VIVIENNE

hello anon! I'm not confident in doing requests, so no… requests are not open… but here is something for you 🤍 thank you so much for reading

mark grayson with a sensitive lover cw. praise, crying, overstimulation, cuddling.

mark learns very quickly that you cry when it feels good.

not in a hurt way. never in a hurt way.

it’s always that pretty, overwhelmed kind of crying, where your lashes clump together and your lips part around soft little sounds you try so hard to keep quiet. you get embarrassed every time, turning your face into the pillow or covering your mouth like you can hide from him, like mark doesn’t know every sound you make by heart.

“baby,” he murmurs, voice low against your ear. “don’t hide from me.”

cw. shower sex, fingering (f!receiving), cute banter between you and Mark (mark grayson x fem!reader)

The water outage notice goes up at seven in the morning.

You find it taped crookedly to the elevator doors on your way back from getting coffee, still sleepy, wearing shorts and one of Mark’s old college shirts because laundry day has become more of a suggestion than an actual routine.

TEMPORARY WATER INTERRUPTION FROM 8:00 A.M. TO 6:00 P.M.

You stare at it.

Then stare harder, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less inconvenient.

Behind you, Mark comes out of the stairwell with wet hair, gym bag over one shoulder, cheeks flushed from his morning run. He nearly bumps into you, then follows your gaze to the notice.

“Oh,” he says.

You turn slowly. “Did you shower already?”

Mark blinks.

You narrow your eyes.

His face does something suspicious.

“Technically…”

“Mark.”

“I rinsed off at the gym.”

“That is not showering.”

“It involved water.”

“You smell like outside.”

“I smell like fresh air and athletic dedication.”

“You smell like pavement.”

He laughs, leaning closer just to annoy you, and you shove at his chest with one hand. He catches your wrist without thinking, thumb brushing over your pulse before he lets go.

The little contact lingers longer than it should.

Everything with Mark lingers longer than it should these days.

The two of you are not dating.

You have both said this.

Several times, actually.

Usually after one of you falls asleep on the couch with the other’s hand tucked under your shirt. Or after Mark comes home bruised and you patch him up in silence, sitting too close, knees touching. Or after you wear his clothes without asking and he looks at you like he has forgotten every language he knows.

Not dating.

Just sharing a place.

Just friends.

Just friends who know exactly how the other takes their coffee, who keep ending up in each other’s beds without doing anything except sleeping too close, who pretend not to notice how charged the air gets when one of you walks around in a towel.

Normal. Very normal.

The notice on the elevator says otherwise.

You check the time on your phone. “It’s seven-thirty.”

Mark glances at the paper again. “We’ve got thirty minutes.”

“I need to wash my hair.”

“I need an actual shower.”

You both go quiet.

The silence is immediate.

Heavy and ridiculous.

Then Mark says, far too casually, “We could save water.”

Your head snaps toward him.

He is already smirking.

Not fully. Just enough to make your stomach drop.

“Absolutely not.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You said it with your face.”

“My face is innocent.”

“Your face is never innocent.”

Mark’s smirk grows.

You hate him.

You hate that your body reacts to it too, warmth creeping up your neck as you turn away from him and jab the elevator button like it personally betrayed you.

“We are not showering together,” you say.

“Okay.”

“Stop sounding like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you know something.”

Mark leans against the wall beside you, looking entirely too relaxed for someone causing this much damage before breakfast.

“I know we have thirty minutes.”

You glare at him.

He lifts both hands. “I’m just saying.”

“You’re just saying nothing.”

“Right.”

The elevator arrives and you step in first.

Mark follows.

Neither of you speaks the entire way up.

That somehow makes it worse.

Because the idea is already there now, sitting between you in the tiny mirrored elevator. Mark behind you. Steam. Water. Bare skin. His stupid broad shoulders taking up too much space. You try very hard not to look at his reflection.

You fail once.

He catches you.

Of course he catches you.

His eyes flick to yours in the mirror.

You look away so fast your neck nearly hurts.

Mark says nothing.

But his mouth twitches.

By the time you get inside the apartment, you’re already flustered.

You set the coffees down too hard on the counter and march toward the bathroom with false confidence.

“I’m going first.”

Mark follows at an unhurried pace. “You said you have to wash your hair.”

“I do.”

“That takes forever.”

“It does not.”

“It does.”

You turn in the bathroom doorway. “Do you want hot water or not?”

He stops in front of you.

Too close.

Always too close lately.

His gaze drops briefly to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes.

“I’m fine with sharing.”

Your breath catches.

Mark hears it.

His smirk fades a little, replaced by something slower. Warmer.

Less teasing.

More dangerous.

You swallow. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m standing here.”

“Exactly.”

He laughs softly, but his eyes don’t leave your face.

“Your call,” he says.

That should help.

It does not.

Because he means it. He is leaving it to you. No pressure, no push, no smug little joke now. Just Mark standing there in the hallway, giving you space to say no.

And suddenly the word no feels embarrassingly far away.

You look down at your coffee and then back at him.

Then at the bathroom, where the clock is very much ticking.

“This is just practical,” you say.

Mark’s face stays carefully neutral.

Too carefully.

“Very practical.”

“To save water.”

“Of course.”

“And time.”

“Definitely.”

“And you’re not allowed to be annoying.”

His eyebrows lift. “That one might be hard.”

“Mark.”

“I’ll behave.”

You do not believe him.

Not for one second.

Still, ten minutes later, you are standing in the shower with him.

Naked with Mark.

Naked Mark.

Behind you.

You have made several tactical errors in your life, but this may be the worst.

The shower is not built for two people. Not two people when one of them is Mark, who takes up space like it’s a personal hobby. His shoulder brushes yours every time he moves. His arm reaches past you for the shampoo and the entire wall seems to shrink. Warm water runs over both of you, steam fogging the glass until the bathroom becomes its own little world.

You face forward with the dedication of someone defusing a bomb.

You do not look down.

You do not look back.

You keep your eyes fixed on the tile.

Very normal tile.

Beautiful tile, really.

Fascinating grout.

Behind you, Mark clears his throat.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

“You’re staring at the wall.”

“I like walls.”

“You like walls?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve never mentioned that.”

“It’s a private interest.”

Mark laughs under his breath.

You can feel him trying not to move too close.

That is somehow worse than if he just did.

Because you are painfully aware of every inch he is keeping away from you. Aware of the heat of him behind you. Aware of the water running down his chest, his stomach, lower. Aware of the fact that if you turned around, you would see everything you have been carefully not thinking about for weeks.

You reach for the body wash.

Mark reaches at the same time.

Your hands touch.

You freeze.

He does too.

The bottle slips.

You both grab for it.

In the cramped space, Mark steps forward.

His chest hits your back.

And then you feel him.

Hard against you.

Your whole body goes still.

Mark’s breath catches behind you.

Neither of you moves.

Water beats steadily against the tile as steam curls around your face.

Your fingers tighten around the body wash.

Mark’s voice comes low near your ear.

“Sorry.”

He does not move away.

You do not ask him to.

That is its own answer.

His hands hover at your sides, not touching yet, just there. Waiting.

“Tell me to move,” he says.

Your throat feels dry despite the shower.

You should.

You really should.

Instead, your voice comes out small.

“I didn’t say anything.”

Mark goes very still.

The silence changes again.

This time it is not awkward.

It is charged.

His hands settle lightly at your waist.

Not grabbing.

Not taking.

Just touching.

His thumbs rest against your wet skin, and you feel him exhale behind you.

“You sure?” he asks.

You close your eyes.

The water runs down your face, your chest, between your breasts. His body is warm and solid behind yours. Too close. Not close enough.

“Yes.”

It is barely a whisper.

Mark hears it anyway.

Of course he does.

His hands slide slowly around your waist, palms spreading over your stomach. He pulls you back against him, just enough that your spine fits to his chest, just enough that there is no pretending anymore.

You gasp softly when he presses harder against you.

Mark’s mouth brushes the side of your neck.

“You’re shaking.”

“You’re naked.”

“So are you.”

“That’s different.”

He smiles against your skin. “How?”

“Because it’s you.”

The words slip out before you can stop them.

Mark freezes.

For one awful, breathless second, you think you have ruined everything.

Then his hands tighten on your stomach.

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

Your face burns hotter than the steam. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Make me say embarrassing things.”

His lips graze your neck.

“But I like when you say embarrassing things.”

You elbow him lightly.

He catches your arm, laughing softly, and presses a kiss to your shoulder.

The kiss ruins you.

It is too gentle for what is happening. Too soft for the way his cock is pressed against your lower back, too sweet for the way his hands are already sliding higher, up your ribs, slow enough to give you time to stop him.

You don’t.

His palms cup your breasts.

Your breath leaves you.

Mark stills immediately.

“Okay?”

You nod, then remember what he always does.

“Yes.”

His fingers flex, careful at first, testing. Your nipples are already hard from the water and the nerves and him, and when his thumbs brush over them, your whole body jolts.

Mark inhales sharply.

“Oh.”

“Don’t,” you whimper.

His mouth returns to your neck. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“I was.”

“You’re awful.”

“Maybe.”

His thumbs circle again.

Your head tips back against his shoulder before you can stop it.

Mark’s voice drops.

“But you like it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, mortified.

He pinches gently, rolling your nipples between his fingers, and the sound you make echoes off the tile before you can swallow it.

Mark groans behind you.

“Fuck.”

Your face burns. “Mark.”

“I know.” His hands keep moving, slow and deliberate. “I know, baby.”

Baby.

That is new.

That is dangerous.

You go soft against him, and he feels it instantly.

His arm slides around your waist, holding you up as his other hand continues teasing your nipple until your knees threaten to give.

“You like that too?” he asks.

You shake your head.

His thumb strokes again.

You whine as Mark smiles against your ear.

“Liar.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“You’re still leaning on me.”

“I have no choice.”

“You have plenty of choices.”

His hand slips down your stomach.

Your breath catches.

He pauses just above where you want him.

“Tell me no,” he says softly, “and I’ll stop.”

You stare at the fogged shower glass in front of you, heart pounding.

You don’t say no.

Instead, you reach back blindly and grab at his lower back.

Mark’s breath shudders.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

His fingers slide between your legs.

You nearly collapse.

He holds you tighter, chest firm against your back, one arm wrapped around your middle while his hand finds you with devastating ease. He touches you like he has thought about it before, like he already knows where to press, where to slow down, where to circle until your hips jerk helplessly into his palm.

Wetness slickening his fingers as the pads circle your clit.

“Mark,” you gasp.

His mouth opens against your neck.

You feel his smile.

“Yeah?”

You hate that he sounds smug.

You hate that it turns you on.

His fingers glide through your folds, gathering the slickness there, mixing with the hot water running over both of you. He groans again, deeper this time.

“You’re so wet.”

“It’s the shower.”

His laugh is low and mean in the sweetest way.

“No, it’s not.”

You cover your face with one wet hand.

He immediately catches your wrist and lowers it.

“Don’t hide.”

“I’m embarrassed.”

“I know.” His fingers find your clit, and your body jerks. “It’s cute.”

“It’s not cute.”

“It is.”

He rubs slow circles over you, barely enough, teasing more than giving. Your hips chase his hand, and he holds you still with infuriating ease.

“Mark.”

“What?”

“Don’t be mean.”

“I’m not being mean.” His voice is soft, almost innocent. “I’m being practical.”

You huff a broken laugh despite yourself. “Practical?”

“We’re saving water.”

“You’re—” Your words dissolve into a whimper when he presses harder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re trying not to come on my fingers.”

Your whole body goes hot.

“Mark.”

His teeth graze your shoulder, not biting, just enough to make your stomach flip.

“What?” he murmurs. “Too honest?”

You can’t answer.

Not when he is touching you like that, not when his cock is still hard against your back, not when his other hand returns to your breast, thumb circling your nipple in time with his fingers between your thighs.

It is too much.

The steam. The water. Mark’s body wrapped around yours. The fact that you are not dating, not together, not anything simple, and yet he is holding you like he has wanted this for weeks.

Maybe months.

Your voice trembles. “Have you thought about this?”

Mark’s fingers slow.

For a second, only the shower speaks.

Then his mouth presses against your ear.

“Yes.”

Your heart stutters.

“How much?”

His grip tightens.

“A lot.”

Your knees nearly buckle.

Mark catches you, his laugh breathless and rough.

“That got to you?”

You turn your face away, shy and burning.

His hand leaves your breast to cup your jaw, guiding you just enough for him to see your profile.

“Ask me,” he says.

You swallow. “Ask what?”

“What I thought about.”

Your lashes flutter.

“Mark…”

“Ask.”

Your whole body throbs at the command.

“What did you think about?”

His fingers start moving again.

Slow, lazy and cruel.

“This,” he says. “You trying not to look. Pretending you’re not curious.”

You whimper.

“Pretending you don’t notice when I come out of the shower.”

“I don’t—”

“You do.”

You hate him.

You hate that he’s right.

His mouth drags over your neck.

“I thought about getting you exactly like this,” he admits, voice rough now. “All shy and wet and shaking against me.”

Your hand flies to his wrist between your thighs, but again, not to stop him.

Just to hold on.

“I thought about touching you until you couldn’t pretend anymore.”

You sob softly.

His fingers circle faster.

“Thought about how you’d sound.”

“Mark.”

“And I was right.”

You come with his name breaking in your mouth.

It hits you hard, sharp and hot, your body folding forward as much as his arm will allow. Mark holds you through it, hand working you gently while you tremble, his mouth pressed to your temple, murmuring soft praise into your wet skin.

“That’s it. There you go. I’ve got you.”

Your legs shake so badly that he has to turn you carefully, pressing your back against the tile so you don’t slip.

You stare up at him, breathless.

For the first time, you let yourself look.

Really look.

At his wet hair falling into his eyes. The water running down his chest. His flushed face. The way he is still hard, still wanting, still trying so visibly to be careful with you that it makes your chest ache.

Mark notices your gaze drop.

His mouth curves.

“There it is.”

You look back up too quickly.

He laughs softly, bracing one hand against the wall beside your head.

“You can look.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“I was not.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

You glare at him.

He leans down, his lips brushing yours but not quite kissing you.

“Want me to stop?”

Your answer comes too fast. “No.”

His eyes darken.

The first kiss is careful.

The second is not.

Your arms slide around his neck, pulling him closer as he presses you back against the tile, his body fitting between your thighs. The water runs over both of you, hot and steady, and everything gets messier from there — mouths slipping, hands wandering, Mark groaning when your fingers finally wrap around him.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth.

You freeze, suddenly shy again.

He catches your wrist gently.

“Don’t stop unless you want to.”

You look up at him through wet lashes.

He looks wrecked.

Completely wrecked.

That gives you courage.

You touch him again, slowly, and his forehead drops to yours.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re going to kill me.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“You’re naked and touching me in the shower.”

“That’s your fault.”

“My fault?”

“You suggested saving water.”

He laughs, but it breaks into a groan when your hand moves again.

His hips twitch.

Your face heats at the feel of him in your palm, hard and heavy and unmistakably affected by you.

By you.

Not some almost-girlfriend. Not some roommate. Not some friend he keeps blurring lines with.

You.

Mark kisses you again, deeper this time, then pulls back just enough to look at you.

“We should get out,” he says, voice strained.

You blink. “What?”

“If we keep going in here, I’m going to lose my mind, and I don’t want you slipping.”

The fact that he can still be responsible right now is offensive.

You stare at him and then you softly laugh.

Mark frowns. “What?”

“You’re really telling me to get out of the shower for safety?”

“Yes.”

“While naked.”

“Yes.”

“After making me come on your fingers.” You whisper teasingly.

His face flushes.

Actually flushes.

You gasp softly, delighted. “Oh my God.”

“Don’t.”

“You’re embarrassed.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

He turns the water off with a little too much force.

“We’re getting out.”

You giggle as he reaches for a towel, but the sound dies when he wraps it around you himself, careful and tender, rubbing warmth back into your arms. The steam clings to the mirror. Water drips from his hair onto his shoulders. He is still naked, still hard, still standing close enough to make your thoughts scatter, but now he is looking at you with something softer than hunger.

Something scarier.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

Your heart squeezes.

You nod. “Yeah.”

His brows lift.

You smile faintly. “Yes, Mark.”

He relaxes.

“Good.”

You should leave it there.

You should go get dressed. Pretend this was a weird, water-saving incident. Laugh awkwardly over coffee and never talk about how his hands felt on you or how quickly he made you fall apart.

Instead, you reach for his towel.

Mark looks down at your hand.

Then up at your face.

Your fingers curl in the fabric.

“I didn’t say we had to stop,” you whisper.

The air goes still.

Mark’s expression changes slowly.

The soft concern remains, but heat curls through it, darkening his eyes.

“No?”

You shake your head.

He steps closer.

“Then where do you want me?”

Your breath catches.

You glance toward the hallway.

Toward his room.

Mark follows your gaze.

When he looks back at you, his smirk has returned.

Worse than before.

Warmer than before.

“Bed?” he asks.

You hide your face in the towel. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you already know.”

Mark laughs softly, then scoops you up like you weigh nothing.

You squeal, grabbing his shoulders. “Mark!”

“What?” He carries you out of the bathroom, dripping wet and grinning. “We’re conserving energy now.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“You like me.”

You press your burning face into his neck.

That is not an answer.

Or maybe it is.

cw. light angst with a happy ending, relates to the Las Vegas in incident in the comics, reader is a bit of crybaby (mark grayson x fem!reader)

The lounge is quiet.

Not silent—there’s the low hum of the fridge nearby, the muted sound of rain against the windows—but quiet enough that every little sniffle from you sounds louder than it should.

Mark stands near the couch, jaw tight, sleeves rolled up, still carrying that sharpness he’d had all evening.

You pushed him—not maliciously.

Just… stubborn.

Skipping meals again. Brushing him off. Smiling that thin little smile and insisting you were fine when you were very obviously unraveling.

And then you snapped at him.

Tiny thing. Barely even attitude.

But with the way he’d already been wound tight worrying about you while off planet already? Coming back to the shit-show that was Las Vegas?

It escalated fast

Now your eyes are glossy, cheeks damp, oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder as you stand a few feet away from him looking painfully small.

And guilty.

Always guilty.

“I said I’m sorry…”

Your voice wobbles halfway through it.

Mark exhales slowly through his nose.

Still irritated and affected, but the second your lip trembles again, something in his expression shifts.

Because there you are.

His girl.

Looking at him like she thinks affection can disappear if she missteps badly enough by the heap of bullshit that he’s already been through.

It does something ugly to his chest.

“Come here,” he says quietly.

You move almost immediately—of course you do.

Soft little thing crossing the room with watery eyes, almost tripping over herself in her hurry to get close again.

The moment you reach him; Mark’s hands are on you.

One firm hand settling at your waist, the other sliding up the back of your neck to ground you.

His irritation doesn’t disappear, but it melts into something heavier and more complicated.

You cling instantly, fingers curling into the front of his shirt as you press yourself against him with a tiny, shaky exhale.

“I didn’t mean to make you upset…”

The way you say it...

Small and earnest like it genuinely hurts to think he’s angry at you.

Mark’s eyes close briefly.

Then he tilts your face up toward him.

Your lashes are wet with your cheeks flushed.

Pretty in that devastating way you've always is when you're emotional.

And he hates how much he likes it.

“Look at you,” he murmurs.

Not mocking.

Almost… wrecked by it.

Your brows pull together slightly.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper again.

Mark shakes his head once then leans down—and kisses the tears from beneath your eyes.

Slowly and carefully, lips brushing warm against damp skin.

A tiny sound catching in your throat as his thumb strokes along your jaw.

Another kiss.

This time at the corner of your mouth.

Then your cheek.

Like he’s soothing something frightened.

“Enough apologizing,” he says softly.

But there’s command beneath it.

Always.

You nod immediately anyway, eyes still glossy as you lean further into him.

Needy now.

Clingy in the aftermath.

Your arms sliding around his middle while pressing your face against his chest.

Mark’s hand moves up into your hair automatically.

Slow strokes.

Possessive and gentle all at once.

“You scared me,” he admits quietly.

That makes you still, because Mark rarely admits things plainly these days.

So your head tilts up slightly hearing him.

“…I did?”

His face softens.

“You stop eating. Stop sleeping. Walk around like you’re disappearing in front of me and expect me not to react?”

Your eyes soften immediately.

Oh... so it wasn't anger, just worry.

That almost makes you cry again.

“I’m trying,” Another whisper.

And there it is.

The exhaustion underneath all of it.

The grief.

The emptiness you've been dragging around since he was gone.

Mark sees it instantly.

His expression changes again, softening at the edges in that rare way only you get to witness.

He pulls you even closer until you’re nearly in his lap against the couch, his hand cradling the back of your head.

“I know,” he murmurs against your forehead.

Then another kiss and this one lingering.

“I know, baby.”

Your fingers tightened in his shirt as a tiny broken sound leaves your throat.

Mark’s chest aches.

Because no matter how much he tries to control himself around you to not break apart—moments like this make it impossible not to feel consumed by you.

He brushes his thumb beneath your eye again, catching fresh tears before they can fall.

“I’m always going to be here...” he murmurs softly. “I promised you.”

🥹🥹🥹

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?