He’s staring at Patrick with glassy blue fuck me eyes. Whispering in Patrick’s ear that it feels weird, that he’s so horny, and it’s all scratchy, and asking what happens if he comes by accident.

Patrick feels a little insane when he’s doing it. Sneaking into the out of order girls bathroom. Shoving Art up against the bathroom stall, kissing, touching, hands in Arts hair, hands up under Art’s uniform shirt mouthing his perky nipples through the lace. “God you’re a slut,” Patrick breathes as Art’s pushing back against him eagerly. “It’s only been a couple hours and you’d let anyone fucking bend you in half right now.”

“Patrick,” Art whines. “Patrick please.”

He didn’t plan to. God he meant to last all day. But the way Arts moaning, the pitch of his whines echoing throughout the empty bathroom are making him feral. Before he realizes what he’s doing he’s got his hands on Arts bare bottom. The thin lacy fabric the only thing keeping him out. He’s barely lubed up with the small bottle he shoved in his backpack just in case and he’s sliding the lace to the side to get his dick inside as fast as possible. Ramming it in just because of the way Art sounds as he does it. “That’s it… fuck yes… my gorgeous girl… they can look but this belongs to me.”

“Mmhm, ‘m all yours,” Art moans.

Patrick can’t help himself. He goes a little crazy. Maybe blacks out a little. By the time he’s done hes breathless, shivering. Art is dazed, his come dripping down the stall door, panties soaked, he’s so shaky he can barely stand, he’s grabbing at Patrick to keep himself upright.

“Mm, I love you,” Art says in his ear and Patrick knows it’s because they just fucked but he feels warm all over anyway.

Patrick cups his cheek. He’s such a mess. His clothes are scattered and he’s only in the lingerie. His eyes are bright, he appears lucid but his lips are swollen from how he’d been biting them, his skin’s all splotchy and pink, his hair’s all over the place.

It’s so obvious that he’s just had sex and that’s just gonna get him even more fucking attention and get him all worked up again.

“Come on, princess let’s get you dressed.” Patrick says, softly. He pulls Arts bra strap back up over his shoulder and gives him a kiss. Art falls into it, eyes closed, tongue slipping easily into Patrick’s mouth. Patrick will likely be back here with him in just a couple hours but it’s so fucking worth it.

#challengers fic #challengers smut #artrick #art donaldson smut #patrick zweig smut #art x patrick

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desertbled · 6 months ago

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MUSE'S HANDWRITING! go here and pick out a font which resembles your muse’s handwriting the closest and write their name.

FONT. i could not, for the life of me, find a font that was 100% cursive. pretty much all of them are halfway between script & cursive. this was the closest i could get to how i imagine wolf's handwriting. i like to HC that cursive is still commonly used by some people, since the culture of fallout is retro. so wolf tends to use cursive on documents & letters, unless print is preferred by the receiver.

tagged by: @prkh (thank u! <3) tagging: YOU.

#( ooc.)#( dash games. )#;;I WAS RAISED FERAL AND MOSTLY STAYED THAT WAY ( about. )#( q. )

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cajon-desastre · 4 months ago

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I was raised feral, and I mostly stayed that way.

Gillian Flynn. Dark Places

#Outlander #Claire Fraser #season 1 #1x01 #my gif edition #outlanderedit #quotes and gif

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tutur-ddbr · 11 months ago

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For your dirty feral mind.

One of my greatest talents, at least for what I have been told, is...

Sex Analyse

And I'm going to do the sex analysis/headcanon of Logan and Wade. For all minors around here: DON'T INTERACT AND LEAVE THE FUCK OUT OF MY YARD.

Our favorite old man: James "Logan" Howlett

I don't strangely see Logan having a huge interest in sex (at least this version in the movie) maybe it's my Ace ass that is talking but let go threw it, shall we.

Logan isn't into sex, not anymore, after what happened to the X-MEN the only thing he wants to put his mind into, is alcohol. For him, he don't deserve any kind of love, he don't deserve to be touched, to be praised, or to be satisfied in any given way. He don't want a parody of intimacy with a prostitute, or just a one-night stand. He don't deserve it.

In this man's mind, nothing will make him happy, nothing will bring light in this world anymore, nothing will raise his spirit why would he fall for that shit? Why would he get laid?

But after he saved the world? Think better about himself? and get back on his feet?

Logan would be shy, not shy like a virgin, shy like a hurt man. He would not give anyone his trust that easily to the first human being coming to him. No, he needs a special someone, he needs this one personnel. This one personnel who will say his name like a little prayer and make it feel like home.

If he finds out this special someone, he wouldn't be rough, wouldn't be mean, oh no. Logan will be lost, confused about how he ended up here, why the person chose them, and why they even wanted to let him a chance in the first place. But this intimacy, Logan need it. At first, it would be weird for him, he don't know what to do, how to put himself, top, bottom? He's so confused. He would need a hand to get it together, he would need time and patience to get out the beast in him.

But what would he do exactly? Logan would lay on his back, too scared to hurt the person in front of him. He would start with soft kisses, they are bad and he knows it, he is a bad kisser (the man hadn't kissed someone for ages.). Logan will not know where to put his hand, on the waist maybe, around the shoulder? Maybe on the chest. He wants to obey and he will! all the orders someone will give him, so he knows he wouldn't fuck up. Top or bottom he would try his best to stop being as selfish as his past self, he wants his partner to get all the pleasure they want. He isn't a loud one for this first time, he is too concentrated on not fucking up that he mostly hold his breath during each movement. He would beg for his partner to say his name, to say how good he is doing, to say how they love him. He needs to know, that he isn't broken. After the orgasm, he would hold onto his lover for a couple of minutes, smelling them, caressing their body, being sure they are there and real. Looking at him, making eye contact would make this man melt, forehead again forehead, whispering his name, saying how they love them, how good they are. Logan would need love and comfort, someone to hold him and tell him he is worth it. Someone to say his name, and make him stay when the night fades away.

(Would he be like that with Wade? Maybe if Deadpool don't tease him too much and takes a break from his persona to let the other man heal, yes)

We are doing a part 2 for Deadpool cause my brain used all his energy for Logan. (Why I ear boss music ?)

If you want to talk about Logan, PLEAS PLEAS PLEAS PLEAS slide into my DM or my request/ask thing I NEED TO TALK ABOUT THIS.

Also eh, I have a KO-FI liked in my BIO if you want to check out. Later people.

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett #logan howlett x Wade Wilson #wade wilson #deadpool #wolverine #deadpool wolverine #wade wilson x reader

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werosmyss · 2 months ago

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ok i feel like were well on the cusp of getting more hazbin news, so i wanna finalize my predictions for s2 going forward (mostly vox/radiostatic focused). i also haven't seen any of the leaks so a) don't talk about them and b) they may outright confirm or deny any of this but i don't want to hear it either way

okay, predictions below the cut since this got longer than i liked

we know vox (and luci) will both be more present due to vivs tweets

vox & alastor backstory episode, it'll either be the full episode or the a/b plot with some sort of dramatic foil

in said episode we will get canon radiosilence (not copium not copium)

i really dont want to say this but i think the most common fallout theory (vox made an unwanted advance that broke the camel's back, whether that was the partnership proposal or something romantic/sexual) is probably going to be canon. i really hope that it will be nuanced, though, and not just come out of nowhere

radiostatic and radioapple fans will be eating very well this season

by extension the applemedia content will blow up for sure

this is more copium but i want staticmoth to be confirmed as a fwb/fuckbuddies situation. i think they work better as found family/friends who fuck each other rather than as a relationship, because i personally have a hard time seeing staticmoth as anything other than toxic.

velmilla will be real (not copium not copium) (this one is mostly a joke, but...)

another rap battle or musical duel of sorts between vox and alastor just because i like stayed gone and i love old news more

the first hazbin/helluva crossover will probably be a minor cameo and not a major role, and it will be in hazbin before helluva.

my vote for crossover (which i dont know how well this works given the animation timelines) is to see some of the mastermind fallout and headlines and newsreels and such

radiostatic has no chance in hell of happening in canon (and neither does radioapple, sorry guys)

season will either end with the vees being permanantly disposed of (unlikely), neutered as villains (most likely) or on the path to redemption (also unlikely, though i see them taking this path with valentino, whether or not it succeeds or fails, to drive the "everyone deserves a chance at redemption" point home. would be crass to put canon val in the hotel with angel, though, and i don't see a good way of doing this (maybe reedeemed valentino is endgame for s4?)

by the end of season 3 (i know these are s2 predictions but..) alastor will do something to betray the hotel and be cast out, whether that is a misunderstanding, intentional, or a result of his deal, i don't know. i desperately need alastor to betray them because i just re-read that one tuesday and im coping.

please dont let vox be pookie. im begging you

^^ by this i mean don't let vox take the easy road out by claiming abuse at valentino's hands. ties in with my earlier hope about them just being fwb, but i want vox to be a proper villain. i love making him pookie but the show should keep him evil

alastor's power will be significantly diminished over the course of the season. lucifer will be begrudgingly helping mend the would from adam at charlies request. radioapple shippers will go feral for this

radiostatic fight scene. proper fight scene, anime fight scene, anything to take advantage of the amazon budget. let me see them really go all out against each other (second to last or last episode of the season)

okay this one is more for me but i want a recreation of the pilot scene where alastor first shows up at the hotel, but with vox.

also, this season will see the people who make those radiostatic similarities gifsets eating VERY well. like we will see back to back shots of them doing the exact same behaviors. never forget who raised you, vox.

we will get radiostatic merch finally because the radioapple shippers got their hoodie and damn it i want one too

vox will be taller than alastor (not including hat, ears, antlers, poofy hair) despite what the announcement video shows. i am a tall vox truther and there is no way that man isn't exactly 1 inch taller than alastor just to spite him.

please let baxter be voiced by richard horvitz please he is so zim coded

if any of the vees are getting 'redeemed' (not fully, but starting on the path) at the end of this season, its velvette. she really seems to have no problem with anyone at the hotel, and would be easiest to fold into the main cast as a neutral/anti-hero sort of character. vox obviously has his shit with alastor, and val has his shit with angel. there is no way either of them would survive at the hotel for more than an hour. velvette actually has a chance (and i am a velvette simp sorry)

give me domestic found family vees not because i want to undercut their role as the villains but just because i love them and need to see them being silly like in the finale

GARDENER VALENTINO how could i forget omg we NEED to see val just being so obsessed and in love with his plants. if redeemed val is endgame then we need to start sowing those seeds now

i do NOT want to see any sort of valentino backstory excuse shit this season. if we get anything like that, it needs to be in s3 or 4. i don't want to see any 'oh he used to be in the same position as angel' 'hurt people hurt people' etc etc etc. if that's the way they take this storyline, okay, but it would be too much at this point in the plot and feel more like an excuse than an explanation. i love valentino as a villain, but his character needs to be handled carefully if they want to actually try and redeem him and not make him a stella-type 'completely evil' character.

if val is going to be stella please dont make vox stolas. vox can be andrealphus, they can both be comically evil. vox is not the stolas in this relationship.

i know i said radiostatic will never be canon but a small part of me wants the show to end with them being friends at least, or at least not outright hating each other.

also!!!!!!!! make the static communication canon! i dont know HOW they would visualize it, but i need to believe that vox and alastor can communicate through the ariwaves and im really not taking no for an answer here

also also we need at least one more overlord meeting and it has to go like that one story from the radiostatic zine (this one, which may be my favorite from the whole thing) in the sense that the entire thing gets completely derailed by alastor and vox fighting across the table. literally my favorite thing to see whenever it pops up in a story.

okay i want to hesitantly say that thats it. its 12:40am, i just had a delicious coffee from my fuck alastor mug, and now im going to go re-read more of my bookmarks and pine for the tv man

#radiostatic #staticradio #radiosilence #hazbin hotel predictions #hazbin hotel season 2 #vox #alastor #also mentioned: radioapple; staticmoth; velmilla; applemedia #some fic recs sprinkled in here #this is less predictions and more like a caffeine fueled wishlist #hazbin hotel #discussion of valentino redemption #if that icks you just a warning #blatant vees simping #at this point im not even trying to hide it this is a vees fanblog now #voxposting

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bouncybongfairy · 1 year ago

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Hellooo Could I request for Felix Catton please? Where’s maybe Oliver is so obsessed with Felix’s girlfriend, the reader to the point where he killed her because “if I can’t have you, no one can” troupe and all and like then Felix witnessed it and all angsty sad thingy so sorry if’s dark but thank youu so muchh 🥰🥰✨💖

Till Death

Oliver Quick x Fem Reader

Summary: After you and Felix starting going out, Oliver began developing an unhealthy infatuation with you. Anytime someone laid their eyes or hands on you, it made him feral. One night at a party he finally caves in to his depraved urges.

Word Count: 3.0k+

Ref Account: @kaionyx

TW: Stalking Kink, Blood Kink, Knife Kink, CNC Kink, Nasty Smut.

<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3

It was the beginning of the spring semester at Oxford University. Everyone seemed to be in a joyous mood, coming back from Christmas break completely decked out in mommy and daddy’s money. Grades are reset and all your friends are saying “I think a 7am lecture every Wednesday and Friday will be refreshing” or “I'm actually going to keep up with my canvas discussion questions this time around.” The best parties of the year are during spring semester, because everyone's stress levels are relatively low. Oliver was planning on heading to a house party with you and Felix. Both of you were friends before Felix and you got together so you two always invited him out when partying. Oliver always obliged in these invites but not for the sake of friendship. He liked keeping tabs on you, watching you get drunker and drunker. You were such a know it all in class, always raising your hand. Yearning to be a teacher's pet, going the extra mile to be the perfect student. Seeing you at night gave Oliver a high stronger than any bump he could take. Watching that innocent good girl facade fade away with the more wild you became after getting intoxicated drove him crazy.

It made him furious when he saw the way Felix handled you, he was so sweet and gentle. It was so obvious that you craved a stronger hand. Wanting so badly for anyone to dominate and to remind you of your purpose. The way you flaunt your body around, practically begging to be shoved to the ground and taught how to act properly. Currently all three of you are getting ready in the dorm Felix and Oliver shared. You were in the bathroom leaning over the sink, your hips pressed against the edge. Your mouth was hanging open while applying mascara, Oliver was watching while making small talk with Felix. Who had his face buried deep in his closet looking for something to wear. Everytime you leaned closer to the mirror the oversize shirt you wore rose up, revealing your panty line.

“Maybe just a polo, nothing too crazy,” he said, pulling out two options.

“How much time before we go!” you called out from the bathroom.

“10 minutes!” Oliver replied.

“Shit!” you gasped, rushing to finish. Felix was completely distracted, putting his shoes on and getting his things together. His phone went off every five seconds, after a while he finally went to see what all the buzz was about.

“Fuck, Mason asked me to pick up a few bottles. Oliver, will you stay and walk with her and I'll meet the two of you there?” he asked.

“Of course, see you there mate,” Oliver held back a scoff, Felix was such an idiot. Leaving you there for him to do… well, whatever he felt like.

You kissed Felix goodbye and unraveled the hot rollers out of your hair. Fluffing it out before circling hairspray around it. Applying the last few touches like lip gloss and perfume. It was around 11pm and the weather outside was nippy. You being half dressed were feeling the effects of this quite viciously. The two of you were making small talk, mostly about the weather or school. Oliver didn’t give a fuck about what you were going on about. He was using it as an excuse to watch you, shiver and shake. The way your teeth were chattering together was driving him insane. The house wasn’t even a mile from campus but your heels were slowing the both of you down a bit. Like a wounded little animal hobbled by the wolf chasing it. This hummored him, thinking about how this would look if you were alone. The street lamps shining down, the light reflecting off your tan moisturized legs. Your lustrous jewelry also catches some of that light, practically calling wandering eyes to your body. Speaking of, your body was barely covered. Wearing a tube dress that barely covered your upper thighs. The material was cotton which meant it hugged you tightly. Fuck, he felt like he could see your goosebumps through it when he looked hard enough. He hated that Felix didn’t correct any of this. If you were his, he’d never let you walk about like that, any guy they passed had his eyes on you. Focusing in like you were their prey, it made his heart race. Bubbling with anger and jealousy, wanting to rip their throats out because he knew what they were thinking. Finally getting to the party, Felix was already a couple shots in, obviously his side quest went a bit off the rails. Giving you a quick kiss before going back to entertaining ‘the boys’ who were quite sweet on him. Annoyed by the lack of attention, you poured an overly generous amount of liquor into your cup and headed into the living room. Where the speakers were blaring and a large group of people were dancing all together.

Oliver sat on the couch, plastic cup in hand watching you. At first, your moves were more reserved. Keeping to yourself, dancing next to people rather than on them. As you suck down your liquor, your moves are becoming less modest. Now dancing against your friend, her manicured fingers gripping your hips. Oliver didn’t drink anything from his cup yet, he didn’t want to lose too much control over himself. Nor did he want anything to impair the focus he had on you. Sweat was starting to bead on your body and your dress was riding up. He liked noticing all these little things about you, the shift in your demeanor and attitude once you were drunk. Normally you were sweet-mannered and shy but when you were fucked up, you were more bratty and vulgar. Not afraid of acting out, practically screaming for someone to put you in check. He ripped his eyes off you and looked over into the kitchen. Seeing Felix down another shot, eyes practically drifted in two different directions. His girl who was way out of his league is half naked and drunk surrounded by wandering hands. He was so oblivious and stupid. Looking back your direction and his jaw dropped. You were standing right above him, hovering over where he was sitting on the couch.

“Why don’t you ever dance?” you ask him.

“Hmmm?” he asked, as if he didn’t hear you.

“Any time you come with us to a party, you never get like -hiccup- get crazy,” you say, sinking down to sit next to him. Now whispering in his ear whenever you spoke.

“I do, I just pace myself,” he leaned in.

“Sure, whatever makes you sleep at night,” you giggled, pulling a joint out from behind your ear.

“You’re sparking up here?” he asked, cocking his eyebrow.

“You gonna stop me?” you asked, smirking and lighting it.

He felt all the blood in his brain rush down towards his dick. Almost lunging at you, like it was the perfect invitation to finally break you down. Your charm bracelet jingling everytime you bring it to your mouth for a drag. He chuckled to himself, remembering how just hours earlier you were eagerly raising your hand, hogging the attention from the teacher. Beaming every time she reaffirmed your answers, ‘amazingly accurate’ or ‘well done’ things like that that made you practically jump with joy. Now you were double fisting and practically sitting in your boyfriend’s mate’s lap. He was at his breaking point, feeling like his entire body was on fire. Like every atom and cell in his body was pushing him to take you.

“Maybe we can get out of here? The air is starting to feel sticky,” Oliver says, standing up.

“Oh of course! I was starting to feel the same way, especially after dancing,” you said, standing up and following him. Holding on to his belt loop, letting him lead you out of the house.

Once the two of you finally got outside, your body was having a sublime reaction. Due to you being hot and sweaty, the cold weather outside was causing water vapor to come off your body. Oliver could feel his mouth salivating, watching you hands shake and you brought the joint to your mouth. You offered him a hit several times but he declined, enjoying watching you become high out of your mind. Making drunken conversation as you walked, digging into your purse and looking for your pen after the joint was smoked down to the crutch. It wasn’t until you started walking that you realized how fucked up you were. Even when you really try to keep your balance, you’d sway and wobble from time to time. Looking at your phone, checking the stats on your recent post. So preoccupied in your own little world that you didn’t notice Oliver was no longer with you. Dropping your phone into your purse and looking around, calling out to him. The street no longer looked safe and quaint. After standing there doing circles trying to locate him, you gave up and started the walk home. Or at least back to their dorm room. Clutching your purse and trying to fight through the pain your heels were giving you.

Oliver was watching from about fifteen or twenty feet behind you. Seeing you look around with that unsure and scared expression on your face. Eyebrows furrowed and your eyes wide and glossy. Stumbling over your own feet as you walked around in circles looking for him: completely defenseless. You dropped your pen and bent down to get it, unknowingly exposing your backside to him. As you walked you kept pulling your dress down, the cold starting to get to you. He continued to follow, hiding in plain sight like in front of a parked car or mailbox. You were beginning to feel paranoid, hearing leafs crunching or being spooked by dogs barking. Pulling out your phone and ringing Oliver, frustration and uncertainty written all over your face. Amused and aroused by your fear, he would throw a pebble in your direction. It hit your heel and made you jump and fall onto the ground. The road did a number on your knees, both of them now bloody and dripping down your shin. Now crying, feeling overwhelmed and frightened. Oliver had to hide his smirk as he came over to ‘rescue’ you.

“Where did you go! I literally fell!” You cried, reaching out for him to help you up.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know how we got separated- here let me carry you back yeah?” he asks with a sickeningly patronizing tone.

“Really?” you asked even though he was already picking you up. His cock was throbbing while looking down on you. Mascara running down your face, teeth chattering and bleeding like a hurt little bunny. He carried you the rest of the way bridal style. Resting your head on his shoulder, complaining about your knees everyone in a while. It wasn’t long until the two of you finally made it back. He lets you stand up but once you put your weight on your legs you start wobbling, using him to support yourself. He grabs your forearm quite roughly and pulls you inside. You were confused as to why he was being a little aggressive but brush it off. Walking over to Felix’s bed and plopping down, finally taking your heels off. Oliver locked the door and jammed a chair underneath the doorknob. Taking notice of this, you start to question him,

“How will Felix let himself in?” you ask.

“Enough of that. Pretending you care about him,” he said, turning to face you.

“I don’t- I care about him,” you say with a mix of defensiveness and disbelief.

“I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Maybe you’re in denial or just too prideful to accept it but you don’t care about him. You think he’s stupid and want more. It’s okay, just admit it,” he says, walking slowly towards you.

“Why are you acting like this?” you asked, confused to where this was coming from.

“Me acting like what? Calling you out on a fact? You’re one of those girls who likes to think she’s confident and calling the shots at all times. In reality all you really want is someone to turn your brain off. Take complete control over you and fuck you until you fall apart. Completely brain dead, only worry being when a cock is shoved in your stupid fucking throat,” he said. Tears stinging your eyes, and insecurity flooding your mind as he continued,

“Would a girlfriend who cares about her boyfriend leave him at the party without even checking on him? Simply to go home early with his best friend to get fucked into the matress,” you said, now hovering above where you were sitting on the bed.

“Not. True.” You said, crossing your arms.

“No? So you wouldn’t mind if I see how wet you are? I have a feeling you’re soaking through your panties as we speak,” he said, getting on his knees. In your head you wanted to immediately reject him, but in your gut you didn’t want to stop him. It was true, you did want someone who was rougher with you. That’s not only aroused but not scared by the concept of hurting you.

“I mean if you don’t want me to please, feel free to stop me,” he said, resting one hand on your knee and the other slowly sliding down your thigh towards your pussy.

You felt like a whore, knowing that you should be stopping him. Shamefully justifying this betrayal with the fact that you haven’t had gratifying sex for a while. Felix was of course dominant and it wasn’t that he sucked at fucking or anything. It was just that he didn’t really understand the whole mental side of it. Also he didn’t want to hurt you. Whenever you made the suggestion of slapping you in the face or choking you a little past your limit, he got nervous. Never really doing these actions with full commitment. The tips of his fingers began to trace your slit, as predicted you’d completely soaked the lace material. Finding a weak spot in the lace material, he uses his fingers and rips a hole. You gasp and go to press your legs together; he moves his hands to your knees, stopping you from closing your legs. His hands were stinging the scraps, you grip onto his hair from both pain and pleasure. Ripping and pulling at the strands as hard as you can. Oliver kept looking up, watching your mouth hang open and the most pornographic moans slipping out. Pulling out the whore he knew you were deep down inside, feeling powerful knowing he was doing what Felix could never. Pulling his hair so damn hard was only building onto the pent up anger and jealousy he had over you. He pulled back, saliva and wetness dripping down his chin. Looking down at you, completely deranged and desperate.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked. As you went to respond, he shoved his bloodied fingers into your mouth. Pressing your tongue down, pushing his digits down your throat. You gagged which caused him to laugh before continuing.

“What was that?” he teased, becoming more aggressive. His index and pinky finger were pressed against your cheeks, his nails scratching you.

Finally pulling out and smacking you with the same hand. Even though you were drunk and high off weed and adrenaline, that took you off guard. It burned and the fact that his hand was soaked in your saliva and blood felt embarrassing or humiliating; maybe a bit of both. It made you overwhelmed with turmoil. Something that should be so shameful left you wanting more. Longing for something more painful and intense. The rush and exhilaration of pushing the limits of your emotional and physical boundaries was like a drug you never had before. He grabbed your hair and forced you to the ground, onto your knees. You winced as you fell to the ground, eyebrows furrowing and a moan coming out of your mouth.

“Aww does that hurt?” he asked, tilting his head to the side. Smacking his cock against your lips, smearing pre-cum over your mouth for a while.

“You deaf? Answer the fucking question,” he said, grabbing onto your hair with both hands.

Feeling like this was a trick question, your instinct was to stay quiet. He yanked your hair, showing that he was becoming impatient with your stubbornness. When you open your mouth to answer, he shoves his cock down your throat. Being merciless with his pace, pounding into your mouth, having no regard for your feelings; and you were loving every second of it. Oliver was noticing you were finding a bit too much pleasure in this. Arching your back and rocking your head back and forth. Looking down he sees your hands on the floor supporting yourself. He steps on them, slowly putting more and more weight down and trapping you to the floor. Panic started to set in once you tried pulling your hands away and couldn't. He gathered most of your hair into one hand and used his other to cover your nose. Completely blocking your airway. Oliver watched your eyes widen and your face become beat red from a lack of oxygen. Every time you pulled at your hands or gagged around his cock he would twitch and moan.

“Don’t pass out on me yet, be the good little slut you are and hold on a little longer,” he said, shaking your head by the nose when he noticed your eyes getting glossy and foggy. He finally pulled away, you were sucking in deep breaths. Slowly coming to and he picks you up and lets you fall on the bed.

“Sorry love, I just needed you more pliable for what’s next,” he said, pulling out his pocket knife.

He flips you over onto your knees, shoulders pressed against the mattress. Again, not having any regard for you, he shoves himself into your dripping cunt. Fucking into you slowly, you thought he was being gentle after how aggressive he was being. In reality he is scoping out a good place to carve his initials onto your ass. Using the tip of the blade to make the first mark, you screamed. Not expecting the sudden sting. The entire time he was creating a slit in your skin he would degrade and tease you. Acting sympathetic but really just getting off on owning and marking your body as his. Making you fear and worship him in the sickest way possible. The panic and fear in your scream going straight to his dick, not being able to control the erratic rhythm of his thrusts. He admired his initials becoming less legible due to the blood starting to cover it. He added a few random slash marks on the other ass check, just so the other cuts wouldn’t get lonely. Dropping the knife onto the floor and playing with your ass as he fucked into you. Spanking you causing the blood to fly around, onto your lower back and his face. Once he was done playing, he flipped you around onto your back. You looked smashed, like a hot fucking mess. Seeing how brain dead and broken you were was sending him off the edge. Wrapping his bloody hands around your neck as he came in you. Finally claiming your body, showing you the true purpose of your mouth and pussy. He got up and went to the bathroom to wash up. Smirking as he washed the blood off his face and body. Felix walked in, completely drunk and high out of his mind. On top of that, in shock from seeing your body on the bed, bruised and covered in blood. Screaming and crying attempting to wake you. In so much shock he didn’t even notice Oliver walk out, grinning from ear to ear.

“Fucking idiot,” he scoffed.

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