on-hit

[on-hit]

Check out the Homie @omniphilic master piece!!!! Genuinely was a delight to be the beta reader for this work! <3

⠀⠀⠀⭒󠀠󠀠󠀠 ( ´ཀ` ) YOU LOOK HUNGRY ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀mark actually makes it in time for dinner, but he thinks missing it would’ve been less embarrassing than getting bricked up at your table.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀a.k.a ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Amber’s Mom Has Got It Going On

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀> all characters involved are 18 and older. the following fic contains ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀mark grayson thirsting over someone at least 20 years his senior. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

warnings & tags | i guess it is implied the reader is poc. but idk if u are white just imagine amber is biracial (or imagine the one from the comics ig) 🤷🏾‍♀️ inconvenient boners, the perverse mind of a sweet suburban boy (he's thirsty), mishandling of an embarrassing situation, male masturbation, scent kink, misuse of cow print panties. mark thinks of cheating on amber (spiritually?), you're not in on it <3 you are a baddie minding your business. reader is a good mom (serious). reader is said to have fat/pudge/curves at least once. mark is uncircumcised. the reader is referred to using titles that align with she/her/hers, you are considered Amber's 'mom'. PORN WITH PLOT i take the premise extremely seriously lol. 7.3k words.

yapper notes | i went to a music lounge and a young woman (very beautiful alt girl) sang a song dedicated to her ex called 'you look hungry' and i immediately got the idea for this fic . shout out to the big homie @on-hit for helping me every step of the way with it they are an AWESOME beta reader, and to my inspirations @sophsthebest @slutla @batsovergotham @nana-au @arieswritez who have been making me go CWAZY with their mark content. first fic is dedicated to yall <33 taglist | @zomqiez

“—k hungry.” His glass clinks off the wood of the table when you set it down, the sound snapping Mark back to reality.

Mark blinks out of his stupor, memories of the time and place rushing back to him. “I’m sorry Mrs. Bennett—what’d you say?” Smiling awkwardly, Mark realized then and there he should not have agreed to this. He should have found some way to tell Amber he couldn’t make it.  He should have bailed and asked mom to make some shit up so he didn’t have to be seated across from you at this dinner table. The flu excuse was a classic—although, he hadn’t seemed sick earlier that week. Scratch that, couldn’t work. Food poisoning, though? He was sure that could’ve worked well enough to have kept him the fuck home. 

He knows that Mom probably wouldn’t have done it, though. She’d have gone on and on about honesty—sincerity. The things that make or break a relationship. He would’ve had to tell Amber himself anyway.

He secretly hoped Cecil changed his mind about having reassigned him, but dashed the thought as quickly as he had it. Mark Grayson would never hope to be that lucky.

“You look hungry.” Your emphasis. It draws out the grit in your voice; that saccharine drawl lances through his thoughts and spears him right in the chest. His heart pounds with the roar of a war drum, disconcertingly loud in his ears and you’re standing so close—just to pour his water—that he worries for a moment you can hear it, too. He prays to God you don’t notice how tense he is or how red his face has gotten since you’ve stepped into his vicinity. 

What is he so flustered by, anyway? Is it the smell of your perfume that’s got him short circuiting? The faint tickle of your breath on his ear? The mere thought of you being anywhere near him?

The answer is D: all of the above. 

Having come to this conclusion, it sets the facts in stone--

He really is fucked. 

He’d be surprised if he still had a girlfriend by the end of the night cause his eyes have been glued to you since you opened the door, caught on your every word. Amber was over the moon about it at first. He’d been housebroken in five minutes tops; yes and ma’am his two favorite words.

“Hungry?”

It's hardly anything but you light up anyway, your shock giving way to a restrained excitement and in an instant your demeanor entirely made over. Your eyes became alive and bright, smile lines gentle crescents on your face as your grin spans ear to ear. 

You have been doing most of the talking. He can’t get his thoughts in a straight line when you look him in the eyes so instead of being tongue-tied, second guessing and editing every genuine reaction, he mad himself set dressing; he was your coat rack in the corner, the ottoman that held your drinks, your plaid couch cushion. He observed the banter between you and Amber and acted like some stranger, or her shadow as opposed to ‘her little friend.’ You had tried to coax him out of his shell.

Nudged his shoulder. A quick What do you think, Mark? just to see if he’ll bite. He only nodded politely. Kept eye-contact but hardly emoted; you don’t think this kid has blinked for the past five minutes. I think it’s just fine, ma’am. No dice. Cool and calm, but it feels too curated. Contained.

You think he doesn’t like you at first and that is entirely on him. The bit of sadness in your eyes and the odd glance from Amber fills him with dread, but ultimately he decides it’s worth it. It was far better than you getting too close and finding out he actually likes you—a lot more than he should. He feels the rage of his hormones itching at his hind brain; a stirring in his pants just because you brushed his shoulder.

During all your pleasantries he was preoccupied. Busy exercising dwindling self-restraint, jaw tightened and fingers dug into his palms so hard he’s sure he bled a bit.

Behind his eyes is his rational mind resisting the urge to ogle. Eye contact is the bane of him but so is your body, each curve and sharp edge unfortunately (mournfully, even) hidden beneath the threshold of your neck. He dared not look any lower. 

He’d done more than enough staring when Amber first showed him your picture. She brought up the whole dinner idea and flashed a pic of you offhandedly, said it was from your birthday.

He should’ve called it there. He should’ve wisened up and cut his losses, because this was a bad fucking idea. 

He was staring for wayyy too long; being rendered slack-jawed in front of your girl for any amount of time by anyone who’s not her is immediately and unignorably suspect. However, you are the girl’s mother, and Mark is praying Amber thinks he is in his right mind and does not jump to the conclusion that, briefly, he wondered what your tits looked like sans top. 

“She’s…” Hot. “Beautiful. I see where you get your good looks from, babe.” Amber laughed at that, missing the single drip of sweat that had to have been sliding down his temple. She elbowed him, paltry laughter coloring her speech. “Okay good, cuz’ that was a test.” Mark squints at her, hands closing in at her waist and gently pinching her fat, teasing. “Testing me? What are you vetting for? What—” He had laughed from the nerves, picked at a loose thread on his jeans to diffuse his inner tension. “Do people say crazy shit about your mom to your face?”

He’d been peering at the picture from beneath her thumb when she shook her head. “You’d be surprised! Some people booold as fuck.”

Mark was busy looking, didn’t respond right away. “Yeah… that’s, that’s wild.” 

Did you get knocked up fresh out of highschool? There are some natural lines of age that accentuate your smile and reach your eyes, but none of that even matters; it’s like your aura is timeless, your confidence striking, he could feel your joy, and he smiles back at you like a dumbass.

“You good?” She’s noticed it, the shift in the energy. 

SOUND THE ALARMS! He’s been caught. It’s over. Amber hates his guts thinks he’s disgusting and is never going to speak to him again—

“Yeah! I’m just super excited to meet her. She seems like a lovely woman.” When she smiles back, the flood sirens stop, hazard lights go out. “She is! Mom of year material, swear to god.” 

“...yeah.”

Good grief, what the hell would his mother say? Catching him drooling over a woman twice his age—he hoped she’d at least laugh before she smacked him upside the head.

But he feels as blameless as he does shameful.

Because look at you. As far as he’s concerned, dinner’s already been served.

His mouth is dry by the time it catches up to his mind. 

“Yeah, I know that look man. You’re starving.” You step back from around him and walk towards the oven, and he justifies his staring by convincing himself he was already looking over before you walked there. He gulps.

Your pants cup your ass so perfectly; two beautiful cheeks, teasing him from under thin denim— “Uh.. yeah, I guess I am. Thirsty, too. Thanks for the water,” he cheers at you and you shake your head, putting on cow print oven mitts. They match your apron, your drink coasters, and utensil grips. There’s a joke there somewhere: something something, mommies and milkies.

“Don’t mention it! But sorry for the wait; dinner doesn’t usually take this long to start—I have no idea what that girl is doing up there.” You open the oven. “Oh! Before I forget: if you want anything other than water, or if you want seconds, just let me know sweetheart.”

He eats you up with his eyes, you don’t know he’s already on his third plate.

Your voice—suave, smooth—soothes and excites him. You speak with the cadence of a song, your expressive lilt or husky croons tickle his brain in just the right way. You are genuine, cordial, have been since he’s stepped foot into your home. Amber is always coming over with little lunches, post-it notes with squiggly hearts attached. You sign everything in the same flowy script, for my beautiful daughter; since you have learned of his existence, you’ve tacked on and her little friend in parenthesis, packing the snacks Amber told you he liked. 

You’re attentive. Thoughtful. You’d even gotten him a gift for his birthday before you even met in person. He refused to accept the present at first, but Amber said it’d be a bigger hassle to try and get you to give it back, from one of those shows Amber said you liked written on the card attached. 

A limited edition shiny, which he can’t fathom you found for any price cheaper than an arm and a leg. Amber said you had a friend and just thought he might like it.

It was really… sweet. How much you wanted them to work out. He senses that same sincerity in your every action. In every smile or wave, in the time you took to prepare him a beautiful dinner—and you’re right, he actually is hungry—all in an effort to get to know him better. You’re not some cougar, or some hyper-nymphomaniac slut who’d try to seduce her daughter’s boyfriend. Which was unfortunate, for him.

You are just a good mom. A great one even, and a better host besides. Mark is just some fucking pervert.

While you’re pulling the trays out of the oven, he is glued to your every movement, tilting his head to get your best angles. Your spread is immaculate.

The gentle swing of your hips, and fuck—he swears he can see the outline of it. The subtle flare of your pussy lips, shrink wrapped in your jeans. Either he’s imagining things, or your cunt’s just as fat as he thought it’d be.

Fuck dinner, he desperately wants to skip straight to dessert, peach juice dribbling down his chin. He’d lick you up quick—you’re liquid gold, too precious to waste a drop. “...she’s probably getting cute for her little friend…” You mutter to yourself, which cuts through the fog of perversion, and he takes a sip of his water in a futile attempt to cool off.

His final shame would be getting hard at your dinner table. It’s not like you’re doing it on purpose, it’s just out of your control just like it’s out of his, in a way. You can’t help looking good in your clothes!  That’s why you buy them, for the way they cuddle your supple curves, snuggle between your folds, caressing your fat so well they had to have been tailor-made for you. 

You’d look good in his clothes, too.

His dick twitches at the thought, grip around his glass tightening. “I should’ve asked Amber what you like to eat but,” You start, still taking trays out the oven.”I guess the invitation was super last minute, so apologies if our meager dinner doesn’t suit your highfalutin’ tastes.” He can hear the smile on the tip of your tongue, your jibes easing his wariness. ”Don’t even worry about that,” he reassures, thinking too hard about what to say next. “It smells way too good in here for the food to not hit, ya’know?” He facepalms internally.

“Well, aren’t you a flatterer? Why thank you, Mark. It’s nice to feel appreciated.” You’re dramatic, palm to chest and flourishing with the flair of a broadway star, and it catches him so off guard he laughs. You’re emboldened by his energy, moving around with an ineffable pep, almost like you’re dancing. It’s silly frankly, watching you butter bread buns as you jam to an invisible concert.

Mark should have been laughing. Should have been prancing around the kitchen alongside you, playing The Good Boyfriend, collecting his brownie points by helping his girlfriend’s mother around the house. Just be a normal fucking person.

But he’s caught. Fish-on-the-hook, rat-in-a-trap, caught. On the swell of your hips, the twist of your spine, the expanse of your neck, the dimples on your back whenever your shirt rides up. The way your ass sticks out when you get on your tippy toes to grab something from a high shelf. Your body is intoxicating and Mark isn’t the drinking type, but since time immemorial have there been exceptions. He’s been making a lot, tonight, so what’s another?

Everything about this is lovely. There’s fresh baked bread, rice and beans on the stove, baked mac and cheese set aside on a cooling rack, and the chicken… he sniffs. 

“Is that cumin?” He asks, in an attempt to distract himself. You make a noise that sounds like surprise and glance back at him. “Yeah! It is. Some nose you got on ya, Mark! You cook a lot or something? Or maybe…just have an uncanny sense of smell.” You tap your nose, smirking, and Mark just shrugs. “I watch my Mom, she shows me how to cook some stuff from time to time. Or when I ask. But I’m not exactly the greatest student, so I don’t wanna waste her time you know.” He laughs. It makes an odd wheeze coming out, and on impulse he scratches the back of his neck as you sample a sauce. “No worries about that, here. I’m an excellent teacher.” Your smugness palpable, you crook your finger at him. “C’mere, I’ll show you a little something-something.”

And he can’t just say no.

So, there he stands next to you, half-chubbed, in front of the stove. You two are hip-to-hip at your insistence—you can’t learn standing all the way back there—the steam in his face not nearly as hot as he is under the collar. “Veggies with lotsa water are a bitch to cook so I don’t even bother. We’re doing cauliflower tonight. Something simple, sumn’ light. Now, the trick is to be loose with it, don’t worry about whether or not you’re gonna fuck it up. Just let it rock,” You look over at him and he is stiff, like he has half a mind to let your hard work burn to a blackened crisp. You grab his hand to try help him stir and he starts to turn pink. You didn’t think the kitchen was that hot.  “Try and relax. Breathe in, breathe out. You got this baby.” You’re fucking with him. You just have to be. 

Are you really that sultry-toned, bedroom-eyed? Or is he seeing things, steam fogging up his thoughts. He begins, trying not to sound so nervous, “Mrs. Bennett—”

“You can just call me by my name, Mark.” You snort. He swallows. “Okay, ma’a- Uhhh,” He stutters and you chuckle. “If that’s too familiar for you, you can always just call me Mom.” You wink and his heart flutters in his chest. “Okay, mom.” He has to keep himself from shivering as the word rolls off his tongue. 

He’s out of place next to you, a milk jug in the candy aisle, clown shoes paired with a cocktail dress. Your softness contrasts his on-edge, he’s surprised he hasn’t cut you yet. 

“Take a deep breath Mark, you don’t need to overthink it. We’re not doing rocket science.” You guide him. In and then out. Your hand crooks his wrist and he forces himself to relax. “Grab the handle of the pan.” It’s easy to do whatever you ask of him. He’s only waiting for you to say jump. 

“Now stir in a slow continuous motion, loosen your wrists but keep your grip on the spoon tight.” 

You’re training wheels falling away as the cogs in his brain start to turn again. He rotates his wrist and keeps going, stirring in time with your humming. The pale cauliflower change color from white to gold. He takes a peek out of his periphery to gauge how he’s doing, and the wry grin splitting your face makes him smile, too. 

“See? You’re a natural when you put your mind to it. Or maybe you just needed a more hands-on kind of teacher?” you hum. 

He short circuits a second. He doesn’t even notice you snatching a simmering cauliflower out of the pan; you have a mother’s immunity to this kind of heat. “Sample your work always. Never serve someone something you haven’t tried yourself.” You blow gently on the piece you plucked and offer it to him.

“My hands are sort of preoccupied, mom.” Saying that feels much better than it should. “I don’t think I can—” Heat at his lips silences him.

“Open.” 

Housebroken was right. He doesn’t have to think about it, he’s blinked and the cauliflower is already grinding under his teeth. The tastes of garlic and onion bloom beautifully on his palette, not overbearing, just delicious.

“Oh shit yeah,” He groans a little, then remembers himself, drawing back in. “Sorry, pardon my language.” Try as he might to dissuade himself, a snake of a smile slithers onto his face. “It’s great.” Mark smacks his lips together gently as you look at him, expectant. He licks the residue of seasonings off his lip and tries not to imagine what you taste like. “I’m wondering if your tongue’s as sensitive as your nose. So what’s the verdict? Give me a run down.”

He sucks his teeth. “Garlic. Onions. Or maybe shallots? Is there a difference? I just assumed they were just kind of smaller onions.”  He can smell the difference but he likes the way you light up when he asks. “Yeah, there is! Shallots are like… a distant cousin. They’re from a whole different family, Allum- something or other.” You reach in front of him to turn down the heat on the stove and you get far too close for comfort.

“Go on.” He thinks for a moment. “I thought I tasted,” You hold out your hand and he instinctively hands you the spoon. “Hm. I don’t know, I thought I tasted something spicy, a little sweet, maybe.” You nod. “That’s what you call the spice of life: Paprika.” Que jazz hands.

“Two outta three isn’t too bad. I’ll make a chef out of you yet Grayson.” You beam and it is blinding, he has to look away. “You’re shaping up to be an excellent pupil.”  He full body perks up at your praise. If he had a tail, it’d be wagging. “Do me a favor Mark?” His dog ears perk up. “Get a cup from the cabinet above you. Then take the pitcher,” You gesture as you slide your oven mitts on. “And put it in the middle of the table.”

“Okay!” He nods so giddily at you that you can’t help your laughter, rich as it flows from you. You’re opening the oven when you say it. You don’t even have the courtesy of facing him as you completely and utterly ruin his life.

“You’re a real good boy, aren’t you Mark?”  

Everything is quiet then—

—SMASH!

The pitcher makes your teeth rattle when it shatters, your head darting to the side so quick it’s a miracle you don’t snap your neck. Mark is standing there a few feet away from you, turned around, water and glass shards pooled at his feet.

“Are you okay?” The urgency in your voice pulls him out of his stupor. “Um. Yeah!” He chirps back, too fast. He is frozen in place. 

“Just! Hold on—” You drop the flan on the counter and chuck your mitts. 

Mark does not move.

His system is shot. All the blood has been evacuated from his brain, he can hardly focus on regulating his breathing—nevermind the words coming out your mouth. “Sweetheart..?” You try, brow arching. “What happened? Are you hurt?” 

“No! I’m fine.” He is on fire. Every muscle in his body coils tight as his fight or flight malfunctions. He freezes.

He’s completely crashed.

Over two fucking words.

Mark is stock still for a second, rock hard dick trapped between his thigh and pants far too tight.

You’re taken aback by his abruptness and quiet for a moment. “Okaaay. Well. Are you going to move over, at least?” You have something like a laugh lodged in between your words, riding closely behind irritation as your eyes follow the rolling stream of water beneath his feet.

“Yes! Yeah, of course, sorry.” 

He doesn’t mean to whimper like a kicked puppy, adorned with shame and all, and Mark hates the way you fold for him. The way you reassure him. It’s fine, crooned in that same saccharine tone because you wholeheartedly give a shit about him. Which is the worst, because he does not deserve your concern. He does not deserve your daughter. He does not deserve you. Least of all your damn dinner.

He was right. He only wished he could’ve been happy about that. 

Mark feels your laser eyes biting into his back, scoring over his skin as he moves out of the mess he’s made.

“Thank you. Now, can you pass me the broom? It’s in front of you.” 

He presses his palm to his mouth and eats his sigh. “Of course,” The throbbing in his pants is growing more insistent by the second but he can’t look down. Can’t acknowledge it or it’ll become uncomfortably real. But it’s not like he can stand still forever. He walks forward and grabs the broom, quick as he turns and hands it to you. You’re not even looking at him, too busy making sure you’re not tracking water underfoot. “I’m so, so sorry.” He starts, but you wave him off, leaning the broom against the fridge as you kneel to sop up the water.

”I didn’t think you were the jumpy type.” You jibe, spritely even as you weave around glass splinter and shards, trying not to scrape your hardwood floor. “But it’s fine—it happens to me too. Sometimes shit breaks,” you shrug. “Pardon my french, but no point bitching about it! ” You chuckle. “I am definitely gonna bully you about it, though.” You really, really shouldn’t; he likes this pair of pants.

His shoulders loosen hesitantly, only to be agitated as he gauges the urgency of his real problem. He is tenting.

His jeans are more heavy duty than the suggestion you call clothing but it’s obvious if you know what to look for. The tautness in the material as his dick fills it out, darkening brought on by the precum crowning his tip.

“Yeah, sorry. I guess I just—got worked up.” That’s certainly a way of putting it. “I was worried about messing this whole thing up, but then I went and made a fool of myself anyway.  Real classy, me.”  He laughs as he scolds himself, scratching the back of his head. You don’t see him while you’re bent over, cleaning, but he’s sure as hell seeing you. His conscience hits him with quick onset shame, but there’s not enough blood circulating to his brain for it to keep up with his reservations; he ogles shamelessly.

He has to catch himself everytime he leans too far forward, but it can’t be helped. He has a premium seat at the theatre and the main feature is your panty line, the poor excuse for a thong that creeps down the cleft of your ass, dipping below the horizon of your cheeks.  He envies it.

“I had a feeling you might’ve been a little nervous,” Your voice snaps him out of his perv’s reverie.  “But don’t worry, I like you plenty Mark. ‘M not expecting you to roll over or jump through hoops to impress me. You’re not a dog.” you say, laughing, but you don’t know. 

You rise from where you were crouched on the floor and turn quicker than he was expecting, but it’s easy to play off his staring and meets you with a smile. It is returned. ”You’re good, right? Not wet or anything?” You give him a quick once over and he stops breathing. 

You don’t seem to find what you’re looking for, meeting his eyes once more. “Yeah,” he says when he finds his voice, “Not anything, I’m fine.” You nod, exhaling short through your nose as if to say okay. 

“Great.” You sigh, arms akimbo, as you look at the shattered glass, at the broom, then at Mark. “Come here.” 

Then you’re on top of him. Hugging him. Ruffling the hair on the back of his head, tits pushed up against his chest, hard nipples poking through your bra, hugging him. “Uh, Mrs. Bennett—”

“What’d I say about calling me that?” You pull back, holding his shoulders while he stands with all the confidence of a wet cat, looking bewildered, then bashful. “At least say Miss, it makes me feel younger.” You joke.

“Miss,” He can’t help but comply. “What uh, what are you doing?” You squeeze his arms. 

“...have you never been hugged before, Mark Grayson?” You tease, while he attempts to position his hips as far away from your anything as he can. “I’m doing the Mom thing, you know? Comforting you.” You can hardly keep your laughter in one second, and then the next you’re decadently soothing, voice barely above a whisper. 

“You didn’t embarrass yourself, okay? Mistakes happen. You’ll give yourself an aneurysm if you keep stressing about making a good impression. As far as I’m concerned, you’re already part of the family.” You snuggle into him, rubbing comforting circles on his back. He shudders at your touch. 

You’re just as soft as he imagined, just as plush and warm, but he can’t hug you back, not in his state. You won't let him go.

“I can feel it, you know?”

His heart sinks. “Uh? What’re you talking about?

“Your tension. You’re stiff as all hell, man. You were sorta makin’ me nervous, cause you wanna look like you’re being held hostage.” He briefly looks at the arms girding him, then back to your babydoll face.

Wow. You’re breathtaking. Pillowy lips, spiderwicked lashes, vibrant eyes. You smell softly of coconut, cocoa butter, vanilla, a hint of sweet almonds. 

“Just relax man. Deep breath in, deep breath out.” He complies as his compulsion demands of him, and he, regretfully, relaxes in your arms. He relaxes to the feel, sight, and smell of you.

You made him too comfortable. He let out a sigh, eyes closed as he draped himself over your shoulder.

“That’s it, big guy, just calm down.” You pat him gently. He returns the hug.

Mark knows when you feel it. He knows because it sends a nasty jolt through his entire body when you rub up against it. His body locks up and his eyes widen, mortified. He feels hot, the room almost set to spinning as his mind is overwhelmed; he startles himself, the tiniest groan escaping him, but that is not when you notice, no.

He doesn’t say anything. He just leaves it be, cock throbbing as he tries to wade through the bog of his thoughts, trying not to rock himself against you.

It’s only when you pull back that you see it. You had this half-smile on your face, hand propped on your hip, mouth open like you were about to speak and then,

you looked down.

On reflex. It was quick. Not even a half-a-second long. But then you double, triple take.

He wondered if you thought he was big, naturally, though the state of your face summed up everything you’d never say. The wide-eyed shock, inhale of breath, supple lips softly parted. Then confusion, a furrow in your brow, uncertainty as your eyes flick back to his burning face. A twinge of disgust, but it’s brief as you are quick to school your expression. 

He’s bigger than your husband, maybe, or you’re wondering if this dick has fucked your daughter.

(He’s wondering if you’d take it better.)

If there’s hunger in your eyes, he couldn’t read it. Hell, he honestly can’t look you in the eye long enough to try.

In reality, you’re only surprised his face is so red; you’d have thought all the blood went, well…

“Oh.” You step away from him and tuck your hands behind your back. Neither of you speak for a moment, his wide eyes blinking at your indecipherable expression. 

Then, you attempt to diffuse the tension. “Well.  I'm... sure it happens to the best of us, Mark. It’s no hard feelings, I mean!--” You seem to remember the broken glass then, the thing you should've looked at in the first place, and busy yourself begin cleaning it up.

He doesn't try to speak. The silence resumes.

Until eventually, you try again. “When I met my husband, he had an issue with getting ‘excited’ too, you know?” Around you? Color Mark unsurprised.  “It’s only natural, especially for young men your age! Don’t worry.”

 His face burns with shame, or is it irritation? If old boy’s not in the picture, then maybe he could…?

No, no, he’s getting ahead of himself again.

He eats up your sweetness, and his teeth rot alongside his dignity. “Amber’s not ready, so you can head up to the bathroom while I clean up in here and we never have to talk about it again.  It can be our little secret.” You didn’t have to whisper the last part. He swears you’re just mocking him now. 

“Really?” He heaves sighs like mountains, eyes wily as they connect with yours. “You won’t tell Amber?”

“Really really, Mark. I’m sure she can live without knowing…this,” You gesture to him with your palm and all five fingers. “Ever happened. Especially after last time, she’s probaby--” You touch on something you clearly didn’t mean to, cutting yourself off before heaping refuse into a cow-print pail. “Nevermind. Bathroom’s upstairs, second door on the left, sweetheart. There are some towels too, if you need to, um…?” You trail off. “Uh. Under the cabinet.”

“Okay—I’m gonna go now, if you don’t mind, thank you so much ma’am—” He stands and for some reason you’re not looking him in the eyes anymore. 

“It’s no problem Mark, none at all.” You smile, quickly turning to dump the glass in the trash as he heads out. You catch the back of his head out of the corner of your eye, and let go of the chuckle you were holding onto as soon as you think he’s gone. “...just make sure you don’t poke someone’s eye out with that thing.” 

He doesn’t know where his mind goes after that. He’s hardly walked down the hall and he’s already played it over in his head five times. He’s deluded, mind a broken record, cock trying to jump out his pants and it only gets worse the more your words play over in his head. He walks with great urgency, gait awkward as he skids to the far end of the hall and reaches the base of the staircase.

In the blink of an eye he’s at the top of the stairs and yet, he is not fast enough to miss your rose of a daughter. Amber looks surprised to see him. “You came up to find me?” She was just touching up her makeup by the looks of it, blush renewed, baby blue eyeshadow reapplied, that artificial cherry gloss he likes. He could smell it from a mile off.

“Yeah,” He lies reflexively, “You were kind of taking forever…we thought you got lost on the way back or somethin’.”  Amber sounds so carefree when she laughs. He notices now how her face crinkles a lot like yours does, those same dimples and smile lines feeling intimately familiar now that he’s basked in your presence. She does a little flourish for him, stepping between him and the washroom and posing a little. “So! How am I looking?” She pauses after she takes him in, his cheeks bleeding red, eyes flittering elsewhere.

“Mark, you feeling alright? You’re looking really… hot?” Mark blanks for a second thinking of what he ought to say before she glances down. Amber expression dwells somewhere between humored and pleasant as she stares, openly.

He is going to die.

“Uhh, I’m flattered Mark, but right now isn’t really the best time,” she laughs. He sees now where she gets her humor from. “I’ll make a mental note: deep necklines and low rise jeans got you whipped.” 

He has absolutely no rebuttal to that. You wear it better, though.

God that’s so fucked—

“I, uh-- I can explain,” He starts, but Amber holds her hand up, fingers curling around his outstretched hand. “No need.” He sighs in relief. “The bathroom’s behind me. I’ll be with Mom. I’ve been gone for way too long, she’ll start thinking I died or something.” She smiles and heads towards the stairs.

“Just—give me a few minutes. Don’t wait up.” Amber says something that’s muffled by the click of the bathroom door.

Finally.

He relaxes at the door, the roar in his mind quieted by the change in scenery.

Even the inside of your bathroom is cute. There is more bovine based decor bathed in warm yellow light. Everything from the soap dispenser to the rugs to the curtains are brown, beige, sand, pink or peach, and it smells utterly divine.

It’s that perfume you’re wearing. Mark should be concerned he has already committed that scent to memory but he’s all bloodhound, thrown caution to the wind, sense on overdrive as he follows the trail to its end, X tucked behind the curtain of your bathtub. 

…

It’s your underwear. He knows it’s yours on account of the cow spots. Not like he could imagine Amber in a number this racy anyway; the crotch is missing, blue frills lining the slit down the center and what he assumed were the leg holes. Modesty was certainly not something she inherited from you, he thinks, as he plucks this choice piece off the rack.

He has to hold it in both hands, feel the cotton under his thumb pad to believe it’s real. The fabric is soft to the touch. He can catch a whiff of the soap you used, the scent of your skin lingering just behind that. He’s not even holding you close and you’re still so potent it makes his eye twitch and head hurt.

He imagines you in them. The smooth plane of your ass filling it out, the squish of your skin under the tension of the elastic. 

He shouldn’t even be entertaining the thought, and yet…

…

Soon he’s slumped over your toilet seat, arm laid up on the tank as his hand darts down to his pants and undoes the clasp. “Fuuuuck me,“ He groans, some of the pressure relieved as his tent pitches up, freed and now angrily demanding his attention. With your panties in his left hand, he pulls his boxers down with the other, his cock smacking against his stomach with a dull smack. 

He knows he’s big but you must’ve done something to him, spiked his water, casted a spell, something, cause his tip is so red--so leaky, drooling and needy--and he’s soo fucking hard. His cock stands ramrod, twitching as he rubs the tip with a tentative index finger. He makes himself whimper, replaces index with his thumb, smearing his pre-cum in circles until he’s bold enough to curl his hand around the shaft. The slightest touch makes him buck, hips swinging upward as his balls clap against the back of his hand, his expression breaking off into a half dazed smile as his spine decompresses and his body begins to truly relax.

He goes slow, breath catching as he gets used to the feeling of doing this, relieving himself among your things, in your space, your fucking panties folded in his hand, but he can’t care. He can’t care when he feels this wired; can’t care when the feeling of his foreskin dragging back and forth, up and down, and it feels mind-numbing, a match to his skin. He happily burns.

Propriety is dead; all he can think about is you. The way you sung his name and praises. The way your ass looked so perky in jeans. The way your tits bounce with your gait.  “God,” he could cum just thinking about it. He’s already moaning, arm sliding up his shirt to cup his pec, the shlick, schlick of him hammering his fist filling the bathroom; he’s got a steady rhythm up and down his cock, his sensitivity feeling heightened from your affections. He’s still thinking about the way you looked at it.

The way your jaw dropped, mouth hung open like a proposition. If you’d get on your knees to clean up the mess he made, what else could he make you kneel for?

“fuck—”

You called him a good boy. 

Good boy? 

Mark Grayson was everything, anything, but.

He certainly did feel like a dog, though. Panting, half bent over himself and jerking his dick so hard his toes are curling. 

Mark gets himself worked up easily. When it smells like you, it’s easy to get lost in the fantasy, your precious hands wrapped around his fat dick and sucking it for all its worth. He wonders what kind of noise you make—if you suck just as sloppily as Amber. 

You seem like you’d have a tight throat. Tight pussy, too. Maybe he has to give it to you easy, treat you gentle and feed it in slow til’ you’re squeezing on his dick like a vicegrip and mewling for him.  Or maybe—

—maybe, he can just sliiiiiide right in. Fill you out all nice-like, leave you with a real good first impression. You would fit him like a glove, wet cunt soaking him to the bone.

And exactly how would he have you? There’s no shortage of options, just not enough time. You’d live your whole life and never know a moment of peace again, if he got his hands on you.

Then there’s your panties. He doesn’t even know what to do with them, having left them limply dangling between his hand and his thigh as he’s beside himself, because you linger in his bones like bad cold, all ice and teeth and biting. He breathes heat into the air as he lets his head fall back, pretending the tightness of his fist is as good as the inside of your pussy. He imagines the way your ass would squish against his hips when he pounds you from the back. His balls would slap against your clit so good, have your eyes rolling back, ecstasy running a live wire through you, set your system to shock.

He’d probably fold you in half, first, give it to you standing. Thinks about how easy it would be, to pull your hair, flip you around, bend you over. 

He wants to Fuck. You. Up.

You look like a moaner too. He can picture it, your tits smushed up against his chest as he gets your legs slung over his shoulders and breaks your back in.

He can hear the way you whimper out his name, stitched together from the bytes of you he’s stored in his memory. Mark has you wailing, whining, scratching your nails blunt on the flat of his back. 

You whisper his name in prayer. 

Mark. 

Mark. 

Mark.

MARK!—

He feels his balls tighten, just as a fist hammers against the door.

“Maaark!” 

He cums to the sound of Amber’s voice; you two sound so, so similar. Like your voice, too, it snaps him back to reality. He was wholly unprepared for this moment. He can’t stop cumming.

It shoots on to his tummy, thick white ropes of cum sticking to his abdomen before he can think to stop it, and Amber is still hammering on the door, could’ve been for the past five minutes and Mark could not have known. He can’t speak for a moment, throat dry and gummed together at the same time.

“...Mark?” The knocking softens. “Are you okay?”

His cock throbs in his hand as it pumps another load and his mind is stuff chock full of fuzz, vision spacey as he comes down from seeing stars. He can’t bask in the afterglow long, not to the sound of Amber knocking.  Mark’s eyes go wide as saucers, and his mind runs on instinct.

He reflexively wipes the cum off his stomach with your thong. His pupils dilate. Uh…

Guess he can’t take it back now. He cleans himself off, catching the rest of his mess in the sponge of fabric. 

The panties are properly soiled by the time he’s done.

Voice broken like he’d been crying (because he had shed a few tears), he calls back. “I’ll be out in a second.” The knocking stops and the voice on the other end sighs. “We thought you slipped and cracked your head dude; you’ve been gone for a cool 15. Unless you’re taking a-”

Mark opens the door. 

He’s looking pristine; zen, subtle smile breaking his nonchalant demeanor. He looks down at her, expectantly. “You gonna move over, or do I have to make you?” He jokes with a tilt of his head.

Amber quirks her lips at him, then backs up to give him space. He spills out of the bathroom and quickly closes the door behind him. 

“It always take you that long to freshen up?” Mark sucks his teeth as they begin to walk down the stairs. “You can’t talk. How long were you gone for again? Like thirty minutes? Just to put on blush?” She elbows him, giggling.

“It’s my house you dolt, I’ll go missing in it as long as I want.” They can laugh together, finally, and it surprises Amber, the first time she’s seen him unwound the whole night. “What kind of peptalk did you give yourself to make your little problem go away, huh?” She asks at the last second; he uses them crossing the threshold of your kitchen as an excuse to keep mum.

“Found him, ma!” Amber presents him as he takes a seat at this godforsaken table.

Dinner is just fine. Perfect, you could say. There’s a light in Mark’s eyes you haven’t seen all night, his conversation lively and engaging. No more yes ma’am, no ma’am; no ma’am at all for the rest of the night. 

That’s not to mention the food itself. It’s immaculate, meat fall-off-the-bone tender, beans seasoned and flavorful, garlic buttered bread so good it’s got his thighs squeezing together.

But he still can’t help but think:

You’d taste so much better.

FIN

Later…

Home.

At home, he can lock himself in his room and no nosy girlfriend will come knocking. 

At home he can kick his feet up, play with his balls and beat off to the thought of you without interruption. 

But it’s odd. He smells himself, the room around him. It smells like you still, somehow. Mark thinks he’s just caught on you, olfactory giving him false signals, but before he brushes it off as a red herring, he catches another whiff of you.

Then another.

And another,

Until he’s tearing up his room looking for the source of it. Until he finds himself staring at the pair of khakis he wore. Until he’s picking them up, and realizes the outside of the pocket looks greasy—or damp.

He slowly reaches in, revealing a sad, sad pair of panties, surely missing the ass that filled them out. At first he has the sensibility to be horrified, but while holding them, cum smeared and all, he sniffs. He stifles the little groan that slips from his lips. 

Yup, that’s you alright.

He looks around like he’s being judged by the shadows, the light filtering in through the curtains. 

He closes them.

The world shouldn’t have to bear witness to his depravity.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀all writtens are penned by ©️omniphilic !

thank you so much for reading! drink some water (cause ik you thirsty), remember to reblog, & stay tuned for more writing. comments, questions or thirsts? send it to my inbox or leave a note below!

[on-hit]

Tough Love: Taming The Brat Pt.1

Synopsis: Qiyana’s being a brat, and Akali seeks to tame her. With any means necessary. Pairing: Qiyana Yun Tal(True damage) X Akali(True Damage)

Warning: 18+, Rough sex, brat punishing, vaginal fingering (Qiyana Receiving), pleading, whimpering Qiyana

Tags: So its smut! Though its not the last of them of course don't worry you'll get seconds. Dom/sub, bratting, teasing, kissing, slut shaming, Shameless smut!

W.C: 3,809

The worst thing ever  is when plans get sidetracked,especially when it becomes a ritual. It starts with a simple trip to the mall, a shower that lasts forever, and then waiting, waiting, waiting until that perfumed doll of a woman steps out. Show business was never a burden, not until she left the most prominent band this side of Runeterra and landed in with a bunch of amateurs. Or so she says.

Rather, folks not willing to put up with her ‘fashionable lateness’.

Four out of the five TRU DMG members sat in their groups recording studio, seething with rage. “Not again! This shit’s happening more and more lately. This girl’s pissing me off, yo.” Ekko slams his hands on the lazy boy as he rises, arms crossed in frustration. “I just want to make music, man, it shouldn’t take this long.” Beats, melodies, erupted from the speakers just a few steps away as Yasuo experimented on his turntable . “We don't have to stop even if Qiyana isn't here.” Senna retorts as she presses her body against the frame of the entrance way, peeking her head in and out, “Seems like you’re not as bothered you’re sitting around doing a whole lot of nothing.”

He scoffs, turning to face her. “Well it's not fair if we do all the heavy lifting, what's left for her to do anyway? Choreography? Vocals? We did that shit already! C’monnn Yasuo, back me up on this man!” Sliding his headset off his ear, Yasuo glances at Ekko, then Senna, back at Ekko, before going back to his turntables, back to gliding his fingers across knobs and discs.

“Was it like this in K/DA? It couldn’t have been?” 

Akali finally spoke. “Absolutely not. We had our breaks but we busted our ass to put out music!” Senna steps back, accompanied by the very tardy Qiyana who was flicking away at her phone as they both stepped in. “What was it this time? Why were you late?” Senna pinched the bridge of her nose while she asked, fearing the response.

“Salon lady kept screwing up my hair!I had to make her redo it about five times. You would not believe it, she messed up again —so I had to find a different salon, it was soooo annoying.” She shifted her weight onto one foot and rested on her plush thigh and angled her phone above her to check herself out, “Honestly, it’s still not at all what I wanted but, live and learn I suppose.” Yasuo did not respond at all. He didn’t even process that she finally showed up ,enthralled in his beats. 

Ekko however—he was very aware of her abrupt appearance. “Qiqi, we spent hours waiting for you--you didn't even bother to send out a text! Like who does that?” She placed her bag on the coffee table past Akali. “You’re not gonna say anything to us! What the fuck man?” He walked up behind her and trailed behind her gesturing at Senna. “She still ain’t listening bruh.”

It felt like the eye contact they shared lasted for an hour before she pivoted away. Leaving an intense smell of her damned perfume, something about it drowned her senses. It was definitely overpriced compared to the cologne that she would dap onto her neck and body.

It was floral. Rose, tinged with jasmine,a brief smell of vanilla and god was it addictive. There was one thing that Akali had to give Qiyana and it was her looks, her smell, her. The aura of confidence that exuded off of her would almost  be a good thing if she was not such a privileged, back talking, brat.

That was it. She was a Brat.

“So, what are we doin’?” She angled the mic at herself ,having climbed onto the stool and crossed her legs. Senna dragged her hands down her face “We’re finishing up on Overload, we’ve been finishing up Overload for nearly a week Qiyana.” Her voice stern but strained, the patience she prided herself on slowly dissolving. “Well I'm here now, let's wrap this up already

She can sure sing, her lyrics chirped out silk-smooth. Qiyana was fluent in Spanish so the group tried to incorporate her culture into a lot of their singles and albums when they could. For Overload she was going to be the first to be heard. Rapping to the beat and rhythms of Ixtali traditional music. Yasuo sped it up, and added a heavy base to it. Ironically enough Senna when Qiyana decided to show up co-wrote it, with the intent to show off everything the grand “Empress QiQi” had to offer. 

That was something her and Akali shared in common with one another, ad libbing in their respective languages. Though Akali (who was always on time) had her portion figured out for their upcoming song, Qiyana’s was far from finished.

The two of them were left together in the studio whilst the others turned in, Qiyana by force and Akali by request, to oversee her process. The recording booth was quiet besides when Qiyana experimented with her melodies seeing what sounded natural and fluid, what did not. Akali’s eyes traced the shapes her lips made when she sang. Amethyst lipstick coated in high end lip gloss, lustrous the glint of them blinding. She drooled a bit, they looked like candied grapes, and she pondered the taste, how if they tasted as delicious as they looked.

Qiyana was the first to break the silence. “So were you also this silent when you recorded with the big ole K/DA? Or is this the new you,  rebranding yourself to be the brooding quiet type.” Akali pressed her finger on the intercom. “This is just who I am. K/DA or True Damage, I'm the same me.” Qiyana’s face puckered up and she turned up her nose “You could have fooled me, you’re cramping Yasuo’s entire style.” She placed the headphones onto her thigh as she stretched her neck around. “Bitch.” Akali whispered as she watched Qiyana place the headphones around her neck as she stepped out of the boothe. 

She swaggered up to Akali, who was fighting the urge to gawk at the sway of her hips. She bent over and snatched up her purse, slipping it back over her shoulder. “I wouldn’t have left.” She chimed pulling her phone out from her bag not even acknowledging the other. “What?” Akali’s eyebrows furrowed tightly, her face hands pressed against her sides. “I said, I wouldn’t have left K/DA.” The nerve of it all to be so arrogant and bold.

She turned to leave but something lurched out of Akali, she launched her hand forward firmly grasping the shorter woman’s wrist. She let out a loud gasp as she turned around to look her in the eye. “Don’t act like you know me Qiyana, you wouldn't know the first thing about stardom cause with the way you act, missing out on rehearsals, dodging meetups, you’d be out of the business in…a…second.” She hissed her grip tightening not enough to hurt the other but to let her know, to aid in her words sinking in.

“Did I hit a nerve? Miss. K-D-A?” She purred, weaseling her hand away. The nerve was torn, more like. She fell for it. Qiyana got under her skin, she won, and Akali’s collected demeanor fell away. “You’re such a brat!” She snarled and then Qiyana in an instant stepped up to face Akali. Her face only a few inches from the others her amber eyes stared up to Akali, the sides of her lips curling up into the most shit eating grin imaginable.

 “Are you going to do something about it?”

 Her brain drew a blank, Qiyana's mere presence was clouding any sense of judgement she had left and the remark that escaped Qiyana’s mouth made Akali throb.

 Akali didn't step back instead she lurched her head down, her demeanor distorted as if something crawled up and possessed her. “I might just have to, you’ve gone unchecked for too long.” Qiyana scanned Akali’s face. Her smile grew wider as she scanned her serious face, she whipped around strutting towards the door. She looked back over her shoulder as she propped open the door…

“I can’t wait.” She purred. Then she was gone, and Akali was all alone.

Each meetup was a slog to get through. Qiyana actually showed up on time, worked on the routine, sang her parts, reviewed the music videos, and surprisingly did it in good spirits, no moaning and groaning. It sounded flawless but to Akali it seemed like only she could see the miniscule things Qiyana was doing on the low. 

She would step a little too hard near Akali, ignore her when spoken to, or just be blatantly uncouth, turning up that pretty, prissy little nose; she gives the same haughty sigh every time, and Akali swears she can see Qiyana smirking in her peripheries by the time she’s stomped away.

Ekko wrapped an arm around Akali’s shoulder and smiled while they stared at the camera footage they had just captured for their new music video. The cinematography was glorious, picture perfect but Akali had a slight furrow in her brow. “You good Akali? I’ve been talking your ear off for a good minute, and you’ve been just spacing out.” He was sweet and waited for her to respond, she placed her hand on top of his. 

As much as he was impatient, brash, and energetic he was also very calm, considerate, spending many times talking to Akali about personal affairs. 

“Ah!” She didn’t think anybody would pick up on it. ”‘I’m fine.” She said looking straight at Qiyana. The Brat stood with Senna, talking to the producers on set. Qiyana’s hand rested on her hip while she listened to whatever technical ramble that escaped “Mr. Producers”lips.

She couldn’t take her eyes off it, had to bite her lip from helplessly whimpering at the sight of it, but Qiyana’s ass was fat. She would be distracted by it if she was none the wiser. 

Though she was still lightly scowling at the other which was felt as Qiyana slowly looked over her shoulder she smirked and then turned right back around. “I was thinking about True Damage, I loved my time on K/DA but it wasn’t my style anymore, I love those girls, learned a lot from my time there, but I love starting off again, especially with you guys.”

A toothy grin stretched across his face embracing her tightly “Hell yeah! True Damage coming through!” He shouted as he guided him and himself toward the other members. The moment was celebrated greatly, another good day spent making progress but also just amongst others who were just happy to be there. 

Each time the two snuck glances it felt heated, words that weren’t conveyed verbally but they both felt it. Once the sun went down,the two were left alone. Akali rested on the couch with her phone in her hand scrolling through whatever and Qiyana was told to get a head start on some album ideas.

At this rate she could not fathom why she was always left alone with her, whether it was at Senna’s request or drowsiness taking over forcing her to knock out on the couch. At this moment it was neither, she saw Qiyana and needed to stay.

She needed to be taught a lesson.

She bounded near her, to the chair she sat in cross legged and clicking away at her laptop. Qiyana ignored her, shifting her body away from Akali and resumed typing away. “You don’t get to ignore me.”

Her voice was dastardly low and she slammed it shut. “Pendeja,¿Qué tú haces? What 's wrong with you?” Cursing, chucking the laptop behind her, staring up at her brows tight knitted. “You! You’re what’s wrong! Cut the bullshit, you can pretend, but I saw you today, making it your business to fuck with me.” She hissed, her anger had burned her cheeks peach

Qiyana scoffs, “ooh pobrecita, and didn’t I get exactly what I wanted?”

Everything became a blur, she didn’t know when exactly she lurched forward and grasped the smaller woman. In only seconds she was pressing their bodies together and exploring her mouth fiercely. 

She could have sworn she heard a squeak escape the others lips. Her hands found Qiyana’s neck and deepened their kiss, exploring every nook and cranny of her mouth until saliva dribbled down her lips.

Those lips—no Akali’s lips she was hers right now.

She needed it, she needed to ruin her, and she wanted it now. She sank her teeth into her plump bottom lip. When not gripped tightly she suckled on it and then with a pop she let go and stared at the other. She absolutely disheveled her elegantly dyed cotton candy colored hair (come back). Her expression was something to write home about, her typical shit eating grin was wiped away, and replaced with a gasping, panting mouth. Either fiending for air, or more of Akali, more of that frustration that brought them together. 

It possessed her. The words slipped out, “You’re mine to ruin, bitch.” That line resurrected that bite within Qiyana, and there it was again, that smirk. 

“I want to see you try, amor.” She purred. Akali growled. It bellowed from deep within her diaphragm, startling her briefly but quickly her reasoning vanished. She was clouded by her lust, her rage, she needed to tame this bitch.

 Akali was going to deal with her, by whatever means necessary. 

Their lips connected once more and it felt like Qiyana was fighting back, her tongue exploring, swiping around her mouth, curious, testy. Akali failed to realize, maybe she was too busy rolling her eyes , and disregarding her to see that she had a tongue piercing. Well, at this moment it was boldly announcing its presence flicking around her mouth and rubbing across the roof of her mouth. 

She needed to start to stomp out this confidence so she moved her hands down, running down the small of her back and caressing the width of her thighs. Then as if magnetically drawn to it, she cupped and grasped at that ass. God it was heavenly to fondle, her fingers dragged and rubbed the heft of it, but she wanted all of it, cursing in her head wishing she had more hands to fully cup these fat cheeks.

Her hands cupped the underside of her ass, spreading it as far as those tacky leggings would allow and jiggled it around. Qiyana jolted forward into Akali breaking away from their kiss, her eyes meeting with the ground. What was this? Was Qiyana being shy? Was she getting all cute because her ass was being played with, all because Akali wanted it. 

It wasn’t enough she needed to see Qiyana pleading near the end of this, tears cascading down her face, sweat on her brow. Then like clockwork, the “Brat” was back and stared at her royally pissed off.

“Well? I’m waiting.” Taking this moment she quickly shoved her down on the couch, their lips meeting again. She overpowered Qiyana’s tongue sucking on it while her knee found its way between Qiyana’s thighs. Her lips wanted more so down they went for their next destination. 

Her neck was soft; each kiss she placed on Qiyana she would squirm. She nursed on her skin, with the way she was going at it, so viciously, she would not be surprised if Qiyana had to hike up her collar to cover the marks. She needed more and that stupid puffer she wore stopped her, so she backed off a second wiping her lips. 

“Take it off.” Sitting back on her feet she looked down at Qiyana. She simply leaned forward propping herself on her hands.

 “If you back off of me for a second, I can take it off.” Abiding, she pulled away completely for a second she watched. That pastel pink crop tank made itself known once she shed her jacket and the marks already bruising up were delicious. Twisting for a minute she rested it on the lazy boy next to them. Her face was clenched tightly in Akali’s hand and the two were back down, her tongue lathered up and down her collarbone feeling her goosebumps spread across her skin

Her hands traveled down the middle of the other woman’s chest and she found her right breast. It was so perky, so soft, so utterly divine, a gasp escaped her lips. Akali wanted to feel that again, she wanted to hear it once more.

She reached underneath her tank top, and there it was that plush warm breast. She kneaded with her hand, looking for her nipple and once she found it. Qiyana jerked forward, her hands naturally latching onto Akali, her fingers pulling.

“Fuck…”

Fuck indeed, she was gonna fuck the air out of her.

She pinched at the sensitive bud, flicking at, rolling it around. With her other hand she hiked up the tank over both her tits. They jiggled as they were set free, “No bra?” Her breath tickled the side of the other's neck. it was odd, Qiyana would absolutely never do this, she prided herself on how put together she was, even how overdressed she was compared to other members.

“We record, and write when we link up, I like being comfortable.” Akali curled a brow, she was lying through her teeth. 

Is she comfortable? Fuck, she’d want to be uncomfortable if it meant her outfit was popping.

“What a slut?You need reigning in.” Her words made Qiyana’s body shudder beneath her. “You like that? A bitch like you, just waiting to be fucked into submission.”

“Shut the fu—!” Her mouth latched onto her nipple, god she tasted good. Whatever she moisturized with, whatever shower gel she used. She was addictive, she suckled on her nipple, releasing when she needed to breathe, and then dived right back in. 

Teething softly on the bud, earned a very satisfying moan, she could tell Qiyana was a screamer, cause she mewled. her hands grabbing at anything she could latch onto. She grabs Akali's shirt and drags her in.

“What, what was that QiQi?” Akali Dove down, flicking her tongue alternating between both squeezing and kissing each nipple. Her hands wound up on her hips, pinching at the plush skin that gathered at the waistband of her tights, instinctually Akali dug her right hand into the front of her pants. 

Her fingers found the front of Qiyana’s underwear, she was drenched, soaked through the fabric. She pushed it to the side, crawling her finger down her pussy, poking and prodding at her clit.  

She writhed underneath, rolling her hips into her touch, she wanted more, and Akali chuckled so she teased her further. Pinching at her clitoris playing with it between her fingers, she practically had the woman beneath her rolling around on the couch.

Then one finger dipped in, she was drenched and so so warm.

Akali’s finger was getting sucked deeper, how bad did she want this? She wanted to push her luck, wondering just where this night could go.

Qiyana raked her fingers through the others hair, her eyes pleading, lip flattened between her teeth. as she looked at her. 

“What?” she played stupid and Qiyana scoffed. She didn’t want to beg for it but…

"Kiss me?”

“What?”

“Kiss me?”

“Please.”

Her finger was pulling away, but those hips rolled forward keeping her locked in.

“Please kiss me, please ki—.”She screamed, at least before she slammed her hand into her own mouth, muffling her whimpers and pleas. Akali worked another slim finger into her hole, staring down the other’s lipstick smeared across her face. 

She shuddered at the sight, the Queen, La Reina in disarray half undressed, stuffing her mouth to save some of her dignity. Qiyana’s topaz-glimmering eyes, her mascara was teetering on dripping down her cheeks.

She's going to lose it.

Akali gave in, the two’s lips latched onto one another, she slid her tongue across Qiyana’s teeth, who groaned into her mouth. She curled her fingers, the scorching heat inside felt like it was only getting steamier. 

Squelching filled the silence, the couch beneath them was marinated with her wetness. She’d have to figure out how to clean this up, or…she can leave Qiyana to clean up her mess. 

No-no that’s exceptionally cruel, and she's already being sooo good, for taking it.

In fact she was actively nursing on Akali’s tongue while bucking her hip, shoving those fingers deeper into her pussy. 

“You want to cum?” Harsh-jagged she quipped, tormenting the jerking girl underneath her.

She was breathless, attempting to reply, but immediately she silenced herself, god that fucking pride. 

Her fingers pistoned in with swiftness, “You want to cum?You want to cum?You want to cum?” 

She bared her teeth, hissing at Qiyana, pounding her g-spot attacking that sweet spot with so much resolve.

Qiyana belted at a sonorous moan.

“Pende-!” It finally arrived, Qiyana’s climax, it sated every sick desire Akali had. She’s lived this reality in her daydreams, every punishable act, her tardiness, to punish it, was played out before her.

Her pussy pulsed around her fingers, securing her fingers in place. Her body melted as she came, twitching and shaking, all her fluids leaking out onto Akali’s knees and the couch below. Qiyana’s limbs went slack, she was panting like a mutt in heat. Akali unsheathed her fingers from their snug “Home.”

She drizzled her cum across her tongue. She was as delicious as she looked, she wished she had Qiyana laid out and her bed. She would have gone down to slurp it up straight from its source, went for seconds, thirds, however many Qiyana would allow her to indulge in.

Her mascara dripped seeped out of her lashes, went with tears and sweat painting her cheeks and chin.

Her breath escaped her and she muttered Spanish that even Akali couldn’t decipher. She cupped her face leaning forward, “Shhh, you’re alright you did so good.”

She teethed on Akali’s lip, “O-of course I did, n-now help me out!.”

She loved the bite in her, if feelings weren’t caught before, damn was she infatuated by the end of all this. 

“Hmmmm, please Akali?” She mocked her. 

“Vete a la chingada!” She hissed pounding on Akali’s shoulders in a huff.

That compelled Akali to belly laugh, she pecked Qiyana’s cheek, “It’s okay baby, we’ll work on that.”

Qiyana gripped her shoulders, “Whatever! Help me already!”

She fell hard, and off how Qiyana latched and stuck onto Akali.

She did as well.

[on-hit]

fuck my stupid baka life

[on-hit]

"You're hot, Cupcake."

You wound up in Quinn's corner of the ring!🥊

Hey! I'm 20, non-binary, and a league of legends freak.

I like to write, NSFW, fluff, and some darker stuff as well.

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