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isabel conklin. lola tung. single shipped with conrad fisher and rafe cameron.
shane hollander. hudson williams. single shipped with ilya rozanov.
rose landry. hailee steinfeld. single shipped with tbd.
svetlana vetrova. jess felter. single shipped with tbd.
đźđ±đšđŠđšđđ đ«.
bellamy hayes. reece walsh. single shipped with augusta raleigh.
mackenzie conklin. sabrina carpenter. single shipped with christian rangi.
sebastian delgado. benjamin wadsworth. single shipped with june conklin.
emersyn conklin. olivia holt. single shipped with tbd.
gabriel ramirez. emilio sakraya. single shipped with juliette calhoun.
peyton sage. tate mcrae. single shipped with conrad fisher.
casey calhoun. lily rowland. single shipped with ricciardo ramirez.
đ”đ€đ±đČđ€đČ.
the summer i turned pretty.
devine aemulatio.
teen wolf.
eruta aurum.
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ugh itâs not gonna be out until June at the earliest & maybe only in print even then but. i cannot wait to be able to share my central PA townie/VT transplant-core Dream of Angus retelling thatâs gonna be in Lady Churchillâs Rosebud Wristlet. it took me like. 4-5 years to write & actually I think gets close to articulating some of the messy complicated feelings i have about Home as an experience/ideal; about homecoming as itâs portrayed in myth and folklore; about the way weâre supposed to let ourselves be swallowed up in Romantic love when our bonds w/ friends and family and the places we live can be just as necessary and sustaining; about inherited curses and bodies and the impossibility/necessity of curse-breaking. about what it might look like for a Hero to choose a Heroine he could never own completely. About embracing each other in whatever form they take (swan, snake, burning brand etc), stepping into the curse and making a home there. and why not? theyâve done it in more difficult places. theyâve survived more difficult selves.
Akaza with a human s/o would forget that you donât have demon strength. Heâd have you in a headlock, rutting into your sloppy cunt, all foggy-headed, ears flushed pink. His cock ramming into your squelching pussy over and over again until fat tears spill down the curve of your cheeks, rolling wet onto the floor. Youâd be clawing at his shoulder, tapping out, whimpering that heâs being too rough.
And then it would hit him. Snapping back to himself, instantly letting go, gathering you up in his arms like your fragile glass ân heâd whisper apologies into your skin, over and over, voice low and frantic, pressing kisses to your wet cheeks and wiping away every cute âlil tear with his thumb.
I missed your 21st birthday
I've been up at home
Almost tried to call you, don't know if I should
Hate to picture you half-drunk, happy
Hate to think you went out without me
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warnings: 18+, nsfw kinda (?), mostly suggestive tho, dry humping/grinding in public(?) indecency on public transportation. mark grayson. uhh he gets needy n desperate n wants 2 fuck idk
This has to be some form of torture, Mark thinks. Not dramatic, just honest. Youâd said you wanted the ârealâ Chicago experience. No flying, no speeding across rooftops, no superhero shortcuts. Just buses. Trains. Walking. Crowds. He hadnât really thought it through when he agreedâjust saw that excited look on your face and folded like a paper crane.
Now heâs regretting every decision that led to this moment. The train is packed. Sweaty despite the cold. Loud. Youâre squished into the corner, and heâs right behind you, too close. Close enough to hear the way you exhale through your nose when the train lurches, close enough that his hand keeps brushing your side every time the car shifts.
Youâre wearing that jacket he likes. Heâs not supposed to notice that. But it smells like your perfume, and itâs driving him insane. You shift slightly, trying to make room, and it just presses your back more into his chest. He swears under his breath and stares hard at the wall.
This was supposed to be cute. An adventure. Maybe even romantic. But itâs turning into a slow, claustrophobic descent into madnessâwhere heâs hyper-aware of every inch of you and desperately trying not to show it. You turn your head, looking back at him and say, casually as ever, âYou doing okay back there?â
âPeachy,â he mutters. You laugh. He feels it more than hears itâvibrating through your spine, right against him. Markâs been weirdly quiet since you boarded. Heâs tall, broad, and currently using every bit of that to shield you from the crowd like some kind of human barrier. In a way, it looks like heâs doing you a favorâkeeping the strangers at bay, making sure no one elbows you in the ribs or steps on your shoes.
But really, itâs a favor to himself. Because the moment the two of you got forced into this positionâyour back to his chest, nowhere to move, barely enough air between youâhis body started betraying him.
You can feel it. Every jolt of the train, every hiccup in the tracks, creates a flicker of friction that goes straight to the space between you. And while you decide to stay still for now, pretending to scroll through your phone like nothingâs happening, you donât miss the way he shifts just a littleâlike maybe if he angles his hips differently, itâll stop. Like he doesnât want you to notice.
Poor thingâs trying so hard to be respectful. But the way your ass fits perfectly nestled against him, the way every tiny sway of the train drags his semi-hard cock right along that curveâitâs making it nearly impossible. Makes his dick throb in excitement.
His fingers are white-knuckled around the rail, jaw locked so tight itâs a miracle his teeth donât crack. Heâs doing everything he can to keep still, keep quiet, keep from bucking forward and rutting into you like heâs lost every shred of self-control. Youâre not helping anymore.
You roll your hips, agonizingly slow, grinding your ass right into him, and he chokes on his breath. A whiny, desperate groan rips from his throat before he can clamp it downâso raw and filthy it sends a shiver through you. You feel it through his pantsâhis cock twitching against you, straining, begging.
He wants to move. Wants to rut and push you up against the wall of this train and grind his leaky, needy cock into you until heâs dizzy. The heat is unbearable. The pressure in his jeans is starting to ache. If he had any less discipline, itâd be over already. Right here, in public. With you.
You tilt your head just slightly, voice sugar-sweet and cruel. âYou sure youâre okay, Mark?â
He breathes in sharp through his nose, exhales even slower, and clenches his jaw hard enough to ache.
And right then and there, he decides this is the last time he listens or agrees to partake in these dumb ideas.
warnings: 18+, nsfw, usage of weed, masturbation (m), cunnilingus, fem reader, gendered terms, unrealistic pussy eating, mark tries weed but it doesnât affect him, mark is kinda subby. friends w benefits. whimpering.
summary: you try to teach your friend how to smoke a bluntâinstead, you learn something entirely different. wc: 3.1k
an: minors dni. this may not be the best description of a good high + idc idc mark a d1 eater, literally nothing could convince me otherwise.
âDoes weed even do anything to Viltrumites?â You donât look at him when you ask, your fingers working the paper, the grind of leaf and resin between your fingertips. A familiar ritual. The room is thick with the scent of it. Though, the air between you is heavier with something else.
Mark shifts on the couch, the leather creaking beneath him. âNot sure,â he says, voice easy. He waits, sprawled like a cat in the sun, his hands loose at his sides. You stride over to him ignoring the mess on the table, scattered lighters, empty glasses, a book neither of you had finished, and hold the thing out to him. His fingers brush yours when he takes it.
âWell,â you murmur, striking the lighter, its flame leaping up, carving out the planes of his face in gold and shadow. âLetâs find out.â
The flame kisses the tip, a slow burn. He inhalesâtoo fast, too muchâand then it hits him all at once. A sharp cough tears out of his chest, then another, his whole body jerking forward like heâs been punched from the inside. You watch, amused, arms crossed as he fights against his own lungs.
A small laugh escapes you, light and sharp. âYouâre not supposed to rush,â you chide, reaching for the blunt, plucking it from his fingers before he can protest. âHere, let me show you.â Smooth, practiced, you bring it to your lips, inhale slow, let the smoke curl inside you like a secret before exhaling in a soft, languid breath.
Mark glares, still half-choking, half-annoyed. âYou couldâve started with that first,â he mutters, eyes red-rimmed, voice caught between confusion and irritation.
ââS not even my fault,â you scoff, sinking back into the couch. âDidnât know you were gonna try ân inhale the thing like its air.â
Mark opens his mouth, then shuts it again, becauseâyeah. Fair point. He takes the blunt when you pass it back, more careful this time, dragging slow like heâs mimicking you. The smoke unfurls from his lips in thin ribbons, dissipating into the dim light of the room.
He exhales, waits a beat. âI donât feel anything,â he says, flat, like heâs waiting for the universe to prove him wrong.
You roll your eyes so hard it nearly hurts. He cannot be serious. âNo shit,â you mutter. The fact that he doesnât know how weed works is honestly embarrassing. You wouldâve thought AmberâWhoâs often at party scenesâmight have taught him at some point, but apparently not.
âItâs not gonna work instantly,â you say, settling deeper into the couch. âWellâactually, I donât even know if itâs gonna work at all, considering youâre basically, like, half alien.â Mark looks at you, head tilting just slightly, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. Then that small, lopsided smirk appears. âYou say it like itâs an insult.â
You huff, rolling your eyes, but thereâs a twitch at the corner of your lips. âMaybe it is,â you tease, watching the ember glow between his fingers. âMaybe itâs not.â
He takes another drag, the ember burning low, and you shift closer without really thinking about it. Your bare knees brush against his, the fabric of his sweats soft against your skin. Itâs a small touch, barely anything, but it feels like something.
Mark glances at you, eyes lidded, curious. You hold his gaze longer than you mean to. Youâve never really looked at him beforeânot like this. Heâs handsome. Not in the obvious way, not in the way that makes people stop and stare, but in a way that sneaks up on you. The way his black hair falls over his forehead, just a couple strays stand out of place. The way the dim light catches the sharp lines of his face.
And he smells good. Even through the thick haze of weed, his scent lingersâearthy, fresh, something clean that sticks in your lungs longer than the smoke does.
âStop hogging it,â you say, voice edged with faux annoyance. âJust âcause Iâm teaching you doesnât mean you get to smoke the whole thing yourself.â
Mark chuckles, a low but sweet sound, it settles somewhere deep in your chest. Instead of handing it back, he lifts the blunt to your lips himself, holding it there like itâs the most natural thing in the world.
You hesitateâjust for a secondâbefore leaning in, letting your lips part as you take a slow drag. The heat of the smoke curls in your lungs, thick and heavy, but youâre barely paying attention to that. Youâre too aware of the way his fingers hover near your mouth, the way his gaze lingers, watching.
Maybe itâs the weed settling into your bloodstream, slow and syrup-thick, or maybe itâs just plain curiosityâbut the thought creeps in before you can stop it.
You know heâs not a virgin. That much is obvious. But has he ever eaten pussy? Like, really eaten it? The kind that isnât just half-hearted, obligatory foreplay, but something done with intent? With enthusiasm? Youâd take him for the type.
The idea lingers, unexpected and distracting. You steal a glance at himâhis lips slightly parted, still damp from the last drag, his expression relaxed, almost careless.
âMark, have you ever eaten pussy?âThe words slip out before you even think to stop them.
Mark freezes, eyes wide like you just asked him to solve a math equation with a gun to his head. Itâs almost comicalâthe way his entire body tenses, the way his brain visibly lags trying to process if he really just heard what he thinks he heard.
âWhatâ?â His voice cracks, just a little. âWhyâwhy would you even ask me that?â
You almost lose it right then and there, laughter bubbling up at the sheer horror on his face. Like the thought has never even occurred to him before. Like youâve just introduced a concept so foreign, so absurd, that his brain is rejecting it outright.
You bite down on your laughter, pressing your lips together to keep it from slipping out. âWeâve been friends for a long time, Iâm just curious,â you say, trying to sound casual, like this is a completely normal topic of conversation.
Mark blinks at you, still looking like heâs in the middle of a mental blue screen. He shifts slightly, running a hand through his hair, clearly debating whether he should actually answer or just pretend this never happened.
A few moments of silence pass, thick and heavy between you. Then Mark exhales, sinking back into the couch, his body relaxing againâexcept for the telltale flush creeping up his ears.
âNo,â he admits, voice low, almost begrudging. âI havenât.â
You hum, nodding like you already knew. Like it makes perfect sense. You pluck the blunt from his fingers, bringing it to your lips with an easy inhale. âSee,â you murmur through the smoke, exhaling slowly. âThat wasnât so hard.â
Another beat of silence, the kind that feels like itâs waiting to be broken. And, maybe because youâre high, or maybe because you just canât help yourself, you push further. âWhy not?â You glance at him, head tilting slightly. âYouâve had, what, two girlfriends? And you never ate it?â
Mark groans, tilting his head back against the couch like he wants to sink into it and disappear. âWhy are you so invested in this?â You smirk, tapping ash off the blunt. âIâm just saying, statistically, it doesnât add up.â
âI mean,â he starts, still staring at the ceiling like itâs suddenly the most interesting thing in the room, âI just never really got the chance, I guess.â You blink at him. Never got the chance? How does someone not get the chance? Itâs not like his exes wouldâve stopped himâif anything, they probably wanted him to. And then you realize.
Heâs a superhero. He barely had time to show up to his own girlfriendâs charity drive or whatever that was, let alone explore his sex life. Between saving the world and getting his ass kicked, there was probably never a moment where things could slow down enough for something like that.
You laugh. You donât even know why youâre laughing, but it bubbles out of you anyway, light and uncontrollable. Maybe itâs the weed, maybe itâs the ridiculousness of the conversation, or maybe itâs just him.
And thenâbefore your brain can catch up to your mouthâyou say it.
âIf you ever want to, you could always practice on me.â
The second the words leave your lips, your whole body seizes with horror. Your once relaxed position vanishes as you jolt upright, hands suddenly restless, fumbling over themselves like they can physically rewind time.
âI meantâlike, I meant itââ you stammer, face burning, voice pitching slightly higher. âIt was supposed to be comforting!â
Mark finally looks at you, wide-eyed, lips slightly parted like his brain just short-circuited. For a long, agonizing second, he doesnât say anything. And that somehow makes it so much worse.
Your face is on fire. Actually burning. You can feel the heat creeping up your neck, settling hot behind your ears. And then you make the mistake of looking at Markâhis face, usually so composed, is tinted pink, eyes slightly wide, lips parted like heâs still buffering.
Neither of you say anything.
The silence is unbearable. Suffocating. The kind that stretches so long it starts to feel like a tangible weight pressing down on you. You shift awkwardly, hands gripping your knees, mind running a thousand miles an hour trying to figure out how to backpedalâhow to undo whatever the fuck this is.
Will you ever recover from this? Can you?
You consider just getting up and leaving. Walking out of the room, out of the apartment, out of the entire city if you have to. Maybe start a new life. Change your name. Forget this ever happened.
Markâs head is spinning. Racing. In a thousand years, heâs neverâneverâthought about you like that.
Sure, youâre beautiful. That was always obvious. The kind of beauty that turns heads without you even trying. But heâs never let his mind go there before. Not with you.
You were carefree, nonchalant, always teasing but never crossing that line. Never someone he associated with anything lewd. But now? Now youâre sitting there, flustered and squirming all pretty, looking at him with wide, nervous eyes like you just realized what you said. Like youâre feeling the weight of it at the same time he is.
And fuckânow itâs in his head.
Mark jerks his head to the side, eyes locked on anything but you. The wall, the cluttered coffee table, the faint swirl of smoke in the airâanywhere that isnât your face, because if he looks at you now, he knows something reckless is going to slip out.
Something he wonât be able to take back.
And then, because his brain is already working against him, because the weight of your words is pressing down on him harder than he can ignore, he hears himself sayââIsâIs that something youâd like?â The second itâs out, he wants to die.
Because now? Now the silence between you isnât just awkward. Itâs charged. Hanging heavy in the air, thick and hot, impossible to ignore. He canât see your face, but he feels your reaction. The way your body shifts. The way your breath hitches, just slightly.
Your mind is a mess. A tangled knot of confusion, nerves, and something elseâsomething warmer, heavier, something pooling low in your stomach.
And maybe itâs the weed. Maybe itâs the fact that Mark looks too good right now, all flushed and fidgety, broad shoulders tense like heâs fighting a war inside his own head. Maybe itâs the tension, thick and humming between you, pressing into your skin like static electricity.
Either way, your body reacts before your brain can catch upânipples tightening under your shirt, thighs pressing together, heat coiling deep in your core. And at this point? Itâs probably too late to walk it back.
âI wouldnât mind.â
The words slip out, smooth and easy, but your heart is pounding. Mark finally looks at you, eyes dark, searching. He doesnât say anything at first. Just watches you like heâs waiting for you to take it back. You donât.
You take a deep breath, then exhale, slow and steady. And for some reason, itâs relieving. Like you just confessed something you didnât even know you needed to get off your chest.
Your body loosens, the tension in your shoulders easing as you sink back into the couchâonly now realizing you had been sitting upright, practically perched on the edge, like your body had been trying to flee before your mind even decided.
Mark moves toward you, his face still flushed, that pretty pink creeping down his neck. He hesitates for a second, shifting awkwardly, then clears his throatâbut his voice cracks slightly when he speaks.
âUhâIâm not sure how this works, so⊠can you guide me?â He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes for a moment before glancing back at you. âOr, like, tell me if you donât like it?â
Thereâs something endearing about it. The way heâs so earnest, so unsure despite everything else heâs capable of. Mark has fought villains, saved lives, survived things most people couldnât even fathom, but this? This is what makes him nervous. You should be teasing him for it. You want to. But the way heâs looking at you, waiting, wanting to do this rightâit makes your heart squeeze a little.
Honestly, you didnât think he would do it. Despite your frantic panic, you thought after the initial shock that heâd laugh it off, make some awkward joke, maybe shake his head and change the subject. But here he isâkneeling between your legs, eyes flickering between your face and the space between you, his hands hesitating but steady on your thighs.
He drags your shorts off, discarding them aside like shed skin, and thereâs your pretty, plush cunt laid bare before him. Itâs not his first time glimpsing such a sight, but never this up close. His breath hitches, and he stares. Youâre confusedâdoes he not know what to do? Why is he just sitting there, staring? Youâre on the verge of speaking when he edges nearer, parting your lips with a slow, deliberate nudgeâstrings of slick arousal gleaming between them.
You twitch as he eases in, his warm tongue sliding slow and deliberate between your folds, lapping at your pussy with a lazy, filthy drag, savoring every slick drop that clings to you. Youâre sweet on his tongueâwarm, slick. Maybe itâs too soon to admit, but he already knows he could get addicted to this. Just the taste of youâs got his dick throbbing and hard and his mind all hazy.
You tip your head back into the couch cushion, legs falling wider as he keeps licking at your sloppy pussy like some dog, all messy and eager. He glances up at you, and the sight alone makes him whimper against your slick, swollen pussy. Your head tilted back, lips parted, and glossy, soft little moans spilling from your throatâeach one sinking into his skin, making his cock ache.
âYou can use your fingers too⊠if youâd like,â you murmur, intending it as advice, but it comes out more like a commandâbreathless, needy. He obeys without hesitation, sliding two thick fingers inside you, eager to make you feel good. The way you squeeze around him, warm and wet, makes his breath hitch. He watches, mesmerized, as he pumps them in and out, each withdrawal leaving them glistening with your slick.
âFuck, âs good, youâre doing so good,â you moan, voice breathy and sweet, and Mark swears he could cum in his pants just from that alone. The way you praise him, all soft and desperate, makes his cock throb, aching for relief. He zeroes in on your clit, licking over it before grazing it lightly with his teeth, earning a sharp gasp from you. His thick, calloused fingers follow, circling the sensitive bud with slow, deliberate motions. Youâre soakedâcoated in his spit, in your own slickâand the weed coursing through your system makes every touch feel twice as intense, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.
Itâs filthyâthe way heâs practically making out with your pussy, sloppy and desperate, like he never wants you to leave his mouth. His tongue flicks and drags, lips sealing around your clit with wet, hungry sucks, and when your hips buck against him, grinding down for more, he just moans into you. His jaw and nose are drenched, slick dripping down his chin, but he doesnât stopâif anything, he dives in deeper, like he wants to drown in you.
âTastes so fuckinâ good,â he whines against you, voice muffled by the mess of your pussy. His fingers are still buried deep, pumping into you with a steady, obscene rhythm, while his other hand is stuffed between his legs, rubbing over the aching bulge in his pants. Heâs desperateâhumping into his own palm like he canât help himself, like just eating you out is enough to get him off.
âFuckââ His words are slurred, muffled by the slick between you. âTastes like you were made for me.â
Itâs messy, shamelessâthe way he devours you, like he never wants to come up for air. His jaw aches, but he doesnât stop, doesnât slow, just pulls you closer, as if he could disappear into you completely. You grind against his face, chasing the sharp coil tightening low in your belly, and he only urges you on, gripping your thighs, moaning as he lets you use him.
Your moans spill into the thick air, breath hitching as your back arches. ââMââm cumminâ,â you mewl, voice high, trembling. The pleasure crashes over you in waves, thighs shaking around his head as you unravel, coating his tongue with your release.
Mark doesnât stopânot yet. He groans against you, drinking in every last drop, licking and sucking like heâs starved, like he wants to commit your taste to memory. His breath is heavy, uneven, and when he finally pulls back, his lips and chin glisten with you.
His own hand moves frantically, pumping his cock through his pants, desperate, chasing the high thatâs been building since he first had you on his tongue. The sounds of your pleasureâthe broken whimpers, the way you shake, the way youâve completely let go for himâsend him over the edge. With a sharp, shuddering groan, his hips jerk, and he spills hot and thick into his pants, moaning through it, chest rising and falling in time with yours.
For a moment, the only sound between you is your ragged breaths, the faint hum of satisfaction settling between you both.
That night proved two things: first, that weed clearly has no effect on Viltrumites; and second, that Mark, without a doubt, eats pussy like a starved man.