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ooooomigosh ur writing is so cool and pretty! i was wondering if you could writing something, anything really, about mohawk mark and that suuuuuper annoying mimicking trait of his. i feel like he’d mock yn’s whines and moans right back to her, loud and scarily accurate. or even holding it against her in general? like “oh that’s not what you were saying last night-” yk?
MOAN LIKE A BITCH!
❛❛He want a quickie, let him lick me, then I started gaspin'!❜❜
Synopsis: Mark loves teasing you, especially with how loud you get when he has you bent over.
Pairing: Mohawk Mark x Chubby! Reader
Warnings: Heavy teasing, female reader, vaginal sex, slight edging, overstimulation, mdom, mean dom, fsub, some degradation, minor praise, public sex (they're in a washroom, so it technically applies), fingering, dumbfication, cock drunk.
AN: I 100% agree anon, he'd be so annoying to fuck. An absolute meanie. But like still hot while doing it??? I think I have an issue. Also THANK YOU FOR 100 FOLLOWERS!
Word Count: 1.1k
Mark made it a point to rub in just how much he pleased you. Prick gets off by how embarrassed you get when he dicks you down. Especially how loud you'd get.
That's why he has you bent over a stingy washroom sink. Skirt bunched at your waist, tits pressed firmly against the cool porcelain.
Panties pushed aside—perfect view of your drenched folds glistening under the low light. The faint sound of music drifting in the background, party long forgotten.
His hot breath grazed your ears, his hand trailing down the curve of your spine. Feather light touch sent a shiver down your spine.
“Must have been fantasizing about this, hmm? I mean, you didn't even wear shorts!” His hand stopped at your fat cunt, he gave it a tentative tap. Spreading your slick folds, admiring your pussy.
You shivered, lips clamped shut. He continued, collecting your essence on his fingers, rubbing along your puffy folds. “C'mon, not even a little whimper. I know you love it when I play with this pussy,” he huffed.
A wicked grin spread on his lips, his body hunched over yours, smearing sloppy kisses down the juncture of your neck.
Hot breath fanning your skin makes your breath hitch. His index finger swiped over your aching clit causing you to gasp.
“I know you can give more than that,” his fingers toyed with your sensitive clit, your lips wobbled, your restrain snapping like twigs.
You moaned, you already knew you were done for. He mimicked it, almost perfectly, “That's how it's supposed to be. Moaning like a bitch for me.”
Two fingers probed your quivering hole, sliding in with ease. “So wet, and I've barely touched you.” The intrusion was tantalizing.
His movements were slow. Agonizingly slow. You could feel your resolve fizzling out, you rolled your hips against his hand. The delicious feeling of thick fingers pumping into you sent a jolt of pleasure down your spine.
Your breath staggered, soft moans tumbled from your lips. “Aw, is the slut enjoying my fingers? Gripping em’ tight,” he cooed, angling them higher to curl at your g-spot.
You jolted, whining at the added stimulation. “I asked you a question. You're a big girl, aren't ya? Use your words.” fingers bumping at your sweet spot, making your legs tremble.
“I love it… Love your fingers, Mark. M’fuck,” you slurred, feeling heat crawl up your cheeks as the little pride you had left withered away.
“I love it, love your fingers, Mark. Of course you do, I’m the best.” his finger picked up their pace, fast and overwhelmingly good.
Broken moans fell from your lips like a waterfall, Mark only huffed with pride. The familiar knot in your stomach tightened, walls clamping down on his fingers.
“Mark, I'm gonna cum…please!” He quickly withdrew his fingers with a wet plop. You groan, looking over your shoulder, lips pursed in a scowl. “I was close!”
Mark cocked his head to the side, a lazy grin on his lips. “So impatient, you’ll cum, eventually” Harshly slapping your ass, he unbuckled his pants, fabric pooling at his ankles.
“I mean, I’m curious to see how long you’ll last.” Tip of his cock aligned itself against your slick hole. “Y'know, like a fun little experiment.” He mused, pushing in.
You gasped, you could've cummed right there from the delicious stretch of his thick cock. An angry red tip is already reaching the deepest part of you.
“See? Won't it be better to cum on my dick sweetcheeks?” he cooed, rough palms slide over the expense of your ass. Rolling his hips in slow thrusts.
Your mind reeled, hands gripping the delicate porcelain beneath you. “Yes, God yes.”
“Already breathless and I haven't even fucked you silly.” drawing his hips back for a particularly harsh thrust making you gasp.
He continued, each swift roll of his hips grew rougher. Until the echo of skin slapping and breathy moans bounced off the walls.
“Isn't this better, baby?” Mark's grip around your hips was bruising, his smile taunting.
Your thoughts practically melted with each languid stroke of his cock. He only snorted, “C'mon, tell me my dicks better. I know you can do it f'me, baby.”
His words flew over your head. Not even attempting to register his words. The clawing feeling of your orgasm approaching.
Your silence drew him to pause mid thrust. Sudden loss made your fogged mind clear
“No! Please, just keep going!” You whined, hips grinding against his, a feeble attempt to get any friction.
“Please, just keep going. Then answer my question. My dicks better ain't it?”He cackled, pinching your ass cheek.
“Yes! Your dicks, ahh, amazing,” you squeaked. The torturous start and stop was evermore irritating.
His pace was brutal, damn near knocking the air from your lungs. Your grip on reality slipped from your fingers, fat tears rolling down your cheeks. The familiar knot of release forming in your abdomen, only to quickly dissipate.
You whimpered at another ruined orgasm. “Please, Mark. Wanna cum…please let me cum!” You babbled. Hands clawing at the porcelain beneath you, the cool touch only ebbing your frustration further.
His fingers swiped at your clit in fast circles “You really wanna cum?
“Yes! F-fuck yes….gotta c-cum.”
“Then cum.”
Your legs buckled, vision splotchy as your orgasm crashed into you, a high pitched cry of ecstasy.
Mark didn't stutter, even as your pussy clamped down, gripping him like a vice. “Look at that, did my slut enjoy herself?”
You nodded your head haphazardly, “yes, yeah…so much…m'fuck.” Even as the waves of your orgasm subsided, his frantic movements continued.
Your hips jerked away, pleasure becoming overwhelming. “No! Shit, ngh, too much! Mark…too much!”
“You wanted to cum, didn't you baby? So cum again f'me.” He cooed. Your second orgasm hit you like a train, you withered beneath him.
It went on, you've lost track of how many orgasms he's given you. Relentless abuse of your poor cunt muddled your mind further.
“C'mon slut. Just one more for aah, me. Can't you do that?” you moaned meekly, pussy clamping down weakly against his pistoning cock.
“There we go, cream on my cock one last time, hah. Shit…just one more, m'so close.” Mark babbled, his resolve teetering as his cock twitched.
He grumbled, thick spurts of cum painting your walls. “Fuck, your pussy milking me dry, sweetheart.” You groaned, both your releases smeared against your thick thighs.
Your legs crumbled beneath you, Mark held you up with ease, “C'mon, you've had multiple orgasms and I only had one. Seems a little unfair, huh?” Littering sloppy open mouth kisses along your soft jaw.
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HEADCANON: rough!mark grayson + his aftercare
AUTHOR'S NOTE: hello this was based off this lovely request so kisses to whoever submitted that! my inbox is always open if any of you have ideas for main!mark hehe. all that i say warning-wise is that while it isn't non-con, the reader does get so uncomfortable that she has to use the safeword. aside from that, enjoy xoxo MDNI PUHLEASEEE
( the scene )
Lemme get something straight first and say that you using the safeword HAS NEVERRRR HAPPENED. Mark is excellent when it comes to using his superpowers for an advantage in bed, never for abuse.
He loves how he can manhandle you so easily or keep you in place exactly where he needs you to be. And he ALWAYS makes sure he's being careful with you- making sure he's not crushing you, making sure your expression in your face shows everything of pleasure and nothing of pain.
But...there was this one particular night that he'd fucked up.
It was after a shitty, rough mission. What should have been a simple in-and-out job turned into something torturous: hundreds of aliens plaguing the city with their psychic abilities- using mind control and hallucinations to turn one person on another. And the Guardians of the Globe weren't shy from these powers either. One of the aliens had sent Mark into an endless mind loop, showing images of the death of his loved ones and...you. By the time Mark had snapped out of it, he'd killed the alien in a blind-rage.
So, when he finally came home- your bedroom, he was all raw, shaken and barely holding it together. He was so desperate to ground himself in you, eager to let go of the headspace he was now put in.
Mark opened your window with trembling fingers, and when you eyed him up and down, his body told you everything that it was a rough fight.
Split lip, messy hair, blood on his jaw and that wild look in his eyes...
"Oh, Mark," You whisper, sympathy furrowing your brows as you grabbed his hand with tenderness and softness- a simple reminder that you were here and safe, "Why don't I run you a bath? And then we can eat ice-cream?" He was motionless. You frowned, "Or we can just cuddle?"
But, your words served no purpose in this moment because he was already releasing your hand off him and, with efficiency, he unshed his suit. With every inch of bruised and cut skin exposed to your orbs, he lowered and lowered more until...
Oh.
"Oh."
He was hard.
It's not the first time Mark's needed to fuck you after a fight or mission. In fact, it's probably the best sex you get- with all the pent-up frustration and adrenaline still pumping through his veins, he's gotta release it somewhere…
You could say it's the perks that come with having a superhero boyfriend
So, with no further questions, you let him take you as he pleases.
But this time it's...it doesn't feel right. Sure, he kissed you passionately as he backed you until you were sitting on the edge of your bed, and his hands were roaming every inch of your precious, delicate skin like he needed to make sure all parts of you were intact.
But, it just...it felt rushed and rough- there was not an ounce of praise slipping off his lips as it so easily does and if there were any words, it was-
"-Need you- fuck," He grumbled against your neck- your skin already trailed with deep, maroon-kissed hickeys. He had already pulled your pyjamas off, and you couldn't help but whine when you heard the tear of your favourite undies as he so effortlessly ripped them in half. Of course, they weren't anything expensive, but comfort beats labels- does it not? "Need you now, baby."
You'd hope that rubbing your arms up and down his biceps that pulsated with raging muscles and veins would have encouraged Mark to slow him down, "Mark, can you just- Mark!" You were cut off with a gasp at the harsh bite of his teeth on your skin- your soft, smooth, delicate fucking skin.
He. Fucking. Bit. You.
Mark never bit you. And sure, it didn't hurt enough for you to stop him, but God, were you gonna have a word with him.
So you had let it go, only to then choke again when Mark suddenly flipped you over so your stomach was resting on your bed. His calloused, large hands that usually reminded you of a flower's petals, or the bridge of a baby's nose now felt rough, harsh...unfamiliar.
You tried to push the feeling of discomfort that was arising away to the back of your brain, and better yet, bringing forward the phantom breathy moans of Mark's voice telling you how pretty you are and how you're doing so, so well for him amongst your racing mind.
But it wasn't until Mark brought your ass closer to him and he pushed your head down into the bed roughly and you actually couldn't move against his force did your heart begin to race, though not out of the usual excitement and arousal.
No, this was...this was panic- discomfort.
His cock was just grazing the entrance to your hole when you realised that he wasn't even going to stretch you, to prepare your walls for him, to...to even fucking please you.
So with a sharp inhale, you said it.
"Red!"
Once the word left your lips, Mark had stopped everything.
Let's just say that you using the safeword was the slap back to reality he didn’t know he needed.
He froze.
"Wait- what?" And when he flickered his eyes down to your face, screaming of seriousness and panic, he immediately took his hands off of you, "Baby- fuck," And he watched as you silently - definitely from the shock, not to ignore him - manoeuvred yourself so you could stand up and away from the bed.
And as he observed your figure with worried eyes while you walked around the room and picked up your pyjamas, he couldn't help but feel like his stomach just got punched worse than any villain ever could.
His voice changed immediately- from that deep, breathless edge to a broken concern, "I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"
( the aftermath )
The aftermath was hard at first because aftercare was Mark's favourite part of sex, but clearly you weren't in a good headspace for that.
While he wanted nothing more than to curl his body around you, cuddling you until you fell asleep as he whispered his sorries, it's more important that you collected your feelings first.
So, the first thing he did was let you have your space.
You made him have a shower so you could sit in your bedroom by yourself- the one room that was your safe space now felt...ugh, it felt dull. And you hated that because all you wanted to do was shake whatever negative thoughts you had out of your brain, but you couldn't do that when your eyes wouldn't stop staring at your teared underwear on the floor.
You're not mad, nor upset at him- just frazzled at how uncomfortable and weird it was for you. It didn't feel like your boyfriend, your Mark.
Mark had the quickest shower he's ever had. Ignoring the aches his cuts winced against the hot water and soap, and his muscles whining with how efficiently he cleaned his dirty body- Mark was in and fucking out, not wasting any more of a second being away from you.
But, even after Mark got out of the shower and he frantically stumbled into your room with only a towel wrapped around his hips, you didn't look up at him- didn't want to.
And fuck, did it break his heart.
His baby, his sweet girl was like this because of him.
But, after you walked past him and began showering yourself, you did come eventually around. And thankfully, Mark was right there for you.
( the aftercare )
Cue Mark's aftercare!!
You just finished having your shower. And as you walked back into your room with wet hair and new pyjamas, you immediately noticed the difference in atmosphere in your bedroom; it didn't feel so sickeningly odd anymore, instead, it was oozing back into that familiar sense of safety and comfortability.
Your bedsheets were neatly fixed, and your bedroom lights had been flicked off, only the individual-lit candles circulating your room with warmth were the only lights provided for your eyes. There's a couple of sweets and snacks on your bedside table, along with a freshly filled water bottle (yes, it's got lots of ice too).
And Mark, now in sweats and a shirt he usually left at your place for emergencies like this, was just standing there...nervously.
"Is…is this okay?" He asked, immediately scratching the back of his neck, and if you really looked close enough you probably would've noticed the rosy-kissed blush spreading just below his jawline.
You tilted your head a little, examining the room just one last time before you attached your gaze back onto his. And, with a little smile, you nodded, "This is a start."
Mark sighed in relief.
Good. That's all that he needed so far.
Mark knew your weakness. He knew one of the many things that made you melt, made you feel at peace...
Warm blankets that were just fresh out of the dryer.
So as Mark wrapped said blanket around your body, he then sat on your bed with his chest against the headboard- and pulled you into his lap gently. It's so reverent, so incredibly warm as you rested your cheek against his covered chest, while one of his hands cradled your head and the other stroked your back.
With your ear pressed up against his chest, your heart was able to beat to the same rhythm as Mark's, only helping to relax you more to the natural white noise provided just for you.
Then, the questions came.
Mark's the type of guy to do that- don't tell me otherwise.
He just was so nervous- and with anxiety comes the constant need to be reassured.
So, he asked them one at a time with a frequency so gentle yet so eagerly that you could feel the faint vibrations of his voice pulsating through his body.
"Do you need anything else right now?"
"What size are you in underwear?"
"Do you want to talk about it?"
...
"Should I leave? Do you want me to leave?"
You sighed heavily, "Just stay with me," You ushered in a delicate whisper. And with that, Mark let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. He clutched you tighter- though still careful.
You spent the new few hours like this, with your favourite show playing low on your laptop in the background and the occasional shift to your positions.
But, one thing never faltered during it all- Mark never let you go.
He's reassuring- maybe too reassuring. "I'm not gonna stop checking in now, okay? I don't care if we've done it a million times- I'm still gonna ask. I'd rather annoy you than hurt you again."
DID I MENTION HE'S SO WARM AND BIG AND UGH.
And he won't slide it under the rug either. He explained thoroughly to you what those aliens did, but even when your head started to feel heavy with sympathy as you listened to him, Mark hushed you. "No, what happened to me from those aliens should never have been your body's responsibility to snap me out of it. I should've had more self-control to just...get over it, rather than putting it all on you."
And even days later, he still was on about it.
Mark would keep reminding you how much he valued your trust, even when you forgave him and softly reminded him that: "Hey, that's what safewords are for, right?"
Mark kept his promise about constantly checking in on you, because now when you have sex, he is fucking relentless with how much he asks if you're okay.
He's also slower, more communicative, and soooo so gentle the first few times you're intimate again.
Everytime you encouraged him to be a little more rougher, Mark would double...triple check to make sure you were okay about it.
"Are you sure you want me to be rougher?"
"Yes, baby,"
"No but- are you...sure sure?"
You sighed, your knees and arms wearing thin with exhaustion in your current doggy position because Mark was not shutting up- even with his cock buried inside you. So, you turned your head, and directed his right hand that was on your waist down a little lower so it rested on your ass cheek. "Mark. Please slap my ass."
warnings: 18+. nsfw. nerd ! mark grayson, bimbo! bully! reader. mark is a dork n i love him idc. boob job, blow job. marks a virgin. usage of puppy. spit. indecency in a storage room. whimpering. he cries. college au. no powers. pet names, corny nick names but it’s used in a degrading way. degradation. praise. he’s obvi a lil ooc.
summary: mark, smart, awkward, and far too soft-hearted, made the mistake of doing one too many assignments for you. a bully in heels, unhinged and relentless, you’ve taken a liking to him in the worst way possible. wc: 4.0k-ish
an: minors n ageless blogs dni. i scraped n rewrote this idea like 3 times b4 finally finishing it. whoops.
Mark is hiding—yes, literally hiding—curled up like some sad, oversized hermit crab shoved into the mildew-scented dark of the campus storage closet. Knees pulled to his chest, hoodie bunched over his head, the flickering overhead light doing nothing but throwing sad little shadows across his hunched spine. He’s tucked into himself like if he folds small enough, maybe you won’t find him. Maybe you’ll just assume he’s dead and move on.
He did your assignment again. Like always. Like clockwork. Like the stupid little pet you keep on a leash of guilt and half-smiles and flirty threats. But this time? He tanked it. On purpose. Slipped in the wrong citations, fudged the formatting, “forgot” a conclusion. Got you a solid C-minus. Barely scraped the bottom of passable. And now he’s sitting here marinating in dread, picturing your reaction—the dramatic sigh, the tilt of your head, the sharp, sweet twist of your mouth when you’re disappointed. Or worse, unamused.
He’d tried to convince himself it was a smart move. A soft rebellion. Maybe if you bomb once, you’ll stop throwing your workload into his lap like it’s part of his tuition. Maybe you’ll get the message without him having to look you in the eye and say no.
But now he’s here, heart doing that ugly fluttery thing like it’s trying to crawl up his throat, every footstep outside the door sounding like you in your usual stormcloud mood. Sharp clacking shoes. Soft voice. That sugary venom in your tone when you call his name like you own it. His phone buzzes. A small sound, pathetic even, but it might as well have been a gunshot for the way it ricochets through the cramped silence.
Mark jumps, a sharp, startled twitch of limbs against concrete and metal shelving, knocking into a box of dusty paper towels with a soft thud. His heart nearly claws its way out of his ribcage, frantic and feathered, wings beating uselessly against bone. With a hand that barely feels like his, fingers cold and trembling, he drags the phone out of his pocket. Screen cracked, brightness low. It lights up his face like an omen. One message. From you.
“I will find you.” That’s it. No smiley face, no punctuation. Just four words, typed clean and sharp like a promise. His blood turns into static. Because he knows you. Knows the games you play, the way you turn hide-and-seek into warfare. This isn’t a bluff. You will find him. You’ll crawl through every hallway, knock on every door, whisper his name down every corridor until he’s backed into a corner with no exit and no excuse. He swallows hard, breath caught halfway in his throat.
The knob fumbles. A weak, clumsy twist. Mark freezes, every nerve pulled taut like snapped violin strings and watches it turn in slow, gut-wrenching motion. And then you’re there. Grinning like you already won. Framed in the doorway like sin incarnate, all legs and ruined decency.
Your skirt’s a joke, barely there, riding high enough that he catches soft glimpses of plush skin, the smooth curve of your thighs glowing beneath the low hallway light. Your top’s slouched off one shoulder, bra strap peeking out. Lips glossy. Shameless. Entirely too much. Mark feels his soul leave his body. He should’ve picked somewhere with a lock. A church, maybe. A different continent.
“Well, well,” you laugh real pretty, like this is a game and you’ve already decided the ending. He wants to crawl into the mop bucket.
“Why do you look so scared, Marky?” Your voice is syrupy sweet, sticky with fake concern. A pout on your lips, mock-sincere, but your eyes give you away, glinting, bright, sharp like broken glass.
Mark flinches again, visibly, like the nickname itself has claws. He hates that name. You know he does. He’s told you, multiple times, in that tight, awkward voice like he’s trying not to snap. And still, there you go, dragging it out like gum on the sidewalk.
His skin prickles, goosebumps crawling up his arms like your words live beneath them. “I don’t bite,” you add, stepping forward, one slow click of heel against floor after another. But you do. You bite and chew and leave bruises just from talking, and he’s not sure what’s worse, the way your words twist around his spine or the way his traitorous heart jumps every time you say his name like it belongs to you. He doesn’t answer. Can’t. His mouth’s too dry.
He stands up. God knows where he finds the nerve, maybe somewhere between survival instinct and dumb luck but he pushes off the stack of old textbooks and stands on shaky legs, spine straightening like a man preparing for war.
Too late. You’re already on him. The door clicks shut behind you, soft but final, like the last nail in a coffin. You don’t even give him room to breathe, step right into him, cut off his air, your chest pressed flush against his. He feels everything. The soft weight of your tits against his ribs, the heat of your skin soaking through his hoodie, the sweet, toxic scent of your perfume curling into his lungs.
There’s nowhere to look. Nowhere to run. And God, he wishes he wasn’t so aware of the way his heart’s pounding like it’s trying to punch through his sternum.
“L-look…” His voice cracks halfway through, eyes darting to the dusty shelves, the light fixture, anywhere but you. “I’m really sorry… I didn’t do it on purpose.” A lie. Such a bad, obvious, choking lie. It clings to the back of his throat like smoke, bitter and foul. He can feel your smirk before he even sees it
Your face hovers just inches from his, the space between you nothing but shared breath and tension so thick it could choke. Your plum-glossed lips linger just over his, not quite touching like a threat, like a dare. You’re pretty. Pretty in a way that feels curated, intentional. Glossy and shallow like a magazine ad come to life. It makes his ears burn, dusted pink at the tips. He looks like he wants to disappear into the wall. You look like you’d pin him to it for fun.
“Awe, Marky, you’re being so mean to me, you know that, right?” Your voice dips low, not soft, not gentle, but lush and poisoned, the kind of sweetness that sticks in your teeth and leaves a burn going down.
You pout like you’re heartbroken, big eyes all shiny, lips pushed out in that perfect little curve, and jab a single manicured finger into his chest, firm and unforgiving. He doesn’t move. Can’t. It’s like you’ve nailed him to the floor, body locked up, breath hitched.
Your long nail presses into the fabric of his hoodie, right over the solid thrum of his heartbeat. He’s trembling under you, not visibly, not like a coward, but in that subtle way only you notice. The kind of tremble that starts in the hands and climbs up the neck. The kind that comes from being caught.
“I trusted you,” you add, voice dropping just a little more, breathy and laced with mock hurt. “And you went ‘n sabotaged me? After I've been soo nice to you?”
He gulps. Loud and shaky, Adam’s apple bobbing like it’s trying to make a run for it. Poor thing.
“Sweet puppy’s grown a backbone now, has he?” you coo, tilting your head, voice dipped in amusement that’s just short of cruel. You don’t pull away. Of course you don’t, instead, that impossible closeness tightening like a noose.
His shoulders hit the shelf behind him with a soft thud. He can’t back away any further. Your chest presses against his, soft curves molded against hard muscle, and you feel it—feel everything. The way his breath stutters. The way his hands twitch at his sides like he’s trying not to grab you.
And lower, the real betrayal. He’s half-hard, thick and aching, tenting his pants like a loaded secret he can’t tuck away. You smile, slow and lazy, eyes flicking downward, then back to his face.
“Cute,” you murmur, almost fond. He wants the ground to swallow him whole.
You slide a hand down. Deliberate. Slow. Like you’ve got all the time in the world to ruin him. Fingers trail over the thick line in his pants, heat trapped beneath the fabric, swollen and straining—and you wrap your hand around it through the material, squeezing just enough to make him suck in a breath. His hips twitch. His jaw clenches.
He’s trembling now, a little, but it’s there. A ripple under your palm. You look him right in the eyes, eyes wide and glinting with something unholy. Your thumb strokes once. Soft. Cruel.
“Did me callin’ you a puppy make you hard?” Your voice is low, a velvet drawl, wrapped around mockery like it’s a love song.
“You’re, uhh… too close…” He whispers it. Barely. Like maybe if he says it soft enough, the words won’t count. His whole body is stiff, locked up, trying not to think about your hand wrapped firm around his bulge, the heat of your palm, the way your thumb had moved.
But it’s impossible. You’re too close. Too close. You’re all over him, heat and scent and lips a breath away, voice curling into his ear like silk and fire. And his brain? It’s white noise. He swallows hard, again, like maybe that’ll push the shame back down. Like maybe it’ll kill the way his dick pulses helplessly under your grip. But it doesn’t. Nothing helps.
You can feel it too, the way his body betrays him, twitching under your hand like he’s trying so hard to behave, to not give in. It’s adorable, You think.
You half-smile, head tilted, lip gloss catching the light like temptation bottled up. “Let’s make a deal,” you hum, voice flat and casual, like you’re discussing lunch plans, not unhinged propositions. “I’ll suck your dick, and you do my work properly.”
He chokes. Not metaphorically, he literally chokes, breath catching mid-gasp like his lungs betrayed him. His face flushes immediately, that soft, pale pink crawling up his neck to the tips of his ears.
“W-what… what do you—” His voice breaks, small and high and strangled, as if saying it out loud would summon lightning. You roll your eyes so hard it’s almost theatrical, exasperation oozing off you like perfume. “What’re you actin’ dumb for?” you snap, grip tightening just a little around his cock, enough to make his hips twitch again.
“You’re already hard.” Your words hit him square in the gut, shame blooming behind his eyes, his mouth working silently like he wants to say something, protest, maybe—but all he manages is a sound. A low, broken exhale that sounds suspiciously like surrender.
He’s not pulling away. And he’s not saying no. You notice. And he’s cute, you think so now. In a nerdy, helpless, needy kinda way. The flushed ears. The twitchy hands. The stutter in his voice like he’s not used to being handled. It’s charming. Pathetic. A little funny.
So really, it’s a win-win. He gets to feel the touch of a woman—maybe for the first time, if you had to guess, and you get guaranteed grades for life. Straight A’s and a warm mouthful of praise every time you strut past your professors. Everyone’s happy.
You lean in, your nose brushing his, lips brushing the shell of his ear now, soft enough to be dangerous. “You gonna be good for me, Marky?” you whisper, voice sticky and slow.
“I’m a real good fuck, actually,” you say, so breezy, so matter-of-fact it’s almost cruel. Your smile’s all teeth and glittering pride as your knees bend, thighs spreading just a touch as they kiss the cold linoleum floor. He looks down at you, eyes blown wide and lips parted like he’s watching a dream and a nightmare crawl into his lap at the same time. You tilt your head, all smug satisfaction and sweet venom.
“You got lucky,” you hum, palms sliding up the inside of his thighs now, thumbs hooking the waistband of his pants like a promise. And he knows it. Knows he’s in over his head. Knows you’ve got him right where you want him.
You make a show of it. Fingers slow and precise, unbuttoning him like you’re unwrapping a present you already know you’ll like. The zipper drags down with a lazy hum, and his breath stutters. He clenches the fabric of his hoodie like it might anchor him.
You tug his pants down just far enough, and then the boxers. He twitches when the cold air hits him, body jerking like he wasn’t ready, like he should’ve been, but wasn’t. And yeah. He’s big. Your lashes flutter. A slow, lazy grin curls on your lips like sin itself is stretching out to get comfortable. It’s better than you expected—thick, flushed dark, heavy where it hangs, and already leaking like his body’s ahead of his brain. Small pearls of pre ooze from his slit, leaving a slimy trail all the way down to his heavy balls and a light dusting of hair.
You glance up, just to watch his expression twist, poor boy, caught somewhere between pride and terror. His mouth parts like he might say something, but nothing comes. You look back down and press a soft kiss to the tip, soft and sweet. The mess sticks to your gloss, shines faintly when you pull back just an inch.
He whispers something—barely, like even his voice is too embarrassed to say it out loud. But your hand’s already moving, slow and deliberate, working him up with lazy strokes that make his legs twitch. You tilt your head, smile playing soft on your lips like you don’t know he’s on the verge of breaking.
“What’dya want, baby?” You purr it, like honey slipping off your tongue, like he has any real say in the matter. A mercy, letting him speak at all. He stutters, Red all the way down his neck now, lip caught between his teeth as his voice cracks.
“Y-your tits…” A breathless pause. “Wanna… feel them.” His hands hover, fingers twitching mid-air like he’s too scared to ask properly, like he’s afraid you’ll laugh.
You blink once, then laugh anyway—not mocking, more amused, indulgent. You lean forward just enough for your chest to brush against him, soft and warm through the thin fabric of your top.
“You wanna feel these?” Your voice drips slow, the words curling at the edges, soft like something wicked in silk. He nods before you’ve even finished the sentence—frantic, desperate, practically drooling like a mutt starved for affection. It’s pathetic. It’s adorable. It’s everything.
You bat your lashes, long and thick, gaze dipped half-lidded as your fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt. You tug it up slow, just to watch the hunger flicker in his eyes, then reach behind your back, a quick flick, and the bra slips off like it was never really meant to stay on.
They bounce free, soft and full, skin warm and glowing under the harsh closet light, and his breath catches so sharp you swear he might choke on it. You cup them lightly, just enough to make them spill between your fingers, teasing him without saying a word. Then, voice dropping lower, sweeter, with a tenderness that makes it sting:
“You wanna feel ’em with your dick… or your hands, puppy?” You watch his brain short-circuit, like he doesn’t know what’ll kill him faster. He doesn’t answer —can’t. His mouth opens like he wants to speak, but no sound comes out. Just a shaky breath and a helpless look, red-faced and wide-eyed, every ounce of his nerve short-circuiting all at once.
So you make the choice for him. You lean in, slow and deliberate, gaze fixed on his like you’re daring him to look away. One hand slips between your tits, the other trailing down with intention, You press your breasts together again, as his leaky ‘n throbbing cock slides in between them.
His knees nearly buckle. His breath comes in short, desperate little bursts, hands twitching at his sides like he doesn’t know where to touch, if he even can.
You tilt your head. “Feels good, huh?” Voice velvet-soft now, syrupy and slow. “Bet you’ve never had anything close to this.” And he hasn’t, And he knows it. Your slick, glistening breasts slide along his throbbing cock, coated in his warm precum. As you glide them up and down, your tongue flicks deliberately at his sensitive tip, teasing with slow, hungry licks. Mark’s body trembles, his muscles clenching with every shuddering breath. He ruts eagerly against your soft, yielding tits, like a dog in heat lost in the overwhelming pleasure. Nothing he’s ever fucked—his hand, a pillow, a toy—comes close to the wet, enveloping warmth of your breasts and mouth.
Your tongue swirls and laps at his pulsing cock, wet slurps and soft gags echoing through the room, mingling with the rhythmic slap of his balls against your slick, heaving tits. Mark’s groans are deep, guttural, his chest rumbling as you gently squeeze his balls, sending a jolt through his trembling frame. “You’re pretty big,” you coo, voice dripping with praise, “such a shame it’s attached to a dork who doesn’t even know how to use it.”
Mark lets out a desperate whine as you guide his throbbing shaft into the tight, wet warmth of your throat, deepthroating the length not already enveloped by the soft, plush fat of your tits. His cock throbs with every bob of your head, slick and warm in your throat. Mark’s in bliss, thinking if he died now, he’d go out happy, his dick devoured by such a pretty girl. Your soft pants, warm puffs of air teasing his sensitive tip, push him closer to the edge. His balls tighten, hips jerking as he feels the surge building, ready to unleash his pent-up load across your face and dripping tits.
“Hah—‘m gonna cum,” Mark chokes out, voice shattered, breathless, like he’s unraveling at the seams, pleasure swallowing him whole. You hum, low and smug, a wicked edge to it, and double down. Your head bobs faster, throat clenching around his pulsing cock, gurgling slurps and wet gags filling the air—loud, obscene, a filthy symphony just for him. Your tits, slick with spit and precum, squeeze his shaft tight, a perfect, plush vise. His dick’s buried in heaven, warm, wet, yours to ruin.
His legs quake, thighs trembling like they might give out. Head thrown back, it thumps against the wall, his only anchor as he falls apart. You catch the way his fingers claw at nothing, fists white-knuckled, and that pathetic, broken whimper slipping from his lips? It’s fucking music. His balls tighten, hips jerking erratic, desperate. He’s a mess, sweat-slick, eyes glassy, whimpering like he’s never been touched before.
“Poor Marky,” you say with a pop, voice dripping with mockery, using your hand to finish him off. “Thought you could handle me. Big cock, no clue how to use it.” Your pace doesn’t falter, lips slick, hand relentless, tits bouncing with every move. “Gonna blow already? Such a shame.”
And with that little remark, that teasing curl of your lips, that tone too smug to be anything but wicked, he falls apart. All messy ‘n sloppy, big fat load creating a warm and wet mess all over your breasts and dirtying your pretty face. A few stray droplets kiss your cheek, cling to your lashes. You blink slow, licking your lips like it’s nothing. Like this happens all the time.
You blink slow, all lazy-lidded and smug, the corners of your mouth twitching like you’re holding back more laughter—the kind that would make him shrink even further if he had anywhere left to run. But he doesn’t. He’s stuck there, looking absolutely devastated by his own body, like his soul left him mid-spill and hasn’t come back yet.
“Tears?” you croon, voice dipped in honey and mockery. “You cryin’ over this? Oh, baby.”
You reach up and swipe your thumb across the corner of his eye, not gently. It’s teasing, purposeful, like you want to see if the contact will shatter him completely. And it nearly does. His breath hitches and his eyes flutter closed like even that’s too much. His lashes are damp. His cheeks hot. He’s blushing so hard it looks painful. Shame clinging to him like a second skin.
“Don’t tell me that was your first time gettin’ off with someone watchin’,” you murmur, tilting your head, lips twitching again. “God, that’s actually so cute. I could eat you alive.”
And he doesn’t answer—just stands there, stiff and red and broken open in the prettiest way. You lean in close, your voice a whisper now. “Bet you’ll do anything I ask now, won’t you?”
He nods, slow and small like he’s ashamed of it — like even that’s a surrender too humiliating to admit out loud. But it’s there. Clear as day. He’s yours now. All soft eyes and trembling hands and a brain melted to mush. You smile, bright and sweet like you didn’t just break him down into dust.
Your fingers trace lazy circles on his bicep—featherlight, affectionate, like you’re rewarding a pet after a trick well done. And your tone? Cheerful. Too cheerful. Like you’ve moved on already.
“Great!” you chirp, lips popping on the G. “You can resubmit that assignment for me.” He stares, chest still rising and falling like he ran a marathon, lips parted like he wants to protest—like he’s got dignity left in some corner of his soul. But he doesn’t speak. Just swallows hard and looks away.
“Don’t look so gloomy, Marky,” you purr, already turning to adjust your skirt, unfazed. “You came, I smiled, we both got something outta it. Now go on. I want that A.”
You wink over your shoulder. He’s still standing there, stunned, pants around his thighs, wondering how the hell he ended up in this situation when he was trying to get out of it the first time.
WARNINGS. female genitalia ノ thigh riding ノ orgasms ノ squirting ノoral fixations ノ teasing n dirty talk ノ finger sucking ノ twisted dynamic (can't write this man nicely) ノ degration ノ daddy kink ノ nicknames [bunny, baby, slut.] ノ Little bit of praise.
"Nice and wet already, huh, bunny?" Mark says from above you, your pretty cheeks flushing over with warmth as his hands come down to grasp your hips.
The sounds of your whines and moans echoing in his throne room, Your heart hammering in your chest, your eyelashes batting rapidly, your hands frantically holding onto his shirt. It feels wrong - so, so wrong to be naked atop of him, especially when he's fully dressed in his hero suit. You're so bothered - so embarrassed that you actually look like you're going to cry, your doe-eyes glistening with tears.
"You gonna cry, baby? You gonna cry when you cum all over daddy's pants?" His tone drips with mockery, and he has the audacity to laugh at you when you breathe out shakily, your hands trembling as you grip tighter onto his suit. "So patheic."
“Please stop,” you whimper as he grinds your hips for you roughly, his suit stimulating your clit shamefully. “It - it feels weird,”
"It feels good, you don't like it," mark interrupts plainly, his fingers toying with your lips, letting out a quiet hiss as your mouth instinctively wraps around them to suck. "That's my girl. My little bouncy bunny, bouncing up and down her daddy's thighs. Feel's good, doesn't it?"
Shamefully humming in agreement, you dip your head slightly, your mouth still wrapped around his fingers, sucking carefully. Perhaps it's because there's so much of him that you can't hold back. The elastic skin tight fabric of his suit press against you smoothly, the fabric stimulating your clit, and you pathetically whine against him.
Mark smirks, leaning back slightly to take you all in. He presses his fingers against your tongue, satisfied with just how well you're taking him - how you're grinding against him despite the shame and guilt that comes with it. "Come undone all over my thighs, baby. I want everyone to see what a dirty little slut you are."
As you gasp against him, your little hips desperately rutting on his thighs, squirting all over him like you have no shame, "ffuckk thats it, good job." he lets out a gentle low groan, You're going to do this all over again until you're an even more crying, weeping mess on his thighs.
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Summary: you have to keep quiet while cecils doing his work, while his cocks inside you.
WARNINGS: Semi Public sex ノ office sex ノ sexual content ノ smut ノ cockwarming ノ age gap? (Readers slightly younger)ノ dom cecil ノ sub reader ノ small hint of daddy kink (couldn't help myself)
Reblogs and likes are appreciated, babe ◜ᴗ◝
Silence beats through the air for a second - an innocent pause. you breathing in deeply through your mouth, small whimpers slipping through your lips. It’s hard to ignore the throbbing of cecils girthy cock as you clench around him. It consumes you, drowns you like an alarming wave, and you whimper as he shuffles slightly, his hand holding you in place while his other hand rummaged through files and papers.
There’s a shuffling of hips, followed swiftly by quiet grunts of frustration and the feeling of cecils fingers digging into your thighs.
“Can- can I move now? Please?” You wimped behind him. Your hands gripping on the collar of his shirt, clenching around him in desperation. "Pleaseplease I need it,"
He sighed dramatically, “No, how many times do I have to tell you?"
"Now you need to stay quiet until I am done,” he scolded, putting a firm tight grip on your thighs.
"Now you need to stay quiet until I am done,” he scolded, putting a firm tight grip on your thighs.
“Sorry, ‘ts just hurting.”
You involuntarily clench around him again when he slides his finger on your puffy clit. Cecil tuts, his hot breath heavy against your neck. You’re so tight. so fucking tight. your cunts restraint on him so constricting it feels like you’re trying to milk him again.
And maybe you are. “fuckk." Cecil groaned from the overwhelming pleasure, leaning back slightly on his office chair. On the inside, he was grinning to himself as you mewl and readjust your legs. There’s a dull pain which is numbing your senses - perhaps it’s caused by the antagonizing throbbing of his cock inside of you every few seconds.
It’s dreadful how his cum leaks out of your pussy so slowly. Dreadful how he watches, his thumb smearing his cum over your cunt, trying to keep it as close to your hole as possible. You moan in result, bucking forwards, your breath sharp as his cock presses wonderfully against the sensitive bud inside of your pussy.
Your head lulls against his chest. “I want more,” you whimpered desperately. You could feel his cock pulsate inside you, slightly twitching as you milk his cock. squirming against him, wanting to finish locking in place, eager to please him.
At this point, he didn't even care about his papers or the work he was doing anymore. His work can wait. It was gonna have to.
"Well, you're gonna have to wait until Daddy's done."
★ He's soo stingy with his food and snacks, but he'll always share with you.
★ He never stops trying to impress you. Even if he fails, it's still so cute.
★ He'll get competitive with you just for fun. He'll make up dumb races and compitions. You let him win so you'll see him smile (and to shut him up)
★ whenever he sleeps, he's like a star fish. His legs and arms spread almost everywhere. The best you'll get is him wrapping around ur arm or ur entire body (AND HE SNORES.)
★ He likes it when you brush his hair and style it. But also hates it. He'd complain how you're too rough, not your fault his hairs tangled..
★ he gets so giddy when you pepper small kisses all over his face, especially if you wear lipstick.
★ this boy thinks you're an absolute goddess. Every time you wear new outfits and show him, his eyes turn into literal hearts.
★ says “again” or “one more, mama” after kissing you (you always giggle and grant his wish ofc)
★ always convinces you to do dumb shit with him, and if you’re already naturally a reckless person you’d just add to his fire. But if you're more mature than him, you'd try to talk him out of his reckless behaviors.
★ hates the people you hate, and if he catches them talking about you, you will be coming home to him with a bruised face.
★ will pick you up randomly and throw you over his shoulder/ carry you bridal style. Especially if you’re doing something and he wants your attention..
★ He's the typa guy to call you "mama" or "mamas" YK it..
★ his favorite names to call you are, babe, baby, mama, cutie, sometimes sweetheart.
★ he turns into such a baby when he’s tired. Poor boy will come home completely exhausted. He'd hurriedly take off his uncomfortable gear on his suit and pick you up and carry you to the bed, and he'd lay on top of you. You'd feel him smoosh his head into your chest.
★ would secretly learn all your favorite foods and make them for you.
★ always checks up on you. despite his arrogant self, He's so in tune with you’re emotions. He can tell what’s bothering you just by your body language and breathing.
NSFW HEADCANONS (mostly female)
★ He gets all cocky and arrogant, and he'll get fumbled IMMEDIATELY. Boys so subby.
★ Rex is so Eagar and messy. He wants to bury himself in your cunt/suck you off and never stop. Lapping at your folds/slurping on your precum. He'll stay there until you force him to breathe, showing off his face with your slick dripping down his chin.
★ dudes got a mommy kink. No questions asked.
★ he LOVESS being praised. Being called a good boy and you telling how good he's doing gets his gears grinding.
★ He's such a chatter box when he's in bed, especially when he's about to release or when being edged. Blabbering on as he whines and whimpers.
★ He's such a whiney boy when he's being edged or overstimulated. Whimpering and crying begging to cum.
"F-ffuckk, mommy, I don't think I can take it .."
"Can i please cum, pleasee mommy I've been a good boy"
"Your hands feel so soo good mommy.."
★ loves cowgirl and missionary, but mostly cowgirl. being able to look you in the eye as you take control. His hands gently holding your hips as you bounce on his cock. Mesmerized by your tits in his face and the sounds leaving your lips.
★ absolutely adores and worships your body.He loves how soft and squishy it is, especially your thighs and tits.
★ He loves doing the finger + tongue combo..
"You taste so good mommy.. so good."
"I can feel you getting closer mommy."
"Please cum for me mommy, please cum for your sweet boy,"
★ He's so eager to do anything you say, if you want him to lay down, he'll do it. If you want him to be on his knees for you. He'll do it.
★ God, the day you sit on his face, it's over. slowly grinding on him, his hands having a firm grip on your thighs. you can practically hear him moaning in your pussy, “mmm so good" or "more mommy I want more.." UGH
★ doesn’t really like quickies. He'd rather take his time with you. Having it being nice, romantic, and slow. His way to go.
★ This baby loves to take care of you and being able to spoil you, but he’s gonna be a bit clumsy. Stuttering and second-guessing himself.
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Tags: [mlw][mdni][smidge of angst][boss/subordinate][no nudity][public sex][young cecil][standing sex][oral (f! receiving)][fingering][creampie][standing missionary][he's a lil' bit of a piner]
Cecil thumbs over the smooth surface of an aged picture, pulled out of the safe haven of his wallet. He feels the coolness of the image, weathered blue eyes lowering to his beaming face, dimples deep in his cheeks and the youth is so apparent. Beside him, you're wearing one of those childish plastic tiaras with fluff around the edges, arms crossed over your chest and pretty eyes narrowed into a scowl.
And Cecil swallows, a slender fingered hand moving to tug on the tie around his neck, loosening the loop until it hung lazily and his hand wraps around the crystal tumbler. He keeps his gaze on the picture, eyes softened uncharacteristically and heart panging with a sense of longing.
It's been at least 30 years.
30 years without hearing your snide remarks, without being told that he's a walking, talking advertisement for birth control, without being punched in the throat.
Cecil brings the glass to his lips, ice clinking around in the brown liquid, and he inhales sharply. The bittersweet scent clogging his mind for a minute and for once, he's not holding the weight of the world on his shoulders.
He simply holding your paperwork.
Cecil understood why you were always in such a bad mood. A permanent scowl etched onto your face, the way you'd rub at your temples and bark orders.
Assistant Deputy Director. That was your position.
Forced to do the work of those above you, and receive none of the credit. And Cecil's pure little heart couldn't help but pity you.
"I got that coffee you asked for." Cecil hums softly, setting the paper cup on your dimly lit desk, papers scattered and the sleeves of your shirt rolled up to your elbows, pens tossed haphazardly and you continue working.
"I didn't ask for coffee." You state, gaze remaining glued to the documents in front of you. Documents that were definitely above Cecil's pay grade but you couldn't be bothered to obscure them from his view. Not when he watches you with those pretty blue eyes, silently willing you to meet his gaze. Until you do.
"You didn't have to." He speaks softly and you let out a soft breath, fingers curling around the cup and bringing it towards your lips, palms heating up and you inhale the aroma. Strong and just the way you like it.
And you sigh.
"Oh, Cecilia. Where would I be without you?" You coo sweetly, before taking a sip. The coffee is scorching the inside of your mouth, but your training taught you to never show weakness so instead of 'hashafashasha'-ing your way into cooling the coffee, you simply swallow. Feeling the burn all the way down to your belly before setting the cup down.
"Was it hot?"
"Very."
Idle chatter flows like a river between the two of you, your hands continue to sift through the documents, signing, blacking out what needs to be erased and editting plans for various projects.
And Cecil hums quietly.
"You know, ma'am, I've never seen you do the birthday walk." He rests his chin in the palm of his hand, brilliant blue eyes trained on your features as
"My birthday's on a weekend."
"Which weekend?"
"That's classified." You dismiss him with ease, peeking up at him from beneath your brows and my God, do you wish you didn't.
Pretty blue eyes locked on you like you're the only thing in his world, lips looking so perfectly rosy, and blonde strands fall over his forehead, so messily majestic. And you swallow.
Before begrudgingly admitting the date.
"That's... Today." Blonde brows scrunch into a frown as he straightens up just a bit, his tie hanging limply down the front of where his shirt sits so snugly around his torso, tucked into the front of his pants and sleeves rolled up just enough to expose that classy wristwatch.
Gold. But it was too warm, in your opinion.
"What? No, that's crazy." Your sarcasm is layered on thick enough for him to know you're fucking with him, and if it isn't, the twitch of your lips give you away. And you let out a breath, before glancing at Cecil.
"If you sing, I'm calling you Cecilia for the rest of your life as well as making you clean latrines."
"I'm a high ranking agent."
"And you have arms and a nose. Essential for scrubbing shit stains from porcelain."
And Cecil grimaces. "Why do I need a nose for that?"
"I'd like for you to smell me abusing my power."
God. Cecil wishes he'd sang to you. He imagines the way your lips would've curled into a begrudging smile, the way the corners of your eyes would crinkle and the way your cheeks would flush, becoming heated.
He glances towards the framed picture that he usually keeps tucked in the locked compartment of his desk.
Aged and frayed, folds and disappeared pigment where the picture had been folded up so many times in so many different ways.
Flushed cheeks and hazy eyes stare back at him, kept pretty behind a glossy glass frame. And his fingers absentmindedly twist at the ring on his pinkie.
Your favourite metal, pretty and polished. Not a scuff in sight.
"This is ridiculous."
Carnival lights flicker in the emptiness of the night, the sounds of fun and laughter surrounding the two of you as you continue to walk between the various stands. A plethora of rides, of attractions, of snacks.
"If you can stop your complaining, miss, maybe you'll enjoy it." Cecil grumbles, before he feels the way your hand reaches for his, your pinkie wrapping around his so sweetly. And he glances down towards your interlocked hands.
"You look like the type of guy to get lost." You mumble. "Or touched."
Cecil can taste the cotton candy on his tongue, he can feel the warmth wrapping around his pinkie and he slumps into his seat, staring ahead into the emptiness of his office. He can hear the giggles that would slip past your lips whenever he'd lose at something.
He feets the lush grass beneath his shoes, he feels the cold breeze whipping at the back of his neck. And he swallows, bringing the Scotch back up to his lips, taking a mouthful.
"Win me a teddy bear."
You stare at Cecil with a blank, almost expressionless face. Watching him stare down at you with the sweetest expression and you let out a groan, handing your pretzel before you lick the sugary sweetness from your fingers.
And God, watching you lick your fingers felt like watching sin be born.
Your pink tongue dragging along the pads, lapping and sucking, until you deemed them clean enough and you stepped up.
Readying your eye at the scope, before aiming.
6 faux ducks in a row, and that gave Cecil the pick of the litter. And by natural instinct, he grabs the one that looks the most like you.
A frowning turtle.
"Doesn't it look like you?" Cecil hums, before angling the turtle towards you, allowing you a good look at the shoddy stitching and the mismatched cotton used for the body.
"Why d'you think it does?" You take another bire of your pretzel.
"Because you're turtle-y coming outta your shell."
Cecil smiles at the thought of how you turned to face him. So slowly.
Wind whipping at your hair, tresses framing your face so perfectly that he would've thought he was recalling painting, rather than a person. You were a sight for sore eyes.
The shitty joke had somehow managed to get you to let out a laugh. Melodious, sweet and so, so... Addictive. He'd instantly marked the sound of your laugh as his favourite sound. The cacophony of wheezes and breathless coughs had his heart clutching, even now.
And Cecil takes another swig.
This time, straight from the bottle.
"Shit..." Cecil's voice is breathy, lips pressed against your pulse, one of your thighs hiked around his hips. You remain pushed against the warping mirror, prisms of light dancing over your features and that goofy ass song that plays over the speakers is drowned out by your panted breaths. And he shudders when your manicured fingers sink into the golden strands at the nape of his neck.
His breaths are deep and shaky, hands grasping at your waist and thigh, anything to bring you closer to him.
Fuck, he has your picture tucked into his wallet already. He'd have to be fucking stupid to miss the signs you've been giving him all night.
Calling him 'Cecilia', telling him that he looks like a boyscout with the way his eyes twinkle so prettily at the different attractions. Not to mention the way you fingers slid between his when you pointed out the House of Mirrors.
Cecil's cock strains against the front of his slacks, his hips slotted between your thighs, and he shudders when he feels the way your nails scrape against his scalp. "Well shit..." He breathes out. "I like that..."
Cecil swallows, the back of his neck set aflame wth a deep blush, and he simply inhales through his nose.
And he's surrounded by silence. Delving deeper into memories that threaten to escape him with each visit.
Soon enough, Cecil found himself guiding your thigh to rest on one of his broad shoulders, meaty hands pawing at your thighs, lips pressing haphazard kisses along your hosiery-clad thighs, before he rips a hole into the nylon.
His knees dig into the cool linoleum tiles beneath him, but it does nothing to cool the flame that seems to be scorching just behind his flesh.
Cecil's hands paw at you, fingers tugging your panties to the side and his tongue drags through your sloppy folds, and he just loves the way your belly dips inward at the feel. And he groans. Your hand moves to rest on the crown of his head, nails scraping along his scalp, fingers disappearing between his blonde strands and you sigh.
Your breath stutters, head tipping back against the mirror, your bottom lip wedged between your teeth because sound travels. Especially when it's a high pitched moan because he has those perfect and pouty lips wrapped around your clit, sucking on it like it's a fucking treat.
This is definitely against the rules. This could be seen as an abuse of your power, but you can't really find the urge to give a shit. Not right now when his tongue's dipping into your spasming hole and definitely not when his nose is bumping at your clit so teasingly.
"Such a pretty pussy." He croons, diamond eyes glossy and chin coated in a slick sheen, and he slides one of his hands up your thigh, fingers tracing along your slit when his tongue goes back to lapping between your folds.
Your brain turns to a muddy puddle, threatening to leak out your ears when one of his long fingers are buried in you, all the way to the knuckle. And he curls the digit, a calloused fingertip presses against that gooey spot that makes your knees buckle.
"Holy sh-shit..." Your hands are cradling the back of your head, your lashes fluttering and your chest heaving, kiss swollen lips parted to let hot puffs of air escape your lungs And choked up throat.
Fingers fuck into your cunt, dragging against your insides with a skill that makes your toes curl in your heels, and you're so confused as to how you're even able to stand up.
Your body slumped and your breaths weak and whiny, staring down at him from below fluffy lashes.
There's something so earnest about the way he sucks at your cunt, lips finding purchase around your sloppy folds and eyes so glazed over, you're wondering if he's enjoying this more than you are.
His hips buck into nothing when you come. You spasm around his fingers, breathless gasps slipping from you with the ease that water slips through the cracks in stone.
And his free hand palms at his cock through his slacks, brows scrunching into a cute little frown before he pulls back, gossamers of your wetness clinging to his lips.
His eyes lower to where your slick drips down his palm and he licks his palm clean, pink tongue savouring the taste of you and he smears his saliva-coated palm along your cunt.
Before rising to his feet.
His breath stutters in his withered lungs, face burning a bright red at the memory. The dimness of his office is a weak consolidation, slumping back against Italian leather and he glances towards the ceiling.
He remembers the way you sighed when he pushed into you, clingy pussy immediately wrapping around him so snugly and he remembers the way your arms snaked around his neck.
And he takes another swig. The liquor burns on the way down but it does nothing to quell the fiery pit in his belly.
"Shit..." Cecil groans. "Too tight— m'not goin' anywhere, doll." He lets out a breathy laugh when he watches the way you hide your face in the curve of his neck, nails digging into his broad shoulders and you're barely able to stand up.
You're so warm, slick dripping down your thighs and soaking your pantyhose, your panties tugged to the side and your gooey walls fit him so snugly.
The sounds you make when his hips meet yours with each roll is downright nefarious. Breathing sweet sighs and moans into his ear, your nails leaving scratches along the back of his neck and your thigh hooked around him, bringing him closer.
He's not even pulling out properly, you won't let him. The blonde tufts of his happy trail grinds against your clit teasingly, the sensation making your lips part. Spit-slicked and rosy, and he can't not kiss you.
Cecil's lips press against yours with the kind of desperation no subordinate should have. Ever.
Tongue brushing against yours, and he's kissing you like he's trying to remember you forever. To remember the way you feel.
And he sighs into the kiss when you suck on his tongue.
Cecil's not looking down. He can't afford to. He doesn't wanna look at where your pretty cunt's wrapping around him like a fucking leash, where you're creaming around him and Cecil whines.
Panted breaths escape him and he hides his face in the crook of your neck, hands grasping the fat of your ass beneath your skirt, bringing you closer with each desperate fuck into you.
His flushed tip presses slick and messy kisses against your cervix, a perfect curve that hits that spongy spot with each sloppy thrust and he's damn near embarassed that he's rushing towards his orgasm with the speed of a freight train.
And he swallows. Hard.
"I can't pull out." He pants. "I just— I can't, I don't want to. Shit, 's so good..."
And he babbles. He's embarassed. But he's only been fantasizing about fucking you like this for the last 4 years.
Picturing how your tits would press against his chest in missionary, how he'd inhale that sweet perfume up close rather than just the ghost of it when you walk past him.
"Then don't."
Cecil takes a deep breath to clear his mind. He doesn't need to be painting the inside of his slacks with a load that's been aching to be emptied into you.
He glances longingly at the pictures of you. The expression on your face, the matching smiles you wore for the staff photos. And he glances at the ring on his finger, glinting in the light of his desk lamp.
"Keep this. In case I die." You hum softly, sliding one of your many rings onto his hand instead, picking his pinkie as the chosen digit.
You're supposed to go... Negotiate with some firebreather, Director's orders in hopes of assembling a team of heroes.
"You'll be fine." Cecil reassures, pressing a kiss against your palm, looking down at you with that adoring expression.
"Whatever, Cecilia."
He feels the way his throat burns at the memory. And he glances towards the watch on his wrist.
Roman numerals, silver with a black, leather strap. Worn and frayed, but still visibly well-maintained.
"Found this." Cecil stares down at the box in his hand. A sleek wristwatch, displayed on a tiny pillow. Silver, with black leather straps. And a barely visible 'C.S' engraved on the back.
And a tiny note.
'Always thought you'd look less faggy in silver.'
He remembers the way his body nearly went limp. The way his stomach dropped, the way his throat tightened and the burn that seemed to scorch the back of his eyes.
And Cecil glances towards the watch on his wrist, thumb brushing over the leather.
"You were right." He mumbles. "Silver looks better."