VIVIENNE

cw. implied smut, undetailed cunnilingus (mark grayson x fem!reader)

It’s late—well past midnight—and the house is mostly silent. Mark and you have barricaded yourselves in his bedroom, apparently “studying” for finals.

Debbie, returning from a late meeting, pauses just outside the door. She’s tired, ready to crash, but something catches her attention—a soft, muffled whimper from behind the closed door.

Her brow furrows.

She leans closer, trying to listen.

And there’s definitely… whimpering.

Then a low, teasing chuckle—definitely Mark’s voice.

“Come on, don’t be like that,” Mark murmurs. “You know you love it.”

Your voice is shaky, barely audible, a mixture of giggles and quiet gasps.

Debbie’s eyes widen.

“Oh no,” She mutters under her breath, instantly regretting her decision to lean her ear in against the door.

But then she hears another noise—a slurping sound mixed with a teasing moan.

She freezes.

“Wait…”

The pieces click.

She’s not just hearing a simple little study session.

She clears her throat softly.

The handle creaks as she steps closer, clearing her throat louder this time.

“Uh… kids?” She calls, voice tired but trying to keep it light.

Mark’s voice—a little breathless but still cheeky—comes through the door.

“We’re, uh… studying!”

And a muffled gasp follows.

Debbie exhales, shaking her head with a mix of disbelief and reluctant amusement.

“Right. Studying. Well, don’t stay up too late.”

cw. dacryphilia, unprotected sex (rex splode x fem!reader)

Your thighs are still trembling beneath him.

Rex doesn’t stop moving — doesn’t even slow. The slick sounds of your overstimulated body are barely muffled by the way his hips roll slow and deep, grinding you into the mattress. Your eyes are already glassy, lashes wet, and your breath keeps catching on soft little sobs.

You try to turn your head, embarrassed — but he catches your chin with two fingers and makes you look at him. His face is flushed, messy strands damp at the temples, eyes dark with something primal and reverent.

“Why’re you crying?” he coos, kissing your cheek. “Hmm?”

Then hiccups, whining, your fingers curling into the sheets. “Y-you keep going—”

His lips hover over your's, barely brushing as he murmurs, “Yeah? You don’t like it?”

“I do,” You breathe. “I— I can’t— it’s too—”

Rex just grins. “You can.”

He kisses her, slow but heavy, swallowing your whimpers like candy on his tongue.

Then you cry again with a sharp, trembling sound when he thrusts in a little deeper, he pulls back just enough to look you in the face, voice all silk and mischief.

“You’re so sensitive,” he teases softly. “Poor baby can’t take it?”

Then, lower, right into your mouth — “Still crying, pretty girl?”

You shake your head, blinking fast, but a fresh tear slides down your raw cheek. Rex kisses it all as it falls, mouth warm against your flushed skin.

“I love when you cry,” he says, almost to himself. “Makes me feel like I’m the only one who gets to see you like this.”

You whine with your face hiding in his neck, and he chuckles.

“No hiding,” he says, lips pressed to your ear now. “You let me see all of it, remember? Every pretty sound, every little cry. That’s mine.”

He rocks into you again, and you gasp all teary and wrecked while your arms wrap around him tight.

“Mine,” he repeats, kissing harder this time all possessive and heady.

And beneath him, overwhelmed and aching, you nod fervently.

🥹🥹🥹

cw. somnophilia, dry humping (mark grayson x fem!reader) part two of two

Mark groans quietly, trying not to wake you.

The damp in his sweatpants is unmistakable—sticky and warm, soaked through with his release. His dream still clings to him like static, the aftershocks humming under his skin, the vision of your rounded belly and sleepy kisses refusing to fade.

And you’re still there. Draped over him like a blanket, puffy cheek pressed to his chest, lashes fluttering faintly with each breath. Your legs are slotted between his, shorts riding up with every shift, and your hips—

God, your hips.

Mark swallows thickly.

He knows you’d talked about this before—quiet, blushy conversations whispered under their blankets at night. “If I’m sleeping and you’re needy… I trust you, Mark. Just be soft with me.” You’d said it with a hand on his chest, lips against his throat. And it killed him then, the way your eyes looked up at him like they already knew what he’d do with your trust.

Right now, though? You’re angled just right, the soft swell of your ass brushing his twitching cock as he tries to adjust.

Bad move.

A soft whine catches in his throat, and Mark bites the inside of his cheek, hard.

He should move you. He should.

But then your hips twitch in your sleep, and you shift ever so slightly—grinding down against him in a way that feels deliberate even though he knows you’re deep asleep. Your breath hiccups softly, mouth parting against his neck.

Mark chokes on a groan.

“Fuck,” he whispers, fingers curling over your waist, gentle. Always gentle. “Baby, you’re gonna kill me.”

He tries to lift you off—just enough to shuffle both of your weight aside without waking you. But your body rolls instinctively with his touch, hips rutting back once, twice, unconsciously chasing friction. And that? That destroys him.

His hips buck up, seeking you without meaning to.

He hears your whimpers.

Not fully awake—just a breathy, needy noise that tears through him like a live wire.

Mark’s hands tighten.

“You want it, sweetheart?” he murmurs against your ear, his voice wrecked, low, trembling with restraint. He noses at your jaw, his lips brushing your temple. “Still dreaming?”

He feels your tiny nods, slow and sleepy, barely conscious.

Mark curses under his breath.

He rocks up again, rubbing himself against the plush give of your shorts, the wet fabric catching deliciously against you. His grip stays firm on your hips, guiding you against him in lazy rolls, slow enough to savor. Every grind sends another jolt of overstimulation through his sensitive cock, but he can’t stop. Not when there’s mewling against him, your hand sliding down to his abdomen like your body autonomously reaches for him even in your sleep.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers hoarsely, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “You feel so good—just like this, yeah?”

From the sound of his voice, you start to squirm just a little. Not enough to wake. Just enough for him to know you’re there—somewhere beneath sleep’s surface, already feeling him without words. Your breath hitches softly again, thighs tensing where they straddle his waist.

Mark swallows a groan and he can just feel you’re dripping.

The thin gusset of your shorts are soaked through, clinging to you with slick warm against his cock as he slowly rocks up into your heat. Your weight is pliant, body slumping forward into his chest, your cheek now pressed right over his heart.

And Mark moans with you.

Not fully. Not awake. Just the breathiest, broken little sound, caught in the back of your throat as his hips stutter—pressing yourself down in a sleepy rut like your body already knows it’s him.

Mark lets out a hiss.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispers, barely able to breathe, his hands sliding down your sides. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

One hand trails to you, dipping under your waistband and grazing the soft curly bush on your mound.

Your pussy twitches the second his fingers find your clit.

Wet. Swollen. Desperate for something you don’t even realize you’re begging for in your sleep. Mark bites his lip as he now strokes over your wet folds, spreading the slick gently. His other hand lifts you by the hips, enough to nudge your shorts aside and slide his cock between your folds—not inside. Just enough to glide the head against your clit, tease you with it.

Your thighs quiver. A shuddering inhale, a muffled whine into his shirt.

He lets his head fall back against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut as he starts a gentle rhythm. Slow, lazy thrusts that slide against your folds, teasing your clit each time your hips rocks down.

“C’mon, baby,” he breathes. “Wanna make you feel good. Even if you’re sleeping.”

He thumbs your clit harder, his tip twitching against his lower stomach.

You inhale—finally awake, bleary-eyed and flushed, lifting you head just slightly.

“Mark…?” You croak, voice rough with sleep. Your lips are puffed, cheeks warm from the heat building between them. Confused. Desperate. So sensitive.

“Shhh,” he soothes, brushing his fingers against your face. “You’re okay. Just keep going. You’re doing so good.”

Your hips shiver. The pleasure is slow, molten, catching in the pit of your stomach like it’s been building in your dreams for hours now.

Mark nudges you forward, guiding your hips again. “Let me take care of you.”

And you pliantly let him.

Letting him roll his hips up into you, hand moving in gentle circles over your clit. Your fingers softly dig into his chest with fluttering lashes.

He watches you fall apart like it’s holy.

“Such a pretty baby,” he coos, lips brushing your cheek. “So wet for me already. You were dreaming, weren’t you?”

You just nod weakly. Your breath hitches again and your moan is barely a sound.

“Just like that,” Mark murmurs. “Come for me, baby. Let go.”

Your orgasms hits like a slow, dreamy wave. Your hips jerk with his, thighs trembling as Mark lets out a breathy fuck, while tears are clinging to the corners of your eyes as Mark holds you steady, coaxing you through the aftershocks.

When you slump forward again, boneless and flushed against his chest, he kisses your temple, whispering praise against your skin.

You murmur his name into his collarbone, dazed and clinging.

“Wha—” you softly breathes, blinking up at him, pouty and swollen and still catching up to what just happened. “Why’re you hard again?”

Mark smiles lazily, his fingers gripping a globe of your ass as he maneuvers his way to line his tip up properly against your winking hole.

 “I’ll tell you after round two.”

cw. minor smut, pregnancy, wet dream (mark grayson x fem!reader) part one of two

It starts the same way it always does.

The dream folds in around him like fog, like a half-remembered summer day. You’re glowing with a swell beneath your soft tank, hands resting protectively over your belly. The light in the dream is warm and golden, refracted like honey through old glass. Everything feels slow. Heavy with meaning.

There are children. Not fully formed, just laughter and little feet darting in and out of the edges of his vision. Blurred smiles. The sound of soft coos. Your voice, sweet and distant, calling from somewhere inside the house. “Did you grab the bottles from the counter?”

He nods. He doesn’t even realize he’s nodding until he hears his own voice echoing softly through the dream. “Yeah, baby. I got ’em. I got everything.”

Then appearing in front of him then, hair loose, a little tired around the eyes but happy. There’s this look on your face—like you know something he doesn’t. Like it’s been waiting for him to catch up.

And in the dream, Mark feels it: the want. The ache in his chest to live this life. To give you everything. To watch you swell with your own children, to watch you laugh in their kitchen, to fall asleep with you every night for the rest of his life.

There are steps that come closer to him, and a warm hand comes to rest over his heart.

A voice that’s soft and strange: “You’re gonna be such a good dad, Mark.”

And that’s what breaks him.

His body jerks in the real world—hips tensing, breath catching, a warm, humiliating spill against the inside of his sweats as the dream shatters and light breaks across the ceiling of his room.

He wakes and there you are.

You’re still sleeping on top of him with a cheek nestled against his collarbone, one hand curled into the fabric of his hoodie. Your breathing is slow, peaceful and oblivious.

Mark stares at the ceiling, his heart pounding, damp heat sticking to his skin. His hand instinctively curls around your waist to pull you closer, like he’s terrified you might disappear with the rest of the dream.

He’s breathless. Half-guilty. Half-overwhelmed.

Because even now, wide awake and back in reality—he still wants it.

You. That future. All of it.

cw. unprotected sex, marathon sex, slight dacryphilia, slight breeding kink, a little angsty but happy ending :D (mark grayson x fem!reader)

You didn’t think you’d let him touch you again.

Not after everything.

But now—pressed between cool sheets and his bare chest, your thigh hiked high around his waist—you don’t remember how to not want him. Every second without him was a slow death. And now he’s here. On you. In you. Holding you like you’re his again.

Your mouth falls open in a quiet gasp when his hips press flush into yours, He swears under his breath, muffled and broken—like he can’t believe how wet you still are for him.

“God,” he murmurs, nose brushing into your cheek, lips trailing your jaw. “You’re dripping.”

There’s only whines, eyes fluttering shut, hips rocking helplessly. The wet, sinful stick of your bodies makes it worse—the low squelch every time he sinks back in. The sweat. The heat. The sheets pushed off long ago, replaced by tangled limbs and slippery skin.

He’s everywhere.

Mouth on your throat.

Fingers tracing the dip of your spine.

Cock buried so deep you can barely breathe, let alone think.

“M—Mark,” You whisper, breath shaky, “slow down…”

But he doesn’t. He can’t.

Your legs tremble, stomach tightens. Then you bite your lip hard to keep quiet—the wall behind the headboard thin, his friend staying just one door over. Mark notices.

He kisses your mouth, quiet and reverent.

“You gotta stay quiet, baby,” he murmurs, voice ragged against your lips. “You don’t want them to hear how good I fuck you, right?”

Your fingers claw down his back.

He groans. Loses himself for a second.

The next thrust makes you sob quietly.

“You still take me so well,” he rasps, pumping into you slow but deep. Every push stretches your pussy open again, filthy and tender all at once. “Like you were made for me.”

You desperately, tears stinging in your eyes. “I missed you. I hate you and I missed you—”

“I know,” he whispers with a soft coo. “I know, I know.”

He shifts suddenly—his hands are under your thighs, lifting, dragging your hips higher so your ass rests right on his lap, spread open and wrecked. The new angle sends your back arching off the bed, mouth falling open in a silent cry.

Mark leans over. “You gonna come for me like this?”

You nod again tearfully. Eyes glassy, breath caught in your throat.

“Come for me, baby. Let me feel you.”

And when you do—with your nails gripping his forearms, lips pressed into his shoulder to keep from screaming—it sets him off too.

He spills into you with a low, broken sound, buried deep, his hips jerking like he’s trying to stay inside forever.

But it doesn’t stop there.

They go for hours.

Across the bed, against the dorm window, on the carpet with your thighs spread wide and cheek pressed to the floor. You cry again when he slides back in—already sore, already ruined—but welcoming him like home.

He eats you out slowly in the dim bathroom light with your leg slung over his shoulder, tears stained on your cheeks with your hand pressed to the mirror to steady yourself. Your pussy clenches around his fingers, jaw trembling, trying not to scream when he tells you:

“I thought about this. Every night. About the way you taste. About how good you’d sound if I had you again.”

Mark doesn’t just fuck.

He undoes.

By the time morning light slips through the blackout curtains, his curled in the bed with you again. Your face buried in his neck. His hand resting between your legs, palm flat, just holding there.

And you two are together again.

cw. oral sex (m!receiving), praise kink, recording sexual acts (mark grayson x fem!reader)

Mark’s dorm still smells like sweat, sex, and summer.

The fan’s spinning. His sheets are damp. Your thighs are sore and his room is quiet now—except for the faint click of his laptop opening.

You blink up at him from where you’re curled beside him on the mattress, warm cheek pressed to his stomach. He’s still half-hard. Slick, flushed. You can feel the heat radiating off him.

Mark grins down at you. That boyish, smug, post-orgasm softness that always makes your stomach flutter.

“You still with me?” he asks, brushing your hair off your forehead.

You nod.

He leans over—taps a key, clicks open the QuickTime camera, and angles the MacBook at the edge of the bed. The camera activates: a grainy little window showing his lean frame against the headboard, legs spread, cock glistening, chest rising and falling. You’re barely in frame, tucked beside his hip, one hand resting on his thigh.

Your cheeks go hot again.

Mark notices instantly.

“Don’t look away.” His voice drops, low and coaxing. “Come here.”

You shift, crawling between his legs, heart hammering. He’s already reclined against the headboard, legs stretched out, one knee bent. The laptop records the full view: your shy mouth and his smug smirk, the intimacy of it, the heat in the low light.

Mark holds the base of his cock, tilting it toward you.

“Show me how sweet you are,” he says softly, “with your mouth this time.”

You hesitate, nervous again under the camera’s blinking green light. But then his fingers graze your jaw—gentle, reverent. “It’s just me, baby. No one else ever gets to see this. Just you loving me.”

That word—loving—makes your stomach flip.

So you lean in.

You kiss the tip first—soft, barely there, like you’re scared of ruining him. He exhales through his nose, head tilting back slightly.

“Fuck… yeah. Just like that.”

You wrap your lips around him slowly, tongue flicking along the underside. He’s already half-hard, and he throbs against your tongue. The camera’s catching everything now: the way your lashes flutter, the delicate shape of your mouth stretched around him.

Mark’s hand rests on the back of your head, not pushing, just resting there.

“You look so good like this,” he whispers. “So fucking good.”

You bob gently, tongue swirling, eyes peeking up at him. And that—that—makes him groan, head knocking lightly against the wall.

“Yeah, baby. Look at me.” His voice thickens. “Look up at me while you suck me off, come on.”

Your face burns, but you do.

You meet his eyes as you take more of him, deeper now. His thighs twitch under your hands. The sound he makes is deep and low, like it drags out of his chest. You feel it everywhere.

Mark glances at the laptop screen, then back down at you, utterly transfixed.

“You see how pretty you look?” he pants. “You’ve got drool on your chin. You’re fucking glowing. Christ—I’m glowing.”

You whimper a little around him.

His fingers tighten slightly in your hair, guiding you now. Not rough. Not fast. Just… intentional. Just how he knows you like it. How he knows he likes it—watching your tongue work around him, watching your cheeks hollow, watching you try so hard to be good for him even while blushing.

He grabs the laptop for a second, adjusts it.

Now it’s the full view: your mouth, his cock, the way your thighs press together like you’re trying to calm yourself.

He smirks.

“You’re getting wet again, huh?”

You moan helplessly around him.

“Course you are,” he breathes. “You get off on this, don’t you? Letting me record how fucking sweet you are for me. How you worship me with those soft little lips.”

You suck harder, your own breath catching.

“God,” he growls. “You’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect—don’t stop, baby. Don’t you dare stop.”

You don’t.

You take him deeper now, the tip pressing against the back of your throat. He curses, his thighs trembling, eyes squeezed shut.

Then he opens them, locking eyes with the lens.

And he moans your name like a prayer.

He grips your hair tighter, chest rising and falling fast.

“Fuck—‘m gonna come—fuck, look up—wanna see your pretty eyes when I—”

You do. You hold him there. Mouth full. Eyes big and adoring.

And when he comes—groaning your name, hips twitching, legs shaking—it’s caught on film. All of it. The heat. The tenderness. The reverence in the filth.

He spills into your mouth, and you take it, like a promise.

After, he gently strokes your hair as you rest your cheek on his thigh again, breath slowing, lips swollen.

Mark leans over to pause the recording. He replays it for a second, head tilted, watching the screen like he’s watching the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“You’re gonna make me fall in love with you, you know that?” he murmurs.

You glance up at him.

He smiles.

“Too late.”

cw. dacryphilia, praise kink, recording sexual acts (rex splode x fem!reader)

He’s got the phone angled just right—propped up on the corner of his desk, steady and capturing you completely spread out for him on his dorm bed. The warm yellow glow of his desk lamp lights your skin like it’s velvet, and the camera catches everything—your thighs trembling, the slick mess between them, your fingers twisted in his sheets like you’re barely holding on.

Rex groans softly, eyes flicking between your flushed, tear-stained face and the screen. “You crying again?” he whispers, low and dark, kissing your cheek where a tear rolls down. “You always do this, baby.”

You sniffle, lip wobbling. “I c-can’t help it—”

“I know you can’t,” he murmurs, so fucking gentle now it’s cruel. “You’re too sensitive for me, aren’t you? Can’t even take it without crying.”

The camera catches you nodding, helpless under him, your voice barely a whimper. “Feels too good…”

Rex smirks, slow and mean, brushing your hair back like he isn’t fucking into you so deep your eyes are going blurry. “You wanna tell the camera?” he asks, his mouth dragging along your jaw. “Wanna show them how good I fuck you? How I make my girl fall apart?”

Your thighs clench around him, a soft mewl leaving your lips.

But he grabs your jaw gently, coaxing you to look into the lens.

“Go on,” he murmurs. “Say it.”

You blink up at the camera, face flushed, lips swollen, eyes glassy with tears—and whisper it, voice cracking.

“You f-fuck me so good, Rex…”

And the way he groans—pressing his forehead to yours, the camera still rolling as he kisses your mouth, your cheeks, your tears.

“God, I love you like this.”

Rex doesn’t even have to say it, but the footage screams it.

You are his. Every soft sob, every tear-soaked kiss, every filthy, ruined inch of you.

And he’s gonna keep that video forever.

cw. masturbation (m!recieivng), slight breeding kink (mark grayson x fem!reader)

Mark thinks about you day and night.

One hand loosely wrapped around the base of his shaft as the other clumsily scrolls through your old texts.

Countless of nudes sent between the both you. 

He’s stuck staring at one of his favourites—the one with your legs spread out, your glistening pussy spread open by your two fingers and he can just imagine how it would be twitching as your lips would be held open.

He can picture it now. The way your pussy swallows him whole from the tip to the base. Thighs trembling while he slides out slowly just to thrust back in with that little grind of his hips.

His hand is speeding up, the familiar soft schlick from his palm as the coil in the base of his navel tightens.

He’s twitching, ready to cum into his hand.

cw. cunnilingus (rex splode x fem!reader)

Rex eats you like a man starved of food.

He can be incredibly insatiable, spreading sticky fluids of mixed cum all over his lips. A silky wet strand attached to his tongue as he pulls away for air. He can keep you in this state for hours.

Your thighs are wrung open, and his shiny lips twitch at the slightest jitter in your legs as his breath quickens with adrenaline. He pins you down while you squirm away from him.

“Don’t move, baby,” he whispers. 

His thumb teases your clit, pressing with a little more pressure to watch your face scrunch as you try to suppress a stifled cry.

He’ll eventually get it out of you, and you’ll try to take his dick again, but for now?