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𝖁𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝕺𝒇 𝕲𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒐𝒏

𝔰𝔲𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔠𝔞𝔯 ⅋⅋ supernatural ... 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟒 he/him. ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 𝑏𝑜𝑟𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑖𝑒. make me a better man. lanky. polkadots. fawn. ˃˂ re𝟐. jeans ⅋⅋ polos. 𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐧’𝓈 lover. 𐒘𝛠 physical media collector. 𝑏𝑢𝑡𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑠. somewhere in northern italy. heated rivalry.

( 𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐒 ) library. discord. rules. get𝟐know me.

꣖ minors, homophobes, zionists do not interact. ꣓

also mars argo n kyle gallner mentioned :3

they’re dick hungry on this app lol

no thanks

smut will be in bold. 𝖒𝖉𝖓𝖎.

𝐃𝐂 𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄

𝔡𝔦𝔠𝔨 𝔤𝔯𝔞𝔶𝔰𝔬𝔫 ꒱ humping your foot 𖬺 gn!reader.

𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐀𝐋

𝔰𝔞𝔪 𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯 ꒱ pronebone with sam 𖬺 afab!reader.

The room is bathed in the dim, golden glow of the salt lamp Dean insists on keeping in every motel room “for vibes, Sammy”, but right now, the only vibe is the slow, heavy drag of Sam’s cock inside you, his body a warm, solid weight pressed against your back. He’s half-asleep, his movements sluggish, like he’s fucking you in a dream. One he never wants to wake up from.

A pillow’s wedged under your hips, tilting you just enough that every time he sinks in, he stays there, buried to the hilt, his pubic bone grinding against your ass with a lazy, circular roll. You can feel everything—the stretch, the heat, the way his cock twitches inside you when you clench around him, like he’s surprised by how good it feels, even now.

His arm is a band around your waist, his fingers splayed over your stomach, pulling you back onto him with every slow, deep thrust. His other hand is clamped over your mouth, but there’s no real force behind it. Just the quiet understanding that Dean’s in the next room, and if he hears anything—even the wet, obscene sounds of Sam fucking you—he’ll never let either of you live it down.

“Mmm, fuck,” Sam mumbles into the crook of your neck, his voice thick with sleep, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re so tight like this.” His hips rock forward, his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl, and you whimper against his palm, the sound muffled but desperate. He smiles, you can feel it against your shoulder—because he knows what he’s doing to you.

His hand on your stomach slides further down beneath you, his fingers finding your clit with the kind of lazy precision that comes from knowing your body. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t need to. His thumb circles you in slow, maddening little swirls, his touch feather-light at first, then firmer when you buck back against him, begging without words.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice a sleepy purr. “Take me. All of me.” And you do. You do, because how could you not? When he’s like this—warm, heavy, his cock throbbing inside you with every shallow breath—there’s nothing else in the world but the two of you, the slick slide of skin, the way his chest rises and falls against your back.

His thrusts are lazy, almost drowsy, but no less deep. Every time he bottoms out, he stays there, his hips pressed flush against your ass, his cock pulsing like he’s savoring the way you clench around him. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he whispers, his voice breaking just a little, and the sound of it has you squeezing around him harder, earning a broken groan from his chest.

His thumb presses down on your clit, and your body shudders, your orgasm building slow and deep, like a tide pulling you under. You can feel him everywhere—his chest against your back, his cock buried inside you, his fingers working you over, his breath hot against your neck. “Sam—” His name is a plea, a whine, and he swallows it, his hand pressing harder over your mouth as his own rhythm stutters, his hips losing their careful pace.

“I can’t—fuck—I can’t last,” he admits, and the admission is raw, so Sam it hurts. His thrusts turn erratic, his fingers digging into your hip, his cock twitching inside you as he chases his own release.

And then his thumb presses down, hard, and the world tilts. Your orgasm rips through you, slow and deep, your body clamping down around him so tightly he groans, his own release following with a shuddering, broken cry against your shoulder. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he spills inside you, his cock pulsing, his whole body trembling.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing, the thud of his heartbeat against your back, the way his grip on you loosens just enough to let you drag in a lungful of air. His hand slides from your mouth, his fingers lingering against your lips like he’s memorizing the shape of them.

Then, because he’s Sam, because he can’t not say it—“You okay?” His voice is rough, worried, even now. Even after.

And you laugh, breathless, because of course he’d ask that. Of course he’d still be checking on you when he’s the one who just got fucked senseless.

You turn your head just enough to catch his mouth in a slow, sleepy kiss, tasting the salt on his skin, the faint hint of coffee from the diner down the road. “I will be,” you murmur against his lips, “when you do that again.”

His chuckle is quiet, low, and full of promises. “Oh, we’re definitely doing that again.”

𝗠𝗗𝗡𝗜 𓏲ּ𝄢 𝒟ick 𝒢rayson humping your foot ꣖ 𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔩𝔲𝔡𝔢𝔰 foot fetish kind of ? dirty talk light degradation/humiliation humping teasing orgasm (m) ꣓

The couch dipped under your weight as you sprawled out, legs stretched across the cushions, your feet landing squarely in Dick’s lap. The fabric of his sweatpants was warm beneath your socks. He didn’t complain. Of course he didn’t. Instead, he let his head loll back against the couch, eyes half-lidded, the picture of exhaustion.

“What are we watching?” he murmured, voice rough with sleepiness. His fingers curled lazily around your shin, thumb tracing idle circles on your soft skin, just enough pressure to make you hyper-aware of his touch.

You took a bite of your sandwich, the crunch of the bread drowning out the low hum of the TV for a second. “The new season of Love Island,” you said around a mouthful, swallowing before adding, “Try to contain your excitement.”

A beat. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched. “Hm. Fun,” he drawled, the word dripping with sarcasm. His free hand lifted just enough to gesture vaguely at the screen. “That the one with the British people and their… aesthetic enhancements?” His fingers tapped your leg, mimicking the rhythm of a drumroll. “All the lip filler, the spray tans, the dramatic slow-motion entrances?”

You snorted, nearly choking on your food. “Yup. That’s the one.”

Dick’s grin turned downright wicked as your laughter filled the room. He loved that sound—loved causing it even more. His hand abandoned its innocent perch on your shin, fingers sliding upward with deliberate slowness, inching beneath the hem of your shorts. You could feel the heat of his palm, the callouses from years of gripping batarangs and punching villains, and then—

Smack.

Your hand came down on his, swatting it away before it could go any further. “No,” you said, tearing your gaze from the screen to pin him with a look. “I am watching Love Island.” You popped the last bite of your sandwich into your mouth, chewing with exaggerated slowness. “If you’re horny, go jerk off.”

Dick’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it sharpened, like a blade unsheathed. “It’s more fun with you,” he purred, voice dropping into that register that made your spine tingle. The one that promised trouble and delivered every time.

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you, curling up despite your best efforts. “Not happening. I am not moving from here.” You gestured vaguely at the couch, as if that settled it.

For a second, his grin faltered—just a flicker, a crack in the armor. But Dick Grayson didn’t stay down for long. His hand retreated, fingers trailing down your leg in a way that felt intentional, like he was memorizing the path. Then, without warning, his palm settled over your socked foot, pressing it firmly against the growing bulge between his thighs. His hips lifted just enough to make his intentions painfully clear, and a breathy sigh escaped his parted lips, the sound so obscenely pretty that it should’ve been illegal.

“You don’t have to move, just lie there,” he whispered, voice thick with amusement and something far more dangerous. His dark eyes locked onto yours, daring you to call his bluff.

You stared at him. Then at your foot. Then back at him. And then, because you were you, and he was Dick Grayson, and this was just how it always went—you pushed down.

His breath hitched, hips jerking up involuntarily, the couch creaking in protest beneath you. For a moment, the only sounds in the room were the tinny voices from the TV, the rasp of fabric against skin, and the way Dick Grayson’s entire body tensed, like a coiled spring ready to snap. A whimper tore from his throat, soft and needy and so unfairly hot that it sent a jolt straight through you, pooling low in your stomach.

“Fuck,” he muttered, but he was smiling. Of course he was. Always smiling, even as his hips rolled up against your foot, the motion shameless, relentless. Essentially humping your foot like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Dick’s fingers dug into the arch of your foot, his grip desperate, as he held you against his cock. The fabric of his sweatpants did little to hide the way he throbbed against your sole, the rigid outline of him pressing insistently, demanding attention.

A broken moan spilled from his lips, his head tipping back against the couch, throat exposed. The tendons in his neck stood out sharply, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. His other hand clawed at the cushion beside him, knuckles white, like he needed something to ground himself—or maybe to restrain himself from doing something somehow even more depraved.

You watched, mesmerized, as his body unraveled. Dick Grayson was a mess before you, his usual poise shattered, his control in tatters. The man who could outmaneuver Gotham’s criminals, who could sweet-talk his way out of anything, was reduced to this: a trembling, needy wreck, fucking your foot like it was the only thing in the universe that could satisfy him.

His cock pulsed against your sole, the heat of him searing even through the layers of fabric, the pressure almost unbearable. You could feel how hard he was, the way his length twitched with every roll of his hips, the way his thighs quivered as he chased the friction, his body begging for more. A bead of sweat slid down his temple, his dark hair sticking to his forehead, his lips parted and glistening.

“You look really pathetic right now,” you murmured, your voice low, laced with amusement and something darker, something that thrummed in your veins as you took in the sight of him. Your toes curled slightly, pressing into the thick ridge of his cock, and the reaction was immediate—his hips stuttered, a broken gasp tearing from his throat as his body jerked against you.

“I know,” he breathed out, the words soft and whiny. His voice was wrecked, rough with need, and the sound of it sent a shiver down your spine. His eyes were still shut, but his face was twisted in a way that was half pleasure, half torment, like he was drowning in it and didn’t even care. “Fuck, please—” His hips lifted again, this time with more urgency, his cock rubbing against your foot in a way that was almost too much. The friction was maddening, the pressure building with every desperate roll of his body.

You bit your lip, the taste of copper sharp on your tongue as you watched him fall apart. The way his muscles tensed, the way his breath came in sharp, uneven bursts—it was too much. And not enough at the same time. You shifted slightly, pressing the ball of your foot down harder, grinding it against him in a slow, deliberate circle. The sound he made was filthy. A choked, needy whine that made your stomach clench.

“That’s it,” you taunted, your voice dripping with sin. “Good boy.” The words were a spark to the kindling of his desire, and his hips snapped up, his cock throbbing violently against your sole. His fingers tightened around your ankle, his grip almost bruising as he held you in place, his body moving on instinct, needing the pressure, the friction, the release.

“Fuck—fuck—” His voice was a broken thing, his words dissolving into a string of curses and pleading. His free hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt, yanking it up just enough to expose the taut plane of his stomach, the muscles there tensing as his body arched off the couch. The sight of him—wrecked, desperate, yours, sent a pulse of heat straight between your legs.

You could see how close he was. The way his cock twitched, the way his breath hitched, the way his entire body coiled tight, like a spring ready to snap. His hips were moving faster now, erratic, sloppy, his control completely unraveled.

“Gonna cum like this?” you asked, your voice a purr, your foot pressing down just a little harder, just where he needed it most. “Gonna cum all over my foot like a good boy?”

His eyes flew open, dark and wild, locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath stutter. “Yeah—” The word was a whine. His hips lifted one last time, his body shuddering as his cock pulsed violently against your sole, the heat of his release soaking through the fabric. A broken cry tore from his throat, his back arching as pleasure wracked through him, his body trembling as he spilled.

And then he collapsed back against the couch, his chest heaving, his body boneless. His grip on your foot loosened, but he didn’t let go, his fingers still curled around your ankle, like he was afraid you’d disappear. His eyes were glazed, his lips swollen from biting them, his entire body glowing with the aftershocks of his orgasm.

You pulled your foot back slowly, revealing the now damp fabric of his sweatpants clinging to himself, evidence of his release.

Dick let out a shaky laugh, his voice rough. “Fuck,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling. “That was…” He trailed off, like he couldn’t even find the words.

You giggled lightly, “You are so pathetic.” And once again, he didn’t deny it.

©𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐎𝐍𝐃. 2026 all rights reserved. Do not copy, repost, plagiarize, translate or feed any of my work into ai.

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𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐒/𝐀𝐒𝐊𝐒 I’ll take requests but I’ll probably take a while to actually put it out so, if you’re impatient i am not the person to come to for requests. I do however, love to yap. talk to me about anything and everything. if you want you can even add my discord and we can be friends.

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 almost anything but the things listed in the please avoid section.

𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐈𝐃 rape , illegal age gaps , necrophilia , vore , incest , age play , furries , fecal play , a/b/o